Dateline: Viet Nam: A Military Thriller Double

by Robert Vaughan

  A three-quarter-ton truck went around them. It wasn’t actually a truck—the truck body had been removed and all that remained was the engine, chassis, seat, and steering wheel. The driver, a Vietnamese soldier, was wearing goggles and a long purple scarf. The scarf fluttered wildly in the wind. He was driving nearly seventy miles an hour and within a moment he was already around the next rum and out of sight.

  “Think he’s not about to turn a buck?” Hunter laughed. “There will be a bus body on that chassis by this time tomorrow, and he’ll be five hundred dollars richer.”

  “1 A-V-N B-G-D-E,” Ernie read from the rear bumper. “1 Bn, A-14.”

  “Ha! I know the motor sergeant in that battalion,” Hunter said. “Think I’ll ask him if he’s missing a three-quarter.”

  The sound of a low, flat, stomach-shaking explosion hit them. A puff of smoke climbed into the sky just around the turn in front of them.

  “Shit!” Hunter said. He pulled his pistol.

  When they came around the turn, they saw the three-quarter-ton chassis turned over on its side. The driver was lying nearby in a crumpled heap. There was a hole in the road where a mine had been detonated.

  “Do you see anything?” Hunter asked.

  “No,” Ernie replied, sweeping his eyes along both sides of the road.

  “There!” Hunter suddenly called. “Shit! We’re dead even with them! I’m hauling ass!”

  Ernie saw them as soon as Hunter called out. There were three of them. They looked like no more than teen-aged boys, the kind of pranksters who might stand on the side of the road and pelt cars with snowballs. But those weren’t snowballs in their hands, they were AK-47’s. And the mine they planted had already killed one man. This was no schoolboy prank.

  Hunter pushed down on the accelerator and the Jeep shot forward. Ernie looked back and saw that the three V.C. had moved out in the open to start shooting. He could hear the bullets whipping by. One of them hit the left rear wheel well and clanged loudly as it poked through the skin of the Jeep.

  “Shoot back at them!” Hunter called. “Make them duck!”

  Ernie returned fire, the P-38 popping and bucking in his hand, kicking the spent shell casings away to glisten in the morning sun. He didn’t hit anyone, but he did see a tree limb snap near the head of one and that was enough to send the three of them scurrying for shelter. It was also enough to let them get out of range.

  “Whooee!” Hunter said, laughing a few minutes later. “Wouldn’t I have looked like an asshole if those little shits had got us instead of the three-quarter?”

  “If it had been us, I wouldn’t be worried about looking like an asshole,” Ernie said. He let the hammer back down on the pistol and moved the safety on.

  “Yeah, but here I was using logic on that second lieutenant, explaining very carefully how the V.C. wouldn’t attack just one Jeep and that’s exactly what they did do.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Ernie said. “I got a good look at them. They were even younger than the second lieutenant.”

  “Well, shit, no wonder,” Hunter said. He took the pistol back from Ernie and put it in his pants leg pocket again. “They probably don’t know any more about what they’re doing than that second lieutenant. Amateurs,” he scoffed. “This whole fuckin’ war’s full of amateurs.”

  The next four hours were uneventful. The two men ate C-rations for lunch. Ernie had ham and beans, Hunter chicken and noodles. At one of the little villages, they bought sliced fresh pineapple sticks rolled in hot peppers for dessert. It was three in the afternoon before they reached An Loi.

  “Home, sweet home,” Hunter grunted.

  An Loi was a small, out-of-the-way security base. There was only one battalion of infantry at An Loi, so there was none of the order and plan of the larger bases. There were only three or four wooden structures here. The G.I.’s lived in G.P. medium tents with the sides rolled all the way up. Sandbags were stacked around each tent, forming a wall that rose halfway to the top. The tents, sandbags, and vehicles were covered by a layer of red dirt. There was a distinct smell to the place, a smell that was different from the larger bases. It was the smell of sweat, dirt, musty canvas, gun oil, and open-slit trenches.

  Hunter parked in front of one of the tents.

  “Home, sweet home,” he said. “We can rustle up an extra bunk and mosquito net; you can come in with us if you want.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Ernie agreed.

