He’d only be a viewer, only offer a list of questions. The rationalizations didn’t work. The VC they’d brought in would be going through a hell Gene didn’t want to see and didn’t want to be a part of. He might die.
His pillow was sopping wet. He turned it over. All any of them wanted to do was live through it. But live through it with honor if humanly possible. To go through so much, and then die during an enemy interrogation…Jesus, at least they’d never face that. Not as long as they had bullets, knives, and the pill—for themselves and for each other.
The KCS conducted all interrogations. They had built up such a hatred for the NVA and VC that they never hesitated to put a fellow Vietnamese through excruciating pain. Their methods weren’t always effective. When torture didn’t break the victim, they simply killed him.
Mosquitoes droned outside the net around his rack.
Before dawn, he gave up trying to sleep, dressed, and walked out to the west end of Seafloat. Their two Sea Wolves were black silhouettes against a night sky filled with a trillion stars. He prayed for forgiveness, holding his Bible tight. What did God think of him, now that he’d left church behind to become a SEAL? As a member of the most effective, most highly trained military unit in the world, had he fallen from grace? With a tightness deep in his throat, he wondered if he’d ever be forgiven for what he’d done, and would yet do.
Standing alone in the pre-dawn night, he wondered how many other veterans of combat agonized over their religious beliefs. Especially the commandment Thou shalt not kill. He killed often. He was good at it. For his country, he thought. For those two little girls, Tong’s daughters.
Bible in hand, Gene walked back to the east side of Seafloat, taken with a need to watch the sunrise. Before going to the KCS camp, he wanted to see the beauty of dawn breaking. Automatically he returned the small Bible to its shirt pocket and lit a cigarette.
The sun rose, blazing over the jungle. The sound of male voices mingled with the smell of food cooking in the chow hall. He turned away, drawn by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The day would be a scorcher.
Carrying his coffee, Gene took a Boston Whaler to the KCS camp. Willie waited on the dock. “Is everything ready?” Gene asked.
Willie nodded, his red hair shining in the early morning sun. “They’re already inside with the prisoner. Come on. I’ll fill your cup and we’ll head over.”
“How does it feel to have just a week left in country?”
“Great,” Willie answered, “.but I’ll miss y’all, and I’ll miss operating, even though I don’t get to do it much.”
They detoured around a group of children playing some kind of game involving stones and twigs.
Gene smiled at them, and wondered what his and Karen’s child would be like, which reminded him that Willie was getting married. “Getting nervous yet about tying the knot?”
“Not yet.” Willie smiled. “But I’ll probably be a mess when the time comes. When I’m home.”
Gene grinned. “Probably. What are you going to do when you get out?”
Willie bent to pet the dog pushing at his knee. “I’m going to work for my dad. Be selling cars during the day and finishing school at night.”
“School? What are you studying?”
He gave the dog a final pat and stood. “History. I plan to be a teacher.”
“I’ll be,” Gene said. “I didn’t know you wanted to teach.” He took his hand off the 60 long enough to wipe the sweat away from his eyes. The day was already like a steam bath.
“Neither did I,” Willie said, pouring coffee into their cups, “until I came here.”
The interrogation hootch was a few yards distant. It was an eight-by-eight plywood structure, with a few chairs and a table. This morning, Gene saw, they also had a map of the Twin Rivers area available.
The VC prisoner, tied to a chair, sat amid three KCSs and a SEAL advisor. The advisor acknowledged their presence with a nod. By the looks of the VC’s bloody mouth, the process of questioning had already started. The KCSs had knocked some of his teeth out.
The translator repeated the question just asked. “Where were you heading when you were captured?”
When the POW looked at the floor and remained silent, a short, wiry KCS slammed him across the chest with a rubber hose.
Inwardly Gene winced. The hose hurt badly.
Again and again, questions asked brought no response and silence brought the hose. Frustrated, the KCS began to hit the POW in the face with his fist again. Blood ran from the VC’s mouth.
