by Eric Helm
Hobbs turned and stared at the man standing in the middle of the room. A tall, thin man with graying hair. Hobbs shook his head. “No. I have no expectations. I’m merely reporting the observations made at this time. Enemy activity has been significantly reduced.”
“There is talk,” said another man, “that the war will be over in six months.”
“I would see that as optimistic,” said Hobbs. He then wished he had bitten his tongue.
“Could you give us your opinion about the possible conclusion of the war?” the same man asked.
Hobbs glanced at his notes, but there was nothing there that could help him. He stepped to the side of the lectern and leaned an elbow on it.
“I’m only a major,” he said, stalling. “I have no opinions about the end of the war. Observed fact is that the enemy isn’t initiating large-scale actions now. We’ve been pursuing the enemy and have had little luck. The last major battle, if you want to call it that, was at Plei Soi. The enemy force there was beaten off.”
“The general tone,” said the tall gray-haired man, “is that the enemy is avoiding a fight.”
“That is correct.”
“Then the assumption would be that the enemy is defeated. He’s fighting a rearguard action, hoping for the best terms at the negotiating table.”
“I would think that you might be reading too much into this lull,” said Hobbs.
Again he wished he had kept his mouth shut. The reporters had made their assumptions and were driving toward them, and he was doing everything he could to dissuade them. It wasn’t what he had been told to do.
“Is it fair,” asked the gray-haired man, “to assume that the South Vietnamese will be taking a greater role in the fighting of the war?”
“Yes,” said Hobbs.
“And is it fair to say that the enemy forces have failed to gain any significant victories in a number of months?”
“Yes,” said Hobbs, nodding slowly.
“Then, wouldn’t you suspect that American troop reductions would begin soon, that the war is nearly over?”
Hobbs looked at the floor. This was exactly the impression he was supposed to leave with the press. They had done everything to bring about these conclusions themselves, ignoring his reminders that the enemy was still out there. The press wanted to believe the war was almost over. But it was an impression Hobbs didn’t want to convey.
“I would say that such a conclusion may be premature.”
The newsman nodded knowingly. Hobbs hadn’t denied his conclusion; he had only suggested it was premature. “Thank you, Major.”
Hobbs watched them exit and knew what they would write. They had come into the briefing with their conclusions already drawn. If he had been more dishonest, he could have easily led them down the primrose path. As it was, they had to take that route themselves.
Gerber stood at the front window of the terminal under the tower at Hotel Three, studying the helicopters as they maneuvered among the concrete pads and the grassy strip near the chain-link fence. The soft boonie hat of one soldier was sucked up in the rotor wash, whipped through the rotor system and thrown into the air. It landed on the far side of the fence where the man couldn’t get at it.
Gerber turned. “We can probably catch a hot lunch at Duc Hoa.”
“I’m not worried about it,” said Fetterman.
“Yeah. You know anyone there?”
Fetterman shook his head. “It’s not like the old days where if you didn’t know the man, you knew of him. Too many people coming in now. I didn’t recognize one name on the roster.”
“Well, we’ll just have to play it by ear, I’m afraid.”
At that moment a man wearing jungle fatigues and an Old West-style holster entered. He stood at the door, surveying the crowd, and then shouted, “Anyone needing a ride to Duc Hoa, Duc Hue or Cu Chi, I’m getting ready for takeoff.”
Gerber leaned over and grabbed his pack. He hadn’t brought much more than his canteens, first-aid kit, combat knife and a clean pair of socks. He figured that if he was going to be at Duc Hoa for a couple of days, he could beg, borrow or steal anything else he needed. He also had a bandolier of ammo for his M-16 because he believed that he could never have enough ammo, contrary to what the Army seemed to think.
Gerber waited until Fetterman shrugged into his pack. Fetterman always carried more than he needed. He had learned his lessons in World War II where the supply bases had often been a hundred miles to the rear with no easy way to get to them. It was always better to have too much than too little. Even the air mobility of Vietnam hadn’t broken Fetterman of the habit.
