The Beast that Haunts Me: Part One

My name is Albert Collinsworth. I was sworn to secrecy by the U.S. government over the events I am about to tell you about. But that doesn’t matter anymore. I have no family, and I’m expected to die within the next 2 months. The doctors caught the cancer too late. I decided this story needed to be told. So that those who died didn’t die in vain. 

The date was August 4th, 1970. My squad and I at the time were stationed at a base located near the border of Cambodia and Vietnam. The group was as follows:

James Bell, PFC

Henry Hopper, PFC

Cooper Mercado, PFC 

Thomas Sherman, PFC

Robert Levy, SPC

Richard Jimenez, SPC

William Wall, SPC

David Pittman, SPC

Charles Peterson, SGT

Lawrence Jacobson, SGT

And me, Albert Collinsworth. I was the medic. Our Staff Sergeant was SSG David Velasquez. 

We were having a smoke after supper, joking around with each other as we often did, when Velasquez interrupted us. He said we had an urgent call, and we had to dispatch right away. 

I remember Mercado asking what was going on. Secrecy wasn’t exactly unusual, but ordinarily, our missions were given to us in a brief, so we could at least know what to expect.

Velasquez didn’t answer Mercado. Partially because Mercado had a big mouth, and was always bothering him, but partially because, it seemed, he himself did not know. 

As we loaded up to go to our mysterious location, Sherman and Mercado began to hypothesis what was going on. 

“Maybe we’ve got to spy on someone,” Sherman had said, in a hushed tone, to avoid the reprimand of Velasquez.

“Wouldn’t they say who it was?” Mercado rolled his eyes. “I think it’s something bigger. I bet they caught someone important.”

“What’re we here for, then?” Sherman asked. “Some sort of convoy?”

“Exactly,” Mercado said. I remember Mercado loved conspiracies. I think he was very excited about our mission. “We’re there for protection.”

We set off on a truck ride through the jungle. The sky had grown dark by now, and you could hear insects chirping. The dark green foliage seemed foreboding, as it often did. The energy in the air that night was different. There was an excited buzz among the men. 

For me, it felt heavy. Something didn’t feel right, and my stomach was in knots. I sat between Pvt. Bell and Pvt. Hopper, my pack in my lap. Hopper looked excited. He hadn’t seen much action so far. Lucky him. Bell looked less excited, and more grim. He glanced at me.

He motioned to my helmet, that I wore on my head. “You really need that now?” Bell asked. 

I shrugged. “It’s always good to be prepared.”

Bell chuckled. I think he probably said something snarky in response. 

Hopper squirmed on the bench. He seemed impatient.

The truck ride was short. The jungle opened up into a large grassy field, and we reached what seemed to be a worn road or pathway, the long grass pressed down into the mud where tires had been. I surmised other military vehicles were frequently using it. A large truck with a long unmarked metal storage container on the bed was parked there. Two men stood beside it. I did not recognize them. 

Velasquez and Sgt. Jacobson hopped out of our truck and approached the men. A short conversation ensued, and one of the men handed Velasquez what I assumed were keys to the truck. 

Velasquez turned to us and told us to unload. We were going by foot now, save for the 2 who would be in the truck. The other men were going to take our truck back to the base. 

We all hopped off the truck, and walked to stand by Velasquez and Jacobson. The two other men looked haggard, and exhausted. 

As one of them passed me, I saw his tag: Berrycloth. He nudged my shoulder with his own. I asked what was going on. He looked grim. “They should have left the fucking thing in the cave.” I didn’t know what to make of that, but my stomach twisted itself into more knots. 

The two men got into our truck. Berrycloth turned around before shutting the door and said, “Good fucking luck.”

A few of the men scoffed at him. I didn’t. I was always a more sensitive type, anyway. Perhaps that’s why I was the medic. I cared for others well. 

“Alright men, we’re moving out. Jacobson, you drive, you know our destination. And Peterson, you can ride shotgun,” he ordered. “The rest of you, I need three to flank each side of the truck, and the rest in the back. I’ll be there too.”

