“Well, there’re some private briefing rooms over in the operations center.”
Paul could see that the general and Clewell were headed in that direction.
“Good, lead the way.”
Paul and the aide arrived at the entrance to the operations center seconds behind the general and passed through the checkpoint without being stopped by the gate guard.
“The rooms are to our left.” Paul pointed down the hall.
“You wait inside for the general.” The aide pointed into the first empty room and left Paul standing alone.
Paul pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. Something must be going on at a very high level for the general to personally want to talk to him.
He looked down at the medal that was still pinned to his jacket pocket and rubbed the beautifully sculpted bronze eagle between his fingers as he thought about what the medal represented: cloth and bronze for killing flesh and blood.
The door opened.
Paul jumped to attention as General Pick entered the small room alone, carrying two cups of hot coffee.
“Take a seat, Lieutenant” He handed one of the steaming cups to Paul. “I hope you drink it black.”
Paul nodded, shocked that the general was serving him coffee. General Pick removed a cigar from a black leather case and lit it before speaking.
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“Lieutenant Bourne . . . I’m a little bit confused about a few things and I want you to be very candid with me.” The general’s four stars flashed as he took a seat across from where Paul stood. He nodded for the lieutenant to take a seat and continued talking. “What in the hell went on between you and Captain Hetten at My An?”
Paul looked down into his coffee cup. There was a long pause as he thought about what he should say and what he should hold back from the general. “Sir . . . I really can’t tell you anything . . . I gave my word.”
The general blew a solid stream of blue smoke across the room. The jet of burnt tobacco hit the map on the far wall and rolled out over the printed terrain like a dense fog. General Pick frowned before speaking. “I respect your sense of loyalty, Lieutenant, but I must know what’s going on at My An. We have a very big operation kicking off in the Delta region and I’m afraid your old camp is going to be the hub of the whole operation . . . That’s a lot of responsibility for whoever commands that camp . . .”
Paul looked up at the general and read genuine concern in the old warrior’s eyes. He knew that if he remained quiet, a lot of innocent men would die because of Hetten, who would almost surely use the operation to make a name for himself at the expense of his men. Paul made his decision after thinking about what would happen to Sergeant Braverman and the rest of the team he had left there under Captain Hetten’s command.
“Sir . . . Hell . . . I . . .” Paul stopped. He shouldn’t have sworn in front of the general.
“Go on.” General Pick puffed on his cigar and waited. “I’ve been known to curse a few times myself.” A faint smile broke at the corners of the man’s wrinkled mouth that broke the tension.
“I hope that you realize, sir, it’s taking a lot for me to break my word, but a lot is at stake here . . . A lot of good men’s lives.”
The general nodded. “I appreciate your trust, and I give you my word that what you tell me will be kept between the two of us.” General Pick held out his hand. “Let’s shake on it.”
Paul took a deep breath and began; twice during the following hour and a half the door to the room opened and both time the general waved his aide away. Paul covered all of the incidents that he could recall from My An, including the fake Silver Star Hetten had set up for himself. The general’s eyebrows rose for a second when Paul told him about the attempted assassination of Hetten by the camp NCOs. The room became extremely quiet when Paul had finished talking as the two soldiers looked at each other over the tabletop.
The general broke the uncomfortable silence. He spoke very softly.
“Lieutenant . . . I sensed that there was something very wrong in that camp 236
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when I visited there. My concern now is, how many other isolated Special Forces camps and advisory detachments have the same problem?”
Paul shrugged his shoulders. “It’s no big deal, sir . . . I mean, my case. I did what had to be done. Anyway . . . I’m not a career soldier, sir. When this war is over, I’m heading back to California . . .”
“That’s the damn problem!” The anger in the general’s voice alarmed Paul before he realized that the frustration wasn’t directed at him. “There are a lot of men like you, Lieutenant, especially in the lower ranks, who have been the victims of overzealous career officers who are trying to establish themselves as military heroes at the expense of good leadership. We have a hell of a lot of good officers out there, but it seems as if the bad ones always make the headlines.”
The general paused. “Paul . . . I’m sorry! I promise that I’ll clear this mess up for you . . . at least the bad efficiency report.” The general smiled. “Hell, I wonder how the Department of the Army is going to react to this. You’re one of the most decorated soldiers to come out of the Vietnam War so far and Hetten has accused you of . . . and in writing!” The general skipped over the insulting word.
Paul’s mind reeled when he thought over what the general had said. He had never added up his awards for service in Vietnam but he did have a collection: two Distinguished Service Crosses, two Silver Stars, three Bronze Stars, and a couple of Purple Hearts. When he wore a dress uniform, he would have quite a chest full of ribbons.
“I’ve just been trying to stay alive, General.”
General Pick stood and adjusted his black leather pistol belt and holster.
“I really believe that, boy—but you’re also a damn good leader.”
Lieutenant Colonel Clewell was sitting on the top of a desk when the pair left the small team briefing room. The aide had been studying a large wall map that had all of the recon team locations plotted.
