“Fine with me.”
The two reporters followed the spec-five around the corner of the building to the parking area. Ernie climbed in first, then stretched a hand down over the tailgate to help Marty up. He put down the little bench seat along the side and they were ready to go.
Two Phantom Jets took off then and the noise of their engines rolled across the field like the roar of one hundred freight trains. Ernie could see them through the opening at the rear of the truck and as soon as they broke ground, they kicked in their afterburners and pulled back into a climb, riding atop twin pillars of fire, rocketing almost straight up until they were little more than bright dots high in the sky. In half an hour, they would be over targets in North Vietnam. A bright green Braniff 707 started down the runway after the two Phantoms. On board were over two hundred returning servicemen finishing their tour. An Air Vietnam DC-6 turned onto the runway and Ernie could hear the sound of its four engines, whisper-quiet compared to the Phantoms, which could still be heard as a distant, rolling thunder.
The truck pulled away and they rode quietly for some time. Ernie looked through the back of the truck at the shade trees and white walls of Cong Ly as the broad street reeled out behind them. They passed bicycles, taxis, cyclos, Lambrettas, and other military traffic as the driver sped down the road, using his horn more often than the brakes.
Ernie couldn’t stop thinking about the young V.C. in his Mickey Mouse T-shirt. When one thought of the godless, bloodthirsty commies, a teen-aged boy in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt was hardly the image that came to mind.
“Ernie?”
Ernie looked around and saw that they were stopped. It was then that he realized Marty was speaking to him and had been.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. He let down the tailgate. “I guess I wasn’t paying any attention.”
“You didn’t say a word all the way down here. Your mind was a thousand miles away,” she said.
“No.” He hopped down, then held her hand as she jumped from the back of the truck. “More like one hundred miles away.”
“Want to talk about it over dinner?” Marty invited.
Ernie smiled. “No way would I waste the chance to have dinner with the lovely Marty Burke by talking business. We’ll have dinner, but it’s going to be purely social.”
“Why, Ernie Chapel, are you asking me for a date?” Marty teased.
Ernie pulled himself up to full height and smoothed the jungle fatigues as well as he could.
“You’re damned right I am,” he said.
Captain Duong Cao Minh lay under the mosquito netting and tried to rest. There was practically no air moving and what breeze there was; was stopped by the close weave of the netting. It was stiflingly hot but at least he was under a roof and thus away from the sun. Many of his men were lying in the sun, or at best under the sparse shade of banyan trees.
His company had been badly cut up last night. He had expected to find no more than ten or twelve Americans out on their ambush patrol. Instead, he ran into a hornet’s nest. There must have been thirty or more Americans out there, waiting for him. As a result of the battle, he lost over forty men.
“Are you awake?” the girl asked in a soft, melodic voice.
Minh turned his head and saw her standing by his sleeping mat. She was wearing freshly laundered clothing and her skin was clean and sweet-smelling. He knew she had done it for him and he was pleased. Being the commander of the largest People’s Army Force unit in the sector did have its compensations.
“I want something to drink,” Minh said. He sat up and pushed the mosquito netting to one side, then swung his legs out. They were muscular and dark and laced with the scars of a thousand grass cuts and insect bites, the souvenirs of years in the jungle. Minh could deny being V.C. all he wanted, but the moment they saw his legs they would know.
The girl nodded and rushed off. A moment later she returned and handed him a glass of cool, sweetened coconut milk. She smiled as if she were proud of her offering and he nodded at her and took it. He would have preferred something a little harder, whiskey if possible. At least a bottle of beer. But, what the girl lacked in perceptiveness, she compensated for in other things. He felt a warming of his blood as he recalled the sex they had had last night before his mission. He would have her again, tonight. Minh took the glass with a nod of thanks.
