Canary Amongst the Covey

By Emory Moon

...a continuation and sequel to Canary and the Mothman; Canary Amongst the Covey chronicles the events in Jesse's life as he travels abroad for his tour of duty in the United States Army, 1st Infantry division aka, The Big Red One. Join him and his comrades as they attempt to liberate the Viet Cong stro

• Language: English
• Publisher: FOwlbird Publishing
• Release date: Oct 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985999259

Book preview

Chapter 1

Canary in the Triangle

"Covey 3, this is Covey Leader, come in Covey 3….

Covey 3, this is Covey Leader, come in Covey 3…."

Some one hundred fifty yards beyond the berm perimeter that surrounds Jesse’s Fire Support Base, and only seventy-five yards from the tree line that most likely shrouds the enemy, Jesse lies in a shallow fox hole as the hot Vietnamese sun beats down upon his skin. Flies buzz around his head, landing periodically, only to walk undisturbed across his brow. Then, as the green two-way radio crackles to life, the flies take flight briefly only to land once more.

Covey 3, COME IN Covey 3….

Hey, Sarge, he’s not answering. You want me to inform Loft?

No. Go get that dumb, hillbilly, son-of-a-bitch and bring him to me.

This sequence of events re-occurs and worsens with each move.

Due north of Saigon lies the Iron Triangle, an area particularly robust with enemy activity. The 7th Light Artillery, a division of the U.S. Army’s 1st Infantry Division, is tasked with defensive fire support using their lethal 105mm Howitzers. The objective: Provide defensive protection to other U.S. troops attempting to infiltrate and eliminate the enemy stronghold. Offensively, the fire support they provide keeps the enemy at bay. However, their best defense is to move every two to three days so the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) and Viet Cong guerrillas cannot compromise a stationary position. This constant movement, while necessary, keeps Jesse and his fellow comrades fatigued and exhausted.

Usually, on the morning of the third day, but sometimes on the second, Jesse and the other soldiers begin the process of breaking down their encampment, tents, hootches, guns, sandbags, mess and all. Then Chinooks and Hueys, by the dozens, begin to appear just over the tree line, the whirling blades chopping through the atmosphere creating a chaotic and dust-enshrouded transfer. Then, just like that, the once occupied defensive location is liquidated into the air as helicopter after helicopter take flight with supplies and heavy guns dangling below. The pre-chosen destination lies only five miles away, as the crow flies. There the process begins again in reverse. Each soldier is tasked in a similarly yet different way, as the foxholes are dug, sandbags refilled, hootches and tents reassembled, and guns recalibrated. This tedious process is repeated again and again with little regard for the soldiers’ overall well-being and morale.

Suddenly, Jesse’s eyes are wide with alert, the noise emanating from the bordering rice patty forcing him to take up arms in the form of his M-16. The flies scatter in all directions as Jesse cowers ever so low while peering cautiously through the elephant grass from his dug-in shelter. Now, all he can hear is a deafening silence intermittently interrupted by the call of some indigenous fowl.

Now, it’s probably because he is green. After all, he’s just arrived only weeks prior, and Sarge is adamant about seasoning him, but he failed to notice the approaching men. Before Jesse can react, he is disarmed and lying on his backside propped upwards upon both elbows dead center of the recently dug hole and staring at his own weapon now pointed directly at his nose.

What the hell do you think you’re doing? the U.S. Army Corporal asks.

Jesse says nothing in reply and only collapses further from his propped position to flat upon his back. Upon witnessing this, the others react with laughter.

Well, Corn-Pone? the Corporal says.

Leave him alone, Winslow, the other Corporal in the search party of three, replies. It has no effect upon them as they continue to deride Jesse about his growing deficiency.

I said, leave him alone, the Corporal reiterates.

Finally, the laughter subsides and Swanny repeats his question. What the hell are you doing? Sarge is pissed.

Jesse finally replies, You know what I’m doing.

Well, get yo’ white ass up and let’s go.

Jesse, one who complies with orders from a superior, obeys, and soon the four are returning as stealthy as possible towards their Fire Support Base (FSB).

