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The long semitrailers halted on the road, and the rows of green-clad infantry clambered up onto the flat, walled-in backs, looking like puppets with the packs, water bottles, and ammunition pouches as artificial sectioning of their backs and hips.
At the helicopter pad they clambered down and broke up into their small groups for each Huey. Immediately, the long lines of soldiers slumped to the ground, backs against packs. Cigarettes lit, paperbacks out of pockets, the British Tommy was at ease.
Over 100 helicopters squatted in rows along the sides of the old French runway, made of pierced steel plate and now relegated for use as an aircraft parking area and helicopter pad. Silent, the sun glinting off the large perspex windscreens, main rotors secured fore and aft, crews lolling inside or completing some minor adjustment, the huge assembly of robot insects squatted.
On the noises and sides were painted plunging eagles, tigers, red birds, a cave man's axe, a dean's mortar, a top hat, gloves, cane and champagne glass, hornets, a highwayman's mask, a bulldog, a coiled ready-to-strike rattlesnake---the only sign by which any of these mass-produced machines could be distinguished from any others.
Then the stir of movement---pilots donning big bulbous helmets with blank dark-green visors that turn the men into faceless robot insects; crewmen releasing the main rotor blades; infantrymen heaving themselves upright, bending at the waist to relieve the weight of packs containing clothing, food, ammunition, radio batteries, and water, using rifle and machine gun as a third leg to take some weight; huge Eddie with a rucksack so heavy some men could not lift it, and he bearing it as a feather; the rotors turning slowly at first, then faster, to a rising whining, roaring chorus of a 100-jet engine, prickling the hair on the nape, quickening the blood; the prelude to the first airmobile operation, an air assault into a jungle area to the south, then moving north through it, seeking the enemy believed lurking there.
Those in the first wave, or "lift" are in their helicopters---the man on each side sitting on the floor, legs dangling outside; the helmeted gunner holding an M60 in his lap, long smooth coiling brass ammo belts lying in the box under the seat, gleaming, alert to the command of his finger.
The roaring note changes, taking on a deeper more purposeful tone, as the first lift raises a few feet, hovering, blades great blurring circles, then like ballet dancers, the lead machines dip their noses, and long tails pointed up, begin moving forward, rapidly accelerating and curving left, followed by each of the other nine in the elements of ten.
1/2 a mile away in the town, Loc leaned forward slightly on the thick beam under the roof to follow the direction of flight through the gap in the tiles and called down to Phan: "60 UH-1-B loaded with infantry flying south."
Phan nodded and spoke into the handset of his radio. The aerial masqueraded as a clothesline running out to the tall, old mango tree in the rear of the house, then up to its highest branch.
40 miles away, the information was recieved, recorded and marked on the map in the HQ of the military region. No great excitement was evident, as the staff had recieved a copy of the operations order 36 hours earlier.
Many other indications of a helicopter-borne operation had been evident to the NLF reconnaissance teams in the town: the American and British camps were visible to the naked eye from the town, and telescopes in roofs were put to constant use; weapon test-firing increased greatly and was easily heard by paddie- and rubber-workers on the river side of the airfield; fuel was ordered and arrived; maps were picked up from the map store, and it was relatively simple for the Vietnamese sweepers to ascertain which sheet or sheets had been taken; as the time drew closer, observation aircraft intensified their activity over the target area, the helicopters arrived and refueled; the long green trucks trundled to and from the infantry camp; the soldiers sat or lay along the sides of the landing zone, shortened to "LZ"; Skyraiders took off to bomb the edges of the jungle clearing selected as the next LZ.
Most important, within 8 hours of the ARVN receiving their copies of the operation order, at least one was in the hands of the NLF, and the objective had been passed to them in any case in two hours.
So all Loc and Phan were doing with their reports was confirming the detail of the pages on the camp table of Vong Thao, chief-of-operations in the NLF military region.
