Court Martial

by Donald E. Zlotnik

  Sergeant Woods stopped and turned around to face back down the trail. He was acting as the recon team’s rear guard. He listened for a good minute and then moved on. Warner was acting as the point man. The Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, soldier’s mother would literally have had a heart attack if she had known that her son was performing such dangerous duty and especially on a reconnaissance team. She thought he was serving in Saigon under a general officer whose family lived near their Georgetown townhouse in Washington, D.C.

  Sergeant Arnason clicked his tongue and the patrol came to an instant halt. Only Woods moved along the trail until he caught up to the team, and then he stopped. Arnason listened to the jungle. The whole team knew that they were in Laos, a neutral country, and their capture or exposure would embarrass the United States government, especially since President Nixon had told the whole world that there were no American troops in Cambodia or Laos.

  Arnason signaled with his hand for the team to circle around him. Woods slipped next to the team leader and waited until Warner had joined them off the point. Koski, the big Polish man, kept his back to the team and watched the jungle to the north, while Sanchez watched to the south. RT BAD NEWS was the best recon team in the First Cavalry Division and their reputation was legendary. The black-dyed Marine fatigue caps they wore brought free drinks in any bar in I Corps, and that included free drinks from Marines and Navy types alike. Once, a couple of Marines tried taking the caps away from the Army team and a riot nearly broke out until a Marine who recognized the silver skulls on the caps pulled the other Marines aside and whispered into their ears. A series of apologies followed, along with a half-dozen drinks. RT Bad News had bailed out a couple of Marine Force Recon Teams from a very bad situation along the border a couple of months earlier and a great deal of respect was held for that team.

  Arnason leaned over and whispered to Warner, “How close do you think we are to the rendezvous site?”

  Warner didn’t hesitate and pointed a little to the left of the trail. “Two hundred meters.”

  Arnason nodded. “Good… Everyone be on the lookout for an ambush.” He looked over at the single Montagnard who had accompanied the team as an interpreter. “Are you all right?”

  The small Vietnamese Indian smiled. He was in his element.

  “Good. Let’s move out.... David, cover our rear; Koski, stick close with that M-60.”

  The big Pole nodded.

  Warner took the lead again and started moving through the jungle. He had been following the natural contour of the hill along an overgrown deer path and veered slightly to his left. Warner needed to look at a map only once of a small area such as a ten-square-click recon zone and he recalled everything in his head. Once he was oriented on the ground, it was impossible for him to get lost, day or night. He was phenomenal.

  The jungle opened in front of Warner almost instantly. One second he was struggling through a thick patch of finger-sized bamboo and the next instant he was standing in a man-made clearing. He took a quick step backward and lowered his weapon. The clearing was empty.arnason moved forward and joined Warner. The point man indicated that this was the rendezvous site. Arnason scanned the edge of the fifty-meterwide clearing and saw nothing, yet he hesitated on stepping out in the open. He tapped Warner’s shoulder and then Koski’s and pointed to his left. He wanted them to circle the small clearing to the left, while he would take the right side with Sanchez and the Montagnard. Woods would remain there and act as a covering force and a point of reference in case they made contact with the NVA.

  A small man stepped away from the jungle on the far side of the clearing. He carried a folding-stock AK-49 and an NVA canvas chest pack with six extra magazines. A machete hung from a cloth belt around his waist. He wore the traditional costume of the Bru. The Montagnard interpreter noticed immediately that the man was authentic Bru and wore the color-coded vest jacket of a Bru chieftain. The man they had come all the way from the A Shau Special Forces camp to meet was standing fifty meters away.

  “Him here.” The interpreter whispered in Arnason’s ear and pointed.

  Sergeant Arnason hesitated and then stepped clear of the jungle. He was still not sure if this was an NVA trap, using the Montagnard chief as bait.

  The short, barefoot man started walking across the clearing toward the American andarnason followed suit and walked out to meet him, carrying his CAR-15 slung over his shoulder. The interpreter followed close behind. He was from the Sedang tribe north of Kontum, but he could easily converse with the Bru.

