Eagles Cry Blood

by Donald E. Zlotnik

Paul called back, “What’s on?”

  “It’s a western . . . The commandos are sure to shoot up the place!”

  “Just a minute . . .” Paul pulled his towel off the wall and stepped out onto the wooden pallet that was used to stand on while drying off. “Where are you?”

  Cooper and Loveless appeared through the shower entrance. Paul wrapped his towel around his waist; he didn’t want to put his dirty shorts back on now that he felt clean.

  Loveless spoke, “Hey, instead of going to the movie, let’s get a couple of bottles and go down to the beach and get a little drunk tonight.”

  “Sounds good to me!” Cooper grinned.

  “You all go to the club and get the booze and meet me back here at my hooch at eight-thirty . . . that’ll give me enough time to get something to eat.”

  Paul left his friends and went through the loose sand over to his small hooch.

  He hung his towel up in the rafters to dry and threw his dirty clothes in his laundry bag. He picked up his well-worn cut-offs from the floor next to his bed and stepped back when a small brown scorpion flipped its tail in the air.

  Paul slapped the insect with his shorts, flipping it against the wall. The arach-nid spun around the floor trying to locate its tormentor. Bourne picked up one of his boots and ended the insect warrior’s concern forever. A shiver went up his spine as he thought of what could have happened if the scorpion had been inside his shorts when he slipped them on. He shivered again and searched his hooch for any more buddies of his dead opponent. Paul made a mental note to go over to the S-4 shop and get some insect spray to saturate the floor around his walls. He shook his shorts again before slipping them on over his hips. Another shiver vibrated at the base of his neck as he anticipated a sting.

  Paul removed his weapon-cleaning kit from the shelf above his bed, sat in his handmade chair, and placed his CAR-15 across his lap. It took him twenty minutes to give the submachine gun a quick cleaning. He rushed through his work because he really wanted to get down to the beach and get very, very drunk.

  Lieutenant Bourne placed his BAR belt around his waist and slipped the sling on his CAR-15 over his right shoulder. He hung his weapon upside-down over his bare back. Light spilled through the screen on the back door of the mess hall, sending long shadows out over the sand.

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  “Anybody here?”

  “In the back!”

  “Can I make a couple of sandwiches?” Paul called to the unseen cook.

  “Sure, if you don’t mind helping yourself.” The mess sergeant wiped his hands on his apron. “I’m baking for tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.” Paul pushed back the cloth that covered the tray of leftovers from the evening meal and prepared himself two huge sandwiches.

  “You really pulled off a great mission, Lieutenant,” the sergeant yelled above the drone coming from the mixer.

  “Thanks!” Paul shook his head and waved his thanks with a hand full of super Dagwood. A grin spread over Paul’s face as he thought about how fast news traveled through the Special Forces units. He had no doubt that someone in the other SOG camps already knew about the mission he had just completed. Word traveled through the Special Forces grapevine via secure voice radios. Thoughts about My An flashed through his mind and how badly his reputation had to be suffering over that tour served under Captain Hetten.

  Paul pushed the last bite of sandwich into his mouth as he reached the back gate of the camp that led to the beach. The guard on duty was a commando Paul had shown earlier how to surf.

  “Hi!” Paul waved to the man as he approached the sentry outpost bunker.

  “Chow, Lieutenant! You swim now?”

  “No . . . party on beach . . . get wasted!”

  The commando laughed. “VC come and get you for sure!” He waved a disciplining finger at Paul.

  Paul returned the laugh and patted his CAR-15 with an exaggerated motion. “Shoot them up . . . big time!”

  The guard unchained the sea gate and allowed Paul to pass through the narrow opening designed for human passage, next to the wider gate locked with chains and only opened for the passage of trucks or an occasional battle tank. The waves broke against the beach violently from the seven-footer just off shore. Paul walked along the high-water line with his eyes wandering around the sand dunes, looking for any interesting objects that the sea might have washed ashore.

