C-I-T-A-T-I-O-N
In that Chief Warrant Officer-3 Michael T. Carmack, W2214390, did distinguish himself by heroism while participating in aerial flight as evidenced by voluntary action above and beyond the call of duty, to wit: CW-3 Carmack, on the morning of 11 July, 1968, while flying support for an infantry insertion, did, with great disregard for his own safety, proceed against anti-aircraft emplacements eliminating the position and allowing the insertion of troops to continue. CW-3 Carmack’s dedication to duty in the face of extreme danger did ensure the success of the mission. Mr. Carmack’s actions were in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service, and of the cooperative counter-insurgent operations of the combined powers of the United States and the Republic of Vietnam, and reflect great credit to himself and the United States Army.
For the Commander
WILLIAM C. WESTMORELAND
Commanding General
United States Forces, Vietnam
OFFICIAL:
ROBERT A. BIVENS 1LT, AGC Asst Adg Gen
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ernie said. “When is the award to be given?”
“Two o’clock this afternoon. USARV has laid on a chopper for any reporters who want to go. You want me to reserve you a seat?”
“Yeah,” Ernie said. “I think I’ll go up and watch.”
“Okay,” Jerry said, picking up the phone. “I’ll call and hold you a seat. Seems to me like it’s pretty tame stuff, though.”
Ernie didn’t tell Jerry that he’d been along on the same mission. He wanted to go because he felt a proprietary interest in the ceremony.
There were a half a dozen reporters on the chopper going up. Two of them were TV reporters who also had their cameramen along. Ernie and the other print reporters had only their canvas bags with cameras, tablets, and pencils.
As the chopper approached Phu Loi, it banked over the 605th DS shed. A familiar sign was painted on the roof:
SEE SEVEN STATES FROM ROCK CITY ATOP LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN
The blades popped loudly as the helicopter settled through the air it was spilling. The pilot stopped the descent a few feet above the ground, then hovered over to a pad and set it down. The reporters were out before the blades quit spinning.
Ernie hurried over to Mike’s tent, where he found his friend dressed in khakis. Ernie stuck out his hand in congratulations.
“If you ask me, I’m a little embarrassed by it,” Mike said. “I wasn’t the only pilot that day. Hell, I wasn’t even in charge of the flight.”
“Maybe not, but your helicopter is the one that destroyed the anti-aircraft guns.”
“Then what about the other guys in my ship?” Mike asked. “My co-pilot, gunner, crew chief…hell, even you. You were on board that day.”
“I just went along for the ride,” Ernie said.
“Nevertheless, I don’t know why the hell I’ve been singled out,” Mike said. “And if they are going to give it to me, why don’t they just slip it through distribution? Why make such a big fuss about it?”
“Maybe the Black Knight likes you,” Ernie suggested.
“Hey,” John said. “Maybe the Black Knight’s wife likes you.”
“I’m sure that’s it,” Mike answered quickly. His answer was a little sharper than he intended because, for some strange reason, he had been unable to get Madam Mot out of his mind from the first moment he saw her.
Back in Saigon, Le stepped out of the bathtub and wrapped herself in a purple towel. A faint aromatic trace of specially blended perfume followed her as she walked from the bathroom to her dressing room and stood there, trying to decide what she would wear to the award ceremony. She had surprised her husband when she told him she wanted to go.
She wanted to go because she wanted to see the American pilot again. From the moment she saw him in the My Kahn, she had woven sexual fantasies around him.
Le dropped her towel and reached for her dress. For a moment she was totally nude and a breath of air caressed her naked skin. She shivered and thought of the American pilot.
Le decided to occupy her mind with haiku, poems of exactly seventeen syllables. When perfectly constructed, they were like pebbles cast into the pool of the mind, sending out ripples of association.
Is that a dancing angel...on the tree...? It is a beam of sunlight.
It was necessary that she engage in such mental exercise or her mind would run away with thoughts of sex. Sex with Mike Carmack. She could imagine herself in bed with him, feeling him inside her.
The lovers come together...mouth to mouth…leg to leg...fountain flowing.
