by Robin Moore
Sergeant Hanks stared at the acetate overlay on which positions and routes had been drawn in black and red grease pencil. Clearly he was bothered by the mission. Farley invited his team sergeant to speak out.
“I don’t feel good about tonight, sir,” Hanks growled. “I don’t like that ambush Chi set up, without asking us about it, over by the rubber-workers’ village.”
“His point was well taken though, sergeant,” Lieutenant Colonel Train interjected. “If there are VC sympathizers in the village they might try an attack.”
“Sir,” Hanks said slowly, “I’m as security-conscious as a man can be, but there ain’t no hard-core VC fighters in that rubber village. Maybe a few of them have hidden some weapons they’d dig up and use to shoot a lone American or one of our strikers if they got the chance. But they’d never attack a squad, much less a platoon. You gotta remember, them Frenchies running that plantation don’t want no trouble. We know they pay off both the VC and Saigon to leave them alone.”
“Good point, Hanks,” Farley said. “What do you think?”
Hanks looked uneasily at Train and then back at his captain. “I don’t know exactly, sir. I just don’t like it, is all.”
“What do you want to say, Hanks,” Captain Pickins prodded. “You think those strikers Lieutenant Chi put out in the trees might be there to ambush us?”
Hanks grinned sheepishly. “Not after Chi told us where they were and gave us passwords in case we came too close to them. It’s just a feeling I got.”
“You want to stay back, Hanks?” Captain Farley asked. Then added, giving Hanks an honorable out: “You still got a touch of dysentery, maybe you’d better.”
“No, sir. I want to go.”
“I’ll walk the first platoon with you, Hanks,” Pickins said.
“If you want to, sir. I don’t trust these strikers on compass reading. I’ll be up at the point.”
Exactly at midnight, Hanks, Pickins, and Reilly headed out with the first platoon of 50 strikers. Hanks walked directly behind the point man, Pickins positioned himself a few men behind Hanks, and Reilly took up the rear to prevent the inevitable stragglers getting separated from the platoon. The vague glow from the starlit sky clearly outlined the platoon in the darkness. The Americans loomed tall shadows, a head or more above the smaller strike-force troops. We watched the platoon disappear into the rubber trees on the other side of the road.
Ten minutes later Farley led out his platoon, walking behind the point. I took my position several men behind the captain. At the rear of the platoon, Lieutenant Colonel Train, Major Tri, Lieutenant Chi, the intelligence sergeant with his polygraph and Menzes, the medic, walked in a group, their special security squad behind them.
It occurred to me that Lieutenant Chi should be up here with the point man. I whispered this to Farley, who shrugged.
“For one thing I don’t want him up here, for another he said he needed to be with Major Tri in case any questions came up. We’ve got to keep noise discipline,” he added significantly.
We snaked through the rows of rubber trees. The point man, leading the way, kept his compass in his right hand. After the entire platoon was in the trees I saw Farley pull out his own compass, take a reading, and slip it back in the pocket of his fatigues. I was glad to be up front. Train had wanted me to stay back with the headquarters group, but I liked walking as close to the point as possible.
More than an hour went by, and I noticed that Farley, who had been constantly looking off to our left, seemed more relaxed now. As nearly as I could calculate we should have passed the ambush Lieutenant Chi had put out about fifteen minutes earlier. It had become a habit with me on night marches to keep a constant check on direction by watching the North Star, but in the dense rubber plantation it was almost impossible to get a look at the stars. We kept moving ahead; we wanted to get out of the rubber trees and onto the road before taking the first rest.
I calculated we were fifteen minutes from the road when Farley held up a hand and stopped the column. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his compass, and checked our direction. I saw him stiffen and tap the point man on the shoulder and show him his compass. There was a whispered discussion, through the interpreter, between Farley and the point man. I moved forward and heard Farley whispering angrily, urgently to his interpreter. A striker was dispatched to the rear of the column.
“Watch out,” Farley whispered to me. “We’re in some kind of trouble.”
“What happened?”
