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15 miles from the Place of Three Dragons, Ted Raw glanced around the assembled officers: company commanders, arty, and APC officers, FAC, brigade, LO, intelligence officer, and helicopter LO.
"We all know the Charlies have been receiving information on our operations. This time, we moved down here, and used the normal methods of planning and deployment, but while we were here, the brigade has planned another operation. We'll be lifting off tomorrow and flying north to here," tapping the map. "The ARVN won't get their copy of the op. order until the choppers are on the way. This time, we might just surprise them. Now, the IO."
Pete Montgomery, rose and faced the assembled officers, "Sir, gentlemen. The enemy here," small circular wave with the pointer, "is the HQ for this area," bigger circle on the map. "Everything's in there---the offices for personnel, operations, supplies, recruiting and propaganda, intelligence and reconnaissance. They're defended by the D603 Main Force Battalion."
The briefing continued until the "questions" period, and the group dispersed to conduct their own briefings.
Next morning, the waiting groups lay in the usual sprawled postures, some peering into the morning sky for the B52s that would precede the strike. Then, threshing on remorselessly came the slicks, shaking out the long rising and falling strings of ten with attendant gunships buzzing along just behind.
They're down, over, climb in; here we go, riding up that invisible glassy slope, wind pummeling clothes and hair. Fingers pointing ahead---there, the giant footsteps plodding across the horizon puffing up great clouds of smoke: the B52s. Smoke fringing away, fading at the edges, tiny midges diving, fresh smoke billowing from the jet-fighters' bombs. There are the aggressive gunships, beating alongside.
Ahead of the oncoming armada, one of Cong Huu's signal operators came running with a message, "Comrade, comrade! US B52s will bomb this area in 15 minutes and the Americans and British are to search the area 30 minutes from now. From our agent at their HQ. The order has only just been delivered.
Cong Huu seized the message and scanned it, then ran to Dinh De's office, situated in a small house. Dinh De snapped out, "Quickly! Emergency move! Plan Three. Send the battalion commander to me!"
"Ah comrade, the US intends to attack this place. Your unit has a high spirit and a famous fighting record. They must hold the paratroopers until the HQ can escape. We will use Plan Three, north to the river, along it to the west into the Flame Tree Camp, here."
"Very well, comrade. The 603 unit is resolved to strike hard blows at the enemy."
While he'd been speaking, Dinh De had been packing documents into a metal trunk with handles for ease of carrying.
He ran next door to supervise the packing of the office and sent the first groups away with the maps and most vital documents, overhead the 750-pound bombs were leaving their bomb racks. Dinh De ran next door to pack his personal gear when the earth shook and dust showered from the roof as the first bomb hit, then the second, the third, and the world became a roaring, pounding smoke, and and dust-filled tray of earth shaken by the giants above. With only a momentary pause, the jet fighters began diving, bombing, rocketing, firing cannon, and dumping napalm into the trees. The evacuation plan disintegrated as the shaken survivors, harangued by their leaders, picked up the dead and wounded, and ran under the smoke pall and diving jets, fleeing north.
As the assaulting slicks dropped lower and lower, the infantry saw the smoke and dust ahead and then to the sides, bomb craters fresh against the green, oozing gray spiraling smoke, uprooted trees, shattered trunks, jets diving overhead to release the slim pods that blossomed into the billowing red-orange-yellow flowers in the dark green mass.
And as the choppers settled, dust billowing out from the rotor downblast, machine guns and rifles opened fire from the trees as D603 began its task. The snarling gunships threshed along the sides of the LZ, machine guns and rockets blazing.
The infantry leaped out cocking weapons, and attacked into the trees. The effects of the bombardment, gunship strafing, and assaulting infantry combined to make most Charlie fire inaccurate, but green-clad figures dropped here and there.
Then the real infantry work began: clearing the sides of the LZ and advancing on the HQ location. D603 could only slow down, not halt, the flowing mass that constantly outflanked and tried encircling them. Carrying what dead and wounded they could, they beat a hasty retreat, buying precious time for the HQ staff to get away.
Lieutenant Nasir Park halted and turned to his signaler, two paces behind; taking the headset, he began to transmit. 50 yards away, the small man peering through the bushes realized that there was an officer with a radio, exactly what he had been waiting for, and touched together the 2 ends of the wires he held in his hands. The current flashed along the wires he held in his hands. The current flashed along the wires and the emplaced 105mm shell blew up at Park's feet, blowing him to smithereens and propelling the shocked signaler back 10 yards into the bush.
