Long Range Patrol: A Novel of Vietnam (The Jim Hollister Trilogy Book 1)

by Dennis Foley

  He flipped through more close-ups of spent American rifle cartridges, American web gear, C-ration cans and plastic wrappers, spoons and empty cigarette packages.

  “Some sick fucks, huh?” Wasco asked.

  Hollister took the question to mean that Wasco believed his story. “I can’t think of any reason for this. These people weren’t VC, they weren’t a threat to the South Viets or the Americans. They were old people and children—not soldiers. They were just simple farmers.”

  “Look at the casualty figures sometime and find out how many ‘simple farmers’ are getting dead in the middle of this,” Elliott said. “If you ask the South Viets, they’ll tell you that they were VC sympathizers. If you ask the farmers, they’ll tell you that they just want to be left alone.”

  “That’s what this war is all about. Isn’t it?” Hollister asked.

  “What’s that?” Wasco replied.

  “About just being left alone,” Hollister said, sliding the photos back across the table.

  Wasco stood up, lit another cigar and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Well, we know a lot more now. We really appreciate your cooperation, Hollister. You got to understand we’re under a lot of pressure to get some answers to Saigon before this gets to the press. We better be able to account for every swinging dick that night or take the heat for not knowing what the fuck’s going on.”

  Wasco closed the folder that contained his notes and looked to Elliott. “You need anything else?”

  Elliott shook his head no. “Lieutenant, now that I’ve heard about what you guys do out in the field, I have a renewed respect for how you guys spend your nights.” He stuck out his hand.

  Relieved, Hollister accepted the compliment and the handshake. “If you’re through with me, I, ah … I have to …” Hollister stumbled.

  “You have to take advantage of being in Nha Trang,” Wasco said.

  “Yessir. And my team is in town. So I have to make sure that they leave something standing.” Hollister stood and started for the door.

  “Oh, one thing, Hollister,” Wasco said.

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Don’t leave Dodge.”

  They all laughed.

  It was much hotter when Hollister got back out on the street. He walked north, toward the point where it was rumored that Madame Nhu had her winter villa.

  It had only been four months since Hollister had been in Nha Trang. But in that short span things had changed. He was amazed at the increased traffic, the large number of troops on the streets, and the black market stalls set up along the sidewalks. He avoided as many of the street hawkers as he could and kept on walking.

  At the next intersection he spotted the screened-in porch front of The Nautique—a French restaurant that had the best food in Nha Trang.

  The inside of The Nautique was nothing special, but all fifteen tables were filled. And every customer was an American serviceman. Loud and raucous, they were all support, supply, headquarters, and logistics troops—REMFs.

  “Do you have a reservation, Lieutenant?”

  The man who had asked him, Mr. Valle, was a Frenchman in his fifties. He carried a plastic-covered menu and wore a clean apron around his waist.

  “A reservation? Ah, no. I don’t, but I just came in from the field and I sure would like to—”

  Valle studied Hollister’s uniform, noted the combat badges and parachute wings. “Airborne! For you, I can find a table. Wait here a moment, monsieur.”

  Valle walked to a table piled with dishes and empty beer bottles and had two of his Vietnamese busboys quickly clear the table. He waved Hollister over and handed him the menu, first wiping it with his sleeve.

  It was in French, one of many languages that Hollister had not mastered. He put the menu down. “I know what I want. I want a steak—medium rare—and a beer.”

  “Pommes frites? Potatoes?”

  “Sure,” Hollister said.

  A waiter brought the beer and poured it. Valle stood there and watched Hollister raise the glass to his lips. Hollister made a surprised face.

  “It is French beer. You have had it before?”

  Hollister reached for the bottle, jockeyed it in his hand to read the label.

  “Bier LaRue? No, I haven’t. It’s different, but it’s cold and it’s wet. And that is all it takes for me to like it.”

