Termite Hill (Vietnam Air War Book 1)

by Tom Wilson

  "Hello, motherfuckers," Glenn said cheerfully. The morphine was taking the edge from the pain.

  The woman regarded him with cold hatred. When several more villagers arrived, she spoke in a shrill voice, gesturing at him. Her mouth looked filled with blood, from chewing betel nuts.

  "Ugly," muttered Glenn as he tried to give her a charming grin.

  The villagers surrounded him, looking, staring, and chattering excitedly about the bone that protruded from the g-suit. The woman approached, prodded at the bone, laughing. Phillips groaned at the dull pain. She probed more harshly, making Glenn Phillips shriek and wish he could die. He tried to curl himself into a protective ball. The woman kicked the leg and he cried like a baby. She jabbed the pitchfork into the leg and he puked up water and chunks of the candy bar he'd eaten for breakfast. He began to sob as she continued the relentless jabbing.

  After a while the men rigged him to a strong bamboo pole and carried him to the village, where they stuffed him into a small cage, the bottom of which was covered with sweet-smelling shit.

  More than sixty people inhabited the small village. They gathered to see him babble as the woman continued to probe his leg with the pitchfork. The men eventually tired of the game and went back to their bamboo huts. Other women and several children joined in the woman's fun, prodding with a variety of wooden sticks so they could listen to him scream.

  Bear Stewart

  From several miles away the Bear heard the keening from the village. At first he tried to think the sounds were made by a jungle bird. He knew better. He gritted his teeth; his rage building.

  "You just hang in there and survive, Glenn," he whispered. "I'll do the getting even." There were a few tears, but they were ones of outrage at what they were doing to his pilot and of shame that he'd done nothing to help.

  Late in the afternoon a truck drove into the village and several soldiers, wearing pith helmets and baggy green uniforms, shoved their way through the crowd. They stared at the American stuffed into the small cage. One pulled his ear to see if he was alive. Getting no response, he toed the broken, exposed leg bone and heard a low moan.

  They dragged the pig cage to the truck and were in the process of lifting it into the truck's bed when a woman came running up, shrieking. She pushed them aside, shouting and brandishing her pitchfork, saying that all three of her sons had been killed by Americans in the south. A soldier threatened to shoot her if she did not desist.

  The soldiers put the cage onto the truck bed, then shoved it forward until it rested against the cab. One made a short speech, grinning and pointing at the pilot, then crawled into the passenger's seat. Two others got in front while the rest gathered in back. One lounged with his feet on the cage as the truck was driven from the village.

  Bear Stewart

  He intermittently walked and jogged throughout the remainder of the day, placing as much territory as possible between himself and the village. At first he had to stop every ten or fifteen minutes. He was still coughing and spitting up soot and crud. By late afternoon the spasms had diminished, leaving only a raw throat and aching chest.

  He drove himself relentlessly, crawling through brambles, scrambling up hillsides, slogging through marshes and streams. As the evening light waned, he was grasping for fingerholds to climb a 200-foot karst that blocked his way. He finished the climb in darkness, then descended a long, sloping hillside of elephant grass to enter a dense teak forest. After half an hour he stopped because he could go no farther in the pitch black of the jungle night.

  28/1140L—Udorn RTAFB, Thailand

  Benny Lewis

  The A-1H Sandy aircraft were stationed at Udorn because that base was closest to the northern portions of North Vietnam where the majority of fighters were shot down. The medical clinic at Udorn was one of the best equipped of the forward bases, and many of the pilots were taken there by the Jolly Green helicopters after being picked up.

  Rescue forces—the Sandy pilots and the crews for the big HH-3 helicopters called Jolly Greens—had to be convinced of the positive identity of the pilots they rescued, for they were the easiest targets in the North Vietnamese sky. They wanted to make damned sure they weren't being suckered into a flak trap, or into hovering over some gomer dressed up like an American pilot, so they asked questions no one but the pilot would likely know.

