by Eric Meyer
A grimace. “He told the brass he wanted to see some action, so they ordered me to bring him close to where it was all happening. Now he’s telling me it’s too close.”
“Damn right, it is,” the reporter snarled, “Take me back to Cu Chi Base Camp. I’ve got more than enough to file a report to my paper.”
LeBlanc grinned. “That’s what you want, to go back to Cu Chi Base Camp?”
“Like now. The quickest route.”
He nodded. “The quickest route it is. Private Yeager, as I recall the quickest route takes us past Bong Trang, isn’t that right?”
One thing I was sure of, Bong Trang was about the most indirect route a man could take back to Base, but I suspected what he had in mind, and I went along with it.
“Right.”
He looked up at the sky. “I estimate we have around four hours of darkness left. We’ll wait until dawn and get some sleep. Anyone have anything to eat?”
All of a sudden I realized how hungry and tired I was. I shook my head. “I could do with some Zs, but I don’t have any food.”
He looked at Butcher. “You?”
“Just my own vittles, stuff I brought with me.”
“That’ll do, share them out.”
“It’s my personal stuff.”
“If you want to walk out of the jungle on your own, you can keep your own food. If you want to come with us, you share.”
He shared, and we feasted on dried fruit, cans of meat, and even vacuum-packed slices of fruitcake. A veritable banquet, and afterward LeBlanc offered to take the first watch. I relieved him for the next hour, stiff and aching, and wishing I could have slept for another twelve, and he did the final hour. At dawn we packed our things and started hiking toward Bong Trang. We should have been careful, but the madness that came over me had affected him as well. We’d gone beyond caring, beyond anything. Besides, I was a dead man. The enemy had done their best to kill me several times over, and our own artillery had fired enough shells in my direction to take down a battalion. We chatted as we walked along the path, and he felt the same way.
“I reckon you and me are fated to survive this shit long enough to locate and kill that bastard.”
“That’s my thinking.” I thought of Morgan, and Byrd, and all the others. Of my platoon, and in my mind I could see the hacked-up body of Second Lieutenant Sarandon in that well, “Plenty of good men have died already. We’ll join them soon enough.”
“I reckon so. Say, what if he’s tucked away inside a tunnel? I mean, as I recall they’re not your favorite places.”
“If he’s underground, I’ll go down and get him.”
Butcher was stumbling along behind us, moaning about everything from the heat, the humidity, the insects, and he’d found the war wasn’t to his liking.
You ain’t seen nothing yet. Not until we reach Bong Trang.
We ignored him, and LeBlanc didn’t speak for several minutes. I tensed, assuming he was staying quiet because he suspected the VC were close, but he’d been thinking.
“Last time out you were shit scared of the tunnels.”
“That was then. If I’m about to die, I don’t give a damn where it happens. Just as long as I get the bastard before I go.”
He knew who I meant. Inside, I had a cold chill inside my belly, the coldness of a man who knows his life is almost over.
“You know that Chinese quote? ‘Those who seek death shall live. Those who seek life shall die.’”
“Nope.”
“So maybe you’ll survive your tour and go home alive instead of an aluminum coffin. You got a wife?”
I thought of Gracie, and right then I’d have given anything to be with her, except I couldn’t be with her. Uncle Sam had said otherwise. I also had a task to complete. A task I regarded as my rightful duty, and if I failed, how could I live with myself? All I could hope was when she learned of my death she’d remarry someone, anyone who didn’t have to fight in Vietnam.
“Her name’s Gracie.”
He nodded. “You’ll see her again, I know it. Like that old Chinese guy said, ‘Those who seek death shall live.’”
I never trusted the Chinese. Commies all, and besides they supported the Vietcong. “That guy was talking bullshit.”
He chuckled, and we walked on. Butcher jogged to catch up with us, and he was red-faced with exertion. “Are you sure this is the quickest route back to Base Camp?”
LeBlanc shrugged. “I think we may have missed a turn back there, but we’ll get there sooner or later.”
