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Tony Fleming stood on the cleared hillside outside My Binh watching the gunships make strafing runs to the south, listening to the conversation between the ground forces and the helicopter crews blaring over a radio loudspeaker.
Suddenly he knew as sure as the sun rose in the east, that the enemy would be met down there to the south. He frowned, shook his head, and glanced at the other company members sitting or lying around the slope. The inevitable cigarettes were curling blue-gray smoke, the green clothes were red-tinted from the soil, the faces laughing or tired, and he knew in his bones that some of these men would be killed and wounded in a short time from now, when he sat on that cleared slope, in the sun, overlooking the red-tiled roofs of My Binh.
The trucks rolled roaring into view and halted at the foot of the slope, engines rumbling and snorting with puffs of blue exhaust. Rear amps dropped and lay open like the drawbridge of King Arthur's castle.
"Saddle up!"
The battalion was moving to an area south of My Binh to search for Charlies thought to be there; it lay directly to the east of the Iron Triangle, which had been well covered.
With the speed they'd come to expect, a mass of black clouds roiled and rolled over the puny cumulus, blotting out the sun, dragging with it the wind and an opaque skirt of rain. The storm struck as the vehicles grumbled along the road---the rain cascaded down the wind, and in minutes the ground was covered with sheets of silver-gray water flowing down every slope, filling every dip, every hollow. The dark foliage lashed to and fro in the howling blast of air and coconut fronds; twigs and leaves tumbled end over end down the wind.
"Jesus," thought Fleming, perched on top of a carrier, "this is just like a Hollywood scene: wind, rain, leaves, water, dark sky---the lot."
Looking down, he saw puddles formed in the folds of his shirt and trousers; the water had not been able to run away fast enough. Conversations were stopped, the men sitting hunched under the sheer presence of the dark clouds, and the brute force of wind and rain beating upon them.
The tracks pulled off the road next to an ARVN unit that to the British strongly resembled a Beau Geste Hollywood cavalry fort into which a band of gypsies had moved with all their animals. The ARVN battalion was surrounded by a dirt wall six to ten feet high; inside could be glimpsed a conglomeration of buildings and tents, washing hung out to dry, radio masts and aerials, flags, shelter halves, sandbags, boxes and crates in which chickens and ducks cackled and quacked. On the parapet sat and stood assorted ARVN soldiers. Across the road was a struggling collection of cafes with open fronts, shops and houses, in and around which lounged more ARVN and the usual civilians, children, chickens, and dogs.
The ARVN commander and his entourage stood in a little group on the side of the track leading into his domain. The US adviser towered over the Vietnamese, yet another of the mass-produced US Army captains: tall, slim, twin bars of rank on collar and baseball-type cap, white teeth, thin-framed glasses, crew-cut, and innocent "I want to be your friend" eyes.
As the leading Britons walked up the slight slope and halted before what was obviously the ARVN command group, Fleming found himself not more than six feet away as Gordon introduced himself and told the American the rest of the battalion was following.
Water was still flowing in little rivulets down the slope between the blades of grass, dripping in crystal chips from the leaves of the bushes dotting the grazing area on which the ARVN fort was built.
The tall American introduced himself and the ARVN commander, and went on to say Major Ty spoke very good English and had completed several courses at schools in the US.
On cue, the major nodded and stepped forward with a lieutenant who held the mapboard so that the commanders could see it. Ty pointed to their present location and said, in accented but easily understood English.
"Here is my unit. My men control all this area here," and the pencil indicated an area encompassing the ridge on which they stood, ground to the north and south, and out into the paddies. "There are no VC in this area," with an arrogant glance at the Britons standing platoon groups, his tone indicating resentment that foreigners should be in his area.
Gordon replied as diplomatically as he could. "Thank you very much, Major Ty. We'll sweep through then, into the area here," pointing to the western end of the ridge.
"Well, if there's nothin' here, what are we all doin' here, soaked an' more rain on the way?" thought Fleming, looking at Quaid and raising his eyebrows to indicate his feelings. Aiden gave a little smile, shrugged and lifted his eyebrows to mean, "that bastards don't know what they're doin' even on good days."
The company moved out past the earthen walls of the fort, shook out into dispersed formation, and began to sweep forward under the gray sky, over the relatively open land: the only growth being saplings and bushes in clumps and lines, cut by small creeks and runnels. Water still trickled along these creeks and lay in pools in the holes, hollows, and dips, reflecting the gray underside of the clouds and the dark green shrubs.
