Eagles Cry Blood
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Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood
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five minutes to quiet them down. The brigade commander asked them what the problem was, and they all started to scream really nasty stuff at him all over again.
“The black sergeant, who was acting as the spokesman for the group, told the colonel that his people weren’t going to go out in the bush and fight the white man’s war against their brothers.” Jay’s voice was becoming emotional as he retold the story. “I noticed two white soldiers about fifty feet away from me setting up an M-60 machine gun in the dark alley between two of the troop sleeping huts, and I slipped around the back of the building to them. I asked them what in the fuck they thought they were doing, and one of them told me that if the blacks started shooting they were going to blow their racist asses away. I noticed that most of the blacks in the group were carrying their combat gear. I told the white soldiers that they would open fire only at my command, which seemed to make them happier. I think they were just waiting for someone to take charge of the situation.”
Jay looked over at Paul and grinned.
“I had to gain control, or they would have surely opened fire at the first sign of trouble.”
“I understand.” Paul drained his drink.
“Two minutes hadn’t passed after I left the men with the machine gun to get a better view of what was going on, when three of the blacks standing next to the stage below the colonel reached up and pulled him off the stage.
The next thing I knew, the machine gun opened fire. At first they were shooting over their heads, but some of the blacks started shooting back trying to kill anything white. The end result was fourteen blacks killed and wounded, including four sergeants.”
“Hmmmm . . . heavy! It’s hard to believe something like that would happen in an American unit—why haven’t we heard about that incident down here?”
“Come on, Paul! What commander is going to report to anyone he’s having racial problems in his unit? Shit! Whoever would do that definitely won’t see stars on his collar.” Jay tapped the bottom of his empty glass on the top of an endtable next to him. “Paul, you know as well as I do that Germany is really having some bad racial problems. Blacks are roving through the military casernes in packs, hunting down lone white soldiers at night and beating them half to death—and nothing is being done about it! The generals don’t see shit!”
The blacks call their nightly entertainment ‘rabbit hunting.’”
“I’ve heard those rumors, Jay, but shit! I thought most of the stuff was really exaggerated.” Paul was having a real tough time believing that racial crap was going on in Vietnam, especially since all the Americans were in it together. “What was the outcome at the Artillery Bowl?”
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“Shit! Would you believe the two white soldiers were court-martialed! And by the damn colonel whose ass they saved!” Jay shook his head. “I was sucked into the investigation because the white soldiers told the court that I had given them permission to fire. Like I said earlier, my DSC saved my ass, and I was transferred here to keep the peace, but actually the blacks had placed me on their death list.”
“What happened to the black troublemakers?
“Are you ready for this one? The brigade commander gave into their demands and had all seventy-three of them transferred to positions in the rear, filling desk jobs and supply slots.”
“What about the soldiers who were already in those jobs?” Paul couldn’t believe his ears.
“They double-slotted most of them, but the Mexicans and whites got so disgusted working with them that they volunteered to fill the empty infantry positions.”
“Jay—I don’t want to call you a liar, but this story is really hard to believe!”
“I swear the story is true!”
“All I can think of his how all the loyal, hard-working black soldiers are really going to take it in the ear when this story gets out!”
“You can believe that it’s a well-kept secret up in Quang Tri. They said that an NVA special sapper unit infiltrated the camp, but too many troops know the real version.”
Paul shook his head slowly from side to side. “Let’s get drunk.”
The two men were well past caring when they stumbled to their billets during the early, hours of the morning.
Paul held his head under the cold spray and put his hands against the tile on the shower wall in order to brace himself up. He should have known better than to get drunk the night before he had to fly. Paul heard the shower on the far side of the room start, and saw Jay standing under the cool water in the same manner.
“Hey, dipshit! Why didn’t you stop me last night!” Paul yelled over the roar coming from the duo showers.
“You’re a big boy now, Paul.”
Both men allowed a laugh in spite of the throbbing pain in their heads.
In the drying room, Paul slipped on the clean tiger fatigues he had brought with him, and was lacing his nylon-mesh jungle boots when Jay stepped out of the shower room.
“I needed that.” Jay shook his head from side to side, checking to see if the pain from his hangover was still lodged behind his eyes. “Are you going over for some breakfast before you leave?”
“I’ve got a flight from the cargo ramp in twenty minutes. I’ll grab an egg
‘n’ bacon sandwich. Damn, I dread a Caribou flight after drinking. Those damn planes are so small they bounce all over the damn sky!”
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“Look at the bright side—at least an NVA gunner will have a tough time locking in on you.” Jay shook hands with his school bunkie. “Listen, Paul, if you’re ever up around Da Nang . . .” The sentence didn’t need to be finished; they both knew that they would go out of their way to look each other up if they were within a hundred miles of each other and time permitted.
“Sure . . . you know I will.” Paul packed his shaving gear into his B-4 bag and then zipped it shut. “Keep your powder dry, brother!”
