by Dennis Foley
Continuing, Hollister traced his eyes and fingers down the front of Theodore’s web gear, checking out his grenades, the homemade wire hook on the back of the radio handset, the plastic battery bag that covered the handset to keep it dry, ammo pouches, and finally his rifle.
He lightly punched Theodore in the stomach. “Bend over.”
Theodore bent at the waist and supported his weight by resting his rifle across the tops of both thighs. Hollister looked over the top of Theodore’s shoulders at the PRC-25 radio that was strapped into place on the frame above Theodore’s rucksack.
Hollister asked Theodore the primary frequency. Theodore gave it to him. Hollister checked the preset stops on the radio. He then flipped the frequency dial to the second preset stops and read the frequency. He asked Theodore the alternate freq. Theodore’s answer matched the numbers on the dial. Hollister flipped the dial back to the primary frequency and reached for the connector that attached the handset cord to the radio. He looked for breaks or wear.
Satisfied with the connector, he checked the base connector for the small antenna and then ran his hand out to the tip of the flat, flexible antenna.
“Okay, get your face fixed up and go sit down till we’re ready to go.”
“Yessir,” Theodore said, exhaling nervously.
Hollister moved on to the next man.
As the chopper blades spun up, Hollister found himself fingering his rifle and checking the seating of its magazine. He looked around the inside of the darkened chopper. He really hated the thought of rappeling in at night, because of the greater possibility of error.
He stretched his neck and looked out and above the chopper for the moon. It was every bit as large and bright as it had been the night before, and he couldn’t see any cloud cover. But the sky out over the South China Sea was totally black, and he knew that it could conceal a weather front that might move in on them in minutes.
The trip to the landing zone was much more charged with feelings for Hollister than the same trip just a day earlier. He could feel his pulse pounding and taste the dryness that came to his mouth whenever he started to pump adrenaline.
Sergeant Davis got up on his knees in the center of the chopper. He started with the soldiers in the trailing edge of both doors and touched each one on the back, working his way to the front of the chopper. Every man turned around and made eye contact with Davis to let him know that they understood his hand signal—to hook up.
Hollister leaned over and tapped Theodore on the shoulder. “You got commo with Allard?”
Theodore bobbed his head up and down to make sure that Hollister could see his answer.
“Check it again. I gotta be able to talk to him if things get fucked up while we’re going in.”
Theodore took the handset off his harness and held it to his face. “Two-one, this is Two-six Romeo. Commo check. Over.”
Hollister watched as Theodore listened to the handset, holding his finger in his other ear. He must have had good commo with Allard or his RTO because he replied, “Roger. Good copy. Have you same. Out.”
Theodore hung the handset back on the canvas tab on his harness and looked back at Hollister. “Yessir!” he yelled over the chopper noises. To reduce the number of loose items that could get fouled in the rappeling rope, Hollister reached over, took the handset from Theodore’s harness, and pulled open the neck of Theodore’s shirt. He dropped the handset down the front of the shirt and stuffed as much of the coiled handset cord down after it as he could.
Pushing Theodore forward, he folded the short antenna and tucked it down between Theodore’s rucksack and his back.
“Get ready!” Davis yelled.
One at a time Davis had each man step out onto a skid of the chopper while Davis held him firmly by his Swiss seat. This allowed each soldier to straighten up and thread his individual rappeling rope through his snap link without having to use one hand to hold on.
Once each man was set outside the chopper with his feet on the skid and his weight pulling against the anchored climbing rope, Davis checked the bight of the rope through the gate of the snap link and then reached over to check that the soldier’s slung weapon was on safe. Satisfied, he pointed at the soldier, looked him directly in the eyes, and yelled, “Okay.”
Quickly, all five LRPs, including Hollister, were outside the chopper, looking out and down over their shoulders at the ground.
The co-pilot signaled Davis as the pilot killed off some airspeed and altitude.
Starting with the rearmost rope-filled bag, Davis kicked them out.
One after another the bags fell, stretching the coiled ropes down and slightly to the rear of the chopper. Each man looked down to see that his line played out smoothly.
Davis flattened out on the floor of the chopper and stuck his head out on the side that only had two rappelers on the skid. He watched as the ground got closer and closer. He held up his hand for the rappelers to see him count down his fingers—five, four, three, two, and one.
He got to his knees just as the chopper stopped its forward motion and came to a high hover more than forty feet above the trees. Davis pointed to the last man on the right of the chopper and yelled, “Go!” He then turned to the last man on the left of the chopper and did the same. He continued ordering each man off the skids until he reached Hollister.
Hollister gave a large nod and was gone.
Davis watched the last two men fly down the rope. The first three were already on the ground and pulling the free ends of their ropes through their snap links. As soon as they were free, they held their arms out to their sides to let Davis know they were clear.
The fourth man hit the ground and lost his footing. Then Hollister stopped dead in the air, about eight feet above the ground. His line was fouled and he couldn’t get to the ground or off the rope.