  “What in the fuck are you carrying on your shoulder?” Jay stood up from behind the low sand dune that had concealed him from view.

  “My fuckin’ gun, dipshit!” Paul changed course and joined Jay and Cooper, who had obviously started partying early.

  “Man, you don’t need heat down here . . . Shit, we’re safe this close to the base camp.” Jay started to laugh and turned over toward Cooper.

  “Jay?” Paul spoke softly to his friend.

  “Yeah . . .”

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  “Did the war end today?” Paul’s tone was cutting. “This is one fella who isn’t going to die in this fuckin’ country through stupidity. It only takes a few seconds to put my gear on and a little energy to carry it down here . . .

  Personally, I prefer to have a weapon close by . . . especially at night . . .” Paul grinned to ease the tension, “. . . if you don’t fuckin’ mind!”

  “Here, Lieutenant . . . have a drink.” Cooper poured a plastic cup halfway full of bourbon. Paul took the offered drink and plopped down on the loose sand that was still warm from the sun. He placed his canvas BAR belt on the sand and laid his CAR-15 on top of it.

  “What in the fuck is that?” Jay stood and pointed at an object lying thirty feet away on the edge of the bubbling surf. A wave had washed the creature ashore and it was desperately trying to return to the protection of the sea.

  Paul and Cooper stood and followed Jay’s pointing arm.

  “Damn! That’s a sea snake!” Paul jogged toward the two-foot-long reptile, followed by his drinking partners. He stopped a respectable distance from the snake and watched the deadly creature continue its effort to reach the water, ignoring the humans.

  “Do those things bite?” Jay took a step closer to the creature but was stopped in mid-stride by Paul’s outstretched arm.

  “The tiger snake of Australia and the sea snake are probably the deadliest mothers crawling.” Paul released his hold on Jay’s arm.

  “No shit?” Jay looked over to where Paul’s CAR-15 was laying. “Let me use your sub and I’ll blow that little mutha away!”

  “No . . . shooting will alarm the camp.” Paul led the way back to where their whiskey bottles stood in the sand. “Let it live . . . maybe it’ll bite a VC for us.”

  “Hell, Lieutenant, there’s going to be more shooting going on in camp tonight than a full-scale war!”

  “What are you talking about, Cooper?”

  “They’re showing a western movie, and every time the Indians attack the cowboys our commandos open up on the movie screen with their weapons. I mean, they blow the shit out of the bed sheets we use for a movie screen!”

  “The colonel allows them to do that?”

  “Well, we’ve tried stopping the western flicks, but the morale dropped so low we brought them back. The ol’ man changed the site where we showed the films. He placed the sheet screen toward the rifle range at the base of Marble Mountain. Now the commandos get target practice and it only costs us eight or ten cotton sheets!”

  “I guess that’s one way to train troops.” Paul reached over and filled his glass again with quality bourbon.

  “Shit, Lieutenant, you’ve gotten me all nervous. I think I’ll go back and get my stuff.” Cooper started walking toward the sea gate.

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  “Just a second, Coop! I’ll go with you!”
Jay trotted after the sergeant.

  Paul pushed his cup of bourbon down in the loose sand and threw his cut-offs next to the cup. He watched the waves coming in and timed his entry into the sea with an eight-foot-high wall of water. The waves were spaced about one hundred meters apart, with smaller waves filling the open water between them. The beach was unique in front of the Special Forces camp. The depth of the water between the waves was less than five feet, which created a tremendous undertow that went back out to the edge of the sandbar, and then the water depth increased rapidly. The beach was excellent for body surfing at this time of day, letting Paul catch a dozen good waves before his friends returned.

  Paul rode a large ten-foot wave to shore and quickly ran up the beach before the returning water could tug him back out to sea. He stood on the hard-packed sand and shook his torso and head, followed in turn by each leg individually to remove as much excess water as he could before returning to his booze. He turned on the sand and faced the wind coming from the open sea to let the swift breeze partially dry him. Paul visualized that the westerly wind had originated on the California coast and had traveled the great distance over the ocean swells to him. He shook his head, allowing the wind to dry his hair.

