by Tom Wilson
Now he had seen, firsthand, the cruelty and pain Americans were capable of. He had watched their war planes climb until they were almost out of sight, then dive and release their weapons.
He'd been several hundred meters from the first bomb impacts, watching with academic interest and ignoring cautions screamed by the Vietnamese. Then came the first series of concussive waves that swept over him like a terrible hand. He'd been thrown several meters, like a child's rag doll, eyes bulging and threatening to pop from their sockets, an eardrum bursting and seeping blood and mucus. He had been unable to function for several minutes, then slowly came to his senses as warm urine ran down his legs. He'd been deafened, and could only faintly hear himself screaming as he crawled to the roadside. For the remainder of the seemingly endless attack he'd huddled there, crying like an infant.
The attack on the convoy had jolted him to reality.
As if in a dream, he had drunkenly staggered closer to the impact area, where pieces of soldiers' bodies lay scattered about. One of the leytenants accompanying him had been killed by the overpressure. Nicolaj could still see him in his mind's eye: turned inside out, eyes popped from his skull, meat bulging from his ears, fat tongue protruding from his stilled mouth. The other leytenant had been taken to a rude hospital at Yen Bai, where he died. The two had been close to the bomb impacts; they had gone there to help camouflage the P-50 radar as the aircraft circled to attack. Of the advisers, only he and the kapitan had survived more or less intact.
Now, three days later, Gregarian's hearing had returned in one ear, but he would never forget the attack. The Americans must be defeated, whenever possible killed. Here, in this unlikely land, he would prove that the Americans could be beaten by Russian defenses.
As he waited for the generals and colonels, Nicolaj gingerly massaged his ears.
Xuan Nha, new epaulets on his field uniform, entered the room and smiled at Gregarian, who had learned only that morning about the promotion.
"Congratulations, comrade Polkovnik," said Gregarian, calling Xuan by his new rank.
"Thank you, Nicolaj Gregarian. I am still amazed." Xuan spoke loudly, so that Gregarian could hear. He knows, Nicolaj thought, what bombing is like.
"You are very young to be a polkovnik," said Gregarian.
"Very lucky." Xuan held his smile. "You know about luck though, since you seem to have survived the bombing well."
He shuddered involuntarily, hoping Xuan Nha would not notice.
"What is the subject of your briefing for the generals?"
Gregarian hedged, not wanting to cover his subject twice. He was saved by the arrival of Polkovnik Feodor Dimetriev and General-Mayor Luc, and then a two-star general named Tho, whom Dimetriev introduced as the commandant of the People's Army Air Force. Nicolaj gave Xuan Nha a helpless shrug, to tell him the matter was out of his control.
A kapitan in stiff and correct dress uniform looked into the room and nodded to someone behind him, as if signaling that the room was secure. Only then did a squat, dour-looking fellow enter, wearing a linen uniform that sported the three-star epaulets and wreathed collar tabs of a general-polkovnik. His aide went to the rear of the room and assumed an alert position. The general-polkovnik nodded to the others, quieting them. He stared at Gregarian, measuring him, then turned to a young polkovnik wearing aviator wings who had entered the room behind him, motioning for him to turn on the overhead fan.
The three-star general settled back and nodded. "Begin," he ordered in Vietnamese.
"My Vietnamese is not good," Gregarian began. "Does everyone understand Russian, or should I get an interpreter?"
Polkovnik Dimetriev explained, and the three-star snorted angrily.
Dimetriev was red with embarrassment. He spoke tight-lipped to Gregarian. "Try speaking Vietnamese."
It was Gregarian's turn to blush.
The general-polkovnik was growing impatient.
Dimetriev introduced Maj Nicolaj Gregarian in Vietnamese which Nicolaj could barely understand. After a few more of Dimetriev's pleasantries, he motioned for Nicolaj to begin.
Nicolaj tried his Vietnamese. "Good morning."
The general-polkovnik nodded. "Good morning," he replied.
