Eagles Cry Blood

by Donald E. Zlotnik

  A half-dozen of the camp’s commandos were catching sea snails and Paul stopped walking and sat down to watch them. The commandos had fashioned special nets out of broom handles and heavy wire with a fine nylon net attached. The technique they used in catching the snails, which were burrowed an inch or two under the sand in the surf, was to walk through the shallow surf dragging the net in the sandy bottom. A ten-meter walk in the waist-deep surf would harvest a couple dozen snails. The commandos had five-gallon cans positioned along a hundred meters of the beach, where they would empty their catches into for a community feast later that night. One of the older commandos sat on the packed sand and acted as a judge for whoever brought in the most snails in one pass along the beach.

  Paul felt an urge to join the commandos and take his mind off the events that had happened with the helicopter pilots. He stripped naked like the commandos out in the surf and picked up a spare net lying next to one of the five-gallon cans. The water felt good as he waded out to the deeper water, which the shorter commandos couldn’t stand up in and still use their nets.

  Paul buried his net in the sand at his feet and pulled it along for twenty meters in the soupy water before raising it to see what he had caught. There were two or three hundred small snails trapped in the fine mesh that threatened to break the fibers. Paul eased the net back into the water in order to ease the pressure and walked slowly back to the shore where he emptied his catch under the approving eye of the old commando.

  Two hours passed quickly as Paul enjoyed wading in the surf. Then a yell from one of the commandos nearest to where Paul was using his net drew his attention to where the man was pointing out to sea. A foot-high fin cut powerfully through the water a few meters past the drop-off where Paul was standing. The commandos near Paul struggled through the surf and ran up on 249

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  the sand, followed closely by the lieutenant—who used the escape effort to drag his net on the bottom. Paul knew that the knee-deep water was too shallow for the big shark to attack. Yelling from the commandos forced Paul to take another look at the shark and saw that the fin was coming directly toward him.

  The commandos pointed at the American lieutenant and laughed good-naturedly between sentences spoken in Montagnard. One of the younger boys had puffed out his chest and was strutting along the beach, and then acted like he was picking up his skirts and running. He met Paul at the edge of the water and pointed at him. Paul joined the laughter and held his leg as if the shark had hold of him.

  “If I want to find you, all I have to do is check the beach.” Jay joined Paul and the circle of Montagnards who were still watching the hunting shark circle out past the reef.

  “Hey, Jay! What’s been going on?” Paul tried slapping the wet sand off his legs and then pointed at the nearest five-gallon can that was filled to the top with a mass of moving snails.

  Jay’s eyes were on his friend and were filled with concern. “Paul . . . I’ve heard what happened . . .”

  Paul smiled. “What happened?”

  “Paul! Damn it, don’t play games! This is really serious!”

  “Jay . . . I really don’t give a shit what they do. What I did was right!

  Understand that! . . . I can sleep very well at night . . . Can they?”

  Jay’s face shivered with hurt. “Hey, Paul . . . I’m on your side!”

  Paul reached down, picked up a handful of loose sand, and threw it into the sea breeze. “Shit, I’m sorry for taking it out on you, Jay . . . It’s just that—”

  “You don’t need to say any more . . . I gotcha!” Jay changed the subject.

  “The reason I came out here to find you is the old man sent me.” Jay slapped Paul’s wet back. “I think better minds than ours have formulated a plan.”

  Paul slipped on his clothes over his still-wet body while Jay watched the shark cruising back and forth, waiting—as if someone would be foolish enough to go swimming out beyond the reef.

  Paul walked next to his friend on the sun-baked sand halfway to the headquarters building before speaking. “Jay, I want to say thanks for Brightlighting and getting me out of there.” Paul kept his eyes down on the sand. It was always hard and embarrassing to thank a fellow recon man for helping you—

  mostly because it embarrassed the recipient.

  Jay stopped dead in his tracks and grabbed Paul, spinning him around.

  “Let me make one fucking thing clear! I didn’t volunteer for any fucking thing! My team was already in isolation and was ready for insertion. We 250

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  were the standby team for a Brightlight mission for any other team . . . You know that!”

  Paul nodded in agreement.

  “. . . but . . . I would have volunteered . . .”

  Paul placed his arm over his buddy’s shoulder and they continued walking the remaining distance to the headquarters. “Thanks anyway . . . asshole!” Paul pulled Jay backward, causing him to fall down hard on his rear. “Meet your sorry ass in the colonel’s office!” Paul began running hard for the building.

  Jay sprang to his feet and tore out after the stiffly running figure ahead of him. Jay passed Paul ten meters before he reached the building and stopped in the shade to wait for his friend.

  “No wonder your ass is always in trouble. You can’t run worth a shit!”

  Paul grinned. “You don’t know how close to the truth you are!”

  Colonel Clewell had been looking out of his window watching Loveless and Bourne racing toward the headquarters building. He smiled and thought about how they reminded him of competitive school children.

  Paul met the colonel in the hallway.

  “Lieutenant Bourne, wait for me in my office.” Clewell kept walking toward the communications room.

  Paul found himself a comfortable chair and waited quietly for the colonel to return.

