x
In the long, dark dining tent there was little conversation: 5:30 A.M. is not the best time for lively chatter and hearty appetites. The eaters chewed their ritual bacon, the smokers sat half asleep, hand cupping the steel canteen mugs.
Outside, another colorful tropical sunrise gradually blossomed over the eastern horizon, the rose and pink pearl-shell sky brightening, lightening, and suddenly the day was there.
"All right, fall out on the road!'
Silently, the platoons formed up, sergeants' and officers' dark shapes standing slightly apart.
"Okay, Basil, lead off."
Down the dirt track through the grass, the first sun's rays casting elongated shadows, striding out, settling quickly into the old familiar pace, past the battalion HQ area, down to the APCs and ACVs. Steel aluminum boxes on tracks, great slab sides as high as a man's head. Everyone rides on top, being caught inside one blowing up on a mind is what everyone wants to avoid. Riding on top means a chance of being thrown clear.
The British ACVs are diesel-powered, while the US APCs are gasoline driven; gasoline ignites more easily than diesel, and who wants to be trapped inside a burning steel box?
So climb aboard and establish yourself on the top deck, sitting on pack, or on the open slab of top hatch. It is cooler, there's a view, and it is much more comfortable anyway.
The engines start their growling, the first squat shape rumbles out, the second, the third, and then there is a long line of them, "tracks," rumbling along the bitumen-surfaced road, through towns and villages, past the early-morning market-goers, and then the later traffic---vegetables loaded in bullock cart or van, children going to school, and people going---well, wherever they wish to go.
In the cool of the morning it was a pleasant journey, despite the tiring vibration and engine noise, and steel corners to gouge hips and sides.
At last, rumbling through the streets of the district town of My Binh. Last time the helicopters flew over, the sky was gray. This time, it is a sunny, cool morning. Roaring, rocking, pivoting through the narrow-dusty French colonial streets, flanked by rows of wooden, tile-roofed shops, houses, and offices, the rare brick or stone building of two or three stories, balustraded and shuttered, in a peeling coat of yellow or white, dirty, moss-streaked in vertical strokes where guttering has leaked for months. The shrubs are hibiscus, bougainvillea, poinciana, and frangpaini; hydrangeas are the most prized, proudly displayed, and lovingly tended.
Through the central square, halting on the edge of town; ahead of the river, bridged by a steel affair, then an expanse of bright green paddie, and on the far side, the rising ground covered in the darker green of bush and scrub. On the very skyline, next to the road climbing the rise, a little defense post, tiny yellow flag fluttering bravely against the blue sky, defiant in its isolation.
The Tommies, by training and experience wary of large open spaces, started muttering about the halt. Over there is the enemy. Why halt this side of the river, this side of the open space?
As the wait becomes longer and longer, several of the inquisitive get down to stretch their legs. Fleming, relying on the revving of engines starting to warn him in time to get back, walks to the market and buys bananas and grapefruits, returning to the track to share with the Tommies and the Yank crew.
"What the hell are we waiting for?"
Next to the M113 is the rice co-op, floor and outside platforms dotted white, the rusted corrugated roof and peeling cement walls contrasting with the palms and shrubs in luxuriant spread around it.
Suddenly out of the sunny, cumulus-dotted sky, great rolling beats of thunder. Where is the storm? Heads turning---and over the skyline, in the brush and jungle, long strips of upflinging billowing gray---and again---a giant's footsteps.
B52s: there, away up in the blue, so far away that they could not be responsible for the great rolling, drumming thunder those innocent silver specks sailing backward and forward.
"Well, there you go, ay! Twenty trips like that and an Air Medal! You're in the wrong outfit, Yank," tapping the smiling M113 crew commander on the shoulder.
"Hey, hey, you buy? You buy?" Down below, a flat basket full of bananas and pineapples, stands a smiling aged lady; the ever-present trading spirit has decided to take advantage of the long-halted line of potential customers.
"Yeah? Okay, how much banana? Er, Christ, er---bao new chewey, hey?"
"Chuoi, ha? Okay, fi'p," holding up five fingers.
Soon, the long line of tracks was flanked by fruit and drink vendors doing a roaring business.
"Hey, mama-san---chewey, hey bao new?"
"Chuoi, ha? Ten p."
"They were only a bloody five two minutes ago!"
"Ten p., I say!"471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1jDdmOJSv2
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡb6zpjuvTCD
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡb00E4T6dZt
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSafEurjUUp
"Okay, get down, we're securing the bridge and this bank. Company HQ in that building," from the company sergeant major "Baron" Roach.
"Hey, that's a bloody pigsty, CSM!"