Together they walked out onto the helipad. There was a blast of hot wind as another helicopter took off. Fetterman grabbed at his hat to keep from losing it. Gerber ducked his head, tucking in his chin, and closed his eyes. When the chopper was gone, he opened them and continued to the aircraft.
They climbed into the cargo compartment and sat down on the troop seat. Since it was only a routine flight, and not a combat assault, Gerber buckled his seat belt. He set the butt of his weapon on the floor, the muzzle pointed toward the top of the cargo compartment.
A moment later they were joined by three other men. Two of them wore old, stained and frayed jungle fatigues. The other had on a bright green uniform that contained no insignia. He had two duffel bags stuffed with equipment, which were shoved against the pilots’ seats. He sat on the floor between them, facing Gerber and Fetterman.
“You new in-country?” asked Fetterman.
“Been here almost four days now,” said the man.
“Only 361 to go.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
The pilot strapped himself in, then flipped a couple of switches. He looked out the door and shouted, “Clear!”
The crew chief stood outside the aircraft, a fire extinguisher in his hand, looking in at the engine deck. He shouted “Clear!” back at the pilot.
There was a high-pitched whine that grew in intensity and then was joined by the roar of the turbine engine. The noise grew until it dominated everything around it. Gerber could no longer hear anything that Fetterman said unless the master sergeant leaned close and shouted.
The crew chief fastened the fire extinguisher into its place on the post behind the pilot and then crawled into his well. He leaned out, held a thumb up and the aircraft picked up to a hover. They climbed out then, turning away from Tan Son Nhut and leaving Saigon behind them. In all his time in Vietnam, Gerber couldn’t remember ever flying over the city.
Spread out in front of him was the deep green of South Vietnam. There were open fields, rice paddies and clumps of palm and coconut trees. Hidden in some of them were hootches or groups of hootches. They finally crossed Highway One, the link between Saigon and Tay Ninh that eventually reached Phnom Penh. The highway was filled with American convoys of trucks and jeeps, farmers with their ox-carts, Lambrettas carrying passengers, and even a few cars.
South of the highway they crossed a vast swamp that was a free-fire zone. Anyone found inside it was considered the enemy and taken under fire. They flew over the wreckage of a South Vietnamese A-1E Skyraider shot down weeks earlier.
Coming up on Duc Hoa from the north, they circled to the south near the Song Vam Co Dong and approached the runway inside the wire. The helicopter flared, and Gerber lost sight of everything except the cloudless blue sky. As the pilot leveled the skids, slowing, the rotor wash splashed against the red dust of the crushed gravel runway, blowing outward. They touched down next to a giant pond in the middle of the camp. On the other side were several concrete pads, which served as a refueling point for helicopters.
Gerber rose from the troop seat, crouched and stepped toward the open door of the cargo compartment. He dropped to the ground. When Fetterman joined him, they jogged to the side and then turned. The chopper picked up to a hover, the rotor wash kicking up a cloud of red dust and swirling debris.
As the chopper crossed the wire and turned ba
ck to the west, Fetterman asked, “Now what?”
Gerber turned, taking it all in: the bunkers of green rubberized sandbags at the corners of the perimeter; the strands of barbed wire and concertina; the small bunkers scattered around, guarding the approaches to the airstrip. Behind him, beyond the pond that looked like a dumping ground, he could see the buildings of Duc Hoa. The map he had checked had indicated a plantation, but he saw none of the structures that suggested it was. And although there were men working around the perimeter, and in the bunkers, no one was rushing out to meet them.
“Guess we better go find the reception committee,” said Gerber.
Fetterman shouldered his gear. “Right behind you, Captain.”
