by Eric Helm
The man had slung his weapon, an SKS. He wore a green pith helmet with a cloth down the back to protect his neck from the sun. He seemed to be oblivious to everything around him, his attention focused on the trail in front of him. In his hand he held an unlit cigarette. It was as if he was waiting for permission.
Fetterman turned, pointed at Kepler and then at the enemy. He held up one hand and flashed the fingers twice, which told Kepler to wait at least ten minutes. Kepler nodded, stepped forward and crouched at the base of a giant palm where he could watch the enemy soldier without being seen.
Fetterman and Krung moved then, inching to the north across their trail. Krung spotted the second man. He was leaning in a depression formed by two trees that had grown together. Krung saw his hand move as the man slapped at something near his face. Krung smiled and stopped to tell Fetterman that he would kill that man.
Fetterman nodded and wondered how Krung would dig him out. The VC had found a nearly perfect hiding place. No way to sneak up behind him and cut his throat.
A moment later Fetterman found the last of the VC. He was kneeling between two trees, his AK-47 clutched in his left hand. He wore black pajama bottoms, a khaki shirt and had a pistol strapped to his side. That probably meant the man was an officer, since the VC and NVA rarely gave pistols to the enlisted men or the NCOs. He also wore a dark green pith helmet, and Fetterman had no doubt there would be a red star painted on the front of it.
The man was waiting patiently, his head cocked to one side, as if listening. Slowly Fetterman slung his own weapon, the magazine digging into his side as his pack pressed into him. He drew his Case combat knife, the blade dulled so that it wouldn’t reflect the sunlight. He moved until he was only a few feet from the man and then crouched in the protection of a tree, his eyes on the enemy’s boots.
Fetterman wasn’t sure if he believed in ESP or not, but too many ambushes had been ruined by the enemy suddenly sensing something strange. Fetterman remembered a dozen times when he had felt enemy eyes on his back. He glanced at the VC but didn’t stare. Instead, he checked the time and realized that Kepler and Krung would be making their moves soon.
Cautiously Fetterman advanced, his eyes scanning the ground around his feet, looking for trip wires and booby traps that could ruin his plan. He didn’t expect to find any, but he looked anyway. He shifted his weight slowly, rocking his foot from heel to toe so that he didn’t snap a twig or crush a leaf that would give him away.
When Fetterman was within striking distance, he snaked his hand out and grabbed the VC by the face, jerking him backward. Using his knee as a fulcrum, he bent the enemy until he could see the man’s round white eyes. With a single stroke, Fetterman’s knife flashed, cutting the VC’s throat. There was a gurgling sound and a splash of warm liquid. The man spasmed, going rigid, his hand trying to grab his attacker’s wrist. He missed the mark but left four ragged lines where his nails dug into the American’s flesh. The VC’s foot kicked out, drumming on the ground.
Fetterman plunged his knife into the man’s chest under the breastbone, and the man died. There was a sudden foul odor as the VC’s bowels loosened. The sergeant rolled the body onto its stomach, took the AK from the ground where the man had dropped it and moved to the right, searching the jungle around him. No one appeared, and there was no shooting. Fetterman glanced at the body, then began to search it, looking for documents and unit insignia. He took the man’s wallet, which included a small notebook and pictures of a family, and the scarf the man wore. The latter was a red-and-white piece of cloth that was now soaked with blood.
He moved back the way he had come. In the distance he saw Krung leaning against the side of the large trees where the enemy soldier hid. He wondered what Krung planned until he saw the snake held in his left hand.
Krung looked as if he was about to kiss the tree, but instead he tossed the snake into the air so that it fell on the man. There was a grunt of surprise, and the man danced from hiding, slapping at his back. As he moved, Krung sprang at him, grabbed him and shoved his knife into him. The blade penetrated upward into the lungs, and the man fell forward, dragging Krung with him. There was a halfhearted attempt to push himself up, but he collapsed into the dirt of the jungle.
