by Eric Helm
The meal was cold C-rations. Fetterman had the boned chicken, salted heavily. He ate some peaches and the crackers with jelly. When he was finished, he buried the remains, the tin cans, the cardboard, in a shallow hole. He finished the water in one of his canteens and then moved to the west, at the edge of the perimeter. Here he took up position to watch the territory around them, searching for signs that the enemy was near.
After an hour, they were on the move again. Fetterman continued on the point, Kit walking near him. Gerber and Bocker remained near the center of the short column, and Krung was still in the rear. The pace changed with the terrain, sometimes rapid and sometimes slow. By midafternoon they were at the edge of the jungle, looking out over a narrow plain bisected by a wide river, whose slow-moving water sparkled in the afternoon sun.
Fetterman was still looking for signs of the enemy when Gerber came up behind him. He crouched there and said, “Probably be best to cross at night.”
“Yes, sir.” He wiped a hand across his forehead, then looked at the sweat smeared on it. “Besides, it won’t hurt for us to take a break.”
“No, it won’t. Every other man on alert and switch every hour,” said Gerber.
Fetterman moved among the men, issuing orders. He talked to Bocker briefly and found out that the commo sergeant had recovered during the afternoon march. Maybe it had been the opportunity to rest and eat, but he looked improved. He was sweating heavily, but that was better than having his skin appear dry and florid.
He positioned Krung and two of his Tais across the trail separated from the group by a hundred meters. Krung told him that he still believed someone was following, although he hadn’t seen anyone back there.
“Just keep us posted,” said Fetterman. “You see anyone, you let the captain or me know.”
He returned to the front of the column, where Kit sat away from everyone, although Anderson was in a position to keep an eye on her. Fetterman dropped to the soft jungle floor next to her. She had taken off her boonie hat, and her hair hung down her back. It swept the ground when she moved her head.
“All that hair has to be hot and uncomfortable,” said Fetterman.
“I am fine,” she said.
“Yes, I suppose you are.” Around him, he could hear the buzzing of flies, while up in the trees, the occasional bird and monkey rustled the branches. A patch of blue sky showed through a gap in the foliage overhead.
He wanted to talk to Kit, to find out more about her. She was such a beautiful woman, and he had a hard time accepting her at face value. Surely someone on one side or the other would have realized her potential as a spy. Too many men lost their heads over a beautiful woman. Fetterman felt that he was immune to the tactic only because he had realized long ago that he wasn’t the kind of man who had to fight the women off with a club.
He took out his map and studied it. He looked at the Cambodian border where the river touched it between the two swamps. There was an unnamed hamlet close to the Cambodian side, but they should be far enough from it that it wouldn’t cause a problem for them.
To Kit he said, “How far is the Trail from here?”
She looked at the map and pointed to an area near Kampong Trach. “Maybe ten, twelve klicks. There are many side trails diverting from the main one.”
“What’s the terrain like?” he asked. Fetterman already had a good idea, based on the aerial photos he had studied, the features marked on the map and his observations of the ground around them, but he wanted to give Kit a chance to answer. Maybe catch her in a lie.
“South of Prek Tate there is some open country. Rice paddies and meadows. North is jungle, some like this, some heavier, thicker. And hills. Up and down country. There are some swamp lands near the river. A few people. Most have been run off by the NVA and the Americans with their airplanes.”
“Okay,” he said as he folded his map. He looked at her closely, but she seemed to be holding up better than the men. She had sweat stains on her shirt and beads of perspiration on her upper lip, but she showed no signs of the exertion of marching through some fairly rough country. “How are you doing?”
She turned her head so that she could stare at him. “Why, I am just fine, Sergeant. You expected something less?”
“Not at all,” he answered, smiling. “You look like you’re ready to run through the jungle.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Gerber appeared then and crouched next to Fetterman. He glanced at Kit and then said, “Krung has them spotted. Three guys. Shadowing us.”
“We going to take them out?” asked Fetterman.
