“That’s right,” Ernie said, deciding it was easier to let the girl believe that. “It’s not your fault. Colonel Mot doesn’t have to find out.”
Across Cholon, on the other side of Saigon, Mike lay on a sleeping mat in a small room behind a twisting alley off Truh Minh Gang. Beside him lay the girl he had brought from Maxim’s Bar. On a mat on the far side of the room slept the girl’s eighteen-month-old baby. The angry snarl of a helicopter sounded overhead as a Huey returned from the night courier flight to Vung Tau. With no thought at all, Mike could transport himself into the cockpit with the red, winking instrument panel, the JP-4 scented breeze through the window, the feel of power in his hands and feet as the ship answered his command. For a moment he was one with the crew. He smiled as he wondered what they would think if they knew that one of them was below, with a woman, in the dark cluster of buildings, shacks, and lean-tos that was Saigon.
“You must stay till morning, now,” the girl said. “If you go on street now, you get picked up by MP’s.”
“I’ll stay,” Mike said.
The girl shifted her body closer to him. “That be five hundred more P,” she said.
Outside, Mike could hear the clack of the soup vendor’s sticks as he made his final rounds of the night. The city was going to sleep. He wondered if Madam Mot was in bed.
Chapter Four
Ernie could feel the C-130s before he could hear them and he could hear them before he could see them. It started as a rumble, deep in the pit of his stomach then a roar in his ears. Finally, the ghostly shapes sliding through the early morning mist materialized as giant four-engined transport aircraft, touching down on the landing mat of perforated steel planking with a growl of authority.
Ernie had flown into staging area Swift Strike with Mike and now he sat on the damp ground under a tree, sucking on the sweet tip of a blade of grass. They had come in the dark of pre-dawn and Ernie sat with Mike, John, and the others, watching the morning mist roll in to mask the break of day.
All along the outer dike stood a long line of hogs, bristling with guns and rocket tubes. Alongside their ships, sprawled out on the grass in various stages of rest, were the other pilots in Mike’s company.
“Hurry up and wait, hurry up and wait,” John grumbled. “Damn, I get tired of this shit.”
“So did the men who served in Caesar’s legions,” Ernie said.
“Yeah, you old fart, and you were probably there to write about it, weren’t you?” Mike teased.
“My earliest campaign was the Peloponnesian War,” Ernie replied.
“You did write about World War Two, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Ernie said.
“That was the real one,” John observed.
Ernie thought of the hell of Iwo Jima. “They’re all real,” he said.
“There’re the guys we’re taking in,” Mike said, pointing to the Vietnamese soldiers who were offloading from the C-130s. “Son of a bitch! Look at that. Ernie, isn’t that the Black Knight?”
Ernie saw Colonel Mot standing by the tail ramp of one of the transports, watching his men as they filed off.
“That’s him, all right.”
“Look, all those guys are dressed in black,” John observed. “How the hell are we supposed to know them from the V.C.?”
“I don’t know,” Mike said. “I guess if anyone shoots at us, we’ll just shoot back.”
“Colonel Mot has just received permission for his special-attack elements to wear black,” Ernie explained. “It’s psychological.”
“Psychological,” John said. “Now, ain’t that the shits?”
Ernie couldn’t help but be impressed with the array of equipment the Black Knight was bringing in for the mission. There were hundreds of troops in full battle gear, helicopters stretching from one end of the field to the other, and a steady train of C-130s coming in at three-minute intervals.
A door gunner walked by, wearing a flak vest with a gunship painted on the back. The ship had eyes and teeth and was carrying a bloody sword in one of the landing skids that had been drawn like a hand. Beneath the drawing was the door gunner’s credo in blood-red letters: I fly for the only truly nonprejudiced genocide unit in the world. I will kill anyone, anywhere, anytime, regardless of race, creed, color, age, or sex. No questions asked, no quarter given.
“Now, that’s one mean son of a bitch,” John chuckled, pointing to the door gunner.