  “Hey, Neptune! Are you going to join us?” Jay’s voice floated brokenly above the wind and wave sound. Paul trotted back to his gear.

  “The water felt really good.” Paul slipped on his shorts as he talked.

  “You ain’t going to get my ass in that water! Not after seeing that fuckin’

  snake!” Cooper poured himself a liberal drink.

  Paul noticed that Jay and Cooper had brought all of their fighting gear, including hand grenades.

  A great burst of gunfire erupted from the camp.

  “The commandos are shooting up the movie screen.” Cooper half-turned in the direction the gunfire was coming from and leaned on his elbow.

  Paul’s hand moved to his CAR-15.

  “Shit, Lieutenant . . . don’t be so damn jumpy! This happens all of the time!” Cooper sipped from his glass.

  Paul looked at the dial of his watch: 2330 hours, almost midnight. He pulled his web-gear harness over his shoulders and fastened his pistol belt just as a loud explosion rippled the night air.

  “Do commandos throw satchel charges, too?” Paul racked a round into the chamber of his weapon. Jay and Cooper scrambled for their gear. “Hell, no! We’re under attack!”

  “Slow down . . .” Paul slid on his belly to the top edge of the large sand dune that separated them from the camp. Two of the American sleeping hooches near the main headquarters building were in flames. Men were running around the camp half-dressed, trying to form up into small fight-224

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  ing units. The trio watched the developing battle from the safety of their beachfront seats.

  “Looks as if they caught the guards sleeping . . .” Jay whispered even though the gunfire covered any sounds they were making.

  “Over next to the mess hall,” Cooper pointed to a group of about fifty commandos wearing red armbands. “They don’t look like any of ours.”

  “Shit! They’re not! VC! . . . They must have snuck into camp dressed like commandos!”

  The group of elite VC sappers moved under the camp floodlights, methodically throwing satchel charges into the buildings and shooting any stray commandos they found.

  Paul spotted a gathering of Americans at the far end of the camp near the sleeping quarters for the headquarters personnel. The VC had picked a good night to hit them, with most of the fighting recon teams inserted in the jungle on missions. A large group of commandos were reinforcing the TOC guards, who had successfully kept the VC from penetrating the security fence around the cement building. The camp was rapidly mobiliz-ing against the enemy, taking the surprise out of the attack. The sappers were hard pressed, and began to withdraw toward the sea gate and the open beach.

  “Shit! They’re coming this way!” Cooper chambered a round in his CAR-15.

  Paul glanced down the beach. To the north, American installations stretched for miles. The enemy would have to run a machine gun gauntlet, and they’d still end up in downtown Da Nang. Paul looked out to sea. The waves were too high for boats to reach the sapper force, and they would drown trying to swim out past the breakers.

  “Cooper . . . what’s to the south of Marble Mountain?”

  “A village of Vietnamese fishermen, nothing else. Marble Mountain is our southernmost installation.” Cooper looked up to the top of the mountain.

  “Hell! They’ve wiped out the Marine outpost!”

  Smoke and flames were coming from the small base on top of the mountain.

  The Americans and commandos at the far end of the camp had organized and had formed a solid fighting line that was pushing the sappers back to the sea. Paul started crawling for the sea gate.

  “Come on! We’ll catch them in a crossfire!”

  The guard at the sea gate was lying behind a small sand dune ready to defend his position with his life against the large VC force. Paul called out to him, and without any hesitation the small man joined the lieutenant’s team.

  “How many grenades do you all have?” Paul counted four on the commando’s web gear.

  “I’ve got four,” Jay answered Paul.

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  “I’ve got two high explosive and two white phosphorus.” Cooper slid next to Paul.

