Drowning in Her Eyes

by Patrick Ford

  That was not what Jack had understood from the Australian intelligence summaries. They told of a strengthening of the Viet Cong in all areas, and the desertion of large numbers of the ARVN, the South Vietnamese Army.

  Wood continued their briefing. Finally, the American officer summarized, “You are each assigned to a unit of our forces, to spend two to three weeks with them. You will go into the field with them; you will be up close and personal so you can turn in accurate reports. You will return to your quarters now and I will see you for dinner in the Officers Club at 1930 hours.”

  They walked back to their quarters. Many soldiers passed them by. None saluted them. Most of the Negro troops were smoking weed, and carrying large boom boxes on their shoulders, blasting out Motown and the Rolling Stones. When they reached their quarters, they unpacked their gear and met to discuss what they had seen. Dave said, “I didn’t like much of what I’ve seen. They seem to have plenty of equipment and plenty of troops, but I think they may be fooling themselves about winning this year or next year for that matter.”

  Jack said, “I have a different viewpoint to a regular officer. I was a reserve; I was a Private, then a NCO. I lived with my men and I think I can understand the view from the ranks. The best troops work from the bottom up, from the sections to platoons to companies. It seems to me these boys do it the opposite way. Anyway, we will soon find out.”

  The Officers Club was an impressive place. Bars, dining rooms, a library and other amenities. Major Wood was waiting for them. “I guess you guys could use a beer?” He went to the bar and came back with four Budweiser long necks. Jack had not tasted this beer, but it was pleasant, and, more importantly, very cold. They had another round.

  The dining room was a real education. White tablecloths, sparkling wine glasses, service by white-coated stewards, and an impressive menu. Jack saw pork chops, chicken, steak. He thought about his compatriots in the jungle. Their officers would be eating from cans with their men in some dark, dank place.

  Fire Base Romeo, South Vietnam—1967

  In the morning, they flew out to their designated assignments. Jack took an Iroquois flight to Fire Base Romeo, well to the west of the air base. The crew chief tried to point out some features but the clatter of the rotor blades drowned him out. They flared out in a cloud of the now-familiar red dust. The chopper waited only seconds while Jack tumbled out and some wounded men were loaded, then it was gone.

  The major in command met him in his command bunker. “Afternoon, my friend, welcome to hell!” Then he took him on a tour of the base. It occupied the top of a low hill. All around, the vegetation had been cleared and the ground sown with mines. There were several pathways out through the minefields; a double fence of barbed wire encircled the whole base. Half a dozen .50 calibre heavy machine guns, protected by sand bags, occupied overlapping fields of fire. Fire trenches, situated in strategic positions, contained many M60s. A battery of 105mm Howitzers provided artillery support. “We patrol from here regularly but not at night. We usually sweep in company strength and clean out hideouts and villages. If we find caches of food or ammo, we destroy them. We have an ARVN man with us to interpret and advise on the disposition of any prisoners we collect. There is a patrol going out at daylight. Do you want to go with it?”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” replied Jack.

  “Ok. You will go with Captain White’s Fox Company. We’ll meet him later.” Captain White was black. He was a huge man with an engaging grin. “Nice to have you with us. We can always use another rifle,” he said. “Just stick with me and keep your head down. The Marine Recon boys will have a patrol out. They operate in small numbers, probably a squad or smaller. Have you gone hot before?” ‘Gone hot’ meant, ‘have you been under fire?’ Jack shook his head. “Nothing to it,” said White, “We’ve got some great medics. See you back here at 0400.” Jack went off to his assigned bunker to prepare for the patrol. First, he checked out all his webbing, made sure his water bottles were full, and then checked his ammunition. He had four magazines for his SLR and another one hundred rounds loose. He had two spare magazines for his Browning High Power pistol. He topped off with a couple of M26 grenades and two Willie Petes. This done, he spent some time thinking about what would happen in the morning. He was confident in his ability, a little nervous about his mortality. Finally, he slept.

