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

by Dennis Foley

  It was dusk when the demo team came back into the perimeter. Camacho simply gave Hollister a nod and moved the three others back to their positions with the minimum of noise and motion.

  Camacho dropped his gear and moved over to the position that was the observation point for the ambush. He was the only one who would connect the firing wires to the detonators. While he and the others were down near the explosives, the wires were disconnected and tied to tree branches a foot apart, while the detonators themselves were slipped into an empty Claymore bag to keep them clean, dry, and away from the wires—and hands.

  The humidity rising from the ground and the trees changed the quality of the sounds and affected their travel. And the lack of a breeze made everything seem much louder, crisper, and closer.

  Just after sundown Hollister moved to the observation point overlooking the stream. He was very aware that there was a lot at stake. He was risking the lives of his patrol by manipulating the situation.

  He had stuck his neck way out and asked his boss to intentionally deceive the ARVNs. If they were caught and not vindicated by the return of the VC sampans, it could mean some disciplinary action against them. The more he thought about it, the more he started to get angry about having to mislead and deceive to do his job.

  Dark came quickly. But the moon rose just as fast. The crickets were much louder then the previous nights. Conscious of the difference, Hollister assumed that they were trying to make up for lost feeding time.

  He took the Starlight scope out of its case and propped it up in the crotch of a small tree to look through it without having to steady its weight. Pressing his right eye to the rubber eyepiece, he quickly scanned the area below. He could see some things very clearly. Those few things that were unclear were blurred because of the branches and leaves in his line of sight.

  The ambient light level from the moon made visibility with the Starlight scope worth the trouble of getting it out of its case. Hollister slowly scanned the upstream leg, then worked down to the killing zone in the bend in the stream, then the downstream leg. Finding no boats or anything unusual, he started at the upstream leg again and made a more detailed inspection of the stream.

  His first concern was the debris floating in the water. It was much worse than before nightfall. He knew that the smaller tributaries, swollen from the earlier rain, were flushing deadfall down to the stream and clogging choke points below the ambush site. Because of the damming, the water level had risen a foot over the bank. That meant that the debris floating over the swollen stream bank could pose a danger to the firing wires that led back up to Hollister’s position. The only thing he could do was to try and trust Camacho’s work—and hope for a little luck.

  The hands on Hollister’s watch were straight up. Midnight and nothing. More debris, more muddy water, and still no sampans. He was starting to wonder if he had made the right decision.

  He wondered if he should wake up Theodore and get some sleep himself or hang in for another hour or so. The ground cold and the wetness of his uniform started to make him shiver uncontrollably. He hated it when he started to shiver. It was a sign that he was reaching a point of exhaustion.

  A small pebble hit him on the shoulder. He spun around and looked over at Sergeant Allard, who had taken the Starlight to spell Hollister for a while.

  Allard was pointing down the hill to something on the upstream leg. Hollister flipped back onto his stomach and looked.

  Bingo!

  A sampan was approaching. His heart started to race as he ran through what he had to do. He reached over, put his hand over Theodore’s mouth and woke him. He then reached out to touch the detonators. He then raised the Starlight and made a check of the progress of the sampan. It was roughly a minute away from the killing zone, moving slowly down the center of the upstream channel.

  Hollister rolled over on his back and threw a small stick across the perimeter at the moonlight-blotched outline of Camacho, who was sleeping against a tree trunk. He made a large pointing gesture for Camacho, letting him know that there was someone approaching the killing zone.

  Camacho started getting everyone ready to move. If it went sour, they would either need to defend in place, run, or wait and then leave after blowing the ambush. They had rehearsed all of the possibilities.

  Hollister looked back to Allard, who had alerted all of his people and was looking back through the Starlight. Suddenly he raised his hand and waved at Hollister.

  Hollister looked back down at the sampan. He could see what Allard was watching through the Starlight—a second sampan. Shit! Hollister thought. If they got too far apart, he would have the problem of either blowing the ambush on the lead boat, the trailing boat, or neither. He wouldn’t be able to get both of them if they drifted farther apart than the width of the killing zone.

  He looked across the stream at two distinctive trees that were the reference points marking the left and right limits of the blast area. He knew that he would have to get the targeted boat into the space bracketed by those trees and then trigger the demolitions. He could feel the blood pounding in his neck and the restriction in his breathing. Time was passing too fast.

  The lead sampan changed its direction to avoid a large bush that was floating in front of it and had become fouled by something under the water. As it did, the following sampan closed a little on the lead.

  Hollister was pleased to see them close up, even though he had decided to blow the demo on the lead, hoping to get some of the second with the blast and fragmentation.

  As the sampans got even closer he could make out the boatmen. The first sampan was an open fifteen-footer with some cargo stacked in the middle. At the bow a single soldier squatted with an AK-47 on his lap. At the aft end of the boat a second VC handled the tiller, his rifle slung across his back.

  In the second boat, only slightly longer, a soldier sat on the cargo holding a loaded RPG grenade launcher. Hollister couldn’t tell if the man on the tiller of the second boat had a weapon.