An explosion: a voice shouts "contact front," the signal to close up and moved forward; CSM "Baron" Roach calling to the HQ support section, green-clad shapes jogging forward.
Fleming took a firmer hold on his rifle, on his left strode Quaid. The section advanced across a clearing with a wall of bushes on the left, ground sloping away on the right through clumps of shrubbery.
"Where are you, Clive?" from the platoon commander on the far side of the left-hand wall of shrubs.
"Over on this side," from Clive Dyer.
"Right, come over to me."
"Righto." Clive turned and waved the scouts through the green mass, turned to follow and gestured the remainder to follow him. The scouts passed through the gap; Clive, Luke Wilder, with the machine gun, and Aiden climbed a small bank and stepped into a narrow parting of the bushes; Fleming stopped, obeying the old training slogan---"don't bunch up"---and turned to follow the lines of bushes to find another gap.
The flat slam of an explosion: smoke, twigs, leaves, and a safari helmet fly into the air. Clive and Wilder roll screaming back through the bushes down the bank into the gray puddle there.
Christ, the bastards are in the bushes, down---peer in---fire---rifles forward---no! The rest of the platoon is only feet away on the other side. Grenade? Can't see any Charlies, any diggings, any sign---Clive and Wilder still screaming: "Tony! Tony!"
"Hang on, Clive, hang on!"
The "Baron" shouting: "What the devil's going on over there?"
"Two wounded over here, checking the area."
"Righto."
Turning to the other three, "Okay, be careful, watch that way," waving out over the slope falling away to the north, the smoke still hanging over the blasted area, a few leaves still twisting toward the ground. "It's only second since it happened. I'll see to Clive," he thought.
Pack and webbing off, run over, he's lying in the puddle now, red with the blood pumping through the tears in his clothes. Christ, blood everywhere, where is he wounded? Legs, groin, shoulder, arms.
"You'll be all right, guv'nuh," remembering the first aid lectures---"bullshit baffles brains, reassure the patient"---"We'll have you fixed up in no time."
The eyes filled with pain, fright, bewilderment. This is my mate, Clive, what have they done to you? Field dressing out of pocket, tear it open, sense of helplessness surges up, what fuckin' good is this little pad in the palm of my hand when he's got wounds bitter than this all over him? Where, which one am I going to put it on?
"Tony! Tony!"
"Yeah, mate," in tones for a hurt child, "you'll be okay, you're all right, we're gonna fix you up, no worries."
Then, literally jumping through the bushes, leaping and bounding over them, come two medics with all their gear: one kneels alongside in the red water.
"Hey, Tony, what are ya doin?"
" 'Allo, Skip. Stupid bloody Clive's copped it; silly bugger, eh, Clive?"
"Well," unzipping the medical satchel, "bludging again, you bastard, Clive? After two days light duties, as you can sneak off early and see Denise, you shonky bastard. Okay, let's have a gander."
Chrome-gleaming scissors snipping away trousers. "Undo his webbing and pack, but don't move him, Tony."
Unbuckle, unfasten, unstrap, so Clive is lying in a nest of belt and straps. Scissors cutting the other trouser leg, now the shirt, peeling away the grimy dark green cloth impregnated with red dirt, water, mud, and blood, peeling it away like a skin, and there he is, pale flesh like a peeled fruit. Skip looks up.
"Both legs, groin, collarbone; gimme a hand with these," pulling out of the satchel a clear plastic sleeve, "We pull it over the leg and blow it up, air pressure holds it rigid and tight."
"Fuckin' hell, Skip, who thought of that?"
"A Yank, naturally. Good idea, eh, what?"
Holes all over his legs, bone, flesh---Christ, all up around his crotch, I can see the inside of his balls---white tubing coiled round and round. Oh, Jesus, Clive!
A figure standing over them in the gloom: the "Baron."
"Dust-off on the way, be here in three minutes. Get him over to the LZ. Make sure he's tagged. Corporal Fleming."
"Yessir. There you are, you lucky bastard. You're on the way---beautiful nurses waiting and all."
Skip looks up. "He's going into shock! Tie the tag on the dog-tag chain and let's get 'im over there!"
Clive, Luke, and PFC Nash Waterman were carried over to join the two casualties from the first explosion: five quiet prone figures, tattered remains of dark green on arms and legs, bundles of pack and webbing tagged at each man's head, all ammunition and grenades removed before going under the Red Cross.
