Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood
[ e - r e a d s ]
data card close against his chest. He stopped and scanned the information listed on the personnel form until he reached the section containing the man’s awards and decorations.
Captain Hetten stopped in front of the major’s open door; he was smiling viciously, still enjoying the aftereffects of his victory over Bourne. Hetten felt very secure.
“Hi, sir!” Hetten leaned up against the door frame. “How’s the new job coming along?”
Cragmore raised his eyes from Bourne’s personnel record and folded the document without moving his head. “I want you to take a look at this, Hetten.” He handed the green file to the captain. “I hope you’re happy, brand-ing a Distinguished Service Cross winner a coward!”
Hetten couldn’t hide the surprise expressed on his face. “He won a DSC?”
“If you would have taken the time to have checked your people’s files when you were the administrative officer for this detachment, you would have seen that you were given a lot of first-rate soldiers for your A-Camp . . . A blue-ribbon team!” Cragmore yanked Bourne’s personnel card out of Hetten’s hand. “You fucking disgust me! Get out of my office!”
Hetten slid sideways away from the angry major and looked back over his shoulder wearing a sly grin that covered half of his face. “You didn’t have that whimpering coward under your command. Major!”
“Get out!” Cragmore kicked his office door shut, barely missing Hetten’s hand on the door frame.
Cragmore waited in his dark office until his temper had cooled off before he went out into the central office and called his clerks over to him. He motioned for them to form a circle around him.
“Men . . . I can’t force you to keep quiet about what has gone on here today
. . . but before any of you take part in spreading anything about Lieutenant Bourne around the headquarters . . . I want you to review his personnel file . . .”
The major slowly looked into each of the eyes watching him as he continued.
“He’s one of the most decorated soldiers in Special Forces; a DSC . . . two Silver Stars . . . two Purple Hearts for wounds in combat . . . I’d say before any more damage is done to the lieutenant by spreading half-assed rumors, that we had better wait and see what really is true and what isn’t . . . I want all of you to remember, especially those of you who worked for Captain Hetten when he ran this shop, that we have only heard one side of the story so far . . .”
The major stopped talking when he saw his clerks nodding their heads in approval and murmuring to each other about Hetten.
Paul went to his room in the visiting officer’s quarters where he had hastily dropped off his B-4 bag that contained all of his private possessions; 169
Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood
[ e - r e a d s ]
his mind still reeled from the shock he had received back in the colonel’s office. Paul dropped down on the steel springs of the bunk bed and leaned back against his B-4 bag. He couldn’t begin to accept the fact that the C-Team commander had openly accused him of the worst crime a Special Forces soldier could commit—cowardice in the face of the enemy. He had really underestimated the extent to which Hetten and Dryman were willing to go to. Sergeant Dryman’s shame over what he had done during the Easter Eve fight must have been so great that his mind was rationalizing all of the blame for his acts onto the lieutenant. And Paul couldn’t defend himself, because he had pledged to remain quiet to protect the team sergeants who had partici-pated in the ambush and attempted murder of Hetten. Paul smiled to himself, knowing that he was trapped in a well-laid snare by Hetten and Dryman; he gave the son of a bitch credit for being able to trap him.
Paul pulled his old, well-worn Ranger cap from the bottom of his bag and slapped the faded fabric against his leg a couple of times in order to re-shape it. He removed his green beret and rolled it carefully before tucking it into one of his spare boots and rezipping his B-4 bag. A surge of black despair surged through him, forcing him to collapse on the cot. The cold barrel of his CAR-15 pushed against his cheek. He spent a couple of seconds thinking about Hetten. Should he kill him before leaving the C-Team? Paul knew that he would probably end up saving a lot of people’s lives if he did end the miserable bastard’s life. Paul frowned, knowing it would be so damn easy to do. He envisioned tearing Hetten’s throat out using his own teeth. Paul could taste the salty blood and swallowed. A smile crossed the lieutenant’s face. He knew that killing Hetten would not prove anything and would probably end up making Hetten look right. Paul decided that he would let his own record stand up for him. He would wait, and when the time was right, he would make Hetten pay dearly for what he had done to him.
