The Village

by Bing West

  Half an hour later they heard voices and the jangling of equipment.

  The ambushers crawled closer together and slipped off their safeties.

  “Fire when I do,” McGowan hissed.

  On the path below a line of eight figures appeared, men walking haphazardly, with little space between them, their rifles dangling loosely. The scout strained forward to shoot.

  McGowan grabbed his arm and shook his head fiercely. The figures on the path trudged on and out of sight.

  “What’s the matter with you?” the scout whispered. “You chicken?”

  “Shut up and give me the radio,” McGowan replied.

  The sergeant called the company and asked if there were any friendly patrols slated for his map grid square that night. Told no, he asked for a check on the nearest patrol. The reply came back that one mile south the Fort Page unit had a patrol out. McGowan asked if it was eight men strong. The company checked. It was. And Swinford was the patrol leader.

  The next morning White and Swinford went to Charlie Company to see McGowan.

  “You almost killed me last night. You know that, don’t you?” Swinford demanded. “You were just plain lost and screwed up.”

  “Our guide got us lost, Swinford, but we weren’t screwed up. If we had been, you’d be dead,” McGowan said. “Have a beer, they’re cold.”

  “Why didn’t you shoot?” White asked.

  “No Cong would dope along the way those guys did. They’re too smart to do that.”

  The two sergeants talked for three hours, after which White dropped by to see Walker. He recommended McGowan as his relief.

  White’s departure was low-key. The night before he left he took out a patrol and on the day of his relief he rose early and walked to the marketplace, accepting quick, warm good-byes from several people and scores of children. When he returned to the fort, he shook hands all around, climbed into a waiting jeep and drove to company, where he had one last talk with McGowan, passing on information he did not want anyone else to hear.

  “Thanh’s definitely mean,” he said. “He hates. He lives only to kill VC. The people are afraid to death of crossing him. I keep the Marines out of that room when he starts to thump. He’s the only problem you might have among the Vietnamese, but there are a couple of Marines you better watch.——is a crazy drunk. Don’t let him near booze. He could kill somebody.——is into the Viet merchants for $300. I’ve cut off his credit in the village and in Nuoc Man and I’ve been collecting his pay for him. He lost most of his dough playing cards with——, who’s damn fine on patrol but I wouldn’t have him at my house for dinner. He’s a wild man in a firefight, but in the fort he looks out only for himself.

  “Those are your three problem children. The others are squared away. They know their way around this village and you don’t have to worry about guard duty. Everybody stays awake. Suong has a penalty for a PF who dozes off. He says he’s going to give the guy one grenade and drop him off alone the next morning across the river at the Phu Longs. I believe Suong would do it. So do the PFs. Any Marine who goes to sleep on duty in the fort is out of the unit.

  “There’s only one other thing. The latrine should be burned off twice a week—and everybody tries to duck out of that detail.”

  On January 9, 1967, Sergeant James D. White left the village of Binh Nghia. Before he reached home, his mother had received two letters. The first was written by Trao, the acting village chief of Binh Nghia. It read:

  TO SGT. J. D. WHITE FAMILY

  Today I write this letter to you. I hope when him leaving here you still remember me allways.

  My name is “trao,” second village chief working with Sgt. White and Sq. about 4 months ago. Our people thank him very much, because he is very good man. Evry day he is a few to sleep he works to much.

  All my cadre very happy. Sgt. White and his Sq. evry days evry night go to empust with P.F.

  My village no more V.C. Stay evry one here at Fort Page is very sad because of his departure, but at the same time is very happy for him, because here be able to go home to see his family.

  Sgt. White and Sq. work to hard at this duty station. They work very hard never look tired. If one of my people get seck or wtunded by V.C. Sgt. White makes it to a radio and calls a helicopter for help. A helicopter is very forte for removing the sick and wounded.

