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

by Dennis Foley

  The Operations tent was stale from cigarettes and the smell of dirty canvas. Hollister finished his letter to Susan. It was the easiest one he had written in weeks. He was able to tell her how great it was to see some of the faces from his old company. There was also plenty to talk to her about concerning their plans. And it was easier to tell her how much he missed her and how eager he was to see her. Somehow, the personal, romantic, and sexual emotions were hard to talk about in letters when the possibility of seeing her had been so far out of reach.

  It was almost torture to tell her how much he wanted her and how he missed being with her when he had to seal the envelope and know that she was so far away in both time and distance.

  Much of what he had put in his letter to Susan was news to his parents. So Hollister explained some of the details of the plans that he and Susan were firming up. He was happy that his parents were excited about his marriage to Susan, and pleased that she had found the time to write to his mother often. They collaborated on sending Hollister small care packages and silly greeting cards.

  Before he could finish the letter to his folks, Captain Michaelson walked in to check on the night’s events. Hollister was surprised to find that it was almost six A.M.

  “Anything?” Michaelson asked, not waiting for any formalities. He picked up the Staff Duty Journal, which held summaries of all the radio traffic, and checked the time of the last sitrep.

  “Dry hole, sir,” Hollister replied. “They had movement just at dark, but you knew that. Most of the night was lights in the nearby villages and some foot traffic. None of it was near them. Looks like the intelligence from Province was worthless.”

  The captain put his hands on his hips and thought for a second. “Okay. Enough of this. I’ve got teams to brief and debrief. Captain Shaw already has a team to put in and one to come out this morning. I don’t want to screw all that up with this unscheduled mission. So, I want you to take the C and C and pull your snatch team after Shaw gets back.

  “But before you tell them that you’re going to pull them, check with Brigade on the weather forecast.” Michaelson pointed his thumb toward the tent doorway. “There’s a mean-looking front boiling up out there. Could screw us up.”

  Once they were in the air, the pickup ship, the chase, and the two gunships fell into formation with the C&C. The flight was only a seventeen-minute hop to a large paddy area near the snatch site. It was the primary PZ that had been selected before the mission and confirmed on the sweep through the area.

  On the flight, the pilots and Hollister kept an eye on the storm clouds building over the hills to the north. They all knew that the weather between the monsoon and the dry season was erratic and could change very quickly.

  The pickup was preceded by a wide aerial sweep of the area around the pickup zone. Because the PZ was close to populated villages, Hollister wanted to make sure that they all knew where any civilians were before the choppers dipped into the paddies to scoop up Camacho’s team. If they had to start shooting to protect themselves, Hollister wanted to make sure that they weren’t accidentally firing toward civilians.

  Satisfied that the nearest civilians were more than a thousand meters away, Hollister gave the word to start the pickup sequence.

  Ready to be pulled, Camacho’s team held up short in the trees.

  The guns made their sweeps of the clearing just as the rain started to fall. Hollister leaned out the door in the C&C and watched the slick make a long slow descent into the PZ.

  Estimating the touchdown point, the team burst from the tree line and ran toward the pickup ship. But before the first man reached the side of the slowing chopper, the pickup went sour.

  As Hollister saw the first man fall, a small reddish cloud of flesh, bone, and fatigue shirt was blown out of the man’s lower rib cage.

  “Contact! Contact! Contact!” overlapping voices of the two pilots and Vinson, Camacho’s radio operator, screamed into their radios.

  Searching the tree line below him, Hollister quickly spotted the source of the fire. From a dense cluster of bushes on the opposite tree line, repeated bursts of automatic weapons fire crossed the PZ, hitting the chopper and chewing up ground around it.

  At a point on the margin of the clearing ninety degrees out from the first VC position, a second firing position lit up with green tracers that lashed out across the landing zone. The enemy fire trapped the LRPs between the chopper and the tree line.

  Shit! Hollister thought. “Guns?” he yelled into his mike.