"Who the hell yelled 'contact front'? If we'd known it was a booby trap, we'd have taken care, and Clive wouldn't have his feet blown off, and Luck and Nash wouldn't be chopped about."
Whoever it was will never be known.
Here it comes---a distant throbbing hum growing into a chopping roar, red and green lights burning so brilliant and clean against the evening's dark clouds: pop---fizz---zzzz, the yellow smoke boiling up marking the LZ. Huey circling, white background to Red Cross, helmeted heads peering down, level out, settling nose high, the attendant whirlwind beating at bushes, leaves, and twigs curling up and away, wind pressing wet clothing against weary bodies, fluttering tags on packs, whipping loose ends of bandages; the skids on the ground, crewmen leaping out, sliding stretchers of the runners, handing each one to two Britons who run up, bowed under the rotors whipping around, kneeling by each casualty for fast professional assessment of in-flight attention needed, and information to be radioed ahead to the waiting surgical teams. If the helicopter can get to the man, he can be taken from the battlefield to surgery in 40 minutes tops, which is far better than the victim of a city peak-hour accident can expect.
Okay, here he comes: bend down, squeeze uninjured shoulder, grin, grab stretcher handles, up, over in the slides like a lifesize doll with those grotesque plastic legs over which the final drops of red muddy water are being driven by the rotor's blast. Move back, standing braced against the wind, rotor not changes, machine lifting against the black sky, nose dips, and they're off, silhouetted dragonfly shape against the western light, red glowing eyes on the flying thing: one burning steadily on the side over the door, one flashing brightly on the roof, gaining height to the south.
Okay, back to the section, walking carefully, how can you see a booby trap now? Fuck it! Dig a shell, scrape just deep enough to get you below ground level. You don't want to cut or force something down. Sleeping in bloody wet clothes again, bugger it!
Thus began the purgatory.
The company went out searching and found nothing: the explosions slammed out from the bushes and the Dust-offs flew in, lifting away the two or three grimy figures trailing their tattered clothes and bandage ends in the wind. The rain washed away any traces of the emplacement of the mines and booby traps: one, five, ten, or forty men could walk past or over the thing, until one man brushed the twig or put his foot in the necessary place and....
The locals, knowing the area like the back of their hand, and covered by the wind and the rain, wormed in to emplace new devices. The patrolling, probing Britons rarely saw them---why wait for a battle? The foreigners are killing themselves on our traps.
As blood flowed, so it started to boil.
Hard faces with tight lips and icy eyes stared toward the ARVN fort and the indolent shapes on the wall and in the cafes across the road.
"We should go back there and round those bastards up and force them out across here. They never patrolled here in their fuckin' lives, the woggie bastards!"
Tom Fleming related the words of Major Ty, adding outrage to outrage. Weapons were tapped and stroked, and the talk spread, from savage man to savage man, from section to section, regiment to regiment, and company to company. The frustration and hate sown by each explosion during the useless searching focused upon the ARVN, who were a visible presence. The disgust and hatred was deeper and more implacable than that held for the Charlies, who were not deeply hated, merely disliked as the enemy.
"We're losin' chaps here for nothing. We're doing their job while the mongrels are lyin' back in hammocks watching the Dust-offs," snarled Baron" Roach, jawline rigid, nostrils flaring, tears of rage trickling down his pale cheeks as he watched the Dust-off thrum away south with the corpse of Clive Dyer. and the wounded body of Nash Waterman.
Two sobbing women were brought in: they had been seen leaving the village and making their way across the top of the area, furtively scuttling from bush to bush. Clive Dyer's regiment saw them, followed them , and were interested witnesses to a meeting between the women and five armed men. The women started returning.
"Okay, quick," Dyer lowered his binoculars, turning to Johnnie Allen. "Get Aiden to engage the men," Turning to the sergeant, "Eddie! Stay with Aidan. I'll take the other two sections after the birds."
"Right Clive. C'mon Aidan, here's yer chance. Five of the bastards standing near the fan-shaped bush...see 'em? Range: 300, try 10 round bursts when yer ready."
Aidan estimated the distance through slitted eyes, adjusted his rear sight, checked the belt of gleaming brass rounds, snuggled the butt into his shoulder, placed the foresight on the group of tiny manikins, inhaled, held it, and squeezed.