  My people are very poor and when to see a marine they are very happy. When V.C. come to people, people come and talk to Sgt. White so Sgt. White can talk to P.F. and marine to fight V.C. Maybe die.

  It’s a late letter but I’ll say a Happy New Year to you. Jod bless you all.

  Your friend always,

  HO YAN TRAO

  The second letter was written by Brannon’s friend, Ho Chi, the schoolteacher. It read:

  To SGT. WHITE FAMILY

  I’m friend of Sgt. White. My name is Ho Chi. I want to show my sympathy toward Sgt. White. He is a good friend a lot of people like very much. He had done a number one job. For our people I want to thank you for having a number one son.

  About 3 months ago my village was having trouble with Viet Cong and Sgt. J. D. White and Sq. help protect my people and land. I want to thank him very much for helping have peace in my village.

  I’m very happy that Sgt. White is going to home.

  I wish in my heart that every man was like him.

  I hope in my heart that Sgt. White does come back when my country is at peace. Many of my American friends have died. I’m very sorry at has happen to your people.

  I hope some day we will all have peace and Charity.

  I wish that you are very happy when your son has return home to saftey and peace.

  Your friend always,

  HO CHI

  Book V

  The Challenge

  17

  Mainly due to the monsoon flood conditions, January and February of 1967 were quiet months in the village of Binh Nghia, and in the absence of violence the Americans and Vietnamese grew to know each other better. But March brought both good weather and village elections, which the Viet Cong had promised to disrupt. In response, district headquarters ordered the combined unit to throw out as many night patrols as possible. To do so, McGowan wanted to use RDs as well as PFs. Although resentful of the RDs’ higher pay and lazy manners, the PFs agreed to patrol with them because they owed McGowan a favor. In February the district chief had tried to transfer the PFs to another village, leaving the RDs and Americans to protect Binh Nghia. But the district chief changed his mind after McGowan threatened that the Marines would leave with the PFs. So when McGowan asked for cooperation, Suong agreed that the RDs could patrol with the PFs and Americans—provided they could keep up.

  By forcing the RDs and PFs to work together, McGowan was able to send out seven patrols a night and the village was quiet until a few nights before the election. That night he scheduled the first patrol out to move to the northern tip of the village. Just two Marines were going, accompanied by three RDs. McGowan chose Colucci to lead the patrol, and gave him Brown as his backup man. Soft-spoken, thoughtful and quick-moving, Corporal “Chip” Colucci was a natural leader among both the Vietnamese and the Americans. And PFC William Brown—Brown was just tough. In a firefight he was as emotionless as Faircloth, and almost as accurate with a LAW.

  Colucci chose as point man Hiep Trung, an RD with whom he had spent long hours practicing his Vietnamese, but when the patrol left the fort, Colucci decided to take point himself. For an hour, he led the way through a maze of black bypasses. When he reached the My Hués, he turned off by a narrow side path to check an inlet for boat traffic. After circling around the backs of a few houses, he lost direction and Trung stepped forward, kidding Colucci for his befuddlement. Trung led the patrol back to the main trail. Once again on the right track, the patrol proceeded northward, Trung holding point.

  The path was wide, the way clear and the stars bright when a burst of bullets slammed into Trung and flung him backward against Colucci. The M
arine was knocked off his feet before he knew what had happened. Then the grenades were bursting around him and he was rolling free of Trung, his hands drumming the earth for his dropped rifle, like a blind man groping for his cane. Behind him Brown was ripping off a magazine from his M-16, the red of his tracers all jumbled with the flashes of the enemy weapons, the effect like that of a can of red paint splashed against a wall. Colucci found his rifle, tore through twenty rounds in three seconds, flipped out the empty magazine, palmed in a full one and fired again, his movements as instinctive as a housewife turning on and off a faucet. His ears still echoing from the sting of the first fusillade, he was unable to hear Brown yelling at him. He only knew that within a few feet of him there were a dozen enemy and he had to keep firing. But Brown was tugging at him, trying to pull him back.