“It better be sooner, Sergeant. I can do you a lot of good, and I can do you a lot of harm.”
“Knock yourself out. Remember, we’re not back yet.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means cut the crap. If we run into trouble, who could blame me if I left you to fight your own way out?”
“I didn’t mean it,” he shot back instantly, his expression forming a smile that was as genuine as a nine-dollar bill.
“Sure you didn’t.”
We reached the approaches to Bong Trang, and it had taken us longer than we’d supposed. It was almost midday. The smoke from cooking fires was a pungent reminder there were people there, but they weren’t holding a meeting of the local farmer’s cooperative. LeBlanc insisted he’d go forward for a recce, but I wasn’t having any of it.”
“I’ll do it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes, I do.”
He nodded. “Don’t do anything stupid. See what we’re up against, and we’ll wait until the light starts to fade and try to go in and get them out.”
I left them in a dense patch of jungle and started along a narrow game trail that ran parallel to the path. I reached the first hooches and crouched behind a hut. They were gathered in the center, and it was like there was no war on. As if they had little to fear in daylight from the Americans or the ARVN. Especially the ARVN with whom they were known to have made so-called ‘gentleman’s agreements.’ The VC ruled by night, the ARVN by day, until the Communists went back on their word and started shooting. They never could keep their word. The Vietcong were squatting on the bare earth, and in front of them Commissar Trinh Tac was spewing out bile and vitriol. I didn’t understand the words, but the meaning was the same in any language.
Tam and Erskine were kneeling on the ground between him and the crowd. It looked like a trial. It was a show trial, the way they did it in Moscow and Beijing. Humiliate the defendant after they’d beaten and tortured them, the verdict already decided, and they’d go through the motions before carrying out the sentence. In Vietnam it would always be death.
Trinh’s voice rose to fever pitch, shouting at full volume, and he was soon joined by the VCs bellowing in unison. ‘Kill the Imperialists’ or some shit like that.
And then he disappeared into the earth like the devil had called him for a committee meeting. It took me a couple of minutes to work it out. He’d been standing over a tunnel and stepped into the shaft to descend into the depths.
Two men grabbed Erskine and dropped him into the same shaft like a sack of garbage. His wrists and ankles were fastened with wire, and I was certain it was the thin communications wire used by the U.S. Army. It was good wire, versatile, like a Swiss Army knife with many different uses. Wrapped around several times it was a secure as steel shackles. They did the same to Tam and then dispersed like regular peasants going about their business.
Some lit up cigarettes, some filled pipes with what I was certain wasn’t tobacco. Others began checking their weapons, stripping AKs and cleaning them, reloading magazines, and sharpening knives and machetes. They chatted as they worked, and if it had been anywhere else in the world, it may have been a peaceful, bucolic scene. It wasn’t anywhere else in the world. This was South Vietnam, the Iron Triangle, where ‘peaceful’ was an alien word. In my opinion, most of them confused the word ‘peace’ with ‘war.’ Maybe that was the root of the problem.
I wondered how we’d m
issed the tunnel entrance when we were in the village before, but it must have been hidden so well it was invisible. Now they figured they were safe, and they could have been right. As far as I knew, Westmoreland’s Operation Cedar Falls was in its closing stages and had passed this place by. With no troops remaining to hold the ground they’d taken at such cost, the Army had left a void, and the VC were back to fill it. Their cocky confidence angered me. A vicious bunch of nasty little shits, and I was certain I’d just watched them condemn my two friends to something unspeakable.
I smelled the cooking smoke again, and it occurred to me I couldn’t see the cooking fires. So where were they? I retreated back into the jungle and found out. Dien Bien Phu kitchens, small vents reaching to the surface and concealed deep inside the tropical foliage. I crept nearer, and I was close to the wisps of smoke emerging from the ground. I was considering blocking the vents when a head popped out nearby. First, the floppy hat, followed by the dark face, the shoulders of the black pajamas, and I was lying flat on the ground when the rest of him came into view.