When he saw that Krung had dispatched his man, Fetterman continued on. He found Kepler standing over the body of his VC. The skin of the dead man’s face had been stripped from the chin, as if Kepler had slashed him too high the first time. Fetterman noticed blood on Kepler’s right sleeve and on his pants. He was leaning against a tree trunk, half hidden in the jungle.
Fetterman approached and pointed. “Any of that blood belong to you?”
“No, his. Bled real good.”
“Doesn’t look like a textbook case,” said Fetterman. “What’d he do, duck his head?”
“Yeah, but I got him anyway.”
Fetterman held out the cloth that his man had been wearing. “Anything significant here?”
Kepler took the cloth and looked at it. “Not really. I think the colors identify it as part of the Ninth NVA Division, but this guy is VC, not NVA. Got a contradiction here. Unless the VC and NVA are mixing their units now, which wouldn’t be all that surprising.”
“Okay,” said Fetterman. There were other questions he wanted to ask, but he decided to wait until they were out of that portion of the jungle. “Hide the body as best you can. Take the weapon and ammo, and we’ll get the fuck out of here.”
Kepler bent to drag the man deeper into the bush. Fetterman saw the pool of crimson liquid on the ground already drawing flies. He kicked dirt and leaves into it to conceal it. Kepler saw what was happening and nodded. He understood that the blood had to be covered over just as the body had to be hidden.
With that, Fetterman returned to the man he had killed. He picked up the body, carried it ten or twelve feet to the right and dropped it into a deep depression. He went back, picked up the pith helmet and tossed it into the hole. He checked the ground. If someone looked closely, he might see signs of the struggle, see that someone had been there, but the person would have to know what he was looking for. In a day, the jungle would claim even those traces.
They finished disposing of the bodies and then headed for Gerber and the main column. They reached the river, saw the place where Gerber had forded it and followed. Fetterman hesitated long enough to wipe out the traces made by the first group and then finished the crossing. Once again a close examination might reveal that someone had been there, but it would take someone who knew what to look for and who knew where to look. Fetterman didn’t worry about it.
He found Gerber’s trail easily. He knew the captain was making it easy for him to follow and not trying to conceal anything yet. After they had camped for the night, they would begin moving with more care, worry then about someone stumbling over their trail. But at this point it wasn’t something to be concerned about.
Within thirty minutes Fetterman had caught up to Gerber. He approached the captain’s group cautiously, waiting for visual contact before trying to enter the camp. Once it was established, along with their identity, Fetterman came in.
Gerber met him and asked, “How’d it go?”
“No problem. Got all three of them and hid the bodies. No evidence of anyone else around with them.” He glanced at Kit who was sitting just out of earshot. “Got a couple of things we might let her look at and see if they mean anything to her. Might identify the enemy units or something.”
“We’ll have her take a look at it later. Right now grab something to eat. I think we’ll want to move another klick or so before we hole up for the night.”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER 8
MACV HEADQUARTERS, SAIGON, RVN
Jerry Maxwell, wearing another of the wrinkled white suits, sat at his desk and stared at the phone. It was a real telephone, not the field phone that almost everyone else used in Vietnam. He had spent an hour talking to various colonels and majors, trying to find an aviation unit
that would remain on standby in case Gerber and his boys got into trouble. Most of them agreed that they would help if they could, based on their other mission requirements, but none wanted to violate the Cambodian border. They hinted that Maxwell was on a fishing expedition, looking for someone who would disobey orders and regulations. A couple said they would cross into Cambodia if the proper authorizations could be found.
Since it was all speculation, no mission details, no units identified and no code words thrown about, Maxwell wasn’t violating security. He was making an unofficial survey, with results that he found sickening.
