Targets: A Vietnam War Novel

by Don McQuinn

  TARGETS

  A Vietnam War Novel

  ©1980 Don McQuinn, all rights reserved.

  Digital edition published by Raven’s Call Press 2016

  PO Box 66962, Burien, WA 98166, info@ravenscallpress.com

  ISBN 978-0-9903489-6-2

  Images used under license from Shutterstock.com.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is unintentional and purely coincidental.

  Contact the author, follow his blog, and sign up for his newsletter: www.DonMcQuinn.com

  Targets

  A Vietnam War Novel

  Don McQuinn

  Contents

  Beginning

  Afterword

  More From The Author

  About The Author

  Contact Information

  To Carol,

  for all things.

  The jets went to full power, heat-shimmering thunder heaving the plane into the air with a suddenness that sent stewardesses lurching down the aisles. The lights of Travis Air Force Base still glittered behind and below when the voice came over the intercom.

  “This is the pilot speaking. Sorry about the hurried takeoff, everyone, but you’ll be happy to know we went wheels-up at eleven-fifty-nine. Your tour in Vietnam starts as of the eleventh. Remember that when you get there, because it’ll cut your tour by one day.”

  Everyone cheered.

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  The approach to Saigon was delusive, the August masses of seasonal rain clouds permitting only glimpses of static green mountains, fields, and paddies. The stewardesses, however, were in constant motion, almost running up and down the aisles, their tension growing as if in relationship to the terrain detail as the 707 lowered.

  The constant hum of conversation across the South China Sea after the stop at Clark Field in the Philippines had ebbed to infrequent comment as the coastline of Vietnam crawled across the horizon. An even more infrequent laugh hung in the air like an unpleasant remark.

  Taylor noticed the stewardesses invariably fretted and turned to mark the source, young schoolteachers unsure of their classroom discipline. He wondered if any of them had seen breakdowns on the entry flight and decided it was unlikely. The whole business was such a mess of hurry-up-and-wait that no one had much time to brood.

  He looked out the window again, forcing himself to the realization that he was back and there was a war going on down there. It was a different picture this far south. When he’d flown out of Chu Lai a few years ago, he’d gone by chopper to Da Nang—they’d seen two fire fights on the trip. And here he was returning with a bellyful of steak served by a lovely woman.

  Everything was going to be different. Seventeen years in the business and for the first time he’d be on a staff too big for him to know everyone. It was at once a blessing and a curse. He’d always enjoyed the closeness of the people he’d worked with before. Now he was a passed-over Marine officer, failed of selection to Lieutenant Colonel. It was a peculiar position. He compared it to a falling from grace. It had still been an unpleasant shock to find that some old friends tended to avoid him.

  They were settling faster now, banking sharply. As they pierced the swirling whiteness of clouds the city appeared suddenly as a sprawling mass of muted colors. The filtered light palled even the vigor of the paddies. He was thinking it was a singularly unimpressive welcome when they made a hard turn and he knew this was the approach leg. Pressing his face to the window to look ahead, he noted the incredible clutter of aircraft parked around the airport. He recognized insignia from the US, Korea, and Vietnam instantly, but some others escaped him. Observation planes taxied around lumbering cargo and passenger craft like small herd dogs. Helicopters flitted on bee-like errands. Everything stayed well clear of the runway as the 707 touched down.

  It was an obeisance. This was the entry of a queen, the arrival of a superstar. As long as the Deltas, the Pan Ams, the Braniffs, the TWAs continued to appear, the exiles would know that The World was still out there somewhere. The 707 carried in her belly a commitment. Rested, she would take on the responsibility of transporting those who had made their contribution to that commitment, survived, and were going home. It was no simple safety precaution that cleared the way for her. She was the Freedom Bird, now that she was on the ground, and protecting her was as elemental as the possessiveness of a prisoner toward a barred patch of sunlight.