  A PFC came up to the Jeep. He was wearing dark-rimmed glasses and had a look about him that suggested he might be a clerk. The clerk looked over at Ernie, neither in welcome nor disdain, nor even with too much curiosity.

  “McKay, this is Ernie Chapel,” Hunter said. He’s a newspaper reporter, come to do a story about us.”

  “That’ll be nice,” McKay said, almost distractedly. “Uh...Sergeant Two Bears...Colonel Petery wants to see you soon as you get back.”

  “Okay,” Hunter said.

  “He wants you to take over the platoon for Lieutenant Cox.”

  Hunter looked at him. “What happened to Cox?”

  “Cox is the new company commander. Captain French was killed last night.”

  Hunter let out a slow breath. “Shit!” he said. “He only had six weeks to go, didn’t he?”

  “Less than that. He was down to twenty-nine days,” McKay said.

  Hunter nodded toward Ernie. “Get him some gear, set him up in my tent.”

  “Okay,” McKay said. He motioned toward Ernie. “You gotta carry your own bunk, though. I only carry for officers.”

  “Lead on, McDuff,” Ernie said jovially.

  “It’s McKay,” the clerk said.

  Chapter Three

  Colonel Petery’s office was usually cold enough to hang meat. The Vietnamese house girls who worked there complained bitterly about having to clean his office, saying that it was like working in a freezer.

  When Hunter went in this day, however, the colonel’s office was as hot and muggy as anyplace else on the compound. There was no mystery to it; Hunter saw the problem at once. Colonel Petery’s air conditioner was disassembled and spread out on his desk.

  “Sergeant Hanlon got off okay, I take it?” Petery asked. Petery was working on his air conditioner and he picked up a small piece and blew on it, then held it up and looked at it.

  “Yes, sir, no problem.”

  “Captain French got killed last night,” Petery said.

  “Yes, sir, that’s what I heard. How did it happen?”

  “He took the ambush patrol out. Trouble is that our ambush patrol was ambushed.”

  “By the Ghost Patrol?” Hunter asked. The Ghost Patrol was what the men of An Loi called a North Vietnamese Army unit that was operating in the area. The name came from the fact that the patrol would sneak in from Cambodia, raise hell, then slip back across the border before the Americans could react.

  “Nobody else,” Petery said.

  Hunter ran his hand through his hair. “Shit! What was Captain French doing out there, anyway?”

  “I told him he didn’t have to take the patrol,” Petery went on. “I told him that’s what we’ve got lieutenants for.” He looked up at Hunter. “And sergeants,” he added. He sighed. “But, you know French. He believed company commanders should take their turn, just like everyone else.”

  “Any more casualties?”

  “No. He was the only one.” Petery was trying, unsuccessfully, to fit two pieces together. Hunter took them from him and with one deft motion, had them connected. He handed them back. “Thanks,” Petery said. “Sergeant, I’m not going to transfer another officer to the company. I want you to take over the platoon.”

  “Colonel, there are a couple of lieutenants back at headquarters chomping at the bit for some combat command time,” Hunter reminded him.

  “Yeah, well, let ’em learn somewhere else. I don’t have time to make their Form-66s look good. I’ve got a damned job to do, and I intend to use the best people I have to do it.
I have special plans for you. That’s why I moved Cox up to take over the company.”

  “I wanted to ask you about that,” Hunter said. “Lieutenant Donlevy has been in-country longer. Wouldn’t it be better to give him the command?”

  “It might be. But there’s a reason to my madness. I told you, I wanted to get Cox out of the way so you could take the platoon. I want you to go after the Ghost Patrol.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll take an ambush patrol out tonight,” Hunter offered.

  “It’s going to take much more than an ambush patrol,” Petery said. He put down the pieces of the air conditioner, then walked over to a map and pointed to it. “In the past week alone, the Ghost Patrol has hit Phu Loi, Di An, Phuoc Bin, and Phu Cuong. Mr. Mot tells me that the locals are beginning to talk about them as if they were some kind of heroes. They’re taking on the U.S. Army and they’re kicking ass.”