Finally he gave up. He picked up one of the Coke cans that lined the edge of his desk and was mildly surprised to find some liquid in it. He tipped the can to his lips and swallowed the remains of the warm Coke. He pulled a map closer to him and looked at the locations of army aviation units. They were scattered at the major American bases, but could be called on quickly to get Gerber out of the field if the recon degenerated into the disaster that the LRRPs had run into. These units could get to the border quickly if Gerber managed to get his people back across it to be rescued.
He got up and walked around the office, looking at the stack of framed pictures that leaned against the side of a safe. Maxwell had a bad habit of throwing his Coke cans when he got mad, usually aiming at the pictures hanging in his office. Then he was forced to change the picture. Because of that, some army sergeant, with nothing better to do, had given him fifteen framed prints, most of them of the Wagon Box Fight.
The phone buzzed insistently, and Maxwell grabbed it. “Maxwell.”
“You stay there, boy,” said the voice at the other end. “I’ll be down in a couple of minutes to talk to you. So you stay put.”
The line went dead as Maxwell recognized the voice, and he stared at the receiver for a moment. Then he hung up and dropped into the leather chair that was there for visitors. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to Crinshaw. He was an asshole.
He had expected Crinshaw to knock on his door, but Crinshaw believed that since he was a general, normal courtesy didn’t mean him. He could do what he wanted. He didn’t have to worry about others.
As the door opened suddenly, Maxwell almost got to his feet and then decided not to. He watched Crinshaw enter and look around in distaste, sweat beading his forehead and staining the underarms of his starched jungle fatigues. He stood in the doorway as if rooted to the spot.
Maxwell waved a hand and dropped it to the arm of the chair. “Seeing how the other half lives?”
“You just watch your mouth, boy. You’re in a peck of trouble as it is and your smart mouth won’t win you any prizes,” Crinshaw warned him.
Maxwell sat up and rubbed his hands on his knees. He breathed deeply, as if controlling his temper, and said, “What’s the problem?”
“First problem is your manners. I have to stand here in the doorway like some buck ass private?”
Maxwell pointed at the chair by the desk. “Knock yourself out.” He glanced at Crinshaw’s feet, saw spit-shined boots and knew that Crinshaw hadn’t touched a can of shoe polish in ten years. Probably shined by one of those buck ass privates that Crinshaw had just mentioned.
Crinshaw dropped into the chair, crossed his legs and ran his fingers along the crease in his jungle pants. He glanced around the office again, the distaste obvious on his face. He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He said, “You’re pushing it about as far as you can, boy.”
“Excuse me, General,” snapped Maxwell, “but I am not in the army and not in your chain of command and therefore not one of the men who has to listen to shit from you. There a problem? Let me know. If not, just get the fuck out of here and I’ll get back to work.”
“I could call the ambassador and let him know that I find your attitude offensive,” said Crinshaw. “Maybe the ambassador has a different attitude. Maybe he could straighten you out so that you fly right.”
Maxwell sighed and said, “Call whoever you want. What are they going to do? Draft me?”
“Smartass, boy. Real smartass,” said Crinshaw. He pulled a camouflaged handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped his face with it.
“That’s right.”
“Well,” said Crinshaw, “I’ll let you in on a little secret. You can stop wasting your time trying to line up an aviation company to pull Gerber out of the field. All such requests come through my office, and even if you find a company commander who will commit to your plan, I can tell you that all such requests will be denied.” Crinshaw stood up so that he could look down on Maxwell. “I think that concludes our business, except for me to say that I will forward a report of your activities through channels. I don’t like all this infighting. If you have something to say, you come to me. Don’t try to sneak around behind me.”
“I don’t understand this at all, General,” said Maxwell.
“Nothing for you to understand. You keep your superspook nose out of my business. There are some things that you are not privy to. They dictate the policy that’s in force right now. Captain Gerber will just have to live with it and cover his own ass.”
Before Maxwell could respond, Crinshaw reached the door. He grabbed the knob and then turned around, jerking the door open. “I don’t like learning that some smartass civilian spook is trying to make an end run around my office. You keep your nose out of my business, or I’ll chop it off for you. This is your one and only warning.” Crinshaw was gone in a flash, the door slamming behind him.
