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

by Dennis Foley

  The trio moved to a corner table where they could talk and have fewer people close enough to overhear them. Hollister knew Vance would be eager to find out the whole story on Juliet Company and what he was getting himself into.

  The waitress came with the drinks, and Vance told her not to leave. She made a face as if she had work to do.

  “Dung lai, Co. We need another round,” Vance said to stop her from leaving.

  “You no need. I jus’ bring,” she said.

  He raised his glass and challenged Sangean and Hollister to do the same. “Let this be the first of many and the beginning of a good year,” he said, and then tossed the whole drink down in one gulp, slamming the glass back onto the shaky table for the waitress.

  “Here, here,” Hollister and Sangean repeated as they emptied their glasses.

  Sangean pulled out twenty dollars and dropped the money in front of the waitress. “Keep ’em coming, and tell me when that runs out.”

  Vance put twenty more on the first, and Hollister matched the first two.

  All three looked at each other knowing what was ahead of them. Vance bent over to look out the louvered screens that surrounded the room and squinted. “Looks bad out there!”

  “How bad?” Hollister asked.

  “Looks like a fucking drunk front moving in from the South China Sea!”

  “Stand by for heavy rolls,” Sangean added.

  The waitress grabbed some of the bills and almost trotted to the bar for the refills.

  It didn’t take them long to brief Vance on the situation—or for them to get louder and drunker. It was the first time Hollister had seen Sangean really smile since he had been in Juliet Company. He just assumed the major was happy things were coming together—with Vance’s arrival and the announcement that the assets had been committed to the LRPs.

  Still, Hollister had a sinking feeling that he couldn’t trust Fowler and that there would be some repercussions for the bad-mouthing Sangean had done in Downing’s office.

  Within less than half an hour, Vance, Hollister, and Sangean had every stiff paper napkin within reach on their table. They had made up lists of things that Sangean wanted Vance to get right on. Most of the company administration had been put off until the XO arrived. What did get done was the stuff that couldn’t be postponed, and that was taken care of by First Sergeant Morrison.

  There were also napkins that suggested changes in the organization, lines of responsibility, and logistical support for the expected pilots, airmen, cavalrymen, and replacements. And the Scotch kept coming. Hollister was starting to feel good about Juliet Company. He was starting to like the feel of the new team being formed, and he was glad that Vance seemed to respect Sangean.

  The strippers came on about nine to a fully packed club. The LRPs were still deep in conversation about their plans and their priorities, while the others in the club were yelling and ogling the two tiny Korean strippers wearing stateside bikinis decorated with fringe and tassels.

  The noise and the music continued to build to a level where there was just no point in trying to talk about Juliet Company. And the fact that they were coming close to depleting the money they had put on deposit for the drinks left them hardly capable of doing anything but joining in and cheering on the two strippers, who were doing their best to be seductive while wearing cheap and less-than-feminine platform shoes.

  “Hey, Major!” a red-faced Signal Corps captain yelled.

  Sangean didn’t hear him or decided not to respond.

  “Hey—you, I’m talking to you. What the fuck kinda outfit wears silly camouflage uniforms like that? You guys APs? ’Cause the last time I saw anything so fucking stupid, a puke air policeman was wearing it,” the drunken captain yelled.

  Hollister looked at Sangean and then at Vance. Neither one of them wanted to provoke the officer, who was obviously too drunk and too dumb to live. By silent and mutual consent, they tried to ignore him. But he wouldn’t have it.

  He raised his voice even louder. “Hey! You fuckers too good to talk to the rest of us Remington Raiders?” he said, a trace of jealousy still recognizable in spite of his slurred words.

  “Well,” he said, putting his hands on his hips. “I guess you guys must have some hearing problems. I know I have vision problems because I can’t really see you fuckers in your no-see-me-suits.”

  Vance, Hollister, and Sangean exchanged glances again for another cross-check. Vance shook his head and stood up slowly.

  Hollister looked at Sangean for a sign. Were they going to fight or what? Sangean gave him a look that he read as just be ready.

  They watched Vance, who walked as if he hadn’t seen the Signal Corps officer and was just heading toward the latrine. He got behind the captain, who kept on running his mouth, trying to get some of the others to harass the two in cammies. But they were all fixed on the tallest of the two strippers, who had removed her top and was showing off her tiny breasts, which were tipped with large brown, almost leathered nipples. It was the nipples that caused the room to explode in a concert of hooting and whistling. The stripper thought it was a sign of approval when it was really ridicule.

  The captain tried again to goad Sangean and Hollister by hurling the standard line at them. It was obvious he knew who they were. “Only thing that falls out of the sky is bird shit and paratroopers.”

  With that Vance hooked the wrought-iron leg on the captain’s chair with his jump boot, gave it a little shove as he twisted his torso, and caught the captain in the upper chest with a lightning-fast jab with his elbow. Vance was two steps away before the captain realized his chair was going over backward with him in it and the tableful of beer and filled ashtrays on its way down on top of him.