  “It is a good beer, monsieur. I ’ave been drinking it since I was your age. It won’t kill you, but these will,” Valle said as he reached out and tapped the wings on Hollister’s shirt. “Wait.” Valle went to the back of the restaurant and returned quickly.

  “Lieutenant, look at this.” He thrust a framed and yellowed photograph at Hollister.

  It took Hollister a second to focus and realize that Valle was showing him a photograph of rows of French paratroopers proudly wearing their berets and the oversized French parachutist badges.

  “Most of my regiment was killed in Cao Bang—up north. I was wounded,” Valle said. He raised his left hand, revealing the scars. “I was a machine gunner. But more importantly, my friend, I was a paratroop soldier.”

  Hollister knew of the battle that nearly destroyed the entire regiment during the French war with the Communist Viet Minh. “I see what you mean. Well, I promise to take care.”

  “Bon. Men who jump are men who fight. If you fight long enough, you will die. You take much care. I know what it is like out there. Now, enjoy your meal,” Valle said sincerely as he took the photograph and walked away.

  It was obvious that Valle had his fill of the rear echelon soldiers who frequented his restaurant. It’s a kind of fraternity, Hollister thought. There are soldiers and there are the Airborne soldiers. Hollister sipped his beer and remembered his own induction into the Airborne brotherhood.

  That morning the noise inside the cargo compartment of the huge C-130 was deafening. Hollister’s heart raced when the red lights came on near the two open troop doors in the back of the aircraft. He could only distinguish parts of words spoken in certain frequencies over the roar of the four giant engines as the jumpmaster began his precise jump commands.

  Hollister wasn’t comfortable with the idea of being in an airplane, any airplane, for the first time in his twenty years. Yet there he was, cinched into the webbing of a T-10 parachute, getting ready to hurl himself out of that same airplane. The jumpmaster yelled out again.

  “Get ready!”

  Sixty-four Airborne students responded instantly by slamming one foot down on the metal flooring in unison.

  “Outboard personnel—stand up!” the jumpmaster screamed with an upward gesture of his palms.

  Hollister and the other jumpers seated against the airplane’s outer skin struggled to their feet and faced the rear of the aircraft.

  Like the others, Hollister was thinking, Will I chicken out in the door? Can I do this?

  The jumpmaster yelled, “Inboard personnel stand up!” even before the outboard jumpers were fully standing.

  “Hook up!” was the first command that Hollister really heard. He fastened the static-line connector to the taut, overhead anchor-line cable that ran the length of the aircraft just above his ear.

  The safety pin in place, Hollister carefully traced the path of the yellow static line from the cable to where it disappeared over his shoulder into the back-mounted parachute pack tray. The Airborne School instructors’ stories of jumpers repeatedly slamming against the fuselage at the end of hung-up and misrouted static lines ran through his mind.

  “Check equipment!”

  He looked at and touched every part of his gear the same way he had a thousand times before in the training area at Eubanks Field.

  “Sound off for equipment check!”

  The last jumper started the report, and it carried forward until the jumper behind Hollister hit him on the ass and screamed, “Okay!” Hollister reached forward with his free hand and did the same to the man in front of him, then yelled, “Okay!”

  The okays continued up
the line until the first man pointed at the jumpmaster and yelled, “All okay!”

  “Stand in the door!” The jumpmaster grabbed the first man in line and jerked him into the open doorway.

  All eyes were on the first man. Beyond his face was the red light. When it changed to green, they would disgorge from the aircraft as if attached to one another.

  The jumpmaster dropped to his knee, stuck his head out into the prop blast, looked down and made one last check of the drop zone a half a mile ahead and 1,250 feet below. Satisfied that it was clear and safe for him to put the jumpers out, he returned to his feet. He took a solid grip on the first jumper’s lift web just over his hip and shoved the soldier’s flapping static line to a point along the anchor-line cable where it wouldn’t foul.

  The red light went out. The green one went on.