He briskly rubbed his crewcut black hair and turned to Cong Hoc, signals chief. "Have you contact with our comrade in the target area?"
"Yes, comrade; through two relays."
"Very good." Vong Thao smiled slightly as he thought of the massive operation in progress to sweep an area he knew to contain nothing except jungle and a few reconnaissance elements he had ordered deployed to test the foreigners' fire discipline and tactics.
Meanwhile, the troop-carrying Hueys, the "slicks" in US slang, were gaining height to the south of the airfield, and those looking forward could see the Skyraiders diving and climbing, and the flashes and gray smoke marking the bombing of the LZ clearing. Off to the sides thrashed the escorting gunships, known as "pigs," noses down, machine guns or banks of rockets on the sides, looking like aggressive fighting fish in the clear gray light under the rain clouds.
The lift began descending in a left curve, moving into line astern, and the gunships moved forward and below---lower, the trees rising, the river below passing to the rear---now at the treetop---over a big grassy area, smoke rising from the edges---explosions; only delayed action shells---slowly---nose up---grass flicking below, around the landing skids---gunner leaning out watching the tail rotor and its closeness to the ground---leveling out---skids touch the earth---out and run---down---cock rifle---what's in the trees in front? Gunships weaving, snarling overhead---slicks lifting, nose down, gunner waves, wave back, there they go, climbing into the gray sky, turning left for the second lift.
Right, where are the others? Here they come, all grins, pulling hats from inside their shirts, moving fast off the LZ, get away from the open as fast as possible.
Now, secure the LZ for the second lift. Twenty minutes later; here they come---slicks nose up---touching down---gunships streaking down the sides, door gunners leaning out staring forward and down---infantry piling out of the slicks---down---up and away they go with a great roaring of blades---the 20th century war machine that enables the infantrymen to travel at 100 miles per hour, effortless vaulting the backbreaking, gut-busting hills and mountains.
In 40 minutes, a fresh infantry battalion has been positioned 20 miles from its last location, hopefully behind the enemy. Now to sweep through and flush them out. And so began to the real infantry work---forward scouts, section and platoon commanders, machine gunners and riflemen moving forward, ever searching for signs of the enemy, see him before he sees you, or......
The green-clad figures move quietly through the silent green light, sleeves down, sweat rag of green cheesecloth around neck, safari hat on head, its outline breaking up the distinct shape of the head, the rifle and machine-gun muzzles pointing wherever the eyes look. Overhead, the trees extend their leaves---upper ones, lighter; lower ones darker---against the sun and sky between the clouds. Patches of dappled sunlight move gently on bushes and tree trunks, but mostly it is dim under the trees.
And apart from trees and a few huts, nothing was seen---no shots fired.
At night, lone Charlies fired in the direction of the British trying to provoke some reaction, but discipline held and Vong Thao was informed that the British at least had fire discipline.
With no significant contact, the battalion swept north; its only results being three people captured and released, simply leaving them on the side of the landing zone, an area near a railway station from which the battalion was extracted in pouring rain. Even though no concrete results were seen, morale rose.
Then a few days later, sudden alert. Committing a tactical error that was to be repeated, the American artillery was deployed and set up a firing position, without infantry protection, some miles across the river into the jungle expanse of War Zone D. Such a target was not passed up by the Charlies who began harassing the gunners at night with quick mortar bombardments, small infiltration parties, and sniping.
Into the trucks, down to the helicopter pad. This time, even Vietnamese helicopters were used; big, blunt-nosed H-34s, the pilots sitting up in their separated cockpit. Waiting for the rain to clear from the jungle-clearing LZ, final cigarettes and yarns, the inevitable paperbacks.
"Saddle up!" And the rising metallic whine of the first turbine turning.
