Where God's Angels Feared To Tread

By Ray Bordogna

In the brutal jungle war of Vietnam, Marine Lieutenant Joseph Harding finds his faith and beliefs challenged by a savage enemy.

Upon reaching an ambushed Marine platoon, Harding walks slowly among the mutilated dead. A seething anger courses through his veins. He looks into the distant jungle and delivers an ultimatum to the vanished enemy force:

“The Wheel-of-Fate has a way of turning and turning until suddenly it stops; and the Day of Reckoning arrives. We shall meet again, of that I am certain. We shall meet again—as surely as the rising of the sun.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray Bordogna
• Release date: Dec 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9780997038019

Book preview

WHERE GOD’S ANGELS FEARED TO TREAD

A Novel

By

RAY BORDOGNA

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Screenplays By Ray Bordogna

Where Angels Feared To Tread

Honorable Men

A Rendezvous With Destiny

A Righteous Woman

The Song Of Roland

A Soldier Of The Queen

The Lion And The Serpent

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WHERE GOD’S ANGELS FEARED TO TREAD, WE BURIED OUR DEAD.

U.S. MARINES—SOUTH VIETNAM. 1969.

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WHERE GOD’S ANGELS FEARED TO TREAD

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RAY BORDOGNA

WHERE GOD’S ANGELS FEARED TO TREAD

Copyright © 2015 by Ray Bordogna

This E-Book is for your personal enjoyment. It is not to be resold or given to other people. Additional purchases of the book are available for that purpose, thereby respecting the hard work of the author.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form—including through the use of all present and future technological means available—without permission of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-9970380-1-9

Cover art by Laura Little   All rights reserved by Ray Bordogna.

Published by Ray Bordogna. First printing: 2015

Printed by Draft2Digital

Printed in the United States of America 

DEDICATION

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To Kathy, When Last My Eyes Smiled

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE. Honorable Duty ........................... 1

CHAPTER TWO. John Wayne ..............................26

CHAPTER THREE. Stalwart Men Of Great Character ... 46

CHAPTER FOUR. Love Lost And Love Found .......... 60

CHAPTER FIVE. The Loss Of Innocence ................. 89

CHAPTER SIX. Lest We Forget ........................... 121

CHAPTER SEVEN. A Bond Forged In Battle ........... 146

CHAPTER EIGHT. Revenge Is Mine Saith The Lord ... 194

CHAPTER NINE. A Reckoning With Man And With God ...................................................................... 241

CHAPTER TEN. The Sands Of Time ..................... 292

IN REMEMBRANCE .......................................... 298

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INTRODUCTION

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The 1960s was a tumultuous decade of political and social upheaval in America, and around the world.  But the trendy hedonism of the times had little impact on young Joseph Harding. 

Steeped in the southern tradition of Duty, Honor, Country, the Marine First Lieutenant began his thirteen-month tour-of-duty in South Vietnam, with the initial objective of leading his platoon honorably in battle, while simultaneously seeking to gain the respect of his veteran troops.  But the war’s vicious nature confronted the Marine officer with more ominous challenges. 

The war’s savagery assailed Joseph Harding’s beliefs and values, creating a moral swamp that threatened to sap the man’s soul.  While in pursuit of a murderous and sadistic enemy, Lieutenant Harding embarked on a spiritual journey of self-discovery. 

Through that perilous sojourn, came the realization that Man’s fleeting journey through Life is not a solitary endeavor; that God’s grace is a stalwart companion for the lost soul adrift in a sea of darkness. 

At its core, Where God’s Angels Feared To Tread is a simple, yet profound story.  And it is Joseph Harding’s personal testimony to the boundless mercy of God’s forgiving heart. 

The Vietnam War was indeed waged in an age of change, but it was fought by men of tradition, who walked Where God’s Angels Feared To Tread.

