by Ward Just
At about one, the business discussion wound down. Each man had his assignment and his instructions as to methodology and deadline. Lunch was served and everyone relaxed, waiting for whoever had the latest gossip to speak. The men around the table were attracted to misfortune, the more lurid the better; the freak airplane accident, the sergeant major cashiered for theft, the alcohol problems of this official or that. Dicey Dacy's adventures once consumed a whole afternoon. It was as if they were saying to outsiders, You think it's bad? You don't know half. The gossip sounded malicious but wasn't really. It was only that nation-building was at the bottom of the food chain. Supplies were short for everyone but the military, so naturally when the military erred—as it did frequently—schadenfreude resulted. A simple fact of life: the military got the good ink and the civilians the bad, except for eccentrics like the character who had fallen so deeply in love with the Montagnard tribesmen and their dreary two-toned music. Wasn't it natural that in these circumstances there would be rivalries? There were only so many columns in a newspaper that could be devoted to good news, the vaccinations of schoolchildren or the installation of water treatment plants. Of course they believed the press was malevolent, brainwashed as it was by the army's public relations supremos. Every newspaper reporter secretly coveted commissioned-officer status, and looked with loathing at civilians like—themselves.
Pablo Gutterman usually spoke first.
Our fine airborne brigade got its ass kicked last night.
Rostok said, I heard. Out near Parrot's Beak.
No, Pablo said. Closer in. Sydney's territory, somewhere in Tay Thanh district. A faulty intelligence report, according to my source. Maybe they were set up, maybe not. They thought they had gold, some hoi chanh who's been semi-reliable in the past. Claims to have been a VC political officer in Xuan Loc. It was his tip. But you never know, what with all the smoke and the mirrors. Maybe they screwed up in other ways, technical errors. Maybe they misread the map in the darkness, confused the coordinates, got themselves dropped into the wrong rice field, the usual snafu. Maybe the translators got one word wrong. It's happened before.
Mucho KIA, Ros said.
And wounded, Pablo said, lifting his eyebrows, aware that the table had fallen silent, everyone looking at him. His information was rarely wrong. Pablo Gutterman had lived in Indochina since the mid-19 50s, had married a Vietnamese, and even now owned his own villa in Bien Hoa. He had worked for one of the trading companies until the assassination of Ngo Dinh Diem. When the trading company liquidated assets and relocated to Hong Kong, Pablo was hired by the aid administrator as liaison to the intelligence community. He spoke adequate Vietnamese and was said to know everyone worth knowing, and his wife was no less au courant. In due course he was appointed deputy director of the various aid programs, and then Boyd Llewellyn drafted him for the Group.
Vietnam was his home, he said, and he had no intention of leaving it, ever. He had not been back to the United States in many years and that was a problem for him. He was not in the picture. The government had changed unimaginably since Eisenhower was in charge, and the country had changed along with the government. Kennedy's businessmen who had taken charge at the Pentagon were different than Ike's. They placed their confidence in computers and systems analysis and information on demand. Action this day meant action this day, not tomorrow or next week. Pablo had trouble understanding the new men, and trouble also explaining the subtlety of Vietnamese institutions, not that these new men cared much about Vietnamese institutions, opaque Asian affairs of scant relevance.
Of course Pablo had lived in Vietnam for too long and had lost perspective. He no longer understood his own government and the society that it represented, so when the assistant secretaries and the lads from the inspector general's office arrived in-country for briefings, he was kept out of sight. Pablo? Pablo's on the early flight to Can Tho, helping out with an interrogation. If he had an observation to make, Rostok made it for him in language the visitors could understand and relate to. Blind Pablo was said to be in his late fifties, though he looked much older with his stoop and his thinning hair and mottled complexion, watery eyes blinking hard behind flesh-colored spectacles. Looking at him, anyone would think he had a terrible hangover; and no one would ever guess that he loved Vietnam and would never leave, ever. More than any of the others, Pablo had a stake in success.
A night lift, Pablo went on. Round about first light. The works, an hour's artillery preparation and the usual bombing runs.