Minh finished the drink quickly, then stood up and walked outside into the streets of the little village of My Song. It was a small hamlet with barely three dozen buildings. It had a store and a doctor’s office, not a medical doctor, but a “folk doctor” whose remedies and potions were much preferred to a medical doctor’s treatment. Two of the houses also doubled as cafes and one of them kept whiskey and beer on hand.
As Minh walked through the dirt street of My Song, there was very little about him to differentiate him from the other residents of the village. He wore nondescript clothing and he was about the same size, though perhaps a little more muscular. His hair was black, his eyes dark brown, his skin darkened by the sun. His legs, with their mark of the jungle, were different, of course. He also wore a sidearm, a Chinese 9-mm pistol. That pistol was not only his badge but also his guarantee of authority.
There were several reasons why Minh had chosen the village of My Song as his base of operations. It was centrally located to allow him to strike at many government targets. Americans never came to the village, and the government soldiers who did came by accident. The Saigon government did not consider My Song an important enough village to protect. Also, the sympathies of the village were generally with the V.C. and many of Minh’s soldiers were from My Song.
As commanding officer of the V.C. company, Minh was accorded a status on par with that of the mayor and elders. In fact, Minh’s soldiers did act as police for the village, so most regarded Minh not as a revolutionary but as one of the establishment. They bowed or looked away in respect, as he walked among them. He saw Sergeant Phat drinking beer at the little bar in the center of the village and he joined him.
“Are the men resting well?” Minh asked. He pointed to a bottle of whiskey and the proprietor, a little old man with a wispy white beard, poured him a glass.
“Some are resting better than the others, Captain,” Phat said. “Mot’s wounds are giving him much trouble.”
“Will he survive them?”
Phat turned up the bottle of beer and took several long swallows, finishing it off. He let out a sigh of contentment and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then set the bottle down.
“I think he will die,” Phat said. “I think he will die tonight.”
“The ambush last night was costly,” Minh said.
“Who would know that the Americans would have such a large patrol out?”
“It’s because of our ‘friends’ from the north,” Minh said, twisting the word “friends” so that it dripped with sarcasm. “Major Ngyuet takes his Ghost Patrol to the weakest point, scores a victory, and the Americans react as if they had been invaded.”
“Major Ngyuet gets all the credit for our successes,” Phat said.
Minh sighed. “For the moment that is good. The Ghost Patrol can keep the Americans occupied while we can move more freely. But, in the future, we must be certain of our targets. I have no wish to attack a force as large as the one we encountered last night unless we are adequately prepared for it.”
“We will have no such problems tonight,” Phat said. “The target is an American communications station. There are only fifteen American soldiers there.”
“You are certain of your information?”
Phat smiled. “I’m very certain. I have been inside the base every day for two weeks. I am the houseboy for the NCO hooch.”
“Well, then we shall bring them a special delivery of laundry tonight, won’t we?” Minh said.
The first time Ernie had sex with Marty, six months ago, he had felt almost incestuous. She was a reporter, a colleague and in addition to being a fellow journalis
t, they had become great friends. He made that observation as they were dressing afterward.
“Don’t feel bad,” Marty had said. She leaned over to kiss him as she was buttoning her fatigue shirt across breasts Ernie had nestled his head against just moments earlier. “After all, what are friends for?”
As a result of that, they now had a password, known only to them and used by them when one or the other felt the need. Marty was very open about her sexuality and sometimes initiated the action, as she had tonight, right after dinner, when she reached her hand across the table and asked Ernie if he would invite her to his apartment.
“Sure,” he said, smiling. “After all, what are friends for?”
It was raining by the time they stepped out onto the street in front of the Caravelle but there were always dozens of taxis hanging around the front of the hotel, so Ernie had no trouble getting one. He and Marty squeezed into the backseat of the little blue-and-yellow Renault.
“One fifty-three Le Loi,” Ernie said.
