Legacy of War

by Ed Marohn

  “No time to explain. My partner and I are in danger. Just get the grid location to the Vietnamese ASAP! Also, there is a Major Han who will know how to contact Captain Tho. Zang should know all this. But for god’s sake, hurry!”

  “OK. Leave the phone on. I’ll get the ball rolling. Is Ramsey nearby? How about Loan?”

  “Yes to both, but I’m going after them now.” I heard the rain stop—a momentary break. “My partner is at this grid location. Leaving the phone on for her, but she is in a bad way. Had to drug her with morphine, so be patient with her.” Finally, I said, “One more thing, James, just two of them are left—Ramsey and Loan. If I don’t make it, please get them. Have to move out now.”

  I heard the tension as he said, “John . . .” Ignoring him I carefully put the phone into its case, the line still open. Hieu stirred, trying to come out of sleep.

  “John?” she asked, trying to focus, leaning toward me.

  “Wake up, Hieu.” I shook her lightly. With her eyes wide open now, she nodded. “Stay in the cave and out of the rain. You should be safe and dry in here. Keep your weapons near you. There is a James Woodruff on the satellite phone, and he will get ahold of Captain Tho. When you are able talk to him.”

  “Where are you going?” She said. I could see the worried look.

  “Hunting,” I said.

  She understood and tried to get up. “John, no—wait until Tho arrives, then we can go together.”

  “No time. Tho has a rough drive on the muddy trail in this monsoon, and our damaged Mercedes is blocking the trail, which will delay him further. But I will be back. Stay alert and watch for me. And stay still. Your leg is broken.”

  She tried to smile but touched my arm instead.“Please be careful.”

  “Oh, yes, watch over my baseball cap. I will need it when I get back so that Captain Tho will recognize me,” I said, a wide grin spread on my face. I handed her the cap as she tried to smile, despite her pain.

  Leaving both backpacks with her, carrying three extra thirty-round magazines for my AK-47 in my big shirt pockets, as well as extra magazines for my .45, I slipped out of the cave as the rain returned, a typical monsoon, steadily drenching the jungle. I checked the trail and the jungle surrounding it. There were no signs of anyone. I moved into the jungle, paralleling the trail, stopping regularly to listen for the enemy. I headed toward the southern trail we had driven with the Hummer earlier, watching for Ramsey and his partner. I ensured that my holstered pistol had a round chambered. Checking my AK-47, a full thirty-round magazine inserted, round in the chamber and safety off, I proceeded further into the dripping jungle.

  Seeing the southern trail through the palm fronds about eighty feet from me, I turned right, staying concealed in the jungle, moving unseen and parallel to the path, creeping toward the large clearing ahead that I hoped Ramsey still occupied. Now soaking wet, I stumbled through the dense growth, the rain-plastered leaves pouring more water on me as I pushed on. The stench of the moldering jungle floor, many years in the making, swallowed me. I stumbled through the vines, creepers, and palm fronds entangling me as cicadas sang, disturbed by this alien in their domain. The tall bamboo shoots, almost tiny forests, detoured me, costing me precious time. Breathing became harder, but the exertion gave me some warmth against the damp cold.

  Hurrying to make up time, I blindly stepped over a fallen dead tree and sank to my armpits into a stagnant pond camouflaged with dead leaves, hanging vines, debris, and bamboo; I gasped as the cold water surged around me while the bottom, with its gripping mud, sucked me down. Defenseless against Ramsey if he found me now, I panicked and fought the muck, stirring the water, strengthening the mud’s grip on me. Exhausted within minutes, barely able to stand neck deep in the brackish water, I stopped. Shuddering from the wet, growing cold, I took deep breathes, allowing a calmer me to regain control, returning to my past jungle instincts and experiences honed by war.

