by Eric Helm
Next to him was Washington, looking cool, almost bored. Gerber leaned close, his lips next to Washington’s ear, and shouted over the sound of the turbine, popping of the rotor blades and the roar of the wind through the cargo compartment, “You get a chance to test fire that contraption?”
Washington nodded and jacked a round into the chamber of his M-2 carbine. He still looked cool.
The crew chief reached around the transmission and touched Gerber on the shoulder. He pushed his boom mike out of the way and shouted. “We’re about five out.”
Gerber took the mike for his PRC-10 and said, “Zulu Rover, Zulu Rover, this is Six. It’s a go. I say again. It’s a go.”
On the ground Tyme acknowledged the radio call and handed the handset back to the RTO. He looked out over the sea of elephant grass that spread all the way to the west wall of the camp. He could see it, a couple of lights twinkling there. Kepler couldn’t tell what they were because of the distance. It just meant that the VC and NVA had managed to take the generator intact when they captured the camp. Someone on their side knew how to run it.
Tyme got to his feet and motioned his men up. He glanced right and left at the two ragged lines of Vietnamese strikers. He yelled, “Let’s do it,” and began to run through the grass, a scream bubbling in his throat. He let it erupt into a shout and then fired from the hip.
They crossed nearly two hundred yards of open ground before the VC saw them. A single shot was fired, and everyone with Tyme fell to the ground. They all opened up then, firing as fast as they could, trying to make the bunker line with their M-1s, M-2s, M-14s and a variety of weapons salvaged from the Second World War and Korea.
“Grenades,” ordered Smith.
Two dozen of the strikers replied. Tyme rolled to the left, jammed a round into the grenade launcher that he had slung over his shoulder. He adjusted the sights, guessing at the distance, and fired. He watched the round explode short of the bunkers. It landed among the concertina wire, detonating in a fountain of whitish-yellow sparks that hid the command bunker from him.
At that moment it seemed that the bunker line blew up. There were a dozen explosions along it and a sparkling as the VC soldiers began shooting. Tyme tried to push himself deeper into the ground, suddenly feeling naked. He was lying in the elephant grass, the remains of a short paddy field dike in front of him, but he felt exposed. Felt that every VC could see him, and from the evidence in the camp, they were all shooting at him.
The tracers, many of them ruby colored since the VC were using the camp’s weapons, lanced outward at him. At first they were points of light that looked like embers burning through black paper, but they grew until it seemed they were glowing baseballs thrown at his face.
Around him the strikers were shooting back. More ruby tracers flashing into the camp and then bouncing high as they ricocheted, tumbling. The bloopers kept spitting, the rounds detonating all along the line, revealing bunkers in their flashes, outlining them.
Then over the sounds of the shooting and the crash of the M-79s, Tyme heard the pop of rotor blades and knew that the helicopters were close. He turned, searching the sky to the north until he saw a single point of flashing red light that was on the last chopper in the flight. By staring he could see the running lights on the rest of the flight as they swooped toward the camp. At what he thought was the last moment, he shouted, “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
Gerber had moved forward, kneeling near the radio console so that he could look out the windshield of the helicopter. He could see the darkened outline of the camp. The west side sparkled and flashed as the enemy returned Smith’s and Tyme’s fire. From his vantage point, Gerber could see both sides, each marked by the muzzle flashes of their weapons. A few green tracers flew from the camp, bright emerald like the rays from a science fiction weapon. Red ones streaked back. Hundreds of them, bouncing across the ground in what seemed to be slow motion.
Suddenly it seemed that the bottom dropped out of the helicopter. Gerber felt himself lifted and reached up as if to keep from hitting the top of the chopper. He scrambled back to the troop seat, grabbing at it with his left hand, holding on. Through the cargo doors he could see the camp rush up at him as the helicopter dived for the ground.
