Dateline: Viet Nam: A Military Thriller Double

by Robert Vaughan

  “My arm!” he said. “You saved my arm? But how? I saw it...”

  “I’m sorry, Francis,” the nurse said, using his first name. “It’s gone.”

  Francis looked at the rigging on the left side of his body. “I can feel it,” he said. “I can see it.”

  “What you feel is called ‘ghost sensation.’ You just think you feel your arm. And what you are seeing is a traction arrangement designed to pull your skin over the stump so it will heal cleanly.”

  Francis turned his head away from the rigging and traction. He lay quiet for a few moments.

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Yeah,” Francis said. “A new arm.”

  “I’ll be back if you need me,” the nurse said. She turned and walked away from the bed and Francis saw a sheen of tears in her eyes. He had made her cry. Well, fuck her. She wasn’t the one laid up without an arm, he was.

  An orderly brought a couple of pills by a few moments later and shortly after Francis took the pills he went back to sleep, to dream:

  “Francis? Francis, it’s time to get up. You don’t want to be late for school.” Francis’s mother came up the stairs and pushed open the door to his room. She turned on the lights.

  “I’m awake, Mom, I’m awake,” Francis mumbled. He looked around at his room, at the pennants and pictures on the wall. On his trophy case were the dozens of trophies he had won swimming. On the back of the mirror was a pair of red-and-black panties. He had convinced his mother they were a joke, though in fact, Marriane had been wearing them the night he finally broke down her defenses.

  Francis stumbled out of bed. He was wearing fatigues, jungle boots, web belt, complete with canteen, first-aid pack, ammo pouches, and knife. He had on a flak jacket and half a dozen grenades and was carrying an M-16. He went down to the kitchen, where his mother was making pancakes.

  “Oh, Francis,” she said. “Where’s your arm? You’re bleeding all over the floor. What happened to your arm? Didn’t I tell you to be careful?”

  Francis awakened with a start.

  “Hey, my man, you okay?” It was a black soldier in the bed next to him.

  “Yeah,” Francis said. He closed his eyes for a moment. “I was having a dream.”

  “A strange dream, right? Where things get all mixed up and you don’t know what’s real and what’s not?” the black soldier asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s those fuckin’ pills, man. You don’t want to take too many of them. They’ll fuck your mind up bad.”

  The black man’s name was Shuler. He had driven his Jeep over a homemade mine and his thighs, stomach, and groin had caught a load of shrapnel.

  Shuler filled Francis in on the hospital staff. Lieutenant Swift, the nurse on duty now and the one Francis had met earlier, was an “all right” officer. There was a captain who was a pain in the ass, though Shuler admitted that she may have just been around too long. “They see all the blood and dyin’ and all and it fucks up their minds. You know what I mean?”

  The meals were being served by hospital orderlies and when one of the orderlies set Francis’s supper in front of him, he turned up his nose.

  “What is this shit?” he asked. “When can I have some real food?”

  “I don’t know,” the orderly said. “I just know what’s on your chart now.”

  “I’ll take care of this, Vanders,” Lieutenant Swift said. She walked up to Francis and smiled at him. “You can have real food tomorrow, if you want it.”

  “Yeah, sure I want to.”

  “Good. That’s a good sign,” she said. She opened the little container of broth, then positioned the tray so he could reach it and the spoon. “Would you like some ice cream a little later on?”

  “Yeah,” Francis said. He smiled. “It’s been weeks since we had any ice cream up at An Loi.” He laughed. “I finally make it to Saigon and I’m laid up in the damned hospital. What about the other guys who got hit with me this morning? Are they here, too?”

  “Yes. Only you weren’t hit this morning. You were hit Tuesday morning: This is Friday evening.”

  “This is Friday? You mean it’s been four days since I was hit?”

  “Yes.”

  “My, my. Time certainly flies when you’re having a good time,” Francis said.

  The nurse laughed and Francis remembered then that he had made her cry earlier in the day.

