A Requiem for Crows: A Novel of Vietnam

by Dennis Foley

  Pascoe recognized the colonel as the same man who had assigned him to Minh when he first arrived in Vietnam.

  General Devlen pointed his glass at Pascoe. “Mike, I think you know Pascoe here. He tells me there’s some kind of hold up on replacements for his advisory team out with the 6th Division. Can you tell me what the hell the hold up is in getting him the people he needs?”

  The portly Colonel stuttered searching for a reply. “Yessir. I remember Pascoe.” He glanced at him. “How you doin?” Then back to the General. “Sir, I’d be happy to assign some more bodies to the 6th if I had them. We aren’t getting ’em in as fast as we’re losing them to injury, wounds and illnesses.”

  The General was silent for a moment. He then put his glass on the table and dropped his more pleasant tone. “Well, Colonel, that’s not going to cut it. I want to see you in my office in three days with a plan to solve this problem. I want all the facts and figures and I want something I can take up the chain of command—to Washington, if I have to. Do you understand me? I want ammunition.”

  The Colonel’s face reddened and he began nodding before the General even finished speaking. “Yessir. I will do that. I’ll make it a priority.”

  Pascoe felt better about bringing the subject up and not repeating his efforts to get more manpower through normal channels which started with Colonel Wright.

  Well-wishers stopped by to shake Pascoe’s hand and congratulate him on his awards while also taking the opportunity to rub elbows with their commanding general.

  Pascoe was somewhat overwhelmed by the attention. In his years in the Army no one had ever made such a fuss over him. And now he was getting handshakes, well wishes and pats on the back from senior officers and peers recognizing him for his bravery in combat.

  A young American soldier carrying at large press camera and wearing an armband identifying him as part of the PIO office stopped in front of General Devlen and Pascoe and asked if he could get a picture. The general looked to Pascoe. “I think this would be a good idea. You will want to remember this day. And we need to recognize good work in pictures.” He took Pascoe’s hand, accustomed to staging handshake pictures over his years as a general officer.”

  Pascoe smiled into the camera while the soldier licked the base of a flash bulb and stuck it into the socket on the large reflectored flash attachment on the side of the cumbersome camera. The thought of putting a picture of him up in his office some day back in the States appealed to Pascoe. He broadened his grin and turned his torso slightly in order to make sure the medals showed in the photo.

  Once the photos were taken General Devlen spotted General Pham arriving at the refreshment table and excused himself with Pascoe to go talk to the Vietnamese corps commander.

  Pascoe again caught sight of the photographer taking more pictures of the festivities—young Vietnamese girls dressed in their finest. As he approached, it looked to Pascoe like the soldier was doing more hitting on the girls than picture taking. But he knew one thing true about most Vietnamese—they loved having their pictures taken. They saved their money to add to their collections of photos of themselves. A soldier with a camera had a built in opening line.

  “Soldier?”

  The photographer turned to find Pascoe at his shoulder. “Yessir?”

  “What’s chances of getting a copy or two of your photos of today’s ceremony for my files?”

  The soldiers started nodding even before he started speaking. “Sure, Colonel. No problem.” He added a well worn phrase which had somehow become commonplace among the English speaking Vietnamese, “Can do, easy.”

  “Great. That’ll be great,” Pascoe said.

  “And don’t worry, Colonel. I’ll make you look good.”

  Pascoe didn’t know how to respond to the soldier obviously used to officers asking him for photos. He just smiled and let it go. “I’ll look forward to seeing them soon. You can just send them to me at 6th Division Headquarters.”

  “Yessir. I’ll have a bunch going out to General Duong. I’ll slip yours in the Pony Express pouch too,” the soldier said, poking fun at the slow-moving message distribution system which moved correspondence and reports from headquarters to headquarters.

  “Pascoe!”

  Pascoe turned to find Colonel Wright standing unusually close, his red flushed face pushed close to Pascoe’s. “Let me tell you something, asshole. The next fucking time you hang my ass out to dry with General Devlen you’re going to think a goddamn building fell on you. You got a problem with personnel—you call me. You don’t go whining to the general you piss ant son of a bitch!”

