by Barry Sadler
The damp ground made the Montagnard's job of tracking easy. Even with the rags around his feet Langer 's weight made easy signs to follow for one raised in the jungle. He was near the spot. The sun was directly overhead, its rays beating down on the damp earth as heat waves rose over the field between him and the trail. To check the wind, he traversed the scope until the heat waves moved straight up with no lateral motion. That meant there wasn't enough wind for him to worry about making any compensation for his shot. It was straight on. He brought the scope over until the body of the Montagnard filled the sight picture. Gently, steadily, he began to take up the slack on the trigger.
Raising his hand with the crossbow in it, the Montagnard signaled for the men behind him to halt. The trail had stopped. That meant his quarry had jumped off the trail, either to the left or right. Taking his time, he looked both ways then moved to where the grass began. Squatting on his haunches on the right side of the trail, he looked at the grass. The path Langer had taken was invisible to the untrained eyes of the Viets, but to those of the savage the way was clear. The manner in which small patches of damp grass bent in a different direction than the rest told the story. His eyes followed the trail across the field to the trees. A brief flicker of light from the shadows at the tree line brought a grunt of satisfaction. At the same moment his heart was exploded inside of him by a 7.63 mm bullet, knocking him flat on his back across the trail.
Langer held his sight for just long enough to make certain of his strike, then moved down the line. The Viets had hit the deck on both sides of the trail. A hand rose above the ground and began to point across the field in his direction. Someone was giving orders. That would be his next hit. Shifting his body for the new target, he focused on the place where the arm had risen up. Following the sight down, he brought into the picture the shape of a homemade Viet pith helmet. The face was hidden by grass. Calculating the distance, he aimed where he thought the chin should be. Even if he was off a bit he would be close enough to make the man get up; when he did he'd have him. Taking a breath, he took up the slack in the trigger once more then let loose his breath to its normal point of exhalation and squeezed off his shot. The bullet did better than he'd expected it to. The round caught the Viet just to the left of his nose. It entered his body lengthwise and then traveled down through the spinal cord. The contact with bone made the course of the round erratic. When the flattened slug finally stopped it was resting under the floating rib on the man's right side. It had passed through the lungs, the aorta, and a number of arteries, turning the inside of his chest cavity into a mass of thick, black red jelly.
Inaccurate fire came in his general direction. They hadn't spotted his position yet, but they were trying to keep him down until they did. He knew he'd have to go soon, before they got organized and moved out, flanking him. Rolling over to where he was further back under the tree and in the dark of the shadows, he came up to his knee and rested his weight on the heel of his right foot. Using the rifle strap to stabilize the weapon, he fired twice more. One hit, one miss. It was time to get hat and get gone. Firing off the rest of the six rounds remaining in the magazine, he took off, moving in a half circle around the edge of the tree line where he'd be outside for the view of the Viets, even if they sent out any flankers. Then he came around to where he had a view of his now vacant site in the tree line. Lying down in a ditch dug by the rains, he reloaded and waited, watching the Viets as they began to fan out across the clearing, moving slowly, ready to hit the ground if any more shots came from the tree line.
From where he lay in the ditch, the Viets were on a staggered horizontal line to him. This time there would be no fancy shooting. Rather than kill any of them, he wanted to wound enough men so that they would have to give up the chase to take care of them. They were now about two hundred meters away and if he moved fast he might be able to get two or three of them before they could react. He picked the man farthest behind the line. Sighting on the man's left thigh he fired. Not waiting to see if his target went down, he moved down the line, emptying the magazine once more, then backed away on his belly to where he could get to his knees and take off again. This time he would stay to the sides of the trail and head west. Content with the work he had done, he was sure the Viets would not be too anxious to continue their pursuit. Not if they had any sense, they wouldn't.
Of those on the field, only one was dead. The man he had shot first and one other went down with wounds. The other had walked into a gut shot.