  The doors swung open as a voice tumbled out of the intercom. After eighteen hours of voices and instructions, Taylor mentally sifted out key words.

  “—copies of orders—board buses from the front of the aircraft—directly into the terminal—entry briefing—”

  He picked up the manila envelope holding his records and shuffled down the aisle. Looking back, he saw a blonde stewardess crying. One of her partners held her, stroking the golden hair as the trim body jerked with sobs.

  It seemed out of place to Taylor. He hadn’t expected brass bands to signify his personal entry to Saigon, but it vaguely irritated him that his last contact with home should be the sight of an unknown girl crying goodbye to strangers.

  He continued the herdlike debarkation, dredging his mind to determine why the girl should disturb him. Then he realized it reminded him of similar scenes with his former wife. She never understood, either. Memories flooded his consciousness instantly at the sudden collapse of a dam of denials carefully constructed brick by brick over the years. He willed his attention to a study of the neck in front of him.

  Saigon’s late afternoon drizzle caressed his face as he exited. There was a moment of surprise at the faint cloud of steam rising from the runway, followed by resignation to its inevitability. A first deep breath was a greeting, the thick air burdened with the unmistakable odor of the Orient. The rain didn’t wash it from the atmosphere nor could time and distance scrub it from the memory. In a few days it would be part of his clothing. In a week it would go unnoticed. In a month the lack of it would have him sniffing and pivoting like an old blind dog.

  For now, however, Taylor wanted to absorb every detail available to his senses. The airline flags over the Tan Son Nhut terminal building twisted and snarled in the light breeze, bright against the overcast. To the right, passengers disembarked from an Air Viet Nam craft. He decided it must be a Caravelle. He’d assumed he’d be seeing a lot of French influence around Saigon and made a mental note to insure he wasn’t simply leaping to a conclusion.

  His attention was drawn back to the debarking civilians. Old women carried bundles that could be lunch or jewels, men in suits carried briefcases. One tall blond Caucasian hurried to the front of the crowd. An Oriental trotted behind him, looped and packsaddled in a melange of photographic equipment.

  Two Vietnamese girls in shimmering blue ao dais flanked the group while a third preceded it, the three of them conjuring their flock toward an exit gate with unobtrusive charm. The off-loading men saw them and a general murmur of approval hummed from the line. Taylor remembered reading that the ao dai enjoyed the reputation of being the most beautiful of national dresses. He also remembered that the pronunciation was ow-zigh. No matter what they called it, the sheath from neck to ankle, slit up to the knee so the black-trousered legs could move freely, was both simple and attractive.

  Then he was down the ladder and entering the waiting bus. The bored Vietnamese driver watched an Army MP in pressed fatigues checking names off a roster. The trooper looked up as Taylor boarded.

  “Major Taylor, Charles Alfred?”

  Taylor nodded shortly, turning to find a seat. The MP interrupted him.

  “Are you going to the Marine Advisory Group, Major, or to MACV
?”

  “MACV. Why?”

  “Wanted to save some hassle if you were headed for the MAG, sir.” He gestured toward the terminal. “They pick up their own people here and I could direct you to them. Checking in’s a big enough problem without going to all the wrong places.” The MP smiled, the old hand enjoying knowing all the ropes. It was a familiar game.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it. Do I just ride along with the crowd, then?”

  “Yes, sir. Just have a seat and we’ll get everyone committed to this loony-bin right on schedule.”

  They both laughed and Taylor moved along, pleased to find the bus was air-conditioned, a Japanese Isuzu. He wondered what the difference in price would be between this one and an equivalent US model and fervently hoped the subject would never come up back home. The American model would cost more, even without the air-conditioner. Let some politician get his teeth into that one and that’d be the last of the Japanese buses.

  An additional touch was the security fence mesh over the windows to prevent grenades being thrown through the glass. A friend of Taylor’s had described such an incident.

