The Green Berets: The Amazing Story of the U. S. Army's Elite Special Forces Unit

by Robin Moore

  DePorta examined the oxcart. It was built like a large, tightly woven basket, almost waterproof, holding the rich load of fertilizer. “Inspired, Ossidian, truly inspired,” DePorta complimented his intelligence sergeant. “But won’t he smother if we stick him in this?”

  Vo heard his commander’s words and approached the cart. At the rear he located a hook and pulled it. As a square trap door opened, De Porta jumped backward, expecting a load of manure to be released.

  “Do not worry,” Vo said proudly, “this is not my first”—he grinned at Ossidian—“what do you Americans say? Caper?”

  Ossidian nodded.

  “This is not my first caper,” Vo repeated.

  Neatly imbedded in the cart’s offensive load was a wood shaft running all the way from one end to the other. The door was loosely woven so fresh air could circulate through it.

  “Very, very number one, Vo,” said Ossidian.

  Vo smiled, pleased, and then, looking at the reddish glow beyond the mountain, became serious. “They will drive up to the front of the house and get out of the car. We must be ready. I go inside until I am needed.”

  Ossidian slowly walked from the back to the front of the house and found a position in the overgrown jungle that once had been a decorative hedgerow. He left DePorta standing near the malodorous oxcart.

  Suddenly Ossidian tensed as he heard the churning of engines and rattling of vehicles coming up the road. Two square French army-personnel carriers pulled up on the main highway beside the driveway into the farmhouse. Instantly, a squad of khaki-clad troops armed with rifles and submachine guns leaped to the ground and took up positions along the road, blocking the entrance into and out of the farmhouse.

  Ossidian’s heart pounded. He well knew the vulnerability of guerrillas forced to come into town. How many had been betrayed into his hands by agents they had trusted?

  A few moments later a small, dirty, gray sedan pulled into the property. It proceeded along the rough drive. Immediately following it was an open jeep-like vehicle. A military officer sat beside the driver, and in the back two more armed soldiers held submachine guns ready for business.

  Ossidian shrank into the thick foliage. From there he could see DePorta, looking like a defiant Muk Thon, with two Tais flanking him and a few steps to his rear. Whether soldier or montagnard, DePorta was a redoubtable chief.

  The sedan kept going, bouncing and swaying until it hit bottom and stopped. Instantly, the slim, oval-faced girl with long black hair, wearing an au dai of the same color, opened her door and stepped out.

  The driver’s door opened and a man in pressed khakis, wearing a pistol in a leather holster on his belt and an officer’s cap, reluctantly eased himself out of the car. He walked around the car, and as he reached Quand the officer and two armed men from the jeep came up behind him.

  Quand pointed to DePorta, and her companion—it was Ti, Ossidian recognized him from pictures and sketches supplied by the underground—started to stride toward him purposefully. Had Quand betrayed them? Somehow he would kill her and Ti before he was killed if this were the case. As Ti came abreast of Ossidian’s position and clearly saw the Tai chief and his two tribesmen he halted. Turning to the three men behind him, Ti motioned them to stay where they were and then he and Quand moved on toward DePorta. Ossidian crept through the thick growth, always directly opposite Ti.

  Ti reached DePorta and stood looking down at the small “Tai chief,” hardly bothering to conceal an expression of disgust at having to deal with this mois.

  They began to converse, Quand arguing shrilly, Ti apparently trying to restrain her. The price was obviously being discussed. As Ossidian had hoped would be the case, a new supply of opium—the first deal for five kilos, almost twelve pounds—was too important to be lost by antagonizing the source.

  Skillfully DePorta maneuvered Ti, Quand subtly helping, until they were directly behind the decrepit farmhouse. DePorta pointed at his basket on the ground against the yellowed, crumbling back wall. Ti and he started walking toward it. Ti pointed down at the montagnard pack and DePorta bent over, pulled out a large packet, and handed it to Ti who, in his eagerness, almost snatched it. Ti began to examine it at once.