They skirted the edge of the pool and walked through a gate in the wire. As they entered the compound proper, a man came rushing toward them. He was a tall, heavy man with thick black hair covering his bare chest and shoulders. Sweat glistened in it, suggesting he had been on a work detail. When he slid to a halt close to them, the sweat stains around the waist of his jungle pants were obvious. The knees were stained red from the dirt of the compound, and his boots might have originally been red, since there wasn’t a trace of black on them.
“Can I help you, sir?” he asked, raising a hand to his head. He wasn’t saluting, just shading his eyes.
Gerber nodded. “Sergeant Fetterman and I flew in from Saigon to check out some rumors that Charlie thinks of this area as home.”
The expression on the man’s face changed immediately, as if a nerve had been struck. He lowered his hand as his eyes hardened. “We’ve heard that rumor, too.”
“Yes, well,” said Gerber rubbing his jaw, “here’s the deal. We’re getting a little concerned about all these rumors of the VC around but no one seeing them. We’ve come to see for ourselves.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your team commander around?”
“Captain Jewell is in the commo bunker, I believe.”
“Sergeant,” said Gerber, guessing at the man’s rank, since he wasn’t wearing a shirt, “this isn’t an official visit, nor are we suggesting you’re derelict in your duties. We’ve got reason to believe something is building up, and we want to check it out. This seemed like a good place for us to do it.”
“Yes, sir. If you’ll follow me.”
As the man turned and began walking away, Fetterman moved close to Gerber and whispered, “He’s a little touchy.”
“Can’t blame him.”
They crossed the compound and descended into the darkness of the commo bunker. It looked, felt and smelled like a dozen others: a short flight of steps into a cool interior and a musty, dirty smell hanging in the air. In one corner was a stack of radios, their lights glowing brightly in the dimness. There was a table near them where a man worked in a pool of bright light. He turned as everyone entered.
“What’s all this, Albright?”
“Couple of men in from Saigon on some kind of mission.”
The man at the map stood and held out his hand. “I’m Captain Jewell. What can I do for you?”
“Sergeant Fetterman and I flew in from Saigon. We’ve gotten rumblings that something is building up around Saigon, and we wanted a chance to check it out.”
“Uh-huh,” said Jewell. “Just what have you heard?”
Gerber noticed that the atmosphere in the bunker had suddenly turned icy. Jewell hadn’t offered them a seat or asked if they would like something to drink. He was being cautious. Gerber set his weapon on the floor, resting it against the table so that it wouldn’t get dirty.
“Captain,” he said, “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not like that. We came here just to use it as a base of operations while we check out the information. I’d like to take a look at the marketplaces around here, survey the surrounding territory and see what I can see. I’ll need your help because I’ll want to know if there are suddenly more young men in the fields than there have been. I’ll need someone to tell me if the markets are suddenly quieter. There’s so much that I need to know if I’m going to make an accurate guess.”
Jewell nodded and then ran a hand through his thick hair. He dropped back into his chair and rested his hands in the pool of light on the map. “Please,” he said, “have a seat. You have no orders from Saigon?”
“None whatsoever,” said Gerber. “We’re here to look for the enemy and not to look at your operation. We don’t have a lot of time because I think it’s going to blow up in our faces.”
“Okay, Captain,” said Jewell, spinning the map around so that Gerber could see it. “What I’ve been doing here is consolidating the reports handed in by my intel NCO — the little things that he’s noticed in the past week.”
Gerber raised his eyebrows and shot a glance at Fetterman. “Such as?”
“As you mentioned before — too many young men in the fields around here.” Now Jewell grinned broadly. “Young men with perfect papers.”
“Yeah,” said Fetterman. “Rice farmers don’t have papers because they lose them, but the bad guys always have brand-new ones.”
“Exactly. And they don’t like going to bed at dusk, so we see signs of lights at night. Music drifts across the rice paddies to us. There’ve been a couple of complaints of sexual molestation to the local police authorities.” Jewell hesitated and added quickly, “One of the men is working for us and told us that. He said that the local headmen have moved to keep the police out of it. They wanted it settled between the girl and the boy.”
