Whites were dumb. He remembered cruising down Highway 75, just south of River Rouge, and picking up white teenagers who were running away from home and hitchhiking out to the hippie mecca called California to join communes and fuck all day long. Whites were dumb. It was only a matter of persuading them to get into the van, and then there would be a half-dozen of them pushing and shoving to choose from. It seemed like every intersection of the highway had a group of hippies waiting for rides. He liked the blond ones with the light blue eyes the best. Malcolm had told them that those were the ones who grew up to be the worst white devils, and it was best to kill them early, before they could do harm to the pure black folk.
Whites were dumb. He knew of five white teenagers who would never return to their homes in Detroit from their hippie pilgrimages to California; that was the number of whites it took to become a Death Angel.
Yes, when Malcolm Pride had entered James’s life, everything had taken its proper place, and he became very useful to someone. What Mohammed James had never realized, and probably never would, was that his great friend Malcolm Pride had seen in him what even the most incompetent psychologist would have instantly detected: that here was a psychopathic killer who, even had he lived in all-black Africa, would still have killed for pleasure. Knowing this, Malcolm channeled the hate to white people and gave James a cause and a reason to kill by being a Death Angel for the Moslem movement.
The NVA officer spoke sharply now to his junior leaders, and the company started preparing to move out of their break site. There was a noticeable difference in the way the soldiers acted. The lackadaisical attitude of the troops was gone. The soldiers, who had been carrying their weapons by their barrels over their shoulders, now carried the weapons at the ready. James knew they were crossing into South Vietnam’s A Shau Valley. Lieutenant Van Pao had briefed him before he left the POW camp that an American battalion had moved into the A Shau, and she was almost sure that it was a unit from the First Cavalry Division, his old outfit.
Mohammed James took his position ten meters out in front of the NVA point element and began earning his keep.
Corporal Barnett lay in the bamboo cage where the guards had left him. He barely moved, and when he did, a groan escaped his throat. The bottoms of his feet were raw, and his arches were so bruised that it would be weeks before he could walk without limping. The blows James had given him across his testicles had caused both genital glands to swell to triple their normal size. His scrotum had been cut and oozed a mixture of blood and other body fluid. There would be scars on Spencer’s buttocks when the deep cuts finally healed… if he lived.
Colonel Garibaldi kept eyeing Barnett’s cage every time he had a chance to pass it or work near the cages. The guards had been instructed to forbid him to administer to the teenager’s wounds until after their supper meal, and then they would allow him to stay with him in the cage for only a half-hour. Garibaldi spent the day gathering anything that he might be able to use on Spencer: pieces of cloth for bandages, sticks for splints. He even begged a small bottle of liquid Chinese aspirin off one of the older guards.
The small Montagnard boy reached through the bamboo bars and lifted Spencer’s head just enough to pour the thick monkey meat stew down his throat. The effect of the high-protein food was almost immediate on the starving man. Barnett’s eyes fluttered, and his mouth kept moving like that of a small baby when its bottle was removed before it had finished nursing. The boy looked constantly around the cage for any approaching guards. He then pulled a dirty Vietnamese perfume bottle out of his loincloth waistband. He looked back across the pungi stake barrier and saw that his grandfather was watching from the porch. The opium-brewed pain reliever burned and tasted bitter against Spencer’s tongue, but the numbing effect of the powerful drug was almost immediate. Spencer felt a hand tugging at the drawstring of his black peasant pants and a sharp pain as the trousers were tugged down, breaking the scabs of his wounds that had dried against the material. The boy worked swiftly, rubbing the salve deep into all of Spencer’s wounds. An old Montagnard woman had made the opium-based ointment by boiling the sap down and mixing it with animal fat and jungle plants. The ointment did a number of things to the wounds that enabled Spencer to fall asleep.