Ernie laughed, then looked over at the two warrant officers who were the pilot and co-pilot for the door gunner’s ship. They were sitting on a log and one of them pulled out a plug of chewing tobacco, sliced off a long, thin piece, then handed the plug to the other. The other also cut off a piece. Then, in unison, they stuck the tobacco in their mouths, which were barely discernible beneath the heavy mustaches each of them wore. They chewed silently, unaware that they were the subject of Ernie’s observation.
Ernie felt he had seen this same scene before, like deja vu. Then he knew where he had seen them. The steely eyes, the rakish mustaches, the youthful bravado—all had been duplicated in hundreds of Matthew Brady pictures from the Civil War.
Colonel Mot came walking by, laughing and talking with Colonel Todaro. As usual, Colonel Mot was followed by an entourage of Ernie’s contemporaries. Ernie had little respect for them; they were the newsmen who always went for the easy story. They would get a few pictures and quotes from Mot, then file their pieces and beat it back to the eighth-floor bar of the Hotel Caravel in downtown Saigon. In the meantime, Ernie and a few of the harder-working reporters would be slogging through the jungle.
“Follow close behind me, gentlemen,” Colonel Mot told those who were with him, “and you will never miss the action. I go to the sound of the guns and bathe in the wash of battle.”
“Colonel Mot, there’s been some talk in high levels about your political ambitions. Is there any foundation to this talk?” one of the reporters asked.
“I am not actively seeking any political recognition,” Colonel Mot answered. “In fact, quite the opposite is true. Any position less than that of President would cause me to fail in my duty to give my country my utmost.”
“Then you are interested in the President’s job?”
“You are presuming a great deal,” Colonel Mot replied with a small smile. “But, to answer your question, I would gladly serve in that capacity if I thought it would be best for the nation.” Colonel Mot looked over at Ernie and the air crews and smiled. “Gentlemen, let me introduce you to a real warrior’s reporter. Notice how Mr. Chapel stays away from headquarters to be with the fighting men.”
“Yes,” Don Wright of CBS-TV answered. “We’ve met.” Ernie and Wright had had a couple of run-ins before. Wright had the idea that the power of his medium should give him special privileges, and he had tried to capitalize on that more than once. Some of the other reporters let him get away with it…Ernie wouldn’t.
Mot walked on and the entourage followed him as the cameramen moved to get into position for the best shot.
“Holy shit!” Mike said. “You’d think he was winning the war by himself.”
“He’s what they call good copy,” Ernie said.
“Mike,” someone called. “The briefing tent is set up. They’re calling for all the pilots now.”
“Do you mind if I go to the briefing with you?” Ernie asked.
Mike chuckled. “Why do you want to? I’m not what they call good copy, am I?”
“You’ll do until something better comes along,” Ernie said.
Ernie followed Mike, John, Dobbins, and all the other pilots of the gunship company to the tent. There they saw the pilots of the airlift companies, as well as the dustoff and helicopter recovery pilots. The Vietnamese infantry officers also joined them and the briefing began.
The first part of the briefing was for the aviators. They received weather, intelligence, med-evac, and helicopter recovery procedures. Then Colonel Mot, speaking in English and in Vietnamese, told the purpose of the mission.
The V.C., he said, had gathered a strong force at Binh Loi, and he intended to crush that force.
The mist had burned away by the time the briefing got under way and Ernie was surprised to see that the briefing tent had actually been pitched on the edge of the lawn of a large French villa. Two blond-haired children ran laughing through a jungle-gym set, the sound of their laughter floating in occasionally to contrast sharply with the continual drone of aircraft engines as the C-130s began leaving. The children played as if they were totally alone, completely oblivious of the strike force that was gathered nearby.
After the briefing, Ernie walked back to the gun- ship parking area. He stood beside the open door with the sun beating down on his back, looking inside at the jump seat that had been rigged for him. During the actual mission, everyone on board the helicopter would have a job to do. The pilot would fly the ship, the co-pilot would fire the mounted guns, the door gunner and crew chief would fire the door guns, but Ernie would just sit there. It was a terrifying experience, made more so by his feeling of helplessness.
