Drowning in Her Eyes

by Patrick Ford

  Jack allowed himself a grin. No, he had not been humble; he had been ambitious, at the top of his game; at that time, life had yet to deliver him a serious blow.

  The Brigadier continued. “Secondly, as a result of that report, the Americans want you to spend some time in the field with them. They want you to deliver some training to their men from squad level up to company level. Now, do not refuse this mission. I have blown up several field telephones with Major Forbes already. Any questions?”

  Jack had a thousand. “What are the details of my secondment, sir?”

  “Major Smith, our intelligence officer, has all the gen. He is going to buy you lunch and fully brief you now. He is waiting in his office down the hall. That will be all, Captain. Good luck to you, enjoy your lunch, I believe the Officers’ Mess has a new line in Spam.”

  Jack rose, saluted, and went to find Major Smith.

  Chapter 8

  The Bien Long BBQ

  Headquarters, Seventh Cavalry, South Vietnam—1967

  By now, the wop, wop, wop of the Hueys had become so much part of his life Jack hardly heard them. Most days he flew into the field in one of them. He had become used to the gut wrenching speed of their rapid climbs and violent manoeuvres to avoid ground fire.

  The monsoons would soon be gone and the never-ending red mud would become the never-ending red dust that clogs and covers everything; that gets into the pores of your skin, and makes small red rivers as it mixes with the constant sweat, pouring down your body. What a bastard of a place this is, thought Jack. What are we doing fighting for this shithole? The Vietnamese don’t give a damn which particular party of corrupt arseholes is in power—they just want the killing to stop and to be left in peace.

  Jack had been here almost three months. He had made about thirty insertions, as an observer and as a ground advisor with company and platoon commanders. He felt he had been making good progress, and the men on the ground had been having more success. He concentrated on the squads to begin with. The Australians use sections of ten men as the basic unit. A Corporal commands a section. In training and in barracks, the Corporals lived and messed with their men. They became a tightly knit unit. The Americans had squads as their equivalent. Sergeants who sometimes lack the daily close contact with their men command these squads. He encouraged these squad commanders to sleep, eat, drink, live, and breathe with their men. Juan Ruiz had done that instinctively. That is why he had a good squad and his squad had a good commander. He was sure this approach was working.

  Just then First Lieutenant Rob Matthews pushed back the tent flaps. “Briefing soon, Jack,” he said. “There’s a big one going down tomorrow.”

  Brigade had good intelligence of a battalion of NVA regulars moving on several strong points of the ARVN in the Bien Long Valley. The job of Jack’s company was to make an insertion behind them to take them from the rear as they attacked, driving them onto the ARVN strong points and trapping them in a pincer movement.

  Bad weather delayed the take-off. Late in the morning, they took off into a wall of rain and mist. As Jack climbed into his Huey, he glanced at the left door gunner, who was yet to put on his helmet. It was Jimbo Baker! Jimbo looked at him, recognition dawning on his face. “Riordan, fancy meeting you. It’s going to be busy today. Watch your back.” He stroked the butt of his M60. “This little baby has been known to be very inaccurate. You might get killed by friendly fire.”

  “Jimbo,” Jack said, “You’ve got it all wrong. I love Susan, your mother tore us apart; I need her. Where is she?”

  “Tell it to the Marines, shithead!” The engine started with a clatter and a roar. Conversation was impossible. Jimbo placed his helmet on his head and turned to his gun. They rose and disappeared into the mist.

  Bien Long Valley, South Vietnam—1967

  Jack couldn’t hear the helicopter radio net, but he saw the pilot thumping the side of his helmet, where the earphones were, while he fiddled with switches on the radio set. Jack saw him look to the second pilot, throwing his hand up in disgust. The radio was out. Beside Jack, his radioman, Specialist Four Jorge Mendez, was running through his frequencies. There was nothing but static and a few garbled voices. Mendez looked at Jack and shook his head. Jack looked at his second in command, Staff Sergeant Bell. He shrugged his shoulders. There were four crew and the eight soldiers of his escort squad on the Huey. Some of them started to look concerned. Jack leaned into the cockpit, tapping his map and mouthing ‘Where are we?’ The pilot shrugged and pointed down. ‘Visual’ he mimed. Jack felt the helicopter begin to descend through the mist. Down they went, down, down…

