Dateline: Viet Nam: A Military Thriller Double

by Robert Vaughan

  “Army 775, in two minutes I’ll pop smoke. I’d appreciate it if you’d take a look around then and see what’s going on.”

  “Roger, 775 out.”

  “Mills,” Hunter said, “bring a can of smoke.”

  Sergeant Mills picked up a smoke grenade, then walked over to stand by Hunter. It was a gray canister, about the size of a beer can, with a yellow band around the top.

  “I see him, Sarge,” Goren pointed out.

  By now Hunter could hear him. It was a Huey, skating low and fast over the trees, the angry snarl of his engine rolling out before him.

  “Now, Mills.”

  Mills pulled the pin on the smoke grenade and rolled it away from them. A billowing gush of dark yellow smoke spewed from the canister, then climbed up into a lighter yellow column that rose above the trees.

  “Wide Receiver, I roger yellow smoke.”

  “That’s affirmative.”

  The Huey zipped by overhead, then climbed and made a wide circle to the north.

  “You’ve got a large, open area about two clicks to your west,” the pilot said. “Some huts at the north end of the open area. I don’t see any people.”

  “Army 775, are there any animals by the huts?”

  “Animals?”

  “Goats, sheep, water buffalo—anything like that.”

  “I’ll go down and take a look.”

  “What you want to know about animals for, Sarge?” Mills asked.

  “If there are any there, it might really be a farmer’s hooch. Otherwise, it could be V.C.,” Hunter explained.

  “Wide Receiver, negative on the animals,” the pilot said.

  “Thanks, Army 775. Wide Receiver out.”

  Minh was west of the open field when the helicopter passed over the first time. He was coming back from a raid on the American commo post. It had been successful. He hadn’t actually breached the perimeter but he had destroyed the generator and transmitter and he was sure he had inflicted heavy casualties against the Americans. He had lost only two men.

  When the helicopter passed overhead a moment earlier, his first thought was that the Americans had followed them from the transmitter and were going to launch a helicopter attack. Then, when he saw that this wasn’t a gunship and there were no other helicopters nearby, he knew that wasn’t it.

  “Shall we shoot him down, Captain?” Phat asked.

  “Yes,” Minh replied. He smiled. “It will be a good finish to our night’s work.”

  Phat called to the men and half a dozen moved into position. They fit the special sighting devices onto the ends of their weapons, devices that deflected the sight and gave the proper lead necessary to bring down a helicopter flying at seventy-five knots.

  “Wait!” Minh called suddenly. The men looked over toward him in surprise.

  “What is it, Captain?”

  “Look, on the other side of the field. There is yellow smoke. There are Americans over there.”

  “Hold your fire!” Phat said to his men, waving with his hand to cause them to lower their weapons.

  “If we shoot down the helicopter now we will expose our position,” Minh said. “Get the men spread out and concealed.”

  Phat gave the necessary order and the little brown men disappeared into the trees.

  “What do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know,” Minh replied. “But if it’s no larger than company strength, we can wipe them out.” Minh smiled. “Now, we repay the Americans for the disaster of the other night.” Minh lay in position behind a log and raised his glasses to his eyes, searching the wood line on the other side of the clearing. He would open fire when they were totally committed to the open area, but before they were halfway. That way there would be some doubt in the minds of the Americans as to which way they should go. It would be very difficult for them to continue across the open field in the face of fire, especially if they had no idea of the size of the force they were facing. On the other hand, the natural tendency of the commander would be not to allow his men to retreat. That would keep the Americans in the killing zone for some time.

  Hunter had his men at the tree line, looking across the clearing. The pilot had seen nothing during his recon, but that didn’t really mean anything. And the fact that there were no animals around the huts bothered him. Still, he couldn’t stay here all day.

  “What do you think?” Mills asked.

  “We can’t stand around with our thumb in our ass,” Hunter said. “Let’s get across the son of a bitch. Keep the men on line, and keep them spread out,” he said.

