Who Shot the Water Buffalo?

by Ken Babbs

  “What are these for?” Cochran asks.

  “In case you go down you can use them for signaling,”

  “All six? My, how generous.”

  Everyone laughs, remembering how Cochran had his pistol taken away for firing it whenever he felt like it. He got it back but he still shoots at animals, rocks, trees, bushes, anything, saying that a pistol demands to be fired, it’s inherent in its nature.

  “Now you’re going to be really dangerous,” I tell him.

  “What are you worried about? I never hit what I’m aiming at.”

  “With these you might hit something when you miss,” Ben-San says.

  Cochran inspects the red-tipped bullets, pulls out his revolver, ejects the cartridges and replaces them with six tracers.

  “No,” Emmett says. “You’re only supposed to use one tracer every six rounds.”

  Cochran ignores him, shoves his pistol back in his shoulder holster. Captain Beamus comes over to brief us for the hop. We’ll follow the Song Cau Dai River to the outpost. Stay tight on him, maintain strict radio silence and keep on your toes. The weather doesn’t look too good and we may have to squeeze in low.

  Cochran and I exchange a look. What about the fifteen-hundred-foot rule?

  “We’ll drop our supplies one at a time, join up and follow the same route home.”

  Captain Beamus roots around the flight gear hanging on the rack, paws through the gear lying on chairs or dropped in corners, the ready room once again messy.

  “What are you doing?” Rob Jacobs asks him.

  Captain Beamus glares. “My flak vest. Some clown has—”

  “Why not check the equipment cage?” says Ben-San.

  By the time Captain Beamus locates some gear and arrives at his plane, Cochran and Soonto and I are fired up and ready to go. Time and tide wait for no man. Ben-San and Rob Jacobs also sit waiting. Tides are timed, you know, right down to the very second. The ebb and the flow, the old in-and-out game, respiración. Captain Beamus doesn’t waste time preflighting, he doesn’t have to, Wee Willie Williams did it for him. The Rajah straps in and starts up, comes on the air for a radio check, and we taxi and take off, leveling at fifteen hundred feet, over the wide flat sandy delta where the river meets the South China Sea, then we turn inland, following the river west, into the cloud-covered mountains.

  We can’t get above the ridge lines on either side of us, which makes for a nervous tingling in the belly. At this altitude the VC can shoot down at us from above or catch us in a cross fire from across the valley. A squall line forces us closer to the river. The valley pinches into a narrow corridor, walls steep and menacing. High winds and bucking turbulence snap and bang the rotor blades, and we slow down and wrap on turns to prevent blade-tip stall.

  “Christ,” Cochran moans over the intercom. “Here we go again. The man won’t ever turn back. Damn the torpedoes.”

  “Give him a call on the radio and suggest we abort.”

  “And eat radio discipline shit for a week? No thanks.”

  The Rajah bores on. There’s too much turbulence to hang in tight and we drift apart. Over the radio we hear three other flights have aborted. Captain Beamus plows on.

  We follow him around a sharp bend in the river, Ben-San and Rob Jacobs behind us. Captain Beamus disappears into a rain shower. We surge through the shower and break into the clear. Captain Beamus is ahead of us, his running lights flashing against a dark storm layer lying close to the river.

  “We’ll never make it through that,” Cochran says.

  It’s a hundred to one that Ben-San and Rob Jacobs will agree, but the Rajah continues on and his lights vanish in the dark cloud. Cochran approaches the storm line and breaks off, pulls a one-eighty and heads back out the river canyon, Rob Jacobs right behind us.

  “Looks too bad up here,” Captain Beamus calls over the radio. “I’m heading back. What’s your position?”

  “We’ve already turned around.”

  Captain Beamus breaks out of the storm cloud, a hundred feet below, down on the river.

  “Where are you?” he calls.

  “I’m ahead and above, leading the flight.”

  “Like hell you are. I’m the flight leader. Get your ass back here where you belong.”

  “Roger that.”

  We circle in a tight turn and come up on Captain Beamus’s flank.

  “If it hasn’t socked in downriver we’ve got it made,” Cochran says over the intercom. I nod. My hands inside my flight gloves are moist and cold. Another rain squall lies dead ahead. It gets darker. I squeeze into the seat pan and concentrate on Captain Beamus’s bird, his running lights dim in the mist. We enter the squall and his lights disappear.

