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"Look at the names of all these bloody laundries, tailors, bars, carwashes---the whole lot: San Francisco, Texas, Manhattan, London, York, Penzance, Golden Gate, Robin Hood, bloody monotonous. I'd rather see Jade Dragon or somethin'."
"Feel more Asian, eh, what?" said Andrew Lucas, looking up the street.
"They're only out to make a quid. Don't worry about it," replied Scar, as they turned into the London tailor shop to pick up the shirts ordered previously. This would be their final opportunity to shop for weeks to come, as an operation was due to start in two days.
An American was ordering a safari suit, and the sleek owner of the shop looked up from his order book.
"Okay, be ready for fitting in four days," holding up four fingers to make his point. "You come back Monday, okay?"
"Uh, no, Saturday we're all goin' to My Binh. So, how about how come back when that's over?"
"How long you go?"
"Well, 'bout three weeks, I guess."
"Okay, I have ready for you."
The American strode out, and the owner turned to the Britons.
"Yes, Uc Dai Loi? What I can do for you?"
Later outside, Scar turned to Andrew.
"Listen, we'd better report that Yank to our intelligence officer, even though it's too late now. No wonder the pricks know what's goin' on and before we do. Loud-mouthed bastard told him where we're goin'."
"Yeah, let's get on back."
Pete Montgomery, battalion intelligence officer, looked up after reading their statement. "So, that's a true account of what happened? All right, I'll take this to the CO, but don't expect anything. Thanks for coming in with this."
Alec Collins sighed, placed the signed statement on his field table, drummed his fingers on its blanket-covered top, and looked at his intelligence officer.
"All I can do is bring this up at the next conference. Christ knows it won't change anything. Those bastards are blinded by 'airborne' shining in one eye and 'America' in the other. Their pride was hurt enough when the reporters printed our lads' remarks on their lack of patrolling expertise.
"Despite the stomping back and forth around the area, there have been no big battles, and that means no legends, no medals, and no future. We both know they've been claiming great kill figures but have damn-all bodies and weapons. Now, if we push this to attack their sense of security, we know there are little beggars in town radioing everything that happens on the helipad, let alone leaks in III Corps HQ. The best we can do is not let them point a finger at us. All right then," in dismissal, "thank you Alec."
"Goodnight, sir."
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Quang and The pedaled their bicycles along the red dirt road, past the defense post---solid black against the softer night sky. The cyclists knew there was no danger from the occupants. Isolated here, almost 2 miles from My Binh, linked by one road across the paddies, the regional force soldiers in the post were content to fly the red-barred yellow flag of the Saigon government and do nothing to annoy the NLF in the area.
Up in the post, Vong leaned forward, peering down at the road. He could just make out two shapes against the lighter road surface and hear the tires crunching on the dirt and the tinny rattle of the mudguards. Two of them. He released his pent-up breath. They weren't going to attack after riding bicycles past. Anyway, the night noises were as usual out there in the jungle.
The duo cycled to the straggling collection of small buildings that housed the farmers and their families, making their way from one to the next without need of stealth.
Tap on the door.
Inside, the knowledge that this time of night it can only be the NLF.
"Greetings, comrade. Your family is well, I trust? Good. Now listen. In a few days the US imperialists will be here. They will want you to leave the area and go to My Binh while they are here, to make their job easier. Protest: say you cannot leave your fields now; it is too far for the children; how will you live in My Binh? You are afraid of the VC," with a broad grin, "you have no travel documents. Understand? Good, now here is comrade The to collect the taxes," repeated in each house.
The sky was paling as the duo cycled back to the town and entered by paths they knew to be unguarded by the government troops: The to his little restaurant, Quang to his carpenter's shop.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuXCTOcyUwW
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The long "cattle trucks" halted at the helicopter pad, and the green-clad mass climbed down: an anonymous green horde to the casual observer, but to the initiated, a whole consisting of individuals of different size, height, coloring, manner of carrying the weapon, headgear shape, and posture.
The men split into their individual aircraft loads, or chalks, and subsided to the ground until the order to board.
"How many choppers d'ya reckon there are?" asked Tony of Johnnie, "I counted over 90 slicks plus gunships, and command and control must be well over 100, eh, what?"
"Yeah, a few guineas worth," replied Johnnie, settling down with his pack as a backrest and closing his eyes.
"Saddle up!" and the rising whine of turbines.
The first lift rising, noses down, moving forward over the grass, fences, houses, gaining height, closing on one another with escorting gunships on the flanks, turning north under the gray sky.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCturKS6RVy
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Loi clambered down to Le.