Hollister let loose with his guide hand as he spun out of control on the rope. He kept his right hand on the braking end of the rope in case whatever was fouled came loose, to be able to control his rate of descent. Even an eight to ten foot fall could put him out of commission.
His free hand found the problem. A small branch blown loose by the violent downwash of the chopper had found its way into the snap link just below his waist. He knew he couldn’t free the snag, so he looked back up the rope to the chopper and searched for Davis.
Davis was squatting in the door—a step ahead of Hollister, he already had his knife out and was holding it so Hollister could see it.
They couldn’t land the helicopter, and it would jeopardize the crew if they tried to gain enough altitude to take off with Hollister dangling underneath the chopper. Hollister had no choice. He took his left hand and patted himself on the top of the head, the standard Airborne signal that a hung jumper gives to let the jumpmaster know that he is conscious and ready to be cut loose.
Davis recognized the signal and slashed the taut rope, cutting Hollister free without delay.
Hollister fell to the ground, landing on his back. The rucksack broke his fell, but it knocked much of the wind out of him.
Davis reached for the handset to the radio he had lashed to the leg on the door gunner’s seat. “Two-six Romeo this is Two-six Alpha. What’s Two-six’s condition? Over.”
Hollister rolled over and looked at the edge of the small scar in the trees. Theodore had the handset to his face. Hollister gave him an okay sign to pass to Davis. Time was critical. They had to get the second chopper to and away from the landing zone as fast as possible.
Even though Hollister couldn’t hear what Theodore said to Davis, he assumed that the message got passed because the chopper nosed over from its high hover and slipped down the side of the hill to gain airspeed. As Hollister watched the chopper fall away, he could see Davis in the door, pulling in the trailing ropes.
Allard’s chopper quickly came to a hover directly over Hollister, who rolled off his rucksack and tried to get to his feet to make room for Allard’s team members. His back hurt like hel
l. He had overextended it and the pain was sharp and hot at the same time.
Allard’s team flew down their ropes in record time, cleared them, and stepped out from under the chopper—just the way it was supposed to be done.
The chopper nosed over and did a descending left turn, kissing the trees on the way down the slope.
Then it was silent time. The LRPs listened for movement—any movement that would tell them someone was nearby. As the chopper noises faded off to the east, the night sounds returned. That was a good sign.
At Hollister’s instruction, Theodore called the in-and-cold message to Captain Michaelson, who was orbiting a few miles east of the patrol’s position.
The patrol then took up their march order and moved out. The going was tough at first; loose rock and gravel made the footing unreliable. Hollister heard the crunch of boots against gravel and the occasional misstep.
After two hundred meters the rock and gravel gave way to the moist, decaying, layered ground cover that blanketed most of the wooded areas in the Central Highlands. The going then got quiet.
Hollister let the patrol move another ten minutes and then held them up.
He called Allard and Camacho to his location—fourth man back in the file. He had them take up hasty security positions so they could have a few minutes to catch their breath and adjust their loads.
Hollister dropped his rucksack to reach around and feel for any damage to his back. There was no doubt that he was going to know about landing on his back for the remainder of the patrol.
For a moment he considered asking the medic to look at it, but decided against it as he thought of the message it would send to the others. He decided just to tough it out.
He pulled out his compass and turned to face down the hill. His compass heading was what it should be, and the small knoll, where they would hole up, was only about a half hour’s hump away. He hoped that it was unoccupied.
The night sounds were a little muted by the wind. Hollister looked out through a break in the trees toward the ocean. The stars filled the sky, and he stole a second to enjoy them. Vietnam’s night skies were beautiful on a clear night. The black was deeper and the stars were crisper and seemed closer.
Then the wind stopped for a brief time, the trees stopped rustling, and Hollister could hear the water running in the fast-moving stream below them that was their objective.
Hollister found Camacho, motioned him over, and leaned forward to speak softly in Camacho’s ear. “I figure that we got the right route. Oughta be at the ambush position on schedule. Everything else okay?”
Camacho gave an exaggerated nod. Everyone was ready to move.
Hollister gave him a pat on the shoulder, indicating he, too, was ready to get on with it.
The closer they got to the streambed, the thicker the vegetation got. They made more noise moving, but much of it was covered by the growing noise of the gurgling water.
Allard was walking point when they reached the knoll where the patrol would hold up. It was too early for them to go down to the stream and emplace the demolitions, so they would establish a perimeter and then send a recon party to the stream to take a quick look at the ambush site.
Camacho, Allard, and Hollister met in the center of the hastily established perimeter. Keeping his web gear on, Hollister dropped his rucksack next to Theodore, squatted down, and took the handset. Cupping his free hand around the mouthpiece, he exhaled and then spoke. “Quarterback. We have closed on the hotel. Over.”
The base radio operator rogered the transmission, and Hollister gave the handset back to Theodore. He pointed down the hill and said, “Twenty minutes.”
Theodore was to start worrying if his boss and the recon party weren’t back by then.
Camacho reached the spot where the stream, which had been running parallel to their path, turned and crossed their line of march. He held up the file and waited for the others to move forward.
