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The drumming horde lifted off the grassy LZ as the infantry placed magazines on their weapons, cocked them, and dug out their bush hats from inside shirts or thigh pockets, flopping them on their short-cropped heads. After two days of sweat, dirt, dust, rain, ants, leeches, thorns, prickly vines, and the ever-present heat, everyone favored short haircuts as being more comfortable.
A throbbing hum in the distance drew eyes to the long line of Hueys, tiny dragonfly shapes, bearing an American battalion to a neighboring LZ.
Then the screeching roaring crescendo of artillery fire: the far side of the LZ erupted in smoke and debris.
"What the fuck's goin' on?"
"I dunno."
Heads turning, curious gazes toward the wall of smoke; another rising whistling roar---another crashing all of smoke, closer this time.
"The bastards are firing on the LZ!"
"Too many guns for the wogs."
"I mean our fuckin' guns!"
Ted Raw turned to the gunner major, "Stop that firing Luke," as another salvo crumped closer, shrapnel humming overhead or whomping into the ground.
"They're not our guns, sir," replied the gunner officer.
"Are you sure?" as another wall of explosions slammed down.
Looking up from his list of artillery fire missions, "Definitely not. The fire mission for this LZ has been fired."
Another rending crashing wall crumped down, the shrapnel now dangerous. A huge jagged chunk a foot long and four inches wide whacked into the ground a yard from Kelly.
"Ah Christ! They'll be on our asses in 1 minute!"
Men dived into old shell scrapes, artillery and bomb craters, any dip in the ground. Fleming saw an old shallow scape nearly 10-inches deep. As the relentless wall crushed down again, he shed his pack, placing it on the side of the advancing explosions, and lowered himself into the protecting dirt walls. Crash! Another series of flashes, fountains of dirt and smoke, stones and shrapnel flung up closer than before. An unseen, implacable god pounding his fist into the soil in regularly spaced blows, ever closer, evenly timed. Crash!
Tony was shocked to hear himself praying, "Oh God, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop," as the inexorable, impersonal crashing advanced, nearer and nearer.
Suddenly, he felt himself pushed forward off of the shallow trench, his head and shoulders rising up into the shrapnel, looking back he saw Kelly Douglas and Aidan Quaid squeezing and wriggling into the narrow scrape, their packs on the ground.
"You bastards! Go and find your own hole!"
With no reply, the two unwelcome visitors burrowed deeper. Quaid dragged the packs into a feeble barricade around his head as the earth shook under the giant hammer blows, and smoke and dust billowed toward them.
"Major!" snapped Ted Raw, "i want that artillery stopped at once!"
"Sir, it must be Charlie fire. Our guns are firing in support of the Americans landing at Apple!"
The artillery signaler made his own decision, lifted the handset, pressed the switch, and said, "Stop, stop, stop."
Silence, the dust and smoke drifted down wind.
Raw rose to his feet. "Obviously they were firing the same serial twice. We'll speak later," to the crestfallen gunner major.
All round men were rising to their feet or knees, looking to the south.
"Righto, stop standin' around like molls at a christening. Saddle up."
The hand signal came back down the line of sweat-darkened green shirts; arms raised, forearms crossed---an obstacle---then one hand, fingers extended, held to form an angle with the other arm, in the basic shape of a roof---a house.
The platoon deployed and swept through, reorganizing around the corrugated iron building. Careful of booby traps, the men delegated as searchers quickly examined it. Inside was bag after bag of flour, each stamped with the handshake of friendship----"Hands over the ocean" symbol of the United States Aid system---and in Vietnamese, "Donated by the people of the U.S.A."
"Look at it, willya?" said Tony Fleming. "Tons of it. Given to 'em for nothing, and out here in a Charlie cache."
"There's bloody truckloads of it. They didn't collect this a pound at a time. This is how it bloody well came off the ship," observed Alfie Hughes.
"Okay, Section Commanders, to me. Tony, you stay with Aidan. I'll take the other two sections and see what else is in the next 300 or 400 yards. While we're away, do a quick count of bags here. Questions? Right, let's go," ordered Ben Lowe.