Did you say Xuan Loc? Sydney asked.
On the perimeter of your district, Pablo said.
Sydney looked at him. Aren't we supposed to be informed when they're mounting an operation in our sector?
Depending on the sensitivity of the intelligence, we are. That's the way it's set up, the procedure. But they don't trust us. They think we'll blab.
I thought it was a hard-and-fast rule, Sydney said. No exceptions.
There are no hard-and-fast rules here, Sydney. You know that.
Because no one informed me.
Get on with it, Rostok said irritably.
Pablo sighed. They were a company of airborne in choppers—
A hot LZ, Rostok said, indicating that he, too, was aware of the facts of the disaster. He did not like it when Gutterman upstaged him with classified information from his private sources.
VC waited until the flight was about ten feet off the ground and then hit them with rockets. Six choppers down, two more damaged.
Seven dead, a couple of dozen wounded, Rostok said.
Gutterman shook his head. No, Ros. The latest figures are ten dead and twenty wounded. He paused to allow this information to sink in before he delivered his coup de grâce. And four missing.
Missing? They wouldn't've left their wounded. Airborne wouldn't leave the wounded behind.
Did, Pablo said. Four missing, including the company commander. He was in the lead chopper.
Jesus Christ, George Whyte said.
I knew him, Pablo said. Capable fellow.
Christ, George Whyte said again.
Rostok was drumming his fingers on the table, staring at Pablo Gutterman.
They had no choice, Pablo said. They dropped into an inferno. And communications went haywire. Our close air support was useless because our people were all mixed in with the VC. Pablo paused to trace some lines on the surface of the table, then erased them with his fingers. He was thinking of the stench and the appalling confusion, and the noise. He said, Hit them with napalm or a bomb and you waste your own people, too. And it was dark because they hadn't waited for first light, believing they could achieve surprise just as they always had at Bragg. Our troopers were strung out and scattered but managed to set up a defensive perimeter along the soft dikes of the rice field. They were returning fire but they couldn't see the VC so it was ineffective. The action didn't consume more than about twenty minutes but I think the minutes were long for them. When our reaction force went in at first light they didn't find a single enemy casualty, not one. They found our survivors, including the twenty wounded. And they found our ten dead, stripped of weapons and anything else of value. Wallets, wristwatches, boots, packs. A couple of the bodies were pretty badly mutilated. And the missing are still missing.
Another cock-up, Rostok announced.
A stir at the table, George Whyte and one of the others trading sympathetic glances. Rostok was always severe, brutally unkind when he discovered recklessness or stupidity, always products of excess and overconfidence.
Sydney was looking out the window, watching the gardener retrieve a leaf, examining it closely before placing it in the burlap sack and moving back to the shade of the admiral's tree, where he leaned on his rake and stared into the street, still as a bronze statue. He said, What was the mission, Pablo? What did they hope to find? According to the information of the turncoat.
A base camp, Pablo said. Certainly a headquarters of some kind and lightly defended. That was the turncoat's prom
ise. That part was emphasized, which was why they went in lean, with a company instead of a battalion, and at night instead of first light. They expected the advantage of surprise. But why would a headquarters be lightly defended? Answer is, it wouldn't be. And it wasn't.
Night assaults, always dangerous, George Whyte said.
Not if the intelligence is accurate, Pablo said. And everyone was quick to say that morale was high. They wanted it so badly.
The headquarters, Sydney said.
Yes, the headquarters, Pablo said. A highly rated objective. Gain the objective and you shorten the war. I suppose they thought it would be a headline-making success, and perhaps that was why they selected Company B.
