Long Range Patrol: A Novel of Vietnam (The Jim Hollister Trilogy Book 1)

by Dennis Foley

  In a few seconds Cullen had taken in all the slack he could and tied the rope off to a tree trunk on the far bank. Slack in the rope would only make it more difficult for the others to cross the stream. Once they reached the middle, where the slack was greatest, they would then have to fight against the current to make the other half of the crossing—going back upstream.

  The rope stopped moving. Hollister waited several long seconds for Camacho to signal. Even though Hollister couldn’t see them, he knew that both men were shaking violently from the cold.

  Finally, Hollister saw it. It was only a sliver of red light that Camacho allowed to slip between his fingers, which covered most of the lens of the flashlight. First one, then a second rapid flashlight blink.

  It was time for Hollister to take the rest of the patrol across. He reached for his top shirt button.

  CHAPTER 24

  AS HOLLISTER STEPPED INTO the cold mountain stream, he was reminded of the first time he had experienced the discomfort of crossing water at night—as a soldier. He was in Advanced Infantry Training at Fort Benning—they had to cross the Chattahoochee River.

  At first it didn’t look like it would be a problem, except the expected—getting wet. It was only when Hollister felt the cold brown water of the Chattahoochee rising on his legs that he discovered it might be a bigger problem. The moment of truth came when the water level reached his crotch. Then he became painfully aware of just how cold it was.

  Hollister knew that the stream in the foothills was not going to be any more comfortable than that crossing in Georgia.

  As he crossed the stream he looked up to check the visibility from above—should he need to call for air support. The trees overhung the banks enough to create a narrow slot that offered a clear view of anything that might be in the center of the stream. It didn’t please Hollister. It meant that anyone on the stream could easily use the overhangs on either side to conceal themselves from aerial detection or fires from above.

  He then looked up- and downstream. Crossing at the center of the turn, both the up-and downstream legs were over his shoulders. Turning, he saw that the runs to and away from him were long and straight. That was good. It would give them plenty of time to get ready to execute their ambush by having early warning of the approach of any enemy sampans.

  The water finally reached Hollister’s crotch. He took a sharp, deep breath and gritted his teeth to avoid crying out.

  As he looked back to the front, he could see Camacho helping the lead element onto the far bank. Camacho was still barefoot and naked to the waist. Suddenly, Hollister felt a little foolish worrying about the cold he was experiencing. He knew one thing for sure. It would be a cold, wet night, and dawn couldn’t happen soon enough for anyone on the patrol.

  As Hollister got past the halfway point in the stream, the bottom fell off rapidly. He wasn’t surprised by the drop-off, but still had a little difficulty holding his rifle and his sawed-off M-79 over his head.

  Nearing the far bank, he could barely touch bottom, and the force of the current made it very difficult for him to keep his footing. He was glad he had decided to stretch the safety rope across the stream. As he felt himself getting more buoyant, his snap link—connected to the sling rope around his chest and the safety line—kept him from being swept downstream.

  Camacho had found a point where a large root was exposed on the face of the bank. It made it fairly easy for each man to crawl up and get to solid ground without having to rely on grabbing for the slick bank. Camacho was not only smart enough to use the root as a ladder, but to use it to keep the patrol from beating up the vegetation along the bank. A disturbed stream bank would surely give them away to the VC.

  Once he was on the far bank, Hollister got up from his knees and looked around for a place to move the troops completing the crossing. Under the overhang there was plenty of space on the bank to stretch out the patrol for the time it would take them to get ready to move up the shallow slope overlooking the stream.

  Standing on the bank, Hollister waited for the water to drain out of his trousers before he took the first step. As he did, he watched the remainder of the patrol crossing the stream. He was concerned that the patrol had been in the water several minutes, and each additional minute increased the possibility of a VC sampan coming along and compromising them.

  Camacho was pointing out places away from the stream for each soldier to move to once he got out of the water. They were silent, save the noise of the water and their labored breathing.

  The last man to cross was Sergeant Allard. As he reached the center of the stream, there was a clunking sound coming from upstream. Everyone heard it. It sounded like an oar banging rhythmically against the side of a waterlogged boat hull.

  Hollister signaled for everyone to freeze and not to shoot if they weren’t fired upon. They had gone over this in the briefback and rehearsals back at the base camp. But he wanted to make sure no one got jumpy. They were just in too compromising a position to take on a sampan at that moment. Everyone flattened out on the stream bank.

  But Allard was still in the water, and the rope was still stretched across the stream. If Camacho pulled the rope in with Allard hooked to it, it would take too long. Whoever was coming down the stream would be there before Allard could be pulled out of the water.

  Not quite at the middle of the stream, Allard realized what was going on and took action on his own. He pulled out his knife and cut one strand of the double rope. The free end quickly slipped back toward its anchor point on the bank they had just left; it came loose from the tree and then slipped into the water.

  Allard held on to the short end of the rope as it drifted downstream—still connected to the bank where Camacho, Hollister, and the others were.

  Hollister watched as Allard drifted about forty feet downstream, holding on to the rope. The force of the current and the anchored rope caused Allard to be pushed up against the stream bank on Hollister’s side. With a little silent paddling, Allard was able to move to a point next to the bank and under the drooping branches of a large tree.