  “Listen,” he said. “If I mouthed off or said anything I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I have thick skin.” Francis lifted his hand and rubbed his fingers across her cheek. “You have pretty skin, I’ll give you that,” he said.

  “There you go,” she teased. “You come to Saigon, you figure you just have to make out, so if you can’t go downtown you’ll hit on anybody.”

  Francis chuckled. “That’s the way of it,” he said. “By the way, how are the other guys who came in with me?”

  “Meagher and Billings are fine. They keep asking about you. They’re over in Ward Two. They’ll come see you tomorrow if you’re up to it.”

  “Hell, I’m up to it, I’m up to it. Tell them to come on,” Francis said. “What about Mike?”

  The nurse moved the empty broth cup and slid the Jell-O over in front of him. She was silent, and Francis knew what that meant. He stared at the little green squares as they laid there like jiggling emeralds.

  “I’m sorry, Francis,” the nurse said. “Specialist Spears died this morning.”

  Francis was quiet for a long moment. “I was feeling sorry for myself because I lost my arm,” he said. “I guess Mike would trade with me if he could.”

  “I thought we had an understanding,” Lieutenant Cox said. He had Staff Sergeant Mills in his hooch. “I thought you were going to call me in if you got into any trouble.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mills said. He was puzzled by the way the conversation was going. “But we didn’t get into any trouble.”

  “You got four men blown away,” Cox said. “What the hell do you call that?”

  “Sir, they were casualties, just like any other casualties,” Mills said. “Sergeant Two Bears called in Dustoff, just like he was supposed to. And he made sure the area was secure before he called them in. I couldn’t see that he was doing anything wrong.”

  “Then you obviously don’t have the kind of foresight I’m looking for in a leader,” Lieutenant Cox said.

  “Sir, I don’t understand.”

  “It’s obvious to me that you don’t understand,” Cox said. “Never mind. It wasn’t a major disaster. I guess, all things considered, all’s well that ends well. Now, you’re sure the troops you encountered weren’t NVA?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure.”

  “Doesn’t it seem odd to run into so many V.C.?”

  “Yes, sir. But Hunter says this is the hardcore element of all the V.C. in this sector. He says they’re raising more hell than the Ghost Patrol and they’re the ones we should be going after. He’s upset because the colonel won’t see it that way. The colonel’s still set on us going after the Ghost Patrol.”

  “The colonel’s right,” Cox said. “The Ghost Patrol is exactly what you should be going after.”

  Chapter Six

  Captain Minh and Sergeant Phat of the People’s Army of Vietnam (V.C.) rode the An Loi-Saigon bus into Saigon. The bus was packed with as many as one hundred people, including the ones who dangled out the windows and rode standing on the back bumper, hanging onto whatever they could grab hold of.

  The top of the bus was laden heavily with personal belongings: boxes, baskets, a bicycle, a sewing machine, a cluster of chickens tied together by their legs, a couple of goats lying down calmly, unsurprised by anything that happened to them.

  While the bus was going, an old woman who had been sitting in a seat in front of Minh made a laborious exit through one of the windows and pulled herself painfully up the
side of the bus and over the top. At one point she slipped and slid all the way to the bottom where she managed to grab hold at the last second and hang there with the pavement just inches away, flashing beneath her at forty miles an hour.

  No one offered to help and after hanging there for a short while, the old woman improved her position enough to begin her climb anew. When she finally reached the top, she fell out across the baggage, breathing heavily. She caught her breath, straightened her black pajamas and began rummaging through the baskets until she found the one she was after. She reached down inside, pulled out a raw turnip, then, slowly and carefully, crawled back down the side of the bus and reentered the window. Though her seat had been filled in her absence, she squeezed her way back into it, then sat there, calmly munching on the turnip for her lunch.

  Minh and Phat proceeded directly to Cholon where they boarded the Peaceful Journey, not a ship, but a large, oceangoing ark. The boat was unpainted except for the name and the great evil eye that was put there to ward off any wicked spirits that might come to plague it. A gangplank stretched from the boat to the wooden dock, and men and women alike moved up and down the wet boards, bent over under the load of their sacks of rice.

