Eagles Cry Blood

by Donald E. Zlotnik

  “Lieutenant Bourne, reporting, sir.” Paul’s eyes didn’t focus on the colonel when he brought his salute straight down to his side, and he remained standing at attention. Paul wanted to get this uncomfortable meeting over with as quickly as possible and be on his way. He was getting really tired of senior officers yelling at him.

  “Paul, what in the hell are you doing with that Ranger cap on your head?”

  The colonel held out his hand to shake hands with Paul, and when the lieutenant failed to respond he reached up and patted Paul’s shoulder. “Why aren’t you wearing your beret?”

  Paul forced his eyes to focus. “Haven’t you talked to Lieutenant Colonel Bakersun yet?” Paul had been expecting an ass-chewing or worse from the colonel. He figured that the C-Team commander would have talked to the group commander by now, especially since Paul had taken an R & R that had totaled seven days; five in Australia and two days travel.

  “Hell, no . . . I’ve been up in I Corps for the past week inspecting our A-Camps along the Laotian border . . . Why? Is there something Bakersun has to tell me about you?”

  “Sir . . . you had better check your mail from Can To . . . I think Bakersun has a message for you about me . . .” Paul intentionally failed to address the colonel by his rank.

  The group commander sensed something was going on that he didn’t like. If there was one thing that really got under his skin, it was petty politics.

  He had warned all of his senior commanders that he wouldn’t tolerate that kind of peacetime bullshit—especially when there was a war going on. “I don’t know what in the hell is going on, Paul! But I have a feeling that something is really going to piss me off!”

  That was the second time the group commander addressed Paul by his first name. The officers who had been standing quietly waiting for the senior officer to address the young lieutenant all realized that there was a special bond between the crusty old colonel and the lieutenant. The colonel rarely addressed one of his senior staff by their Christian names.

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  The group commander grabbed hold of one of the brass handles on the headquarters door and flung it open. He called back over his shoulder as he stalked toward his adjutant’s office, “Paul! wait for me in my S-1’s office . . .”

  The tone of the colonel’s voice changed as he addressed his adjutant. “Major!

  Get me my dispatches from Can To!”

  “Yes, sir!” The major rushed toward the message center.

  Paul dropped emotionally exhausted onto the nearest chair the adjutant had lined up along his wall and waited for what he knew would be a very bad scene. He became absorbed in the details of a U.S. Army print hanging on the wall that depicted an Indian war scene. Paul liked the painting of the proud warriors riding their painted pinto ponies and carrying their wooden pole hoops.

  The roar that came from the colonel’s office filled the entire first floor of the building, “. . . and you get that dumb son of a bitch on the scrambler!”

  The colonel’s door flew open and the adjutant exited, heading down the hallway toward the operations center. The colonel followed close behind taking long strides and holding a yellow sheet of crumpled paper in his hand.

  “Paul! Get over here!”

  Paul felt sorry for the adjutant, who was catching all kinds of hell for something that he had no part of, except he was the closest one to the colonel.

  “Yes, sir.” Paul followed the raging colonel into the cement bunker attached to the wooden office structure.

  The older officer looked directly at Paul before he spoke. “Paul . . . what this letter states . . .” he waved the wrinkled paper in the air, “. . . is it true in any way . . . even slightly?”

  Paul felt the day’s accumulated anguish rolling in his stomach. “No . . . no, it’s not.”

  The colonel stood up straight from the desk he had been leaning against.

  “Then take that hat off! You’ll wear your beret until I tell you to stop!” His face was beet red when he turned and looked out of the small gunport-sized window. “I have never—never—in my career, seen a dumber group of sons of bitches assembled all together in one damn place than at Can To!” The colonel looked over at Paul. “You don’t have to wait here. I’m going to talk to Bakersun on the scrambler. Why don’t you go get something to eat and clean up . . . Wait for me over at the officer’s club.” The colonel turned and vented his anger on the desktop with his fist. “Christ! I can’t believe what he implied!

