Saving Bravo

by Stephan Talty

  He took stock of his physical state. “My hair was matted, my beard was long, the reading glasses—smudged and water-spotted—covered very tired eyes and a very dirty, soggy flying suit hung loosely over my thin body.” His shoulder was still throbbing with pain. His smell was funky and powerful. He felt a twinge from his lower leg. He pulled up the leg zipper on the suit. There on his calf was a blood-colored leech. He could feel its tiny, razor-sharp teeth embedding themselves in his flesh.

  Hambleton gripped the slimy thing between his fingers and slowly pulled it off, then threw its body into the bushes. His first-aid kit was back at the place where he’d entered the river, so he squeezed the wound, letting fresh blood wash through the teeth marks. Then he dried it with his handkerchief and zipped the flight suit back up.

  His belly was racked with diarrhea. He unzipped and urinated into the bushes, but the cramping pains soon returned. It had to be the river water he’d drunk; the bacteria were beginning to work on him. He was going to lose water more quickly, along with any nutrients he managed to consume.

  As the minutes ticked by, Hambleton drifted in and out of consciousness. He thought obsessively of the food and fresh radio batteries waiting for him a short walk away. After thirty minutes, he’d convinced himself that the heavily wooded embankment would hide him from the eyes of his pursuers. He decided to try to climb it.

  In a daze, Hambleton pushed himself upright and staggered over to the foot of the embankment. But as soon as the incline increased, he found he was weaker than he thought. The ground sloped at a forty-five-degree angle. Hambleton snatched at vines and roots and tried to pull himself along, but his thigh muscles were in agony and he fell back. He tried again and made it almost halfway up the slope before his legs went numb. He lost his footing and rolled back down to the bottom in a spray of dirt.

  Hambleton sat on the ground and thought. “My fifty-three-year-old legs just wouldn’t get me up the damn hill.” He was clearly too weak to force his way up the incline in a straight line. But what if he attempted to cut angles into the hillside, as if he were climbing the side of a pyramid? He got up and began walking sideways to the hillside, crabbing up at a gentle angle before reversing course and doing the same thing on the way back. His legs were able to stand the strain, and after an hour he collapsed at the top of the hill, thoroughly spent.

  The navigator lay on the ground for a few minutes before gaining the strength to lift his head and look around. He expected to see the box sitting in the middle of neat rows of banana trees, but to his dismay the terrain looked very different. The ground was strewn with broken bits of machinery, what looked like pieces of airplanes and dented fuel tanks. Clearly, some plane had come angling down and crashed here, spraying parts across the hilltop. For a moment he thought he was looking at the wreckage of Bat 21. Could it be that the bodies of Bolte and his other crewmates were close by, lying among the engines and the twisted aluminum?

  His mind was fixated on the care package. He had to find it. He crisscrossed the area again and again, searching for the shape of the box in the fading light. Even when darkness fell, he staggered across the hilltop, hoping that by some godforsaken chance he would topple right over the thing. But eventually his spirits flagged and he admitted to himself the obvious: the package had overshot the hilltop and was lying somewhere in the distance. He would not find it that night.

  Disappointed and freshly exhausted, he stumbled down the hill to his hiding spot. When he reached the shrubbery, he dropped to the ground. “I settled into my hole and felt in despair over all that energy, all those hours, and nothing.”

  He called in to the FAC to report his failure. “No luck,” he remembered telling the man. “I couldn’t find it. Should I stay tonight and try tomorrow?”

  The FAC immediately vetoed that idea. “No, keep moving. Above all, don’t go back. We want you back on the Swanee tonight.” Hambleton couldn’t understand his insistence but was too tired to argue. He would switch to his spare radio. He would get back in the water tonight.

  The FAC’s memories of that night conflict sharply with Hambleton’s. The pilot later reported that Hambleton had been much too weak to move very far on the afternoon of the twelfth and that he’d never gone to look for the Madden pack. The evidence supports the FAC’s version of things; he was tracking Hambleton’s movements carefully that night, and he wasn’t delusional from lack of sleep, food, and water.