Major Cragmore ran down the main road through the center of camp to the helicopter that Paul was about to load up onto for his trip to Nha Trang.
“Bourne!”
Paul didn’t turn to face the caller, but kept walking.
Bourne!” Cragmore reached the aircraft just as Paul started to strap himself into the seat. Cragmore placed his hand on Paul’s arm, trying to draw his attention. “I’ll get with Sergeant Braverman and clear this misunderstanding up! Lieutenant Bourne . . . don’t take any stock in the colonel’s charge!” The major couldn’t force himself to use the word coward.
The helicopter crew-chief motioned for Cragmore to stand clear as the turbine engine gained RPMs for takeoff.
170
Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood
[ e - r e a d s ]
Paul turned his head to face the major. Tears streamed down his cheeks unchecked. Major Cragmore’s mouth opened, but there were no words passing his lips. The red clay dust that covered everything in the C-Team headquarters had coated the lieutenant’s face, and the tears of anger had mixed with the red dust. The effect was scary. It looked as if Lieutenant Bourne were crying blood.
171
Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood
[ e - r e a d s ]
12
Lieutenant Vainbane stood on the wooden boat dock and smiled as he drew in a lungful of dew-laden early morning air. He was now the unchallenged executive officer at My An Special Forces camp, and he planned on showing Captain Hetten what a loyal second-in-command could do. Lieutenant Bourne had been too close to the enlisted men and Hoa-Hoa commandos for the good of the camp’s mission as far as Vainbane was concerned; after all, how could you lead men in combat if they were your friends?
Vainbane’s thoughts were interrupted when the swirling ground fog parted and Sergeant McGrath, followed closely by Lieutenant Bourne’s old radio operator, Ro-Den, appeared from behind the tall berm.
“Did you inspect the patrol yet?” Vainbane’s tone of voice was patronizing and almost insulting. Next to Sergeant Braverman, McGrath was the most loyal to Lieutenant Bourne.
“As best as I could . . .” McGrath looked both ways, up and down the canal. The fog was thick, allowing for only a few feet of visibility. He could barely make out the dark green vegetation marking the far bank of the canal twenty-five meters away. “We should wait until this fog burns off before we leave camp and walk into an ambush.”
172
Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood
[ e - r e a d s ]
“What!? And waste three hours?” Vainbane frowned at the young sergeant.
“Lieutenant Bourne never had any problems finding the Vietcong . . . during the day . . . or for that matter at night . . . but he always picked the time to meet them . . .”
“Fuck Bourne!” Vainbane hissed the words. “I’m the XO of My An now, and if you’re half-smart, Sergeant . . . you’ll stop referring to Bourne.”
Sergeant McGrath looked back over his shoulder and located Sergeant Loau squatting next to the berm near a line of battle-ready commandos.
McGrath nodded his head and Loau motioned for the column to follow him.
“Do you want to cross the canal now?”
McGrath kept his eyes averted.
He was never very good at hiding his emotions, especially the contempt he felt for Vainbane and Hetten.
“Yes. By the time we get to the other side and organized, it’ll be full daylight, and the fog should be pretty well gone by then.” Vainbane stepped over to the nearest olive-drab fiberglass boat and untied it from its mooring. “I’ll go over in the first boat.”
McGrath spoke before he thought. “That’s a brave thing to do . . .”
Vainbane turned and glared at the sergeant. “Listen, goddamn you! I haven’t been thrown out of an A-Camp for cowardice!” Vainbane pointed his finger at the sergeant’s chest and continued, “. . . but your buddy-buddy lieutenant has!”
“That remains to be proven . . . sir.”
Vainbane stepped into the boat without answering and motioned for the first boatload of commandos to join him. The ride across the canal only took a few seconds and was almost a time-consuming hassle—except for the comfort of knowing the canal was a natural barrier that protected the camp from a ground attack along that perimeter.
