The Berets

by W. E. B Griffin

  The Mohawk was equipped with several black boxes. One of them was a navigation device that determined the present location of the aircraft relative to the point of activation—in other words, relative to the airfield from which it had taken off. Another had in its electronic memory a map of the area over which the Mohawk was flying and the capability of locating the Mohawk’s location on this map. Another black box, and its associated antennae and sensors, was capable of receiving thermal radiation and determining the location of the source of the radiation, its strength, and its frequency. Another black box electronically compared this data against known data, such as the known radiation patterns of various thermal radiation sources, and determined with remarkable accuracy whether the source of the thermal radiation was, for example, the exhaust of a truck, a campfire, or a thermite match.

  Finally, another black box assembled all the data, the location of the airplane, the sources of thermal radiation, and its probable cause, and caused the on-board printing device to print a map on which was located the location of the aircraft and the sources of the radiation. There were little symbols identifying the thermal radiation sources. In this case, an asterisk identified Spanish Harlem’s thermite match and the letters WF the source of other thermal radiation, most probably wood fires. The slimy printout in Parker’s hands showed the letters WF twice in an area identified on the map as forest. There should have been no wood fire at all in that area, much less two of them close together.

  “Let’s make sure,” Parker said to his co-pilot. “Set it up again at 2,500 feet.”

  The co-pilot disengaged the flight stabilization system, stood the Mohawk on its wing, and lowered the nose as he headed back toward where they had begun the run.

  “Spanish Harlem, I’m going to need another light. I’ll say when,” Parker said to his microphone.

  “Standing by,” Spanish Harlem replied.

  The only difference between the run at 3,500 and the run at 2,500 was that the slimy printout now identified four WF’s in the forest. At the greater distance the four fires had appeared as two.

  “Spanish Harlem, I have you at Dog Four-Three-Six, Oscar Niner-One-Niner,” Father Divine said. “Copy?”

  “Dog Four-Three-Six, Oscar Niner-One-Niner,” Ellis replied.

  “Affirmative,” Parker replied. “And I have four wood fires at position Dog Three-Niner-One, Mike Zero-Zero-Three, do you copy?”

  “Dog Three-Niner-One, Mike Zero-Zero-Three,” Ellis’s voice came back.

  “Affirmative,” Parker said.

  “God bless you and good night, Father Divine.”

  “Call collect if you find work,” Parker said. “Father Divine clear.”

  “Now what?” the co-pilot said. “Home?”

  Parker made a vague gesture toward the softly glowing instrument panel.

  “I have just noticed an intermittent warning light, and I think we had better sit down at Kontum and check it out.”

  “Major, whatever those guys get themselves into, we won’t be able to help.”

  “I like to be the first to know,” Parker said. “Kontum, Lieutenant.”

  (Five)

  With his flashlight held in his mouth like an oversize cigar, Tom Ellis, with Dessler, Lopez, Talbott, and Franz looking over his shoulder, very carefully marked their location, and then that of the four wood fires, on his map.

  “That really works, Lieutenant?” Staff Sergeant Franz asked dubiously.

  “I hope so,” Ellis said.

  According to his map, the fires were about a hundred yards off a path through the forest. There were four fires, which suggested at least eight or ten men, but possibly many more than that. He could think of no reason why eight or more men would be in the forest unless they were in fact Viet Cong.

  He said aloud what he was thinking.

  “Let’s go get the bastards,” Master Sergeant Dessler said.

  “What do we do, Dessler?” Ellis asked. “Just walk down the path?”

  “They don’t know we can locate them,” Dessler said. “They probably move every night. So I don’t think they’re going to spend a lot of time setting up traps.”

  “You want to take the point?” Ellis asked.

  “Why not?” Dessler said, after a barely perceptible hesitation.

  It was four and a half klicks from Position Dog Four-Three-Six, Oscar Niner-One-Niner to the four wood fires at Position Dog Three-Niner-One, Mike Zero-Zero-Three. The army was in the process of discarding miles, yards, and feet for the metric system of its NATO allies. Kilometer had stuck on the army tongue and become klicks.

