by Barry Sadler
They had never asked whether he wanted to enlist or not, and it never occurred to him to question their assumption that he was as eager as a proper revolutionary spirit should be to go and throw himself on the bayonets of the revisionist running dogs supported by their capitalistic Yankee masters. The thought of throwing himself onto anything other than a bed or woman did not thrill Comrade Lon greatly, but he played his part and for his reward was given this asshole of the world province to administer.
Perhaps that would change with the capture of these foreigners.
The spot was reached, and the trucks pulled over and unloaded the troops. He had them sort themselves out into other proper squads and gave the orders for the march, placing himself carefully in the center and removing his badges of rank. After all, an intelligent man did not survive by making himself an obvious target.
They entered the trees by the road, heading straight in, flankers out, weapons at the ready. They moved out, heading for the clearing.
CHAPTER TEN
While Pol Lon and his soldiers of the Khmer Rouge were approaching the clearing, Casey and his mixed group of outlaws were just entering the foothills they would have to cross to reach the range of mountains by the lake. At noon they stopped for another break. The heat of the day was hanging around in the mid-eighties, not too hot, but the humidity made them sweat heavily as they climbed. Rocky. You never thought of the mountains in Indochina as having rocks, but the suckers were damn sure here. At least this portion had its full share.
Up and up they went, feeling the straps from their packs cutting into their flesh, the muscles in their necks starting to burn in hot spots.
Lord, it has been too damned long since I've done any of this, Casey thought as he leaned his back against a tree to ease the burden of the pack.
Taking a pull from his jungle canteen, Casey motioned for Phang to come over. The old bandit jumped up and trotted over to Casey's position What was it about him that reminded Casey so much of the Chinese friend who'd taught him so much about everything? Shiu Lao Tze! How many years ago had that been? The great circle ... Shit! Must have been the old man's agility and tirelessness that reminded him of Shiu.
With no shortness of breath or any visible exertion at all, the old man sat down beside him.
"What is it you require, my young friend?"
Casey took a short breath and looked at the chief of the Kamserai. "You old fart, how the hell do you do it? I feel like I'm about to have a cardiac arrest, and here you are, bouncing around like a damned puppy. What the hell are you doing, overdosing on vitamins?"
Phang looked thoughtful for a moment. "What is this vitamins? Do you have need of it? If so, I will try to find you some, my friend. Are you hurt?"
Casey grinned. "No, you old goat thief. All I was doing was showing some honest admiration for you and thinking of how much I would have missed in my life had we never met."
Phang bowed at the waist. His affection for Casey had been proved time and again through the years.
Casey spoke again. "This trip will be worth all the effort, if for no reason other than my having the chance to watch you run circles around these younger dudes." He took care not to include himself with the others.
Phang nodded respectfully in acknowledgment of Casey's kind words and stated with great dignity: "I cannot deny what the gods in their wisdom have chosen to demonstrate through my body, poor and feeble though it is."
"Okay, you miserable polygamist, I acknowledge your superiority. But right now, I want you to find the man carrying my drop bag and remove my MG 34. It is about time we put her together. You never know when we may have need of her particular services."
Phang rattled orders in Cambode tongue, and one of his husky young men brought the drop bag over to Casey. Opening it, he removed the components. He assembled the gun in less than a minute, including the attachment of the fifty round drum magazine. Casey liked the feel of this old weapon. He had fallen in love with this particular piece in World War II and still preferred it to any others he'd fired since.
It was kind of like buying a pistol at a sporting goods store in the States. You could feel ten weapons made by the same manufacturer and identical in all manner, yet you would still, after holding all of them, come back to the one that felt right in your hand. Something about it told you that this one was the one you should take. Guns, Casey knew, were personal extensions of yourself and should be cared for as such. A gun, like a man's body, if properly cared for would never fail you when you needed it; abuse either, and you never knew when it would cease to function properly.
That's the way it was with the old World War II machine gun for Casey. It fired eight hundred to nine hundred rounds per minute and had selective fire, semi or fully automatic. It weighed twenty six and a half pounds, which seemed a little heavy at times, but when the weight was compared to the capability of the piece, it seemed light for the services rendered. The barrel could be changed in less than ten seconds. The Americans had borrowed the quick change style from the Krauts, who had used it on their MG 42 during the war. It was a war that he personally had been trying to forget for a long time now, except for a few happy moments with Gus and Teacher.
Assembling the weapon, Casey felt the old thrill run through him again. He'd used the piece more than once since he'd taken it out of the Vietcong bunker in the Iron Triangle several years ago. He'd given it to George before he'd left the country instead of turning it in as a good soldier should. The little Montagnard had taken good care of it during his absence and was still toting it proudly when Casey had come back for him and Van in the hijacked plane.
He laughed, recalling their escape again. Phang looked at him questioningly.