“Yeah, you take care, too . . . brother.” Jay was touched by Paul’s reference as kin.
Sergeant Braverman stood by the open guard gate next to the compound wall and watched the olive-drab Caribou airplane land. According to the back-channel message he had received from the group commander, the new My An executive officer would be aboard. Braverman turned and looked at the buck sergeant standing next to him.
“Sergeant Teeter, go pick the lieutenant up.” The senior sergeant left and went over to the temporary A-Team headquarters that was a room converted from a BOQ suite. He paused in the doorway and called back to the young sergeant starting the jeep, “And don’t make him wait!”
“Don’t make who wait?” Captain Hetten stepped over to the doorway and peered out.
“Your executive officer, sir. His flight has just landed over on the main runway.”
Sergeant Braverman had served fourteen years of his career with different Special Forces outfits and Ranger teams. He had joined the newest Special Forces organization before President Kennedy gave them the green beret as their special symbol of excellence. Braverman didn’t like Captain Hetten. The man seemed far too self-centered to suit him, and didn’t seem to really care about the welfare of the rest of the eleven-man team assigned under him.
Braverman had seen a lot of young officers in his years, and he knew that he would have to pay special attention to Hetten if any of them were going to come home alive.
“Well, I hope he’s as good an officer as I have been told he was. You know, I had already picked a lieutenant for the job. It was really embarrassing having to tell Rodney that he had been aced out by someone who hasn’t been in the Delta before.” Captain Hetten had a habit of whining when he talked, and the sound of his voice had a grating effect on Braverman’s nerves.
“I’ve heard that this lieute
nant is one tough hombre.” Braverman was bait-ing Hetten. “They say he’s kicked a lot of ass up in II Corps and has earned the Silver Star.”
At the mention of the high valor award Hetten’s eyes flashed jealously. “If the new detachment operational area is going to be as hot as the intelligence 101
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reports have projected, maybe you can police yourself up an award, Sergeant.”
Hetten slipped back into the shadows of the office. His voice filtered out.
“Send the lieutenant to see me before you get him settled in his room.”
“Yes, sir.” Braverman hadn’t missed Hetten’s jealousy concerning the lieutenant’s Silver Star. Sergeant Braverman lost respect for the captain each time the man opened his mouth. A good commander would have checked each of his men’s personnel records before he even meet them, especially in a Special Forces outfit, where there weren’t that many people. Hetten had been the personnel officer before he had gotten this assignment, which meant that he had had access to all of the records. If he would have made just a cursory review, he would have seen Braverman wasn’t interested in winning a Silver Star.
Sergeant Braverman had won the nation’s highest valor award while serving in Korea with the Rangers: the Medal of Honor.
Lieutenant Bourne exited the aircraft walking down the lowered rear ramp. The muggy damp heat of the Delta reached him instantly as he left the area cooled from the fan action of the plane’s engines. Paul followed the other passengers to the tin-roofed operations building that doubled as a passenger waiting room.
Sergeant Teeter saw the lieutenant crossing the runway on the perforated steel planking and drove his jeep around to the front of the small terminal.
“Lieutenant Bourne! Over here.”
Paul stepped over the packages and boxes lining the walkway surrounding the building and joined the sergeant. The humidity was so high in the Delta city that Paul’s fatigue jacket was already saturated with sweat.
“You’re with the My An detachment, right?” Paul stuck his head under the jeep top.
“Yes, sir. I’m Sergeant Teeter, junior radioman for the team. Welcome to Detachment A-444.” Teeter smiled and waited for Paul to load his personal gear in the back and slide onto the sun-heated front seat.
“How long have you been in-country?” Paul placed his CAR-15 across his lap.
“Been here three weeks, sir. I graduated from the Special Forces commo course two months ago and took a thirty-day leave.” Teeter pulled the jeep out into the Vietnamese traffic on the main road that went through the heart of Can To city.
“What did you think of the school at Fort Bragg?” Paul watched the side of the road as Teeter maneuvered around a herd of water buffalo.
“Pretty good. I graduated at the top of my class. I guess that’s why they allowed me to join this team.”
Paul detected the pride the sergeant felt over becoming a Green Beret active team member on a new detachment.
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“You’re sort of young to be with the Berets.” Paul figured he was around eighteen or nineteen.
“Just turned twenty, sir.” Teeter had a natural curve at the corner of his mouth that made him look as if he was always grinning. “My brother has been in Special Forces for over ten years. He was the one who turned me on to the Berets.”
The jeep slowed down and turned in at the C Detachment Headquarters and stopped in front of the two-story BOQ.
“Our team office is set up in room seven. The captain wants to see you right away.” Teeter shifted gears. “See you later, Lieutenant. Maybe at supper.”
“Sure. Thanks for the ride.” Paul turned with his hands full of his gear and saw Sergeant Braverman approaching him.
“I’m Master Sergeant Braverman, Lieutenant. The team operations sergeant.” Braverman paused. “The captain wants to see you.”
