Drowning in Her Eyes

by Patrick Ford

  “Sure, Sarge,” he nodded, hefting the M79.

  Meanwhile, Jack and Sergeant Moses’ squad had closed to about fifty yards from where they expected the target to be. A scout moved forward stealthily; he was unlucky. They say the plan lasts until the first shot is fired; just in front of him appeared a VC who had moved away from his group to attend a call of nature. They saw each other at the same time. Moses’ man was the first to react and leapt onto the smaller VC, bayonet in hand. The Vietnamese was surprisingly agile for he managed to avoid the first blow, causing the blade to enter his shoulder instead of his neck. Before the fatal blow could be struck, he emitted a shriek of terror and discharged his AK47 in a long burst. Jack had heard the shout before he heard the rifle. Shit, he thought, I hope Ruiz is in position. Then he was yelling, “Open fire!” as loud as he could, before motioning his squad to advance.

  Ruiz didn’t let him down. The VC had shifted their attention towards the sound of the firing, exposing their rear to his squad. The M60 began to chatter, while rifles and grenades added their voices to the uproar. Most of the enemy fell in the first bursts of fire. Some turned and returned fire. The others bolted into the jungle and ran into Jack and his men. A brief but fierce hand-to-hand combat ensued. Jack shot one of the VC with his rifle and parried a bayonet thrust before swinging his rifle butt against the man’s head. Then it was over.

  “Stand fast,” called the sergeants, “Lock and load.”

  There had been twenty-two VC in the clearing. Eighteen were dead. There were three wounded as well as the comatose man Jack had dealt with. Around them lay their weapons, bags of rice and some substance that looked like dried fish. The wounded were attended to, the prisoners restrained, and made ready for evacuation. One of Mo’s men had a bayonet wound through the side; another had a gunshot wound high up on his shoulder.

  “Call up Romeo,” said Jack to his radioman, “tell them we are about to investigate a village. We need a platoon to take over the village and an ARVN man to interpret and advise us. We also need a dust-off. Give them this position and tell them we will make yellow smoke.” The radioman bent to his task.

  “Okay,” Jack said to his squad leaders, “put a cordon around the village. Take care, now. There could still be some VC in there or one of their sympathizers who would like to be a dead hero.”

  Stealthily, they surrounded the village. The occupants stared sullenly at these invaders. “Search the place,” he said. “Remember, do not destroy their possessions or take anything unless you are sure it’s contraband.”

  The search revealed nothing. There was a well in the centre of the village. Possibly, it concealed the entrance to a tunnel, but the relieving platoon could check that out. Before long, the sound of helicopters announced the arrival of their reinforcements and the medivac. They landed where one of Ruiz’s men had tossed a yellow smoke grenade onto a level site near the village. Jack reported his action, handed over to the Lieutenant in command of the platoon and headed off with his depleted squads.

  They set up a perimeter at dusk. Jack and the sergeants carefully sited the M60s and set a sentry roster. They stood to at dusk and again at dawn. There was no activity during the night. In the morning, they moved out to investigate the high ground. Noon saw them climbing the north-west slope of the hills. According to the map, the river was on the other side of these ridges. Moses sent out scouts as they halted just short of the top. If there were hostile forces on the far side of the hills, they would surely have sentries posted on the hilltop. Sure enough, the scouts returned to report two NVA soldiers near the crest of the hill. Jack said to his squad leaders, “We’ll have to take them out, silently if possible. Sergeant Ruiz, send a small party to do it. Four should be enough, knives or bayonets, no noise.”

  Ruiz had more than four good men. When it came to knives, few could match the men from the barrios. They slithered off and returned with self-satisfied grins. The patrol crept forward to the crest. Below them was the river. There was a small jetty with a covered boat alongside. Khaki clad NVA troops were helping VC to carry loads up the slope towards them. Along the bank, skillfully camouflaged, were a couple of heavy machine guns and a line of positions manned by about fifty NVA soldiers. Two NVA officers were moving along the bank to what looked like a command bunker of some kind. The squad commanders slid back down the hill to where Jack and his radioman were waiting. Ruiz described the scene below them. “They’re coming about half way up the bank towards us,” he said. “It looks as though the caves are below us on this side.”