After they got away from Nam safely, he had Harrison fly them to Kuala Lampur, where a group of Malays, in order to pay an old debt to Phang, had given them shelter and made the arrangements for their new documents. He mollified Harrison with the promise of payment later for his reluctant services, though it took a while. After Harrison got paid and a little time had passed for him to cool off, he had started to warm up to them a bit. They found out later that money had a most salutary effect on the Englishman, a passion that most men felt only for women. When they settled into K.L., he became a regular visitor. Though not a full member of their special club, he was given honored guest status so that he could insult each of them to his heart’s content with impunity and affection.
Enough of those kinds of thoughts. He had a job to do. Time to get the show on the road. They'd been too lucky thus far. Something was going to go wrong; he could feel it.
He motioned for them to move out as he rose from under his tree.
Pol Lon and his troops approached the clearing that Casey and his crew had only recently vacated. As the clearing came into their view, visible now between the thinning trees, the colonel ordered his men into skirmishing positions, spread out and alert for any sign of movement. He ordered that word be passed among them to be especially watchful for evidence that people had camped in the area.
They moved out of the trees and into the open, slowly and steadily, not really expecting anyone to be there but wary just the same. His men had some combat encounters that were still unpleasant memories. Even if all appeared to be safe and quiet, it was best to take no unnecessary chances.
They moved as one through the waist high grass. They had traversed about half the field when the cry came to all ears.
"Here, comrades! Come and see." A young Cambodian on his first patrol had spotted something.
The Colonel barked his order: "Remain where you are! I want none of you to move and cover their tracks. Stay in position until I order otherwise."
Lon walked rapidly toward the young trooper, the elephant grass whipping against his breeches and making a swishing noise as he passed. Coming upon the young soldier, Lon looked down to where he was pointing at a spot on the ground. There was a cleared area of about three feet in diameter and signs of singed grass. He pulle
d some of the grass and smelled it. It had been burned recently. He called for his men to advance carefully and watch for more clearings like this one.
The troopers spread out and began their search. One by one, more spots identical to the first were located. Lon ordered one man to stand on each spot and the rest to move to the far edge of the clearing and remain there. He walked to a small rise not far from the clearing and looked down at his men, standing obediently on their spots. They formed an arrow. These spots had to be where the lights had been placed for the aircraft's approach and paratroop drop.
"Good," he said aloud. "They are here."
Instructing his men to fan out, he called for his scouts, two Meo tribesmen from Laos whom he'd brought with him when he'd come south. These men were the best trackers in the highlands of their country, and he'd been fortunate to obtain their services. If not for their families' mistreatment by a former royal Laotian officer, they would not now be in his service.
Pulling the two men close to him, he promised rewards if they found signs that would lead him to the strangers. The Meo nodded and went to earth, almost like hunting dogs. They felt and smelled the ground and then pointed in the direction Casey and his men had traveled. Not only the direction did they give the colonel but also how many men were in the party. Lon was pleased. He had the strangers decidedly outnumbered, and there would be no great contest when he caught up to them.
The time was high noon, and as Casey and his crew rested, Colonel Pol Lon, security chief for the district, was radioing the information that he'd acquired back to his superiors. He was in pursuit and would make contact with the invaders shortly. Deliberately, he did not disclose his location over the radio. He wanted no one else involved in this operation; it was his and his alone. Only he would receive credit for the successful completion of this mission.
"Go! Go!" he shouted to the two Meos. They were taking the point like well-bred dogs on the scent. They led the way, with Lon and his men following. The colonel intelligently placed himself in the center of his men. A commander must keep himself secure.
All that day, Lon whipped his troops into the pursuit, changing the point man every half hour, allowing the trail to be broken by a fresh trooper, setting the pace for the others.
While Casey and his men were forced to find their every step, Lon was having no difficulty following their trail. He was gaining on them with every passing minute of the day, and Casey was unaware that he was being followed. Finally, the dark shadows of approaching nightfall came upon them. Lon tried desperately to infect his men with his own sense of urgency, but with night also came exhaustion. They had to rest. But Lon knew that his enemy must also rest, and he was aware that he was fast closing the gap between them.
He ordered camp to be made. No fire. Cold rice would be their meal. Fires would signal their approach. No smoking. No lights of any kind. Light and sound carried far at night, and Lon didn't know how close they were. Silence and darkness was the command, and his men obeyed.
Less than five miles away, Casey and his men made camp. They were just across the valley on the opposite side of the hills separating them from their pursuers. He, Van, and George removed their ponchos and liners from the gear packs. The liners were lightweight. They were camouflage linings that were warm and could be used separately or tied to the ponchos to form insulated sleeping bags. The best damned things he'd ever decided to use for the field were these ponchos. Singly, they made a ground cover if the night was clear, or a shelter half. They formed a tent if two of them were connected together. Rolled up with the liner, they were only about the size of a World War II Kraut gas mask container. About four inches in diameter and a foot long, they fit nicely on the belt at a man's back, and they weighed less than four pounds.