Flight past heavy gray rain clouds, some trailing their long curtain of water, north over the river in the dull gray light, dark green jungle stretching away to the north as far as the eye can see, lighter green of abandoned paddies along creeks and smaller rivers breaking up the solid green mass. The slicks in a great curving turn to the west, descending, moving into lie astern; there are the ones in front, looking like a line of little fish in the gray light---they're down---black dots pop from the sides---moving toward the trees---the slicks take off---getting closer---lower---grass is very short here----there are the VNAF H-34s behind, still high, noses up, fishtailing---slowing---stopping, gunners wave us out---splash into waist-deep water---that was why the grass looked so short; only two inches show above the surface, and the dully light didn't show the water---H-34s sliding past, still 10 or 15 feet up---they're up in in front of everybody---H-34s settling---splash, splash, splash out they come---all the slicks are lifting---gunship roaring low along the side of the LZ---splashing, wading, to the side of the LA.
"Wait you bastards---we're stuck! Give us a hand!"
There are two fellows who have jumped in and sunk in the mud, just their shoulders and head above water; a roar of laughter rolls across the LZ and the rescuers splash out.
Tony Fleming's platoon arrived in the H-34s. At the rendezvous off the LZ, he spoke to "Flash" Gordon.
"Sir, if we're using VNAF choppers again, it might be well to be careful. When we were coming in just then, the gunner waved us out---I was just going to leap out when I saw that we were still 20 feet up. They wanted us out then so they could piss off. I shook my head and pointed down. That's why we landed where we did."
"Okay, Tony. I'll keep it in mind for the orders group."
Move up and dig in around the guns. The sudden arrival of infantry was audible to the enemy in the area whose only activity was some mortaring that caused the first British casualties---all light.
Next day, a long hot walk and a truck ride back to base. Still no descent contact; no Charlies have ever been seen.
Jonas Sweet, standing by the road, watched the companies striding down the overgrown, neglected road surface. Despite the savage heat and sheer physical effort needed to carry the packs, weapons, radios and ammunition, there were enough wisecracks and alert eyes to show that the battalion was in good shape.
Dunkin, the second-in-command, who had come out to the RV wit the urns of tea and who would fly back to ensure that meals and showers were ready for the returning companies, was standing by Sweet's side. He turned to Dunkin and asked, with raised eyebrows, "Any bets going on which company is going to get the first kill?"
Dunkin's teeth flashed in the sun. "Well, there are some, strictly unofficial, of course. Personally, I don't know who it might be."
Ricky McFadden, a few paces away, turned, hands on hips and growled, "It'll probably be a cook or someone firing blindly, and won't that upset 'em!"
"Hmmm," mused Sweet. "I know they'll do well. We we need are two successful contacts to get our fellows' tails right up. We're bound to get into it any time now."
But it was another 2 weeks before the next operation. Then, in conjunction with the US paratroopers and Vietnamese troops, they flew north again, across the river into D-Zone, watched and counted by Loc and Phan, in the house in town.
Down into the paddies, off to the sides, reorganize and move, searching for the elusive enemy.
Tron Cong Hao paused behind the bamboo clump, avoiding the hooked thorns, and peering under the long fronts, carefully examined the area in front. Sometime earlier, from the regimental camp, he'd seen the small dark shapes of the helicopters climbing in long strings up over the trees under the gray clouds. They had obviously landed troops, and Hao, Dat and Quan had been allocated this area to reconnoiter and report on enemy activity. Hao knew Dat and Quan were behind, carefully observing to th left and right; they had worked as a team for almost 2 years and were one of the most experienced teams of the Regimental Reconnaissance Company.
Nothing moved, the bushes and grass showed no odd signs, no boots prints were visible on the sandy path they were following, no noise of radios, clanking of metal on metal, voices, coughing or any of the other signs of governmental soldiers. Hao tapped his index finger knuckle twice on the stock of the Russian PPS M1943 submachine gun and knowing Dat and Quan would follow, trotted forward.
Brett Spencer frowned, wrinkling his nose to try to get rid of the sweat running down between his eyes onto his nose. As forward scout, he knew his life and the lives of the rest of the section, and possibly the platoon, depended on his eyes and brain. His whole purpose in life was now to see the enemy first, and inform Blake Leon, the section commander, so the section and platoon could be maneuvered to engage the enemy.
