by Dennis Foley
Soon the chopper left the unpopulated western part of the province and reached the Vam Co Dong River. It was the north-south ribbon of water that divided the populated area from that which had been abandoned by years of war.
Lighting yet another cigarette and feeling the burn in his chest as he took a long drag, Hollister looked down at the activity passing beneath the C&C. The roads and side paths leading to them were filling up with peasants, farmers, merchants, and government employees, all heading out for their work. Hollister watched them pass beneath the chopper and wondered if any of them had heard or seen the killing that had just taken place only a few thousand meters west of them.
He remembered that there wasn’t anyone on that ground who had ever known peace. So the sight of a couple of gunships and a slick rolling in on a small enemy target near their homes was nothing new for them.
They were just starting their day. Hollister was already four hours into his. And he could count on it not ending for at least sixteen more.
Chapter 20
THE CREW MEMBERS AND Hollister were joined by several curious LRPs at the Old Warrior Pad. They searched the Huey for damage. The AK rounds were not hard to find. One of them had sliced into the underbelly of the chopper and lodged itself somewhere in the fuel cell. The other one had glanced off the footpad on the forward edge of the skid and disappeared somewhere into the morning darkness.
“Whoa, boy! Check this out,” the copilot said, standing on top of the chopper inspecting the rotor head.
Hollister and the others stepped back to see what he was pointing at. He tapped a portion of the complicated articulating control rods that changed the pitch on the rotor blades. One of them had three deep cuts in it.
“Looks like the frags from the thirty-seven mike mike came closer than we thought.”
“That bad?” Hollister asked Edmonds.
“Coulda been. But we passed the basic aviation test.”
“What’s that?” Hollister asked.
“Equal number of takeoffs and landings. You get those numbers out of whack and your flying days are over. Gravity assumes control of your destiny at that point.”
“If the thirty-seven had cut that rod?”
“We’d have assumed the flight characteristics of a spit-shined footlocker.”
“No shit?”
“Hey, that’s the risk of the stalwart aviator,” Edmonds said. “That’s why they give us all that fabulous flight pay.”
“I don’t get flight pay.”
“You get passenger pay,” Edmonds said.
“What the hell is passenger pay?”
“The mere joy of watching daring aviators do their magic. Money would be redundant.”
“Get out of here,” Hollister said, throwing a mock punch toward Edmonds.
“Seriously, we’ll be out of business for a day or so while we make repairs. The fuel cell is iffy. Don’t have any idea what else is damaged in this bird.”
“Can we replace it?” Hollister asked. “We can’t go without a C and C.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I’ve got a call in to maintenance in Bien Hoa. They’re gonna pitch a bitch. But fuck ’em.”
“Yessir, yessir. I understand. Yessir,” Sangean said, finishing the phone conversation and hanging up.
Even though he came in on the tail end of it, the tone of the conversation caught Hollister’s attention. He assumed that it was Colonel Downing and that he wasn’t happy about something.
Sangean stood, looking at the phone for a moment and letting the conversation sink in. Then he turned to Hollister. “Where are we?”
“Guns are reloading, I have to brief two teams, Edmonds is going to replace the C and C, you have a recon this afternoon, we have to find out what else the prisoner gave us, and you and I need to talk about these early-morning flights.”
“Hmmm, that ought to be enough to keep us out of trouble,” Sangean said.
“Speaking of trouble. Are we in some with the head shed?”
“It’s a cost-benefit thing. Some of the paper shufflers at Two Field are telling Colonel Downing that we are costing more in resources than we are bringing in on payday.”
“Do you agree?”
“Fuck no!” Sangean snapped. He waved his hand across the twenty-by-thirty-kilometer AO marked on the map. “The information we bring out just by being there would take them a whole damn leg division. As an economy of force we’re a bargain. But we’re also bringing in prisoners, enemy intelligence, and KIAs.” The frustration in Sangean’s voice was unmistakable.
