Into the Treeline

by John F. Mullins

  “Now, that said, let’s get down to what the hell is really happening around here. I’ve got a map, and a pointer, and frustrated intel agent that I am, I can’t wait to show off what I know.”

  For the next two hours he briefed them on the status of the war in I Corps. His knowledge was encyclopedic. He identified units, commanders, individuals; where people stayed, what their weaknesses were, who they associated with. With such knowledge, Jim thought, how could you lose? Yet there was the nagging feeling they were. Why? he asked when the briefing was over.

  “Because I can’t get anybody to act on it,” confessed McMurdock. “Doesn’t do a goddamned bit of good to know all this stuff if you don’t do anything about it. That’s why you guys are so important. If I can get people like you in all my provinces, I think we can do some good. Hope so anyway. Hell of a thing, to think all this work has been wasted.”

  Yeah, hell of a thing, thought Jim. Wonder if it has been. Not my place to worry about it. Time to go back to the field and make it happen.

  “What do you think, Jim?” asked Al. They had borrowed the ROIC’s jeep to go to Al’s favorite restaurant in Danang. It was located on a houseboat on the river. Looking out from the windows one could easily forget there was a war going on. The tables were covered with real cloth, they were sharing an adequate bottle of Algerian wine, the waiters hovered about catering to their every need. A cool breeze blew off the water. Even the roar of the combat jets taking off and landing at the airbase was muted.

  “I think that, no matter what Roger says, we had better be ready to cover our own asses.”

  “You don’t trust him?”

  “That’s not the point. I think he can be trusted, yes. But even he admits that he may not be able to do everything. I think that not only had we better cover our asses with lots of paper, but we have to realize that there may come a time when we have to run. And we had better make preparations for that now, before there’s any need.”

  “Australia wouldn’t be too bad,” said Al, reflecting as he looked out across the river that things had come to a hell of a pass when you had to discuss desertion and flight as a possible result of trying to do your job.

  “Yeah. Big place. Easy to get lost. And I liked the Aussies we worked with down in III Corps. Good soldiers. Does Australia have an extradition treaty with us?”

  “Don’t know. But I can find out. I’m planning to go there as soon as we get some R&R time. You ought to think about that too. Maybe we can go together. Good people, good beer, friendly women. What more can you ask?”

  “Not much,” Jim admitted. “Any ideas if we find out that the Aussies would ship us back?”

  “Not good ones. Africa, maybe. I think that if Rhodesia got a couple of highly qualified counterinsurgency experts they probably wouldn’t check too thoroughly into backgrounds. We could probably get some false ID. When I was stationed in Bad Tolz I got to know some of the people who do such things. We could become Irishmen. My old man still gets a pension from the IRA, you know.”

  “Life on the run. What a wonderful thought. Always looking over your shoulder, wondering if the next person you meet is really who they say they are, if the woman you’re in bed with is waiting to put a set of handcuffs on you. Not too much different from right now. En avant, la Legion!” he toasted Al. The clink of their glasses sounded loud in the hushed confines of the restaurant.

  “Enough of that serious shit,” Al said. “The last time I was here they had this specialty, a big fucking fish cooked whole. Will you allow me to order for you, mon sewer?”

  “But of course! You are so swave and deboner, mon cherie. I’d marry you, you weren’t so fucking ugly. And if you didn’t want to lead, every time we danced.”

  “Ever think, when you were a kid, you’d be sitting in a place like this?”

  “Shit, when I was a kid, I didn’t even imagine there were places like this. I was raised on a farm in Oklahoma, remember? We didn’t have too many world travelers there.”

  “How’d you end up in the army?”

  “Lack of choice, more than anything else. I knew I didn’t want to stay in Oklahoma, be a farmer. There wasn’t money for college, and I didn’t know anything about scholarships. Guess I could have gotten one, if I had. My grades were always pretty good.