The belt wiggled like a live thing up into the slot on the left side of the feed-plate cover and from the other side spewed the smoking shining empty cases and the black hooded-links that held the belt together; the tracer streaked out along its invisible path, and the five figures were flung down as the long foresight wiped them away.
"Down a bit, Aidan!" shouted Luke between bursts, peering through his binoculars, "put a whole belt into 'em!" and the gun rattled on, dirt spouting amid and near the writhing bodies trying to stand up or crawl away but being remorselessly driven by the magic, terrible fist that was all around them.
"You bloody beauty!" The frustrations of the day lifted, were dissipated by success. "C'mon, let's getup there!"
The five lay like abandoned puppets, arms and legs at bizarre angles, weapons scattered, bags of food split, and great fans of rice flicked over the bodies and grass by the impact of the 7.62mm rounds arriving at 2,800 feet per second. All the corpses had multiple wounds: brains and entrails mixed with rice, fish, oil, and bread.
There were quickly searched, their weapons collected, and the two sobbing horrified women hustled back to the battalion where they were held in the company.
"They probably think they're gonna be raped," said Aidan. "Different game now, ay love?" Grabbing one by the hair and forcing her to look at him. "You and yer boyfriends lost this one." Teeth bared in a ferocious smile, pitiless eyes and tone of voice gave the meaning of the words even if the women couldn't understand.
It was dusk when the company area was reached. The women were tied and placed under a bush; their moaning and wailing never stopped.
"They're gonna give our position away," muttered Kelly Douglas, voicing the thoughts of each man.
"Sir, how about a pill to put 'em to sleep?"
"Okay, doc, see what you can do."
"No dice, the bitches keep spitting them out. We need to trick 'em by taking aspirin ourselves, but no go."
Dyer waited till the medic had gone, then leaned over, darker than the bushes and grass in the gloom.
"Look, Clive, they're a danger to us, no two ways about it. I'll cut their throats if you want, we'll bury them and that'll be that."
"No thanks, Kelly. Too many people have seen them, and the wheels know they're here. Gag 'em and leave 'em."
"All right, then."
Later, Dyer wondered what happened to him, that he could calmly consider cutting two throats when normally he would not abide swearing in the presence of women. Is it just the last few days or the whole thing? With a mind-chilling tremor, he realized he did not want to return to Great Britain; he would be happy, looked forward to, extending his tour and staying on with the next regiment to come over.
Staring up at the stars and clouds, Dyer admitted to himself that he was enjoying the danger, looked forward to each operation, each patrol, each ambush, each encounter. He turned onto his side, wiggled into a comfortable position, and slept like a log.
The useless probing went on till "Flash" Gordon lost three more men guiding another platoon along a track that had been cleared the evening before. As the explosion crashed out, the column halted.
"Oh, blimey," came a soft, resigned voice full of dread.
"Wait where you are," came up the line from man to man. Gordon grabbed the radio handset, called the HQ, and, frowning, set off back down the track.
Ricky McFadden sat with Clive Dyer on the edge of the HQ pits. He looked up as Gordon halted before him, the early morning sun on his freshly shaven cheeks.
"Sir, I've lost 19 men for nothing in this area. The battalion has found nothing. I protest to you now about this waste and I'll take if further if needs I must."
McFadden clenched his jaw, reddened, inhaled, and looked fiercely at the younger officer then exhaled and said, "All right, Clive. Bring 'em back. I'll stop this," turning to the silent watching signaler, "Get me brigade."
So ended the useless expenditure of flesh.
However, the god of war was preparing the dice for another roll upon which depended the fate of the ARVN unit, not safely behind its walls.423Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡW6VQApJv7w
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Back in the base camp, the task of maintaining control of the area on the north continued between operations. Return from operations, out on patrol, in from patrol, out on operations.
The platoon was providing security for the mortars, who had gone out to the edge of the river and fired across at old known camps. Not a truly exciting or dangerous task.
One man suddenly began to shake and trembled uncontrollably; tears streamed down his cheeks.
"Christ, Joe! What's up, guv'nuh?"
"I d-d-dunno. I c-can't s-stop. It's th-the m-m-mortars," hands over ears, huddled up.
"But they're firin' into D-Zone!"
"Y-Y-Y-Yeah."
"Christ, Ricky---drive over and get the boss and the medic!"