  Hollister waited anxiously as the thumping and thudding sound got louder and closer. He thumbed his rifle selector switch off safe to full-automatic.

  Every man in the patrol held his breath as they waited for the source of the noise to get closer and become visible.

  Hollister raised his hand to his brow to shade his eyes from the slight glow of the sky as he strained to see.

  Then he spotted something floating in the water, though he couldn’t clearly make it out, but he was sure that something was there. To his right he heard one of the soldiers groan in release. He had seen it, too.

  Then Hollister could see it clearly. It was not a VC sampan. It was a large piece of a long-dead hardwood tree trunk floating down the stream. The noise was coming from a broken branch that had snagged the trunk and was banging against it as it floated along.

  Hollister dropped his head, breathed, and took his rifle off automatic. He quickly remembered Allard, who was still holding on to the safety line. He reached over and tapped Camacho. They were both thinking the same thing. They had to pull Allard upstream to keep him from having to fight the current himself or get out of the water and have to weave through the overgrowth on the bank to get to the patrol. And if they didn’t act fast, there was a slim chance that the large log floating his way might hit him.

  Allard, Camacho, and Hollister stood on the bank watching while another soldier pulled the remaining safety line from the water and coiled it up.

  Time was pressing them. Allard was ready to take his team up the hill, to provide security, while Hollister and Camacho’s people stayed behind to rig the demolitions.

  Hollister huddled with Allard and Camacho. “Okay, let’s get this done. We’ve already lost too much time.” He looked directly at Allard. “You let me know when you’re in position. And Allard—be careful.”

  Allard gave Hollister a nod and watched as Hollister turned his
attention to Camacho.

  “Soon as they clear this area—you get cracking. I want to get that demo in fast but right,” Hollister said.

  Hollister knew that he could count on Camacho. He thought, for a minute, what a luxury it would be to have a whole platoon of Camachos. He realized that it was his job to encourage the Camachos, and it was his job to develop and train the Camachos. He just didn’t know how you put the heart into them; a heart like Camacho’s.

  Hollister cross-checked the firing wires that led under the deadfall near the streambed to a spool fifteen feet away. He looked for any sign of exposed wires. In the dark it was hard to see if the wires were completely covered, but it would also be hard for the VC to see. He would send a party back down in the daylight to make a final check.

  Hollister signaled for two soldiers standing near him to finish spreading the dead leaves they had collected. It would be the final layer of camouflage to conceal their presence and the wires leading to the demolitions under the waterline.

  The patrol was just settling into their new perimeter as the sun broke the horizon. Hollister stopped checking the individual positions just long enough to enjoy the shafts of red-yellow light that were coming through the trees. He could almost hear the groans of pleasure from the others, each of them having suffered the cold for the few hours after crossing the stream.

  Hollister ended up at the key position that looked back down the hill toward the streambed and the watery killing zone. He got down to see what it offered for visibility.

  He could see the upstream leg and the killing zone. His worse view was of the downstream leg. He shook his head at the luck. He knew it would be a little much to expect to have an observation point that would give him concealment but would also give him an unobstructed view of the killing zone and both approaches.

  The lack of visibility on the downstream leg would mean that the position to his left might have to be adjusted to pick up that responsibility. Hollister looked over at Allard, who was in the position. He understood what Hollister was doing and pointed down toward the downstream leg and then back to his own eyes to let Hollister know he had a good shot at the approach.

  Two wires, threaded from the demolitions placed under the waterline, wound up the hill to their position and the two hand detonators. Getting back up into a squat, Hollister checked out the detonators. Either one of them would set off the ambush.

  Done, Hollister could go sit down for a while. He moved to a position that was just off the crest of the small hill, so that he couldn’t be seen from the killing zone. Even though he couldn’t see the killing zone, he was satisfied that he was just a few feet away from a position that could.

  Unable to fully detach from his duties and take a break, Hollister scanned the patrol perimeter to make a check of the layout in the daylight. Theodore had just finished calling in a negative sitrep, and the others were quietly rearranging their gear.

  Hollister spun his rucksack around to get to one of the canteens attached to it. As he drank the water, flavored by the plastic canteen that held it, he watched the sun move higher on the horizon, and felt the air getting warmer as it filtered through the thinner branches of the young trees that covered the hilltop. He pulled the canteen away from his face and poured a little into his hand to wipe across his eyes, which burned from the long hours without sleep.

  As he did, he noticed that his hands had lost all of their camouflage. He knew that if the greasy coloring was gone on his hands and arms, it would be the same for his face and neck.

  Putting the canteen away, Hollister pulled the camouflage stick out of his rucksack and reached inside his shirt for his signal mirror. Before touching up his camouflage, he raised the stick in the air and waved to get everyone’s attention. They all knew the message he was sending. They, too, had to work on their camouflage.

  Hunching over his signal mirror, carefully shading it in order not to wildly play the sun’s reflection around the area, he looked at his face. He looked terrible. The cold, the dirt, the lack of sleep, and the traces of camouflage around his nose, ears, and eyes made him look old, dirty, and tired. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin looked pale and a little on the puffy side.