Rostok shook his head. They think they can throw a thousand artillery shells on a landing zone and that cleanses it. They're crazy. They don't learn from experience ... Rostok went on to describe the VC's doctrine of defense, spider holes and tunnels, and the weapons, specifically the 40-millimeter RPG2 antitank free-flight rocket, effective range about the distance of a well-struck nine iron, adapted by the Soviets and the Chinese from the German Panzerfaust system, extremely reliable, deadly, and cheap, about the price of a good bottle of schnapps. Sydney listened to Rostok talk on and on, his monologue littered with homely similes as he described the successors to the RPG2, the RPG7, the RPG7D, and the RPG7V, all longer ranged, more powerful, more accurate, favorites of the IRA as well as the VC but not as yet fully deployed in Vietnam. The table listened with respect because it was Rostok talking and everyone was fascinated with the enemy's arsenal, except Sydney, whose attention had begun to wander again; he was thinking about the four missing troopers, surely captives or dead somewhere in the vicinity, and unlikely to be rescued because while the army's maps were accurate to a meter, they did not disclose the deep structure of the terrain, the life under the skin; on these maps the countryside was as featureless as a suburban lawn. He watched the gardener move from the shade into the sunlight, squint, and retreat back to shade.
They wait until the last second before they fire, Rostok concluded. Exemplary fire discipline. And with rockets the choppers are fat targets, hanging in the air like a big city street light.
There seemed nothing to add to Rostok's kriegspiel.
Why Company B? Sydney asked.
The captain was connected, Pablo said after a moment's silence. He was someone's nephew.
So there'll be an inquiry, Rostok said. To find the responsible party.
Yes, Pablo said mildly. I expect there will be.
The poor bastard, Rostok said.
Yes, Pablo said. He was a nice boy. Perhaps somewhat rowdy. But he was avid. He was gung-ho. He volunteered for the mission.
I don't mean him, Rostok said. I mean the battalion commander or whoever they'll hang out to dry, the VC commander being unavailable for questioning. I doubt they'll go as high as brigade or division. Depends on who signed off on the hoi chanh, who guaranteed his bona fides. Who proposed the mission. Who decided on the night drop. Who calculated the risk-benefit. There'll be pieces of paper somewhere, and all the papers will have signatures attached to them. Just a very simple cock-up but I smell court-martial.
You've always had a good nose, Ros, Pablo said.
That's why I'm where I am and you're where you are, Rostok said.
How well connected was he? Sydney asked.
Congressman's sister's boy, Pablo said.
That's a four-alarm blaze, Rostok said.
It surely is, Ros. And there'll be urgent efforts to get him back. Search-and-rescue-type efforts. Above-and-beyond-the-call efforts. In fact, they have recon teams ready to go tonight, not that they have the slightest idea where to begin the search, other than the drop zone itself. When I left they were bickering about whether to call in the Special Forces.
Airborne doesn't like to admit they need help.
They don't like the green beanies.
They'll need CAS, too.
They like CAS even less.
In the silence that followed, the men around the table could hear telephones ringing in the outer office. A secretary put her head in, motioning at Rostok, but Rostok waved her away. He never allowed the telephone to interfere with the ten o'clock meeting. The secretaries were instructed to say he was out of the office and unavailable. When the secretary mouthed, The White House, Rostok waved her away again.
He said, Let them wait.
Then, to Pablo, What else?
They're not having good luck generally, Pablo said. Seems the boy wrote some letters home. There were one or two aspects of army life that he didn't care for and there was a promotion he was looking forward to that he didn't get.
Congressman's nephew, Sydney said. That means an inquiry, hearings with testimony from all concerned.
Maybe, maybe not, Pablo said softly. He was staring into the middle distance, thinking out loud. My guess is, they'll argue that hearings will do more harm than good, call attention to the missing captain. Identifying him as someone who's connected. No telling how the Reds will react to that, we haven't much experience with POWs in the South. VC may have a different view of things from their brothers up north. Our Reds aren't very worldly, are they? Probably they don't have a firm fix on our federal system. Probably they don't know what a congressman does or his place in the scheme of things. So our people are worried about that. For the moment they're keeping everything quiet. They're keeping the lid on. So let's us keep it quiet, too. Give them some elbow room.
No press, Rostok said, looking sternly around the table.
They've classified the operation Top Secret as of this morning.
You seem to know a hell of a lot about it, Pablo, Sydney said.