  “No,” Colucci yelled. “Trung.”

  He had to say nothing more. Brown understood. They both took to pouring out fire, emptying five magazines apiece before there was a lull, one of those frequent, momentary pauses in heavy firefights when both sides in the same interval of three to six seconds are between magazines, shifting positions, talking it over or taking time to breathe.

  Brown and Colucci crawled over to help Trung.

  “He’s dead,” Brown whispered.

  “Get his carbine and ammo sack,” Colucci whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Together the two scuttled into a low drainage ditch which ran alongside the trail. That was as far as they got when the lull broke and the bullets started whipping around them. But now they were about a foot lower than their ambushers and the trail was between them.

  “Are the others hit?” Colucci asked.

  “Bugged out,” Brown replied.

  “We better get up some flares,” Colucci said.

  Handicapped by a lack of radios for patrol work, the combined unit relied heavily on its flare warning system. Brown and Colucci started shooting up signal flares—a green, a red, a green and a red. Knowing what the signals meant, the enemy came on again, seeking to overwhelm the two men before reinforcements arrived. But Brown and Colucci also had taped to their web gear several white parachute flares and these they sent up one after another. The short spells of glare kept the enemy from closing.

  At the fort, the flares were seen and McGowan rolled out as many men as could be spared from guard duty—three Marines and one PF. He led them on the dead run straight across the dunes toward the My Hué area, a trek of two miles through loose sand. He moved at the steady, searing pace of a cross-country runner, exhorting, cursing and pushing his men to keep up. At first, the five men ran as a pack, scrambling up the dunes by digging in their feet, lifting their thighs and holding their rifles chest high as though they were splashing through the surf; churning down the dunes by letting their legs run out from under them and then pitching their upper bodies forward to catch up, using the momentum to hurl them forward several yards onto the flat sands at a sprinter’s pace before physics and fatigue slowed them down. At the end of the first mile, the pack had strung out, with Bac Si Khoi, surging steadily ahead. Vainly striving to keep up with him came the Marines, gasping for breath, their arms aching, their high strides reduced to steady clops, like draft horses plodding up a steep hill. McGowan was still trying to talk, but the men had to know beforehand what he was trying to say in order to understand him. The unit’s new communicator, Corporal John Kokla, had a thirty-pound radio strapped to his back and tripped face forward three times, each time pushing himself back up and stumbling on.

  They made it as far as the fence around My Hué before collapsing, two men vomiting while the others knelt or lay down, gulping air. The firing sounded close. McGowan waited until everyone could stand. He was about to advance when another patrol, led by Faircloth, came panting up. Faircloth had two Marines and three RDs with him.

  But when McGowan swept his force into the hamlet, it consisted of seven Marines and one PF. The RDs hung back. The reaction force bore down quickly on the sound of the firing, keeping well spread and whooping and firing as they advanced. The Viet Cong pulled off, and Brown and Colucci stood up without drawing fire, tired and happy.

  “Got any ammo?” Brown asked.

  “How many are there?” McGowan asked.

  “Ten,” Brown replied promptly.

  “Colucci?”

  “Brown has it about right. One squad of them, more or less. We can take them.”

  “Where are they?”

  “They faded back into the ville, probably trying to make a hat for the river. We go?”

  “We go.”

  The enemy now had the bad position. The fence hadn’t kept the Viet Cong out of the hamlet, but it stood a fair chance of locking them in. McGowan took point and the Marines swept slowly through the dark hamlet. Not a light shone anywhere. The villagers were in their bunkers. In file so they would not shoot each other, the patrollers moved among the houses, McGowan taking most of the shots because he was in front. Neither he nor any of his men saw a clear target, but on over half a dozen occasions there was a blur of shadows or a rustling of bushes and the M-16s would chatter. Twice a few hurried shots cracked back at them. The patrol made a circuit of the hamlet without bringing the enemy to bay.

