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"All right, we've done well so far. Now we've got Ban Bir to clear." Gordon tapped the map before his assembled officers and attached specialists. "We're leading company. Mission, to gain entrance to Ban Bir and secure this square," pointing to a hand-drawn enlargement of the town. "The other companies will come in and fan out along the roads leading away from the square: A, B, C, D---tapping each quarter of the town. "Now, execution. They will be expecting us to walk in, probably from one of their flanks, and they'll have to watch their whole perimeter. So, we're going to bash straight down the road in the ACVs, right in and get out in the square. Blitzkrieg. Order of march...." and he continued with the details.
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The morning was dim---a mist rose before dawn, and the early activities took place in a gray world of muffled sound. The ACVs came snorting and rumbling up the road, halting, muttering to themselves, bulking dark angular shapes in the fog, the vehicle commanders erect in their hatches, the dark machine gun and sloping shield combining with the man's figure to make a silhouette of a medieval knight on his huge caparisoned charger.
"Mount up," but inside this time. Small arms fire is more likely to inflict casualties than mines. Roaring, jerking backwards and forwards in the rocking horse gait of the ACV at speed, the column sped down the red dirt road---the forest a dark frieze on either side in the fog, the sun a feeble glow. They would be on top of any enemy before he could take aim.
The sudden crackling of firing, rounds snapping past overhead, faces inside the steel hulls turned toward the open roof hatch where the infantry commander and one machine gunner peer around the ACV commander behind his 50-caliber machine gun and sloping shield. Roar at speed up to the gate, a contraption of wood and wire between ornate concrete pillars---a herd of snorting elephants ignoring the pygmies' tiny darts; lead vehicles halt and pivot on the threshold, an infantryman jumps down into the rain of small arms fire, runs over and checks the gate for signs of mining---none, but the gate is locked. No key, but a big opener is snorting and rumbling to hand; it rolls back a few feet, then a modern juggernaut advances up to, over, and through the gate. The remainder of the herd bellow their triumph with a roar of exhaust and charge up the slope, through the pillars, up between the houses, spitting glowing tracer left and right through the fog at the dark cutouts, silhouettes, of running Charlies.
A thunderous arrival at the square, minor parts of the trumpeting herd charging into position all around the square, facing out. Ramps drop and the infantry spill out, sections welding into platoons, searching houses, securing the square for the onrushing following herds. And again, the enemy is not allowed time to stand and reorganize. Again, with no casualties and not a round of artillery or a single jet, no houses destroyed, the VC are bounced out of the town into the jungle.
Alfie came around the corner at the run, crouching, SLR slanted across his body, and leaped sideways, going down to one knee in front of the small prone group at the well's side.
"Bugger me," he thought, "what's the world coming to when a man has to put himself between the guns and the women?"
Three women, one man, the man in front, all with hands held in front, fingers extended, palms together, jigging them up and down in the Indochinese greeting, four pairs of scared eyes watching him, the sweating foreign warrior. The women, two young and one old, all wore their hair bobbed, a sign that they were married.
His eyes and gun raked the small yard and clump of orange trees as Fleming thumped around after him, automatically going to the next natural piece of cover, the end of the kitchen at the house's rear. Tony went down prone and stared out along his rifle barrel, into the misty trees beyond.
No wonder the poor bastards look scared, Alfie thought, they likely expect rape, looting and murder, if not from what the Charlies tell them, from their memories of the French.
Back in Britain, someone in the platoon had gotten a paperback copy of Phillipe de Pirey's Operation Waste, and several of them had refused to believe that a cultured race like the French would behave in the manner described. They were still under the impression that the reiterated and enforced British and American respect for the individual and his belongings applied to all Western countries.
He smiled at the four, and immediately parodies appeared on their faces, anxious to please the invader.
Jesus Christ, thought Alfie, what an asshole! Here's this poor bugger trying to look after these women---mother, mother-in-law, wife, sisters or whatever----every other bastard's got a fucking gun. All he hears is, "Give us some of your crop. Give us some of your crop: your sister, wife, daughter." Now and then, we get the odd medal for an act of courage observed by the wheels. This poor prick lives a life of courage every day, both sides pulling at him like bloody wild dogs.
