The Fall of Camp A-555: The Vietnamese Army are one step closer to victory... (Vietnam Ground Zero Military Thrillers Book 4)

by Eric Helm

  “I know it stinks, but our first priority is to find that plane and Westmoreland, if he’s still alive. We’ve no reason to suspect those VC were looking for us, any more than we’re looking for them. Besides, if there’s that many of them, chasing after them might not be the smartest thing we could do right now. We’ve no air support, at least none guaranteed. Anyway, if they were looking for us, they’d hardly burden themselves with a supply train.”

  “Yes, sir. Shouldn’t we at least notify the camp so they can pass word on to Nha Trang?”

  “We should. We can’t. Radios are out. One of them’s got a dead battery, and the rest are just plain wet or acting up. I’ve got Bocker working on them.”

  “Marvelous. We’re out here bebopping around in Indian country, with a battalion of hostiles known to be in the area, looking for a lost general, without lines of communication. Great-great Granddad would have a fit.”

  “There it is,” agreed Gerber.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.” Fetterman moved off to talk with the scouts.

  Half an hour later the scouts had returned, reporting that the Viet Cong column had passed well to the east of the Americans and strikers’ lines of march and then angled southeast. There had been no indication of other traffic along that particular trail.

  Gerber went to check with Bocker on the radio situation.

  “How’s it coming, Galvin?” he asked the lanky radioman. Gerber fully expected things to be in order. Staff Sergeant Bocker was the best communications man Gerber had ever known. He was certain that Bocker could improvise a radio out of seashells and C-ration tins if the situation called for it. This time he was disappointed.

  “Not good, Captain. The humidity is so damned high that I can’t get the wet sets to dry out properly. I thought this was supposed to be the dry season. The tuner is shot on one set, and the crystals have gone bad on that one there. These old PRC-10s have got a lot of miles on them — some of them are just plain worn out. The PRC-25s are more dependable, but we didn’t have enough of them for this mission, and the Tai are more familiar with the PRC-10s. Anyway, I switched some of the batteries around and swapped a few parts, and I finally got one that seems to be working, but it’s quirky. I can pick up some broken traffic, but I can’t get anybody to talk to me. I think maybe the radio is okay, but we’re sitting in a dead zone. About all I can suggest is that we press on and hope for a clear spot.”

  “That’s not good enough, Galvin.”

  “Yes, sir, I know. It’s the best I can do.”

  Gerber looked at Bocker and believed him. If the man said he’d done everything he could out here in the field, he’d done everything he could. Anything else would have to wait until they got back to camp where Bocker had set up a rudimentary maintenance shop.

  “All right, Galvin. Get the rest of this mess back together, and we’ll get out of here. If we’re going to have to laager in for the night without adequate communications, I want to get as far as we can from that VC column and find a good defensible site before dark.”

  What Gerber wanted didn’t seem to count for much. They walked until 1730 hours without finding any really good spot and were getting very close to the area where the Otter was supposed to have gone down. Gerber had finally decided he was going to have to settle for a shallow depression about halfway up a slight rise a hundred or so meters from the main north-south trail as their NDP. Suddenly the striker ahead of him, who was carrying one of the useless radios, spun around and dropped to the ground, blood spurting from the side of his chest. Immediately there was a single sharp report.

  “Down!” yelled Gerber. “Everybody cover!”

  The men dropped to the trail and sidled for the thick growth along the edges of it, but one man wasn’t quite fast enough.

  There was a second report, and another striker lay dead on the trail, shot through the face.

  “Anybody see the sniper?” yelled Gerber.

  “Working on it,” called Fetterman, who was up ahead somewhere.

  Another gunshot followed the second and dust kicked up on the trail a few inches in front of Gerber’s face as the ricochet from the hard-packed surface went screaming past his head. He slid another few feet back into the brush, rolled quickly to one side and lay still.

  “Somebody get that bastard’s range. He sure as hell’s got ours!”

  The rifle cracked again, and Gerber saw a striker across the trail from him tumble out onto the pathway, clutching his thigh. The Tai immediately dragged himself back under cover.

  “Fetterman! Can you see that son of a bitch?”

  “Working on it, Captain,” came the unruffled reply. The sniper wasn’t shooting at Fetterman.

