Duty and Dishonor: Author's Preferred Edition

by Dale A. Dye

He retrieved the rifle and night-sight and scanned the dark slope. Then he spotted the enemy…rock apes. Willy sat back, leaning on the log that covered his site and tried to control the adrenaline coursing through his body. Fucking rock apes!

  He had a little experience with them and knew they’d go away in a little while if he didn’t do anything stupid to antagonize them further. Willy Pud remembered a time in Vietnam when his unit had been camped along the major road leading to Khe Sanh. A gaggle of nocturnal monkeys just like these had come down out of the surrounding hills after half empty ration cans carelessly tossed around the perimeter. A number of Marines were wounded in the god-awful firefight that started when a bunch of new guys on watch thought the rock apes were gooks throwing grenades. That melee had upset everyone badly. Willy Pud unwrapped a ration and sat chewing, pondering the kernel of yet another idea. He had the entire day from sunrise to sunset to crystallize it.

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  At 2100 Willy Pud sat in the stand of bamboo above his hide-site, sucking muggy air into laboring lungs and hoping the hours remaining before dawn would stretch long enough for him to get the job done. Rube Goldberg on acid couldn’t have come up with more wild-assed variables than he was facing at that moment.

  He stared up through the mesh of tall stalks and caught only the faintest moon glow. At least he had a dark night with scudding clouds blocking what little light shone from a quarter-moon. Touching the bamboo around him, Willy felt only cool, dry stalks. It would burn brightly, and the sudden escape of heated air trapped inside the large bamboo sections would sound like rifle shots. He taped the white phosphorus grenade low on a thick stalk at the center of the stand and then unpacked the two Claymore mines he would rig on the way back down the hill. He worked quickly, reviewing the preparations he’d made earlier in the night.

  Just after full dark, Willy Pud worked his way down the hill to the banks of the Black River where he’d entered the water on the previous night to carry out his reconnaissance. There, he’d stashed his ruck. Then he underinflated two rubber-lady air mattresses and taped them to form a raft. When he was sure it was all hidden from casual view, he worked slowly along the camp perimeter in a clockwise direction, rigging four of his M-33 frag grenades with monofilament tripwires to serve as booby traps. The traps were a bonus, which could be paid by panicky guards or the rock apes he was hoping to lure down out of the hills. To help with that, he worked his way back away from the camp and up the overlooking hill scattering rations and the pulp of ripe jungle fruit. If he got lucky, if God didn’t give up on a bush-beast in need, if Buddha didn’t blink, the apes would be driven down off the hill by the fire and noise in the bamboo stand, pick up the food trails, follow them to Camp 413, and begin to harass the guards. If the apes or guards tripped his frags he was happy. Willy Pud needed chaos and mayhem over the next few hours.

  He made a quick check on the Claymore mines. One of them was rigged for standard command detonation by a hand magneto. The other was set up with a pull-friction igniter that would serve as a landmine. Taking a last look around and going over the plan quickly in his mind, Willy Pud decided he’d done all the planning and preparation he could. From this point on, the enemy had a vote in what happened. He pulled the pin on the WP grenade.

  He was just out of the bamboo when he felt the hot glow of burning phosphorus feeding on oxygen. Flames were already beginning to lick at the thick tangle of the stand when he stopped about 75 meters down the hill to emplace the first Claymore along the access trail used by roving patrols out of the camp. As he’d done so often during the war, Willy Pud felt for the raised letters on the convex side of the Claymore, popped the folding legs, and jammed them into the ground, twisting the mine to aim it down the trail where the 700 steel spheres embedded in C-4 explosive would cut a devastating swath through flesh and bone. He pulled the shipping plug, screwed in the detonator, and paid out firing wire until he reached a position some 30 meters to the right and slightly above the trail. From there he could see the fire building into a serious blaze above and the camp spread out below him. He plugged the wire from the mine into the magneto firing device and scrunched down to wait for the first play of the game.