  And he took action without notifying me first!”

  Lieutenant Bourne saluted and eased out of the colonel’s sight. Paul knew that he couldn’t push too hard, but he had the feeling that maybe things would work out. Hetten couldn’t say anything if the group commander investigated the 187

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  charges. Paul was almost out of the building when he sensed someone approaching him from behind. He turned quickly and nearly bumped into the lieutenant colonel who had jogged over to him earlier outside in the quadrangle.

  “Lieutenant Bourne? I’m Lieutenant Colonel Clewell. I’m the commander up at Command and Control North. We launch out of Da Nang.” He spoke of his organization with a lot of pride.

  Paul recognized him and tried grinning. “I have a friend in your command—Lieutenant Jay Loveless.” He sensed that the senior officer was very professional and re-evaluated him from their first encounter.

  “Loveless is proving out to be one of my best team leaders.” The colonel continued talking, but watched Paul’s expression closely, “Would you like to join us?”

  Paul didn’t hesitate a second. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good! I’ll see you up in Da Nang. I’ll take care of getting the assignment approved with the colonel.”

  The conversation was brief, but carried in it a great many unspoken words of trust and professionalism as the two officers parted.

  Paul waited at the officer’s club for the colonel until eleven-thirty. He avoided having any conversations at the bar and even stayed away from the poker tables. He had found himself a very quiet corner and slowly became loose from the bourbon he was consuming. He finally stood, checked his watch again, and then decided to wander over to the headquarters building.

  The duty officer informed Paul that the colonel had been called to MACV

  headquarters for a conference with the commanding general. Paul took the written message that had been left for him at the desk and went to his room.

  He propped a couple of blue-striped pillows, without cases, up against the wall and lay down on his bunk. He opened the letter.

  Lieutenant Bourne:

  I am sorry, but I have been called to Saigon tonight and cannot personally talk with you. I spoke with LTC Bakersun and told him that I wanted proof of any action or charge. He has thirty days to produce or he will have to withdraw all charges and take action against Hetten. LTC Clewell saw me shortly after you had left my office. He wants you up at Da Nang. There aren’t many officers who are better than him.

  The two of you should get along fine. Take all the time that you need to get yourself together and then report to his headquarters. Paul, have no fear for your future. I promise you that I will sort out this mess and get a pound of flesh!

  Regards! GPH

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  Lieutenant Bourne folded the note and slid it into his jacket pocket. He zipped up his B-4 bag and left the building, walking in the dark toward the flight operations office on the attached airfield. A cargo flight was leaving for Da Nang in ten minutes. The duty officer gave Paul the tail number and pointed to where the aircraft was located on the line. Paul ran past the parked airplanes and hopped on the lowered rear ramp.

  It was nearly four in the morning when Paul arrived at the front gate leading into
the Command and Control North Headquarters. He could see the U.S. Marine guards standing in the distance on top of Marble Mountain.

  They looked like miniature men as they stood and stretched in the early morning light. The gate guard stopped Paul and asked for identification. Paul told him that he had just been assigned to CCN and asked for Lieutenant Colonel Clewell. The guard told Paul that the colonel was still at Nha Trang on business. Paul waited while the gate guard called the duty officer. Twenty minutes passed before a jeep came down the road bearing a young captain.

  Paul stood as the officer entered the guard shack.

  “You say that you’ve been assigned to us?” The captain looked suspi-ciously at Paul. “I’m the personnel officer for the unit, and I haven’t received any messages on your assignment . . . What’s your name?”

  “Lieutenant Paul Bourne, sir.” Paul slung his CAR-15 across his shoulder by its canvas strap. “The decision to have me assigned here was made last night between Lieutenant Colonel Clewell and the group commander.” Paul handed the captain the colonel’s note, but he had folded it so that only the portion referring to his assignment could be read. “If you can show me a place to stay and point me in the direction of the mess hall, I could get fed and settled in before your commander returns.”

