by Robin Moore
The next morning, after the final rites for the dead had been completed and the ill effects of the funeral-drinking thrown off, Arklin took ten rocket-launcher teams about a mile from the village to a clearing in the jungle. At Arklin’s bidding, the entire village including women were invited to watch, giving the teams even greater incentive to win the competition for accurate rocket fire. Everybody knew that the four winning teams would soon hit the Pathet Lao and Viet Minh with fiery death. The winners, Arklin had been careful to promise, would be heroes of the camp. He doubted if many of them would live through the job he required of them, but for the raid to be successful these rocket-launcher teams would have to do their jobs fearlessly.
The clearing overlooked another barren spot in the jungle about two hundred and fifty yards away and slightly lower on the mountainside. In the middle of this clearing a circle had been marked out with bamboo stakes. Each team had three practice rockets; the object was to get all three into the circle. Pay Dang and the three company commanders were the judges. The two-man teams had to come sprinting from the jungle, fall, set up, and fire. They had one minute from the time they hit the ground to get off their three rounds.
Arklin, watching from the shade at the jungle’s edge, did not really care who won, or how good the shooting was for that matter. They would be firing white-phosphorus rounds during the actual attack and it would be an area target, not a point target. But the excitement of the contest was contagious so that every man in the village was looking forward to being part of the carefully planned attack.
The first two-man team dashed out of the jungle, hit the ground, and one Meo tribesman held the launcher across his shoulder and aimed while the other pulled a nine-pound rocket out of the pouch he was carrying and fed it into the breech, instantly throwing himself out of the way. The gunner fired. Flame shot out the back of the tube and all eyes watched the circle in the field below. A few seconds later the practice rocket hit with a dull explosion and puff of smoke outside the circle. Even as the crowd laughed and jeered the second rocket was being fed and this time the rocket, when it hit, tore down a few of the bamboo poles marking the edge of the target. The third round, after the gunner had taken a little more time to aim, fell inside the circle. The three shots were off in less than a minute.
As the contest continued, generating huge excitement and much wagering, Arklin slipped away from the cheering Meos and for the next two hours personally checked out the guards posted about the village. As he suspected, they were trying to get close enough to watch the competition, and he had to order them back to their positions.
The sun had reached its zenith and was starting its descent when the Meo village population left the scene of the rocket-launching contest for the party. The drinking party, Arklin realized, was of the utmost necessity to the success of any venture involving montagnard participation. However, he had compromised by making it an afternoon and evening party, all liquor to be shut off at 9:00. The next day they would be starting out for the Pathet camp.
By midafternoon all but the guards had shed their camouflage uniforms and were attired in loincloths, drinking and eating heartily of sacrificed buffalo and pig. The funeral and the dead were almost forgotten in the anticipation of the new adventure.
Arklin, in line with his established policy of being one with the Meos, had also shucked his fatigues and was wearing a Meo loincloth. His skin had been burned almost as dark as theirs and only the graying stubble of beard on his chin outwardly identified him as Caucasian. Gingerly he sipped a gourd of the biting odoriferous native liquor through a bamboo straw. He was constantly on the alert, checking that the guards inside the village were ready for trouble at any moment.
All at once Arklin became aware of a distant chuffing in the air and suddenly realized that a helicopter was in the area. This was fantastic; with a Pathet Lao buildup forming only fifteen miles away it seemed incredible that a U.S. helicopter would be flying over. The Laotians had no choppers or pilots, and he had never heard of North Vietnam using them.
He shouted loudly, halting the reedy music and drums and chatter. There was quiet as he pointed skyward. The Meos listened and first heard and then saw the helicopter, which seemed to be settling toward the camp.
