Under Attack

by Eric Meyer

  We took the borrowed weapons and went outside. The jeep was waiting for us and we climbed in. I drove out of Dong Ha, heading for the highway north, the AH1. The road was in good repair, as far as roads in South Vietnam went. Which meant the surface wasn’t too chewed up by tanks and tracked armored personnel carriers, like the Bradley M113. I picked up speed to sixty miles an hour, racing up the coastal highway, and ahead of us lay the DMZ, the tunnels of Vinh Moc, and Binh An. They didn’t need a signpost for Binh An. There were more than enough helicopters buzzing around the battlefield like flies over a carcass to indicate its precise location.

  We could have made it, could have got past, except the People’s Army artillery had other ideas. They were firing shells like they bulk bought them in a closing down sale. They whined overhead, crashing into the ground close to the highway. Ray made some comment about lousy shooting when three shells bracketed the highway and tore a huge, ragged hole in the surface. I stamped on the brake, just in time to prevent our wheels driving into the hole, and we climbed out to inspect it.

  “We need to go round,” Le said, stating the obvious.

  We were driving through thick jungle that had encroached on the highway, and sure we could have gone round if we’d hacked a new roadway wide enough to take the jeep.

  “We’re screwed,” I muttered.

  Ray nodded. “We’re screwed.”

  Lam gave me a bright smile. “If we can’t get the jeep past, we can always walk.”

  “Fifty klicks? And there’s a major battle going on just up the road.”

  She grimaced. “You’re right. We’re screwed.”

  Chapter Ten

  We stood there for several minutes, weighing our options in the knowledge Bao Minh was probably already at Vinh Moc, and he’d be preparing his next moves. I hadn’t got a clue what they were, just that he was an unpleasant bastard, so whatever he did would be unpleasant.

  “We need help,” Ray said, “They have enough helicopters up here. Maybe they could sling the jeep beneath the fuselage and carry it over.”

  He was talking about the CH-54 Tarhe, known as the Skycrane. The chances of getting a Skycrane to a remote northern battlefield were close to zero, but in the event we didn’t need a Skycrane. We had help from an unexpected quarter, the People’s Army of Vietnam. The barrage that straddled the highway had lifted, but suddenly a salvo of a half-dozen shells whistled over, and this time they missed the highway. But they didn’t miss the adjacent patch of jungle, and the shell bursts tore into the dense foliage. What had been an impassable obstacle disappeared. We had a narrow way through, littered with broken foliage, debris, and shards of wood from shattered tree trunks, but it was a way through. And the jeep was designed to cross rough ground with little protest.

  On the principle artillery shells don’t strike the same place twice, I took the narrow path through the thick jungle, bumping over the detritus of the artillery strike, and we bumped over something else, a real surprise. Bodies. Four People’s Army soldiers, their corpses lying close to a wrecked machine gun in what would have been a concealed bunker, designed to ambush passing vehicles. We’d been lucky twice, which was more than those poor guys. Sent into South Vietnam to lie in ambush and kill the American round eyes when they drove past, they’d fallen victim to their own shells.

  They called it ‘friendly fire,’ but seeing those smashed and broken corpses strewn across the asshole of South East Asia, their bodies never to be returned to their loved ones, I had strong doubts about that euphemism ‘friendly fire.’ Isn’t getting killed by your own side the unfriendliest act a man could imagine? Other than getting his tour of duty in Vietnam extended to a further year. As it happened I had extended my tour, but that was something else. Some would call it grief. Some would make up complicated psychological reasons, maybe a wish to self-destruction. I had a simpler explanation. I wanted to kick the asses of the guys who’d killed my wife. I called it drinking from the cup of revenge, and in the past few months my cup had sure as hell been refilled more than a few times.

  I drove back onto the highway and picked up speed. A Huey gunship buzzed us, and then a line of UH-1Cs flew past, ready to give the Commies a roasting. Or so I hoped. There was one Commie I wanted to roast, and he was up ahead.

  “You think we’ll find him?”

