Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family

by M. T. Hallgarth

  We had a mission.

  “Hi, good buddy – how you doing,” Phil had greeted me as I had entered into his small office, which had been unusually reeking of strong smelling cigarette smoke.

  Unusual, because of its distinct heavy pungent aroma. It had instantly reminded me of the smell of a certain brand of French cigarette…Gauloises; made from a blend of dark rich tobaccos from Syria and Turkey, which gave off a very strong and singular smell – but, at the time, I hadn’t given it a second thought.

  “I got your note,” I had responded, pulling up a chair and sitting down in front of his desk. From the breast pocket of my loose fitting combat tunic, I had taken out a packet of Pall Mall, tapping it on to the back of my hand to get one the cigarettes to pop up out of the opening torn in its top. Phil did not smoke. Lighting my cigarette up with my Zippo, I had drawn hard on it. “We’ve got a pickup, then,” I had commented, after exhaling a lung full of smoke.

  “You bettcha,” he had replied, and had pushed a transparent map case across his cluttered desk, towards me.

  While I had studied the maps, photographs and other items in the map case, Phil had outlined the mission. Just thirty kilometres inside Laos, intelligence had been received that there had been a mixed bag of allied POWs being held at an isolated remote compound: ‘Four of them, at the most.’ It had sounded pretty much routine, just like all the other extractions – straight in and straight back out again. And, apart from the empty compound and the corpses of the dead captors, no one was ever the wiser as to what had gone on. Phil had paused slightly at the end of his briefing, sucking air nosily through his nostrils – there had been something else.

  “Langley wants you to take someone with you on this op,” he had said at last, almost tentatively, giving a smile – a nervous smile.

  “Don’t take passengers, Phil,” I had replied, emphatically.

  “Ah, but…they are French Secret Service – French Ministry of Defence. They reckon that one of their own men is a being held captive, along with the others.”

  “Ah, but – nothing. I don’t care if he’s one of the three musketeers – he’s still a fucking passenger. And we don’t do passengers, Phil…not for Langley – not for anyone.”

  “He’d be a useful passenger though – he’s ex French Foreign Legion.”

  “No.”

  “As a favour to me – Langley will kill my ass if I don’t get him on this op,” Phil had pleaded. “Please….”

  “Ex French Foreign Legion,” I had pondered for a moment. “If he screws up – I’ll bury him,” I had finally relented.

  “Great – he’s just next door – I’ll just go and get him.” Having said that, Phil had gotten up from behind his desk and had disappeared through a side to door, to an adjoining office.

  “Bonjour Marteen, comment le diable vous est, Môn Ami?”

  I should have known – the strong distinctive smell of the stale Gauloises cigarette smoke.

  John-Luke had been dressed in US Marine fatigues and combat boots; to all intents and purposes, no different from any of the other American personal on the base…that is, apart from the gold earring that had been dangling down from his right ear – a golden sea horse with red ruby coloured eyes.

  “John-Luke, this is somewhat of a surprise,” I had said in greeting, half turning in my chair to face him. “I had no idea that you were French Secret Service.”

  “And I had no idea that you were the legendary ‘Những con quỷ im lặng’ – the ‘Silent Demon’, that I have heard so much about,” he had stepped forward and had extended out his right hand to me. “Enchanté pour faire votre connaissance.”

  “And I am delighted to make your acquaintance, too,” I had replied, taking hold of his extended hand and shaking it firmly. “Nice earring,” I had commented.

  “Why, thank you – you’re too kind,” John-Luke had given me a wry smile. “It had belonged to a sea fairing friend of mine but, alas, he has no use for it now,”

  “Loose an ear?” I had returned his smile.

  “No – Au contraire – he lost them both in a rather unfortunate accident,” had come the soft reply as he had sat down in a chair, next to mine.

  It had been with some obvious relief that Phil had found that introductions had gone well. “You guys know each other, then?” he had asked.

  “Yes,” I had replied. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Yes – we have common interests,” John-Luke had added. “And could even develop yet more.”

  Briefing over, from Phil’s office, I had taken John-Luke down the stairs into the hanger, in the direction of our billet.

  “I hope that you are going to show me the sights of Phu Bai, tonight – perhaps introduce me to some hot little hooch girls?” he had asked as we had made our way through an assortment of stacked crates and containers. Taking out a pack of Gauloises, he had offered them to me.

  “No,” I had replied, taking the offered packet of French cigarettes – crushing them in my hand.

  “Baiser!” John-Luke had cursed, a puzzled frown creasing his brow.

  “No – we are all confined to base until after the mission,” I had informed him.

  “But the mission is two days away,” he had exclaimed. “How am I going to possibly manage without my little bit of ‘des pus’?”

  But it would not just be ‘pussy’ that he would be going without. For the next thirty-six hours, prior to the mission dusting off mid-day on the Tuesday, the team would not only be restricted to base, but also restricted to what it consumed, as well.