“What’d the bigwigs say in there, Mr. Chapel?” SP-5 Smith asked. He was checking the ammunition in the chutes that ran from the boxes inside. “We about ready to spool up?”
“Spool up?” Ernie replied, not understanding the question.
“Yeah, you know, start engines,” Smitty explained, making a circular motion with his finger.
“The turbine engines spin like a spool; that’s where we get the word.”
“Oh, yes,” Ernie said. “I think we’re about ready.”
“Why don’t you climb in on your seat now?” Smitty invited. “That way me ’n Albritton can mount our guns and string our monkey straps.” Ernie climbed into the helicopter and settled in the red nylon seat that was mounted in the center, just behind the console, facing forward. He saw the crews of the other helicopters getting aboard. Then Mike and Mr. Dobbins got in. John Rindell was flying the ship just behind them.
In the distance, toward the briefing area, a green flare arced through the sky. That was the signal to start engines. Mike pulled the starter trigger. Within seconds, the T53-L11 turbine engine, which was nestled in the cowling behind them, was a roaring inferno of white-hot flames, spinning a turbine thousands of revolutions per minute and transmitting that power to the rotor blades overhead. As the auxiliary systems kicked in, the warning lights winked out and the chopper sat poised, ready to leap into the air.
“This is Swift Strike control,” Ernie heard a voice say. “Gunslinger, you are cleared for immediate departure.”
“Up,” Mike said, and he pulled the collective control stick up, lifting the helicopter off the ground. He made a slight pedal correction for torque, then departed over the large French villa with the kids still playing unconcernedly below them.
Ernie twisted around in his seat and stared out through the open door, over the barrel of Smitty’s M-60, at the ground below.
“Red team left, Blue team right,” a voice said, and Mike moved the helicopter to the left to become part of Red team, flying cover for the UH-1D lift helicopters that would be carrying the troops.
The UH-lDs were lifting off then, moving into a flight formation of V’s. Ernie watched two of them as they climbed up alongside...Then he witnessed a moment of horror. Two of the Hueys, loaded with fourteen human beings each, meshed their rotor blades. Because of the sound of the engines, Ernie heard nothing...it was as if the terrible drama was being played on silent film. One moment both helicopters were flying along smoothly in graceful formation; the next moment they were throwing rotor blades and other pieces of debris as they began tumbling, sickeningly, to earth, eight hundred feet below.
“My God!” someone shouted. “Their rotors meshed!”
Ernie watched both helicopters tumble all the way to the ground then explode in two rosettes of fire.
“Gunslinger Six, is the mission aborted?” someone called.
“Negative,” Gunslinger Six replied. “Dustoff, check for survivors.”
“Roger,” Dustoff answered.
“Where were they from?” Mike asked over the intercom.
“Sixty-eighth, I think,” Dobbins answered. “Top Tiger.”
There was no more conversation about the two helicopters or anything else that didn’t relate strictly to business. The lift element proceeded to Binh Loi. Then the gunships, Mike’s included, made a few passes at the treeline around the landing zone. Ernie watched as their tracer rounds and rockets zipped into the treelines, though he didn’t notice any return fire.
“This is Red team leader. Anybody pick up any return fire?”
“This is Red Four. I think I did, off to the left.”
“Near the rocks?”
“That’s affirm.”
“Uh…okay, Red team, make one more pass concentrating on the rocks. Then stand by for the insertion.”
Mike brought the gunship back around, standing it on the rotor as he made the turn. The area around the rocks was burning now, but try as he could, Ernie still didn’t see anything.
“There ain’t shit down there,” Mike said disgustedly as they pulled away from their last pass.
The gunships flew back and forth along the edge of the open rice paddy that was being used as the landing zone while the UH-lDs touched down, offloaded their troops, then took off again. When the last lift helicopter was empty and the infantrymen were clear of the LZ, the helicopters were ordered back to the staging area. There was nothing to do now except stay on standby to be called out immediately if needed.
Once back in the staging area, the ships were refueled and reloaded while the crews moved over to rest in the shade of the trees and enjoy the soft breeze.
