by Mark Berent
III CORPS MIKE FORCE TEAM
"This time we have a fairly normal mission," Myers began, "recon the Loc Ninh area in War Zone C, vicinity coordinates XT486689. We think the VC want to overrun some politically and militarily important places because the South Vietnamese elections are coming up and the communists want to show how badly the South is doing. My two Nung companies have been up there for the last two days scouting around. I'm keeping the Cambodes back here in reserve."
"I heard you had quite a fire fight up there yourself," Wolf said.
"Yes Sir, right about here," Myers held a finger on the map. "Four of us ran into about a company of what we think was NVA. We were doing good till they opened up with a hidden Soviet .51 cal, Dash-K, they were really chewing us up. Shot down a '100 in fact. We got the pilot, his buddies got the Dash-K. We exfilled with Huey gunships from the Pit."
Wolf nodded.
Myers went on, "I'm glad you're here, because we'd like to show you what's happening so you can take the word back to convince MACV some heavy attacks are coming soon from the Loc Ninh area. I've got a Huey gunship laid on to take us up there."
"I'm ready," the Wolf said. Both men folded and stuffed their green berets into a leg pocket, and put on floppy-brimed camouflaged jungle hats.
"Let’s go, Major" Myers said, moving toward the storeroom, "By the way, you want a real gun?" he said pointing at the Wolf's M-2.
The Wolf nodded, reluctantly. "Dammit," he growled, shaking his M-2, "this was all we could get as advisors in the Delta." Myers handed him an M-16 and a preloaded pistol belt with nearly sixteen 20-round magazines four to a pouch, two full water canteens, a first aid pouch, and some smoke grenades. They didn't take frag or Willy Pete grenades because they knew they would be useless in the thick jungle. The Wolf didn't blink an eye as he strapped on the pounds, about double the weight of a basic load of ammunition. In addition to carrying his carbine in his right hand, he walked out with the M-16 slung over his back.
1315 Hours Local, 25 January 1966
UH-1H Over War Zone C
Republic of Vietnam
Myers was on the radio in the Huey orbiting at 2000 feet over the jungle of War Zone C, with China Boy 3, SFC George Spears. On request, Spears had popped purple smoke for the pilot and cleared them to touch down in a small clearing he had secured.
"China Boy Three, this is China Boy Actual," Myers transmitted, "understand you got two WIA to be med-evaced. Get ready to load as soon as we touch down."
Three minutes later in the clearing, Wolf and Myers jumped out and ran crouching under the blades to help load SFCs Jim Monaghan and Joe Meneuz into the Huey. Monaghan's right arm, wrapped in bloody bandages, was supported by a pistol belt slung around his neck. He had taken a round in his hand and forearm. The rear of Meneuz's pants were torn and soaked from his waist to his ankles. He had been shot in the buttocks. He groaned and moved in great pain, his brown face a pale grey.
"Gonna have a little trouble dumping a taco, Paco?" the Wolf said to him, leering.
"Yeah, Wolf, cabron, if I do, you can be the first to eat it." Meneuz groaned and tried to smile. The two men embraced, Wolf with extreme gentleness.
"Monaghan," the Wolf said, turning, "I'd shake your hand but I'm afraid your fingers'd fall off."
The wounded men were strapped in and the machine started to lift off. "Up yours, Wolf," Monaghan yelled against the whining and whopping helicopter noise, using his good hand to hold up the bloody middle finger of the wounded hand. Wolf stepped back, looked up at the two wounded SF lifting away and gave them the crisp salute he reserved only for men he respected. Then he crouched and ran after Myers who wasn't surprised at the Major's familiarity with his enlisted troops. He knew the Wolf was up from the ranks, was respected, and could do just about anything he wanted in the U.S. Army, except possibly get promoted beyond major. As a West Point graduate, Tom Myers was too programmed to get as familiar, but he would make more rank. Down deep he knew he preferred the comradeship to the rank.
The whop-whop faded rapidly as Spears led them to where he had positioned twelve more Nungs and the Prick 25 FM radio.
