Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

I nodded. “Let’s make it work then.”

  He started modifying the grenades, linking their fuses together. He had his own electrical detonator and thin cable in his pack and he planted the remote detonator in one of the boxes and we carried them out onto the bridge. Joe climbed over the wooden struts and balanced on the cross beams below the roadway. One by one we passed the boxes down to him and he tied them firmly to the bridge support structure. Lastly, he passed up the cable and we took it to the side of the bridge and out of sight to the trigger that was hidden at the side of the track. Joe climbed back underneath the bridge, taking loops of the cable from us and fixing them to the woodwork out of view, then he crawled back onto the bridge and we ducked into the jungle. The men had cleared the bodies of the enemy from the bridge and hidden the machine gun, now it all looked innocent. We didn’t have long to wait. We all heard the engine of the Zil and then it came into view. They didn’t even stop at the start of the bridge, the officer waved to the driver to proceed to our side, obviously he wanted to know where his troops were. Joe let them get to a point a few feet before the explosives and hit the switch. He was true to his word, the bridge exploded with a huge roar, sending a shock wave that hurtled towards us and almost threw us to the ground. The troops in the lorry never knew what hit them, they went crashing to their doom into the river below, body parts mixed with fragments of metal and wood. Thousands of birds took flight as the jungle all but emptied of wildlife.

  We stood up and took a look at the river. There was nothing to be seen, most of the bridge, the lorry and its troops had disappeared into the torrent. Of the bridge itself, all that was left were the wooden stanchions either side.

  “Let’s move out,” I called.

  We kept up a good pace down the track, confident that at least for the time being there would be nothing coming behind us. When we stopped for a break Paul checked the map, we were less than ten miles from the DMZ, although we had no way of knowing whether we were being pursued or from which direction the enemy might come. We rounded a bend in the track at the top of a low hill and saw stretching before us the long silver ribbon of the Ben Hay River marking the centre of the DMZ, a strip of land that extended from the Laos border to the coast, roughly three miles either side of the river. We didn’t stop, there was a palpable feeling of excitement that surged through our group. We’d done some bitter fighting, had some good luck and some bad luck, but the payoff was staring at us only a few miles away. We started off again and got barely four hundred yards before a stream of machine gun fire spat out towards us. We jumped to the side of the track and kept our heads down while more bullets rattled overhead.

  “I doubt that it’s North Vietnamese regulars, although it’s hard to tell,” Paul said quietly. “Probably Cong, they’re not very well trained, they could have taken us all if they’d waited a few moments.”

  I nodded. Abe Woltz had already prepared his rifle and was lying prone, looking for targets. He was almost completely hidden in a clump of bushes. The other men were lying close to the ground within a few yards of where we lay.

  “Russo and Beckerman, would you circle around through the jungle and try and get behind them. Are you good to go, Tim?” It wasn’t long since he’d taken the injury to his shoulder, but he nodded. “No sweat, I’m good.”

  “Ok then. See if you can pick them off one by one with the knives or silenced pistols.” They waved acknowledgment and crawled away. All we could do now was wait. We lay there for almost half an hour, popping up every few minutes to keep their minds occupied and let them know that we were still pinned down. I knew it was time in which the enemy could be bringing up more reinforcements, but Russo and Beckerman knew their business, they would be as fast as the job allowed. Abe was still sighting along the track to the estimated positions of the Viets when suddenly two of them leapt out into the open and turned to fire back into the jungle. The sniper picked them both off instantly and they were thrown to the ground. Russo and Beckerman stepped out and waved. We rushed forward as they were pulling the bodies off the track.

  “Eight of them, Jurgen,” Russo said, “We got them all except for those two that ran out.”

  “Well done, Joe, you and Tim did a good job. Let’s push on to the river.” We picked up the pace once more and in less than an hour were standing on the bank of the river. We had arrived in the middle of the DMZ. Not home yet, we still had a long way to go, but we were out of North Vietnam. Technically. The reality was that the communists in Hanoi regarded all of Vietnam as their territory, the government in the South and the Americans were just unwelcome visitors. What wielded authority in this land broken by constant war was the gun and the bomb, the tank and the fighter bomber.

