Braverman found Paul resting against a banana tree and eating slowly from an open can of C-ration peaches. “The ol’ man wants you to attend the district chief’s meeting tonight. Stay the night and return in the morning with the work barges.” Braverman added the last part, knowing the lieutenant would travel back during the night just to piss the captain off.
“Thanks, Top . . . but first I have to scrounge up some water for my men.”
“I’ll handle that for you. Just get your ass moving for the village before you lose all the daylight dicking around.”
“See you in the morning.” Paul picked up his gear and ran toward the boat docks.
Sergeant Braverman stood by the canal next to Yater and watched the airboat skimming over the water. “I can’t believe that dumb son of a bitch took a bath in our drinking water! It’s really unbelievable!”
Yater remained silent and shook his head slowly.
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8
“All right, men, get your sick bodies over here for chow!”
Braverman was the assigned American cook for the day. “You’ll love these Texas-style beans and canned Spam.”
“One thing unique about your cooking, Braverman, is the amount of hot sauce you use.” McGrath, the team communications sergeant, moved over toward a comfortable-looking sandbag, carrying a tin plate stacked with food. “Hey, has the lieutenant returned from district headquarters yet?”
Sergeant Braverman straightened his back and looked over at the temporary boat dock. The green fiberglass assault boats were all there. “He’s here somewhere. Why do you want the XO?”
“The captain told me last night when I was on radio watch to tell the lieutenant that he’s detailed for tonight’s ambush patrol. He had better get his ass in gear. The patrol is due to leave camp in an hour.” McGrath blurted out the words between mouthfuls of beans.
Braverman looked down at a half-opened can of Spam. “The lieutenant was on patrol yesterday and up at district all last night and most of today; hell, he hasn’t slept in the past forty-eight hours.”
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“Who hasn’t slept?” Lieutenant Bourne looked over Braverman’s shoulder into the pan of frying Spam slices.
“The ol’ man wants to see you ASAP.” McGrath kept looking down at his plate and stirred the food with his fork.
“I’m going to get some chow first. I haven’t eaten since this morning. We stayed up at district and helped the Vietnamese doctor with the cholera patients. By the way, I brought back some fresh French bread.” Paul grinned.
“It’s in the airboat.”
“Great!” McGrath slid his half-full plate over on a nearby table and left to get the bread.
Paul gobbled his food down and rushed over to the captain’s command bunker. He saw Sergeant Dryman running to meet him, but continued jogging in the direction of the command post. Paul had developed a dislike for the team’s senior medic, based on the man’s close relationship with Hetten.
Dryman caught up to Paul just as he reached the entrance to the well-fortified bunker. “Sir, we’re on patrol together tonight. Has the captain talked to you yet?”
“No, I haven’t talked to him since I left for the district headquarters yesterday. By the way, the doctor up in the village sure could use your help.”
“We have problems inside the camp that need attending to first, Lieutenant. Besides, the captain doesn’t want me working with the villagers until we get the area pacified. We don’t want to cure any Vietcong, do we, sir?”
“Having the team medic help the villagers is the best way that I know of to pacify an area.” Paul continued walking. “Why don’t you go and check our patrol, and make damn sure they’ve put on their camouflage make-up.”
“Yes, sir.” Dryman looked sheepishly out of the corner of his eye at the lieutenant.
Bourne entered the captain’s bunker through the packed-mud entranceway. The bunker was the first defensive position made in the camp and served as the radio room and secure area until other bunkers could be assembled.
“Lieutenant Bourne! I’m over here!” Captain Hetten was washing his face from a basin of clean water that had been placed near the medical stretcher in case of emergencies dealing with wounded or injured soldiers. Paul frowned but kept quiet. It was becoming obvious the captain would never learn.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes; you’re taking the ambush patrol out tonight. I’m giving you forty Hoa-Hoa commandos—they’re the best fighters in camp.”
“Sir, I don’t want to sound like a crybaby, but I was on patrol yesterday and up all night at district headquarters and helping out with the sick in the village all day. I haven’t slept in three days . . . not a damn minute,” Paul’s voice was strained.
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“If you don’t want to sound like a crybaby, don’t—and do what you’re told. The other team members and I have been working hard, too!”
“Sir, I thought you said that the officers were going to rotate going out on patrol. I have been out every day since we left Can To, and you haven’t left this base camp.” Paul’s eyes were red and hurt from lack of sleep. He blinked.
Hetten wore a smug grin. Paul immediately regretted having tried reasoning with the senior officer.
“Lieutenant, you seem to have forgotten that I run this camp . . . me! And you don’t tell me a damn thing! I would go out on patrol and place my ass underneath a banana tree all day if I wasn’t needed to stay back here and work building this camp!” Hetten was fidgeting with the towel he held in his hands.
“Besides, I have a lot more personal responsibility than you do.”
Paul raised his eyebrows in anticipation of what the captain was trying to say.
“I can’t afford to get my self killed. I have a wife and a small son to take care of back in the States.” Hetten shifted his attention to the maps lining the bunker wall. “I’m not a coward, you understand! But I have responsibilities!”