The trees were between 20 and 50 feet high forming a double light-filtering canopy. On the jungle floor, vines and bushes cut visibility to 20 feet. The group stopped next to a grove of mai pha bamboo clustered in an almost impenetrable thicket of wait-a-minute thorns. The utter silence of a jungle after the loud clatter of the departing helicopter caused the Wolf to involuntarily whisper the words "I smell incense."
"You ever been around Nungs, Major?" Spears asked. The Wolf shook his head.
"They burn joss sticks before a battle. Comes from the old days when they fought the Viet Minh with the French under their leader Phuc Po. They used to carry his picture, but now they burn joss for his good favor."
They stopped in the thicket where the Nungs with the Prick 25 had four joss sticks glowing. They expected bad times ahead.
Spears squatted, Nung style, and began to brief, using the field map he unfolded. The two officers crouched behind him.
"China Boy Two, Krocek, has the recon platoon here. China Boy Four, Haskell, is with him. They've had intermittent contact all afternoon. We are here, five klicks south, in the only clearing suitable for evacuation. They are trying to get here. They have about 20 percent casualties. The good news is all their radios work and they have plenty of ammo and water. The bad news is Krocek and Haskell think they're in the middle of the 273rd VC Regiment."
The Wolf looked up sharply. "How'd that happen?" he asked.
"About noon," Spears said, "our guys, being their usual quiet selves, settled down for a break. Turned out it was in an area were the VC thought they were all alone. They came diddly-bopping down a trail so Krocek and Haskell motioned their troops to hunker down. No joss, no talk. The VC spread out and bivouacked all around them. Jan checked in and told me what had happened. He had to whisper on the radio, they were so close. With his Czech accent I hardly knew what in hell he was saying. I think he said two of his Nungs knifed down a VC who had stumbled into them. They found a 273rd pay card on him so that's how they know what unit they ran into. That regiment has been probing them for the last two hours obviously trying to determine the size and composition of Jan's group. Anyhow, they've got to break out and get down here to exfil with the helicopters we set up at first light. It's damn near impossible to move at night, but they are going to have to do it. I've got a FAC due over head in twenty minutes with some fast movers carrying Snakeyes and napalm in thirty. We haven't much time, though. It'll be dark in just over an hour, and you know those guys can't work close in the dark."
"You going to have the fast movers cut a trail for them?" Myers asked.
"Yes, Sir, that's exactly what I had in mind. That's why I didn't ask for any CBU. The trees would set them off before it got to the ground," Spears answered. "And, if you agree, Sir, I thought perhaps Major Lochert wouldn't mind staying here with a couple Nungs to hold the LZ while you and I head for the rendezvous point I set up with Krocek and Haskell. I figure we have four things to do; set up a secure point they can head for, create a diversion when the time is right, lay down covering fire as necessary, and lead them back here to the LZ which is faster than they can find this place by themselves."
Sergeant First Class George Spears looked at Major Wolfgang Lochert and Captain Thomas Myers in turn, a questioning look on his thin face. Spears didn't stand over five eight with his boots on, nor tip the scales over 140 in the same configuration, but he had the wiry and bunched muscles of a weight-lifting flyweight.
The two officers nodded at each other. "It's your show," Myers said to Spears. Crooked smiles broke out on all three. They knew the Army would never approve a sergeant telling one, much less two officers what to do. But this was SF, the Special Forces. Like switching lead between two equally experienced fighter pilots, the man who knew the area best, quite simply and without formality, took command.
They involuntarily looked up as
the faraway drone of a light aircraft penetrated the jungle. Spears checked the pre-arranged frequency, grabbed the handset of the Prick 25 and pressed the transmit button.
"FAC monitoring this frequency, do you read China Boy Three?"
"China Boy Three, roger, this is Copperhead Zero Three, read you loud and clear Fox Mike, how me?"
"Copperhead Zero Three, this is China Boy Three. I read you loud and clear. Authenticate Alpha Zulu, over."