“I enjoyed the visit, Colonel. Thanks for your excellent hospitality.”
Clewell nodded. “Sir, we have a jeep waiting to take you back to your chopper.”
“Thank you.” General Pick turned slightly to face Paul. “Thanks for the conversation, Paul.” The general winked and joined his aide-de-camp.
Lieutenant Bourne remained behind at the operations center while Clewell escorted the general to the helipad.
“Well . . . let’s call him Paulie now!” an area-studies officer kidded Paul from behind his desk.
Paul gave a shy smile and tried hiding the red blush covering his face by turning toward the map. “Get off my ass, sir.”
“Don’t get mad . . . Paulie.” The officers working in the control room all laughed good-naturedly over the teasing of the popular lieutenant.
Paul left the building to find a quiet place to think about what had occurred between him and the general. Jay was waiting for him outside the building.
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“Hey, Paul! Check this out!” He held up his Silver Star for Paul to see. “I am getting to be a full-fledged fuckin’ hero!”
Paul laughed, “A full-fledged fuckin’ rookie is more like it!”
The pair of lieutenants walked next to each other down the hot sidewalk to the low headquarters building. A group of men from the recon company and some clerks from the headquarters unit were standing just inside of the entranceway, where the mess sergeant had placed a cake decorated with copies of the medals that had been awarded during the ceremony. Cans of cold beer and bottles of top-shelf booze were stacked on a nearby table. There wouldn’t be much work done during the rest of the day, while the camp partied.
“Lieutenants! Get your sorry asses over here!” One of t
he recon men was well on his way to a hangover.
Jay saw the team adjutant and beckoned for him to join them. “Where did the general go from here?”
“Over to the hospital to present some awards to our wounded.”
Jay raised his eyebrows. “I bet Coop will shit when those four stars shine in his face!”
The conversation was interrupted by a loud voice calling Lieutenant Bourne. “Bourne! A DSC! Big-time stuff!”
“Thanks.” Paul kept the tone of his voice humble.
Captain Atkins from the recon company joined the growing group of men surrounding Jay and Paul and spoke after the men had quieted down after laughing over Cooper meeting the general.
“Congratulations, Lieutenant Bourne; a DSC is hard to come by here in CCN.”
“I heard that there aren’t many of them given out,” Jay answered for Paul.
“Three since I’ve been here—and that’s been over two years.” Captain Atkins grinned and looked down at the cup of Seven-Up Paul held in his hand. “You’re not drinking today?”
“No . . . drying out,” Paul smiled.
“Really? Maybe you want to go on an easy mission this afternoon. Seeing that the rest of the recon company is already well on their way to getting drunk.”
“Awww . . . shit, Captain! Can’t you give him a break!?” Jay cut in.
“Sorry . . . we just received an emergency resupply call from our Hickory relay site and need to send someone who’s cleared to handle top-secret documents. I need someone just to ride up there this afternoon and return back here with the same chopper tonight.”
“Shit, sir, I’ll do it.” Jay sensed his friend’s need for a break. “Let Paul relax.”
“You’ve already been slated for a mission alert in the morning, Loveless.
You can’t go.”
“I’ll do it, sir. Does it count as a mission?” Paul looked at his watch.
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“Sure does. Be at the helipad by 1400 hours for takeoff. Travel light: weapon, survival gear, and water. You’ll be unloading the chopper and will need to be able to move around.”
Paul slapped Jay’s arm and spoke with a joking tone in his voice. “You’ll be in isolation this afternoon when I return, so I won’t have a chance to say good-bye. Take care of your rookie ass, ya hear!”
“Sure, Paul—just don’t hurt your back unloading C-rations!”
Paul went over to the mess hall and ate before he picked up his combat gear. He took only those items absolutely necessary for survival in case the helicopter went down and he would have to evade the enemy. The supply people had just finished loading the cargo helicopter when he reached the pad. Paul looked at the black face on his military watch and read the time: 1320 hours. He was early.
“You the pilot?” Paul approached the middle-aged man who was wearing a dark brownish-green flight suit.
“Yeah, Lieutenant, I’m the pilot.” The captain’s voice was rude.
Paul ignored the verbal bad manners.
“If you’re ready to get out of here, let’s go.” Paul looked at the crates of ammunition and stacks of C-rations that filled most of the passenger space in the aircraft.
“Your request stated a 1400 hours departure time.” The captain was being sarcastic. “One of the problems with you fucking recon people is that you don’t know what in the hell you want.”
Paul easily detected the jealousy in the captain’s voice and again ignored the insult.
“I was just thinking that the earlier we get this over with, the earlier we can get back to doing better things . . . Captain.”
The senior officer puckered up his lips and thought for a few seconds before waving for his crew to board the chopper. “I have a promotion party to go to tonight . . . let’s go!” The pilot pulled his flight helmet on over his sweat-stained hair and waved at Paul with one of his gloved hands. “Find yourself a place back there with the cargo.”
Paul took the seat that had been left open for him and strapped himself in with the dirty white-nylon safety belt. The helicopter engine labored under the heavy load and the skids under the belly of the aircraft scraped along the steel PSP, leaving a line of sparks.