He took his left hand from the rifle and laid it palm down on his thigh, shouting "Hey Tony, I think we're all right here," and turned to call back the way they'd come. "Okay, down here."
Sporadic firing went on, rounds cracked past overhead, not worth worrying about. A breeze was sifting through the trees now, cool on the sweating cheeks. A wailing and howling grew louder from around the corner, and a group of men, women, and children appeared, pushed along by other section members.
"Hey Alfie, we're gonna hold 'em here till it's cleared. One hour or so. And they're yours."
"Thank you very fucking much!"
The wailing groups stood making a tremendous racket, but Alfie noticed there was not one tear, and the eyes watched the soldiers alertly. The buggers are all play acting, he thought to himself.
"Hey, papa, you," pointing to the eldest man. "Sit! Sit! er----swoong! swoong!" going through sitting motions. The old man sat slowly, never ceasing his wails and hand wringing. Gradually, the others followed. After a time, the walking died away and before long, animated conversation was cackling back and forth between the first four and the new arrivals. All the while, vigilant eyes regarded the quiet foreigners, now smoking.
The old lady, after low conversation with the man, suddenly started rattling off sentences to Alfie, accompanied by smiles showing black-painted teeth ("white teeth are the sign of animals to many Asians," said the briefer) and much pointing toward the clump of banana trees.
Fleming called. "Hey, she wants to get some bananas. Whaddya reckon?"
"Yeah, okay, okay," with smiles and overdone nodding of head.
Soon, the whole group was munching on sweet bananas, with much smiling and nodding.
An outbreak of shouts from the square brought Alfie's head around the corner to see what was happening.
"What's up?"
"Fuckin' CS! Some stupid cunt's popped it upwind and it's comin' down with the mist!"
"Tony! Some stupid prick has used tear gas upwind. Some of these cunts shouldn't be trusted with a friggin' water pistol!"
As the white gas, indivisible from the mist, drifted with it downwind, then ancestry and future health of the man who used it were commented on in loud voices.
The happy picnic group became once more a wailing mass, this time, with real tears and cries of distress as the gas attacked nostrils, eyes, mouths, and lungs. Alfie and Tony started sponging themselves with sopping sweat rags and were besieged by outstretched hands.
"It's just water. Water! Nuoc! Here," grabbing the bucket at the well, "Nuoc!" and until the invisible demons passed with the soft breeze, the bucket raced up and down, the water liberally splashed over all and sundry.
"Okay, let 'em go home."
"Thank God!"
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Glen Hart led his four F100s north to the strike area, flying high in the clear blue under the blazing white sun. Arriving over the target, he swung into a gentle left-hand circle; looking back over his right shoulder he could see the other three stepped back, canopies glinting in the sun.
Below him the Cessna pilot transmitted, "Bantam Red Leader, this is Cajun Four Seven, have you in sight; target is estimated company plus on the north side of the river bend over a mile to the east of the town. Watch any smoke, goin' in now, over."
"Red Leader, Roger. Laissez les bon temps rouler! like we say in Louisiana," as the tiny gray flea of a Cessna moved across the green floor below----a white spot blossomed into a tiny white flower on the green carpet.
"Cajun Four Seven, Red Leader goin' down now," and as the sun moved behind in the turn, look up and around the sky, though God knows there are no enemy aircraft this side of the DMZ. Since he was 12, Hart had wanted to be a fighter pilot; he had read everything he could get his hands on about the great fighter aces---Bong and Barkhorn, Molders and MacDonald, Johnson and Jabara, and all the others. Then the USAF Academy. At last, "Fighter Pilot!" And here he was driving F100s around the skies of South Vietnam. If only he could promote the transfer to F4s, to the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing in Thailand, flying up to the North, where the MiGs are. Goddamn! Here he was digging instant swimming pools with 750-pound bombs. Oh well, left stick and rudder, sky and earth pivoting, blue sliding up and overhead, only green in front expanding silently, leaping up, up, sucking him down, down, down----select two 750-pounders, groovy---wait--wait---wait---white smoke marker leaping up---GO! F100 released of its load and drag bounds up, gently back on stick, climbing. "Red Two going down."