Sergeant McGrath rode in the last boat over to the day patrol’s location.
He was visibly relieved. The heavy ground fog could easily have hidden a large enemy force, and once the Americans were separated, half on each side of the canal, it would have been very easy for the enemy to kill the trapped commandos on the far bank.
Vainbane’s attitude had changed, and he was almost friendly toward McGrath when he spoke. “Sergeant, you travel with Sergeant Loau behind the point squad. I’ll be traveling between the platoons so that I can control both of them.”
McGrath nodded and beckoned for Loau to join him. He enjoyed controlling the lead element of a patrol more than being with the command element. Action was normally at the point. McGrath nodded at Loau and racked a round into the chamber of his CAR-15 submachine gun. The rest of the patrol followed suit. The ritual marked the beginning of a combat patrol, 173
Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood
[ e - r e a d s ]
where talking was forbidden along with smoking and the making of unnecessary noise. Lieutenant Bourne had taught him that small trick, and it worked very effectively with the troops. It signaled the beginning of a war patrol.
Captain Hetten stood up from his squatting position next to the bunker.
He had been squatting next to the fighting bunker and eavesdropping on the conversation between Vainbane and McGrath. He was pleased with his new executive officer. The heavy fog had chilled the captain and he shivered, thinking that a hot cup of coffee would hit the spot.
The two-platoon patrol moved slowly during the early morning hours along the canal checking for booby traps. By eleven o’clock the sun had burned off most of the fog, leaving only small pockets along the borders of the treelines that marked the rice paddies. The south side of the canal was much different than the north side where the A-Camp had been built. To the north the rice paddies were huge, over a thousand meters across; while due to the swamps and streams that meandered through the southern marshes, the rice paddies to the south were much smaller.
The patrol reached a major canal junction almost exactly at noon.
McGrath felt that it would be a good time for a break so that the men could eat and rest awhile before they tackled the longer, southern leg of their patrol.
He whispered in Loau’s ear for the men to take up a defense position tucked into the ninety-degree corner of the canals, and then he walked back down the patrol to meet with Vainbane.
“I think we should break here for lunch before heading south,” McGrath whispered close to Vainbane’s ear, and guided the lieutenant to the edge of the trees by placing his hand on his shoulder. Both men squatted down and looked out over the abandoned rice paddy. The owners of the field must have been killed, or perhaps the VC-controlled area prevented them from working the small field. The canal intersection formed a cross lined on both sides by a thick border of vegetation composed of thick layers of trees and jungle plants. The treelines could hide anything in them, but they were, at the most, only fifty meters wide, and always concealed a wide path bordering the water. McGrath looked across the narrow strip of paddy and frowned when he saw another treeline less than a hundred meters away. The map had shown a stream wandering through the paddies, but he hadn’t figured that it joined the canal this close to the junction. The unsecured treeline so close to their location made McGrath nervous. “We had better send a squad along the canal and check out that treeline before we make ourselves too comfortable.” McGrath pointed.
“Fuck it!” Vainbane was hungry and tired. “We haven’t even seen a footprint . . . not even a single old booby trap . . . There aren’t any VC
around here.”
174
Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood
[ e - r e a d s ]
“That or . . . or they haven’t put out any booby traps because they use these trails regularly at night.” McGrath kept his eyes on the opposing treeline. He couldn’t take his mind off it. The darkness behind the bright green sunlit trees seemed sinister. He thought about what Lieutenant Bourne would do in the same situation.
“Listen . . . we’re safe here . . . they would be dumb shits to try and attack us across that open paddy . . . if they were over there . . .”
McGrath nodded in agreement. The two light machine guns they had with them could decimate even a battalion trying to cross the open ground between them. There were only dumps of wild rice growing in the untilled soil. And an inch of muddy rain water covered the plate-flat field, which would also act as a deterrent to anyone who thought of attacking the sixty-three-man patrol. McGrath positioned the two machine guns facing the open ground before he joined Sergeant Loau and Vainbane for a C-ration lunch.