“You able to convince Colonel Downing of that?”
“I ran it by him for the fourth time. It sounds to me like he’s being shown charts and stats. That shit kills any special unit operation. It’s been chasing Special Forces for years.”
“So what do we do differently?” Hollister asked.
“Huh?”
“What do we do to change their perception?”
“We talk louder,” Sangean said, showing a hint of a sarcastic smile.
There was no doubt that Sangean was even more angry about what he was thinking than he let on. Hollister could only guess the pressure he must be feeling. And that meant pressure on Hollister to figure out how to do more, better—without adding to the considerable risk the teams were already exposed to.
One thing was the morning flights to look for small parties infiltrating into South Vietnam across the no-man’s-land. He was convinced he could rack up some kills with a limited risk to the aircraft and crews—if he could stay away from the 37mm or knock it out. He made a note to talk to the FAC about it. There had to be a way to suck the gunners into shooting at something and then to pulverize them with fast movers.
“About the cost-benefit ratio of using the Cobras to search for infiltrators,” he said to Sangean.
“What about ’em?”
“We are rotating the Cobra teams back to Bien Hoa every afternoon for maintenance and new crews.”
“Yeah, so?” Sangean asked.
“Well, what if we rotate them in the mornings after they have made a run looking for trails—and after they have covered any insertions?”
“That way they’d already be out there, and if we ran late on any other essential operations we could scrub the trail searches.”
“Yes, sir. We’d only run the searches when we had the blade time remaining, and by then they’d be on the way home.”
“Good idea, but you tell Stanton. He’s gonna have a small fit.”
After a month of successful dawn patrols, Juliet Company had racked up twenty-four by body count and an estimate of six others that couldn’t be confirmed—just by letting the Cobras prowl before going home.
The success was embarrassing the ARVNs and the 25th Division, who were normally responsible for the AO the LRPs were working. And it appeared to Hollister to be temporarily, frustrating Major Fowler’s efforts to bad-mouth Juliet Company.
At the end of the sixth week of solid patrols, all of the Chieu Hois who were acceptable were integrated into teams. The others were transferred to a POW compound in northern South Vietnam to reduce the chance of their feeding information about the LRPs back to the VC/NVA.
As soon as the Chieu Hois were integrated into the teams, Bui became a TOC rat. He was kept around Operations in the event that there was a problem on a team and his language skills might be needed. On the few occasions when he had to speak with the Chieu Hois, Operations frequently erupted into laughter at his fractured radio procedure.
Hollister finally took him aside. “Sergeant Bui, we think you ought to get together with Captain Newman for some RTO procedure.”
Bui made a sad face. “I do not good?”
Not wanting to destroy Bui’s self-confidence, Hollister took it easy on him. “Let me put it this way… You are very good, but there is much for all of us to learn about using the radio and communicating well. It is so important that we even have a captain, like Newman, whose special job is communicatio
ns. You understand that?”
“Yes, Dai Uy. I will see Newman,” Bui said, standing stiffly at attention and saluting.
“And another thing, Bui. We don’t need to salute all the time. Since we work together, it is only appropriate the first time we meet each other in the morning and at the end of the day—and only outdoors.”
“Can do, easy,” Bui said, resisting the urge to salute again.
“Good.”
Bui left Operations to look for Newman. Hollister looked around at the others, who had tried to keep from laughing at the winsome Sergeant Bui.
“That bad leg never slows him down, does it?” Hollister asked.
“He’s funny. But he’s done a bang-up job with those Hoi Chanhs. I mean, he’s just okay on tactical matters and patrolling techniques, but he has really been good at getting them comfortable with the Americans.”
“The team leaders seem to be getting more confidence in the Hoi Chanhs. But we haven’t had any real tough contacts yet,” Hollister said.
“I don’t think they’ll bug out on us,” Kurzikowski said.
“If they do?”