  “I’ve lost contact,” Cochran says over the air. To our right, Rob Jacob hangs in close. The mountain looms on our left. Cochran drops

  the collective and we dive toward the river. The radio altimeter registers seventy-five feet.

  “No lower, baby. No lower,” I tell him.

  Tree tops flash past on either side. Cochran pours on the coals and speeds up.

  “What’s your position, Cochran?” Captain Beamus calls over the air.

  “Seventy-five feet over the water, heading downstream.”

  “Roger that. I’m through that bad spot but I had to get down on the water to make it. Looks good up ahead.”

  Click click, Cochran keys the mike in response. We’re flying through patches of ground fog and rain. The narrow walls of the canyon reach close as we hurtle down the narrow gorge.

  “Number three,” Captain Beamus calls on the radio. “State your position.”

  No answer. I lean out the window and peer back into the soup but there’s no sign of Ben-San and Rob Jacobs. The cloud bank rises and we climb off the river’s surface.

  “We have to get out of here,” Captain Beamus radios. “We’re starting to draw ground fire.”

  “Great,” Cochran says over the intercom. “That’s all we need.”

  “If you read, number three, we’re heading out,” Captain Beamus radios. “I repeat, if you read, we’re heading out.”

  “I’m going back, take another look for them,” Cochran transmits. “Negative on that, we’re too low on fuel,” Captain Beamus answers.

  Cochran turns the chopper and heads back upstream.

  “If we came through once we can go through again,” he says over the intercom. We skim along the surface of the river.

  “Smoke ahead,” I say. “One o’clock.”

  “I think we’ve got them,” Cochran says over the radio. “We’re going in for a look.”

  “What’s the weather like?” Captain Beamus answers.

  “Shitty. Clouds are low on the hill but I think we can get under them.”

  “I’m coming back. Don’t do anything till I get there.”

  Cochran clicks the mike to acknowledge, then says, “Fuck that,” over the intercom and heads toward the smoke. We get lower and slower, staying just above the tree tops. The chopper lies burning in a small clearing, blasted out where they crashed. Cochran noses in closer.

  “We’ve got company, Lieutenant,” Soonto says over the intercom. Cochran banks to the right. “Got ’em,” he says. “Hose them down.”

  The M-60 barks, short spurts.

  “There’s someone down there, lying on the ground,” I say.

  “Is he moving?”

  “Yeah, he’s waving an arm.”

  Cochran continues the turn and straightens out right into the muzzle of a VC pointing his AK-47 at our nose. Bullets smash into the engine and cockpit. The windshield splatters and a round zings past my head. Cochran bottoms the collective and the chopper drops, smoke billowing out of the engine.

  “Tranny’s gushing oil,” Soonto says.

  “Pressure’s dropping fast,” I say.

  The engine clunks, bangs and clanks, chopper jolting with every misfire.

  “Strap in, Soonto, I’m taking it down,” Cochran says.

&n
bsp; “Where?” I say. “There’s no place to land.”

  “Right there,” Cochran says.

  He drives the chopper into a narrow space between two trees, a hill rising sharply on our left. Cochran holds his airspeed long enough to plow through the treetops, shredding branches and leaves with the rotors, then, as the blades start to break up, he cuts the engine and lays the chopper on its left side with a jolt that throws me against the door. Our right side is open to the sky.

  “Everyone okay?” Cochran asks. My head is ringing but no damage done. Soonto says he’s all right. Cochran shuts everything down.

  “Let’s get out of here before she blows. Bring your rifle and magazines.”

  The smell of AV gas fills the cockpit. Cochran goes out his door, carrying his Armalite. I climb over the center console and jump down. Soonto is rummaging around in the belly.

  “What you doing, Soonto? We got to skedaddle.”

  “Just grabbing my catchall.” He throws out a duffle.

  “Get the M-60,” Cochran says.

  Soonto lifts it off its carriage and hands me the machine gun, with the ammo belt trailing, then jumps down. Cochran hefts the duffle.

  “What the hell you got in here?”

  “Emergency gear, sir.”

  “Okay, let’s go. The other chopper’s over this way.”