  Time finally reversed itself for Hollister and came to a crawl as the nose of the lead boat slowly entered the killing zone. He put the detonator in the palm of his left hand and grabbed the T-handle with his right. He let the boat drift deeper into the killing zone and wondered if there would be even a second’s delay in the detonation once he twisted the handle of the pulse generator.

  He decided to wait long enough for the second boat to get at least half of its length into the killing zone before triggering the demo. But as he did, the front of the first boat was reaching the limit of the killing zone. He could wait no longer. He swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and forcefully twisted the handle.

  As soon as the explosions started to go off, he grabbed the second detonator and did the same with it—just in case. He kept his eyes closed and ducked his head to keep from losing his night vision.

  The near bank of the stream exploded up and out, throwing a wall of water, fragmentation, and mud at and under the sampans. A split second later Hollister heard the distinctive whoosh of the RPG launching a rocket-propelled grenade. It ended with an explosion that went off to Hollister’s right—near the hilltop. Then, before the noise of the RPG faded, an explosion twice the size of the ambush went off—a secondary! They had hit some explosives on one of the sampans. The night lit up for a moment from the red and yellow ball of fire the secondary produced.

  The flash, blast, and heat subsided as fast as it happened, but debris rained down in the trees for what seemed nice several seconds.

  Cautious to still protect his night vision, Hollister opened one eye and looked down the hill toward the killing zone. It wasn’t the same. It was as if a bomb had hit the bend in the stream. The near bank was gone—moved back about a foot. The small trees on it were completely blown away, and the ones on the edge of the far bank were mowed down.

  The water was filled with pieces of unidentifiable debris. Most of it was already floating out of sight—downstream. Realizing that there was no longe
r a threat to his night vision, Hollister opened his other eye and started a methodical search of the hill sloping away from them, then the bank, then the water, then the far bank.

  There was no movement. He could find no bodies, no threat, and no sign of life. Suddenly he remembered that they might not have been the only sampans on the water. He quickly looked back upstream.

  There was nothing but black. And, though his ears were ringing, he could only hear silence. Hollister was overcome by a sense of relief and dread. He didn’t know exactly what the feelings were. He just knew that he didn’t have time for either. He had plenty to do. Everyone for miles around would know that there was probably a U.S. element in the hills responsible for the ambush. They would know that only one of two options was available. Either the Americans would stay put or move to one of the obvious pickup zones to be extracted. The limited number of options favored the VC.

  Security was his next thought. Hollister knew that he had to focus on that and nothing else. He looked back over his shoulder to get a signal from Camacho and Allard about the condition of the patrol. Camacho caught Hollister’s eye and gave him an “okay” sign.

  Hollister could see that Allard was still moving from man to man to check them out. He had stopped at Prather’s position. Allard was crouched over him. It looked to Hollister that Allard was speaking to Prather—into his ear.

  Hollister reached for the handset to call in the ambush as soon as Allard gave him an up on his half of the patrol.

  Allard seemed to be taking a long time with Prather. Hollister thought it might be related to Prather’s inexperience. He had only been with the detachment for a few weeks.

  Instead of turning around to look at Hollister and give him a sign, Allard got up and moved to Hollister’s side. He had some bad news. The VC with the RPG got a shot off and hit the trees above the perimeter. It detonated near Prather—killing him. Allard couldn’t find the wound, but Prather was definitely dead.

  Suddenly Hollister felt nauseous. He could only nod his head in acknowledgment. He was sure that the cost wasn’t worth the enemy body count.

  Wrapping his hand around the handset, Hollister spoke softly into it. He reported the successful execution of the ambush and the one friendly KIA. He requested an extraction at the primary PZ an hour after first light. He didn’t want to stay in the AO for any longer than he had to.

  They moved out of the perimeter just as the sky was taking on a pale purple glow. As they started down the eastern side of the hill mass that they had occupied, the sun broke the horizon and began warming them. But there were no signs of welcome on the faces of the patrol members. The loss of a LRP had dampened each man’s spirit—especially Hollister, who kept looking at the body being carried by two of the others.

  In order to reduce the chance of being ambushed, Hollister took a roundabout path to the southeast to get to a PZ that was almost due east of the perimeter. It made it difficult, but was understood by the patrol members.

  The loss of a man was also the loss of an important function on the patrol. Prather had been one of the two medics they had. If they ran into trouble on the way to the pickup, there could be more wounded than the remaining medic could handle. Hollister had decided to carry Prather’s medical kit himself. It wasn’t smart. He had enough to do and enough to carry. He knew it, but he just wanted to have the gear close at hand.

  Halfway to the PZ Hollister changed the direction of march back to the northeast, to approach the PZ from a direction that was not only a dogleg, but took them down a long gentle finger to the clearing.

  The patrol started to move without their usual caution. They were exhausted, eager to get back, and didn’t want to stay out in the AO a minute more than necessary. Hollister had to grab a couple of them by the arm and point out their sloppiness. He could see the resentment in their eyes.

  He knew how beat they were and how bad they felt about Prather’s death. But he had to keep reminding himself that being a patrol leader wasn’t a popularity contest. He had to not care if they were pissed at him, Allard, and Camacho. He knew that it would be easy to kill them with kindness. They had to move. He had to kick ass. He knew it and they knew it. They didn’t like it.

