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

by Dennis Foley

  In a calming tone, Michaelson responded. “Okay, okay. Here’s the problem. We are down—weather unflyable. It should lift within the hour. Can you hang on?”

  “This is Two-six. I think so. Haven’t got much of a choice. Over.” He hoped against hope that when his hand reached his trouser pocket, his map case would still be there.

  It was! He flipped the mud-soaked map open on his knee and looked up to orient himself and then his map while Michaelson continued.

  “Okay—I’ve got a FAC waiting to take off. Guns will be back ASAP. You hole up till we can get you out. You still taking fire?”

  “Negative. The visibility is zero zero. I don’t think they even know I’m here. Will lay low. Might need help coordinating some fires. I’m going to call redleg on enemy positions. Over,” Hollister whispered into the handset.

  “Okay, partner. We’ll be there just as fast as we can get there. It’ll be okay. Out.”

  Finding his mud-soaked notebook in his shirt pocket, Hollister flipped open the cover and thumbed the pages to the artillery frequency and call sign for the Fire Direction Center that controlled the American artillery batteries at the north end of the valley. As he closed the notebook, the green dye from the cardboard cover ran over his fingers. He wiped the dye on his trousers and reached out for the radio on the upright rucksack frame.

  After switching the dial to the correct frequency, Hollister called in a request for artillery fires on two of the enemy positions he could identify on the map. He requested that they fire a smoke round first to alert him, since he would be on another frequency. That would allow him to come back up on their frequency and adjust the fires.

  They told him to wait while they plotted and cleared the mission.

  Trying not to let his voice rise out of control, Hollister leaned over and stuck his face into Theodore’s. “Just what the hell are you doing? Why didn’t you stay in that fucking chopper?”

  “Something I learned. A lieutenant without a radio is just a lieutenant. And a lieutenant with a radio is a commander—sir.”

  Hollister couldn’t help but laugh. This was a far cry from the timid Theodore he had been worried about many weeks earlier. All he could think of doing was to reach out with his green-stained fingers and shake Theodore’s hand. “Thanks. You were right. But we are in a very bad spot.”

  “No sweat, sir. You’ll get us out,” Theodore said with his hopeful grin. “And you’re buying the beer.”

  The rain was still coming down hard after an hour. Hollister and Theodore were shivering from the cold as they sat back to back, each watching half of the two-man perimeter they created. Hollister spun the radio dials again and called the artillery. “This is Quarterback Two-six. What the fuck is the holdup on the artillery?”

  The weak and broken reply came back. “Look, we aren’t the problem. We do not have clearance yet. I say again—we do not have clearance. Are you taking fire now? Over.”

  “Negative. Must fire on those targets to bring in extraction choppers. Please try to clear. Over,” Hollister replied.

  “We’re working as fast as we can. Stand by. Out.”

  Hollister looked down at the water pooling on either side of his legs. The bottom half of each outstretched leg was hidden under the cold and muddy water. He could feel Theodore’s back shaking from the cold. Readjusting the frequency, he passed the handset over his shoulder till it came to rest on Theodore’s.

  The two continued to watch their half of the trees around them for any sign of the VC. Both were hoping that the VC had cut and run, figuring that they had done all the damage they could do and trying to avoid the certain artillery fires that would be called on their firing positions.

  Then Hollister remembered the downed chopper in the paddies. He was sure that the VC would keep an eye on it and set up some kind of a trap for whoever would come to extract the carcass. Or they might even send a party out to strip anything useful off the chopper—like the machine guns and the ammo.

  The only hope was that the VC might lose interest if the chopper had completely burned, leaving nothing to salvage. But Hollister didn’t know what condition it was in. He last remembered the chopper burning slowly, hindered by the downpour. And from his position inside the tree line, he couldn’t see the chopper on the LZ.

  After a second hour there was still no artillery fire. Hollister was furious. There was just no excuse for not being able to fire and adjust artillery on known enemy positions. But he continued to get the same answer—not cleared to fire. And the rain continued to pour down with no break in sight.