"All is quiet now, comrade."
To the north, the lifts shook out into the familiar line astern landing formation and settled, troops leaping out, running down, slicks lifting, nose down, churning up and away, off the LZ before the next lot arrives in 30 seconds.
Lift after lift, wave after wave, three battalions are flown in. While the 3rd battalion is arriving, the road convoy rumbles up and past: armored vehicles, trucks, jeeps, artillery---with their own tale of driving through a firefight en route.
"Well, dunno if it were VC or ARVN or two lots of ARVN shooting it out. A little town back there with some canals in it---every bastard blazing away across the road at each other, ignoring us driving through the middle. Now I know how those little ducks feel in the sideshow shooting galleries. Never hit anyone that I heard of."
"Christ, what's that?"
"Will ya have a look at that!" Heads turned to regard a bizarre pair---she slim, blonde, camouflage shirt unbuttoned far enough to reveal the beginning of magnificent breasts, the nubile hips and slim legs in tailored trousers and US jungle boots; over one shoulder hung a writing pad in a case, and over the others, a high-fashion black leather handbag, incongruous in the center of this airmobile landing operation; he tall, Errol Flynn-swashbuckler in tailored camouflage clothes, hung with photographer's impediments and topped by a bright red beret.
"Hi there. British, right? Where can we find the US paratroopers?"
The blonde, aware she is the center of interest for every man in sight, hand on hip, one knee flexed, stomach in, shirt front opening and closing, carefully scans the cloud base as if expecting the US paratroopers to come falling out of the sky.
"Um, US paras? Haven't seen any here," said Johnnie, turning to the others. "Seen any Yanks?"
"No, they're all back at base," in the faint hope the two would decide to stay.
"No, they're here. C'mon," to the blonde: "we gotta find 'em," striding off to the road, the blonde's hips the focus point for 200 pairs of eyes.
"Christ, I could sit here all day watchin' that blonde breathe in an' out."
"How's Julia and the kids, mate?" in an unctuous tone.
"Get fucked, bastard," hurling a water bottle and a grin.
"Well, there they go," and perched in the back of a jeep, Blonde and Red Beret disappeared down the road.
"Didja notice something besides that bird's tits. Here they are out in the J to get a story, and they haven't got a drop of water or a bite to eat, nothing to sleep in or under---totally unprepared. They'll be a burden to everybody."
"She coulda been burdening me, no worries," from somewhere in the group.
"Yeah, yeah. Here it's okay. When we get into it though, you'd see. They'll do their thing---he'll photograph, she'll write; they'll get back to Saigon all dirty and have a few drinks in the top bar of the Caravelle, to be seen as combat types. Trained military observers, my arse!"
"Well, don't let it getcha down, guv'nuh. They won't last."
"Yeah, but it worries me. Whackers like them, instant experts, write absolute crap, and that's what is printed back home. Like those bastards who went around the battalion, interviewing whoever they wanted to. All they sent back was who hadn't gotten any mail, who didn't know if his wife had the baby yet, and who didn't know what was going on. They can print any crap at all!"
"What're ya gettin' so excited about? There ain't nuttin' ya can do about it. They don't give a damn for what's goin' on---they just wanna see their name in print. 'Our lad in Vietnam."
From a prone figure under a bush. "This whole thing is a career booster. The Yanks are gonna get medals and promotion, and so are we. The reporters are gonna make names for themselves, and even the North Vietnamese and the Charlies are gonna do okay, win or lose. Hang on, hang on," as a chorus of "What bullshit, ya mad, come on" rose.
"Think about it---look at the Japs and the Germans. Bombed flat in 1945. Now where are they? Win or lose, I said, and I'm right. The Yanks'll come along and offer 'em a hundred million an' away they'll go!"
"Moving in one minute," and the green figures rose, puffing the last drags on their cigarettes, clipping their belt buckles, swinging their packs onto their backs, friends holding heavy rucksack fames loaded with the radio as well as the normal pack for the radio operator, the signaler, to slip his arms through the straps. Pick up weapons, arrange sweat rag around neck, and stand, slightly hunched forward, waiting the last few seconds before moving.
As the head of the column disappeared behind the dark green and black of the jungle edge, a rising roar from the south swiveled heads, and fifteen silver Hercules, far whales under the gray sky, roared low overhead, rear exit doors open and the figure of the jumpmaster visible, looking down.