"I come from PVO Strany . . . headquarters to . . . help you . . . establish an . . . air defense . . . system . . . which will stop . . . the Americans."
The general-polkovnik raised his hand for Gregarian to stop. He strode unceremoniously to the door, then turned and gave Nicolaj a scathing look. "I will attend your next briefing, after you have learned our language," he said in Russian. He abruptly left, the aide scurrying behind him.
A heavy silence followed.
"Speak in Russian," the two-star People's Air Force general said, a trace of scorn in his voice.
Gregarian smiled, thankful but upset. To help them he had disrupted his life, traveled thousands of miles, and come close to being killed. It galled him to be treated shabbily by an Asian with a stone-age mentality.
"You have angered General Van Tien Dung," General Luc said in Russian, "second only to General Giap in the People's Army. It would be wise if you learned Vietnamese."
Gregarian's face burned.
"I will have a tutor assigned to the mayor," said Xuan Nha.
"Go ahead with your briefing," said General Tho, impatient. "Hurry, for we have had two American attacks this morning and expect another this afternoon."
"I wish to build a sophisticated and impenetrable defensive network here in your country," said Gregarian. "And also to train your people to use it effectively."
The VPAAF two-star shrugged. "So do it."
"It will require a great number of dedicated resources."
"Such as?"
Gregarian began. "First, a P-50 command-and-control radar and a modern control facility. Second, a comprehensive communications control network, extending to all defensive units in the country. Third, a complete training facility, with a P-2 acquisition radar, a guided rocket system, one hundred of your best technicians and radar operators. All must be dedicated to do nothing but control all defenses and train your people."
General Tho grunted. "We already have a radar control system in place at Phuc Yen for our interceptors. We've also promoted one of our VPAAF commanders"—he nodded to the polkovnik pilot—"to coordinate with the rocket forces. We send our pilots and our radar controllers to train in your Russian schools. Why do we need more?"
"All of those are good first steps. The P-1 radar and your controllers at Phuc Yen are adequate for a small effort. The acquisition and targeting radars are good for the rockets and artillery for small efforts. But we are talking about stopping a determined, modern air force."
The general stared. "That is why we requested more interceptors and rocket systems."
"Now you will have hundreds of interceptors and rocket sites, thousands of artillery pieces. It must all be orchestrated or they will fail to act effectively. That is what I wish to do, give you a way to make all the pieces work together."
"And the training you speak of. Your own PVO Strany tells us they are providing us with the best training possible."
"The schools are very good at teaching fundamentals, how to engage enemy targets with fighters, rockets, or artillery, but they cannot teach you what I propose."
"Then you have not given us your best?"
"Our own people receive the same training. But then, comrade General, they go to their various units, where they are trained to work in their specific environments. The defenses at our Siberian and southern areas, for instance, are different from those of Moscow or Leningrad, so the training is different. What I propose is an air defense network so closely integrated and controlled that it is as good as the best in my homeland. So modern that our experts will travel here to learn. The training I propose would be like a graduate school, necessary because nothing will be found like it anywhere else in the world."
The Air Force two-star turned impatiently. "What do you think, Co
lonel Thao Phong?"
"The idea is good," the polkovnik pilot answered, "but we must hear more before we decide. Continue."
"I want to build a fortress, with a P-50 radar as the nucleus and a single group of controllers running the entire air battle, in charge of all interceptors, rocket forces, even artillery. With a sophisticated communications net," said Gregarian, "and Russian controllers—"
"No," interjected Xuan Nha. "We must have our own controllers."
"Our PVO controllers are accustomed to directing large numbers of aircraft and assigning targets to the appropriate defenses. Yours are not."
"They will learn."
"But first we should have Russians, or perhaps North Koreans, who have perfected a concept called absolute control. We will turn over the positions as your people learn."
Xuan Nha was the key, Nicolaj realized, but he seemed reluctant. The others in the room, including the Air Force general, were looking at him and deferring to his expertise.
"Let us build a shield through which nothing can pass," Gregarian said, now concentrating on Xuan Nha.