The Bru chieftain’s grandson slipped the empty perfume bottle back into his waistband and dropped down in the shadows next to Barnett’s cage. He was taking a great risk and knew the guard would kill him without question if he was caught near the American soldier, but his grandfather’s orders were to be obeyed without fear. The Ae Die liked good deeds, and his grandfather was a close friend of the mountain spirit. He would be protected from evil.
Colonel Garibaldi was shocked to see Spencer awake when he returned from his work detail. He had feared all day long that he would be burying the young soldier when he returned.
Barnett tried smiling, but failed. “Are you working half-days now, Colonel?”
The older man grabbed the bamboo bars and pressed his face up against the smooth fibers. “How are you feeling?” Garibaldi blinked back the tears. Spencer looked so helpless lying on his stomach. “I was a little worried about you this morning.”
“I’m a little buzzed….”
“What?” Garibaldi became alarmed.
“One of the Montagnard kids brought me a little jug of what I think was dope. It sure has stopped the pain…. And then he rubbed some greasy stuff all over my ass…” Spencer wasn’t ashamed and continued talking, “and nuts…. Whatever it was, it works. The pain is gone.”
Colonel Garibaldi could see that Spencer’s eyes weren’t focusing like they should and figured the Montagnards had drugged the young soldier so that he could rest and start healing. The risks that they took in approaching the American POW cages in bright daylight were tremendous. The colonel turned around slowly, knowing that the guard was watching him, and looked across the pungi stake clearing to where an old Montagnard and a small nine-year-old boy sat watching him from the porch of their longhouse. The American colonel checked to see what the guard was doing and saw that the NVA soldier was reading a letter from home. Garibaldi placed his palms together against his chest and tilted the top half of his body forward in an Oriental sign of great respect to the old man. The boy whispered something in the nearsighted old man’s ear, and the Bru chieftain smiled a betel-nut–stained grin and nodded his head in the direction of the Americans.
The squad leader was the first one to sight the American soldier walking down the center of the trail. He blinked his eyes rapidly to clear his vision and confirmed that the man he saw was a black American. The sergeant didn’t take the time to wonder what a lone GI was doing walking down a trail deep in NVA-held territory. He waited until the soldier drew near to his hidden position and called out softly, “What in the hell are you doing here?”
James was startled and took a step sideways before catching himself. He spoke loud enough for the NVA point element to hear him. “Man! Am I glad to see you! I got fucking lost!”
“Quiet!” The sergeant lifted up a little higher from his prone position and looked down the trail in the direction of Laos. “This fucking place is crawling with NVA.”
James kept trying to locate the rest of the sergeant’s patrol hidden in the jungle, but couldn’t even find the man nearest to the NCO. The NVA company had nearly walked into a perfect claymore ambush. “Naw… I just came from that way…” James pointed down the trail, “and there ain’t anything hostile for a couple clicks at least.”
“Who are you with?” The sergeant remained in his camouflaged position.
“The Cav…”
“So are we… Second Brigade?”
“No… I’m with the First Brigade’s Recon Company….”
“Get your ass in here and off the trail.” The sergeant waved for James to join him.
The NVA point heard James talking in English and figured that he had run into an American element. The NVA company began maneuvering around the area.
&n
bsp; “You’re wasting your time on this trail…. My recon team has worked this area for the last three days, and we haven’t seen any sign of NVA.”
“Yeah? We’ve been out here since last night and are about ready to pull back to the battalion’s perimeter.” The sergeant automatically nodded his head in the direction the Cavalry unit was bivouacked.
James felt his stomach roll. An American battalion could maul the NVA company he was with in a matter of minutes. “How far?”
The sergeant pulled an ant off his cheek and looked at it before crushing the insect between his fingers. “A couple hundred meters… Well, if you just came from that direction and say it’s clear, we might as well break this ambush.” The sergeant whistled softly and called to his men. A minute passed with the Americans signaling to one another that it was all clear. The squad left the protection of the jungle and eased out onto the trail. James was impressed with how well they were camouflaged and how disciplined they were.
