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"Wonder what training camp these leeches come from? Look at 'em, charging like screamin' hordes, they is."
"I've seen Malaya, Congo, the training camps in British Guiana, and I've never seen 'em like this, never."
Searching along creeks in the southern edge of the main mass of jungle, thousands upon thousands of leeches were encountered. Men would move along till the first one was seen on somebody---then the whole platoon began to itch and felt leeches all over them. Some men couldn't hear them, others ignored them totally, most endured them until the halts, then burned the swollen dark blobs or sprinkled salt, or mosquito repellent, on them. But still they came, with their obscene blind seeking, stretching, waving, sensing, and rushing towards the victim with the horrible sequence of stretch out, head down, and forward to join the head in a loop, stretch out again. Where one found a place, others followed: entry through the rips in the cloth, the eyelet of a boot, the gap between trouser and boot topo, on hands and arms, through trouser flies, waistbands, on necks, ears and faces, or even by penetrating the weave of cloth.
On the move, men's attention was on their surroundings, halted, they looked down to see the black monsters on exposed flesh or clustered in hideous clumps of six, eight, twelve around their calves. In the gloom of the jungle floor, mates checked each other's heads and back for the little devils. Everyone dreaded having one craw up to, or into, a body cavity, which happened but rarely. Men walked on with lower trouser legs, socks and canvas jungle boots stiff with blood where the leech clusters had sucked. Blood flowed after they'd been removed as nature had provided the leeches with an anticoagulant to ensure that the supply kept coming.
"Dunno what we're fightin' 'em for over this part of the bloody country," whispered Alfie Hughes to Fleming at one of the halts.
Kelly Douglas paused, squeezing mosquito repellent onto a writhing mass on his left calf. "Wonder how the Charlies' wenches get on? How do they get on if these fuckin' things crawl up 'em?"
"God, Douglas, you think of the nicest things....."
"Well, how do they?"
"Ask the next one ya see, don't ask me!"
"Christ, look at a man, will ya? If Julia could see me now!"
Fleming stood up, hands and arms held out form his sides: sweat-backed shirt, arms torn by thorns, filthy trousers and knees showing, green canvas jungle boots split from toe to heel and at the folds of each face.
"These J-boots are a waste of time. I've only worn these on three ops---20 days walking. Look at 'em. Soles good for a 1,000 miles, tops gone in a couple of weeks. Never again, guv'nuh."
"Saddle up. The boss wants to get to the LZ for tomorrow before we base up for the night.
All around in the dark, damp vine-hung jungle on the creek bank, men were shrugging into webbing, heaving packs onto backs, putting out cigarettes, standing ready to move in the soft mass of leaves and dirt, looking over and through the green palms and ferns.
Far away, muffled by distance and intervening trees, the artillery was booming without letup, a constant roaring like the crushing surf on the rocky Cornwall coast; flight after flight of jets roared over, unseen, hidden by the many interlacing branches and leaves.
"There's something goin' on---d'ye hear that?"
"Yeah. Must be over on the other side of the river where the Yanks are. They're firing away from us---we can't hear 'em land, and the jets are fairly high when they're over us."
All afternoon the rumbling continued, like the ominous jungle drums of Hollywood.
Farther to the east, Dunkin's company moved through the dark dripping mass of trees, vines, and ferns, climbing over rotten trunks. The scouts knelt and gave the enemy sign. Ahead was a bizarre sight in the darkening jungle benches and lecterns in areas cleared of undergrowth. No signs of life. The ground sloped away to a small creek climbing to a hilltop, the company objective for the day. Darkness was 45 minutes away.
As the lead section began to skirt the cleared areas, a lone Charlie carrying a weapon suddenly leaped from his hiding place and ran pell-mell down the slope. Two shots cracked out and he went down, rolling over and over. As the section commander searched the body, Eddie Osborn fingered his jaw with a huge hand and surveyed the area through narrowed eyes: the lecterns and benches, cleared undergrowth creek and rising ground. Turning to the lieutenant who was examining the captured rifle. "Sir, we'd better be careful. This is a closed training area, set up for lectures an' all that. They're probably just up on the high ground across the creek," gesturing with one huge hand, "and in a proper camp, goin' by this."
"I don't think so, Sergeant."