  The interpreter was the first one to break the silence with a common greeting. The chief gave a curt nod and asked for proof of their association with the blond American.

  Arnason looked around the clearing and saw that the edge of the open circle came alive with Montagnard warriors. Some of the camouflaged little men had been only a couple of meters away from his teammates and had not been seen. Arnason was impressed. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a plastic bag that had been neatly folded and slipped the photograph out so the chief could see it. There were five men in the photograph, two on each side of Spencer Barnett. The chief recognized the young blond soldier and smiled. He looked at Arnason a couple of times and then back down at the color photo before he tapped it and grunted.

  “He accepts the proof.” The interpreter’s face showed his relief. He wasn’t going to worry the Americans unnecessarily, but if the chief hadn’t accepted the photograph as proof of their friendship with the Amerian soldier who had been a POW in his village of A Rum, they would have all been killed on the spot.

  Sergeant Arnason remained looking at the Montagnard chief but spoke to his interpreter. “Ask him if it is safe to remain here.”

  The interpreter spoke and the chief looked around the area and then spoke to his men.

  “We go to their village for the night. He said for your men to walk with him.” The interpreter smiled. They were being honored. “Don’t fear. You will be safe with the Bru. The American, Spencer Barnett, is honored by these people.”

  Arnason nodded and waved for his team to join him in the clearing. He took a deep breath as he directed his men to walk close together behind him and the Bru chieftain. The team sergeant knew that they would be safe with the Montagnards, but all of his training and experience in the jungle was being rubbed the wrong way.

  The walk to the hidden Bru village followed the natural contours of the ground, and even though the trail went through some of the densest jungle in Laos, the walk was easier than a normal recon patrol. Warner watched carefully and learned a great deal from the Montagnard scouts. He realized that they had doubled back a number of times on the trail to remain along the natural ridges of the steep jungle-covered hills. The walk was longer but much less tiring than humping over the hills and ridgelines the way Americans traveled through the jungle. The column of Bru stopped and Warner tried looking over the heads of the men in front of him to see what was going on. The column started moving forward again, but this time much slower until it was Warner’s turn to drop down and crawl on his hands and knees through what looked like a pig tunnel through a very thick patch of bamboo. The Montagnard who stood next to the tunnel touched his index finger to his lips in the international sign to keep quiet. The tunnel turned a couple of times in the fifteen-foot crawl and then opened up on a very wide trail. Warner could see the pig tunnel on the other side of the NVA trail and realized the Montagnards had made the “pig trails” to camouflage their trail that intersected the enemy path.

  The village was more compact than normal in the triple-canopy jungle, but the Montagnard renegades had to hide not only from the NVA soldiers but from American observer aircraft. The Bru didn’t trust anyone outside their village and were surviving in a very hostile environment because of it. A near hit by an arc-light bombing mission had forced the Bru chief to make contact with a couple of CIA operatives in Laos and he asked for protection from the American blanket bombings. The CIA had been hoping the renegade
chief would make contact with them and they could work together against the NVA, but the chief trusted no one outside his village.

  The reason for Arnason’s liaison with the chief was based on Major General Garibaldi’s debriefing to the Army intelligence and the CIA people back in Washington, D.C., and it was working. Garibaldi had read intelligence reports back in the Pentagon that told about a group of renegade Montagnards who were causing all kinds of havoc with the NVA forces in that region of Laos where his old POW camp had been. Garibaldi had worked with the CIA and had designed this plan using Spencer Barnett as the focal point. He knew the old Bru chief liked Spencer a great deal, and through the young soldier they had hoped to make liaison with the Bru and be able to supply and direct them against the North Vietnamese.

  Sergeant Arnason was impressed with the village and noticed the lack of domestic animals, which made sense. Pigs and cattle would make too much noise and draw the NVA to the village. The chief led the Americans to the guest long-house and spoke to the interpreter.

