.jpeg)
x
November, 1964494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyBsJqOuock
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxAsIecVNKY
Battalion commander Phan Gia ceased admiring the moonlit clouds, checked his watch with a little movement of his head, and said, "Fire."
The mortar bombs chunged up and out, and Phan Gia's eyes looked down the long grassy slope, glistening silver in the moonlight, to the area of lights, brighter than diamonds, with here and there the rubies of obstruction lights on hangar roofs---the airfield. Fully lit, figures moving about casually, vehicles driving behind their insect-eye headlights, the lizard shapes of sleeping jet bombers---and then the sound of giant doors slamming and brief flashes as the mortars ended their journey across the velvet tropical sky.
The casually moving figure suddenly running in all directions, the motor vehicles speeding up and zigzagging madly---some of the B57 Canberra jets already slumped on their sides or bellies, their broad wings reflecting the first fires....
Phan Gia's eyes and teeth gleamed in the moon shadow of the bush as he smiled at Dihn Sang, the battalion political officer. "That stirred their nest, brother."
Dihn Sang barely nodded, his eyes reflecting the lights, steadily gazing at the scene below.
Dark figures moved quickly back to the left and the right across the moon and shadow-dappled ridge top. Long Vinh reported with a flash of teeth in the moonlight. "All bombs fired and all crews withdrawing, comrade."
Phan Gia tapped the shoulder of the fourth man, "Phan Nam, phase three signal now," as the others began moving back.
Phan Nam's three sharp whistles signaled the escort platoon to begin moving back---the dark-clad, hunched figures gliding quietly and swiftly through the silvered grass and into black shadows.
Now the group fled east under the moon, down the white gleaming paths, for under the scream of the siren was the throbbing hum of the avenging bumblebee helicopters....
At the first halt 20 minutes later, Dihn Sang stared west through the soft tropical darkness to the red glow over the skyline, and the circling blinking red lights of the helicopters searching for any ground assault force.
"So, comrades, the insects are disturbed," one red light suddenly shot away from the circling school and myriad red pinpoints streamed seemingly slowly earthward, "and they expend themselves on brother. Trung's decoys." A laugh whispered through the watching shadows.
Dihn Sang turned and gestured to the east. "Enough rest. Comrade Ky---the four 'quicks' and one 'slow'---what are they?"
"Comrade, 'quick approach, 'quick' battle, 'quick' reorganization, 'quick' withdrawal, and 'slow' preparation."
"Good. Now we are withdrawing quickly. Go!"
On the rooftop of his billet in the town adjoining the airbase, Colonel Edwin Bowers, Wing Operations Officer, shifted his gaze from the fire glow and the rows of Vietnamese spectators on each roof, rose-tinted by the flames, took, his cigar from between gritted teeth, and said softly, "I guess it's a stupid fuckin' question, Norm, but where the hell were and are the ARVN?"
Norm lifted his shoulders and rolled his eyes skyward. Being an intelligence officer at this base in this country at this time was something that often left him mute.494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKawqHQ6Rv3
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlJVKpZ0yAH
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQgfjLVe7Gl
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLB7cNNIBIW
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaHYAJqXcuV
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0gSg6xxxLp
February 1965494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC3EPGrk7P2
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHDu3o0XjBF
James Ewing, an AAP photographer, shook his head slowly and prepared to record the scene: long decayed stretch of French-built road, bitumen eroded to a filigree pattern over the red earth beneath, long grass encroaching over both road edges, sunlight streaming down down as a crushing physical presence---and the regularly spaced silent bundles of clothes lying so still, some half in and half out of the long grass, the bodies of the government paratroopers who had been ambushed, following the young lieutenant searching for the enemy by walking down the road until he found them.
Their commanding officers had begun his military career with the French and continued with American training. This meant he did not have to go out with the troops but controlled his subunits by radio from a convenient village, in a house or under a shady tree, with maps, orderlies, and radio operators as befitted his rank.
Unfortunately, the VC commanders had not had the benefits of such education and controlled their force from positions much closer to the scene of action.
Ewing reloaded his Nikon and together with Sonny Johnston, a journalist reporting in his seventh war (World War II, Palestine 1948, Greece 1948-49, French Indochina 1950-54, with breaks for Korea, the Suez Crisis of 1956), walked over to their battered Renault.
