by Ty Patterson
It was the rice bowl of the country and had urban developments coexisting with sleepy villages that time had forgotten.
Buffalo slumbered in paddy fields, rice and fruit-filled boats plied the many tributaries in the region.
They stopped once to refresh themselves and were immediately surrounded by coconut vendors.
Meghan brushed perspiration away from her forehead as she sipped from a freshly opened coconut.
‘You think he’ll cooperate?’ she asked their guide.
An Khoi looked down at his uniform. ‘I would say so, ma’am.’
They reached Luc Cham’s home at lunchtime, a three-story house painted yellow on the outside, a sloping tile roof on top, and a strip of pavement that ran to the street.
A gap-toothed man in a loose shirt and trousers greeted them when they alighted.
‘Luc Cham,’ An Khoi introduced him.
Cham folded his hands in greeting and gestured towards the house.
The inside of the house had a high ceiling, a fan turning lazily to create a breeze.
Cham went into the depths of the house and returned with glasses of coconut water on a tray. An elderly woman followed him, bearing plates of rice and fish.
‘Eat. Eat.’ Cham made a motion with his fingers, grinning widely.
‘It would be disrespectful—’
‘I get it, An Khoi,’ Meghan told him and tucked into her food.
An hour later, Cham began to speak. He fingered the photographs on Meghan’s phone, his face ruminative, his eyes seeing into a past only he had experienced.
Yes, he knew Billy Patten. He called out to his wife, and she returned with a metal box.
He opened it to show empty packs of cigarettes. Lucky Strikes, Camels, a pack of C-rations, a lighter.
Cham fingered them lovingly, his eyes moist, his voice breaking.
‘We lost many people. All sides,’ An Khoi translated quietly, hearing the war come alive in the old man’s voice. ‘Even Americans. They sent me to reeducation camp. My wife was alone. Pregnant. Our son died during childbirth. No one came to help her. I came back. I had these fields from my father. I live quietly now.’
‘Pete.’ His face lightened. ‘Good friend. Very good friend.’
He yelled out again, and his wife returned with a bundle of letters and cards.
‘Pete,’ he announced proudly, pointing with a wrinkled finger. ‘A friend translates his letters for me.
‘Billy, brave. Went in tunnels. Killed many VC. But different.’ He shook his head.
‘How was he different?’ Beth asked.
‘Different,’ Cham said insistently. ‘Not like other soldiers. I was not very close to him. Pete and Leroy. Good friends. Not like Billy.’
Beth made to press him, but Meghan stopped her. Let’s find out about why we’re here.
‘Did you know one Dang, sir?’
‘Dang?’
‘Yes, sir. Dang. I think he knew Billy. Maybe you knew him too.’
‘Dang…’ Cham trailed off. His face darkened and his fingers shook.
He stuffed the cigarette packs back into the box. Retied the string around the letters.
‘Dang. No. Don’t know him.’
And with that, he strode off to an inner room and didn’t emerge.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Vietnam, 1967
The second time Billy went into a hole, he knew he had changed.
He didn’t know how, exactly. He still felt fear. His belly still clenched when he climbed down, not knowing if Charlie was waiting.
It was when he was prone, crawling slowly, that it came to him.
He viewed his friends, especially Leroy and Pete, differently. He had been deep below the ground. They hadn’t. Billy thought that experience marked him. He wasn’t like them.
Focus, he told himself. Charlie will like nothing better than for you to be distracted.
After his first ride—that was what he called it to himself—he had met the other Rats on the base. There weren’t many of them. Five. There had been six, but VC had gotten to one of them.
He found a closer camaraderie existed among the Rats than the other soldiers.
I’m one of them now.
He inched forward, smelling the stale air, his eyes searching the hard floor, the walls, and straight ahead.
His flashlight illuminated just a few feet ahead of him. He had to rely on his other senses to detect the presence of Charlie.
Some of the Rats wore gas masks because trapped fumes inside the passages could be deadly. However, Billy chose to take his chances without one.
He also preferred to go down alone, in contrast to some other Rats who worked in pairs.
Not that there are any more volunteers in my unit.
His smile faded when he thought he heard a noise.
He stopped, adrenaline surging inside him, his heart thumping so loud that he thought it could be heard by the VC.
He heard it again. A slight noise, like the brush of cloth on wall.
Ahead of him, just past the bend in the tunnel.
His flashlight didn’t cast its light that far. The curve was still in the dark from his side.
He carefully flicked off the light and clenched it between his teeth.
Raised his handgun, steeled himself, and leaped forward.
One VC. No, two! Crawling right at him. Their eyes widening.
Billy didn’t think. Didn’t call out.
He triggered as rapidly as he could. Once, twice, three times, and then he retreated past the bend and tossed a grenade.
He reloaded quickly under the cover of the blast and moved further back.
There could be Charlie on the other side of the wall. They could pierce him.
He lay still, sweating, his leg twitching involuntarily, his gun ready, his eyes as wide open as he could make them.