Back at the Regimental Aid-Post, Major Livingston, the medical officer, sat down and looked at the man's slumped shoulders, quivering spasms around his lips, teeth marks on knuckles where the soldier had bitten them, downcast eyes.
"Okay, Private Fox. What is your job in the section?"
"Forward scout, sir." Eyes raised for 1 moment.
"How long have you been forward scout?"
"Since we got here---six months."
"How many operations have you done?"
"The lot." Fingers drumming on thigh.
"Hmmm. And how much leave had you had?"
"Once to Saigon, sir." Fingers stop.
"All right. Do you wish to stay in the company? I can have you given a job in admin. company, you know."
Voice trembles, but eyes raised to the doctor's. "I want to stay with the section."
"Hmmm-mm. I'll see. I'll keep you here tonight, and we'll see. Okay? Now, wait in the next room, tell Staff Austin I want to see him."
"Yes, sir."
The solder went out and Livingston picked up the field telephone, ringing vigorously.
"Switch, the MO speaking. I want to speak to the CO. Hello sir, Livingston here. I'd like to speak to you about medical matters, if I may....Very well, sir."
Later....
"Good evening, sir." Stamping dirt from his boots on the steps leading to the tent.
"Ah, good evening, Logan. Sit down. Drink?"
"Oh, thank you---that's enough, thanks, sir."
"Now then," Fleming leaned back, legs clad in long trousers, sleeves rolled down as antimalarial precautions. "What do you want to see me about? Not VD, I hope?"
"No," laughing briefly, "but seriously, if VD were a problem, this one wouldn't be."
"Oh?" placing his glass on the tabletop, both feet on the floor, his hands on his thighs, Tony Fleming looked directly into the doctor's eyes. "What is it?"
"Today, I had the third case in two days of worn-out forward scouts---men who've been here for six months and have been on patrol after patrol, operation after operation. They are tired, yes, and scared. But no man can go on forever. Lord Moran puts it very well in Anatomy of Courage. Each man has a 'bank account' of courage; every time he withdraws from it, the balance dwindles. Once it's gone, it's gone. The balance can be husbanded, or eked out, and can be replenished with leave, good food, rest, and general attention to his health and hygiene."
"Yes, yes. How serious is this in the company?"
"Not really big, but that's why I'm here now, before it's reached the stage of affecting the battalion as a whole."
"Then we have problems. I can't get more leave for us; we're part of the brigade, and only 5% can go on leave at any given time, you know. More beer? films? books? sports? We've got an infantry battalion to run her! We have to run ourselves, and mount operations and secure out there up to the river," weaving toward the back of the tent. "We also are restricted to so many on the roster for the rest center at Vung Tau. HQ in Saigon and the logistic people over there," hand waved towards the tent front, "also get the use of the place."
"Well, sir, I would like to see the man who does operations get precedence for leave and rest. There are people in BHQ and admin. company who never go to operations, who have vehicles, who are in town every day and have girlfriends there. Yes, they get equal leave or more leave than the rifleman."
Tony sat for a moment, sipped his drink, then: "Very well. Thank you, Logan. I want you to work closely with your chaps in the companies----I know you do now," nodding, hand lifted to acknowledge the unspoken comment, "and keep me informed of this nerves business. We're approaching the period when it can be expected to become a problem, unless we catch it. Hmm? Finished your drink? Another?"423Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeqVeyoZKvt
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"Look, uncle, you can't stop here. It will be very dangerous if shooting starts."
"I do not care! I want to fish!"
"Whatcha gonna do, Andy, call 'im a cab?" grinned one of the onlookers.
Andy Lucas controlled his annoyance and wondered how he was going to get 80-year-old Trinh Thai Ho to voluntarily return to his home. He took the old man's tin arm and gestured over the surrounding area at the convoys rolling by, the artillery going into the position and the soldiers walking past.
"Uncle Ho, if the VC attack, you will be in danger here. If there is a battle, it will be a big one."
Ho sat in the middle of the path, arm folded, a small, defiant figure in dusty black clothes and conical straw hat, surrounded by the mechanical war machine. The wrinkled face was set, the jaw stubbornly firm.
"I want to fish!"
They had come across Ho and two woodcutters on the edge of an area abandoned by the VC, into which yet another search mission was being mounted. The woodcutters went quickly, but old Ho, with the single-mindedness of the aged, decided he would fish, foreign soldiers or not. NLF, VC, Viet Minh, French colonials, or river devils included.