  “All right . . . here’s my plan. The commando and I will take up positions south of the gate. When the sappers start to bunch up as they reach the sea gate, I want everybody to throw two of their grenades . . . Cooper, throw both of your white phosphorus . . . throw the remainder of your grenades when you have targets.” Paul smiled. “They’re going to be fighting like hell to break through the sea gate, so use your CAR-15s sparingly or we’ll run out of ammo.”

  Paul got up on one knee to see what was going on in the camp and saw that the first of the VC had reached the last of the hooches that separated them from the sea gate.

  “We’d better get our asses in gear!” Paul tapped the commando on his shoulder and pointed to where he wanted him to go.

  “Good luck, Paul.” Jay nodded and then left with Cooper to a slight rise that gave them a commanding view of the sea gate.

  Paul helped his commando push a pile of sand up in front of him, more to hide him from view than for protection, and then made a shallow depression for himself a few meters away where he could see the gate. Paul removed five magazines from his BAR belt, placing them on top of each other near his left hand.

  Lieutenant Bourne and his small team waited.

  The first of the sappers reached the sea gate and shot the lock off with hardly a pause. Paul had hoped that the lock would have slowed the enemy force down enough to have made them bunch up along the gate. They were obviously very good soldiers. Paul pulled the pin on his first grenade. Five more VC joined the first one and helped him push the gate open through the piled sand. Fifteen more sappers cleared the protection of the hooches and ran toward the open gate. The command party of the sapper force joined the team that had opened the barrier.

  Paul leaned back and threw his first grenade. It bounced off the steel rail of the main gate and hit one of the sappers on the side of his face, falling down in the sand at his feet. Paul watched the man stare at the live grenade, and then saw the fear cover the enemy face when he recognized in the half-light what had hit him. Orange flame and black smoke engulfed the soldier and his nearest comrades. Paul threw his second grenade and it meshed with the convoy of explosions from the rest of the grenades thrown by his team. Cooper’s white-phosphorus grenades lit up the beach front as they spread their white blossoms of death in a large fan of burning death fragments.

  The small American team opened up on the enemy force with their small arms, cutting the massed VC
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  camp had caught the sappers unprepared and their commander off guard for the first time that evening. The VC leader had expected only a single gate guard, not a fighting unit. He was trapped, and knew that he must gain momentum and break through the unknown force opposing him or his unit would be destroyed.

  The sapper leader jumped up from his hidden position and screamed a curse at the Americans. The twenty-three remaining enemy soldiers followed their commander directly toward Lieutenant Bourne’s position. Jay immediately saw the danger and threw his last hand grenade into the middle of the sapper charge. The bomb failed to explode.

  Paul threw his remaining grenades at the charging mass of determined enemy, killing eight of them. Cooper stood up from the dry sand in a crouching position, firing his CAR-15 from the hip, trying to draw the main charge away from Paul’s position. The sergeant succeeded in gaining the attention of four bayonet-carrying NVA. Cooper spun around on the sand and fell backward with his head making a smacking sound when it hit the loose-packed beach.

  The enemy commander was almost on top of Paul, who was busy changing magazines, when the commando gate-guard jumped on the snapper’s back and pushed his K-Bar knife through the man’s throat. Paul dropped his weapon and pulled his Randall from its sheath, reaching out at the same time to grab the round-style bayonet being thrust at his naked chest. Paul flipped the sapper through the air by rolling backward and used his feet to push the short man up and over him, following through the movement so that he would end up on the enemy soldier’s chest with his knees digging in the sand. Paul thrust the extremely sharp knife deep into the open-mouthed man’s neck muscles, twisting the blood-covered blade as he removed it so that a channel would be opened for the sapper’s blood to flow out.

  Sand burnt against Paul’s cheeks from the bullets clipping the ground inches in front of him. He rolled over to his left and the copper-coated slugs that were meant for him smacked into the dead sapper commander’s body.

  Paul dove for the sapper lying on the sand less than ten feet from him and shoved his knife under the man’s ribs. Paul instantaneously rolled off the soldier’s back and stood in a crouch waiting for another attack.