  Half a dozen soldiers stood by in varying degrees of attentiveness, watching the proceedings. Ostensibly they were there to check for possible deserters or smugglers, but a five-hundred-plaster note would turn their heads long enough for any illegal transaction to take place.

  Minh slipped an orange five-hundred-P note to the soldier nearest the gangplank, who turned to watch a small skiff on the river as Minh and Phat went inside the boat.

  The interior of the boat was dank and unpleasant. It had one large planked deck of damp, smelly wood and it was packed with people. Whole families had spread blankets on that portion of the deck to which they laid claim as their own. They surrounded themselves with possessions, not only those things they were taking to their destination but the provisions necessary to sustain them during the week- long voyage. The air was rancid with the smell of dried fish, molding cheese, excrement from frightened dogs and chickens, and rotting vegetables.

  Minh and Phat found a place for themselves, then settled down to wait for the voyage to begin. Like the others, they had brought their own food: cooked rice and bits of fish wrapped securely in palm-tree fronds.

  Several hours later the boat was rocking its way through the South China Sea. Minh stood up and walked to one of the portholes, picking his way gingerly through the clusters of people who were squatting on the deck, laughing and talking. He looked through the glassless opening and saw the coast, a verdant green shoreline some five miles distant. He watched it for a while, then returned to sit beside Phat. Phat moved over slightly to make room for him.

  Minh and Phat had taken the trip to Saigon then boarded this boat because it was going to be hijacked just off the coast of Phan Thiet the next morning. Ten skiffs, carrying five men each, would intercept the boat just before dawn. They would force the captain to put in to shore where the people would be taken off the boat and the boat would be loaded with weapons and ammunition to take up the Mekong to be distributed to V.C. battalions in the area.

  If everything went as planned, it would be a smooth operation. If fighting broke out, the fifty well-armed men would be able to handle it, especially with Minh and Phat working from the inside.

  “The passengers will be disturbed, but, if they make no trouble, they won’t be hurt,” Minh had explained to Phat when he transmitted the orders to him. “Anyway, it’s for them that we do this thing. Don’t forget, we are fighting for their freedom.”

  That had been yesterday when they were planning the operation. Now, as he looked around at the passengers, he wondered about it.

  “Phat,” he said. “Look around you.”

  “What?” Phat asked. “What do you wish me to see?”

  “These people,” Minh said. “Is it worth the suffering we are going through for these people? Look at them. They are like sheep.”

  “You said we are fighting for them.”

  “I know, I know. But sometimes I wonder if it is all worth it. Look at them. I don’t think half of them even know what country they are in. Or care. And the information they get comes from the lies the government tells them.”

  “Someday they will know the truth,” Phat said.

  “What is the truth?” Minh asked. He sighed. “For them, truth is the truth of momentary reality.

  They make a hole in the field, plant rice, spread that field with shit, and flood it with water. That’s all they really care about. We fight and die for them, yet we are treated as the enemy, as something unclean. It gives one pause for thought, don’t you think?”

  “Has your resolve weakened?” Phat asked.

  “No,” Minh answered. “My resolve is as strong as it has ever been. It is their resolve I’m worried about. Suppose we win freedom for them. Are they ready for it?”

  “I don’t know,” Phat said.

  “I can tell you. They are not. There must be many years of strong leadership and education before the people can be trusted with their own destiny.”

  “Who will provide that leadership?” Phat asked.

  “Why, we shall, of course,” Minh answered. “That is, those of us who survive the battle. Those who die must be an inspiration for the others.”

  Phat smiled. “I think I would rather be a leader than an inspiration,” he said.

  Minh and Phat grew quiet after that, each of them lost in his own thoughts. The sun that had been streaming in through the portholes and cracks during the afternoon faded away into that peculiar Vietnamese evening that knew no twilight but merely went from light to dark. Throughout the boat, lanterns were lit and conversations grew subdued as shadows gathered around the golden glows of kerosene lamps. The passengers were eating their evening meal.