As the taxi pulled out into the rain-slick street, Marty slid her hand over to Ernie’s and squeezed it. He looked at her and was surprised to see tears in the corners of her eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
Marty shook her head in silence. Then she drew a breath. “I had a rough one this time out, Ernie,” she said. She wiped her eyes with the back of her other hand and sniffed. “I know, I’m a reporter, I’m supposed to hold myself outside these things. But I had a man.” She sighed. “No, he was a boy, just a boy, and he died in my arms. He was telling me how he scored the winning touchdown in their homecoming game last year and how he had a date with the head cheerleader after the game.” She laughed a weak, little laugh. “I learned later that he had actually sat on the bench for the whole game and his date was a French horn player in the band. But if it made him feel good to tell me, who was I...who was I to...” Her voice broke.
Ernie raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
“So you can see why I wanted you to be my friend tonight,” she went on. “I need to do something to put that out of my mind.”
“I’ll make us a pitcher of martinis,” Ernie offered. “A couple of my martinis will put anything out of your mind,” he teased.
“Oh, let’s do, Ernie. Let’s drink martinis and look at the rain and fuck like rabbits. I don’t want there to be a thing in the world tonight but us…just us. No strain, no pain, just us.”
Ernie’s apartment was over a restaurant reached by stairs that opened right onto the street. He had an open patio, furnished with rain-resistant furniture, and a bar under a small roof out on the patio. He stood under the roof mixing the martinis while the rain beat down on the blue-tile floor. Just behind him, the door was open to his apartment and in the apartment, Marty was getting undressed.
Ernie carried the pitcher of martinis and two glasses back into the apartment, then saw Marty standing there waiting for him. Her breasts were small, firm, well rounded, and tipped by red nipples drawn tight by their exposure to the air. Her body was subtly lighted by the rain-dimmed light. The area at the junction of her legs was darkened by the shadows and by a tangle of dark hair that curled invitingly at her thighs.
Ernie poured two drinks and gave one to her, then set his down while he began taking off his own clothes. Marty drank hers, then, growing impatient, came over to help Ernie undress.
“I’ll get your boots and trousers,” she said. “You finish your drink.”
By now, Ernie was as impatient as Martyr and when he was fully undressed he pulled her to him, kissing her open mouth with his own, feeling her tongue darting against his. He moved her toward the bed, then climbed in after her and crawled on top of her.
Marty received him happily, wrapping her legs around him, meeting his lunges by pushing against him. He lost himself in the pleasure of the moment, until a few minutes later she began a frenzied moaning and jerking beneath him. He let himself go then, thrusting against her, spraying his seed into her until finally he collapsed across her.
They lay together for a long time after that, lying in the shadows of the room holding each other but not speaking. The shutters were still open and it was still raining, and the rain made music. For a long time, the rain and their own afterglow cushioned them against all outside intrusion.
Then, little things began to creep in: the whir of motorbikes, the honking of horns, the clack of a soup vendor’s sticks, the drone of a helicopter. The spell was broken, and they weren’t alone anymore. Ernie felt Marty crying on his shoulder and he pulled her to him and rubbed her hair and wished he could do or be whatever it took to make her hurt go away.
Hunter could feel the sweat rolling down beneath his armpits, pooling in the small of his back, soaking through his shirt and causing it to stick to the tree he was sitting against. It was just before dawn and Hunter had taken his men out on the most ambitious project yet. This was to be a three-day mission to see what logistic problems the augmented platoon might encounter when they went on the big sweep.
In the strictest sense, this wasn’t an ambush patrol since they didn’t set up along one of the paths usually followed by the V.C. Because it wasn’t an ambush party as such, Hunter had allowed the men to sleep last night, one-third awake, two- thirds asleep. That way, in theory at least, everyone got to sleep for two-thirds of the night. That was the theory...but Hunter had been awake for most of the night. He was disgusted with himself for not being able to sleep. It would make it twice as difficult for him to stay awake tonight. He rubbed his eyes and stared through the gloom.