“The point man has been going on a course of 15 degrees right of the one Chi gave us at briefing. Instead of being on an azimuth of 225 degrees we’re choggying along on 240 degrees. That means we’re closer to the road than we thought, and north of where we had planned to come out. I should have checked my compass sooner.”
“Then all we have to do is walk south on the road until we hook up with Hanks.”
“That’s what we’ll do. But the point man just told me that a couple of minutes before we left Muc Tan, Lieutenant Chi told him to follow 240 degrees ten minutes after we were out. I just sent back for Chi. If that sonofabitch is pulling something—”
The sudden crackling of riflefire broke out only a short distance ahead.
“Get moving forward!” Farley yelled, leading the way toward the firing. “Hanks must be getting it.” The interpreter relayed the command, and the strikers followed Farley as he raced through the trees. Flares were illuminating the area ahead. I could see the end of the tree line fifty yards ahead. The firing continued and more illuminating rounds lit the air. We could hear yelling ahead. Then, abruptly, all fire ceased. Minutes later we came across the first platoon, milling about at the edge of the road. Reilly was yelling and thrusting his AR-15 belligerently at an enemy I could not see on the other side of the road.
I heard Pickins’ voice from somewhere, weak but commanding, repeating the same phrase: “Don’t shoot them, don’t shoot them, men.” Another illuminating flare burst above us as Farley and I reached the road. “Hanks! Hanks!” I heard Farley cry. “What happened?”
The flare revealed the sickening sight. Sergeant Hanks was lying beside the road, the back of his head a broken red mess. Near him lay Pickins, still crying, “Don’t shoot them.”
Farley, keeping his automatic rifle pointing at the west side of the road, stooped over Pickins. “What happened, Babe?”
“Stupid fucking ambush in the wrong place. Our own strike force got us.”
“You hurt bad?”
“No, I’ll be all right.” His voice caught and became a sob. “But Sergeant Hanks. He—”
Slowly, Farley’s platoon advanced across the road, weapons ready to fire, Reilly on the verge of letting go at any moment.
“Put that weapon down, Reilly,” Farley cried sharply.
Slowly, Reilly obeyed. The strikers in the ambush party slowly came out of their positions. Through an interpreter Farley commanded them to drop their weapons. They did so and walked out onto the road. Another illuminating round went up.
“Menzes,” Farley said. “Help Captain Pickins.”
I squatted beside Pickins, waiting for the medic. He looked up at me, the yellow light of the flares giving his drawn face, lined with pain, a ghostly look. “Told you you’d get greased you keep going around with A teams,” he said, with difficulty.
“Don’t talk, sir,” Menzes said, kneeling beside the ASO.
“You know”—it sounded as though Pickins was laughing, a grating, groaning laugh—“Hanks took it for Farley. Maybe you too.”
Menzes opened his kit. “Don’t bother with me, Doc,” Pickins said. “Do what you can for the sergeant.”
Menzes didn’t answer. He gave Pickins a shot of morphine.
I stood up and found Farley talking with Lieutenant Colonel Train and Major Tri. Lieutenant Chi had disappeared with a squad of his men into the trees when the shooting had started and couldn’t be located. Major Tri, who could speak good English when he wanted to, was saying th
at Lieutenant Chi must have tried to cut off the VC from escaping.
“It wasn’t VC that ambushed us, Major,” Farley insisted. “It was the ambush party that Lieutenant Chi sent out, only they were a mile and a half away from where they were supposed to be. Thanks to the bearing of 240 degrees Lieutenant Chi gave his point man on our platoon without telling us we would have walked right into it.”
“Lieutenant Chi come back after catch VC,” Major Tri insisted.
“VC!” Farley yelled in exasperation. “That little crook deliberately ambushed Sergeant Hanks. I’ll kill the bastard personally.”
Tri gave his counterpart an injured appeal.
“Farley!” Train commanded. “Get hold of yourself!”
“Yes sir. Here’s Sergeant Reilly. Will you listen to him? Tell the colonel what happened.”
“Well, sir,” Reilly said, “we was following the azimuth given at the briefing—225 degrees. We checked it every ten minutes. No mistakes.”
