the Hill (1995)

by Scott, Leonard B

  Praise for Leonard B. Scott’s

  other novels

  Charlie Mike

  “One of the finest novels yet written about the war in Vietnam.”

  The Washington Post

  “Enthralling from first page to last … Scott combines romance, humor, tragedy to make this a first-class reading experience.”

  Military Review

  The Last Run

  “It’s more Charlie Mike, but better.… The kind of book that leaves you wanting more.”

  Atlanta Journal & Constitution

  Also by Leonard B. Scott

  Published by Ballantine Books:

  CHARLIE MIKE

  THE LAST RUN

  Copyright © 1989 by Leonard B. Scott

  Map copyright © 1983 by Random House, Inc.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States of America by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to Random House, Inc., for permission to reprint a map from The Eyewitness History of the Vietnam War 1961–1975 by George Esper and the Associated Press. Maps copyright © 1983 by Random House, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the publisher. Map by Alex Jay.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 88-61367

  eISBN: 978-0-307-80143-2

  v3.1

  The battle of Dak To, June-December 1967, happened as told within these pages. Information on United States Army and North Vietnamese units—as well as dates, times, locations, tactics, and casualty figures—is based on U.S. Army declassified technical reports, unit histories, diaries, letters, and personal interviews with survivors.

  The names, main characters, and dialogue in this work are fiction. Any resemblance of the fictional characters to real persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  The single most costly battle of the Vietnam War for U.S. servicemen was the battle of Dak To: they paid dearly.

  296 Killed 1,188 Wounded 18 Missing in Action

  The Hill is dedicated

  to the men who were there

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  It was February 2, 1954, in the Central Highlands of Vietnam. Death was in the wind. The stink of impending destruction was as real as the sudden silence and the clouds of cordite smoke that floated over the small earthen fort. The artillery barrage had been pounding the fort for eight hours. It was only a matter of time before the Vietminh made their final assault. The reinforcement column from Kontum had already been ambushed. They had been the lucky ones—they had died quickly. Those in the fort were not so fortunate. Most of them had suffered agonizingly slow deaths, losing life bit by bit, part by part, lying on bloody bunker floors, wounded and screaming.

  Now, only 51 men of the original 206 who had defended the outpost were huddled in earth-covered bunkers on the fort’s perimeter, waiting for the inevitable. Among them were French, Vietnamese, Cambodians, Laotians, and Senegalese. They knew they were abandoned. The Southern Plateaux Montagnards force had crumbled. Two other forts along the border had already fallen. Groupement Mobile 100, the battle-hardened elite troops who had fought with the UN forces in Korea, were too far away to help. The fighter-bombers that had kept the enemy at bay had returned to their fields in Nha Trang and Seno to re-arm and refuel. The defenders, lying with their dead comrades, could only sweat and wait. Death was coming.

  Major Binh Ty Duc, observing from a hilltop that overlooked the smoking fort one kilometer distant, rose to his full six feet and raised his hand. Slowly he lowered his arm to signal the last barrage. The sound of rounds sliding down mortar tubes sent chills up his spine. After so many years and so much blood, victory was at hand. He watched the compound erupt in flashes of red and orange and in blinding black smoke. The pack-75 howitzers joined in with direct fire from the opposite slope, adding to the din. Major Duc began a slow run down the trail to join his men. He would lead them as always.

  Twenty minutes later, Major Duc rose up from the front trench as the mortar rounds slowly crept toward the center of the fort, until it seemed there was a constant geyser of earth and fire at its center. An explosion shook the ground beneath his feet. The last of the wire entanglements was blown to bits by the bamboo bangalore torpedoes. Raising one arm, he yelled to his assault battalion, “FORWARD!”

  Over the last echoes of the barrage the defenders in the bunkers could hear a blood-chilling sound—men screaming, hundreds and hundreds of men screaming, “Tien len! Tien len!”

  The garrison survivors moved silently to their positions. To die fighting was all that remained. A soldier in the bunker closest to the attack began whistling. Lieutenant Le Bleu, the only remaining officer, heard the sweet sound over the chatter of gunfire and slowly stood up from his covered position. The soldier was whistling “The Marseillaise,” the French national anthem. The lieutenant walked through the gunsmoke toward the charging Vietminh with tears in his eyes as he fired his pistol.

  Major Binh Ty Duc completed his tour of the battlefield and stopped at the front gate. He lowered his head, sickened by the grisly scene behind him. He had hungered four years for a victory, but not at such a cost. His beloved soldiers of the 108th Battalion had left over ninety men in the lingering, eerie mist of death. Their bodies were strewn over the ground in every conceivable gruesome position. There was no time to bury and honor them. The planes would return soon. Their blood, as well as that of the brave defenders who had exacted the toll, would stain the ground forever.