“You, Krung and Kepler.”
“When?”
Gerber was watching Kit. “As soon as we can get into position to do it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Fetterman getting to his feet. “I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER 7
U.S. ARMY SPECIAL FORCES CAMP A-555
Robin Morrow spent the morning searching through the wall locker where Kit had stored the equipment and clothing she’d brought to the camp. The newswoman had examined the front of the wall locker carefully, looking for a sign that it had been booby-trapped. Not an explosive trap, but one that would tell Kit if it had been opened in her absence — a hair across the door that would fall when it was opened, or a sliver of paper slid into the crack that would drop. But there were none of those things. In fact, the door hadn’t even been closed properly, and Morrow tried to remember exactly how it had been shut so that she could duplicate it.
Inside, she found very little: a pair of Ho Chi Minh sandals made from the worn tread of a truck tire and the black pajamas that everyone in Vietnam seemed to favor. Morrow examined them closely, but only discovered that they could use a washing. There were no labels, and there was nothing concealed in the seams.
She went through the other equipment, some of it Russian-made, including a combat knife with a small rust stain near the hilt. Morrow was surprised at that, until she realized that it wasn’t rust, but dried blood. She shoved it back into the sheath and set it in the locker.
There was nothing that seemed to be incriminating. Hell, she knew there were nearly two dozen weapons of Russian manufacture in the arms locker and twice that many that had been made in China. A Russian knife meant nothing on its own. She needed more.
Morrow got down on her hands and knees and pulled out the drawers in the bottom of the locker, but she came up empty. Kit apparently had brought nothing with her except the black pajamas, the clothes she had worn on patrol and the black skirt and white blouse she had arrived in. Morrow found no underwear, no personal items such as face powder or lipstick or anything else that might suggest Kit had a life outside her new existence at Camp A-555. Morrow didn’t like it, but then she couldn’t find anything to suggest that Kit was an enemy agent. Of course, an enemy agent wouldn’t leave incriminating evidence lying around.
She moved back to her cot and sat down, staring at Kit’s wall locker. Her training told her there was something more to the woman. There had to be, but she wasn’t sure how to get a handle on it. Gerber and his men were out in the field with a woman whom no one knew, a woman who had dropped on them yesterday and whom they were now to trust. She didn’t like it at all.
Suddenly an idea struck her. She leaped up and stepped to her wall locker. Stripping she took out a towel and wiped the sweat from her body. She realized she could use a shower, but it was too much of a hassle now. Dabbing on some perfume, she dressed in a light blouse and a short skirt. She didn’t bother with a bra, leaving her shirt partially unbuttoned. Then she slipped on a pair of sandals that she’d bought in the PX, and which were not made from truck tires. Satisfied, she left the hootch and made her way to the team house.
The new executive officer was sitting at one of the tables looking miserable. He was wearing a brand-new fatigue uniform of bright green. His rank and branch insignia were pinned to the collar because he hadn’t gotten the cloth on
es sewn to it. There was no name tag above the breast pocket. The heat must have been bothering him greatly because he was fanning himself with the latest copy of Playboy rather than looking at the pictures. A cup of coffee sat in front of him, and next to it was a glass of orange juice and a sandwich on a cracked plate. He was staring at the food as if he was about to be sick.
“Mind if I join you?” asked Morrow.
“No ma’am. Have a seat.” Mildebrandt stood up and waved at the chair opposite him. “It’ll be nice to have someone to talk to for a while. I was beginning to feel like the fifth wheel around here.”
Morrow sat down and said, “Why’s that?”
“Well, I didn’t go out on the mission, nor did I have anything to do with the planning of it. Sergeant Smith seems to have everything under control here, and Captain Minh is a superb officer, just as Captain Gerber said.”
“I know how you feel. I usually have more to do myself, but everyone is gone,” said Morrow. She glanced at the orange juice. “Is that cold?”
“Cold? Yes. But it tastes funny. Like I’m drinking the container it came in rather than the juice. Would you like a glass?”