  The squelch broke on the radio. Theodore passed the handset to Hollister.

  “Two-six, Six. We are lifting off. Clearing here. Over,” Michaelson’s voice announced over the radio.

  “This is Two-six. Roger. Still no letup on the rain here. No enemy fire or sightings. And still no artillery! We’re ready. Call us zero five out. Over.”

  “The ceiling’s very bad, but we’ll get there if we have to hover the whole way. Just stand by. Out.”

  Theodore reached for his gear. He tried to snug down the radio.

  Hollister knew that if Theodore carried the radio and all of the gear that was with the rucksack, he would slow the two of them down. And they would need all the speed they could get to cross the paddies and get into a pickup ship.

  Hollister reached over, unbuckled the top flap on the rucksack and zipped the nylon drawstring open. Inside he found a spare pair of trousers and pulled them out. He tied the bottoms of each trouser leg in a knot and buttoned up the fly. Having created a bag, of sorts, he rummaged through the rucksack and the side pouches, pulling out items that he didn’t want to leave behind for the VC. He tossed out the other items, which couldn’t be used against the Americans. After the rucksack was empty, he lifted the trousers with one hand to test for weight.

  The squelch broke on the radio and Theodore answered. It was Michaelson. They were trying to find a break in the weather that would allow them to get to Hollister and Theodore.

  Theodore passed the information to Hollister. They both looked up at the cloud cover. It was still fairly heavy over their heads.

  “Call the arty folks and tell them to cancel the fire mission. Be our luck that they’ll clear and fire the targets when the choppers are trying to pick us up. Make sure they know that the cancellation is to allow aircraft into the target area,” Hollister said.

  Theodore nodded and sent the message. While he was taking care of that, Hollister rechecked the action on his M-16 and got up into a squat. He made a complete 360 check of the area immediately around them.

  The rain had slowed and the visibility had improved. He knew that wasn’t all good news. The lifting of the cloud cover allowed the VC to see better, too. They were also smart enough to know that someone would be coming to check out the condition of the downed chopper—even if they didn’t know there were Americans still on the ground.

  As soon as Theodore switched back to the tactical frequency, he heard Michaelson’s voice calling for Hollister. Without answering, he quickly passed the handset.

  “This is Two-six. Go,” Hollister said, without taking his eyes off the widening circle he was scanning.

  “We think we have this licked. We should be at your location in zero five. What’s the weather?” Michaelson asked.

  Looking up, Hollister answered, “Ceiling is about two hundred feet and the visibility is almost a half mile. Still raining and zero winds. Over.”

  “Stand by One,” Michaelson said, switching to intercom to talk to the pilot.

  Hollister turned to Theodore. “Get it on. They’re inbound.” He reached into the first aid pouch on his pistol belt and pulled out his pen flare and a couple of loose flares and handed them to Theodore.

  “This is Six. Okay. We are inbound. What’s your ETA to the PZ, and can you mark?”

  “This is Two-six. We can be in position in zero two. We can mark with a Paper Mate. Over,” Hollister said, referring to
the pen flare.

  “Okay, partner. Start moving. You should be hearin’ us any time now. We’ll call for a mark if we need it. Gladiator seems to think he knows enough about the PZ to find you without much trouble. We’re on final.”

  Hollister and Theodore spun their heads, reacting to the chopper sounds. Without saying anything, Hollister threw the trouser bag around his neck and got up to lead the way back to the PZ. Theodore followed, half walking backward to cover their rear.

  The PZ was covered with calf-deep water. The downed chopper was nothing but muddy ashes and a few chunky pieces of the carcass sticking up out of the water.

  The gunships were the first to break over the trees at the end of the PZ. They came across with one chopper on each side of the PZ—flying low and fast.

  “Two-six, Iron Mike. How ’bout givin’ me a mark?” Mike Taylor said over the radio.

  Theodore had the pen flare in his hand, waiting for Hollister’s signal.

  From the cockpit of the gunship, Captain Taylor saw the red balls of fire leap from the tree line and arc out over the PZ like a Roman candle.