  The personal data card on Benny was a capsule of his life:

  N; LEWIS, BENJAMIN LLOYD, JR. / NN; BENNY / R; 0–3 / DOS; 12 JUN 59 / CMP; REGAF / SN; FR69277 / DOB; 22 JAN 37 / POB; SANTA ROSA, CAL / RC; CAUCASIAN / HT; 71" / WT; 185# / HR; BLD / E; BLU / BL; 0 POS / DEN; METH / MS; MARRIED, 02 SEP 61, ELIZABETH (NMN) DOWNEY, 2701 E. CHARLESTON AVE, LAS VEGAS, NEV – 2 CHILDREN, (1 M/1 F) / FATHER (L) – MOTHER (L) (CONNORS) / Q; CHILDHOOD PET CHICKEN – MR BUGS / Q; FAVORITE SPORT – SKIING / Q; FAVORITE COLOR – RED.

  "It would be the shits," the paramedic told Benny Lewis, "if we picked up some gomer and he said, You make one mistake, Yankee dog. Take me home to Hanoi."

  "Hell," Benny said, still euphoric over the rescue, "you almost know as much as I do about me."

  "Almost?" said the wiry black sergeant who had gone down the cable and helped connect him to the tree penetrator device. "You forgot your pet chicken's name."

  "I was close," replied Benny.

  "Mister Flies is not close, Captain. Mister Bags was close. Mister Big was close. But Mister Flies? Not close at all."

  "Flies are more closely related to bugs than bags."

  "Admit it, Captain, you were shook up."

  Benny had powerful arms, but he had struggled with the tree penetrator device they had lowered at the end of the cable. The diminutive sergeant had dropped down, secured Benny to the device, given the thumbs up to the cable operator, and held Benny in a tight embrace all the way to the chopper. He was a pro, and Benny was thankful they had men like him on their side.

  "Hell," he said, "I'm lucky I remembered my name."

  The paramedic sergeant laughed. "Good to have you home, sir." He glanced at the door. "I've got to leave now. Got a hundred reports to fill out because we were successful. If we hadn't been, I'd be at the club having breakfast right now. See how much trouble you caused." He grinned and nodded his head at the medics in the hospital examining room. "They'll take good care of you."

  "Do you know whether they picked up the guys flying Stinger lead?"

  "Our pilot said a real fiasco was taking place over there. You can find out when you go over to make your phone call."

  "Phone call?"

  "Yes, sir. When they let you outta here, head over to Sandy Control, that's the rescue command post here. If they got a free line, the guys there'll connect you to the nearest Air Force base and the base operator there'll connect you with home. Your family live close to a base?"

  "Near Nellis, in Nevada."

  "Shouldn't be a problem then, if they got lines open. The quality of the telephone system isn't bad, and I'm sure you'd like to let your family know you're okay."

  "I'd like that. And Sergeant, thanks again."

  "Just doin' my job, sir." The staff sergeant left.

  A sallow-faced flight surgeon stared intently at him, as if trying to find something wrong with him that the X rays, blood, and urine samples weren't revealing.

  Benny shrugged. "Honest, Doc. I'm fine."

  "Never can tell," the doctor said gravely. "I'm not sure about the back."

  "I feel good. A little stiff, but good."

  "You'll get a Purple Heart, you know. You were wounded in combat."

  "Wounded?"

  "The hand," said the doctor. "I'll make sure the paperwork gets started."

  "But I'm fine." Benny had cut the web of his hand between thumb and forefinger on the ejection handle, and had required three stitches and a splash of disinfectant.

  "Take advantage of all you can, Captain. You deserve it."

  Benny grinned again. It felt wonderful to be out of the hostile jungle.

  "We're trying to
decide whether to send you to the hospital at Clark Air Base for further observation," the doctor said.

  "The Philippines?"

  "This is just a field hospital, one step up from dispensary. Clark has the regional hospital. They're much better equipped than we are here. Better equipment, full lab facilities, well staffed."

  Benny's mind was blossoming with another idea. He could finish whatever tests they wanted at Clark, then get a hop up to Honolulu and meets Bets for a week of fun in the sun before returning to Takhli. "How tough is it to get a hop to Hickam from there, doc?"

  "They have med-evac flights going to Hawaii every day. Like I said, take all you can get."

