by D. B. Silvis
When he had the NVA soldiers in sight he called out, asking them to wait for him. He told them he’d stayed back and seen the Americans and the Montagnards retreating. The soldiers showed anger that the American officer had not chosen to follow them. They walked quickly back to their camp. When they entered, one of the gooks informed his colonel the enemy hadn’t fallen for their trap. The colonel was visibly upset, and ordered the soldiers in the camp to stand down. Killian wanted to remain inconspicuous, so he moved to the rear of the enemy camp and joined a group who were setting up a cooking area. As he looked around, he estimated there to be between two hundred and fifty and three hundred Vietnamese soldiers milling about the encampment.
Later, after everything had settled down, Killian walked through the camp and made light conversation with a few of the soldiers. When he passed by four soldiers seated on the ground playing a game of cards, he sensed two of them to be Blue Warriors. They looked up at him. Killian nodded, as a sign of recognition, and then walked away. The pair continued to stare at him. Killian knew they were going to wonder who he was—or even, possibly, they recognized him as Taglito Silaada. He was sure they would know all the other Blue Warriors fighting with the communists against the Americans.
Killian sat down at the outer edge of the camp and leaned back against a tall tree. He removed one of the napalm B grenades from his jacket pocket and held it behind his back. Then he tilted his cap forward and pretended to be resting. It was only two minutes later, when he saw through half-closed eyes, the two Blue Warriors slowly advancing toward him. When they were about thirty feet away, Killian pulled the pin from the napalm B grenade and began counting, one thousand one, one thousand two, and then he tossed the grenade directly in front of the Blue Warriors, and rolled back behind the tree. The Blues saw the grenade tumbling toward them and started to run as it exploded, knocking them to the ground and setting them on fire. For a brief moment, they turned into wolves that stood on their hind legs and howled. Then there were two bright flashes of blue light followed by two ribbons of blue-white smoke that rose up into the dark sky. Neither of them had been Lupan.
Other Vietnamese soldiers were hit by the shrapnel and fire. There was chaos in the camp. A few of the soldiers starting firing into the dark jungle, thinking they were being attacked. Others simply stood where they were, stunned by what they had just seen. Medics rushed to the wounded. Amid this confusion, Killian slipped into the jungle, and headed back to the village. He retrieved his gear and started up the mountain, but he stopped half-way up. He knew that tonight Lieutenant Wheeler and his men would be extra edgy, so it would be safer if he waited until sun-up to join them.
At first light, Killian located the group and, after being recognized, rejoined them. He informed Lieutenant Wheeler he’d stayed behind and been able to get near enough to the enemy camp to see they had small armor vehicles and up to three hundred soldiers. The Lieutenant wasn’t pleased Killian had made the decision to leave the group and go it on his own. However, upon learning of the enemies’ strength and exact location, he was surprised and grateful for the information. He called base for an air strike on the North Vietnamese base. Then he doubled the defensive perimeter, he had set up the night before, to protect against NVA coming up the mountain. But, in scoping the area through hisT-14E binoculars, he didn’t see any enemy movement.
Minutes later two T-28 Trojans, flying air cover for a B-26, roared overhead. As they approached the coordinates of the enemy camp, the T-28s fired their rockets and raked the area with their two .50 caliber guns, before circling away as the B-26 covered the NVA camp with napalm and cluster bombs. The jungle became an inferno. In the valley below there were grenades detonating, hundreds of weapon muzzle flashes, and then a series of violent explosions as the enemy’s ammo dump ignited. As they watched, Killian and the group cheered and fired rifle shots into the air. The two T-28s scoured the jungle area and the mountain near them for any troop movement, then radioed that it was all clear. The three planes headed back to Camp Holloway. In the distance, they heard the low drone of a 3H-21C Shawnee helicopter on its way to bring the group back to base. Sergeant Glun tossed a brightly colored smoke grenade, and shortly afterward they were on their back to their base at Pleiku.
When Killian returned to the base, he went to Connor’s hooch, but his friend wasn’t there. Killian asked around and found out his friend had just left on a mission in the Cessna 0-1 Bird Dog. When an area was bombed with napalm, it was standard procedure for an FAC aircraft to fly over the area. Their mission was to count the dead bodies of the NVA.