As the privates move along toward camp just steps ahead of the two Corporals, Jesse can’t help but hear the conversation only paces behind him.

* * *

Sarge is gonna kill his ass one way or another.

You’ve noticed it too? Winslow replies.

Hell yeah, I’ve noticed it. You gotta be blind or dumb not to see that shit, Swanny says.

This ain’t just about seasoning. Sarge never made a greenhorn pull that many perimeters in a row before.

I only did two in the past three weeks.

I’ve done five myself, Winslow replies as the four men continue to navigate the dense jungle.

You know what it is, don’t you? Corporal Swanny asks Winslow.

I have my suspicions, Winslow replies.

Sarge don’t like yo’ type.

My type?

Yeah, you and old Corn-pone are the same.

You mean white?

Yeah, but at least you not southern too. White is bad enough, but southern? He’ll be lucky to make it back home alive.

You think that’s right? I mean, we’re supposed to be on the same team.

It’s not for me to say, man. I’m just doin’ my time till I get the hell outta here.

We’re all doin’ time, at least that’s the way I see it.

Upon hearing this, I didn’t know what to do. I had been in-country now for nearly a month, and each night I had been assigned perimeter duty. Not one other man in our outfit had been assigned such a grueling schedule. I had never been afraid of hard work, and I handled this workload just like I had done back on the farm. But now, with my foot not yet fully healed from the break during basic, I began to avoid my duties when possible. I was physically exhausted and emotionally depleted. I just wanted to die. Things had not gotten better for me since leaving Georgia other than getting away from Locke, and I was near a nervous breakdown. Something had to change and change soon.

It was now clear to me what some of the other guys had been saying. Sarge had it in for me. I think Corporal Swanny felt the same, but I wasn’t all that sure about Memphis.

Memphis was a private just like me. He hardly ever spoke, and some of us wondered if he could talk at all. He usually kept to himself, and even the great quantities of beer he consumed never loosened his lips.

Corporal Winslow seemed to be my only ally other than the Wolfman, and I relished his occasional advice.

They all called him Red, I suppose due to the beret, but it still bothered me; I just couldn’t call him that. I couldn’t call anyone that because of Locke, so I just called him Hank. This name was more befitting him anyway, especially if you could witness his rendition of ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart,’ a tune he always sang on quiet evenings back at base camp. And I had never met another living soul outside Sugar Creek who knew Kawliga.

Upon arriving into camp that morning, I had expected the worst but as luck would have it, Sarge was getting his from the Wolfman.

Lieutenant Stuart Loft, as he was known to us while on duty, was just 24 years old and a recent graduate of New York University. He had not attended West Point but, nevertheless, was an officer. That meant we had to follow orders from him when given. Sarge even had to comply even though Sarge was at least 15 years his senior. Apparently, word had made it back to the Lieutenant about my continuing perimeter mishaps, and Sarge was held responsible. In spite of direct orders from Loft, he retaliated. I was given an additional four weeks of kitchen patrol (KP), making my debt to the mess Sergeant a complete two months. I decided that day to talk to Loft about this during our next fight. Now, according to military protocol, officers are forbidden from fraternizing with subordinates. This regulation seemed absent from Lieutenant Loft’s Officers’ manual because not less than three days after my guard duty failure, we were at it again.

Hit ’em Wolfman! someone yelled as Loft threw a right hook directly at my head. I ducked and maneuvered and circled to my right beyond the Wolfman’s reach. He threw another and then another, missing the first time but connecting on the second. I was forced into a clinch with him as we circled inside the small makeshift ring of diesel drums as the spectators urged us onward, and during this close encounter I decided to ask him for help, so I whispered in his left ear.

I need your help.

He pushed away, releasing me from the clinch and threw yet another punch.

Let’s go, Corn-Pone, I heard Swanny yell.