After a slight pause, Copperhead Zero Three's "Tango Echo" crackled over the headset. Phil the FAC had set his code wheel to the Shackle code of the day and easily found the opposing letters to answer the challenge. If they were not in enemy contact and had the time, they could use the same method to transmit coordinates and other pertinent information they did not want the listening enemy to understand. They knew that for every five Prick 25s the Americans had, the VC probably had two, making interception almost a certainty. Frequency hopping by simple codes such as "up a buck and a quarter" for a 1.25 increase in megacycles gave some respite from listeners and from the jammers.
"Phil your friendly and fearless FAC at your service, China Boy," Travers said. Toby Parker was in the back seat.
"Roger. You ready to copy coordinates?"
"Affirmative, China Boy, go ahead."
Spears read off three coordinates he had Shacked up earlier. "The first set," he told Zero Three, "is our location now at the Lima Zulu. The second is the rendezvous point we want to make. The third is the location for China Boy Two. You copy?"
"Roger, copy." He repeated the coded words.
"Zero Three, we're moving now. I'll give you one smoke to confirm our departure point." Myers gave his radio to Lochert as he and Spears and six Nungs moved out. No one said goodbye. Wolf Lochert popped a smoke grenade and tossed it to the edge of the clearing.
"FAC has a purple," Copperhead Zero Three transmitted.
The Wolf clicked the transmit button twice, "Purple," he echoed.
Phil the FAC had Toby Parker fly the O-1E in lazy orbits several miles off to the west with the sun at his back so as to not give away the location of the Mike Force. Twenty minutes later he called China Boy Three.
"My strike birds have checked in," he said, "with Snakeyes and nape. Where do you want me to start?"
"Standby, Copperhead. Break, Break. China Boy Two, this is China Boy Three. You read?"
"Dis is Two, I hear you. Whad you want?" Krocek replied in his thick Czech accent.
"Move out, move out," Spears said, "head towards the air strike. Get ready to pop some smoke, acknowledge."
"Yah, we moving," Krocek replied.
"Copperhead, put your first strike on the rendezvous coords I gave you. You'll see the river bend there. It looks like an upside down "U" pointed north. Walk your stuff from the north end of that bend straight north in the direction of China Boy Two's smoke. Copy?"
Phil Travers said he copied and repeated his instructions. Spears called Krocek and told him to pop smoke for the FAC.
"China Boy Two," Travers called, "I got a red."
Krocek acknowledged he had released red smoke. If the color had been mentioned beforehand, any VC monitoring the frequency could as easily have sent up the same color smoke to confuse the FAC.
"China Boy Two," Travers said, "I'll start the snakes on the river bank and work toward you. We'll hold the nape and 20 mike-mike for a bit to see if you make contact and need it. Otherwise, as the strike flight gets low on fuel, they'll expend. You copy?"
"Yah, Cobberhud, I copy," China Boy Two, Krocek said, "we alreddy getting shod ad so I take the soft stuff after the bombs when you reddy."
"That's some accent," Toby commented.
"Yeah. Czech, I guess," Phil answered.
For the next 20 minutes three F-100s streaked and dived to release, one bomb per pass, onto points in the jungle marked by the FAC. Their engine sounds alternately grew louder and softer as they dived and zoomed. At full power on the pullouts, the sound could vibrate guts. Though only two kilometers away, to Spears the boom of each bomb was muffled and dulled by the thick jungle. Up in the clear air, the FAC heard them distinctly above his engine roar and felt them as a concussive crack-boom as they exploded. The helmeted strike pilots sitting astride an engine roaring out 15,000 pounds of thrust never heard their ordnance go off.
Krocek marked his position for Copperhead and had him lay the strike flight's soft ordnance, the nape and 20 mike-mike, almost all around his party as they advanced in a ring of fire. The nape would detonate high in the trees then cascade to the ground as a flaming waterfall. Most of the 20 mike-mike cracked off in the trees before reaching the ground. The 500-pound Snakeyes had blasted a 100 meter path from the river banks north toward the Americans. The strike pilots thought they were on another monkey killing mission until Phil Travers told them on Uniform what was happening under the jungle canopy. "They're up and awake," Jan had said, "they found us, they mad." The pilots worked much harder then trying to be accurate in the fast fading light.