  Hambleton remembered each part of the climb vividly: the zigzagging up the slope, the small bushes he grabbed to pull himself up, the “debris of mashed metal . . . and damaged fuel tanks” that cluttered the top of the embankment. But how could he believe that he’d actually climbed an embankment with a forty-five-degree slope when much of the time he was unable simply to walk along the riverbank without collapsing? Most likely, the whole episode was an elaborate apparition that unfolded behind his closed eyes while he lay half-conscious on the bank, the wreckage of the plane something his nutrient-starved brain had created out of his memories of the shootdown and his dread of what had happened to his fellow airmen. You could go further: perhaps a bout of repressed survivor’s guilt impelled Hambleton to visualize the EB-66C’s crash site, which doubled as a tomb for Major Bolte and the others, and he remembered it as an actual discovery.

  Certainly his hallucinations were becoming more frequent and more true to life. Without the navigator realizing it, he’d slipped into a new phase, one in which reality and various phantom realities exchanged places seamlessly.

  28

  “Some Kind of Rescue”

  That morning, back at the bunker, Norris sensed a change in the two sea commandos’ moods. They were brooding. He guessed, just by their body language, that their doubts about chasing after an American had only strengthened overnight. Norris was already thinking that he might have to go out alone.

  As they ate, the crump of mortars sounded again from over the river. The men scurried into the bunker and dove under the tanks; they watched the geysers of mud as the shells struck. No one was hit, but the attack further unnerved the commandos. Another round of mortars followed. Norris got on the radio and, minutes later, American fast movers swept in and smoke bloomed up from the opposite bank.

  It was hot and muggy. Norris was walking around half-naked with just a shirt and his boots on. His jeans were hanging on a branch, drying. He called the FAC and they talked about Hambleton’s condition, which was worsening, if that was even possible. What if they found him and the guy was unable to walk out? Marching two miles through enemy terrain with an incapacitated, wildly delusional airman was not an appealing thought.

  In their two forays upriver, Norris had come to trust the commando with the wrathful expression, Nguyen Van Kiet. Now the two of them brainstormed about what to do with Hambleton. The night before, Norris had spotted a number of sampans, moored along the river banks. What if they grabbed one and used it to smuggle the American out? It would be easier than carrying the navigator on their backs.

  The two men agreed the idea had potential. If they went with a sampan, Norris would need oars. He got on the radio, called Da Nang, and ordered a set of XRV12 paddles, which are usually used for Army rubber boats. “You want what?” the officer on the other end said. Norris repeated the request, and finally the man understood. He promised to get them to Norris posthaste.

  That afternoon, the FAC continued to loop around Hambleton’s position. Every so often he would turn the plane and look down, studying the terrain for any sign of NVA troops. He saw none, leveled off, and continued his circuit. A moment later, he turned back and angled the wing down again, glancing at the ground below.

  He spotted something down there, a human figure. The startled pilot turned the plane for a better look and realized with a jolt that it was Gene Hambleton, standing in the middle of a sandbar and waving at the plane with a white handkerchief.

  The FAC was horrified. Hambleton had exposed himself in broad daylight to any enemy who happened to be in the v
icinity. What the fuck was he doing?

  He thumbed the radio transmit button. “Bat 21 Bravo!”

  The FAC could see the figure bring the radio up to his mouth. “Roger,” the voice said.

  “You goddamn dummy,” the FAC shouted. “Get back in the wilderness!”

  The figure below paused, then turned and lurched toward the bushes. Within ten seconds, the navigator was no longer visible to the naked eye.

  The FAC was now beyond concerned. Had Hambleton even been aware that he’d done it? (The navigator wouldn’t mention the incident in his memoirs.) Did Hambleton have any mental reserves left, or was he going to start wandering across the countryside like some escaped mental patient? His psychological state was obviously deteriorating at a rapid clip. What if he started looking for his pursuers, blundering into North Vietnamese villages and calling out for help?

  The FAC raised Norris on the radio. He explained what he’d seen, then added, “This guy is losing it.” Norris absorbed the news. It was increasingly clear that Hambleton wasn’t going to last much longer on his own.