CHAPTER ONE

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HONORABLE DUTY

SOUTH VIETNAM—1969.  A dense, triple-canopied jungle trail crested gently upward toward a level field of elephant grass, which severed abruptly the heavy undergrowth’s continuity.  Cylindrical-shaped sunbeams filtered through the receding canopied skylight, creating the aura of a wondrous, but surreal environment.  It was as if God beckoned majestically from the Heavens above to loyal subjects below, who toiled dutifully in the wastelands of Darkness.

A heavily laden Marine rifleman moved steadily up the trail toward the light of day, first merging, and then disappearing within its blinding embrace.  As point man for First Platoon, Alpha Company, First Battalion, Ninth Marine Regiment, Third Marine Division, he preceded his unit’s single-filed trek upward.  Atop his weighted backpack lay a neatly rolled olive-drab poncho, which fit perfectly above a collapsible E-tool shovel.  A much-used green towel circled his neck like an old, comfortable horseshoe that had found its mark.  Green—the color of choice for the Marine Corps, and an appropriate selection for the present jungle environment.  A symbiotic fit—perfect and practical.  His sweat-stained, green T-shirt peaked from beneath an unzipped flak jacket.  Green, again.  The color’s matching scheme was complete—a true field Marine in motion. 

A second Marine followed.  Lance Corporal Anthony Marnetti, an easy-going nineteen year-old kid from Chicago’s suburbs projected an air of youthful exuberance, reflected most notably in his effervescent smile.  The character trait seemed completely miscast in the harsh jungle environment that was South Vietnam.  The glint in Marnetti’s eye hinted at a mischievous nature.  The mop of hair peeking from beneath the lip of his camouflaged helmet offered a glimpse into the soul of a true individualist.  The top-hair contrasted sharply with the high-and-tight side cut around his ears—the young Marine’s singular note of compliance to Marine Corps regulations. 

Marnetti was followed, in turn, by a third Marine, Private First Class Lawrence Campbell.  The eighteen-year-old farm boy from Cleveland, Ohio was big and powerful in stature.  An impressive physical specimen nurtured, no doubt, by years of repetitive farm chores.  Campbell’s youthful looks—almost cherubic in appearance—mockingly challenged the official minimum age requirement (18 years old) for service in a combat zone. 

The platoon’s new commander, Lieutenant Joseph Harding, twenty-four, of Arlington, Virginia, followed Campbell.  Slipping slightly on some damp moss, Harding regained his balance quickly, and stepped off the trail to access his platoon’s progress.  He looked downhill searching for his struggling, heavily weighted radioman.

Harding’s newness to Vietnam was evident by the exacting toll the heat took on his sweat-drenched body.  Still, there seemed to be an indefatigable spirit in his stance, a quiet confidence that suggested this was a man of substance.  Harding watched his First Squad leader, Corporal Leonard Tallchief, pass by, as the patrol continued its upward march.

Leonard Tallchief was a tall, lean, full-blooded nineteen-year-old South Dakota Cheyenne.  The sprightly bounce in his step suggested a young man comfortable in the outdoors, with all the rigors such a life implied.

Lieutenant Harding reached beneath his flak jacket, and removed a small acetate-covered map from his front shirt pocket. He studied its contents, and then looked up the trail to orient the map’s features with his present surroundings.  The warmth of the sun filtered through the dank jungle trees and splayed upon the young lieutenant’s face.  So warm, he thought, so warm.  It distracted him from the task at hand. 

The light’s textured dance along the trail’s dark recesses infatuated the lieutenant.  It reminded him of an illuminated cathedral beckoning its worshippers to weekly services.  Light—a powerful and reassuring presence for all of God’s fallen creatures seeking solace from a sinful world.  It was a contrast not lost on the lieutenant.  Such imagery brought to Harding’s mind those fiery Sunday sermons delivered with great fervor, by his minister, from the pulpit of the hometown Baptist church.  And the Lord said there shall be wars and rumors of wars, be not afraid.  For all these things must come to pass and the end is not yet.

Another Marine rifleman trudged upward past the young platoon commander.  The additional movement failed to interrupt Lieutenant Harding’s silent scriptural recitation.  Nation shall rise against nation, people against people.  They shall deliver you up to be afflicted and put to death. 