  They broke through the cloud at treetop height. Jack felt the pilot put his machine into an emergency climb. Too late. Three things happened simultaneously; Jimbo commenced firing at something on the ground, they began taking heavy ground fire, and the helicopter clipped a tree. Jack saw about three feet of rotor blade go spinning earthwards. Bullets smashed the Plexiglas canopy and the instrument panel. Jack saw the pilot jerk in his seat. He looked down and saw they had cleared the tree line. Below them was the ruins of a large building and a flat open space. Could they get down in one piece?

  The aircraft was shuddering now, vibrating and shaking violently. Smoke poured from the engine. The pilot had seen the clearing and tried desperately to reach it, mustering all the strength he had left. The Huey came down at an angle, much too fast, tearing off a skid and rolling onto its left side. It slid along the ground in a flurry of smashed rotors, shattered Plexiglas, and the scream of tortured metal. When it finally came to a stop, Jack could smell jet fuel and hot metal.

  Worcester, Massachusetts, USA—1967

  Jacqui Susan woke with a start, screaming. Susan ran to the bed and picked her up, trying to comfort her. She screamed again. “Daddy, Daddy,” before commencing to cry as if her heart was broken.

  “Oh my baby, my baby,” crooned Susan, “Whatever is wrong?”

  Then she felt it, a hollow feeling in her heart. She began to shake. “Oh Jack, what’s happened; where are you?”

  She took the baby into her bed. They lay there, sobbing quietly. Eventually, they slept. In her dream, Jack came to her, covered in blood.

  Bien Long Valley, South Vietnam—1967

  “Get off!” he screamed, “Get clear; take your weapons and equipment!”

  As they tumbled out of the wreck. Jack tried to count them. “Make for the ruins,” he shouted. “Sergeant Bell, take command. Form a defensive perimeter.”

  They were lucky; there was no fire…yet! He looked at the wreck. He could see the pilot, still strapped in his seat, barely conscious, white-faced. Jack leaned into the cockpit.

  He could only get the pilot a little way out of his seat. He pulled harder on his harness. The pilot screamed and fainted. Jack searched for a pulse in his neck; there it was, very faint. He heard someone behind him. It was the other pilot, pale faced, with wide, staring eyes. He was a Warrant Officer. He had been in Vietnam exactly one week. “I’ll give you a hand, sir,” He said. Together they worked furiously, slashing harness and radio cables, until they were able to lift the man out of the aircraft. “Get him into cover,” shouted Jack. The young WO took his crewmate in a fireman's lift and staggered off in the direction of the ruins.

  Jack threw the remaining M60 and as many boxes of link as he could find off the wreck. Then, clutching the machine gun and the first aid kit, he made for the ruins. As he ran, he could hear shouts. There was a burst of fire from the building. As he clambered into shelter, a PFC said to him, “Couple of NVA scouts, sir. Sent them to their ancestors. I bet the rest of the motherfuckers are right on their heels.”

  Jack swung around. “You, you, and you…back to the bird and get those boxes of link. The rest of you cover them.” They ran off. There was no fire. They grabbed the boxes and scampered back. “Good work, boys,” he said.

  “Fuckin A, we got a box of grenades for the M79 as well. Thought we might need ‘em.”

  Jack took s
tock. There were cuts, abrasions, and a minor through and through bullet wound; the pilot was the only serious casualty. The medic completed his rounds. He motioned Jack over to the pilot. “This here wrangler’s in a bad way; he has a bad concussion and he’s lost a lot of blood from that head wound, but it’s his chest that’s the problem. My ‘pinion is he’s lung shot. He needs dusting off, pronto.”

  Jack looked at the boy, a Second Lieutenant, barely nineteen. He had some bright red bubbles at the corner of his mouth. He opened his eyes. “Momma,” he said, “Where are you?”

  They had a good defensive position. The old church—for that was what it was—had been constructed from large rocks and slabs of sandstone. Jack knew from his maps that there was a river somewhere near here. There were probably sandstone cliffs there. In any case, the ruined walls provided good cover. However, he looked at what was left of the gable roof and hoped the NVA had left their mortars at home.