Morrow shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Not after that glowing description you gave it. What I would like is to get a flight into Saigon.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for you. I wouldn’t know how to go about that. Oh, I guess I could get on the radio and request something, but I’m not sure about the authorizations.”
“That’s no problem, Lieutenant,” said Morrow. “We just go into the commo bunker and have the commo sergeant let it be known that we need airlift to Saigon. He coordinates it with someone in there.”
“You can call me Glen,” he said. “Do you see what I mean? I know how to fieldstrip any of the weapons we have, field an ambush, establish a camp, but I don’t know how to whistle up a helicopter.”
Morrow smiled. “You’ll learn. It’s all just learning the procedures being used here. I once asked Mack something about the coordination of an air assault, and he told me he really had no idea how it was done. He put in his request through B-Team Headquarters. All he had to know was who he wanted to take and where he wanted to go. The flyboys took care of coordinating the rest of it.”
Mildebrandt sighed. “Yes, I know that. It’s just hard to drop into a new unit like this. I mean, normally the CO would stay around for a couple of weeks to teach the new guy the ropes.” He held up his hand. “No, I’m not complaining. I understand the circumstances. I just wish I could find something useful to do.”
“Then find me a way to get into Saigon,” said Morrow smiling.
Mildebrandt picked up his coffee and drained his cup. He stood up and said, “Let’s head over to the commo bunker, and I’ll see if I can get you a chopper. How long are you going to be gone?”
“Just as long as it takes to find out the background of someone, someone who is probably telling lies to the whole bunch of us.”
Gerber watched as Fetterman crawled to the rear of the formation and then disappeared into the jungle. Gerber turned his attention to Kit and said, “We’ll press on, cross the river now and take a chance on the enemy being in a position to see us. You wait here.”
Gerber found Anderson lying under a bush and said, “I want you with me. We’re crossing now.”
Anderson nodded and began silently working his way out from under the bush.
Near Anderson, Gerber found Bocker. “Report to the camp that we’re being followed and plan to take care of the problem. Make the coded transmission once, then wait for an acknowledgment. If you don’t get it quickly, turn off the equipment and prepare to move.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quickly Gerber spread the word. The men moved from their defensive positions near trees and under bushes, their weapons readied. As they formed into a column, flank security slipping deeper into the light jungle, Gerber headed back to the front.
They slid down the slope, through the thinning jungle and away from its protection from the sun. It had been hot in there, but at least the sun had been blocked. Now it was like moving from a steam bath into a broiler. The sun baked them as they walked from the jungle onto the plain that led to the river. The terrain was broken, riddled with ravines, holes and depressions, created when the river overflowed. Scraggy bushes with dry leaves rattled in the breeze, concealing the holes and ravines. They had to slow down, watching their step, and Gerber realized that they would have never been able to cross the plain in the dark. There would have been a dozen broken bones.
They used the cover that was available, moving slowly from the ravines to the scattered trees until they reached the riverbank. Gerber crawled out on the bank so that he could see the river clearly. The water was muddy brown and slow-moving, almost like molasses. There was a mud bar in the gentle curve of the river. It had obviously been submerged recently. There was nothing on it except some animal tracks.
Even though he couldn’t see the bottom because of the silt in the water, he had the impression that the river wasn’t deep. He slipped away from the bank and found Kit. He leaned close to her and asked, “How deep is the river?”
She shrugged. “Here, I’m not sure. Other places it’s not more than three or four feet deep.”
Gerber retreated farther and found Tyme. “Justin, take two men and cross the river while we cover. Set up security there and wait for us. Once you’re on the other side of the river, you’ll be in Cambodia.”
Tyme nodded, reached over and tapped Bocker on the shoulder. He got one of the Tais, and the three of them moved to the riverbank. Tyme dropped his pack but kept his bandolier of M-16 ammo and his combat knife. Bocker left the radio behind, and the Tai took only his weapon.