"Looks like someone's gonna jump in," as the silver shapes in the line astern few away north, toward the darkening sky on the horizon.
"Look at them bloody black clouds. We're gonna get a wet arse an' no fish tonight."
"C'mon, you're gettin' as bad as old Kelly. Just think of that blonde and take your mind off things."
"Aw, she's probably got the jack anyway."
"Jesus, brighten up, for God's sake. Here we go," and they moved under the first tendrils of vine into the trees. Under the gray sky and the leafy canopy, the jungle floor was dark with no breeze, and the cathedral-hush enveloped them; silent shapes, alternately staring left or right down the line, all messages passed by hand signal, treading carefully, weaving under vines with thorns to scratch their safari helmets or catch in their pack. The only sound breathing, leaves rustling on their clothes or pack, and soft noise of wet leaves underfoot.
The signal returns: left forearm crossed over rifle barrel, then one hand making a rippling motion: an obstacle, a creek.
Dale Ball moved up to the leading figures crouched behind the trees or bushes, looking up and downstream. There it is, a creek about 10 yards wide, flowing left to right and, on both sides, 6 to 10 yards of knee-high grass.
"Okay, I'll put 2 across, then Three, HQ, then you. It'll be 2 on the left, 3 on the right, you fill in the rear."
2 section's scouts separated and on the quiet "go," quickly moved out of the dark, into the light, covered the open space to the water's edge and carefully but rapidly entered. Despite the narrow width, the creek shelved steeply, and both men went up to their chests in the murky water. They heaved themselves up the far bank, water streaming silver from their pack, webbing, and clothes now black after immersion and moved rapidly to the trees. Already, the machine gun group and section commander were in the water, and as they hauled themselves up the far bank, the rifle group began moving across, and the shots came cracking down from the left, thumping into one rifleman's pack, toppling him, rolling him over and over. As the answering fire lashed at the trees and bushes upstream, the man rose to his feet and plunged across the stream.
Sergeant Eddie Osborn, waiting for orders from Ball, saw him lying motionless.
"God, he must be hit," and taking command, gave his orders:
"Right, pepper-pot up the banks and flush 'em out. Three first, one keep up firing," and shouting across the noise and stream, "2 section, you okay?" and on the shouted, "Okay," responded "Right, we're going up this bank; keep up your side."
"Right, Eddie."
"Right! Three on my left. One on my right, let's go."
The jungle quiet shattered by the crashing machine guns, rifles, and crump of M79 grenade launchers, the figures, two or three at a time leaping up, running forward, down, fire to cover the next couple, moving up; never presenting more than a fleeting target, but always advancing and under constant covering fire.
Under the pressure the enemy on the far bank withdrew, leaving several pools of blood. As the VC fire ceased, Osborn held his sections, swept the area, and returned to where the action had begun. The radio operator and Ball, staring silently into the canopy, waited.
"You okay, Skipper? Thought you'd had it."
"Yes, thanks; don't know what happened. I couldn't think."
Noticing the looks exchanged among the nearby Tommies, Osborn turned. "Come on, stop standing around like harlots at a christening. Quick now---3 section get across--1 straight after," turning to the signaler, "what are the others doing?"
"5 has seen people in gray uniforms, no contact though."
"Okay, tell 'em we're crossing here, only three blood trails, lost 'em."
As the sections crossed, Ball struggled to control his racing pulse, remembering the huge black paralyzing wave that surged up from somewhere at the back of his brain as the first shots cracked past.
"Christ, what happened?" He knew he couldn't have moved or spoken whatever happened.
Osborne turned to the radio operator. "Right, over you go. C'mon, Skip," and in a lower voice as they walked to the jungle edge, "You'll be okay. It's the just first time, don't worry 'bout it."
"Thanks, Eddie." But the ink-black rivulets of that bottomless wave were still draining from the crevices of Ball's mind.
Further east, Lieutenant Tris Dunkin put away his map, passed the radio handset back, and waved his section commanders close in. "Okay, Mr. Ball's lot over on our left have bumped a few. Nothing either side, a few blood trails. They might be heading our way down the track, so we're going to prop here a while. The OC and Mr. Ball are to our left rear about 500 yards. So, absolute quiet, aimed shots and we'll get 'em."
Old Đoàn trotted down the track, gray uniform trousers flapping around his ankles, Remington rifle in his right hand down at arm's length, parallel to the ground. He grinned as he thought of the foreigner he had hit trying to cross Singing Water Creek. Doan's great-great-grandfather had fought to clear the Cambodians from the area; his great-grandfather had fought the North Viet dynasty; and since then, they had fought the French and the Saigon regime, who were not even southerners, but Catholics from the North!