"Red Leader, this is Cajun; that was good, good! Red Two, put 'em in the same place."
Still climbing into the blue bowl, ease forward on the stick, look back---gray cancer obliterating the small fresh flower; Red Two streaking over, two flashes in the gray. "Red Three going down," look up in front to the right, there he goes! Red Four---Gross---still circling.
"Red Two, this is Cajun, right on the money! Red Three, put 'em 50 yards to the east of the smoke."
"Will do," from Three---Hernandez---that bastard can melt women with his eyes; fortunate on Four, up goes his starboard wing, the big silver bird falling away. Here comes Red Two up on the right, where's Hernandez? There he is---climbing up, up!
"Red Leader, this is Cajun, let's have your twenty mike mike and napalm in the same area, and again the headlong rush down the clear glassy slope, illuminated gunsight pipper on the gray smoke stain, flashing over the town---a silver blur in the massive green sea below....pip on, squeeze trigger, rumbling under his feet as the 20mm cannon hammer away, myriad flashing twinkling stars on the trees ahead; wait, wait, go! Napalm away!
"Red Two going down. Red Three----Red Four..." until "Okay Bantam Red, a good result, good, got 90% target coverage. I estimate 30 enemy KIA. Pleasure doin' business with you, mon ami."
"Cajun this is Bantam Red, thanks, it's our pleasure."
Looking over his shoulder, Hart saw the gaping mouths of the air intakes echeloned neatly in the sky, three helmeted heads watching him and the next man.
"Okay you guys, don't get excited; back for another load."
Trailing their jet roar across the sky, Hart set course south. How long till he could strap an F4 to his ass and get up among the goddamn MiGs? Goddamnit!364Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhgpXKJBf0V
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Fleming looked up from his book to meet the curious gaze of a man and his very pregnant wife. They gave nervous smiles, bobbed their heads, and indicated by pointing that they wished to proceed along the road.
Fleming smiled to put them at east, and said, "Hello, may I see your identity cards, please! Ah yes. Where do you live? Where were you born? When?" Asking questions about information on the card was a basic check, sometimes Charlies used cards from which they had not memorized details. However Ngu Thanh and Phung Thanh really did live in Ban Bir and wished to visit Thanh's sister and brother-in-law who lived some hundred yards down the street, past B Company HQ, near which Fleming was standing. After two minutes chatting about the weather, crops, the Charlies, and the imminent visit of a RC priest, Thanh and Thanh moved away with smiles much more natural than their initial nervous grimaces.
Fleming turned to Mack Craggs, who was standing by his small platoon HQ that he had just established inside a grassy yard a few paces behind Fleming.
"Bloody amazing the difference between the city people and the country people, eh, sir? In the cities all they want to do is fleece you. Out here, they're straightforward, good people like the country folk back home."
"Yeah, the Tommies have noticed it too, Tony. Definitely a better group of people.....Hey! Where did they come from?" as three ARVN strutted around the corner, with their sunglasses, gold watches, clean, starched, tight-tailored uniforms, and ignoring the British, bore down on Thanh and Thanh, who were still only four or five paces away.
"You! Halt! Who are you? What are you doing here? ID card! Where are you going? Quickly!"
With a "Back me up, sir," Fleming leaped forward and confronted the three poppinjays, SLR muzzle coming up under the chin of the nearest. Vietnamese language includes pronouns that can be used for people or animals and is thus a great language for emphasizing the relative status of the people involved in the conversation.
Fleming flared. "You! What are you doing here! This is a British area! You should not be here. You return in two days time, after the British as usual. Get!"
The three turned without saying a world, probably amazed by the presence of a foreigner fluent in their own language, and quickly vanished around the corner. He turned to Thanh and Thanh, "Go and visit your sister now."
"Who were those little shitheads?" asked Craggs as he, the signaler, and Ricky McFadden placed their weapons down and resumed their seats on the low stone wall.
"Dunno, sir, but they didn't fight their way into Ban Bir or here with us, and even if they did, they have no right to talk to anyone like that. They make my blood boil, the bastards."364Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoZNNUvfTz8
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Sweet stood on the edge of the verandah upon which Oscar Scar had established the HQ.