  Hunter started his platoon across the field. The men, carrying their weapons at high port in front of them, jogged across the open ground. Except for the sound of breathing and the jiggle of equipment, there was absolute silence—as though time had stopped.

  Hunter heard the sound of the mortar rounds leaving the tube, then the crash of their explosions in the middle of the field. That was followed immediately by the rattle of machine guns. Smoke began to drift out of the trees across the field and Hunter saw the winks of light as dozens of automatic weapons fired at them.

  Hunter dived to the ground, then cut loose with a long burst from his M-16. “Get down!” he shouted. “Return fire!”

  All up and down the line the Americans hit the ground within seconds tracer rounds were zipping across the field into the trees.

  The V.C. mortars were continually firing and Hunter had the sickening sensation of seeing the bloody stump of a man’s arm land in front of him. The watch was on the wrist, a ring on the finger. The hand was moving slightly, though the arm was totally severed. Hunter heard someone screaming for a medic.

  “Oh, God! I’m hit! I’m hit!” someone screamed. Hunter saw a man get up and start running. He was holding his hands over his stomach, trying to keep a large loop of intestine from spilling out.

  “Get down!” Hunter called. “Get down!” Hunter got up and ran toward the wounded man, then knocked him down.

  “My gut’s on fire, Sarge,” the man said.

  The V.C. were raking the area with machine gun and mortar fire. For the Americans, it was like being caught in a meat grinder.

  “We’ve got to get back to the tree line,” Hunter told Mills. He made a motion toward the tree line. “Every other man, fall back!” he called. It was a procedure they had practiced and it allowed an orderly retreat. Half the men got up and started back, some of them dragging, helping, or carrying wounded buddies. The other half stayed on line to provide covering fire. When the first group reached the trees, they would provide covering fire while the rest withdrew.

  Hunter looked at the wounded soldier. He didn’t know if it would be better to throw him over his shoulder or drag him. Either way was going to make the wound worse, but at least if he dragged him the wounded man wouldn’t be as good a target. He grabbed the man by the ankles and started to pull.

  It was at least thirty yards back to the tree line. Hunter could feel and hear the bullets all around him as he ran back, but none of them hit him. When he finally got there he pulled the wounded man over a little rise to get him out of the line of fire. Hunter looked back the way he had come and saw a trail of blood on the ground, marking their path. He felt weak and he looked at the wounded man to apologize. The man was unconscious.

  “Sarge!” Goren called. “Sarge, I got the air force! They can get a couple of Phantoms here!”

  “Call them in!” Hunter said.

  “They want you to pop smoke!”

  Hunter pulled a smoke canister from his pack, then tossed it into the open field. Green smoke began billowing up.

  “Tell them to raise hell with the west side of the open field where the smoke is!” Hunter shouted.

  Less than thirty seconds later it sounded like the whole world opened up. Two F4-C’s screamed over just above the treetops. One was firing cannon and machine guns, the other rockets. Hunter could see explosions ripping through the trees on the other side.

  “Nap
alm!” he shouted. “I want them to barbecue their ass!”

  Both jets were pulling up from their strafing run, probably three miles beyond their target. They were climbing straight up, leaving a trail of black smoke behind them. Hunter ran over to get the radio.

  “Fireman, this is Wide Receiver 6. Burn them out!”

  “We’re not carrying napalm,” Hunter heard one of the pilots answer. He could tell from the pilot’s voice that he was feeling the G’s of the pull-up. By now the planes were tiny dots, high in the sky. “We’ve got enough ordnance to make it pretty uncomfortable for them, though. Keep your heads down. We’re going to swing around for another run.”

  Hunter watched the jets peel off, then hurtle down from the sky so that in a matter of seconds they were no longer distant dots, but once again awesome war machines spitting fire and death into the tree line across the field. There were more explosions across the way and half a dozen trees were knocked down by the heavy machine gun and cannon fire. Both jets kicked on their afterburners for their climb out and the noise that rolled across the field was so intense as to almost stun the senses.