  Norris spent the afternoon getting ready for that night’s mission, seeing that the commandos had something to eat and that they cleaned their guns before nightfall. The hours passed quickly. As he organized the men, the armored personnel carrier arrived, bringing the paddles he’d requested, along with some medical supplies for Hambleton. Norris didn’t pay much attention as the hulking vehicle pulled up and the metal door swung open. But soon afterward he heard voices shouting behind him. The SEAL turned and saw a white man striding toward him past a group of startled rangers. This in and of itself wouldn’t have been that unusual—the guy could have been some back-office prick from Da Nang or something—but the man was carrying in his hand not an AK-47 or an M16 but a microphone with a fuzzy knob-headed top to it. And behind the microphone guy, an assistant was setting up a large television camera on a tripod in the mud next to one of the tanks. It looked like the two of them were getting ready to cover the local commissioners’ meeting back in Silver Spring, or do the seven-day forecast.

  Norris was struck dumb for a moment. After he’d recovered, he called out to the approaching man, “What are you doing here?” The man stopped. He said that he was an American reporter and he’d heard there was “some kind of rescue going on” and he was here to cover it.

  Norris’s mind reeled. Cover his rescue? What did that mean? The SEAL had no inkling that news about Hambleton and the beleaguered mission to save him had spread like wildfire through the camps and bases of Southeast Asia, or that Hambleton had become a kind of folk hero to thousands of American airmen. Now it was about to become world news. What Norris did realize was that if a major television network broadcast any kind of a report, the situation could quickly get out of hand. The North Vietnamese, who were surprisingly media savvy, would be eager to deny the Americans a heroic victory. They could train their guns on this lonely hilltop and wipe out his little band of commandos. They could send units to the river to capture or kill Hambleton. They could do any number of other things that Norris didn’t even wish to think about at the moment.

  Not only that, the broadcast would reveal Norris’s plan. It would reveal his location. It would, in fact, be an utter shitstorm that would beggar all description.

  The SEAL found his voice. “The heck you are,” he shouted to the man. (Norris later swore that he didn’t resort to using a vulgarity even in this situation.) “I want you back in that APC and I want you out of here now.”

  The reporter didn’t budge. He was clearly no newcomer to Vietnam and had probably faced down his share of spit-flecking military types. “We have clearance to be here,” he said. Meanwhile, his assistant kept working on the camera, looking through the viewfinder and slowly adjusting the focus. Norris felt an explosive mix of rage and disbelief rise up from his inner core. This was a secret, classified operation with the lives of many Americans and South Vietnamese on the line. Did the press not know the meaning of “secret” or “classified”? What bizarro, upside-down world had he stepped into that morning that some journalist thought he could just saunter up to a hot front line and interview a Navy SEAL about a rescue that hadn’t even happened yet?

  Norris walked over to where his AK-47 was propped against the bunker and grabbed the stock. He whipped the rifle up and jacked a shell into the chamber, then turned and pointed the muzzle at the reporter. He was so blind angry by that point that he later forgot what exact words came out of his mouth, but the man listened, looked at the gun in the hands of the rage-filled, half-naked SEAL, quickly turned around, gestured to his assistant, ran for the APC, and, after his partner was aboard with the camera and the tripod, closed the door. The APC moved off up the hill and Norris put down his rifle.

  As dusk fell, Norris was getting his gear ready for the journey when he saw Kiet approaching. The commando squatted next to him. The other two Vietnamese commandos were refusing to go out that night, he told Norris. “They said it was too dangerous and that it was not worth risking their lives again to save one American,” Kiet said. “They have lost their fighting spirit.”

  Norris could hardly blame them. “Each time you go,” he said, “it’s harder and harder to do it again.” The larger irony didn’t register with him particularly. During the early days of the red fiery summer, the Americans had pulled their planes and artillery away from the South Vietnamese in order to save Hambleton; now the South Vietnamese commandos were pulling themselves off the Hambleton mission in order to save themselves. There was a bitter symmetry to it.