"We'll make it in two hours," said James, calculating that in three and a half he could be showered, changed, and in the Copacabana on Le Thanh Ton Street with the delectable Bành. As his hand touched the sun-warm door handle, both men's heads flicked around, every sense alert, nostrils flared like a hunting dog's, eyes sharper, as the drum roll of heavy firing crashed out and continued, hardly muted by the distance and intervening trees.
"Christ, ambushed three times in what, a little over a mile? How long can they keep this up? The ARVN are being chewed up along the length and breadth of this goddamn country---they can't have many reserves left, Sonny."
Sonny settled himself into the worn and faded driver's seat and switched on the ignition.
"Last I heard, they don't. You've just been taking their pictures. Come on, it's getting late."
James looked around again at the spaced rows of camouflaged corpses laying where they had fallen, the yellow-green grass against the dark brooding green jungle, that impenetrable wall covering what? He shrugged and paused to look up at the two propeller-driven Skyraiders roaring down, dark-blue canopies glinting, toward the sound of firing that had now taken on the different note of panicked uncontrolled blazing at shadows as the ARVN expended their ammunition on the trees---the VC were gone again.
As the Renault bumped back to Saigon, James drummed his fingers in the red dust on the door windowsill, only half aware of the lurching and rocking caused by the neglected road surface, clicking through in his mind who among his contacts could have contacts with the National Liberation Front and who might be worth sounding out about acceleration as a photographer to the NLF to cover the change of government.494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbs9S84Sxec
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjsv3I47dCu
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2G26AmhZH6
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6EkLPGWnbh
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcPT2hk9C6D
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDcnOt8lnUz
March 1965494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsZZglJyCEt
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsz8pRulYAr
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoKodWLTmzp
The small group of Englishmen stood in the warm sunshine of the Essex marshes, the knee-high grass waving as the breeze from the English Channel whispered up the slope. Peaked caps inside shirts and sweat cloths tucked into the open-necked collars, they waited for a helicopter. A lieutenant-colonel, a captain, a lance-corporal with a radio set on his back, and a private---the battalion commander, his intelligence officer, radio operator, and a battalion intelligence section member.
There existed that familiarity among professionals found between people who devote their adult lives to a common calling, and so the group was discussing the various wars going on at the time, training, new techniques, and equipment. The intelligence section private waited for a pause in the conversation and addressed the colonel. "Sir, the Yanks are writing the book on helicopter warfare in South Vietnam, using them as troop carriers and to give air support, but the RAF chaps say you can't put a machine gun on a helicopter two years after the Yanks started using them. What's wrong with the bastards? That Yank pilot on exchange we had flying us on the last exercise has already done a tour in Vietnam as a gunship pilot."
The colonel's short silver hair shone in the sun as he turned his head and answered, "Remember you said, 'writing the book,' it's still trial and error to a large extent, and we just don't have the helicopters to lift any sizeable body of troops let along start hanging machine guns and things off them. Now look at Vietnam---despite the Americans there and their helicopters, the VC are winning. It's a losing war and if the Yanks ask for our help, I do hope we have the good sense to tell them what to do with themselves!"
"The Australians certainly did," replied the intelligence section private.
The radio operator tilted the handset toward his ear, acknowledged the message, and looking south said, "Choppers on it's way," which ended the discussion.494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp7bE8VKmJD
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpE17INJGLf
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqa7dBgcJLY
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5ZYAKrJL59
July 1965494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡI7OPvPdXKd
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4b3Rox5jG2
"You will load the twenty rounds into a magazine. That magazine will not be placed on your weapon unless otherwise ordered to do so by an officer," stated the captain of the 115 men standing in three ranks on the darkening parade ground, equipment piled at their feet.
The quiet twilight scene was a background of pale-painted army barracks around a company parade ground. The 115 green-clad men composed the majority of the load of a Boeing 707 soon to be en route to Vietnam, and they were now kneeling or squatting to load their twenty rounds into a magazine---from all sides the soft metallic snock, snock, snock rose into the clear evening air.
"Right, your time's your own for the next half hour. Be back here then, standing by your gear."
The dark shapes of the 115 began moving away, the buzz of conversation rising and matches firing as the cigarette smokers fed their addiction.