  The captain looked Paul up and down as he tried deciding what to do with him. The CCN compound was top secret, and entry was strictly controlled. “Hell, I guess it’ll be all right as long as I stay with you.” The captain led Paul to the jeep. “Throw your stuff in the back and get in.” He held out his hand, “Welcome to SOG. Lieutenant.”

  “Thanks, sir, but what does SOG mean? I thought this was Command and Control North.”

  “Studies and Observation Group. The name changes all the time. I think they’re calling us Studies and Observation Augmentation now . . . Whatever, but we always refer to ourselves as SOG.”

  “Do you know where Lieutenant Loveless is living?”

  “Sure, but he’s out on a mission right now. Jay lives in the recon compound—he should be back today or late tomorrow . . . It all depends on what they find or what finds them . . .” The captain left the comment open-ended.

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  “Can you show me where he’s billeted? We’re good friends.”

  “Sure, Jay’s the team leader for RT Cobra. They’re located over near the sea. Where do you know Jay from?”

  “We went through OCS together.” Paul heard the soft sound of waves breaking somewhere ahead of them and then caught a good whiff of salt water. “How close are we to the sea?”

  “Hell! We own a mile of beachfront property!” The captain jerked the wheel and made a sharp turn next to a row of buildings. “Let me show you our little set-up.” The jeep slowed down, but spun its way over a sand dune and stopped ten meters from the nearest hooch. The waves were breaking at six feet and rushing over the packed sand to touch the first rows of barbed wire on the perimeter.

  “Man, is that beautiful!” Paul could feel his body automatically relaxing as the sound of the waves played a familiar rhythmic lullaby to his ears. It was perfect. He knew that he would enjoy this part of his assignment very much.

  “They originally had planned on building the camp a mile from here on the far side of the highway. Someone used their heads and switched to the location here. It’s a lot easier to defend with the sea to our backs, and at night there’s a cool breeze that comes off the water.” The captain eased in the clutch and slowly rolled back down the sand dune. “I like it here, myself.

  We have a lot of good times down on the beach. We’ve made agreements with the American units to our north and south, so that the beach is open during the day for a five-mile stretch. The units on the ends have run barbed wire out to sea that blocks off anyone from entering except from the water. So in effect we have a five-mile-long private beach to run on or just enjoy. The only unit to our south is the Marine outpost up there on Marble Mountain,” the captain pointed.

  “Can I get a hooch by the sea?” Paul held his breath. He had to live as close to the water as he could. “I’m from around Malibu, and I guess salt water has gotten into my blood.”

  The captain thought for a few moments before answering. “I really don’t know what the ol’ man has in store for you, but seeing that you’re a lieutenant

  . . . about the only thing open for you is with the recon company as a team leader.” The jeep stopped. “Hell, I might get my ass chewed, but for now I’ll put you in Nappa’s old hooch. I hope you’re not superstitious—he was killed last week on a mission, along with his whole team.”

  The captain drove the jeep between the hooches and slowed down when he reached a spot of loose sand. Across a narrow stretch of windblown sand and separated slightly from the other buildings stood a small plywood hooch that was perched on a mound. The jeep found traction and angled up the side of the long dune and stopped next to the hooch Paul had been looking at.

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  Paul held his breath. The sea rolled ashore seventy-five meters away, with only a few bunkers and barbed wire separating the hooch from the water. The small hooch had been placed between two of the perimeter bunkers, allowing for an unhindered view of the water if you looked straight ahead from the top of the dune over the wire.

  “This is perfect!” Paul felt happy for the first time in months. “Thanks a lot, Captain!”

  “Don’t thank me yet! The colonel still has to approve the assignment and the recon company commander has to back off . . . but I do have a little influ-ence around here.” He smiled. “Put your gear inside and we’ll run over to the mess hall and eat.”