“Then we’re in deep, deep shit. We’ll have to change everything we do and assume that an AWOL Hoi Chanh has gone back to the VC and sold them all the information he’s collected on us.”
“We’ve tried pretty hard to keep them in the dark. I don’t think I’d be happy to go on a patrol when no one is showing me the map, telling me the frequencies or call signs on the radios, or filling me in on the support available. Hell, the list of things they don’t know is longer than they are tall.”
“You know the troops are giving some of them money?” Kurzikowski asked.
“Money?”
“Yeah. They only make fifty bucks a month. But the team members found out that most of them have families somewhere that are hurting.”
“Softhearted LRPs are giving some of these guys money to send to their families?”
“You got it,” Kurzikowski said.
“I don’t know why I’m surprised.” Hollister smiled at the generosity and the complexity of the kids who had volunteered to be LRPs. He knew they were not the bloodthirsty killers people would make them out to be. They were kids who wanted to do their jobs, be proud of their combat service, and go home feeling good about it all. The rest was bravado, and no LRP would knock down the exaggerated stories that went around about them.
“Hope this doesn’t backfire on us,” Kurzikowski said.
“Keep your ear to the ground on this, will ya?”
“Yessir. I will. I’ll add it to the list of thankless burdens we NCOs lift every day,” Kurzikowski said, kidding.
“Must be tough being the backbone of the army,” Hollister countered.
It was too late for Hollister to start a letter to Susan, but he hadn’t written anything in days except a short one to his parents and another to his cousin Janet, which was almost a copy of the first one. He knew if he didn’t carve out the time to write her, still another day would go by and he would feel worse. Especially if he got another letter from her first.
He kicked off his boots, but left them opened up and ready to slip on. He poured himself a very short Scotch since he was on call for any contact. Sangean was weathered in at IIFFV, so Hollister had the early and the late shift for the second day running. Before taking a drink of the Scotch, he finished the last few gulps of the coffee he had brought from the mess hall. It was cold, but he didn’t care. He figured it just might help him snap out of the fog of fatigue he had been in all day.
He threw his shirt over the back of his chair and sat down at the makeshift desk in his hooch. Vance had been in his end of the hooch earlier, but had to go over to the CP for something. He still wasn’t back.
Vance’s radio was on. AFVN was playing a Zombies tune. It seemed to be one of the few popular songs that had cleared whoever okayed music because he played it at least once every hour or so.
A cigarette and a sip of the Scotch, and Hollister spread out the six letters he had received from Susan and had not completely answered. They showed her growing concern about the course of the war and the frustration that was becoming epidemic in the States. She tried not to thrust her feelings at Hollister, but just the fact that it was upsetting her hurt him.
He picked up his pen and began writing on the GI steno pad he had stolen from the desk that had been First Sergeant Morrison’s. He began by trying to explain that the war from New York City and the war from Hau Nghia Province were two completely different wars. He agreed that there were many wrongs being done in the name of God and Country. Too many Americans coming home in metal boxes bothered him very much. But he tried to explain that there were innocent people who had been pressed into fighting for the VC. He accepted that there were terrible inequities and corruption in the government, but she had to understand that he had seen that the peasants and the simple farmers were not getting rich off the U.S.
He told her about Bui, who had had his entire family broken up and how he’d been drafted into fighting brother South Vietnamese, that he was crippled and still came to work for the Americans. He told her he was sure that if the VC or NVA found out he was a Hoi Chanh, his punishment would be the worst torture they could hand out.
He agreed with Susan that the war should end and that as long as it was going on there were going to be people killed and families destroyed. But pulling out and leaving South Vietnam to the North Vietnamese would mean the end for thousands and thousands of South Viets and their families—not to mention the complete Communist takeover of Vietnam.
He certainly didn’t have all the answers, but he did know what would be the wrong thing to do. Walking away from the South Vietnamese would be wrong. Still, he wanted so badly to be home with her and not in that hooch. He could feel the dampness of his shirt against the middle of his back. His bare feet stuck to the grit on the plywood floor, but he was happy to be able to wiggle his toes after so many hours in boots. The front of his ankles were sore from the pressure of his laces.