  The door to the office opened and Clewell entered carrying a yellow piece of paper in his hand. “It’s not as good as I had hoped for, but it’s good enough.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  Clewell looked up from the message and grinned. “How long will it take you to have your team ready for insertion?”

  “This afternoon,” Paul’s lungs automatically inhaled a deep breath.

  “Good, but that’s too soon. Be ready for insertion tomorrow morning.”

  Clewell turned in his chair and stared out the window over the rows of buildings that separated the headquarters from the beach. “I can’t stop a lieutenant general .

  . .” Clewell turned back to face Paul. “The corps commander wants to make an example out of you. I sent a message to General Pick asking for him to intervene in this case, but he’s back in Washington, D.C., testifying before the Congress and can’t make it back here for at least five more days. I have to keep you away from the corps commander until then. What we’re going to do, Paul, is insert your team in one of our cold recon areas and hide you out there until General Pick returns.”

  Lieutenant Bourne smiled at the colonel’s plan. He couldn’t get an Article 15 if he wasn’t available. “Appreciate your concern, sir, but I don’t think the general is going to like you pulling this off under his nose.” Paul bent over and tucked his pant leg into his boot.

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  “That’s my problem, Paul. The war is still going on . . . remember?”

  Clewell grinned. “You go get ready for your mission. Major Galviston is waiting for you.”

  Paul stood and saluted the colonel.

  Jay had been waiting outside the closed door. “Well?”

  “I’m on a mission alert.” Paul kept walking, with Jay walking rapidly beside him.

  “Damn! You just came off a mission . . . two missions!” Jay’s voice rose.

  “What in the hell do they
think you are? A fuckin’ Superman?”

  “This one is a good deal, Jay. If I’m out on a mission they can’t give me an Article 15—unless they want to come out there and do it.” Paul half-closed his eyes and left the rest unsaid.

  “When are you being inserted?”

  “Tomorrow morning. I’m on my way to get briefed by Major Galviston right now.” Paul stopped talking and looked at the man entering the building dressed in civilian clothes, accompanied by Captain White.

  “Lieutenant Bourne! Loveless! Come over here for a minute; I want you to meet somebody,” Captain White waved them over.

  “Yes, sir? What do we have here? A new recruit?” Paul returned the man’s friendly smile as he spoke to the captain.

  “John Michaels. I’m with Newsweek magazine.”

  “A reporter! How in the hell did he get in here!” Jay mocked alarm but became instantly wary of the man. Reporters had gained a very bad reputation in Vietnam among the soldiers, and most of it was justified.

  “Easy, Lieutenant . . . He’s been given a special clearance and has permission to do a story on recon operations. The MACV Commander himself gave the clearance!”

  The reporter grinned. “I’m aware of the special security problems here at CCN and I’ll respect them. I want to write a story about real recon people and take a few pictures.”

  “Well, you’re talking to the right officer, buddy! He’s Mister Recon himself!” Jay nodded at Paul and continued talking, “He’s the most decorated recon man in the country!”

  The reporter looked back over at Paul with a renewed respect. He had instantly caught Paul’s photogenic good looks and had planned on using him for a photo session, but now a feature story started appearing in the back of the reporter’s mind.

  Paul laughed. “Bullshit, Mister Michaels! I’m the camp’s mess-hall officer.”

  Paul risked a glance over at Jay and started walking away from the group.

  “Sorry to leave you all, but I have to see Major Galviston. Nice meeting you, Mister Michaels.”

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  Jay waited until Paul was out of sight and then spoke. “Mess officer, my ass! He’s on mission alert right now! The modest son of a bitch!”

  Michaels started at Jay and sensed that there might be a little bit more than the average amount of jealousy in the man’s tone of voice. “You don’t like him very much, do you?”

  “I hate that pompous bastard!” Jay frowned. “He’s nothing but a damn show-off and tries to make us other recon people look bad!” Jay shook his head and left the reporter standing with Captain White.

  “He really hates Bourne! I haven’t seen a case of professional jealousy that bad in a long time!” Michaels looked over at the S-1 who was smiling at him.

  Captain White shook his head. “Those two are like peas in a pod! You mess with one of them and the other one will get you! Come on over to my office and I’ll tell you about the Brightlight operation we just had a couple of days ago that involved both of those lieutenants.”

  “Brightlight?”

  “Yes, a Brightlight is an operation that involves a recon team that goes into a very hot area after another recon team too shot-up to help itself, or they go after the remains of what’s left of a wiped-out team; either way, it’s very dangerous. Sort of like going to hell carrying a Bible—you’re not wanted in the first place, and when you get there . . . well . . . it gets worse.”