  A klick from their destination, Dessler held up his hand for the patrol to stop. When Ellis moved up to him, Dessler sniffed. Ellis sniffed, and he smelled it too. Wood smoke.

  “I guess the canopy,” Dessler said, pointing upward to where the interlocking branches of the trees blocked out the sky, “keeps it from getting away.”

  Dessler then took his M-14 from his shoulder and clicked the safety off. The others followed his example. Dessler started down the trail again.

  Three hundred meters farther down the path, Ellis felt himself falling, and then a moment later a sharp tearing pain in his left leg and foot. He managed to bite off the scream that came to his lips by clenching his jaws, but he was not entirely successful in maintaining the absolute silence that he considered essential to their staying alive.

  A strange sound, half moan, half pained yelp, escaped his lips.

  “Whoa!” Dessler called.

  Ellis tried to move his left leg. The leg was excruciatingly painful, and it would not move.

  “Shit!” Dessler said over him, and then, “Christ, I’m sorry, Tom.”

  The apology was for his error in judgment. The Viet Cong had indeed set a trap, even though he was sure they wouldn’t bother. Ellis had fallen into a punji-stick trap. Dessler had apparently just walked right over it.

  “Franz!” Dessler called.

  The medic appeared, and Dessler softly warned him to be careful: “Punji.”

  Franz carefully stepped around Ellis and dropped to his knees.

  “Shit!” he said.

  “Now what?” Ellis said. He felt faint and sick to his stomach.

  Franz felt in the hole and then sat up.

  “You’ve got one in your foot,” he said matter-of-factly. “And another one in your calf.”

  “Goddamn it, I know that!” Ellis said.

  “You’re lucky you fell in it where you did,” Franz said. “You only got two.”

  “Goddamn it, do something about it!”

  “I can go two ways, Lieutenant,” Franz said. “I can put you out, which is probably the best. Or I can give you a local, just put the leg and foot to sleep. That may not work.”

  “If you put me out, how long would I be out?”

  “Couple of hours,” Franz said.

  “Then give me the local,” Ellis ordered.

  “That might not work,” Franz said.

  “Give me the goddamn local,” Ellis said.

  “Okay,” Franz said, after a moment. Ellis realized with fury that Franz had made that decision. Franz was going to do what he thought could be done, and Ellis could not order him otherwise.

  Franz took a hypodermic syringe from his kit, attached a very large stainless-steel needle to it, and then jabbed the needle through the rubber covering of a small glass vial.

  “Hold a light, Dessler,” he ordered.

  Dessler held a flashlight with a red lense cover close enough so that Franz could see enough of the vial to make sure he was draining it.

  “Before I give you this, Lieutenant,” Franz said, holding the hypodermic up to get the air out of it, “I want you to understand that it’s going to make you a little flaky. It’ll numb the leg, but it will also affect your head. You understand that?”

  “Give me the goddamned stuff!” Ellis ordered. He wanted to scream.

  Franz leaned over the hole and shoved the needle into Ellis’
s calf, just where the calf muscle swelled below the knee. He was not at all gentle, and there was another blaze of pain.

  “Somebody, I hope, brought cutters?” Franz asked. Ellis was aware of Dessler moving down the path.

  The first sensation Ellis felt was a coolness in his leg, as if it had suddenly been immersed in cold water. It moved quickly down his leg. The pain was still there, but the coolness seemed to temper it somewhat. Then he felt suddenly very sleepy.

  When he had fallen, he had thrown his arms out in front of him. Then he had collapsed. Next he had propped himself up on his elbows, because the pain seemed less excruciating in that position. Now he wanted to lie down again, and there seemed to be no good reason he should not. He rested his head on his arm.

  Master Sergeant Dessler appeared with a large pair of commercial bolt cutters. They were the sort of tool you expected to see in a machine shop, not in the middle of the Vietnamese jungle. The more Ellis thought about that, the funnier it seemed.