He halted, kneeling beside a tall shrub. 20 feet away, a sandy path, gray-white against the foliage and dark shadows, ran toward him from his left and swung away through 90 degrees, disappearing behind some huge trees 30 yards away on his right.
Spencer turned to look at Leon, knowing the second scout was watching, and gave the field signal for "obstacle." Leon quickly and quietly moved forward, hunched over, and squatted on Spencer's left.
Behind them the signal was being relayed. Luke Wilder, the big machine gunner, moved up, obedient to Leon's pointing hand, and lay behind the gun at the track bend, where he could fire up either stretch: his No. 2 on the left, next belt ready in the plastic bag inside the green cotton carrier.
Spencer placed his scouts to fire to the left, his four riflemen to the right, in less than 15 seconds from his first sighting and assessment of the track, he turned to find Luke Wilder striding toward him, his attendant radio operator trailing behind.
"What have you got, Brett?" in a low voice barely more than a whisper.
"Track running in from the left and going out there, Skipper," equally softly.
"Ah yeah? (pulling out folded map from the thigh pocket on the side of his trousers) Hmm, it's not on here." Turning to the radio operator, "Call 'em up, tell 'em we found a track running from the northwest, turning to the northeast." And to Leon, "Right, I'll send Dodger across for a look."
He turned to give the next section the "corporal to platoon commander" signal, and saw the second scout click his fingers for attention, clench his fist, and give the "thumbs down" sign---enemy!
Following the scout's gaze, they saw the black-clad figure trotting toward them, round-crowned black cloth hat with stitching-reinforced brim, checkered neck cloth, submachine gun and canvas magazine carrier, sandals on bare feet. A random ray of sun placed them in a shadow, and Hao did not see them till he was 15 yards away. Without breaking stride, he lunged sideways but felt the thump in his right thigh and knew he was falling onto the track. He fell on one shoulder and had time to register a fan of sand leaping in front of his face. Before any grain reached him, the M60 machinegun burst hit his shoulders and chest, shredding his rib cage and organs, and Hao died wondering who shot him. They did not look like Americans.
Spencer fired at the second man to appear and saw his black shirt leap under the impact of the 9mm rounds from the Thompson; the man went over backwards, feet kicking up; then he rolled over and disappeared behind the bush that had hidden their approach.
"Quick 7 Section, sweep through this side of the track!" yelled Spencer. "Luke, keep that gun going up the track!"
Wilder was already firing ten-round bursts up the track. The 4 riflemen continued to watch their section of track to the right. The signaler was saying into his handset, "Contact 1 enemy KIA details to follow," as Spencer called to his 3rd section, "9 Section: Adam, quick, go left, shake out and sweep through on Dodger's left", to the platoon sergeant, "Val, one KIA on the track---we'll sweep through on the left."
"Right, Skip!"
Despite his wounds, Dat was on his feet and running; Quan, holding one arm. Fear injected speed to their feet, and they flew back up the path that curved gently left and right.
Leon soon realized that despite the blood trail visible, he was being outdistanced by two lightly clad men, and not knowing what he might run into with only two sections in an unknown area, halted his men, and returned to the scene of action.
The pulse-quickening tang of gunfire hung in the air, and Val Moreno knelt by the side of the black-clad corpse.
"Company HQ is on the way, boss," reported the signaler.
"Okay. Leon----across the track, gun to fire up it on the left. Dodger, on the right, gun down the track at the big tree there. Luke, back the way we came. Now Val, anything on him?" Val, hands bloody from searching his shirt remains, leaned back on his haunches.
"Well, what he had in his shirt is ruined with bullet holes and blood. Wallet in his back pocket though; got a coupla photos, letters, and some of these certificates or something in it," displaying the sole remaining solid evidence of Hao's life.