Dustin Shields, running, crouched over, slid to a halt as he saw the black-clad figure from the corner of his eye. The Charlie was taking careful aim at someone---M16 up, sighting along its length. Dustin squeezed off 3 quick shots: the Charlie was flung sideways, rifle arcing into the bush. The section swept through: the man was dead.
"Here," throwing the AK47 to a rifleman, "hang onto this. Here are the mags."
Eddie Osborn halted behind the house, staring across the open ground bordered by shrubbery and trees. After the firing of the past minutes, all was too quiet. "If they haven't got guns covering that open space, they're not as smart as I think they are."
On the right, two dry creeks ran almost parallel a few yards from each other, before joining and running as one down to the far end of the clearing and through the forest.
Lieutenant Dunkin beckoned his section commanders and Eddie. "They won't have time to lay mines, so the creek beds should be okay. We'll go as fast as we can down the left one, along till we get to the trees ahead, then go left or right, depending on what it's like when we get there. We might get behind them. Corporal Scar, first, then you, Corporal Manuel, and you, Corporal Nelson. Speed! Okay? Let's go."
As the platoon slid into the creek bed, inaccurate fire from the bush on both sides kicked up dust on the surface of the clearing. A machine gun firing from the trees ahead to their right beat on the left lip of the creek bank. The platoon hugged the right side of the bed and moved forward. The leading scout halted to scan the open area of the creek junction to his front as he reached the end of the intervening mound. A single shot cracked amid the machine gun bursts, and the scout fell. Dunkin, already passing the lead section to see for himself the next leg of their journey, ran forward and knelt by the soldier. He noticed the wound in the man's back and the cloth scorched by powder burns; he suddenly realized and began to turn as a hammer smashed into his head and a blinding light burst behind his eyes. The medic running up knelt by the corpses and was himself shot, falling next to the other two.
Scar turned to the men behind him. "Get Eddie. Where the fuck is it coming from? How can they get fire down here?" He peered up the right lip of the creek bed where intermittent dust spurts leaped. Before Eddie could arrive, a second medic crawled forward, keeping low, and ensuring he could not be seen from forward of the creek junction, rolled Dunkin's body over: the single shot cracked and he slumped forward.
"Where's that bloody bastard?" Scar edged forward till he was almost at the bodies, looking up. He noticed a small irregularity in the creek bank and glanced in, flinching away as he saw the hooded front sight of a Mossin-Nagant lurking inside the small firing post.
"The blokes are inside the bank! Damn 'em!'
Elliot came stepping carefully up the creek bed as the platoon examined the face of the creek bank next to him. To step out and place a long-barreled weapon into the firing slots would expose the shooter to the guns on the bank above. The slot was too small to permit grenades to be placed within it.
With forethought, D603 had readied the clearing and creekbed as a killing ground, and the four bodies---two dead and two wounded---were their results. Before explosives could be brought in, the Charlies had fled back along the tunnel so painstakingly dug down the middle of the ground separating the creeks.
Meanwhile, battalion HQ was set up and the companies cleared the area. Small battles flared up as the battalion secured its perimeter, groups of five and six enemy coming out of hiding and being shot down.
All during the nights and days, small, fleeing firefights flared up when the enemy used their knowledge of the tunnel system to penetrate inside the battalion area and pop up to inflict what casualties they could. A diary was found in which the entry for the Wednesday before the landing stated 900 miles of tunnels had been completed.
Danny Budd lay behind his M60, watching the area to his front. The gun had been positioned to fire down a long stretch of Charlie-dug trenches.
"Psst!" Danny kicked his No. 2 and nodded down the trench, around the corner 50 yards away crawled 2 Charlies, their heads down, busily moving forward on hands and knees, rifles slung, their eyes fixed on the trench floor.
Fleming craned to see down the trench and grinned at Danny. The big man snuggled the gun into his shoulder, thumb depressing the safety catch, and waited.
The two zealous black-clad men swiftly crawled along the stretch of the trench, never looking up. As the corner came instantly into his field of view, the leading man raised his eyes and stared into the muzzle of the M60. Danny fired.
"That was bloody murder, Danny."
"I know, Tony. Wish it was all easy as that."
"Aw, blimey!"
Raw stood looking over the fence at the mass of men, women, and kids who had gathered there, in one big house, to keep them out of the way of possible harm. He turned to Sweet, standing hands on hips and frowning at the nattering mass of civilians.
"Sir, it'd make our job a lot easier if all these people were moved to town. We could back load 'em on the empty choppers, and the civil affairs people could look after them."