Doan did not care about elections, religious differences, or democratic procedures. He would defend this area against all strangers and that meant anyone who did not speak his local variation of South Vietnamese dialect. Now, these foreign strangers were here. They must be those Americans or the Uc Dai Loi from the Great Western Continent. The political officer knew many things, but even he was something of a stranger---after all, he came from Hai Hòa and that was a day's journey.
"Humph!" Doan looked over his shoulder as he jogged around a bush---nothing behind---and then saw in front of him one of those Uc Dai Loi. Long rifle coming up. Doan ducked and ran by a charging buffalo hit him in the chest and everything went black.
Tris Dunkin lowered his M16 and grinned at the machine gunner.
"Jolly good shooting, Luke."
Doan's body lay stretched out, face up, not 6 feet away, the blood from his wounds trickling down the small slope to paddle around the bipod legs of the M60 machine gun.
After a minute, Dunkin rose from his prone position, scanning the direction from which Doan had come.
"Well, looks like he was the only one. I'll see what he's got on him."
Doan became aware of the gray light above him through the mottled layer of leaves, dark green lower down, medium and then higher against the sky. A green weight was pushing on his chest; it was hard to breathe: flashing into his brain---those accursed foreign devils! Where are they? Doan sat up as Dunkin knelt by his side, avoiding the pool of blood. Doan glared, blood spraying from his lips as he cursed, shook his fist in Dunkin's face, and seized his Remington. Dunkin leaped back, falling in surprise as the corpse became very much alive but was blasted back along the track for 2 feet by the second M60 burst.
Dunkin looked at the grinning faces, knowing he had presented a ludicrous spectacle leaping back from the blood-spraying spectacle at his feet.
"All right, you bastards," with a grin, "only Dracula could love a face like that."
"Give us a look at yer fangs, chief," from the anonymity of the bushes.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWSMoKaKFb5
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Captain Alec Collins was a bright young man of inquisitive nature. Ever since he was old enough, he had pulled to pieces, examined the workings, and reassembled (with improvements) clocks, watches, radios, bicycles, motorcycles, cars, televisions, steam irons, and anything else he could attack with a screwdriver and wrench. For some time his interest had centered on finding faster ways to strip and assemble the infantry small arms.
Now, in the silence of the afternoon, he sat on the edge of his four-foot-deep weapon pit, his Thompson gun pointing up at an angle, wondering if he could use the power of the recoil spring to speed up the disassembling process.
"Hmm. Bolt to the rear, spring compressed. If I simultaneously lift the retaining pins for the bolt and the barrel, the bolt will travel forward free and push the barrel out, following the barrel itself. Then there's only the magazine to come off. Let's see. Bolt first, then...."
The 28 rounds went off in one long burst as the bolt flew forward, pushing a round into the breech, the fixed firing pin doing its job, bolt blown to the rear, nothing to retain it, then forward again.
The leaves and bark shot off the tree above drifted down, onto, and around the prone figures of Tris and the HQ group.
Momentary silence.
"What happened? Anybody hit?"
Watson, with great presence of mind, was at the bottom of his pit, out of sight, and, he hoped, out of mind.
"If I'd taken the magazine off first...."
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Ball's platoon had found an unoccupied staging camp and were looting the packs and belongings of torches, fountain pens, biros, writing paper, hammocks, and any other useful items.
"Nick, get one of your blokes to take one of the empty packs and whip around with it, collecting any documents or paper with writing on it."
"Righto, sir. Here Albie, away you go."
Company HQ and its attendant platoon arrived. The company intelligence representatives began photographing the installations.
"Look at the way these bastards are set up: latrines dug, kitchens dug, chimneys running along the ground to dissipate the smoke. Hutchi spaces cleared, ridgepoles set up. All the have to do is roll in, throw their plastic over the ridgepole, sling their hammocks, and put on the rice. Talk about organized! Each one has a pit dug for shelter from air and arty."
"Yup, they're organized, the little bastards."
"Hey, Henry, you're always working out chances of winning on the hounds and horses. What do you reckon the chances are of getting hit in one of these?"