Lucas turned to Fleming and gave a slight shrug. "We can't really force him to go, sir. And he's stuck on fishing."
Their problem was solved by the crash of an artillery salvo fired. Ho leaped up, old man's stubbornness replaced by old man's fear. "Hai! Hai!"
Lucas seized the chance. "Uncle Ho, you would be better at home alive with no fish, than here dead with fish."
"You are right, young man, you are right. I'm going." He swung easily onto his bicycle and pedaled quickly away down the red dirt road.
"Look at that old fart!"
"Tell ya what, if I can handle a bike like that at 80, I'll be fine."
"80 years old, eh? Christ!"
And where a battalion of ARVN drew only contempt, old Ho was admired as he pedaled away.
"We couldn't have the old bugger around. If something happened to him, it'd be a pity."
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"God, what a real bastard of an area! Everything creeps, crawls, or has thorns on it! Jeeeesus!"
Alfie Hughes lifted his sweat rag and wiped his streaming face. Moss stood in the normal stance of the laden infantryman---bent forward slightly at the waist to relieve the weight of the pack on his back, rifle balanced on right ammo pouch. Their sweat had darkened their shirt fronts, leaving the pockets as lighter rectangles; it has soaked through the shirt backs, through the canvas packs, into the contents. Where clothing or towel was used to provide a soft layer against the spine, it was also wet.
"Talk about mad dogs and Englishmen! We must be trying to catch the bastards in their hammocks. Nobody with brains moves during the middle of the bloomin' day, for fuck's sake!"
Moss didn't reply, he was feeling too ill from the heat. He jerked his head forward, informing Alfie that the line was moving. So, in the blazing noon and early afternoon hours, they moved through an area consisting of patches of jungle---tall, green, vine-draped, cool--and areas of long grass dotted with clumps and patches of shrubbery and thorn bushes. The sun bounced off the grass wringing sweat from every pore. The thought of food from the tins of rations turned stomachs.
The distant roar of jet engines turned faces up, eyes slitted against the white, blazing sun---there, four silver flat slab bellies, and rounded haunches from which rose the tall tapering tail. There they circle, silver against the azure sky, sun glinting off canopies, rolling in, level wings, diving, diving in arrow-straight line directly overhead, great flare of flame under the nose, smoke trails flick back under the silver bellies---pub, bub, bub, bub, pub, bub bub, bub, pub, bub, bub----out of sight over the treetops. Wonder what the flying qualities of the empty 20mm cannon shells are? Because there are hundreds in the air over our heads, and they could cause more than a little consternation, arriving among us at a speed of about 450 knots and from a height of 2,000 feet....
Thank Christ, moving into the cool gloom of the jungle: not very large, sunlight can be seen shining on the grass on the other side. Snapping fingers, the scouts pointing, section and platoon commander forward, "Who's that mob over there? The pricks oughta stay in their own area."
Green-clad figures with hard pith helmets are visible in the trees on the far side of the grass.
"Dunno, must be them muggers at Bravo. What d'ya reckon, boss?" turning to the lieutenant peering across the golden radiance reflected from the grass.
"Looks like Bravo over there, lost, eh, what?"
"Hmmm, looks like it. Is that Corporal McFadden near the red-flowering bush? He's the bloke who rides the motorbike back in England, isn't he?"
"I think it is, ya know," waving across the grass.
"Come on, we'll give them curry---can't read a map, the silly buggers."
"Looks like they're comin' over to us."
Both groups wade out into the waist-high grass, exchanging waves---hang on, we don't wave like that---their hats.....
"Cap! They're....."
"Hai! Dich! Dich!"
"Look out! Charlies!"
A great burst of firing shattered the afternoon calm, bark, twigs, and leaves showered from the trees as both sides blazed away, moving back out of the killing ground of the grassy knoll, into the trees.
"God, Cap! That was close!"
"Too right. Quick, Section Commanders, anyone hit?"
"All okay!"
"All here, Cap."
"We're right, too."
"Good, good. Cunning bastards, trying to lure us into a trap."
"Comrade commander, no casualties."
"Ah, good, good. Very devious, the British, are they not? Trying to lure us into a trap by waving and making friendship signs. Where there are some, we can expect to find more. We must leave fast before their artillery and aircraft fall on us. Quickly, Trong Hieu's squad as vanguard, by the northern route to Camp 12."