Scar looked up from his map, "Yes, Jonny?"
"Sir, I've got three Vietnamese in separate APCs, who say they can lead us to hidden Charlie dumps. They were forced to work on the construction of them and then carry the supplies to them. They're nervous and say there are many mines and booby traps, but they'll lead us to the area."
"What do you think?"
"I think they're on the level. Corporal Fleming has done the actual talking to them, he will be going with them, and he'll trust them. They're Roman Catholics, and the Charlies are here by force of arms and government negligence, not by acceptance of the general mass of the population. If we handle these blokes right, we can roll up quite a lot of the Charlie work here, sir."
"Yes; have they given you any idea where the stuff is?"
"They have. Generally in this area here," indicating the spot on the map.
"Good, well we'll have to try in that area tomorrow so warn young Fleming and the OC, but it'll be dealt with in the orders group tonight. Thanks, Jonny."
"Yes, sir."
As the APCs rolled out along the road next morning, Fleming watched the Vietnamese standing in the back of the vehicle giving him directions that he relayed to the APC commander. Đoàn Duy Hùng was dressed in a spare set of British greens, with a crucifix around his neck under the green shirt. Suddenly he began to wave his arms and point down a narrow side track shooting off from the dirt road they were following.
"There! There! Four hundred yards! Stop! Stop!"
Fleming grabbed him by the shoulder, "Okay, okay, we're going past, then coming back on foot."
"Ah," a broad grin on Hung understood the precaution of approaching from the rear.
Half a mile down the road, the APCs slowed, halted, turned about, and the infantry dismounted and swept through the trees on either side of the road but found nothing. Hung strode along the road with the sliding, jogging step of the Asian. He led them around the corner onto the narrow track leading away through the trees, carefully examining the road surface and edges, and the undergrowth clumps encroaching on the narrow cleared away.
He knelt and pointed into the trees: so well sited were the buildings that the casual observer would have had no indication that they were there. A careful approach and examination found no mines or booby traps. Hung sat under a tree while the quantity of rice was estimated and a report radioed to HQ. The APCs grumbled up and crunched and crashed their way around the camouflaged buildings. Made of wood and corrugated iron, with only the minimum of growth cleared to permit construction, they were defended from view by the trees and bushes.
For the next eleven days, dumps or caches were found all over the area. Each was approached with great caution, and the contents removed for use by the government.
After the fighting that had taken place during the occupation of the towns, the Charlies had hardly been encountered. People had come forward and named the NLF personalities in the towns, and they had been picked up in a series of small actions by groups of infantry in carriers. The NLF members had then been turned over to the police. Of the armed units, nothing had been seen or encountered; they had withdrawn well into the hills and were waiting for the British and the Americans to leave for main force units to come to their assistance.
The Charlie commander in Ban Bir was captured by a surprised and highly pleased group of government soldiers and dragged off to Nà Bắng to be presented to the province chief. The fact that he'd been captured while doing his reconnaissance alone, as none of his unit would come in and attempt to gather the information, was an indication of the state of Charlie morale.
As the rice harvest was secured and the government reinstated in the area, the brigade moved south to sweep an area in which fleeting contact was made, and then they returned to the base.364Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0IukWTHGSI
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Fleming and Andrew Lucas walked in the doorway of Violon Doux.
Hi, Ho, hello Denise."
Fleming fell silent as he saw Nhu in her old place behind the bard. Beautiful ao dai, hair coiffed, but eyes hard as agate: cupid's bow mouth set in a hard line, deep furrow from nostrils to chin, and the tinkling silver bells silenced forever in the flat tones as she acknowledged his greeting.
He retreated to a booth, fingers drumming on the formica top as he waited for "garcon" to bring the beers.
Andrew was the center of much excited chatter as he had brought Ho a small purse made of sheepskin, imported from Leeds, and the girls ohed and ahed over it, while Andrew, with a smirk, looked forward to reaping his reward from Nhu in a few minutes.