I do, Syd. I surely do. He paused again to trace his lines on the surface of the table, then erased them with his fingers. I got the full briefing this morning, where the troopers went and why, and with what results. There's still some confusion about the map coordinates. But they were pretty clear about everything else. There's a panic situation, no question. They're worried and they have cause to worry. It was a botched operation. If the VC have him and decide to march him to Hanoi and he appears on Red television reading a typed statement, it's a hell of an embarrassment.
For everyone, Rostok said.
A propaganda victory.
And these affairs have a way of getting into the newspapers. People talk, it's natural. Troopers talk when they've been mauled and they think it isn't their fault. And before you know it, there're reporters nosing around and asking if there've been any intelligence failures lately and if it's true that a captain's missing and presumed captured. So I'd guess they have a week's grace, max.
And then Rostok had a fresh thought. Why did they brief you?
Pablo said, They want our help.
Do they now? Rostok said with a sharp laugh. Come to us for help? When they never give us squat? When they never give us the time of day? I don't believe it. What do they want?
They don't know what they want, Pablo said. They want us to keep our eyes open. Report suspicious activity. Ask around. Maybe we'll hear something that'll help them. Pablo smiled bleakly and placed his hands flat on the table. They were a little sheepish about it because they know they've been pricks in the past. He looked directly at Rostok, his eyes huge behind the lenses of his spectacles. I promised full cooperation. I said you would be around to talk to them personally. Listen to what they have, make your own assessment.
They have my number. They can call me.
As you wish, Ros.
They want a favor, they can come to me.
I'm sure you'll hear from them.
They're looking for someone to share the blame.
It wouldn't be the first time, Pablo said. Still. Bit far-fetched, don't you think, Ros?
No, Rostok said.
What did he look like? Sydney asked, realizing he had used the past tense as if the man were already dead. What else do we know about him?
Nice-looking bo
y, Syd. Big kid, off a farm somewhere in the Midwest. Built like a truck.
That's good, Sydney said.
I suppose it is, Pablo replied.
Sydney heard the false note, the hesitation and the little sigh at the end, and wondered about the thing unsaid. Pablo removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He turned to stare myopically out the window at the motionless gardeners. Sydney wondered what sort of life Pablo Gutterman led with his wife in the bungalow in the suburbs, what he did in the evenings and on weekends. He was rarely seen at the Brinks for the movies or at the various restaurants in Saigon or Cholon. He and his wife did not entertain, at least they did not entertain Americans. There was mention once of summer holidays in the mountains around Dalat but that was before the war moved south. Someone said he played golf at the course north of the city, that he had a Saturday foursome and bet dollar-dollar Nassau as if he were still living in Miami. His partners were Vietnamese businessmen, one of them his brother-in-law. Hard to imagine Pablo in a golf shirt and slacks, squinting through his spectacles, lining up a putt. Most of the Llewellyns had no private lives away from the job. Day and night were identical. Their conversations always had to do with the situation in all its forms, metaphors and scenarios, as Rostok liked to say. Pablo Gutterman continued to stare out the window at the gardeners. Evidently he had said all he intended to say about the missing soldier. And then Sydney realized they did not know his name.
George Whyte filled the sudden silence with a windy digression on the limits of the military mind, unimaginative yet reckless, avid for success while avoiding responsibility for failure, addicted to heuristic slogans and the hard lessons learned in the previous war. The Pentagon had entirely too much money, it made them careless ... But by then the others had drifted off to a worried discussion of personnel changes at headquarters in Washington, memos arriving every day with mysterious signatures, realignments in the office of the Comptroller and the office of Management Planning as well as Procurement and International Training. The godly hand of that bastard Boyd Llewellyn was present but not visible; no one knew what he was after beyond his habitual obsession to control the paper, the IN boxes and the OUT boxes. Something sinister was transpiring in the office of Inspections and Investigations, perhaps a new deputy director or counsel. The place was a revolving door. They were bearing down with unnatural zeal and promising a visit in-country before the end of the year; and in the meantime were demanding fresh statistics that could more accurately measure progress—