"Yes, comrade!"423Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3mTBRnZr3t
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As a rainy day came to an end in London, Linda Gordon put her key in the lock.
"Hello, Mrs. Gordon, Linda."
"You!" She froze with shock, at the same time trying to see him clearly through the gloom---nondescript dark trousers and jacket, dark hair, eyes shadowed, no accent, about five feet six.
"Yup. Heard from him? Tells you how he kills the women and children, does he? And tell..."
"You bastard! He's a man fighting for queen and country! Unlike you!"
"I'm gonna write to him and tell him you go out with other men. And that you go to bed with 'em!"
"I do not go to bed with other men," she flared.
"I'll tell him different," and he was gone.
Knees trembling, she entered and dropped her shopping basket and handbag, sank into a chair and tried to regain control. What to do? At least write to Flash, telling him the whole thing, emphasizing that he must not worry. Tomorrow, ring the police and army security again. First all, tea and a cigarette.423Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbrmsSyLjUn
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The helicopter thrummed up and away, and the men on the ground started distributing the rations and letters that had been delivered.
Tony Fleming walked around the perimeter of the platoon, dropping envelopes next to the prone figures.
"Baron, two for you.....Kelly, here y'go. Yer bird's written to tell ya that yer now a daddy.....Alfie.....Ted......Oscar...Sir, one for you, one for Alan, here ya are, Toby, the lucky last? None of the birds you know can write."
Scruggs tore open the white envelope, and a big smile broke. "Hello, it's from bloody Tarl Jones!"
"Yeah? What does he say?"
"Hang on, hang on. He's back in Great Britain...out at Chatham.....he's okay, got everything he should have. The Yanks wanted to cut off his legs, shit, eh?----But he wouldn't let 'em. They did a jolly good job on him, according to the doctors at Chatham....He's got plastic veins in his legs....Christ, what can't they do nowadays? But he's okay."
"Smashing, guv'nuh!"
"Yeah. Good. The ol' bastard. Probably spinning war yarns to the bloody nurses." Toby began packing the ration tins into his pack, gone the dim weight that had been in his chest since that day outside the ARVN fort, when he stood watching the helicopter lights flitting away south.423Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvJuQ8KDz3f
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Alfie Hughes checked the platoon's location on the map, then slid it back into the thigh pocket of his trousers. Another 40 minutes and he would halt them for a rest. Since Raw had gone to HQ in Saigon, he had been platoon commander, except for the 10 days Lieutenant Sweet had been with them. Now Sweet was on a light diet at the hospital, having fallen into a stormwater drain and smashed his teeth on the edge of the steel plate that served as a bridge. Unkind souls in the mess said Sweet had been pushed.
Hughes nodded to the section commander of the leading section and made a forward sweeping motion with his left arm. The kneeling scouts rose and moved off under the tall dark trees, stepping quietly through the soft green light filtering through the leaves. The platoon strung out, moving past the huge bushes, avoiding the thorns, prickles, and hooks on the leaves, branches, trunks, and vines in their path. The line curved to the right as the scouts paralleled a grassy clearing about 70 yards across---a pool of reflected molten yellow light seen through the curtain of green shrubbery.
The line halted as one man when the black-clad figure stepped out of the green curtain of the foliage at the far side of that grassy clearing. Invisible in their own jungle gloom, they watched as a second, third, fourth Charlie began crossing the sunlit patch, weapons slung or perched on their shoulder, faces shadowed under spherical-crowned cloth hats, chinstraps hanging loose to the base of their throat, checked scarves around their neck.
Hughes looked left and right and decided he had no time to alter greatly his dispositions: the platoon was already in a curve around the clearing, so here merely waved them forward, closer to the edge. Faces were determined, smiling or worried, depending on the outlook of the man. Hughes halted, extending both arms sideways from the shoulders, parallel to the ground, stopping the platoon; weapons came up as the shooters remained standing, knelt or lay down, depending on the weapon and field of fire.
No. 3 Company of the 2nd Battalion, Q018 Regiment, was moving southwest to a Battalion RV, No. 8 Platoon leading. They were making good time. Platoon Commander Tri Huu estimated after another four hours' travel, they would be well out of the area where they might meet foreign troops. Then the battalion would attack their guns from the rear. Tri Huu grimaced as he stepped out into the furnace heat of the sun; in front, the backs of the 2 leading men swayed as they waded through the high grass: "Oh, it's so hot," only a few paces, and they would be in the cool green shadows.
