by D. B. Silvis
“Nice to meet you, ladies,” said Killian.
“Have a seat,” said Bradberry.
The two men sat down.
“Ellen’s with the Overseas Weekly. Dolly’s an independent,” Bradberry informed him.
“I didn’t know women reporters were allowed to be on the front lines,” said Killian.
“It’s a new policy. They are now,” answered Bradberry.
Killian looked at the two women. “Why would you choose to come to Vietnam? This is not a good place for women.”
“Or for men,” wise-cracked Bradberry, as he took a swallow of his drink.
“We’ve paid our dues as reporters in the States. We have earned the right to cover war the same as men,” answered Ellen.
“Women asserting their rights,” observed Bradberry, with a chuckle. “Like you, Killian, they don’t have to be here, but they want to. It’s the first time women have been allowed to travel with the troops and be right in on the action.”
“We know it’s not going to easy, and will be very dangerous. Martin has been telling us what it’s like over there,” said Ellen.
“Killian, you fought up in the Central Highlands with the Montagnards. Why don’t you tell them how horrible it is?” suggested Bradberry.
For the next hour Killian and Martin told the two women about their experiences in being with units who were engaged in firefights and hand-to-hand combat with the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Army. However, neither of them mentioned the enemy soldiers whom they’d seen disappear when blown up by white phosphorus grenades. Later they all went down the street to one of Bradberry’s favorite restaurants.
Over the next few days, Killian made attempts to find an Army unit that would allow him to go out on patrols with them. On the third afternoon, he entered a large officers’ tent on the outskirts of Saigon. Two U.S. Army officers were talking. The captain had his back to Killian. The young second lieutenant noticed Killian and motioned to his captain, who turned around. It was Larry Wheeler.
He smiled when he saw the familiar face. “Killian, you’re back!”
The captain walked over and shook his friend’s hand.
“And you’re still here.” Killian pointed to Wheeler’s shoulders, “Now with two silver bars. Congratulations, captain.”
“It’s good to see you, Killian. Are you back over here doing SERE training?” asked Wheeler.
“No sir. I’m looking to hook up with a company that’s doing some fighting.”
Captain Wheeler turned to the younger officer. “Lieutenant Jamison, I’d like you to meet Killian Kilkenny. He’s one damn good soldier and he must be crazy as hell because he doesn’t have to be here. He’s a freelance civilian volunteer,” said the captain.
Lieutenant Jamison and Killian shook hands.
“Killian, we’re searching the area around Saigon for the Viet Cong and the tunnels they’re hiding in. We call them ‘spider holes’. It’s a dangerous mission but you’re welcome to join us.”
“I’d like that very much, captain.”
“Good. I’d like having you around, you were a big help up in the highlands.”
“Thanks, captain. It was good to be with your group.”
“Did everything go alright when you took Sergeant Boyle’s body back home?” asked Wheeler.
“It did, but it’s not something I ever want to do again. There were six flag-draped metal containers, including Connor’s, on the plane. It’s an emotionally draining mission, sir.”
“I’m sorry you lost a good friend, but it seems to be an everyday occurrence over here now, Killian.”
“So it’s gotten a lot worse?”
“Yes, Saigon is no longer a rear area, it’s a dangerous city, and the outskirts are even more so. The Viet Cong guerillas, who are fighting from underground tunnels, offer a new kind of warfare for us. They use the tunnels as hiding places during ambushes and combat,” said Wheeler.
No one said anything for a few moments.
“Okay then, Killian, I’m glad you’re going to join us. Lieutenant Jamison will get you set up with a place to sleep and store your gear.”
“That’s great, captain, but seeing it’s Friday how about I check in here on Monday morning.”
“Works for me, we’ll see you Monday morning.”
