Lucky’s Bridge (Vietnam Air War Book 2)

by Tom Wilson

  "He says the officials specifically forbade him to interview another prisoner for you until they investigate certain matters. The lieutenant said he is being asked difficult questions, comrade Quon, and begs that you go there no more."

  Quon was livid that a civilian would interfere, but he knew it would be of little use to fight it. He jerked his head angrily toward the door, and the adjutant hurried out.

  He paced the floor for several minutes, trying to calm his anger and thinking about the ineptitude of civilian officials in general. Finally he sat, still angry, and brusquely opened the latest new order from General Tho's VPAAF headquarters. The number of such orders had sharply increased since the Mee had begun to concentrate their efforts on bombing bridges and transshipment points.

  ORDER NUMBER 412A

  1/The newest American bombing campaign must be stopped. Each time a bridge or rail yard is damaged or destroyed by enemy air pirates supplies are delayed. Our brave soldiers fighting in the South must not be isolated. The problem is of the highest importance.

  2/Air losses to enemy aircraft are again rising and must be reduced, and more Yankee Aircraft must be destroyed. Air Regiment Commandants will ensure the following Steps are immediately taken.

  —The general staff has determined that sufficient numbers of VPAAF pilots have been trained in combat flying duties in all aircraft. From this date only Vietnamese patriots will be allowed to fly VPAAF interceptor aircraft on combat patrols. This order excludes all foreign pilots from flying combat.

  —This order does not apply to helicopters or other aircraft which remain under the control of our allies. Soviet Air Force advisors may continue to fly VPAAF interceptor aircraft on test and training sorties.

  3/All VPAAF pilots must he prepared to fight to the death to stop the bombing.

  There was an urgency to the order that Quon hadn't noticed since the Mee bombing of the Thai Nguyen steel mill, once Ho Chi Minh's great pride and showplace. But like the frantic messages they'd received then, the order was contradictory and confusing, and the words were mostly grand posturing.

  If things went awry, General Tho could later say he'd ordered his commanders to win. It would be Quon's reputation in jeopardy, not the general's.

  General Tho knew they were already doing everything possible to stop the Mee. Quon's interceptors had shot down only two Mee aircraft in the past month, but they had engaged them often, and several times Thunder planes and Phantoms had been forced to drop their bomb loads before arriving at their targets.

  Aleks Ivanovic, the Russian pilot-advisor who had been his son's friend, briefed the regiment pilots that it was more important to cause two planes to drop their bombs than to shoot one of them down. He briefed that once the Mee had dropped their bombs and turned toward them, they should quickly disengage and seek another target, for their job there was done.

  Ivanovic is developing into a good tactician, thought Quon. For a long time after the raid at Kep, the Russian had seemed too withdrawn.

  The order to stop foreign pilots from flying combat, especially in the MiG-21's, was troubling to Quon, for his Vietnamese pilots were still having trouble mastering the small-tails. Later he'd try to talk General Tho out of the restriction, but for the present he knew he must comply.

  He would wager that the order had been relayed from the Lao Dong Central Committee, the aging group who believed that only Vietnamese warriors could be depended upon. They were distrustful of all Tay, including the Poles, Germans, and Hungarians who manned the second air battalion of MiG-21 small-tails.

  Of course they were also distrustful of the Chinese, the North Koreans, Laotians, and Cambodians, regardless of how they tried to appear as helpful communist brethren.

  Politics, Quon huffed.

  He called in his adjutant and told him to summon the senior representatives of the foreign pilots, including the chief Russian pilot-adviser. Then the adjutant was to call in Quon's air battalion commanders so he could give them the directive.

  He was not yet sure whether to tell his pilots to be more bold, or to withdraw more judiciously to conserve their forces. Fine words on a message could tell them to stop the Mee yet lose no aircraft to the enemy, but he had to be specific and tell them how they should go about doing the impossible.