  “Got you. I want to light up the area before we come in. That a problem, Two-six?” Taylor asked.

  “No problem. Wish you would. If you have us—anything else is bad guys. Over.”

  “Okay, put your heads down. We’re just going to try to fuck up their aim before we bring in the slicks.”

  The gunships nosed over, picked up airspeed, lost a little altitude, and started to rain rockets, miniguns, and 40mm grenades on both sides of the PZ.

  Taylor’s wingman started his run along the tree line that concealed Hollister and Theodore. They watched as the gunship belched 40mm grenades from the snoutlike pod on the chin of the chopper. The exploding grenades got closer and closer, and Hollister began to worry if the pilot really knew where they were. When it looked like the next few grenades would hit close enough to shower them with fragmentation, the gunner let up on the trigger and the pilot kicked out into a hard ascending left turn, almost stalling out over their heads.

  “Short final,” Michaelson announced over the radio.

  “Roger. We’re ready, Six,” Hollister replied as he reached over to get Theodore into a track star’s starting position.

  The pickup slick appeared over the tree line, the C&C above and behind it, and the chase below and behind the C&C. Hollister gauged the speed and touchdown point and started to count out loud, over the clamor of choppers and gun runs. “One … Two … Three … Go!”

  Hollister and Theodore burst from the margin of the PZ throwing up chin-high splashes of muddy water as they ran for the chopper.

  The burning in Hollister’s chest and the muddy water in his eyes were only minor problems compared to his concern for enemy fire. Were they there? Would they fire? Were they already firing and he just couldn’t hear it?

  Getting closer, he could see Easy kneeling in the middle of the open doorway of the chopper. Hollister might have known that Easy would insist on being belly man on the pickup.

  It was going too well for Hollister. He had a momentary flash of panic at the thought of getting into the chopper and not getting Theodore in. He slowed his pace to allow Theodore to come abreast of him and then get in front of him. He wanted to make sure that Theodore got into the chopper before he did.

  As Theodore’s bulk crossed in front of him, Hollister turned half around to cover their backs. The chopper was on the ground, and he knew that they only had about four more long strides to get to it.

  Without warning, a line of green tracers crossed Hollister’s field of vision, coming from behind them, somewhere in the tree line they had just left. Hollister’s heart sank. “No,” he yelled. “Not again. Not again!”

  An RPG came whooshing out of the tree line, headed for the pickup ship. But it somehow went wild, spiraled and augered itself into the ground halfway to the chopper. The warhead detonated, throwing Hollister backward, as if he had been hit by a car.

  Turning around just inside the chopper, Theodore was stunned by the sight of his boss down only yards away. He dug his mud-covered heels into the corrugated deck and scooted himself back to the edge. He lost his balance and fell out of the chopper. Getting to his feet, he ran at a crouch to Hollister’s side.

  By then the enemy fire crossed the PZ from four different positions. Two of them were within meters of where Theodore and Hollister had hidden, waiting for the pickup.

  As Theodore reached Hollister, he dropped to his side as if sliding into base. As he was falling in a long, diagonal stretch, a burst of enemy fire found his torso and spun him over—ripping large chunks of his side and hip away.

  Easy was out of the chopper the second he saw the tracers slice through Theodore’s body. He bounded across the paddies yelling, “Hold on. Just hold on!”

  Even though he was a larger, slower target, Easy reached Hollister and Theodore without getting hit. The noise and confusion went up considerably as Michaelson and Iron Mike had adjusted the gunship firing runs into tight circles around the three LRPs and the pickup chopper waiting courageously on the ground.

  Easy found Hollister very dazed and Theodore critically wounded. He hoisted Theodore over his shoulder and grabbed Hollister under the arm to lift him to his feet, and then started for the chopper.

  As they moved clumsily toward the waiting chopper, the door gunner unhooked his drop cord and jumped out to help.