"All right. HQ will be here in about five minutes. The Intelligence bloke can take a look at the bugger."
Company HQ with its attendant platoon arrived. The OC, "Flash" Gordon, walked over and looked down at Hao.
"Well done, Brett! Who got him?"
"Private Johnston in 9 Section, sir, but Private Leon, the scout, hit him in the leg as he tried to jump into the bush. Johnston finished him off. Leon also hit another one. From footprints, there were three. I followed the blood trail for 200 yards, but they were moving too fast. He's got some documents on him, and we got this...." holding up the PPS, "and a Yank M1 carbine where the second one went over (holding up the carbine)."
"Good." Turning aside. "Anything there, Finley?" to the attached Intelligence Section linguist.
"A fair bit about the gentleman, sir. He's a Recce Company member from Q076 Regiment. Joined in 1961, worked up from local guerillas to a main force unit. Been there two years. Been in a few battles, got these certificates: 'Determined to Win Hero, 3rd Class,' and 'Brave Destroyer of Armored Vehicles.' The letters are to a girlfriend, no indication of where she is, but this looks like a photo of her. If it's okay with you, I'll hang onto the stuff with military info and give the rest to Mr. Wilder to split for souvenirs?"
"Good. Do that. Carry on."
He turned to the signaler and dictated a message containing all the relevant information of time, location, enemy casualties, weapons captured, documents captured, and unit identification for transmission to battalion HQ.
"All right, Brett, you've done well, but I'll give young Elliot a turn. His platoon is almost dancing to get out of there."
One thousand yards away, Quan finished bandaging, as best he could, Dat's wounds in his right arm and shoulder. Dat lay silently, eyes shut. Quan glanced up at the sky, as the first raindrops splashed on the leaves.
"Dat, now is our best time to move. The rain will wash away any blood and our trail. Come on." Heaving Dat to his feet, looping his good arm over his own shoulders. "Let's go. We must report. Hao has laid down his life for the revolution."
Under the dark trees, soaked by the pouring waterfall of rain, the two made their way back, another 2,000 yards to the company RV. There, Dat was attended by medical personnel and Quan finished his report.
"The enemy are on the southern side of Mango Hill, about 1,000 yards from the six coconut trees by the mahogany tree. I am certain they are British. I only saw them for a moment, but they are dressed differently from the Americans, or the puppet troops. Safari helmets, different packs, and the long rifles the British are said to have, not the black ones of the Americans. They made no noise. Hao almost walked into them. I don't know how many there are. I heard more running to trap us on the left; I think at least one platoon."
"All right, comrade," said the platoon commander, Hoc. "Nhat and Co have also reported. There is a battalion of them spread along Angry Buffalo Creek."
Other fleeting contacts occurred and caution increased on both sides. The British discovered many camps and supply dumps recently vacated. These were burned.
Vuu, Mach, and Trong crept carefully forward---they could hear the foreigners talking---and peered through the entangled mass of branches, vines, and leaves. There, the foreigners had found Camp 16 and were discussing it. One carried a radio. Now the others left, and the radio man sat in an old shallow trench, but he was visible from the waist up; the others were searching the building and bunkers. So be it.
Vuu carefully looked to the right at the other two, through the intervening leaves and vines. He intensified his gaze on Trong and gave a slight jerk of the head in the direction of the foreigner. Trong gave the tiniest nod and slowly began to raise his 1944 Mossin-Nagant carbine to his shoulder, gently rest it on the branch, taking care not to jiggle the leaves; foresight on the green shirt, in the middle of the chest; the foreigner is paying more attention to the radio handset than watching the jungle. Inhale, hold it---squeeze....
Bang!
Lucas Owens was slammed back against the dirt wall of the trench as the 7.62mm round passed through his chest from left to right. The handset and Thompson gun fell from his hands, and as he looked down in surprise at the hold in his shirt front, blood rushed from his mouth.