"Well, how big is this camp?" with a calculating glance around, "say 200 x 200 yards, eh? That's about, er, 40,000 square yards. Each entrance to the pit (indicating the narrow entrance to the pit, vertical then branching out at right angles in an L shape) is about, say one quarter of a square yard. If a helicopter puts 40 rockets into this area, there's one in a thousand chance of getting near the pit, and one in four thousand of getting the edge of it. The rocket, or bullet, is traveling on an angle, but the pit is vertical. So, what do you reckon? You could be having a root down there and not worry about anything vital getting hit."
Snapping fingers attracted their attention. All around in the green gloom dark figures were shouldering packs.
"There ya go. It's gonna rain any minute, and we move out of this nice camp into the barbaric J."528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4yEgktAcev
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The darkness and silence enveloped the battalion, staring into the trees, waiting for stand-to to end---pow! A single shot.
From RSM Toby Scruggs, the low command, "Whoever that was, charge him," and around the pits it went.
"Whoever it was, charge 'im," from one to another in the dark.
"Whoever it was, charge 'im."
Back came the reply, muttered up the line of dark pits. "It was Lieutenant Sweet: shot himself in the foot."
From the RSM: "God help us."528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsdb1hzFUiR
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The farming families were removed without much effort into a large abandoned church, standing alone in its peeling yellow paint in a huge, empty, overgrown area. The church had been built as a central point to which it was hoped little shops and houses would concentrate. However the plan failed. The priest could not journey the six miles from My Binh: one of his predecessors had been shot dead, and the second had disappeared. The farmers lived in seclusion.
So, determined to enjoy the enforced holiday for the few days needed, the families moved into the church; old men, women of all ages, and about 5 children to each adult. No young men. They were either in the government forces or with the VC.
Montgomery, the intelligence officer, and Finley, one of his linguists, stood surveying the scene.
"They're all Catholics, you said?"
"Right, sir."
"Well, we'll send the padre down and the RMO to have a sick parade. All pills or medicine must be consumed on the spot. Otherwise, the Charlies will get it."
For the first time in 2 years, the Latin words rose over the green jungle.
The rain streamed down, a silver-gray curtain, running in torrents from the leaves, reducing visibility to a few yards: trees nearby were vague shapes and, farther away, everything faded into a green-gray dark opaque mass. All other sounds were absorbed into the noise of the rain on canopy and ground.
Thai, Quyen, and Dam squatted under a big tree, patiently waiting for the rain to end before making their way home---not to stay, but to watch and observe the foreigners in and near the hamlet by the church.
Thai smiled at Dam, thinking of slim La, Dam's sister. Tonight, they would visit their families, and he would give La the photo taken of the three of them standing before the wreckage of the puppet airforce airplane. A movement caught his eye, and Thai looked up, eyes widening at the two dripping foreigners who appeared, one on either side of the tree ten paces away. He saw the orange flashes from the muzzle as one fired from the hip, the fountains of earth and leaves spraying near his feet and hips, and leaped up, trying to bring his French MAS36 rifle up to fire.
"It's very hard to stand----the foreigner is trying to put a fresh magazine in his black rifle----it's so dark," and Thai fell back as the 2nd scout fired aimed shots into his body.
Quyen and Dam, despite their wounds, tried to recover Thai's body, but after the 3rd time, and when in danger of being surrounded, they escaped under cover of the driving rain that had hidden the approach of the British platoon.
"Look at the size of this bastard," grunted Tony Fleming.
"Yeah, he bloody near got Ricky too. Stood up with all them hits in his legs and tried to smoke him. Then Lowe hit him and the bastard went down for good."
"Not much on him. Photo, two letters. We'll hand 'em in tonight. Okay, bury him."
"Can't we just throw him down this old well here? Fuckin' hell, we do enough diggin' as it is!"
"Flash" Gordon jumped up from where he had been studying his map. "That's enough! There'll be no rubbish with enemy dead in this company! He'll get a decent burial, the same as we'd expect for our lads. Now get digging!"
The cluster of green dripping figures around Thai's body stood motionless and silent, scorched by Gordon's evident anger. Then one took up his entrenching tool, and the sound of digging noise under the roar of rain. In silence, the hole was dug to three feet, the body dropped in and covered, and the dark figures moved off in the dark dripping trees.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnUF96Q0FG7
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Ball's platoon crept forward, soaked to the skin, ignoring the rain streaming down.
A sudden scattering of rifle shots, snapping sounds as the rounds flew by; lead section returning fire, remainder of the platoon closing up through the dark, bottom-of-a-green-bottle watery gloom; section commanders giving orders, Dunkin finding Ball prone behind a tree, eyes staring, blank, unblinking.
Frowning, Dunkin shook him by the shoulder. "Skip! You all right? Skipper!"