"Yeah, ye'll be right at home," from a rifle platoon member.
"Don't take yer webbin' off, we won't recognize ya!" from another.
"Smart bastards!"
The remaining companies marshaled themselves and rolled across the bridge, along the raised road and began the climb to the skyline. Undismayed, or maybe stirred up by the B52s, the local guerillas opened fire on the advancing armored vehicles, wounding two Tommies. Return fire sprayed the trees, the carriers roared up over the skyline, and silence fell.471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMEQ92tNtMg
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKBrD363zJY
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfkVAfqL0Lj
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwaS44ETdf4
The battalion settled into the rubber plantation on the right of the road, dug in, cooked, and waited for w hat promised to be an interesting night.
The clouds dissipated, leaving a clear velvet sky and bright moon. Under the rubber trees was inky, black; beyond the edge of the plantation fence wires gleamed, running left and right. Behind it, the road shone gray/white, and the jungle on the far side spread a moonlit backdrop. Under the tree, kneeling in their pits, the men waited quietly in the friendly darkness, until the whispered "stand-down" began the succession of 2- hour sessions behind the machine gun, awake in case of attack.
Vũ, Trọng, and Tấn met in the shadow of Duong's house, whispered for a moment, and set off up the path that would bring them out into the road that skirted the rubber plantation. They had carried out similar harassing actions against ARVN units several times and were among the most experienced in their unit. At the rendezvous, they exchanged grins in the night with the other twelve, all keen to show those foreigners what it meant to enter the "Iron Triangle."
Ly, who had fought the French, adjusted his US M1 carbine as he spoke quietly, "Comrades, you are our vanguard," touching Vu, Trong and Tan lightly on the shoulder, "and we will exploit your scouting. When the enemy seeks to rest, harass him, and that is what we shall do again. The puppet 7th Battalion of the 5th Regiment has learned it is better to sit in their base camp than to go outside. We shall reconnoiter these foreigners and report to our comrades in the district committee."
Trong felt a great surge of elan pump through him as he looked around the squatting figures in the moonlight and shadow. Together, they had carried out many tasks for the Front. Tonight, he, Vu and Tan would again do well.
Footfalls soundless in the dust, the three walked with the speed of long familiarity up the track that shone softly under the moon. Their black-clad figures cast moon-shadows over the dark grass with its silver filigree edges and spines painted by the moonlight. Under the inky shadow-blob of the old mango tree on the crest, then out into the road, now onto the path following the plantation fence. Tan, in the lead, turned and indicated the fence----the place to cross it. Helping each other with the bags of grenades and M1 carbine, they quickly, but without any effort at stealth, climbed over and walked toward the rubber plantation's darkness.
Having operated many times against the puppet troops with their Yankee advisers, they knew no enemy was near: no cigarettes glowed, no smoke hung in the air, no radios crackled or spoke, no transistors mumbled faintly, no coughs, no hawking and spitting.
Tan was almost into the shadow when he saw a faint glistening in a patch of moonlight and leaned forward to peer at it as the world ended in the soundless orange flash. He never heard the machine gun that killed him from 10 feet away. Vu and Trong turned to run in the moonlight, perfect targets in its beautiful light, and died so close to Tan that the three bodies overlapped, outflung arms and legs intermingling.
Silence. Overhead, the moon continued its impersonal journey, and its light moved off the tent it had found through the gap in the leaves, painting it with the silver that had caught Tan's eye in his final two seconds of life.
Ly and the others at the mango tree waited for the sounds that would advise them the "vanguard three" were alive---grenade bursts, flat M1 cracks, and return fire----nothing.
"Hai, Bang, come with me. Nhat, wait with the others here. We must locate the enemy and our brave comrades!"
More carefully now, keeping to the shadows, Ly and Bang crept forth. Ly's sense of survival told him to remain out of the moonlight near the fence. Halting behind a large bush, he put out one hand to stop Bang, took out a grenade, pulled the pin, and threw it as far as he could toward the inky dappled area under the rubber trees---bam!---silence.
"Have they gone?" Ly was too experienced to accept that. Another grenade, and again silence. Nothing moved under the rubber trees. Creeping to another position, Ly and Bang carefully scanned the area in front. What was that unnatural thing at the edge of the rubber plantation? A strange tangle of light and shadow, Ly heard Bang's sharp intake of breath, and he leaned closer, placing his ear to Bang's mouth.
"There," pointing finger silhouetted, "the three of them together."
Ly concentrated and suddenly the odd tangle of light and shadow resolved into the unmoving bodies, arms, and legs of their three comrades.
Ly felt the hair lift up on his nape; under the cloak of the rubber-tree shadow lurked death: implacable, impersonal, final.