Grim, Gene, as the platoon’s intelligence officer, asked the next question. “Where were you coming from?”
When there was no answer, the KCS interpreter ordered the two other KCSs to wire the prisoner. After ripping off the VC’s pants, they brought out a field radio. Two wires ran from the radio’s crank generator, and they attached them to the VC’s testicles. Spreading the map before him, they asked again where he’d been coming from.
When Gene heard no response, he clenched his teeth.
The cranked radio sent a high volt of current and the VC screamed and stiffened.
“Where were you coming from?”
Silence.
This time the KCSs made the radio “call long-distance,” which meant the current ran twice as long as before.
Sweat ran down the VC’s face and mingled with the blood. Still, he refused to reply.
The thin, wiry KCS yelled, and kicked the prisoner in the face, breaking his nose. The interpreter repeated the question and received no answer.
Gene was aware that silence, in spite of torture, was not unusual. Neither was the KCSs’ next move. They cranked the radio again.
The VC’s scream split the air. He could have been heard on Seafloat.
It was too much. Gene jerked the wire leads off the POW’s testicles and started to untie the man.
Angry, the wiry KCS gave Gene a violent shove, and within an instant, faced his bowie knife.
“Back up!” the interpreter yelled at the KCS.
“Tell him,” Willie ordered, gun in hand, “that if he touches Gene again, I’ll blow his fucking head off. Tell him that if he doesn’t like it, we’ll take him and his family back to the village they came from.”
The SEAL advisor looked at the interpreter. “Tell him.”
Hearing, the wiry KCS stepped back. A return to his village meant sure death for himself and his family.
“Get them all out of here, Willie, except for us and the interpreter.” Gene walked behind the VC. With a sweep of his blade, he cut the handcuffs off, then replaced the bowie in its sheath.
The man smiled slightly, for a second, before fear returned.
Gene turned to the interpreter. “Tell him to get dressed. He’s not going to break,” he added, to Willie and the advisor. “I’ve seen it before.” He picked up a rag and handed it to the POW so he could wipe the blood from his mouth and nose.
When he’d dressed, Gene put the map of Twin Rivers in front of him again. “Where were you coming from?”
Silence.
“Where were you coming from?”
The VC said nothing.
Gene turned to the interpreter. “Tell him that if he doesn’t start talking, I’ll let the KCSs return and begin where they left off.” He didn’t want that to happen, but they had to have the information.
While the interpreter talked, Gene replaced the radio and wires on the table, setting them next to the map. When he looked at the VC, the terror in the man’s still-bleeding face was obvious. “I’ll ask you one more time. Where were you coming from?”
The VC pointed to the map.
Gene sighed with relief and leaned over. The VC was pointing to an area about five hundred meters from where they’d inserted the night before. “What were you doing there?”
Through the interpreter, the VC said that he was with a B-40 rocket team.
“Were you there last night?”
“Yes.”
�
��Did you hear or see anything?”
“No. It started to rain hard, and we all went inside the bunker.”
Thank God for the rain. “Were many with you?” Behind him, Gene could hear Willie’s relief in the relaxed pace of his breathing.
“Two.”
“Are they there every night?”
“Yes.”
Gene poured a cup of water and gave it to him. “Why are you on that river?”
The VC sipped, then looked down. “To keep you out.”
“Where is your village?”
Staring at the floor, the VC refused to speak.
“Show me on the map where your village is.”
“Far.”
Pointing to the area where they’d captured him, Gene asked, “Were you going to your village when we caught you?”
There was no reply.
“Are there NVA there?”
The POW’s eyes widened.
“How many NVA?”
Silence answered.
“How many VC?”
“I know nothing. I talk no more.”
Gene studied him for a moment, then turned to Willie and the advisor. “I’m done. Get him out of here. I’m going back to Seafloat.” He’d developed a fierce headache during the interrogation.