Body low, weapon to the front, Langer moved away from his ambush, satisfied with the day's work. A thorn vine whipped at his face, striking him across the bridge of the nose laying it open. The pain made his eyes water, blinding him for just a second. That's all it took. In that instant, when he couldn't see, the world around him exploded. A hammer hit his chest knocking him clear off his feet, throwing his body back against a tree. Then another hit! He could hear the dull thud of the bullets ripping into him but the pain was distant, far away. His legs weren't there anymore. They too were far away as if they belonged to someone else. The sniper's rifle fell from lax fingers that hadn't the strength to hold the nine pounds any longer. Blood filled his mouth, running down his ragged tunic. He went first to his knees in slow motion as the strength left him. Then, ever so slowly, he twisted half around, falling face down to the earth, mouth and eyes open.
The muzzle of an American made M1 carbine prodded the face of the Legionnaire lying crumpled on the spongy floor of the forest. The Chung Ui in charge of the twelve man Viet Minh patrol that had come to investigate the sounds of firing was jerked away from his kill by a cry of rage and pain from the clearing. Comrade Commissar Thich was stumbling toward him, pistol in his hand, a belt tied around his thigh to stop the bleeding. The sight of Thich wounded and furious scared the young lieutenant from Da Nang more than anything the French had ever hit him with.
"Did you get him? Is the swine dead? Show me. I must see him! "The Chung Ui obeyed, offering his arm for assistance. He led Thich to the body. A tree root covered by grass and leaves caught his good foot. He fell belly first to lie nearly eye to eye with the object of his hate.
Over the pain in his voice came a note of pure pleasure. "You're dead! At last, I am rid of you." The face said nothing. The gray blue eyes were already fogging over. Reaching out a bloody finger, which touched one of the orbs. Nothing happened, no eye reflex at all. The back of Langer 's tunic was torn and bloody where two bullets had passed completely through him. Not yet completely satisfied he turned the body over to its back so he could see the wounds. Good! The sight of the three holes in the Legionnaire 's chest nearly compensated for the pain of his own wound. The man was dead, of that there was no doubt. Thich, like most men in war, had seen enough casualties to know that. Still, before rising, he put a hand to the carotid artery, pressed deep and felt for any trace of a pulse. At last he was content that his prey's life force had gone to whatever heaven or hell he had believed in. Thich ordered the Chung Ui to throw the body on the trail as a warning to the villagers in the region. He would have had the corpse dismembered, the balls cut off and put in the severed head's mouth, if his leg hadn't begun to throb so badly. A wave of pain rushed over him like hot water. His stomach churned and he threw up on Langer's body.
That was the end of the chase. Thich was not going to take a chance on bleeding to death or dying from infection. His greatest concern now was his own well-being. Escorted by the lieutenant and his squad, the climb back up the mountain was an agony of body and spirit for Thich. He had always prided himself on being unemotional and logical, but there had been a madness eating at him that some men only felt for a woman. He had wanted the scar-faced Legionnaire. He had wanted him so badly it hurt, nearly as much as his leg.
His two wounded men were left with two of the lieutenant's men to be brought up later after the dead were buried. In the meantime, he hoped the wild pigs of the jungle would enjoy the meal he had left for them on the trail.
His five re
maining men took turns carrying him on a makeshift stretcher. They took the brunt of his abuse as they struggled back up the mountain trails with their angry cargo. He blamed them for being lax in their duty, for being stupid beasts that did not deserve to wear the uniform of the revolution. They were supposed to be soldiers. How could they fail him in such a manner and let one filthy Legionnaire treat them as if they were school children who had not studied their lessons? When they returned he would see to it that they were put into a special re-education class, a class for those who needed to have their revolutionary zeal rebuilt. They would receive a hundred hours of indoctrination on the principles of Danh du Trach Nhiem, Honor and responsibility. The senior Viet Minh soldier's efforts to explain were cut off with a terse order to be silent. ”Im Lang!" Comrade Huang Nguyen Thich was in no mood to hear excuses. Every step they took sent a jolt of fire through his throbbing leg. He knew he'd be lucky if he didn't lose it. Viet Minh doctors were unfortunately somewhat less proficient in medicine than their European counterparts.