Killian saluted then left the officers’ tent and returned to the Caraville Hotel. When he entered, the front desk clerk handed him a message from Martin Bradberry. The reporter wanted Killian to meet him for a cocktail in the rooftop lounge at six-thirty and then have dinner at the floating restaurant called the “My Canh Café”, which was the large all-glass eating establishment located on the banks of the Saigon River where Killian had first met the reporter. The restaurant was one of the most popular in town and was frequented by both locals and military personnel. Killian went to his room and called Bradberry to confirm he’d meet him at six-thirty.
While they were having a drink in the rooftop lounge bar, Ellen Devoe and Dolly Blue stopped by to say hello. During their short conversation, Killian told them he was joining an American unit and going on patrols in search of the Viet Cong, who were hiding and fighting from their maze of tunnels on the outskirts of Saigon. Bradberry warned Killian how dangerous those patrols were. The two females, who were eager to report on the US Army’s confrontation with the Viet Cong, thought he was fortunate. They both said they’d like be part of such a mission. Bradberry told them to be careful what they wished for. They laughed, but Killian could see the two female reporters were serious.
At seven-thirty Martin and Killian climbed into a pedicab, and were taken to the glass-walled restaurant, which seated close to one hundred and fifty people. The “My Canh Café” was moored about twenty-five feet from the river bank. Upon their arrival they crossed the gang-plank to the entrance and were seated at a table on a side wall, facing the river. The restaurant was already crowded.
They ordered a drink.
“Killian, you’re going on dangerous patrols. Do you know very much about the tunnels?” asked Bradberry.
“Very little, I know they exist and are causing havoc for our troops.”
“The U.S. Army has only begun to learn about the network of underground tunnels, which are located in the Cu Chi district of Saigon. Recently they discovered that besides being hiding places for their combat troops, the tunnels serve as communication and supply routes.”
A waiter brought their drinks.
“Then the tunnel network is more immense than originally thought?”
“Yes, and in some areas they’re quite large, with small hospitals, food supplies, and storage for weapons and living quarters for hundreds of VC guerrilla fighters.”
“How far do the tunnels stretch?”
“At this time the Army’s not sure. They do know they’re used to connect the local villages and provinces together so the VC guerrillas can move freely between the areas undetected,” said Bradberry.
“That’s amazing. But if the Army finds one tunnel, why can’t they follow it, and blow them all to hell?”
“Because the tunnels are interconnected, well concealed, booby-trapped, and built so as not to be easily located. There’re covered by thick boards, which are arranged in two frames, one vertically and the other horizontally. The VC covers the entrance doors with wax or sponge rubber, so they feel like natural ground when walked across. Also, most of the tunnels, which have been found, have camouflaged trap doors covered with natural earth. Killian, they’ve had years to perfect these tunnels.”
“It’s still amazing they could do it all in just the few years we’ve been here, Martin.”
Bradberry held up a hand. “Most of the tunnels were dug here during World War II. They were hiding places for the Viet Minh, nationalist guerrillas who were fighting the Japanese and the French after the war.”
“And the Viet Cong are extending the tunnels today?”
“That’s right. As they’re of small stature, the tunnels are made
with minimal breadths and with angled walls. They are virtually impassable for a man of our size, in fact, for most Westerners.”
As the waiter placed their food on the table, and walked away, there was a loud explosion. A bomb on the bank of the river facing their side of the restaurant had detonated. A moment later, a second bomb exploded on the other side of the restaurant. People, glass, tables and other debris were violently tossed about the large room as the building was destroyed. For a split second, Killian saw Bradberry being thrown across the room, as was he an instant later.
The blast left Killian lying face down, stunned, in the rubble. When he gradually came to, he became aware of glass, wood and bodies all around him. He was covered in blood, and saw he was bleeding from numerous cuts; many small pieces of glass were embedded in his skin. As he regained full consciousness, he looked around the room. It was a horrible sight. Then he saw Bradberry, whose twisted body was slumped about twelve feet from him, against a portion of a wall. Killian crawled over to the reporter, whose eyes were staring up into the sky. It was obvious he was dead. There wasn’t anything Killian could do for him. Those who were still alive were moaning or screaming for help. Other shouts were coming from people rushing into the now leveled restaurant to help the injured.
