Eagles Cry Blood
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“I’ve been through here before.” Paul’s right arm was lying across his lap.
The sergeant turned the jeep onto a long cement driveway that led up to a heavy wrought-iron gate. They waited while an old Nung warrior swung the right half of the beautiful forged gate open to allow the Special Forces jeep to enter the old French villa.
“Morning, Nhu!” The sergeant’s voice reflected the respect that he felt for the old man, who smiled a betel-nut grin in a return greeting. “He’s one of the meanest warriors in his tribe!” The sergeant twisted on his seat so that he could face Paul. “He killed over two hundred Vietminh during the war between the French and the communists. The French decorated him six times for bravery.”
The old man waved them through the gate as he slowly checked the wheel wells of the jeep for attached plastic explosives. Paul noticed that the villa grounds were superbly kept up. The flower beds were in bloom along the long brick walkways and the sidewalks were swept clean.
“You keep this place up pretty good.” Lieutenant Bourne reached in back of the jeep for his gear.
“Nhu’s wife and young sons work in the kitchen and the yard. You can see that they take a lot of pride in this villa.”
The inside of the building was cleaner than the patios. Paul followed the sergeant down the long cool hallway to the large single room assigned to new officers and placed his gear on an empty bed.
“The XO wants to see you as soon as you’re ready, sir.” The sergeant showed Paul the closed door down the hall marked Executive Officer.
Paul put his bags under the bed and brushed his hair back out of his eyes before he went over and knocked on the door. He entered when he heard a voice from the other side tell him to come in.
“Morning, sir.” Paul saluted the young-looking major occupying the chair behind the wide wooden desk.
The major stood up and waved for Paul to take a seat. “Glad that you could join us, Lieutenant.” He reached over a stack of personnel folders and shook hands with Paul.
“Thanks, sir. This is a really nice set-up you all have here.” Paul glanced around the paneled room.
“We’re proud of our operation. We try and make the processing of our personnel as pleasant as possible.” The major paused and released a grin.
“Don’t get any ideas about us cadre hiding here away from the war.” The major flashed a frown, at the same time holding his smile. “In order to get a job here in Saigon, all of us had to serve at least a year in the field and then extend for another six months for duty here.”
“What camp did you run out of, sir?”
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“I didn’t. I worked with the III Corps Mike Force.” The major looked at the lieutenant to see if he recognized the name and continued when Paul nodded. “We had a lot of action along the Cambodian border last year.” The major crossed his legs over the corner of his desk and changed the subject without warning. “The way things work around here is that we do all of the in-processing for you. The reason being, we don’t want the personnel people at Camp Alpha to even see you.”
A frown crossed Paul’s forehead.
The major nodded his head and continued. “The personnel people at Camp Alpha just love for Special Forces people to come through . . . especially Green Beret medics. There isn’t a leg unit in the country that wouldn’t give ten of their pill pushers for just one Green Beret–trained medic. The divisions were bribing the personnel clerks, and last year they ripped off damn near every Special Forces man coming into the country.”
Lieutenant Bourne shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t blame them for doing that if they could get away with it. Everyone needs good medics. I wish we had a couple of them when I served with the 173d.”
“Agreed, but we can’t afford to take sixty-five weeks to train just one trooper and have some other unit get him. Actually, it pisses the man off more than it does us.” The young major paused and lit up a fresh Kool cigarette.
“Do I still have to go to Nha Trang after I leave here?”
“It all depends. If you settle on an assignment we can ship you right out of here to your B-Team.” The major butted the half-smoked cigarette.
“We want you to enjoy your stay here. The meal hours are posted on the door in your room. You get up in the morning when you want to, so that you can let your body adjust to the jet lag. The only catch here is that you can’t leave the compound for any reason until we’ve finished processing you. The people over at Camp Alpha are pissed that we’ve stopped their little games, and they’re waiting for the smallest incident to occur downtown so they can close this shop.” The major stood up, signaling that the interview was over.
Lieutenant Bourne was astute enough to realize that the relaxed conversation was designed to check him out so that the major could recommend his assignment to higher headquarters. The Special Forces units tried to assign their people to teams in which they would fit in with the other men.
The first couple of days at the B-Team were enjoyable. Paul had used the time to adjust his body to the new hours and reduce the effects of the jet lag coming from the States. He had drawn his initial issue of tiger-striped fatigues and had a few modifications made on the pockets. He laid one set of the fatigues out on his cot and showered before going down to the B-Team’s bar to watch the nightly poker game. The men who arrived at the B-Team from the outlying A-sites were the main reason why Paul went to the bar and sat for 16
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hours, listening to the war stories these men told that gave him the latest information on enemy tactics and equipment. Paul had gathered from the conversations over the past two days that the camps attached to B-24 up in II Corps were the hottest fighting spots currently, with the I Corps sites coming in a close second. The bulk of the conversations from the men returning from I Corps concerned the high death rate among their officers. It seemed that the NVA were making a concerted effort to kill as many Green Beret officers as they could. Paul sipped from his bourbon and listened.
“Lieutenant Bourne!” The B-Team executive officer beckoned for Paul to join him at his table.