With an obvious return to awareness, Ball shook his head, looked around and up at the stooping dark figure in the gloom, as the black mas flowed back from his mind, and the light came in again. "Uh-uh, yes, Tris. Yes, I'm okay."
"Come on then. I think they've gone through."
Ball stood up upright in the mud, glad of the gloom hiding his blushing.
Now by every move and action, Ball indicated that he was at all times, even more so than normal, ready to take over the platoon. The platoon itself, in a dozen small ways, also showed their acceptance of the fact that it'd be necessary for him to do some next time contact was made.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmFAhIm4Dny
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Toby Scruggs stood dripping inside the church. "How is it going, Corporal?" to Alan Finley, the linguist.
"Not bad, sir. Want a bit of this brew?" offering the steaming canteen cup.
"Thank you."
"I notice everybody seems to look to that woman and bloke over there, despite old Mr. Minh here being the official government headman. They never give orders or anything obvious, but they're the leaders. Mr. Mind is very respectful to them. Whenever I say 'VC,' she gets a broad grin on her dial. There is a father and brother in her family book unaccounted for. In Saigon she says, but no letters or cards or anything to back it up."
"Here's a photo from that kill this afternoon---let's compare it with the book."
Opening the family book, Scruggs and Finley compared the photographs. Dam's sister and Quyen's father peering over the book's edge.
"Don't look at the book, watch their faces. There---they recognize them! Ask them who these three are."
Shrugs and denials, the Asian inscrutable mask dropping over the normally animated faces. Where did the foreigners get the photographs?
"Okay, we tell 'em this one here was killed this afternoon, the others wounded. Also, his MAS36 was captured. That ought to convince them."
The inscrutable masks never flickered, butt he eyes grew more unreadable.
"Well, that's taken the grin off her face, anyway. Make a note of their names and personal particulars; we'll pass it on to the authorities in My Binh, for all the good it'll do. The bastards'll never come out here."
"Sir, did you get that exchange of looks between the woman and that young bird over there---round face, holding the kettle? The young one was watching it, the photo business, and now she's not happy at all."
La sat there, concentrating on pouring the water into the bowl to wash little fat Chu, knowing in her heart that Thai was dead and never again would she see his shy, quiet face against the evening sky as he recited love poems, timidly holding her hand. How proud she had been when he had gone with her elder brother Ma and Minh to be soldiers of the Liberation Front to struggle against the absentee landlord who sat in My Binh and collected half their crop in taxes and rent. She bent her head, long black tresses hanging to hide her face, washing the laughing baby brother.
Why could not all these people with guns go away? First the French and the Viet Minh, then the government, now the Liberation Front and the government and also those strangers who had killed Thai, and all she wanted to be was Thai's wife!"
She looked up and Thai's sister watching her. Looking away, there were the two foreigners, one who spoke her language, quietly regarding her.
What are they going to do? She must not cry. Laugh with little Chu. Concentrate. And with her heart breaking, La sat in the peeling church under the gray sky, laughed, and splashed baby Chu in the water.
Under the trees, Thai's blood washed from the leaves and the pool of red gradually subsided into the ground, washed clean by the downpour.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡed81sByu3J
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While the rain fell from the gray afternoon sky on the church and the jungle, it was nighttime in London and the announcers were before camera and microphone.
".....announce that two Britons have been killed and four wounded in operations in South Vietnam."
Click! The off knob twisted so hard in her hands it snapped off, and Veronica Quaid flung it into the far corner of the room, away from the now-quiet TV.
"Damn them! They didn't tell me it was going to be like this. Not knowing if he's dead or alive or mutilated. The bastards!"
If she'd known this part of it, she would never have married Aiden. But no one ever speaks about it---the stomach-grinding wait after the announcement, fearing a knock on the door, and if it is a friend calling, the instantaneous thought, "Is there a padre and strange officer there, come to tell me with a friend to comfort me?," and the fast flick of the eyes searching the hallway behind the visitor.
After those terrible announcements, it was an effort to hold tea down, let alone anything else, and cigarettes flared and died, mashed and bent under restless fingers, until the next morning the impersonal voice released her from the torture.
"....the names of those killed were: Private Elliott Palmer.....Tom Richards.....Cruz Woods....Declan White.....All next-of-kin have been notified."
Then a great weight seemed to drain away from her. Appetite returned, the sky was blue, the sun shone, the Thames sparkled, and 332C Langden Place was cheery as she walked through it from the office in Bayswater.