"Sir, that bloke was obviously the sentry, trying to get back across the creek. Look at him---he hadn't been traveling today, he's not a courier. They're up there."
"Hmmm," in a disagreeing tone. "We're going across, it's getting across, it's getting dark."
The leading platoon quickly splashed across the creek and began climbing the slope in the failing light, front section spread out almost abreast as they clambered up, using saplings and roots as handholds, to assist.
Dale Ball panted as he grabbed the big root, one of a mass above ground around the base of the great trees, and pulled himself and his M60 up the last couple of feet. He stepped forward, placing his feet among the mass of roots, and looked up to see across the darkening hill top clear of undergrowth---frame shelters, log bunkers, cleared paths---in the second before the winking light on the ground slammed into his chest, and he found himself lying in the mass of roots.
Two grinning Asians jumped up from the pit five yards away and began to climb over the roots toward him.
"The M60---you bastards...." With a supreme effort, unaware of the blood pouring from his mouth, Ball tilted his machine gun and, using the root as a pivot, riddled the two, flinging the bodies away with the impact of the 7.62mm rounds, before the light exploded in his head, as the Charlie machine gun fired into his prone body again.
Five other men had been hit and lay on the crest or at the top of the slope. The next sections reached the crest, firing at and throwing grenades at the bunkers in reach, but nothing could survive above ground on that hilltop, and they were driven back, taking what wounded they could with them.
Two men still lay close to the Charlie guns, Ball and Tom Garrick, ace snooker player of the company. He was behind a tree, out of reach of the Charlie fire, but badly wounded in the body.
"Hey sir," called El Thomas to the platoon commander, "get someone to cover us, and Tom and me'll go up after Huxley."
"We will?" from Tom.
"Yeah, why not? I've always wanted to get onto that good lookin' sister of his, now's the chance!"
"Aw, thought it might be the £50 he borrowed off ya to go on leave with. Glad to see it's not money ya thinkin' of. Just yer dick, as always."
"Well, you're gonna help me, ain't ya? You're my mate, ain't ya?"
"Fuck you, Thomas."
With the section grenading over the crest, Thomas and Garrick crawled up the slope and reached the wounded man.
"We won't get him down with all this gear on---watch those grenades, Tom."
Ball had been struck by several rounds, one of which had passed through the side of one of his grenades without setting it off. The yellow filling and notched spring wire insides were visible through the rent in the olive casing.
"Okay, that's his gear undone. Tuck his hands inside his waistband, we'll have to keep his arms in. Don't worry about the blood and dirt, the medics can have him later, okay? We'll slide back down, pulling a leg each."
Raising his voice. "Okay, you mob! Here we come!"
Keeping as low as possible, they slid feet first over the crest, pulling Ball behind, amid a constant showering of dirt, leaves, and splinters as the Charlies fired on the spot but could not bring fire to bear into the shallow dip.
Eddie Osborn had returned three times to try and recover Ball's body, but his legs were tangled in the roots of the tree. Each time Eddie grabbed the pack, entrenching tool handle or waterbottle, and pulled, the Charlie put another burst into the body. Finally, Roach, the battalion, ordered Eddie not to go up the slope again.
"He's had it, Sergeant Osborn. We'll only lose more men."
Eddie heaved a big sigh, starting up the slope to where the pitted tree marked Ball's resting place.
"Fuck you!"
Roach wasn't sure who the remark was aimed at.
While the depleted platoon was trying to fight its way over the crest, Thomas was calling for artillery and sending a platoon around to the flank. As they moved swiftly around, climbing the slope, a platoon of Charlies appeared on the crest, and their fire brought the move to a stoop.
The platoon went to ground, returning fire. These Charlies were good, they had reconnoitered the ground and preselected machine gun positions to defend such flanking movements.
John Holden's section lay behind a huge fallen tree, over 4 feet in diameter, which sheltered them from the machine gun sweeping the slope.
The lead section of Red Wesson's platoon, attempting the second flanking move, came running around the slope through the green darkness, under faintly gleaming ferns and palms, and rested for a moment behind Lew Thornton's men. All seemed to be quiet here, though heavy firing continued behind.
Cecil Milburn peered through the dim light up the dark slope. "Right, we'll go up here---hey, John, what're you bastards here for?"
"There's a fucking machine gun right on this tree, that's why! Don't go over there!"