  * * * *

  At 0400, it was still dark. There was a heavy ground mist with a cloudy sky just visible. Jack watched the troops assemble and the two lead platoons file out through the minefield and the gap in the wire. He followed with Company HQ, about ten strong. He was not impressed with what he saw. Many of the men were smoking, and not all of the cigarettes contained tobacco. Some wore brightly coloured bandanas, making them easy targets. He could smell after-shave on some of the officers. Some were even carrying transistor radios and wearing headphones. Jack remembered his jungle training. The bloody VC would hear and smell these blokes coming a mile away. No wonder they saw no VC and thought there was none. As he followed, he came upon discarded cigarette butts, chewing gum and Hershey bar wrappers. Not only would Charlie know where they were going, he would see where they had been, and how many of them there were.

  The sweep continued for hours without incident. Then there was firing from ahead followed by smoke rising from what looked like a village on the right. A runner came back to report to the captain. All the troops halted, bunched up, and began long loud conversations. Christ, thought Jack, Could this get any worse? Captain White radioed in to ask for instructions. His orders were to detach a squad to investigate, but to keep to his main objective. He should not have needed telling that, it was self-evident. He called up a squad commanded by a small swarthy sergeant. “This here’s Sergeant Ruiz,” said White, “he’s going to have a look at that fire. Want to go along?”

  Jack thought he saw a challenge in White’s eyes. “Okay,” he said. They moved out.

  Right away Jack began to feel better. This squad seemed to know its stuff. There was no noise, no smoking. They appeared alert but relaxed. Good field craft, thought Jack. This bloke should be running the show. It took about half an hour to reach their objective. There was no more firing and the smoke had died down to a small hazy tendril reaching skyward. Ruiz halted his squad just short of the village and sent two scouts ahead. Suddenly they heard screaming and a short burst of gunfire. One of the scouts came running back. “It’s that Jarhead patrol, Sarge; they’re knocking some gooks around.”

  Quickly, they moved into the village. There was nothing left of the huts, just piles of smoking ashes. Five men in black lay in pools of blood around the central square. There were five AK47s scattered with them. An old woman lay on her back, a line of bullet holes stitched across her chest. Two Marines were holding a young girl, perhaps sixteen years old, by the arms; they were trying to get her to the ground. “Hold the bitch!” yelled one of the onlookers. There were six Marines. The leader appeared to be a corporal, a big man—more than six feet tall and over two hundred pounds. He had taken off his helmet, revealing peroxide-blonde hair above an acne-scarred face.

  He looked up. “Howdy, boys.” He said with a leer, “We’re about to have us a little poontang, care to join the line?”

  “Let her go,” said Ruiz.

  “Sweet Jesus, we got us a fuckin’ hero. What are you going to do about it, spic?”

  Ruiz said quietly, “We’re supposed to be here to help these people. I’m a sergeant, you’re a corporal. I’m giving you a direct order. Let her go.”

  “You think I’m going to take orders from you. You spic dogface asshole? I think you might be going home to your little Señorita early—in a body bag.”

  One of the others sniggered. “You think Karl’s gonna take shit from that little greaser?”

  Jack did not know what to do. Although he was not an American, he was the only officer present and he couldn’t let this go on. He stepped forward. “Do as he says, corporal. If you go any further
, you will be committing a capital offence. If they don’t hang you first, you’ll spend the rest of your life in a Military Prison.”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I am an Australian Lieutenant attached to the US Army. As such, I have the same authority as any US officer of my rank.” He looked Karl in the eye, trying not to look like he felt.

  “Fuck you, you Aussie son of a bitch; you don’t tell me what to do!”

  The other Marines were looking a little doubtful. “Hey, man, don’t mess with an officer. There’s too many witnesses,” said one.

  “Yeah,” said another “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

  Karl turned on them, but it was too late. They had released the girl who scuttled away. One by one, they picked up their gear and moved off. Karl called out after them. “You chicken shit yellow assholes.” He turned on Jack. “I’m going to beat the shit out of you, you Aussie bastard!”