The Agency always seemed to know what it was doing, Arklin thought, and control had requested a chopper pad. Closely followed by Nanette, he picked up a smoke grenade from one of the little storage cribs on stilts near the cleared helicopter LZ and watched as the chopper settled lower in the sky. To his surprise, Arklin saw the markings of U.S. Army Aviation. He pulled the pin on the grenade and tossed it into the center of the LZ. It blossomed yellow smoke and immediately the helicopter slid in toward them.
The Meos ringed the landing zone, staring at the first helicopter many of them had ever seen. It hovered directly over the village and then descended into the LZ. The helicopter’s downdraft intensified as the chopper slowed its descent and a wild, swirling dust storm scattered the Meos. Arklin grabbed Nanette and turned her back to the blast until the chopper was on the ground.
From under the turbine-driven rotors, spinning themselves out with the power turned off, emerged a sergeant carrying an M-14 rifle. Behind him, dressed in the crisply starched fatigues Arklin had not seen in almost a year, came a full colonel, silver eagle resplendent on his block cap. The embroidered nametape on his right breast proclaimed his name to be Williston. The colonel looked about impatiently as though expecting to be met by someone who wasn’t there.
Arklin, suddenly and painfully conscious of his dirty body, matted hair and loincloth, walked forward to meet the colonel. He saluted. “Sir, I am Major Arklin, assigned to training and advising the Meo tribesmen in this area.”
The colonel looked at Arklin incredulously. Twice he started to say something and thought better of it. Finally, he merely returned the salute. Nanette, standing behind Arklin, regarded the newcomers with mixed fear and curiosity. The sergeant, shifting his rifle, gave Nanette a lewd grin as he stared at her bare, upturned breasts.
Slowly the Meos who had fled the blasts from the rotor blades returned to stare at the helicopter. Many of the inner-security guards, weapons at the ready, had surrounded the machine, watching Arklin for any signs that this might be a hostile craft. Still the colonel could find no words to say as he stared at the strange assemblage surrounding him. Arklin, who noticed the colonel and sergeant were wearing the shoulder patch of Military Assistance Command, finally broke the strained silence. “We are not too secure around here from groundfire, sir.”
“You don’t look very secure from anything around here,” the colonel retorted. “What kind of a show are you running up on this mountain, Major?”
“I’m on detached service from Special Forces to the Agency, sir.”
The colonel looked him up and down. Arklin noticed the colonel did not wear jump wings above his left breast pocket; a MAC straight leg, he said to himself. The colonel finally seemed to remember something, for he snapped out, “I’m Colonel Williston, Military Assistance Command. We’re taking over direct control of Special Forces operations and a number of the Combined Studies Group projects—this one included.”
“My control hasn’t informed me of that yet, sir.”
“I’m just looking things over today. It will be another week or two, maybe longer, before we actually take over some of these operations in Laos.”
“As I mentioned, sir, this place is a little dangerous right now. We’re surrounded by Pathet Lao and Viet Minh. Your helicopter just lets them know for sure we’re planning an operation against them.”
The slight admonishment angered Williston. “Major, it looks to me as though you would be in serious trouble if so much as a squad of Communists probed you.” He walked up close to Arklin and then stopped, wrinkling his nose. “It appears to me that you’re running some kind of a drinking party here, Major. I never thought it was possible that I would see an officer, much less a field-grade officer, in such deplorabl
e condition.”
“This isn’t the usual-type military operation, sir. I’m trying to make these Meo tribesmen do a job for us. They are the only fighting men you can count on in Laos. But you have to handle them differently than a regular military unit.”
“But this,” the colonel spread his arms and looked around, “this is appalling, Major. Drinking in the middle of the afternoon. You, Major, drinking with them. And I suppose that,” he pointed at Nanette, “is your woman. I’m sure CIA couldn’t know how you run things. Or more likely they do. This is the Agency’s idea of a tight little clandestine operation.” The colonel laughed mirthlessly. “It appears to me that we should have taken over these operations much sooner. We’ve found the same problems in Vietnam. You Special Forces people always go native or something.”
