by Dennis Foley
Hollister grabbed Jrae by the shirt and pulled her to her knees while he tried to juggle his handset and his rifle with his other hand.
Sporadic enemy fire crossed the PZ from two opposing directions. He couldn’t raise his head enough to see without giving away their location and giving them something to fire at.
The chopper’s shadow fell across their womblike depression in the tall grass. Unable to make a more informed decision, Hollister had to trust his instinct and his ears. “Now! Now!” he yelled as he helped Jrae to her feet
He shoved her forward—toward the chopper—and raised his rifle to his shoulder. He spun, searching for any threat to her dash to the chopper, and spotted two uniformed NVA soldiers standing, full-length, directly in front of the chopper, aiming two AKs at Jrae. The first soldier fired and Hollister opened up on automatic. He heard himself speaking out loud—to himself. “Shoot low. Shoot low!”
His eight-round burst skipped off the dirt beneath the grasses and popped back up—taking the first soldier out. The second soldier got a few rounds off, then he, too, was cut down by Hollister’s next short burst, which caught him in the legs and torso.
Hollister spun to the chopper, searching for Jrae. All he could see was Easy almost filling the open door, firing a submachine gun at something behind Hollister in the tree line.
Easy saw Hollister’s expression and pulled one hand from the short stock of his weapon. He pointed at a spot half the distance between them.
Hollister ran to the depression in the grass and found Jrae collapsed on her side. An enemy AK-47 round had found her neck and a second her collarbone just below her chin. She lay near death on the ground, blood spurting freely from the wound in her neck. He fell to his knees and slid into her. He shrugged off his radio in order to scoop her up. As he slipped his arms under her, he bent forward, putting his cheek near the center of her torso, and heard her gurgle, struggling for air—even over the choppers and gunfire.
He was able to summon up the strength and manage his momentum to get to his feet and make a wobbly run to the waiting chopper, Jrae cradled in his arms.
Hollister could hear rockets exploding in the tree line he had just left and the jingle of expended minigun shells falling from the gunships and onto the decking near the slick door gunner. His eyes burned with salt as his sweat flooded them.
He kept repeating, “Hold on. Hold on. We’re okay. Hold on,” as much to Jrae as to reassure himself that he could get them out of the hell that had replaced the tranquil clearing.
He shook his head to clear the tears and sweat from his eyes and could see Easy reaching out of the chopper to help him. His best guess in the distorted world was that four more steps would get them to the first soldier’s grasp in the door of the chopper.
One. Then the next. His foot slid in the grasses, and he shifted his weight to recover and keep from falling. Then all of his senses registered a silent, blinding explosion of black, red, and yellow.
He had no idea what hit them. He was thrown forward—toward the chopper. His center of gravity got out in front of him, and he felt himself losing the strength in his legs. A flash of panic registered in his head. He worried about going down carrying Jrae. He had to get her to some help. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear. It was like being underwater. Sounds were muffled and time accordioned—first fast and then almost motionless.
He felt no real pain, but became aware of the fact that his legs had left the ground and then remade contact.
“Here! Over here!” he thought he heard Easy yelling—from a great distance.
Hollister became more confused and, unsure of his orientation, he leaned forward—toward the chopper, his legs still pumping in the unseen grass. He collided with the deck of the chopper and fell down between the skid and the belly of the aircraft.
The next few minutes were even more confusing. Hollister was unsure if he was inside the chopper or out. He felt hands grabbing at his web gear. He heard the muzzle of his rifle clank against something metal. But he couldn’t hear the chopper or voices or firing. He saw nothing. He felt nausea and unconsciousness coming on. He gritted his teeth and tightened his stomach muscles trying to will blood back up into his head.
He reached for the metallic sound, afraid he had lost his rifle, and heard someone say, “Okay. I got it. Okay.” But the words were as if on a record played at far too slow a speed.
He could feel Easy rocking back and forth on his knees putting all of his weight into crushing Jrae’s chest, forcing her lungs to work—trying to hold back death while he administered CPR.
Then there was the air. He felt the cool air on his wet face. It was altitude. The air was cooler. The chopper was flying. Or he was falling. He tried to wipe the blood from his eyes. It didn’t help.
He could see nothing.
He knew he had been out—but not for how long. He knew that he would not see Juliet Company again. But he didn’t know if they were still flying or even what country he was in. He reached out for Jrae and found her left forearm. He grabbed it and began to pray. He was very afraid.
He lost consciousness again.
EPILOGUE
1972
THE INVESTIGATING OFFICER’S QUESTIONS went on for almost three hours. Though Hollister was tired and felt light-headed, he forced himself to concentrate on the colonel’s words and to answer as accurately as he could. He owed it to Jrae and the others killed and crippled as a result of Valentine’s misuse of his authority. He fought the urge to let the anger in his belly color his answers. The justice would come from the completeness of the investigation, and he would have to provide much of the details.
Once finished, he was wheeled back to his hospital bed. On the way, he again listened to his wheelchair as it traveled the hollow-sounding ramps between hospital wings.
The New York Times characterized the small action on the Cambodian border as still another outrageous incursion designed to widen the war and lock the United States into civil-turned-regional war. They claimed Phnom Penh filed complaints with the White House and with the Vietnamese government.
A month later, Juliet Company was added to the list of units to be deactivated. America’s longest war was over for the Rangers.
First Sergeant Evan-Clark tried to remain in Vietnam but was placed on a medical profile that severely restricted his duties. He submitted his retirement papers and spent his last two years at the Florida Ranger Camp at Eglin Air Force Base. Two decades later, they still tell the stories of the one-legged Ranger first sergeant who ran patrols with the students—his prosthetic leg clanking against the Cyprus knees in the swamps along the Yellow River.
General Valentine was forced to retire early at the rank of colonel. His name was purged from the brigadier generals’ promotion list. But no further action was taken.
Susan Hollister became a writer for Time magazine and was posted in Oslo for three years. She never bothered to tell Jim Hollister.
Grady Michaelson rose to the rank of lieutenant general and then was loaned to the CIA by the Department of Defense.
Corporal Greenwood became the command sergeant major of the 101st Airborne Division and retired after the Persian Gulf War.
Estlin was killed in Desert One—trying to rescue the American hostages in Tehran.
After sixteen months of hospitalization, surgeries, and physical therapy, Major James Hollister was released from Letterman Army Medical Center. The vision returned to one eye. He would have to endure many future operations on the other in attempts to restore its sight.
Authorized ninety days of convalescent leave, he declined. Instead, he picked up his reassignment orders and his travel voucher and flew directly to Bangkok.
He spent the next three years with the Joint Casualty Resolution Center, searching the jungles of Southeast Asia looking for the missing in action and the prisoners of war left behind after the American departure.
It was what he wanted to do—to be busy, to be useful. And to never forget.
About the Author
Dennis Foley retired from the army as a lieutenant colonel after several tours in Southeast Asia. He served as a Long Range Patrol platoon leader, an Airborne Infantry company commander, a Ranger company commander, and a Special Forces “A” Detachment commander. He holds two Silver Stars, four Bronze Stars, and two Purple Hearts. In addition to his novels, he has written and produced for television and film. He lives in Whitefish, Montana.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1996 by Dennis Foley
Cover design by Mauricio Diaz
978-1-4804-7226-6
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
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