Night Work: A Novel of Vietnam (The Jim Hollister Trilogy Book 2)

by Dennis Foley

  Hollister watched as Harrold picked the radio handset off the lift harness of his radio operator and called Operations for a commo check and to report that they were off and headed for the landing zone.

  Major Sangean was somewhere behind the insert ship in his C&C chopper. With him were the artillery liaison officer from the supporting battery and two other team leaders. The two team leaders were along to watch the insert and to conduct a VR of the landing zones for their own upcoming patrols.

  A small flutter in Hollister’s stomach was his reaction to seeing the arc of barbed wire and neatly spaced perimeter bunkers pass beneath the chopper. They were now in Indian country. While no part of South Vietnam was safe, there was a feeling that the farther away from American units you were, the more danger you were in. In fact, that was not really the case. Any spot in Vietnam was likely to be completely free of enemy activity at any given time—and as hot and hostile as possible at any other time. The war and enemy activity were so dynamic that soldiers had to remind themselves that location didn’t imply certain proximity to enemy forces. Hollister knew all this, but his stomach couldn’t be convinced.

  He absentmindedly traced the outline and the position of the equipment on his harness. He had not been wearing it long enough to be sure where everything was or if it was all secured. He wished he had had time to loosen up some of the stiffness in the pouches, check out his compass, cook some of the protective oils off his canteen cup, zero his M79, adjust his rucksack for his height and the load, and break in his new jungle boots.

  With the time he had available, he was able to do a little of each, but not enough to make him completely confident with his equipment.

  The countryside below the choppers’ flight was a map of commerce and transportation. Tiny hamlets consisting of as few as three thatched-roof houses stood at the end of narrow dirt roads or wide paths. At the other end the paths fed into roadways built by the government. These threaded around the precious farmland and eventually found their way to the two-lane highways, almost all of which led to Saigon.

  There were no densely populated areas. The whole area was dots and clusters of hamlet after hamlet, some clumped into common villages, but still separated by even the tiniest garden plots.

  The other major features were the waterways that crisscrossed every piece of property, finally feeding the two major rivers—the Saigon and the Dong Ngai.

  It was as if he had been sent to a different war than his last one. Hollister had been used to fewer people per hectare, fewer waterways, and more hills. In the Central Highlands there had been so many more hills, tropical rain forest, and tall hardwood trees that had isolated and protected his LRPs from observation and enemy fire.

  Of all the things bothering Hollister, his unfamiliarity with the terrain troubled him most. He knew he would have to get used to it fast and take it into account in every decision he made and every plan he put together. To ignore it was to ask for trouble. He was absolutely sure about that.

  A few minutes out of the Cu Chi base camp, a pair of gunships joined the flight. It irritated Hollister that no one from the aviation units supporting the patrol insert showed up at the patrol order or the patrol leader’s briefback. This was sure to slow things down at a critical moment. He hated the higher headquarters’ attitude that choppers were like buses and all they had to do was send one to pick up troops. Coordination was everything, and that only sprang from communication. He pulled his notebook from his pocket and made a note while trying to keep the pages from ripping in the turbulence of the rotor wash.

  Sergeant Harrold tapped Hollister on the back and gave him a spread hand—fingers out. They were five minutes from their landing zone.

  Chapter 8

  FIVE MINUTES OUT. IT was time to steel himself for the upcoming events. Hollister made one last check of his equipment and re-checked the safety on his weapon while the chopper descended to treetop level.

  While frying to avoid the wind’s eye-drying blast, Hollister peered out and ahead of the chopper to see if he could pick up the landing zone. It was like looking at a pool table from table height. It gave him a sinking feeling to know that he had no idea where the landing zone was from his vantage point. He knew it meant the patrols had to place plenty of trust in the pilots—pilots who didn’t come to briefings, and couldn’t call one LRP in Juliet Company by name.

  He tried not to be too obvious as he looked at the others inside the chopper. They were the same. The same as every other LRP he had worked with. They were quiet, alert, and anxious. The problem never changed. The uncertainty of the insertion was the first major crunch point for the patrol members.

  If they got to the landing zone and found it hot, the choppers would wave off and pull out. Their job would be to return fire from inside the chopper in order to help suppress enemy fire as they pulled up and away.

  If they got in and down, then they would have to make sure they moved as fast as possible to the nearest concealment, and hope not to get cut down by enemy fire while they ran. They all knew the frightening reality that they would probably not hear the firing that would slice across the landing zone. Their first indication of being fired at would either be casualties or the return fire from the M60 machine guns manned by the chopper door gunners.

  And their crossing of the open area between the chopper and the trees would probably be hampered by the knee-deep rice-paddy water and the mashed-potatolike ground beneath it. Or it would be made very difficult by the boulder-sized clumps of sunbaked mud that often caused ankle sprains in their dash to the trees.

  If they made it to the concealment of the tree lines, they would hope they didn’t walk into booby traps or find themselves in such an obvious piece of real estate that the VC had it registered and could easily lob mortars into the spot without having to adjust their fire, racking up kills on the first round.