It started to rain again.
He lit another a cigarette and considered having another shot of Scotch. No. Couldn’t do it.
He heard Vance come in and stamp his boots on the floor to knock some of the water off them. Hollister went back to his letter.
He waffled and filled in some blank space talking about the weather and avoiding explaining that he didn’t feel as if he had the same grip on things he had had on his first tour. Oh sure, he knew a lot more about war and the business of being an infantryman. But he didn’t know the troops as well, and he had so damn many things to juggle at once that there were nights he couldn’t sleep for worrying about details. He knew the difference between living and dying in Vietnam was often a matter of SLDs—shitty little details.
He was pissed about having Fowler in his hair all the time. He often thought Fowler was keeping him off his game by distracting him so much, but he considered that a copout.
He told her about the music on AFVN and how he picked her out of the lyrics of some of the popular tunes. He was writing, but he was lying by omission. God, how he wanted just one more drink.
On his first tour, he had had Lucas and Easy, and even Captain Michaelson, the CO, to lean on for advice and a friendly ear. He didn’t have that yet in Juliet Company. They didn’t get the time to talk that much, and Sangean was hard to get close to.
He told her how terrific it was to work for Sangean and how he felt comfortable with the pilots and the older NCOs. He hated lying to her. But what was the sense in telling her the truth only to have her worry more about him.
He reached for the bottle, and the field phone rattled.
“Hollister,” he answered.
“Sir, One-three has movement.”
He looked at his watch. It was almost two A.M. “Anybody tell the pilots?”
“Yessir.”
“Where’s the Old Man?”
“He’s still grounded in Long Binh. Weather.”
“Okay, I’m on the way.” Hanging up the field phone, Hollister wrote across the bottom of his letter, Can’t finish now. Want to get in mail. I love you, J.
Hollister was still buttoning his shirt and his boots were unlaced when he walked into Operations. It was still raining outside.
“So? What have we got?”
Lieutenant Patten, 1-3’s platoon leader, was the duty officer, manning the radios with a PFC from the commo platoon.
“One-three is located on a marshy spot directly across from Ba Thu. They’ve seen nothing, but can hear movement to their north and west. They can’t drop any arty or air on it because no one can confirm that it’s bad guys,” Patten reported.
The spot on the map that was marked with 1-3’s unit symbol in blue grease pencil was only eighteen hundred meters from Cambodia. Hollister pulled out his notebook and cross-checked the coordinates with his notes. “Is that where we put them in?”
“No, sir. They moved after dark. The team leader wasn’t happy with his location—too deep.”
“Hell, for me any water for a whole night is too deep.”
“You want we should do something now?” Patten asked.
“What’s he hearing?”
“He said he thought they had heard voices and metallic clinking.”
“Let’s get the FO in here and work up a fire mission or two for the team to call. Get me a belly man. Your platoon sergeant, if he’s available.” Hollister looked at his watch. “What time are they due to check in next?”
The RTO scanned the duty log for the last entry. “They’re due every hour on the half hour, but they just checked in six minutes ago with more movement.”
That gave Hollister seven more minutes before the team would call in a scheduled SITREP, time for him to put together a list of yes or no questions the team leader could answer without talking.
He grabbed a piece of scrap paper on his desk and jotted down some questions. He motioned to Patten. “Watch this. You need to learn this.”
“You wanted someone from the slicks?”
The voice was unmistakable—Captain Keith, one of the slick platoon’s section leaders. Hollister turned and smiled. “You might have to earn some of that big-time flight pay tonight. Got a team on the border that’s picking up lots of movement and has its ass hanging out. If they get compromised there will be no option—we jerk ’em immediately. They have nowhere to E and E to avoid contact. I want a pickup element ready to go on zero five minutes’ warning. Can do?”