  He decided that a mixture of tactics, according to the pilots' abilities, would be best. They should engage the enemy if they felt sure of success, but flee north toward China if the enemy obtained any slight advantage. But Quon did not continue to think his reasoning through, for he was not as clearheaded as he had been in other times. Quon had not flown a combat mission since Lokee had been shot down. He knew he should be flying, if only as an example to his pilots, but . . .

  While he waited, his thoughts wavered and again returned to the Mee pilot called Lokee, who was still evading capture.

  Where are you? his mind shouted.

  Day 35, 0320 Local—East Bank of Red River, North Vietnam

  Major Lucky Anderson

  It had now been nineteen days since he'd finished off the gomer chicken, nine since he'd eaten his first rat, and two since he'd eaten the last, a big one with a body almost a foot long. What the hell . . . he'd had his plague shot, and the rats hadn't tasted bad at all. Hungry again, he had pleasant memories of how they'd tasted like greasy rabbit.

  The big rodents were plentiful, but elusive and difficult to catch and kill. He'd eaten four of them, all done in with the Phoenix Special. He'd missed only once, but each shot used some of the silencing material. The next time he'd taken more care and waited for a better shot. When he'd killed the last rat, he had used the fifth shot from the barrel, and just as the ex-Marine gunsmith had cautioned, it was too loud. So he'd discarded that barrel and inserted the other one and felt shitty about it until he'd taken his first bite of succulent rat. He'd finished it at a single sitting and decided it was a good trade for the gun barrel. But that had been two days before, and now he wasn't so sure, for he was hungry again. He'd alternately grumble that the sparse amounts only served to remind him of his hunger, then he'd realize the food kept his energy at a minimum acceptable state and again feel grateful.

  He had to get across the Red River. He'd been at various sites overlooking the big, muddy river for more than a week, and none of them had appeared good for crossing. The place he now peered down upon was little better. Too many people lived along the riverbanks. There was also constant activity on the river during the nights, which was when he had to make his move.

  The number of barges and boats was startling. He'd looked down at the Red River from the air coming and going from pack six, but had never realized how much of a lifeline it was. He'd wager that as many supplies were carried down the river as by rail, and that tonnage was spectacular.

  Dropping the bridges alone wouldn't do. They needed to mount a campaign to cut it all off, the road, rail, and the water traffic. The key would be to hit them where it hurt most, right in Hanoi. The barges he looked out upon would shortly be tied up to a busy Hanoi dock.

  If he got out, he'd make sure General Moss heard about what he'd seen and . . .

  Dammit! It wasn't if but when he got out of North Vietnam.

  He returned to thinking out his immediate task, his third attempt to cross the Red. Both of the other times had been thwarted by flukes. Once a loud dog had brought out its owner. The next time he'd already been in the water and ready to shove off on a couple of large boards he'd tied together with his nylon cord. Then a boat had diverted directly toward him and he'd quickly retreated, leaving his makeshift raft and the nylon cord behind.

  He stared across the river at distant lights and knew it was as inhabited there as it was on this shore. He had picked a relatively narrow portion of the river, but though the map showed it was only a quarter mile wide here, it looked much farther across to the lights.

  The three houses lined up on the riverbank before him were separated by gaps of five feet. On either side the thatch huts were continu
ous, built either with common walls or with walls almost touching, so he'd chosen these.

  He crouched and scurried across the roadway, then flattened himself between two houses.

  No noises from inside.

  He crept to the corner and surveyed the dark river silently in the moonlight. Waves washed against the bank, creating a gurgling sound. From farther out came other sounds, a low, rushing noise from the river and the puttering of engines. He heard wood creaking and made out the outlines of two boats tied up to pilings twenty feet out in the water.

  He considered, but-dismissed, the boats. They were too big. Too noticeable.

  He continued to look around until he found a small drying rack. He dismissed it because he didn't know if the damn thing would even float.

  A sharp aroma assailed his nostrils.

