Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars

by Morris Graham

  I set my bird down, and the SEAL team started climbing aboard, with their prisoner held securely with his hands tied and mouth gagged. Getting the thumbs up from my co-pilot, I pulled back the collective to lift-off. The bird simply wouldn’t lift-off! My co-pilot signaled to the SEALs to drop off three of their men, us keeping the prisoner and three of the heaviest of them. My Trail AHAC would have to make the pick-up. This would call for more time for us in the hot LZ, and I was not happy about it. Chief Butler stepped off first with two of his men, making sure his Stoner man was on the ground with him. We lifted off and were about ten feet off of the ground, moving toward the enemy and beginning to climb.

  “Prophet, I left three SEALs behind. Lift-off, we’re coming in.” We’d just enough runway, but we were in danger because the runway led to the NVA regiment. My trail bird lifted off, rolled left, and made a one hundred and eighty degree turn to go back to pick up the remaining three SEALs. We moved forward, with all three guns blazing while my trail bird descended behind us on the southwest side of the man-made opening in the forest. The noise was so loud that even if I wanted to talk on the radio or speak with my co-pilot, it would have been futile. We couldn’t hover in the dead-man zone, so we took turns pulling up starboard and port and circling around, one gun circle after another.

  This was not my idea of a good last day in-country. We were in the middle of a hairy firefight, and a fair fight to boot! My mind protested. No! Not on my last day! I jinked the bird up and down, but didn’t rock us side-to-side. I didn’t want to screw up the gunners’ stable platform. The minigun had used up its tray of ammo, and my co-pilot was reloading it. Both my gunners were hammering away with no regard to their own safety, riding the skids and firing at any available target. My co-pilot started firing the minigun again in three-second burst until it jammed. My personal pucker factor gauge had reached redline and was climbing. I’d never been so scared in my life, but kept steady hands on the controls. We heard a loud whack numerous times reporting to us we’d been hit by small arms fire. The smell of burnt gunpowder and human sweat filled the helo.

  Crazy Mike’s barrel was so hot that he was now cooking off rounds. My co-pilot motioned me to turn and show my left side to the enemy with my gunner and his fifty caliber while my left door gunner changed barrels. Now we’re down to one gun and offering the enemy a bigger target to boot! Red at the right door fired continuously until his barrel overheated. Crazy Mike was though changing his barrel and ready to rock and roll, so I rolled to the left and gave him all the access he needed for a one-man show. Red had his asbestos gloves on, changing out his barrel, which seemed to take forever. Finally, he gave a thumbs up, and I faced the nose of the helo back toward the enemy and both gunners renewed their firing. I had to be careful to keep the bird level without dropping the nose down, or my own gunners would be shooting into our rotor blades. Time seemed to be irrelevant. Our world was moving in slow motion, but I knew the whole process wasn’t long at all. Adrenaline in the heat of battle can cause a sense of time distortion. The radio interrupted my thoughts.

  “Cowboy, pull up and roll left. I got my package and one last surprise for Charlie.”

  “Roger that, up and left.” With that, I pushed my bird upward while Prophet moved toward the north end of the landing zone. The minigun was blazing away, and I saw two last rockets clear his tubes before he pulled up and rolled left behind me. He’d saved two fleshette warheads to spray nails into the forest where the enemy was as he pulled up and out. Each warhead had twenty-four-hundred 1 ½ inch darts which struck with devastating force. True, most of the VC were hiding behind trees, but anything out in the open was going to be killed instantly. We both stayed above the deck of the mangrove canopy, to diffuse the sound of our helos so the enemy couldn’t figure out which direction we went. The others had lived to fight another day, and I was going home. The SEALs motioned the gunners, who motioned to my co-pilot, who tapped me on the shoulder.

