Ace

By David Beakey

We called him “Ace”, the way you might call a short man “Stretch”. Among universally young-looking marines, he still stood out. He had the boyish face of a mascot. His build was slight, his arms and chest not defined by bulk or the hardness that comes with sustained labor. He tried his best to fit in with the machine gun crew. He spent two months as an ammo humper, carrying rounds across his chest and with slings, over his shoulders. Then by attrition he advanced to assistant machine gunner. He learned to lie next to the gunner; feeding the rounds into the gun and changing the barrel after thousands of rounds were fired in a short period of time. Then one day he became the gunner. He had been in country 6 months. He strutted around the firebase with his .45 pistol prominently displayed. But we could see the fear in his eyes. Some of the men avoided him. He made them feel uneasy. Amid the uncertainty of combat he was at the top of the list to get killed. Nobody came out and said it, but we all saw him as a casualty long before it happened.

One day, several of his buddies visited our firebase. They knew him from back in the states, from Florida. They looked out of place and seemed nervous around us. We had a rough look about us. We carried our weapons at all times, a round in the chamber. They wore fatigues that seemed greener than ours, and their boots…their boots were clean and bright. We ignored them. They took Ace aside and spoke to him earnestly. When they left, they were serious and ashen-faced. I was his squad leader. I asked him what they said. He laughed nervously. Then he explained that they had told him to transfer immediately, to get out of the bush. When he weakly protested, they told him frankly that he would die soon unless he heeded their advice. Then they left.

From that day on, Ace became even more skittish. He started to develop reasons to stay behind when we went on patrol. I was in a quandary. Should I make him go, like everyone else? Or would I jeopardize the squad by taking him along, a shaky gunner? I gave in a few times and didn't question his illnesses. But we couldn’t patrol shorthanded. I told him I’d support his request for transfer. But I made it clear I couldn’t protect him much longer. Soon he was patrolling with us regularly. Life went on in the bush. I hoped for the best.

Then one day, after 12 months in country, I was pulled from the bush. I became a true “short timer”. I relinquished my role as squad leader and prayed that the nightly rocket attacks on our base camp wouldn’t result in the irony all short timers feared, and I waited to rotate home, counting the days.

Two weeks before my departure date, a patrol was ambushed, 500 yards outside of our base camp. A platoon rushed out to support them. A daylong firefight ensued. During the course of the day I could sometimes see the fighting, just outside our lines. My short timer status dictated that I had no part to play in this fight. I felt guilty. I couldn’t protect Ace anymore. I imagined him firing the machine gun. I knew he’d be a target. I volunteered to take the wounded and killed off the choppers that were bringing men in to the base camp. We were told to separate the wounded so that they could be picked up by another chopper and flown to Da Nang, where they would get initial treatment. Then they would go on to a hospital ship, Japan or maybe even back to the states. The KIA would remain at our base camp. When we had time, we would put them into body bags, but utilizing the realism that war demands, our energy was focused on the wounded.

The second chopper I helped unload contained five men. As I pulled one man off, I looked at his face to check his color. It was Ace. He had no apparent wounds. I thought he might be unconscious. He looked like he was sleeping. I checked for wounds, but could find none. Finally I noticed a small entrance wound in his throat. It looked so benign. Then I saw a speck of blood on his lips. I shook him, trying to wake him, trying to help him. I pulled his shirt over his face as the chopper ascended, to shield his eyes from the dust. When the sounds of the chopper receded, I started to carry him to the wounded area. Where was that other chopper, the chopper that would take him to Da Nang?

I struggled to carry him. I saw a marine looking at me, a puzzled look on his face. I shouted to him, demanding that he help me. He pointed over to the KIA area, where three bodies lay. I ignored him, believing he was confused. I looked around. Things seemed strange. I could hear firing in the far distance. The battle had moved further away. The wounded were being attended to by a corpsman. Ace lay on the ground. Finally a marine came over and told me that Ace was dead. It seemed like a treacherous thing to say. I still held out hope that I could save him, by willing him alive. I bent down and examined him again. He was still. I looked up again. No one would look at me.

Finally the chopper arrived and took the wounded to Da Nang. I walked away in a daze. The fighting finally ended. As our units walked back into the compound, they brought in six prisoners, naked except for shorts and blindfolds. Their hands were tied behind their backs. I looked at them with hatred, but was surprised that my malice was tempered by guilt. Guilt that I hadn’t been with my squad this day and guilt that I couldn’t stop fate or bad luck or whatever it was that finally took away a young man from Florida, who had no business being in harm’s way.