  “Anyway, there was this guy who used to work for the old man, he’d been a paratrooper in World War II. Used to tell me about it. So I thought, what the hell, I’ll join up for a while, jump out of airplanes, have a good time. Get out after my enlistment and decide what I wanted to do. This was 1960, remember, before anybody had even heard of Vietnam. So I joined up, went to the 101st at Fort Campbell, when they came around and started recruiting for some outfit called the Special Forces. Sounded like a good idea, so here I am. You?”

  “Not much different,” Al admitted. “Except that the main reason I joined was a ’57 Chevy.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. One that didn’t belong to me. I just sort of took it one night. I was gonna give it back! The judge gave me a choice, jail or the army. Never regretted it. Can’t imagine what I’d be doin’ now, if I wasn’t here.”

  “What you’d be doing now is getting drafted, and shipped over here as a poor fucking one-one-booger, infantry, probably in the 9th Division in the Delta. So everything works out. In one way or the other.”

  “I guess so. Ever miss being a medic?”

  “Sometimes. I enjoyed that a lot. You’re about the only one I can admit it to, somebody else might laugh and I’d have to beat the shit out of them, but I really liked treating people. Made me feel pretty good when I could help them.”

  “Well, hell, we’re still helping people. Just in a little bit different way. The way I see it, the guys we’re working against are just like a disease. Bacteria. Only we’re using lead instead of penicillin. Jesus, will you look at the size of that fish!”

  Copely was waiting for him when he got back to Hue. Must be getting important, thought Jim. Last time I landed here I had to hitch a ride. Now the POIC himself meets me.

  “Well,” he demanded, once they had gotten into the jeep, “what did the ROIC have to say?”

  “He seemed to be pretty happy,” Jim responded, enjoying the look of confusion written across the older man’s features. “Asked if I was getting the support I needed,” he lied. “I told him I was, of course.”

  Copely shot him a look that he interpreted as gratitude. “Well,” he said, “Of course. We’re all fighting the same war, why shouldn’t you get all the support you need? You’re an important member of the team here, Jim. And I want to take this opportunity to add my thanks to those of the ROIC for the job you’re doing.”

  You cynical old asshole, Jim thought. You were more than willing to give me up when you thought the ROIC was pissed. Is there any such thing as being able to trust anyone? he wondered. Aloud he said, “Why thank you, sir. I do appreciate that, coming from a man such as you.” Let him read that as he pleases, he thought. “By the way, you don’t mind if I start making those changes we talked about around the Embassy House, do you? Just to improve security a little bit? I’m sure we’d all sleep better if we felt a little bit more safe.”

  “What? Why, of course not. You’re the expert, after all. Just try to disrupt things as little as you can, that’s all. After all, we still have our jobs to do in the meantime.” If he felt uneasy at giving carte blanche to the man he privately regarded as a fanatic he did not let it show on his face.

  “Thank you, sir. We’ll start right away. Tomorrow, if you don’t mind. I’d like to get all the Americans together first. At five o’clock, before breakfast. That way we won’t disrupt the duty day. We can do all our training before and after regular duty hours. Will that be all right?”

  The POIC was true to his word. All the Americans in the compound were there the next morning; grumbling, sleepy-eyed, but there.

  He explained to them what he planned to do. There were murmurs of astonishment, some ou
tright expressions of anger, but no one demurred openly. Good, he thought. They’ve obviously been briefed that they have no choice. The POIC probably told them that I had the blessing of McMurdock, and no one was eager to cross him.

  In the next few days he thoroughly reorganized the defenses of the compound. Most of the bunkers had to be rebuilt. They had been emplaced more with an eye to facilitating traffic flow around the compound than for any tactical value. He tore them down, placed the new ones where they had good fields of fire in at least three directions, and where their fire would interlock with that of the ones on either side. He put screen wire over the firing ports. If the defenders had to shoot the wire would not hinder their fire, and having the wire there to keep out the mosquitoes would keep them from blocking the ports with plywood.