  “We’re on ’em,” the lead gun pilot replied as he reversed his direction and stood his gunship up on its nose to pick up airspeed and get into position to pour minigun fire onto the target.

  The pilot of the C&C came up on the intercom and filled Hollister in. “The pickup’s down. I’ve told the chase to go in. I don’t think he can pick up the team and the crew, though.”

  “Then we go in and get the leftovers!” Hollister announced without hesitation.

  “Okay here,” the C&C pilot replied.

  Hollister switched back to transmit. “Quarterback—Contact! Contact! Do you copy?”

  Michaelson’s voice was the first up from the base camp. “Good copy. Contact. What do you need first, Jim?”

  “Don’t know just yet. Got one man down on the LZ and a crippled ship. Going in with chase and C and C to pick up everyone we can. Guns are waxing the firing positions, but the weather is fucked. Gonna need troops to secure the downed chopper till we can get it out. And I might need more guns. I’ll keep you advised. Out,” Hollister replied as they fell in behind the chase ship and started to slip into the PZ.

  “Break. Two-three. Can you put your people into the chase, and we’ll get the crew of the pickup with C and C—the trail ship?”

  Camacho’s voice came on, broken up by the fierce small arms fire and chopper noise in the background. “Rog. We’ve got one WIA. I think there’s a wounded man in the chopper.”

  “Okay, hold on, partner. We’re coming in now!”

  As the chase ship slammed into the ground, bounced and slid forward to the right rear of the crippled chopper, the C&C started his flare—heading for the left rear of the downed chopper.

  Hollister got out of the jump seat on the left side of the C&C and moved into the right door to see and be able to help pull people in.

  As he reached the other side of the chopper, he saw two more LRPs fell from a third VC firing position at another point on the tree line behind them. “Fuck!” Hollister yelled. He knew that it was not a chance meeting engagement. The VC had plotted every inch of the clearing and picked the best firing positions to crisscross the landing zone with intense knee-high fire.

  As the crew from the downed chopper broke free from their ship and ran to the C&C, Hollister kept his eye on the LRP team trying to get their wounded to the chase ship.

  The enemy fire was intense. Hollister heard the C&C take hit after hit, while he helped the two warrant officers pull a wounded door gunner into the C&C. As they tried to get back in, one of the pilots took a hit and fell backward—out of the chopper.

  Hollister looked down at him. He was on the ground with his legs folded back underneath him. His eyes were wide and searching while his lids fluttered from the downwash of rain off the chopper blades.

  Hollister tried to step out to help the pilot when he was snatched up short by the inadequate length of the drop cord that tied his headset to the chopper. Holding on to the wounded pilot, Hollister jerked his head away from the headset, letting it clatter onto the floor of the chopper. He then helped the other warrant officer lift his co-pilot up and slide him into the chopper.

  Still outside the chopper, Hollister looked up to see how Camacho’s team was making out. As he did, he was surprised to find the hand of the co-pilot of the C&C flapping out the small window right in front of his face—trying to get his attention. The co-pilot pointed to his helmet to let Hollister know he was needed on the radio.

  Jumping onto his
knees on the cargo bay of the chopper, Hollister repositioned his headset and ran his hand down the drop cord till he found the transmit button. “This is Two-six. Go.”

  “We’re in a trick bag! Need help here!” Camacho’s voice rasped into the headset.

  Hollister looked over his shoulder at the team. Three soldiers were down. Camacho was on his knees next to one of them, and two others were trying to drag a second wounded soldier toward the chase ship. A lone body was lying lifeless on the paddy a few yards from the chase ship.

  The door gunner on the LRP’s side of the chase was firing rapid bursts over the heads of Camacho’s team—at the tree line fifty meters behind them, which concealed a VC light machine gun that was churning up mud all around the LRPs.

  The original pickup ship started to burn, belching dark smoke from the turbine engine that was eating itself up with pieces of fragmentation rattling around inside it.

