LeftExchange
Best Friends
- by Mark S. Foley
He soaked up the available quiet, never knowing when the silent veil of the tropical night would be torn, either by the sound of mortars and small arms fire, or by the searing sight of the tracers that pave the way for death in the dark. He heard the pop as the parachute of the still-invisible flare opened somewhere above him. He wondered why the flares were even used sometimes; if the GIs could hear that popping sound just before the flare lit up the night, then so could the Viet Cong. That's what's wrong with this war, he thought. Everything our side devises to defend the troops or detect and destroy the enemy seems to have the reverse effect. Everyone ducked, V.C. included…
He was thinking of the new weapon he held in his hands - the M16. It was nothing like his 'best friend', his M14, that he had broken down, cleaned, oiled, calibrated and shot hundreds of times - his M14, that had saved his life countless times - his M-14, that he slept with almost every night. Instead, he now held this insubstantial, plastic 'Mattel' toy - the whole battalion had received a shipment and they were bringing in one company at a time from the bush, taking away their M14s and all the ammunition, then issuing them the M16.
He sat listening with the entire company as the small arms instructor stood on the platform facing the troops in the traditional, military 'at-ease' position. On a small table positioned in front of the platform an M16 was only display, stripped down to its component parts. All the parts were tagged for easy identification. The instructor, a staff sergeant with one 'Nam tour already under his belt, who had been sent from stateside duty, began to preach about the technological superiority of the Colt M16 Military Assault Rifle over the M14 - its lightness, accuracy, compactness…
He remembered that most of the grunts, like him, were reluctant at first to part with their M14s, their 'best friends' in a very real sense. The M16 took a little getting used to. Despite its plastic lightness, it looked… powerful. It looked like a killing machine - sleek, black, no nonsense - made of steel and high grade plastic. He thought of it not as he did the M14, not as a rifle with a wooden stock that had some weight and some character, like a hunting rifle, but as a machine gun - black, cold and efficient…
When he was twelve, his father gave him his first Daisy BB rifle. It wasn't one of the repeaters, but an old, single-shot pump action. His father told him it was for target practice. Somehow his father knew that he was ready to outgrow his childhood, and he listened to his dad with a respect approaching awe as his father taught him that patience was as important as quickness.
His dad showed him how the trigger must be squeezed slowly, and not pulled in haste or excitement. His father promised that when he got good enough to hits cans and bottles set up out in back of the house on a stonewall from fifty paces, he would buy him a .22 rifle. He learned quickly, but he became bored with aiming, firing and hitting his targets every time. He wandered farther into the woods and the fields, looking for living, moving targets…
The instructor continued to talk of 'muzzle velocity' and 'rounds-per-minute' and 'effective range'. It almost seemed like a sales pitch, he thought, as though the instructor would then ask the troops to form a line and have their money ready to buy one while they lasted. Now he felt as though he couldn't wait to get his hands on this new weapon designed to kill people. He reckoned that any new weapon that increased his chance for survival was welcome. Yet he found himself, like the others, averse to giving up his M14. Some of the guys even requested that they be allowed to keep their M14s; they had even given them names. A few offered to buy them from Uncle Sam. But the brass shot any ideas down about keeping or buying the M14s. According to the brass everything must be GI (government issue) and uniform or there would be complications. If the M-14 took the same caliber cartridges as the M16, it wouldn't matter so much. Now only the Marines, some embassy guards and the snipers who preferred the 14 would be allowed to continue using it.
