by D. B. Silvis
Killian didn’t say anything. He was thinking about the time he had spent with the Montagnards, fighting along the South Vietnam border, protecting the static camps. The Montagnards were brave, fearless fighters, and he knew the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese Army would find a more worthy opponent up in the Central Highland Mountains.
Two weeks later, Killian returned and checked into the Brink Hotel in Saigon. The hotel was known as the Brink Bachelors Officers Quarters, as officers, non-commissioned officers and civilian military personnel made up most of the guests. The six-story building, with its one hundred and ninety-three rooms, was popular, as its food and drinks were highly regarded. In addition, it had a special seating area on the roof for the showing of nightly movies.
One evening, after dinner, Killian visited the well-known rooftop lounge at the Saigon Caraville Hotel. It was a popular watering hole for military personnel and wartime reporters. As usual, the lounge was crowded, but Killian found an empty barstool and ordered a scotch and soda. While he sipped on his drink, he looked in the bar’s mirror at the happy crowd behind him, who were talking, drinking and laughing. Then a familiar face appeared in the mirror. Killian turned around quickly.
“Connor, it’s good to see you.”
The two men shook hands.
“You too, Killian, I thought by now you’d have left this shit hole and gone stateside.”
They both laughed as Killian took in Connor’s new uniform.
“What’s up with the new rags and stripes?”
“I’m no longer a cargo master. I recently transferred. I’m now a staff sergeant in the Forward Air Control, working as an aerial observer.”
“Well, you said you wanted out from under the CIA. Do you like being an observer?”
“It’s interesting, and more dangerous, but I’m glad I transferred.”
“Conner, flying over Laos was darn dangerous, how’s this more dangerous?”
“Follow me. I’ve got a table over by the window. I’ll tell you all about it.”
Killian picked up his drink and they walked over to a two-top and sat down.
“I heard the Forward Air Control was short of observers, so I checked into it. It turned out I was already qualified, as I knew mapping, weather, terrain and coordinates, and could handle being a radio operator. The big plus was I already had top-secret clearance. So I was accepted and transferred.”
“What exactly does an observer do?” asked Killian.
“I’m assigned to an officer who’s an experienced pilot. We fly in a Cessna 0-1 Bird Dog. It’s a slow, propeller-driven plane with only a front and back seat. I’m a backseat reconnaissance aerial observer. We look for enemy encampments, and we call in air strikes or mark targets for destruction with white phosphorus. We don’t carry any firepower, as the plane is too light.”
“Damn, Connor, that’s got to be dangerous as hell.”
“It is, but not as bad as you’d think because most of the time, unless we spot the enemy, they don’t fire at us as they don’t want to give up their location. It’s difficult to see them as we’re looking down through double or triple canopy.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means double or triple foliage growth,” Connor explained. “The coverage makes it hard to see their encampments.”
“I guess that’s the reason for the herbicide spraying I’ve heard about,” said Killian.
“Yes, but not only for us, it’s for the ground troops who are fighting in the jungle. It’s called Operation Ranch Hand; the Air Force is flying C-123s fitted with specially developed spray tanks.”
“Is it helping?”
“Yes. It’s very effective,” Connor assured him.
“I still think you’re a sitting duck up there, Connor, with all the firepower the enemy has from the ground.”
Connor laughed. “Talking of birds, the closest we came to being knocked out of the sky was by a large fruit bat.”
“A bat, how could a little bat knock down a plane?”
“The fruit bats over here have been known to bring down a C-123. You really have to be on the lookout so as not to crash into one, Killian. The damn things are huge. Some have a wing span of five feet.”
Killian took a drink. “I gotta see one of those friggin’ things.”
“Well, if you ever go up to the Central Highlands, you will,” assured Connor.
“I was up there last year, near the border, but I never saw one.”
“You need to be near their caves in the mountains.”
“Then maybe I’ll see them this time. I’m headed back, as soon as I can arrange a lift.”
Connor finished his drink, waved the waiter over, and ordered another round.