The regimental sergeant major smiled as he saw the dark shadow figures merge into the ground at the side of the barrack building. "There's the British Tommy; give him a two-minute halt and he goes down like a horse with a broken leg."
Major Mike Gordon, known as "Flash" to one and all, after an American comic-strip spaceman, turned to his officers---Captain Ted Raw, second-in-command; Lieutenants Jonas Sweet, Oscar Scar and Tris Dunkin, rifle platoon commanders---"Ted, this will be the final opportunity for these young chaps to buy their seniors a pint in Great Britain. I'll see you in the mess in ten minutes."
"Right, sir."
Gordon called to the company sergeant major, Wyatt Bones, who was talking to Sweet's platoon sergeant, Sam Dick, "CSM."
"Sir!"
"We're going to the mess. We'll be back in twenty-five minutes."
"Right, sir!" Turning back to Dick, "So everything's okay with Quaid?"
"Yeah. It was a close thing though. The dogs."
"Yeah. How often is a Tommy buggered around by the pencil pushers in matters we don't have any say in? The Tom, of course, says 'Fuckin' army! Hmmm. Okay, then. How's Private Smith?"
"Moaning as usual. He's all right."
"Yeah. All right, see you back here in twenty minutes."
"Right, sir!"
Lieutenant Colonel Mack Craggs stood in his office looking out into the spring dusk, wondering how the children would fare during his absence. Away at school in Yorkshire, they were just starting to question authority and feel the young blood racing through their veins. Sally would, of course, have a very busy time with the mass of committees and associated activities. If only she would be careful driving the car. There were so many idiots on the roads these days.
A knock at the door. He turned, and in a clear voice, commanded, "Come in."
Regimental Sergeant Major Toby Scruggs entered, every inch an infantry RSM, executing a faultless salute.
"Good evening, sir."
"RSM."
Quickly, but without appearing to do so, Scruggs checked the CO's dress. If it was not up to standard, Craggs's batman would be chastised, the RSM had served with Scruggs in one place or another for thirteen years. Looking at the officer behind the desk, he saw a still trim 37-year-old man, of average height, blond, with level blue eyes, faint traces of silver at the temples almost hidden by the blond hair and short back-and-sides haircut. The air of command sat with Craggs always, even in cricket whites, a game he played at every opportunity, and did well. At thirty-seven Craggs could look back on a career embracing Japan, Korea, Malaya and Cyprus. His Military Cross was awarded after a vicious action in defense of "The Hook" during the trench warfare stage of the Korean War. Now, his battalion was in the process of moving to Vietnam. Advance party gone, companies leaving by Boeing 707 at regular intervals.
He had said his goodbyes to Sally after breakfast. He felt easier knowing the duties of each of them would keep them busy and allow little time for brooding on the separation. His nickname--"Mack-the-knife," as well as rolling easily off the tongue, grew from his unwavering grasp of command of the battalion.
Craggs, his five-feet eleven inches starched and gleaming, had fought through New Guinea, gone to Japan with the Occupation Forces, fought the North Koreans and Chinese Communists in Korea, and the Communist terrorists in Cyprus and Malaya. His military medal had been won with the bayonet at Akyab in Burma. He was a firm believer in the saying, "There are no bad soldiers, only bad officers and NCOs."
Craggs and Scruggs had served in the same battalion in Korea, again in Malaya and Cyprus, and had also been on the staff at the Royal Military College, Sandhurst, at the same time.
In contrast, Scruggs's family consisted of a patient, understanding wife, who supported him in everything he did, and a son, now at Hargrave, in his second of the four years to be spent there before graduation as a 1st Lieutenant.
Together, Craggs and Scruggs commanded an infantry battalion of 800 British from all walks of life, but which in the early '60s, was composed mainly of Scots, Ulstermen, Welshmen, and British with only a scattering of representatives of other regions. There were so many Irishmen in some units that a current saying was, "This is a good little Irish army, fucked up by a few Brits!"
Cragg's battalion was composed of company commanders with experience as platoon commanders in Korea and Malay and some platoon commanders with Malayan service, warrant officers with combat experience in World War II, Korea and Malaya, and two with previous time in the Royal Army Training Team, Vietnam---RATTV; sergeants with at least Malayan service, and since some corporals and privates with service in both Korea and Malaya, but the majority of junior ranks had not been overseas. They were secure in the knowledge that the Anglo-Saxon is superior to the man of every other nation, and while there might be more of the others, with greater wealth, they were definitely inferior. Without realizing it, two of their great strengths were the dry British sense of humor and the inborn independence of the British male, ingested with his mother's milk, that allowed him not to be overawed by another's appearance and reputation, but to reserve judgment and base approval or rejection on visible performance.