"Aw, bullshit! Come on my section, over this tree, don't worry about these cunts, step on 'em. Right? Over we go and up!"
The section struggled up the fallen tree, sitting, kneeling, or straddling its mossy dark body, and the Charlies raked the length of the trunk with a long burst, driving the surprised and scared but uninjured section backward in a swelter of arms and legs, hats, weapons, curses, woofs of expelled breath as they hit the ground, flying splinters, bark, and lumps of moss. The two section commanders lay close together. Holden's men swearing at the second lot who'd fallen back on them; Milburn glanced down the wriggling mass of green-clad bodies and at the splinters flying from the trunk as the machine gun asserted its domination of the slopes, looked at Holden's annoyed face, smiled. "You're right you know, John."
The 3rd and last platoon, moving behind the prone second one engaging the enemy on the crest, had hardly got beyond them when they too encountered Charlies trying to outflank. The darkness now was almost night, and Thomas regrouped across the creek, having lost about 20% of his company in the battle, and having still not defined the enemy location or strength: night was upon him and he had wounded to succor.
No artillery had been provided: two gunships had buzzed over, spraying the area with rockets and 7.62mm machine gun fire, which was next to useless in the thick jungle canopy. During the night, two of the wounded died: Garrick was the second.
Thomas was ordered to leave the area before first light and make his way to the location by Gordon's company.
On the other side of the river, the American battalions were also searching, pushing their way up the jungle-covered ridges and creek banks. Preliminary airstrikes had gone in on locations reported to be held by the enemy. Unbeknownst to the Americans, one strike had hit a rich target: the headquarters of Q013. Rescue work was still in progress as the Americans landed and began moving toward the HQ location. Quickly, two battalions advanced to engage the Americans, who were not sure the Charlies were there anyway. But the Charlies knew the Americans were and so they had the advantage.
The Americans were strung out, three companies ahead of one another; the Charlie battalions sprang their trap, catching the Yanks in a dip between the two ridges. The two US companies in the rear fought their way to the top of a ridge, waiting for the leading, surrounded company to struggle through to them. Forcing their way through the jungle, carrying their wounded, fighting off attacks by the assaulting battalion of Q013, the paratroopers fought their way back to the ridge top and then to the waiting companies and battalion HQ, the Charlies around them and some surrounding them all.
The US wounded and dead increased with every passing minute, but now they were able to bring their firepower to bear on an enemy who was at grips with them.
The artillery, from their positions on the other side of the river, poured an unending storm of steel onto the targets given by the forward observers. Jets streaked down into the smoke and dust of the battle delivering them bombs, rockets, cannon, and napalm.
With an entire battalion surrounded and fighting for its life, there was no support to spare for the minor contact at dusk by the British.
As the dawn light seeped over the sky and drove the darkness back, the paratroopers stared at the shattered, riven, splintered, smoking scene of devastation around them; farther away, great blemishes on the jungle showed where the lightning they controlled had struck.
Among the splintered tree and ploughed-up earth, 400 enemy dead were found. How many were carried off and how many wounded was not known.
The brigade commander wanted to see results of the battle, a Chinook helicopter lowered a net into the shell-blasted area, sixty Charlie corpses were loaded into it, and the Chinook carried the dripping, unsavory mass suspended under its belly and deposited it outside brigade HQ---proof of the most positive kind.
Then began the task of recovering the US bodies along the trail of their struggle up to the heights.
Gordon's company secured a grassy clearing for use by the helicopters. Dunkin's men were struggling towards them through the dense green-dripping mass, carrying their dead and wounded, except two dead left on the hill. The only helicopter that could assist them was a USAF rescue machine equipped with a winch; it hovered over the trees, lowered the wire, and winched up the wounded through the leaves. The silver "mixmaster" shuttled between Dunkin and Gordon; where the casualties and dead were evacuated by the Huey.
To the same clearing the US dead were brought for clarification and removal from the body of all ammunition, food, and items not of a personal nature.
Gordon's men, with "Baron" Roach organizing and encouraging, carried out their gruesome task. The dead were brought in piled on the floor of the Huey, removed, and laid out on the grass, webbing removed, pockets searched, dog tags checked, and details written on a tag provided by the Graves Registration Team.
