Devil's Guard- The Complete Series Box Set

by Eric Meyer

Then he stood back, clicked his heels and gave a slight bow in the typical Prussian fashion. We shook our heads in exasperation and walked out of MACV, grinning like lunatics.

  During the afternoon we checked and rechecked out weapons. We took the M2s with plenty of spare clips, but we all knew if we got into a serious firefight we were going to be in too much trouble for even more spare ammunition to get us out of it.

  There were rumoured to be eight or more battalions of Viet Cong hidden around the Iron Triangle and during operation Cedar Falls the previous year, three divisions of American and ARVN troops with heavy air and artillery support had failed to defeat them. Many had simply melted away into the distant hills and jungles, others had disappeared into the tunnel systems that existed in the area. When the troops pulled out they simple came back and carried on as before.

  Whether we took ten spare clips or a thousand it wouldn’t make any difference. Stealth would. I hoped that Colonel Goldberg realised that fact. We loaded and checked our automatics, strapped our fighting knives to our belts and we were ready. As the light was fading, a deuce and a half pulled up outside out hangar and we climbed aboard. The others were already there, Goldberg in the cab, Major Diem, Russo, Bond and Abe Woltz in the back. The Tan Son Nhat helicopter base had been destroyed during the initial attacks and we drove out to a remote field that they were using, closer to the main airfield.

  There was no conversation, we each had our own thoughts to consider, the loved ones we were leaving behind, in my case, I hoped, the loved one I was going to find. We arrived at the helicopter pad, our three aircraft were waiting for us. Two of the familiar Hueys, troop carrying helicopters each with a door gunner either side, now sat waiting, chewing gum and watching as we boarded. A slight distance away the sleek shape of the Cobra gunship.

  The Bell AH-1 was a two-bladed, single engine attack helicopter manufactured by Bell Helicopter. The armament projected ominously outboard of the fuselage, .308 inch multi-barrel miniguns and seven rockets mounted in the M158 launcher. They had proved themselves formidable in the ground attack role since they were introduced the previous year. We split into two parties, Paul, Ritter, me and Major Diem in one chopper, the others in the lead craft. Almost immediately the engines started with a roar, the pilots engaged the clutches and the huge rotors started to spin. We left the ground in a creeping, forward ascending motion, we were on our way to Cu Chi. I tried to draw the Major out in conversation.

  “Which branch of the Rangers are you in, Major?”

  He didn’t answer at first, I thought he was going to do the strong, silent Special Forces act on me. Then he looked at me.

  “You know of the new American tunnel rat groups?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of them.”

  “I have been training the tunnel rats, Mr Hoffman.”

  “Please, it’s Jurgen, and this is Paul and Ritter.”

  He inclined his head. “Very well. I understand you have all had experience in Viet Cong tunnels?”

  I shook my head. “Just me and Paul. What made you become a tunnel rat?” He paused again, damn, he really was an inscrutable oriental. But then he spoke. “Before I joined the ARVN, I was Viet Cong. I helped plan and dig some of those tunnels.”

  Now it was our turn to be silent.

  “What made you change sides?” Ritter said typically.

  I expected him to give the familiar tale, family murdered by the communists, but he was different.

  “I wanted to go to America,” he said. “When all this is over, I want to open up a restaurant in New York, my family had a restaurant in Hanoi before the country was divided.”

  “Are they still there?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “I guess so, but we didn’t get on. I don’t know, maybe they’ve gone to Paris, they often talked about it while the French were here.”

  From son of a Hanoi restaurateur, through the ARVN Special Forces and a tunnel rat, then to New York to open another restaurant, it was a weird story. So weird it had to be true.

  “Excuse me, I need to speak to the pilot,” Diem said.

  He went forward. “Jesus Christ,” Ritter said, “so what are we going to do, open a coffee shop in Berlin when this is all over?”

  “It’s as good a plan as any,” I grinned, “but I think I’ll stay with an airline.”

  “I’ll bet Pan Am is trembling at that prospect,” he laughed. “I wonder if they think they can keep up with the competition.”