  “Go!” the jumpmaster screamed as he slapped the first jumper on the butt, shoving him out the door. Then, as fast as he could turn back to the second jumper, he reached up and tapped him out the door behind the first man.

  Very quickly Hollister found himself standing in the door, knees bent, outboard foot forward, both hands on the outside of the door, looking down. His heart pounded as the wind first dried and then teared up his eyes.

  He started to pull back a bit before hurling himself out into the blast of air that was passing his face at breathtaking speed. Just as he started forward and out, he felt the jumpmaster crack him on the butt with the palm of his hand.

  Hollister exited the door in an out-of-control posture that was nothing like the tight exit position he had practiced hundreds of times on the ground in the mock-ups.

  Just as he realized he was in the wrong body position, he felt his feet being snapped toward the rear of the aircraft and then felt a sinking sensation as his forward momentum was overcome by gravity. The hot, dry blast of the props swept up his back and across the stubble of the Airborne crew cut under his tightly fastened helmet.

  Suddenly, Hollister realized that he hadn’t been counting. And his eyes were closed! He tried to catch up with the critical timing by rushing the count, “One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, four thousand!” as he opened his eyes.

  He was turning on a vertical axis, and the noise of the aircraft had almost disappeared. Then a forceful tug pulled the parachute out of the pack tray, snapping him into a facedown, feet-toward-the-departing-aircraft attitude.

  Remembering his training, he tried to look up to check the deployment of the parachute. He remembered to ask himself, Do I have a full parachute? Is it a malfunction, a partial inversion, a cigarette roll?

  But something was really wrong. He couldn’t raise his head. He looked down. The drop zone was directly below him, but he had no idea how high he was. He had never been in a plane before—how could he be expected to know? He didn’t even know if he had a parachute above him or how fast he was falling.

  Reaching up above his helmet, he found that the two sets of risers attached to the suspension lines were twisted. Start running. That’s what they said in training. If you are twisted—start running. The motion will start to untwist you under your parachute so that you can control the landing.

  Hollister felt silly pumping his legs, but it worked. Slowly at first, but soon he was spinning until he was free and the twisting stopped. Finally he was able to look up.

  He remembered to check for holes in the canopy. If you spot a hole or a tear larger than your helmet, return to a good tight body position and deploy your reserve chute!

  Thank God! It was a full parachute. It looked so big. Hollister suddenly remembered the ground. Why the hell was he looking up?

  Voices. He could hear the voices of instructors on the ground.

  “Jumpers. Place your feet and knees together. Look around and below you. Slip clear of jumpers below you. Then check the horizon. Tuck your chin into the hollow of your neck and pull your elbows into your sides. Feet and knees together. Make good parachute-landing falls,” they kept repeating.

  “Do not, I say again, do not attempt to make a standing landing!” yelled a particularly ugly Drop Zone Safety NCO.

  “If you make a standing landing, I will make your sorry ass do push-ups until your dick falls off!”

  The trees! Hollister’s eyes were now at the same level as the trees! Okay, okay, he kept telling himself. Be calm, prepare to land, look out below for—

  Whoomp! He hit the ground like a sack full of rocks. Nothing hurt.

  Nothing hurt! Yeah, he was sure—nothing hurt. He moved a leg and then the other. Still no pain!

  He was okay. He did it!

  “You takin’ a nap over there, fuck stick?” a Drop Zone Safety NCO yelled.

  He was talking to Hollister. There was no one else near him. The twists in Hollister’s chute had broken him out of the cluster of the other jumpers. Now he was in a world of hurt because the NCO would be focused on him.

  Once standing, Hollister realized that his suspension lines were draped all over him. He started to extract himself from the lines when the sergeant reached him.

  “What the fuck are you doin’, boy?” he bellowed.

  “Ah, gathering up my parachute, Sergeant.”

  “Well, get out of the goddamn harness first, you dickhead. You try that shit in any kind of wind and you’ll be scooping up gravel with your lower lip.”

  Hollister was so excited over what he had just done that there was no way he was going to do anything right.