"Yes, I was just thinking the same thing. We'll do it."
Gradually the locals were flown out of the area, despite their initial terror of the flying machines. After repetitive and prolonged verbal persuasion, the simple method was adopted: as the group approached the helicopter, the youngest child would suddenly be picked up and placed inside the machine; the rest flowed in like sheep. A soldier had to fly with each load to assist the crew.
Mack Craggs returned from the flight, and grinning, walked up to Scruggs, waiting with a group of local people yet to fly.
"Hey, Toby, saw a good one then. The woman in charge of all the kids on that one got 'em on the floor around her, biffed each one over the head, and made 'em put their heads down and close their eyes. After we took off, I noticed one little bugger wrinkling his nose and screwing up his eyelids. He put it on for a minute or two then must've thought, 'This isn't hurting a bit,' opened his eyes and took a good look around; gave a big grin when I smiled at him. He was really enjoying it. Then he nudged the kid next to him, and they both were taking it all in when the bird woke up to 'em, looked up, saw them with heads up---biff! biff! Two great whacks over the head. They went back to the 17th century after seeing the 20th."
"Yeah, well, I should be right for a job as a flight attendant after a few more flights. Coffee, tea, or milk, madam? You Uc Dai Loi Number 10!"
Fleming sat near the edge of a big pit, sorting through the boxes, cartons, and satchels of books and documents brought from the houses, bunkers, and tunnels.
"How's it going there, Corporal Fleming?"
He stood up as Ted Raw approached with his little entourage. "Not too bad, sir. We've never seen anything like this before---the sheer quantity, I mean. All I've got time for is a very quick look at the top of each box or whatever to decide if it goes in the fire," gesturing to the smoke rising up from the pit, "or is back loaded to Brigade S2. It's incredible, sir. Personal and unit dossiers, unit and HQ correspondence, roll books, strength, reports, weapon roll books, passes of all kinds, photos, commendation certificates, training pamphlets, tests, charts: maps---you name it, we've got it?"
"And what are you burning?"
"Schoolbooks, propaganda books, newspapers, novels, and so on. If it's not of Intelligence value, either it goes back to the Tommies for souvenirs or in here. I've lost count of what's gone back."
"Hmmm. We've done well here. Keep up the good work."
"Yes sir."
Kelly and Aidan Quaid dropped the new 12.7mm ShK machine gun, gleaming in its grease, onto the pile of its brothers.
"God," muttered Kelly, "look at these fuckin' weapons. They'd a smeared us if they had these 12.7s firing across the LZ, eh?"
Before them lay row on row of Chinese-made 12.7mm DShKs, tripods, AA-sights, ammo drums, US Thompson and M3 submachine guns, Czech ZB30 light machine guns, French M1929 light machine guns, Chinese-made 7.92mm PPS "burp guns," French MAT49 submachine guns, Mauser rifles still with the Wehrmacht eagle insignia, and MAS36 Mossin-Nagant, and US M1 carbines, Mortar bombs, grenades, ammunition of all kinds, and explosives lay piled around. Typewriters, uniforms, cloth, gym boots, telephones, and all kinds of things lay at the sides.
"Those tunnels are fuckin' well incredible! They go down forty feet in layers. Rooms with telephones in 'em. Printing presses. Jesus," said Quaid, "the work the buggers put in."
"Yeah. You notice something? There's no pistols and no money."
"Ya don't think they're gonna hand 'em in, do ya? C'mon."
"Hey, did ya hear about the graves they found over in D's area? The Charlies were buried back in the walls, in the tunnel sides, way underground."
"Go on!"
As night fell, the infiltrating stepped up. The bright moonlight cast its impartial gleaming over friend and foe, betraying one or the other, to his enemies and sometimes, his friends.
Daniel Serrano woke suddenly, fully alert. In the dark he tensed up, listening, feeling with each pore of his body. Someone was creeping carefully past the place where Serrano slept, moving towards the sleeping riflemen. The black form kept carefully to the darkest shadows, drifting silently around a patch of moonlight.
Serrano silently moved his hands in the dark, slowly grasping his M16, carefully lifting it, swinging it over, hand grasping black plastic foregrip, sighting down the length of the rifle, two quick shots, the enemy black shape against the moonlit grass slung into the soft light by the rounds.
The silent, fast flurry of surrounding men waking, seizing weapons and lying alert, the soft voice of Eddie checking his section commanders. Serrano crept out and approached the moaning man, and an ice-cold douche ran from his hair over his body as he saw the British boots in the moonlight.