  A hand-painted picture of a bright green snake winding its way through a dump of bamboo was painted above the door with the words RT Viper sten-ciled beneath the drawing.

  “Lieutenant Nappa was the RT leader for Viper. If you’re lucky enough to get a team, you’ll have the hooch.”

  “I’ll get a recon team . . .” Paul’s words were a statement. He couldn’t bear to see anyone else living in the hooch so close to the sea. The floor was made out of three sheets of plywood built up on four-by-four stilts off the sand.

  Plywood composed the sides and tin sheets covered the roof. It was very simply constructed and was painted white to reflect the hot sun during the day.

  Paul followed the captain over to the mess hall and ordered after the senior officer. They had a feast of T-bone steak with two eggs on top.

  “You have a damn good set-up here, sir,” Paul looked around the barn-sized room and counted ten standard-size air-conditioning units mounted in the walls.

  “We’re fortunate to have the best mess sergeant in Vietnam assigned to our unit. He built this place starting from a field mess tent with a sand floor!”

  The S-1 forked a huge piece of well-done steak into his mouth. “The place should start filling up pretty soon with people from the recon teams. As soon as we finish eating, I’ll show you the headquarters and get your in-processing started.”

  Paul was very curious as to what the special top-secret SOG teams actually did. He had heard his share of the barroom rumors.

  “What do you people do here?”

  The captain smiled. “Our operations people will brief you after your clearances have been verified. It’ll probably be sometime this afternoon if there aren’t any glitches.” He laid his fork down against the side of his plate and looked across the table at Paul. “You’ll find out that we have the best equipment in the world and we live very well . . . in garrison . . .” The captain emphasized the last two words.

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  They finished breakfast just as the first of the SOG team members appeared in the mess hall wearing their short-brimmed black hats.

  “On
ly recon team members are allowed to wear the black hats with the skulls on the front.” A slight hint of jealousy escaped from the captain in the tone of his voice.

  The drive from the mess hall to the headquarters building was a half-mile along the road bordering the perimeter fence. Paul observed two large training areas built along the south side of the camp. One was a large, walk-through range, and the other looked like a Hollywood screen set with a conglomerate of junk piles pushed to one side of the field.

  “What is that training area used for?” Paul pointed to the Hollywood-style buildings that had only fronts, with no sides or rears.

  “That’s a special mission training site,” the captain cut his answer short and changed the subject. “Looks like the ol’ man is back.”

  Lieutenant Bourne saw the colonel walking up the private sidewalk from what was probably the colonel’s hooch to the side entrance of the main office building.

  “He’ll probably want to see you the first thing this morning,” the S-1

  said, parking the jeep in a marked slot. “Have a seat in my office while I talk to him.”

  The headquarters building was only partially air-conditioned, but the high ceilings helped cool the office space. Paul smiled as he looked around at the well-furnished rooms. CCN must have some darn good scroungers assigned to the unit.

  “He’ll see you now.” The captain had caught Paul daydreaming. “And don’t forget to report to him.”

  Paul looked down and checked his uniform before entering the colonel’s office. “Lieutenant Bourne reporting, sir.”

  The lieutenant colonel remained sitting and returned Paul’s salute. He smiled and spoke, “Looks like you’re eager to get to work. Have a seat,” he pointed to a nearby chair. “My adjutant. Captain White, tells me that you’d like to command RT Viper . . . is that true?”

  “Yes, sir,” Paul felt his heart racing. “I think that I can do a good job for you in that capacity.”

  The colonel threw his head back and laughed. Paul was amused at first, but became concerned when the laughter continued for almost a minute.

  “Lieutenant . . . please . . . excuse me . . .” Clewell wiped his eyes, “I’m not laughing at you . . . but you really are a humble young man. Your being assigned here wasn’t by chance; in fact, I worked very hard to get you from all the other SOG operations and the Greek Teams that wanted you. You are a very famous young man within SOG circles! The mission that you conducted 192