Now that it was over, it was hard for Thich to recall just what had been the fascination the scar-faced man had held for him. At any rate it was done with and he could turn his energies to more useful endeavors. There was much to be done in the next few months. The tunnels had to be rebuilt and expanded. This time, he'd dig them so deep and strong that bombs would never give him any cause for concern again. Comrade General Giap had placed this project in his hands and he would not fail his old friend. When he was finished, the mountains around the valley of Dien Bien Phu would be able to house fifty thousand men and their equipment. When the time came he would be ready. Raising up on an elbow, he swore at his bearers to be careful and move faster. He wanted to be back at the tunnels before the rains came. He already felt a chill, and his leg burned.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Langer lay face down on the trail, his body crumpled and his mouth open on the damp earth. A centipede, searching for lesser organisms to eat, made a brief and unproductive journey into the open mouth. Crawling over the teeth, the yellow green arthropod sampled the bloody tongue with its antennae. It didn't like what it found there and wriggled its multitude of tiny feet back over the gums and lips to search for a more conventional meal. Two hours after the Viets had left, three villagers from a Montagnard hamlet of the Mnong tribe came upon the body. Even though the bloody tunic and trousers were great prizes, they left them alone and walked around the corpse on thick calloused soles, wrapping their thin homemade black and red striped cotton blankets a little tighter around their dark shoulders. The elder of the natives made a three fingered sign to ward off evil and whispered a prayer to the Thanh Tien of the mountains. Once past the body, he spat out a clot of red phlegm between black betel nut stained teeth. This was none of their business. All they needed to know or wanted lay within the confines of their small village. They didn't understand the reason why the Viets were fighting the French and they didn't care. All they knew was that no matter what happened, they would not be the ones to rule themselves.
The sky darkened. Winds began to increase in strength, shifting the branches of the trees, flapping the heavy green fronds of palms and banana trees like limp, waving arms.
Where the earth had dried, dust clouds rose to twist and dance a brief moment before the first fat drops of rain came to beat them down. Over the Red River delta, the winds rode with the moisture laden clouds. Coming in from the sea, the winds and rain swept over Nam Dinh, then turned inland up the Black River past Hoa Binh and Moc Chau to the valley where the rust colored waters of the Ma flowed south to the Gulf of Tonkin. It was near there that the skies again burst open on the mountains, the heavy rains running in brown frothing torrents, seeking the lower regions. Streams overflowed their beds and swamps became lakes for a time. On the trail where Langer lay, wind and rain whipped at his body. Red water from the clay in the soil covered the blood that his body and mouth had given up.
The rains passed, and with their passing came the dark. In the Mnong village the wisemen made magic and a precious young male water buffalo was sacrificed. They knew something was taking place in their mountains that was not good. Before, when troubles came, the high places and valleys had been their refuge. Now, the despised little men of the lowlands were there and the Mnong were no longer welcome in their own mountains. The body of the Dum Brun on the trail near their village was just another sign of the evil that was coming.
Large fires were built in the center of the village. The wisemen stood beside them and faced the four corners of sky and earth, tossing rice powder into the winds in the hope that the spirits of the elements would hear and honor their prayers. In two circles, the young men and women of the village danced. The men in loincloths on the outside circle moved in the opposite direction of their bare breasted women. Hands joined, they moved. With slow shuffling steps sideways, they began the ritual. One, two, stop! They raised their hands to the sky, lowered them to their sides and then repeated the action, always in the same direction, to the rhythm of brass tongs and skin covered drums. All that night they danced as signs were read and the future seen in the burned and scraped shoulder blade of the dead water buffalo. The wisemen covered their faces. There was nothing good to be read in the future. Only death and fire were to be seen in the charred scapula, death and pain for tens of thousands and they, the children of the mountains, were also to suffer. The old women of the village began to wail and grieve when they heard the future. They cried and tore at their faces with strong black nails, ripping their own flesh open. Instinct scared off a wandering leopard who had come to steal a dog from the village. It too, in its animal heart, knew that this was not a night to kill. The keening of the Mnong women sent it back to its lair to lie and watch the night with golden eyes, but it would not hunt. There were others in the hills far more dangerous than he.