  Flames from the roaring fire in the bamboo spread rapidly, setting up a racket that sounded like a sporadic firefight was under way on the hilltop. Willy smiled tightly, remembering times farther south in Vietnam when the phenomenon had scared the hell out of units advancing after a napalm strike or while torching an enemy ville. He’d fired his share of rounds at nothing before learning to recognize the sound for what it was.

  He heard scrabbling motion in the bush nearby and automatically grabbed for the Claymore firing device. He had the safety off before he realized it was too early for a reaction from Camp 413. Another facet of his plan was beginning to work. The tribe of rock apes that lived on the hill was scrambling away from the fire. OK, you little shitbirds, go find the chow.

  Willy hit the power switch on his night-sight and scanned the camp for reaction to his ruse. He could see more than the usual points of light. They were awake all right, and there was a cluster of bodies milling around near the Camp Commander’s hut. C’mon, boys, check it out. Is it a fire or a firefight?

  Below Willy’s perch, Captain Loan was scanning the hillside from the back porch of the commander’s hut. Two men, stumbling through the rutted field in the dark, arrived below him at the same moment. They were two of his senior NCOs reporting the militia guard force was awake and heading for their stations and a patrol of Loan’s own men were ready to investigate what was happening up on the hill.

  Loan remained silent for a moment, staring at the fire, listening to militia guards shouting conflicting orders at each other. What had him concerned was the continuous pop of what sounded like rifle shots in the area of the fire. It could be that some guerilla band was slugging it out up there. But who would they be fighting? It was all very unusual and Captain Loan hated unusual.

  “It might just be burning bamboo, Captain.” Loan’s senior NCO had heard sounds like that before during his many years in the jungle. “Or maybe we’ve got visitors.”

  “Tell the helicopter crew to stand by…”

  “They have no night flying instruments, Captain.”

  “I know that. I want them on stand-by anyway.” The senior man hustled away and Loan turned to his remaining NCO. “Get me the Camp Commander.”

  “I am here, Comrade Captain.” The Camp Commander was standing in the shadows near the porch of his hut which Loan had commandeered. “Do you know what’s happening?” He pointed toward the blazing high ground.

  “There is obviously a fire on the hill. Do you see many such fires here?”

  “This is the first I have seen in my three years here, Comrade…and there have been no storms or lightning.”

  Loan made his decision. He motioned to his NCO. “Get ten men and go check out that fire on the hill. Take a radio.” As the man hustled away into the dark, Loan turned to the Camp Commander who had taken to wearing a small pistol everywhere since Loan’s troops arrived. “You go and sit with the American. Stay with him until I personally relieve you of that duty.”

  Willy Pud screwed his eye into the scope and watched the patrol leave the camp perimeter, meshing into a single file as they traversed the paddy dykes, heading for the high ground. There was plenty of bamboo left to burn and the racket from exploding gas was even louder now. Given the dark and the noise, they’d be a little shaky by the time they walked into his kill zone. In 27 minutes by Willy’s watch, the point-man appeared cautiously threading his way along an edge of the trail with his eyes locked on the glow up on the crest of the hill. These were the pros which was a good sign. The more of them that died up here, the fewer he would have to deal with down below when he moved on the camp. Willy Pud popped safety loop off the Claymore firing device.

  The patrol continued to move slowly and he heard a pair of flankers moving in the bush on either side of the trail
. Troops like this would have a radio with them to report their findings on the hill. He fired up his night-vision scope and searched for a tell-tale antenna. He spotted it waving above the head of the man three back from the point. When he was sure the radioman was in the zone, Willy Pud ducked to avoid being flash-blinded and squeezed hard on the lever of the firing device, sending a jolt of current down the wire and into the Claymore.

  He was scrambling downhill carrying his weapons and the second Claymore with the boom of the first detonation ringing in his ears a few seconds later. Above him and off to his right he heard shouts and a few wild bursts of AK fire as survivors swept the bush searching for their attacker. He had no time or inclination to check the results of the mine detonation, but he knew what they were: bodies shredded and shattered by shrapnel would be littering the trail. If he got lucky in this initial attack, some of that shrapnel would have destroyed the patrol’s radio.