The door gunners held their fire until the camp seemed to erupt, and then they shot back. Gerber watched the six strands of the concertina wire flash under him. They crossed the north bunker line with a roar. They seemed to rise slightly and then dropped so that Gerber had to look up to see the top of the FCT. At that moment the chopper broke to the right and turned up on its side so that Gerber was looking down, out of the cargo compartment door. The aircraft was parallel to the ground, and the pilot sucked in an armload of pitch, forcing Gerber into the floor in a gravity stop. Just as it seemed as though the chopper was going to drop onto its side, the pilot righted it so that the skids touched the red dirt in the center of the redoubt.
“Get out! Get out! Get out!” shouted the crew chief, his hands locked on the handles of his M-60 machine gun. He stared into the brightening of the dawn, looking for targets, afraid to shoot.
Gerber leaped to the ground, a .45 in one hand and a flashlight in the other. A Tai NCO followed him. It was Krung. Washington and another striker grabbed at the straps of a duffel bag loaded with spare weapons, dropping it in the dirt.
As soon as the helicopter was empty, the pilot took off, lifting straight up for twenty or thirty feet and then dumping the nose. The chopper dived at the ground picking up speed. Firing broke out, and Gerber saw a couple of tracers flash upward at the helicopter.
But then he could no longer worry about it. He ran for the door of the team house, Krung running right next to him, Washington following to provide cover.
Gerber charged down the steps and hit the side of the hootch, reached out and jerked open the door. He glanced at the Tai and jumped through, hitting the floor with a crash. He yelled “Everyone down!” as he snapped on his light. The beam swept through the room, and Gerber saw a VC trying to grab his AK off the table. Gerber fired once, the round catching the man in the shoulder with a wet smack. As he toppled to the right, Gerber shot him again. The round took off part of the man’s chin, spraying blood down his chest.
To the right was a burst of fire and a shriek of pain. Gerber fired at the muzzle flash and heard a body collapse.
There was a noise from the rear of the team house near the bar, and Washington opened fire with his M-2 carbine. There were three distinct shots. Gerber used his flashlight and saw a sandaled foot sticking out. He emptied his pistol into the wood of the bar.
As the man behind it fell, Gerber hit the magazine release and dropped the empty to the floor. He clawed at the pouch on his belt, dragging a fresh one clear. He slammed it into the butt of his pistol and turned.
From the outside there was a wild burst of firing, AK-47 against M-14 and M-2 carbine. Gerber used his flashlight inside the team house. He could see two men sitting in chairs, their hands bound behind them. Ropes around their chests held them upright, although both were stained with blood. One of the men had a third eye in the center of his forehead and a fist-sized hole in the back of his skull where the round had blown out. The other was covered with blood from a couple of holes in his chest. His blank eyes stared upward at the ceiling.
The rest of the prisoners had managed to kick their chairs over. As his light touched one of the men, he bellowed, “Get me out of here.”
Gerber recognized Brigadier General Billy Joe Crinshaw.
“Room’s clear,” said Washington.
Gerber holstered his weapon and pulled his knife. He cut the ropes holding Crinshaw to his chair. He handed the blade to Crinshaw and said, “You free the rest of your men. Washington, get the weapons duffel and toss it down here.”
“Captain—” began Crinshaw.
“Sorry, General,” said Gerber. “I don’t have time to socialize. I’ve got to take my camp back.”
He leaped up the stairs and took
the duffel from Washington. He opened it, took one of the M-14s, a bandolier of ammo for it and tossed the rest down. “You men will have to defend yourselves.” With that Gerber disappeared out the door.
Fetterman’s helicopter crossed the wire right behind Gerber’s but then broke to the right so that it was over the runway. The aircraft flared, the nose popping up so that it seemed as if the helicopter was going to leap into the sky, but then the skids dropped and it settled to the ground. As it touched down, Fetterman jumped clear, racing past the fire control tower to the command post. He stopped by the door, glanced back to see four strikers following close as the helicopter lifted and climbed out to the east.