  “Well, Colonel, so far they have kicked our ass,” Hunter said.

  “I know that, goddammit!” Petery said. “I know it, but I don’t like it. Not only that, other people are starting to imitate them. Some of the local V.C. units that have been inactive for months are beginning to stir again because they’re getting fired up by the Ghost Patrol. Hell, a V.C. sapper squad even hit Ton Son Nhut last night.”

  “I know, I was there,” Hunter reminded him.

  “Yes, so you were.” Colonel Petery took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped sweat from his face.

  “Well, here’s the problem, Sergeant Two Bears. We were put up here specifically to interdict these roving V.C. patrols, to keep them away from places like Phu Loi and Di An. Until this NVA outfit came down here, we were keeping things pretty well under control. Now it’s all going to hell in a basket and USARV is on my ass wanting to know what the hell I’m doing about it.”

  “I see.”

  “No, Sergeant, I’m not sure you do see. I’m a lieutenant colonel in the zone for 0-6. I would really like to make 0-6 before I retire. And not just because I want to put a little bird on my collar. I plan to retire in a couple of years and the difference in retirement between an 0-5 and an 0-6 is the difference between owning a thirty-five-foot cabin cruiser and a fourteen-foot bass boat. Do you get my drift?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Because this is what I want. I want you to take an augmented platoon out on a total sweep. Stay gone for a week if necessary…we’ll arrange for resupply. I want you to find the Ghost Patrol and eliminate them.”

  “Did you say an augmented platoon, sir?”

  “Yes. You can take some mortars from the weapons platoon, extra ammo from headquarters platoon. Whatever it takes to get the job done, you can have.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hunter said.

  “Do you have a problem with that?” Petery asked.

  “I have no problem, Colonel, but you might,” Hunter said. “You’ve got half a dozen officers in the battalion who are going to raise hell when they learn that an augmented platoon is going to the field with an NCO in charge.”

  “You let me worry about the officers’ wounded feelings,” Petery said. “You just take care of the job I gave you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How soon can you be ready?”

  “I’d like to assemble the platoon, take them out on a few ambush patrols and see how they work together. Give me, say, a week, and we’ll be ready.”

  “Fine, fine. Oh, by the way, we got some steaks in this morning. Bet it’s a long time since you had a good steak, hasn’t it?”

  Hunter thought of the steaks he had taken from the officers’ grill last night. Until then it had been a couple of months since he saw one.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “Quite a while.”

  “Last week I had to go to Saigon, as you know. I ate in the consolidated mess. They had steak. The straphangers had steak, while the guys in the field were eating C’s. Well, I raised hell with food service and it paid off.” Petery wiped his face again. “Wouldn’t you know this son of a bitch would break down on the hottest day of the year?”

  Hunter chuckled. “You keep it so cold in here that how would you know whether it’s the hottest day or not?”

  “Well, there you go, it’s the hottest day for me,” Petery said.

  “Set it up there,” McKay said, pointing to a spot on the plywood floor near the front of the tent.

  With a grunt, Ernie set down the bunk, mattress, pillow, pillow cover, sheets, and two blankets. He pulled out the fold-up legs, then set up the bunk. He unrolled the cotton mattress, put on the sheets, slipped on the pillowcase, then made the bed with hospital corners, and was ready.

  There were two men at the far end of the tent. One was in his underwear. The T-shirt was green, but the shorts were white. There was a pan of water on the top of the pile of sandbags and he was shaving, though being very careful to leave his mustache in place. The mustache was light-colored, bushy, with tips that twisted around the sides of his mouth. He looked to be about twenty.

  One of the other men was sitting on a box, cleaning his rifle in a can of gasoline. The smell of gasoline was so strong that Ernie coughed. The rifle cleaner was bare from the waist up, though he was wearing fatigue trousers and jungle boots. He was also wearing a knife—not a bayonet, but a large Bowie knife.

  “You the new platoon sergeant?” someone asked. The man who asked the question was about twenty-six. He was wearing an unbuttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up, though his staff sergeant stripes could be seen.

  “No,” Ernie said. “I’m not in the army. I’m a newspaper reporter.”