  “Think we got any?” Brown asked.

  “Who knows?” McGowan replied.

  “Better round up some villagers to carry Trung back.”

  “I think Khoi’s doing that now, Sarge,” Colucci said. “He just ducked out.”

  “Uh-uh,” came a voice from the rear of the line, “he’s gone hunting those two RD dudes who were with Colucci. He’ll kill them dead if he finds them, Sarge.”

  “Oh, my God. You guys stay here with Colucci,” McGowan said. “Brown, do you know where the RDs are hiding?”

  “About.”

  “Let’s get back there.”

  Moving quickly, Brown and McGowan ducked back to the main trail, passed Trung’s body and came to a section of the path bordered by a dense bamboo thicket. And there was Khoi, poking the bushes with his rifle like a gardener trimming shrubbery and softly, gently calling for the RDs to come out.

  “Bac Si, quay lai,” McGowan yelled harshly. “Get out of here.”

  Reluctantly, Khoi turned toward the Marines, raised his carbine muzzle in the air and followed Brown back down the trail. When he had gone, the sergeant had to wait only a few seconds before two frightened and dejected RDs came out of the undergrowth.

  With four women carrying Trung’s body, the dozen patrollers returned to the fort, where Khoi bitterly denounced those who had run away. The Marines laughed tolerantly at the anger of the PFs, remembering how unreliable at times they had been ten months before and knowing that the RDs, with their jaunty airs and urban backgrounds, were admired by the girl friends of several of the PFs. McGowan found the prejudice of the PFs toward a less professional unit rather ironic; it reminded him of the way Marines in line companies looked on the PFs.

  The next morning Thanh led a patrol back to My Hué, and arrived as a funeral procession was disbanding. The villagers talked freely, saying that four Viet Cong had been killed in the action. Two had families in the hamlet and so had been buried there. The others were strangers and their bodies were carried back to the fort, where they lay unclaimed all day and at dusk were buried in a potter’s field.

  When Thanh had returned to the fort, he also had in tow a farmer and his wife from near whose house the Viet Cong had sprung their ambush. Under the lashings of thin bamboo whips, the couple cried out that they had had no choice. The VC had come in and threatened to shoot them if they did not tell how often the patrols came by. The VC had come back each of three nights before their ambush was successful.

  For wanting no part of the war, the farmer and his wife received no sympathy or absolution from those who had chosen a side and who risked death. To keep their farm the couple had helped the Viet Cong to kill. The PFs whipped them until their screams turned to sobs and their minds seemed to have
drifted beyond the pain. Then they carried them to district and dumped them in the common jail, where they languished for three weeks, after which they were released and returned to their farm.

  Also, on the morning after Trung’s death, the RDs were back in form, tromping through the marketplace holding aloft a Thompson submachine gun found when they had searched the shootout site at first light. After parading about the village, the RDs caught a boat to the district town of Binh Son, where they presented the captured weapon to their senior cadres. The district officials looked on approvingly—until McGowan arrived to tell the PF version of the previous night’s fight. Suong, deferential and timid toward those of higher rank, was afraid to confront the RD leaders, lest they make a report which would lead to his transfer from the village. McGowan, on the other hand, accused the RDs of cowardice, thievery and boastfulness. He didn’t care about the weapon, except that it had become a symbol. The PFs and Marines had fought for it; the RDs had run away. He wanted the RD district cadres to give the gun back. The PFs needed proof to squash the rumors that were buzzing in the marketplace.

  The district officials tried to soothe the sergeant, explaining that the RDs were more than just fighters; they were organized and directed by a powerful faction of the VNQDD, or Nationalist Party, and provincial politics were involved. McGowan was unmoved.

  For four days he appeared daily at the district headquarters. On the fifth day the district RD leader handed him the submachine gun. McGowan gave it to Suong and for a week Khoi carried it ostentatiously as a demonstrable rebuke to the RD claims of superior fighting prowess.