From the west side of the camp, Fetterman heard the firing begin again as Smith and Tyme started another fake attack there. As Fetterman turned to look back at the command post, a head poked out the door as if someone wanted to see what was going on. Fetterman put the barrel of his weapon against the man and pulled the trigger. The impact slammed the VC against the sandbags. He dropped to the ground without a sound.
With that Fetterman dived to the floor of the command bunker. He rolled once and came up on a knee, his weapon leveled. There was a flash of movement in the opposite corner, and Fetterman fired a three-round burst. There was a grunt of surprise as the man was thrown into the wall, then slipped to the floor. The only VC in the bunker sat in the corner in a spreading pool of his blood.
“Check the radio equipment,” said Fetterman. “I’ll see if the control panels are still in place.”
“Sure, Sergeant Tony,” said one of the strikers.
“Okay.” He pointed at another of the strikers. “You watch the steps. Nobody comes down here.” He looked at the hole in the wall where the sandbags had concealed the entrance to the tunnel that led back into the redoubt. “We’ll have to clear that.”
“Yes,” said one of the strikers. “I look forward to it.”
Bocker’s helicopter landed behind the commo bunker. Bocker and his men jumped from it as the skids touched the dirt; the instant they were off, the airship lifted and spun. It climbed out the way it had come in. There was a sporadic rattling of weapons on the east and north as the VC tried to down the chopper, but it was uncoordinated and poorly aimed.
As Bocker started around the corner of the bunker, someone began shooting at him, the rounds smacking into the sandbags near his face. He dropped to the ground and rolled to the left so that he was pressed against the side of the bunker. He looked back where the strikers with him lay. He snapped his fingers to get their attention and then pointed to the rear, making a circling motion. They were supposed to run around the back of the bunker and then along the other side. That might give them a field of fire against the VC pinning him down.
He looked again, poking his head out. There was a burst of fire as he ducked back. He saw the muzzle flashes. He pulled a grenade from his belt, yanked out the pin and threw the best he could. The Army said to throw it like a baseball, but he had never had to throw a baseball lying on the ground, pinned down by an enemy rifleman.
He dropped his face and closed his eyes, trying to protect his night vision. Dawn was beginning to brighten the eastern sky, but it still wasn’t light enough to see well. He needed all the help he could get. There was a shattering explosion.
From the other side of the bunker, he heard an M-14 open fire. Bocker looked around then, but no one shot at him. He heard an AK fire once, caught the muzzle flash and fired himself, aiming at the center of the flash. There was a second when nothing happened, and then he saw the VC topple from his perch near the redoubt.
As that happened, Bocker was on his feet. He ran to the entrance of the commo bunker and slid to a halt. On the other side, facing him, were two of the strikers. Bocker pulled a second grenade and nodded, indicating that they were to do the same. Bocker jerked the pin free, let the spoon fly, hesitated for a second and threw the grenade into the bunker. As he flattened himself against the side, the Vietnamese strikers, one leaning around the other, tossed their grenades into the commo bunker.
Bocker heard one of them hit the planking of the floor, bounce and then explode. It was followed by two quick detonations. There was a crash inside as something collapsed, and smoke boiled out the entrance.
Bocker rubbed a hand across his face and wiped it on the front of his fatigues. He stared at the strikers, nodded and then leaped. With his back against the thick planks that formed the entrance leading down, Bocker entered the bunker, his weapon ready. As he reached the floor, he moved to the right, away from the entrance, until his leg banged against the map table. He crouched there and stared into the blackness. He couldn’t see a thing but could taste the dust in his mouth and smell it in the air. There was a scrambling on the floor that he couldn’t identify. It didn’t sound like a man moving, even one trying to be quiet about it.
Bocker heard the strikers enter the bunker. He pulled his flashlight from his belt and held it at arm’s length. He flipped it on, but couldn’t see much in the dim red light. There were three men lying on the floor, ragged wet stains near them that Bocker assumed was blood. The red light made it look black.