Le no longer tried to push the thoughts aside. She allowed Mike to make love to her in her mind. She drifted sensually with her erotic thoughts, losing herself in sexual fantasy.
As the band played, the echo of the drum and bass horn floated back from the walls of the hangar buildings, arriving about one half-beat after the melody so that the music came out in a strange, cacophonous sound in march time. The Warrant officer who was directing the band was aware of the off-beat echo and he both quickened and slowed the chop of his baton to try to regulate it, though without success.
Mike stood all alone in the middle of the field, sweating profusely under the hot sun, cursing under his breath, annoyed that he was not only having to go through all this but that he was having to subject his men to it as well. It was especially galling to him that he was singled out when his performance was no more heroic than anyone else’s.
Colonel Mot stopped in front of Mike. Mot was wearing a black satin flying suit, a red neck scarf, and exceptionally dark sunglasses. The sunglasses were American Army flight glasses. His wife, standing behind him, was wearing them as well.
Mot looked over at Colonel Todaro, who cleared his throat and stepped up to a microphone.
“Attention to orders,” Todaro read. “Headquarters, United States Army, Vietnam, Special Orders two ninety-one. Chief Warrant Officer Three Michael Timothy Carmack is hereby awarded the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry for performance above and beyond the call of duty.”
Todaro went on to read the citation, droning through it in such a monotone that if Mike ever thought he deserved the award, he would have changed his mind after the reading. Finally, Todaro finished and stepped away from the microphone, then looked at the Black Knight and nodded.
“So, Mr. Carmack, we meet again,” Mot said quietly. “I hope you don’t mind if I allow my wife the honor of pinning on your medal. You made quite an impression on her during your brief meeting in the My Kahn.”
Mot stepped aside and held out a box toward his wife. She drew the gold pendant with its red-and-yellow ribbon from the felt lining.
“From a grateful people, Mr. Carmack,” Le said in a soft, silken voice.
“Thank you, Madam Mot,” Mike said.
“Mr. Carmack, I’m sponsoring a small reception in my home this afternoon, in your honor. Your commanding officer told me you would be happy to attend.”
“You might say it’s a command performance, Mr. Carmack,” Mot added. “You will be there, of course?”
“Of course, sir,” Mike answered.
“At two,” Le said. She slipped her glasses off and looked directly at Mike. There was something about the expression in her face, the look in her eyes, which disturbed him, and he felt himself flush under her intense gaze.
“And now, my dear, we must go,” Colonel Mot said. “We have a few calls to make before the reception.”
Mike stood at attention as Colonel Mot and Le left the field. The battalion adjutant dismissed the formation. Mike walked toward his tent.
The Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry was really a medal of little significance and many men had already received the award at least once. Generally, they were handed out without ceremony. The ceremony was what made this one so unusual and Mike’s fellow pilots knew he was embarrassed by it. Therefore, they offered profuse congratulations as a form of good-natured teasing.
“Listen,” John said, putting his finger u
nder the medal and pulling it out from Mike’s shirt, holding it so that it caught the sunlight and flashed brilliantly. “Where do you think we could get this hero something to drink?”
“The officers’ club?”
“No, let’s not share him with the masses yet. How ’bout the pilots’ lounge?”
Under their prodding, Mike agreed to go to the pilots’ lounge to “celebrate” the award. As they started across the perforated steel planking, he felt someone looking at him. Then he saw that Madam Mot was standing by her husband’s car, staring at him from behind her dark glasses.
“Yeah, the lounge,” he said, anxious to get away. “That sounds good. Let’s go have a beer.”
“Come along, Ernie,” John invited. “We’ll put all the marks by Mike’s name.” That was a reference to the fact that a drink tally sheet was kept posted on the refrigerator door, and every time someone got a beer they put a mark by their name, then settled at the end of the month.
“So, how does it feel to be a hero?” John asked as he stabbed holes in the tops of the cans of beer and passed them around. Beer spewed out each time he punched the opener in, and foam bubbled invitingly over the top of the cans.