"Fuck! Oh fuckfuckfuckfuck! I'm shot!" he realized as he slid sideways into the trench. He recognized the platoon sergeant against the fading light....."It's dark in this bloody trench," was his final thought.
Vuu, Mach, and Trong were running as fast as they could and halted 600 yards away, their chests heaving.400Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTfPid4muvS
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Au loped along at the head of the squad, eyes in his round face alertly peering forward. Close behind came the other 80 members of the squad, ready to fight if the foreigners or puppet troops were met. All were very confident; they had taken part in many attacks against government posts and units, and knew they had superior spirit to any of the puppet troops, despite the presence of the tall US gangsters, the so-called advisers. This squad's weapons were all captured and of US manufacture.
The squad was to locate the foreign troops in the area and harass them: snipe, ambush, delay, make them uncomfortable and then afraid of this jungle, War Zone D, which had been almost impenetrable to the French colonialists.
Suddenly, there were four or five green-clad figures ahead through the trees, one standing near the path. Both groups saw one another and fired.
As he turned to run, Au saw the man in the open stagger. Glancing back after a few steps, he saw the foreigner on the ground, alone, clumsily trying to cock his weapon with one hand.
"We could take him prisoner!" The thought flashed into Au's head. "The others have disappeared; run and lift him!" He cried to the others, some of whom had hardly begun to turn away. "Wait! Wait! There is one wounded we can seize! Follow me, comrades!"
A second glance showed the lone foreigner shouting and trying to fire his submachine gun with one hand. The eight, after some jostling, turned and started running toward the wounded enemy.
Then, from their right, through the trees, came the other foreigners. Au realized too late that they had not run off, only to one side, and now were sweeping away his squad: Kien was falling, brains spilling from his head. Chu, staggering back against a tree, clothes leaping under the impact of the bullets; Pham, thrown down by the burst that shredded his lower stomach and groin. Au fired frantically without aiming and leaped sideways into the bush; doubled over, he dodged under bushes and branches, heart pounding, empty M1 carbine in one fist. Finally, he halted, reloaded, and caught his breath. Where the hell were the others?
All seemed quiet. He gave the whistle signal, but no answer. Where had those foreigners come from so quickly? They had suddenly appeared on the flank and not opened fire until very close. Maybe no one else had survived? They must've been British: green cloths, green safari helmets, long rifles, and the submachine gun with magazine on top. They had good spirit for mercenaries and lackeys of the US imperialists.
Au whistled again, got no answer, rose, and quickly but carefully made his way to the company camp where it was confirmed that Kien, Chu, and Pham were dead. He also found that Hue had been seen to be hit and had fallen, and that Duc, Dan, and Ngoc were wounded. Only Au and Huu were untouched. The only known casualty to the enemy was the one at the start.
The other platoons came in, leaving squads to harass the enemy, but all carrying dead and wounded. Not one enemy had been captured, dead or alive, and no weapons or equipment.
Au, cleaning the M1, watched Chung Giang, the political officer, talking to Dao Lan, the military commander.
After the evening meal, the unit gathered for the political instruction period. Chung Giang spoke briefly of Vietnamese history and the long, drawnout struggle against the French. He explained again the Geneva Accords of 1954, by which elections were to be held in two years to decide the government and unification of Vietnam; he described the refusal of the Diem regime to hold the elections, and its increasing corruption and oppressive measures against the population, until in 1960 the National Liberation Front was established to struggle against the Diem regime and its US masters. Now as a desperate measure to prop up the Saigon regime, as the system of "advising" had failed, the US and its lackeys were sending soldiers to intervene in Vietnam, first by air strikes over north and south, and second by ground forces. Chung Giang concluded:
"So comrades, remember, these foreign soldiers cannot save the Saigon regime. They can only delay its fall. Vietnam is not their country, therefore they cannot stay. We fought the Chinese for one thousand years, and won. We fought the French for ninety and won. The Americans and their lackeys will also have to learn their lesson! We are the Armed Forces of the People's Front for the Liberation of South Vietnam! Ten thousand years to the Front!"