Kneeling quickly, with a cry of "Eddie!" he rolled the shape over and recognized the face of his news replacement, 3 weeks in-country.
The medic was kneeling, scissors gleaming, snipping. "Hell," grumbled the hulking shape of Eddie. "What happened?"
Serrano told him, in quiet tones.
"Okay," tapping one of the Tommies, "dive over and get the signaler to request a Dust-off for one, gunshot wound in the shoulder and arm, details to follow."
Bending over the wounded man, "What were you doing, Young Henry?"
"Sergeant, I just came off the gun," wavering voice rising from the shadowed face, breath hissing, "and I was goin' to wake up my replacement." Deep breath. "I didn't want to get sniped so I crawled over to him. Somebody shot me."
"Okay, son, we have a Dust-off on the way; you're gonna be okay. It's just a scratch. Come on, let's get him to the LZ." To the waiting silent onlookers, "Back to your pits the rest of you."
But Henry died in the helicopter. The M16 rounds had removed the bone from his arm. Next morning, the medic approached Fleming, tossing papers onto his fire.
"Hallo. Got a bit of stuff to burn here, guv'nuh."
"Okay, toss it on in. An old shirt, is it?"
"Yeah, belonged to Henry, the bloke what got Dusted-off last night. Have a look at what M16 rounds do to you. Just hold it, look here, the weave of the cloth---see all those little rough bits? Bone. His arm was fragmented and it's impregnated into the cloth."
"Fuckin' hell, eh. Hey, have a look at this," to two Tommies sorting through the unwanted pile for souvenirs.
Kelly and Montgomery sat in the deep shadows of the bush, on the edge of the weapon pit, legs dangling inside, M60 a long, solid blackness protruding from the softer dark of the pit. Around them the battalion slept or sat alert behind machine guns or at radio sets. A small group huddled in the command post. Charlie crept along tunnels, up and own, cautiously moving about, waiting for a target. At irregular intervals a distant "chunk" indicated another Charlie mortar fired. Kelly and Montgomery took the broader view; they would be very unlucky to be hit by the occasional mortar round, better to sit up in the shadow and see more, maybe zap a Charlie, maybe zap two Charlies.
Miles away the artillery fired. The approaching shell roared overhead, then chung! The casing and flare separated, the metal container falling to the end of its trajectory with an alternate whistle-moan, whistle-moan as it tumbled end over end. By common consent, Kelly and Montgomery slid into the pit as the piece of ironmongery passed over, and the flare popped into light, swaying on the parachute, making a lurching grotesque shadow-dance from every tree, bush, and house below.
Back up into the pit. Mortar fires, the slam of explosion, no movement from the watching two. Behind, the guns fire, chung! Overhead whistle-moan and the two are crouched in the pit. After the sequence repeated itself several times. Montgomery grabbed Kelly by the arm and hissed. "We're a couple of mugs! We sit up when the mugs fire and get down when our guns go."
"Yeah, but from that direction, we've got more chance of being hit by the fuckin' empty case than a Charlie mortar, ya know!"
"Uh, huh. How about when you're asleep?"
"Don't worry about it then, guv'nuh."
The long lines of laden figures moved silently through the early morning coolness to the big grassy area. The familiar chopping roar, and the long lines of Hueys appeared, sinking over the trees, to float down onto the grass, then rise up carrying the groups away in the cool air.
"Hope there's a beer waiting back there," shouted Pete against the engine noise.
Kelly shook his head. "The bastards won't do that."
But they did.
"Hey Ben, seen this newspaper?" asked Jack Hunt.
"No, why?"
"Aw, I see here that 'senior army officers' say we are getting enough rest over here in Vietnam."
"Shit, eh? How would they know? Haven't seen any senior army officers out on the operations sleepin' wet, carryin' sixty-pound loads an' the rest of it."
"Hmmm. Well, what are they gonna say otherwise? That we're havin' our guts worked out? They never say anything's crap, do they?"
"Yeah, fuck 'em anyway. Who's goin' ter Saigon tomorrow?"
"Ricky and Serrano, last I heard."
Over in the company "boozer," built from timber bought with Vietnamese money the soldiers "donated," but in reality from the satchel of a now-dead Charlie tax collection, the postoperation "warries" were spinning.
"Went for a shit, put the shovel in and dug into a bloody tunnel-entrance. No bullshit!"
"Looked through the window and there was this Charlie, just divin' into a tunnel; up with the M60 and let fly...."