  Pascoe tried to reply while pulling back from the aggressive attack of the large colonel. He tried lying. “It wasn’t like you think. He asked me if I was doing okay in the manpower department and I just couldn’t lie to him.”

  “You could have fucking told him we were working on filling the vacancies—which we were.”

  “I didn’t mean to —”

  “You got my root in a ringer and I’m not going to forget it, Major,” the Colonel said, emphasizing Pascoe’s real rank and reminding him of the difference in their relative authority.

  Chapter 21

  SCOTTY CRAWLED BACK TO Nguyen’s position satisfied they could make it once night fell. It would only be a few hundred meters, but it would be a start and it would be a test run on moving Nguyen incrementally. If they were able to make it that short a distance without too much difficulty they might be able to increase the distance the next night. And the ones to follow. He looked up at the sky peeking through the trees as if doing so might bring on a flight of several choppers. But he’d resigned himself to the fact it wasn’t going to happen. If they were coming, they would have already been there.

  Reaching Nguyen, Scotty checked him for fever and then held his canteen to his lips. He knew even if they made the trip to safety and neither the Viet Cong nor Nguyen’s wound got them, dehydration could.

  Scotty mentally put filling canteens on his list of things to do before they left the thicket that night. He had been working on the list since making the decision to move both of them in hops toward safety.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked Nguyen.

  “Not matter. We must go. If we stay, we die.”

  “Well, I’m not going to let that happen, Dai Uy,” Scotty said as he peeled back the corner of the combat dressing to take a peek at the wound.

  “Not easy,” Nguyen said.

  “Well, you can buy me a Ba Mui Ba beer when we get back,” Scotty said then he laughed slightly.

  “Bier LaRue,” Nguyen corrected, raising himself up on one elbow to see what Scotty could see under the bandage.

  “What’s that?”

  “Good beer. I buy you.”

  Scotty released the dressing back and sat back and looked around. “I’ve got a lot to do here before we leave. If anyone comes this way they’ll know we have been here.”

  Nguyen tried to sit up. “I will help.”

  “No. No, Dai Uy. If we need anything, we need you to be as rested as you can be. You stay,” Scotty said.

  He took a few minutes to sort out what they would keep and what they would leave behind. There was no way he could haul all they had managed to bring to the muddy den. He pulled an aluminum canteen cup out of the bottom of its canvas carrier and looked for a place to start.

  A few feet from where they sat there was a spot void of growth, mostly because it was a pool of black stagnant water. Scotty crawled to the spot, scooped most of the water out of the shallow and began digging the mud out underneath it. He needed a hole large enough to bury things they would leave. What they couldn’t take they’d bury and then he’d try to conceal the burial spot.

  Scotty dug for nearly thirty minutes producing a hole only a foot and a half in diameter and about as deep. The earth was mud, some light gravel and plenty of knotted weeds and roots, most the size of threads. By themselves, they were easy to break. But in the bundles he found they were h
ard to cut up with the lip of a canteen cup.

  Perspiration ran down his face but didn’t cool him. His own temperature was on the rise and he kept ignoring it simply because there was nothing he could do about it other than drink as much fluid as he could force down.

  The only good news about needing water was he could find it in every direction. It was foul and more black than clear. But it was water and between he and Nguyen they still had dozens of tiny water purification tablets to dissolve in the marsh water to reduce some of the bacteria which might otherwise buckle them over with acute diarrhea or vomiting. Giardia was the most likely to get them. The paddies were filled with the waterborne microscopic invaders capable of bringing down a grown man with ease.

  Scotty looked around at Nguyen’s rifle, scraps of field dressings, extra socks, an extra but long dead radio battery and a second pistol once belonging to the medic, Tram. All would be dead weight for him on the move.