Though he knew now it was useless, they threw their remaining grenades into the silent, unresponding trees, returned to the waiting group under the mango tree and dispersed.
The dawn light crept up over the sky, seeping under the rubber canopy, and gradually the occupants of the other pits became visible: first, dark shapes, then the difference in texture of earth, leaves, shirts, skin, and hair became apparent. The brown wood and black metal of rifle, brass of machine gun belt, dark shadow pools of eyes in stubbled faces, quietly, patiently waiting for "stand-down." The clearing patrol quietly drifts around its arc, fills in, and sinks into its individual pits. Nothing.
Three places from the machine guns by the stiff bodies---Vu face up, eyelids drooping over cold glass eyes staring down that long distance.
"Hey, look at this bastard," nudging Vu with a red-dirt encrusted boot, "he was selling bloody pineapples back in town yesterday!"
"Yer fuckin' right, guv'nuh. The lil' prick!"
"The "Baron" looked up from searching the bodies, "Private Gibson, don't touch those grenades! We don't know how they've been treating them, or what condition they're in. The Pioneers will look after them. Unload the M1 and take it over to CHQ."471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDxQA4VifNw
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqKrgjTOhpg
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWKVTUjfzYs
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqvkn61vZVa
David Lloyd-Chapman lay on his stomach, shadowed by the broad-leaved bush, staring out at the expanse of jungle. Nothing stirred under the hot sun. The rich green tropical growth was motionless under the blazing sun.
"Fuckin' hell. There's no bastard out there." Faintly behind him, he could hear the chunk of digging at the company position.
Fumbling at his thigh pocket, Lloyd-Chapman pulled out the American paperback he'd bought at the PX. Opening it, he began to read the exploits of the hard-fisted, hard-drinking private eye. Lying like this was uncomfortable, so gradually Lloyd-Chapman drew himself into a sitting position, webbing hanging open, rifle across knees, book open. The sun slid around, and Lloyd-Chapman was sitting in a patch of sunlight. A shadow moved across the page, and he looked up, frowning, as Ly pushed the M1 muzzle to within inches of his eyes and fired. Lloyd-Chapman's head snapped back, but his body stayed upright, blood and brains running down his shirt and across the pages where....
"Hell Hutchinson drew his fingernails gently up the length of one firm white thigh, looking deep into her blue eyes now dark with passion."
"In-fuckin'-credible," snarled Oscar Scar. "Reading a fuckin' shag book on sentry. A total waste. His parents raised him. He joined up. He's been trained, paid, fed, clothed, and brought here to soldier. All he had to do was lie there and stay awake! Commonsense should have told him. Ah, what's the bloody use? He's dead 'cause of his own stupidity, his mates have got to do more now, the army's got to send his body back and bury it, his parents and friends are going to grieve, and we've got to fly another Tommy out here 'cause that lad lacked self-discipline. An total waste, just a bloody waste!"
Seizing his entrenching tool, he expended his anger on the rich red soil at the bottom of his pit. The surrounding Tommies at BHQ discreetly remained quiet, watching the red soil fly up out of the excavation.471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAmTVc9reoD
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ1OYheVzrg
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQMgU2iYrPY
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfMiicnvoVI
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡox77WyHxkH
Scruggs became aware of Finley shaking his shoulder, his face frowning with worry.
"Skip! Come on! Skip!"
As the black treacle surged back into that bottomless pit under his skull, Scruggs sighed and resigned himself to the inevitable interview with the CO and medical officer. Whatever this darkness was that overwhelmed him when shots were fired in the real thing, he would have to speak of it.
"Okay, Alan. It's all right."
And with the words, Scruggs understood what was meant, what Finley had decided, and relief and compassion mixed in his gaze.471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgIMdVgzGT0
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ04yMTFBAB3
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYBgcHu4TbM
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡX4WKzBV5ej
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQGDGNKL1PO
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHizf6zGWo3
Not knowing of Lloyd-Chapman's death or the RSM's rage, Corporal Trevor Manuel of D Company led two of his soldiers out to the position selected as the company sentry place, on the edge of the minor growth under the older trees lying fallow, the position commanded a good view out over the lower, sparser growth extending all the way to the road. The 2 privates settled down in the growth, observing the sunlit scene before them. Nothing moved, nothing happened, the sun beat down.
"Hey," whispered Tarl Jones to Matteo Moss, "I wish to Christ I was back in Mother England on a day like this. Go out to Blackpool or Brighton...." His voice trailed off, eyes blank, mind visualizing the golden sand, shining rocks, blue sky and sea, bikinis, cold cans of Heineken.