  "The paramedic said the command post could hook me up to my home phone."

  "If the lines are available."

  "How do I get there?"

  While he waited for the rest of his blood and urine samples to be checked, he took a shower, ate a good meal, and even conned a hospital tech into picking up a new flight suit from the personal equipment shop. Even then he hadn't been cleared to leave the hospital.

  He killed the time with thoughts about his family. It gave him a warm feeling, made him realize he had an anchor for the sometimes nomadic military life. He loved his wife, adored both his children. Bets was a bit high-strung, he sometimes thought, and had been spoiled and encouraged to spend beyond her means by her overindulgent father, but she meant well. And the kids were coming up straight and fine. Intelligent and sparkly-eyed children he could be proud of.

  He tried again, finally talking the flight surgeon into letting him get away long enough to get the call through. A medic drove him to the rescue center.

  Sandy Control was a hastily contrived wooden structure on the flight line. After showing his ID to the burly sergeant at the door, he entered the darkened room.

  A major shook his hand. "Good to have you back with us, Captain Lewis."

  "Thanks. By the way, have you got a status on Stinger lead? A Weasel crew shot down on my Res-CAP?"

  "They're still up there," the major said, filling Benny in on the details of the day's Res-CAP mission.

  Half an hour later Benny sat, with growing anticipation, at a small table in the rear of the command post. After several failed attempts they finally got a line through to the Nellis autovon operator, who placed the call. Benny listened hard over the static-filled line as the telephone rang on the other end.

  After being shot down, losing two good friends, and hearing about the Sandy pilot's death, he had become numbed by the accumulation of shitty luck. He was ready to hear the voices of home, to talk with the kids and tell Bets how much he missed her. He could hardly wait to tell her about meeting him in Honolulu. She'd like that.

  Bets was not at ease with her role as a military wife, and their six years of marriage had been tough for her. He'd always told himself he would make it up to her someday; today seemed a good time to start. As the telephone continued to ring he savored his eagerness. It was after one in the morning in Las Vegas, so he wasn't surprised that she was slow answering.

  "H'lo?" A male voice, thick with sleep or booze.

  Damn! "Sorry to wake you. Wrong number," Benny said.

  "Yeah, okay." The man hung up.

  Benny motioned to the airman first class who had put the call through. "Got a wrong number."

  "Hold on, sir. I've still got Nellis on the line, so they can just redial."

  Benny listened as the call was placed once more, shaking his head in disgust. The previous night in the jungle he would have given anything to hear his family's voices. For a while he had thought he might never get the chance to do so again, or at best for a long, long while. He didn't appreciate the wrong number.

  The airman motioned for him to pick up the receiver again. This time Bets answered.

  "Hi, honey, it's Ben." The sound echoed over the many miles, but he couldn't keep the exultation from his voice.

  "Ben? It's really you?" Her voice was husky.

  "Yeah. Damn but it's great to hear your voice. Great!"

  He heard her suck in her breath. "The line's awful, Ben. It's like you're in an echo chamber somewhere." There was a long pause. "You're not back in the States yet, are you?"

  She was acting strange.

  "No," he said. "I'm not in the States."

  "Where are you?" she demanded. She had been drinking. He could recognize the fuzzy voice she got when she drank too much.

  "I'm in Thailand." He started to tell her about the shoot-down, but decided against it. Something else bothered him, the edge of guilt he could hear in her voice. "Uh, Bets?"

  "Yes?"

  "How are the kids?"

  "Fine. Why do you ask? Were you worried I wasn't taking care of them?" She sounded defensive, not at all happy to hear his voice.

  "Of course not. Could I talk with them?"

  "They're up in Oregon with my parents. Mom and Dad came down to visit. They took the kids back with them for a couple of weeks."

  "I didn't know."

  They were both quiet for a long pause.

  "You, ah . . . you sound strained, Bets. Anything wrong?"

  Silence.

  "Want to talk about it?" he asked. His stomach was turning sour.

  "No." Her voice was very weak.

  He sucked in his breath, then exhaled it very slowly. "I didn't get a wrong number when I called a few minutes ago, did I?"