They all found a spot to lie down and watch the stream flow by. They were in the bend in the stream, which flowed on three sides of them, and each man had his own needs on the recon.
Allard was trying to locate spots to place his half of the patrol to provide security while Camacho’s demo team placed the explosives along the far bank just under the waterline.
Camacho strained to see the details of the far bank. He looked for the strongest part of the bank, laden with roots and a sharpcut wall with growth on it. He didn’t want the patrol to collapse parts of the stream bank trying to get in or out of the water. It would be too hard to repair the damage or to conceal it from sampans coming down the stream into the turn.
Hollister looked for a place to cross the stream that wouldn’t give them away while they were doing it.
They each got what they wanted, and Hollister turned the recon party around to head back to the knoll.
The trip back was uneventful until they got out of sight of the stream itself. Fifty meters up from the bank Camacho tapped Hollister on the shoulder and motioned for him to stop and listen.
They froze in place and listened.
Down the hill they heard the sounds of paddles and some talking. They couldn’t make out what was being said, but it was clearly Vietnamese.
Hollister decided to take no action. With the patrol split, no understanding of the enemy threat, and no way to coordinate fires, he decided to let them go by.
While they passed, he looked at his watch and tried to figure out how many boats were involved and how many people were on them. He would have to include the information in a sitrep he would send once he reached the nighttime position.
It didn’t take long for the moon to set. Hollister could see the stars through the small trees on top of the knoll, but the mottled pattern of shadows that the moon threw had disappeared.
He rolled his fatigue shirt cuff back and looked at the luminous hands on the dial of his watch. It was almost one A.M. It was getting cold, and the night sounds had quieted considerably since the moon was at its highest.
He knew that he had half an hour before he needed to wake Theodore, and an hour before they all had to get ready to move.
Hollister thought about the move. He was concerned that they might run into some VC activity at the streambed just before sunrise. His theory was that whoever used the stream to go down into the valley after dark would want to get back up into the foothills before daylight. That hardly gave him a clear window of time to feel more secure about putting the demolitions in. He had picked a time three hours before dawn as a guess that those coming down into the valley had already passed and the ones returning hadn’t started back yet. He hoped he had guessed right. He didn’t want to get caught with half his patrol in the water attaching demolitions to the stream bank.
His gut gurgled. He was anxious about putting the demo in. They had to get the job done in the shortest time possible to reduce their exposure and get the hell out of the killing zone—the bend in the stream.
If the VC came up on them in their sampans before the demo team could scramble out of the water, it could be a nightmare. He was glad that they had rehearsed every move before leaving the base camp. It would pay off in time saved, and cut down on the need to talk while putting the explosives in place.
As always, he just had to trust that his LRPs would do their job—fast.
Reaching the near bank of the stream, the patrol stopped to put out security. Allard’s team broke into two elements and set up firing positions that alternately looked up and down the stream.
While they moved into position, Camacho and Cullen, from Allard’s team, took off their gear, shirts, trousers, and boots. Naked, they placed all of the gear in the center of two ponchos they had spread out on the ground. Using leaves and four empty canteens for bulk and buoyancy, they wrapped up everything but their rifles and tied the bundle together with parachute suspension line. That done, Camacho clipped a flashlight to the line and helped Cullen lift the fabricated raft to the water without dragging it.
Once the security was in place and the two swimmers were ready, Hollister called the Operations RTO and reported that they were crossing the blue line. Hollister then gave the signal, and Camacho and Cullen slipped off the bank and into the ice-cold stream. Every other man on the patrol felt for them, anticipating his own trip across the cold water.
Because the bank was sloped on the inside of the turn, the stream got deeper as they waded out into it. It would be deepest on the far side, where the water moved the fastest and cut the bank and bottom away during the monsoon season.
Cullen held on to the two running ends of a 120-foot climbing rope as he swam to the other side. The doubled rope would just reach the far side. On the near bank it was wrapped loosely around the base of a tree so that it could be pulled through to the far side once they were finished using it as a safety line.
Camacho slipped the poncho raft into the water and held his rifle over his head with his free hand.
Hollister stayed with the others on the near bank, covering Cullen’s and Camacho’s movements in the water. He checked over his shoulders to make sure that the security, up- and downstream, was paying attention to the sectors assigned to them and not watching the swimmers try to get to the far side. He knew from experience that it was human nature to want to know what you were about to get yourself into, and watching the two in the water would do that.
Hollister couldn’t tell who, but one of the heads on the downstream side turned to look back. Just as he did, Sergeant Allard reached out and popped him on the back of the neck to discipline and correct the man.
Camacho and Cullen were just reaching the far bank as Hollister turned back toward them. They had drifted more man forty-five degrees downstream from what would have been a straight line across to the far bank. It told Hollister a lot about how strong the current was. He had selected Camacho and Cullen to cross first because they were the strongest swimmers in the entire platoon.
The black ribbon of the tree line on the far bank quickly gobbled up the naked swimmers as fast as they got out of the water. The only way that Hollister knew they were okay was by watching the slack come out of the safety line.