Two hours later, Connor returned to his hooch.
“Hey, Killian, I heard you spotted the encampment that was bombed this morning.”
“Where’d you hear that?” asked Killian.
“In the Operations hooch during the briefing, Lieutenant Wheeler told us about it.” Connor grinned. “When we flew over the area we counted close to three hundred ‘crispy critters’.”
Killian had a puzzled look, “Crispy critters?”
Conner laughed. “Yeah, that’s what we call the napalmed bodies of dead gooks.”
“Connor, as I’ve said before, you’re weird, and I think you enjoy your work too much.”
“I do. It’s dangerous and exciting. I only wish we carried some armaments on the Bird Dog. I’d like to be able to shoot the bastards. But all we have are smoke rockets to pinpoint the enemy, a revolver and a Camillers Pilot survival knife if we go down. Jesus, lots of luck there.”
“You’re probably safer not having weapons, Connor.”
“Yeah, most likely you’re right, but still…” Connor lit up a cigarette. “I’ve got a three-day pass. How about you? Can you get away?”
“Our group isn’t going out again for five days. You want to go to Saigon for a little fun, Connor?”
“I was thinking the same thing,” said Connor, smiling. “I’ll go over to operations and see if I can get us a flight.”
Late that afternoon, they checked into the Brink Hotel. It was Killian’s favorite place to stay in Saigon. After having dinner at the rooftop restaurant they went down to the street and climbed into a pedicab. Killian sat with his back to the driver.
“Don’t sit there, Killian,” said Connor. “Sit over here next to me.”
Killian gave Connor an odd look.
“It’s safer sitting over here. You’re a sitting duck there. Many Pedicab drivers are Viet Cong, and they’ve been known to stick long needles into the base of an American’s neck.”
Killian quickly moved over next to Connor. “Connor, it’s getting more unsafe here in Saigon every day.”
“Yeah, you’re not even safe when you get a fifty-cent an hour screw from one of the Vietnamese girls. Some of the prostitutes are spies for the North. They’re paid assassins.”
“Connor, I think we should go to the Caraville Hotel. I feel safe at their rooftop bar.”
“Good choice, great drinks, and there’s usually some good-looking females there.”
Killian grinned. “You know, you’re a fun guy, Connor.”
“Hell, Killian, you’ve got to have some fun in this lousy hell-hole or you’d go crazy.”
Over the next three days, the two men accomplished their mission. By the time they returned to Pleiku, they had been boozed, screwed, and tattooed. On their last night, while they were half blitzed, they stumbled into a tattoo parlor. When they left they each had a tattoo on their right arm. It was a colorful picture of two hands shaking. They had become blood brothers.
The North Vietnamese Army used the natural environment of the jungle, with its two to three canopies of tree cover, to disguise and conceal their ground activities. The American response was to kill off the jungle greenery through the use of defoliants. In 1962, they had begun Operation Ranch Hand. The Americans flew sorties to spray the vast terrain, using obsolescent twin-engine C-123 Providers. The planes were equipped with one thousand-gallon aluminum tanks filled with herbicide called
Agent Orange. It was a dangerous mission for the pilots and crew, as they were easy targets for small arms fire from the enemy. When the aircraft approached the designated area to be chemically sprayed, they came in from an altitude of three thousand feet, dove at a steep angle, and pulled up at one hundred and fifty feet, so they were flying at treetop level. The spraying was done early in the morning when the temperature was below eighty-five degrees, so the chemical would fall to the earth and not disperse and rise back up into the warm air of the afternoon’s higher temperatures.
By 1963, there was a marked increase in enemy ground fire, which heightened the danger of the Agent Orange spraying missions. It was common for one of the Forward Air Control Cessna 0-1 Bird Dogs and T-28 fighters to fly with the C-123s to areas designated as targets for chemical spraying. The North Vietnamese Army was not expected to fire on the small Cessna Bird Dog spotter plane, as they didn’t want to reveal their position. The Americans took advantage of this. The 0-1 Bird Dog would fly over an area and, when the enemy below was spotted, the pilot would release a phosphorus smoke rocket to mark the area to be sprayed. Then the T-28s would strafe and bomb the area before the C-123s made their chemical spraying run.