  Eight wounded French lay to his right. By his orders they were not taken prisoner or harmed. Their battle was over. To take them would be to kill them. His battalion would soon force march the forty kilometers to Kontum and finish the remaining outpost there.

  When the major turned to join his battalion, he saw one of the wounded Frenchmen staring at him with a look of defiance. The man’s wounds were such that he would be scarred forever. Duc took the canteen from his belt and tossed it toward the proud soldier. Someone from this fort had to live and tell of the bravery of the others … someone had to remember the battle of Dak To.

  16 August, 1965, Meyers, Oklahoma

  Jason Johnson pushed open the door of the John Deere store and stepped out into the dry Oklahoma heat. The stagnant, hot air smelled of baking dust. He strolled down the sizzling sidewalk, passing the stores and people he knew he would soon be missing. Meyers wasn�
��t much to look at, but it was his hometown. He knew all of the store owners and their families, right down to the names of their dogs. The center of town comprised only two blocks of stores and a stoplight, but it was a place big in heart, where everybody cared about everybody and nothing could stay secret for very long.

  “Hiya, Jay.”

  Jason smiled and turned around, recognizing the unmistakable gravelly voice.

  Coach Lambert walked out of the drugstore and extended his hand toward him. Buzz Lambert was a town legend. He had a real talent for organizing scrawny farmers’ sons into winning football teams for Meyers High School. He was getting on in years now, but the fire was still in his eyes. “Jay, I wanted ta wish ya the best before ya left for college. I’m headin’ upstate for a few weeks and won’t be seein’ ya before ya go.”

  Jason shook his hand warmly. Buzz was responsible for getting him the football scholarship to Central State College. “Thanks, Coach. You made it all happen.”

  Buzz looked the 190-pounder over from head to foot. “Ya been pumping the weights this summer. How much ya put on, ten pounds?”

  Jason dipped his head shyly. “Yeah, Coach, I think I’m ready for them.” His face came up with a grin. “Wait till you see Ty. We worked out together. He put at least an inch on his chest, and he’s even faster than last year.”

  “Did ya work on his damn temper? Your stepbrother could be an all-stater if he wasn’t so damn hard-headed. He can’t be gettin’ thrown out of four games for fightin’ like he did last year, or he’ll be out of the running.”

  Jason smiled and put his arm around his coach. “That’s why you’re the best. You’ll work it out of him.”

  “Ty is the best damn natural hitter I’ve ever seen. He loves knocking people on their ass. He won’t have ya throwing passes to him, so it ain’t gonna be the same on offense, but on defense he’ll make it. I’ve already contacted Oklahoma State and Central to come and take a look at him. Hell, he might even be joining you next year.” Buzz wiped sweat from his forehead and put out his hand again. “Jay, ya take care of ya’self and watch out for Coach Duggin. He’s been at Central for eight years now, and I hear he’s turned into a real bastard. Just do what he says, no matter what. The first year is always the toughest.”

  “I’ll make it, Coach. I was taught by the best.”

  Buzz thumped him on the back. “Me and Meyers will be countin’ on ya.”

  Jimbo Akers shook his head in disgust at the old man and his hound dog sitting on the porch. Cecil Waters, standing beside Jimbo, wasn’t going to give up so easily. He put his hands on his flabby hips. “Look, old man, we’ve been hired by the government for the eradication. You can’t stop us from our job!”

  George Many Moons rocked in his chair, not looking at the two red-faced men. He raised a gnarled hand and pointed toward the front gate. “Y’all ain’t nothin’ but bounty hunters. Git off my land.”

  “Come on, Cecil,” Akers said, turning around to leave. “We’re wastin’ our time with this old bastard. We’ll talk to the county game warden.”

  Cecil pointed a fat finger at the silver-haired Indian. “You should listen to your son-in-law and take the money.”

  Many Moons kept his stoic expression and continued rocking. The two men strode through the gate toward a bright red pickup. In seconds the Chevy was speeding down the dirt road.

  Many Moons smiled and began to get up, but suddenly froze. In the distance he saw the long-awaited vision. It was time. The Chosen Warrior was coming for him at last.

  The old man blinked and his eyes began to moisten. His eyes had betrayed him. The shimmering heatwaves distorted the approaching horse and rider’s image. The red powdered dust disturbed by the Appaloosa’s slow gait swirled upward as if the horse were approaching in a vermillion cloud. It wasn’t the vision Many Moons had been waiting for, but he was not disappointed. The bare-chested rider was his own blood. Many Moons felt pride and sadness. The years were passing by too quickly. It seemed like only yesterday that his grandson had been a small boy and had had to climb a fence to mount Sa Tonkee. The young man riding the old gelding was no longer a boy. Raven-haired and broad-shouldered, he looked like a warrior ready for the hunt. His body was lean, exposing rippling muscles and bulging veins that ran up his arm and across his shoulders like thick chords. His Indian blood was evident in his black hair, brown skin, and high cheekbones. But there the influence stopped. He had his father’s square jaw and deep-clefted chin and his mother’s brown eyes. John Nance would have been proud of him.