  Jack did his count again. Suddenly he realised he was missing a man. He scanned their faces. Jimbo Baker was not there. Christ, thought Jack, Why him? He remembered Jimbo had been the left gunner. Had he been killed when the Huey slid along on its left side? Was he even now smeared into the ground by the weight of the wreck? He looked out at the scene before him. The clearing where they had come down was roughly the size of a football field. Perhaps it had been one, when the long gone missionaries had built their church. There had probably been a village here too, the bamboo and palm frond huts long turned to dust. The other side of the church would be a defensive problem. The tree line curved towards the church, becoming closer as it neared the rear of their position. He called his men together.

  “Corporal Minelli, take two men and reconnoitre the area behind us. See what is down to our right. There might be a creek there we can use for cover. Be careful.”

  Minelli looked around and said “You and…you,” and they set off.

  Jack looked at his resources. He had nine fit men, one walking wounded, one stretcher case, one missing. He had rations for four days. He had two M60s, eight rifles, a M79 grenade launcher, a box of grenades and three pistols. There was plenty of ammunition. Water was going to be a problem if they had to stay here after tonight.

  Minelli came back. “You were right, sir. There is a stream there. It’s running fast and the water looks clear. There is no sign of enemy activity or any civilians. Maybe they keep well clear of this place, think its spooked or something. There’s an old graveyard up there near the trees.”

  Jack looked at his watch. The daylight was beginning to run out as the mist and cloud seemed to drop further. It began to rain lightly. Jack wondered about Jimbo. He would have to try to find him soon. Nevertheless, he was in command. Could he leave his post here? Was it fair to order somebody else to do it? He made his decision. “Sergeant Bell, take command for a while. I’m going on a short recce towards the helicopter. When it gets a bit darker, send a couple of men down to fill up all the water bottles. Don’t forget your purifying tablets.” He looked at the other door gunner, a big blonde man with Slavic features. “What’s your name, soldier?”

  “PFC Kyrynwski, sir.”

  Jack smiled “Give me a first name, mate, I don’t speak Polish.”

  The man grinned. “You can call me Will, sir.”

  “Good,” said Jack, “You can call me Boss. Get Lawson’s M16 and come with me. I need someone to cover my back.”

  Jack took a wide approach to the wreck, coming up on the left where he imagined the helicopter had made its first contact with the ground. He moved along the tree line, keeping in cover, moving slowly. He paused. He could see a loop of twisted metal, the torn off landing skid. Here, he thought, somewhere here. He scanned the area with his field glasses. Nothing. He elevated them a little and scanned the horizon. Nothing. He swept to his right. He could just make out the huddled bodies of the two scouts. In their NVA khaki, they were hard to spot. He looked again. There…in that little hollow, was a trace of jungle green. It must be Jimbo, almost certainly thrown out as the helicopter swung on her last desperate lurch to level up. There was no movement. He called over to his escort. “OK, Will, I’m going out to get him. Take my field glasses. There, at seven o’clock. See him?” The big man nodded.

  Jack broke cover. He ran directly to the body. There was no cover on the field, so why bother to try to hide. Straight in and out was the best way. He felt his skin tighten as he ran, expecting a bullet. There was no fire.

  Jimbo was alive. He looked up at Jack. “Leave me,” he said, “You can’t carry me. They’ll be here soon.”

  Jack looked at him. He had a bad head cut and blood had run down and soaked the shoulder of his shirt. It looked worse than it was. His left arm was at a crazy angle, broken or dislocated. There was a gunshot wound through his thigh, again not serious. He was almost unconscious with pain.

  “Leave me,” he said again.

  “What,” said Jack, “and live the rest of my life without a brother-in-law?”

  He picked him up, threw him over his shoulder, and raced for the trees. Then the fire came, from his right, spattering around him, snatching at his webbing, pinging off something metallic. He felt a blow to his ribs, stumbled, fell to his knees, and then he was up in a lurching run almost into cover. Will was firing steadily at the muzzle flashes. Then the men in the church spotted what was happening and a torrent of fire poured onto the NVA position. Jack reached the trees, collapsing at Will’s feet. Will took Jimbo from him and began to track back through the jungle. The watching troops had ceased firing once Jack made it to cover. Now they gave a delighted cheer as all three men entered the church. “Look to your front,” croaked Jack, “The bastards won’t be long.”