  “At least they own some aircraft,” Paul said quietly. We stopped talking, we had a long way to go before we could restore even what we had several days ago.

  Major Diem came back into the cabin. “We’re five minutes out,” he shouted above the racket. We all nodded and set about last minute preparations. Each of us took out our automatics, cocked the slide to put a round ready to fire and put them back in their holsters. We cocked the M2s and checked that our equipment was all strapped securely to our webbing, then we waited. As the Hueys banked in for a landing in the centre of the village I saw the Cobra take up station above us, then turn to point the minigun in the nose back down at the village. There was a bump as we landed and we leapt out.

  A Viet ran out shouting, clutching what looked like a machete. Goldberg hit him with a three shot burst from his M16, it wasn’t a time to ask questions first. This was the Iron Triangle. Women and children started screaming, then a small phalanx of black pyjama clad men came rushing towards us, they were carrying AK47s, no problem there with their identities. We jerked our weapons around to take them down but the Cobra gunner was alert, a hail of gunfire descended from above that cut them to shreds. There were about ten or twelve huts in the village and we started to check them, one by one. Ritter and I ran into one where the floor matting was up and a man was starting to descend into a tunnel. I cut him down with a shot from the M2, then Ritter ran up clutching a grenade. He pulled the pin and lobbed it into the tunnel entrance, the VC I had shot was inert, half in and half out of the tunnel and the explosion beneath him lifted his body up, then it fell back down into the darkness. Ritter tossed in another grenade to make sure, we ran back out to start on the next hooch. Paul was outside, covering us as we ran from hut to hut. It was the way we’d learned to do it during the French war and before that in Russia. One man to give covering fire, two to go in and destroy the occupants of the hut. The Viet Cong could not claim that they were the first to invent the concept of a civilian guerrilla force, the Russians had shown themselves to be particularly deadly when dealing with invaders.

  The brief skirmish was winding down, the others were dealing effectively with the villagers, Diem and Goldberg had rounded up a small group of civilians, all women and children. Diem shouted at them to leave the area at once as the village was about to be destroyed. They started to leave, wailing, weeping, beside themselves with grief. But the men we had killed were the enemy, they would have killed us, given the slightest chance. Russo and Bond started to set the charges, then we moved off to a small clearing about fifty yards away. Russo fired the explosives. The result was spectacular, a plume of smoke and sparks climbed into the sky, debris from the ruined huts rained around us and amidst it all, the Cobra opened up with the minigun, spraying the whole area with bullets to finish off anything that had survived the blast. We ducked into the jungle. So far, so good. We raced along for a couple of miles to clear the area of the village, then we stopped while Goldberg checked out position.

  “We’re about eight miles from Trang Bang and we’ve got two hours before that meeting assembles. Any suggestions, anyone?”

  “We’d better move fast,” Major Diem said. “Time is not always exact with these people and after our attack, they may alter their arrangements. They could run later, or even earlier, we don’t know how they’ll respond.”

  “Let’s go, then,” the Colonel said.

  We picked up the pace, Goldberg led, with Diem behind him. Joe Russo took the rear, the rest of us followed in a tight group. It was a panting, s
weating, breathless run and we were lucky that we didn’t encounter any locals, or even worse, Viet Cong on the journey. But we arrived at Trang Bang without meeting anyone. The house where the meeting was to be held was a large old planter’s bungalow on the outskirts, it was easy to find. It was also in darkness. Diem went forward to check it out, we were impressed by his field skills, he just slipped into the darkness and disappeared without a sound. We waited for what seemed like an hour but was probably no more than then minutes, then he returned, appearing in our midst as silently as he had left. Goldberg literally jumped. “Jesus Christ, Diem, don’t do that, give us some warning, we could have shot you.”

  Diem ignored him. “They’re not there. It’s empty.”

  The Colonel reeled with disbelief. “Are you sure?”

  Diem nodded. “I checked the whole house nothing.”

  He looked wildly around, as if hunting for a vision, some solution that would magically appear.

  “That’s it, then. It’s a washout, we’ll head back to Saigon.”

  I was astonished, he was giving up so easily. “Colonel, if I may, there are some people here in Trang Bang that may be able to help us.”

