by Eric Helm
They climbed out slowly until they were at fifteen hundred feet, outside effective small arms range. Sometimes the pilots circled the camp while climbing, but this time it was a straight shot east. Gerber glanced to the rear and saw the star-shaped configuration of his camp: five arms with rounded ends, each radiating from a large center with a C-shaped redoubt in it. He could see the sunlight glinting off the metal roofs of all the hootches, some of them already rusting and looking gold. Others were just dark splotches on the red of the dust because they were covered with the OD green, rubberized sandbags.
They turned slightly north toward Highway One and away from the wide expanse of swamp that sparkled and flashed in the south and east. There was a sea of grass and reeds that stretched as far as he could see, broken by clumps of trees that hid farmers’ hootches, tiny villages and probably more than a few Viet Cong. Directly under him were rice paddies filled with muddy water that was evaporating rapidly with the approach of the dry season.
With the roar of the wind, the pop of the rotors and the whine of the turbine, conversation with the crew was next to impossible. Gerber sat quietly, his overnight bag behind his feet and his rifle in one hand, the barrel pointing upward. The theory was that if a round was accidentally fired up, it would do less damage than one traveling downward. Beneath the deck of the cargo compartment there were control cables, communications wires, antennae and fuel cells.
Gerber closed his eyes and leaned his head against the gray soundproofing of the cargo compartment. He listened to the rhythm of the rotors and let it relax him. When the pitch of the engine changed, Gerber opened his eyes to find them only a few feet off the ground, weaving among the trees and buildings at the southern edge of Tan Son Nhut. They flew through a huge gap in the tree line, popped up again and then descended to the grassy area of Hotel Three.
As they touched down, Gerber leaped out, held up a hand to let the pilot know he appreciated the lift and trotted toward the terminal building. Before he reached it he was intercepted by a tall, skinny man in wrinkled and stained jungle fatigues. He was a young man with pimples and the hint of a mustache discoloring his upper lip. His face was lean, as if he hadn’t eaten well in a long time, and since he wore Spec Four insignia, Gerber figured he didn’t have access to the finer military clubs or the money for the downtown hotels.
“You Gerber?” he asked in a voice filled with ill humor.
“I’m Captain Gerber.”
“I have a ride for you. Over to MACV Headquarters. Come on.”
Gerber didn’t move. Normally he didn’t bother with reminding the enlisted men that there were military courtesies to be observed, even in a war zone. Most of the time he winked at the so-called breakdown of discipline because it was more a function of the nature of the job than a real decline in discipline. But this was an extreme case. One that couldn’t be overlooked easily.
The man stopped and turned. He put his hands on his hips and asked, “You got a problem?”
Gerber returned the stare until the man dropped his eyes. Then quietly, almost under his breath, Gerber said, “Do you have a problem, sir? No, I don’t, but you have a real attitude. I know it must be lousy duty, chauffeuring officers around, but it is a hell of a lot better living in Saigon than in the field. It is better driving people around Saigon than it is being shot at. So, even though we’re in a combat environment, nobody shut off the rules.”
The man slowly came to attention, started to salute, stopped and said, “Yes, sir. Sorry.”
“No harm done. Now, if you would be so kind as to show me the jeep, we’ll head over to MACV.”
“Yes, sir.”
They left the Hotel Three area, passed the world’s largest PX, with a movie theater on the east end, and walked through a small gate that separated that portion of the base from the rest. When they came to the jeep, Gerber dropped his overnight bag in the back and climbed into the passenger’s seat. He kept his rifle in front with him. The Spec Four unlocked the padlock that held a chain looped through the steering wheel so that it couldn’t be turned. It kept people from stealing the jeep.