"But," said Nha, obviously enjoying the attention, "it must be a shield commanded by Vietnamese."
"Then you are not against Russian controllers as long as you have Vietnamese commanders?"
Xuan Nha thought for a moment. "Let us talk about it further tomorrow."
"I must contact my superior officers at PVO Strany quickly, so they will rush the delivery of another P-50 radar and prepare the controllers to travel."
General Luc sighed, becoming as impatient as the Air Force two-star. "I admit that the idea seems to have merit, but I must first have the reassurance that Colonel Nha is comfortable with it. Work it out between the two of you, then brief me and I will bring Colonel Nha's recommendation to the attention of General Dung."
"And I shall wait for Colonel Thao Phong's recommendation." The VPAAF two-star rose, grumbling that he had a war to run, and left.
General Luc pinned Gregarian with an unblinking stare. "You should learn Vietnamese. General Dung remembers such things."
Gregarian ran his tongue over pudgy lips, discouraged at the nebulous outcome of the meeting. "Yes, kamerade General."
Xuan Nha raised a hand. "I will attend to the matter. Comrade Gregarian will be speaking Vietnamese like a schoolteacher within a few days." He turned to Nicolaj with a smile. "This evening, with your approval of course, we will move you to more appropriate quarters where you can learn without distractions."
Nicolaj nodded his agreement, realizing now that it had been a mistake to call the meeting without first consulting the Vietnamese polkovnik. General Dung and his generals had taught Nicolaj Gregarian just how recalcitrant and difficult the Vietnamese could be, but he still felt determined to succeed.
02/1425L—Clark Air Base, Republic of the Philippines
Bear Stewart
The Bear padded down the glistening hospital hallway searching for Benny's room, feeling silly in the bare-butt smock, robe, and paper slippers they'd issued him. The robe was too small, ending above his knees, and his long, bare legs made him look like a stork. After making several wrong turns in the maze of corridors, he found the room number he'd been given at the desk. He ignored the DO NOT DISTURB sign and peered inside. The tiny, two-man room was unoccupied.
As he started to back out, he saw a half-emptied B-4 bag at the foot of the furthermost bed. CAPT B.L. LEWIS was stenciled on its side. A set of crumpled shade-505 Class-B's were strewn on top of an assortment of civilian clothing.
"Benny, you're becoming a sloppy bastard," said the Bear to the empty room. He moved a canvas shave kit from the room's only chair and sat, idly looking about the room. It was identical to his own on the next floor. Ten minutes passed before the door opened and Benny entered, holding a candy bar and a half-empty Coke bottle.
The Bear leaned back in the chair, eyeing him. Benny's expression was tired and a day-old stubble accentuated his frown. He looked like a wino coming off a bender.
"You look like shit," the Bear said cheerfully.
"Good to see you, too," Benny mumbled.
"How you doin', Benny?"
"This morning they told me you were coming. A nurse asked if I knew you. I told her I don't know a Malcolm, but I know Bear Stewart. She didn't understand."
Mal looked closer at his red eyes. "You really do look like shit."
"Didn't know you were holding an inspection." Benny's monotone voice matched his appearance.
"Someone oughta hold an inspection. You could scare people with a mug like that."
Benny changed the subject. "You come out of it okay?"
Stewart shrugged, dangling a skinny, pajama-clad leg over the arm of the gray, government-issue chair. "Breathed some bad smoke when the airplane was burning. My system didn't like all that shit in there, so it got rid of it."
"Where'd they take Glenn?" Benny asked. "I heard he was hurt bad."
The Bear looked surprised. "Take him?"
"What hospital's he in?"
"Glenn didn't get picked up."
"Shit," exclaimed Benny. He couldn't take much more. "Damn it to hell!"
"Yeah." The Bear saw moisture welling in Benny's eyes.
"They still trying to get him out?"
"The gomers got him."
"Aw shit, Bear."
"He was banged up pretty bad and there was a village right next to where we went down. He didn't have much of a chance."
Benny shook his head in agony.