“Man, you’ve got a good team!” James smiled as he complimented the sergeant. “I didn’t even suspect that you were here.”
“Thanks; I work hard at keeping my men alive…. We might die in this fucking war, but it won’t be because I made a stupid mistake.”
“I know whatcha mean.” James turned his head away from the NCO so he couldn’t see his malignant smile.
The squad worked smoothly, breaking apart the claymore ambush and rolling up the wires to the antipersonnel mines. Within five minutes the ambush site was clean and the men were ready to leave. The sergeant walked silently along the edge of the trail through the old ambush kill zone and signaled for his men to follow him and James. A couple of the men gave James a curious look, but none of them broke silence. There would be plenty of time to ask questions when they got back inside of the battalion’s perimeter.
James noticed that there were only seven men in the squad counting the sergeant, which was normal for Vietnam units, considering that men were constantly going on R and R and sick call from the field; most infantry companies operated about thirty percent short.
The cracking sound of the first AK-47 dropped the squad down on the ground. A barrage of small-arms fire followed. The American squad maneuvered quickly on their stomachs and formed a skirmish line to return fire. James dropped down on one knee and shot the soldier nearest to him. He killed two more before the NCO turned around and saw him.
“You motherfucking—” The sergeant died before he could finish the sentence.
James pulled the bright red bandana from his pocket and tied it around his forehead as the prearranged signal to the NVA troops that he was one of them. A soft sound caught James’s attention through the din of gunfire, and he looked in the direction it had come from. A black soldier, the only black assigned to the sergeant’s squad, was crawling toward the battalion perimeter. James lowered his CAR-15 and hesitated. He let the weapon hang from its sling and ran to catch up to the man.
“Where in the fuck are you going?” James dropped down on his knees next to the soldier.
“Back to the perimeter to get some help.… Man, there’s hundreds of fucking gooks out there!” The soldier was afraid, but not terrified.
“Did you see anything?” James’s voice was threatening.
“Yeah, man! Gooks! Now let go of my fucking arm!” The soldier pulled free from James’s grip.
“Good… You go back to battalion for help, and I’m going to check and see if we have any wounded.”
The black soldier looked at James as if he had flipped his lid. “Fucking fine with me!”
James watched the soldier crawl for another ten meters and then jump to his feet and start running. He should have killed him too, but killing black brothers wasn’t why he had joined up with the NVA.
The black soldier ran toward his company’s portion of the perimeter, where the guards had been alerted and knew that one of their rifle squads would be coming through from the night ambush. The soldier felt his back muscles tighten as he anticipated the bullets from James’s CAR-15. He had seen James kill the sergeant and two more of his squad in cold blood.
“Halt!” The challenge came from a log-roofed fighting bunker on the side of a slight rise in the jungle floor.
“Barker! Second squad! Coming through!” The black soldier didn’t slow down his stride and flipped into the closest foxhole he could find. “NVA! Hundreds of them!”
An M-60 light machine gun started barking a couple of holes down from the black soldier, and then a claymore detonated a few meters away before the familiar cracking from NVA AK-47s answered them.
The platoon leader slid into Barker’s foxhole, followed by his radio operator. “What’s out there, Barker?”
“Man, sir… you aren’t going to fucking believe this shit!” Barker took a deep breath and quickly told the lieutenant what had happened to his squad.
* * *
The land-line telephone rang in Lieutenant Van Pao’s office twice before she answered the call. It was the division’s intelligence officer. He informed her that he would be visiting her camp in two days, and he wanted to personally interrogate the young American POW who was causing her so much trouble. The division commander wanted to know where the secret sensors were located, and he wanted the information before they started their big push into the A Shau Valley the following week.
She was in a very bad mood when James entered her office wearing NVA pants and shirt.
“How do you like my new belt, Lieutenant?” James grabbed the gold belt buckle with the red star centered in it and tilted the shiny metal fastener for her to see.
