by Larry Hunt
"Don't forget that damn Russian could turn that rocky bend up there in the river with his .50 cal M2HB firing from the deck of the other PBR. He could be laying down fire like all blazes, as we attempt take-off – damn straight, I’m worried!”
* * * * *
Although Sarge was really concerned everything seemed as if things were taking a turn for the better – when suddenly Tinker emitted a hair-curdling scream.
“A Snake! A Snake! A snake just bite me on the leg… it was a Cobra!!! She yelled hysterically. “Oh God!! I’m going to die!! No… it was that… that…. Seven Stepper one, I’m sure of it!!!!”
Sarge came running.
Seeing the snake slithering under some of the debris from the ‘house’ he fell upon the pile of rubble and started frantically searching for the frightened snake. Little ‘S’ and Spook jumped on the pile of rubbish also - assisting Sarge in the search.
They all knew they had to identify what kind of snake they were dealing with, and they had to know immediately. After the frantic tossing of wood pieces, chunks of concrete, sheet iron and such debris Sarge came out of the pile with the snake’s head grasped tightly between his thumb and index finger. It was about 5 foot long and certainly a snake – but poisonous – no – it was a Radiated Rat Snake. Usually not aggressive, but will bite if provoked. Tinker must have stepped on or near it giving it a fright; it bit her purely by defensive instinct.
“Calm down Tinker it is not a Cobra and certainly not the ‘Seven Stepper’ – luckily it is not even poisonous; this is just one of the dozens of non-poisonous snakes of this area – it’s a glorified Rat Snake!” Sarge said placing the snake back upon the ground and everyone watched it slither back into its hiding place underneath the pile of debris.
"Damn you should have just killed it anyway for biting me!"
“Hell Tinker they do more good eating bugs than harm.”
“Well tell that damn snake I’m NO bug!!”
Taking a small bag of sodium chloride and some tincture of iodine from his aid bag he asked Tinker to place her leg upon her makeshift chair, the barrel. When she had accomplished this, Sarge took the bag of salt water and thoroughly washed the snake bite with the water saying as he did, “Tinker’ it was not poisonous – you are not going to die – I’m just going to wash it out real good put some disinfectant on it and you should be fine. It doesn’t even require a bandage. It needs air to dry. Don’t worry, okay?”
“Yeah!’ Tinker responded, “If it was YOUR leg I wouldn’t worry either!” The rest chuckled, even Sarge.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘HELP’ APPEARS
The sky, again as usual, was overcast and threatening. There had been no rain all day except that early morning thunderstorm. Sarge became aware of a slight ‘rumble’ off in the direction of the southwest; that bothered him, bad weather with heavy overcast and there would be no hope of the floatplane getting in to attempt a rescue.
He was preparing himself for disaster - that pilot has got to be good – the weather has to hold off – it’s got to be a turbo-prop – it’s got to get over the high trees at landing - the plane can’t hit flotsam in the river – it’s got to get stopped before reaching ‘The Minnow’. He could think of so many things that could go wrong and not many that spelled success.
Glancing at his Timex, as he had a dozen times today, the hands indicated it was 1355 (1:55 pm), another hour to sweat out the arrival. That ‘rumble’ from the southwest grew louder, not significantly, but the increase was a signal it was coming toward them.
He called the team together, “Guys circle around,” he announced motioning them toward him with his arm. Tinker was sitting on the deck of their ‘yacht’ with Spook. Little ‘S’ had been standing guard at the edge of the river keeping a vigilant watch upstream. They knew the Blue Bereted Colonel was returning. They just did not know when. Spook jumped from the deck of the boat and extended a hand to Tinker helping her down to the ground. She winched as she put her weight on the leg with the snakebite. The bite was sore but wasn’t infected.
They all assembled themselves around Sarge, “What is it Pop?” Little ‘S’ wanted to know.
“There are two things that need our attention: first – Little ‘S’ hotfoot it back to the boat and get a 5 gallon ‘jerry’ can of diesel fuel.” Pointing to an open area near the spot where the ‘house’ used to be Sarge said, “take it over there, build up a big pile of trash. When our rescue plane appears off to the southwest pour that fuel on it and let’s get a good signal fire with plenty of smoke for them to see.