Harding closed his eyes a moment, allowing the sun’s warmth to embrace his face.  How relaxing it felt.  As the heat surged through his body, Harding sensed an inexplicable communion with God.  Bronze light danced on his eyelids, as thoughts of sermons past concluded with a familiar refrain: But he that endures until the very end, he shall be saved.  The Marine officer nodded solemnly.  Saved-Yes.  Salvation—the preferred journey’s end for all of God’s creatures.  Lieutenant Harding squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and smiled.

"Wake up!"  The words startled Harding.  Opening his eyes, he found himself staring into the face of his platoon sergeant, Jacque Doucette.  The weathered face of this thirty-eight year old, two-war veteran proved daunting to the neophyte field commander.  The Louisiana Cajun’s stare seared through the lieutenant’s body. It was the same domineering power Doucette employed successfully years earlier, to help transform young civilian recruits into Marines on the grueling, sun-baked drill field of Parris Island, South Carolina. 

Doucette’s eyes narrowed, almost squinting at Lieutenant Harding.  The embarrassed lieutenant blushed at being caught daydreaming, and sought to avoid the sergeant’s gaze by reapplying himself to his field map.  Tension between the two men was broken by the arrival of Harding’s radioman, Lance Corporal Joshua Parenti.  Sergeant Doucette gave one last irritated glance toward an oblivious Lieutenant Harding, grunted disapprovingly at the delayed radioman, then proceeded up the trail.

Lieutenant Harding looked up from his map to see an apologetic smile on Parenti’s face.  The nineteen-year-old Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania native struggled with the trail’s slippery footing. 

Sorry, Lieutenant.  Having a tough day, I guess. 

With a gentle wave of his hand, Lieutenant Harding brushed off the delay as unimportant.  

Forget it, Josh.  Give me the hook.

Parenti handed Lieutenant Harding the radio handset.  He watched as the lieutenant studied his map, once again, finalizing preparations to call in a situation report to Alpha Company’s commander, Captain James Barger, code-named Alpha Six.  The captain’s call sign, part of an integrated system of coded communication techniques, was designed to protect informational exchanges among field units, making difficult the lives of enemy eavesdroppers.

Alpha Six, this is Alpha One Actual (Lieutenant Harding’s radio call sign), over.

A moment’s radio silence was broken by the sound of the captain’s voice. 

Alpha One Actual, this is Alpha Six, over.

Lieutenant Harding smiled at his radioman, nodding enthusiastically at making such a clear radio connection.  Given the dense foliage that surrounded his unit, the chances of even a static-punctuated reception were dicey, at best.  How refreshing it was when the basics in field communications worked to your advantage. 

Alpha Six, this is Alpha One Actual.  Have reached checkpoint two, at coordinates....  Lieutenant Harding hesitated a moment, then looked more closely at his map, to reassure himself of an accurate transference of information.  ...Tango Romeo one-three-six-zero-zero-one.  Am—."  There was a sudden jerk to the platoon’s single-filed hill-trek, followed by an abrupt halt.

Harding looked immediately up the trail.  His point man had reemerged through the portal of sunlight atop the hill, stopped quickly, and hurriedly pumped a clenched-fist up and down, the signal for the platoon to halt in place.  The point man dropped to one knee to await the arrival of Sergeant Doucette, who made his way rapidly upward. 

In response to the point man’s sense of urgency, individual platoon members, recognizing their vulnerability along the trail, knelt for a modicum of protection.  A majority of the Marines, battle-hardened veterans with months of combat experience on their military resumes, tensed, as they allowed their primal instincts full rein. 

Instincts—good instincts—meant the difference between life and death in a war zone.  Good instincts—focused instincts—were an invaluable commodity in the survival game.  And the good instincts of these Marines kicked in big-time.  Senses strained to penetrate the mysteries of the surrounding jungle.  Eyes darted about.  Hands gripped more tightly the rifles they held. 