"Ten thousand years to the Front!" responded the assembly, clenched fists raised. "Ten thousand years to President Ho!" roared out into the darkened jungle.
"Now, Comrade Dao Lan has plans and orders for the next few days," and Chung Giang handed over to the military commander.
Au and Huu had recovered their morale and resolved to "strike the enemy wherever he is."
Again their tasks were to harass and delay, not to engage in battle, however. The enemy methods and tactics, strong and weak points, must be learned before decisive action could be taken. Both sides skirmished, but neither would allow the other to get in at a disadvantage, and when finally the helicopters appeared in their long gently rising and falling lines to lift them out, neither the VC nor the British unit had been truly hurt.400Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9m85Rc3g69
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The quiet dusk settled softly and quickly over the area. The machine gun pointed down the track, first man on shift behind it, chin resting on folded hands on gun butt. Then down the track came the sound of pitter-pattering feet, closer and closer.
"Di duong nay, di duong nay," in the high Asian chatter.
"Oi? What the hell didja say t'me?" in British accent.
Scuttling noise, pitter patter of feet running back along the track.
On the final day the companies strung out in the heat, making for the landing zones. Fleming's platoon was snaking its way around the impenetrable clumps of thorn and bush. As distance from the head of the column grew greater, so attention and interest grew less. The very last two had given up hope of anything happening and had relaxed, strolling along, talking in low tones, inaudible more than a few yards away. The line curved away around the bushes and most of the platoon was out of sight.
Aidan Quaid reached back and slid the aluminum water bottle out of its carrier on his hip, held his rifle between his arm and his body, and unscrewed the top. Oliver Duncan, in front, halted and followed Aidan's example. Aidan also halted, and in the act of raising the bottle to his lips, casually turned to look behind and saw the Charlie aiming from 20 yards! His shouted warning spoiled the Charlie's aim, and the round snapped between the two amazed Tommies, weapons held uselessly. They leaped backward around the bush, dropping their water bottles and bringing their SLRs to the ready, as the remainder of the platoon came charging back down the track.
The Charlies were 50 yards away on the far side of a bushy clump and making good speed towards the safety of the solid jungle. "Tryin' to drown the bastards, were ya?" as the water bottles were recapped and returned to their carrier.
So the operation continued to its end; small contacts involving five or six people in all---the Charlies breaking off as soon as they could and carrying away the dead and wounded if it was possible.
The echoes of the little battles had reached far beyond the jungled creeks and hills, into all the lamplit houses where the news was delivered that Kien, Chu, Pham and the others had given their lives for the Front; and parents, brothers and sisters, and wives and children stared sadly, or dumbly, or proudly, at the bearer of the tidings during his short visit before he slipped away into the night.
Half a world away, in Great Britain, a thousand hearts stopped, and the white icebolt thumped home into each stomach as the radio, or TV announcer spoke:
"Army Headquarters in London announced that two British soldiers have been killed and three wounded in operations in South Vietnam. No names will be released until all next-of-kin have been informed."400Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5MVenv51y8
Abigail McFadden paused reading of the minutes of the meeting of the Ladies' Auxiliary, then continued, forcing herself to concentrate on the next line, pushing down, back, and away the little black demons that leaped up, ready to dance across her brain.400Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxPFuwlaLgg
Lois Fleming bounded across the TV, switched it off, and quickly selected a Beatles LP, drowning herself in the sound. "It can't be Tony, not Tony!"400Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvKWrU0Fs8W
Veronica Quaid stood turned to stone---not hearing the following news items or the children's chatter as they sat in their pajamas---her unseeing eyes on the suds-filled sink before her, one thought filling her entire being. "Aidan, oh Aidan."
Two duty officers read the messages before then and started preparations to break the news: check the address of next-of-kin, check the religion, contact the Archbishop of Canterbury, telephone for the duty vehicle....
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