  Beckerman came up to me. “Jurgen, how the hell do we cross this river? I can’t see any sign of a bridge.”

  “The bridges were all destroyed, Tim. The communists have tried once or twice to build temporary structures to ferry men and supplies across to the South, but the American and South Vietnamese aircraft always find them and destroy them. We’ll need a boat, it shouldn’t be a problem. There will certainly be fishermen who make their living from the river, we’ll need to buy a passage across. I suggest we head west until we find someone with a boat, we’d better get moving before more Viets turn up with reinforcements.”

  We picked up our packs once more and pushed on, I led the way back to the high ground so that we could keep alert for the enemy. We travelled for hour after hour, eventually the light faded and we had to make camp, there’d been no sign of any kind of fishing village or boat. I discussed crossing the river on some makeshift raft with Paul, but we concluded that the risk would be too high, we’d be sitting ducks for any Viet that fancied taking a pot shot at us while we slowly crossed.

  “There’s a village marked on the map several miles to the west, when we cross over we can make our way south to the village of Khe Sahn. There’s a Special Forces camp nearby with some kind of an airstrip, those camps always have provision for flying in men and supplies. Johann and Ritter are expecting us to call to be ferried out, they’ll bring the C-47 out to pick us up.”

  “What about the military?” Paul asked. “These are Americans, after all. Why not contact them and get them to arrange transport back to Saigon, why risk our own aircraft?”

  “Why indeed? I’ve asked myself that question a hundred times since we were at Son Tay. They knew we were coming, Paul, there’s no doubt about that,” I replied.

  That night was even more dismal than the night before, we were in sight of friendly territory yet were still inside the danger zone. In the morning we hid all signs of our camp and pushed on. We were increasingly hungry, the food had run out and it started to rain again. It was cold and miserable, but at least the going was easier as there was a clearly marked path alongside the river bank. A river mist was swirling around us that at least partially hid us from enemy surveillance and we all silently thanked whichever Gods we prayed to for that useful cover. Then we saw the village. A typical Vietnamese fishing village with wooden huts that extended down to the river bank and some even overhung the river itself, supported on sticks. On the river several boats sat serenely in the water. I was nominally in charge now and there were no questions when I detailed Abe Woltz to cover us with his rifle, then sent Paul Schuster and Joe Russo on point to check out the village for any signs of the enemy. The rest of us followed at a distance of a hundred yards. We needn’t have worried, Schuster and Russo entered the squalid collection of huts, while we lingered outside, and emerged a few minutes later with an elderly Vietnamese.

  We followed them into the village, a sad, poverty stricken place. A few men and women emerged from the huts to look at us, then several children. All were ragged and filthy and covered with sores. We managed to make them understand that we wanted to buy passage across the river and when we gathered together a few valuables to show them as payment, they nodded their heads in ready agreement. Paul parted with a folding knife he’d owned for man
y years and Russo found a pair of gloves he carried in his pack. Jack Bond had a gleaming combat knife to throw into the pot and they seemed happy with the price on offer. I got out my wallet and showed them an American ten dollar bill, but they shook their heads, unable to fathom what it could be. Two of the women brought out some food which we fell on immediately, some kind of foul tasting stew with pieces of fish floating in it. It was the first food we’d tasted in a long time and we ate it ravenously, trying to ignore the rancid aftertaste and the stench coming from the pot. Then we boarded two of their boats and they poled us across. At last, we were in the south, the Republic of South Vietnam. Friendly territory, at least in theory.

  We followed a direct route towards the Special Forces base at Khe Sanh, I estimated we were within two or three miles of the base when a soldier stepped onto the path.

  “Halt! Stop there and identify yourselves.”

  We breathed a sigh of relief at the American accent. Tim Beckerman pushed to the front and explained who we were and where we were headed. As soon as he heard Beckerman’s explanation he lowered his rifle, simultaneously three more American soldiers stepped out of the jungle, all Green Berets. One of them, a corporal, carried a backpack radio with a long aerial.