  Hollister knew that the success of any recovery from the ambush would rest in the length of time it would take for the three surviving LRPs to load the three wounded LRPs into the chase ship. Until that happened, the chase couldn’t take off. And Hollister knew that the Gladiator pilots wouldn’t take off and leave the surviving LRPs on the ground.

  He made a decision, jumped out of the C&C, and ran toward Camacho’s team. He took no more than three steps before he realized that he had left his rifle in the C&C. He decided that he couldn’t stop. He ran as fast as he could in the direction of the LRPs, trying to use the burning chopper as cover from some of the VC fire. Two of the other positions were still able to fire on him. One continued to pour fire into the choppers, and the other sprayed Camacho’s team and Hollister.

  He skidded to a stop on his knees, sliding into the downed body of Doc Briskin. Theodore was trying to drag him to the chopper while hunching over to avoid the enemy fire.

  The pale appearance of Briskin’s muddy skin worried Hollister, but the lack of time to check him out prompted Hollister to just assume that he was alive. He reached for a handful of Briskin’s slippery uniform to help Theodore drag him to the chopper.

  Once they had Briskin in the chase ship, Hollister turned to see what the situation was with the others. Wyman and Gerhart were wounded, but with help from Vinson and Camacho, they were able to get into the chopper.

  Hollister looked up and saw that the door gunners were doing their best to keep the fire up while the gunships were obliterating the tree lines around the south and west sides of the landing zone. Their job was complicated by the increasing downpour and the seriously reduced visibility. To compensate, Iron Mike kept making his gun runs lower and lower—so low that he was in danger of taking frags from his own rockets and grenades.

  Hollister assumed that the fact that any of them were still alive at all was because the weather had turned so shitty, making it more difficult for the VC to see their targets.

  That, coupled with the suppressive fire of the gunships and door gunners, continued to degrade the accuracy of the enemy fire. Still, Hollister was surprised that there weren’t more dead LRPs and crippled choppers.

  The unflagging enemy fire kept translating itself to the words Go! Go! Go! in his mind. He pushed Theodore up and into the chopper. At the same moment, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vinson flinch. He looked over Theodore’s shoulder and saw Vinson clutching his neck. Blood was streaming out between his fingers from a wound just under the collar of his shirt. Vinson shrugged his shoulders and flicked his rucksack off to get his hands up to his neck.

  Hollister knew that he had to get the choppers off the ground-fast. He was the only one left still standing in the mud. He looked back to the C&C waiting for him. He would have to dash back to the ship, causing them to stay on the ground for those extra few seconds. But he might be able to get into the chase and get both ships off the ground faster.

  Hollister stepped back from the side of the chase ship to signal the C&C to go without him. He then climbed into the chase ship and yelled, “Go! Go! Go!”

  Looking out and behind, Hollister saw the C&C pull in some pitch on the blades, causing the chopper to rise up as the pilot took the weight off the skids in preparation for takeoff. But he seemed to be waiting for the chase to start up and forward.

  After a long pause the chase chopper still had not lifted. The pilot swiveled his head around, looked at Hollister, and shook his head to let Hollister know that it wasn’t going to get off the ground. Immediately Hollister realized what a stupid stunt he’d pulled, leaving the C&C and ending up in the chase ship. He was angry with himself for making such a stupid, grandstanding move to help Camacho.

  The problem with the chase ship was that it had been topped off with fuel, as had the other choppers, before they left to make the pickup. With Hollister’s extra weight and an almost full fuel load, they couldn’t lift off.

  The options spun through Hollister’s head. He could get out and run the forty yards back to the C&C, but that would mean the C&C would have to stay put for several extra seconds while he slogged through the paddies. If he did that, he just might get someone killed in the C&C.

  There was really only one option. He knew that Michaelson was inbound with more choppers, so he grabbed one of the rifles off the floor of the chopper and jumped out. He spun around, crouching to reduce his size as a target, and waved for the pilots of both ships to go. They looked at him like he was crazy. Enemy fire was snapping up spouts of muddy water near his feet while he stood there in the downpour waving them off. Neither chopper pilot made a move to leave. He could even see the pilot of the chase ship waving at him to get back in the chopper.