Later, Fleming and Alfie sat looking out into the jungle as the cache was evacuated. This find had lead to others, and ton upon ton of rice, flour, oil, pickled cucumbers, and other preserved foods were removed.
"This is gonna hurt 'em. There's tons of it all along here, they reckon."
"Yeah. Straight off the fuckin' ship to here. There're some corrupt bastards somewhere, and I don't know if there aren't a few Yanks in it too. The sheer quantities of stuff found are amazing. They must be in it. Must be."
"Yeah."
Tony sat frowning, then asked, "Listen, do you feel sometimes as if it's another world back in Mother England? Lois sends me clippings from the papers, writes about what's goin' on at home, the neighbors, all that you know."
"Yeah. And?"
"Well," pause, searching for words, "it doesn't seem important, if you know what I mean. To us, it's another world. We live out here, no family except the mob. Will we get a resupply? Will it rain? How many Charlies we gonna zap? Are my trousers and shirt gonna last out? How many days to go? Really, I couldn't care less about the politicians, film stars, footy stars, and all that. Here, today, that's what's important."
"Yeah, yer right. We life for one thing, really: catchin' wogs. And when we're back in that world, all those things'll be more real. I guess, anyway."
"Hmmm. It's gonna take time get used to each other again. Apparently, the word's got around, all the wives checked with each other, and all the blokes want to have a kid when they get back. Bloody odd, isn't it? But they reckon it happens in all wars---the men wanna breed."
"So I believe. All them 'baby-booms' after the 1st and 2nd World Wars. You'd think a bloke who's been in it would want to draw the line in case he gets done in and his kids are orphans, eh? But I guess the head shrinkers have got long names for it all. Looks like they're finished. Wonder if we'll prop here tonight? Might get two of 'em sneakin' back in for a look at what we've done."
Forward scout Brett Spencer ignored the sweat trickling down his forehead and peered into the sun- and shadow-dappled bush ahead, every sense alert, every nerve tensed to react at the slightest unnatural movement, gleam, or color. Partially crouched, M16 held firmly, Spencer moved from cover to cover through the grass under the trees. Not the dense green mass of jungle but a sparser growth that allowed plenty of sunlight through to make tough the job of observation through the contrasting light and dark patches.
Suddenly, firing broke out on the right, some of the rounds snapping overhead. The company was sweeping with three platoons abreast. Raw's company HQ moving with Spencer's center platoon. The two commanders were only yards apart; Raw gestured Spencer over to him.
"They're heading this way. We'll go down here and wait---they could run right into us."
Spencer nodded and gave the "section commanders to me" signal: the watching corporals and Blake Leon strode over---small group in the shadow-splotched areas under the trees. Spencer spoke in the habitual low tones of the jungle soldier.
"Right. Mr. Waterman's flushed twelve of 'em, got one KIA, the others are heading this way. We're going to prop here and wait for 'em."
Quickly the platoon and the HQ personnel sank into the grass, under bushes and behind trees, staring out through the now quiet surroundings.
Ross Doyle indicated to Luke Wilder the arc of fire for the M60, moved back a few paces to where he could see his section, and went to ground in a patch of shade under a scrub.
Silence settled. Insects buzzed, birds chirped and chattered, the wind made the sunlight and shadow patterns jiggle.
After some 25 minutes, Ross heard someone moving behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw one of the company cooks approaching. When the company was in camp, they cooked; in the field, when everybody used combat rations, the cooks traveled with CHQ and provided an extra machine gun. The cook leaned over and said quietly: "We got anyone ever that'a'way?" pointing out where the firing had taken place.
"Only Waterman's mob and some Charlies. Why?"
Kneeling down, the cook muttered, "Well, two minutes ago we saw a bloke out there."
"Well," hissed Ross, "what was he wearing?"
"Aw, black clothes."
Ross grabbed the cook's shoulder. "That was a bloody Charlie y'saw! Why didn't ya blast 'im!"
"'Cause I'm not the only one on the gun."
"Where's he?"
"Gone for a shit."