  “Corporal, would it be possible to patch us through to Saigon on your radio?” I asked him. He looked at the master sergeant in charge who nodded.

  “I can get you through to anywhere in the world if you like, well, normally anyway. What did you have in mind?”

  I told him that I needed to make contact with my operational base in Saigon, at Tan Son Nhat Airfield. He thought for a moment.

  “Will they be monitoring their radio, do you think?”

  I nodded. “Certain to be, they’ll be waiting to hear from us.”

  “In that case we’ll give it a try.” He took details of our call sign in Saigon and warmed up the radio set. In less than a minute he was through to Khe Sanh and five minutes later I heard the voice of Johann Drexler.

  “Jurgen, it’s good to hear your voice, we were beginning to worry.”

  “They’ve been trying to kill me for a long time, Johann, they haven’t succeeded yet. Any word on Helene?”

  “Nothing yet, Jurgen, sorry.”

  “Never mind, I want a pick up. Is the C-47 operational?”

  “She’s all serviced and ready to go, Ritter is waiting to fly out? Is this to bring you all home?”

  “It is, Johann. I don’t want to involve MACV, they don’t seem to be very secure. Too many things have gone wrong with this mission and I don’t want any more accidents.

  “Where exactly are you?” he asked. I hesitated. This was an unencrypted radio channel and the Viets were sure to be listening in. I had the map coordinates of the airfield supplied to me by the radio operator, I had an idea.

  “Johann, here are the coordinates. Remember last time, my date of birth?”

  “Yes, I do, Jurgen. It’s...”

  “Do not say it over the air, this time I want you to subtract the day, month and year from the figures I give you, that’s all. That will be the map coordinates for where we are.”

  I gave him a set of figures. “Is that clear to you, Johann?” The radio was quiet for twenty seconds, and then it crackled back into life.

  “I’ve got it, I’ll make a start straight away. We’ll see you in a few hours.”

  “Very good, Hoffman out.”

  I handed the microphone back to the operator and thanked him.

  “That’s no problem...” He didn’t finish, toppling into my arms as a red hole appeared in the middle of his head. I heard the shots almost immediately, several of them went through his radio as he fell, smashing it beyond repair. A burst of gunfire crashed through the jungle and we dived for the ground. Beckerman was hit, riddled by a machine gun burst, and then the rest of us were in cover. We looked around for targets, but there was nothing to see, whoever had organised the ambush knew their business. All was quiet for a few minutes, almost as if whoever had fired on us had disappeared, but of course they hadn’t. Joe Russo peeked out from behind the log he was sheltering behind and ducked back as a volley of machine gun fire rattled around him. He turned to speak to me.

  “Any ideas, Jurgen? They seem to have us pinned down, we don’t know how many of them there are, or what weaponry they have.”

  I shook my head. “None whatsoever, they’ve caught us with our pants down,” I replied. I could have kicked myself. Although these were Special Forces, Paul and I were the old Vietnam hands, we’d thought ourselves relatively safe when the American Special Forces had appeared and for once I’d neglected to put out point guards. But once was all it took.

  “It’s a long time until darkness falls so we need to work out how to hit back quickly.” I squinted from the side of the tree I was sheltering behind, my flesh crawled as I waited for the sound of a hail of gunfire. What I heard was far worse, the whistle of a mortar.

  “Incoming,” I shouted and threw myself flat on the ground.

  I hoped the others had followed suit, the bomb exploded with a shattering roar that stripped much of the foliage from the trees. I could hear screaming, they’d certainly hit one or more of us. Then more mortar rounds started exploding, one after the other. I could see Russo and Schuster, but of the others there was no sign. After about fifteen mortar bombs ceased as quickly as they had started. There was a silence for a couple of minutes, then the electric ‘click’ as a loudhailer was switched on.

