Men in Green Faces

by Gene Wentz; B. Abell Jurus

  At 0930 the next day he ran into Willie, who’d just returned from an op about one and a half or two miles from where they’d be going.

  “I’m heading over to the KCS camp for an interrogation,” Willie said. “Y’all interested in going over with me?”

  Intel could come from anywhere. “Sure.”

  They left Seafloat on a Whaler and crossed to the KCS camp on the riverbank. By the time they arrived at the hootch, the military advisor, Sean, face shiny with sweat, was already there, observing. So was Truk, the KCS camp chief.

  The KCSs conducted all interrogations of their own people. They used procedures Gene hated. He knew of many cases where the KCSs ended up killing a POW during questioning, especially if they believed the man was a VC. They’d arrange kangaroo courts and, afterward, blow the POW’s head off. Once the KCSs had chieu-hoi’ed, and Charlie or the NVA got word of it, their families, as Tong’s had, would be killed in ungodly ways to prevent anyone else becoming a chieu-hoi.

  Gene took one look and braced himself, knowing Sean could only attempt to control the interrogation if the KCSs went overboard, but couldn’t interfere.

  The POW was tied to the horizontal flat surface they called a waterboard. Several pails of water sat nearby on the dirt floor, along with a pile of rags.

  “Ask him again what village he’s from,” Sean said to the interpreter.

  The POW refused to speak.

  Tong wet a rag, placed it over the POW’s mouth and nose, and slowly poured water on it. The POW tried to breathe, sucked in water, but no air. He struggled, gagged, in panic.

  Gene gripped his 60. The POW would drown if he didn’t talk, and if he did talk, he’d probably be shot anyway.

  Tong lifted the rag. The interpreter repeated the question. Breathing hard and coughing, the POW remained silent. The rag descended. Water trickled upon it from the uplifted pail in Tong’s hands.

  Repetitions provided nothing. No solid intel would come from this POW, Gene knew. He’d die. And he himself had an op to run. “See you later,” he said to Willie. They touched each other’s shoulders, and he left to set up the Warning Order and Patrol Leader’s Order with Jim, glad to be gone.

  In the late afternoon, with Brian at point, Doc at rear security, Gene’s squad inserted into the jungle. In silence, they patrolled north of the Son Ku Lon, up a small river. Their interdiction site was located at the base of the V-shape formed by a fork in the river. The sampans would come down one of the branches and attempt to cross the Son Ku Lon to enter Twin Rivers on the opposite shore.

  In the dark green shadows under the triple canopy, Gene used hand signals to direct the placement of claymores along the banks of both of the small rivers’ branches. Motionless and silent, the hidden SEALs sat almost back-to-back, but both locations had to be covered. No matter which river the enemy used, every member of the squad could bear down within a split second. He couldn’t take the chance of choosing just one branch of the river for the interdiction and having the sampans pass undetected on the flip side, nor risk having them come in on their rear.

  He looked up, around, and to his sides. Heavy jungle. Wet. Dark, thick, and shadowy, it engulfed them. On his right sat Roland with the radio. Cruz crouched next to Roland. On his left, Doc was still as a rock. Behind them, three steps away, Alex, Jim, and Brian guarded the smaller branch of the rivers. Near both groups were the claymores, positioned not only to face the river but also to cover their flanks.

  They waited. Silent, unmoving. Listening. Watching. Forty-five minutes before sundown, dusk began to settle with ever-lengthening shadows. Insect hum blended with the water sound of the rivers. The air smelled of the river, rank with growing things, of wet mud. They listened to footsteps that weren’t. Eerie footsteps, made by lungfish moving. The sound the lungfish made could be distinguished from human steps only by the absence of the sucking sound of feet pulling loose from that mud.

  High in the trees, the breeze freshened. Gene frowned. Not just wind sound. Other sounds. Far off, but coming closer. He tensed, flashed quick looks at the others. They heard it too. Cruz handsignaled that he saw VC.