"Well?" The clenched jaw, flashing eyes, lowered brow and tone indicated to the cook that he was not well liked.
"I didn't know if the bloody thing was even loaded! I swear it!"
"What?" in a strangled snarl. "Gimme a look!"
Quickly, bent over, he moved to the machine gun. "What in the name of holy fuckin' hell are you pair of twits doin'? Can't you see the fuckin' gun is behind a friggin' ant-fuckin' hill?"
Silence from the two shame-faced cooks.
"Why didn't you use that?" He points to the SLR.
"Aw, I didn't think...." mumbled the cook.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ! What the fuck d'ye think Parliament sent us here for?" Ross hissed.
Silence resumed.
More and more caches were found and evacuated, until the battalion finally converged on the grassy clearing for extraction and return to camp.
Flash Gordon sat with Alec Collins, the adjutant, enjoying a cup of coffee.
"Well, here we are, pulling out in the middle of a fairly successful operation because the helicopters can only fit us into their program this afternoon," said Montgomery. "far from being 'freed from the tyranny of terrain' as the American generals say, we are tied to the helicopter. We can't mount an operation unless there are 100 choppers available. We can't walk in or out, go over the river by assault boats, do anything without helicopters. In Malaya we could be resupplied by one airdrop. Here we gotta use helicopters that give away the damn locations. Complete misuse of the ground forces in counter-revolutionary warfare by tying them to the machines."
"I don't think any of those generals understands revolutionary warfare or its counter," said Collins.
"I heard one Yank stating that the US Army does have a history of antiguerilla operations---the Indian Wars! That's like comparing The War of Jenkin's Ear to Waterloo. They beat the Indian by not allowing him to live off the land---destroying his home, livestock, and family in winter, using railroads, telegraph, and heliograph to provide communications for armies independent of the land. It doesn't apply here. They can't see that if you're fighting big battles then the revolutionary movement must be gaining enough members to provide the large units for the battles. You're winning when contacts fade away, no incidents happen, people don't support the movement. You can't force people all the time. Terrorism only goes so far."
"Well, all this military might must have some effect," interjected Collins.
"Will it be the proper effect? They'll provide any instrument of war, and they build roads, airfields, harbors, hospitals---but in the end, the Saigon regime and its cronies get richer. They get the contracts, they entrench themselves. What does the average bloke get to show him the Saigon government is the one to support? Nothing. He's got his taste for the material things, the police, petty officials, ministers, generals, and so on are the same group as always in power. Cliques fight for a bigger piece of the pie. The average person is quick to sense hypocrisy, and he can see it. The Americans in power don't understand the kind of war here, and sometimes I think the Saigon regime doesn't understand either the Charlies or its own people, let along Mao Tze Tung's writings."
"The Yanks have a great capability for looking at things and fixing bad techniques very quickly. They adapted to carrier warfare in the Pacific very well."
"True. I hope they wake up here. The caches we've been finding here are more important, with the documents, than the dozen or so kills we've got. Those people weren't important---it wasn't worth our effort to shoot 'em."
"Well, here we go. There they are."
Too far away for the engine noise to be heard, the tiny dots of the Hueys slid along the pale horizon sky. The 1st and 2nd lifts left, and the third appeared thrumming along over the trees; the soldiers lined up in their groups, hats tucked away, sweat-rag ends secured inside shirt collars, weapons unloaded.
Then over the engine thrum crackled the firing of many rifles and machine guns---the 10 Hueys slithered sideways and upward, like a school of disturbed fish, formation gone, wobbling, but still threshing to the LZ. They settled at all angles, scattered over the grass and lifted off. As they flew low over the distant trees on the way out, more firing broke out. The 10 Hueys, some with many bullet holes, zigzagged, gaining height. The two gunships circled and fired at the trees, before beating off, nose down, after their charges.
"This is fuckin' nice! Shot at on the way in and out," grinned "Baron" Roach, taking a magazine out and clipping it home on the rifle.