Having dealt with the routine matters, RSM Scruggs strode out of the CO's office and along the veranda to the Regimental Police Office, eyes flicking over ever soldiers in sight to detect sloppy dress, untidy or long hair, or slovenly bearing.
After losing friends in the battle against the fanatical Japanese and Chinese, Scruggs became a firm believer in strict discipline---not for discipline's sake, but as preparation for combat. The easy-going British attitude of "she'll be all right," if allowed to develop and if tolerated in peacetime, led to casualties in wartime. Scruggs knew Britain did not have, maybe never would have, the manpower to accept needless casualties that were caused by lack of discipline.
With out-thrust jaw and steely-eye, he would deliver a brief lecture to offenders found below the required standards, finishing with, "Any fool can prance around here with all the comforts! But to look after your weapons, equipment, and personal health and appearance when you're tired, wet, cold scared, with mates to bury, and be ready to go on---that's soldiering!"494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXwXAfpBa6V
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpXiD5LBUpa
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMtB53OkNOj
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcs9SzqF4uz
The trucks arrived, high square dark shapes against the evening sky, headlights blazing in semicircles, brake lights flaring red, engines rumbling; and airbrakes hissing as the drivers maneuvered their mammoths into line, backs toward the waiting dark rows, drivers swung down and hastened to lower their tailboards. The Tommies pulled themselves up into the dark interiors with practiced ease, the first two up assisting the others.
The inevitable final roll call had been performed in the last few minutes before the trucks arrived; now another count was made before the trucks arrived; now another count was made before the convoy started for the RAF base in Eddearnestone, from which the 707 was to take these men on the long flight west under the stars, toward its ultimate tropical destination, the land of the blazing sun, the swamps, the monsoons, the leeches, the malarial mosquitoes and the Viet Cong---who, now in July 1965, were roaming the country in regiments with a never-ending string of victories gained by themselves and their North Vietnamese regular army counterparts.
The usual start-of-journey chatter died out, and the road trip was a quiet one in the dark, canopied interiors, cigarettes fiery for a moment, faces dimly glowing in the lights of following cars.
Some family and friends had waited outside the camp and followed the hulking shapes of the convoy in the airbases for goodbyes. The departure was from an air force base, for security reasons. Despite the announcement that a British battalion was to serve in Vietnam, despite the activity at Portsmouth, loading stores onto the aircraft carrier HMS Belmeath, now a troop carrier, despite the embarking of troops and the night sailing, despite all these activities for days on end taking place under the watchful eyes of thousands of English Channel ferry passengers, and being visible from the thousands of Portsmouth windows looking across the harbor, despite the fact that wives and children must be told, and so neighbors, in-laws, friends, and family doctors, and an ever-widening number of people must become aware that "so-and-so" would be going to Vietnam---despite all of this, security people tried to maintain secrecy, to prevent subversive elements and the "lunatic fringe" finding out who was going, when, and from where.
Corporal Ricky McFadden's wife, Abigail, rang to find out if her husband would be home early or late, packing a battalion for war is one thing, but the domestic matter whether to cook early or late also has a relative importance.
"I'm sorry, ah, er, madam," mumbled Lieutenant Scar, "er, I can't tell you if your, er, husband, is, er, even in this unit."
"What do you mean? I know he's one of your soldiers and you're the officer! All I want to know is will he be home early or late?"
"Ah, well, er, I'm afraid I can't tell you," began the young officer, and suddenly jerked the earpiece away from his head as a stream of fluent English poured out, in which the words "fool---commanding officer----put up with this----simple matter----husband---idiots for officers" were repeated in varying sequence and increasing vehemence, cut off sharply when the lieutenant's caller hung up. He blinked at the handset.
"Who was that?" queried Sergeant Andrew Lucas, looking up from the list of company next-of-kin.
"Well, she said she was Corporal Scar's wife, wanting to know when he'd be home," replied the lieutenant.
"But he's on his way now," said the stocky dark-haired sergeant, frowning in puzzlement.