  The others at his table saw the captain going over and turned to make fun of him as he collided with the concrete floor in a puddle of beer and light mud from the many dirty boots that had crossed the floor that evening.

  The captain rolled out of his chair just as it hit the floor. He was on his feet and ready to fight, but found no one to challenge him. Vance was far enough away to cast some doubt on whether he had anything to do with upending the obnoxious captain.

  He turned to look at Hollister and Sangean only to find them seated, laughing at him. Another officer made a remark about the captain’s mouth making him top-heavy, and he struck out at him. In a matter of seconds, everyone within five feet of the captain’s table was fighting—none of them knew why.

  Some of the more sober officers in the room tried to break it up, but found themselves embroiled in the fight and quickly provoked to throw a punch.

  The strippers were frightened and scrambled to collect their outfits and make a break for the door. The end of their striptease angered many near the dance floor who were not part of the fight, and they began to throw beer cans at those who were fighting.

  Outside the club Vance, Sangean, and Hollister were doubled up with laughter.

  “Fucking leg REMFs should all be taken out and shot. How the hell we supposed to win this fucking war with assholes like that running the headquarters?” Vance asked.

  “Yeah, I hope I never need to talk to someone over the signal gear that that asshole is in charge of,” Hollister said.

  The trio tried to straighten up as they crossed the street to the Transit BOQ. But their line of march was ragged enough to give away just how much they had had to drink.

  Chapter 17

  THE SMELL OF THE mess hall made Hollister’s already uneasy stomach pitch. The smell was the same in every army mess hall. A mixture of grease, coffee, disinfectants, and the dominant food of the day. Today it was sausage.

  Vance and Sangean didn’t look much better than Hollister thought he looked. All three had very bad hangovers, but didn’t want to admit how bad to each other. It was a matter of honor to be able to take it. Hollister was the first to suggest it: “I’d give a month’s pay for one of those awful APCs that falls apart in your mouth before you can flush it down with som
ething.”

  The comment brought sympathetic groans from the other two, but not much more. They were too busy eyeing the coffee level in the glass tube on the front of the huge stainless-steel coffee urn.

  “So what do you suppose ever happened to that shithead Signal officer last night?” Sangean asked.

  “I hope he drowned in his own puke. I was working on a really good hangover when he screwed it up for me,” Vance said.

  “Wish he’d been that successful with me,” Sangean said.

  Vance took some bacon and some unevenly cut toast. Hollister chose the SOS, and Sangean had the dry cereal and three big glasses of milk.

  They took a table near the far end of the room, away from the wilting steam table. Even at six in the morning, the combination of the Vietnamese heat and the humidity of the steam table could sap the energy out of strong men without hangovers.

  Over breakfast they tried to come up with a consensus on what they wanted to ask the Chieu Hois. They knew the first thing that would be in doubt was their loyalty and the second was their combat effectiveness. In teams of only six men, one that wasn’t able or was unwilling to hold up his end was a significant loss in combat power.

  They knew they would have to spend plenty of time training whomever they picked, and it was important that they not lose time on those who were just not up to it.

  By the time they had finished breakfast, they knew what they wanted, but not how to find it. They decided just to wing it and see if their instincts were right.

  They managed to get down, and hold down, the breakfast without embarrassing themselves. But the look of the three of them was enough to warn anyone not to mess with them until much later.

  On his way to the jeep, Hollister lit his first cigarette of the day. It tasted awful, but satisfied some need to fill his lungs with smoke. The cigarette had swollen from the humidity in the mess hall and didn’t burn normally. He didn’t care. All he wanted was a cigarette.

  The Interrogation Center was a large compound just off the road that connected the Long Binh and the Bien Hoa complexes. It was a prison, of sorts, that held up to thirteen hundred enemy POWs inside a combination of flimsy buildings and chain-link-fence enclosures.

  On the four corners, Vietnamese soldiers stood guard in the gun towers that not only overlooked the yard, but had the responsibility to provide fire against any attacking force.

  Mr. Pauley was one of the interrogators from the 500th MI Group. His job was to interview VC and NVA soldiers, day after day, to try to extract as much useful tactical information as he could. He was held by all the Americans who worked, at the Interrogation Center as the most experienced one there. If anyone had a question, they went to Mr. Pauley for the answer.

  “Been here since nineteen sixty-three,” the chief warrant officer said, pulling off his GI-issue glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “’Course then I wasn’t with this place. I was a translator in the MAAG Mission Headquarters down in Saigon.”

  “You’ve sure been logging in some time over here,” Hollister said.

  “Oh, it wasn’t so bad back early in the war. Saigon was a terrific place to be stationed before there were even five thousand Americans in the whole country. And it was a lot more peaceful in Saigon before Diem was assassinated. I worked for him for a few months.”

  “What was he like?” Vance asked.

  “He was a regular asshole,” Pauley said.

  Hollister liked the fact that Pauley just spoke up and didn’t worry about where anyone fell on the war or Diem. To Hollister that meant they would get straight answers out of him.

  “So how do we do this?” Sangean asked.

  “Easy,” Pauley said. “It’s like shopping.”