Mike took a long drink from his can before he answered. “It feels phony,” he said.
“Yeah, well, it gave the troops a chance to stand in the noonday sun,” John said. He looked at Dobbins and laughed. “And it saved Dob a little money. He was going to head on down to Plantation Road and buy a little Saigon tea for the whores.”
“Well, bless their little hearts,” Dob said. “They’re such friendly little girls and they’re always thirsty.”
“Now, there’s someone I wouldn’t mind buying a little Saigon tea for,” one of the officers said, pointing with his beer can toward Madam Mot.
“You and me both,” John said. “I’ll tell you, she is the most beautiful damned dink I’ve ever seen.”
“Hell, you can go down to Maxim’s on Plantation Road and find at least five as pretty as she is,” Dob said. “Big Boobs, for example, or the Rabbit Girl, or Brandy, or even Ammo Bearer.”
John laughed. “Dob has this area laid out, doesn’t he? Think he doesn’t know where to get a steam and cream?”
“Ah, that’s just my little corner of the world here at Phu Loi,” Dob said. He looked at Ernie, who had been quiet for the whole time. “Now Mr. Chapel, there, is the one to talk to. He’s a high- paid, famous journalist. A civilian who can go anywhere he wants, anytime he wants. If there’s a corner on the poontang market in Vietnam, it’s people like Ernie Chapel who have it sewed up. Right, Ernie?”
“Wish I could say yes,” Ernie said. He pointed across the way toward one of the television reporters who had come up with him. The reporter was squatting in the middle of a road, holding one hand on top of his helmet as if to keep it on, while with the other he held a microphone in front of his mouth. Behind him, a half-dozen South Vietnamese soldiers were running toward a treeline, shooting, then diving to the ground as if they were under fire. The cameraman was taking it all in. “There’s the glory-and-glamour guys...the TV reporters.”
“You think someone will be watching that shit in their living rooms tomorrow night, believing they’re seeing real action?” one of the officers asked.
“Does a fat dog fart?” John asked. He crushed his beer can and tossed it into an empty fifty-five- gallon drum. “That makes my ass knit barbed wire. Why don’t you write about that sometime, Ernie? About the TV reporters who manufacture stories?”
“I can’t,” Ernie said.
“You can’t? Why not?”
“It would seem self-serving. You know, the TV guys are phony, we’re the only ones real, so turn off TV and read your newspapers. No one would believe me.”
“Yeah, well, when I get back I’m going to tell ’em,” John said.
“What makes you think anyone will listen?” Dob asked.
Chapter Six
That afternoon, Mike parked his Jeep in the courtyard of the Mot villa. From inside the walls of the estate, it was impossible to tell that this elegant home was situated in Vietnam, surrounded on all four sides by contrasting filth and squalor. Here, fountains splashed and flowers blossomed and trees shaded a baroque-style Mediterranean house that wouldn’t have been out of place on the Riviera.
A servant met Mike and escorted him into the house. The inside of the house was a mixture of French and Oriental decor, but whereas these two schools blended in cooking, they did not blend well in decorating. The house was a horrid mishmash of ostentatiousness. Huge, deep blue Ming vases competed for space with Monet originals and Louis XIV furniture.
“Ah, Mr. Carmack, how good of you to come,” Mot said. “My wife will be pleased.”
Mot was wearing a white sharkskin suit with a lime-green shirt. It was the first time Mike had ever seen him out of uniform. He was standing at the bar, pouring himself a drink. He held the bottle of Canadian Mist up for Mike and Mike nodded yes.
“Where is your wife?” Mike asked. “And where are the others?”
“The others?” Mot asked innocently. “What others?”
“For the reception,” Mike said. “You did say there was to be a reception here this afternoon?”
“Yes,” Mot said. He tasted his drink and smacked his lips appreciatively. “But there are no others, dear boy. There is just you.”
“Just me?”
“Are you disappointed?” Madam Mot inquired. Her voice was smooth and throaty.