As Spears and Krocek each made their way from opposite directions to the rendezvous point in the near-dark under the trees, Copperhead put in two more strikes for Krocek and Haskell. After working the FAC, Krocek came up on the radio to Spears.
"Shina Boy Tree, this is Two. You listenink?"
"Roger Two, this is Three. I hear you, Jan. How's it going?" Spears had heard the pop-cracks of small arms fire in the background over Krocek's radio.
"Preddy bad. We got four more down and id's geddink dark. I say four-five hours before we make the river. Vat you tink, we ged a Spoogy, yah?"
"I copy, Jan," Spears said, "we'll be at our side of the river in one more hour. And yeah, the Dai Uy here will request a Spooky."
Spooky is the callsign of the pre-WWII USAF C-47 (DC-3) aircraft outfitted with three side-firing 7.62mm Gatling-style miniguns hosing off 18,000 rounds per minute. The USAF designated it as an AC-47. Since each fifth round was a tracer, the bullet stream looked like a curving tongue coming down to lick the earth. The moaning roar of the three guns spooked the VC who first thought it a fire-breathing dragon. Spooky was also referred to as Puff The Magic Dragon, or just plain Puff. Spooky carried 24,000 rounds of 7.62mm (30 cal) ammunition, 45 flares of 200,000 candlepower, and enough fuel to shoot and illuminate for hours. No SF camp or hamlet protected by Spooky all night had ever been overrun.
Myers called Copperhead Zero Three to request all-night Spooky coverage. Within minutes Travers put the request in with Pawnee Control on his HF radio. Pawnee said they'd get back to him. Travers and Toby Parker put the last strike in for Krocek. In the gloom the napalm lit up the sky like a sunrise so that even Lochert back at the LZ saw the glow.
"I know you hurddink them," Krocek radioed, "I hear them scream. But we loose two more. Haskell, he okay. You god Spoogy yed?"
"Spooky is inbound," Travers told Krocek, "listen up this frequency, he'll call you. I'm about out of fuel and going to RTB (Return to Base). See you tomorrow, China Boy. Copperhead Zero Three, out."
An hour later in pitch blackness, Myers and Spears reached the banks of the Song Be. Although they couldn't see it, the river was nearly 100 feet across. It smelled and gurgled like some vast wild thing as it swept around the bends on both sides of them. They deployed their remaining Nungs at ten foot intervals facing the opposite bank. Spears and Myers stayed together. They could hear the sporadic firing coming from beyond the far shore. Periodic reports from Krocek said they would make the rendezvous in about three hours, but he'd damn well better have Spooky. Shortly after that transmission, Spooky checked in.
"China Boy, China Boy, this is Spooky Eight One with flares and minis. Please mark your position and that of the VC." The whole jungle seemed to hold its breath as the pulsing drone of the twin-engined propeller plane began to fill the air.
"Spoogy, Spoogy, this is Shina Boy, Shina Boy. You make flare, yah?"
"Ah, China Boy, we want China Boy Two. Put the American
on, please."
Spears and Myers collapsed in muffled mirth, banging the ground with their fists. The Spooky pilot thought an indidge, a Nung, was using the radio.
"GOTTAMM. MUDDERFUG. I YAM DE HAMERIGAN," Krocek yelled back overmodulating his radio badly. Myers and Spears had to bite grass. Lochert, monitoring everything, barked. And then started a series of Hail Mary's to help Krocek.
"I read you, China Boy," an amused voice responded. "Give us a mark."
At Krocek's side, Haskell found an opening in the trees and fired a pengun flare that shot a narrow red streak up to 300 feet.
"Roger on the flare, China Boy. Where are the bad guys?"
"All around," Haskell said shouldering the radio pack taking over from the still sputtering Krocek. "Light the place up so we can move faster then we'll tell you where to shoot. We're too strung out now to know where everybody is. By the way, Spooky, you got open clearance to shoot?"