  Stealthily Ossidian crept through the thick bush surrounding the farmhouse and finally he reached a position less than fifteen feet from where Ti, DePorta, and Quand were standing. He made sure the security guard could see none of them. Ti was so excited with the five kilos of dried poppy juice he was caressing, pinching between thumb and forefinger and sniffing, that he seemed hardly aware of the loud haggling going on between Quand and DePorta.

  Slowly Ossidian slid the pistol, which fired tiny hollow needles of nerve-paralyzing serum, from its holster, raised it, took careful aim, and steadied his right wrist with his left hand. He held his breath. The target, Ti’s exposed neck, was small. Ossidian squeezed the trigger. There was a slight recoil and an almost inaudible hiss.

  Ti slapped at the back of his neck and cursed. Quand slapped her own cheek and shouted at DePorta, pointing at the oxcart. Three more times Ossidian fired.

  Ti was just reaching into his pocket, presumably for money to complete the transaction, when he quietly collapsed against the outer wall of the farmhouse and slid to the ground. Seconds later, with Quand still keeping up her loud bargaining, Vo stepped out the door, grabbed Ti’s hat, and slapped it on his head. While he was going through Ti’s pockets, taking everything in them, DePorta unbuckled the pistol belt, slipped it off the unconscious province political chief, and handed it to Vo, who strapped it around his own waist. In a moment Vo had walked beyond the rear of the house where he could be observed by Ti’s security squad. He and Quand appeared to be having a private discussion.

  DePorta and his two Tais scooped up the limp form of the political chief and shoved the body into the open shaft of the fertilizer cart, shutting and hooking the trap door. As soon as Ti was safely stowed away, DePorta picked up a stick he had previously cut, untied the ox, and jabbed him into motion. Responding to furious gesturing by Vo, DePorta halted the oxcart in sight of the security patrol and approached him.

  From his pocket, the intelligence officer impersonating Ti brought out a roll of currency. This he handed to DePorta, who in turn passed over the large package of poppy.

  Then Vo, allowing Quand to urge him toward the rear of the property, gingerly moved past the oxcart and they walked as far as they could. Vo was still in sight of the security guards as Quand pointed over what had been her father’s lands and Vo nodded and pointed also.

  Ossidian had unobtrusively slid from the tangled vines and fallen in with the two Tai guides. Jabbing the ox, DePorta drove the cart past the security squad, who yelled curses at the dirty mois, retreating from the nauseating stench. DePorta kept going up the rutted drive and finally reached the main road. The officer of the guard approached the Tai contingent. But as he neared them, he suddenly thought better of the idea and fell back, allowing them to gain the road.

  The overpowering stench never left them as they walked. The cart grated slowly along the highway. Every vehicle that passed them from the direction of town was a nerve-wracking torment. If Vo’s plan to continue impersonating Ti did not work the police and Army would be thundering after them. It was dark now, yet there were still too many people on the road for them to pull Ti out of the oxcart, abandon it, and carry the prisoner on foot.

  Two hours after they had left the farmhouse they came to the road which turned from the highway into the mountains. But they continued on. The masses of oxcarts and people traveling in both directions, trying to get to their destinations before the curfew hour, made the transfer of Ti from the cart impossible.

  Up ahead, coming at them from the north, two headlights bounced up and down in the rutted road. DePorta went on driving his water buffalo impassively until the lights approached him and the vehicle stopped, blocking the animal’s way. It was the usual square French military car, open, carrying two officers in the bac
k and two soldiers in the front. One of the soldiers jumped out of the heavy car, its dim headlights on DePorta.

  DePorta prayed that Smith had followed his suggestion and set up still another camp and an escape route to it that none of the four on this operation could know about. He glanced at the wart on the back of his right wrist. Ossidian stood motionless, out of the direct beams from the personnel carrier’s light. He had a basketful of local currency from the black market sale of the gold which Ton had given him, just before slipping off to go back to town. The money would be impossible to explain.

  In Vietnamese, the soldier, a noncom, asked DePorta why he was out on the road so late. DePorta answered in a torrent of Tai, gesturing at the hills. He heard the noncom ask the officer what to do with this mois who would certainly still be on the road after curfew hour. DePorta thrust his stick into the putrefying mess in the cart, and chattering in Tai began to stir it sharply, pointing at the rice paddies and then the mountains.