I was less than a meter away, staring at the rubber tire sandals, and he was lighting a cigarette, looking away from me. I figured this could be my entrance ticket, a way to reach Tam and Erskine, and to get Trinh. All that stood in my way was this guy. He didn’t stand in my way for too long. I still carried Coles’ knife in my belt. I got up, taking care to make no noise, and almost reached him when he started to turn.
He may have been a cook, not a fighting man, but he was VC, and he had a mouth to warn his pals. I couldn’t allow it, and he was facing me when I struck. He moved aside as the blade flashed toward him, and all I managed to do was rip his black pajamas. His mouth opened, and in desperation I slammed a fist into the gaping teeth so hard several of them cracked and broke. He gagged, temporarily unable to cry out, and I followed up with a knee to his groin. As he folded, I punched him again, this time into his throat. He was gasping for air, his groin on fire, and falling. I followed him down with the knife and plunged it deep into his heart. The light went out of his eyes, and his agony ended for good.
I glanced down at the dark hole from where he’d appeared. Down there I’d find what I wanted, my two good friends, Erskine and Tam. My worst enemy Trinh Tac, and I’d also find something else. Death.
I know I’ll never emerge from that dark, stinking hole, but that’s what fate has ordained for me. To die here, in Vietnam, underground and in the darkness, a place that had held so many terrors, but no more. I’ve conquered my terror, and I feel…nothing. My life isn’t worth a rat’s ass. But neither is Trinh’s.
Chapter Twelve
MACV After Action Report – Lessons Learned
A trained tunnel exploitation and denial team is essential to the expeditious and thorough exploitation and denial of Vietcong tunnels. Untrained personnel may miss hidden tunnel entrances, take unnecessary casualties from concealed mines and booby traps, and may not adequately deny the tunnel to future Vietcong use.
Tunnel teams should be trained, equipped, and maintained in a ready status to provide immediate expert assistance when tunnels are discovered.
Careful mapping of the tunnel complex may reveal other hidden entrances as well as the location of adjacent tunnel complexes.
I climbed down a crude bamboo ladder that went surprisingly deep, around twelve meters, and the smoke from the cooking fires made my eyes water. This was where they’d be preparing the midday meal, and I pitied the poor bastards who had to stand over the primitive stoves while the rice bubbled and boiled, or whatever it did. No, that wasn’t true. I didn’t pity them, not really. They were the enemy, providing food and sustenance for the killers of American soldiers; as well as slaughtering innocent women and children in a murderous campaign to take over the country of South Vietnam. Their war was the war of the thug, the gangster, and the brutal assassin.
The tunnel sloped down to a lower level, opened into a large chamber, and they were there. A man stirring a big, iron cauldron with a ladle over a wood fire, and they wore goggles and bandanas over their mouths to protect against the choking, stinking smoke. I was tempted to kill them to prevent them sounding an alarm, but how can you kill a room full of cooks? Sure, I’d been tempted to kill the cook on occasion when a restaurant meal wasn’t decent enough to feed cattle, but I’d always held back, and I held back now. I got behind them and shouted “Gio tay lan.”
I may not have been fluent in the language, but I’d learned enough to say, ‘Put up your hands.’ They put them up, and I checked to make sure they weren’t armed. They weren’t, and I gestured for them to lay flat on the floor. My fluency in Vietnamese didn’t extend that far, but they got the message when I made sure they saw the tiny PSM pistol. One of the cooks stared at it in astonishment, and I guessed he’d seen it before. Only that time Madame Vo was holding it, and it didn’t take a genius to understand how I’d got my hands on it.
I tied their wrists and ankles using more lengths of communication wire I found lying around. It looked like they used it to hang pots and pans from the low roof. Last, I tore of strips of cloth from their pajamas, stuffed it into their mouths, and wrapped more wire around their heads to make it impossible to remove the gags. It wasn’t foolproof, but I reckoned it would hold for long enough for me to do what I’d come there to do.
I crawled into another tunnel, and I felt at home down there. No fear, and apart from the stench, I could live with whatever it threw at me. And die with it. At least I could see where I was going. They’d rigged up tiny oil lamps for illumination, and I crawled toward my final destination.