  “We’ve got a chip light! We took a bullet through the transmission case and we’re bleeding transmission fluid like a stuck pig,” informed LT Robertson urgently. Bell Helicopter had stated in their spec sheet that a transmission would run dry for twenty minutes. Whether I believed that or not, didn’t matter. We were running on fumes and were close to flameout with a hole in our transmission. We had no option but to return to base. It was a close call. I made it to the helo pad as I was running out of fuel, having to auto rotate to a landing. Now that the adrenaline rush was over, my neck, shoulders and thighs were very, very stiff. We all stunk of old sweat and burnt gunpowder. This was one day I longed for a long soak in a hot bathtub. We all got slaps on the back from the SEALs and an invitation to drink with them when we weren’t on alert. It didn’t matter much. With a hole in my transmission case, my bird was grounded until it could be repaired. My zoom bag reeked to high heaven. Since I’d be grounded, I could clean up if you could call it that, in the muddy waters of the Song Cua Lon and get into a clean set of fatigues. My OIC, LCDR Jernigan met us at the pad.

  “You would have to get my bird shot all to hell on your last shift. Seriously, Cowboy, well done. I’m putting you and Prophet in for Distinguished Flying Crosses. Since our bird is grounded, you’re officially off-duty. Det five is a bird short too, so they’re flying one of their birds down here to fill out the fire team until we get ours fixed. When they arrive, I’ll take your trail bird and start the next shift. This was too close a call. I don’t want one of my men to get killed on the last day of his tour. You guys have earned it. Go get drunk with the SEALs—that’s an order.”

  “Aye, sir. It has been a pleasure serving with you, sir.” With that I saluted my commander for what may be the last time. He returned the salute.

  “Same here. I understand you’re going back home to be a civilian, good luck!” he said as he shook my hand.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  We counted the holes in the bird. We’d been hit fourteen times, including a hole in the tail rotor. Other than Doc Peavey who was wounded before pick-up, our prisoner was the only one wounded when he took a bullet through the shoulder. I asked the SEALs if he gained an extra hole because he wouldn’t cooperate and Chief Walker said that he was a much better shot than that close-up. Talk about a charmed flight! We’d no idea of how many KBA the enemy lost in the firefight. No one was going to risk his life to go back in the swamps to count bodies.

  I got cleaned up as well as one can here, and headed to the mess hall for a nice lobster dinner. My stomach had grown accustomed to steak and lobster in this hell-hole, but I’d gladly go back to regular rats, if I could take a real shower with clean water. I’ve been dreaming of a long, hot, soaking bath in a tub since my last leave. Soon dreams would yield to reality. When I got home I’d take my ‘65 Mustang off of the blocks and go for a ride, with the radio blaring. I’d get to listen to an honest-to-God American radio station and ride down the road without worrying about someone shooting at me.

  In all of this, I felt our service here was only delaying the inevitable. What would happen when the Americans and all other foreign troops were all gone? The NVA would move to invade the South again, again, and again, until they eventually united Vietnam under communism. Sadness covered me like a veil as I recalled a verse from a poem about military futility caused by making a failed command decision.

  ‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’

  Was there a man dismay’d?

  Not tho’ the soldier knew

  Someone had blunder’d:

  Theirs not to make reply,

  Theirs not to reason why,

  Theirs but to do & die,

  Into the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred.

  We had waged a highly successful campaign here, but what did it matter? The end was going to be the same. Even so, I had no regrets for the part I played, for I was one of the six hundred. I shook off the sadness and made sure I wasn’t wearing any skivvies in case the SEALs dropped by for a beer. They di
d. The entire SEAL team came to the Seawolf officers’ hooch to say goodbye. I drank with the SEALs, my crew mates, and any other sailor that showed up. After telling the story about fifty times, (it seemed to get better with each beer and retelling), I was ready to hit the rack. Chief Butler blocked my path to my bunk.