Four F100s circled, then the leader rolled over and dived. Hogan, acting as Ambush Blue Leader, held the bright "pipper" on the target area, ticked off two 750-pound bombs, and pulled up into the sky, followed by the other three. Circling, he looked down at the ragged gray stain on the green. Far away he saw the shimmering train of helicopter rotors. Rolling down, he spread napalm into the gray smoke clouds and pulled the big F100 into a series of climbing rolls.
"That bastard is enjoying himself anyway," grinned Gordon.
"Yup, showing off to the chopper pilots, I guess."
As the Hueys approached the shattered, smoking target area, Hogan lead his F100s over them as a diversion. Scattered fire came up from the trees, but the enemy had moved away and were unable to concentrate on the slow choppers.
The F100s and gunships rocketed and machine-gunned the sides of the approach and exit routes to the LZ, lessening but never stopping the ground fire. As the last troops clambered aboard, a few flitting figures in the trees drew the fire of the crews, an indication of how close the enemy had worked in towards the sides of the LZ. Fleming saw, as the Huey lifted and climbed hard, two figures run and drop to a crouch just inside the edge of the trees. He flicked his M16 to "fire-automatic" and emptied the magazine in bursts, correcting his aim by the one-in-four tracer he kept in case of just such a situation. The helicopter gunner watched his tracer fall and hosepiped a long burst into the area, imitated by several following gunners.
Looking back, the watchers saw Hogan zipping low at right angles to their direction of flight, firing his cannon into the trees, then pulling up into another succession of climbing rolls.
Fleming felt a tap on the shoulder. Waterman pointed at the cavorting F100 and mouthed, "show-off." Tony grinned in acknowledgment. Another op over. Another day closer to Lois!488Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHsaAzpncxy
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488Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvgYVJZbUkW
488Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8CxOB68KQ0
The blinding sun beat down on the dusty street, driving all living things into the shade. The siesta hush sat over the town. The only people working were the bar staff; Indian tailors, with one eye open, dozed in their shops; cyclo and taxi drivers sat in suspended animation.
The dark cool interiors of the bars opened invitingly to the barhopping soldiers, all seeking that never-attained state of feeling "just right" in the bar: to drink, yarn, and come to a business agreement with the prostitutes. The bars were part of the system to attract foreigners and extract money from their wallets. Apart from the protection from sun and rain, the bars provided drinks and girls, and American pop music.
Generally, the British preferred to follow the customs of their own country: a group of friends sit together and yarn---women having little to no part in the traditional male gathering, much to the despair of women and overseas visitors, and the delight of womanizers and writers of derogatory journalistic pieces.
The Briton, being generally careful of his money, saw little reason to sit with a bar girl and indulge in trivial and banal pleasantries while buying her drinks of cold tea at 2 or 3 times the price of his own drink. If he was going to have sex with her later, then he'd pay her for that at the time. Why waste money on preliminaries that were not included in the eventual deal?
The Americans were more enthusiastic, sitting with a sloe-eyed damsel and buying "teas." The no-nonsense Briton was soon labeled "cheap Limey."
Tarl Jones, Matteo Moss and a group from the company sat in a bar, ignoring the girls and drinking the expensive American beer. Having washed away the dust of the journey, spun a few yarns, and relaxed, the normal male urges reasserted themselves.
"Jesus, Matteo, look at that one in the blue dress. She must be half-Frenchie or something; whaddya think?"
"Hmm. Might be. You gonna give it a go?"
"Well....feelin' a bit randy, y'know."
"Careful, Tarl. Listen to your ol' buddy Matteo. Pick an ugly one."
"Why?"
"Because everybody'll be rooting the good lookin' ones. They're bound to have the clap. You got a better chance with the uglies."
"Yeah, but fuckin' hell, Matteo; 6 weeks since I was on leave, and yer want me to pass up a gross-lookin' moll like that?"
The heat and beers had their effect, and Jones's jaw firmed. "No; fuckin' hell, I'll try that one."
Rising, he walked down the bar and slid onto the bar stool next to the girl, who'd noticed him in the long mirror behind the bar.
"Hey, how are ya?"
"Hello Uc Dai Loi. I am okay. You buy me one Saigon tea?"