Maxwell didn’t move. He couldn’t understand Crinshaw’s decision, but knew that the general meant it. Crinshaw just didn’t venture out of the icebox he used for an office unless something was important to him. Maxwell realized that it meant he would get no help from an army unit. Crinshaw had taken less than an hour to learn that Maxwell was trying to line something up and had wasted no time in coming to his office to stop it.
“Well,” he said out loud, “there’s always Air America.”
The recon team didn’t move for the hour that Gerber had waited to see if anyone else was following them. Then they passed through a low swampy area, the water never much higher than the knee. But there were overhanging branches, clinging vines, bushes with thorny leaves that scratched at the bare skin of hands and faces and ripped at the uniforms, and there were hidden holes under the water. They moved through it rapidly, making noise as they splashed around in it. As they reached the drier ground, moving into a twilight area of thick jungle, Gerber noticed a small black shape wiggling up Kit’s thigh. He reached over to brush it off and realized that it was a leech.
“Shit,” he mumbled. He said nothing to her, moved around her and caught Tyme, who had taken over the point duties. “Find us a place to hole up quick.”
“What’s the problem, Captain?”
“Leeches. We’ve got to get them off.”
Tyme looked sick. “Oh, fuck. I can take everything but the fucking leeches. Oh, Jesus, not leeches.”
“Take it easy, Justin,” said Gerber. “Find us a place to hole up and we’ll get them off.”
Tyme unconsciously brushed at his sleeve, as if he could knock the leeches from him. His face was suddenly pale. He wiped his hand over his face and rubbed it on the front of his fatigue shirt.
“You going to be all right?”
Tyme nodded. He rolled his shoulders as if he could feel something crawling on his back. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He swiped at his lips with the back of his hand. “I’ll be fine.”
“Listen, why don’t I have Anderson take the point for a while? Give you a break.”
“I don’t need the Cat to do my job for me,” snapped Tyme, forgetting where he was.
“I know that,” said Gerber quietly. “I want the Cat to take the point.”
“Yes, sir,” said Tyme. He had stopped vibrating for a moment, as if he had forgotten about the leeches.
Gerber slipped to the rear, found Anderson with his canteen tipp
ed to his lips and said, “Cat, take the point. Find us a good hiding spot and do it quickly.”
Anderson capped his canteen and slipped it into the pouch on his hip. He moved forward, his rifle held in both hands and disappeared into the bush. The patrol strung out behind him, moving rapidly through the trees and around the light scrub on the ground. The canopy was thick enough to keep sunlight from filtering down, which made the undergrowth thin and easy to penetrate.
Within ten minutes they were spread out in the jungle at the top of a small hill that overlooked all approaches. Half the men were on the perimeter, watching, while three others tried to light the stale cigarettes from C-ration cartons. Tyme had dropped his pack and stripped his shirt, throwing it away from him like it was about to explode. Fetterman reached the younger man quickly, put a hand on his shoulder and forced him to sit down.
Gerber moved closer to Kit and said, “We’ve run into leeches.”
She looked up at him, dropped her rucksack and began to unbutton her shirt. “Get them off me, please,” she said.
She handed him one of the tiny cigars that he had seen her smoking in Saigon. He lit it quickly, drew through it until the tip glowed orange and waited.
Kit held her shirt so that it covered her breasts, but bared her back. He spotted a fat black leech hanging on just under her shoulder blade. He touched it with the tip of the cigar, heard a quiet hiss and watched it drop away. He stomped it, splattering Kit’s blood on his boot.
He knelt behind her, lifted the shirttail and examined the rest of her back. He noticed some old scars near her waist, which seemed to indicate she had been whipped sometime in the past. He said nothing about them, found a leech on her hip and burned it off. As it dropped, it left a smear of blood that Gerber wiped away with his thumb.