  He giggled.

  The pain in his leg was down to toothache level.

  “I’m going to have to cut all of those fuckers out of the way before I can get under his boot,” Franz said. “And after I do that, you’re going to have to hold him upright so I can get the one in his calf.”

  “I can pick him up,” Dessler said.

  “I’m perfectly capable of picking myself up, thank you just the same, Sergeant Dessler,” Ellis said.

  Dessler chuckled.

  “Sure you are, Tom,” he said.

  “You really shouldn’t call me Tom when the others can hear you,” Ellis said.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” Dessler said. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

  “I don’t mean to be chickenshit, you understand,” Ellis said.

  “I understand perfectly, sir,” Dessler said. “Are you still in much pain, sir?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle; thank you for your concern, Sergeant Dessler.”

  “Christ, I’d like to know what kind of fucking wood they use,” Franz said. “It’s all I can do to cut the bastards.”

  “I’m perfectly all right now, Sergeant Franz,” Ellis said. “Thank you very much.”

  “If he starts to move, hold him,” Franz said. “I’m just about clear to get the cutter under his boot.”

  “I told you,” Ellis said sternly, “that I am perfectly all right now.”

  “If he keeps that up, I’m going to have to put him out.”

  “If you put him out, we’ll have to carry him.”

  “I know.”

  Sergeant Franz grunted. Ellis felt a tickle in his foot, and it made him giggle.

  “Got it!” Franz said, and then called, “Lopez!”

  “Yeah?”

  “What I have to do is get the bolt cutter between the wall of the hole and the stake, you understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But if the punji pulls back out, it’ll really fuck up his muscle. It’s got barbs.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “While Dessler picks him up, I want you to put your hand on the back of his calf, so it don’t move. Can you reach him?”

  “Yeah,” Lopez said after a moment. “He’s bleeding pretty bad.”

  “That’s good,” Franz said.

  “That’s a hell of a thing to say!” Ellis said indignantly.

  “Pick him up, Dessler,” Franz ordered.

  “Why, Sergeant Dessler,” Ellis said, when he found himself in Dessler’s tight embrace, “I didn’t know you cared!”

  Lopez laughed.

  Something bit Ellis’s leg and he yelped in pain.

  “Okay,” Franz said. “Now pull him out of there and lay him on his back.”

  Ellis was aware that he was lying on his back and that Dessler, Lopez and Franz were on their knees by his leg.

  “‘Whenever two or three are gathered together in my name…’” Ellis quoted.

  “Lieutenant, if you don’t shut up,” Franz said, “I’m going to have to put you out.”

  “Maybe you should anyway,” Dessler said.

  “Mum’s the word,” Ellis said and put his finger before his lips. Franz seemed to be not only a nice fellow, but a competent noncom, and if he wanted him to be quiet, he would be quiet.

  “What I’m going to do now is cut the punjis off as close to where they went in as I can,” Franz said. “And then pull what’s left the rest of the way through. You’re going to have to hold him still.”

  I can’t be very seriously hurt, Ellis decided. I can’t feel a thing.

  “Now what?” Lopez asked.

  “Now I shoot his ass full of penicillin,” Franz said. “And then we wait five, ten minutes. If he comes off cloud nine, I’ll get a couple of ARVNs to help him walk. If he’s still out of his gourd, I’ll put him out and we’ll have to rig a stretcher for him.”

  “What about coffee? Would that help?”

  “I don’t know,” Franz said. “It’s a stimulant. I don’t know what effect it would have on the narcotic.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to try,” Dessler said. “I’d hate to have him unconscious.”

  Ellis became aware that Dessler was holding him in a sitting position and that Lopez was giving him something very bitter from his canteen cup.

  What that is, Ellis realized after a moment, is a packet of instant coffee mixed with very little water.

  Whatever effect the coffee was supposed to have, it didn’t. Ellis felt himself falling asleep.

  He opened his eyes. Dessler was methodically slapping his face.