  He hated burying one of the rifles and the extra pistol. He would take his rifle and Nguyen’s pistol with them. If they had to defend themselves at close range or if they needed to use them to keep themselves from being taken prisoner more weapons wouldn’t be much more help.

  He thought of Russell and wondered what it was like for him. Had he fought off enemy forces until he was simply overpowered? He stifled a laugh. Of course Russell would fight as long as he had strength in his body. Scotty knew he would have to do the same. He was the only person able to save their lives and if he failed it would not just be him who suffered. He stuffed the stay-behind gear into the hole then spent another half hour covering everything with mud.

  That done, he gathered deadfall and scattered it over the freshly turned mud to conceal the hiding place.

  “Want some more ice tea, hon?”

  Kitty shook her head as she swallowed the last of the glass. “Nope. Any more and I’ll be up all night. Thanks.”

  “You sound better today.”

  “Listen, if I have to fake it I will. I’m not letting that damn doctor put my butt in the hospital,” Kitty said.

  “Well, if you keep taking your medicine and getting enough rest you might be able to keep out of there.”

  Kitty waved a dismissive hand at Eileen. Now you’re starting to sound like him too.”

  “Well, whatever it takes to keep you healthy I’ll do. You need to do the same and you know that, Miss Kitty.”

  “Yeah. I hear ya’—but I’d still kill for just one cigarette.”

  “Kitteeee…” Eileen replied. She took the tall tea glass from Kitty, spun and placed it in the sink. She reached up and parted the runner of the Creeping Charlie hanging in the small kitchen window behind the faucet to be able to see out the window. She was surprised and alarmed at what she saw.

  “What? What is it, sweetie?” Kitty asked.

  Eileen knew it would not be good news, no matter what it was. She saw an Army captain get out of the olive drab sedan. “Nothin.’” She pulled the apron from her waist, folded it and placed it over the lip of the sink. “Somebody just pulled up out front. Stay put. I’ll get it.”

  She walked the few steps to the front door almost praying the officer had the wrong address or was looking for someone else’s house. Not waiting for him to ring the door bell, she opened the door and shielded her eyes with her hand from the blinding Florida sun. “Hello. Can I help you?”

  “The captain looked at an envelope in his hand. I’m looking for Mrs. Jacob Hayes. Might she be your mother?”

  “No, I’m Eileen Carter, a friend. Is it about Scotty? Her son?”

  “The captain took off his cap and put the envelope inside. “Yes, but I need to speak to her.”

  “Can you wait here a minute. I want to… I mean, she’s not been well—”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  Eileen left him standing on the front steps while she went to prepare Kitty.

  “Who was it? Kitty asked, not looking up from the TV Guide crossword puzzle she worked on with a ball point pen.

  Eileen walked around in front of Kitty, kneeled down, took the pen out of her fingers and held Kitty’s hands between her own. “Kitty, now I don’t want you to get upset, but there’s someone here from the Army about Scotty.”

  Kitty’s hand broke loose from Eileen’s as she covered her mouth and her eyes began to flood with tears. “Oh, my god. Not my baby. Not my baby too.”

  “Just sit here and I’ll bring him in.”

  The captain pulled the envelope from his cap and checked the details on the military telegram inside. “Yes, ma’am, it was three days ago they declared him missing in action. But he is not missing and presumed dead. I want you to understand that. There’s still a chance they my find him. This is only a preliminary designation and not a final disposition for your son.”

  Kitty blew her nose in the tissue Eileen had placed on the kitchen table. She took the official looking document from the captain and spread it out the table, fighting to read it through her tears. “He’s alive. I know my boy is alive.”

  Eileen stood next to Kitty and hugged her to let her know she was right. Eileen prayed she was right. She released Kitty and pointed to the cup in front of the captain, “Can I get you some more?”

  “I need to be alone,” Kitty stood unsteadily and walked out of the room.

  “You need some help, hon?” Eileen asked.

  But Kitty didn’t reply. She clutched the telegram to her chest and walked toward her bedroom.