Now, I was a pessimist by nature, so these encounters seemed to bring out the worst in me. Afterall, I had only accepted this challenge in hopes of telling Loft of my newly discovered plight because he seemed to me a caring individual regardless of his desire to conquer me physically. And although I was undefeated and had beaten all challengers within my platoon, I felt a continued desire to prevail so as to reduce the constant intimidation while at the same time wanting to forfeit to my superior officer. My abilities in self-defense I attributed to my fight for survival back on the farm where Locke had abused me on a weekly basis. There was no other explanation for my skill in hand-to-hand combat. Afterall, the introduction to this subject in Columbus was subpar and had lasted less than a week. And in spite of being in the best physical shape of my life, I was still uncertain whether I could prevail against Locke if I were to face him now. I feared the burning desire to get even with him would not be enough. But because I had bested the Wolfman on more than one occasion and because I felt so strong, I decided upon our next face-to-face encounter I would attempt to kill Locke with my bare hands. This of course would have to wait until my return to Georgia if by some miracle that would come to pass. And suddenly, as my thoughts continued to wander, the Wolfman connected with a left upper cut that sent me reeling.

Awe, I could hear most every spectator exclaim as if they had received the punch themselves. And, as I regained my composure and stood up to face him once more, the onlooking crowd seemed to divide like the Red Sea.

LIEUTENANT! yelled Sarge as he rounded the corner of the mess and caught us mid-fight.

Both Loft and I snapped to attention and waited for our scolding while most of the others had already dispersed in all directions.

PRIVATE! the Sarge began. You continue to be a problem for my command. Are you aware of military protocol? You could be court-martialed for striking a superior officer. What if the Lieutenant decides to press charges? the Sarge asked rhetorically as he shifted his eyes toward Loft. Then, as he stepped sideways from an eye-to-eye position with me and into a face-to-face position with Lieutenant Loft, he asked, So, what will it be, Lieutenant?

Loft said nothing and continued to hold his rigid and at-attention posture.

In the military, it seemed that rank was not always evident regardless of the insignia upon one’s uniform as the Sarge, who had seen action in Korea and been nearly fifty years old, seemed to rank higher than Loft during this encounter.

I asked you a question, Lieutenant, the Sergeant repeated.

Loft still remained silent but at attention.

Well, your four-year degree and political appointment cuts no ice with me. I could report you to the Colonel.

The Sarge then reached into Loft’s uniform breast pocket and retrieved the freshly opened package of cigarettes. He then proceeded to ignite a single smoke using his own matches, subsequently drawing into his lungs for an extended period of time. Upon exhaling, the Sarge issued to me my punishment for breaking rank and striking Lieutenant Loft even though I had obtained the Lieutenant’s approval just prior to our quarrel.

Private, you are to pull an additional four weeks KP, and you are to remain on perimeter duty until further notice.

I said nothing.

Did you hear that direct order, Private?

Sir, yes Sir.

And, at first, I was crushed by the additional perimeter duty but would later find out that this one incident had revealed Sarge’s true intentions toward me as witnessed by Lieutenant Loft.

Lieutenant, you are to refrain from this behavior going forward. Put your shirt on and get the hell out of here. If I catch you with my men again, the Colonel will be notified, and your hairy ass will be in it up to here.

Loft said nothing as he stooped to retrieve his shirt from the ground where he had placed it just before round one of our three-round encounter that day. And as he buttoned it up the front, I could detect upon his face a recognition as if he knew now of my issue with the Sarge regardless of his outwardly awkward smirk.

Later that evening, as I fulfilled a portion of my KP assignment, I could see the Wolfman waving to me from the open flap of his tent. The smile residing upon his face suggested to me he felt victorious even though there was no conclusive winner during our exchange. He continued to periodically wave to me sarcastically as if he had won that day, although, unknown to me at the time, his smile and wave meant something entirely different.

And, as usual, I sank further into despair by over-thinking and reflecting upon my life beginning with the extended perimeter duty and traveling back in time within my mind to Georgia and wondering why Granny hated me, Locke abused me and Benjamin abandoned me, leaving me all alone on the farm. I hadn’t been this low since leaving Atlanta that day for basic training just after being drafted, still wondering why Dawn never showed to bid me farewell.