"Hmmm, bloody terrific," agreed Moss.
"Christ, all them hawkers around the town yesterday, not a bloody one to be seen. I could really have a fresh pineapple, Mossy."
"Shut up an' fuck ya, Matt."
"Look, there's no bastard around here. There hasn't been a thing since we got here. All these wogs are in their hammocks at this time of day. Let's have a cup o' tea, eh?"
"What? Here?"
"Yeah, come on."
"Aw, I dunno, bloody hell, Matt," voice trailing away in doubt.
"Come on," Jones opening his little pack and removing solid fuel, folding metal burner, tea and sugar, tin of rations and opener.
"I'm goin' out here in the clear ground."
Moss followed, and the two picnickers sat comfortably against adjoining trees, fires flaming merrily under metal canteen cups, opening tins of rations and chattering about leave.
Ly and Bang, cautiously threading their way through the jungle growths, caught the whiff of the distinctive fumes from the solid fuel. They exchanged glances, crouched lower, and crept forward.
Peering up the lane that had previously been an access road but was now growing over, they saw a lovely target. Two foreigners, backs towards them, busily cooking.
The Vietnamese crouched and very carefully scanned the area, bush by bush, shadow by shadow, open dirt areas, inch by inch, to find any sign of a trap or other Britons: nothing.
Ly smiled at Bang, tapped his own M1 and pointed to the man on the right, reached out, tapped the barrel of Bang's PPS M1943 and pointed to the man on the left. Bang nodded and started to raise the Russian submachine gun, perforated barrel-jacket edges gleaming in the sun where the blueing had worn off.
Moss leaned sideways to stir his tea and Ly fired; the rounds hit him in the shoulder, instead of the head. Bang saw dirt and leaves leaping around his target, then both green figures were gone into the denser growth.
Ly and Bang were already running, dodging through the bushes and trees.
Back under the rubber plantation, in its cool, muted green light, CHQ and the remaining platoon were seizing weapons and tumbling into pits. Through the rubber trees, two hatless, weaponless figures came running, staggering, and collapsed at the CHQ pits. The medic was up and examining the prone, gasping figures before the 1st question could be shot at them.
"Don't know----what happened---ow! We were---quietly there, and they shot us---ow! Bugger ya, Blue, go easy!"
"Baron" Roach stood, looking at the wounds, eyes narrowed, "Private Jones, how it is you're shot in the back of the shoulder, and you, Moss, are shot in the arse? Come on!"
"Er---ouch---they musta got behind us, sir."
Turning to "Flash" Gordon, "Baron" snapped, "I think they're pissed off. I only heard one M1 and the burp gun. How about if I take a section out and check the area?"
"Hmmm, okay, CSM. Take the platoon radio. Mr. Gordon," raising his voice across the intervening fifty yards, "the CSM will take one of your sections and your radio to sweep the area," pointing in the direction from which the two bleeding figures had come.
"Right, sir. Corporal Nelson, saddle up. Adam," to the signaler, "you too."
The section climbed out, buckled up their webbing belts, gave weapons a final check, and moved into a dispersed line, silhouetted against the light seeping under the edge of the rubber-tree canopy.
The medic examined the wounds in Jones's buttock, took a scalpel from his medical kit, and sliced along a dark swelling. He placed both thumbs alongside the cut and pushed: out popped a bloody black blob. He picked it up with tweezers, sloshed water over it, and placed it in Jones's hand.
"There ya go, Jonsey, souvenir. 7.92 burp-gun slug. The Yanks'll dig out the other back there."
Turning to "Flash" Gordon, he asked, "How about we get 'em moving up the to the pad, sir?"
"Flash" Gordon glanced toward the area. "Baron" was sweeping, frowned and nodded. "Okay, Private Moss, you can walk. Two of you take Jones over on a stretcher."
Saplings were quickly cut, trimmed, and pushed through the sleeves along the edge of the li-lo cover. Jones was placed face down, bandaged bare buttocks ignominiously displayed under flapping shirt tails---while flesh contracting strongly with green cloth---and carried away with Moss walking alongside, out of the life of the company.471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡia3KWWRfXU
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOGsIVdLYsk
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp1ZdmOuWte
Captain Alfie Hughes stepped inside Ted Raw's tent at the main camp. The second-in-command was shirtless, seated at his blanket-covered field table, fingers tapping on a sheet of paper on the table top.
"You want to see me, sir?"
"Ah yes. Teddy, sit down. Smoke?"
"Thank you, sir."
"Your Pioneers did a good job with the battalion sign; it's the biggest and best in the area. What I want now is the tallest flagpole in the area. The engineers will build it; you put it up. Look at this: it will show you where and how big to construct the bases for the pole and the guy wires."