For Fleming, the day had been ruined by the new Nhu. He had seen men he'd known for years, and whose families he'd known, killed and mutilated as the two sides hunted in the green entanglements for whatever they believed in, be it politics, race, or money. With fire and shot they struggled as animals had never done, to bring their brand of peace; two great beasts struggling and trampling in the arena to establish the supremacy of one ideology, while a girl, whose crime had been born into a society where elders always came before self, was brutalized by a man who could more rightly bear the title "vandal" than those who had done so originally. Fleming could accept what happened to soldiers, that was the name of the game. But Nhu.....
"Listen, Tony. I'll see you back at the truck, okay?"
"Hey? Yeah, guv'nuh. Nhu an' me are headin' upstairs anyway. See ya!"
"See you later, Nhu," trying to show her by his voice and eyes how he feels, but to the hard-eyed woman he is just another foreign devil.
Strolling despondently down Dang Yeu Tho Nhi Ky Street, ignoring the blandishments of girls in bar doors, cyclo-drivers, shoeshine boys, Indian tailor-shop touts, assorted money changers and pet sellers, Fleming saw an American artilleryman he knew from previous operations.
"I say, Kowalski, old chap! How are you?"
"Hey there Tony. I'm right fine, thank ya. What about a beer?"
"Why now. How about here, the Richmond Arms Pub?"
When they each had a cold-beaded Bass Ale in front of them, Fleming said, "Ski, you haven't stopped smiling since I saw you there in the street. What have you done? Found the legendary young French virgin of Saigon?"
"Hah, hah, no, no, goddamnit. Just got my own back."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, last time I came to this dump, I brought my Nikon. While I was standing right on gaddam Tạm Biệt Street out there, some mother-fuckin' slope cut the strap and pow! Gone man! Shit. Waal, they don't mess with ol' Kowalski. No siree. So," leaning closer to Fleming, "what I done was, I bought me another Nikon case; just the case. This mornin' I got me a grenade and put it in the case. Then, in town, I held the lever down, pulled the pin, clipped the case shut, and just walked around waitin'. Hey," at the look on Fleming's face, "perfectly okay, man. Nothin' can happen as long as that lever's in place, you know that, shit. So I just strolled around, real casual-like and let some bastard take it. Which he did, 'bout three blocks from here, over near the markets. So I just kep' right on walkin'. Yep," to the unasked question, "it did, 'bout 3 minutes later I heard a boom come up outta one o' them little streets over that way. I just keep on grinnin' when I think of 'em laughin' in that dark little place, thinkin' they put it over another dumb Yankee, then sprang! The lever flies off and them rats tryin' to scramble outta that hole in 4 to 6 seconds. Hah-hah-hah!" Eyes creased in mirth, "what a surprise!"
"Fuckin' hell, Ski," was all Fleming could muster.
"Yep, let's have another one on me. A really happy day! Hah-hah!"364Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3CUhPYxlA9
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Oscar Scar ticked off the final item on his list of announcements that he had just made to the platoon, and looked over the top of the clipboard at the twenty-four men in green clothes assembled before him.
"Right, one last thing. Those of you who were there won't forget the Iron Triangle. Or the ARVN mob who sat in the fort while we got the shit blown out of us." Mumble of agreement rising from the group. "Quiet down. Well, the bastards went on an operation in the Tân Bang rubber plantation--and got wiped out to a man---the fucking lot. Yanks, officers, everybody. Ambushed and massacred in the rubber. I might add it's the best news I've heard all week."
"Fuckin' oath---too right, sarge----you're right there----serve the bastards right---couldn't happen to a better mob---the miserable pricks---mongrel bastards," rose as the men who had been there grinned or frowned at the news.364Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRn3PyhCs0E
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Tony Fleming and Alfie sat with Kelly and Alan Finley in a bar rejoicing in the title of the Bronze Monkey, drinking reasonably cold Schlitz. Alfie and Fleming were facing the street and frowning a little against the glare bouncing in from the dusty sunny street. Suddenly into their view came two ARVN paratroopers, rolling into the street, obviously having been thrown out of the neighboring bar, the Pink Hound, frequented by blacks who had made it clear that Whites entered only on invitation. And ARVN also, it seemed.