“Sir,” Arklin began, reining his temper, “I think we proved our effectiveness yesterday morning. We ambushed more than a company of Pathet Lao and Viet Minh massing for an attack on the Plain of Jars, and killed or wounded at least two-thirds of them.”
“I heard about that, Major. You pulled that one off without telling anyone. There may be serious international complications. The ambassador is still trying to convince the coalition government in Vientiane that the U.S. is not involved.”
“I radioed my control, sir. I had standing orders from the Agency to hit the Communists at will.”
“But we’re still trying to negotiate with them,” Williston protested.
“The more cut-up they are the easier they’ll be to negotiate with.”
“We should have been notified of the attack, Arklin,” Williston said, trying to hold his voice level. “That’s why we are taking over all these covert little operations that are acting so independently.”
“Sir, the only way to fight the Communists out here in the jungle is the way we’re doing it now.”
“Can’t you at least look like an officer?” was Williston’s reply.
“I’m sorry I don’t look like an officer, sir. I don’t enjoy it out here. My job is to live with these people as one of them. When three well-trained rifle companies are suddenly needed to stop the Communists who aren’t supposed to be here, my Meo tribesmen are ready.”
“I didn’t come out here to argue with you, Major. I came after facts.” Williston stared at Arklin with unconcealed distaste. “My God, and you are on the lieutenant colonels list.” He shook his head. “Within the month I’ll be writing your efficiency report.”
Arklin felt his heart sink. He knew how much chance he had now of ever making lieutenant colonel. All that he had looked forward to after this assignment was lost. The sad and ironic thing was that Arklin wanted to be just what Colonel Williston expected of him—but the colonel didn’t understand living alone with the montagnards.
The Meos had gradually slipped away from the major and his visitor and were drinking again and munching on roasted buffalo. “Major, I should relieve you on the spot. This whole camp is a disgrace. Why aren’t your men, to say nothing of yourself, dressed in fatigues?”
“You will notice, sir, that all the men on duty, one full company, are wearing their tiger suits.”
The colonel looked about, noted the ring of armed, correctly attired guards surrounding them and said nothing. Then, “And you, Major?”
“The men have just finished a firing contest on the range. We are having a little celebration before an operation tomorrow. The men who will be doing the hardest fighting are relaxing in loincloths. It makes them feel I am one of them, since I will be leading them tomorrow, if I appear to relax with them.”
“You’re leading an attack tomorrow?” Williston cried. “Under whose orders have you taken this upon yourself?”
“I’m still under the Agency, sir.” His stomach knotted as he added, “Unless you have orders for me to the contrary.”
“I don’t have them with me, Arklin. But they’ll soon be cut.”
Arklin breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, sir, in that case I’ll follow my orders from the Agency which are to harass the Communists as I see fit and slow them up as they try to cut Laos in two.”
“I can’t leave you here, Arklin,” the colonel said suddenly, decisively. “I believe you are dangerous to the objectives of the Military Assistance Command. I am relieving you now. Go get your gear, get out of those filthy native rags, put on your fatigues, and we’ll fly out of here together. I’ll send in an officer to manage these tribesmen tomorrow.”
Arklin, dressed in his loincloth, stared levelly at the elegantly combat-garbed Colonel Williston and watched his career and future shatter. Perhaps the colonel sensed Arklin’s thoughts, for he said patronizingly, “The Agency shouldn’t do to a man what it’s done to you, Major. You come with me now. A week or two among your own people, clean new uniforms, decent eating and living conditions and you’ll be ready for a real command. You come with me now and I give you my word I will do nothing that might cause you to be passed over for promotion.”