  Another round whizzed over Gerber’s head and plowed into a tree trunk behind him.

  Almost immediately it was followed by a loud thunk and a shattering explosion a few moments later. There were two more explosions, and then the jungle got very quiet. The sniper did not fire again.

  Several minutes later Fetterman returned. He had slung his rifle and was carrying an M-79 in one hand and a Mosin-Nagant M1891/30 sniper rifle with a 3.5-power PE telescopic sight in the other. As he approached, he handed the grenade launcher back to a striker following dutifully at his side and extended the Russian rifle for Gerber’s inspection.

  The captain nodded. “Was he alone?”

  Fetterman shook his head and dug into one of the pockets of his fatigues with his free hand. “Found these.”

  The palm of his hand held several of the spent 7.62 x 53mm rimmed cases for the Mosin-Nagant, and two 7.62 x 39mm cases, one expended, the other a complete round. The shorter 7.62 x 39mm round was used only in the SKS carbine and AK-47 assault rifle.

  “The other man?”

  “No sign.”

  “That really tears it.” Gerber sighed. He’d half expected it but hoped against it. Snipers normally worked in pairs, one man doing the shooting while the other spotted targets through binoculars. Frequently they had a small, four- or five-man security detachment with them for protection, as well. Gerber looked at the dead and wounded strikers lying on the trail and wondered if a general, any general, was worth it. Washington and one of the Tai medics were working on the man who had been shot through the thigh. It didn’t look good.

  “Captain.” Washington looked up. “This man’s been hit in the femoral artery. I’ve got it clamped off, but there’s only so much I can do for him out here. If we don’t get him to a field hospital pretty soon…” He left the sentence unfinished.

  Gerber nodded. “Do what you can for him, T.J.”

  “Captain Gerber!” called Bocker, coming up from the rear of the column. “I’ve got some good news, sir.”

  “I could use some,” said Gerber sourly.

  “Finally got somebody to talk to me on one of the radios.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve had in the past forty-eight hours,” said Gerber, reaching for the handset. “Who’s on the other end?”

  “That FAC who was supposed to spot for us. Hawkeye Two One.”

  Gerber’s hand paused momentarily. “Did he happen to say where the hell he’s been while our strikers were getting shot?”

  Bocker nodded. “Said he couldn’t find the RP and couldn’t raise us on the radio. We can hardly blame him about the radios, sir.”

  “Where is he now?” asked Gerber, taking the handset.

  “Unknown. He doesn’t have a visual on us. His signal’s a bit weak.”

  Gerber nodded and keyed the transmit button. “Hawkeye Two One, this is Zulu Six. We are approximately at Grid X-Ray Yankee two six four four. We have wounded. Can you relay request for medevac, over?”

  “Roger, Zulu Six,” came the faint reply. “Say number of wounded, over.”

  Gerber looked at Washington.

  “Three dead, two wounded, Captain. Both of them serious.”

  Gerber eyed the handset again. “Hawkeye, this is Zulu. We have five wounded. Two are immediate, over.”r />
  “Roger. Understand five, two immediate. Wait one for confirmation.”

  While they waited for the reply, Gerber looked at Fetterman and shrugged. “What the hell. Strictly speaking, it’s only two, but we can’t go carrying a bunch of bodies around the jungle with us. At least this way the poor bastards will get a decent burial.”

  A few moments later the voice of the Air Force pilot crackled over the earpiece of the handset again.

  “Zulu Six, this is Hawkeye Two One. Be advised that Dust-Off Three Seven will be over your location in two zero minutes. Can you mark landing zone?”

  “Top of the hill’s got the least cover,” Fetterman offered. “We’ll have to do some clearing, and it’s going to be awfully noisy.”

  Gerber looked at the two wounded strikers, considering. “Our hand’s already been tipped, Tony, by that sniper’s partner. Get them started on the LZ.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll go find Sergeant Smith.”

  Gerber keyed the mike again. “Hawkeye, this is Zulu. Advise Dust-Off that we will have to clear LZ. If he will contact us when in vicinity, we will mark with smoke.”

  “Roger. Will advise.”