Killian felt both the pain and the burning sensation as the bluish blood in his veins began to heal the many cuts and gashes on his body. He knew he wouldn’t be able to explain to the police or others coming to help how his wounds were self-healing. He crawled past dead bodies and across the cluttered floor over to the outer edge of the restaurant, and slipped through a blown-out section of wall into the river. He slowly swam thirty yards to a short pier, and hung onto one of the barnacled pilings. He began to remove the pieces of glass from his arms, legs and body. He was in great pain as the dozens of cuts were steadily healing.
From a distance, Killian watched the confusion and hysterics as the police and medical personnel carried the injured from the now destroyed “My Canh Café”.
Ten minutes later, while his cuts were still healing, Killian climbed up the river bank, and walked a block down the street away from the devastated scene. He entered a small clothing store. A young boy stood staring wide-eyed at the sight of a tall white man with red hair and beard, whose clothes were bloody and torn to shreds. Killian asked him if his parents had gone to where there had been an explosion and the boy nodded “yes”. Killian nodded, then selected a loose-fitting pair of black cotton pants and a T-shirt and changed. He handed the boy three times what the clothes were worth, picked up his shredded clothes, and left the store. On his way back to the “My Canh Café” he tossed his bloody clothes into a garbage container.
The site at the restaurant was horrible. The death toll and the number of injured were much higher than Killian had thought. Most of the people, who had been in the restaurant at the time of the two blasts, were either dead or injured. Even a few of those, who had been strolling along the river bank by the restaurant, enjoying the cool breezes of the evening, had been killed or had sustained injuries. By the time Killian returned to help, many local military ambulances and emergency vehicles had arrived, and most of the injured had been removed from the demolished restaurant. Killian walked through the debris toward where he’d last seen his friend, Martin Bradberry. The body of the dead reporter still lay against a jagged portion of wall. Killian knelt, said a prayer, and then picked up the broken, bloody body of his friend, and carried it out to the emergency vehicles. Killian was still praying as he placed the body, of the reporter, into one of the military trucks.
Killian continued to help the police; the military and the medical personnel carry out the dead, a few of whom were U.S. servicemen. When all the injured and dead had been taken to either a hospital or the morgue, Killian returned to his hotel room. He took a long hot shower, and then finished off the nearly half bottle of Scotch whisky sitting on the wooden dresser.
At ten o’clock the next morning, Killian went to the morgue. He learned the Press Corps had already arranged for Martin Bradberry’s body to be taken to the airport, and flown home. Killian hurried to the airport. As he walked through the lobby he saw newspaper reporters out on the tarmac. They were holding a solemn ceremony for their fallen colleague. Killian joined the newspaper reporters and stood with them during the sad proceedings. He watched the loadmaster and five other soldiers, who were functioning as pallbearers; carry the flag-draped metal container with Martin Bradberry’s remains into the cargo plane. Killian saw there were five other flag-draped containers on the plane. He assumed they were the servicemen who, like Bradberry, had become victims of the restaurant bombing. As he watched, he thought of the time he’d traveled with the body of his friend Connor Boyle. He didn’t envy the loadmaster or the men selected as pallbearers. He knew that for them it was an emotional and taxing mission.
As the entire group of reporters began to walk toward the airport lobby, Ellen Devoe and Dolly Blue stepped up next to him.
“I can’t believe it,” said Ellen, “All the dangerous missions Martin went on with our troops, and now he’s killed in a frickin’ restaurant.”
“It’s war, Ellen. It can happen anywhere,” said Killian.
They reached the airport lobby.
“Weren’t you with him, Killian? I thought last night the two of you were going to dinner?” asked Ellen.
Killian was caught off guard. At first he didn’t know what to say.
“I was there, Ellen,” he answered.
“But…” She stared at him. “Then how’d you survive?”