  I glanced at Ray. “I know we will. I checked out his file, and there’s nowhere else he’s likely to go. Hole up at Vinh Moc until the heat dies down, and he can decide his next murder victim.”

  “And then it’s all over.”

  They didn’t say anything from the rear seat, and I didn’t hear them move, but I sensed them stiffen, and I raised my voice so they could hear what I had to say. “When we nail him, it’s not all over. That cop in Saigon, General Phan Trong Kim, he’s part of it, and he has to go down. Remember, the two girls are serving police officers, and until we deal with him, there’s no way they can go back.”

  He grimaced. “Is that all?”

  “No, Ray, it isn’t all. You know how this started, a bunch of Army investigators, my own colleagues murdered when Bao Minh planted a bomb on the aircraft. Except he didn’t do it personally, he had to have someone else fix it for him. I have to find that person and hold him to account. Otherwise, there will be no justice for those officers.”

  “You don’t mean…”

  “Bader. He tried to stop the investigation when I told him about the North Vietnamese planting the missile. They wanted to stop those investigators getting to the truth of a major conspiracy to bring down the government by assassinating the President. I’ve been asking myself over and over, why was he so anxious to stop me getting at the truth? The answer I come up with is the obvious one. He’s part of it.”

  “But what does he have to gain if the Communists take over?”

  “Who knows, but when Saigon falls, there’ll be enough loot to fill the bank accounts of everyone involved. America is putting billions of dollars into fighting this war, and a lot of it comes across in cash and lines of credit to buy weapons. Stuff like fighter aircraft doesn’t come cheap, and I’m willing to bet my bottom dollar they’ve promised Bader enough money to buy himself a comfortable vacation home. Like a private island in the Seychelles.”

  “You think he’s bent? An Army CID Colonel?”

  “I do. And if this works, he won’t be spending the winter is in the Seychelles. He’ll be shivering in a cold cell eating greasy, undercooked food and wondering where it all went wrong.”

  “Where did it go wrong?”

  “When he tried to cover up the murder of those CID officers. Who knows, with any luck he may get the death penalty. After all, what he’s done amounts to treachery and betrayal of your country. Although I doubt it, scum like him usually find a way to make a deal.”

  “I hope you’re right. If you’re wrong, and Bader is innocent, they’ll crucify you.”

  I didn’t reply. What had started as a simple investigation had become a voyage through the sixth level of hell. And we were about to descend to the seventh level, the tunnels of Vinh Moc.

  I steered the jeep north, and every kilometer we traveled we were getting nearer to the tunnels. Even though they were rumored to be different to Cu Chi, I couldn’t help thinking I was driving toward a date with destiny. To finish what I’d started in the Iron Triangle, and that was to die. The journey to the DMZ wasn’t far, and we soon hit the approaches to Vinh Moc without encountering any enemies. A stone building came into view, with the sign ‘Police’ painted on the front. The place was like a fortress, with heavily barred windows, and there was no sentry outside. Just a slot for the machine gun that poked out to cover the road, and I had little doubt there’d be another machine gun at the rear.

  On impulse I decided to stop. After all, it was next to impossible the cops inside would be aware we were wanted, especially since the overhead cables strung along the highway were in ribbons, the poles felled at some time. If they were lucky they had electricity, the most
they would have would be a radio. Although on close inspection the poles carrying the power cables were also in ribbons.

  I banged on the door while Ray kept watch outside. Just in case Charlie was already here, waiting like a spider in its web for some naïve American soldier to bang on the door. Just like I was doing. But the guy who peered through the narrow slot looked anything but a VC. The dark eyes showed fear, and when I started to speak, he visibly flinched.

  “We need directions, Officer.”

  After a pause, he replied, “Directions to where?”

  “Vinh Moc.”

  This time he didn’t flinch. He trembled like he had some nervous affliction. “Whatever business you have at Vinh Moc, I suggest you think again. They are not friendly to American soldiers.”

  “I’m not going there to swap greetings. I have other business. Say, why don’t you open up and let us inside?”

