by Eric Helm
“Not much to tell.”
“There’s enough,” said the young captain. “The aviation boys have put you in for a medal.”
They entered the team house, and Tyme collapsed into a chair. He glanced at the familiar surroundings and felt an excitement surge through him, a gladness to be home after the ordeal in the jungle. He clapped his hands together and laughed.
“Bring him a beer,” ordered Bromhead.
One of the sergeants spun and jerked open the refrigerator. He grabbed a beer and tossed it toward Tyme, who caught it one-handed. After opening the can and taking a long drink, Tyme said, “Yeah. That’s what I needed.”
“Now tell us what happened,” said Bromhead.
“First, I think I better get with Sergeant Yeakly so that he can pass my observations on to Nha Trang.”
“And those are?” asked Bromhead.
“That something big is going to happen in the next few days. Something very big.”
Morrow sat at her desk reading the latest news reports from Khe Sanh. Communist forces were scattered in the hills around the base and had been lobbing mortar, rocket and artillery rounds into the camp almost without letup. The press corps was trying to get in to look around, but the military was suggesting it was too dangerous. There were reports that a siege was shaping up and that the Communists were viewing it as another Dien Bien Phu — one great victory over the Americans to force them out of the country.
Morrow read through the reports twice and decided they were just a lot of hype. It seemed to her that each reporter in the area was trying to convince his boss that he was on top of the biggest story of the war. Morrow slowly wadded the paper into a giant ball and threw it at the wastebasket.
“What bullshit,” she said.
Marvin Crown, a young man on his first overseas assignment, picked up the paper and dropped it into the can. A short, slim man with light hair and almost nonexistent eyebrows, he moved to her desk and asked, “What’s bullshit?”
“This whole thing,” she said, waving a hand that could have taken in the newsroom, Saigon or all of South Vietnam.
Crown grabbed a vacant chair and pulled it close. As he sat down, he asked, “Why do you say that?”
“Because everyone is looking at his own story and refusing to see the big picture. Something is going to happen. The military knows it, but we ignore it. We’re too caught up in our own stories and our own reporting to see it.”
“If you’re so sure of that,” said Crown, “then why are you sitting here bitching about it? Why aren’t you out looking for the proof of what you say?”
“Because it’s all going to happen here and I don’t have to worry about it.” But even as she said it, she realized how lame it sounded. She was just going to sit on her hands and wait for the story to come to her. That wasn’t good journalism. It was what historians did — visit the hills after the battle to talk about it. But she should be in the hills reporting it as it happened.
There were a dozen things that she should do, a hundred people she should interview. There were stories to be written, and if Hodges and the editors wouldn’t approve them now, they certainly would in a week when the enemy came swarming up the streets shooting at everyone. She should get over to MACV and talk to the generals and colonels who now had the time to talk. She would be able to lead the discussions because no one else would be interested in it. When the enemy appeared, the generals and colonels would be too busy to talk to reporters. They would be fighting the battle they were preparing for.
Morrow stood and shouldered her camera bag. “Thanks, Marv. I needed that.”
“What’d I do?”
“You got me off my butt and out into the field.”
Now he stood, too, and put a hand on her forearm. “Hey, if you’ve got something cooking, you should share it with me. I need a story, too.”
Morrow was going to try to shake him, then she realized the story was going to be bigger than she could handle. It would be bigger than the entire staff could handle when it finally broke.
“Grab your tape recorder and let’s go see what we can find out.”
“Yeah!” said Crown, excited. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Gerber lay quietly under the protective branches of a large bush, the fragrance of its yellow flowers overpowering. The ground under him wasn’t dry. It was a spongy, damp, rotting mess that was slowly seeping through his uniform. He was wet on one side because of the swamp and damp on the other because of the sun. He was sweating heavily and breathing through his mouth like a panting dog. He hadn’t realized that lying on the ground could be such hard work.
Throughout the morning he had used his binoculars to study the hootch in front of him. In his mind he thought of it as a hootch, just one more Vietnamese structure, but somehow this building belied his definition. Could a two-story house, with shutters at the windows, a balcony on the second floor with French doors opening onto it from any of four rooms, be called a hootch? It was a mini-hotel that had been turned into a brothel, which conducted a thriving business from both sides.
It was a strange thing to see. Earlier that morning there had been an American on the balcony — a pale, fat man with a beachball stomach over his OD green shorts. The man’s arms were deeply tanned, as was his face, but the rest of him was pasty white. He had stood in the morning sun, one hand on the railing of the balcony and one hand on his massive belly. After a few moments, a tiny Vietnamese girl wearing nothing at all had joined him. She had rubbed herself against him and tried to tug him back into the room. The man had resisted for several seconds and then turned to follow her.
There seemed to be some kind of unofficial neutrality about the house. Both sides used it and each side ignored the other. The VC and NVA and the Americans and South Vietnamese relieved their tensions in the house without worrying about one another. It wasn’t unlike the situation at Vung Tau. Both sides used it as a recreational facility and neither attacked it.