  Cochran carries the duffle and his rifle. I cradle my weapon and follow behind. Soonto loops the ammo belt around his shoulders and, M-60 at the ready, joins in line. Cochran stops and motions us out of the way. He takes out his pistol and aims at the chopper. He fires a tracer into the gas tank and the helicopter explodes. Black smoke rises to merge with the clouds. The heat washes over us and we turn our backs and head out, leaving nothing for the VC to salvage.

  We struggle through the tangled undergrowth, and hike along the curve of the mountain until we get to the other chopper. Cochran motions us down, signals for me to go left and Soonto right. Crouching, we peer through the foliage. Ben-San and Rob Jacob’s helicopter lies smashed and burning. Five VC, standing at the other side of the clearing, have paused to look at the smoke rising from our burning chopper. Cochran points to me and Soonto, levels his Armalite and nods his head. We open up and drop two, but the other three run into the jungle, bullets splattering in their wake.

  “Shit,” Cochran says. “Come on, Huck, let’s see who that is on the ground. Soonto, you cover us.”

  Ben-San lies in a crumpled heap, flight suit charred, arms and shoulders of the material burned away, his skin black and cracked. Inside his flight helmet his burned face is covered with big blisters. His chest heaves.

  The M-60 clatters. I lean down. “Ben-San, can you hear me?”

  His lips move. I put my ear to his mouth.

  “Rob’s dead,” he whispers. “Took a bullet in the head. We plowed in before I could grab the stick … crew chief gone …”

  “Come on,” Cochran tells me. “We’ve got to get out of here. Grab my rifle.”

  Cochran hoists Ben-San on his shoulders and shuffles into the jungle. Soonto keeps up the fire. When we are deeper in the foliage, Cochran lays Ben-San down. “Hate to do this but we have to get that helmet off.”

  Soonto comes hustling up. “Ah,” he says, “that’s the shits.”

  A rising gorge seeks frantic relief in my throat but I slam it back into the hell from which it sprang and slide his helmet off. His hair comes with it. The skin is peeled and raw.

  “They say not to do this but we’ve got to cool him down.”

  Cochran pulls out his water bottle and dribbles water over Ben-San’s head and face, then across his shoulders and arms and hands.

  “We need some cloth. What you got in that bag, Soonto?”

  Soonto pulls out a wrapped up parachute. He opens the bundle and cuts strips with his knife. Cochran lays the cloth over Ben-San’s head and face and along his shoulders and arms. He dribbles the water over the cloth.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  He hoists Ben-San up. Slinging the rifles over my shoulders and carrying the duffle in my hand, I take the lead. We struggle deeper into the jungle, smashing through the bushes and leaves, can’t worry about the noise now, or try to hide our way, the important thing is to get some distance between us and the VC.

  “They’re coming,” Soonto says from the rear.

  “Find a good spot and slow them down,” Cochran says.

  Cochran is hunched over, lifting his feet high to keep from getting tangled in the roots and branches. Behind us there is a burp of M-60 fire. The jungle opens and some light streams in. We stumble onto a game trail, a narrow flat shelf running alongside the hill. The ravine drops sharply to our right and and a stream crashes and burbles down at the bottom.

  Soonto comes puffing up. “That won’t hold them for long. I’d say we’re fast getting into a position what they call untenable, Lieutenant.”

  Cochran grunts. “How many rounds you got left in that ammo belt?”

  “Bout all used up. Hundred, max.”

  “Hey,” I yell. “Here’s something might help us out.”

  A big tree, three foot in diameter, 300 feet tall, has toppled across the ravine. Its root wad, full of dirt and rock, blocks the trail. The top, thick with branches and leaves, is jammed against the opposite hill.

  Cochran looks at the tree. Back down the path. Up at the sky. “Not a hell of a lot of daylight left. We’ve got to find a place to hunker down. We don’t have enough ammo to hold them off here, but the tree can still work for us.”

  I get it. As a bridge, not a fort. It’s a long ways over and the branches are a major hindrance, but something to grab hold of in case you slip. Don’t want to think about that.

  “Got any rope in that catchall, Soonto?”

  “Parachute cord.”