  “Hawkeye, can you also contact Crystal Ball and ask them to relay a message to Zulu Five at Zulu Main? We have intelligence of a large VC force, possibly battalion strength, approximately nine klicks north by northwest of this position, moving in an east-southeasterly direction. Recommend maximum alertness. Over.”

  There was a significant pause.

  “Uh, Zulu Six, this is Hawkeye. Are you in contact with the enemy? Over.”

  “Negative. We have taken sniper fire but have neutralized the source. We are not, repeat not, in contact with the enemy at this time. However, we have reason to believe there may be other enemy troops in the immediate area. Over.”

  “Roger, Zulu Six. Will relay. Stand by.”

  In the distance Gerber could hear Sully Smith shout, “Fire in the hole!” Men quickly sought available cover, and a few moments later a series of earsplitting concussions buffeted throughout the jungle and several trees located near the top of the rise toppled slowly to the jungle beneath. Finally the voice of the FAC came back over the radio.

  “Zulu Six this is Hawkeye Two One with a message from Crystal Ball. Over.”

  “Zulu, go ahead.”

  “Crystal Ball Six wants to know if you will RON, or would you like a lift home?”

  Gerber stared at the handset in disbelief. Apparently Bates had returned to B-Team Headquarters and was offering them airlift support back to camp.

  “Hawkeye, this is Zulu. Do I understand that airlift is available?”

  “That’s a big rog, Zulu Six. Do you wish to utilize?”

  Gerber considered the situation. They had spent most of the day walking to get to this spot and had lost three men doing it. Two others might not make it. And they were only now close to the area where the aircraft had reportedly gone down. He was loath to leave. On the other hand, they did not know precisely the location of the downed Otter, night was fast approaching and there was a large body of VC somewhere in the vicinity that would soon be alerted to the presence of the American and Tai patrol. They had no guarantee of close air support, and their communications were flaky. Bates, having returned to the B-Detachment TOC, was obviously fully aware of the situation and was offering them an out, a chance to get back to Camp A-555 before night set in and Charlie came looking for them.

  “That’s affirmative, Hawkeye Two One,” Gerber told the FAC. “Is Crystal Ball aware that I have two companies out here and that the LZ has limited landing capacity?”

  “I’ll relay that information to Crystal Ball, Zulu Six. Please stand by.”

  While he waited for word from the FAC, Gerber couldn’t help thinking how important the pilots of the tiny observation aircraft were to the job he was trying to do in Vietnam. True, he’d been pretty annoyed at this particular pilot to begin with, but as Bocker had rightly pointed out, the Air Force pilot wasn’t to blame for the failure of the radios they were using. FACs were a tremendous help on almost any mission. They could scout ahead of an advancing column and warn of the enemy’s presence. They could adjust artillery fires and coordinate air strikes and helicopter gunship support, even marking the target with smoke rockets for the fast movers. Often the most important work they performed was exactly what Hawkeye Two One was doing now — simply orbiting above or near an ongoing operation and serving as a radio link for the troops on the ground equipped with short-range FM radios. It frequently made the difference between success or failure, between life or death for the wounded.

  “Zulu Six, this is Hawkeye Two One,” came the call sign again.

  Gerber answered. “Zulu. Go ahead.”

  “Zulu, Dust-Off advises he should be over your position in zero five minutes. I’m getting low on fuel and will have to leave you, so I’ll turn you over to him. Crystal Ball says to tell you that airlift will be there in three five minutes. That’s cutting you a bit close for darkness, so if there are any snags, you may have to improvise lighting, but he says to tell you he has a plan to speed up the loading, whatever that means. Good luck to you boys. Have a nice ride home.”

  “Thanks for the assist, Hawkeye Two One. Zulu Six, out.”

  The medevac arrived on schedule, and the wounded and dead Tai were placed aboard. The helicopter rose above the splintered stumps that littered the tiny LZ, ran forward a very short distance and pulled up, barely clearing a treetop at the far end of the LZ.

  Gerber pulled the perimeter in tighter about the hilltop, and they waited.

  The airlift was early, and when Grasshopper One Seven made the call, Gerber’s spirits lifted. He nodded to Bocker, who popped a green smoke and tossed it into the LZ. Then, as the first of the CH-47 Chinooks hovered into view over the clearing, Gerber’s heart sank. There was no way one of the big helicopters could fit into the minuscule landing zone. Then, as Gerber watched, a naval-type landing net dropped from the tail of the first Chinook.