  He established good relations with supply sergeants from the nearby Marine units. For some cases of steaks and ersatz VC flags they were more than willing to give up surplus M-60 machineguns. He armed each bunker with three, and stockpiled massive quantities of ammunition.

  When the guards were off-duty he had them dig out the connecting trenches, revetting the walls with scrounged plywood. In front of the trench they stacked sandbags with small spaces left for firing ports, and aiming stakes to each side that delineated each man’s field of fire. All a defender had to do was poke his gun through and sweep from side to side while firing. The resulting curtain of fire, deliberately no higher than twelve inches above the ground, would cut any attacker to pieces, while at the same time not exposing the defenders. Jim had found that it was easier to count on someone’s bravery when he did not have to face much danger.

  He held alerts, measuring the time from the alarm until all defenders were in their places, and when it took too long held them again and again. The guards came to realize that this drill might go on forever if they did not satisfy the crazy American, and started responding with a speed that finally pleased him.

  The hardest part was to get the other Americans to realize the seriousness of the situation. He supposed it was a function of their training. A good agent handler or intelligence analyst had no need of infantry tactics. Still, it would have been nice if they’d had knowledge of any other weapon than the snub-nosed .38 special revolver they carried. He trained them from the very basics. Some of the younger ones took to it well, actually appearing to enjoy it. These he appointed posts on the perimeter to control the fire of a section of the guards. The ones who did not do well he used for communications and logistics duties.

  It took a full month, but by the time he was finished he felt that they stood a chance of beating off all but the most determined of attacks. The guards were alert and sharp. He found none asleep during his random nocturnal visits. Weapons were kept clean, uniforms looked sharp, salutes were even thrown as he walked around the compound. He was satisfied.

  With the PRU he was less satisfied. When first he had seen Captain Vanh after the trip to Danang he had told him that the ROIC had been complimentary. Vanh had been noncommittal. When Jim asked him when they were going to go out on another operation he had stalled, saying that it was important that they complete the training cycle of the new men before going any further. The purpose of the first operation had been served, he said. The men were not complaining anymore that they were doing nothing, instead walking around with a sense of pride in their accomplishments.

  Jim was not satisfied, but thought that it would not hurt to wait for a few days until he pressed the issue again. He used the time to check with the PIOCC and get an updated copy of the blacklist, then run it through the Indian to see how many of the names were valid. To his not very great surprise, few were.

  He waited until after duty hours, then walked over to the PRU compound and knocked on Vanh’s door. He threw the list on the table. The light from the unshaded bulb hanging from the ceiling shone on it like a spotlight. “Is this the real reason you don’t want to go on operations, Captain?” he asked.

  Vanh picked up the list, looked at the names that the American had checked in red. The young captain has been very thorough, he thought. He wondered from whence the information had come.

  “The names you checked off,” he answered, “are political enemies of the province chief. People who don’t agree with his policies. We have a choice, here in the PRU. Take the list and do what they say, or delay, get information to the people on the list so that they can take precautions. Make their peace with the colonel, or if they cannot do that, flee. I chose the latter. I do not know how much longer I can hold him off. Such are the things they would have us do.”

  “There is another choice,” said Jim. He withdrew from his shirt pocket a sheaf of papers. “We can come up with a target of our own. Take a look at this.”

  The captain’s eyes widened when he saw the name. He glanced up at the American, again wondered where he was getting his information. It was good. There was enough incriminating evidence here to justify the action.

  “Would you care to help me plan the operation, Captain Carmichael?” he asked. “This may be a little complicated.”

  Chapter VIII

  “We screw this one up, you and I will probably share a cell on Con Son,” whispered Jim. Very slowly and carefully he brushed away the huge beetle crawling up his sleeve. The bug landed on its back, waved its legs in the air, then with a move that would have made a gymnast proud flipped over and landed on its feet, looking around combatively. Seeing nothing that it could fight it moved off in another direction.