  He looked at me sceptically. “Like who?”

  “The guy that gave us the information about the meeting, Le Van Ho, lives in the village. If he was able to find out the details of the meeting, he should be able to find out where they have moved it to.”

  “Unless it was all bullshit,” he spat out.

  “No, Colonel, it wasn’t bullshit. If they said the meeting was taking place, then it would have been true. It’s not their fault if the VCs change the arrangements afterwards.”

  He considered for a moment. “Where does this guy live, this Le Van Ho?”

  “His house is the other side of town, if we skirt around we can reach it without being seen.”

  “Ok, let’s try it then. You’d better lead the way. Men, keep alert, I don’t like this situation, it could be a trap.”

  I pushed my way along a narrow path that went around the town, avoiding the areas where there were houses. After all this time in Vietnam, I was surprised at Goldberg. It if was a trap, they’d have staked out the house, we would have been pinned down by VC mortars and machine guns by now. After fifteen minutes we approached Le Van Ho’s house. It was just outside of the town itself, clearly chosen for the remote situation that would facilitate the comings and goings of the old smuggler’s couriers. We got near to the front door and I went forward to check through the shutters. Major Diem slipped around the back to do the same thing. He came back, “All clear.” I turned to Goldberg. “It would be polite to knock I think.”

  “Yeah, go ahead, we’ll cover you.”

  Half a dozen assault rifles swung up as I went and knocked on the door. Almost immediately, it was opened by a young boy.

  “Hello, I have come to see Mr Ho.”

  He looked past me at the armed soldiers, then without blinking, went back inside and closed the door. Two minutes later the door opened again and he beckoned us in. We were shown into a spacious hallway, a young Vietnamese greeted us.

  “I am Le Van Minh, you wish to see my grandfather?”

  “I am Jurgen Hoffman, Minh, a friend and business associate of Le Van Dao.”

  “Mr Dao is my uncle, Mr Hoffman. I will take you to see Mr Ho.”

  Joe Russo and Jack Bond waited by the door, rifles ready. The rest of us followed him into a room and the most extraordinary scene we had set eyes on in a long time.

  An old man, obviously Ho, was sat in a throne like upholstered armchair. He was smoking a pipe, the rank, sweet odour made it clear that it was opium, with his feet resting on a young girl, perhaps fourteen years old, who was crouched down to make a footstool. Minh saw our open mouthed expressions.

  “My grandfather suffers from what is known as Forniphilia. It is a form of bondage and sexual objectification, in which the person's body becomes a chair, table, or other piece of furniture. Apart from his pipe, it is the only form of pleasure he can enjoy these days.”

  Goldberg cleared his throat. “Ahem, yeah, right. Would you ask your grandfather for any information in his possession about the location of the VC meeting, the details he sent to us through Dao were incorrect.”

  Minh spoke rapidly in some local dialect, and then turned to us. “My grandfather says that the information he gave was correct at the time, it is not his responsibility if they change the details at a later stage. But he does understand the problem, and the urgency. If you would take some tea, I will go to our contact and endeavour to find out more.”

  “Thank you, Minh. That is very kind.”

  He left and I explained it all to Goldberg and the others. I could see that he was frustrated. “Jesus, we sit drinking tea in the middle of the Iron Triangle as if we were on a pleasure cruise. Abe, can’t you get a message out to your people and find out more?”

  Abe Woltz, late of Special Forces, now of the CIA, looked thoughtful.

  “I sure could, Colonel, but is that a good idea? The VCs are pretty hot on radio intercepts, if we send a message they’ll almost certainly know we’re here. Besides, they didn’t know squat when we left, I doubt that anything has changed. I’m sorry, I wish I could help, but I’m only on an observation mission here, I don’t make the decisions.”

  Paul interrupted. “Colonel, this is Vietnam, there are formalities to observe. These people are totally reliable, believe me, we are quite safe here.”

  Goldberg grunted, some acerbic comment about tea. “Perhaps they have coffee too, Colonel,” Paul added with a straight face. I think he was serious, he wasn’t a joker, but I wasn’t sure.