  “You never saw anything like it, Tay. I never saw naked panic before and, by God, I hope I never do again. That thing came—crash!—through the window and thirty men went apeshit. Guys were trying to grab it, trying to get out, screaming, hollering—everything. Then it went off. The goddam bus went up on the sidewalk and Viets went in all directions. One of those motorized rickshaw things—a cyclo—flew right by the window like a fucking bird—the engine was still running. I was standing outside before I found out I had a chunk in my butt.”

  The man telling the story had grinned. “How’s that for a war story to tell your grandchildren? ‘What’d you do during the war, Grampa?’ ‘I got fragged in the ass riding a bus in beautiful downtown Saigon.’ I’ll spend the rest of my life hoping no one asks how I got my second Purple Heart.”

  They’d laughed then, drinking to honorable wounds honorably received.

  Now Taylor studied the wire with the feeling that if he knew where to look he’d see his own mortality reluctantly exposed like the quivering muscle tissue in a deep wound. He noted the location of the emergency door.

  The bus slid into motion and he stared past a seatmate, watching the crowd flow around the terminal. In spite of the abounding uniformed personnel, it was hard to conceive of Tan Son Nhut as a combat zone. The majority of the people were civilians. He amused himself wondering which were VC, a harmless occupation on a par with crossword puzzles. The rest of the day would be a loss, “checking in,” the process of being properly fed into the hopper. In keeping with that drab prospect, the bus stopped. The trip had covered approximately two hundred yards.

  Out of the bus. Into the terminal. MP briefing. Drone, drone, drone. Back on the bus. Around the side of the terminal, through the parking lot. Full of cars, an amazing number of cars. Few American models. International road signs. The yellow bulk of MACV Headquarters—past it. The MP, roting his Grayline guide bit, so incongruous Taylor thought it’d drive him mad.

  “That’s MACV Headquarters on your right. For any of you who haven’t read your orders, that’s Military Assistance Command, Vietnam.” A pause for laughter passed in silence.

  “Most of you’ll be assigned here. Those going up-country won’t have to go inside, but you’ll draw your gear here tomorrow before you leave to join your outfits.”

  Taylor stared at a large brick building on the left, obviously left over from some previous use of the land. It was actually two buildings about thirty yards apart with a lattice roof joining them. In disrepair, it was splattered with the signs of squatter occupancy—children raced around it, ranging from half-dressed to naked, rickety tables defied stacks of cook-ware, laundry hung on bushes in the rain, waiting for sunshine. A small herd of goats browsed on tethers, safely distant from the clothes.

  Another bend in the road and the MP said, “On your left is the famous Rainbow Room, men. Please don’t hesitate to wave back at the ladies trying to attract your attention. If you’re billeted here, you’ll find them totally hospitable.”

  Lending action to his own words, he leaned past the driver and waved at the half-dozen girls standing outside the bar. Young and remarkably pretty, they squealed and laughed and waved at the bus. Amid a chorus of whistles and masculine cheers a wildly waggling mass of fingers poked through the grenade screen.

  Above the uproar, the MP resumed his chatter. “Directly in front of us is the famous MACV annex. As soon as the bus stops, please follow me directly into the building on the right.” With the girls left behind, he quickly had his audience back. “Once inside, we’ll start your in-processing. You’ll be assigned bunks for tonight—tomorrow you’ll receive briefings on Vietnam, draw weapons, clothing, and equipment.”

  They were on the base. Two-storied, white-painted buildings faced onto a muddy street in geometrical precision. Attempts had been made to individualize some with picket fences and tropical plants, but a being from another world would have known on sight that this place was designed to feed, clothe, and house a regimented population. Signs pointing to a gym, hobby shop, library, theatre, club, and so forth proved that these were cared-for regimented people. Even so, an aura of enforcement reached through the eyes and into the mind.