Aidan was unhurt.
But even in those bright times fear lurked in a deep recess in her brain, ready to crawl out and spread its black wings whenever Vietnam was mentioned: newspapers, magazines, TV, meetings of the wives' associations---all of which she avoided as much as possible.
As the weeks passed, Veronica had found she could not bear the wives' meetings and their social events, where she was surrounded by women chattering away with such brave faces, women whose husbands might at that moment be dying or maimed.
One evening, sitting before the mirror opening a jar of face cream, she paused, noticing in her reflection the dark patches under her eyes and the faint but distinct lines between her brows and from each nostril to mouth corner. Her resolve flared, blast them! This is a year out of our lives, and I have a life of my own to live. I'm not going to bury myself in that tribal cluster of wives. Veronica, get out of this cocoon and live!
Rather than finding strength and comfort in the company of people in a like situation, she found it in isolation from them---in work and in friends unconnected with the army.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡc2h6MgWTut
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Toby Scruggs and Alan Finley sat inside an ACV, speaking loudly to be heard over the noise of the rain.
"Well, sir, we're lucky that while everyone is wet, they're not cold. Thank Christ we're not in Korea; we'd have a real problem. We have enough socks back there to provide three pairs to a man. Greens don't really matter, I think. The MO is starting to get worried at the prospect of foot problems if this wet keeps up."
"Yes, I know. God knows we're not finding much: base camps, supplies, the odd brave young local chap, but no contact with their major units. Our Intelligence people report the locals were told two days before we arrived that we'd be coming." He lapsed into silence.
"The brigade commander is convinced there's something here, so we're staying for a few more days. Maybe his S-2 people use a different crystal ball from our Intelligence staff. Personally, I think we're wasting our time."
And then both men's heads cocked, they frowned; out of the darkness, barely audible, came the chung, chung, chung of mortars, then the slamming of giant doors, boom, boom, as the bombs arrived.
"They're not going to do much good in this mud," said Finley, eyeing the steel roof overhead.
A distinctly different whistle and explosion drew down the eyebrows of Toby Scruggs. He climbed through the back door of the ACV and stared as a red comet flashed across the darkening HQ camp.
"Where's all that blasted firing coming from?"
"From the bloody village, sir," shouted Wyatt Bones, running up through the mud. "We're all set to return fire."
"No, no," growled Toby, "wait. They're not hitting anyone, and we don't want to cause unnecessary destruction," diving behind a convenient pile of ration boxes as another salvo of mortars exploded, splashing mud over him. Wyatt and the ACV crew entered by the little door.
Just as he was about to order return fire, the mortars and recoilless rifle stopped, and peace returned to the dark night. The villagers huddled in the shelters required by law in each house, and the HQ personnel breathed sighs of relief.
The two groups finding amusement in the event were the VC crews, happily trotting away over secured paths, and the rifle companies, halted for the night and chuckling over the news---BHQ has been mortared and shot at by recoilless rifles.
"Pogo bastards----serve 'em right, sitting for four days outside a village."
"Bet the bastards are still digging."528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHXWtCLb4dm
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Oscar Scar sat in the lap of luxury, writing home:
"......after all this slogging along in the wet, we're reserve company at last. Time to take off our boots. You know how your hands and feet wrinkle after along time in water? Well, that's how my feet look. Here I am, sitting under a hutchi airing my feet, with Kelly and a brew on. Dry socks to put on after and a letter from you. Sheer luxury, my darling.
"Life had different meanings over here. Remember the Peanuts cartoons? 'Happiness is....' Well, over here, 'Happiness is sitting dry in your hutchi watching someone else go out on patrol' and 'Happiness is sitting with a pair of dry socks to put on!"528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEV6ykTzHvq
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With minor clashes, the operation wound on, ending on a light note. The platoon lay in ambush along the track with a good field of fire. Cycling steadily over the skyline came 8 VC, armed and uniformed. Clicking fingers alerted the ambushers; safety catches were thumbed down, M60 belts quickly checked, rear sights adjusted, and grins exchanged. 8 sure kills.
"They're pedaling right into the killing zone....25 yards to go----what the hell is he doing?"
Do-gooding, nonsmoking, nondrinking, nonwhoring, Lincoln (always "Lincoln" in full) Marshall, steps out into the killing zone, hand held up as a "halt" sign: bicycles going in all directions, Charlies running and ducking and disappearing into the bushes, and the huge figure of Eddie Osborn rearing up, one huge hand grasping Marshall by the collar and lifting him off the ground.