What was the old saying? It was always darkest just before the dawn? Hunter could attest to that, at least here in Vietnam. He had made that very observation about hundreds of Vietnam dawns. The fact that they were in the jungle made it even darker, for whatever false dawn there may have been was blacked out by the trees.
He waited another thirty minutes.
From somewhere close by a monkey screeched. A frog began his morning song and the birds awakened. The nocturnal insects grew dormant and the daytime insects started their activity as finally, through the trees, the sky began to lighten. A thin mist rose from the marshes and hung low over the jungle floor.
When it grew light enough for Hunter to move around without stumbling over things, he checked his men. There were no cherries in the platoon; every man had been on at least half a dozen patrols before. In addition, this was the fourth time out for the augmented platoon, which the men were now calling R&P for “Rape and Pillage.” As a result, each of the men had taken up good positions of concealment, blending with the trees and grass so that unless one knew where they were, they could easily be overlooked.
“Good morning, Sarge,” Sergeant Mills said.
“Did you get any sleep?” Hunter asked.
Mills grinned sheepishly. “No, not really,” he said.
“Did you hear anything?”
“Not a thing. You?”
“About three o’clock this morning I heard two or three people walking. I didn’t hear any conversation so I figure they were probably V.C., but it was such a small party it wasn’t worth compromising our position.”
“What do we do next?”
“Eat breakfast, no fires. Then we move out. Pass the word.”
“Right,” Mills said.
“Who we got carrying the radio? Goren?”
“Yeah.”
“Goren, where are you?”
“Right here, Sarge,” Goren answered rising up from his spot. Goren was a small man with curly black hair and dark, horn-rimmed glasses.
“You got the day’s push out of the S.O.I.?”
“Already have it cranked in.”
“See if you can reach any air.”
“Okay.”
Goren moved out to a small clearing, raised his antenna, then began transmitting.
“Any air, any air, this is Wide Receiver, over.” Hunter looked through his C-rations until he found a can of ham and eggs. He hated the
tinned ham and eggs at any time, but if he had to eat it, he’d rather try it for breakfast than be stuck with it for a lunch or supper meal. He took off his dog tag chain and, holding the small P-38 can opener between his thumb and forefinger, opened the can.
The pale yellow eggs and the gray chunks of ham were a sickening-looking, congealed mess. He opened the packet of pepper and dumped it in, then took a bite. He made a face as he forced it down.
“Any air, any air, this is Wide Receiver, over,” Goren was saying, over and over in the background.
Mills came over and sat down beside Hunter. Mills was eating the bread roll and jelly and drinking tepid coffee from his canteen cup.
“What are we going to do today?” Mills asked.
“I thought we’d go west another twenty clicks. If we don’t find anything we’ll bivouac for the night and start back to An Loi tomorrow morning.”
“Go west twenty clicks?”
“Yeah.”
“Any air, any air, this is Wide Receiver, over.”
“Damn! Sarge, twenty clicks west will put us in Cambodia,” Mills observed.
“We won’t cross over,” Hunter said. “But if we can find where Charlie crosses, we might set up a toll booth.”
“Roger, Army 775, this is Wide Receiver. Wait one. Sarge, I got somebody,” Goren called.
Hunter put down his can of ham and eggs, three-quarters eaten now, brushed his hands together, then took the hand receiver from Goren. “Army 775,” Goren whispered.
“Army 775, this is Wide Receiver 6,” Hunter said. That was an exaggeration. Six meant commanding officer. Hunter was in charge, but technically he wasn’t in command since command
was the exclusive right of commissioned officers. But Hunter reasoned that if the pilot of Army 775 felt he was talking to a commanding officer, he would be more responsive.
“This is Army 775.” Hunter could hear the sound of the aircraft engine in the background.
“Army 775, we are at Tango Papa 4140. We want your eyes. Are you in the vicinity?”
“Two minutes out,” Army 775 answered.
Dateline: Viet Nam: A Military Thriller Double Page 19