He was halfway across the Son Ku Lon, between the shore and Seafloat, when he heard the shot from the KCS camp. He turned the Boston Whaler and headed back. The VC’s body lay on the ground in the center of the camp. He’d been shot in the head. Executed. Willie was in a pissing contest with the KCS interpreter.
“What the hell went on here?” he asked when Willie approached. “What happened?”
Willie ran his fingers through his red hair. “They took the prisoner outside and gave him to Tong. The new KCS.”
Gene knew who Tong was. He’d never forget the sound of his weeping, the sight of his two little girls. “And?”
“They told Tong to kill the POW. He did.” Willie took a deep breath. “They wanted to know he was one of them. Well, they found out.”
Chow had ended by the time Gene got back to Seafloat. Grabbing some fruit, he set out to find Jim. When he did, he told him about the interrogation. “I believe we were real close,” he added. “Real close.”
“Get the men,” Jim said. “We’re going back in.”
Gene coughed. His head felt like it was going to split wide open. “What time is the Warning Order?”
Jim thought for a minute. “1700 hours.”
His head pounded. “Okay.” Since they were going out later that night, he’d have a chance to hit the sack for some Zs once he’d contacted the rest of the squad and given them the WO time. He coughed again as he reached the door of their hootch.
The next thing he knew, Brian was waking him. “Gene, come on. Everybody’s waiting in the briefing room.”
He lowered himself slowly to the floor from his top rack, pulled his blue and gold T-shirt over his jeans, and walked barefoot to the Warning Order.
The only change from the night before was their insertion point. They’d be going in three rivers to the east of Twin Rivers, the same way they’d extracted with the now dead POW.
Time seemed to compress and suddenly he was back in full combat gear aboard the MSSC, heading out in darkness, light rain, and a slight wind. He felt like shit. His head still ached, his throat hurt, and he was hot. Taking a deep breath, he felt a cough coming. He ripped off his headband and shoved it deep in his mouth to cover the sound. It was dry and raspy. Sweat ran down his face.
He stood to catch the breeze as the boat moved slowly down the river. It cooled his face. Look after us, he prayed. Lay Your healing hands upon me and give me the strength to get through this op. Quiet my cough.
“Gene?”
Jim, a worried look on his boyish face, had come up to stand beside him.
“Gene, are you okay? Are you going to make it? We can abort and come back in a day or two.”
He swallowed carefully. “I’m all right. I’ll make it, but when we get back, I’m going to need a few days to recoup. I—” He jammed the headband into his mouth and coughed again as the boat turned into the bank.
Jim squeezed his shoulder before following Brian over the side and into the jungle.
Gene, inserting after Roland, knew from the Patrol Leader’s Order that Brian would lead them past the first two rivers. Then he’d have to take over point because of the bunkers they’d passed the night before. This time, the enemy might be waiting. The VC they’d taken as prisoner hadn’t returned to the village and they’d be wondering where the hell he was. Maybe, he hoped, the enemy would figure he’d been tired and hungry and just split.
Headband in his mouth, he coughed again. His head ached something fierce.
Crossing the first two rivers brought him some relief, cooled his temperature down. When Jim signaled for him to change places with Brian, he again took a second to pray for strength, remembering his burning muscles and the aches of being point with the 60, the night before.
He raised the 60 to his shoulder and kept it there. Going through the bunker area again was more scary than before. Each one seemed to have eyes.
The heavy foliage scraped his shoulders, and the mud was thick.
He moved slowly, watching, listening for any movement. As he passed one bunker, he trained the 60’s barrel on the next. Behind him, Jim aimed at the one just passed, then Roland would, and so on down the line. Alex, with the grenade launcher, had the ability to fire into the smallest opening of any bunker that might open up on them.
As they moved, Gene could feel their tension. Every man wondered if one of the bunkers would come alive, or if all of them would. Were they holding their fire until the entire squad moved into their kill zone? He could catch no scent of the enemy within the thick, dank smell of the dark jungle, but until the bunkers were passed, they wouldn’t know.