  Gene looked where he pointed. About fifteen feet into the jungle on the far bank, two shadowy forms moved down toward the Son Ku Lon. The low roar that wasn’t wind got closer. At his signal, Jim, Alex, and Brian slowly moved to come on line with them.

  Eyes wide, they listened to the sound of trees breaking in the distance, the increasing volume of the low thunder still heading their way.

  Gene’s chest and throat tightened. Adrenaline pumped. Never, ever, had he heard anything like whatever it was that was coming at them. He could feel the others turning granite, frozen in place like rabbits caught in headlights. Frozen, yet ready to explode in fight or flight, and still the terrible sound closed upon them.

  Like tanks coming, he thought. Plowing down hundreds of trees. Moving closer every second. The two across the river had to have been advance scouts. But for what size force?

  He tapped Roland, who got the TOC on the radio. “Tell them,” he said, his whisper hoarse, “that we have a very large force coming into our area. Warm up the Sea Wolves, have riverboats stand by. Things are going to get hot.”

  The terrible sound rolled over them, got louder and louder. Unstoppable, unknowable. On the far bank, more VC were spotted. He signaled, Let them pass. They wanted the sampans, the supplies.

  The roar increased, with the sound of breaking trees.

  “If the boats come right now,” Gene whispered to Jim, “we’re still out gunned, even with the element of surprise.” He turned to Roland, lips next to his ear, to whisper, “Scramble everything. Tell them to open up on targets given by voice command over the radio.” He’d direct fire, then get them extracted. If they weren’t going to get the sampans, then, by God, they’d get a large body count.

  “Jesus,” whispered Doc. “Listen to that!”

  “You can bet your ass I am,” Brian replied, just as softly.

  The boats ought to be close, Gene thought, turning toward the oncoming roar. It was worse-sounding than a freight train. The trees were going down like firecrackers exploding. Whatever was causing it would hit them before the Wolves were overhead.

  On line, beside him, Roland’s words were soft and heartfelt. “Everything’s all fucked up.”

  The entire squad looked upriver, to the north, where they could plainly see trees starting to bend, then cracking and breaking.

  Couldn’t be tanks, Gene thought. No motor sound. The roar was tremendous.

  “Where’s our support?” Jim’s face was devoid of color.

  “Will you fuckin’ look at that!” Brian whispered hoarsely.

  They stared in awe.

  Across the river, directly in front of them, thousands of monkeys leapt from tree to tree. Branches swayed, bent, snapped, and broke under their weight and number.

  “Roland! Call off support!” Gene ordered softly. “If they’re close, tell them to keep going, but do not come into target area. Do not come into target area.”

  Fascinated, delighted, the men began to silently laugh. They watched the monkeys, grinned, shook their heads, and continued to laugh soundlessly, both at the sight and in relief, glimpsing the white of one another’s smiles in the gathering darkness, then looking back at the wonderful spectacle above them.

  Holy shit, Gene thought. Unbelievable. And he realized the first sighting of supposed VC had to have been large monkeys, walking in front.

  “By God!” Cruz whispered. “Did you ever see anything like this?”

  “Look there!” Doc pointed. “Look at that big one go!”

  “You see that leap?” Alex lost all reserve. “Look at that! Just look at that!”

  Gene was fascinated. “Never saw anything like this before,” he said. “Never.”

  The main body passed, and the monkeys grew smaller. Young ones brought up the rear. Toward the end of the pack, several of the smaller animals were attempting leaps from high
in the trees to trees on the opposite side of a little stream branching out from the river, but not making it. Either they lacked the strength, Gene thought, or they just weren’t large enough, and they fell to the stream below. He shook with silent laughter at their screeching down to splash into the water and scramble out, dripping wet, still chattering.

  “Hoo-boy,” Jim whispered. “I don’t even want to hear the shit Dev is going to hand me when we get back to Seafloat.”

  Gene grinned. “No way out. They’ll want to know why the scramble. It’s going to be embarrassing as hell to admit we scrambled all that firepower on monkeys.”

  “Never going to hear the end of this,” Brian whispered. “Shit.”