Paul sensed that he was about to get his assignment. The major smiled as the lieutenant approached. “Are you ready to leave tomorrow?”
“Anytime! Tonight is fine with me.” Bourne sat on the edge of the chair and crossed his hands in front of his chest on the tabletop.
“We received a telephone call today from group headquarters concerning your assignment.” The major waved for one of the bargirls to wait on him.
“You have a choice, based mostly on your prior recon experience. You can go to one of the Greek Projects . . .” The major gave Paul a few seconds to think about what he had offered before continuing, “. . . or you can go to A-253 at Duc Co.” He took the drink off the tray and covered the twitching in the corner of his mouth by taking a sip.
“Where’s Duc Co?”
“B-24 . . . By Kontum up in II Corps.” The major averted his eyes from the lieutenant and acted as if he was interested in the poker game going on around the table near him. “B-24 has three active A-Teams: Duc Co, Plei Me, and Plei Djereng. All of them short officers and all of them under attack.”
Lieutenant Bourne inhaled a quiet breath. “Well . . . I came here to kill commies . . .” His voice deepened. “I’ll take B-24.” Lieutenant Bourne didn’t feel as brave as his facial expressions reflected.
“Good!” The major stood up and drained his glass.
Paul went back to the bar table he had been sitting at and ordered another double bourbon. The major left the bar and went to his office. The desk lamp was the only light burning in the small room. He didn’t feel good about what he had done, and he was forced to rationalize that Lieutenant Bourne had a
better chance of surviving the siege around Duc Co than some fresh lieutenant from the States who didn’t have any combat experience. The major picked up the telephone and placed his first call of the day to headquarters in Nha Trang.
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2
The emotional upheaval created over going to his first operational A-Camp had settled in the bottom of Lieutenant Bourne’s stomach, making him feel like he wanted to vomit.
The briefings that he had received from the B-Team operations officers had projected a very bleak scene for the Duc Co Special Forces camp, which was just beginning to recover from a North Vietnamese siege that had lasted 167 days. The NVA soldiers had pressured both Duc Co and Plei Me Special Forces camps, and had also attacked the famous First Cavalry Division, giving that unit a black eye, but destroying itself in the process.
The Ia Drang Valley, which was composed of a series of rolling hills and freshwater streams twenty thousand meters wide and thirty thousand meters long, was wedged between the two Special Forces A-Camps located on the Vietnamese side of the border and ended in the west against the Cambodian mountains. Paul had been briefed by the operations officer that Duc Co was one of the hottest camps in Vietnam. A shiver slipped down Paul’s neck as the thought registered. What a way to start a new tour of duty, especially after the officer had told him that the six prior executive officers at Duc Co had been either killed or seriously wounded in action. Lieutenant Bourne rationalized 18
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away the briefings when he thought about how staff officers enjoyed scaring the hell out of young lieutenants with their office-generated war stories.
Paul Bourne lifted his gray B-4 bag off the bench outside the headquarters building and walked down the narrow red laterite road that served as the central thoroughfare for the B-Team base camp. He saw a UH-1C Iroquois gunship with the familiar Special Forces crest painted on its nose parked on a PSP
pad near the outer perimeter and walked toward the dark green helicopter.
“Hey, Lieutenant!” The voice came from the top of a five-man fighting bunker. “Are you the officer who needs a ride out to Duc Co?”
Paul spoke up to the unseen man on top of the sandbags. “Yes, I was supposed to meet the crew here at noon.”
“We’re running a little late. The door gunners had a problem reloading the gun pods and then our pilot decided that he wanted to eat in the mess hall before we left.” A hand reached down over the edge of the bunker and waved for Paul to join him. “You might as well hop up here and get some sun . . . It’ll probably be another hour before we leave.”
Paul crawled up the sloping side of the sandbag fortress leaving his B-4
bag on the ground below. The helicopter copilot was lying stripped to his waist on his Nomex fatigue jacket. His eyes were closed.
“This sun is about to burn my ass up!” The aviator wiggled his shoulders against the hot sandbags. “But I have to get a decent suntan and get rid of this damn RAMF look.”
“What in the hell is a RAMF?”
“A rear area motherfucker. They’re the ones who always eat good, never go out on patrols, and always terrorize the new personnel arriving in-country with their fucking secondhand war stories!”
A grin crossed MacKey’s face and he opened his eyes to challenge Bourne’s stare. “I know what you’re thinking, Lieutenant—but I fly gunships and there ain’t nothing rear area about that!”
“No offense, but I wasn’t thinking about that. How old are you?”
The very young-looking face tried to crunch up in an unnatural frown.
“I’m nineteen . . . I can hold my own!”
“Damn, you don’t look a day over fifteen!”
MacKey’s eyes narrowed into aggressive slits. He shook his head in order to remove the strands of silver-blond hair that were sticking to his sweaty forehead. “So you’re going to Duc Co?” The change of subject was also welcomed by Paul. He had taken a liking to the surly attitude of the young aviator and didn’t want to drive away a possible new friend. The young copilot continued talking.