When they were set, Tyme glanced at Gerber, who nodded. Tyme stepped from the bushes onto the mud flat. His foot sank into the soft earth. He froze there, ready to spring back to the cover of the riverbank, but no one seemed interested in him. He stepped forward, crouched and waited.
Behind him, there was a sucking noise as Bocker moved onto the mud flat. His boot sank into the foul-smelling mass, and when he pulled it out there was a loud pop.
Tyme stood up and rocked his foot to the toe so that the mud couldn’t grip him. He moved forward to the edge of the water, hesitated, then stepped in. There was almost no current to speak of. The bed of the river was also mud. It pulled at his boots, tried to trip him, or to pull him down, under the surface of the water.
With his weapon held high he waded out, as if he expected to fall into deep water and didn’t want to get it wet. But the water came only to his knees. When he was halfway across, the Tai jumped in, following. Bocker hesitated at the edge of the mud, and as Tyme scrambled up the steeper bank on the other side, Bocker entered the river.
In moments the three of them were on the far bank, disappearing into the dense bush there. Gerber waited for some sign from them but kept shifting his gaze to the rear, wondering how Fetterman and his tiny ambush team were faring.
Then Tyme was on the bank, waving them over. Kit crouched on the mud flat, then rushed across it, barely leaving footprints. She entered the water that came up to her bare thighs, and when she was on the other side, a hand snaked out of the bush to help her up the bank.
The rest of the men with the equipment, including Bocker’s radio, spread out along the mud flat to work their way to the river. They crossed it on line quickly, the dark water splashing as they moved. In the swirls of current created by their movement, he could see chocolate patterns of stirred-up silt that slowly dissipated.
Gerber reached the bank, climbed into the bush and spun, looking at the river. He was concerned by the footprints that his men’s combat boots had made on the mud flat. It showed that Americans had been there recently, but Fetterman would take care of it when he crossed the river.
Tyme appeared next to him. “What now, sir?”
“We get the fuck away from here.” He pulled out his map and st
udied it quickly. There was a trail or track not far from where they were. “Due west until we reach the Ho Chi Minh Trail,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Kit,” said Gerber, “what can you tell us about the terrain from now on?”
“Same as before. Hills and valleys, but the jungle gets thicker. Swamps that we can avoid. Travel will be tougher the farther we go.”
“Okay, Justin, you heard. Let’s get the men ready to move out, but keep the pace slow. We don’t want to get too far ahead of Sergeant Fetterman.”
“Got it, sir.”
As they began to move through the bush and scrub, Gerber turned once and looked at the jungle on the other side of the river. There was nothing there except the empty landscape. Again he wondered how Fetterman was doing.
Fetterman, Krung and Kepler stole along the trail, heading back east, the way they had come. They were paralleling their old path, moving slowly, cautiously, concentrating on stealth, on not stirring up the small animals hiding from the heat of the afternoon. Fetterman led the group, reaching out once to push a branch out of the way and then carefully replacing it so that it didn’t spring back. He moved like a man riddled with arthritis, as if each movement was painful, taking his time, watching the jungle and listening to the sounds.
To one side he heard the quiet scrape of a snake as it wound its way up the trunk of a tree so that it could sun itself on an exposed branch. Around his head was the buzz of flies and a flickering of gnats, but he ignored them, his mind focused on the men that Krung had spotted.
It didn’t take long for Fetterman to find the first one. He was alone, standing next to a teak tree, his hand out against the smooth trunk as if supporting himself. He wore black shorts and a torn, sweat-stained khaki shirt. Fetterman realized that it was the same uniform that Kit wore but forced that thought from his mind. Instead, he noticed the pistol belt holding a single canteen and a small pouch that looked like an American-made civilian first-aid kit. There was a knife on the belt next to the first-aid kit. Fetterman shook his head in disgust. Damned student protestors hating war but prolonging it by providing the enemy with ‘humanitarian’ aid, he cursed silently.