  Norris accepted the mutiny as a fait accompli. He told Kiet he would be heading out alone that night. Kiet was to stay at the base with the other commandos and keep watch on the river, ready to help him when he returned the next morning, he hoped, with Hambleton.

  Kiet shook his head. “No, Dai Uy, I’m going with you.”

  Norris was struck by the offer, but he thought the Vietnamese sailor was underestimating the odds of disaster. “Look, Kiet,” he said, “this might be a one-way trip. We might not be coming back.”

  Kiet said, “If you go, Dai Uy, I go.”

  Hambleton had been asleep for hours. It was noon before he came awake. All he could hear was the low burble of the flowing water. The sun was up and the day was growing hotter, but his body wasn’t absorbing the heat. “I was weak and exhausted,” he said. “I looked at my skin and I was beginning to look like a wrinkled prune. My feet were cold as ice and I had no feeling in them.” His weight was down to 125 pounds; with his six-foot-two frame, he looked emaciated.

  He wanted to move. He called the orbiting FAC and said he was going into the river.

  “Stay there until dark,” the voice told him. But Hambleton couldn’t quell the rising panic he felt. Except for the man he’d killed, he’d run into no Vietnamese for the last ten days. He’d been extraordinarily lucky, and he had the feeling that luck was going to run out today. He felt shaky and kept checking in with the FAC, just to hear a human voice.

  At around 6:30 that night, Hambleton decided he was getting into the water. Walking was out of the question; he lacked the energy even to get to his feet. He couldn’t manage to crawl, so again he thought he would roll down the bank to the water. The incline gave him a bit of momentum and he pushed himself over and starting tumbling, his shoulders smacking into the earth. After five or six turns, he made it to the bank. He found the railroad tie and got behind it, grunting as he shoved it ahead.

  His body felt feeble and shaky. He could no longer walk unaided; for every step he took, he had to reach out and grab a vine or a root and pull himself forward. He couldn’t make the same time. And he was beginning to realize now just how disjointed and bizarre his thoughts were becoming. A few feet ahead of him, at the other end of the railroad tie, Gwen appeared, perched daintily as though she were sitting on a park bench. He was grateful to see her and started talking, just saying whatever nonsense came into his head. The substance of the conversation drifted a
way from him; he couldn’t hold it in his mind. But he enjoyed the conversation immensely. It was as if they were sitting together on the couch in Tucson talking about a dinner they were planning for some friends. It was so good to see her.

  An instant later, he was staring at the blackened end of the wooden tie.

  He shook his head. He had to stay focused. But his thoughts slipped out of his grasp again and went scurrying into the darkness. He would make a decision—to turn the tie closer to the bank or to move his arm higher on the wood—and five or ten minutes later would realize that he was walking along, having completely forgotten to follow through with the idea. He told himself he would break off walking after thirty minutes, but an hour later found that he was still marching through the water like an automaton.

  He had to get some rest. He paddled toward the shoreline and pushed the tie onto the bank. He found a patch of vegetation to collapse under. Before he dropped away into sleep, he called the FAC.

  The man’s voice was excited. “Your buddy is now in the clubhouse,” he said.

  Hambleton, his mind foggy, couldn’t understand what he was talking about. What buddy? What clubhouse? Then it came to him. Clark. He had landed near the river; he had been the first to be rescued. The clubhouse must be a base hospital or somewhere secure.

  Hambleton mumbled a reply. He thought to himself, I’m next.

  He slept for a bit, then waded back out into the river, holding on to the railroad tie. In the moonlight, he passed under a bridge that had been blown apart by a bomb. He watched the banks in case he spotted an American face.

  In the cockpit of the O-2 orbiting above, the FAC called, “Bat 21 Bravo, Bat 21 Bravo, come in.” There was no answer. When Hambleton did key down the transmit button, what swam into the FAC’s earphones were groans and nonsense words. The FAC asked him repeatedly about landmarks he’d seen, trying to get an exact fix on his position. But again and again, either Hambleton was silent or there would be a string of sentences that had nothing to do with the question. Only rarely was he coherent.