  “I told you not to get all uptight, Mills,” one of the other men said. “Mills is acting platoon sergeant now. He thought you were coming in to take his job away from him.”

  “Some job,” someone said. “He’s only had it for half a day.”

  “Far as I’m concerned, you still have it,” Ernie said, smiling, and holding up his hands. “I don’t want anything to do with it.”

  “No shit! You’re a newspaper reporter, huh?” Sergeant Mills said. “What are you doing out here in the boonies with us? Seems like you’d want to stay in Saigon where you know what’s going on.”

  “The only thing you learn in Saigon is what acts are playing at what clubs,” Ernie said.

  “Ain’t that the shits? I got a buddy in the 56th Trans Company. He’s always writin’ me about what he done the night before at the NCO club, or downtown, or out on Plantation Row.”

  “What’s Plantation Row?” someone asked. “Don’t mind him, he’s a fuckin’ new guy,” someone said. “Plantation Row is a street full of nothing’ but bars and whorehouses. It’s about two clicks down the road from the main gate at Ton Son Nhut.”

  “Shit! Those guys fight some kind of war, don’t they?”

  “Sergeant Mills?” someone called from the front of the tent.

  “Yeah. What do you want, Evans?” Evans was in full uniform, including hat and polished boots. He had a fresh look about him, the look of one who spent all his time in an air-conditioned room.

  He looked over at Ernie with an expression of curiosity on his face. Nobody volunteered any information.

  “I been crankin’ your phone for the last ten minutes. What’s wrong with it?” Evans asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong with it,” Mills said.

  “The hell there’s not. Look, there’s the problem,” Evans said, walking over toward the phone. “You’ve let your line come loose.”

  “Leave it alone!” Mills bellowed.

  Evans looked at Mills and the others in frustration. “Are you crazy? All you have to do is connect that line and your phone will work.”

  “I told you, there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just the way we like it.”

  “Nobody from the orderly room can get you as long as it’s like that.”

  “Yeah,” Mills said, smiling. “We noticed.”

  “Well, maybe that’s good for you,” he said. “But that means I have to walk down here eve
ry time Lieutenant Cox wants to see you.”

  “You need the exercise,” Mills said. He started buttoning his shirt. “What’s he want?”

  “I don’t know. He just asked me to tell you he wanted to see you. I’m supposed to have a file on everybody that comes in. Who is this? I didn’t even know he was here,” Evans said, finally giving in to curiosity about Ernie.

  “He’s C.I.D.,” Mills said. “You’re not supposed to know he’s here.”

  “Criminal Investigation Division?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s he investigating?”

  “There’s a rumor that the guys in headquarters platoon are all queer for each other,” the soldier with the mustache said. “He’s checking it out.”

  “I’m in headquarters platoon.”

  “I know—that’s why you weren’t supposed to know.” Mills put his arm around Evans’s shoulder. “We know you’re okay; it’s those other guys we’re worried about. Don’t tell anyone, okay?”

  “Okay,” Evans said. He looked over at Ernie. “I swear, I won’t say a thing.”

  Ernie laid his finger across his lips and shook his head.

  “I promise,” Evans said as he and Mills started toward the orderly room to see Lieutenant Cox.

  When Lieutenant Larry Cox was made company commander, he moved his bunk, wall, and foot-locker into the orderly room. It was more lonely there than it had been in “The Grotto,” as the officers called their tent. There were six lieutenants and two warrant officers in The Grotto, and they shared a refrigerator, bar, and two house girls. They didn’t have an air conditioner, though, and the orderly room did. That provided some compensation for being alone.

  Cox got his commission through the ROTC. Unlike many other ROTC officers, though, Cox had every intention of making the army his career. He planned to apply for a regular army commission as soon as this tour was completed.

  His chances for getting an RA commission were enhanced, he thought, by the fact that he had been named company commander for a line infantry company even though he was just a lieutenant. He had

  been very pleased with that appointment. When he learned that Colonel Petery planned to send a platoon, his old platoon, out after the Ghost Patrol, he immediately volunteered. He was surprised and frustrated when Petery turned him down.