  Lieutenant Bourne received his briefing from Major Galviston and was very pleased with the intelligence package that had been assembled for him. RT Krait had originally been scheduled for the mission and most of the insertion planning was already completed. There wasn’t any special equipment required, but Paul asked that silenced .22-caliber pistols be added to his list. The area that Paul’s team had been given to reconnoiter was twenty grid squares large, ten more than the normal area of operations for a team. CCN hadn’t sent a recon team into the area for over three years due to the inactivity in the past. The terrain was made up of patches of bamboo and a lot of elephant grass that didn’t allow much cover in which large units could hide. Photographs and intelligence reports confirmed that the area was never used by the NVA. Their insertion would be different from the normal helicopter landing. The team was going to be dropped off at a Marine Corps patrol base, and then they would be infiltrated into their area on foot. Lieutenant Bourne figured that the change in tactics was made for his benefit, to use up as much time as possible. The mission directive was simple: Check the area for any past enemy activity. Sergeant Cooper had recently been released from the hospital and would be joining the team. He figured that the easy terrain would be a good way to get back into shape quickly from his wounds.

  Paul skipped supper and went down to the beach. He saw the Newsweek reporter walking across the compound on the far side of the camp, heading 253

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  toward the mess hall. Captain White was still with him and talking with his arms moving in the salty air. The pair had stopped in front of one of the camp bunkers and the captain was showing the reporter something inside. Paul figured White was telling the young newspaper man about the fight inside the camp.

  Paul spotted Jay sitting on the steps of his hooch and changed course to join him.

  “Hey, Jay!”

  Jay looked up from his weapon. “How did your briefing go?” He ran a patch down the barrel a half-dozen times waiting for Paul to answer.

  “Good. It’s an easy mission. Looks like a lot of walking, though—but I can use the exercise. I hate trail-watch missions where you have to sit in hiding for days on end; at least we’ll get to move around a bit.” Paul pointed at Jay’s weapon. “You missed a spot.”

  “Why in the fuck don’t you go bother someone else!” Jay wiped the missed spot with an oily cloth and placed the CAR-15 down on a clean step.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Paul took a step backward.

  “Shit! It pisses me off!” Jay looked at his friend. “They’re keeping your ass out there on patrol, and I know of some teams that haven’t been inserted in fucking months!”

  “Doesn’t bother me any . . .” Paul shrugged his shoulders. “Anyway, it makes the time go by faster . . .”

  Jay tightened his lips and frowned before speaking. “You going over to the club?”

  “Naw . . . I think I’ll wander down to the beach for a while.” Paul shuffled his feet as if he were nervous and added, “Have you seen Coop since he got back?”

  “Yeah, he just went over to his hooch from the mess hall. Are you sure you don’t want to go over to the club? They’re having a big poker game tonight in honor of the Newsweek reporter . . . they plan on really fleecing his ass good!” Jay picked up his ammunition belt from the steps and opened one of the pockets.

  “Naw, thanks anyway . . . Uhhh . . . will you pick up my mail for me while I’m out on patrol?”

  “Sure . . . no problem,” Jay grinned as he looked into his friend’s eyes. He tried to control the very weird feeling that flashed through him.

  Paul caught the change in his buddy. “Something wrong?”

  “No . . . ahhh . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Jay, this soldier isn’t going to get his ass greased . . . not just yet!”

  Paul went over to Sergeant Cooper’s hooch and briefed him on their upcoming mission and the easy target area. Cooper was a little upset that he hadn’t been included in the original briefing, but relaxed as Paul told him 254

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  what they would be doing. It was a cakewalk and needed very little prior planning. Paul explained the real reason for the mission to his partner, which took the edge off the normal pre-mission jitters. This mission was planned so that they wouldn’t find anything.

  Coop told Paul that he wanted to go ove
r to the club and get in the poker game, so Paul went back to his hooch and changed into his cut-offs, picking up his weapon and ammo belt as he exited the building.

  Mister Michaels stepped out of the mess hall and spotted Paul walking in the distance down the narrow camp road. He spoke to Captain White.

  “Where’s he going?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. It could be anywhere, but I’d suspect he’s heading down to the beach—he damn near lives there!” White grabbed the reporter by his elbow. “Come on! There’s a good poker game going on at the club!”

  “Sure . . .” Michaels kept looking at Paul as he followed the captain into the officer hooch that had a separate room set aside as an officer’s lounge and card room. He thought that Paul would be an interesting character for the article he wanted to write and maybe even the main character for his war novel.

  Paul found himself an isolated location on the beach and stacked his battle gear next to him on the sand. He loved sitting alone on the soft sand, thinking about California and all the good times that he had living there as a kid. Paul watched a bank of storm clouds rolling in from far out at sea. The strong wind moving the clouds pushed Paul’s hair almost straight back. His thoughts slipped back to Linda. He had truly loved her, as much as a man could love anything on earth. Her words echoed in his thoughts and he felt a shiver etch itself on his neck just below his right earlobe, as if she had touched him with her lips.

  “Care if I join you?”

  Paul broke away from his thoughts and saw Mister Michaels. He allowed his eyes to reveal his irritation over being disturbed. “It’s a free beach, but it’s a lot nicer down there, though . . .”

  “I came out here to talk to you. The poker game was boring. Those guys in there might be great on the battlefield, but they’re piss-poor poker players.

  I won over eight hundred dollars playing kiddy stakes with them.”

  Paul smiled to himself thinking about what his friend Jay was going through right about now, especially after the way he had bragged about fleecing the reporter.