A huge green plastic bag, handles on the sides and closed by a heavy-duty zipper, was laid next to the dead man; he was lifted in, any personal items placed in with him, bag zipped up, tagged and placed with the others. When six were ready, a waiting Huey lifted them to the morgue.
Lying sprawled on the grass were blacks and Nordic men, Mexicans, Nisei, Hawaiians, American Indians, and all the races in the American melting pot; all had wanted to be "airborne," the aggressive corps d'elite of the US Army, and wear the paratrooper boot and the wings.
They had sweated and hacked their way through the jungle time and again seeking the Charlies. Then climbing up that small valley, they had found them. Fighting across strange terrain in the heat, visibility not more than 30 yards and usually only five or ten, carrying all their wounded, holding off a greatly superior force, struggling through the encirclements, back to their fellow paras on the ridge, to hold the high ground against assault after assault.
Now these lay in a jungle clearing. At the memorial parade, an empty pair of boots would stand for each dead man, mute symbol of the fallen warrior.
"Jesus," said Alfie, wiping his brow, "it's bloody hot. How many have we done?"
"Dunno," replied Fleming, "about 20 that I counted, but I guess twice as many as that."
"A man won't want to eat for a week, after this," moaned Kelly; "these blokes have only been dead two days and they're on the nose now, phew!"
The sickly sweet stink of dead men that seemed to block the back of the nostrils hung in the air, mixed with the stink of spilled blood, entrails, sweaty clothes, and jet engine fuel. The crushing heat removed the normal appetite, the task of identifying, searching, and bagging the bodies removed the urge to eat from all by the hardiest.
Tony Fleming stood, hands on his hips, watching a Huey climb away south.
"A man wants his head read, Alfie. Standing here with the knees out of his pants, boots fucked, sucked dry by leeches, standing sweating your guts out in a miserable patch of grass, searching dead men, in a country where one half wants to kill you and the other half wants to rob you. Jesus, aye!" with a wry grin and a shake of his head, as he wondered if he could spare the water to wash his hands covered in grime and blood.
Alfie looked up from under his hat brim. "Gonna transfer to admin. company, are ya?"
Tony stepped back as if struck. "Fuck off."
"Baron" walked up and stopped, looking at the pile of webbing and rations. "Well, how's it going, Private Fleming?"
"Not bad, sir. Bit hot."
"Yeah, there won't be anymore for a while; stop for lunch now."
"Goodo, sir. I'll have a pick through these tins, there might be something good there."
"Yes, I'll be in that," said "Baron," kneeling and flicking over the tins, "though I don't think too many of the boys will be eating anything. Ah, here we go," selecting a tin, rising and fishing can opener from pocket.
Not to be outdone, Tony reached down and picked up a tin, producing his own opener as he, "Baron," and Alfie walked over to the recumbent forms in the shade on the edge of the clearing.
"Christ, I dunno how you can face food," from one of the prone sweat-soaked figures.
"Lunch time, isn't it?"
"Yeah, but fuckin' hell...."
"Bit hungry, ya know."
"Yeah, but Christ, ya been loadin' two-day-old bodies, ya know."
"So?"355Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQckw0R2UhZ
Tony busily jerked the can opener around the rim, levered it open, and felt his gorge rise as he looked at turkey and noodles. White clumps of turkey in a coiling mass of noodles, all swimming in a strange-looking fluid.
Putting on his poker face, he got a spoon from his pocket and picked some noodles out, glancing over at "Baron" who had thoughtfully picked out a tin of biscuits and was popping one into his mouth with obvious relish.
"Why didn't we go in to help Holden's mob?" asked Aidan Quaid. "We chase the little buggers for weeks, and when we find 'em, we have to let 'em go."
Gordon looked up from his map.
"You must remember that the brigade commander had a good-size battle over there with these blokes," indicating the clearing where the bodies had lain, "and getting that surrounded battalion out was taking all his resources. He couldn't have gotten involved in two battles, diagonally opposite the guns and HQ. Charlie Company had to look after themselves; it was just bad luck."
"Well sir, looks to me like the bastard didn't want anyone else to have a victory and get any credit. It's always 'US paratroopers' when they do anything and 'allied troops' when we do."