  “Yeah, ok men, stand down, we’ll just have to wait. Abe, would you let Bond and Russo know where we’re at.”

  “Sure, Colonel.” He went out into the hallway and we made ourselves comfortable on the floor. Ho just sat there, serene and relaxed, smoking his pipe, his feet on the girl. She didn’t move, not a muscle. It was uncanny.

  “Do you think she’s alive?” Ritter asked in a loud whisper.

  I shrugged, “I imagine she’s ok, I don’t know.”

  Then Ho spoke. “She is perfectly fine gentlemen. She is also well paid for the service she provides to me, it feeds her family and many of her relations. She is well looked after and honoured for what she does.”

  He had spoken in an English accent that was almost perfect. He saw us looking.

  “You wonder at my English? I studied at one of the English universities, the University of London. A hellish place, London, I couldn’t wait to get back here. Our girls are so beautiful.”

  I guessed that back in London, the girl would be in school and doing a paper round, but I doubted it would keep a gaggle of relations in food.

  “Vietnamese girls are indeed beautiful, Mr Ho,” I said politely.

  “Only in the south, my friend. The northern women, they are so ugly. So are the men,” he chuckled. Then he went quiet, sucking on his pipe. The young boy who had answered the door brought a tray of tea and we helped ourselves, sipping quietly in the surreal atmosphere. Eventually, Minh returned. He bowed to his grandfather, then spoke to us.

  “The meeting was moved into the tunnel system, apparently the Viet Cong were concerned that your bombers might strike the area.”

  “Can you show us where this tunnel is?” Goldberg said eagerly.

  “Of course, but there is a further problem, the meeting was also postponed until tomorrow evening.”

  “Jesus Christ, it can’t get any worse,” he muttered.

  “You are welcome to stay in my home,” Ho said clearly.

  Goldberg looked up. “Until tomorrow night?”

  “Of course, you will be perfectly safe here. Tomorrow evening, Minh will guide you to the tunnel system.”

  I felt a nasty tremor in my guts when he talked of the tunnels. I knew we would have to go down there sooner or later, to find Helene. But although some were fairly roomy and brightly
lit, most were a subterranean hell of satanic whispers beckoning you on to your doom. Ambushes, poisons stakes, traps, roof falls, even primitive crossbows that were set to fire at an unwary invader, they were a claustrophobic hell. But a hell we had to face. Tomorrow.

  Minh found us a room to sleep in, a large, almost barnlike room on the upper floor. We approached it through a concealed entrance behind a bookcase, then up a narrow flight of stairs. There were plenty of sleeping mats lying around, I suspected it was not new to the purpose of sheltering fugitives. We settled down to get some sleep, Goldberg established a routine of sentries, I offered to take the first watch, Paul agreed to accompany me. Soon, the group fell into a troubled sleep.

  “Do you really trust them?” Paul asked.

  I nodded. “They’ve been feeding the military information for years, they’re one of the most valuable assets in this area. Before Cedar Falls last year, they gave plenty of intel to the army. The commanders failed to act on a lot of that info, they didn’t trust them completely and the operation was largely a failure. As you know, the VCs pulled back outside the Triangle and just came back afterwards. Ho’s people told them exactly what was happening but they didn’t believe it. Yes, I trust them, they’re ok.”

  “I remember when we were in Russia,” Paul said reflectively. “We holed up in a village, not much bigger than this one. The people said they hated the communists, they’d suffered pretty badly under Stalin. Said they couldn’t wait for us Germans to kick him out of the Kremlin. It was early evening, a party of our people sat drinking beer in the village hall, the locals said it was a celebration of their new found freedom. Two hours later, a dozen men were dying, laying in their own vomit, they’d been poisoned.”

  I tried to picture the horror of that hall, men terrified, plastered with their own guts spewing out all over them.

  “What happened then?”

  “A Gestapo unit happened to turn up at about the same time and saw what was going on. They were attached to a company of Partisanjaeger, guerrilla hunters. They ordered us out of the village and threw a cordon around it, then torched it with all of the inhabitants inside, men, women and children. They said it was to teach them a lesson. I guess it did that.”