Farley looked down at the ground and grimaced. He knew he hadn’t checked his point man frequently enough.
“Well, sir, we got about maybe four, five hundred meters from where Lieutenant Chi said he’d set out his ambush and Sergeant Hanks changed direction from southwest to due west to make sure we’d give that ambush a wide berth. He said all the time he didn’t trust Lieutenant Chi and figured he’d try and get us.”
Major Tri began loud remonstrances but Train held up his hand for silence. “Just the facts, Reilly.”
“Yes, sir. So we turned due west and headed for the road, figuring when we hit it we’d turn south and meet you.”
“What happened,” Farley broke in, “they hit the road where we would have, following the course Lieutenant Chi gave our point man. They just hit it a few minutes ahead of us and ran into the ambush set out for us.”
“That’s jumping to conclusions, Captain,” Train said sternly.
“They got Hanks, but Chi wanted me.”
“Why would your counterpart do a thing like that?” Train asked in genuine surprise.
“Because I could prove how much he’s been stealing at Muc Tan.”
Major Tri’s multilingual protest was silenced by the arrival of Sergeant Menzes.
“Sir,” he said to Farley, “I fixed up a litter for Captain Pickins. Can we go now?”
“You’re damned right we can, Sergeant,” Colonel Train boomed out. “Let’s get out of here.”
Due to good radio work, a helicopter was waiting at Muc Tan to evacuate Pickins when we arrived back. His wounds weren’t serious, but they wanted to get him to the naval hospital in Saigon as quickly as possible. The chopper also took out the body of Sergeant Hanks. At dawn the next morning there was still no sign of Lieutenant Chi. Major Tri, insisting that he must get back to the B team immediately, said that he knew Lieutenant Chi would come back as soon as he had finished chasing the VC.
“What are you going to do about Lieutenant Chi, sir?” Farley asked Train.
“I don’t know,” Train answered wearily. “I’ll lay all the evidence before the Vietnamese authorities. I don’t see how there can be any doubt that he planned to ambush and kill you, but for God’s sake don’t anyone talk about the incident.” He looked hard at me. “We’ve got enough problems over here now. I’m sure the Vietnamese authorities will take care of Lieutenant Chi once and for all. Captain, don’t do anything stupid when and if Chi comes back to this camp. You know what I mean?”
“Yes, sir, though after what happened it’s asking one inhuman damned lot.”
Train nodded. “That’s why Special Forces have these jobs, Captain. We’ve got a sonofabitch job over here. I’m sorry, Zack. If you think of anything I can do for you before my chopper comes let me know.”
“I’ll meet you in the teamroom, sir.”
I accompanied Farley to his room where, wordlessly, he pulled out the bottle of bourbon and took a long pull. He offered it to me and I did the same, then passed it back. Farley took a long last one and tucked the nearly empty bottle away.
The sun had risen as I walked across the parade ground into the A-team longhouse. I sat down beside Train, who was meditatively sipping coffee. There wasn’t much for us to say. We just drank coffee until Farley came in. He took a seat opposite Train and after swallowing half a cup of coffee said, “Colonel, I just thought of one thing you could do for the team, for Sergeant Hanks.”
Train replied almost eagerly. “I’ll do my best.” He took a deep drink of his coffee.
In quiet tones, Zack told him about Hank’s request back at the SFOB.
Train sputtered and put the cup down, staring at Farley to see whether the captain was gulling him.
“It’s true, sir,” I said. “I was there and heard him. Hanks really meant it.”
Train thought a moment. “I’ll see what I can do, Farley. I promise you I will.”
Two weeks later, in Saigon, I went to the naval hospital to see how Captain Pickins was coming along. His wounds were draining and he looked reasonably comfortable.
“By the way,” he said, giving me a wan smile, “whatever happened to that sonofabitch, Chi?”
“You really want to know? I don’t want you to have a relapse.”
“Say no more. They transferred him to another A team in another corps area.”