  “How’s that?” Vance asked.

  “You tell me what you’re looking for in a Chieu Hoi, and I’ll try and find him for you from the population.”

  “Well,” Sangean said, “what would we be looking for? Young and healthy enough to survive on patrols. Ah, language would be lots of help. Combat experience would please the team members.”

  “We’d like him to know the area we’re working in, but we can’t discuss where we’re working,” Hollister said.

  “I understand,” Pauley said. “How about you let me guess where you might like them to be familiar with?” he said with a sort of wink.

  It was common knowledge that the LRPs were working in the western end of the III Corps area and were based out of Cu Chi, so the only ones they were keeping the details from were other Americans. Still, operational security was desired whenever possible.

  Pauley divided them into three different areas of the main building and set each one up with an interpreter, a desk, and a couple of chairs. Hollister was lucky enough to get a desk near a window that afforded some light and plenty of fresh air.

  Pauley had detected that the three LRPs were in a bad way and had some coffee brought to them while they worked.

  Sergeant Dinh was Hollister’s interpreter. His English wasn’t much better than Hollister’s Vietnamese. Still, he was all that could be spared for the interviews. Pauley had to apologize that the better interpreters were being used to interrogate the new prisoners.

  Pauley asked that they be patient with the interpreters, and said their efforts would go a long way in helping them improve then-skills. In return he promised to help them select the best Hoi Chanhs he could from the prison population.

  The morning went slowly and was somewhat disappointing for all of them. They talked to VC after VC, most of whom promised to perform combat exploits they didn’t even understand.

  When Vance, Hollister, and Sangean broke to talk about their experiences, it became apparent to them that the prisoners had all cooked up their stories based on what they thought the Americans would want to hear.

  It was clear that most of the prisoners they interviewed wanted to work with the Americans. According to Pauley, this was because they knew they would be treated better by the Americans than by the South Vietnamese and also because they were sure the Americans were going to win the war. And, of course, because they would be paid for their help.

  The only thing the three LRPs were sure of was that there was no shortage of applicants. After the break, they went back to it. By midafternoon, they had narrowed it down to about four VC each. But they had decided not to accept more than ten in case the program was a complete waste.

  As the questioning went on, Hollister was impressed with the savvy of some of the Hoi Chanhs. They knew quite a bit of American slang and seemed to project similar, or maybe even identical, can-do attitudes. By about the seventh Hoi Chanh who seemed to repeat the same phrases, Hollister held up Sergeant Dinh and asked him if he was using his own words to describe things or if he was translating the words the Hoi Chanhs were using. Dinh swore that he was giving Hollister the translations without any editorial comments.

  At the opposite end of the room, Vance leaned on a table and questioned a Hoi Chanh. He looked up and caught Hollister’s eye, then asked the next question: “Can you work for Americans?”

  Vance’s interpreter translated the question for the Hoi Chanh, who answered in Vietnamese.

  Hollister spoke up just a moment before the interpreter translated the Hoi Chanh’s response. “Let me guess. He’s going to say, ‘I can work for the Americans. I have never really been committed to the Communist goals.’”

  The interpreter turned around and looked at Hollister, surprised. “How you know that?”

  “We have to talk. Somebody has been coaching these guys,” Hollister said to Vance.

  “You know, I kinda got the feeling that the answers didn’t fit the guys I was talking to, either,” Vance said.

  “Let’s go talk to Pauley.”

  Pauley led the three LRPs to a large room where dozens of prisoners were squatting and listening to one who held their attention. The LRPs listened as Pauley translated the words of the squatting prisoner, who spoke with authority and punctuated h
is statements with a tin spoon that he rapped on the cement floor at appropriate points.

  “He told them they could make fifty dollars U.S. a month if they took the jobs as Kit Carson Scouts,” Pauley said.

  “Why is that important to them? Where are they going to spend the money?” Hollister asked.

  “For most of these guys there’s a family somewhere that is starving to death because all the young men are gone. They have either been moved from them, or they are unable to get the most out of their fields. Money is the solution for most of their problems. These guys rarely got paid as VC or NVA, and, even if they did, it was so little money it was no help at home. Fifty bucks U.S. is a windfall.”

  “The guy coaching them sure seems animated,” Vance observed.

  “He is pretty enterprising. He speaks some English and some French, and he’s a real character.”

  “How come he isn’t pushing for the job?” Vance asked.

  “He’s got a bum leg, and the Viet guards told him he wouldn’t be sent to the interviews. So he’s making a buck coaching the others.”

  “He speak English?” Hollister asked.

  “A little, and some French,” Pauley repeated.

  “We’ll take him.”

  Hollister turned to Sangean. “That’s if it’s okay with you, sir.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “No matter who we pick, chances are he won’t speak a word of English. We need our own interpreter who can be our head Hoi Chanh. We’ll never get a regular interpreter out of Major Fowler after we burned him down in front of Colonel Downing. So I thought we’d just create our own.”

  “Good idea,” Sangean said. “We’ll take him.”

  “Wrap him up,” Vance said.