To the right there was a flash of movement, and Bocker fired at it. He didn’t hit it, but he saw it. A huge spider, maybe a foot across with the legs extended. It was trying to duck back into a hole in the corner where the sandbags didn’t quite fit. Bocker hadn’t known that the things lived in the bunker. He thought he would have to do something about them.
As the strikers moved to check the bodies, Bocker got to his feet. The counter was riddled with shrapnel damage. He couldn’t see any of the indicator lights on the radios burning. He stepped behind the counter, found another body and knew the man was dead. Most of his head was missing, the brain turned to a jellied mess that had leaked onto the planks. He kicked the man’s SKS away from his outstretched hand.
The commo sergeant then examined the radios and saw that someone had cut the power cables and antenna leads. He figured that it would take him twenty or thirty minutes to repair the damage, if that was all that was wrong with them.
“Okay,” said Bocker. “Put the map table across the entrance and keep guard.”
Anderson’s helicopter broke from the rear of the small formation and shot its approach to the end of the runway just north of the spot where a Huey sat tied down. Anderson knelt next to the pilot and pointed through the windshield at the end of the hootches near the north edge of the runway. The pilot nodded, dumped the nose and raced to the side of the Vietnamese compound. He hauled back on the cyclic, dropped the collective to kill the lift and set the chopper on the ground.
Anderson leaped from the cargo compartment, took one running step and jumped. As the helicopter lifted and shot for the south end of the camp, Anderson crashed through the screen door of Dung’s hootch. He dodged to the left as two Tai strikers followed him. There was a burst of fire from an M-2 carbine.
Anderson didn’t turn. In the glare of a Coleman lantern sitting on the floor, he could see Dung. The man’s pants were around his ankles. He wore a khaki shirt that was unbuttoned, but even with that it was obvious that Dung was sexually excited. Anderson glanced out of the corner of his eye. Lying on the floor were two VC Main Force soldiers, and from the collar tabs Anderson knew that they had been officers. Both had died as the Tai striker fired. One was lying facedown, a hole in the middle of his back. The other was lying on his side against the wall, his blood staining the floor.
“Cover the door,” Anderson ordered them.
There was a quiet moan that drew Anderson’s attention. Morrow was tied naked to the desk. She was leaning across it, one hand bound to the right corner and the other to the left. Her feet were roped to the desk legs. There were bloody welts from her waist to the backs of her knees.
Anderson turned his attention back to Dung, who hadn’t moved. He slowly raised his hands in surrender. Anderson could see that he wasn’t armed.
He glanced back at Morrow. Her b
lood had splattered the desk drawers and the floor near her feet. He couldn’t tell if she was conscious.
“She was most entertaining,” said Dung, misunderstanding Anderson’s interest in Morrow.
Again he turned and studied Dung. He had been caught with his pants down and was now trying to talk his way out of it. Outside, Anderson could hear sporadic firing in the camp, suggesting that the others were having some success. From the west was a steady roar as Smith and Tyme and the assault force faked another attack.
Dung began to lower his hands, a smile on his face. “I am your prisoner,” he said in perfect English as if he had rehearsed the speech for hours.
Morrow moaned again. A quiet sound that was filled with desperation. A sickening sound because of the helplessness in it. Anderson found it hard to keep his eyes off her. There was something fascinating about the horror of the scene. Something that seemed unreal. Anderson just couldn’t believe a man could do that to a woman.
“I quit now,” said Dung. “I chieu hoi. I become Kit Carson scout. I help you.”
The horror of the situation finally got to him. He aimed his M-3 submachine gun at Dung and pulled the trigger. The three rounds caught Dung in the center of his chest, lifted him off his feet and tossed him against the wall. His head punched through the screen, and his back splintered a couple of the boards of the wall. Dung was frozen there for an instant and then fell to the floor. His blood bubbled in his lungs as Dung tried to take a final breath. Anderson fired again, putting half a dozen rounds into Dung’s chest and stomach. One of Dung’s feet kicked out spasmodically, and he died.