  La Légion had a maxim that ‘You are what you eat. You are what you drink. You are what you fuck – and the stench of it all will precede you into battle.’ In its broadest terms, the body will secrete a personal odour based on what you have consumed during a period of twenty-four to thirty-six hours, beforehand. And, if this odour is detected by your enemy or target, it could well be the death of you. The odour is not only carried in your breath, but in your sweat, your piss and your shit, as well. Prior to going out on field training missions, with La Légion, we would fast and abstain from all pleasures, from twenty-four to thirty-six hours before the mission. I have, and still do, religiously follow that discipline, turning it into my advantage – many men have died because I had had scent of them, long before they had sight of me.

  For the next thirty-six hours, the team would spend their time resting, fasting and detoxing, starting with a simple evening meal, cooked by Cookie. He had served up bowls of hot streaming Bún chả; a simple dish of grilled pork and noodles, served over a bed of bean sprouts and water chestnuts, with chopped up egg rolls and shrimp, but none of the usual herbs or garlic – it had been left intentionally bland. It did have one additional ingredient though, a liberal amount of Senokot granules; a mild natural laxative, sprinkled liberally over the dish…needed to ensure that the team’s bowels had been fully purged – you should never go to battle on a full stomach; an empty stomach reduces the ability to ‘fill your pants’ either intentionally, or unintentionally. The meal had been washed down with water – no juice, coke of coffee; or anything else that would be likely to cause an unnatural odour. Fortunately, there had been four latrines attached to the bunk room, so there had been no desperate queues that following morning, when the effect of the Senokot had worked its way through – pardon the pun. The entire team had been spent the following day, the Monday, resting in their bunks, reading or playing cards. No smoking and, other than water, no drinking. Food had been restricted to precooked strips of beef, chicken and other meat, wrapped in banana plant leaves to keep moist. Being just protein, it had taken longer for the acids of the stomach to breakdown and digest; effectively slowing down the metabolism of the digestive tract and greatly reducing, if not removing altogether, the need for bowl movements over a short period of time – even days! The other benefit of slowing down the digestive system, in this way, was the sensation of feeling full that it had given – which, in turn, had dimin
ished hunger pangs. This may have all sounded very excessive for what should have been only a four hour mission, tops – but I have been on four hours missions that have lasted four days! We had also washed and showered frequently, exclusively using non-scented medical soap to try and neutralise our individual natural body odours, as best we could.

  John-Luke had settled in very well with the rest of the members of the unit; he had a natural gregarious charm, which had made him instantly likeable. I had thought that he might have fervently objected to all the resting, fasting and detoxing but no, on the contrary, apparently he had been subject to a similar regime of abstinence when he had been in the French Foreign Legion. I had queried him about that; as far as I had known, French nationals were not allowed to join the Foreign Legion.

  “Dual nationality, Môn Ami,” he had replied. “I have both British and French passports. I got called up to do my two year national service with the French Military, at eighteen, just after I had finished at Eaton,” he had continued. “Enjoyed it so much that I went and signed up for the Foreign Legion, as a British subject.”

  “And the French Secret Service?” I had asked.

  “Ah – that’s a secret,” he had smiled and winked back at me, as he had turned over in his bunk to go to sleep.

  Time to sleep for us all – busy day tomorrow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Huey had stood on its skids, immediately outside the hanger doors, fuelled and ready to go. With all its markings and identity painted out, stripped of its door mounted M60 general purpose machine guns, this had been our personal ‘slick’ – our very own magic carpet.

  That morning, instead of loading empty packing cases and boxes, we had loaded but two cases; one filled with medical supplies, medical equipment and a pack of neatly folded body bags; the other had contained our individual weapons – once in the air, we would tool up and ‘lock and load’. Slightly before 1130 hours, we had taken off, skirting low over the airport boundary, before heading west in the direction of the A Shau Valley. During the war, the A Shau Valley had been one of the key entry points for men and materials, brought in along the Ho Chi Minh Trail by the Vietcong and North Vietnamese Regular Army. A lot of people, on both sides, had died in heavy fighting there. In the spring of ’74, it had been a route that we had regularly flown with our fictitious cargo and loads. So, there had been nothing unusual or out of the ordinary that particular day – other than we would not be stopping at the border with Laos!

  With Tom at his side, Jerry had been had been at the controls of the Huey, taking the helicopter nice and low, hugging the contours of the hills and the valleys, skimming the tops of the trees and stands of green bamboo. We had probably been no more than five minutes into Laos when we had been fired on. With a sound like pebbles being thrown up from a dirt road on to the underside of a car, the rounds had struck the front lower Perspex of the flight deck, piercing the thick plastic and entering into the confined space of the cockpit.

  “STATUS CHECK!” I had barked out as the Huey had lurched slightly.

  The confirmation back from the team in the main cabin had been instantaneous, in harmonic unison they sang out their emphatic: “Oorah”

  “I’ll take a lookie see up front,” Burl had offered, he had been seated closest to the pilots.

  But from where I had been sitting, it had not looked at all good – the floor and ceiling of the cockpit area had been covered in blood, and the instrument panel had been lit up with a host of red warning lights. Briefly, Burl had quickly confirmed the situation with Jerry, before checking out Tom, the co-pilot – who had been slumped forward in his harness.

  “Well?” I had asked.