"Yes, I know," said the officer, "but I can't go giving out that information over the phone, you know."
"Fuck me," thought Lucas, anticipating the reaction in the mess when he hit them with the latest one about Scar. Not for nothing did he have the unofficial title of "Jungles"---green and dense.
The convoy rolled through the airbase gate, slowing to the slapping hiss of airbrakes, and halted outside the long marquee. With a minimum of effort the passengers climbed down with their basic webbing and weapons: the long-barreled, self-loading rifle---SLR---called "Slur" by the men, designed by FN in Belgium, and modified and produced in Britain at Birmingham; the General Purpose Machine Gun (GPMG), a 7.62mm, belt-fed workhorse that can lay down a heavy supporting fire from an infantry platoon or mounted on vehicles., and the British Lancaster submachine gun, famous in World War II's European theater. Although always popular in Britain, as so much of it could be stripped off and left behind on exercises, the Lancaster was soon to be replaced by the vaunted US M16, the Armalite of legend, because of the low muzzle velocity of its 9mm round at 800 feet per second.
When the chairs in the tent had been filled---"fill up from the back!"---and the sergeant major had made a quick headcount, a service corps captain, his rank displayed by a gold wagon wheel on a red armband, stepped forward.
"I will call our your names, and you will be giving a boarding pass. Place it in your puggaree immediately: don't lost it, swap it with your mates, or put it in your pocket. In the puggaree! The number must be visible, like this," taking up a slouch hat and inserting the carboard pass behind the front of the hat band (called a puggaree, ever since the British Army served in India), "and there'll be no messing around getting you on board!"
After various administrative notices, he announced, "Right, there's tea, coffee, biscuits, and so on outside. From now until we call you, you can spend the time with your families outside."
Small family groups gathered in the light and shadow rhomboids outside the tent, white styrofoam cups in hand. Those who said their goodbyes that morning stood yarning and watching the floodlit 707, silver and white, with the red B.O.A.C tail, perched above its ground crew, performing their rituals.
"Well, this time tomorrow night, eh, Tony?" grinned tall, blond Johnnie Allen. Friends for several years, Allen and Tony Fleming went fishing together, wangled courses together, and with great equanimity, shared their clothes, boot polish, and money the same way they shared each other's girlfriends. The girls were always placid and affectionate, never seeming to mind the free-and-easy pairing off, sometimes with Johnnie, sometimes with Tony.
"Yeah, this time tomorrow night," replied Tony. "I wonder if there'll be anything goin' on?"
"Aw, bloody bound t'be, bound t'be," put in Kelly Douglas, the company pessimist, "Whaddya reckon they're gonna let us get settled in an' do nuthin'? If ya was in their boots, you'd have somethin' set up, woulden ya? They're gonna hit us, mate, you see."
"Aw, bullshit, you silly bastard," from Johnnie, who was in fact recalling the briefing given by the Intelligence crowd, which largely showed how the Vietnamese had run rings around the French, killing 100,000 of the buggers, and beating piss and pick-handles out of them at Dien Bien Phu. Well, so what---that was the French.
Ulsterman Aiden Quaid was wondering how his family was settling into the house they had moved into that very day. They had previously lived in a rented house. Ten days ago, the landlord had given them a fortnight's notice: he suddenly needed the house for his parents. If he could find a house in the time available, Aiden could not scrape together the money for a bond and removal in the fortnight; moreover, he was on orders to go to Vietnam. He had then gone through the army system and applied for an army married quarter; his company commander and even the battalion commander had added their weight to the request for a speedy allocation, to no avail. The public servants controlling the married quarters maintained their position: "There are absolutely no quarters available."
Even a request for assistance through army channels to London and to the minister brought the same reply: "No quarters available." There was one last sentence: "But Private Quaid goes to Vietnam, as intended."
Two days before he was due to go, Aiden and a few mates, at their wits' end, were having a lunchtime beer in the Tommies' canteen. Going AWOL was no solution, as his pay would stop, and he would be easily picked up, for no result. "It looks like a caravan park for a year for 'em," Aiden said, staring into his beer.
"Excuse me, mate," broke in another soldier standing next to the small group, "you lookin' for a quarter?"
"Yeah. See, I'm goin' t' Vietnam in two days, regardless, and I can't find a place for me wife an' kids. T'ain't no bloody quarters in London."