It was hard to believe that a week before Benny had been the coolest fighter jock in the squadron. He changed the subject. "Doc Roddenbush said they shipped you here straight out of Udorn."
Benny said, "Yeah."
"Colonel Mack wants you to call the squadron if you need more time off. Said he'd authorize a couple weeks leave in the States if you want, or he could set up an official TDY to Hawaii. He'll get the orders cut, he said."
Benny was only half listening.
The Bear waited for a moment before asking in an uneasy voice, "You okay?"
"Yeah, sure."
"You don't look so good."
"You sound like the doctors."
"How's that?"
"They keep saying I hurt myself. All I got was a scratch on my hand from the ejection handle and a sore back, but they keep trying to build it into something worse."
The Bear agreed. "The flight surgeons are all excited because I inhaled all that smoke and shit in the airplane. I think they're pissed off because they can't find anything left in there. Can't get them to believe I puked it all out."
Benny grew more talkative. "The doc at Udorn decided there might be something he didn't know about, like a broken back he couldn't see on the X ray, so he sent to Tan Son Nhut for a med-evac bird. I'd gone to make a phone call and hadn't shown up by the time the plane arrived, so he got all in a panic. Called the air police and told them to pick me up."
"The air police?" The Bear laughed.
"They were serious about finding me. I was at the O' Club thinking things over, and didn't know all the cops on base were looking for me. I guess the doc thought I'd crawled off somewhere to die, like an old Eskimo or something."
"They found you, I guess."
"I was with Sandy two, the guy who was talking to you over the radio. We were sort of incoherent, which irritated the hell out of the cops. Took me to the flight line strapped to a litter. By then the med-evac bird had been waiting for an hour. The doc told the flight nurse to keep me immobilized all the way here, because I might have a broken back."
The Bear shook his head in wonder. "Nice to have your own personal airplane and flight nurse?"
"I wouldn't know. I'd put away a fair amount of booze. Ended up sleeping all the way here." Benny's voice started to trail off, as if he was losing interest.
"I wasn't so lucky," said the Bear. "I got the scenic route through fucking Southeast Asia. Gooney birds, a C-54, C-130, you name it."
Benny was somb
er again. "I hate that about Glenn."
The Bear didn't answer.
Benny went to his B-4 bag and peered inside, too wrought up to regain control. His voice came in emotional spurts. "I finally got some of my clothes and gear from Takhli. Would you believe the laundry here lost the new flight suit they issued me at Udorn? Idiots."
"I carried that bag all the way from Takhli," the Bear said.
"Thanks."
"No sweat." The Bear pulled at a tiny bandage at the crook of his arm, examining the purple puncture hole. Upon his arrival a doctor had told him he needed a full lab workup; a vial of blood from the arm, a pinprick in his finger, a bottle of urine, and a smear of feces.
"I told them I'd gone through all the lab shit at Udorn, then again at Takhli," he lamented, "but they said I've gotta do it again. People who work in hospitals are deviates." He looked at Benny, determined to gain a response. "Give you those little bitty bottles and tell you to go piss in them just after you've taken a good whiz."
Benny's voice was sad. "So, you think the gomers killed Glenn?"
"I don't know. Probably." He was getting tired of all the gloom. "Benny, I don't mean to be disrespectful to Glenn or anything—I love the guy like a brother—but you and I are here and we're going to be able to fight another day."
"I don't know, Bear, I may hang it up."
"That's a shitty thing to say."
"I've done my part."
"You got a MiG kill and the guys in the squadron think you're some kind of hero. You go down in an area nobody thinks you can make it out of, but everyone works their asses off trying. Big Res-CAP just for you, and they pull it off. And here you are thinking of quitting?"
"Maybe."
The Bear was growing angry. "You should be celebrating, and you're standing there looking like shit and feeling sorry for yourself? What's this hang it up shit?"
"It's personal."
The Bear sucked in a breath. "Fuck you and your personal stuff, Benny." He walked toward the door. "You're too busy feeling sorry for yourself to hear someone trying to help."