* * * * *
Second, I want all of you to listen to this.” Sarge turned his head toward the southwest and asked, “Do you all hear that thunder like ‘rumbling’ sound back toward that direction?” Raising his arm he pointed toward the southwest.
“Think a storm’s coming?” Spook wanted to know.
“No… not sure – listen! That’s not thunder; that ‘rumble’ is continuous, listen!”
Every one tilted their heads with one ear toward the ‘thunderous’ sound. “Yeah… yeah, your right Pop. It is continuous, what do you make of it?”
“Dunno, but I’m hoping its our ride out of here!”
Tinker questioningly asked Sarge, “Can’t be - it’s not time! They said 3 o’clock and its just a little past 2.”
No sooner than Tinker got the words out the pitch of the noise increased and seemed closer.
Sarge yelled to Little ‘S’ who was tending to the signal fire build-up. “Son bring me the binoculars.” Little ‘S’ still had them hanging around his neck from his ‘guard’ duty at the river. He hurriedly abandoned the signal fire preparation for the moment and scampered down to Sarge; hastily removed the binoculars from his neck and thrust them at Sarge. He watched as Big ‘S’ lifted them up to his eyes and scanned the horizon to the southwest.
“See anything?” questioned Little ‘S’.
“Yeah, dark angry looking 50,000 foot thunderheads, but sadly no airplane, and the noise is getting louder. I still believe it is a plane,” said Sarge trying to appear convincing.
No one moved. No one was even breathing. They seemed to be holding their collective breaths and all straining their ears to discern the rumbling noise.
Sarge broke the silence, “I see it... yep... it’s just a speck but it’s surely an airplane and he’s coming right toward us! Light the fire Little ‘S,” excitedly Sarge yelled. “Get that fire going! Give us some good ol' black smoke! And tape down the CW key on Tinker’s radio.””
“Damn Pop, I heard you the first time. Just stand back and watch a pro signal fire lighter at work.”
After fixing the radio he poured the 5 gallon 'jerry' can of fuel oil on the big pile of debris, flipped open the lid of his Zippo, fired it up, put the flame to a piece of paper and tossed it onto the humongous pile of trash.
‘Whoosh,’ the fire ignited with a greater force than the ones standing around thought it would. Little ‘S’ was so close he gave some thought to his eyebrows, or the absence thereof. Singed eyebrows weren't important. What was important was the humongous cloud of the most glorious black sooty smoke that anyone could have ever created. It arose from the signal fire, grabbing the southwestern breeze filling the sky with a dense coal black obscurity that was drifting, from the open spot where the ‘house’ at Pac Toul once stood, off to the northeast toward the river.
One could hear the sound of the plane’s engine ever increasing as it approached; it was changing from a dull rumble to a higher pitched, more powerful roar. It was only a few miles out now. The anticipation and tension was so strong you could almost cut it with a knife.
“Somethin’s not right!” Sarge exclaimed. “The CIA would use a float plane, probably a DeHavilland or Cessna to pick us up. That sound is too powerful and too awesome for the type of engine that would be on one of those 'planes. Let me have another look,” he said, putting the binoculars back to his eyes.
His eye’s s
trained trying to pick out the small speck in the far off southwestern sky – made harder to see by the background of the growing monsoon generated thunderheads with their accompanying constant lightning flashes.
The plane’s engine noise was growing louder – Sarge recognized the sound – this truly was the sound of a radial engine but one more powerful, more menacing; this was no docile float plane this was something more sinister and threatening.
Sarge was almost convinced that this on-coming ominous sound was not going to be friendly – he turned from his southwestern viewing vigilance to address Little ‘S’. He was about to instruct him to douse the fire and contain the smoke but he was too late – the devil incarnate came into view from over the southwestern horizon – it wasn’t a float plane!
* * * * *
Sarge yelled, “Cover, find cover, now!!!!”