Right after his return to Pleiku, Killian left with Lieutenant Wheeler and his troop on a new mission. They were to go deeper into the highlands and investigate the far side of one of the mountains. They were looking for any North Vietnamese Army tank activity. The troop, whose mission was to destroy enemy tanks, was carrying light anti-tank weapons. On their third day, while bivouacking at the base of a mountain, they saw a Forward Air Control aircraft coming their way. As it passed low overhead, Killian read the aircraft’s identification letters. It was Connor’s plane. The 0-1 Bird Dog continued across the jungle and they saw a “Willie Pete”, the smoke from a white phosphorus rocket, when it was fired from the Bird Dog by Connor’s lieutenant. This marked the area for the T-28s to attack, and the C-123s to unload their Agent Orange spray. Almost immediately they saw and heard the T-28s roar overhead, and then the strafing and bombing. Moments later, the C-123s were making their treetop dive to release the contents of their one thousand-gallon tanks.
Killian kept looking up into the sky, hoping to see Connor’s plane. Then he saw it. The plane was flying low, smoke coming from the engine. It was heading in their direction as though the pilot was looking for a place to land. They watched as it came closer, and then saw the 0-1 Bird Dog crash into the base of the mountain about a quarter of a mile away. Killian took off, running toward the crash site as the troop grabbed their gear and hurried along behind him. They knew if there were any NVA patrols in the area, they’d also be heading for the downed plane. Killian felt sick to his stomach as he ran through the overgrown jungle foliage. He hoped and prayed his friend was alive.
Upon arriving at the crash site, Killian, Sergeant Glun and a Yard went to the plane. It was smoldering and twisted among the trees. They pulled the lieutenant, who was dead, from the front seat of the aircraft. Killian reached into the back seat, and took hold of his friend Connor, and was lifting him out when Sergeant Glun came to help. As enemy rifle fire ricocheted off the small plane, Killian and the sergeant laid Connor on the grassy ground.
Lieutenant Wheeler set up a defense perimeter around the crash site to keep the North Vietnam patrol from the wreckage. The slant-eyed gooks wanted the plane and its pilots. The Yards returned fire and the enemy pulled back.
Killian was kneeling next to Connor when his friend opened his blue eyes.
Connor smiled. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered. Then his head rolled to one side. He was dead.
Killian held onto Connor’s right hand and his gaze fell upon the tattoo on his friend’s arm. Tears came into his eyes. The North Vietnamese soldiers were firing again and challenging the troop’s defense perimeter. Killian laid down his own weapons and took Connor’s Colt M1911 semi-automatic revolver and his Camillers pilot survival knife. Lieutenant Wheeler came over and told Killian he was sorry about the loss of his friend, patted him on the shoulder and returned to the defense perimeter. Killian leaned back against a tree. He didn’t pay any attention to the gooks, who were taking occasional shots at them; instead his mind was focused on a different matter.
The lieutenant and Sergeant Glun were busy re-posting their men when Killian slipped into the dense foliage of the jungle. With Connor’s revolver in one hand and his Camillers knife in the other, Killian transformed into a North Vietnamese soldier.
As he crept quietly along, Killian came face to face with a toothy gook. Without hesitation he slit his throat. He heard movement to his left and crawled along the ground. He came upon another gook and moved in close to him. The man stared at Killian and started to say something, but lost his voice when his vocal cords were severed. As he stood and moved forward Killian came face to face with a sergeant, who looking inquisitively at him. The sergeant’s last thought was-I don’t recognize this soldier. He hardly felt the sharp knife as it ripped into his heart. The next to die suffered a broken neck. Killian felt no remorse as he moved among the enemy, killing them like pigs taken to slaughter. He was invincible and he knew it. They were all going to die at the end of Connor’s knife, or by his revolver. Killian stepped up the pace of his killing. He ran through the foliage, stabbing and shooting the surprised and bewildered gooks. They didn’t see any Americans or Montagnards. Confused, some of them fired randomly into the jungle. One by one, they died. Killian’s uniform, his face, and his hands were covered in blood, but it wasn’t his, it was the blood of those who had killed his friend.