Before he could expend, a Spooky pilot had to have clearance from 7th Air Force, the regional U.S. Army commander, the regional ARVN commander, and the local province chief who might be out for dinner. Unless, of course, somebody was shooting at Spooky. In that case he could return fire.
"Normally we don't need that up here in War Zone C but, ah, China Boy, just to be safe, I did see a tracer shot at us." Haskell caught on and fired another pengun flare in the general direction of the orbiting gunship.
"Yup, very definitely," the Spooky pilot said when he saw the red streak, "we're being shot at so, yeah, we're cleared to fire anytime you want. And here comes the first flare." A crack sounded high in the night air behind the AC-47 as a 200,000-candlepower flare ignited under its parachute, and started its slow drift earthward trailing a thick white stream of smoke. The jungle top over Krocek and Haskell lit up in brilliant black and white as Spooky orbited and dropped three more flares. Light filtering through the canopy illuminated the area enough for them to mass their troops, gather up their wounded, and plunge forward without grace or stealth. VC fire was coming at them from the rear and both sides.
"We're in trouble," Haskell transmitted, "they're trying to set up a blocking force between us and the river."
"Where do you want me to shoot," Spooky asked again.
Krocek and Haskell conferred as they ran through the brush. Haskell fired two pengun flares up and forward of their position but both red streaks were absorbed by limbs and leaves.
"Spears," Haskell yelled into the transmitter, "fire some flares across the river towards us. Spooky, tell me when you see them." Haskell was starting to gasp from the effort.
Spears did as he was told. "Tally ho the flares," Spooky said.
"Good," Haskell puffed, "start shooting at the north edge of the river and work north slowly. I'll tell you when you're close. Then orbit and shoot at that point til I tell you to move south again in front of us toward the river." No time to Shack it up, Haskell had to transmit the plans in the clear.
From their vantage point, Myers and Spears watched the great tongues of fire start at the opposite bank and work away from them. Spooky fired his guns on half speed at 3,000 rounds per minute each in three-second bursts to save ammo as he worked north. Each burst dispatched 450 rounds. Spooky carried enough ammo to fire 160 such bursts. The loud snapping of twigs and branches told them not only how many 7.62mm bullets were raining down but how many were being absorbed by the trees. About 75 percent, Myers estimated, were wasted.
Myers, Spears, and the Nungs waited crouched in their shallow dugouts waiting for their oncoming team mates. Being on the top of the inverted "U" of the Song Be River, they neither saw nor heard the VC around each bend on either side of them swimming across the river with their weapons held out of the water.
Wolf Lochert, well to the rear, idled away his time following the battle and studying his map by shielded flashlight. He stared, musing, at the river bends. He suddenly realized the VC commander probably had the same maps, and had been following the action just like he had.
He nodded to himself and grabbed his microphone. He hesitated. So far, he hadn't had to break radio silence. As far as the VC knew, there were no troops securing the LZ. The river crossers were probably ordered to flank Myers and Spears, form a pincers behind them, then advance together and close the trap on this side of the river while the rest of their forces did the same to Krocek and Haskell on the other side. Each American unit would be trapped with their back to the river across from each other. Small comfort. The Wolf knew what he had to do.
He stripped off all his non-essential gear, the smoke grenades, the water canteens after taking a long drink, his harness. He needed to move fast, silent, and light. He stroked up his face and hands with his camouflage stick. Checked his stiletto, put his Mauser in his pocket. He thought for a moment, then chose the old reliable M-2 carbine over the M-16, inserted a 30-round magazine in it, and strapped it across his back. He muffled four other magazines with sweat rags and stuffed them into his back pockets. He decided he couldn't carry the radio. He put his hand on the Nung interpreter, Vong Man Quay.
"Take this," he said, "stay on frequency but don't talk unless you are attacked. Hold this LZ at all costs. We will all return before first light. If we don't have a radio, my signal that it's us will be two rounds, pause two rounds. You understand?"
"Sure, Boss. I hold. No radio. You shoot two times, you shoot two times, I welcome you." The Nung's brown and battered face split in a toothy grin. Wolf slapped him on the arm and disappeared into the night.