The plane was not a passenger floatplane it was a single engine, aluminum skinned Russian military fighter. As the plane streaked by, tree level high, above the smoking fire, Sarge could clearly see a large 5-pointed red star painted just under and to the rear of the lone pilot’s cockpit. A large number ‘21’ painted in black was between the star and the blue and red striped tail assembly and the engine nose cap was a bright red. ‘Nope,’ thought Sarge, ‘that definitely ain’t no float plane!’
As the plane roared out of sight Little ‘S’ yelled to Sarge, “Where the hell do you suggest we find cover? There's nothing left to hide behind. What about the boat?”
“Good question”, Sarge replied.
He recognized this aircraft was a Russian LA-9, nicknamed the ‘Fritz’, and he was also aware it sported 4, that’s spelled F-O-U-R, 23mm cannons!!
‘Cover...! Cover…! There ain’t no place to find cover from those four sinister death-administering monsters!’ he realized. Those cannons fired small fragmentation hand grenade type shells almost an inch in diameter and 2 of those guns on each wing could shoot a bunch of those metal death dealers real quick.
Their ‘yacht’ was no hiding place – those cannon shells would cut through the ‘Minnow’ like a hot knife through butter.
‘Hide...? Hide...? Where in the hell CAN we hide?’ he said to himself. ‘We will have to be in a hole to hide from those cannons!’ Then a thought hit him – hole – the well!
After the explosion at the well that killed Teach and the Scout there was a considerable hole left when that tremendous ground-shaking explosion vaporized the two of them.
It was still right where it had always been, in the courtyard. Sarge could hear the ‘Fritz’ making its large looping turn off to the northeast getting ready to begin its southwestern course to position its cross hairs on their little party huddled on the riverbank. This time the river wasn’t an option. It was totally exposed to the Russian’s gunfire as he began his northeast to southwest attack run.
* * * * *
Sarge yelled, “No, not the boat – go jump into the well!”
Spook yelled to Little ‘S’, “What did Sarge tell us to do...? Go to HELL?”
“No,” said ‘Tinker, “Not go to hell... go to the WELL!!”
Everyone, except Spook knew immediately what Sarge meant – go jump into the hole where the well used to be – cover, they needed cover and they needed it before that screaming banshee came over the river towards them again.
As Tinker, Little ‘S’ and Sarge did their best imitation of a ‘cannonball’ into that foul smelling hole they fully realized that body parts of poor ol’ Teach and the Scout were scattered through out the dirt; however, eagerly and without hesitation they buried their faces and bodies into the northeastern wall of their protective enclosure and not a second too soon.
Spook strangely just stood on the edge of the pit, paralyzed, watching the winged deliverer of death approach from across the river heading headlong toward their earthen hiding place. The bloodcurdling roar of the flying beast was approaching at a hair-raising rate.
“Big ‘S,” yelled, Spook! “You son-of-a-bitch - get you’re sorry ass in this hole, NOW!!”
Spook stood hypnotized, frozen, unable to move. Just staring at the on-coming formidable flying machine.
The LA-9 began unleashing its wing mounted murderous 23 mm cannon fire. Starting at the river’s edge the shells began walking their way across the courtyard rapidly approaching the fully exposed Spook. Defiantly he stood like he was invincible to the death-dealing pieces of explosive lead marching directly toward him.
Sarge had no time to holler a second time, he jumped from his place of safety and seized Spook as he were a rag-doll and literally threw him into the well with Tinker and Little 'S'; however, as he was performing this heroic deed a piece of hot shrapnel went tearing into his left shoulder.
“Hell,” Sarge screamed falling back into the hole, “I’ve been hit!!
That son-of-a-bitch shot me with a hot poker.” The hard piece of steel, glowing red hot from its recent discharge, sunk deep into Sarge’s shoulder muscle causing him intense excruciating pain. Sarge fell face down, unconscious, into the rank dirt with his feet inclined up the northeast slope. Blood and sweat ran like a stream into his eyes, nose and mouth.
He had to be turned over immediately or drown in his own blood!
Tinker and Little ‘S’, realizing Big ‘S’ was hurt pulled themselves away from their protective dirt wall, jerked his ruck’ off and flipped him over. At first they thought he suffered a head wound – blood was everywhere, but quickly they realized the blood was pouring from a gaping hole in his shoulder.