  Ty Nance swung off the saddle and tossed the reins over the fence. He bent over to pet his grandfather’s old, nearly blind coon dog, Rowdy, and looked up the road where the dust of the red pickup was just settling. “Who was that, Granddad? They sure were in a hurry to leave.”

  Many Moons motioned for a beer from the rusted Coca-Cola icebox across the porch. “Bounty hunters. They want ta hunt coyotes on our land.”

  Ty took a Coors and a Dr Pepper from the ice water and opened them with a bottle opener hanging from the side of the icebox. “Screw ’em. The coyotes don’t bother anything except rabbits, and we got too many of them.” He handed the old man the beer and sat down on the wooden porch.

  Many Moons shook his head. “They talked to your stepdad and he told ’em they could hunt. They was gonna give me ten dollars for the ones they kilt.”

  “He can’t do that! This is your land. If they paid a hundred dollars it wouldn’t make any difference.”

  Many Moons felt pride at the anger in the boy’s eyes. Ty understood. Red Hill was a final sanctuary, the last of the lands that used to be. It was a haven for trees and animals, the only place for miles around unspoiled by man’s greedy hands and machines.

  “Don’t worry none. I told ’em it weren’t for Duane to say if they could hunt on my land. I told ’em ta git.”

  Ty gave his grandfather a reassuring nod. “I’ll watch out for ’em.”

  Many Moons weakly raised his beer as if in a toast. “The Coon Dog and me gonna protect our hill together.”

  Ty smiled as he lifted his bottle and took a drink. His grandfather had called him “Coon Dog” since he was five, after he’d gone on his first coon hunt. He didn’t remember the hunt, but Many Moons had told him he’d cried most of the night, wanting to run with the dogs.

  Ty took another drink and motioned with the bottle down the road.

  “The big split paw was in your watermelons again. I checked the field and found some half-eaten melons with his tracks all around.”

  Many Moons’s brown, wrinkled face seem to sadden as he gazed down the dusty road. “The old cuss is gettin’ along in years, like Rowdy and me. He can’t hunt anymore. He eats them melons to live out the summer.” The old man’s voice trailed off as he lowered his head and stared at his hands. He knew he was like his dog and the old coyote—he wouldn’t live to see the winter.

  Ty sensed his grandfather’s depression. The old man’s worn, faded overalls were stained from dribbled chewing tobacco. He was looking weaker than Ty had ever seen him.

  He stood up. “Come on, Granddad, let’s go up to the meadow. We’ll visit the family, then see the sunset.”

  Many Moons lifted his head, brightening. “It’d be good to see our place again … Come on, Dawg.” He took Ty’s hand and pulled himself up.

  Ty held his grandfather’s arm to support him as they walked around the shack and followed a path that wound its way through the majestic trees and up the hill. Rowdy followed as they walked the five hundred or so yards out onto a small, grassy field, which covered the hilltop. In the center of the field were three headstones, and near them, a log bench Ty had made a few years before. Ty stopped between the first two markers and squatted down to pull out a few weeds. Beneath the red soil was his grandmother, his uncle Richard, and the father he had hardly known. Sergeant John Nance had been killed in Korea in 1952, leaving behind his five-year-old son. Next to his father was Corporal Richard Many Moons
, George’s own son, who died in Italy during World War II. The three resting souls, and the stories his grandfather told about them, were part of this hill Ty loved.

  Standing over Richard’s grave, Many Moons stole a glance at Ty. The young man was like Richard in so many ways that he often thought of the boy as his lost son.

  The old man’s eyes shifted to the middle grave, and he knelt down to pull out a milkweed by his wife’s headstone. Mea, his daughter and Ty’s mother, was his wife’s favorite. He had often thought how proud his wife would have been of Mea when the telegram had come with the news about John. Mea had found love again and had gotten married again ten years ago to Duane Johnson, a widower like herself. His boy, Jason, was a year older than Ty. Duane was good to Mea, but for some reason he’d never taken to Ty.

  He pulled another weed and stood up. Deep inside he knew he had needed Ty as much as the boy had needed him.

  Tossing the weeds into the wind, Many Moons turned around to take in the view that had given his heart strength for so many years. He stood on the highest elevation in the county. He’d been given the land in the early twenties by his father, who first settled Red Hill’s 1,280 acres. To the north were the rich Canadian Valley bottomlands, and five miles distant, the small town of Meyers. To the south, beyond the trees, was the hidden ravine, and stretching for miles beyond that was the Washita Valley. To the east stood a thick hardwood forest that covered a descending ridge for three-quarters of a mile down to U.S. Highway 81. The road was the eastern boundary of his land and ran due north and south like a magnetic arrow. To the west, on another gentle ridge, was the old cedar grove.