Heading in the direction of Spooky's flares was not easy. Wolf's sight angle was too low on the horizon and the jungle too thick to see anything except an occasional glimpse of something bright when the flare was just released and still high in the sky. The sound of Spooky's guns gave the Wolf his best bearing. The three 7.62 mini guns, each with five rotating barrels firing Gatling-gun style, detonated the cartridges so fast that the individual explosions overrode each other producing a moaning roar increasing with intensity as the barrels got up to speed then ceased abruptly as the pilot released the trigger. The barrel noise combined with the amplifying effect inside the fuselage of the internal gun noise made the overall effect sound to the distant Wolf like the hellish purr of an unearthly giant sky cat.
Between silent curses as he fought the clutching jungle vines and thorns, the Wolf grinned thinking that whoever coined the old saw about ride to the sound of the guns could never have envisioned this most basic of ground movement, walking in a crouch, to the sound of the most modern death dealing technology. He pushed on faster realizing that for the moment, anyhow, he would have to sacrifice stealth for speed if he were to reach Spears and Myers before the VC closed the pincer this side of the river.
Forward of Wolf beyond Spears and Myers, directly underneath Spooky's fiery tongue, some of the younger VC, the 15 year-olds, thought the intermittent roars synonymous with the moans of the death dragon. The older sergeants soon disabused them of that superstition as they goaded them to press and close with the flanks of the fleeing Krocek and Haskell, promising them if they got as close as they wanted, they would be inside Spooky's protective umbrella. As it was, Spooky's flares helped them every bit as much as the men they were chasing and trying to kill. The creamy yellow light filtered through the jungle canopy as gray, setting a surrealist stage with greens turned black and white. On stage, screams and shouts in English, Chinese, and Vietnamese were punctuated by frantic long and short bursts of automatic weapons fire at anything that moved. Occasional single, and rapidly fired shots of two and three sounded as if the shooter had a positive target.
The running battle continued for another hour until the Americans had almost run underneath Spooky's withering fire. "Stop shooting. Spooky, stop shooting," Haskell yelled on the radio, still crashing through the jungle, Krocek on his heels, the Nungs scattered to hell and gone but still fighting. Spooky's guns stopped immediately, leaving blackness behind. The top of the tongue slid down the fiery trail like
the end of a garden hose stream as its source was cut off.
Spooky's navigator, on his first mission, suspected the cease fire order a VC trick. "Authenticate Lima November." He cut in on the radio.
"I can't," Haskell shot back. "What the hell you think…" Haskell had to pause for breath, "I'm doing down here? Reading my code book?"
Then he recognized the calm and unhurried voice of the pilot, the man in the left seat sighting the guns and pulling the trigger on his control column, who said, "No sweat China Boy, we read you. We know who you are."
"How far to the river from your last burst?" Haskell asked. He had to hold the handset cord close so it wouldn't snag as he rushed through the brush trying to talk and run at the same time.
"About 150 or 200 meters," the Spooky co-pilot said.
"All right," Haskell said, "when I fire my pengun, you fire one last burst directly in front then shoot the hell out of both flanks from the flare to the river. Make us road sides of cover fire. We gonna run like hell down that road. Got that?"
Spooky rogered, Haskell fired his pengun through the canopy in the direction of travel, then he and Krocek took off faster than before. Their interpreter translated and yelled to run like hell to the others.
"Haskell," Spears radioed from the far bank, "I saw your flare. You're close. You're doing great. Come on, come on. Follow the flare." Myers fired a pengun flare.
Under the urging of Krocek and Haskell, the beleaguered force gave a massive effort and gained the banks of the Song Be River. The two men conferred briefly and decided on a plan.
"Spooky, Spears, here's what we are going to do," Haskell radioed. “Jan is setting up a rear guard action while I get the guys in the river swimming to your position, George. When Jan is ready to jump into the water, he'll tell us over the radio and fire a flare. At that point Spooky, you hose down everything on the north side of the river." Haskell got an acknowledgement, handed the radio back to Krocek who was laying prone firing intermittent bursts with his M-16 back the way they had come. Haskell urged, pushed, cajoled and kicked the reluctant Nungs to divest all their equipment except their M-16s and take to the water. As the last one went in he yelled back to Jan to disengage and follow. He left his boots on, held his rifle high, and waded into the current.