  “The chief says for you and your men to stay in the long-house for the night as his guests. It is a great honor.” The interpreter smiled. “He says that when it becomes dark”—the small man pointed to the edge of the cliff they were standing near and drew a line with his hand to show that when the shadow from the cliff reached the opposite side of the narrow crevice was what the chief had meant by becoming dark—“you come to a num-pah ceremony.”

  Arnason smiled and nodded at the chief.

  Koski waited until they had entered the guesthouse before asking his question: “What’s num-pah?”

  “Rice wine that is newly fermented, and it gets you very drunk.” arnason dropped his backpack down on one of the woven bamboo mats that the Montagnards used for beds.

  “We going to get drunk?” Warner’s voice reflected his concern. “Out here in the jungle?”

  “I hope only me. If they offer you guys the wine, try and fake your way through it. I know that I won’t be able to with everyone watching, and getting drunk is considered honorable.” arnason shook his head. “I don’t mind getting drunk… it’s the hangover the next morning that kills me.”

  “You’re our leader.” Sanchez dropped his pack down on the mat at the far end of the Ionghouse, near the exit. “It looks like you’ll have to show us how it’s done.”

  “Fuck you, Sanchez!” arnason dropped down and rested his head against his pack. “I suggest we all get some rest while we can.”

  “Can we trust these Yards?” Warner’s voice sounded nervous.

  “As much as any ally… besides, we’re in their village and really don’t have much of a choice anymore.” arnason looked around the hooch. “Where’s the interpreter?”

  “He stayed outside with the chief. The last I saw of him was when they entered the Ionghouse.” Koski nodded toward the other side of the compound.”

  “Maybe we’d better keep a guard posted—just in case.” arnason crossed his legs and pulled his black Marine fatigue -cap down over his eyes. The silver skull had been covered with a piece of green cloth tape.

  “I’m not tired.” Koski carried his M-60 in the crook of his arm like anyone else would carry his hunting rifle. He had a hundred rounds of ammunition in the pouch hooked to the side of the light machine gun. The big Pole stepped out onto the platform porch attached to the entrance to the hooch and sat down cross-legged to watch the activity in the village. He noticed right away their interpreter talking to a very old Mon?tagnard on the porch of the longhouse across from them. The old man kept pointing toward him and the interpreter would nod and make a long speech about something. The whole scene made Koski nervous, especially since he couldn’t understand what they were saying.

  Three hours passed before the interpreter left the old man and hurried across the narrow clearing to where Koski sat with his back against the wall of the guesthouse. Koski hadn’t bothered waking up his reliefs.

  “Where is the sergeant?”

  Koski nodded toward the entrance. The interpreter went inside to wake uparnason while Koski remained outside watching the Montagnards moving around the longhouses. Everything seemed very normal, with children playing quietly near the buildings. Koski could heararnason talking to the Montagnard inside the hooch.

  “I have learned many things from the old chief. He tell me about the white-haired boy the NVA kept in a cage in A Rum.”

  “Spencer Barnett?”

  “I am sure that is who he talks about. Old chief says that the white-haired boy was very brave. Boy argued with NVA when NVA want to kill his grandson. Boy tell NVA that he will take the grandson’s place on the bamboo stake!” The interpreter was very impressed. “That a very brave thing to do, and all the Bru now talk about the white-haired American boy! You show old chief’s son the magic picture of you and white-haired boy smiling together and now the old chief wishes to help you fight the NVA. He say they kill many, many NVA and put them on stakes like they did to his grandson.”

  “Stakes?” arnason didn’t understand what the interpreter was trying to say.

  “Yes. Take and cut off bamboo still growing in ground.” The small man used his hands to showarnason what he was talking about; at the same time, his facial expressions showed the pain a person must feel when they were tied and then shoved down on the sharp stakes through their rectums.

  “The NVA did that to a small boy?” arnason felt his stomach roll.

  Woods had been listening with his cap still pulled down over his eyes and his head resting against his pack. The interpreter was answering a couple of questions he had had ever since they’d rescued Barnett and the Air Force colonel from. the POW camp.