"Ah yes. You're having it made of waterpipe, sir?"
"Yes. We've got it, haven't we?"
"Yes, sir, but...."
"No buts, Captain. This battalion is going to have the tallest flagpole."
"I'll see to it, sir."471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaYjVn5cjIN
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxdnvzcFhPi
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ00WbIQyGcO
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡD1UUyQtfSP
"Well, RSM, here's our flagpole."
"Big one, sir."
"Hmm-mmh. The tallest one in the area."
"It looks as if it's made of waterpipe. It won't support its own weight, you know, sir."
"RSM, I don't want to hear why it won't do this, can't do that. We'd get nowhere if I listened to all the negative thinkers around here. Now get those Pioneers busy!"
"Yes, sir!"
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjbDANpiLGU
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtqaJ9Amrta
"Well, there she goes, RSM, what did I tell you," as the tall, slender white flagpole with its cross bar rose elegantly against the blue sky and stood with the sun gleaming on its freshly-painted surfaces, then gracefully curtsied---bending at ankle, knee, waist, and neck----and subsided into the red dust of the parade ground.
The RSM stood silently, knowing he would never utter one of the several witty, scathing remarks flitting through his mind.
"Humph. Well yes. RSM, get that truck up here and get it removed. A shorter one will still be taller than the one at brigade."471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNU01zvKX7s
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaIzAOFRuda
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPZ7RSxrQxG
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡF7vEvnabNC
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8kfpv1S7z3
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡElcRAA2ghg
Linda Gordon put down her novel as the doorbell rang, rose, smoothed her skirt, and opened the door.
A man stood at the bottom of the two steps that led up to the entrance to the ground floor flat rented by the Gordons in preference to an army married quarters. They had no children and preferred to live in town.
"Yes?"
"Mrs. Gordon? Wife of Major Gordon?"471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2KD4UOCjUy
"Yes." Had something happened to "Flash?" No, the army would inform her; the visitor in that event would be wearing uniform. Or it would be Lois Fleming. Or a padre, or all three.471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUv9Qdp9wTQ
The man lowered his head into his shoulders, looked up from his eyebrows and gave a little smile. "Your husband's a murderer. He's killing women and children. He's fucking Vietnamese harlots. You married a monster."
"What? Who are you?" Hand at her throat, Linda stepped a half-pace back. Seeing this, the creature placed one foot on the bottom step.
"A monster, a murderer. He oughta get what he deserves."
"Get out. I'll ring the police!"
"You haven't got a phone, Mrs. Gordon. I looked in the phone book."
"You despicable little man! I'll scream!"
"Goodbye." Turning, he walked quickly away and was lost in the night.
Linda shut the door and sank back into the chair. Who was he? What did he want? What did he mean about "Flash"? How did he know the address? Had he checked the phone? Was he still out there?
Switching on all the lights, she examined the window latches: nothing. Then rage ignited at the rear of her brain. Who the hell did he think he was coming here, spreading his poison on "Flash" and herself. But how did he know? Would he come back?
The neighbors? In the year that they had been there, she and "Flash" had become acquainted with, and friends of, several other couples in the building. Mostly childless or with one small child; the other people were either under thirty or over sixty.
She made coffee and sat, brows knitted, trying to make sense of the visit.
Next day, from her desk at the office in the city, she telephoned the police, the army security branch, Lois Fleming, and her own brother, who also lived in London, so that evening she had several callers. The police and security men departed to compare her description of the man with their records. Lois and her brother Freddy settled back with their second tea.
"Look, Linda," said Freddy, knees crossed and fingers drumming on the chair arm, "it's no real problem for Lottie and me to stay with you or for you to stay with us. You're very welcome."
"Or with me," offered Lois. "Now that the children are at school, I'm going mad trying to keep busy on those committees."
Linda thought for a moment, then raised her eyes to each in turn.
"That's very very kind. Thank you both, but why should I run and let that little worm win? No! And please don't suggest a phone. All that means to me now is obscene phone calls. He's talking rubbish, but somehow he knows who I am. I want to find out how he knew."
"Now look, don't do anything foolish. I'll be over tomorrow to put a deadlock on the door, and a bolt and chain."
"I'm not going to do anything foolish, but somehow he has access to information about me: where I live and what "Flash" does, for a start. Perhaps he could do the same thing to some poor woman who can't stand it as well as I. Now, don't worry. I'll be all right. Have you heard from the colonel?"
"Yes, they're all doing magnificently," and the talk turned to other matters.
ns 15.158.61.20da2