“What you’re saying is that because I’m a bachelor . . . I can afford to get killed in combat and you can’t?” Paul’s temper began rising. “I can’t believe what came out of your mouth!”
“Lieutenant! You have five minutes to have your ambush patrol in the field or I’ll have a chopper brought in to haul you back to the C-Team—under arrest for insubordination!” Hetten threw his towel on the mud-packed ground. “I won’t forget this, either . . . If you mention a word of what was said between us—to anyone—your efficiency report will reflect your attitude to your superior officer!”
“Sir, I haven’t refused to go on patrol . . . In fact, I rather enjoy the challenge of leading men in combat . . . but I take the responsibility very seriously, and don’t feel that I am giving them my best when I’m so damn tired I can’t see straight.”
“Get the hell out of here. Lieutenant, or I’ll relieve you on the spot!”
Paul went over to his lean-to and slipped on his combat gear. He checked his CAR-15 submachine gun and locked a round in the chamber. Sergeant Dryman was with the commandos when Paul arrived at the clearing where they had assembled.
“Are we about ready to leave, Dryman?”
“Yes, sir, they have been checked. Each man is carrying three hundred rounds of ammo and four hand grenades.”
“How much ammo do the BAR men have?”
“Five hundred rounds per weapon.”
“And the grenadiers with the M-79s?”
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“Forty-five high-explosive rounds. Sir, you don’t have to sweat anything; I’ve got them all squared away.” A proud smile etched itself on Dryman’s face.
“Is this you
r first time out?”
“No, sir, I’ve seen plenty of action up in III Corps before coming here.”
“It’s getting dark. We had better start moving. The ambush site is fifteen hundred meters from camp. Pass the word: no smoking, talking, or any kind of noise when we leave camp. I don’t want this ambush patrol getting ambushed.”
“Yes, sir!” The thought of being ambushed hadn’t occurred to the medic.
Paul stepped to the side of the trail and inspected each commando as he passed his position. He wasn’t too worried about the patrol, since the men were from the Hoa-Hoa sect that lived in the villages surrounding Can To city. Each of the soldiers was carrying his bayonet and had secured every item he was carrying so that there was no sound from any gear as the column slipped into the long shadows along the canal.
Sergeant Loau stepped from the ranks and stood next to Paul, watching the remainder of the men file past.
“Glad to have you along on this patrol, Trung-si Loau,” Paul whispered.
“You have quickly gained a reputation already among the Hoa-Hoa warriors as a man of honor.” Loau was referring to the incident with Hetten and the dead trail watchers. “Did you notice how the commandos were acting as they left the camp?” Loau cast an approving glance at the young lieutenant.
“You also have a reputation for finding a fight. The men are ready!”
“Thanks, Trung-si Loau.” Paul pointed down the canal. “I want a pointman out checking for booby traps, seventy meters to our front. Tell him to follow the canal to the first junction and then turn left and follow the smaller canal for eight hundred meters until it intersects a stream. The ambush will be set up in that area.” Paul thought to himself that out of all of the trouble he was having with Hetten, he was lucky enough to have some good people with him. The pointman was the best tracker in camp and could detect a booby trap from fifteen feet away in the dark! Paul glanced back over his right shoulder and located Private Ro-Den, his radioman, and nodded for him to get ready to move. Ro-Den placed himself a foot or two behind the lieutenant and stayed there while Paul walked next to the column trying to get up front.
Ro-Den had just turned fourteen years old and was small for his age. Boys started patrolling with the Hoa-Hoa companies before they reached full man-hood, so that they could prove their courage.
The patrol moved slowly along the canal bank lined with thick patches of undergrowth. Paul believed in moving a patrol slowly, ensuring that he controlled the moving fighting element instead of it turning into a mob. Hetten disagreed, and moved a company as fast as the troops could walk, disregarding the threat from booby traps and ambushes.
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“Rimmed Tire Five . . . this is Tire Six . . . over . . .”
Private Ro-Den handed the handset to Paul.
“Tire Five . . . over,” Paul whispered between his teeth.
“Tire Six . . . Where in the hell have you been?” Hetten’s voice sounded even more high-pitched than normal coming over the radio. “I’ve been trying to reach you for the past five minutes! Have you reached your ambush site yet?”
Paul’s skin shivered. Hetten had broadcast over half the Delta what the patrol’s mission was. “No . . . we’re at the first checkpoint. We’ve just finished scouting the area to the left on my map.”
“Tire Six . . . You’ve been gone for over an hour! How damn long does it take you to move fifteen hundred meters? Get your ass in gear. Lieutenant!”
Hetten released the push-to-talk switch on the handset he was holding and scanned the map on the bunker wall. He placed his finger on a circled location and pushed the transmitter switch. “I want you to cross the rice paddy to your left and get your ass over to your designated location!”
“Tire Five . . . I would rather continue along the route you agreed on back in the TOC—crossing rice paddies is something you just don’t do in the Delta unless you have a force securing the far treeline . . .”