  “They’re going to run it down our necks like there’s no tomorrow.” Doc scratched at his mustache. “Damn.”

  “But they’ll never get to see anything like it,” Alex said very softly.

  “Hoo-Ya,” Brian whispered in agreement.

  Gene signaled for complete silence. The last of the monkeys were passing. He directed the squad into their previous back-to-back positions in the gathering darkness.

  They settled in to wait again. He hated interdictions. Everybody hated them. Sitting for hours, and not moving. Just looking, watching, listening for the sound of paddles in the water.

  Thunder rolled. The breeze came up again. A storm moved in with a downpour. Even drenched, half-blinded by rain so heavy it was like sitting under a waterfall, the storm came as a relief to him and, he knew, to the others. With it, they could move their cramped limbs a little without problems.

  He shifted a bit to ensure his legs didn’t go to sleep. Stretched a bit, very slowly. Just enough to relieve stiff muscles. Nothing he could do about feeling so lousy. Half-sick. A long time later, he lifted the cover off his watch face enough to see the time, then secured it again. 0010 hours. Minutes past midnight. The storm passed on, leaving faint stars in its wake. He waited, watched, and listened to water sounds.

  Beside him, Roland’s radio emitted a very soft click. Message coming in.

  Cheek next to his, Roland relayed it. “TOC says sensors lighting up here. You have troop movement.”

  Gene nodded, knowing already. Across the river, four real VC walked the bank. Large monkeys didn’t carry weapons. They were headed toward the Son Ku Lon. He signaled to let them pass.

  “TOC contact,” Roland whispered five minutes later. “Sensors indicate large troop movement in target area on both banks and on the river.”

  Gene signaled the squad to maintain position, knowing their self-discipline was such that none would move, none would fire, no matter what, until he initiated action.

  Several more, either VC or NVA, passed behind them about twenty feet away. The SEALs were silently, utterly still, even their breathing controlled. They wanted the sampans, not a no-purpose firefight.

  Thank God, Gene thought, most of the movement was coming from the far bank. And then he heard what they’d been waiting for—the sound of paddles breaking the water’s surface. The time had come. Element of surprise on their side.

  The first sampan came into view, sliding through the water into their kill zone. The VC paddled expertly, guided it into the bank directly in front of them, no more than three feet away, and stopped. Gene watched unbelievingly as another, then another and another, drifted into the bank until nine of them, almost close enough to touch, were there. The smell of fish and oil and dirt strengthened, permeating the air he breathed.

  The sampans rocked gently in the water. The VC sat quietly. Waiting, probably, for the diversion the intel said they’d planned, before they paddled the last three hundred meters to the Son Ku Lon and crossed it into the Twin Rivers.

  Gene waited an additional fifteen minutes, making sure no more sampans were coming. Very slowly then, he lifted the 60 into firing position and felt the rest of the squad do the same. Between them, they carried two 60s, four Stoners, and Alex’s XM-203 grenade launcher. His flank men had electrical firing devices to set off the claymores once they opened fire.

  The last second of silence split wide open when he squeezed the trigger. At the first sound of the 60, the rest of the SEALs bore down on the sampans, all weapons blazing.

  Hit from so near, by so much firepower, bodies flew off the sampans, which were torn apart by all the rounds. Claymores exploded and flares from the 40 Mike-Mike lit the area, all within the initial burst of firing.

  After that, the squad selected individuals—hard targets. Concussion grenades thrown into the river killed those who tried to escape by swimming. More were thrown into the surviving sampans.

  Gene realized they’d received no return fire. Surprise had been total. The enemy’s three point elements were three hundred meters south. But they’d be coming back. He signaled a cease-fire.

  Flares from the 40 Mike-Mike still lit the sky. Bodies floated in the water. The sampans were in pieces, some sections burning, set alight by the flares. The air was smoky, acrid with the smell of burning wood and gunfire.

  Like ghosts, the SEALs left the scene, crossing the small stream behind them where earlier, Jim, Alex, and Brian had sat guard. They moved in file formation, southeast.

  Gene halted at the Son Ku Lon. Roland whispered the latest intel from TOC.

