by Eric Helm
“Let’s go.”
“Yes, sir.”
Together they headed to the hotel lobby. It was nearly deserted. The desk clerk had left his post and was standing near the windows, watching the show outside. He didn’t bother to turn as Gerber and Fetterman passed through the lobby.
They pushed open the doors, the doorman having been swept away in a crowd of merrymakers. On the street they hesitated, and Fetterman said, “I can probably get to the jeep.”
“That would be nice.”
“Take us forever to penetrate this crowd.”
“Sergeant, I don’t think we should walk to MACV. Besides, there is an old Army saying that you never walk when you can ride.”
“And the pilots say that you never ride when you can fly.”
“But since we don’t have a chopper handy, the best we can do is ride.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fetterman began to push into the crowd, forcing the people to the side. As he moved deeper into them, there was a burst of firing. It wasn’t a string of firecrackers or the trigger-happy fingers of ARVN soldiers. This was an AK-47. The sound ripped through the night around them.
The humid air was filled with cries of pain. People panicked, shoving one another to the side. Some fell, the others swarming over them. A second burst set them into hysterics.
Fetterman pressed himself against the wall of the building and then crouched. He turned slowly, scanning the rooftops, figuring that the sniper would be up there. He saw no movement. But the windows facing him were loaded with people hanging out and watching the drama on the street. The sniper had a perfect cover there.
Gerber loomed out of the half-light on the street. “You see anything?”
“No, sir. Thought he might be on the roof, but who can tell now?”
Gerber touched his lips with the back of his hand while his eyes continued to search. “I think we can put off that trip to MACV for a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” Fetterman moved deeper into the shadows, his eyes searching the rooftops. He caught a flicker of movement near the wall on top of the building opposite him. “Got him.”
“Where?”
“Straight across the street. On top of the building, near that square. Just to the right of the corner.”
“There’s nothing there now,” said Gerber.
“No, sir. But he was.”
“How do you want to handle this?”
“Well, sir, I thought you could cover me while I cross the street. Then, if you move into the alley and use the fire escape to get to higher ground, I’ll go up to the roof.”
“Okay. Go when you’re ready.”
Fetterman didn’t move immediately. He took in the scene around him. People were huddled in the shadows and behind the cars. Others lay facedown in the gutters, afraid to move. The street had taken on the deserted look of a ghost town. Lights had gone out and the music had stopped. Broken glass littered the sidewalk and the street. The only noise came from a slow leak in a car’s tire.
Beyond that, on the other streets, the celebration continued. There was rock music, country and western and Vietnamese. Under all that was the murmur of voices as people partied. But in front of him there was silence.
Fetterman eased off the safety, using his thumb. He glanced at the rooftop and then sprinted across the street. As he reached the building, he spun, flattening his back against it. His head was tilted up so that he could study the overhang, but there was still no movement.
Gerber began to move then, keeping to the shadows. He reached the corner of the building and disappeared into the darkness. A moment later there was movement on the fire escape as the captain edged toward the high ground.
With that, Fetterman slipped toward the door. The master sergeant knew the man could have left the rooftop by now. He could be working his way down the stairs, so Fetterman had to be careful. He peeked in the window and saw that the first floor was empty: tables and chairs and the debris of a party. Everyone had left, but Fetterman didn’t know if it was because of the shooting, or if they had taken their celebration elsewhere.
Cautiously he entered the building, the muzzle of his weapon pointing at the ceiling. He kept his back pressed against the wall as he moved to the rear of the structure. There was a beaded curtain with a light shining behind it. No one seemed to be in the hallway.
Fetterman pushed through the curtain and stopped. The hall was lined with doors, all of them closed. The proper procedure was to kick in each door, but that would take too long and the odds were that the sniper was either still on the roof or fleeing across the buildings. Fetterman didn’t like leaving all those hiding places unchecked, but he couldn’t do anything about it.
The master sergeant moved on, keeping his left shoulder against the wall and listening for sounds behind him. He stepped over a broken chair and a folded bamboo mat. Ignoring the broken glass that covered the floor, he kept his eyes on the stairway at the far end.
There was a sudden noise behind him. Fetterman dropped to his left knee and spun. He threw his rifle to his shoulder and sighted.
A girl dressed in an ao dai peeked into the hall. She took one step and saw Fetterman. Her eyes widened in fright, and she leaped back, slamming the door and bolting it.
Fetterman released his breath. Slowly, feeling like an old man, he got to his feet, looking up so that he could see to the top floor. Nothing.
Staying to the side, away from the railing, he started up slowly. Again he knew he should be checking each floor, but he didn’t have the time. He kept moving higher, listening for an ambush. His shoulders were suddenly stiff from the tension. As he reached the last landing, he told himself to relax. He rolled his shoulders, but knew he couldn’t relax until he knew the sniper was no longer on the roof.
Finally he reached the door. Keeping his right hand on the pistol grip of his M-16, he touched the locking bar. As he started to push it, he realized he would be silhouetted by the light behind him. He stepped back and used the barrel of his weapon to smash the light bulb. There was a quiet pop and a flash of white light. The stairwell was now in shadow.