Chapter 2

Canary and the Canine

I left Atlanta that day in handcuffs on both my wrists and ankles after being subdued by the military police. They had placed me face down on one of the bench-type seats there within the old Greyhound bus now modified for military transport. And, because of my erratic behavior coupled with the disobedience that I had exhibited, the MP’s tagged along with one of them positioned strategically behind me and the other just in front. Since I wasted my personal time prior to departure searching for Dawn in the expansive parking lot, I had failed to relieve myself as ordered, and the urge to go had now reached an unbearable point. So, while lying face down and still cuffed, I began to urinate upon myself, and this further exacerbated the ridicule from my fellow inductees that had begun because of the tears that I had shed uncontrollably since being apprehended and subdued.

The bus rattled and squeaked continuously as we traveled south from Atlanta toward Fort Benning in Columbus. My tears had finally subsided and were completely dried as was the urine. Upon reaching the facility, the bus was emptied in short order with the exception of myself and the two MPs, and after a brief silence I heard the clicking of my ankle cuffs being unlocked and removed. Then, just before speaking, the policemen forced me to sit upright there within the bus while my hands remained cuffed behind me.

Are you finished, one of them asked.

I said nothing.

Answer the Corporal, the other one demanded, shoving me on the shoulder from the aisle where he stood adjacent to my seat.

Finished? I replied inquisitively.

Yes, finished. Finished with this embarrassing display.

And then, as if I had no choice in the matter, I began to review my life within my mind just like I had done so many times before. It seemed to be a habit formed long ago and repeated so often that I could not prevent it from happening. And each time this occurred, it would appear that I was in a trance, oblivious to the outside world and my immediate surroundings. So, what happened next should have come to me as no surprise.

I was beaten unmercifully there upon the bus by both MPs with the wooden batons that once hung from their utility belts.

I was aroused from my state of unconsciousness later that day by a Sergeant and two of the inductees that I recognized from the bus. My hands were no longer bound, and my personal belongings were missing. The Sergeant instructed the inductees to assist me in standing and to deliver me to the infirmary. I was there for three days before being released to my Sergeant to begin my basic training, and due to these circumstances, I became a marked man.

* * *

Reveille sounded early the next morning and in the blink of an eye, the barracks, where I would reside for the next six weeks, were abuzz with activity just like the beehive I once saw on the Dupree farm. Since I had missed the first three days of training, I struggled to keep up the pace with the others. I adorned the olive drab government issued clothing with the pack upon my back while adjusting the straps which were currently too tight. Next, we all fell-out and into formation just outside where our basic instructor issued the orders for the day. It would be a ten-mile hike with full pack, chow, barracks policing then special duty, of which I knew nothing. The Sergeant then set us into motion with a long and extended blow upon his whistle, and off we went. Now, I had been used to working hard throughout my entire life and this task came to me as second nature. Some of the others, the city boys in particular, lagged behind and received the full brunt of the Sergeant’s wrath that morning. I, on the other hand, had no issues in this endeavor.

As we entered into mile number nine that day, I felt almost superior to the others as most of them fell further behind me. I was actually leading the pack of what seemed to encompass dozens of men but of which I had no actual count. We continued to move along swiftly with the Sergeant now near the rear urging the laggers onward. Up ahead, I saw our barracks in the distance, and for a brief moment I felt successful and accomplished. I was first to arrive back at the corrugated metal Quonset hut where I was instructed by the Corporal awaiting our arrival to get cleaned up for morning chow, which seemed to me the natural progression of the order issued earlier that morning. I did as I was told without question while noticing through the window the others out front in formation receiving their scolding for what I assumed was a poor performance during the hike. However, I would soon find out the truth of the matter.

After removing my pack and washing my hands as I had been instructed by the Corporal, we exited the barracks and headed toward the mess hall intersecting the formation of my bunkmates still outside and standing at full attention. And just as we had departed and gotten roughly fifteen feet away, it started.

The silence was broken apart by jeers, catcalls, insults and exuberant laughter coming from nearly every man behind me. I stopped to turn and look but was reprimanded by the Corporal for doing