Up over the edge of the bank, Krocek saw furtive movement and fired two quick bursts. He rolled over on his back and fired his pengun flare in the same direction. Then he jumped up, grabbed the radio and ran to the water's edge and began to transmit as he waded out. When the water reached waist level, he stopped to keep the radio dry. He didn't see the rifleman crawl up to the edge of the embankment he had just left.
"Spoogy, Spoogy, shood, shood..." he said, then fell dead with a bullet in his skull. The radio pack pulled him down as the current rolled his body downstream. Haskell, looking back from midstream, saw everything by flare light. He hadn't had time to shout a warning.
Spooky's guns opened up on full fire spraying the area with 300 slugs a second.
Hearing Spooky firing full out, Wolf Lochert guessed the men were swimming the river. He stopped to listen after a long burst, heard faint sounds in front of him, and slowly crept forward, M-2 unslung, safety off. He stopped again. Cocking his head he heard the sound of several men moving through the brush about 10 meters in front. He estimated he was about 100 meters from Spears and Myers. Wolf slung his carbine and pulled out his stiletto. In five minutes he advanced thirty feet without making a sound. During another pause in firing he heard enough to know he was close. He crouched and by looking to one side was able to discern the outline of a figure facing away from him and toward the position of Spears and Myers. He started stalking him until the next new flare yielded enough light to cup the man’s mouth, pull him backwards onto an upraised knee and reach around to slide the stiletto upwards through his belly into his heart. The man went down without a sound. As he crept forward, Wolf put away one more in the same manner. A third, off to one side, heard some noise and came to investigate. A distant but suddenly bright flare illumination revealed the two men to each other. The VC started firing immediately as the Wolf dropped his stiletto and dove into the closest thicket trying frantically to unsling his carbine.
Myers had gathered everyone from the river and started south. Everybody went down when they heard the shots in front of them. But Wolf knew they needed to have more warning than merely some unexplained shots.
"AMBUSH, AMBUSH," he bellowed into the darkness. From under a thicket of thorns Wolf shot the figure in black-pajamas looking for him. He retrieved his stiletto. "Hey, Tom. It's me, Lochert. There's some people here trying to schnitzle you guys. You hear me?"
"Yeah, we're right here." Myers's voice sounded close. After Spears had rounded up Haskell and all the Nungs, he had resumed command for the trek back to the LZ. He had heard Krocek's radio go dead and gotten the rest of the story from Haskell. There was no recourse, so Myers had painfully given the order to move south to the LZ. Thinking they were in the clear, he hadn't expected opposition until the Wolf yelled at him.
"Stay put, Wolf, we're moving to your location," he yelled back. His men unslung their guns but didn't need them as they advanced to meet Lochert. After a few words, they started south in the darkness. The Nungs rubbed phosphorescent moss on each other's back to keep better contact. Spears worked the radio, keeping Spooky informed of their progress and where to shoot, but he didn't have definite targets because the situation remained strangely quiet as they drew close to the LZ. Finally Spooky called down and said he had to RTB for ammo. Spears thanked him for all his help, gave him an estimated BDA, and cleared him outbound. As the party approached the LZ, Wolf got Vong Man Quay, the Nung he left in charge, to acknowledge they were inbound and would not shoot.
Once at the LZ, Myers deployed the Nungs with Haskell and Spears as perimeter defense. Wolf forced himself to not take command, as he wasn't on the scene for that reason. He felt rather proud of himself. However, had he not agreed with Myers's plans, he would have taken command. Instantly.
Myers told him about Krocek and how he would arrange a patrol to find his body. Though the Wolf said nothing, he was, in fact, saying a Latin prayer for the dead. The jungle was silent and black without Spooky. Myers noted it would be first light in less than two hours. The men took turns dozing.
Forty minutes later the VC sprung the perimeter defense and attacked in force.