We all sort of fell into our places. I fell behind the truck, along with Velasquez, Hopper, and Bell. Hopper still looked annoyingly excited. The truck rumbled to life, and off we went. 

Up ahead of me, to the left side of the truck, Mercado and Sherman continued babbling on about what could possibly be in the container. Mercado’s theory was slaves or prisoners. Sherman’s theory was a weapon. He claimed his radio hadn’t been working properly, and chalked it up to this mystery weapon messing with it. Levy, who was also marching next to them, rolled his eyes at me. He chuckled. I smiled back and shrugged. 

Of course we thought they were being ridiculous. 

On the other side of the truck, Jimenez, Wall, and Pittman sang some old rhyme. 

A few hours had passed before Velasquez decided we needed to rest. “It’s a long journey, boys, and we’d best be alert,” he’d said. 

We made camp among the tall grass, flattening it down to our best ability. We all spread out, but I stayed closest to the truck. I hadn’t liked the idea of being out in the open. 

Before we went to sleep, while eating some stale food, Levy sat down next to me. 

“What do you think is in the container?” He asked casually. He spoke through the cigarette that dangled from his lips.

I shrugged. I hadn’t put much thought into it. I’d assumed it was maybe supplies, but Berrycloth’s comments had unsettled me. 

“Couldn’t say,” I replied. “That one soldier though…. He seemed shaken.”

Levy nodded, taking a drag from his cigarette. “He sure did. Real nice guy, it seemed,” he joked. 

I laughed. 

Levy eventually got up and returned to his bag and cot. I laid back on my own, and stared at the sky. The stars were very bright there. It was a big difference compared to back home.

I must have nodded off shortly after, because the next thing I remember was being startled awake by a horrible scream. 

I sat up, trying to piece together what was going on. Where I was, what time it was.

I stood, and saw that Mercado, Pittman, and Sherman were struggling with the doors of the storage container. The whole truck was shaking. 

“What the hell is going on?” I shouted. Before I could do anything, Sherman was thrown through the air, landing several feet away with a sickening crunch. I will never forget that sound. 

Mercado cried out, “Close the door!” 

I saw Pittman suddenly yanked halfway into the container. He screamed, followed by some ungodly sound. I still couldn’t describe it. Pittman’s body, now lifeless, fell to the ground by Mercado’s feet.

At this point, most of the men had awoken, in confusion, and were beginning to assess the situation. 

Mercado, panting, finally slammed the container door shut, latching it. He fell to the ground. I rushed to him. He had no visible injuries, but he looked very pale. 

He grabbed my shirt, pulling me down towards him. “That thing… it needs to be destroyed, Al. Destroy it….” His arm went limp, and I saw the life leave his eyes. I had experienced this many times, being an army medic, but this time felt so different. Bullets, knives, and landmines created visible wounds. Those, I could fix. This time, I had felt utterly helpless.

Hopper ran up behind me, panting. His face dropped when he saw Mercado. I think he cursed. 

The rest of the squad was quickly upon us, murmuring. I cast my eyes down, and noticed strange markings in the mud. What creature on God’s green Earth could have made them?

I backed away, and went to check on Pittman and Sherman. I had known they were dead. I just wanted to be wrong. Again, other than Sherman’s crumbled spine, I could find no discernible causes of death. They just looked very pale.

Velasquez was on the radio, trying to call for help. Jacobson and I took the bodies and buried them in the field. The ground was soft. It didn’t take long.

Radioing for help proved to be useless. Everyone’s radios just gave off static. 

The night passed by, and morning came. I don’t think any of us slept. I certainly didn’t. When we all gathered to continue on our journey, we checked our radios again, but still, no luck. 

That second day, strange noises echoed from the storage container. The truck wobbled unusually. All of us soldiers on foot kept a wide berth of it, still disturbed by the events of the night before. We had not gone far before whatever was in the container pushed so hard, the truck spun out, and slid into a muddy ditch.