“Damn it! Do as I say—and you had better not try faking your location with me! Be at the ambush site by 2130 hours or I’ll have your ass! ”
Paul looked back over his shoulder for Sergeant Loau. A hand touched Paul’s arm in the dark shadows provided by the thick vegetation bordering the canal. Loau leaned over and whispered next to Paul’s ear. “I heard. He is a crazy man!”
Paul whispered back, “You’re right, but the son of a bitch will court-martial me if I don’t obey. What do you think our odds are crossing the rice paddy?”
“The idea is so stupid that it just might work.” Loau pointed over the moonlit standing water in the paddies. “We should go further down the treeline before we cut across the open field. That way, we won’t expose the men too long—and if the VC are waiting for us in the streambed, we have a small chance of making it back to the canal for cover.”
Paul whispered so low that only Loau could hear, “Good plan.”
The moon broke out from behind a cloud cover just as the patrol left the protection of the canal bank and started crossing the open paddy. Paul ground his teeth and thought about the old tale of bad luck coming in sets of three.
Paul turned in his low crouch position and signaled for Sergeant Loau to join him from farther back in the column.
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moon is covered again by clouds we’ll move to the streambed.” Paul turned slightly to face the stream. “You and I will crawl forward with the pointman and select fighting positions for the patrol.”
Loau tapped Paul’s shoulder in consent.
“Sir, what do you want me to do?” Dryman was panting from the effort of crawling in the mud.
“Stay with the men and help get them in line parallel to the stream. When I signal you, have them crawl forward. Two clicks on the cricket will be the all-clear sign; once click will mean trouble.” Paul repeated the basic signals for Dryman to make sure the medic remembered them.
Loau started crawling forward the instant a cloud bank covered the moon.
He was followed closely by Paul. Crawling across the mud was a lot easier than it was on dry land. The wet earth spread a coat of slime over the front of Paul’s uniform that stunk of human feces the Vietnamese used as fertilizer for the rice crops. Paul remembered the trick Braverman had taught him, and had unbuckled his BAR belt and then had rebuckled the ammunition belt behind his back so that his shoulder straps held the gear in place out of the mud. He slid his Randall fighting knife around his waist belt until it was centered along the small of his back, then he took his CAR-15 by its barrel and laid the weapon across his shoulder within easy reach if he needed it in a hurry. Paul pumped his legs and followed Loau’s lead through the mud to the edge of the streambed. Paul and Loau were stopped by the pointman crawling toward them with the speed of a frightened salamander. The man’s legs were hopping back and forth like a pair of tails. He was moving so fast that when he reached Paul and Loau he was almost hydroplaning, and his momentum pushed him against the lieutenant.
Mud streaked the man’s face when he spoke. “Beaucoup VC! Trung-uy . . .
Beaucoup VC!”
Paul raised his head slowly above the thick rice stubble that bordered the streambed depression—and felt his bowels lock and his breath catch in his throat. The moonlight glimmered off so many rifle barrels that the field on the far side of the stream looked like a parade ground. He recovered from his initial shock and analyzed the situation within seconds. There were three Vietcong about sixty meters from the stream to his direct front, followed by three long lines of at least two hundred main-force soldiers wearing camouflaged uniforms. Paul glanced at Loau, who had also been analyzing the enemy formation, looking for any weak spots.
“Get the men
into the streambed . . . quick!” Paul slapped Loau’s shoulder,
“and don’t fire until I give the command.”
Paul reached his hand back without looking and felt the radio handset against his palm. “Tire Six . . . Five . . . over . . .”
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Pause.
“Tire Six . . . come in. Five.”
“Five . . . We’re going to be in deep shit shortly . . . Have the mortars laid on by defensive grids and stand by . . . out.”
“Tire Five! What did you say?”
Paul handed the handset back to Ro-Den and pushed the selector switch on his CAR-15 to full automatic. He aimed slightly to the left of the rapidly approaching VC pointmen, who were less than twenty meters from him on the far side of the narrow stream. Paul felt a hand touch his boot and then move rapidly up his shoulder. He quickly responded to the shoulder tap and saw Loau pointing with the barrel of his carbine to the far right flank. Another column of Vietcong was moving along the canal close to the treeline. Paul’s heart rhythm turned into one continuous beat. Fear flashed, forcing him to release his bladder. The warm fluid felt good against his cold stomach. Almost instantly, Paul gained control of his fear and disregarded it as a solution. All of the military training he had acquired came to the fore-front of his thinking. He glanced back behind him and saw his commandos almost at the edge of the streambed.
The enemy pointmen had reached their side of the stream and had stopped to scan the narrow ditch. All three of them were looking to their left when Paul pulled the trigger on his submachine gun. The moon framed the Vietcong, lighting up their streamside stage as they performed a macabre dance with the help of the bullets striking their bodies.
“Charge!” Paul’s voice carried above the roar of the gunfire. The only chance the small patrol had was to reach the protection the streambed could give before the VC gained control of the only defensible piece of terrain within a mile.
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