"Well, we're the junior partners, Private Quaid," in a tone of dismissal, as the signaler handed him the radio handset. He acknowledged the caller, handed him the radio handset. He acknowledged the caller, listened, signed off, and tossed the handset back. With a fast glance at the surrounding men, he spoke to the other signaler on the set to the platoons. "Call the platoon commanders in, orders group to three minutes. We're going back late this afternoon. To camp."355Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC5uz9KlSMQ
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Wyatt Bones climbed in the back of the Land-Rover and leaned his rifle against the partition between front and tray. "Where are we goin', Alfie?" to Hughes to was climbing into the front.
"Over to the logistic mob," patting his shirt pocket. "Got all the paperwork to pick up some plywood for the company CP."
The two chatted as the dusty Land-Rover rolled along the red-surfaced road, out of the brigade and along to the logistics unit. After the green gloom and damp of the jungle, it was a relief to be dry, free of leeches and thorns, and the eyes delighted in looking to the horizon, instead of peering and straining to see 30 yards. Sleeves rolled up, shirt collars opened, they rejoiced in the sun on bare skin.
They stopped in the visitors' parking area and climbed down, weapons automatically slung over their shoulders.
"Jesus, these bastards are well set up. Gravel paths, electricity---look, a bloody washing machine," thinking of the infantrymen sloshing through mud, using candles or lamps run off old radio batteries, and washing their socks and underwear in a steel helmet or ammo box. Showers were from a canvas bucket slung over a beam.
"Yeah. The closer to the infantry private you get, the less you've got. Platoon headquarters are rear echelon pogos to us. Company headquarters are rear to them; these blokes regard Saigon-types as rear echelon pogos. Everyone regards the air force as pogos."
Alfie stood for a moment looking at the paths, overhead wires, and washing machines visible through the door of the building. "C'mon. Let's get this plywood."
They walked around the nearest building and came upon a corporal sawing busily away at a sheet of plywood. He looked up, saw by their dress they were infantry or gunners, and adopted a truculent expression. "Whatcha want?"
"Cheerio, guv'nuh. We're from the battalion. Got some paperwork here to pick up some ply."
"Yeah. Well, we haven't got any, 'guv'nuh.' Go into town and buy it."
"Aw yeah?" Alfie looked at the sheet the corporal was sawing; stenciled knights and castles covered its surface. Figures that had already been cut out were stacked along the wall.
"Yeah, there isn't any," turning his back to his task.
Alfie felt a blinding light burst in his brain, then it cleared and he turned away, entering the orderly room. There he presented the request for plywood.
"Dontcha know we want 28 days notice for that?" asked the paunchy, sweating sergeant.
"I'm just bringing it over, Sergeant," said Alfie.
"Well, we haven't got anyway."
Alfie walked outside to where Wyatt Bones waited in the sun. "No go."
"Yeah. Aren't those battalion vehicles over there?" pointing to four Land-Rovers parked in a row.
"Looks like it. But the OC's driver says these bastards have a "normal wait" of seven days before they look at a vehicle."
"I hear they've got the new 25-set radio here but won't give 'em to us until the 10-sets are beyond economical repair."
"These bastards have never walked through the J with their ass out of their pants and their fuckin' boots fallin' apart, or loaded 2-day-old corpses. C'mon; I'll hit one of 'em if we stay here."
They drove back in silence, resentful of the gap between the infantry rifleman and the supporting services. They had nothing but their clothes, weapons, and friends, and were happy with a few beers and a film. The farther back from the front line, the more particular was the attention paid to privileges of rank, acquisition of the good things in life, and enjoyment of luxuries.
Alfie sighed and half turned to Wyatt, "I know the bastards are necessary, but by fuckin' Christ, they make me wild."
"Yeah, fuck 'em. Say, did ya see that new rifle they got on the op? Soviet, or something."
"Not Soviet. Some Red Chinese copy of their AK47, I heard. The Intelligence Sections identified it. 30-round mag, fully automatic, looks all right."
"Looks a bloody sight better than the burp guns and bolt-action rifles. Think it was still in packing grease."
"I heard that, too."
"Well, didja hear about the wog Ramsey's mob got on the creek? Tried to toss a grenade but got his guts blown out by it instead?"
"No."
"Yeah, apparently he was asking for a drink, but the interpreter wouldn't give him one till the wog told him his unit and what they were gonna do next. When the wog told him, he gave him a big drink. He was gonna die anyway."