  Looking above, I saw tree vines dangling over my head and lurched for them. The first ones I grasped broke, and I sunk back into the water, the ooze covering my head. Surfacing, I took a deep breath, looking for more vines. Recognizing a live one, I reached up and grasped it. It held firm, supporting my weight as I slowly pulled myself out of the water. Checking my watch, I saw that it had been over thirty minutes since I left Hieu in the bunker. I finally crawled out of the torpid water, reaching the other side of the small swamp. On more solid ground, soaked and exhausted, I stayed facedown for several minutes, ignoring the few insects that discovered me, impervious to their bites. I felt colder on my right side and finally noticed that I had toppled onto a tiny feeder stream that flowed to the swamp. I shivered, forcing circulation in my tired body, as the water I dammed with my prone body flowed around and over me. I loosened my grip on the AK-47, still by my side but covered with mud—a weapon that would fire despite this condition. I grunted with satisfaction that my military training never let me lose my rifle. It was a good sign that I had not totally lost it. I stayed prone, breathing deeply, my lungs screaming for more oxygen; my leg and arm muscles felt like mush. Slowly, I rolled onto my back.

  I tried brushing off the tenacious insects stuck to my face; my fingers mingled with soft, fleshy creatures stuck to my dirty, wet face. Christ! Leaches! They were gorging on my blood, enjoying their feast as I slowly and carefully pulled several from my face and neck; they disgusted me. Then I reached into my pants and pulled one sucking on my thigh. My aversion to leeches, like childhood nightmares, hadn’t changed since my time in the jungles of the Vietnam War where I first encountered them.

  Finally, I stood on wobbly legs and scanned the drenched forest, listening through the thunder of approaching monsoon clouds; no sign of my enemy appeared. But the howling monkeys sounded their approval of me getting up.

  Exhaustion had taken over, physically and mentally. The wetness and accompanying cold temperature deteriorated my condition, but I had no choice—I had to press on. Hunching down, I pushed and battled through the dense underbrush for another twenty minutes until I spied the RPG-damaged Hummer through the trees to my left. Dropping into a crawl, I eased forward through the slimy muck of dead plants and the mud of the jungle floor, regularly scanning to my sides, front, and rear. Slithering to within forty feet of the Hummer, I discovered the shadow of someone in it, staying dry despite the damaged windshield and front end, his bundled face pointed to the rear of the vehicle, waiting, probably armed with his Uzi. I couldn’t recognize his face—but assumed it was Loan. A small garter snake slithered over my hand and I jerked up. And just as quickly, I hugged the ground, hoping the incoming thunder and lightning covered my stupid reaction to the snake.

  I crawled to my right and found a small opening through the underground brush, an opportunity to observe the other Hummer at the far end of the large, open clearing. Ramsey worked in the mud with the right front tire jacked up, bolting on lug nuts. I mused that they could replace the front tires with the spares from my damaged Hummer as well as Ramsey’s Hummer. I had bought time by shooting the tires earlier. I now knew that he prepared to escape. And I had to stop him.

  Ramsey still had to replace the left front tire and wheel, and its replacement leaned against the front bumper of his Hummer. Making my decision, I crawled back toward the Hummer with Loan in it. He still did not know of my presence, calmly sitting in the cab looking back toward the trail. With the sun blocked by the growing monsoon clouds, it had gotten cooler, and my energy continued to drop; it had to be now. I slowly progressed toward Loan, taking another ten minutes to crawl closer, quietly. Barely twenty feet away, I stopped, laid down my AK-47, and pulled my .45 from its holster. Holding it with both hands, I aimed it at Loan’s head.

  The rain had settled into a steady drizzle; water combined with the mud on my face and oozed into my eyes, stinging and clouding them. Losing more of my humanity, I pulled the trigger. Loan slumped as his head dropped forward. The side wind
ows, clouded from all the moisture, blocked me from seeing any blood or brain matter exploding in the cab.

  Holstering my pistol, I grabbed my AK-47 and jumped up. I ran into the large opening, passing the damaged vehicle, ignoring my kill. The war’s nightmare returned: Charging with my men to retake the battered landing zone, stumbling over dead bodies of both sides as the monsoon wind and rain slashed through our ranks, slowing our progress, limiting both sides from seeing, allowing only blind killing. I forced myself to sprint toward the area where Ramsey struggled to repair his Hummer, my AK-47 set on fully automatic. The element of surprise had disappeared when I fired my pistol, killing Loan. Ramsey seemed confused, trying to locate the direction of the gunfire, muffled by the thundering monsoon and the jungle vegetation. The heavy rain roiled with a vengeance, following me, immersing me, racing ahead, as we both sped toward Ramsey.