At the gate to Tan Son Nhut, an air force security policeman stopped them and asked their destination. He eyed Gerber’s weapon, and for a moment it appeared as if he was going to say something. Then he waved them on. They wheeled along the streets of Saigon, and Gerber noticed that some of them were very wide and full of traffic. Military trucks and jeeps, cars, Lambretta motor scooters and bicycles crowded the route. Some of the streets were lined with palm trees, and the buildings sat well back from the curb. Others had narrow sidewalks, decaying buildings and miles of neon signs that remained on even in the morning sunlight. Vietnamese women in incredibly short skirts stood talking to men in a variety of uniforms that represented all the American armed services in Vietnam as well as those of the allies.
Gerber sat with a foot up on the dashboard of the jeep, watching the traffic and the people. There were White Mice, the Saigon equivalent of an MP, so called because of the white helmets they wore. There were Saigon cowboys, young men and women who rode Honda motorcycles up and down the streets, weaving in and out of traffic and shouting insults at everyone, waiting for an opportunity to steal something.
Gerber had seen it all before and found that his fascination with the foreign capital was waning. Pearl of the Orient, my ass, he thought. It had become a dirty city filled with refugees, prostitutes, drug dealers, soldiers, journalists and criminals. While there were still some beautiful sections, there were also those with mud streets and hootches made from cardboard. There were people sleeping in the streets, begging, hustling, stealing or just waiting. Saigon had become the Cesspool of the Orient. Those derelicts and petty criminals were waiting for someone to save them, waiting for the war to end, or waiting to die.
As usual the MPs at the gate to MACV Headquarters didn’t even blink as Gerber arrived. Since he was obviously an American, he was allowed to pass without an ID check. They didn’t question his need for the M-14 he carried, although one of the guards wanted to look into his overnight bag. They found only a change of underwear and a shaving kit. Gerber climbed the concrete steps to the large glass doors, pushed his way through them, and then a second set, into the uncomfortable air-conditioning of the building. He walked along the tiled hallways, glancing at the posters that warned him that ‘Charlie was listening’ and that ‘Comsec was everybody’s responsibility.’ He ignored the men and women in uniform or civilian clothes until he came to a stairway leading down.
At the bottom, he was stopped by an armed guard who asked him for his ID card, checked it carefully, consulted an access list held on a clipboard and then opened his iron gate. He eyed the rifle but said nothing about it. Once again Gerber was forced to open his overnight case. Before he could get too far down the hallway, the guard asked him to sign in, being sure to include the time, and when that ritual was finished, let him go.
Once through there, he continued down a tiled floor that was stained by rust where cabinets, metal chairs and bookcases had once stood and then been moved. The cinder-block walls were painted light green and were dotted with black-and-white photos of the president and vice president as well as the secretaries of defense, army, air force and navy. Beyond them were photos of Vietnamese leaders. Gerber ignored everything until he came to a dark wooden door. He gave it three short raps.
A short stocky man with dark hair and dark eyes and a permanently sunburned complexion opened the door and stuck out a big hand. “Welcome,” he said. “Glad you could make it.” This was Jerry Maxwell, the man Gerber had come to see.
Maxwell stepped back so that Gerber could enter the office. Gerber hesitated and said, “I don’t like this, Maxwell. I don’t like it at all.”
When Gerber was inside, Maxwell shut the door and moved to the scarred battleship-gray desk pushed into one corner. There was a row of Coke cans on one side and a pile of file folders in the middle. Red secret stamps glared up from them. He took off his whi
te suit coat, which was badly wrinkled, and hung it on the back of his metal chair.
“Sit down, Mack, and let’s talk.”
Gerber looked around the office. He had been here before and little had changed in it. The far wall was still lined with four-drawer file cabinets, with a combination lock on the second drawer of the one in the corner. The top drawer stood open, and Gerber could see more folders marked Secret. The beat-up old leather chair still rested by the desk, but the picture that showed cavalrymen fighting the Sioux Indians had been changed. The new one showed cavalrymen fighting the Cheyenne Indians and was called The Hayfield Fight, Gerber noticed that there was a stack of pictures leaning against the side of a file cabinet, as if waiting to be hung.