  Karl came at him in a shambling run. Like many big men, he was accustomed to using his size to overpower smaller opponents. This one was going to be easy. He bunched a big fist and swung a haymaker at Jack. That was his first mistake. Jack moved inside the punch, and grabbing the arm, used Karl’s momentum to throw him aside. Before Karl could fully regain his feet, Jack delivered a massive horizontal kick to the side of his left knee. He put almost three-year’s pain, anguish, and frustration into that kick. Karl screamed and went down, ligaments torn, cartilage ripped, bones dislocated. It would be a long time before he walked without a stick.

  “Madre de Dios,” breathed one of Ruiz’s squad.

  Jack turned to the remaining Marines. “Get him far away from us. We do not want you giving away our position. Then get on your radio and have him dusted off.”

  The Marines looked stunned. “Yes, sir!” said one. They all saluted. Jack looked back at Karl. Only then did he see the look of insane hatred on his face. He was fumbling with an automatic. It pointed at Jack’s stomach. Jack drew his Browning and shot him between the eyes.

  The Americans stood, stunned. Jack looked at them. He said, “Let’s get back to the company, men. We’ll let the captain sort out this incident.”

  “What incident, sir?” said Sergeant Ruiz.

  “Yeah,” said one of his men, “What incident?”

  “I didn’t see anything,” said another, “What about you guys?”

  There was a chorus of, “No, nada, we saw nothing, ¡No vi nada!”

  They headed back. Jack felt ice cold. He had just gotten rid of another feral pig. The word passed around. There were no details, but the message was, ‘Don’t fuck with the Aussie Lootenant!’

  * * * *

  That night he sought out Sergeant Ruiz and his squad. They occupied a bunker on the north side of Fire Base Romeo. As he entered the bunker, someone called out, “ten’ hut!” The soldiers stopped talking and rose to their feet. One of the men switched off the radio. Jack was surprised. From what he had seen, these men did not pay the same respect to their own officers. “At ease,” he said, “enough of that bullshit! I wanted to talk to you about what happened today.”

  The sergeant stepped forward. “You don’t have to worry about that, sir. We saw nothing, heard nothing.”

  “I’m not worried about that, Sergeant; I want to talk to you blokes. I want an enlisted man’s point of view. I’m Jack Riordan, and not so long ago, I was a Private too. Now, introduce me to your men.”

  “Juan Ruiz, I come from Texas.” He introduced Jack to his men. There were more than a few Hispanic names among them. Jack remarked on this.

  “We tend to stick together, like the Negros. Don’t believe all you hear about the ‘land of the free’, and we’re regulars, not conscripts. We have a certain amount of professional pride.”

  “Fuckin’ A,” said one of the others.

  “I saw that today,” said Jack, “How would you rate the rest of your troops?”

  “It’s hard to be critical, so many are conscripts; they don’t want to be here and they don’t give a shit about winning. All they want to do is smoke dope, chase the local pussy, and live long enough to make it home; on the whole, they don’t rate well.”

  “What about today, those Marines were about to rape that girl, and they thought you would join them. Is that sort of thing a regular occurrence?”

  “More often than you would like to think.”

  “Okay,” said Jack. “Let’s talk about your patrolling.” The conversation began to spread through the squad. Someone turned the music back on. After a while, one of the men held up his hand. “Listen up, guys, here’s that new Van Morrison song.” They fell quiet; the strains of ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ filled the night. Jack listened. He had not heard the song before. Now, the lyrics clawed at his heart. Tears began to run down his face. The others watched him, embarrassed. When the song ended, someone turned the radio way down. One of them softly said, “Hit a nerve there, sir?”

  Jack looked up at these young men, at their soft brown eyes. “Yes,” he said, “Yes, you have.” For more than a year, he would refuse to listen to the song. “Ok, where were we, field craft?”

  “You want a beer, sir?” Ruiz held out a can of Bud. Two hours later, he left the bunker. He had learned more than he would for the rest of his time in Fire Base Romeo.