  He crept closer and pulled off several strips of drying fish and stuffed them into his pockets, then another which he immediately began chewing on. He hated dried fish. It tasted wonderful. After a few bites, he'd finished that first strip and could barely restrain himself from biting into another. He crept forward then, looking about for something to float across with, as he'd done at the Lo River.

  If he'd only kept the inflatable g-suit.

  But he had not, so he continued to look.

  Nothing. No boards or flotsam of any size. Just the two large boats. The river was too wide to swim, especially as weakened as he was from lack of nourishment. He had to have something to help keep him afloat during the crossing.

  He wondered if he shouldn't go back and consider another crossing point.

  No time for that. Screw around much longer, and the odds are going to catch up. It's got to be tonight.

  He looked harder. On a porch there was a washtub, like the one his mother had used to carry wet clothing in. He pondered, then rejected it. Too bulky and difficult to keep afloat.

  He looked back at the water. Something was bobbing near the shore. A closer inspection showed it was a bloated dead fish.

  He released a breath and waded into the mucky water, chest-high to the boats. He grasped the gunwales and started to crawl into the first one, knowing he couldn't steal it. They'd miss the boat and surely call out a search.

  He crawled the rest of the way in and looked about. The moon had passed behind a cloud, but he could make out the shapes of heavy oars at either side and some wooden boxes at the stern. He went to the boxes and tugged, but they were secured to the boat. Inside one there was a heavy rope, but he could think of no use for it.

  No engine, but he could smell fuel, so they must have somehow detached it and taken it inside.

  He considered the oars, went back and lifted one. Heavy bastard. He carefully placed it into the water and found it floated just fine. He followed it over the side.

  Before he'd progressed ten yards, he'd found that an oar was not a good swimming partner. By the time he had gone twenty yards, he'd lost his gomer hat and was considering going back to shore. After twenty more yards he was starting to get the hang of it. He held on with his left arm and did a flutter kick, and was even able to rest periodically. He made his way in pretty good fashion into the center channel of the river.

  That's the way, he rooted, but even with the periodic pauses he was tiring.

  Then he heard the puttering sound of an engine and looked to see the dark shape of a barge bearing down on him, not thirty yards distant. He kicked like crazy, but the damned barge was coming too fast. When it was very close, he grabbed the oar with his right hand and ducked down until only his eyes and the top of his head were showing, hoping, since he was off-centered, the bow swell might sweep him to one side.

  He felt a sharp pain as the barge struck his shoulder and pushed him along before it. He shoved away hard with his free hand, but the thing struck him again, and he exhaled sharply and felt nauseated and panicky. Just as he was about to be sucked under the prow, he was swept to the far side and the barge was moving by. The side loomed closer and he shoved again, but as he did, he lost his grip on the oar. It thumped loudly against the barge and was immediately swept away.

  A human shape leaned over the side to investigate, so Lucky ducked and let himself sink below the surface. He remained underwater, waiting . . . waiting until his lungs begged for air . . . then kicked and stroked upward. He broke water and sucked a deep breath.

  The barge was gone, but so was his oar, and he was being swept farther downstream. It took a moment to regain his wits and orient himself, and even to convince himself that he must go on. He was dog-tired, his arms and legs feeling like sodden weights—and he was only halfway across.

  He began to swim.

  It was twenty more minutes before he could touch bottom on the western shore of the river, and although he was weary to the bone, there were just too many lights there. Painfully he slogged farther downstream before finding a darker place, between lights, where he waded slowly out of the muck and onto the riverbank.

  He was impossibly tired, his shoulder and side throbbed from the barge's impacts, and for the first time Lucky Anderson gave serious consideration to giving up the struggle.

  He staggered into the dark, open area, chest heaving.

  The thought of going on, of walking any distance, was repugnant. His mind tried to work a solution, wondering what the hell he could do, for he'd emerged in the middle of a town, and he didn't have the energy to go farther.

  A flat-bottomed boat was turned upside down nearby, so he slogged over to it and sat heavily, then just let his muscles shudder and react in spasms. He heard voices upstream, but couldn't muster the energy to look in that direction. They were not close, so screw them.