“Good. Show me to my room so that I can unload this gear, and we’ll go see him.” Paul adjusted his grip on his B-4 bag.
“Sorry, sir. The captain said he wanted to see you as soon as you arrived.”
Paul looked closely at the sergeant, trying to detect whether or not the sergeant was playing games with him. “His name’s Captain Hetten, right?”
“Correct, Lieutenant!” Hetten stepped out from behind the office door.
Lieutenant Bourne reached out to shake hands.
“Maybe you should try coming to attention and reporting to me, first.
We’re soldiers, aren’t we?”
Paul didn’t argue, even thought he was standing with the sergeant under the porch of the building and a salute wasn’t required. Paul brought his heels together and saluted the captain. “Lieutenant Bourne reporting, sir.”
“Better. Lieutenant.”
Braverman had seen enough, and had already turned to leave the two officers when Hetten halted him.
“Sergeant, have the rest of the team assemble here tonight. Now that we have all finally arrived, we can have our first team meeting.”
“Yes, sir. Around 1900 hours?”
“No, make that 1830 hours.”
Braverman left the two officers.
Captain Hetten slipped behind his desk and took a seat in a well-worn gray office chair. He was trying to establish a power position with the new lieutenant and felt more secure with the desk separating them. “Well, Lieutenant, I hear that you’re quite the hero up in II Corps,” he said, sarcasm lacing the captain’s words, “That Corps has produced a lot of valor awards lately. I read the different Corps’ statistics last week for awards.
Someone might even think that a lot of those awards issued up there were 103
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phony ones, considering the huge difference between, say, II Corps and IV Corps.”
“I don’t know how many awards they gave out last year, sir, but I do know there’s a lot of heavy fighting in the camps along the border to Cambodia.
We’ve taken a lot of casualties.” Paul kept his voice intentionally neutral as he tried figuring out the captain’s reason for bringing up the topic.
“Bullshit!” Hetten’s face was filled with hate-produced contours. “Here!
Right here is where the toughest action is!” He stood and swept his hand across a map hanging on the wall behind his chair. “The Delta is the new action spot, and my camp is going to be in the very middle!”
Hetten’s overreaction amused Paul. If the asshole wanted to believe his camp is the most dangerous one in Vietnam, then fine. It should make him more cautious and help save some lives when they patrolled. At least he wouldn’t be overconfident.
“If you say so, sir.”
“If I say so? Damn it, Lieutenant, you sit on your ass up in II Corps and then you come down here acting like you know what in the hell is going on!
This is the Delta and you don’t know shit! Fighting down here is different!
We use airboats—we have rice paddies that are miles across—and we have water everywhere!”
Paul watched the captain’s face and thought to himself that the man was crazy.
Hetten detached himself from direct conversation with Paul and went off on a tangent about warfare in the Delta region of South Vietnam. Paul wanted to ask Hetten how much action he had been in, but wisely decided against it and settled back in his chair and watched the captain go through his verbal tirade. Hetten was wearing a starched camouflaged tiger-suit with silver insignia on the collar. Hetten wore his blond hair cut very short in the crewcut style of the late fifties. Paul thought if Hetten would just keep his mouth shut, he would look like a nineteenth-century Prussian officer.
“Are you German, sir?” The words slipped out before Paul realized that he had interrupted Hetten.
“Am I what!” Hetten looked amazed.
&
nbsp; “German, sir. Are you German?” Paul switched to a compliment. “I noticed the way you were standing there that you have an exceptional military bearing and I wondered of you were of Prussian extraction.”
Hetten smiled for the first time since meeting Paul. “Why, yes! I am. My family came from East Germany after the Second World War. In fact, my father was an officer in the regular forces.” The smile stayed on Hetten’s face.
“You are very observant, Lieutenant. Maybe I’ve judged you too quickly. By 104
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the way, my family has had officers going back two hundred years serving in wars across the world.”
Paul returned Hetten’s smile, but his thoughts were on Hetten’s foolish vanity—a fault that always caused death to soldiers on the battlefield.
“Why don’t you go and get cleaned up, Lieutenant Bourne. Room number four has been reserved for you down the hall.” Hetten turned back to his battle map and began studying the details of the contour lines. “Supper is at 1730
hours. You may join my table.”
“Thanks, sir.” Paul saluted and left the office.
Sergeant Braverman was sitting in a chair on the veranda attached to one side of the combined clubhouse. He watched Lieutenant Bourne leave the team office shaking his head slowly from side to side and enter the room reserved for him. Braverman crossed his legs on the railing and smiled. Maybe the lieutenant would work out.
The space in the tiny office was cramped as the eleven team members and the five-man KD engineer team took seats and positions along the walls of the room. It was ten minutes past the time that the meeting had been called for, and Captain Hetten still hadn’t shown up. The muggy heat seemed to hang in the room, causing the heavy masculine body odor from the assembled men and the tobacco smoke to stifle the smells of Vietnamese cooking that usually came from the nearby kitchens.