Alfie rose quietly and stepped to the door, looking along to the next doorway. Two burly Negroes stood, hands on hips, regarding the two furious paras, who stood up, glared, placed their maroon berets on their heads, and walked away, skin-tight camouflaged uniforms dusty from the road. They paused at the corner, looked back and shook their fists; the Negroes laughed and reentered the Pink Hound, oblivious of the stares of the Vietnamese along the street.
Alfie returned and picked up his can of Schlitz.
"What's goin' on?" asked Finley.
"Looks like two ARVN paras tried to get into the blacks' hair and got turfed out."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, they got pissed off about it."
"Ah, listen, how about a couple more here, then down to the beach for a swim?"
"Fair enough."
After two more rounds, Kelly, who was facing the rear of the bar, leaned forward. "There's somethin' goin' on here, Alfie, all the girls are pissin' off, and the bar staff have disappeared---look."
"Come on, settle down Kelly." But he looked into the long mirror along the wall behind the bar. Casually his glance flicked along; he frowned, and then carefully studied the reflection of every booth.
"You're bloody right. C'mon, we're gettin' outta here."
They casually rose and started walking out. Alfie stopped and touched Finley on the arm. "Hang on, I'll just have a look at the back. Give the blokes in here the word."
He turned and started walking down the length of the bar, past the rear rooms, the store rooms, the reeking mildewed toilet, and into the weed-grown backyard that gave onto a narrow lane. Clustered in the lane were the bar employees, standing or squatting along the fence a few yards down. They were chattering excitedly but stopped when Alfie was seen looking out the gate at them. The inscrutable Asian masks settled, and he might have been looking at some many carvings.
He became aware of a presence on the other side, and there were the Pink Hound staff, huddled up the lane away from their backyard. He turned back for the first group, and one of the girls frowned in warning, flicking her hands in a "go away" gesture. Alfie turned and ran back through the bar, now quiet and deserted except for the quiet figures of the other three, standing back from the windows and staring out at the sunny street.
"Come on. There's definitely something going on here. They're all," hand wave to include the next-door staff, "outside and don't want to know us."
"Yeah," piped up Fleming. "I had a look next door and there's no wogs, just blacks."
"Time to go," said Alfie, and they walked out fast, across the street and down to the corner, ignored by the oddly silent locals. As they reached the corner, an approaching roar of engine turned their heads back up the street.
Around the far corner came a jeep without hood or windshield, with four maroon-bereted ARVN. The engine noise stopped and the low, squat vehicle slid to a halt just short of the Pink Hound. The silent, unmoving Vietnamese along the street, the ones peeping from windows, and the four halted Britons saw one ARVN life an M60 out of the jeep floor and climb out, followed by two others holding between them a long, sagging, gleaming rope.
"Well, fuck me back to London! They're gonna brass up the blacks!" from Kelly.
Before any of them could move, the gunner was standing outside the painted hollow-brick front of the Pink Hound, adopting the correct braced firing posture, and shouted, "Yankee! Yankee!" to attract the Americans' attention.
Then he began firing, moving the machine gun up and down, left to right, to ensure the stream of bullets covered the bar's length. The rattling roar drowned all other noise in the street, nothing existed except the three camouflage-suited figures with maroon berets----incongruous in the sunlit street of bar signs---the brass cartridge cases gleaming in the sunbeams as they spun out and rolled in the dust, the arms of the loaders held out from their bodies, elbows bent, feeding the gleaming snake into the black gun.
The driver sat immobile. The gunner carefully hosed his stream of shot down the length of the bar, not moving from his position. As suddenly as it began, the noise ended. The silence was as crushing as the yammering burst had been. The gunner cocked the weapon, raised the feed-plate cover, brushed away empty cases and links in the prescribed manner, clicked the cover down, and the three remounted the jeep, made a U-turn, and drove back up the street, disappearing around the corner. Silence: nobody moved. The Pink Hound front was now a riddled mass of shattered brick, covering a scene of carnage from which no sound came.
As a siren noise grew in the distance, Tony Fleming stepped back, shook the other three, and said, "Come on, let's get inside, your shout, Kelly."
"It was my fuckin' shout last!"
"Yeah, but that was ruined; it doesn't count for nothin' now!"
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