Men Among Men (Fates of a Lost Squad in Vietnam) 1971 A Sergeant Crusher Story II

Men among Men (part three)

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(Fates of a lost Squad in Vietnam) 1971

A Sergeant Crusher Story II

The men now were spread out on either side of the jungle’s dirt road- SGT Crusher (a nickname given to him because he fit the bill), and Corporal Evens over on one side, Corporal Smiley (Judson being his real name) and the Indian, a Private First Class from Oklahoma, whom was called Chief (real name being: Henry), and who had done some advance training with Corporal Evens in Alabama, a drunk most of the time, were searching for two, Red Cross nurses, whom were often called in Vietnam, doughnut girls, along with the other half of Sergeant Crusher’s squad, four GI’s, PFC, Dean, Cooley, Curry and Corporal Delaney; they had not returned to the Ordnance Company on Cam Ranh Bay, now considered MIA (missing in action); the girls, were to be brought to the Medical Clinic, whom were being escorted by Sergeant Crusher’s other half-squad.

Originally Sergeant Crusher would have remained on the trail, that being the road, to search for further indications of the missing vehicle they were in, but now missing for over twenty-four hours, the vehicle nowhere to be found, and all tire tracks rained and washed out from the night before, he chose a different strategy.

So the four within the sergeant’s group, proceeded in a different fashion, nearly a half a mile difference, combing deeper into the jungle: thinking they were captured and perhaps left in the thicket of the jungle, no longer to be found on the road.

After several more hours of searching, here he found a fair-sized space in the jungle, a clearing and copious spring of cold water nearby, the sergeant was thirsty, wanted to fill his canteen. A few low bushes dotted here and there, a grassy like clearing enclosed by dense and impenetrable tropical forest: waiting for his canteen to be filled with water, he spotted something-green: military clothing, black jungle boots sticking out of some bushes: he stood up approached it with caution, and was mortified, he stood in near shock:

“Here!” he called. “Here’s PFC Dean, and Cooley and the Corporal, they sure walked into a horrible fate!”

The other three rushed in the direction of the Sergeant, coming to a confounded halt at the sides of three soldiers’ decapitated trunks, their dog-tags wrapped around their boots.

The Indian, called Chief, reverting something despicable in his native tongue, as he neared the torsos. Corporal Evens under the same stress, and Smiley, he took on the stress of great excitement-or was it blanketed mortification; who’s to say?

“Who done it?” queried PFC Henry, looking suspiciously into the thicket.

“Head-hunters,” said Smiley.

Evens went white faced.

“No, we don’t have head-hunters here, we have Vietcong savages, who want to terrify us, and they know we’d be in search for them.”

Something odd came into the Sergeant’s breast, his bulging muscles, poured out sweat, his voice hoarse, he did not try to analyze the situation, but it was from a nervous dislike: when he suggested, that the doughnut girls were in dire need of help, perhaps facing a worse fate, and seldom was he wrong. And as far as where PFC Curry was concerned, Sergeant Crusher’s suggestion was: he’d be let go, to describe what had taken place, this was the Sergeant’s third tour of Vietnam, everyone else’s first, he was seldom wrong, but he would be wrong about Curry, this time.

Never, to Evens’ recollection, had he seen such insult, to a human body; how could men do this horrible thing to another men?

“We need to search for PFC Curry and the two girls,” shouted Sergeant Crusher, adding, “You men look as if you’ve seen Dracula, get yourselves together, where are the others?”