  * * * *

  The next day Jack requested an interview with Major Klein, the base commander. “Sir, I would like your permission to take out a patrol myself. I want to see how your men perform in relatively small groups. Most of our patrolling in Phuoc Tuy Province is done at platoon strength or smaller. If I could take out a couple of squads, I think I can get a good idea of your methods and how to improve them if necessary.” Major Klein was not very happy about this. Shit, here was an Australian junior officer wanting to evaluate his command. However, his orders had been specific, and they came from the highest source. He must offer all possible cooperation to these Australians. Oh, well, he thought, this young man seemed to know what he was doing.

  “Okay, Lieutenant, I will arrange a couple of squads for you. Let me have an outline of what you intend to do.”

  Jack pushed his luck. “With respect, Sir, I would like to choose my own squads. I have worked with Sergeant Ruiz, so his squad will be one. The other squad I will choose today. Then I will require them for a day prior to the patrol for a general briefing.”

  Klein was even less happy, but he remembered what his colonel had told him. “This better be good, Lieutenant. I do not want to lose a couple of squads. You’ll answer to me if you fuck up.”

  Jack grinned. Cover your asses must be the most important subject studied by senior officers all over the world.

  That afternoon he sought out Sergeant Ruiz and his squad. He told him what he had planned, and asked him to recommend a squad like his for the patrol. Ruiz thought for a while. “I think Mo’s squad would be the best choice.”

  Sergeant Moses turned out to be a small Negro, wiry and strong looking. Most of his men were Negros, regular soldiers. When asked to join the patrol, he said; “I guess you might be able to show us a better way. What we are doing now don’t seem to be having much of an effect. Sure, Sir, count me in.” Jack spent the next day with his squads, explaining about the need for stealth, concealment and strict fire discipline. He emphasized the need for patience.

  At 0400 the next morning, they moved through the wire and began their sweep westward towards an area of high ground. The American intelligence officer had shown Jack a river beyond some distant ridges. “Somewhere along there the VC have been stashing stores. Our patrols have not gone that far yet.” On the map there appeared to be several villages and some high ground to their left flank, bordering the river. Jack wanted to check out this area for the caves. Maybe they could surprise some of the little buggers in the act. It would be a two day march, or longer.

  Progress was slow. There was no talking, no smoking. There were constant halts as forward scouts came in to report. They skirted a number of villages uns
een and lay up concealed in the jungle to observe any suspicious activity in them. There was nothing to see until they found a third village. This one was more productive. From their position in the jungle, they watched and waited.

  After a while, Sergeant Moses slid up alongside Jack. “I’ve been watching the south side,” he said. “It seems that the only people here are old men, women and kids.” Jack had noted this also. Moses went on: “Some of them are carrying loads into the jungle over there.” He pointed. “They don’t seem to be gone long, and then they come back empty handed. I reckon there is a supply dump or something in there not far away.”

  One of his men, PFC Malcolm, said, “That’s funny. Usually they don’t keep caches that close to a village unless they have a tunnel under the village to store things.”

  Jack said, “Right, then what are they doing? I wonder if there is a VC unit holed up over there being resupplied by the locals.” He made a decision. “Okay. Let’s check it out. Sergeant Ruiz, take your squad around to the left of that area. We’ll give you time to reach your position, and then we’ll move on the right. If there are VC there, they’re in for a nasty little surprise. Hold your fire until we open up.”

  Sergeant Ruiz set off. Soon, his scout returned. “Sarge, there’s about twenty VC up there. They look like a carrying party. The villagers are bringing up their loads.”

  “Okay,” said Ruiz. “We’ll advance in a skirmish line. You halt us when we’re just out of sight. The Lieutenant will be getting the same story, I hope.”

  They advanced about a hundred yards. The scout pointed ahead. They crept through the jungle until they could see their quarry, sitting, relaxed, some eating from rice bowls. “Torres,” whispered Ruiz to his M60 gunner, “concentrate on that larger group. I’ll try to ID an officer.” Torres nodded. Ruiz crawled off to locate his grenade launcher. “Diaz, when the shit hits the fan, start lobbing your little toys. Follow a line from left to right and sweep the whole area.”