A wall of noise slammed out, and in the moment before, he was blown off his feet; Tri Huu saw many muzzle flashes in the gloom before him. He lay on his back, staring at the grass glistening before his eyes, curving away up to the blue sky. As he watched, several stalks were severed by an invisible sickle and toppled. He was aware of the roar of firing and screams and cries from his own people. Something was tugging at his pack; he turned his head and saw Vong of the 9th Platoon pulling him back by the pack strap. Tri Huu lay quietly, unresisting; he would have to conserve his energy for the hours' long journey by stretcher through the jungle to the hospital, with its white-gowned staff under the tall trees. Looking down over his reddened shirt front, he saw he was leaving a wet-glistening crimson trail in the grass; busy ants were already investigating it.
The return fire prevented any maneuvers by Hughes, and realizing he had hit a numerically superior force, he withdrew 75 yards to his left rear, went into all-around defense and began to call in artillery,, and air strikes before moving.
Meanwhile, Quyen Van, the commander of 3 Company, was organizing the evacuation of the many dead and wounded, and the retrieval of as many packs and weapons as possible. He decided to use one squad to fight any rear guard or decoy actions; everybody else would be needed to carry the dead, wounded, and equipment. His aim now was preservation of his company; they must get as far as possible away from this place as fast as possible. The enemy artillery and aircraft would be upon them at any time!
"Mau len! (Faster!)
For some reason, the enemy fire had slackened.
"Mau len!"
Mac Huy, the political officer, knelt by one of the wounded, deftly fastening a bandage around the bleeding neck. Quyen Van halted. "We must move in one minute, comrade."
Turning to the commander of 7 Platoon. "Comrade Nghiem. send 3 men as a vanguard, we are moving to Camp 31."
Beckoning the remaining platoon commander to join their little group. Quyen glanced around the scene comrades dragging dead and wounded by, others bent under their loads of weapons and packs, yet others firing into the jungle around the clearing. The slaughter had been so great and so sudden that there had been no time to begin outflanking movements, and by great good fortune, the enemy seemed to have been a small group, but he had no time to pursue them now. Quyen addressed his absence of three, "Comrades, we are going to Camp 31."
Tri Huu nodding approval.
"Three men of 7 Platoon lead the way, then 7 with the dead and wounded, 9 with more wounded and packs and weapons, then the rear guard, the remainder of 8. Questions? Good, quickly now!"
The heavily laden groups moved away, swinging into the gliding, jogging, mile-eating pace of the Asian burden-carrier. Behind them the rear guard surveyed the scene: ripped and splintered tree trunks, reek of gunfire, crushed bushes and trodden down grass, empty cartridge cases, blood-stained clothing, a hat, smell of blood, a riddled and tattered pack, pools of blood, and a puddle of brains with eager flies swarming and busy disciplined columns of ants. On the far side of the new disturbed grass in its pool of golden light, the impressive green jungle stared back at them.
The first artillery round impacted with a roar 200 yards to their right rear: time to go.423Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIDmQlLc5tD
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The bus grumbled away down the street in a cloud of diesel fumes, and Veronica Quaid trotted up the steps to the apartment block, inserted the small key into the door of the mail box, and withdrew a half-dozen letters. Crumpling the advertising blurbs, she dropped them into a handy cigarette tray at the elevator door.423Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwyHZFTU8gu
Upstairs, with tea and a cigarette, she read the letters, keeping the two from Aidan till last. Instead of the written word, she seemed to hear his voice speaking, could see him smiling as he related the anecdotes, see his eyes as the endearments flowed.
Finished, she carefully placed them with all the others in the drawer of the bedside table and stood before a photograph of him at the Thackeray Arms Hotel, outside on the terrace. Aidan just beginning to smile at a remark, looking around at the camera, and in the background London Bridge and a passing freighter.
With her fingertips she gently touched the photo, murmuring, "Aidan, Aidan....please be careful, come back safe to me," a deep breath, "but until then I have to live. I'm not going to be a cabbage. I love you, but I must live while you're over there."
Turning, she placed him in the part of her mind and soul she reserved for them both, where they lived their happiness of bygone days and hopes for the days to come---the happiness when he returned; she drew the screen and opened the part for living today and now.
She undressed and went into the shower. Scotty Harrison had an exhibition by a new Welsh artist at Clenningdon and she wanted to be there before everything was plastered with red dots.
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