  Jack crawled to the ridge and scanned the area with his field glasses. There were too many of the enemy for them to take on, even with the element of surprise, with only their squad weapons. He called the two Sergeants to him. “The three of us should figure out this map reference and check we have it right. Then I will call in some of our flyboys to give them the once-over.” Once they were sure of the exact reference, he called up the air support. “Yellow Cab, Yellow Cab, we have a fare. One hundred plus ground troops at map reference…” He sent his men well down from the ridge. He did not want any friendly fire casualties.

  About twenty minutes later, they heard the aircraft. Jack tossed a yellow smoke grenade down on the enemy position and scuttled back to his men. Four F4 Phantoms dropped like vultures from the sky and laid their napalm eggs along the riverbank. They made a further two passes, raking the area with cannon fire. There was little resistance from the ground after the first pass. The pilots banked their aircraft and passed over Jack and his troops. The leader called them up. “This is Cobra Red. Your little friends seem all burnt up about something. Suggest you apply some of your usual treatment…out.”

  They climbed the ridge again to see a scene of destruction. The boat and most of the jetty had disappeared. There were a few stunned soldiers wandering around. Jack gave his orders. M60 fire rained down on the remnants of the enemy, the two gunners sweeping from side to side until there was no visible movement from below. “Cease fire,” ordered Jack, “Let’s have a look. Sergeant Ruiz, leave your gun crew and two riflemen up here to cover us. Make sure someone keeps an eye on the opposite bank. The rest of you form an extended line and sweep the area.”

  Carefully, they moved through the carnage caused by the napalm. There were burned bodies in profusion, little blackened and shrunken caricatures of men. There was an occasional live prisoner, rounded up and left under guard, most of them burnt or badly wounded; they offered no resistance.

  “Sir,” said Sergeant Ruiz, “there are several caves up there we should look at. They seem to be untouched. The napalm didn’t burn up that far.”

  “Right, let’s take it very carefully. There may be someone in residence. Lead off in two’s, move in bounds and cover each other.” They moved off up the slope. Halfway up, there was a burst of fire from one of the caves. Jack saw a man fall and go rolling down the hill where he lay motionless.

  “Put some suppressing fire on that hole,” he shouted. As soon as the gunfire started, Jack ran zigzagging up the hill. He reached the cave opening and pressed himself against the hill alongside it. His foot felt as though it was wet. He looked down. There was blood on his calf, running down to fill up his boot. He felt no pain and thought; it must have gone straight through. Okay, he said to himself, let’s finish this. He lobbed a grenade into the cave entrance. There was a muffled explosion and a strangled cry of pain. Then there was a second burst of fire from the cave, wild and misdirected. Right, thought Jack, try this for size. He tossed in a WP grenade. There followed another explosion and then the demented scream of a badly hurt man. A smoking form rushed out of the cave and fell down the slope. One of the riflemen finished him off.

  Jack carefully entered the cave. An AK47 lay on the ground. Alongside it was a dead officer, a smoking hole in his side. The cave was empty of men. In one corner sat a makeshift table piled with maps and papers. The other caves were unoccupied, but contained crates of grenades, ammunition and RPG rounds. There were
large quantities of rice and medical supplies. They had struck the mother lode. This had been a major command post, and the papers and maps they discovered would prove to be a source of much valuable information, soon to be verified.

  The American casualty had taken three rounds in his shoulder and upper chest; the medic had done what he could for him, but it would be a near thing. Jack called in the action and asked for a priority medivac.

  Then he took his men back over the ridge and down to a level area at the foot of the hill. The medivac chopper arrived quickly and took away the wounded. Soon after, a fleet of Hueys arrived. Major Klein was among the reinforcements, along with an ARVN officer, who pronounced the papers to be genuine and valuable intelligence.

  “Right, Lieutenant, get your men into a couple of those birds and make for home. We’ll take over here. I will be interested to read your action report as soon as I can get it. You have done very well.”