“We’ve just returned from your A-Camp this morning.” He tossed his head toward the parked UH-1C Iroquois. “Our gunners are replacing the 19
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rocket pods and 7.62 ammo that we shot up. Duc Co is one hell of a hot camp to fly into; in fact, only gunships are allowed to enter the Ia Drang Valley AO.” MacKey smiled a full-toothed grin. “I don’t envy your ass one bit, Lieutenant. There’s a lot of land to hump through over there that’s crawling with NVA.”
“Yeah, I’ve been told . . .” Paul looked over the dark green hills toward the west from his perch on top of the bunker. “Where are you from back in the States?”
“California . . . The Countyline, if you’ve ever been around L.A.”
“No shit! I was just on leave back at Malibu . . . I surfed up at the Countyline a couple of times.”
“California is the only place for me. A person really don’t appreciate just how nice it can be until they leave it. I’m going to round up a few young things when I get back there and fuck for ten days straight!” MacKey’s hand automatically rubbed his crotch.
“Let’s crank her up! ” the voice came from down the road toward the main buildings.
“He’s back early.” MacKey grabbed his shirt and jumped down off the bunker. “We’ll have to get together sometime for a few beers and swap some surfing stories.”
Paul picked up his B-4 bag off the ground and followed the copilot toward the aircraft. “Sounds good. I should be able to make it back here in a few months.”
Lieutenant Bourne hopped onto the nylon mesh seat and locked his safety belt around his waist in one smooth motion. The helicopter rose above the steel landing pad with a cloud of red dust billowing out from the edges of the PSP. The helicopter tilted forward slightly, and began to roar over the grass plain that surrounded the B-Camp, headed toward the highland jungle to the west. Occasionally the bare ground would be revealed through the dark layer of green trees where a two-thousand-pound bomb had rearranged the setting that nature had carefully organized.
Paul leaned out the open side door and felt the rapidly moving air flowing around the helicopter push the skin on his face back tight against his cheekbones, causing a flow of water to be released from his eyes and run alongside of his head to end up hiding behind his ears. Paul was totally absorbed by the beauty of the highland jungle and the feeling of freedom the helicopter provided. The aircraft dipped and swerved like a soaring eagle, trying not to establish a pattern that unseen NVA gunners down in the jungle below could lock their sights onto. Paul wished that he could fly. A hand reached out from behind the butterfly mechanism of the door gunner’s M-60
machine gun and grabbed Paul’s shoulder. The door gunner was shaking his head sideways and pointing at the chopper pilot, who was using sign language 20
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to tell Paul to put on the intercom headset that was lying on the passenger seat. Lieutenant Bourne obeyed and leaned back inside the aircraft.
“It’s not a smart idea to lean out over the skids like that, even if you have a safety belt on,” the pilot’s voice snapped and crackled over the intercom system.
Paul pushed the black switch attached to the headset cord. “Sorry.”
He leaned over the seat to return the headset back to its hook with his eyes looking down at the steel floor of the helicopter. The worn gray steel plating had seen some heavy use in the past and was in need of a new paint job.
One . . . two . . . three holes appeared in the floor leaving the edges curled around them.
The helicopter shuddered violently. Paul looked up from the floor and saw the Plexiglas in front of MacKey shatter and th
e copilot’s head drop down against his left shoulder and then flop around with the movement of the aircraft. The pilot was trying to break the sight lock of the NVA gunner by using evasive maneuvers. Blood covered the radio console located between the two aviator seats.
“Shoot, damn you! ” the pilot’s voice screamed over the intercom.
Immediately the two door gunners started firing their machine guns wildly down at the jungle floor. They were shooting at invisible targets, trying to pacify the pilot’s anger over taking the hits. The area from which they had received the fire was miles behind them within seconds.
“Lieutenant! Get up here and see what’s wrong with MacKey!”
Lieutenant Bourne unbuckled his safety strap from around his waist and crawled forward on the bucking floor toward the copilot’s armored seat. He grabbed the edge of the high-back chair and looked over it. A single .51-caliber round had ricocheted off the front of MacKey’s chest armor and exited through the roof of the helicopter. Another round had punched through the floor between MacKey’s feet and hit him just under the front edge of his chicken plate. The seat between the young copilot’s legs contained a thick pool of blood. The copilot’s mouth sagged open below the dark visor of his helmet. He was dead.
Paul pushed the intercom button and reached for the copilot’s wrist with his free hand, still hoping to find a pulse. “He’s dead or in a very bad way.”
“Christ, I hope not! This was his first day flying in Vietnam.” The pilot’s voice broke over the airway. “Hold his head, Lieutenant, we’re almost at Duc Co’s runway.”
Paul looked through the shattered Plexiglas and saw the red laterite strip that had been cut out of the jungle.
“Red Fox Alpha . . . Charlie Delta Bravo Seven . . . We’re in trouble . . . I’m going to try and bring her down on the far end of your runway away from 21
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your fuel pods . . .” The helicopter shuddered its full length when the pilot changed the pitch in the rotor blade.
“Roger, Bravo Seven . . . We have a medic standing by.” The mature voic-ing coming over the radio from the A-Camp was calm, and emitted a level of confidence that only long days of combat could develop.