Fetterman hesitated, his eyes closed. He listened to the sounds around him, but there was none from either the roof or the stairs. Opening his eyes, he blinked rapidly and then turned so that he could open the door, crouching low as he pushed. As the door moved, Fetterman kept the pressure slow and steady. He waited for a bullet to slam into the door, but nothing happened.
When he could squeeze through, he moved forward again, stepping into the humidity of the tropical night. For some reason, as he left the building, he had expected a cool breeze, but he was disappointed. He slipped to the left and let the door close quietly. Keeping low and scanning the rooftop, he stayed where he was.
A three-foot-high wall ran around the edge of the building and gave the sniper perfect cover. Although the roof was covered with broken furniture, ripped boxes, tin cans and newspapers, there was nothing large enough to conceal the sniper.
Fetterman eased away from the rooftop entrance and saw something move in the shadows at the far end. He froze, his head turned slightly so that he could see out of the corner of his eye. The lump in the shadows shifted again and seemed to come apart so that there was the distinct outline of a human holding an AK-47.
Fetterman raised his own weapon, looking over the top of the sights. He waited. The master sergeant wasn’t a police officer about to arrest a criminal; he was a soldier who had found an enemy soldier. There were several responses, but he was in a crowded city with thousands of innocent people around. The sniper had already demonstrated that he had no regard for the innocent.
Fetterman squeezed the trigger. He felt the weapon buck against his shoulder and saw the muzzle-flash stab into the dark. There was a wet slap, and the figure grunted in surprise. The enemy sniper started to push himself up and then fell flat.
Fetterman stood, his rifle pointed at the enemy. He watched him for a moment and then let his eyes ro
am the roof looking for a second or third enemy, but the roof was deserted.
The sniper didn’t move. Fetterman crouched near him and grabbed the AK. There was no resistance from the dead fingers. Quickly Fetterman searched the body. He found two spare banana magazines, two Chicom grenades and a map of the roof, then he turned the body over.
The sniper was wearing a white shirt with the top button fastened, and he had tied a red rag around his arm. Both would have made the man stand out in a Saigon crowd. Fetterman could see that the man’s hair had a razor cut, which suggested he was an NVA soldier. However, there was nothing on his body to identify him as such.
Fetterman picked up the weapon, the spare magazines and the grenades, leaving the dead man where he was. The master sergeant returned to the stairs and descended rapidly. He met no one. The main floor corridor was deserted, too. He left the building and hurried across the street. As he reached that side, Gerber joined him.
“What you got?”
“NVA sniper,” said Fetterman.
Gerber looked up at the rooftop. He turned to speak, but there was a roar behind him. Without thinking, he dived to the street, rolling toward the wall of the closest building. Fetterman was an instant quicker.
The enemy rocket rumbled overhead and slammed into a building down the block. There was a tremendous explosion, and debris rained down, striking the street near them like flat raindrops.
Gerber raised his head. The front of a building seemed to have collapsed into the street. The interior was burning ferociously, the yellow flames curling around the upper ledge on the roof and climbing into the night sky. There were people lying in the street and more running and shouting. A siren wailed somewhere, but didn’t come closer.
With that, the tempo of the city changed. It was no longer a city awake in celebration, but one alert for danger. People were no longer shouting in joy, but were screaming in panic. Many who had been dancing in the street were now running away, hoping to reach their homes and families before another enemy rocket killed them.
Fetterman got to his knees and brushed at the front of his fatigue jacket. “I don’t suppose we need to head over to MACV now.”
“No,” said Gerber, agreeing. “I’m certain they were going to tell us that the enemy is going to attack. But we know that now.”
He dropped again as another rocket exploded, this one farther away. It was a quiet roar, not like the flat, loud bang of the one moments before.
“What should we do now?” asked Fetterman.
“I think we’d better get to the embassy. There’s a helipad on the roof. We can use that to get out of the city.”
Le Tran opened the first of the coffins carefully, hoping that the various groups had read their maps correctly. She didn’t want to look in on the decomposing body of a recently dead Vietnamese. Using a crowbar taken from the group of tools hanging behind her, she strained and pushed until the lid popped up.
The men standing around her gasped in unison, and she was afraid that the mistake had been made. But then she saw the RPG-7s, grenades and satchel charges — over two hundred pounds of explosives to be directed against the American pigs.
She stepped back and let the men crowd forward. All were dressed the same: white shirts buttoned to the collar and small red rags tied around their arms. She had changed to a white blouse and black shorts.
“Don’t stand there gaping,” she said. “Open the other coffins.”
One of the men took the crowbar from her and dropped to his knees. He levered the crowbar into the crack and pushed. There was a splitting of wood as the lid snapped open, revealing AK-47s and spare magazines — two dozen weapons, cleaned and ready to go.
Le Tran moved out of the pool of light so that she was concealed in the shadows of the auto repair shop. She stayed away from the pit where the mechanics worked under the cars. To her left was a long, low wooden table littered with oil-smeared tools, rags, auto parts, empty boxes that were covered with English, and a variety of cans. In front of her were two cars and a truck that would carry her assault force to the American embassy, and in front of the vehicles were the metal garage doors. They were closed and locked now.