  Working swiftly in the dark, unconcerned with the noise he made given the shouts, shooting, and general confusion uphill behind him, Willy Pud planted the Claymore rigged for firing by tripwire on the trail pointing downhill and stretched the monofilament connected to the pull-friction fuse low across the trail at just about ankle height. If he hadn’t gotten the radio and the damaged patrol called for reinforcements, they’d hit another mine. And while they were dealing with that, Willy Pud intended to be inside the camp dealing with Salt.

  Captain Loan stormed into the Camp Commander’s hut and snatched the radio handset from a startled militiaman. One of his men up on the hill was jabbering on the other end. “Calm down and report your situation,” Loan demanded. There was a moment of irritating hiss and static before he got the information he wanted.

  “We have been hit by some sort of mine, Comrade Captain. We have five men dead and three others wounded.”

  “Have you taken any small arms fire?” Loan could still hear the snap and pop up on the hill but it was not AK rounds. He could tell that his men had ceased fire after the initial reaction to the explosion.

  “I’m not sure, Comrade Captain. We opened fire immediately after the mine exploded. It was hard to tell if anyone was shooting back. We need help to evacuate the wounded.”

  “Stay where you are and stay alert. I will send someone soon.”

  Loan cursed silently and fumbled with a cigarette. He’d have to trust the Camp Commander and the militia guard force to keep a lid on things here. A mine detonation meant something more than a roving guerilla band was up on that hill. He intended to find out what it was. It could be a Chinese Special Forces probe. They were known to patrol in this area, but he kept remembering the rumor that sent him to this desolate place where he’d now lost five good men.

  He went out on the porch and found his senior NCO. “I want a patrol from the militia…make it eight men with stretchers and first-aid kits. You will remain here with the rest of our men while I go see what happened up on the hill.”

  As the NCO scrambled to assemble the patrol and equipment required, Capt. Loan charged across the camp to the hut where the American was kept and ducked inside. By the dim glow of a couple of candles, he saw the Camp Commander sitting across from the man on a spare cot. They were smoking and chatting like a couple of friends on a social visit.

  “Keep a close watch on him,” the Captain ordered. “I am going up to the hill to see what’s happened. My sergeant is in charge here.” Before he got anything more than a confused nod from the Camp Commander, Capt. Loan stormed back out into the dark to muster his rescue party.

  Camp Commander Nguyen Pho Dang went to the window of the American’s hut to receive yet another confused report from the officer in charge of the militia guard force. The situation on the hill was still unexplained, and there were odd things happening at other locations around the camp. Reports from the southeast side were confused but strident. The guards insisted they were being attacked.

  “The guards on two of the posts say someone is throwing grenades at them.” The guard officer said breathlessly as stood in the spill of light from the hut where he’d come to make his report. The Camp Commander leaned out the window to look around in the dark and reassure the militia officer that he was paying attention.

  “There have been no explosions so there are no grenades, Comrade.” He patted the man on the shoulder. “This business up on the hill has made everyone jumpy. Just go and reassure them that the army visitors have everything well in hand.”

  When the militia officer charged off into the dark, Dang looked out the window and saw lights coming on in the inmates’ huts. He could see several of them leaning out the windows to search the dark just as he was doing from the American’s hut. He heard chatter and laughter as they speculated on what might be disturbing their weary routine. He shouted for them to extinguish the lights and return to their beds. Behind him, sitting calmly on his cot, the American seemed unconcerned. He rolled over as if to sleep, leaving Dang alone to wait and watch until they got some idea of what was happening in and around Camp 413.

  The militia officer was doing his best to calm the jumpy sentries manning guard posts around the camp. At the third post on the west side of the perimeter, he ducked into the sandbagged position to find both of his men aiming their SKS carbines into the darkness, wide-eyed with fingers on the triggers.

  “You must relax.” He wrapped a reassuring arm around the nearest man and pried a stiff finger away from the trigger of his weapon. “You are bound to see a ghost or two if you don’t relax. The second man flinched and pointed into the dark wall of green outside the post.