"No, I don't wanna buy ya a tea. How much short time?"
"You want short time, hah? No buy me tea?"
"Yeah, right the first time, love."
Calculating eye sweep up and down Matteo, estimating in that second his degree of sobriety, degree of affluence, likelihood of believing a hardline story and thence wringing extra from him.
"Okay, short time fi-hundred p. You got?"
"500? Come on here! I only wanna hire it, not buy it!"
"What?"
"Five hundred no. Two-fifty yes." Hand diving into pocket.
"No, you cheap Limey." Turning away to stare into the mirror, chin up, arms folded. "Four-fifty, okay?"
"Three hundred and some Salems."
"Salem? How many?"
"I tell you what---no money, 3 cartons Salem. Okay? Three cartons okay?"
"Hmmm. Okay! Where Salem? You gimme first."
"Yeah, no worries. We got 'em over there."
"Your frien's also got Salem? They want girl?"
"They can look after 'emselves, love. How 'bouts it?"
"Okay." Speculative glance flicking from Matteo to the group. "I go upstairs, you wait, you follow. Room Seven. Seven, " drawing a 7on the bar surface.
"Okay, let's go."
"Wait! First you give Salem to man behind bar."
"Righto, righto. Here y'are, Neville. Salems."
"Okay, Uc Dai Loi. Now I go."
Abruptly she slid off the stool and walked out of the bar. Matteo, waiting for a moment, saw her climbing the stairs and followed.
Room Seven lay at the end of a short corridor. The room was small and airy, with a washbasin, curtained-off bed, window giving onto the street, and a wardrobe. Pictures of TV and Movie stars (most of them American, except for Roger Moore, star of The Saint) adorned the walls. Matteo shut the door gently and looked around. The girl was hanging her dress in the wardrobe and looked over her shoulder at him, smiling.
"Hey, you Uc Dai Loi. Why you pick me?"
Unbuttoning his shirt, Matteo grinned. "Because you're the best lookin' one, that's why."
"You really think I beautiful?"
"Yup. You're all right." Unzipping his trousers.
"Why you no buy me tea? You like me, you buy me one tea, no?" Raised eyebrow.
"No."
Standing by the bed in the sunlight, she threw her bosom out, head tilted to one side, regarding him out of her slightly slanted brown eyes. "Okay, what you like?"
"Whaddya mean?"
"French, Greek? What you like?"
"French or Greek?"
"Sure. French," pointing to her mouth, "Greek," pointing to her shapely bottom.
"Oh yeah."
"Well?"
"Uh---just plain and simple, thanks."
"Hah?"488Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuYJCTogsme
"Like this."
"Oh, that nothing, Uc Dai Loi," as her hand slid down his stomach and started stroking him. "Hey, you ver' big for English, Uc Dai Loi."
"That so? Matteo's my name."
"Ahhh? Matteo, hah? Here, you let me----oh, wait Uc-Matteo. Okay, now hah?"
"Jesus, you're right. You've got a good set of tits for an---girl over here."
"Yes," in agreement, "they very good. Here---no bite hard, Matteo."
Afterward, Moss lay feeling the breeze dry the sweat on his body. He cocked his head as a massed shout rose from the bar beneath them.
"Up the old red rooster---more piss!"
He grinned at the girl. "The blokes want another beer."
"Oh?" politely. "They are thirsty?" Rolling off the bed, she started to dress. "Okay Matteo; I must go back to bar now. Come."
Overcoming his lassitude, Moss dressed, washed, and followed her to the door. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he said, "You're not too bad, ya know."
At the bottom of the stairs she turned to him, smiling below speculative eyes. "You like me?"
"Aw yeah."
"Why you no buy me tea?"488Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwsEBQNHVFE
"Whaddya want---teas or Salems?"
"Teas and Salems."
"Oh God!" He sauntered over to the booth, noting one less face. "Where's Tarl?"
"Gone off with a the birds. How was it?"
"Aw, not bad. Just a root."
"Hmmm. She got a name?"
"Dunno. I forgot to ask."
ns 15.158.61.20da2