Twice, pigs came to sniff at the body on the trail, but they didn't eat it. There was something about the flesh that made them snort, stick their tails straight in the air and trot away with stiff legs. This was not for them and they knew it.
With the dawn, the villagers collapsed in exhaustion from their devotions. They had done the best they could; now it was up to the gods. The fires had burned low and tendrils of smoke rose, floating on the gentle, morning breeze as they touched, then left, the still body of Langer.
In the dark that was his mind and soul, a pinpoint of light flickered once, then again. A delicate tremor ran along the mesentery of his abdominal cavity. The bleeding inside had stopped long before and, while in his death sleep, the cursed body was taking steps to heal itself. Blood filled lungs moved of their own volition. The tiny, hairlike cilia worked in waves, removing the blood drop by drop, shoving it up to the throat where the larynx spasmed, forcing the mouth open to throw out the black clots. The spark in his mind grew larger, thoughts beginning to flow together in a stream. Thousands of faces merged, swam, and dissolved. The curse that had been with him had not gone away. But it had been so long since he had felt its pull that he had nearly begun to doubt his own reality. The curse put on him had been given to him those long centuries ago at the mount of Golgotha, where the sad face of Jesus had looked down at him from the cross, then turned angry as the bloody spear in the hand of the Roman Legionnaire was pulled from his body. Jesus had looked down on the frightened face of the Roman soldier and told him in words that rivaled the storm and winds of that day:
"Soldier, you are content with what you are. Then that you shall remain, until we meet again!"
He, Casca Rufio Longinus, was condemned to live, to walk the earth until the second coming. Time and again over the centuries he had tried to die, and should have, but each time it had been denied him, as it was being denied him now. He was not an unusual man. He felt and loved and hurt as did everyone else. He knew cold and hunger, all the things that mortal men knew except for death. He was condemned to be no more than what he had been at that moment in Judea, a soldier. His destiny, to fight endless battles
until the second coming of Jesus when he would at last be granted peace. The sweet peace of sleep from which he would never again have to wake.
His heart pounded once, twice, three times, then picked up its beat. Blood began to move through stiff veins and arteries. The lungs spasmed once more, sucking in air to feed the flood. The soldier of time blinked. Tears moistened his eyes and he saw light and cried for his lost death.
There was still pain from his wounds and if he had not been hit by the fast copper jacketed bullets from an M-1 carbine, there would have probably been a great deal more damage done to him. He had no choice but to go on. He was what he was, no more. Stiff and sore, he rose from the trail, checked the set of the morning sun and moved off on stiff awkward legs. It took several hours before all of his parts were functioning properly again, and he was hungry. Near a stream he found another trail and took it, keeping to a well-used track. He was pleased that it had begun to turn to the southwest, a direction that was sure to take him to regions controlled by the French, if he didn't stumble into a Viet ambush or patrol. Twice that day he saw Gruman f8f-1B fighter bombers go overhead, flying in the direction of Laos. Stopping only when the rains came in the afternoon, he found a poor semblance of a shelter between the roots of a tree and used a palm frond for an umbrella to keep the worst of the storm's pounding off his head and face. A four foot grass snake, washed out of its hole by the rains, slithered wetly by his foot and was kind enough to provide him with his supper. The flesh was tough and bland tasting, something like raw fish, but it did fill up the vacuum that had been gnawing at him all day.