  Hollister also knew that if they were lucky enough to get past all that, once they were in the trees they would have to wait for the noise of the choppers to clear before they could even begin to determine if there was any other threat to them. And even that would be a chore, with their breathing labored by the sprint and the heavy load they carried, not to mention the pounding of their hearts and the sounds of water dripping from every crease and bend in their uniforms.

  Not worried about taking ground fire from high ground since there was no high ground, the pilots closed on the landing zone at a low altitude. Hollister and the others watched fifteen- to forty-foot-high bamboo and nipa palms flash quickly by. The shadow of the chopper on the paddy fields below was almost life-sized at that altitude, and the feeling of speed was more evident because of their proximity to the ground and the trees.

  Normally, Hollister would follow the terrain features—rivers, stream junctions, roads—on his map as they approached a landing zone. But he was not the patrol leader, and he knew that doing so would show a lack of confidence in Sergeant Harrold’s ability to get his team to the right spot. So he was pretty much blind to their progress and had to rely on chopper clues.

  Hollister still couldn’t see the landing zone as he took one more look out and in front of the chopper. He knew it had to be very close because the pilots began to draw back on the cyclics, raising the nose, which slowed the aircraft. Just in front of them was a row of trees that looked like a twenty-foot-high hedge. Hollister assumed from the chopper maneuvers that the LZ had to be just on the other side of the trees.

  The door gunners had grabbed the firing handles on their stowed M60 machine guns and pulled them up from the vertical into the firing position. Their eyes and the front-sight blades of the guns were trained on the ribbon of trees rushing by.

  “Stand by! Watch your footing! Keep your heads up!” Harrold yelled.

  The warning was unnecessary. Each man in the chopper knew what was happening and what was expected of him. The charge to keep their heads up was important. It was human nature to duck their heads, if only symbolically, as they ran out fro
m under the twenty-four-foot rotors that reached out from the rotor shaft. Added to that was the preoccupation with the unsteady footing. That day, they would be knee-deep in paddy water. The combination of the two distractions would keep their heads and eyes down if Harrold didn’t remind them to keep their heads up so they could move, shoot, and communicate.

  The chopper felt like a roller coaster as it halted its forward momentum and began to sink toward the wet field a split second after skimming the treetops with its skids.

  This is it, Hollister thought as he walked the cheeks of his ass closer to the door. His toes reached out for the skid that was just outside his reach. Still, he was looking to miss the skid, not step inside of it as he had once seen a soldier do in the Highlands. The misstep caused the soldier to pitch forward and break his collarbone when the chopper lifted off, upending him.

  He already didn’t like the spot the pilot had picked. It was much too far from the trees. His guess was that they were easily three rotor disks away from the concealment that the tree line would give them.

  He knew each step they had to run across the open area could be that much more exposure to enemy fire and would exact a greater toll on their energy once they stopped inside the trees.

  He didn’t wait for the chopper to settle before he leaned forward, letting the momentum pull him out and down that half foot to the ground. Within two strides he felt the power from the downward force of the main rotor blades.

  The team was out, and the pilot, not wanting to remain on the ground for a second longer than he had to, was sucking power back into the collective to lift off. Hollister fought the rotor wash as he slopped clumsily through the rice paddy, the water spattering his face and filling his eyes with mud and grit. He was determined not to fall on his face—not in front of five LRPs, four chopper crews, his new commander, and any VC who might be watching him.

  Hollister promised himself that he would quit smoking. He felt pain as he attempted to get his heaving chest under control while trying to gulp enough air to put the fire out in his lungs. His head pounded. He spat mud and tried to clear his eyes of the mud and sweat that blurred his vision.

  The six LRPs had formed a tight perimeter, each kneeling at the ready, facing out, concealed by the narrow band of trees where they had assembled.

  The sounds of the choppers faded. Soon the only one heard was the C&C ship, circling at fifteen hundred feet off to the east of the team so as not to aid the enemy in locating them. It was this chopper that waited for Harrold to call in the status. Hollister turned for a second to see what he was doing.

  Sergeant Harrold pulled the handset from the RTO’s radio, straightened out the coiled cord, and cupped his hands around the mouthpiece. Hollister couldn’t hear him, but he assumed Harrold was calling in a cold LZ and a normal SITREP.

  Harrold pitched the handset back to the RTO and pointed directly at Hollister and one other soldier, a small LRP named Miguel Montagna. Once he had their attention, he pointed in the direction he wanted them to go. It would be up to Hollister and Montagna to form a two-man advance element to lead the other four to their lay-up position, only two hundred meters from where they were. They would be able to move more quietly than all six at once. Moving more quietly, they would have a better chance of discovering any threat to the team.

  As Hollister and Montagna moved, they stopped periodically and let the main body of the patrol catch up. Then they moved out again.

  If they made contact, it would be VC at close range. With this in mind, Hollister broke open the action on his M79 and dropped the high-explosive round out into his hand. He tucked it into an ammo pouch on his pistol belt, which held only three rounds—each one had an HE, shotgun, and fléchette. He pulled out the shotgun round and slipped it into the chamber. He thought about selecting the fléchette round, but was not sure of the range and dispersion of the nails.