Killian’s mind was racing for an answer. “Martin was out of cigarettes. I remembered seeing a tobacco stall near the restaurant. I was there getting the cigarettes for him when the bombs exploded.”
“You were darn lucky,” said Dolly.
“That’s unbelievable, Killian. So you saw it happen. God it had to be terrible,” said Ellen.
“It was. I’ve never seen so many people injured and killed at one time.”
“Did you see them take out Martin’s body?” asked Dolly.
“I went into the restaurant and carried him out.”
“My God!” exclaimed Ellen. “Was he killed instantly, or was he alive when you got to him?”
“He died instantly. The bombs were very powerful.”
Nothing was said for a few seconds.
“I’m glad you survived,” said Dolly.
“Sometimes, Dolly, when something like this happens, you wish it had happened to you, and not a friend.”
Monday, Killian checked in with Captain Wheeler. He was assigned a tent, and informed that in the morning; Lieutenant Jamison was taking out a patrol.
At 0700 when Killian joined the lieutenant’s platoon, he was surprised to see a female newspaperwoman standing next to the formation. It was the reporter, Dolly Blue. She smiled at the expression on Killian’s face.
The platoon left and moved into the jungle area, which became denser as they moved away from their base camp. They had walked for thirty minutes when Killian stepped up next to Dolly.
“How the hell did you arrange to join this company?”
She seemed to sense his anger at her being there, and didn’t answer him.
“Don’t you realize how dangerous these patrols are?” Killian persisted. “For Christ’s sake, Dolly, the gooks have tunnels all over this area.”
“That’s why I’m here. I’m a reporter who’s reporting on the war.”
“And you could be a dead one soon. How’d you get permission to do this?”
“Most companies are allowing reporters to accompany them now” she answered.
“Okay, but how’d you get Captain Wheeler to allow you to join this company?”
Dolly smiled. “I told the captain I was a friend of yours, and you suggested it.”
“What? I never did!”
“Of course not, but the captain didn’t know that.”
Killian was pissed off, but there wasn’t
anything he could do about her being there.
“I’ll talk to the captain as soon as we get back, and straighten this out. This isn’t any place for a female reporter.”
“You do that, Killian. In the meantime, leave me alone.” She walked away.
Killian couldn’t let it go. He now felt responsible for her.
Over the next hour, as the platoon, led by a scout, Lieutenant Jamison, and a radioman, moved through the jungle, Killian stayed a short distance from Dolly Blue, keeping an eye out in her direction. At the first sign of danger he planned to protect the headstrong reporter. It was the first time he’d been in a war-like situation when a woman was present. He didn’t like it, and muttered to himself as they walked through the jungle.
Then, from behind them, without any warning, the Viet Cong, like ants, began pouring out from an underground tunnel. They were yelling as they fired AK-47 assault rifles and SKS semi-automatic carbines at the platoon. The Americans hit the ground and returned fire. The Viet Cong continued to rush the American patrol. Bullets flew, grenades were tossed, and flamethrowers belched out bursts of fire. American and VC soldiers screamed in pain as they were killed. Killian was moving toward Dolly Blue when he saw her take two hits to the chest. She was flung backward like a rag doll. As Killian fired and killed the Viet Cong who had shot her, he was hit in the leg, but he continued firing at the other gooks. The fighting had become disorganized with both sides firing at one another at close range, and engaging in hand-to-hand combat. Killian could feel bullets striking his body, but he had the advantage of not being able to die by gunfire. He killed every VC who got near him. Dead men covered the ground, both Americans and Viet Cong.
Killian knew he was in bad shape. He glanced across to where Dolly Blue was lying; it was obvious she was dead. Then he felt the pain of a bayonet going into his back. He pulled away, and fell to the ground. Standing over him were two Viet Cong, their bodies dripping with blood from many bullet and knife wounds. However, they were grinning and Killian knew at once that they were Blue Warriors. Then they morphed into tall Navajo Indians. One of them was Lupan.