After a moment, Velasquez announced that he was going to go ahead to see if he could get a better radio signal to get assistance. In the meantime, the men were to try to get the truck out of the ditch. We had stopped in a smaller grassy area, surrounded by jungle. The road was muddier here, and small streams of water poured through gaps in the grass. The odd tall bush stuck out in the field. 

“Collinsworth, I’d like you to come with me,” Velasquez said. 

Perplexed, I asked why. It didn’t make sense to bring me.

“Don’t worry about it. Just come along,” Velasquez said. “We won’t go too far. Just far enough to hopefully get a signal.”

I obliged. Like I had a choice.

Velasquez and I began to make our way up the muddy road. Trees were becoming more frequent here, and occasionally leaves brushed against my face and arms. 

“Collinsworth,” Velasquez began. “I need you to tell me what you saw last night.”

I was taken aback. “I didn’t see anything last night, sir.”

Velasquez stopped. “Anything at all,” he said. “I need to know what I’m calling in here.”

I didn’t know what he was after, but I decided to just tell him the truth. “I saw Sherman...thrown. I’m not sure if he died from that, or...something else. I heard Pittman scream, and then fall down. And Mercado died after he shut the door. I didn’t see anything beyond that.”

Velasquez nodded. “Alright. You’re sure there’s nothing else?”

“Yes sir,” I said. “Other than… I heard something,” I admitted. “Some sort of cry or yell. It wasn’t human. That’s all I know.”

Velasquez looked troubled. He patted me on the shoulder, and reassured me that I had done well. 

We continued up the road in silence. 

We stopped in a clearing, and Velasquez tried his radio again. This time, he was successful. 

He did the standard distress call, and added that three of our men were down. 

The response was not what we were hoping for. “Staff Sergeant Velasquez, no unit was scheduled to be at your location.”

Velasquez looked incredulous. “Well, we’re here. We need assistance.”

There was a short pause. 

“I’m getting word from higher up that no help is to be given,” the operator on the other end of the radio said. “There’s nothing I can do.”

Velasquez was silent. I didn’t know what to say. 

We stood there for a moment, before Velasquez said, “Fuck this.” 

“Sir?” I asked.

“We’re going back, and we’re getting rid of that damn thing,” he said firmly. He spun on his heels and began to march back the way we came. 

I followed suit, not sure what his plan was. 

We were over halfway back when I heard a scuffling sound in the brush. We both froze.

Velasquez raised his gun quickly and fired several times into the bush.

Velasquez lowered his gun. “Damn Charlie.” 

We heard coughing from the bush. Carefully, we approached the man until we were able to peer over a bush and see him. Two bullet wounds in his chest made him a goner, but he was still hanging on.

“Can I help him?” I asked.

“Best not. Lots of medics have been killed that way.”

I could barely bring myself to watch. Life left the man’s eyes. Nothing is worse than watching death unfold in front of you and not being able to do anything about it. Enemy or not.

We continued along, but slower and more cautiously now. 

We arrived back at the truck. The men were still pushing and pulling, trying to get it unstuck.

“We’ve got to get moving, just got Charlie,” Velasquez called to them as we approached. 

“Where?” Jacobson asked, pulling his gun off his shoulder. 

“Doesn’t matter where, we’re leaving this truck and getting out of here. If they’re not going to shoot straight with us, we’re not gonna lose our lives over this” the squad listened intently and in shock “Levy, torch the truck and more importantly torch and destroy whatever inside this container is. After that we should head back up-”

It was then that I heard a soft, high-pitched whistling sound, and before I could react, three bullets had already hit Velasquez. 

Jacobson, acting quickly, shouted, “Down!” And began firing back in the direction of our attackers. 

I flattened myself on the ground next to Velasquez, and attempted to bandage his wounds with supplies from my pack, but I knew it was too late. Our eyes met. There was fear in Velasquez’s eyes. It seemed almost wrong for me to see it, like I was invading his privacy. Velasquez gasped one last time, and then he was gone. 

I knew I needed to get out of there. I crawled on my stomach until I had reached the other side of the truck. Covered in mud, I had cowered there like an idiot, gripping my gun. 