  He didn’t want to see any of it. He wanted to see himself as strong, refreshed, confident, and ready. But it wasn’t there. Instead there was a face belonging to a soldier in his mid-twenties who looked at least ten years older. He didn’t want to think that the effect was permanent. He preferred to rationalize his look as the result of the long hours and the work, rather than the strain of the job, too many cigarettes, too much booze and pain. Pain that had been in his chest since the first day he had seen the first soldier die in his rifle platoon. He could clean up his look. But he wasn’t sure about the pain. Something told him that it would be with him forever.

  He knew that the only way to stuff the pain into the corner of his mind was to get busy. At that moment he could do it with the camouflage touch-up.

  The cold morning air had made the camouflage stick stiff and crumbly. He tried to wipe the color on his face from the pushup tube, and could feel the skin being stretched as the stick dragged on it. It was no use. He had to do something to make it go on and stay on.

  Hollister finally gave in and rummaged around in the outside pocket of his rucksack. He pulled out the new bottle of insect repellent and squirted a few drops of it on the end of the camouflage stick. The fluid softened the stick, allowing him to smear it on his face more easily—but at some added cost. The insect repellent made the mixture burn as he ground it into his skin.

  Finishing, Hollister pulled out his notebook and slipped the plastic bag off of it. He opened the book and checked it for water damage. He was lucky. The book was spared the damage that he had done to so many others. He was pleased that he had made a point of scrounging the bag. It wasn’t a normal plastic bag. It had been wrapped around a new .45-caliber pistol for packing and shipping. Whoever made the bag used thick, flexible plastic that was very durable and stuck to itself like Saran Wrap—only many times thicker.

  Flipping through the book, Hollister refreshed his memory of the call signs, the target numbers of the plotted artillery, and the new coordinates of the hilltop.

  Running down his own checklist, he came to a note to recheck the wiring in the daylight. That was it—his next move.

  Down below, Hollister was satisfied with the condition of the stream bank and the concealment of the emplaced demolitions and wire. Knowing that it was all done right pleased him, but he didn’t want to waste a minute near the stream. He was eager to get the demo party back up the hill to reduce the likelihood of being seen by anyone on or near the stream.

  Once in the perimeter, Hollister decided that he had to get some sleep. The toll of the night before, and the anticipation of the night or even nights to come, weighed him down. He checked with Theodore to see if they were current on sitreps, and then told Camacho and Allard that he was going to crap out for a while.

  Hollister found a shady spot and moved his rucksack to a position where he could get comfortable. He was not bothered by the dampness of the ground or the discomfort that the roots and rocks caused him. He simply made little adjustments to his sleeping position until he found the right spot.

  Sleep came over him almost immediately. It was punctuated with hurried dreams. In one of his dream patrols, he was very late. There were so many things to do, and he felt sure he was not getting them done in time. He dreamed that he was getting radio messages from Captain Michaelson chewing him out for being too slow. Too slow moving, too slow getting into position, too slow at reporting.

  He also felt heavy during the dream. He was surrounded by some force that slowed his movement as if he were in mud or syrup. Still, he slept.

  The heat from the sun beat down on his face. He could feel it, but didn’t want to give in to it and move to the shade again. He knew that if he moved at all, it would break the veil of sleep and he would never drop off agai
n.

  He suffered the sun for several more minutes and then was assaulted by a fly. It wasn’t just a regular fly. It was one of the large ones that everyone considered to be the Vietnamese equivalent of a horsefly. It was large, persistent, and very noisy. The fly kept buzzing around his face and would bump into him every now and then.

  Again, Hollister tried not to move more than he had to or open his eyes as he reached down and unbuttoned the flap on his trouser leg pocket. Once open, he reached in and pulled out his wet floppy hat. He quickly unrolled the hat and dropped it loosely over his face.

  The hat seemed to take care of most of the fly problem. The fly was still buzzing his face, but it wasn’t landing on it. The new problem was with the sun. The dark tiger-striped pattern on the hat soaked up that much more heat, and the lack of circulation under the hat was about all the discomfort that Hollister could stand.

  He sat up straight. There was no denying it. His nap was over.

  As soon as he opened his eyes he realized how hot and sweaty he really was. The front of his shirt was drenched with sweat, and the back was wet from sweat and the dampness of the ground. For a fraction of a second he remembered the luxury of the bed he shared with Susan back in New York, and even the crisp BOQ room in Japan. He started to ask himself just what possessed him to be with that patrol, that day on that hill. But he didn’t want to finish the question because he didn’t want to get to the answer.

  Hollister stood up and dropped his hat onto the top of his rucksack. He picked up his rifle and made the rounds of the positions—just to check on who was asleep, who was awake, and who was alert. He knew how the birds and the breeze in the treetops could lull his people into a complacency that could be deadly.

  He hated laying up waiting for nightfall. It was an unavoidable part of ambushes. He was hungry, but the thought of C rations didn’t perk him up. It would be something he would have to do after checking the perimeter and calling in a sitrep.