  That was another thing bothering Hollister. He had never been able to fire the fléchette round in the States, and before the patrol left they were unable to get permission from the 25th Division Headquarters to test fire weapons. The 25th claimed they could only allow the LRPs to use the small range on Tuesdays and Saturdays because it was overbooked. A notation that this must change was already in Hollister’s notebook.

  A few meters on, Hollister stopped and knelt next to a sapling not much bigger around than his forearm. He quickly took up a ready firing position, and assumed the overwatch responsibility for Montagna’s movement.

  Only ten meters in front of Hollister, Montagna moved like a cat, one foot coming straight up, moving forward above the scraps of vegetation that dotted the hedgerow and then back down—toe first. The movement was laughingly referred to as the “Alabama High Step” back at Ranger School.

  Comfortable with the footing, Montagna repeated the movement with the other foot. As he did, Hollister watched ahead of Montagna for any flicker of light or change in texture, color, or movement that might indicate the approach or presence of the enemy.

  After several meters Montagna stopped and waited for Hollister to move up and pass him, taking up the point for a while. The movement by bounds gave each of them a periodic break and kept them more alert by sharing the pressure.

  The feeling of nakedness was what first hit Hollister. He had become so used to moving inside the lush rain forests of the Highlands that moving along the length of a narrow strip of trees that had only been planted to divide property and break up the monsoon winds made him very uncomfortable. He knew that anyone monitoring the team’s movement would know they had only three options after entering the tree line—stay put, move in one direction inside the trees, or move in the opposite direction. Those few options gave the enemy a distinct advantage.

  Hollister chided himself to keep his mind on what he was doing. There would be time to straighten out all the difficulties when he got back to the launch site at Cu Chi.

  The ground had many footprints. Most were from bare feet, but some were shod and still others displayed the characteristic rubber tire pattern of what had become known as “Ho Chi Minh sandals.” These sandals were often worn by the VC, but they were not the exclusive property of the enemy. Many farmers wore them to protect their feet from the unseen dangers of ragged metal that was piling up all over Vietnam after years at war.

  Scanning the trees immediately in front of him, Hollister edged forward. Something told him to look down sooner than he might have. The sun coming through the channellike break in the trees reflected off a small loop of silver wire. Booby trap!

  Hollister raised his hand to let Montagna know that he was stopping and to cover his movements. He then carefully knelt down to get a closer look. Before he made the wrong move, he made sure the booby trap was not just a lure to get his attention while he triggered a less visible one nearby. The movement to a crouch took several seconds—done correctly.

  The wire was similar to the wire bands that held army C ration cases together for shipping. Only slightly smaller in diameter than pencil lead, the wire was formed in a loop raised only an inch and a half off the ground to serve as a snare to catch the boot of an approaching soldier.

  The loop was connected by a second length of wire to the pin in an old pineapple grenade. The pin had been flattened out so that it would slip easily from the spoon, letting it fly free and allowing the striker to spring around and detonate the grenade.

  Disarming the booby trap would have been easy enough for Hollister to do. He could simply bend the pin back and remove the wire from the ring on it. But Hollister knew there was a chance the grenade was old enough to be unstable and that the booby trap just might have been booby-trapped against disarming. So he turned to Montagna, signaled that he had found the trap, and reached into his shirt pocket.

  He pulled out a tight roll of GI toilet paper, banded with a piece of brown wrapping paper. Breaking the small bundle open, he pulled off three small squares of tissue and tore each of them halfway through. He then slipped the slit in the
tissue over a part of the booby trap, marking the center and the limits of the wire and the grenade.

  The paper would stand out vividly against the earth and grass colors around it and allow the others on the patrol to identify the trap and avoid it as they moved forward along the same path that Hollister and Montagna had crossed.

  The movement continued for the next forty-five minutes. Finally, Hollister and Montagna reached the site where they would hole up and watch the nearby canal.

  They had selected a concealed position where the canal came toward them and then took a slight turn and crossed in front of them. The nearest point was just over one hundred meters from them. Just inside a dense clump of trees, they were in the best location to see the water level, spot any approaching VC early, and be able to fire on them once they made the turn across the team’s front. The canal was dry, save a small trickle of water that ran through it.

  The other four team members closed on the position, and Sergeant Harrold set up the perimeter they had rehearsed back at Cu Chi. He made some adjustments to account for fields of fire and the relationship of the position to the canal.

  Watching, Hollister thought there was a little too much confusion in the perimeter, but kept his opinion to himself. He knew that the disruption of calling attention to it would be more damaging to the integrity of the patrol than the slight confusion itself. Better to let the confusion die down by itself and discuss it with Harrold back at Cu Chi.

  The team had touched down just after eight A.M. Four hours later the sun was beating down through the large break in the trees above them. Hollister wasn’t even almost used to the climate, and sweat formed on his face and neck, rolled down the center of his chest, and pooled at his navel under his camouflage fatigues. He was still wet from dashing through the rice paddies, and everything he touched was either wet or muddy.