"Henry, the silly cunt, crawlin' to wake up his replacement got brassed up...."
"Anyway, we couldn't work out where these fuckin' grenades were comin' from. Finally caught a kid, so small he was hidin' in the smallest bloody place. The interpreter asked him if it was him, and he said yes. Only 10 years old. Poor little bugger. Didn't know no better."
"Hey, did the interpreter tell ya about the hardcore Charlies they got? Yeah, in a bunch of civilians. If looks coulda killed, we'd a all been piled up, no worries. Kai Bing was there when they were checkin' 'em all out---ID cards, you know. This old dame only snarled and spat. No ID. Wouldn't talk. Just spat. Tony and Kai reckoned she was a hardcore Charlie, so they put her separate from the rest. Then Tony asked a couple who she was. They all said 'Dinky-dau, Dinkya-dau.' Mad." Bursting into a roar of laughter. "The village idiot! Hah-hah-hah, hardcore Charlie!"
"Ya should a seen old Leon there" (old Leon being all of twenty), "takin' his grenades out to clean 'em, grabs one by the igniter set, lifts, and the set comes clean out in his hand. Sitting there white as snow, freckles standin' out like red paint, eyes as big as two bobs, lookin' at the fuckin' thing! Ho, ho, ho."
"You weren't too calm yerself, ya cunt," with a broad grin from "old" Leon.
"Well, why you pricks have been stompin' through the scrub, we been fightin' off the screamin' hordes here."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. One of the rear detail patrols got two Nigels up the river. Two canoes full of 'em tryin' to sneak over in the fog. Zapped one load, others got away in the fog. "Aw yeah? Fair enough, ah?"560Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZbCW6gtmER
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Duong Hien, floppy-brimmed hat on head, blue and white checked scarf around neck, sat on the side of the path, among the others in the party, idly pushing mounds of dirt with a stick to disrupt a stream of busy ants. The group, all dressed in black cotton, was a portion of the HQ, moving to a temporary camp with an escort of part of D603 Battalion.560Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBC4IdMpsxo
He smiled at the closest comrades. "See the lesson here. These ants are all working for the same purpose. The dirt I push up does not stop them; it is a temporary barrier. And the blows I rain on them," crushing some dozens of insects that were immediately replaced by other hurrying fellows, "do not stop them. So do the imperialists and their lackeys try to halt us. But they do not know or understand us, therefore they push up little mounds before us, kill some of us, and tell themselves they are winning. But look," pointing down at the hurrying columns, "the work goes on. So does ours."
He sat back, waiting for the end of the rest period.560Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZeJQJ2ndpQ
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Lois Fleming sat back in the lounge chair, the TV movie flowing across the screen and slipping easily over her mind; she'd seen the film before, knew the story, and now relaxed, glad she didn't have to put any effort into watching the characters parade across the screen.560Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡr4cyPIYZm8
Her legs and back ached from a day of housework, washing and shopping, and now she wanted Tony to be with her. Wanted him for herself and the kids. The little devils were expert at reading human frailties and exploiting the weak moments in an adult. They were becoming a handful now, more and more as each week passed; they needed the presence of their dad in the house. She found herself screaming at them more often and losing her temper more easily.
Tony going to West Germany for two or three weeks for NATO exercises was one thing, but away at a war for at least a year was something else. There were even rumors that they would be their for fifteen or eighteen months. Oh God, if it was eighteen months, she would be a murderess---she would have strangled the little b's a dozen times over.
And how many times would Tony have to go back? There didn't seem to be any sense to it at all. They weren't advancing or retreating or anything, just going into the same places.
Not for the first time, she began to review the points she would make to persuade Tony to get out of the army. He was needed by herself and the kids; when he was away there was a huge void, and the family seemed somehow to be marking time until he came back and his presence would complete the family picture. If he stayed on in the army, he would be sent back to Vietnam again and again, and he was no good to them dead. She wanted him, needed him with her and the kids.
She had noticed that very few officers were named in the casualty lists: only NCOs and Tommies seemed to be doing the fighting. Tony explained in a letter that almost all the contact with the enemy took place at platoon level, which was one lieutenant and about 2 dozen men; so of course most casualties would be junior ranks. Lois was cynical enough to reply that she was sure the medals would be handed out in reverse proportion.560Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuSnOd7pphg
On the screen, the Yank movie stars embraced and the film ended. She switched off the set, and the light, and went into to that bloody big empty bed. Bugger for the army and all politicians!
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