No VC appeared. No spear went through his flesh.
He wiped his forehead on his sleeve and resumed his crawl.
Didn’t look at the bodies. Climbed over them and trailed where the VC had come from.
It was a room. Wide and tall enough for him to stand hunched.
It seemed to be a planning room of some kind.
There was a rough wooden table. A hand-drawn map.
Billy grabbed it. Searched the room carefully, staying away from corners.
There were some pots and pans. Bricks, firewood and matchsticks.
He placed detonators and went back to the passage.
He spent another hour in the tunnel, encountering no other VC.
He then went back to his hole, donned the harness, and climbed back up before setting off the detonators.
‘Any trouble?’ Leroy asked him, a concerned look on his face.
‘Nah,’ Billy replied. He was a Rat. Rats ate trouble for breakfast and didn’t even burp.
Templeman took the map from him, studied it for a moment and patted him on his back.
Billy swelled with pride. That gesture meant more than a medal.
In the evening, as his friends gathered around a hut and shared smokes and stories, Billy stood to the side. He didn’t speak much, laughed when the others laughed. One of the men made a joke about Charlie. Billy didn’t join in. He thought he should feel anger at the VC, but he didn’t.
He stopped thinking, allowed himself to relax and guffawed genuinely when Leroy told a good one.
Billy went on more rides. He was getting better at detecting traps and VC.
That didn’t mean he didn’t have scares.
A spear scraped along his back one time. Another inch or two and it would have run through him.
He had fired rapidly at the clay wall and crawled ahead as quickly as he could, and when he was safely around a bend, he’d tossed two grenades.
He never saw those attackers.
He saw other VC, however.
Another time, two of them came rushing at him as he was exploring another room.
It was the slap
of feet on the floor that alerted him.
He sprang away, his gun swinging up, firing from the hip.
He crashed against the wall, fell to the floor, and rolled desperately, evading the pungi stakes that sprang from the floor.
He managed to get out of that tunnel with just scrapes and nicks, and for the first time, he felt satisfaction in demolishing it, and the VC in it.
It was three months later that his life changed again.
They were searching a village near the Saigon River, several klicks south of Ben Dinh, five miles from their base.
They had found VC and had finished them. As they were leaving, more Charlie had emerged from the jungle and fired on them.
‘Fall back,’ Templeman roared.
They obeyed him, fleeing, returning fire as quickly as they could. Leroy called for air support on his radio, and just as they reached the tree line, away from their attackers, the first gunship arrived.
Billy paused for a few moments to watch the destruction.
Rockets blazed from the choppers and tore at the forest. He could see explosions and hear human cries. He saw bodies tossed up, and then Leroy yelled at him to get his ass back.
Billy stumbled away, following, his eyes ahead of him.
He fell. Thought VC had gotten to him, but when he looked back, there were no Charlie.
Only the jungle, and the sounds of the gunships.
He searched the ground, seeking what had tripped him.
No branches. No roots.
He was in a clearing, and as he bent closer, he saw it.
A trapdoor.
Billy frowned.
The holes were usually close to villages. He knew this was a new hole.
He hurriedly marked the spot and joined his friends, and they fled back to safety.
He didn’t mention the entrance to anyone. He didn’t know why and didn’t bother to analyze himself.
He made a flimsy excuse to Templeman the next day, that he and the other Rats were checking out tunnels near that village, and went back to the area.
He knew his sarge didn’t buy his explanation, but Billy had more than enough in the goodwill bank. Templeman didn’t question him in any detail, and it helped that the sergeant was distracted.
Billy didn’t tell Leroy or Pete where he was going.
He ran at a fast pace, keeping an eye out for VC. It wouldn’t do if he got himself killed when he was on alone time.
He reached the trapdoor and stopped for a few moments, breathing heavily.
He surveyed the area. No sign of Charlie.
He went forward and opened the door.
It swung back easily.
He tied a rope to a nearby tree and lowered himself, his heart in his mouth.
The tunnel was no different from others he had seen, but there seemed to be a peculiar smell that he hadn’t encountered before.
He tried to place it, but he couldn’t.
He filed it away in his mind and crawled forward.
Checked out several twists and turns and went through many branches. He drew small marks on the walls to guide him on his return trip.
He reached a larger room and stood for a while, observing it.
It was empty. No table. No sign of cooking. It seemed to be a gathering place for no specific purpose.
The walls seemed to be of a different mud, but in the dimness, he couldn’t make much out.
Billy checked out traps, and when he was turning back, his jacket swiped the wall.
Something clicked.
He dove away, suspecting a pungi trap.
There wasn’t one. There was nothing.
What clicked?
He looked even more carefully. No vipers. No bamboo sticks. He tapped the wall lightly. It sounded like any other.
He pushed and pressed the area where the click had come from, and suddenly, a trapdoor opened.
It was shoulder-height, and beyond it was darkness.
He turned on his flashlight and gaped.