“My captain and I are going back to the highlands, to the Pleiku Air Base, in a couple of days. Maybe I could find a Bird Dog pilot who’s here without his observer. You could hitch a ride.”
“That would be great, Connor.”
“Right, Killian. And in the meantime, let’s see if we can have some fun in this big, dirty, noisy and wide open city.”
Three days later, two Cessna 0-1 Bird Dogs left Saigon for the Pleiku Air Force Base. When they landed, Connor took Killian to his hooch, a hut in the Military Assistance Command Vietnam compound, which was just off the main base.
“I think you’re crazy, Killian,” said Connor, “but if you want to connect with the Special Services, you’re in the right place. The mountains of Pleiku are the home of the Montagnards, and this is where the indigenous tribes are training to help organize a defense, here in the highlands, against the advancing North Vietnamese.”
“I traveled and fought with them before, but it was in strategic hamlets south of here.”
“Believe me; things have changed over the past year, Killian.”
Over the next four days, Killian made contact with different Special Forces training groups to see if he could hook up with one of them. The new teams of Montagnards being trained were going to be trailblazers, as very little of the Central Highland terrain had been mapped.
During the early part of the evenings, Killian became friendly with the Montagnard soldiers. As planned, he did rope tricks and, in fun, would lasso and hog-tie some of the Yards, who enjoyed running and jumping in an effort to dodge Killian’s lariat. The Yards were impressed with Killian’s skill with the lariat and lasso. They were amazed at how quickly he could hog-tie those he lassoed. Many of them tried to copy Killian’s roping maneuvers, but were not successful, as they would get tangled up in the rope. They’d laugh and dance around like kids in a school yard. To them, Killian was just like the cowboys they had seen in western movies. By the third day, they were calling Killian “Cowboy Red”.
Late every night, the base was shelled and rocketed. The mortar shells and rockets weren’t, however, aimed at any particular installation within the compound or air base. The main purpose of the nightly attacks was simply to annoy, and keep everyone awake all night. It was harassment and interdiction, and it worked.
On the third night Killian was there, things changed when Viet Cong gooks attacked and threatened to overrun the compound. The officer on duty called for the Spooky Gun Ship, a helicopter that flew in a circular pattern over the compound. The helicopter was equipped with two Gatling guns, one mounted at each of the side doors of the aircraft; each gun fired a thousand-plus rounds per minute. Every round was a red tracer leaving the aircraft, it was like watching a fireworks show on the fourth of July. Connor and Killian hunkered down and watched the continuous stream of red streaks flashing to the ground. Killian knew gooks were dying, as they were being driven away, but he still thought it was a beautiful and incredible sight.
When it was over, Connor laughed. “Some goddamn show, huh, Killian? It’s kinda like it would be if alien flying saucers shot death rays at us.”
Killian smiled but didn’t comment.
As they walked back to the hooch, Connor glanced toward Camp Holloway, which was two miles
away. It was a new helicopter base, at an elevation of twenty-five hundred feet.
“That’s the home of the 81st Transportation Company. They’re being re-equipped with the UH-1 ‘Huey’ helicopter, and they’re going to be a new assault helicopter company,” he informed Killian.
“That has got to be the best way to move troops and supplies up here, Connor.”
“No question. It’s going to change warfare here in the Central Highlands.”
Connor started to chuckle as he pointed at Camp Holloway, which was situated on a mountain. The top of the mountain had a crevice.
“See that crevice, Killian? It resembles a pussy. We all call it Pussy Mountain,” he said, grinning.
Killian shook his head. “Connor, you’re weird.”
“Hey, no shit, Killian. That’s what everybody calls it.”
Not long afterward, Killian was able to hook up with a thirty-man strike force operating as a mountain surveillance and scout group. When the time came to set out, the strike force consisted of a Green Beret adviser, First Lieutenant Larry Wheeler, Sergeant Glun and twenty-eight Montagnards. Each of the Yards carried an M-16 rifle and an old Browning automatic rifle belt that carried thirty-six twenty-round magazines of ammunition. In their packs they carried a small M-79, forty-millimeter grenade launcher, a bandolier of high explosives and phosphorus grenades, some C-4 explosives, smoke grenades, a knife, water and food. It was a heavy load but they were well-conditioned and trained.