Gerber glanced at Albright, who was lying on the other side of the bush with his head on his hands, almost as if he was asleep. Gerber whispered, “What do you know about this place?”
Albright lifted his head and looked at Gerber. “Only that it’s a whorehouse and has been there for twenty years or more.”
“You ever been in it?”
“You kidding? I wouldn’t go near the place with a bazooka. Who knows what you’d catch there? Hell, the girls in Saigon are bad enough, and they’ve got to pass a few health inspections, but out here, who cares?”
“There was an American in there.”
“I’m not all that surprised. Some of those guys from Cu Chi and the other big bases have no idea what’s going on out here. Christ, what a way to fight a war.”
Gerber nodded and turned his attention back to the house. A woman stepped out onto the porch, fanning herself. She pulled her sweat-soaked blouse away from her body and blew down the front. Then she dropped into a chair and threw her head back as if trying to catch a breeze, but there was none.
Men came and went. Some of them wore black pajamas and could have been local farmers and their sons, but somehow Gerber didn’t think so. He saw a jeep pull up and four Americans, two white and two black, leap out. They scrambled up the steps, and Gerber could hear their shouts and laughter drifting out over the swamp.
At noon he put down his binoculars and drank some of his water. Slowly he ate the boned chicken from his C-rations, salting it heavily. He wished he had brought salt tablets, but hadn’t expected the enforced inactivity; he had thought they would be in and out quickly. As he ate, he wondered how Fetterman was making out. Occasionally he had scanned the rise where the master sergeant was hidden, but had seen nothing there. Fetterman had done an excellent job of concealing himself.
The heat of midafternoon brought more traffic. An army truck full of South Vietnamese roared up and the men leaped out over the sides in their enthusiasm. The girls rushed out onto the balcony, shouting down at the soldiers. Ther
e was a lot of noise and gaiety.
And even with the South Vietnamese army truck parked in front of the place, the men in the black pajamas kept coming. Some of them sneaked in the back while others used the front.
The whole thing amazed and amused Gerber. The war had ceased to exist in that one tiny piece of South Vietnam. Unwritten rules were obeyed by everyone. The weapons had been left outside and no one stole them. The men in the black pajamas sometimes looked into the truck at the scattered M-16s and M-14s and the spare ammo, but they didn’t take anything. It was a very delicate balance, and Gerber knew they were going to upset it soon.
As soon as his shift was over, Lockridge ran to his quarters and changed into civilian clothes. Jones wasn’t far behind, and together they left the embassy grounds, heading for the café across the street. Lockridge believed that Le Tran would be waiting there for him. They entered the small café, searched the occupants and then took a table close to the front window so that they could watch the pedestrians circulate outside.
Lockridge ordered tea and sat there sipping it. He let his eyes wander from the scarred tabletop to the ceiling fan that spun slowly above him. He stared into the faces of the Vietnamese customers and at the few Americans who came in. Le Tran didn’t show.
He wasn’t worried because he remembered the night he’d spent with her — the promise of things to come, her responses to his searching hands, her moans at the touch of his probing fingers. She had been as excited about it as he had been and was now.
Jones looked at his watch and the deepening shadows on the sidewalk outside. “I don’t think they’re coming tonight.”
“They’ll be here,” said Lockridge.
“Well, they’re already over an hour late, and given the constraints of this society with its curfew and all, you’d think they’d be on time.”
“Women keep you waiting,” protested Lockridge. “It’s their nature to keep you guessing.”
Jones shook his head as he looked at his watch again. “They’re not coming, I tell you.”
“Then it’s their parents stopping them. Won’t let them out alone. We should go over to their house.”
Jones raised his eyebrows. “You think you can find it?”
Now Lockridge grinned. “Of course. I was ready for something like this and kept my eyes open. I can find it again.”
“Okay,” said Jones, standing. He tossed a couple of bills onto the table. “Let’s go.”
Outside they hailed a cab, this one a Chevy that looked like a Chevy and had only a single color, a deep high-polished brown. Lockridge wondered where the driver had stolen it, but he climbed into the back seat anyway.
“You speak English?”
“A little.”
“Fine. You just follow my directions and we’ll all get along well.”
They took off through the Saigon traffic, rocketing around the slower cars and between the giant military trucks. They nearly collided with a jeep, swerved and then almost hit a Lambretta. The driver let fly with a stream of Vietnamese that didn’t wish anyone a happy new year. They roared up palm-lined streets and then down narrow ones lined with bars blaring all kinds of music. They left the city proper and entered the outskirts where the houses were old and ornate or dilapidated and new. Wires were hung from telephone poles and dead palm trees.
Lockridge got lost once, each block looking like the one they had just been on, but then he saw a small park with a tiny pond and knew that they were getting close. He ordered the driver to slow as he stared at each building, looking for the house where Le Tran had taken them.