The pilot kept the nose of the chopper down and cleared the camp barbed wire with only inches to spare. He banked the laboring aircraft over the water and changed his course to follow the coastline north. It took ten minutes of gradual climb to attain a safe altitude of 3,500 feet. Paul looked out the open door, enjoying the view of Vietnamese farmers working their 239
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rice paddies behind their water buffalo. Vietnam would be a beautiful country to live in if the war would stop. The helicopter banked and headed west when they had reached Highway Nine, located just above Quang Tri. The aircraft followed the highway inland until they reached the Marine camp at a place called the Rockpile. Hickory was another twenty minutes west of the base.
Paul placed his hands over the earpieces on his headset to hear a faint message that was being cut out by the pilot’s bitching over the intercom at his crew chief.
“Mayday . . .” The radio crackled and faded out for a second before coming in loud and clear. “Mayday . . . Mayday . . . We’ve been hit! Going to crash! . . .
Mayday . . . vicinity . . . Grid 247858 . . . Mayday . . . Mayday . . . Mayday . . .” The broadcast began to fade out again.
Lieutenant Bourne flicked the push-to-talk switch. “Where’s that location?”
The helicopter copilot plotted the coordinates on the flight map attached to his left leg and then looked up at his pilot. “That plots out about ten miles over the border into North Vietnam.”
“Let’s go get them!” Paul spoke to the pilot over the intercom system.
“This is a fucking slick, Lieutenant! Not a gunship! I’m not going to cross that fucking border.”
“Gunships can’t carry people . . . We’re close to where they’re crashing . .
. let’s go!”
A loud transmission broke into the conversation.
“Mayday . . . Mayday! . . . this is Devil Dancer 37 . . . May—” The radio broadcast was cut off.
“Turn this fucking aircraft, Captain!” Paul couldn’t listen to the fear-filled voice over the radio and not help.
“We can’t! We’re carrying too much already!”
“I can solve that problem right now!” Paul started pushing the heavy crates overboard.
The voice coming over the intercom hurt Paul’s ears.
“Stop doing that, Lieutenant!”
Paul used both of his legs to finish pushing the last stack of supplies out the open door. “Now we have room to pick up that pilot! Go get him!”
“No!”
Paul didn’t hesitate and placed the cool barrel of his CAR-15 under the back edge of the pilot’s helmet. The man stiffened when he felt the cold steel against his neck.
“You won’t shoot! We’ll crash!”
“I will blow your fucking head off! And then, if your copilot is as fucking dumb as you are . . . we’ll all die!”
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The helicopter started a slow bank to the north. Paul checked his weapon over quickly and felt around his waist for the gear that he figured he would need once they reached the crash site. He was traveling light, but he had enough gear and ammo to suppress anyone on the ground long enough to get the crashed pilot into the chopper.
“Door gunners! Get ready!” Paul released his seat belt and slid on his rear over to a position on the floor behind the pilot. “Can you see the crash site yet?” A large black cloud rose out of the jungle in answer to Paul’s question.
“There’s a parachute!” The helicopter’s copilot pointed with a gloved finger to the right at a lone parachute landing in the trees.
“I think it was an Air Force Phantom jet . . . an F-4 . . .” The copilot looked back over his shoulder at Paul. “There’re two people in a Phantom . . .”
“Can you land this thing in that rice paddy bordering those trees where the parachute is?”
“Sure . . .” The copilot’s voice was filled with fear but he kept the chopper under control. The pilot had removed his pistol from its shoulder holster and was searching the nearby jungle for enemy soldiers. Beads of sweat dripped down from his forehead.
“Good! Drop me off over there . . .” Paul slid over to the edge of the doorway. “When I locate the pilot and his crewman, I’ll call you on my URC-10 . . . monitor the emergency frequency . . . take off and wait for me up where it’s safer . . .” Paul leaned forward, ready to jump when the chopper went into a hover five feet above the muddy field. The helicopter started to bank away just as Paul jumped, causing him to hit his arm against one of the steel skids. Before Paul could recover on the ground, the chopper was out of sight.
Paul ran hard for the treeline. The familiar smell of the jungle and the silence after the helicopter had departed made Paul nervous. He hurried over to where the white chute hung from the trees and searched the low underbrush for the parachutist. Paul kept looking back at the open paddy for NVA soldiers, who would most assuredly be arriving soon.
A low groan followed by a short sentence reached Paul from the jungle.
“Ohhh . . . I’m hurting . . . uhhh . . .”
Paul quickly found the man lying on the ground still attached to his parachute harness.
“Where’s your partner?” Paul released the emergency links, detaching the man from his canopy.
“He went down with the plane . . . He’s dead,” the man groaned. “I think my legs are both broken . . . mmmhhhh. ”
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Paul leaned over and quickly checked the man wearing the flight suit.
There were no broken bones protruding through the cloth of the one-piece outfit. Paul figured that he had fractured both legs in his landing.
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