  "Was that you?" she blurted.

  "Yeah. That was me." Benny felt like he wanted to puke.

  She paused for only a heartbeat. "No."

  "No?"

  "No, you did not get a wrong number. We certainly weren't expecting your call."

  We? He felt numb. "Who is it? The guy who answered the phone, I mean."

  "You don't know him, Ben."

  It was his turn to pause. "What's his name?" He'd kill the bastard.

  "Really, you don't know him."

  "I see." He cleared his throat. "Have, ah, have you known him long?"

  "Long enough. . . . Ben, let's stop this. I don't want it. I don't need it. I didn't mean for you to find out this way. I really didn't. But now you know, and that's the way it is. I was going to write and tell you."

  Benny sat with his head covered by his hands. He shivered once, then cleared his throat. When he spoke next, his voice croaked.

  "The kids . . ." His voice failed him.

  "I'll be fair about them. You'll have time with them."

  They were quiet for a long moment.

  "I told my parents what I was doing, Ben. How it was getting impossible between us and all. They understand."

  "I didn't know it was bad between us."

  "I can't take it any longer. I couldn't take another tour in Germany, with you gone all the time. I don't want to go to Asia and be stationed in some godforsaken hole in Japan. I don't want the Air Force any more. You're happy whenever you're around airplanes, but I'm miserable every time I come near a military base. If I ever remarry, it'll be to someone who's there when I need him to fix the car or move furniture or mow the lawn." She was wound up, spewing out words like she'd been saving them.

  "I see," was all that Benny could think of. He felt hurt and foolish. Another man was there, in his home, with his wife, listening to them talk.

  "I don't think you really care, Ben. You've never . . ."

  A voice cut in, saying "Priority call," and the line went dead. He depressed the cutoff button and replaced the receiver.

  He walked in the tropical heat in a trance, so troubled that he ignored the men who saluted as they passed. The devastation was overpowering, attacking the very core of his being. He had been a part of something wonderful, and now, without warning, it was gone. What would become of him with his family gone? He felt very sorry for himself.

  He found the O' Club. The lieutenant who had flown Sandy two that morning was there, distraught and intoxicated, drinking with his friends. Benny sat in a corner of the bar, oblivious to what was happening around him
. He ordered a Beefeaters, straight and neat, and asked the bartender to keep them coming.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Monday, November 28th—2200 Local, People's Army HQ, Hanoi, DRV

  Xuan Nha

  The day had started well.

  At 0850 operators at the controls of Xuan's P-2 acquisition radars radioed the command center to tell them the American fighters were withdrawing, leaving the rescue forces at least momentarily unprotected. Lt Quang Hanh immediately relayed the word to the People's Air Force controllers at Phuc Yen airfield.

  At 0930, Xuan endured a euphoric call from Lt Col Thao Phong, crowing that his pilots had shot down at least one, maybe two rescue aircraft, followed by a windy dissertation about the difficulties of shooting down propeller-driven aircraft with a jet. When Xuan hung up, he'd motioned to Major Wu, his wraith-thin intelligence officer.

  "The American rescue forces are gone. Now get me the radar-hunter pilot!"

  Xuan had returned to his office. For more than eight hours he'd waited for word from the command center, thinking of how he should interrogate the radar-hunter pilot. About questions he would ask.

  What kind of training did they undergo? What kind of equipment did they have? How did they locate the rocket site radars? How did they launch their homing missiles? What were weaknesses that Xuan Nha's men could exploit?

  When he returned to the command center, they had still not captured the pilot. Major Wu seemed relentless in his efforts to capture the pilot, issuing so many directives on the radiophones that even Xuan became confused.

  Upon Wu's orders the men in the center had eaten only a sparse, soldier's meal: boiled rice and broth of dried fish. Xuan had arrived back in time to join them; the food stirred in his stomach. It was time to return to the field and reaccustom himself to leaner fare, he thought idly. He was not meant to be a clerk.

  He thought how the Russian, Gregarian, was accompanying the P-50 radar into the mountains, disregarding Xuan Nha's request to stay at Yen Bai.