  After leaving the patrol near the PZ, Hollister and Camacho reconned the clearing. It appeared to be big enough to get two choppers in at once.

  Hollister took the handset from the radio that Camacho had brought and called in for Operations to launch the pickup ships. They told him to expect a twenty-minute ETA.

  On the way back to the patrol, Camacho suddenly stopped and dropped to his knee. Hollister hugged up behind him to see what had spooked him.

  Camacho pointed to a small twig on the ground. It was the size of a cigarette and was laying next to an impression in the ground that was identical to its shape. It had been kicked out of its place in the hard ground by someone or something.

  The alarming thing was that the side of the twig facing up was still moist from the dirt. It meant that the sun had not had time to dry it out. The twig had been turned over within the past several minutes. Everything around it had been dried by the sun. And it couldn’t have been them. They were heading back using a new route. They realized that they were not alone.

  Back with the patrol, Hollister, Camacho, and Allard put their heads together in the center. The fact that they had seen some indication that there was someone near the PZ did not guarantee that it was VC or that it had been done by someone still in the area. Hollister’s decision was to alert everyone and continue the mission—and get them out.

  Only a few minutes passed before they could hear the approach of the flight of choppers coming to pick them up. Hollister didn’t wait until he could see them to let Michaelson know the situation. He grabbed for the handset. “Quarterback Six, this is Two-six. Over.”

  “Six, go.”

  “This is Two-six. We’ve got what might be fresh tracks near the southwest corner of the PZ. Twenty meters into the tree line. Very fresh. But no sighting, no hostile fire. Request victor romeo of that location or recon by fire if you feel necessary. We are clear up to two hundred meters back from tree line. Over.”

  “Roger, Two-six. I’ll send guns in to prowl. Stand by.”

  “Roger that. Out,” Hollister said, and passed the handset back to Theodore. He then turned around and told the man standing behind him to spread the word that the guns might be making a firing run to flush out any VC.

  Everyone realized the risk and squatted down to reduce the chances of being hit by rounds skipping through the trees.

  They could see the first gunship approaching the PZ. He was almost down into the treetops. His wingman was to his left and behind him, but at a greater altitude. They were sticking their necks out to try to draw fire on the low ship to allow the high ship to spot the shooter and blow him away. Hollister had to shake his head at the guts of the gun pilots. He made himself a promise to buy them a beer.

  Wanting to hear what was going on, he took the handset from Theodore. The choppers kept prowling without any cross talk over the tactical freq. Finally the lead chopper came to a hover over a spot not too far from where Hollister and Camacho had discovered the wet twig. It then started to crab sideways.

  The squelch finally broke. It was Iron Mike. “Folks, put your heads down. We’re gonna hose this area down. We got a pair of Ho Chi Minh prints in a muddy spot and the grass is a little beaten down.”

  Hollister squeezed the press-to-talk button. “This is Two-six. Roger that. We copy friendly fire.”

  The low gunship broke right and pulled around and up to a firing-run altitude while his wingman rolled in with miniguns blasting. The snapping of the rounds and the zipping of the occasional skipping round kept everyone’s heads down.

  While they were crouched down they scanned their respective sectors for any sign of enemy ground fire directed at them or the choppers. There was none.

  The lead gunship rolled into position and nosed over into a run that w
ould begin just as soon as the other ship broke off. They tried to cover each other’s tails and bellies on the pullout by keeping the fire on the target area without interruption.

  The lead—Iron Mike’s chopper—started belching a stream of 40mm grenades that mumped a section of tree line, splintering trees and throwing up small fens of dirt. He took no fire that anyone could see.

  Michaelson asked each chopper and Hollister if anyone saw any ground fire. All the way around the answer was the same—no enemy fire sighted. He told the guns to resume their normal search-and-cover pattern so that the extraction could begin.

  Not waiting for the word, Hollister signaled the patrol to get up and move toward the PZ. They had taken about three good steps when Michaelson gave the pickup the go.

  The team took a little longer to get to the tree line because of the extra weight of Prather’s body and the extra caution about the possibility of unfriendlies in the area.

  They were out of breath when they finally reached the choppers. Hollister held back while the others climbed onto the two pickup ships. The team getting into the second slick was having trouble loading Prather’s body. But once Hollister was sure that they were all inside, he jumped into the lead slick, slapped the peter pilot on the helmet, and yelled, “Go! Go! Go!”

  The choppers rolled forward and started up and out of the landing zone. Every man in the two choppers watched the tree line for any sign of enemy fire.

  The choppers rose to thirty feet and started picking up airspeed when the lead slick took three enemy rounds through the cockpit. Mr. Patterson, the co-pilot, simply slumped forward and then a little to his left over the console between the seats.

  Hollister just happened to be looking down at the point in the tree line where the VC fire came from—catching a glimpse of a tracer. Without thinking, he pulled out his sawed-off M-79 and lobbed a marker round in the direction of the enemy rifleman.

  He was way long with the shot, having not allowed for the forward throw of the chopper’s motion. Still, the training round made a puff of yellow smoke on impact.