  Someone laughed.

  He wondered which town he was in. There'd been several downstream, but he had planned to emerge between them. He'd wanted to come out well north of Phuong Xa, a relatively large city on the map, but he glumly supposed he was on the outskirts of the place.

  Get moving!

  He could not. His body wanted to stay there and wait and rest.

  Get moving!

  He tried to rise, but slipped heavily back down.

  Voices, coming toward him.

  He groped around for the hat, then remembered it was gone.

  Dammit!

  He fished in the pocket, pulled out the waterproof pouch with the pistol inside, and struggled to open it. He ripped the protective plastic and cursed his shaking fingers. The pistol and the matches would no longer be kept dry.

  The voices grew closer, and dim shapes came from around a dark building.

  He almost dropped the barrel, but grasped it and tried to screw it into place. The task was beyond the facility of his shaking fingers.

  One of the shapes spoke sharply, and in the dim light he could see they both carried rifles. Soldiers. Again he tried to screw in the barrel, and again failed.

  One of the shapes shifted the muzzle of his weapon in his direction. They were only twenty yards distant.

  He'd come so far only to . . .

  He felt the grooves, then reversed the barrel, which he'd been trying to screw in backward.

  Dumb shit!

  One soldier spoke loudly and the other muttered, fumbling with something, yet Lucky had the feeling they were not really excited. They continued to advance closer until they were only several feet from the boat. He did not trust himself to rise.

  The pistol was together except for the clip, which he also had trouble handling. It clicked into place finally, and he slowly ratcheted a round into place.

  The second soldier switched on a flashlight as Lucky raised his arm before himself, aiming at the one with the poised rifle.

  The light settled on his chest and he wavered, then steadied his aim. As the beam blinded him, he squeezed the trigger.

  Pop.

  A single grunt from the one with the raised rifle. He slowly released his weapon and crumpled.

  Lucky doggedly ratcheted another bullet into the pistol, wondering why the other
one was waiting. He raised his shooting arm as the soldier finally dropped the flashlight and awkwardly handled his weapon. When he aimed, the soldier was fumbling with his rifle.

  Pop.

  The man yelped loudly, staggered, and went to one knee.

  Lucky ratcheted again and slowly rose, then walked closer on his leaden legs. He felt no excitement, no rush of adrenaline to fuel him as it had in other crises. There was only the numbing weariness.

  He passed the prone soldier and approached the kneeling one. The man was breathing harshly, making a hissing, wet sound. Lucky stood over him, trying to decide what to do next. He couldn't afford to leave them. Even if the wounded one died, the situation told too much.

  He looked about, but there was nothing except dark buildings about him and water behind him. He listened, heard only a diesel engine out on the river and the wheezing sounds from the soldier. He pushed the pistol into its pocket and zipped it closed, then grasped the kneeling soldier under his arms. The man groaned but helped raise himself to his feet. Lucky supported him and they walked toward the river, the soldier making the wheezing, gurgling sounds. At the river's edge Lucky slogged on into the muck, still supporting him. The soldier tried to say something but only gagged and coughed. At waist-high Lucky released him, then shoved him hard out into the water, watching as he thrashed. He went back and got the other one and dragged him by the shoulders into the river. They were small men, but the effort of the two trips was almost too much.

  It began to rain.

  He grasped the dead soldier's collar and dragged him through the water until he found the one he'd deposited there, now half-floating, half-submerged, hands out and facedown. Lucky pushed them both out into the river until he was up to his chest before he released them. They floated slowly away, borne downstream by the current.

  He considered going after them, to puncture their lungs so their bodies would sink, but decided he was so utterly out of strength, he'd likely drown himself. He waded toward the bank, stumbling often. Ashore, he searched the area and picked up both rifles, both men's caps, and the flashlight, then sat heavily onto the boat again. He rested there for ten wonderful minutes, until his numbed brain began to function.