  As the clumsy trio reached the chopper, the door gunner helped Easy hoist Theodore into the cargo compartment. Easy then turned to help the disoriented Hollister. As he did, a burst of enemy machine-gun fire stitched across the paddies, splashing water, and bounced off something beneath the surface-popping up and hitting Easy in the leg.

  Easy simply collapsed without recoil from the impact of the distorted enemy machine-gun bullet.

  Hollister wasn’t sure if he was seeing or dreaming the nightmare. He didn’t care. He mustered all the strength he could find, reached down and grabbed for Easy.

  From somewhere, the hands of the door gunner reached down, too. Between them they were able to get Easy into the chopper.

  Hollister tried to crawl into the chopper but found that he was totally drained of strength. His fingers found the cargo tie-down rings and he pulled against them, hoping to let the chopper pull him up and out of the paddy. He summoned up what breath he had and instinctively whispered, “Go! Go! Go!”

  He had no idea just how much time had passed. But Hollister suddenly became aware of being in the chopper at flight altitude. He was not sure where they were or even if it was the same chopper that had rescued them from the muddy pickup zone; not until he realized that he was freezing from the wind evaporating the paddy water from his uniform.

  Though his vision was still blurred from the concussion of the RPG that had knocked him off his feet, he looked around and saw one of the door gunners trying to hold pressure on the side of Theodore’s body.

  Nearby, Easy leaned against the back of the pilot’s seat, attempting to tie his cravat around his thigh to stop his own bleeding.

  Responding to some reflexive urge to help, Hollister crawled across the floor of the chopper toward Easy and simply blacked out again.

  Sometime the next morning, Hollister coughed to clear his throat. The sudden pain woke him from a deep sleep. Opening his eyes slightly, he felt his head pounding and sharp pains at the points where each rib connected to his breastbone. He tried to open his eyes and clear his vision, which was still blurred, but it caused him pain when even the slightest amount of light entered his eyes.

  He tried a few more times, but each time the pain was too much and he quickly shut his eyes before he could focus on anything. He decided to wait a few seconds before he tried again.

  Slowly he began to realize where he was. The crisp sheets, the feel of a real pillow coupled with the medicinal odors that filled his nostrils, convinced him that he was in a hospital bed. He knew that he was still in Vietnam because of the
humidity. It would have been drier in Japan. Then he remembered that he could be in Guam or Hawaii. No, they wouldn’t be using the large generator that he could hear chugging somewhere outside the ward. But what difference did it make? Was he maimed? Was he whole?

  He tried to make himself concentrate on limbs. He moved his legs slightly and grimaced at the soreness in the big muscles in his thighs. That was enough to convince him that he wasn’t paralyzed.

  He raised one hand to his face to cover his eyes. It only got about six inches off the bed before it was stopped by the IV needle that went into a vein on the back of his hand.

  He tried with the other hand and was able to shade his eyes while he opened them. It felt like the worst hangover of his life, without the nausea. He could see that he was in a ward in the Brigade hospital. There were nine other beds in the tent. Half of them were empty. Theodore? Easy? Camacho’s people? Where were they?

  He tried to lift his head, and immediately got dizzy and felt like he was going to throw up. He lowered it back onto the pillow—slowly. He was sure that if he just tried to he there, still, for just a minute, he would be able to try again. The waves of nausea began to wane and he steeled himself to try once more.

  He heard someone’s boots making a grating noise against the flooring as they walked to the side of his bed and stopped. He decided not to try to open his eyes, lift his head, and talk at the same time. He settled for just trying to speak softly—so as not to hurt his pounding head. “Who’s there?”

  “How you feeling, Ranger?”

  “Cap’n M—I, uh … actually, I don’t know. How are you?” Hollister asked.

  “Well, I’m okay. But you look like you got into a rock fight and came in second. But the docs say you’re gonna be okay.”

  Raising his hand in a questioning, palm-up gesture, Hollister took a shallow breath to avoid the pain, and spoke again. “What happened? Where’s Easy and Theodore and the others?”

  “You remember the pickup?”

  “All I remember is busting out of the trees. Then the lights went out—like someone kicked me in the head.”