I heard a shout and saw Hopper fall to the ground, not 5 feet from me. He’d been shot in the leg.

I hastily swung my gun back to my shoulder, and still crouching, made my way to Hopper. He seemed barely conscious.

I gripped his backpack and began to drag him backwards through the mud, past the truck, and into the grass, where I hoped he would be safe. Hopper whimpered softly. I dug through my kit and wrapped up his wound as efficiently as I could. “Stay here,” I told Hopper. 

I hastened back to the battle, still bent over. I was about to head for Bell, who seemed to be in distress, when an RPG hit the storage container. The metal was blown violently apart, and in that fleeting second, I saw the door hit Private Bell. In that moment, my only solace was that whatever had been in the container must now be dead. 

I threw myself into the ditch, hoping that no shrapnel would hit me. I crawled on my stomach again, reaching the grass. 

I heard screaming. American and Viet Cong alike. Some shots were fired, but they quickly dissipated, leaving an eerie silence in their wake. 

I kept my head down, my hands clasped firmly over my head. I knew it was my job, my duty, to help them. But I stayed put. I stayed in the ditch. I was a damn coward. 

It could have been minutes, or hours, but I finally lifted my head up. Everyone was dead. 

It was a mess. The truck was in pieces from the RPG, and blood and mud was everywhere. The jungle and field were unrecognizable. A huge path had been plowed through the trees. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what had caused it. But I knew that the storage container was empty. What else could have killed all these men?

As I stumbled through the wreckage, I saw many of the soldiers were...in pieces. I found a foot, and later, an arm. However, in contrast, I noticed many of them seemed completely unharmed (apart from being dead). Just like Mercado and Pittman. As I was turning back to check on Hopper, I stumbled over something. Feeling sick, I looked down. I recognized Levy. Or rather, what was left of him. His upper body was still there, along with his head, and one arm. His eyes were wide open, as though in shock. My stomach twisted. Could I have prevented this? I reached down, and, trying not to focus on his face too much, tore his dog tags from his neck. I placed them carefully in my pocket. 

Sickened, and sure I wouldn’t find any survivors, I hastened back to the area of grass where I had left Hopper. 

Thankfully, Hopper was still there, and still alive. 

“What happened?” he asked. 

“I don’t know,” I said. 

“Is everyone…?” he began. He seemed drowsy, and his words slurred together.

“Ssh,” I said. “Don’t worry about all that. It’s all okay.”

 

I sighed heavily. I knew Hopper needed help. I needed to get back to base as soon as possible. 

“I’m gonna need you to grab onto my shoulders,” I told him. Although, looking back, I don’t think Hopper really understood a word of what I was saying. 

I swung my gun to my front, and squatting, pulled Hopper’s arms over my shoulders from behind me. I wasn’t very big, but luckily, neither was Hopper. He must have been quite young. 

I must have walked for nearly three days. I barely slept. Everything seemed to blur together. All I know is that every night, I prayed that we would be left unharmed. I don’t know if I believe in God anymore, but someone seemed to be looking out for us. 

When we finally arrived back at the base, I was exhausted. I was able to get Henry Hopper to the medical center, before nearly passing out myself. 

Before I could rest, two men approached me. No rank was visible on their uniforms.

“Mr. Collinsworth, we need to speak with you right away,” one of them said. 

In a daze, I followed them. 

I was led into an office, with a metal table and three wooden chairs. I was told to sit down.

The men explained to me that what had happened out there was of no consequence. I was not to speak of it to anyone, not even Hopper. They asked me what I saw, and even though it was true, it felt like a lie when I told them I didn’t see anything. The men often gave each other pointed looks, and looked unsatisfied with my answers. They made me sign a document, legally binding me to secrecy.

The rest of my tour there was uneventful. Or, as uneventful as war can get. At first, I intended on keeping my word. I didn’t have anyone to tell, anyway. Except Hopper, but he was honorably discharged not long after the incident. 

And that was that. Until a few years ago, when I decided the beast needed to die.