  Waves of effluvium forced the noncom back as though he had been slammed in the chest. The two officers screamed curses at the soldiers. The noncom who had stopped DePorta leapt back into the car and in a screech of rubber on gravel the Army car jumped forward and streaked down the road.

  DePorta and Ossidian breathed deeply for many moments and then proceeded on north. It was another hour before one of the tribesmen triumphantly pointed out the turnoff they wanted.

  With his stick, DePorta headed the buffalo off the road and along the rutted path, the tribesmen leading the way. The starlit sky gave off enough light for them to see, and three hours later the path came to an abrupt end in the foothills of montagnard country. DePorta unhitched the buffalo and turned it loose. Then he pulled down the cart’s rear gate and hauled a faintly moaning Ti out of the shaft.

  Four Tai tribesmen and Sergeant Pierrot materialized out of the darkness. Pierrot, cursing the ghastly odor, flashed a light into Ti’s eyes, pulling the lids back and examining them. He took Ti’s pulse, listened to his breathing and stood up. “He looks OK, sir. I guess we can give him another shot.”

  “Go ahead,” DePorta commanded.

  The medic took a prepared needle from a case in his pocket and slid it into Ti’s arm. “He’s good until morning. Then we’ve got to let him come around, get a little exercise, and eat something.”

  Ti was strapped to the stretcher and the enlarged party continued their march into the mountains. Every hour they had to take a good rest. As the trails became steeper the Tai men took more frequent turns carrying the stretcher.

  By morning they were deep in the mountains, about fifteen miles north of their headquarters. As the sun burned down on them, Ti, his legs hobbled so he couldn’t run, began to moan and stir. DePorta kept pushing the group onward until Ti suddenly let out a yell and with a violent flop almost twisted the stretcher to which he was tied out of the hands of the two carriers.

  DePorta came back in the file to see the groggy but now awake Communist official. “How do you feel?” DePorta asked cheerfully in Vietnamese.

  Ti stared up, struggled against his bonds, and then subsided. “You will all die,” he rasped.

  Then the smell of the fertilizer in which he had been carried suddenly assailed him and he choked and gagged, trying to turn on his side. “Let him off the litter,” DePorta ordered.

  The restraining ropes were untied and Ti was dumped to the ground. Slowly he stood up, his legs shaking. DePorta offered him a piece of concentrated chocolate. With his two hands, which were tied together, Ti batted it to the ground. DePorta shrugged.

  “Sir,” Ossidian spoke up. “We don’t exfiltrate him until tomorrow. It’s only another six hours to where we’re going. Let Frenchy and me have him for the day. There’s a lot I’d like to find out.”

  DePorta considered Ossidian’s request. “That wasn’t part of the operation originally. At the SFOB they’ll have much more advanced methods of interrogating him. They will get a complete report to us on what they get out of him. Your means of interrogation, Ossidian, might spoil him for the professionals. We should send him back virgin, so to speak. I’m sure he’s never been on the wrong side of an interrogation before.”

  Ti, hardly believing his ears that these mois were speaking what he knew to be English, began to look seriously worried. Realizing that the discussion was probably about his own disposition he ceased crying defiant threats.

  Reluctantly, Ossidian bowed to his commander’s decision. DePorta walked over to his captive. “Now, Ti,” he began in Vietnamese, “we have a long way to go. You may either walk or we will carry you on that—” he indicated the stretcher. “It is not our intention to hurt you in any way. But if we have to carry you, you will be rendered unconscious with drugs. Take your choice. If you decide to walk, and it seems that you are holding us up, you will also be immediately knocked out.”

  Ti stared sullenly at DePorta, Ossidian, and Pierrot. DePorta, looking up at the rising sun, grew impatient. “Frenchy . . .”

  The medic immediately opened his kit and took out a hypodermic needle. Ti saw it and blanched.

  “I will walk.”

  “Then pick up that ration and eat it,” DePorta snapped, “you will need strength.”

  Ti looked into DePorta’s hard, black eyes. He stooped, picked up the chocolate bar, and ate it. DePorta nodded and turned to his men. “Let’s all eat and keep going. I want to reach location Snatch before dark.”