Mike looked toward the sound of her voice and gasped. She was wearing the traditional ao dai, but the silk pants that were normally worn beneath the long, free-flowing outer garment were absent. The ao dai was split from her waist to her feet on each side and beneath the ao dai there was nothing except a long, lovely expanse of naked leg and thigh.
“Do you like my wife’s mode of dress?” Colonel Mot asked, laughing. “She has singlehandedly changed one thousand years of dressing custom by discarding the long silk pants. You must admit, it does do much for the costume.”
“Your wife is a lovely woman,” Mike said truthfully.
“Yes, well, I’m sure the two of you will have a wonderful time this afternoon,” Mot said. He put his empty glass down on the bar. “I must be going.”
“Going? Colonel Mot, you mean you aren’t going to stay here?”
“No,” Mot said lightly. “It’s my wife’s reception, not mine.”
Mike watched, dumbfounded, as Mot left. Then he turned back toward Madam Mot. “I don’t understand what’s going on here,” he said.
“Surely, Mr. Carmack, you have some idea. After all, you are a big boy,” Madam Mot said. She reached behind her to release the catch of her bra. Then she removed it, pulling it from under the ao dai so that the nipples of her breasts stood in bold relief against the silk of the garment. “If you think about it, you’ll understand,” she said. “Think of hot blood, the mingling of flesh, yours hard and driving, mine soft and yielding.”
“Madam Mot...”
“Call me Le,” Le said. She moved closer to him and Mike was aware of a soft fragrance, tantalizing, but not overpowering. “Let’s have a drink, shall we?”
Le poured a smoky liquid into two small glasses and handed one to Mike. They touched glasses briefly. Then Mike drank the liquor, feeling it burn throughout his whole body and bringing heat to his loins.
An old lady padded into the room, moving quietly on bare feet. Her sudden and unexpected appearance startled Mike. The old woman spoke in singsong Vietnamese.
“What is it?” Mike asked.
Le smiled. “Haung has prepared our bath.”
“Our bath?”
“Yes,” Le said. She put her hand on Mike’s arm and led him from the room, down a hall, and into a bathroom, then pointed inside. Steam was rising from an enormous sunken tub, and the scent of bath perfume filled the air.
“I’ve never seen a bathtub so large,” Mike said. “It looks like it was built for two peopl
e.”
Le smiled. “It was.” She picked up a purple robe and handed it to Mike. “Here,” she said, pointing to the bedroom. “Remove your clothes and put on this robe. Don’t enter the bathroom until you hear me call.”
By now, any anxiety Mike may have felt was gone, replaced by a strong, growing, sexual desire. Eagerly, he went into the bedroom and took off his uniform to put on the robe. He already had an erection, and as he moved, the contact with the robe sent tiny electric shocks coursing through him.
“You may come in, Mr. Carmack,” Le called.
Mike opened the door and saw Le standing beside the tub. The robe she wore was also purple and delightfully short, revealing long, shapely golden legs.
“I want to be your tender teacher, Mike,” Le said in her low, throaty voice. “One of the things I want to teach you is the sexually invigorating properties of the bath. Now, if you would be so kind as to turn your back, I shall step into the water.”
“Why can’t I watch?” Mike asked.
“Patience, dear boy,” Le said, smiling at him. “Please have patience.”
Obeying her, Mike turned his back. He heard the soft rippling of water as she settled into the bath. “Now, if you would step in, please?”
Mike allowed the robe to drop to the floor, then started to turn around.
“No, don’t turn yet,” she said.
Still facing away from her, he stepped into the water, then sat down.
“Now you may turn.”
When Mike turned toward her he could see the golden gleam of her breasts, adorned but not concealed by the bath suds. One of her nipples peeked through the bubbles and it was maddening to his senses. He reached for her.
“No,” she said sharply. Then, more softly: “Please, Mike, don’t be impatient. You will enjoy it so much more, believe me.”
“All right,” Mike said. “Whatever you say.”
“That’s a good boy.” Le smiled, and she raised a washcloth to her breast and squeezed water so that some of the suds were washed away.
Dateline: Viet Nam: A Military Thriller Double Page 5