“Very nice, soldier.” Van Pao didn’t look up from the papers on her desk. “I called you here to tell you that a colonel from Division is coming to visit us, and he hates Americans. Stay out of his way, and when you meet him, show respect, or he’ll kill you on the spot.”
“Did he hear about my patrol?” James was smiling.
“Yes—that’s why you’re still alive.” Lieutenant Van Pao had had enough conversation with James. “Now go.” She nodded back toward the door. Mohammed James was a great coup for her, and he was gaining a reputation even as high as corps level. What bothered her most was that he could betray his own people and enjoy doing it.
“Lieutenant?”
“Yes!”
“Could I take Garibaldi and Barnett down to the river today?”
Lieutenant Van Pao thought for a minute and then decided that it would be a good idea to let Barnett swim in the river and enjoy himself; directly after, she would make her last attempt at breaking him before the division staff officer arrived at her camp. “Yes, take them and some guards; with the Americans so close to us in the A Shau Valley, they might send a patrol over here in neutral Laos.”
“I’ll have them back early.” James pressed his lips together and frowned. He loved taking the other two Americans down to the river to bathe. The experience gave him a sense of power, especially with Garibaldi being a full bird colonel and Barnett hating blacks so much. The games he played with them were mostly brain games and didn’t do much harm, but he would get the guards to beat them if they didn’t obey him.
A pair of armed NVA soldiers led the way down to the river where a shallow sun-heated pool made a perfect giant bathtub. The soldiers were happy because they enjoyed cooling off in the river as much as the prisoners did. Barnett didn’t dare look back, but he knew that James was right behind him. Garibaldi had to help him hobble down the path.
“Let’s move it faster!” James made a point out of “accidentally” kicking Barnett’s heel.
A muffled scream left the younger soldier’s throat. His feet were just beginning to heal and were still extremely sore.
“Something wrong with you, Spence?” James used the nickname Woods had found for him back at An Khe base camp.
Barnett continued hobbling. Garibaldi could feel that the young soldier had shifted more of his weight to him. “We’re almost there….”
James tripped Garibaldi and sent both of the POWs rolling down the dew-covered embankment. “Who said you could talk, Colonel?”
“No one, sir… Sorry, sir.” Garibaldi had been a POW long enough to know what James was looking for, and he wasn’t going to give him any reason to beat him or Barnett.
“You’re damn right! Say sir again.”
“Sir.”
“That sounds good…. Maybe you’ll be able to call me General James one of these days…. If I kill enough Americans, they just might promote me to a general.” This was the first time that James had admitted killing American soldiers to anyone except the NVA.
Garibaldi squeezed Barnett’s arm to warn him to keep quiet and not piss James off. Barnett was sharp enough to realize that James had made a very bad error in bragging about killing his fellow GIs, unless James didn’t think Garibaldi or he would live to tell anyone about it.
The Rao Lao River appeared through the thick underbrush and gave Garibaldi a chance to change the subject. “Sir?”
“Huh?” Mohammed James glared over at the Air Force fighter pilot.
“Is it all right, sir, for Spencer and me to use the shallow part of the pool first?” Garibaldi lowered his eyes to the ground as he waited for James’s answer.
“Why?”
“So Barnett can soak his feet in the cool water under those trees.”
“Yeah… go ahead.”
Colonel Garibaldi helped Spencer over to the shade-cooled water and assisted the soldier. It really didn’t matter what temperature the water was, but Garibaldi knew that the NVA guards liked the deeper end of the pool, especially when they came to the giant tub with James, who enjoyed walking around the rocks naked. The shorter NVA soldiers could be waist deep in the water and have some privacy.
Two of the NVA took up positions overlooking the bathers, with angry looks thrown at those who had won the card cutting to determine who would be first in the water.
Garibaldi waited until James had joined the NVA soldiers in the deep end before talking to Spencer. “They’re up to something, Spence. The guards were whispering all day today, and every time I drew close to them they would stop talking until I left.”
P. O. W. Page 5