Gerber nodded.
“Normally, if it was a local boy, it would never have gotten that far. It means the boy, or boys, aren’t from around here.”
“Okay,” said Gerber. “I think I see. You’ve noticed exactly what we’re looking for. Now would it be possible for us to check on this?”
“Sure, I’ll assign you a jeep and a driver who’s familiar with the area. That do?”
“I don’t know about that, Captain,” said Fetterman.
“It’s no problem,” said Jewell. “Our guys drive all over the countryside without trouble. The key is to stay on the main drags and near the people. Be back by five and you won’t have any trouble.”
“Seems pretty haphazard,” commented Fetterman.
“May be, Sergeant, but we’ve been doing it for months and we haven’t had any trouble.”
“Then that’s what we’d like to do,” said Gerber. “We don’t want to draw any attention to ourselves. We just want to get a reading on the situation.”
Jewell nodded, looking at his watch. “I can have the whole thing laid on for right after lunch. Albright, or one of the others, can drive you around and let you see for yourselves.”
“Good,” said Gerber. “That’s what we want.”
CHAPTER 3
A TINY CAFÉ ACROSS FROM THE AMERICAN EMBASSY, SAIGON
For nearly two hours Le Tran Duc sat in the café watching the two Marines who had become permanent fixtures. They talked to each other quietly, their eyes shifting to her frequently as she continued to tease them. Occasionally she leaned forward across the table and spoke quietly to the Vietnamese man with her. She wasn’t making small talk or telling him how fascinating she found him; she was giving him information about her observations of the American guard force at the embassy and how many times the Vietnamese police drove by.
Finally she said, “Why don’t you go take a long walk?”
He nodded and scratched his cheek. “You think it’s time?”
“I think our friends are very frustrated now. Yes, I think it’s time.”
“All right.” Sliding back his chair, he stood and bent toward her as if to kiss her lips, but she turned her head so that he merely brushed her cheek.
Without a word, he turned and left the café. Almost before the door had closed, the older of the Marines was on his feet. He moved across the floor with the confidence of an invasion force hitting the beach. Stopping close to the woman, he looked down at her legs, as if judging them for
a contest.
Le Tran shifted in her chair. “Yes?”
The Marine took that for an invitation. He appropriated the chair deserted by the Vietnamese man and sat down. Bending forward, his eyes on her thighs, he said, “I couldn’t help noticing you.” He reached out and touched her knee.
Le Tran smiled slyly. “I noticed that you were noticing. I think I like that.”
The Marine was taken slightly aback by her boldness. He sat up straight, appraising her. Then he motioned the Vietnamese woman who was standing near the back wall of the café. “Another tea, please.”
“You are a Marine?” asked Le Tran.
“Yes.” He pointed through the window at the embassy. “I work over there.”
She lowered her eyes, as if impressed. “It must be an important job.”
“One of the most important.” He stopped talking when the waitress brought his order. Digging into his pockets, he pulled out a wad of bills. Carefully he separated the MPC from the piasters, and handed over a dollar.
“What is your name?” asked Le Tran when the waitress walked away.
“I’m James Lockridge. Jim to my friends.”
She held her delicate hand over the table so that it could be shaken in a Western manner. “Hello, Jim,” she said. “I am Le Tran Duc.”
“Do they call you Le?”
“You may, if you like.”
The other Marine, who had been watching the exchange with interest, stood and came over. He slipped into one of the other chairs. “Hi. I’m Franklin Jones.”
“Franklin,” said Le Tran.
For a moment there was silence as each of them tried to think of something witty to say. Le Tran broke in with, “When do you have to go back to work?”
“Back on duty,” corrected Lockridge. “We go back on duty. But not before tomorrow at seven.”
“Then you have all afternoon and this evening to spend with me,” she said.
Lockridge grinned at Jones. “We certainly do.” He slipped his chair closer to her and stole another glance at her thighs. He was certain he could see red panties.