  “If we live that long,” whispered Vanh. They were emplaced alongside the road that led from Phu Loc to Van Xai. The road itself was little more than a dirt track. On it, and completely blocking it, was a bullock cart filled with sacks of rice. One of the wheels of the cart had come off, and two men struggled, not very effectively, to jack the cart up and replace it. Sacks of rice taken off to lighten the load were scattered about.

  Two squads of PRU were lying in hide positions to Jim’s right and left. Up the road, in the direction of Van Xai, was a two-man outpost with a radio. Jim had the handset of his radio close to his ear so that he would not miss the clicks, code that the target was on the way. One click every fifteen minutes to signal that all was okay, two clicks if they achieved positive target identification, three if someone else was coming down the road, and four if there was trouble and the OP needed help. He had taught the PRU to use click code instead of talking over the radio. The enemy was adept at intercepting radio transmissions.

  Back at the rally point another squad of PRU secured the area. It was extremely important for the purposes of this mission that no one follow them; that they have the maximum amount of time possible before anyone knew what had happened. This squad’s mission was to allow them to pass through, then hold and delay any possible pursuers until they were well clear. Then the squad would exfiltrate by whatever means possible. Which meant in practice, Jim knew, that any survivors would break up into ones and twos, throw their weapons away, and go into hiding until it was safe to steal away.

  There had been no arguments over tactics this time. Vanh had been happy to allow him to plan the entire operation, offering only suggestions on ways to facilitate what Jim was trying to do. In many ways it was a very easy target, far easier than stealing into an enemy village in the dark. The hard part would come after the target was taken.

  How many times had he done this? Jim idly wondered, the boredom setting in. Waiting for some poor unsuspecting target to come along. Spending hours in one position, afraid to move lest someone see. The body in a curious half-state between tension and rest. Ready to move on an instant’s notice, yet settled in as well as possible to achieve whatever comfort terrain and conditions allowed. The mind chewing over the plan again and again, looking for weaknesses, hoping that nothing had been forgotten, becoming finally resigned that it was too late to change anything even if it was wrong.

  Today was almost pleasant. The trees shielded them from most of the heat, the sunlight that made
it through describing dappled patterns against the forest floor. Most of the time you weren’t so lucky. It would be night, and you couldn’t see a thing, and the imagination made every jungle sound the footfall of the enemy, encircling you just out of range, ready to fall upon and destroy you. Or it would be raining, and there would be no place to go, no way to shield yourself because of course you couldn’t wear a poncho; the sound of raindrops hitting the rubberized material was unmistakable and would give you away. So you lay there and let it soak through, and no matter how warm it was sooner or later the water took away your body heat and you tried not to shiver, but couldn’t stop it and it seemed that you would never be warm again.

  The only thing worse than lying in ambush was being on the receiving end. The nervous system was not built to handle that kind of surprise. The sudden roaring noise, the flashes of the explosions, the jolt as the body, attempting to respond, flooded with adrenaline, inducing a kind of shock that was hard to overcome. Most people never did because the ambush, if set up properly, was the most effective killing machine yet devised.

  But today was different. The target was only one man, with perhaps as little as one bodyguard. He would be coming along in a jeep, suspecting nothing. Why should he have worried? No one wished him harm. He was too valuable to both sides. The American district advisors with whom he worked had inevitably commented on his bravery, traveling the roads as he did with so little protection. Just like one of us, they thought, as they emulated him. And if sometimes it didn’t work for them, if a shot-up body was found at some out-of-the-way road junction, that just increased the mystique. And he achieved the reputation of being not only brave, but extremely lucky.

  Jim wondered what motivated him. Was he just an opportunist, playing both sides for his own advantage? Or did he believe in what he was doing, think that his actions were for the good of his country? Was he a long-term agent, or had he been recently turned? He knew as he turned these things over in his mind that it didn’t really matter what the motivation was. The actions were what counted, and the actions were causing this result. You pays your money and you takes your chances, Jim thought. And you hoped that when the time came to settle debts you would find that it had all been worth it.