  Jack’s leg was beginning to hurt. He took off his boot to inspect his lower leg. The major suddenly noticed the wound. “Get a medic here, quickly.” He called. The medic cleaned up the leg. A bullet had plowed a deep furrow across the calf muscle. It wasn’t serious, but Jack could not believe how much it had bled. The medic gave him a painkiller and roughly stitched the wound before bandaging it tightly.

  Back at Fire Base Romeo, Jack debriefed his troops. They needed no convincing of the merits of small covert patrolling. Had they made their usual patrol in company strength, they would have achieved nothing. Jack promoted this shamelessly in his report. However, the main emphasis of the report was on the tightly knit squads of Ruiz and Moses and their effectiveness. Each man in these squads knew his job, knew the jobs of his squad mates, was adaptable and used his own initiative. He recommended both Sergeants for consideration for promotion and assignment as trainers to spread the good word about Jack’s hobbyhorse—bottom up organization.

  * * * *

  Jack flew back to the HQ at Bien Hoa after his two weeks at Fire Base Romeo and reported to Major Wood. The Major looked a little annoyed when Jack entered his office. “Major Klein tells me you almost took over his command,” he said. “What the hell do you think you were doing?”

  Jack said, “Sir, I was following my brief to find out as much as I could about US field operations. This was authorised by your HQ. Have you received a copy of my report?”

  “I have it, and I will read it in due course. I am inclined to think this exercise was a waste of time. You Aussies have caused us a good deal of trouble. You may go, Lieutenant.”

  Jack took his leave. I hope you don’t pigeonhole my report, he thought. Right now, we are causing the VC a good deal of trouble as well. Three weeks later, they flew out of Bien Hoa. They had enough material for a five hundred page report. Allen had sold his cap badge to a PFC for one hundred dollars. “Lost in combat,” he said.

  Worcester, Massachusetts, USA—1967

  In June, right after he graduated from high school, Jimbo Baker left home. He said goodbye to his sisters, left a note for his mother, and jumped a train to San Francisco.

  Marci was furious with him. He was no longer under her control and that irked her more than anything else. Meanwhile, Jimbo worked his way through ten different States. He did odd jobs, washed dishes, mowed lawns, and flipped hamburgers until he arrived in Cheyenne in early fall and looked up his brother-in-law John Starr.

  John was pleased to see him. John hadn’t set eyes on him since moving to Wyoming. He invited him to stay for a while.

  After a pleasant holiday, Jimbo—acting on the assumption that he should be doing exactly what Marci did not want him to do—walked into the recruiting office in Denver and joined the army. Ten days later, he marched through the gates of Fort Benning and began the hardest weeks of his life. Infantry were needed badly in Indochina, so it was no surprise that, in due course, PFC James Baker found himself on the way to South Vietnam. There, he was plunged into a green hell of stinking jungle, mantraps, mortar bombs, RPGs, and chattering AK47s. Lots of little Asian men (and women) were trying to kill him.

  He survived four months of that and took some R&R in Sydney. After sampling the ladies of the night several times, drinking most of the bourbon in the city, and picking up a fresh supply of weed, he remembered the old days in Armidale. He wondered about Jack Riordan, Susan’s old boyfriend who had made her pregnant and abandoned her. His sister had never gotten over that. Buoyed by his reefers, his Jack Daniels, and his opinion that he was one of the meanest sons of bitches in the US Army, he decided, that if he met that bastard Riordan again, he would beat the shit out of him. Happily, for James Baker’s military career and his health, he did not meet Jack Riordan. Not then.

  Jimbo returned to Vietnam to find most of his squad killed or wounded in an ambush. His CO transferred him to a helicopter unit, where he became a door gunner.

  * * * *

  It had been almost three years since Susan had been spirited away from Jack by her scheming mother. She sustained herself with her unfailing belief that Jack would one day find her. Jacqui Susan was now more than two years old. She was a clever and articulate child, and since Susan spent so much time with her, she learned so much, so quickly. Susan began drawing pictures for her, of Ballinrobe homestead, the thinking place with its parrots, and an idealised picture of Jack, all dark hair and green eyes. “Daddy,” she would say, “Daddy.” Susan took care that Marci never saw the drawings or heard the child.