Private Ro-Den sat near Lieutenant Vainbane, cleaning the outside of the PRC-25 radio he carried for the lieutenant. Ro-Den had liked Lieutenant Bourne much better than the new lieutenant, but the teenager was loyal to his job as a radio operator, and whoever was in command could totally depend on him. RoDen removed an oily rag from the side pocket of his rucksack and wiped down the sides of the radio while he waited for the command party to finish eating.
Vainbane smashed the empty C-ration can with his heel and turned to where Ro-Den sat waiting.
“Ro-Den! Bring the radio here.”
The boy was handing the lieutenant the handset before the officer finished talking to him.
“Rimmed Tire Six . . . Rimmed Tire Five . . . over.”
The answer came almost instantly, “Tire Six . . . over.”
“This is Tire Five . . . we’ve reached our first objective and will be traveling due south from here . . . We haven’t even seen a footprint so far . . . this area is clean . . . over.” The radio faded out and hissed with a soft background static. Vainbane looked at Ro-Den and spoke, “The battery is going in this thing . . . change it as soon as I’ve finished.”
“Tire Six . . . you’re doing a good job, Five . . . continue your patrol and try and make it back to this location before dark. I want you in camp tonight . . . over.”
“Tire Five . . . that should be no problem . . .”
The transmission faded out and then came back in weakly, Vainbane continued talking, “. . . we’ve rested up and should be able to travel fast throughout the afternoon—”
Vainbane stopped talking. The words stuck in his mouth. He had been sitting with his back up against a small tree and looking out across the small rice paddy, his eyes scanning the strip of dark green foliage a hundred meters 175
Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood
[ e - r e a d s ]
from where he was. Three black-clad Vietcong, one holding the barrel of a.51-caliber machine gun, stood with their backs to Vainbane. One of the VC
dropped down on one knee, reached up for the barrel, and began sliding it into the other portion of the heavy weapon.
“Jesus! . . . Holy shit!
. . .” Vainbane spoke over the radio that he held in his hand. McGrath turned and looked to where the lieutenant was pointing with his free hand. The sergeant saw the enemy at the same time Loau did.
Both of them grabbed their gear and ran to where the commandos were waiting. Loau went to command the First Platoon and McGrath ran bent-over to the Second Platoon, which held the canal junction position.
“What’s going on?” Hetten’s voice brought the lieutenant out of his shock.
So far, only ten seconds had passed from the time he had spotted the enemy.
“Fucking VC! . . . they’re setting up a .51 . . . less than a hundred meters from us . . .”
“I want it! Bring me back that damn weapon and I’ll give you a Silver Star!”
Hetten screamed into the handset.
“Yes, Sir!” Vainbane threw the handset at Ro-Den and grabbed his weapon, ignoring his backpack. He paused only long enough to scream an order to Ro-Den, “Change that damn battery before you catch up!”
Ro-Den looked puzzled at the lieutenant, but obeyed. He untied the canvas straps on his rucksack and removed the spare battery.
Lieutenant Vainbane broke through the brush and stepped out into the rice paddy. The shallow water covered the tops of his jungle boots. He paused only long enough to scream back over his shoulder, “Follow me! . . . Attack!”
McGrath couldn’t believe his eyes. He watched the lieutenant slip and fall down on one knee and then get up again. He squatted and emptied a magazine from his CAR-15 at the three VC, who immediately abandoned the
.51-caliber machine gun. McGrath could see the black barrel and the front wheels of the prized weapon.
Vainbane paused again and screamed back over his shoulder, “God damn you . . . Charge!”
Neither Loau nor McGrath were cowards. They obeyed. A compact line of commandos broke away from the treeline that protected them and ran as fast as they could toward the waiting trees that would protect them again.
Eagles Cry Blood Page 25