  “Large force movement all around you. Sensor boards all lit up. Both banks, and more sampans.”

  He knew the enemy was coming. They could hear talking, yelling, from all directions. Roland whispered again.

  “TOC, on radio. ‘You’re surrounded.’”

  The squad froze. Over twenty of the enemy passed, just inches from their location.

  “Tell them,” Gene whispered moments later, “to scramble. Emergency extraction. Pickup, five hundred meters east of target sight, on Son Ku Lon. Be ready to give support.” Things were going to get hot.

  Weapons reloaded, they were ready. Survival depended on support getting to them before their ammo ran out. They only had what they’d been able to carry. From the weight of it, he thought he had close to 450 rounds left for the 60. Wouldn’t last long.

  He pulled the squad in, pointed them into position, a back-to-back circle. On his command, they’d all open up, fully automatic, 360 degrees, get the enemy down, then move east to their extraction point.

  Voices came from both sides at once, converging on their location. Gene felt a gut-tightening tension, felt the adrenaline surge, urging action. He allowed not an eyelash to move until the voices, the crunching steps of many boots, the brushing sounds of fabric against branches, made it definite the enemy was about to walk right into them.

  At the last second, he triggered the 60. Hell broke loose. Their firepower cut jungle and enemy down in every direction, as the Sea Wolves came overhead.

  “Blow the shit out of the jungle to our rear,” Roland relayed to them. “Riverboats do the same, when they come on line.”

  Moving as fast and as quietly as possible, sweat pouring down their faces, shirts soaked with it, they snaked through the jungle, mud sucking at their feet, vine and branches snatching at their bodies, bullets smacking trees around them. Brian, ducking and weaving, found them a path through, their extraction point attracting him like a magnet. Where he went, they followed without question. He’d never led them wrong.

  The MSSCs were waiting when they burst out of the jungle to pile aboard.

  Gene counted heads even before the boat crew kicked the engine into high gear. “Is anybody wounded? Anybody hurt?”

  “Another goddamned dick-dragger!” Doc, mad as hell, hyper, did a hands-on inspection, taking hold of each member of the squad, turning them around to satisfy himself they were indeed unhurt.

  Nobody dared not turn when he turned them. They knew his concern was real. But they complained as much as they could without really setting him off.

  They docked at Seafloat at 0145 hours. “Clean your weapons, then hit the rack,” Gene ordered. “We’ll debrief in the morning.”

  The last thing
he heard before falling asleep was “Boy, were we lucky.” The last thing he thought, smiling, was that they weren’t lucky, but in good hands. Thank You, he thought, and slept.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “HOLD UP, GENE. I need to see you.”

  Gene, ready to leave after the debriefing ended, closed the door. He crossed the empty room to join Jim, who was standing near the situation map. “What’s up?”

  “I’d like you to go back to the target area and set up an observation post for any attempt at another crossing.”

  They never went back to a place they’d just hit. “Okay. Sure.”

  Jim, hands on hips, leaned forward, then back, stretching. “Riverboats, PBRs, will be banked about a thousand meters away. If you see any sampans, call in the boats to take them under fire.”

  Gene nodded. “Anything else?” They walked out together.

  “Take Doc. You need a corpsman.”

  When Jim went off toward NILO, Gene set out toward their hootch. He had no problem with Jim’s request. He’d been on several two-man ops. The less men, the less noise, the faster they could get in or out. Since the riverboats were running the op, he and Doc would only be needed as lookouts, and to call the boats in on the target. No, he had no problem with that, but Doc would be another story.

  The briefing, from a PBR lieutenant junior grade, was really brief.

  “We want you people to insert about 1300 hours, patrol down about a thousand meters, then set up your observation post. If you see anything, call us in.”

  Sure nothing like the Warning Order or Patrol Leader’s Order given by the Teams, Gene thought afterward. He guessed that in the PBR people’s view not much needed to be said. They just went up and down the rivers, never patrolling, never hitting anything deep in an enemy base camp area. Just rode the boats.