“Sarge! Sarge! I’m sorry… so sorry… I don’t know what came over me… I froze… I couldn’t move… I’m sorry,” whimpered Spook.
Tinker before deciding to become a scientist had worked part-time as an aid in a local free medical clinic. She knew exactly what to do – she tore a sleeve from her white coveralls and using her thumb and forefinger dug the still hot piece of metal from the hole in the shoulder of Big ‘S’ then used that sleeve as a compress to stop the bleeding. Tearing off the other sleeve she tied it around his shoulder to maintain pressure on the wound to minimize his blood loss. While Tinker was attending to Sarge’s injury he regained consciousness and Fritz's cannon shell explosions continued to rain dirt, rocks, body parts and debris down on them but Teach and the Scout’s grave mercifully saved them… this time…but it was not over…
As ‘Fritz’ made his pass from the northeast heading toward the southwest - pulling Sarge to cover they all hugged the northeast side of the well crater. Now they could hear the ominous fiend off in the southwest sky banking his plane sharply to turn once again to make another deadly pass to totally annihilate them. After scrambling from the northeast wall to the southwest side they once again buried themselves into the crater wall’s cool but odorous blood soaked soil.
‘Fritz’, this time, was taking a different approach – he made his turn but continued to climb higher, higher and still higher. They could hear the powerful 14 cylinder radial engine begin to moan as its rate of assent steepened then suddenly the moan turned to a roar then to a screaming howl. The LA-9 Russian fighter turned from its steep upward climb and began its headlong plunge back toward the earth and its human prey in the hole. They were cornered… cornered in their smoking, stinky, foul hole like rats, with nowhere to run. Death, for what was left of Sarge’s team, seemingly was only seconds away.
Faster and faster the four tons of deadly metal hurled earthward. Beginning at such a great height when it rolled over and began its dive allowed for such a tremendous gain in speed that the pilot was totally caught by surprise.
He pulled once on the trigger of the cannons and they fired a brief burst of shells but suddenly stopped – this was at the exact moment the Russian pilot realized he was in deep do-do (Russian for shit).
He knew that his nose-down descent had increased his aircraft to such an extraordinary air speed it was impossible to pull out of his diving attack.
Sarge, lying on his back in
the bottom of Teach’s grave stared skyward. Watching the ‘Fritz’ plunge towards him he could envision the Russian pilot’s youthful hands struggling with his controls - pulling back on the yoke with all his might - his body pressed hard into his seat by centrifugal force - sweating and swearing at the same time. But to no avail – the pilot could not do the impossible. He sat pushed back into his seat by that unseen forceful gravitational hand as he stared with horror the ground racing faster and faster up to meet his soon to be coffin.
If he were a God-fearing man maybe he was uttering a quick final prayer as he crashed headlong into the ground at close to 900 mph. The aircraft erupting into a huge fiery mushroom cloud of blue/black smoke causing debris to rain down in all directions.
Slowly and deliberately all the mud covered, ghost-like specters arose from their grave-like hiding place and looked toward the wreckage. Now, finally, they were fully aware that the danger was over and they were safe. Little ‘S’ said out loud what the others had been praying and thinking, “Thank you God!!”
They could not get too close to the burning wreckage of the once million dollar monster, the fire was too intense; however, a portion of the pilots flight helmet was still visible through the remains of the cockpit. The pilot’s goggles were up on his helmet and his open, lifeless blue eyes seemed to be staring directly into Sarge’s soul.
Tears began to form in the corner of his begrimed eyes as Sarge weakly stood gazing at the funeral pyre. He knew too well some Russian mother, at that very moment perhaps, was praying too but for the safe return of her young son. Her son who now lay dead in the burning wreckage; she would never again see his beautiful deep blue eyes or the glistening blond wavy hair she loved so much. Worse of all she wouldn’t even know the final resting place of her beloved son.
Sarge said quitely, “What was that Hemingway thing, oh yeah - “that it is sweet and fitting to die for one's country. But in modern war there is nothing sweet nor fitting in your dying. You will die like a dog for no good reason.”