  Ellis put his hand up to stop him and then forced himself onto his elbows.

  “How long was I out?” he asked.

  “About twenty minutes,” Dessler said.

  “What shape am I in?”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you,” Dessler said. “We’ve got the punjis out and the wounds bandaged, and Franz gave you a bunch of penicillin. Do you remember what happened? Where we are?”

  “I even remember you hugging me,” Ellis said. “Help me up, please.”

  “You sure you’re all right, Lieutenant?”

  “We’re among friends, Charley,” Ellis said. “You can call me Tom.”

  Dessler chuckled. “I feel bad about this, Tom,” he said. “Really bad.”

  “I fell in the goddamned hole,” Ellis said. “Don’t be silly.”

  Two of the reliable ARVNs were standing there, looking down at him.

  “Let’s see if you guys can help me walk,” Ellis said.

  They pulled him upright. He put his arms around their shoulders and supported himself on his good leg. The bad leg now felt as if it were on fire, and when he tried to straighten it, there was a sharp pain.

  “This’ll work,” he said.

  “I went and had a look,” Dessler said. “I don’t know if it’s our guys or not, but it’s the bad guys. They’re armed. And they have sentinels out. There’s about twenty-five, maybe thirty of them. How do you want to handle it?”

  “Jesus, that many?”

  Dessler nodded.

  “Let’s just take them out and see who they are later,” Ellis said.

  “They’re keeping their fires going,” Dessler said. “There’s light.”

  “Grenades, and then shoot anybody who moves,” Ellis said.

  Dessler nodded, then asked, “What do we do with you?”

  “Find me someplace where I can fire the M-14 prone,” Ellis said.

  “Why don’t we just leave you here with a couple of ARVNs?”

  “Because I am afraid of being alone in the dark,” Ellis said.

  “It would be smarter, Tom.”

  “As I have just proved by getting myself stuck with shitty sticks, I am not very smart,” Ellis said.

  “You’re the boss,” Dessler said.

  “No, you’re in charge,” Ellis said. “If you really want to leave me here, go ahead.”

  “You mean that?”

  “Yeah, I
mean it,” Ellis said.

  “Then you stay, Tom,” Dessler said. “We’ll put you someplace where you can cover the trail, and then I’ll put another M-14 on the other side. I think some of them will make it to the trail.”

  Ellis shrugged. There was no other real alternative. He could hardly rush the Viet Cong encampment on one leg.

  Dessler found a place by the trail where he could rest the M-14 on a fallen log and left him there. He returned in several minutes and sketched the trail and the location of the encampment with a stick in the dirt.

  “Franz is here,” he said, pointing, “so make sure you keep your fire to the left of him. I sent a couple of ARVNs around on the other side, in case they head deeper into the forest. But I don’t think they will. If they run, I think they’ll run for the trail.”

  “Okay,” Ellis said. “Go do it.”

  It seemed like a very long time before there was any sound but the creaking of limbs in the forest. Ellis’s foot and leg felt more and more on fire, and when he felt (he didn’t want to look) his trouser leg, it was moist with blood that had soaked the bandage.

  Then there came the sound of grenades, muffled by the thick vegetation. There was first one grenade and then five or six more almost at once. Fifteen seconds after that, another continuous rumble of grenades lasted perhaps three seconds.

  Then the faint sound of shouting, a pained scream, and the drumbeat of M-14 rounds, rapid-fire but not full automatic.

  Then came, perhaps thirty seconds later, two separate bursts of three or four rounds each. Then the peculiar sound of an AK-47, firing full automatic, answered by a barrage of M-14 fire.

  Then silence.

  Then the sound of someone crashing through the forest, toward him.

  He could see nothing. He couldn’t even see the front sight of the M-14. He moved the lever to full automatic. There was a surprisingly loud click. If he was going to get a shot in, it would be for a fraction of a second, and he might as well throw as many rounds as he could as quickly as he could.

  And then there were shadows moving out there.

  He had the sudden chilling doubt that maybe they were his people.