"And what were you doing? Playing traffic cop, son?" he growled.
"I was going to capture them alive, Sergeant."
The fleeing Charlies went to ground as the roaring voice rose to a piercing scream. "You were fucking what?! Do you think we're running a fucking circus?!"528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzml58nZW8l
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At Camber Sands, a popular beach just outside of London, Veronica Quaid watched the beach god going through his posturing, muscle flexing routine-----his rippling muscles gleaming under the film of suntan oil. She lowered her book and looked from behind her sunglasses at the other sunbathers. Some ignored the peacocking male, others regarded him with boredom, envy, or amusement. How she and Aidan would have exchanged smiles, had he been here. Instead, he was thousands of miles away over there.....528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGJDwZzhwl5
"I say, you're turning very red, mum. Would you like to use some of this?"528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡILsRGSCAbA
She looked around and into the friendly blue eyes of the man reclining just a few feet away, his hand outstretched, offering a plastic bottle. She glanced down her bikini'ed body that was turning a scarlet hue. Should she?528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLlqQnGaPdX
"Oh, that's very kind of you." She began rubbing the lotion over her legs.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFt2DhPcGKr
"Hope I didn't spoil your enjoyment of the show," grinned Blue Eyes, with a tiny nod past her, towards the bleached-blond god now artistically reclining, one leg flexed on his beach towel.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpX1McfeMcF
Veronica smiled. "I find them incredibly self-centered. Not my type at all."528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpcgOjPsanQ
"Oh, then there's hope for we lesser mortals?"528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTuiAntFumX
"Yes, surely all men don't have as their ideal the pneumatic Hollywood creation? They're as unreal as his type," nodding toward the reclining figure.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKQC4JtI79I
"True, true. I'm Scotty Harrison, by the way," extending a slim hand.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBhXipn5Hez
"Oh, hello. Veronica Quaid. Do you come here often?" with a broad smile.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOmYgCRQyfd
"Well, not really. You can see I'm not that well tanned. I can get down here about once or twice a week. I have a little gallery in Hutminster that takes a great deal of my time."528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTJ3QcLpa1w
"That must be very interesting and rewarding."528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFdXCClfzhr
With a flash of white teeth. "More of the former than of the latter, I'm afraid."528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHM3BMi9GNH
And as the afternoon stretched away into the west, pushing the lengthening shadows behind, they lay on the warm sand, chatting about art, politics, films, and books.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiostHYqVEk
Scotty lived alone above his gallery, in a comfortable complex of rooms he had redecorated, and where he entertained. Veronica declined the invitation to drinks but promised to pop in during the week to see what the gallery offered.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKUgtKMLIFM
The following Wednesday she parked the Volvo and walked up the short flight of stairs to the door. A discreet sign announced Ampwick Gallery. The door swung open soundlessly, and she stepped in. Scotty noticed her entry and flashed a brief welcoming smile over a client's shoulder, eyes flicking over her well-dressed figure.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjWxkg9GLYC
She smiled back and strolled around the small, well-lit rooms, losing herself in the paintings until a soft touch on her arm startled her.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡby9vLdOz02
"How good of you to come. Can I offer you a drink?" smiled Scotty, looking neat, suntanned, and alert---blue eyes looking deep into her brown ones. She felt the tiny electric spark flare at the base of her spine.....528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzBxd96QGTV
Later, she relaxed the grip of her thighs around his waist, sliding her legs down onto the cool sheets, waiting for their breathing to regulate. He raised himself on one elbow, smoothing his hair back from his brow, smiled into her eyes. "What say you to a shower, then a few drinks at the Rainy Stone Pub and dinner at a good little cellar in Blueway?"528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEqJrHOhUB1
"Wonderful." Veronica arched her back, brushing one nipple against his chest, placing both arms around his neck, and drawing him onto her. "Can't think of a better way to spend an evening in London. But first, I'd like you to explain and demonstrate one of my favorites."528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1mX3Fez53V
"Oh?"528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcgEbpuAxg9
"Yes," with oh-so innocent wide eyes, "it's a French term, soixante-neuf. I can never get it right. Am I soixante or neuf?" smile breaking through.528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLdxhTS0nzw
"Ah, mademoisselle," curling an imaginary moustache, eet depends whethair you are left or fight handed, ze phase of ze moon, and whethair you are in ze sud or ze nord hemisphere, comprenez-vous?"528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSiLou5KLmj
"Show me, monsieur."528Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHokfMLdv9O
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