  Except for a two-hour rest at noon they pushed steadily through the mountainous jungle. It was 4:00 in the afternoon when they met their first challenge from the advanced security guard that had been posted around their objective. Twenty minutes later they were in a large clearing on a plateau high up in the mountains. Rodriguez and a squad of Tai tribesmen were waiting, three large, square canvas bags sitting on the ground in front of them.

  “Madre Dios, I could smell you coming half an hour ago!” Rodriguez exclaimed. Ossidian walked toward the demolitions sergeant who hastily backed away. “We can talk from a distance.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” said Frenchy. “Wait’ll you get a whiff of the prisoner.”

  Ti was led forward and Rodriguez moved even further away. DePorta said something to the tribesmen and they quickly tied the Communist captive to a tree, seated so that his face was against the trunk, his arms and legs tied around it.

  “While it’s still light let’s get the stuff unpacked,” DePorta advised. Rodriguez, Pierrot, and Ossidian each took a bag and unstrapped it, dumping the contents on the ground. Rodriguez held up a heavy fatigue suit with a built-in harness. “You want to put him in it tonight, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes, let’s make sure he’s in it properly. We don’t want an accident after all this.” The team commander walked over to Ti and ordered him freed from the tree. “Now, Mr. Ti,” he began, “it gets very cold up in these mountains. We do not want you to get sick so we will put a nice warm suit on you tonight.”

  Two tribesmen led Ti into the field. The Communist looked at the equipment dubiously. “Into that suit!” DePorta commanded. Ti hesitated. “Do you want us to put you into it?” DePorta asked sharply.

  Slowly Ti, with the help of Rodriguez and Ossidian, climbed into the coveralls, thrust his arms into the sleeves, and stood in the suit. Rodriguez gave the rig a thorough inspection. Ossidian held an olive-drab crash helmet. “Let’s make sure this fits him.”

  The intelligence sergeant adjusted the straps until the helmet fitted tightly on the prisoner’s head. “He’s all set—sir.”

  “Good. We can do the rest before sunrise. Now, the four Americans are going to watch our man two hours each all night. Pick your own hours. I’ll take 4:00 to 6:00. Snatch is set for 0630.”

  At 5:30 in the morning DePorta, never taking his eyes off the fitfully dozing prisoner, wakened his three sergeants. “Set up Sky Hook,” he commanded.

  Using flashlights with white filters to dim the beam, the sergeants opened the other two canvas bags. They laid ou
t on the ground a mass of plastic sheeting, a large coil of braided nylon rope, and a heavy metal helium bottle. The bottle was attached to a hose and the plastic bag began to inflate, slowly taking on the shape of a dirigible with four stabilizing fins.

  At a sign from DePorta, Frenchy went to his kit, took out a small syringe, and holding it concealed in his palm approached the dozing Communist. DePorta unzipped the coveralls in one fast motion, and Frenchy grabbed one of Ti’s shoulders, ripping the prisoner’s shirt open as he reached and jabbed the needle into the first bare piece of flesh he saw.

  Ti howled obscenities at DePorta when he realized what had been done to him. DePorta cracked the Communist across the cheek with the back of his hand and momentarily silenced him.

  “You won’t really sleep, you’ll see it all,” DePorta said in Ti’s language. “We just want to be sure you do not feel like moving around for the next two hours. You can relax, we will do all the work.”

  Before DePorta had finished talking, the Communist’s eyelids began to droop. Ossidian walked over to DePorta and the doped Ti. “We’re all ready, sir. The balloon is almost set to go up.”

  DePorta and Ossidian helped a dazed Ti to his feet and half led, half carried him out into the middle of the field. The indistinct light of first dawn revealed Rodriguez working with the equipment. They set Ti down in the field and Rodriguez made the nylon rope fast to the harness built into the stout coveralls. DePorta zipped the suit up tight, locked it, and Ossidian clapped the crash helmet on Ti’s head and fastened it. They watched the balloon slowly ascend into the pinkening sky. Five hundred feet above them the balloon snapped taut the rope attached to the harness, and rested motionless in the still air. Two red pennants flew from the rope, marking off a fifty-foot section just below the balloon.

  “What’s the time?” DePorta asked.