Because they were below ground, there were no windows. Fluorescent lights burned from the ceiling, and a large one was sitting on the desk. It was cool in the room and smelled musty. Gerber figured the office was never aired out, and he wouldn’t be surprised if mildew was setting in. Maxwell sat at the desk. He picked up the Coke cans one by one and shook them, hoping to find some remnants.
“Mack,” he said, “I thought you understood that there was nothing I could do for you or your boys. If I had said that I knew your boys were in Cambodia, I wouldn’t have saved them. I would have gone down with them. I explained that to you before you left here. Besides, they didn’t go down. You got them off the hook.”
“No thanks to you,” said Gerber, still standing.
“You going to carry a grudge on that for the rest of your life?”
Gerber slipped into the chair, propped his weapon against the armrest and set the overnight bag next to it. He was studying Maxwell out of the corner of his eye, watching him squirm. Maxwell nearly always wore a white suit that needed pressing, white shirts that had been yellowed by the laundry and a thin black tie that always hung loose. It was as much a uniform as Gerber’s jungle fatigues.
“I told you at the beginning of that mission that if you got into trouble I would have to deny I knew anything about it. I told you that up front. I was completely honest with you.”
“All right, Jerry,” said Gerber. “I’ll let you get away with that one.”
Maxwell smiled. “Okay, Mack. You want a Coke or anything?”
“No thanks. Just tell me what was so important that I had to rush in here immediately.”
Maxwell hesitated, then searched his desktop until he found a map. “Naturally, everything I’m about to tell you is considered secret and we can’t talk about it outside of this room.”
“Naturally.”
Maxwell leaned close to Gerber so that he could see the map. “Okay, we’ve got information that the Ho Chi Minh Trail has a major infiltration route that traverses the Parrot’s Beak–Angel’s Wing area of the border.”
“That’s nothing new,” said Gerber. “Hell, I could have told you that within a week of building my camp.”
“All right, here’s what you don’t know. We’ve had teams in Cambodia for the past six to eight weeks, monitoring the traffic along the Trail — provisional LRRP teams who are good at the sneak-and-peek operations. At first it was just what you’d expect — soldiers, bicycles loaded with supplies, a few trucks. But it began to change. Now there are antiaircraft weapons — S-60s, ZSU-23s, 37mm, that sort of thing.”
“Interesting,” said Gerber, “but I don’t see the importance.”
“There are theories. One suggests that the VC and NVA are building a wall of triple A along the border to make overflight more difficult, more dangerous. Another is that they plan to ring Saigon with it to inhibit our fighter traffic — to inhibit all our air traffic. A third says that they’re planning something big and are going to use the triple A to cover it.”
“Again,” said Gerber, “interesting, but I don’t see what it has to do with me or quick trips to Saigon.”
Maxwell set his map on his desk and rocked back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Since we began our buildup, we’ve had a difficult time drawing the VC and NVA out into a large-scale battle. They hit us when they have the odds in their favor. It looks like they’re planning something big, especially with the sudden influx of antiaircraft. What we need is to have someone monitor the traffic along the Trail for a few more weeks, someone who knows a little more about the capabilities of the enemy and can recognize the difference between a soldier and a supply clerk. And most importantly we need someone who can protect himself. The LRRPs are fine as far as they go, but they don’t have the background to adequately assess what the VC and NVA can do. They don’t understand the people here.”
“I am not a Trail watcher. Anybody can do that,” said Gerber. “And I’m definitely not going to operate in Cambodia after what happened the last time.”
“You’re right. Anyone can do that,” said Maxwell, “except now it’s become dangerous. We had four teams in the field, and of those four we got one officer back. Barely. The rest are dead.”
Gerber’s interest finally peaked. “But we’ve had men observing the Trail for months.”
“And in the past two weeks we’ve lost every one of them with one exception. Now we want to put in a team that we’re sure will survive, one that can get the information we need about the triple A, about the types of units moving along the Trail and that can get itself out if there is trouble. It’s a complicated mess.”