  However, the enemy did not attack their position. Were they really spooked? What were they waiting for? Jack wondered.

  The medic was a small bow-legged cowboy called Clarke from Billings, Montana. He checked them over. Jimbo’s wounds were stitched and bandaged. His left shoulder was badly dislocated. Clarke shifted a plug of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other, squirted a stream of juice, and said, “I reckon I can get that back in, if’n I try hard enough.” Jack was feeling beat up. He had a bullet gouge along his side that felt as though it had cracked two ribs. His webbing and equipment had taken at least three hits causing small flesh wounds. Another had smacked into his helmet causing a blinding headache. He was bruised and grazed from his fall, and his wounds needed stitching He refused the morphine offered. He needed a clear head.

  “Are you sure you can do it?” Jack asked the medic.

  “Shit, yeah. I’ve done a few afore. If’n ya goes rodeoin’ ya see these all the time.” He squirted another stream of juice. “Gimme me a coupla cow hands to hold him down and I’ll do it. He’ll be fine and dandy.”

  The medic gave Jimbo a shot of morphine, waited for it to take effect, then got to work, manipulating the joint. Despite the drug, Jack saw Jimbo grimace in pain. Clarke gave him a piece of wood to bite on.

  “Not long now, Jimbo.” He gave a final wrench. Jimbo screamed as his joint came back into place. “There ya go, pard, good as a store bought ‘un.” He gave a final squirt of juice, “One more shot of the dream maker and you’ll be fine.”

  “No,” said Jimbo, “No more morphine; we’re going to need every man on deck tonight.”

  As the dark came down, Jack called them to stand to. The night was quiet. They could hear constant small arms fire away to their front, and occasionally, flares rose up to the sky. They could have been looking at a faraway New Year’s Eve fireworks show.

  “Sergeant Bell, organise sentries. The rest of you break out a ration pack, and then try to sleep a little. Tomorrow, we will get out of here,” Jack told them.

  Worcester, MA, USA—1967

  The winter had returned to Worcester. The first snow floated down outside their window. Susan and Jacqui sat together having breakfast. Marci and Sarah were visiting Aunt Sophie.

  Suddenly, Jacq
ui stopped eating and froze. Her eyes widened and her face became grave. “Daddy?” she said. Susan began to quiver, she felt faint, her stomach churned. Then her daughter grimaced and said, “Daddy! Daddy! She paused, a quizzical look on her little face, then smiled and, picking up her spoon, resumed her meal. The spell passed.

  What was that? Something has happened to Jack, thought Susan, but no, Jacqui is happy. Jack must be okay!

  Bien Long Valley, South Vietnam—1967

  They came in the witching hour. Corporal Minelli heard the faint rustle of bodies sliding through the grass. He prodded his neighbour. The signal went from soldier to soldier. Soon they were all alert. Jack crawled up to Minelli. “Where,” he mouthed. Minelli pointed. “Flare,” whispered. Jack. There was a bang as the flare pistol fired. In seconds, the flare began to descend on its small parachute. Up went another flare and another. They saw a line of NVA running straight for them. “Open fire!” screamed Jack.

  The machine guns began to play along the line of running figures, cutting them down in swathes. Still they came. As the survivors got near the old church, they fell to the riflemen; some threw grenades. None reached its target. They fell short and exploded. Shrapnel whizzed around their heads. Jack heard one of his men cry out. Then there was silence, and the darkness descended.

  One of the riflemen had a chunk of flesh torn out of his upper arm by a grenade fragment. The pain was yet to come; the red-hot fragment had partly cauterised the wound. He sat with a stunned look on his face. “The fuckers,” he kept muttering. “The fuckers.”

  “Don’t complain, Riley,” said Minelli, “You’ll get a Purple Heart. You might even get to go home.” Sergeant Bell was rallying the troops.

  “Stand fast, check ammo, lock and load!” Jack ordered, “Do you think they’ll come again?”