  “That’ll do. Tie the Lieutenant to me so he won’t fall off. Huck, you slip on back down the trail and keep an eye out for the Charlies. They should be leery of catching up with no cover anywhere. Give me a two minute head start then come on back.”

  Soonto rummages in the duffel. I head back, come to a curve and lean against the hill, rifle ready. Check the selector, full auto. Remember, short bursts only. Sweat stings my eyes. I swipe at it with the back of my hand. Makes it worse. Fuck this shit. I step around the corner and let loose a burst. Then another, until the magazine is empty. Eject it and slam in the spare. That should hold the hijos de putas. I beat it back to the tree.

  Soonto is halfway across, reaching under the trunk. He’s wrapped parachute cord around a limb and under the tree and back over the top. He ties the ends together, pulls a package out of his flight suit and jams it under the cord. The package has a long hunk of what looks like string sticking out. He slips the string through the parachute cord so the end is pointing up in the air. Then he hustles back and jumps down off the tree.

  Cochran turns to me. “What happened back there.”

  “Nothing. I thought it would slow them down.”

  “Okay, let’s do it.”

  Soonto gives him a boost and Cochran gets up on the tree with Ben-San across his shoulders. He sways till he gets his balance and starts out.

  “Lose the M-60,” he calls over his shoulder. “You carry the duffle, Huck. Soonto, you bring up the rear with the rifles.”

  Soonto throws the M-60 and the belt into the ravine. He gives me a leg up and I crawl onto the tree. The duffle is around my back, held by a strap across my chest. Not as bad as a tightrope walk but no stroll across a plank, either. One slow step at a time, I come to Soonto’s lashup. It’s not a piece of string at all. It’s a fuse.

  “Keep moving, Lieutenant,” Soonto says from behind me.

  If that’s a fuse then that package has got to be una carga de enorme importancia. I grab a branch for support, ease around Soonto’s lashup and keep going. Behind me I hear a cigarette lighter click and a soft fizzzzz. Up ahead, Cochran continues across. I want to pass him and get over to the other side. How much time did So
onto give us? More than enough, I hope. We’re not racing the Cong, we’re racing against time and time is a tightrope, a lift of a foot up and a foot down, a drop of sweat plopping on a tree branch thick with leaves. Cochran makes it to the ground on the other side. I jump down alongside him. AK rounds shatter wood, splatter splinters, rounds zing, then a booming explosion drowns the AKs, obliterates the sound of the wind in the trees, kills the gurgle of the water in the stream, and leaves our ears ringing.

  Soonto slams into the dirt next to me and we fall to the ground and cover Ben-San with our bodies. The top of the tree angles up, its shredded bottom tips downward, and the tree, sliding slowly at first, rushes down the steep slope. Limbs and branches scrape our backs and shred our flight suits. The tree is gone, crashed into the water below, mashing against the other half that slid down the opposite hill, root wad and all, the blown-apart ends mated once more.

  Water muddies below the newly created dam. On the other side of the ravine, a big gap is carved out of the hill and the trail is obliterated. No VC in sight. A bird shrieks, our watches tick, the hands spin, and time that was stretched like a tightrope … loosens … our yammering hearts sledgehammering against our rib cages are stilled … our ragged, shallow breathing now calm.

  20. Paper Scrawl Torture

  What’s with the noise, Doc? … can’t hear anything on the radio … where’s Soonto? … there, standing by the engine … Lieutenant, the gripe sheet says there’s a shudder in the rotors, I fixed it best I can, how’s about cranking her up, make sure it’s okay so I can write it off and clear the bird for flying … sure, no hay problemo, oh my, that will never do … sorry, Sergeant Soonto, this bird is definitely down … heavy as an elephant, never get off the ground … I rode the elephant, Doc … when Daddy came home from the war still shaking with malaria and took me to a circus, a small ragtag outfit … but they had an elephant … he was walking behind the tent, led by his handler … he stopped and reached out his trunk and snuffled me … air holes breathing in and out … he smelled of hay and something moist and rheumy … the elephant knelt … I was boosted up on his head … ears like huge wings flapping … he walks … I rise up and down with the movement … the leathery skin of elephant between my legs … his vibration rising to my head … it’s all about the vibration, Doc, the whole chopper is vibrating … but can’t you do anything about the noise, Doc?… the rotor blades are clattering …