  Ramsey finally spotted me, but his Uzi must have been in the cab, kept dry from the rains. He dropped the lug nut wrench and rushed to the cab. I ran toward him with my AK-47 at hip level, squeezing off short bursts. The slugs hit the Hummer, blew out the tire Ramsey had replaced, and clipped him in his legs. He dropped short of reaching the open door, but he was not done yet. He pulled himself to the right front fender, and his hand reached for the Glock holstered on his hip, pulled it out taking aim at me.

  Shots rang out. I ran a zigzag pattern, shooting short bursts, closing to less than a hundred feet from him. My breathing labored. My adrenalin waned as my legs churned in the mud, its grip trying to hold me. The monsoon’s growing wind and rain buffeted me in all directions, keeping clothes wet and saturated, adding more weight for my burning muscles to support. My pace slowed to a stutter step. I kept mumbling to myself, “Move it. Move it . . . ” I lost momentum. I saw lightning flashes; the hard thunder echoed around me. I struggled forward until the burning pain in my left shoulder surprised me. The bullet imploded, jerking me to the left with searing pain, shoving me to my knees.

  I looked toward Ramsey, who held his Glock in his right hand; the surprised look on his face confused me. He lowered his pistol as I fell face forward into the mud. I knew this would be my epitaph: “I returned to Nam to die.” It was my destiny, with all my nightmares, all the emotional pain.

  I screamed as I felt the boot, crunching into the wound, rolling me over. The rain cleared some of the mud from my eyes as I stared into the face of Colonel Loan!

  Numb, I pushed up from the mud, leaving my rifle to settle into the muck. He kicked me back down onto my back. I screamed from the pain.

  “Ah, our Captain Moore. So long since our days in Saigon, where my men failed to end your life. You are hard to kill. Now, obviously I failed in North Carolina.” Standing over me with his ugly smirk, he raised his Glock, pointing to my head. “Age has impacted my shooting skills. If I were younger, my first bullet would have found a more critical spot. I would love to chat, but as you can see, we are in much hurry.”

  I closed my eyes, knowing I would die. I heard the shot, but still only felt my left shoulder throbbing. Then my shoulder burst into fresh excruciating pain as weight collapsed on me and my left side. I opened my eyes and stared into Loan’s bloody face, inches from my face, a bullet hole centered in his forehead.

  With my waning strength, I pushed him off of me and leaned on my right elbow, pushing myself up, turning my head toward Ramsey. Wiping Loan’s blood off my face, I drew out my .45 and slogged toward Ramsey, shuddering, bleeding. I stopped ten feet from him. He held his pistol as he looked at me. Then he threw it forward into the mud. “That was my last round, Moore,” he said, breathing heavily, bloody froth on his lips.

  Mechanically, I released the safety on my .45. I looked down at him, pointing my weapon to the ground. In front of him his empty Glock sank in the mud, acknowledging his defeat. He placed his hands on his abdomen in submission. Approaching closer, I saw his wounds; both his ankles were bloody from my AK-47 rounds, mostly grazing shots, but the killing shot impacted his lower abdomen, where more blood flowed.

  Rasping, he said, “I always did hate Loan.” A slight smile came up. He moaned and looked confused.

  “Why did you save me?” I asked.

  “Why? You didn’t deserve to die by that piece of shit,” he gasped. His moans reached a new level, the cold rain and mud not helping his wounds. “That crazy fuck, Loan. I never ordered . . . hit on you.”

  “Where’s your first-aid pack? I’ll inject some morphine until I get medical help.” I lowered myself to my knees beside him, holstering my pistol.

  “Too late for me . . . ” he said. A bolt of lightning hit a banyan tree several hundred feet up the slope. The smell of smoke and acrid ozone filtered through the rain to us. “I had no goddamn beef with you. Loan . . . the crazy bastard. Got Reed drunk and helped him commit suicide. Against my orders.” Ramsey groaned. He grunted, and his eyes took on lost look, the same thousand-mile stare that my grunts had worn after combat, bloodied from battle.

  Ignoring him, I made my way to the Hummer’s cab and dug through the glove compartment, finding the first-aid kit. Back with Ramsey, I wrapped the abdominal bandage around his gut wound, which oozed blood mixed with mud. I stuck the only morphine syrette from the kit into his stomach muscles, hoping to reduce his horrendous pain.