Lieutenant Harding watched as Sergeant Doucette reached the hill’s crest.  Taking a knee, Doucette engaged the point man in a quiet, but animated, discussion.  Distracted by the unfolding scene above him, Harding had forgotten about his ongoing conversation with Captain Barger.  Pulling his thoughts together, the lieutenant keyed the handset, and spoke with an apologetic tone in his voice.  Wait one, Alpha Six, point may be onto something.  Will resume sit-rep shortly, over. 

Roger, Alpha One Actual. This is Alpha Six, out.

Completing his brief appraisal of the situation with Sergeant Doucette, on how best to navigate the field of elephant grass that lay before them, the point man stood, and adjusted the weight of his backpack.  He fixed his gaze on a tree line that lay one hundred meters across the open field.  Leveling his M-16 rifle in that direction, he moved toward it in steady, but measured, steps. 

With the point man on his way across the open meadow, Sergeant Doucette looked back down the trail, searching for Corporal Tallchief.  Hurriedly waving up Tallchief’s First Squad, he motioned for it to take up firing positions on the sergeant’s right flank.  With Second Squad following close behind, Doucette waved it into position on his left flank.  Third Squad remained in place, to cover the trail.  First and Second Squads watched the point man, through their rifle sights, as he continued his forward movement.

At mid-field, the point man stopped abruptly.  His body grew rigid, a study in controlled tension.  Something was amiss.  His eyes surveyed the tree line before him.  All human sensors at his disposal strained to detect the slightest hint of the enemy’s presence.  Searching, searching, searching.  Still unsure, he relaxed slightly, turning his head backward to face the platoon. 

CLANK!  The noise came from the tree line.  The point man’s eyes widened.  His body shivered.  He was dead, and he knew it.  That noise was the distinct sound of a bullet being chambered into an AK-47 rifle, the weapon of choice for the North Vietnamese Army. 

The point man spun around toward the tree line, rifle at the ready.  Too late.  A burst of semi-automatic weapons fire hit him in the chest, hurling him backward to the ground.  His helmet flew through the air, landing with a bounce, and rolling several times before it came to a slow, serpentine stop.  The dying Marine looked up at the blazing sun.  He moaned softly once, a final entreaty to God, then lay still. 

Sergeant Doucette and Corporal Tallchief were conferring quietly, when the shots were heard.  Both men turned immediately to look in the point man’s direction.  Sudden movement behind Doucette broke his gaze at the fallen Marine.  Looking first down the trail, then back out over the field, Doucette caught a glimpse of a Marine, stripped of field gear, sprinting toward the downed point man.

Unsure of who was committing this imbecilic act, Doucette exploded.  Who in the hell is that, John Wayne?

A bemused Corporal Tallchief shook his head.  That’s our new lieutenant.

Barely able to contain his anger, Sergeant Doucette motioned to First Squad, then to Second Squad: Cover him. 

The two rifle squads responded by taking quick aim at the far tree line. 

Doucette looked at Corporal Tallchief, and spoke with a hint of exasperation in his voice.  He keeps this shit up, he’s going to be our late, new Lieutenant. 

The war-savvy Tallchief nodded in agreement. 

Lieutenant Harding reached the point man, and quickly removed the Marine’s backpack.  Harding placed the downed Marine over his right shoulder, and then lifted him, hooking an arm and a leg together, firemen—carry style.  Thus began a ragged sprint back towards the relative safety of the platoon’s skirmish line. 

Doucette and Tallchief made way for the lieutenant, as they, and other Marines, helped Harding lower the motionless point man gently onto the ground. 

Momentarily exhausted, Lieutenant Harding’s body shook like a miniature earthquake, from the short burst of spent energy.  He gasped repeatedly for breath in the humid, stagnant air.  Is there no air—not even the slightest breeze—in this God-forsaken country?  Finally, deliverance.  The lieutenant’s depleted lungs began to refill with the precious commodity, calming his body.  A rejuvenated Harding turned his attention to the dying Marine.

Sergeant Doucette waved up Doc James, the platoon’s twenty-two year old Navy corpsman from Memphis, Tennessee.  The corpsman low-crouched rapidly, along the rear of Second Squad’s skirmish line, toward the fallen Marine.  No sense in giving North Vietnamese snipers a second, er, third target for the day. 