Forming his two pieces of equipment into a sleeping bag at first, Casey immediately changed his mind and dismantled them. Clouds were starting to roll in, dark and angry looking. They were in for a hell of a storm. He doubled up with Van, a Kamserai doubled with George, and they quickly formed two side by side tents from the ponchos and liners. They all climbed inside and settled down for the onslaught.
Casey smiled, hearing the sounds of George trying to teach the young Kamserai how to shoot craps, and said softly to Van: "It's a damned good thing we won't be staying here too long. That poor Cambode won't have a home or a wife to return to when George gets through with him."
The storm came on dark and sudden. Angry clouds broke open, and bright fingers of lightning searched their way across the night sky. Casey lay, staring through a slit in the tent flap, spotting the lightning flashes and counting, trying to estimate the distance. What was the speed of sound? Bit by bit, the storm increased in its intensity, building up until the rumbling made the earth shake, as if they were beside an artillery regiment, all guns firing simultaneously.
The rain came down in big wet drops, sporadically at first, then a solid sheet of wetness, wall like, trying to beat the forest down and drown the earth.
Casey knew that there would be flooding in the lowlands if this storm and its rains were widespread. He'd sleep easily this time, knowing that the rains would also deter anyone who might be interested in their arrival. No one could move in this rain and keep his directions straight, not even with a compass. By morning the spoor left from today's trek would be wiped out, and no trackers could follow. He felt better. With the rain cooling the earth and dripping off the leaves of a fat banana palm to fall upon his poncho tent, he nudged Van in the ass to make him move over. Then he slept, letting the sound of the drumming rain take him into deep, untroubled slumber.
The night passed, and so did the rain, carrying itself farther into the north country, up into the highlands, where it finally exhausted itself, becoming nothing more than a belt of low lying fog among the mountain ranges and burning off the day.
Casey woke with the first light. The Kamserai were already up and cooking breakfast. Like all good soldiers, with the coming of the rain they had carried dry wood into their shelters for the morning fire. They would have hot rice and peppers this morning and start their march with full bellies. Their fires made no smoke that was visible above the tree line, and if a wisp or two did rise, from a distance it would blend with the rising ground fog. The odor of the wood smoke made a pleasant combination with the damp smell of the foliage around him. It smelled good, but it made him uneasy. This was enemy country, and even if no one was aware of their presence, he was still edgy.
They ate, and Phang made sure the fires were put out and the ashes buried afterward. George came over to Casey, proudly displaying his new toy, a Chinese copy of the Russian Tokarev pistol. Casey commented that it looked like the old Colt .38 automatic, except that it had no safety. It sported wooden grips with a star emblazoned on each. It fired the Russian 7.62 caliber bullet. A good weapon. Not the best by any means but still functional. He warned George about taking advantage of the Kamserai soldiers, telling him that his life might depend on them later. George grunted that Casey never let him have any fun, but the thought stayed in his mind, and he soon returned the pistol to its former owner, considering his act a noble gesture. As Casey had said, it couldn't hurt to keep these bastards on your side.
Their small band broke camp and headed across the valley, feeling their way over the slippery rocks, sliding a good portion of the way on dew slicked leaves. Working their way through some brush, they came to a river at the bottom of the valley. Yesterday it had been a rippling stream that a man could have leaped across easily, but today it held an amazing resemblance to the Colorado River as it courses down the Grand Canyon, about forty feet wide, waist deep and rapid as hell.
Casey, the heaviest of the entire force, tied a rope around his waist and made his way across. He fell once on the way, barely missing drowning through the energetic efforts of the Kamserai to save him. He'd start to get up, and they would pull him back down. Finally, regardless of their well-intended help, he made it to his feet, spitting out a mouthful of m
uddy water, and made it across without further incident. The Kamserai, meanwhile, were congratulating themselves on saving his life; surely he would reward them.
Casey tied the rope to a tree on the other side. He was sorely tempted to make a slip knot but resisted the urge. One by one they made their way across the stream, with some experiencing minor spills. Reassembling, they headed out again. One more ridge to go, then down to the basin to the lake and perhaps the cave of the Chinese family. Casey wanted to get out as soon as possible. He hoped they would find them on their first day.
His fatigues dried on his body as they marched, affording him some coolness for a short while as a small breeze blew up the valley from the south. Van took up a spot behind Casey as they moved up and over the crest of the ridge Van thought about the first time he'd seen Casey and how their lives had become intertwined since.
He'd been assigned to a joint post in the delta, where he was working with a U.S. Special Forces team in Kien Thoung Province, one of the poorest and least populated regions of the entire country. It was strange to see so few people less than forty miles from the busy streets of Saigon. The province shared sixty five miles of common border with Cambodia and had done so since the time of the Vietminh war against the French. A sanctuary for rebels and Vietcong, sitting on the northern edge of the plain of reeds, its lack of roads and the tall elephant grass made it almost perfect for guerrilla type operations.