"Hmm. I heard Eddie went up 3 times after Ball's body, to within 10 yards of the machine gun."
"Yeah, must pay that, eh, what? How about those blokes in B? Sweeping the riverbank and get shot at by a recoilless rifle. So they call up a chopper and piss off. Meanwhile, a mob of Yanks calls up, claiming some number of Charlies killed with a recoilless rifle from over the river. Didn't bother to check, just blasted away. Never hit anyone either."
"Old Tarl's up and about back in Mother England. Toby got another letter. Two broken legs'll slow him down a bit, though."
"Yeah. Thank God for the Dustoffs."
Americans who worked closely with the battalion and went on operations with it were welcomed as members of the family. One had been at the gun position when the British battle on the hill erupted, and went with a winch-equipped Vietnamese H-34 to the scene.
"As we came over, we could see the pigs goin' backwards and forwards and tracer comin' up outta the trees. Soon as that motherfuckin' slope seen that, he pulled up and turned away. He would not go on in, man. I poked my '16 in his face, called him a washerwoman, everything! He wouldn't go down! Flew back to the fuckin' airbase. Then none of their ships was available to help and the mixmaster had to go. I hope to see that mother-fuckin' pilot in town one day, I tell ya."
"How ya gonna tell one from another, Alfie?"
"I'll know that sonofabitch, man!"
"It's got me rooted, ya know. They're the same mob, yet the VC are a real pack o' tough bastards. These others---I can't think of a good word for 'em. Why is it?"
"Got be beat, but ya right, one side can beat piss and pick handles outta the other, and they have rifles, machine guns and mortars against aircraft, tanks, and arty. They were runnin' riot over this place before we got here."
Finley walked in, a plastic-wrapped bundle in his hand.
"Hello, champions. Here's some things from the kills on the op. There's no Intelligence value in these, so we're givin' 'em back. See yer boss if yer want 'em."
"Yeah, all right. Wanna beer?"
"You smooth-talkin' bastard. I knew you'd convince me after an argument. Whatcha got---British or Yank!"
"Yank. Stroh's."
"Sounds drinkable to me."
"Listen, Finny, just before ya came in we were talkin' about something maybe you can answer---you know about this country."
"Aw yeah?"
"Yeah. How is it the Charlies beat the livin' shit outta the ARVN, and they're brothers? One lot's so bloody good and the other's so piss poor?"
"Alfie, if I could get that one sorted out, I'd have red collar tabs and crossed swords and batons on my shoulders."
"Well, ya must have some idea. Jesus, ya speak the lingo, ya talk to both sides."
"How many beers ya got?"
"Why?"
"Firstly, I don't wanna spoil yer beer drinkin'. Second, it might take a while and we might get thirsty."
"Yeah, I can see why you're in Intelligence."
"Okay then. Why do the Charlies beat the ARVN all the time? If ya take a look at the history of this mob, it's one series of wars. They fought the Chinese, Laotians, Cambodians, Thais, a race call the Cham they all but killed off, and anyone else they could find. In between times, they fought each other; always the North fighting the South to see who was gonna be boss. When ya go to any town, the street names are the same everywhere---all military heroes. Always. They expanded south from the Red River Delta, creeping down the coast, killing every bastard in front of them. They only got here in the 1700s, ya know."
"Yeah, but what's that got to do with now?"
"Hang on, hang on. They've always been fighting someone, if not the bastard next door, then punching up among themselves. The French had 'em for 90 years and got close. Basically, they don't like foreigners. When the French were here, the only ones who did well were the French and any Viet who became a Frenchman. They became more French than the Frenchies. And nobody got a look-in. The whole place was here to make a quid for the French and their Viet imitators. All public service jobs were held by Frenchmen or converts-----everything: police, customs, postmen, clerks. The owners of anything were not Vietnamese. Wouldn't you buck if it were us? To get anywhere you had to become a foreigner. When the French left, there was nothing to build on. The people who fought the French were Vietnamese getting rid of a foreigner who'd never given them a fair go. We trained and employed all kinds of locals in running our colonies, not the French.
"Of course, old Ho Chi Minh is a cunning old prick. He never gets slammed with the blame if anything goes wrong---Stalin got it for his purges, same as Hitler, and Mao wore it a few times for being hard on 'em, but Ho always has someone to cop it for him. When he was fighting the French, he got to be top dog by setting up all the other Viets, who weren't commies, for the French. The French got rid of 'em, and Ho was left as the only one, El Supremo. But he's never been saddled with anything. Always smiling, always patting kids on the cheek. Here, how about a beer?