The adviser, Lieutenant Wheeler and Killian carried much the same equipment, except they had a Car-15, a collapsible version of the M-16 rifle. Killian was also carrying his lariats and a bolas that he had rigged with a quick clip on one end to which he could attach a napalm B grenade. In Vietnam both phosphorus and napalm bombs and grenades were used against the enemy. The white phosphorus grenades were in great supply and were the ones given to the troops. Killian, however, had gotten access to, and preferred, the newer napalm B grenades, as they were made of a mixture of polystyrene and benzene which formed a jellied gasoline. This stable mixture was safer than the chemical element of white phosphorus while being handled and thrown.
First Lieutenant Wheeler was a man of Killian’s stature, with sandy hair and a reddish-blond mustache. He wasn’t one of the by-the-book officers; he was knowledgeable in military tactics, disciplined and blessed with a good bit of commonsense. He had been in training with his Montagnard soldiers for the past two months. His Montagnard sergeant had been one of the first to join the CIA’s U.S. Army Special Forces, and had trained in the Civilian Irregular Defense Groups formed in 1961. Sergeant Glun, a wiry, muscular man close to six feet tall, had the admiration and respect of the younger Montagnard men. Killian soon found he liked traveling and fighting with Lieutenant Wheeler and the Montagnards.
On three occasions they were ambushed but warded off the insurgent VC, thus denying the enemy a source of food, intelligence and manpower. Killian didn’t, however, spot any sign of Blues fighting as Viet Cong. The group turned their attention toward the upper reaches of the Central Highlands, where they knew they would come in contact with the North Vietnamese Army.
The North Vietnamese Army was more active and abundant in the mountains. The strike force’s main objective was to seek out and destroy units of the NVA, who were setting up camps and patrolling in the highlands. The terrain was that of hilly jungle, with double and triple canopy, which often severely restricted vision. That led to surprise firefight attacks and hand-to-hand fighting. Killian discovered the Yards knew the bush well and could track anything over any kind of terrain. They could generally detect enemy troops in the forest long before the Americans could.
Two weeks later, however, while they were working their way back to the base and crossing over the peak of a high hill, they suddenly came face to face with a North Vietnamese Army patrol, which was coming up in the opposite direction. Rifle shots were fired and men from both sides went down. The two patrols rushed at each other, slugging it out hand-to-hand with rifle butts and knives. This was an advantage for the Yards, as close combat was second nature to them.
About twenty feet from him, Killian saw a gook knife-fighting with Sergeant Glun. The gook had blood gushing from his chest from a bullet wound, but he continued fighting. In a rush, Killian realized the gook was a Blue Warrior. He grabbed his lariat hanging from the right side of his belt, and ran at the Blue, while twirling the rope. He lassoed the North Vietnamese Blue around the shoulders and jerked him to the ground. The Warrior struggled trying to cut the rope. Killian quickly pounced on him and had him hog-tied in seconds. Sergeant Glun grinned, as he had seen Killian do it before, back at camp. Killian dragged the Blue down the hill, away from the others. Sergeant Glun rejoined the fight.
“Taglito Silaada!” yelled the Blue Warrior as he stared at his captor. Killian pulled the pin on the napalm B grenade, ran for cover and hit the ground.
Sergeant Glun looked over at Killian when he saw him running, thinking he was in trouble. Then the grenade exploded. There was a loud scream and the Blue Warrior was on fire. For a brief moment his body changed into that of a wolf standing on its hind legs and howling. Then there was a bright flash of blue light, followed by a ribbon of blue-white smoke ascending into the sky. Glun watched in amazement.
As Killian stood up, he saw another North Vietnamese soldier coming at him. He immediately recognized the soldier as a Blue Warrior. He grabbed the bolas from the left side of his belt and pulled the pin on the grenade. The Blue realized Killian had another grenade. He stopped and started to run in the opposite direction, but he was too late. By then, Killian had whirled the bolas and flung it at the Blue Warrior, catching him around the thighs. He tumbled to the ground. The Warrior was trying to get untangled from the bolas when the napalm B grenade exploded. His body was engulfed in flames and the NVA soldier, for the briefest moment, became a wolf standing on its hind legs and howling. The howl was cut short by another bright flash of blue light, followed by a ribbon of blue-white smoke that ascended skyward.