Arklin believed Colonel Williston. He could still save his career. And he knew his chances of getting killed or wounded the next day were high. The colonel went on talking soothingly and Arklin began to wonder if perhaps he really had gone native and slightly mad. He looked down at himself. He was dark-skinned and filthy. From the rear, he knew he looked nude, the loincloth disappearing as it did in the fold between the buttocks. Nanette was staring at him anxiously. She couldn’t understand what was being said, but instinctively she knew she was close to losing her man. It had to come some day; but not now, she fervently hoped. Pay Dang was also watching the Americans in alarm. The guards in their fatigues and the celebrants in loincloths began to press in close to the colonel and their major.
Arklin glanced around the circle of primitive though familiar faces. He fought off the feeling of unreality, of being unrelated to this aboriginal environment, which had assailed him as the cool, clean brisk colonel talked. Once again he was Major Arklin of the Meo people. He was proud of his tribesmen and what he had accomplished with them. He would stay. He knew that it was more important to him to do his job right here than to allow himself to be relieved and thus save his career.
“Colonel Williston, perhaps you weren’t properly briefed on what we are doing here. I have to stay with the Meo people at least a few weeks longer. By that time, either real power will be thrown in here or Laos will be one more country lost to the free world. My job is to buy time and I’m staying here and doing it.”
The colonel looked to his sergeant with the rifle; there was another armed man in the helicopter. Major Arklin saw what the colonel was thinking. “I will not be relieved, sir. My Meos will prevent it.”
Sensing the situation, Pay Dang and the Meo guards shifted their weapons so they pointed at the helicopter and the armed sergeant. They pushed in closer around their American leader. Colonel Williston turned abruptly on his heel and headed for the helicopter. Just before boarding, he looked at Arklin. “You’d better get ready to leave here, Major, because this is going all the way up to the commanding general.”
“I’m not leaving until my job is done, sir. And in a few days when the Pathet Lao start rolling over Laos, a few generals should be damned glad I’m here.”
“You’ll be through in a week and court-martialed. That’s a promise, Major.”
“Colonel, if that’s so I guess I’m in the wrong Army, run by the wrong people, and I’ll be just as well out.”
Colonel Williston whirled away from Major Arklin and the pilot was already starting up the powerful turbines as the colonel strapped himself into his seat. Arklin watched the base of the rotor blades catch the blast of the turbines and start whirling. The Meo tribesmen ran from the downblast and the helicopter took off.
The Meos seemed to realize that a crisis had occurred in Arklin’s life. They knew he had in some way taken their side against his own people, and they sensed that the angry man who went away in the helicopter was going to try and do their major some harm.
Pay Dang’s solution was to hand Arklin a fresh gourd of raw liquor, which he took and drank down. Nanette came to him, smiling apprehensively, and Arklin dropped his arm over her shoulder, pulling her to him tightly in a way he never had done before in sight of the Meos. They cheered him and the party started up again, the drums knocking and the stringed instruments and reedy flutes adding to the din of revelry.
Arklin pointed to his wrist watch. “Remember, we all stop at 2100, Pay Dang.”
5
Early the next morning, as he expected, Arklin received a message from control. It was terse and heartwarming. “Keep hitting Pathet. Agency with you. Try capture Chicom.”
With this signal Arklin felt as though he and his Meos could lick the entire Communist Army. His two scouts returned on schedule. They reported enemy strength as a battalion of about 500 men. The Scouts had seen many Viet Minh and also some Chinese. In the dirt they drew a diagram of the Communist camp and the area where the Chinese and Viet Minh officers were living in hastily constructed bamboo houses. The Pathet Lao troops were all living in the open. Arklin told his scouts to sleep all day and be ready to go out before dark.
The remainder of the day Arklin spent drilling his Meos in tactics, actually rehearsing the movements they would employ in their pre-dawn raid the next morning. With bamboo sticks he built a model of the Communist camp from the diagrams and descriptions his scouts had given him so that his men would know the camp’s layout perfectly.
Late the next afternoon Arklin’s operation was underway. Earlier he had sent one platoon to secure the airstrip. He left an entire company to guard the camp, ordering the company commander to maintain a 50 per cent alert at all times.