  Minh took two of the palm-wrapped rice packages and handed one to Phat.

  “It’s good,” Phat said. He smiled. “We have eaten much worse in the field.”

  “Yes, but once we ate grandly. Do you remember?” Minh asked. “We attacked the 15th Special Infantry and the commander had just set an elegant feast.”

  Phat chuckled. “Ah, yes, I remember that well. Never have I eaten as well as we ate that day.”

  “And yet, you will remember, such food was only for the officers,” Minh reminded him. “The soldiers had rice, such as we are having now.”

  “Not as good, I would say,” Phat said, using his fingers to shove the last bit of rice into his mouth. He licked his lips appreciatively.

  After their meal, they lay down in their space and a short while later Minh was lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the boat and the quiet throb of the engine. Sometime around three in the morning, he was awakened by the frightened voice of a woman and the gentle murmurings of Phat.

  Minh sat up and saw that the woman was holding a baby. The baby was naked and dirty and its puffy little eyes were swollen shut. The baby’s skin looked to be red.

  “What is it?” Minh asked. “What is wrong?”

  “The baby is sick,” Phat said. “The woman has asked me if I know anyone who can help.”

  Minh reached out and touched the baby’s skin. It was burning.

  “He has a fever,” Minh said. “Perhaps if we take him on deck and bathe him with cool seawater we can bring down the temperature. Do you wish us to try?” he asked the woman.

  “Yes,” the woman said.

  The stars were spread brightly across the sky and the moon hung like a great silver orb, splashing a shining pathway that stretched from the horizon to the shore. The breeze was refreshingly cool after the stuffy hold, and Minh was glad they had come on deck.

  Phat got a bucket of cool seawater and Minh began bathing the baby with it. The baby screamed at first, then began whimpering again. After half an hour the whimpers turned to sighs and Minh stood up, holding the baby in his arms. The baby opened its eyes and looked into Minh�
��s face and Minh could see that the eyes were clear and healthy-looking in the lantern light.

  “Thank you,” the woman babbled over and over again as she took the baby back. “Thank you.”

  “We have won the gratitude of that woman,” Phat said. “But I fear we will lose it when our people attack the boat at dawn.”

  “If it is to be, it is to be,” Minh said.

  Minh awakened Phat awhile later. When Phat opened his eyes, Minh put his fingers to his lips to signal quiet.

  “It is nearly dawn,” Minh said. “We should go on deck now.”

  Phat followed Minh up the ladder and back out onto the deck. In the east, a thin bar of red broke over the South China Sea. To the west, the land was little more than a dark shadow. Then, gradually, like shadows moving within shadows, Minh and Phat saw the approaching boats. They were long and slim and they moved quickly across the water, propelled not by their outboard motors, which would have given them away, but rowed by the men on the boats.

  “There they are,” Minh said. “Now, we must stop this boat.”

  Minh and Phat walked back to the stern of the boat. There the pilot stood by the tiller, while an old woman, probably his wife, worked at a charcoal stove cooking his breakfast soup. The pilot saw Minh and Phat approaching.

  “You are up early,” the pilot said.

  “Yes,” Minh answered. He pulled a pistol and pointed it at the pilot. “I’m afraid it has to do with our job. If you would be so kind as to stop the boat, please?”

  “Are you pirates?”

  “We are fighters for the National Liberation Front.”

  The pilot breathed a sigh of relief. Then he smiled. “In that case I am your friend,” he said. “I feared you were pirates. What would you have me do?”

  “We are going to use your boat for a while,” Minh said. “We have some weapons we wish to transport.”

  “The passengers,” the pilot said. “When they see the weapons, they will talk.”

  “The passengers will be put ashore before the weapons are loaded,” Minh explained. “Stop the engine, please. Our friends will be aboard momentarily.”