  After two more passes, the Phantoms left and Hunter and ten men advanced across the field to where the V.C. had been. When they got there they found three V.C. bodies, but nothing else. He hurried back across the field to check on his casualties.

  “Call in Dustoff,” he said. “The area’s clear.”

  Chapter Five

  Ernie stood just inside the gate and watched as Hunter brought the R&P platoon back in. The men were tired and dirty and they stared straight ahead with what infantrymen called the “thousand-yard stare.” Ernie had already heard about the fire fight they’d had yesterday morning. Four men were taken out by Dustoff. All four were in the First Field Hospital in Saigon. The spec-four with the traumatic amputation of his arm and the spec-five with the gut wound would be heading for the 106th General Army Hospital in Yokohama, Japan. The other two, whose wounds were less severe, would stay in-country.

  Hunter saw Ernie and stepped away from the others to stand beside him. “Did you bring it?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Ernie knew he was asking about the Old Granddad.

  “In my tent, soon as I finish debriefing the colonel.”

  “I’ll be there,” Ernie said.

  The men of the R&P platoon were dismissed. Ernie watched them as they broke up. Some went immediately to clean their weapons, some started toward the shower, not even bothering to stop by their tents for clean clothes. Some went right to their bunks and fell across them with weapons, helmets, and web gear still attached.

  Hunter went to Colonel Petery’s hooch.

  “What happened?” Colonel Petery asked. Hunter noticed that the colonel had evidently given up on fixing his old air conditioner. A newer, bigger model sat in the window, pumping out frigid air. It was so cold in Petery’s office that fog came from his mouth when he spoke. Hunter tried to find a position to be out of the icy blast.

  “We made our first contact yesterday morning,” Hunter said.

  “NVA?”

  “No, sir, V.C.,” Hunter said. “At least, the bodies we found were V.C.”

  “How many bodies?”

  “We found three,” Hunter said. “If there were any more, they were taken away. And, of course, we have no idea of how many may have been wounded.”

  “No matter, you gave a good accounting for yourselves. We know they had three K.I.A.; you didn’t have any.”

  “I don’t know if we can take credit for the K.I.A. or not,” Hunter said. “We called in an air strike and they laid some pretty heavy ordnance onto Charley.”

  “You were on the ground—they’re your body counts,” Petery said. “You sure they were V.C. and not the NVA Ghost Patrol?”

  “They were V.C., Colonel.”

  “Damn. I was hoping we made contact with the Ghost Patrol. How big was the unit?”

  “From the firing pattern I’d say there were fifty or more.”

  “That big, huh?”

  “At least that big, Colonel. Maybe more.” Colonel Petery rubbed his chin with his hand and leaned back in his chair.

  “My guess is it’s the same group that hit Tac Alpha. That’s the remote commo unit that was hit night before last. They lost their transmitter and had two K.I.A.”

  “American K.I.A.?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn!” Hunter said.

  “It all goes back to the Ghost Patrol,” Petery said. “I’m telling you, until we wipe out the Ghost Patrol, every disgruntled dink in the sector is going to pick up a rifle and come after us.”

  “Begging your pardon, Colonel, I don’t think the Ghost Patrol has any effect at all on these guys. They were tough, disciplined, well led, hardcore V.C. Would you like my opinion?”

  “Why not?” Colonel Petery answered. “Opinions are like assholes. Everybody has one.”

  “I think we should forget about the Ghost Patrol. These guys we ran into yesterday are the ones we want to go after. They’re a hell of a lot more dangerous than the Ghost Patrol because this is their home territory. They’re going to be here after the Ghost Patrol has left.”

  “We’re going after the Ghost Patrol,” Petery said. He leaned forward and put both hands on his desk. “Mind now, Sergeant Two Bears, I’m not saying there’s no validity to what you’re proposing. These guys probably are the real power in this sector. But the Ghost Patrol is beginning to build a reputation for themselves, and I don’t like that. I particularly don’t like it that they are doing it at my expense. Take care of the Ghost Patrol. Then we’ll go after the people who hit you yesterday morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hunter said.