Finally he reached the narrow stream where they’d captured the VC the night before. No tracks, no sound. No contact. Thank God. He lowered the 60 from his shoulder and signaled danger area with a hand across his throat. Behind him, the squad set flank security while he waded the stream, entered the brush, and checked out the area beyond. Satisfied, he returned and motioned to the squad to cross.
When Jim came over, he signaled for a break. Whispering, Gene told him, “No bunkers. Not much brush under the triple canopy. Bring Brian back to point.”
Jim nodded and brought Brian forward. Relieved, Gene left point and took his normal place between Roland and Alex.
Patrolling was easier as they paralleled the river. But it was only a matter of time until they found something or someone. With the patrol slowing down, he concentrated on making sure he didn’t miss anything.
With dawn, light began to reach through the trees. Brian signaled.
Halt.
Gene knelt and watched Jim go to Brian. Jim circled his hand above his head: Rally point. The squad closed in on him to be silently pointed into positions that would give them 360-degree security.
When Gene’s turn to approach came, Jim whispered, “There’s some kind of structure ahead. No sign of the enemy. We’re going in to recon.”
Gene returned to position, and shoving his headband into his mouth, silenced yet another short series of coughs, as Alex went to Jim.
When the patrol moved out, they were able to see the strange area ahead. Closing on it, Gene found himself wondering what the hell it was.
They halted just outside its perimeter. Studying the area through a screen of heavy foliage, Gene saw no signs of life, but humans had to be somewhere near. In front of them sat five two-level platforms on stilts. Wood shavings were everywhere. Trunks of large trees lay scattered around. A three-foot-wide monkey bridge, with waist-high hand railings made of flat boards, was supported and tied with rope. It stretched across the river. Definitely a work area. But where were the people?
Jim motioned for security elements to cross the bridge and recon, parallel to h
im, on the other side of the river. Gene signaled to Cruz to take point.
Just as Cruz reached the far side, Gene, at mid-bridge, heard a finger snap. Immediately he looked back. Jim pointed. Gene dropped flat. A sampan, carrying one person, was floating down the river. There was no way that it could pass without its occupant seeing him.
When the sampan came parallel to Jim’s position, Jim stood up, his Stoner aimed. “Li dai.” Come here.
By the time Jim came fully erect, Gene and the rest of the SEALs were standing too, their weapons pointed at the old man in the sampan. The old man, obeying Jim’s command, poled his boat to the bank.
He looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies. A true Joe-shit the ragman, he wore old, torn clothing. Dirty and stinking, his face wrinkled with age, his teeth were black and decayed by the beetlenut the Vietnamese used to numb their aching teeth and gums. He put up no resistance.
Brian directed him to move toward Jim. When he had, Brian pulled the sampan up on shore and secured the ragged man. That done, Alex and Doc crossed the monkey bridge to join Cruz and Gene. Hidden, with security set, they waited for any others coming into the work area.
The village lay close by. Gene could smell wood smoke drifting through the trees. Nobody came.
Wanting to take a look at the village before heading out, Jim passed the old man to Brian to handle. Across the river from Gene and the rest of the security element, Alex and Cruz, he took point himself.
Gene snapped his fingers. He wanted to signal Jim to have the old man lead point. But thirty to forty yards separated them. Jim couldn’t hear the snaps. Gene spoke very slowly but urgently, hoping to be heard. “Jim…Jim…”
Ka-boom!
Jim, thrown about four feet by the concussion, went down. He’d tripped a small claymore and now lay unconscious.
Gene gave the command verbally. “Get back across!” Jim needed Doc. Running across the bridge, he saw Roland go to Jim and roll him over. Brian stood guard over them, watching for enemy troops coming in. Automatically Alex, Cruz, and Gene joined him in setting a circle of protection around Jim. Doc took Roland’s place at Jim’s side. Roland joined the circle.
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