  “NVA kill small boy...” the interpreter held up nine of his fingers to show the boy’s age, “with the stake and make whole Bru village watch. Spencer Barnett yell at NVA officer that he will take boy’s place on the stake and the NVA laugh and say… okay. They play with white-haired American soldier and only lift him up and let his”—he pointed to his rear end—“touch the end of sharp stake and then they place Spencer Barnett in front of stake....” He showed with his hands a distance of about three and a half feet. David Woods lifted the corner of his cap so that he could see. “NVA kill chief’s grandson and leave boy on stake for three days… in sun.” The interpreter wrinkled his nose, trying to show the horrible smell of the decomposing body. “NVA leave American soldier to watch… three days.” He lowered his head. “Then NVA make American soldier, Spencer Barnett, dig hole to bury boy.... Boy’s father watched from jungle… and NVA make American soldier fill hole this much”—he showed about a foot of dirt with his hands—“and make Spencer Barnett sit on top of dead boy, and NVA bury Spencer Barnett in dirt....” He drew a line with his finger across his neck.

  David Woods closed his eyes under his cap. He had seen a small hand in the dirt under Spencer when they had dug him out of the hole where the NVA had buried him up to his neck. Now Woods knew who had owned the tiny hand and why Spencer was so screwed up mentally when he was rescued. It must have been horrible for Spencer to have to sit three feet away from a little kid and watch the flies and bugs crawl over his body and then crawl over his own. Woods squeezed his eyes together hard. He fought back the tears.

  “Fuck…” arnason whispered the word with more expression than a whole speech would have made.

  “Chief you meet in clearing is the dead boy’s father. He declare the Bru enemies of the NVA. All dead NVA are placed on sharp stakes in jungle to tell other NVA that the Bru are at war with them.”

  Arnason nodded. The small band of renegade Bru were causing the NVA to hold back over a division of infantry to guard and reinforce the trails and supply depots in Laos. The NVA wanted the Bru dead and would give anything to find their secret villages in the jungle.

  The small interpreter leaned over and looked out the open doorway. “It is time to join the Bru warriors for the numpah.”

  Arnason got up on his feet. “Let’s go, Woods, Sanche
z… Warner.” The men struggled to their feet, trying to work the knots out of their tired muscles at the same time as they were slipping on their gear. They took everything with them but their backpacks. “Sanchez, bring one of your claymores with you… and the hand detonator.”

  Arnason led the way across the clearing to where the Bru chiefs and some of their senior warriors waited. The dark shadows had filled the narrow valley and it looked almost as if night had fallen already. The interpreter took a seat next toarnason and spoke a greeting to the Bru chieftains for the Americans. It was very important that no one was offended during the ceremony.

  Sergeant Arnason noticed the American dog tag hanging from the old chief’s neck almost as soon as he got within sight of the chief. He controlled his curiosity until the interpreter had made all the proper introductions and thenarnason asked the chief where he had found the small metal tag.

  “One of his warriors found it sticking in the side of a cliff near a tiger’s den.” The interpreter nodded over at the old chief’s son who was wearing a beautiful necklace that was made from a set of huge tiger claws.

  Arnason spoke to the Sedang interpreter. “Ask the chief if I could look at the steel tag, because it has a name on it and I would like to know if it belonged to one of my missing men.”

  The interpreter spoke and the old chief smiled and removed the dog tag. He handed the leather thong and tag toarnason, who nodded and smiled as he took it. The tag was shiny from being worn around the chief’s neck and the stamped name and identification was easy to read:

  FILLMORE

  BILLY-BOB

  Arnason’s eyes slipped over his ex-teammate’s social security number and blood type and rested on his religion:

  PENTECOSTAL

  “Fillmore’s…” arnason spoke to Woods. “I guess we can report back that he’s dead.”

  “We could,” Woods shifted his position and slid closer toarnason to whisper, “but he comes from a dirt-poor family down South. They’ll draw his missing-in-action pay until someone confirms his death. We haven’t seen any body or bones.”