Read Online A Rumor of War by Philip Caputo - Free Book Online

into the classroom, let out a spine-chilling war cry, and buried a hatchet in one of the wooden walls. Without saying a word, he wrote something on a small blackboard, concealing it with his V-shaped back. He stepped aside, pointing to the writing with one hand and to a marine with the other. “You, what does that say?” he asked.
    Marine: “It says ‘ambushes are murder,” sergeant.“
    Sergeant: “Right.” Shouts AMBUSHES ARE MURDER,“ then returns to the blackboard, writes something else, and again asks, ”What does that say?“
    Marine: “And murder is fun.”
    Sergeant: “Right again.” Removes hatchet from wall and brandishes it at the class. “Now, everybody say it. AMBUSHES ARE MURDER AND MURDER IS FUN.”
    Class, hesitantly, with some nervous laughter: “Ambushes are murder and murder is fun.”
    Sergeant: “I can’t hear you, marines.”
    Class, this time in unison: “AMBUSHES ARE MURDER AND MURDER IS FUN.”

    Unshaven and filthy, the company returned to Camp Schwab in time to learn that while it had been murdering fictitious guerrillas, real ones had caused mayhem in Vietnam. The Viet Cong had attacked the American air base at Pleiku, inflicting what was then considered heavy casualties: about seventy airmen had been killed or wounded. A few days later, the first U.S. planes began to empty their explosive bowels over the North. The sustained bombing campaign that came to be known as Operation Rolling Thunder had begun.
    The battalion had fallen back into its domestic rut, but the news of these two events—the Pleiku raid and the retaliatory bombing—rekindled the rumors about “going South” and changed the atmosphere in camp from boredom to expectancy. The rumors were denied on February 15, when we got word that One-Three was going afloat in a week, its destination Hong Kong or the Philippines. They were then confirmed on the 17th, when we were alerted to mount out for Danang on the 24th.
    Thus began three confusing weeks of alarms and counter-alarms, stand-tos and stand-downs. Charley Company was sent back into the bush for another two days of exercises, presumably as a rehearsal for the live-ammunition drama in which we would be playing by month’s end. The weather, bright and warm while we were in garrison, turned sodden, giving us additional practice at being miserable. The platoon was nonetheless enthusiastic, all but Sergeant Campbell.
    “Seventeen cotton-pickin‘ years I been doin’ this,” he said as we sloshed in the rain across a silty, salmon-colored stream. “Too old for this boy-scout bullshit, lieutenant. I’d like to get back to Parris Island, get my twenty in and get the fuck out. Spend some time with my old lady and my kids for a change.”
    “Hell, this ain’t nothing but red clay, Sergeant Campbell,” said Bradley, who was behind us. “Me and old Deane here usta walk through stuff like this just coming home from school.”
    “I was talkin‘ to the lieutenant, turdbird.”
    “Yes, sir, Sergeant Campbell.”
    “Like I was sayin‘, lieutenant, get my twenty in and get out. You know, there’s eighty acres I bought in South Carolina and I figure to retire on that.”
    I laughed, “Wild Bill Campbell, the gentleman farmer.”
    “Well, sir, go ahead and laugh. But I’m gonna get on the State Troopers when I get out and with that and my retirement, I figure old Wild Bill’s gonna have it number fuckin‘ one while the rest of these turdbirds’ll still be walkin’ in this shit.”
    “Shee-hit,” someone said. “I ain’t gonna be walkin‘ in this any longer’n I have to. I ain’t no friggin’ lifer.”
    “That’s because you ain’t good enough, you silly little shit.”
    Finishing the exercises with a ten-mile forced march, we swung through the main gate looking and feeling warlike. But on the 24th, the battalion found itself still on the Rock. For over a week, orders were cut, then countermanded. We heard that the Danang operation had been called