Upon his arrival, Doc James placed his Unit One Medical Kit on the ground, next to the motionless point man, and checked immediately for life signs.  The corpsman opened the Marine’s eyelids, only to be greeted by a blank stare.  He then fingered for a pulse from the man’s carotid arteries.  Nothing.  Doc bent forward and placed his head gently on the Marine’s chest, listening intently for the slightest of slightest heartbeats.  Nothing.  The corpsman looked up wearily at the lieutenant.  Resignation had set in.  Doc shook his head.  It was over. 

A grief-stricken Lieutenant Harding placed his hand gently on the dead Marine’s shoulder.  The sadness evident on Harding’s face was not lost on Sergeant Doucette. 

Doucette scrutinized closely Lieutenant Harding’s demeanor.  What is the mettle of this man who would lead First Platoon? 

Lance Corporal Parenti handed the radio handset to Lieutenant Harding, who reached for it, almost in slow motion.  Harding’s voice registered little above a whisper, as he called Alpha Company’s commander, Captain Barger.  Alpha Six, this is Alpha One Actual, over.

After a moment’s silence, Captain Barger responded.  Alpha One Actual, this is Alpha Six, over. 

Alpha Six, request medevac at previous coordinates.  Have sustained one Kilo India Alpha (Killed In Action), over.  Harding had lost his first man in battle. 

Alpha One Actual, we copy that...medevac in route.  Echo Tango Alpha (Estimated Time Of Arrival) ten minutes, out.  Now, there was nothing to do but wait.

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The Second Battalion, Sixty-Sixth Regiment, First North Vietnamese Army Division stood in formation before a small wooden platform located in a jungle clearing along the Laotian border.  The battalion was resplendent in its new khaki uniforms, and pith helmets.  Three North Vietnamese Generals stood on the platform, gazing out at the battalion’s ranks.  Each general held a small pamphlet in hand. 

Walking purposefully down the formation’s ranks, the battalion’s Political Commissar, Major Dung, passed out similar pamphlets to the unit’s line officers.  Thin and wiry, Major Dung was a hard-bitten communist party member, and a veteran of the war against the French in Indo-China.  The forty-four year old Hanoi resident brooked no nonsense where matters of communist party discipline were involved.  As commissar, he was the party’s eyes and ears among the military. 

Still, the major couldn’t be expected to catch every subtle indication of disaffection in the ranks.  As he handed one of those pamphlets to Platoon Lieutenant Nuyen, the twenty-two year old son of former French colonial bureaucrats, he failed to see the look of disdain in the young officer’s eyes.  While Nuyen’s command position required him to join the communist party, such membership did not signify fevered devotion to the organization’s directives.  Professional military officers chafed under the oppressive control of communist party operatives, and Nuyen was no different. 

Major Dung handed a pamphlet to Lieutenant Nuyen’s assistant platoon leader, and close friend, Lieutenant Han, then proceeded down the ranks. 

Lieutenant Han shared Nuyen’s distrust of the communist party.  Thankfully, the twenty-year-old would not be required to accept mandatory party membership, until he was given his own platoon to command.  Fine with him.  As the only son of peasant parents—recipients of French Catholic missionary schooling near Hanoi—Han knew how to play the political game.  The ability to do so was vital for navigating the constricting web of oppression and deception that was North Vietnam’s regime.  Still, it was an increasingly tiresome game for Han, and he did not relish adding another layer to it.  Though it strained his senses, Lieutenant Han forced himself to remain inscrutable as Major Dung walked by.  Display an emotionless face, thought Han.  Let the games continue. 

The people of the South await you.  The words shook Lieutenant Han from his thoughts.  He looked up at the platform, focusing his gaze on the highest-ranking North Vietnamese General, the source of the spoken words. 

Their arms are open; their hearts filled with joy.  The puppet soldiers of the South, and their American allies, are weak, and cowardly....

The North Vietnamese