  The view slot slid shut, and I heard a shouted conversation inside, and what sounded like an argument. After five minutes, bolts and locks rattled, and the door opened. The cop I’d spoken to stood looking out at us.

  “Get in, quickly.”

  We got in quickly, and he went through the process of closing, bolting, and re-locking the door. Oil lamps and a couple of candles dimly lighted the inside, and through the gloom I saw another five cops, making six all told. A uniform with sergeant’s stripes stepped forward. He was short, broad, bald as a billiard ball, and built like a miniature gorilla. He was also the scruffiest cop I’d ever seen, unshaven, and his uniform in tatters. I was about to find out why.

  “The constable said you asking directions to Vinh Moc. Turn around, and don’t go there. Go back to wherever you came from.”

  “Listen, Mister, I know what to expect when we get there. All I’m asking for are directions, that’s all. I’m not asking you to join us for a raid, or anything like that.”

  He nodded slowly. “You think we’re too scared to go there?”

  I know you’re too scared to go there. At least I thought I did.

  “I have six men here, and three weeks ago there were twelve of us, including a Police Lieutenant who insisted on going to Vinh Moc with one other man to investigate a series of murders. The inhabitants of Vinh Moc captured him and delivered his genitals to this police station. The man he went with barely managed to escape. Soon after they captured another five men and delivered them to the police station as well. They skinned them alive, and I don’t know if you can imagine such a death, but the message was clear. Stay away from Vinh Moc.”

  “So you stayed away like good boys.”

  He didn’t blink. “I requested additional men from Saigon, as well as repairs to our telephones and electricity. They said they’d put us on a waiting list, and they’ll try to get to us inside of a year. We’re cut off here, and all we can do is try to stay alive inside this police post. You may call it cowardice, but I promise you, if we had the men, we’d go back to Vinh Moc and deal with those murdering scum.”

  “I thought they were peasants who’d dug the tunnels to protect themselves from the bombing.”

  He snorted. “They drove the peasants out several months ago. They’ve built it into a main staging post to resupply People’s Army and Vietcong units. The men and women living inside those tunnels are all hostiles.”

  I nodded. “That makes it easier. We don’t have to be so careful who we shoot.”

  He looked incredulous. “You’re still going?”

  “We don’t have a choice. A North Vietnamese spy infiltrated the ARVN and tried to assassinate the President. He’s a man with a lot of blood on his hands, and either we take him down, or he’ll try again, and next time he may succeed.”

  The cops began talking amongst themselves, and I saw the expressions darken with fury. “You say this man attempted to murder our President?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  He spoke with his men at length, and they seemed to come to some conclusion, for they all gave him emphatic nods. Their attitude had gone through a major transition, from outright hostility and suspicion to intense fury.

  “My name is Sergeant Canh Duc, and every one of the men in this post are volunteers. We’re here to fight the Communists, and we all expect to fight and die. Our superiors in Saigon have abandoned us, and we have little left except to wait for the North Vietnamese to attack this place and kill every man. You asked for directions to Vinh Moc, and we’re prepared to offer more. Much more. We will go with you.”

  I heard Ray mutter, “If we can trust them, that would sure even up the odds.”

  Sergeant Canh had overheard him. “You can trust us, of that I can assure you. As I said, we all of us expect to die. We may as well die in an attempt to make a difference and hit the Communists where it hurts.”

  There was nothing to discuss. The girls chatted to them at length in Vietnamese, and Le took me aside. She told me she was convinced of their loyalty to the Republic.

  “All of them have been posted here because of some minor disagreement with a superior officer, or in some cases because they came across corruption and were sent up here to put them out of the way. They’ve been abandoned, and they have nothing left. Or at least they didn’t have anything left. And now they do.”

  That was good enough for me and Ray, and we began to prepare. Sergeant Canh introduced us to his constables, whose names were Cao, Dang, Viet, Tan, and Xuong. Apart from Canh, I promptly forgot every single one of them, and we began searching around the police post for anything that could be useful to us. Like the M60 machine gun they had in the small armory, together with enough ammunition belts to keep it firing long enough to do some useful work. They had grenades, also useful, and teargas for riot control, together with respirators. Not so useful. Until Sergeant Canh reminded us we’d be penetrating a tunnel system, and tossing teargas grenades into an enclosed space could cause an enemy to panic and make them easier targets. We helped ourselves to teargas, grenades, and respirators.