The fighting continued until the four gooks who were still alive surrendered. The Montagnards, who didn’t like to take prisoners, wanted to continue the fight, but Lieutenant Wheeler and the Green Beret adviser called a halt to the conflict.
The lieutenant called base for a helicopter pick up. A short time later, they heard the copters in the distance. Then they received the call to “pop a smoke” with a brightly colored smoke grenade to mark their landing zone, and provide wind information for the pilots. Soon two UH-1D helicopters landed. One was medevac-equipped, while the other was a ‘Hog’ as it carried rockets and had door gunners. They loaded the dead and wounded, as well as the four prisoners and the rest of the troops, then headed back to the main base at Pleiku. They left the dead North Vietnamese where they’d fallen. The enemy would need to bury their own dead.
Sergeant Glun never questioned Killian about the incident regarding the two North Vietnamese soldiers, but it was clear he now had new respect for, and a renewed interest in, the tall red-haired, bearded American.
Over the next few months, Killian went out on further patrols with Lieutenant Wheeler and the Montagnards, but he didn’t encounter another Blue Warrior until early in the fall.
On the fourteenth day of a seek-and-destroy mission, while they were crossing the side of a two thousand-foot mountain, Lieutenant Wheeler spotted smoke. He removed his binoculars and looked at the Green Beret adviser.
“There’s smoke coming from the far end of the valley,” he said, “Most likely an NVA camp.”
“It could be a small Montagnard village,” the adviser suggested.
“Yes, but even if it is, there’s a good chance the gooks are there. Let’s take a look.”
They wound their way down to the valley floor. At the base of the mountain, Lieutenant Wheeler had two of the Montagnards climb tall trees to get him information on what they could see. It was determined the smoke was coming from an area about a quarter mile down
the draw. It was difficult terrain, as there was heavy foliage. They ground was uneven as the draw sloped upward in three directions, and down in the other, affording little room to maneuver within its confines. The group moved carefully through the thick jungle foliage and over the uneven terrain to get to the area. As they came close to where the smoke had been seen, several shots were fired at them. No one was hit but they took cover for two minutes before pressing forward. No more shots were fired.
Shortly afterward, they came upon a small pond and an open area. They slowly circled what appeared to be an abandoned Montagnard village. There were four longhouses, burned-out cooking fires, pots with a bit of rice, and rifle cartridges lying on the ground, along with other miscellaneous items. As they looked around, more rifle shots were fired at them. Bullets ricocheted off the ground and the large cooking pots, but again no one was hit. They fell to the dirt and returned fire. When the shooting stopped they went into the jungle to pursue the enemy, who continued to shoot intermittently at them. The skirmish continued for about two hundred yards into the dense jungle, with the enemy firing at them and then retreating further up the valley.
Lieutenant Wheeler called to Sergeant Glun to cease the chase.
“Sergeant, I’ve heard stories about this NVA maneuver. I think they’re trying to set us up for an ambush by luring us onto a bigger force.”
“What do you want to do, sir?”
“We’ll retreat back up the mountain to high ground, where we can watch and see what they’re planning on doing. We don’t know if they’re forty or four hundred strong. It’s starting to get dark, and I sure as hell don’t want to get trapped down here.”
The group retreated hurriedly through the village and up the side of the mountain. In their haste, none of them noticed that Killian had stayed behind among the longhouses. His purpose in staying behind was twofold. With his ability to morph into a North Vietnamese soldier, he would be able to get into their camp and learn their strength. He would also be able to determine if there were any Blue Warriors among them. He removed his backpack, the lariat and the bolas. Then he opened the backpack, removed two napalm B grenades, and put them in his jacket pockets before morphing into a communist soldier and running to catch up with the enemy soldiers, who had been shooting at them.