  “You’re sleeping with us. We will be damned if you get yourself killed while off-duty hours waiting for a ride home, after last night. Our fridge is loaded with beer, and we have one empty bunk. If you’re not in the rack, they will accompany you. Any objections?” He motioned to Seamen Tucker and Walters, who were armed to the teeth and reputed to be the toughest SEALs in the team. Tucker, holding an Ithaca pump twelve-gauge, asked me if I was ready to go. Actually, I did have objections. I wanted to spend my last off-duty playing poker with my crew mates.

  Chief Butler sensed that and announced, “We’re having a poker game until Cowboy leaves, in the SEAL barracks. All Seawolves are invited.” That settled that. I wasn’t about to insult them by turning down the protection they offered. It was their way of saying thank you for saving their bacon. I nodded to my two bodyguards that I was ready, and most of the Seawolf barracks cleared out to go with us. Poker and beer with my fellow warriors was a fitting end to my tour. I never did get any sleep. Since I didn’t want fly home with a hangover, I drank slowly and kept some food in my stomach to slow the rate of alcohol absorption. We played poker until I was informed that the SEALORD had arrived.

  I was informed that they would be leaving as soon as they dropped the mailbag off and picked up the other passengers back to Binh Thuy. I begged them to wait until the mailbag was sorted. I had until the SLC was refueled and safety-checked. Mail call was also called “sugar call” in navy slang, and I was looking for sugar today. With my bodyguard in tow, I followed the SEALORD co-pilot to the mail room. The post office clerk signed for the locked bag, and laid it on his desk. Once the pilot left, I looked over the counter and cleared my throat.

  “Waiting for a letter?” petty officer Jackson inquired.

  “I am. I have only about fifteen minutes until I hop aboard that SLC for home.”

  “Congratulations, sir. Let me sort that bag real quick.” He grinned. Looking for the letter that smells like you brother’s barn or the feminine script that smells like roses?”

  “The latter, but a letter from my brother would be nice, too.”

  The clerk unlocked the bag, and pulled out two bundles of letters, and placed the three packages over to the side. “LTJG Eugene J. Bordelon,” he said as he handed me my brother’s letter. He removed the rubber band off of the second stack and started looking through it. The suspense was killing me. I stood and waited, being one letter away from everything that now mattered to me in life.

  “Here you are, one letter with that girly script. Hmm, doesn’t smell like roses today. Well, anyway, have a nice trip home.”

  “Thanks, petty officer.”

  “Sir, it's time,” said Seaman Walters.

  Stuffing the letters into my pocket, I double-timed it with my two bodyguards to the Seawolf barracks and picked up my seabag and pistols. I decided to throw away my old zoom bag and put on my tiger-striped camos I’d bought on the black market. My bodyguards delivered me to the SEALORD transport in time, and we lifted off to begin the first leg of my journey home. Several Seawolves and SEALs fired smoke grenades from M79’s in different colors as a salute when we lifted off. Now settled in, I had the opportunity to read Beth’s letter.

  Dear Gene,

  I didn’t want to send you this letter, and I didn’t mean for this to happen. I fell in love with another man, and by the time you get back to the states I’ll be married. I’m sorry to do this to you.

  Beth

  The “sugar” in my mouth turned as bitter as gall. I couldn’t believe this! I was on the way home and dumped like yesterday’s garbage. I read Roger’s letter and was informed the culprit was a young doctor from the same hospital where I was to fly air rescue. My Beth, the practical one, it looks as if she got a better offer. I looked up from my letter through wet eyes and noticed for the first time who the other passengers were. Three body bags of River Rats, (Brown Water Navy Sailors) were in the back, being transported home for burial. This should have been the best day of my life. I was near exhaustion, needing sleep badly. The noise of the helo engine and rotor blades would hide my weakness from the pilots. I turned my back to the SEALORD crew; lay down and hot tears ran down my face like candles dripping wax until troubled sleep claimed me.