  While the other helicopters orbited south of the clearing, the second ship maneuvered in close and also dropped a net.

  “What in hell is that shit?” asked Anderson, who was kneeling next to Gerber.

  “That, Cat, is the way home. You want to ride back to the camp, start climbing.”

  “Christ!” said Anderson. “I hate ladders.”

  “Cat?” said Gerber with some surprise. “What’s the matter? You’re airborne.”

  “That’s different, Captain. I got two parachutes strapped on whenever I get foolish enough to step out of an airplane. Those are ladders. Chutes got nothing to do with ladders.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Sergeant, I’m afraid you have a problem. You want to get back to camp, you’ve got to climb that rope ladder.”

  “Oh, I’ll climb it, all right, sir,” said Anderson. “No problem about that. But I don’t have to like it.”

  “Fine,” said Gerber. “I give you my permission to hate it as much as you want, but let’s get moving. Shall we?”

  “Yes, sir.” Anderson started forward.

  Gerber turned toward Fetterman. “Well, Master Sergeant, we don’t want to hang around here all night. Move ’em out.”

  Two squads of strikers moved forward and began to climb the ladder with Anderson in the lead.

  CHAPTER 5

  U.S. ARMY SPECIAL FORCES CAMP A-555

  Lieutenant Greg Novak was bored. Once all the details had been taken care of and Captain Gerber had left with the two-hundred-man Tai search party, things had gotten boring pretty fast. He’d walked the perimeter with Lieutenant Bao, checking the camp’s defenses, while Sergeant Krung limped doggedly behind them, determined to prove that his injured foot shouldn’t have kept him from going on the patrol. He’d invited Lieutenant Dung to accompany them, but the LLDB executive officer had begged off, pleading an excess of paperwork to do and saying he would leave the inspection in the competent hands of his allies.

  Novak
had then suggested that Dung have his team sergeant accompany them, but that notion, too, had been rebuffed, with Dung stating that Master Sergeant Hoai had accompanied Captain Minh to Saigon and that the rest of his men were all engaged in various important duties about the camp.

  Novak had given up after that. It was, after all, the Vietnamese’s camp, strictly speaking, and if the man didn’t feel like checking the security arrangements, he didn’t have to. Novak had heard that quite a few of the Vietnamese officers tended to be a bit on the lackadaisical side. But Gerber’s cautionary statements about the possibility of VC infiltrators among the Vietnamese strike force and the political philosophy of the previous LLDB XO were still fresh in his mind. It made him doubly determined to make sure the camp’s defenses were in an adequate state of readiness. It wasn’t that he was actually suspicious of Dung. After all, the man had encouraged him to continue the inspection. It was just that he was trying to play it safe, as the captain had suggested.

  They’d had no recent reports of significant VC activity in the area, according to Kepler, the Intel sergeant, who had briefed him before the men went out, but Novak didn’t think the captain would appreciate having the camp damaged or overrun while he was out because his new XO wasn’t on his toes.

  After that he’d gone to the team house to get a bite of lunch and tried to make conversation with Miss Morrow, but the journalist hadn’t seemed in the mood to talk to anyone. Mostly she sat packing, unpacking and repacking her gear and drinking barely cool cans of Carling Black Label and Point beer from the team’s antique kerosene-powered refrigerator, which seemed incapable of getting anything really cold. That and snarling and snapping at anyone and everyone who tried to speak to her. Novak wasn’t sure exactly what was eating her ass but got the general impression that she was irritated at being denied permission to accompany the search party, and pissed at the captain in particular. The safest course had seemed to be leaving her alone until she worked out whatever it was that was bugging her or until she got drunk and fell asleep.

  After that he’d played pinochle with some of the PFs for a while but stopped when he’d lost forty-two dollars and begun to suspect that they were playing with a marked deck and that all the PFs were in on the gag. Then he’d cleaned his rifle and his pistol, rearranged his bunk and gear and written a letter to his mother for dispatch when the routine supply helicopter came in the morning with the mail pouch.