  The Drop Zone NCO kept yelling at Hollister while he found the quick release assembly on his chest and unfastened the buckle that held the reserve chute in place. Releasing one of the fasteners on his reserve, he then made one quick hit on the large release button, but nothing happened.

  “Where the fuck have you been the last three weeks, dickhead?” the NCO screamed.

  He realized that he had not pulled free the safety clip, nor had he twisted the large release button off of the locked position. Trying not to let the NCO rattle him, he snatched the clip free, made the necessary quarter turn on the button, and slammed the heel of his hand into the button. The entire parachute rig dropped to the ground.

  “Give me twenty-five push-ups, dickhead, and then figure-eight that chute,” the sergeant yelled with his face pushed into Hollister’s. “And when we get back to the company area I want you to report to me for some remedial training. If I’m not satisfied with your performance then, you won’t be on the jump manifest tomorrow! Miss that jump and you get recycled back to the first week’a training. Got that?”

  “Clear, Sergeant. Airborne,” Hollister screamed just before falling to the front-leaning rest position to start knocking out the push-ups.

  “Your steak, Lieutenant,” Valle said.

  Hollister looked up and smiled. “Real fresh meat. God, it’s been a while.” He cut into the steak and took a bite. It was just right. But there was a very slight trace of something that he couldn’t place.

  “It is not cow. It is water buffalo,” Valle said. “But it is the same thing.”

  Valle was right. Except for the very slight taste difference and the slightly tougher consistency, it was a filet mignon.

  “It’s perfect,” Hollister said as he pushed a forkful of European-style potatoes into his mouth. What heaven for a grunt!

  CHAPTER 8

  THE CYCLO PULLED UP in front of Marie Kim’s. Hollister paid the cyclo driver, tipped him, and entered a Vietnamese bar that was becoming well known throughout Vietnam as a bar for combat soldiers and only Airborne combat soldiers.

  It hadn’t been the bar’s policy to exclude all the leg REMFs. Nha Trang had a large Airborne population because Fifth Special Forces Group Headquarters was located there and much of the associated in-country training took place there. So the Airborne soldiers stationed in Nha Trang frequented Marie Kim’s, and those who came there for training were quick to find the bar.

  Heckling legs who dropped in until they were either forced to leave or provoked to fight becam
e a favorite sport of the Airborne customers. Those poor legs who did stumble in the front door by chance were immediately met by a wall of screaming, catcalls, and flying beer cans and bottles.

  The owners of Marie Kim’s were pleased at how the exclusivity had worked out. The bar’s reputation spread, and every Airborne soldier in Vietnam made an effort to get to Marie Kim as if it were some sort of paratrooper’s Mecca. Of course, the popularity allowed the owners to up their prices. Over time, the management added prettier girls, live bands, and more atmosphere. But for the Airborne troops, Marie Kim’s was legendary for the fraternity and the girls—not the interior decorating.

  Hollister stepped from the city traffic and bright sunlight into Marie Kim’s. The interior was hot. He was immediately struck by the smell of beer, stale cigarette smoke, and perspiring soldiers. The traffic noise outside was immediately drowned out by the very amateur Korean rock band at the far end of the long, narrow room.

  Before he could see in the darkened room, Hollister found himself guiding on a loud, synchronized chant from a table near the bar. The words “Two-six, Two-six, Two-six” filled the room, louder even than the bad band. Team 2-3 stood in alcoholic glory, chanting loudly. Vinson, Camacho, Davis, Doc Norris, and Theodore enthusiastically repeated Hollister’s radio call sign as they waved their beers in the air.

  Hollister weaved through the crowded room to their table. A chair appeared from somewhere and two bar girls stepped up to take his drink order.

  “American beer? You have American beer?”

  A bar girl of no more than thirteen shook her head. “No hab.”

  “Okay, how ’bout thirty-three?”

  She wrinkled up her face, confused—her English was lacking.