  SEAWOLF HQ/BINH THUY

  The SEALORD pilot awoke me when we arrived at Binh Thuy. I felt better but was still depressed. Every time I’d been here before to go back stateside, Binh Thuy was a welcome sight. The Seawolf HQ was every bit the same as when I was last here, but seeing it didn’t generate any excitement in me. It was funny; one letter changed the world for me. Binh Thuy hadn’t changed; I’d changed. Always before I had a plan, now I was just another soon-to-be ex-sailor with nowhere to go.

  First stop, after grabbing my seabag, was to the o-club for a beer. Popping the top off of my beer, I slowly sipped it, contemplating the hand I’d been dealt. Yesterday I was a hero. Now I’m returning home to a place that didn’t appreciate heroes, after a civilian stole my girl. I suddenly realized I had no plans, no purpose. My parents died and left the farm to my brother, my girlfriend was gone, and the job offer seemed pointless.

  I needed a clear head to think this through, and booze wasn’t helping. I needed to stop drinking. My old buddy “Mad Dog” wrote back that there was no respect or honor from the public for the returning vets. He hadn’t handled it well. The last I heard was that he crawled into a bottle and was trying to drink himself into a stupor. I didn’t want to share Mad Dog’s fate. I was at the crossroads of the rest of my life, and being a drunk didn’t seem to be the right path. Pushing the beer aside, I looked around. SEAL Team Two’s corpsman, Doc Steuben was in the bar.

  “Hey Doc, can you do a Seawolf a favor.”

  “You bet, name your poison.”

  “Don’t need poison, just a bunk for a couple more hours sleep.”

  “We have an extra bunk.” He set me up and I hit the rack for three more hours. I awoke feeling better physically, but depression was a predator, patiently stalking me and waiting for me to surrender to apathy so that it could devour me.

  I thanked the corpsman and went to see the chaplain.

  I hadn’t particularly been a religious man while serving here, but there was nowhere else to turn but booze or God. LT Caffrey was a Catholic priest. I was raised Baptist, but today was not the day for doctrinal prejudices. Clearing my throat, I knocked on his office door.

  “Come in,” called the deep, bass voice from inside. I opened the door and beheld the man. At the sight of him, my jaw dropped, and my eyes grew as big as saucers. I had expected to see a scholarly type, soft from years of catechisms and prayers and hearing confessions. He looked to be about thirty years old, red-haired, and a towering giant built like a brick outhouse. I didn’t expect to see such a rugged-looking man in such a gentle profession. He sensed my surprise.

  “I was taking a break from working on my sermon while I put on a new pot of coffee. Join me for a cup?”

  “Yes, thank you, Padre.”

  He poured us both a cup and motioned to the cream and sugar. I added cream to my coffee and sipped the hot liquid slowly. He noticed me eyeing him over.

  “Is something wrong, Lieutenant?”

  “Um, you’re kind of big for a priest.”

  He chuckled softly. His eyes twinkled, recalling a time long ago before the war, when he was happy just being a college student. “I got a scholarship at Notre Dame to play football, but my real calling was the priesthood. I’m Father Michael Caffrey. How may I help you, Lieutenant Bordelon?”

  “Gene will work. I’m nearly a civilian anyway.”

  “Call me Michael. You didn’t call me father, since you’re not Catholic. Since you’re not
here to confess anything, I suppose you have something to talk about.”

  I thought it over a moment and decided that calling him Michael wouldn’t do. I was here to seek spiritual advice, Catholic or not. “Padre, I’m not Catholic, but I do have to speak with someone. I guess you’ve heard it before. I planned to marry my college sweetheart, but she sent me a Dear John letter just before I was to ship stateside. I feel lost, like a ship adrift. I’ve dreamed of going home to her. It was so real I could taste it. It was what kept me going in dangerous situations: bad weather, loneliness, and the feelings of hopelessness following the start of the United States withdrawal.

  He lit his pipe and puffed it a bit and gave it some thought. “Do you recognize God as the creator of the world?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe He has a purpose for the world he created?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you know that God is interested in you personally?”

  “I hadn’t thought about His caring much about the specific details of my life. But, ok… I might believe he cares what I do and where I go.”