  The cops were armed with AR-15s, which was good, except most of them were not functional because they lacked spare parts. It was enough to make me weep when I considered the billions of dollars being spent inside Vietnam. I didn’t need to speculate on where it was going. It wasn’t coming here to give these cops, trapped so close to the DMZ, the means to combat the enemy who crossed over from the North almost daily.

  In the end they managed to find two AR-15s in working order, and the other four cops carried scatter guns. In the dark, close confines of the tunnels they could well prove useful. A twelve-gauge cartridge in the belly at short range is a novel way to put a man on his back. We took the oil lamps from inside the post, topped them up with oil, and left. I assumed the police would travel in their own vehicle, which gave them intense amusement.

  “The Viets threw a grenade into the last one, and the one before that they stole. Before that, they…”

  I cut him off. “I get the picture. How far is it?”

  “About three klicks. We will walk ahead and show the route. You can follow us behind in the jeep.”

  They started walking, and they were nervous. Covering both sides of the track, one man walking ahead with a working AR-15, and the others constantly swinging their scatterguns around, searching for any sign of the enemy. We crawled along behind them, and it was as well we did. Sergeant Canh held up a hand, and we stopped.

  “Booby trap, we need a few minutes to dismantle it.”

  We waited and watched as they cut the thin wire stretched across the track. It was intended to slice through the neck of anyone foolish enough to come through at speed, but there was more sophistication to the trap. Three grenades strung in the trees, and when the wire cut through a man’s neck, the grenades would explode moments later, shattering the other men in the unit with razor-sharp fragments that would rip through their bodies and leave them bloody corpses. Sergeant Canh signaled they’d dismantled the trap, and they’d continue to lead the way on foot if we wished.

&n
bsp; We were still experiencing that prickling feeling in the skin, the one you get after a close brush with death, and we all nodded. “Sure, sure, go ahead.”

  We continued the slow procession, until Sergeant Canh held up a hand again for us to halt. “The tunnel is one thousand meters ahead. There will be a guard, perhaps two.”

  “He’s mine,” Ray and I both echoed in unison.

  In the end Massey went forward to deal with the sentry, and I stayed with the girls and the half-dozen cops. He returned after ten minutes, and the relaxed grin on his face told us all we needed to know. “We’re all clear, good to go.”

  We crept forward along a narrow path between thick bushes until it started to descend, and soon we saw the dark outline of a tunnel entrance in front of us. Not a narrow hatch for a man to squeeze through like those at Cu Chi. This was bigger, a gradual sloping descent, and either side of the path was lined with sandbags. I recalled the reason they dug these tunnels in the first place, to protect against the bombing. Their intention would have been to prevent the sides of the approach ramp from collapsing as the ground shook from the explosions of heavy bombs.

  We stood outside that entrance, and no one was going forward, offering to be the first. I decided to take the plunge and loaded a round into the breach of my M-14, touched both the grenades clipped to the webbing harness I’d borrowed from the police, and started forward into the darkness. I left the cops with the oil lamps. The last thing I wanted was to present myself with a nice juicy target for some ambitious VC to take a potshot at. The path descended lower and lower, and I recalled they said the new series of tunnels were dug at a depth of thirty meters.

  A long way down, and I kept walking, always conscious of what this place was. The home of fifty or sixty people, no longer peasants, who’d been kicked out by their Communist overlords, but they were all fighters. I was back in the tunnels at Cu Chi, except this tunnel was higher and wider, less claustrophobic. I could hear them following me, and in the faint glow of a lamp, I was able to keep my footing until I reached a bend. A bend in a Vietcong tunnel usually meant one thing, an ambush. Charlie would be waiting around the corner ready to dispense a few 7.62mm bullets from his AK, or he’d have dug a pit lined with poisoned stakes for the unwary to step on.