  Hollister knew he had to do something to get them off the ground without him. He looked over his shoulder at the tree line. He knew that if he took the option away from the pilots, they would leave. If they saw him run for the tree line, they would know he was serious and that they couldn’t do anything.

  He calculated the shortest route to the tree line and started for it. He ran as fast as he could through the knee-deep mud—the wet air making him gasp for each breath. The footing was treacherous. After several long strides Hollister slipped and fell, face first, both hands going out in front of him to break his fall.

  He waited for a VC bullet to hit him, but the enemy fire seemed to be behind him. He thought that the VC must not have been able to see him through the rain, and that they were still shooting at the choppers.

  He lifted his head and realized that he had lost his M-16—somewhere under the muddy runoff flowing from the slightly higher ground in the tree line.

  He searched the six-inch-deep water in front of him and found the upturned magazine of the rifle. As he crawled forward to get a grip on it, he heard the choppers lift off behind him. He turned to look over his shoulder to see if they were making it, only to be met with a face full of muddy spray being blown into his eyes by the chopper blades. He cradled the rifle in the crook of one arm while he tried to wipe the muddy water out of his eyes with the sleeve of the other.

  “Lieutenant!”

  He heard someone calling out and thought he was imagining it. Wiping the water from his eyes, he tried to shield them with his forearm while he looked at the rising choppers. Only a few feet from his face he saw the stumbling form of a soldier, a rifle in one hand and a rucksack in the other. He ran toward Hollister, lost his footing, and fell.

  Hollister reached out to help break the man’s fall and caught sight of the face—Theodore! What the hell was he doing?

  Theodore raised his face out of the mud and tried to speak, winded and coughing, with bits of rice straw stuck to his muddied face.

  Hollister knew that they had to get out of the open—and fast. He grabbed the neck of Theodore’s shirt and lifted him. Theodore scrambled up and the two ran the ten long strides to the tree line.

  Reaching the small clump of trees, Hollister and Theodore dove over the brush clustered at the base of the trees and bellied into the ground behind them. Hollister spun around
on his stomach and looked up—able to catch sight of the navigation lights of the C&C pulling out and away from the far side of the PZ in a left turn. He looked around the clearing for any sign of the chase ship. He couldn’t see it in front of or above the C&C, and was afraid it might have been shot down or lost power on takeoff. The only thing on the ground was the half-burned hulk of the original pickup ship.

  Hollister turned to Theodore, who was on his hands and knees, vomiting. Hollister tried to speak but couldn’t get his wind. So he tried to calm himself as he gasped for air. They were in serious trouble. And no one knew it better than he did.

  CHAPTER 27

  THE ENEMY FIRE HAD stopped, even though the rain hadn’t. As the distant sounds of the climbing choppers diminished, Hollister became conscious of a hissing sound behind him. He looked around and found the source of the noise.

  Theodore had brought Vinson’s rucksack and radio with him when he jumped out of the chopper. The radio handset was stretched from the radio to a bush behind him.

  Theodore looked up, saw that Hollister was looking at the handset, and reached up to pull it toward him. Getting a grip on it, Theodore swiveled into a seated position and pressed the mud-caked handset to his face. “This is Two-six Romeo. Over.”

  He listened for a second and his face showed concern.

  “Roger, Six. Stand by one.” He poked the handset toward Hollister. “The Old Man—they’re still at the LRP pad!”

  Expecting him to already be airborne—en route to their location—Hollister winced at the news. He was hoping that after his last transmission to Michaelson, they had been able to mount and launch a reaction force and pickup choppers. He pressed the handset to his face and spoke into the mouthpiece. “This is Two-six. Over.”

  “What the hell are you doing? Gladiator One-five told me you are on the ground! Is that correct? You stayed on the ground?!”

  “Affirmative. And I’ve got line number—” He looked over to Theodore for his unit roster ID. Theodore mouthed the numbers. “Ah, line number Bravo three three with me. Over.”