  “Listen! Did you hear that?”

  The militia officer moved closer to him and stared into the gloom. He heard a rustling in the bushes and reached for his pistol. “Quiet now! I hear it.”

  They were staring intently, listening to what sounded like a large animal or a careless man crawling toward them from the direction of one of the rice paddies that extended past the perimeter. And then a barrage of missiles flew at them from out of the dark.

  “Grenade!” The militia officer shouted and all three men flattened on the ground hugging the sandbag walls of the position. They cringed as more missiles pelted the sandbags but there were no explosions. The militia officer picked up one of the missiles and examined it. Someone was out there in the dark throwing rocks. He snapped on a flashlight and swept the floor of the bunker…plenty of rocks but no grenades.

  “On your feet, Comrades,” the militia officer said with what he hoped was a reassuring chuckle. “Someone is playing a joke. There is nothing...”

  His words were cut off by a sharp explosion to the right of the post. That was a grenade or something very like one. Shrapnel thudded into the sandbags and he militia officer scrambled to investigate while his panicked sentries sprayed the gloom with rifle fire.

  As he ran toward the distant post where he thought the explosion had occurred, the militia officer heard other sentries beginning to fire along the line. He was shouting for them to cease fire when his foot snagged something. He stopped to scan with his flashlight when a grenade detonated just a few feet from him. The explosion riddled the militia officer so thoroughly that he was dead before he fell.

  In the American’s hut, Camp Commander Dang got word from a breathless sentry that the militia officer in charge of the guard force was dead. There had been a number of explosions out on the perimeter and he heard rifle fire from several guard posts. It did appear that his camp was under some sort of attack. Capt. Loan had not returned from the hill, but there was a radio that could reach him in the commander’s hut. And that’s where he would most likely find the senior sergeant who was in charge.

  Nguyen Pho Dang glanced at the American who was now sitting up, looking around warily, and reaching for his glasses. “You are to remain here,” he said pointing a warning finger at the man. “Under no circumstances are you to leave this hut.”

  And then he ran out into the chaos of this worrisome
night to find a radio and seek instructions.

  Willy Pud slithered slowly up onto the bank, letting his body sink into the mud and waiting for a sentry to round the comer in his direction. He needed to work swiftly and silently, but his luck was already running from good toward phenomenal. The rock ape ruse had resulted in enough shouting and shooting to cover the noise of his movements and let him work quickly upstream against the current to a position where he could reach Salt’s hooch after a short sprint.

  The NVA regulars had mostly been replaced on the perimeter by militia sentries which meant that his decoy to draw them up onto the hill had worked better than expected. There were likely a few left around somewhere, but he was focused on the militiaman standing outside Salt’s hooch. He could see the man was nervous and alert. His rifle was off his shoulder and in his hands, but the guy was distracted, looking in the wrong direction toward the far perimeter where other sentries were cranking rounds into the dark as if they were repelling a large scale attack. There would be a bunch of dead rock apes lying out there in the morning.

  Two walking guards passed striding quickly, but they were also focused on the firing and shouting on the other side of the camp. They barely looked toward the river as they stalked out of sight around a bend. Willy Pud pulled the K-Bar from its sheath and got his feet under him. Then he sprinted about 20 meters to a generator shed that put him just a few quick steps from the sentry guarding the door of Salt’s hut. He peeked once to determine the man was still looking in the wrong direction and then made his move.

  He covered the distance in four long strides, wrapped a forearm around the sentry’s mouth to haul backward, nearly lifting the man off the muddy ground. Willy twisted left, snapping the man’s head in that direction and exposing the neck. Punching downward with the K-Bar, he drove the blade into flesh just behind the man’s collarbone and wrenched it back and forth to sever the major arteries flowing past that point. The sentry kicked violently, twitched briefly, and then died silently. Willy lowered him to the ground and pulled the dead man back into the shadows on the far side of Salt’s hooch.