I nodded. “My buddies in personnel at the B team report he’s camp commander of a new base in ‘eye’ corps. Lots of construction work going on there, they tell me. The Vietnamese told our B team up there that Chi had a lot of experience with contractors and workers.”
Pickins stared wordlessly at the ceiling.
“But there’s one thing,” I said. “I was up in Nha Trang a couple of days ago. Had a touch of dysentery and spent some time in the enlisted men’s latrine.”
A slow smile began to spread across Pickins’ face.
I nodded. “You can’t miss it. A big sign freshly painted is right out there in front of it, big as life. It reads ‘Hanks’ Latrine.’ ”
3
Combat Pay
The late, great editor and publisher, Arthur Fields, exerted tremendous effort and time in helping me shape and hone the stories that became my first best seller, The Green Berets. The following was one of my favorite of these stories, yet Arthur excised it from the book on the point that it was a love story, not a combat story as were the others in that book.
Although his decision disappointed me I had to admit he probably was right. Nevertheless, “Combat Pay” has always been a favorite story of mine, born of my first days in Vietnam at the headquarters of the U.S. Army Special Forces in Saigon. It was here that I encountered the captivating young Vietnamese ladies whose superb education made them so valuable to the American advisers as translators and guides to Viet thinking. One lovely girl in particular, half French and half Vietnamese, was instrumental in educating me on the subject of relations between upper middle class Vietnamese-European women and Americans in their country.
To attend an American university was one of the most ardent desires of these highly intelligent young women of multi-racial background. This story has always been one of my favorite observations on the American presence in Vietnam and I am happy at last to be able to publish it.
Sergeant Al Stebbins walked between the two rows of facing desks at Special Forces B team headquarters, Saigon—secretarial section. He paused to smile at one of the young women. Her high-collared, bright blue au dai accentuated the oriental side of her features, which were not as sharp and delicate as those of the full-blooded Vietnamese girls at the other desks. The sign on her desk read: Lynette Quang, interpreter-secretary.
Sergeant Stebbins snapped the fingers of both hands, held down at his side as he bent forward. “Allo, mademoiselle. Et comment allez-vous ce matin. Nous—” he paused and grinned “—nous dee dee together ce soir?” Mixing French, the Vietnamese words for “get going,” and English, Stebbins decided he had put his point across adequately.
“Votre fra
ncaise est deplorable!” Miss Quang exclaimed with a twinkle in her brown eyes.
“Oui. I need more help,” Stebbins agreed cheerfully. “Ce soir? Evening? Right?”
Miss Quang darted a furtive look about the headquarters. Sergeant Major Batterslee was frowning in her direction. “Oui. OK, Al.”
“See you in front of Cheap Charlie’s, seven o’clock.”
“OK. I’ll bring letters from three more colleges in the States to show you.”
Stebbins noticed the disappointment in her eyes. “No luck again, huh?”
She shook her head and then turned deliberately to the translation she was preparing.
At five-thirty Sergeant Stebbins and gaunt, weathered Sergeant Major Batterslee were having a couple of beers in the off-duty lounge.
“I see you’re still chasing after Lynette,” Batterslee growled.
“I’m trying to improve my education is all, Top,” Stebbins replied. “Miss Quang is helping me with my language studies.”
“Your what?” Batterslee guffawed good-naturedly. “Now that sounds real cozy.”
“It’s the truth,” Stebbins protested. “And I don’t mind telling you I have a hell of a time keeping my hands off her. Half French, half Viet.” Stebbins kissed his fingertips and tossed them towards the ceiling. “But Lynette is all worried about her virtue and I’m cut up about my education. So we have us a deal. I don’t mess with her virtue and she’s getting me to speak French and pretty good Vietnamese.”
“Now don’t that sound like a nice, innocent little deal?”
Stebbins let out a friendly stream of profanity. “Trouble with you, Top, and all the rest of the studs around here, you got no damn appreciation of the finer things, like getting educated.”
Batterslee grinned lewdly. “Educated!” He snorted. “Son, I been educated by slant-eyes from Tokyo, Naha and Seoul to Taiwan, Saigon, Vientiane and Bangkok.”