“Follow me to the sound of the guns, my ass,” Mike laughed, recalling Colonel Mot’s comment earlier in the morning. “If I ever saw a candy-ass LZ, this was it.”
“Didn’t bother me any,” Dobbins said, folding his hands behind his head. “This is the kind I like.”
Suddenly their conversation was interrupted by rifle fire. The shots cracked out sharply and echoed through the trees so that no one could tell where they were coming from. Word was passed down that a Viet Cong patrol had been contacted and that everyone in the staging area was to stay behind cover.
“Shit!” Mike said, pulling his pistol as he inched up to the top of the berm and looked out into the foliage. “Now we know why the LZ was soft! The sons of bitches are here!”
The firing continued sharply for several moments more. Ernie, who wasn’t armed, peered intently into the darkened interior of the copse. He felt a knot of fear in his stomach as the bullets whistled by, snapping into the tree trunks and popping through the leaves. Then the firing ceased abruptly.
There was silence for a moment, then some shouts, and Ernie saw a dustoff crew running for their helicopter. By the time they had it started, there were some people running from the trees, carrying wounded on a stretcher. One of the wounded was an American G.I., and the other was a V.C. At least Ernie thought he was V.C., but he heard someone say he was friendly.
“They’re ARVN. They’re wearing black and when they came back from their patrol, some new guys took ’em for V.C. and opened up. They’s two of ’em dead back there,” a young soldier explained.
The Dustoff ship took off over them then with a whine of its engine and pop of its blades.
“Did you say this was a soft LZ, Mike?” Ernie asked. “With the twenty-eight killed in the helicopter collision and these two, this one cost thirty lives.”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Guess it wasn’t all that soft after all.”
Chapter Five
Ernie walked over to the cooler and punched the button to draw out a cup of water. A large bubble formed in the inverted glass tank then popped up to the surface with a gurgle. He stood at the window as he sipped the cool water and looked out at the traffic on Nguyen Hue street. The street was crowded with smoking cyclos, blue-and-yellow taxicabs, and military Jeeps and trucks of
all sizes and services. Hundreds of Vietnamese men scurried about in uniform, many in the distinctive Tiger uniforms, though Ernie knew that few of them had ever actually been in the field.
Behind him, a dozen typewriters clacked and dinged as CPI correspondents worked on their stories. One of them, Jerry Decker, looked up.
“Hey, Ernie, what’s that chopper pilot’s name? You know, the gunship jock you been ridin’ with? Carmack, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Ernie said, turning around. “Why? Has anything happened to him?”
“Not that I know of,” Jerry answered. “But this came through from USARV PIO. Thought you might be interested.”
Jerry held out a sheet of paper and Ernie took it from him. It was an extract from an awards order.
HEADQUARTERS
USARV
APO U.S. Forces 96307
SPECIAL ORDER NUMBER 29111 Sept 1968
EXTRACT
14. DA 348. By direction of the Secretary of the Army, following individual is authorized to accept the award of the VIETNAMESE CROSS OF GALLANTRY.
CARMACK, MICHAEL TIMOTHY, W2214390 CW3 671B HQ USARV APO 96307
ADMINISTRATIVE DATA
Auth: Para 3-58, Sec XV LTR 14 Jun 1963
HOR: Sikeston, Missouri
PLEAD: Fort Rucker, Alabama
SPECIAL INSTRUCTIONS
Award will be presented by Colonel Ngyuet Cao Mot, CO Special (Strike) Forces, ARVN
FOR THE COMMANDER
T.J. Hunsinger
Colonel, GS
Chief of Staff
OFFICIAL:
ROBERT A. BIVENS
1LT, AGC
Asst Adj gen
DISTRIBUTION:
110 AG Gen Mail Gra, 5 AG Orders, 10 Individual indie, 2 CG USARV, 2 HQDA
(DAAG-ASO-O) Wash DC 20315,2 HQDA (DA-PO-OPD-WOAVN) Wash DC 20315
Dateline: Viet Nam: A Military Thriller Double Page 4