Rows of sacks, neatly mounted on top of one another. The trapdoor hid a storage area of some kind. Not a room, more of a locker.
There was no way to enter it. One had to reach out and withdraw the sacks, one by one.
Billy pulled out one sack. It was two feet in length, one foot wide, several pounds in weight.
He ripped one open and gawked for the second time.
Powder. Creamy in color. Crystalline in feel.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Raw heroin, H. It came to him suddenly. The Golden Triangle, a region that included northern Thailand, Laos, and Burma, was one of the biggest producers of opium.
There were always rumors that the VC traded in illegal drugs to fund their war.
Billy didn’t believe in those whispers. All the VC they had captured and interrogated, junior as well as senior officers, had vehemently denied such allegations.
It wouldn’t benefit them. Their own soldiers could get hooked.
Nope, this has to be some rogue operator who’s using the tunnel for storage.
He flashed back to the passages, rooms, and levels he had checked out.
No, there wasn’t a factory in the tunnel. Not that he had seen.
Maybe just a store? A factory would require people. They would be noticed by other VC.
Billy leaned inside the opening and drew out more sacks and discovered more powder.
There was a second layer of sacks behind the first. He reached and brought out the uppermost one.
It felt different. Not hard, like the ones containing H.
He ripped one open and sagged on his heels. He felt faint, his breathing stuttered.
The sack was stuffed with US currency, all of them Benjamins, hundred-dollar bills.
Billy dipped his hand inside and drew them out, letting them flutter to the floor in disbelief.
They were real. Genuine. He drew out his wallet and compared bills.
Yeah. He was no expert, but these were the real deal.
Awareness returned to him.
He was in a VC tunnel. Charlie could appear anytime. The rogue operator whose stash this was could come.
Billy swiftly checked out more sacks and found three more packed with currency.
He hauled the four Benjamin-laden bags to the bottom of the hole.
It took time, and he was a nervous wreck by the time he had finished.
He went back to the trapdoor, placed the H-sacks back inside, closed it, wiped his traces away as well as he could, and went back to the entrance.
He had to make three trips to carry the sacks out.
He took cover in the jungle and waited for his pulse to slow down, his harsh breathing to even out, his sweat to dry.
He started thinking clearly.
He didn’t know how much money there was in the sacks.
Tens of thousands for sure. Whoever it belonged to would be one angry VC.
You can come after me, Charlie. This is a game I can play.
Billy hauled the sacks close to his camp. It took two trips, but he wasn’t complaining. Not with the contents of those bags.
He crawled towards the outhouses near his camp, held his breath at the stench, and dug into the soil rapidly.
He buried the sacks deep inside before covering it, noting its location until it was burned in his mind, and then went back into the jungle.
He went down another hole, all by himself, swept it, and demolished it.
He returned to his camp in the evening, trying to keep a straight face, and joined his friends.
Leroy looked at him questioningly.
‘Just some Rats work. A few tunnels,’ he answered, taking the mug of coffee his friend offered.
Billy had crossed a line.
He knew it. He didn’t care.
Billy got lucky the next day. Their unit continued their search-and-destroy missions along the river, clearing villages, going into the jungle after Charlie.
He got one glimpse of the tunnel’s do
or, and from an almost invisible mark he had made, he knew no one else had entered it.
He went to the hole in the night.
No Rat had ever attempted a night excursion. Billy knew he would be the first. However, this time, he wasn’t hunting VC.
The jungle was dark when he reached the hole and waited for several moments to check the scene out.
No disturbance.
In the distance, he heard the sounds of the river and could smell the burning village they had bombed in the day. A light breeze carried the stench of rotting flesh.
Billy had gotten used to the smells and sounds in ’Nam. They no longer bothered him.
He opened the trapdoor and rappelled down the rope.
His gun was in his hand, his flashlight between his teeth.
On the tunnel’s floor, he lay down and began the slow crawl. He was alert, watchful. Just because the NVA had shown no signs of their presence didn’t mean VC weren’t in the tunnel.
There were no enemy soldiers, however.
He went to the hidden door, removed it, and pulled out more sacks. He wasn’t interested in the drugs. He was after Benjamins.
He got four sacks that night, and when he emerged in the forest, only two bags of currency were left in the tunnel.
He buried the four new sacks near the outhouse, made a show of circling their camp, in case anyone was watching, and headed back to his quarters.
He was lying down on his bed when a voice spoke.
Leroy’s.
He froze.
‘Billy, whatever you’re doing, it doesn’t feel right.’
Billy didn’t answer his friend, and Leroy didn’t pursue the matter. However, Billy sensed a coolness in his friend from that night onwards. Not just in him, but in Pete too.
It surprised him that the separation didn’t bother him.
It was on his third sortie into the tunnel that Billy’s life pivoted further.
He was crawling towards the room when he heard a noise.
He stopped, raised his handgun, and turned off his flashlight.
He widened his eyes, peering through the gloom.
VC. At least one of them, he made out from the sounds.