After the small arms course and after being issued the brand new M16 he moved out with his company to the makeshift firing range to practice and qualify. As he scored hits on the pop-up targets, he thought back to the bottles on the stonewall and what his childhood games had become…
The flare burned a hole in the night and swung slowly down and across his field of vision, making everything within its radius not quite like day. There was an eerie commingling of dense, green colors directly beneath the flare. As the light extended outwards, as it lost its power to illuminate, it competed with the night. The earth and the grasses and the brush showed white with shades of gray, with the blackness beyond ready to smother the light. Nothing moved. But he knew they were out there. They always were, it seemed. Just as both the V.C. and the Americans would duck for cover every time they heard the pop of the flare's parachute, so they would begin to take new positions when the flare burned itself out and the darkness returned…
He recalled that two days ago his squad had gotten bogged down in rice paddy mud, pinned by snipers hidden in the tree line, trying to pick them off, one by one. Instinctively his whole squad dove down, trying to become one with the mud and the brown water and the rice grass. He prayed they were the ill-equipped 'locals' and not a concentration of the better-armed and trained Viet Cong 'cadre'. He got into a crouch behind a berm to search the tree line. Puffs of blue-white smoke followed by the cracks of light weapons fire came from the dark, shadowy undergrowth about two hundred meters ahead. He picked his M16 out of the water and the mud, flicked it on automatic, and aimed it in the direction of fire. There was no use in keeping the 16 on semi-automatic and gently squeezing the trigger as he was taught, for there was no clearly defined target. The 16 kicked up as he fired his first clip of twenty rounds from left to right. Meanwhile his squad had fanned out to spray a defensive volley of fire. Halfway through his second clip the bolt on his 16 jammed up. He tried to clear it manually, but it wouldn't budge. He swore loudly as he looked around at his buddies. What he didn't expect to see was one, two, three more 16s jamming up the same way. Only a few guys who had managed to keep their 16s out of the mud were able to continue firing. Luckily the V.C. didn't have a clue about the jammed 16s and his squad's increased vulnerability. In their typical 'hit and run' fashion, the V.C. had attacked and retreated without ever being seen. Only now did he recall the instructor's admonition to keep their M16s clean due to their 'higher occurrence of jamming' when exposed to mud, dirt, sand or water…
Just as the blackness enveloped him he thought of that last firefight just two dawns ago. He realized that ever so gradually, all his memories were either of long ago, during his childhood, or of the recent past, of events that had happened since he had arrived in 'Nam back in January. When Diane's 'Dear John' had arrived (was that in March?) he had just stopped writing home to anyone. Now he wasn't quite sure if it was June or July. Somehow, perhaps because he wasn't close enough to his rotation date out of 'Nam to be called a 'short-timer', it mattered only that it was now. It mattered only that despite the jungle's cacophony he could still hear the snap of a twig. It mattered only that tonight neither could he see, nor be seen. It mattered only that he still remembered his name. He hugged his new 'best friend'.
Author's note:
The M-14 was really a reworked and modernized M-1. The diameter of the barrel was changed and a bottom-loading magazine vs. breech-loaded clip was added. The barrel diameter was changed to 7.62 millimeters. In most other specifications, the M-14 was pretty much a newer version of the old World War II rifle, the M-1, both of which were remarkably problem-free and dependable.
The Colt M16 Military Assault Rifle: Also called the AR-15 Assault Rifle, was adopted as a standard weapon by the U.S. Army in 1967. The M16 superseded the M14 rifle. It is gas-operated and has both semi-automatic (i.e. autoloading) and fully automatic capabilities. Weighing less than 8 lbs. and equipped with a 20-round or 30-round magazine, the M16 is 39 inches long and fires 5.56 millimeter (.223 - caliber) ammunition at the rate of 700-950 rounds per minute. Both the U.S and South Vietnamese forces used it during the Vietnam War. The AR-15 has gone from the problem plagued rifle used by the US military in Vietnam to the most 'reliable' (efficient people killer) firearm available on the world market. Early Ar-15s (designated as the M16 by the US Military) often jammed, causing more than a few Vietnam War veterans to have a really dim view of the rifle - if they survived the experience. These problems weren't too surprising since the US military issued these guns without cleaning kits; troops were not required at first to clean the guns; and the rifle's early magazines weren't reliable. Adding to this was the fact that the gunpowder used in the military cartridges was different from that specified in the design of the AR-15, causing it to cycle too rapidly. Worse yet, the calcium carbonate used in the ball powder often clogged the gas tube of the rifle, causing it to quit functioning altogether. Finally, the chambers of these early rifles lacked any chrome plating and soon rusted in the humid environment of Vietnam. Some people would define these malfunctioning weapons that caused some really bad scenarios and confusion in battle as part of the 'the fog of war'. I would define it as the 'duh' of war: who goes, who stays, who gives the orders, who dies, who makes it rich. Check out Operation Desert Storm if you want 'duh'!
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