He saw dozens of poor people who had fled the war in the countryside and were now seeking refuge in the city where they could earn a few piasters hustling. There were men missing arms and legs or both demanding money, men who wore pieces of their ARVN uniforms to prove they were honest soldiers who had served and who now needed help. And there were women in black pajamas, ao dai or Western-style skirts and blouses who smiled at the cab with blackened, broken teeth and offered a good time while other women claimed their sisters were virgins for the right man. And along with the men and women there were children, hundreds of them, some of them naked, running up and down the streets chasing puppies or chickens or Americans who ventured into the area.
Finally Lockridge spotted the house — a two-story structure with plywood fastened over part of the front bay window. “Stop!” he demanded. And when the driver braked, Lockridge threw open the door and leaped to the dirt path that served as a sidewalk.
“You pay now!” yelled the driver.
Lockridge stopped and whirled. “You wait right here. We pay in a few minutes. You drive us back to town.”
“You pay now!”
“You wait or you don’t get paid.”
Apparently the driver saw the wisdom of that because he fell into a sullen silence. He beat his hand against the steering wheel, but didn’t speak.
Lockridge rushed up onto the porch. He glanced over his shoulder as Jones approached. Lockridge reached up and tapped on the door, and when no one answered it he knocked harder. When that failed to get a response, Lockridge hammered on the door. It rattled in the frame and then swung open.
Lockridge stuck his head in and yelled, “Le Tran?” When he got no answer, he stepped in and called again. To the right, he saw the living room, but now it seemed to be abandoned. Some of the furniture was still there, but the record player and the records had been taken. Lockridge turned and shrugged. “I don’t get it.”
Jones checked the other side and then ran up the stairs two at a time. He disappeared, checked out the rooms and then came to the top of the stairs. “Nothing.”
“What the hell?”
Jones walked down and stopped near the front door. “We’ve been set up for some reason.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know, but no one lives here now.”
CHAPTER 12
IN THE SWAMPS NEAR AP TAN HOA FOUR
When the sun set, the lights of the brothel came on. Porch, room and security lights made the building look like a beacon. Gerber was awed by the transition, surprised and amazed that something like this should exist in the swamps.
And the men kept coming. He had watched the ARVN truck leave an hour earlier, but it had been replaced by another, and when he asked Albright where the soldiers were stationed, Albright had told him at the French fort.
There were more jeeps parked around the building now that many of the Americans in the area were off duty. Again Gerber was struck by the nine-to-five nature of the war. The men on the big bases went on duty about eight and got off at four or five, just as if they held jobs in the civilian world. Apparently, once they were off duty, no one cared what they did, and many of them showed up here.
Using his binoculars, he read the unit identifications stenciled on the bumpers of the jeeps and trucks, and for a moment he wondered if he should make notes so that he could tell someone at MACV. But he dismissed the notion, thinking it would just make trouble for the lower ranking enlisted men who didn’t need his help to get into trouble.
When the sun was gone, Gerber moved from under the protective branches of his bush and was surprised to find a cool breeze blowing. It was almost like moving from the heat-drenched outside into the air-conditioning of MACV Headquarters. He felt the sweat dry quickly and his skin turn itchy.
And, with the sun gone, there was only a small chance of detection. During the day there had been farmers in the fields to the north and east of them and there had been people moving on the fringes of the swamps. Some of them had been fishing, and although Gerber had expected nothing, he had seen them catching small, flat fish.
But no one had ventured near them or toward the dry ground where Fetterman hid. And it was unlikely that anyone would stroll through the swamp in the dark.
Gerber moved to the rear of his tiny island so that his feet were touching the water and he was hidden by the hump in the island’s center. Protected fr
om sight, he ate another cold meal of C-rations. It was food that he didn’t taste now that his mind was on the coming events. The stuff was cardboard food processed by people who knew they would never have to eat it and who knew that the men who did would be in no position to complain. Canned food didn’t have to be tasteless, but who cared if some GI in a jungle halfway around the world didn’t like it?
He finished eating and cut a hole in the bottom of the can before he dropped it into the water. It filled quickly and disappeared without a sound. Then he drank from his canteen, finishing the water. It was still warm from the heat of the sun and tasted of plastic, but it relieved his thirst.
When Gerber crawled back to the front of the island, Albright touched his shoulder, then leaned close to his ear. “He’s arrived.”
“You sure?”
“Car by the side of the hootch is his. I saw him get out.”
Gerber felt excitement bubble in his stomach now that his prey was within striking distance. He took a deep breath. “Okay. We hang loose until things slow down a little. You sure he’s going to spend the night?”
“That’s been his habit in the past.”
Slowly Gerber rubbed a hand over his face. “Then we lay low and wait for our opportunity.”
“What about Sergeant Fetterman?”
“We’ll contact him later. Right now we watch the building and his car to make sure he doesn’t drive away.”
Gerber took the binoculars and trained them on the building. On the second-floor balcony he could see a man and a woman locked in a tight embrace. They were swaying in time to the music of AFVN that drifted over the swamp. The man moved away from the woman and then slipped her blouse from her shoulders. In the light from the bedroom, Gerber could see that she wore no bra. He realized he was seeing more naked women in the swamp than he saw in some of the seamier Saigon nightclubs.