  Eileen waited until Kitty was out of earshot and turned back to the captain, coffee pot in hand. “What happens now?”

  He held his palm over his cup to decline her offer. “There’ll be a Survivor’s Assistance Officer assigned to come explain things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Mrs. Hayes will begin getting Sergeant Hayes’ paychecks and the SAO will be her contact for anything regarding her status as his dependent and in regard to any further information about Sergeant Hayes’ status.”

  “No. I meant, is someone looking for him? What does the Army do about Scotty?”

  “Ma’am, I don’t have any information about that. I would assume there’s something going on within his unit, but they don’t tell me that.”

  “Who can?” Eileen asked, her tone becoming more demanding.

  “Why don’t you let me find out for you and I’ll get back to you. I can call the Pentagon and get some more details if you’d like,” the captain said.

  Eileen couldn’t fight the tears welling up in her eyes. He reached over and put her hand on the captain’s. “I’d appreciate that. She’s not well and any hope we can give her will do her a world of good.”

  Nguyen and Scotty took turns taking short naps during the afternoon as they waited for darkness to fall. Both were suffering from lack of nutrition and were extremely weak because of it.

  Scotty woke Nguyen after dark. “We need to move early. Anyone coming from Cambodia is just leaving there now and we need to be moved and stopped before they come anywhere near us.”

  “Yes.” Nguyen sat up with difficulty.

  Scotty knew they would be unable to completely cover their tracks. His only hope was to make it appear they were not who they actually were. That meant trying to look as much like infiltrating Viet Cong soldiers as possible. He took a small twig and scraped the mud off the laces of his jungle boots and unlaced them. He would walk barefoot and hope anyone coming across his tracks wouldn’t be able to tell his foot size from the average Vietnamese’s.

  His feet were white and wrinkled from a week spent in the water and the mud of the marshes. The breaks in his skin from leeches were beginning to get more infected.

  Tying his laces together, he slung his boots around his neck and then the sling to his rifle. The next part was the real test. Could he lift and carry Nguyen?

  Nguyen awkwardly pulled himself upright, standing on his good leg, which allowed Scotty to put his shoulder into Nguyen’s midsection. Without words, they bot
h coordinated their movements—Scotty bent his knees and thrust upward while Nguyen leaned well over Scotty’s back.

  They made it. Nguyen was draped over Scotty’s shoulder, steadying himself with a hand on his pistol belt.

  Scotty reached out with his free hand, took hold of a sapling and began the slow process of getting out of the thicket. He said a silent prayer.

  It took the two twenty minutes to move to the margin of the thicket. Scotty stopped only long enough to ask Nguyen if it was just too painful for him to go on.

  Nguyen’s words came with little force. “Go. We go.”

  The first step out into the open area between the thicket and then next clump of trees was shakier than Scotty had expected. The ground was soft mud under the two inches of standing water. And he had no trees or bushes to hold onto with his free hand to steady him. The added weight threw him off and he quickly realized unless he compensated he would wobble and fall to his left or right. He tried widening his stance and taking shorter steps.

  At first it felt completely awkward he was sure he would fall. After ten more steps he was gaining confidence and a rhythm the new stride, even if it was slower than he had hoped he could move across the open area.

  After the first hundred meters his left arm and shoulder began to suffer under the weight of his Vietnamese passenger. He had cut off some of the circulation in his left shoulder somewhere and his entire arm was going numb. He needed to shift the load. He stopped, took as steady a stance as he could, turned his head and whispered to Nguyen. “Dai Uy. I’m sorry, but I gotta’ move you.”

  Not waiting for a reply, he flexed his knees, thrust upward momentarily lightening Nguyen’s load on his shoulder while simultaneously moving him to a spot only millimeters off the point which had been taking bulk of the weight.

  Nguyen tried to suppress the gasp the pain and the shifting caused but wasn’t completely successful.

  It worked. Scotty felt blood returning to his arm and the feeling to his fingers. He opened and closed his hand. “Hold on, Dai Uy. We’re moving.”