  “You’re dying . . . ” I said, bewildered. Then I had to ask. “Woodruff had said that you ordered the hit on me?”

  “No. There’s no reason. God, I’m going to die . . . ” The morphine started to quell his pain.

  During Nam, I saw my share of young Americans dying from severe gut wounds, knowing they had little time to live, begging for relief from their agony. Sometimes the medic would administer excess morphine to ease the dying. The “dust-off” helicopter could not save them.

  Ramsey moaned irregularly as the pain pulsated. I felt sad. The killings he had committed in the war earned him no leniency, but he had saved my life today. I had no hate left for him.

  “This gold . . . should have known Hung had found it after Loan and I abandoned him in 1975. The fucker got his revenge.” He took a deep breath. “Motherfucker is smart—lured us back for revenge because we abandoned him . . . but I never shared where we had it buried.”

  “Thanks for saving my life,” I said as I plopped down next to him. I shuddered from my wound and knew I needed help too. We both were pathetic, talking like comrades in arms.

  He gave a curt nod. “I won’t kill myself. Don’t believe in that suicide shit . . . You need to do this. The morphine will wear off soon,” he said as a sob broke out.

  “I . . . ”

  He ignored my concerns. “Look, you have to know this. Woodruff has it in for me. Wants me dead to tidy things up at the agency. I know shit that will end his fucking career . . . Political asshole . . . ”

  “What is. . .”

  “You’ll find files in my briefcase in the Hummer. Don’t let Woodruff get them . . . they are the only copies left, and the proof,” he said, whining as I eased him to a prone position. Sitting was now unbearable for him.

  “Look, Moore,” he said, breathing harder, “there’s one more thing. Tin wanted to kill me during the war because I lost control, lost my morals when I killed his mother during an interrogation. I have always regretted that deeply . . . but we were after him, a very high-ranking officer in the NVA . . . ”

  “Shit, that helicopter episode—you wanted to kill Tin before he killed you?”

  He nodded. “You fucked it all up by being fucking ethical. The cowboy in the white hat.”

  “You could have had him killed in the POW camp at Camh Ranh Bay,” I said.

  “I planned on doing it that week. But . . . the next fucking night, an NVA commando unit sneaked into Cam Ranh Bay . . . they shelled with mortars and rockets to cover them and freed Tin and his lieutenant. The fucking ARVN soldiers were probably bribed to help them.”

 
I pushed myself up. “I need to get help for you. I’ll get medics.” My own mind started to lose the battle to stay rational.

  “Moore quit fooling yourself. I will die, and the pain is growing . . . won’t be able to stand it. Please just do it, goddamn it. I deserve to die. Saving your life earns me that. We have a history . . . and I can’t die by Vietnamese hands. They will make me suffer . . . ”

  He closed his eyes. I drew my pistol out as I stood, trying to keep it dry, knowing it was futile. The rain pelted us in horizontal sheets as the monsoon continued to gather strength, forcing me to dig my spread feet into the mud and lock my knees. Shivers ran through my left arm, the wound burning as I leaned into the buffeting, twirling wind. Ramsey opened his eyes, and for a moment I sensed he felt relieved. I pointed my pistol at him.

  “This war fucked us both, Moore. Do you have nightmares of the dead, of those you killed?” He looked at me, waiting. His eyes needed confirmation.

  “Yes . . . ” I said, shuddering.

  “Well, I dream everyday of those Vietnamese I killed, kids, even babies. I . . . ” he paused. “Glad you are here to end it. You know my PTSD. You were there with me. You have the same shit as I do. We’re going to hell . . . ”

  I stood confused, holding the pistol, waiting. The relentless monsoon continued to beat us as I stared at Ramsey. His eyes fluttered, his pain excruciating. Our physical and mental misery bonded us in the land where it all started over thirty years ago. Somehow, I wanted him to live. Damaged from serving in Nam, I understood him now. I believed him. He never ordered the hit on me. Loan did the shooting on his own, and yet the CIA led me along—but for what reason? Why did Zang, Tin, and Woodruff so desperately want me in Vietnam?

  Ramsey nodded to me, moaning more; his eyes closed once again, the pain horrible on his contorted face. I steadied my pistol.

  “Look, maybe we can save you,” I said, my mind confusing me again.

  “Too late, Moore. Pull the damn trigger. It’s the only way.”