"Well, when the French left, there was nobody to head the South. The French had done 'em all in, or they were Frenchmen with Viet faces. Diem was the only one. He was against the commies and the French too. So he was brought in and did well for a bit. But he had lots of problems and got a bit tough to keep the jackals down. Then a bit tougher. Soon he was as bad as any of them. Or his family was, and they were running the show. So lots of people when out to fight Diem 'cause they were fed up with him. They don't call 'emselves Charlies, Liberation Front, they calls 'emselves. Only a few are commies, and they control it and get their orders from Hanoi, no doubt 'bout it."
"You're just here to drink our beer and practice for politics. We only want to know why the bastards are different, fuck ya."
"Wyatt, as the actress said to the bishop, 'If you weren't so impatient, you'd find out all about it."
"Aw, c'mon, Finny."
"Okay, if ya could tell it in two sentences, it'd be bloody simple. If it was simple, we wouldn't be here, guv'nuh."
"Yeah, okay."355Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFt3rzSxHoK
"Have a look in yer travels, you'll see all the building goin' on---schools, hospitals, roads, bridges, markets, wells, water systems, harbors, you can see it everywhere. And the government has to guard it all. The Charlies don't have to build anything. They demonstrate their power by destroying things. And now---why are they so good? First, they only fight when they want to. Which is smart. Monty never let Rommel decide when and where the battles would be. Second, in the Charlies, apart from politics, promotion is on merit. A farmer's son can be a battalion or regimental commander if he's got what it takes. Not true in the ARVN. Look at the kills we get. All dressed alike, perhaps a senior bloke has a satchel with documents in it, but otherwise they're dressed alike. Look at the ARVN. The officers are tailor-made---sunglasses, big watches, long fingernails---starched and polished. The higher up, the less time in the J. The Charlies are fighting for Vietnam, so they say, and their history is all wars against other people. They don't like the Chinese anymore than the next lot. The ARVN are the image of the foreigners---French and Yanks. They just beat the French, who's gonna take a chance on the Yanks---another set of foreigners with Viets trying so hard to copy them, and hang onto all their privileges? All the Charlies have to do is promise, promise, promise, promote on merit, and point out all the bastardy from the Yanks. Wouldn't you fight? Wyatt, you remember Ho. Tony, Alfie? Ho from Violon Doux? How do you reckon that Yankee prick went making friends? Would he be a friend o' yers?"355Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEtsSgButd2
"Hell fuckin' no!"
"All the Charlies have to do is let bastards like him do their work for them. Nobody likes seeing their women turned into prostitutes."
"Well, what in the name of God are we doin' here?"355Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3RerDUEhgm
"Tryin' to buy time for these people to sort themselves out. There's a quote from Greek history---'Tell them for their tomorrow we gave our today.' Make no mistake: there are good ARVN, otherwise the North would've won already. The ARVN have good men too. The Yanks are trying to let people see democracy as we know it. But it's a bit bloody hard in this situation---a rotten crowd running it, a war on, and trying to get honest elections and a decent government. And the thing is there's good and bad on both sides."
"Christ! Good thing you're in Intelligence or they'd be watchin' ya.
"Well, remember this---the Charlies are the ones who murder schoolteachers in front of their classes, kill priests, and put mines on the road to catch people going to market, just to terrorize people. And I'm against that here or anywhere. My job is to look at the enemy with two open eyes, see his good and bad points. Otherwise, we'll never beat them."
"Thank God I was born British!"
"You can say that again. Look at the alternatives. How would you like to have been born an African? An Arab? A Canadian? A Yank? Hey? We're the luckiest bastards alive."
"Fuckin' oath."
"There's good men everywhere---no doubt about it. Those Yank radio and arty blokes who come out with us are okay, and how 'bout the helicopter pilots? The paras did okay on the last op, when the chips were down. It's just that they think too big---masses of guns, bullets, and airplanes. That's all right in Europe, but what you need here is lots of good infantry sections. They hardly think below a battalion. Anyway, how's the Stroh's holdin' out? Anyone goin' to Saigon tomorrow?"
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