  “Not good, Boss,” Burl had looked very solemn. “Tom’s taken a round through his jaw and its gone straight through the top of his helmet – he’s gone.”

  “Jerry, is Jerry OK?”

  “Yea – he says he’s good. He says he’s taken some shrap in his butt, but he reckons he’s still good to fly,” Burl had replied. “The hydraulics are all shot up and were losing pressure to the controls. Jerry says that he’s got to get this bird straight down while he’s still got some controls left.”

  “Stay with him. Take care of him – and help him land this slick,” I had instructed.

  “You got it – Boss,” Burl had confirmed before moving up front. Using his combat knife, he had cut the straps restraining the body of Tom to the co-pilots seat, gently lifting him free and, equally gently, laying him down on to the cabin floor.

  “BRACE POSITIONS!” I had shouted out above the heavy rhythmic whooshing sound of the Huey’s rotor blades.

  But there had been no need for us to take up crash positions. Despite the loss of hydraulic pressure, and being severely wounded, Jerry had landed the Huey as if it had just been routine.

  “Burl, you see to Jerry and then get this bird checked out for flight status,” I had ordered.

  “You got it – Boss.”

  “Merl, you see if you can fix the hydraulics – get this bird ready to go.”

  “Oorah – I’m straight on to it.”

  “Cookie, you set us up a perimeter.”

  “Sure thing – Poppa San,” Cookie had replied, tossing his head back to flick a wave of his jet black hair from off his face, before jumping out of the Huey…John-Luke had worn a black sweat band to keep his hair in place, the rest of us olive green bandanas – but not so Cookie; he liked to have hair free and flowing.

  No sooner had Cookie leapt clear of the Huey, than a solitary shot had rung out, immediately followed by what had looked like a large black rat jumping into the Huey and scurrying across the cabin floor, leaving a trail of blood behind it. I had instantly recognised the distinctive high velocity crack of a French MAS-36, 7.5mm carbine. And I had instantly recognised the rat – it had been the top of Cookies skull, complete with a shock of thick jet black hair.

  “Burl – Merl – you give us covering fire,” I had quickly shouted out, throwing across my Colt Commando assault rifle to John-Luke, him catching it deftly in his right hand. “You go right and I’ll go left,” I had dictated to him – no time to discuss the matter.

  As soon as Burl and Merl had started to lay down covering fire, John-Luke and I had exited the Huey…John-Luke to the right – me to the left, just pausing long enough to snatch up Cookies CAR15 carbine. Zigzagging, in a low running crouch, I had cut off left across the clearing into mixed vegetation, comprising of bushes and long grass. Behind me, had come the reassuring sound of covering fire, from Burl and Merl. As I had run, I had chambered a round in Cookie’s CAR15…following standard US Military practice, he would not have knowingly carried a firearm with ammunition in the breach – it would have been contrary to standing orders. Conversely, though, I hadn’t warned John-Luke that my carbine had been chambered, but he would find that out as soon as he had pulled the slide back. At worst, it would eject the unfired round, replacing it with another – no big deal.

  Simultaneously, John-Luke and I had come upon the two peasant farmers – for that’s all they had been. Dressed only in raggedy shorts, they had been crouched down low, avoiding the tiny 5.56mm rounds, which Burl and Merl had been firing at them. The one nearest to me had held a French MAS carbine over his head, as if it was affording him some protection from the stinging hornets flying about him. The other, the one nearest John-Luke, had been trying to do the same, protecting his head with a Chinese built AK-47. With their heads down – they did not even see us. From either side, completely unnoticed, John-Luke and I had closed in on them. At about three or four metres away, I had put a short burst of two rounds into the head of the farmer nearest me. John-Luke fired an equally short burst into the head of his target. There had been no need to check for life signs; the pinkie-white tissue of brain matter, forced out through jagged tears in their skulls, had been sufficient verification of their demise. Disarming them, we had taken the firing bolts out of both weapons, throwing them out as far as we could into t
he grass, quickly followed by the guns, themselves.

  On returning back to the Huey, I had been saddened to find that three black body bags had been neatly laid out, on the cabin floor.

  “We lost Jerry?” I had asked Burl and Merl, who had been waiting outside the cargo door of the Huey.

  “Fraid so, Boss. He’d taken a hit to his femoral artery in his thigh – nothing I could do to stop the flow,” As if to demonstrate his point, Burl had lifted both his hands up for me to see. Both had been covered in blood up to his elbows. “Jerry just went and bled out,” Burl had added, emotion in his voice.

  “Yep, he did real good in getting us down,” Merl had added.

  One of the black body bags had seemed to have a bulbous mass, at one end of it. “Is that Cookie or Tom?” I had asked.

  “Tom,” Merl had replied. “Didn’t much like taking his helmet offer him – it seemed to be the only thing holding his god damned head together.”

  “And the bird – what’s the status,” I had inquired, nodding to the Huey.

  “Oh – it’s good to go,” Merl had answered, a resemblance of a smile flashing across the lips of this quite son of Indiana. “Just a few of the hydraulic pipes a bitty shot up. But I fixed um up as good as new. And I went and topped up the hydraulics from the reserve reservoirs.”