As Killian came to a small opening, with his weapons at his side, he saw a North Vietnamese captain standing by a tree, staring at him. The captain, who was the only gook still alive, had his revolver pointed at Killian.
The officer yelled at him. “Why are you killing your own people?”
Killian didn’t say anything as he morphed back to a tall, red-bearded American soldier.
The Vietnamese captain stared in disbelief at the man who now stood before him. He stumbled backward, and then regained his composure enough to fire at Killian. The bullet struck Killian in the chest, but he didn’t fall. The captain stood for a moment staring at him, and then fired four more shots. The man opposite him merely stumbled as the bullets struck. Blood squirted from Killian’s body. He gave the captain a ghastly grin, and took a step toward him. The shocked officer raised the revolver to his head, and blew out his brains.
Lieutenant Wheeler and his men couldn’t figure out what was happening in the jungle. The gooks had quit firing at them, but there was still gunfire in the bush. Then it became eerily silent. Lieutenant Wheeler instructed the Yards to be on the alert. They heard a few more shots, and then it became quiet again.
“I don’t understand this, sir,” said Sergeant Glun.
“I don’t either, sergeant. It’s sort of weird.”
“Should we check out the area, sir?”
“Not yet. I don’t like the silence. It’s eerie, sergeant.”
“You’re right there, sir.”
Killian didn’t immediately return to his troop. After the North Vietnamese captain had put the revolver to his head, pulled the trigger, and crumpled to the ground, Killian sat in the grass and cried. He was sick of fighting, sick of war, and was sick of the Blue Warriors.
“I’ve had over a hundred years of fighting in war. Isn’t that enough?” he said aloud, looking up to the heavens. He buried his face in his hands. “Connor, I’m sorry, this is all I could do for you.” He continued to sob over the loss of his friend. He didn’t notice the pain of his healing wounds.
Fifteen minutes later, he heard the Montagnards moving into the jungle nearby. Killian stood up, circled around the troop, transformed, and came up behind the lieutenant.
Wheeler looked at him. “Killian, where’ve you been?”
“I went back into the jungle. I’ve been thinking about this lousy war, and my friend, Connor.”
The lieutena
nt nodded his understanding, and pointed toward the jungle in front of him. “There’s something strange happening up there.”
Sergeant Glun, who had gone on ahead, yelled back. “Lieutenant, you’ve got to see this.”
Wheeler hurried forward, but Killian went back to the plane wreckage, which was being guarded by three Montagnards. He looked down at the bodies of the pilot and his buddy Connor. They had been covered with army-green ponchos.
Lieutenant Wheeler and Sergeant Glun found the bodies of the Vietnamese soldiers, as well as that of the captain, who had committed suicide. The sergeant and the Green Beret adviser looked at the lieutenant, who shook his head and shrugged. He, like them, had no idea what had happened. They left the enemy soldiers where they’d fallen. It would be up to the NVA to bury their dead. Lieutenant Wheeler called in for a CH-1 helicopter airlift to take out the bodies of the lieutenant pilot, Sergeant Connor, and his troop, who were still confused at the sight of the dead North Vietnamese soldiers. Before they headed back to base, they blew up what remained of the 0-1 Bird Dog aircraft, so not to leave anything for the NVA.
When Lieutenant Wheeler returned to the operations hooch he filled out one of the strangest reports ever filed during the war. It read:
While defending a downed FAC Cessna 0-1 Bird Dog aircraft we engaged in a firefight with a North Vietnamese Army patrol. They were attempting to get to the wreckage of the plane, and the men on board. Then an odd thing happened. The enemy stopped firing at us. There were a few minutes of silence, and then more shots being fired, but this time, the shooting was within their area of the jungle. For a couple of minutes all went quiet, then a few more shots were heard. It became eerily silent. We waited fifteen minutes before we began to probe the area. What we found didn’t make any sense. We located twenty-two dead North Vietnam soldiers, who were still positioned to attack us. Some had been stabbed while others had been shot at close range. In a small opening of the jungle, we found a North Vietnam Army captain, who had shot himself in the head. There is no real explanation for this unusual scene of slaughter, other than the North Vietnamese captain went berserk, and one by one killed his solders, and committed suicide.