“Everyone take a weapon,” she ordered.
At first the men stood around the coffin like kids around a counter of free candy. Her words didn’t spur them to immediate action. Then one man, his face hidden in shadows, knelt and lifted an AK out carefully, as if afraid it would break. Without waiting for orders, he grabbed one of the chest pouches, took a magazine and loaded his weapon. There was a loud, metallic sound as the bolt slipped home, stripping a round from the top of the magazine.
The men moved quickly then. First, each took a weapon, then they moved to the other coffin, picking up the equipment and loading it into the cars and the truck. They broke the loads into three separate groups so that the loss of one vehicle wouldn’t mean the raid had to be aborted.
Before they climbed into the vehicles, Le Tran moved in front of them. She glanced at each face, knowing that some of them would be dead before the sun rose. She felt sadness at that, but she also felt joy. In a few hours the Americans would feel the sting of war as they had never felt it. She wanted to tell the men that they were about to embark on a great adventure. They were going to participate in something that would be talked about for centuries to come. What she wanted to do was give them a pep talk.
But then she saw the grim determination in each of the faces. There was a set of the jaw, a compressed line of bloodless lips and a hardness in the eyes. These weren’t men who needed a pep talk. They just needed the order to go. They needed to begin the mission.
Still she hesitated, trying to think of something momentous to say, something to be recorded and repeated throughout history, but there was nothing there. No great line. No great thought. In the end, she just said, “Let’s get going.”
She turned and walked to the front of one of the cars. She waited as two men got in the back while a third threw equipment into the trunk. Then he opened one of the garage doors, hauling it up with a noisy rattling.
The small convoy left the garage. They didn’t bother to close the doors or turn off the lights because they wouldn’t be returning there. They entered the streets, which were becoming deserted as the people, exhausted by the Tet celebrations or frightened by the sudden violence, fled for their homes.
Ahead of them, they heard a couple of sirens as an American MP jeep raced by. It was followed by two fire trucks that seemed to be out of control, heading into the interior of the city.
Le Tran and her men slowed and turned onto Thong Nhut Boulevard on their way to the American embassy. In the distance was the boom of countermortar artillery and the detonation of rockets.
Le Tran smiled to herself. The battle was beginning.
CHAPTER 16
SONG BE SPECIAL FORCES CAMP
Bromhead abandoned the fire control tower, leaving his heavy weapons specialist to direct the fire of the camp’s mortars. The fire support bases were withdrawing their weapons one by one as more enemy assaults were reported. Each of the bases reported that small numbers of the enemy were probing the wires outside their camps.
Bromhead had seen the enemy assault forming in the jungle north of the camp. They filtered through the trees, failing to conceal themselves. The flashes from the firing mortar tubes gave them away.
Now Bromhead was in a bunker on the northern wall, near one of the protrusions of the star-shaped camp. It was a small bunker, the floor made of thick planks and the walls created out of sandbags. A firing port in the front overlooked the empty fields and there was a door to the rear. An M-60 was sited on one side so that the men could use their M-16s on the other. In the bunker with him was a crew of highly trained Montagnards whose only real desire was to kill Vietnamese. None of them cared whether the Vietnamese they killed were from the north or the south as long as they were Vietnamese.
Bromhead used the binoculars that had been stored in the bunker
to observe the enemy soldiers in the bush. He had yet to point them out to the men with him. Instead, he held the field phone to one ear. The system connected all the bunkers to the main switchboard in the commo bunker.
“I want four rounds, HE, dropped six hundred meters north of camp, bearing, zero one zero degrees.”
There was an acknowledgment, and moments later, an explosion in the deep grass in the north. The rounds were short and Bromhead requested an adjustment. When it looked as if they were falling among the enemy, he shouted, “On target. Keep them coming.”
And as the mortars began to rain down on the enemy, there was a rising shout from outside the camp, joined by bugles and whistles. As one, the enemy surged forward, keeping low to use the tall grass as cover.
Bromhead squeezed the handset of the field phone again, blew into the mouthpiece and said, “I want flares over the camp. Now.”
Seconds later there was a pop overhead as the first of the flares went off. It was followed by another and another until the ground outside of the wire was nearly as bright as daylight. The light was yellowish and the shadows danced under the swinging flares. But now the enemy stood out as they rushed the wire.
Bromhead dropped the handset and grabbed his M-14. He aimed at the attacking soldiers as they popped up and disappeared in the grass. He watched them for a moment, but he didn’t shoot. Around him was the rattling of small-arms fire. There were ruby-colored tracers flashing into the night, some of them bouncing across the open ground or tumbling into the sky.
From the enemy came a raging shout, and they opened fire. The muzzle-flashes sparkled in the grass like fireflies. There was a single, crashing explosion as part of the perimeter wire blew up. Debris and dirt rained on the bunker line as the enemy attacked. They ran forward, appearing suddenly among the strands of wire.
One squad broke off, diving for cover, and another section of the perimeter exploded. The enemy concentrated their attack, filtering it toward the base of one of the stars.