"Well, listen, mate, I live in Bayswater, over there, and there's about four or five quarters empty---long grass out front an' all. Been empty six months, some of 'em, I reckon."
"Shit! C'mon, Aiden, we'll dive over for a look," burst out Corporal Ricky McFadden.
"Hey," to the stranger, "got time to come over with us and show us?"
"Aw, yeah, wait'll I skoal this."
And there were indeed married quarters, which had been vacant for some months, despite direct requests and explanations of the compassionate nature of Aiden's request from his commanders and from London. As a result of phone calls that afternoon, Private Quinn was at last reluctantly allocated a house for his family; a sympathetic commander looked the other way when a truck disappeared with several of Aiden's mates to assist in the move.
So, standing staring at the B.O.A.C emblem, Aiden drew on his cigarette, past the tightness in his chest composed of equal amounts of worry about the kids settling in and rage against the bureaucrats. Erin was a good, steady type, he had no worries there.
"Fuckin' public servants," he growled, grinding the butt into the grass.
"Pack of mongrel bastards, they are," agreed Ricky.494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHRSQBdA4Vo
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsuteLL6RFT
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIWeqxrtV7O
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡB5TL612KFX
Through the long night sky, the 707 rumbled west/southwest, halting to refuel at Gibraltar, and then on to a stop in Bombay. Major "Flash" Gordon, the officer-in-charge of the group, spoke over the aircraft announcement system, telling them the stop would be for several hours and that they would be confined to the transit lounge. The airliner door slid back, the men walked down the steps and across to the transit lounge. The route was indicated by two lines of unsmiling Indian soldiers, all armed with submachine guns, all facing inwards. "Fuckin' Indians," from Ricky McFadden.
After "breakfast," for those who wanted it---"It'll be a long time 'til lunch," moaned Kelly---the bar and tobacco counter was crowded. Kingfisher beer revived memories for those who had drunk it in Malaya and expanded the experience of those who had not.
"Hey, ya wanta go for a leak in there," grinned Luke Wilder, a machine gunner, to the rest of the section. "There's a wog in there with a vibrator he whacks onto yer shoulder blades while yer takin' a leak."
"Yeah, you shoulda seen 'im leap," laughed an interested spectator "Ever seen a bloke leap into the air, tryin' to quit pissin' put his dick back in his pants, not wet himself, and turn and punch a wog behind him, all in midair? Thought the dreaded Indians had 'im!" and held his sides at the memory.
Meanwhile, three other travelers decided to go to the door for a look out at the surroundings. A lone Indian soldier stood about ten paces away from the door. As it swung open he moved one foot forward, cocked his Thompson submachine gun and went into a firing stance. The three paused and took in the leveled gun and closed Indo-Aryan face. "Oh, welcome to India, eh?" one of them observed as they retired.
"I guess they don't have any real reason to like us," mused Jerry Dawson.
"And we don't have any real reason to like them!" growled Dustin Shields. "I mean, if we acted like that, they'd be screaming bloody 'racists' in the U.N. Funny how it's only us white blokes who're racists, never any of these little bastards."
"Never mind, when they fall into the deep, dark shit, they'll scream for us white fellers to rescue 'em," said Daniel Serrano, from the depths of his three years' military experience. "They can get rooted; let's have a beer."494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡN0MLbXsAbm
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUTlOsBeMa9
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKeTQWJNeES
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡX2QCgvYBEx
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgo53R8hGUZ
494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgIAZ4X12LU
The group walked back to the airliner through the silent rows of Indian soldiers, either ignoring them and chatting, or striding along and looking them up and down. Secure in their knowledge that the British are superior to every other bastard, they took their seats for final leg to Vietnam, timed to arrive at dawn.494Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡY4KGoKhUts
With their usual forethought, Kelly, Ricky, and Aiden, sitting in the rear cabin, spent their last quid on a bottle of Indian rum. A word to the stewards, and they were comfortably seated in the small compartment in the very end of the cabin, ready to drink their way to Saigon. Liberal dashings of B.O.A.C orange juice helped disguise the taste---"Dunno what part of the bloody sugar cane went into this piss. Christ, it's evil stuff." By steadily working away at it, they were able to place the empty brown bottle in the rubbish sack as the long fuselage tilted down for the descent into Saigon.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