  Everyone stood up to get off and Taylor smiled inwardly at the types. The experienced merely functioned, proceeding to the next stop. The new men’s self-consciousness glared as they walked carefully, peeking, not wanting to appear too interested. Forming another line, everyone filed into the building where, in his turn, Taylor was given a building and bunk number. His assignment to report to the Personnel Section of J3 for further assignment was verified. He asked for and was given the number to call for transportation. Forms were issued, filled out, whisked away.

  The precision was phenomenal. There was practically no confusion and the people in charge seemed positively bored with their own capability, like workers supervising cans in a brewery. The thought of being stamped “Black Label” and packaged off to a desk provided a moment’s fancy. It also reminded him how good a cold beer would taste.

  The MP’s voice cut through the hubbub. “All of you can go to your assigned buildings now. You’re through for the day. Enlisted men will be assigned quarters at tomorrow’s briefings. There are many Bachelor Officers Quarters and all officers will be allowed to state a BOQ preference, but please remember that all preferences can not—repeat, not—be honored.”

  Taylor wondered how to find out which was the best BOQ. On learning he was going to Saigon instead of I Corps a friend had counseled, “If they’re going to force you to live with your butt in the feathers, don’t screw it up. Plenty of people haven’t earned it and you have. Don’t go all noble on us.”

  For now, however, he wanted to stretch out and rest, preferably after that beer. As he started from the building, men were hauling luggage inside, and he spotted both his seabag and clothes bag.

  Gesturing with his baggage checks, he asked the MP, “OK to move my gear down to my bunk?”

  “Sure. Which building you in, Major?”

  “Christ, who knows? Let me look.”

  He pulled a form from his pocket. The MP reached for it, nodded, and jerked his thumb down the line of white buildings. “Second one down, sir. Can you handle your gear by yourself? I can get one of these guys to give you a hand.”

  “No, thanks.” Taylor hoisted his bags. “I’m traveling pretty light.”

  Ten minutes later he was stripped down to his skivvies, sprawled on a lumpy mattress stretched over springs that sang like the crickets of the world. He watched the old-fashioned ceiling fan spin, listening to the moving-in sounds of others. The thought of the cold beer was still nudging around in his mind when he fell asleep.

  Chapter 2

  Someone called his name.

  He chose to ignore it and rolled over. The call persisted.

  He sat up and glared at the young Lieuten
ant.

  “I’m Major Taylor. What the hell do you want?”

  The Lieutenant saluted. “Sir, Colonel Winter sent me to invite you to his quarters.”

  Taylor waved at him. “I can’t return that salute, so get your hand down.”

  The man lowered it warily.

  “I’m sorry to wake you, Major, but the Colonel said—”

  “I don’t really give a damn what he said. I’m tired. I just—” He checked his watch. “Um. Dark. Been asleep. Anyhow, who’s Colonel Winter? What’s he to me?”

  The young face remained impassive. “Sir, all I know is, Colonel Winter said for me to find you and invite you to his quarters.”

  As he tried to recollect anyone named Winter, Taylor stared at the intruder. A hard stare and silence usually forced an attempt at communication. The Lieutenant, visibly uneasy, clamped his jaws and Taylor understood he was equally determined to wait him out. The congealed features said he’d be good at it—square face, firm without being sullen, the eyes straight ahead, the chin up. Silent—the inviolate refuge of the subordinate.

  “I never heard of any Colonel Winter. You’ve got the wrong man.” He flopped back on the chorusing springs.

  “Major, he told me to find you—name, service number, Social Security number, and physical description. The Colonel said I was to be tactful but persuasive.” He displayed a notebook as he spoke and replaced it. “Sir, I’ve worked for him a long time. I’ve learned not to screw up.”

  “Give me his phone number. I’ll call and make my own apologies. That gets you off the hook.”

  “Major, it doesn’t make any difference about the phone.” The stolid expression threatened to break, the eyes widening slightly. “He said if you asked questions or didn’t want to come, I was to remember I was addressing a senior officer of another service and to make you understand that he strongly desired you come with me.”