  “Now, suppose you and your men take a twenty-four-hour standdown,” Petery suggested. “Thanks, Colonel. They’ll appreciate it.”

  There was laughter from the shower as Hunter approached it. “It’s my dick. I’ll wash it as fast as I want,” someone said.

  Hunter hung his towel on a nail and laid his kit on the wooden bench. He had stripped to his O.D. boxer shorts for the walk to the shower, and the only article of clothing he brought with him was a change of undershorts.

  Some of the horseplay stopped when he stepped under the shower. It was as if an officer had arrived. The men didn’t salute him or say “sir” to him or anything but they treated him with the same deference as they would an officer. At first, Hunter had been puzzled by it. Then he realized that in his current position he had more direct influence over them than any other human being. Never mind President Nixon, General Westmoreland, or General Abrahams; when it came down to the nut-cutting, it was Sergeant First Class Hunter Two Bears who made the life-and-death decisions for them. Hunter nodded at the others, then stood over under the end nozzle, alone.

  Ernie Chapel was standing just outside Hunter’s tent, leaning against the half wall of sandbags, when Hunter came back, his Ho Chi Minh sandals flopping with every step. Hunter didn’t say a word. He just stuck his hand out and curled his fingers in an expression of “give me.” Ernie put the bottle of whiskey in his hand.

  Hunter held up the bottle, letting the golden fluid capture a sunbeam, then shoot it back as if the bottle contained liquid fire. He unscrewed the cap, passed it under his nose, then turned it up and drank several Adam’s apple-bobbing swallows. When he brought the bottle back down it was clear for the entire neck and down about half an inch below the shoulder of the bottle.

  “Damn!” Ernie said. “I thought you Indians couldn’t handle firewater.”

  Hunter wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then let out a loud, satisfied belch.

  “That was a myth the white men put out,” he said. “They were afraid we’d drink it all and they couldn’t have any.” He passed the bottle over to Ernie. “Just to show you they were wrong, you can have a snort.”

  “Thanks,” Ernie said. He turned it up and took a couple of swallows, then handed it back.

  “I guess you heard I got som
e men shot up yesterday?” Hunter asked.

  “Yeah. I checked in the hospital before I came up here. Meagher and Billings are fine.”

  “What about Poindexter and Spears?”

  “I wish I could tell you something about them,” Ernie said. “All I heard was that they are stable.”

  “Stable? What the hell does that mean?” Hunter asked. “Dead people are stable, aren’t they?” Hunter took another swallow of his whiskey. “What’s green and red and going a hundred miles an hour?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I give up,” Ernie said.

  “A frog in a food blender.” Hunter belched. Ernie chuckled. “Gross, Hunter. That was gross.”

  “That’s what it was like, Ernie. We were frogs in a food blender. Shit! I led them right into it.”

  “You were leading a combat patrol,” Ernie said. “Things like that happen during a combat patrol. What was your alternative? To just sit down out there in the jungle for two days, then come back?”

  “I could’ve had better recon,” Hunter said.

  “I hear you called for an air recon just before you were hit.”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t see anything. Hell, it was just a chopper, probably on some routine supply run somewhere. I shouldn’t have depended on that.”

  “Nevertheless, he was in a position to see and he didn’t see anything. You made your decision on the best available information. Besides, you didn’t really come out that bad.” Ernie smiled. “I’ll bet Custer would trade places with you.”

  “I got your Custer.” Hunter laughed, grabbing his scrotum. “Hanging.”

  Francis W. Poindexter opened his eyes and tried to figure out where he was. He was in a bed somewhere but it wasn’t his tent at An Loi. There was a ceiling overhead, a real ceiling, with bright lights. The room was cool, almost cold, so he knew it was air-conditioned. A woman was standing over his bed, looking down at him. She was wearing fatigues and there was a first lieutenant’s bar on her collar.

  He knew where he was then. He remembered. He looked toward his left arm and saw that it was elevated with slings and pulleys. He could feel his arm being stretched.