  Marci had been upset in March. The Marine Corps advised that Aunt Sophie’s son Karl was missing in action in Vietnam. The members of his final patrol claimed to have no knowledge of exactly what had happened to Karl. Susan did not give a damn. She remembered Karl with distaste, a braggart and a bully who had tried to seduce her and Sarah, and give them drugs.

  Every now and then, she felt the goose bumps and the thrill in the pit of her stomach. Jack was at the thinking place. Jacqui felt it too. She could sense it now. She called it the finking place and she would run to Susan and climb on her lap. “Daddy, Daddy,” she would say and cast her brown eyes on Susan’s eyes, eyes brimming with tears on those occasions. However, lately, there had been no vibes from the thinking place. Susan could not understand. Jack should be through with College by now and at Ballinrobe most of the time. Her memory of him did not fade. At night, he came to her, smiling, green eyes full of love. She could almost feel his gentle touch, and she always shivered in anticipation, touching herself in the dark. Oh Jack, Jack my darling, how I long for you. Come to me, my love, and make me whole again.

  Sarah had reverted to type. Free of her husband, she cast her eyes around for suitable beaus while Marci looked after the twins. Most of these men just wanted a short and uncomplicated affair. Sometimes Sarah wanted more. Then there would be tantrums and tears. She began to drink heavily. She had tried to patch something up with John Starr, but he had told her he would rather bed down with a skunk than with her. He changed his phone number and ignored any letters she sent him. His lawyers dealt with anything to do with the twins.

  Goondiwindi, Queensland, Australia—1967

  Jack received a month’s leave when he returned from Vietnam. This was good news for Helen, but the bad news would be the deployment of Eleventh Battalion RAR to Vung Tau when his leave was up. He went immediately to the thinking place when he returned. Ollie, who now realised the significance of this place to Jack, had constructed a small fire ring of discarded bricks for him and made sure there was always a supply of wood. The old Land Rover his father had bought in 1956 was still kept in good condition and ready at a moment’s notice, for he always drove it to the thinking place.

  He gazed into the fire, but tonight the visions would not come. He looked at the stars in their billions and wished on every one of them that he would find her, and find her soon, because his need grew every day. In a few weeks, he would be at risk again. Not a fact finding mission and an Officer’s Club full of fine food and drink, but a six-month tour of combat duty, with th
ousands of VC and NVA soldiers determined to kill him.

  He returned to the fire. Now they came, the visions, Susan and her wide brown eyes, Susan in his college room, Susan at Ballinrobe the night of conception. Tonight those images were more ephemeral than ever. Then she came, a little girl, in a white dress. The wind cried in the trees, “Daddy, Daddy.” He wept uncontrollably, tears running down his cheeks. He reached for her, but as quickly as she had come, she faded away. “My baby, my baby,” he cried.

  Sam whimpered and pushed her nose into his midriff. Jack stilled her with a hand on her head. The images changed. There was the face of the dead Marine, Karl, hatred in his eyes. There was jungle. Could that be VC looking at him? Yes, but they were all dead, grinning skulls. Then a young soldier, vaguely familiar, covered with blood, then falling, falling, and fire. The images faded away. He wept for his Susan and their baby.

  The fire had died down. He stirred it again and added some more wood. The flames flickered, rose higher, and there she was, Susan, holding a little girl in a white dress. She was smiling, not a trace of tears or sadness. A sharp breeze ruffled the trees. He heard her sweet, soft voice. ‘My darling’, she said, ‘it will not be long now. Soon we will be together forever’.

  Somewhere in the night a curlew called, its mournful sound bringing an involuntary shiver to Jack’s shoulders as though it was a harbinger of some dread to come.

  After Jack left at the end of his leave, Sam began visiting the thinking place by herself, lying in the shade of the trees and watching the fire pit. From time to time, she would prick up her ears; sometimes she would begin to whimper, sometimes she growled. Then, after a while, she would settle down to watch again.

  Phuoc Tuy Province, South Vietnam—1967

  The jungle was never quiet, infused with the sounds of the night, insects, small scurrying animals, distant gunfire. Corporal Andy McGuire and Private Ron Whyte huddled together in the shallow scrape they had dug. They had been here for about six hours now, lying in ambush.