“Yeah,” said Gerber slowly. He rubbed his chin. He would want to take fifteen, twenty men, find a good defensible position and stay put for a week. It was an interesting idea. The perfect mission to end his tour. Something that could be useful long after he had rotated home. But that was also the last thing he wanted to do.
“No,” he said to Maxwell. “I won’t do it.”
“Sure you will,” said Maxwell smiling. “Just tell me what it would take.”
“First, a written order, signed by General Hull at worst, Westmoreland at best. And a full slate of replacements. I’ve got a number of holes in my TO&E.” Both were things that would be impossible for Maxwell to arrange quickly. Replacements took weeks to get to the field.
Maxwell opened a folder and pulled a piece of paper from it. He read it quickly and then handed it to Gerber. “Your written order, signed by General Westmoreland himself, just as you requested.”
Gerber took the paper and read it. It gave him permission, in fact ordered him, to operate in Cambodia. “How many copies have been made?”
“At least two,” said Maxwell. “That one for you and one for the general to maintain in his files. Naturally he wouldn’t like that to come back and haunt him.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You realize that isn’t a request you hold. It is a lawful order drafted by the commander of U.S. forces in Vietnam. To refuse it is to invite court-martial.”
“The legality of the order is debatable,” said Gerber. “And that doesn’t solve the problem with the TO&E.”
“We’ll get to that later,” said Maxwell. “First, let me fill you in on everything that has happened along the Trail in the past few weeks.”
Maxwell’s briefing didn’t take long. He described the mission that produced the single survivor, detailing everything about it. He talked about the traffic on the Trail, the abilities of the NVA and VC and the roving enemy patrols that had effectively blinded the American eyes on the ground. He answered Gerber’s questions. Then he added a note about a defoliation program that had begun several months earlier. Maxwell mumbled something about “Ranch hand,” claimed that it was an unofficial name for it and told Gerber that he was to assess its success. Did the chemicals strip the trees of their leaves? Did it kill the vegetation to a great degree? Was it exposing the ground to the air? Finally, when they began to cover the same information a second time, Maxwell said, “That should take care of it.”
Gerber shook his head and studied his hand as if he suddenly found it fascinating. “You still haven’t bothered with the holes in my TO&E,” Gerber reminded him.
Ma
xwell stood. He opened the middle drawer of his desk, took out a shoulder holster that held a Swenson .45 Auto Custom and slipped it on. He grabbed his jacket as he headed to the door. He opened it and waited for Gerber.
“Come on, Mack,” he said, “let’s take care of your TO&E problem now. Then we can stop fucking around and you can get back into the field.”
Thirty minutes later Gerber found himself back at Tan Son Nhut in the building that General Billy Joe Crinshaw had built for his headquarters. Gerber tried to avoid the place as much as possible because it held so many unpleasant memories, such as the attempted court-martial of Fetterman and Tyme for murder in Cambodia. The last time he had been to it there had been dirt surrounding it instead of the neatly trimmed lawn there now. They walked up a sidewalk lined with brightly colored flowers that were being tended to by two enlisted men in sweat-stained jungle fatigues.
Gerber followed Maxwell inside, carrying his weapon in his left hand. They climbed to the second floor where they walked to the end of the hallway. There was a tile floor, two-tone paint, light blue under white, and pictures of the army in action. Without knocking on the door at the far end, Maxwell entered an office that looked more like a dayroom. There were two red leather couches, a card table surrounded by chairs, a television, radio and stacks of paperbacks and magazines. An ancient Coke machine with a handmade sign proclaiming that it was out of order stood in one corner.
There were three men in the room, two of them reading and the third watching the sign-on of AFVN-TV. The man watching the TV glanced up and saw Gerber. “Ah-ten-Hut!” he said.
“As you were,” said Gerber. He studied the man who had called them to attention. He was a young man of Oriental descent, wearing bright green fatigues and the stripes of an army sergeant. He had on the new jungle boots being issued to the men as they came in-country.
“This is Tommy Yashimoto, a communications specialist we’ve assigned to your team,” said Maxwell.