I found Erskine first, or rather, I found the guard who was holding a gun on him. They’d pushed him into a side tunnel, at the end of which was a tiny niche. No more than a meter high and half a meter in width. He was bent double, his wrists and ankles still fastened, and I didn’t need to look at his eyes to see the pain he was in. The guard didn’t see me at first, and I thought I might get to him and do him with the knife, but in such a confined space it’s difficult to approach anyone unseen and unheard.
He heard me, turned, and tried to bring his rifle around, but the barrel fouled on the tunnel side. He changed the angle to try again, and I was too far away to do anything other than what I did. I squeezed the trigger, and the little PSM sounded like a bomb detonating inside the narrow passage. I dragged him out of the way, raced forward, and used the knife to slash through Erskine’s bonds. His face mirrored his increased agony as the circulation started to return to his limbs.
I dragged him out of the tiny space and reached the main tunnel. By some miracle nobody appeared to have heard the shot, and I waited for him to massage his bruised and aching arms and legs.
“Jamie, we have to get moving. Tam is down here somewhere. Do you have any idea where they’re holding her?”
He shook his head. “We were on the surface, some kind of a trial. Then they dragged us down here, and they took her someplace else. Yeager, how did you get here? You’ll never get out alive.”
Should I tell him I’ve given up, that I don’t give a shit either way, life or death?
I decided against it. He was in a bad way, his skin covered in bruises and lacerations after being confined in such a brutal way. Not to mention anticipating a gory death at any moment. “I guess I was lucky. I need to find Tam before we go any further, are you up to it?”
“Give me a moment.” He wasn’t asking for a moment to recover. He was asking for a moment to crawl back and pick up the rifle the guard had dropped, “Now I’m up to it.”
We continued along the tunnel, a slow crawl with more bends which explained why the echo of the shot hadn’t reached the wrong ears. Just before yet another bend, I heard voices, and I signaled for Jamie to halt. I peeked around the corner, and ahead of me the tunnel opened up into a larger, lighter space. I could see bunk beds on either side, and to my astonishment what appeared to be medical equipment, drip stands, and even an oxygen bottle on a trolley, complete with
a mask clipped to the side.
I’d happened on a Vietcong underground hospital, and much as I’d had misgivings about killing those cooks, I didn’t want to start killing the sick and wounded. I whispered I’d crawl forward alone, but Jamie said he’d be right behind me. I paused and surveyed the unexpected space. Bunk beds on either side, three high, but to my relief they were all unoccupied.
At least, I’d assumed they were unoccupied, until I heard a low, throaty sound, and it resolved into a groaning noise. It could have been someone who was sick, but a female voice murmured a few words, and a male voice replied. It wasn’t anybody sick or in pain. They were lying on the topmost bunk on the right side of the room. The rickety stand of bunks moved again, and they continued humping. I wondered if it was some new and revolutionary Communist medical procedure, but I discounted that possibility. It was a procedure all right, the oldest procedure in the world.
Well, okay, they were entitled to have some fun, God only knew there was little enough fun down here, and not much more on the surface. They were so engrossed in their amorous activities I was unwilling to put an end to their simple pleasures. I gestured to Jamie, and we snaked past them, continuing along the tunnel. The roof again became much lower, just the usual one meter high and half as wide, barely enough to squeeze through.
We came out into another open space, and I held up my hand to stop. It was the smell that alerted me first, the faint odor of patchouli that the stench of the tunnels failed to dispel. After everything I’d been through, I knew I’d finally made it. He was standing there with his back to me. It was Trinh, no question. Unusually short, like Madame Vo, but there any resemblance ended. You could have called them Beauty and the Beast. His height was around four and a half feet. Broad-shouldered and with short, bowed legs and long, hairy arms. I couldn’t see his face, but I surmised if he turned it would be low browed, square-jawed with receding hair on top. They said his men called him ‘Monkey.’ They were wrong. I’d have said he was more like a troll, the stuff of children’s nightmares.