  “American soldiers, we know who you are. You must surrender immediately or we will continue sending in our mortar bombs until you are all dead. If you surrender you will become prisoners and will not be badly treated. You have five minutes to decide. Then we will continue firing. That is all.”

  Paul and Joe Russo crawled over to where I was sheltering.

  “Any thoughts, Jurgen?” Paul asked me. I smiled. “I think we’re in trouble, my friend. We know they have mortars, but the real question is how many of them are there? If there are only a dozen we might be able to do something, but if they’re in company strength or more, we could be better off surrendering.” They both winced.

  “Surrender to these fuckers, are you serious?” Russo said with a grimace. “You said they’d hang us from the nearest tree and gut us too. Personally I’d sooner go down fighting.”

  “Point taken, Joe. Do we know how many of our people there are left?” I asked him.

  “One of those mortar rounds hit those three Green Berets, a direct hit, must have shredded them, poor bastards.”

  I reflected that it was too late for them to learn lessons about posting adequate sentries.

  “What about our people?”

  “Abe Woltz is okay, he’s behind those trees about ten yards away. Jack Bond is on the other side of him, as far as I know he’s unhurt too. You know about Beckerman.”

  “I know.” I had an idea, the chances of success were remote, but anything was better than nothing. “I need to get to Abe and have a word with him, can you cover me?”

  They both looked puzzled, but nodded. I crawled away quickly and they kept a sharp eye for any enemy, but there was no more gunfire. I reached Abe and explained it all to him. Jack Bond looked sceptical. “It’s a bit of a long shot, Hoffman. Not much chance of bringing it off,” he said.

  “Jack, I totally agree with you. If you have a better idea, now is the time to spit it out.” I waited for him to respond, but he was silent.

  “Well?” He shook his head. “I guess not.”

  “You’d better be ready then, about two minutes and I‘ll tell the Viets we’re surrendering,” I whispered.

  “We’ll be ready,” Abe said. I crawled away, back to Paul and Joe. I explained my plan to them, we went over the details and then I stood up, threw down my rifle and shouted that we were surrendering.

  “All of you, come out and throw down your weapons,” a strongly accented voice called out.

  This was the moment, would they fall for it?
Joe and Paul warily stood up and tossed their assault rifles to one side, then Jack Bond stood up and followed suit. They waited patiently, their hands in the air. Around us, a dozen Viets came into view, their rifles pointed at us. Was that all of them, I wondered, did this include the mortar crews, or were there more waiting under cover of the trees? Then a man stepped into view who was obviously their leader. He wore no badges of rank, but his clothes, unlike those of his men, were of much better quality. A smart olive green military shirt and matching trousers, all immaculately pressed. I wondered how the hell he kept things looking like that in the jungle guerrilla war these people were fighting. His boots looked new, high, lace up jump boots, almost certainly American airborne issue. He carried a Soviet automatic, a Makarov, this guy was much too conscious of his position to carry an assault rifle like his men. On his head he wore the solar topee of the North Vietnamese Army, around his waist a highly polished Sam Browne leather belt with a pistol holster. And on his face the sneering smile of the bully, one who knows that he is about to deliver a good kicking to his victims and is relishing every moment of it.

  “My name is Phan Trong. I am the People’s Commissar for the Khe Sanh region. Is this all of you, only four?”

  “My name is Jurgen Hoffman, Commissar. What you see is all of the survivors of your attack, the rest are lying dead in the jungle,” I replied, allowing a depth of bitterness into my voice. He smiled broadly.

  “You Americans think you can come to my country and walk unmolested, but you are mistaken. Wherever we find you, we will harass and kill you all until you are driven into the sea,” he said.

  He peered suspiciously at my tattered jungle greens. “I do not recognise your uniform, which American unit are you from?” he asked.

  “I am not a soldier, Commissar. I run a small airline, our aircraft crashed and I was leading these men to safety,” I replied. I could see him thinking. “So you are a spy,” he said abruptly, “anyone carrying a weapon out of uniform inside a war zone is to be shot as a spy. Those are the orders of Comrade Giap.”