Soldier of Fortune

by Barry Sadler

  George smiled inside, remembering the good things of his past: the drinking bouts, where the Germans always seemed to win. They had also taught him many of their great marching songs, though the words had been changed to fit this new war they were fighting instead of the big one in Europe. The Germans had proved to be good comrades, as had all the men of the legion. They'd taught him to speak their language, first the French, then the Germans, and had shown him many things from a world he hadn't even dreamed of. Nothing, before they'd come, had existed outside his small village along the Dap Rao River.

  Letting a breath hiss from between his teeth, he sighed. It was gone now, all gone. Some still lived, he supposed, but most were dead. Dien Bien Phu, de Castrie, General Giap of the Vietminh, Strong Point Monique, the surgeon, a fine man who'd treated him for a shrapnel wound in the thigh. What of him? Did he still live? George hoped so.

  Those had been long days at Dien Bien Phu. Why they had built there had always puzzled him. The ground was no good; you couldn't build a decent bunker. As soon as it rained, its sides would start caving in. Too much sand in the ground. One spent more time worrying about being buried alive in case of a near miss by one of the Viets' 105s than he did about being shot. One thing about the legion, though they treated everyone the same. They were all soldiers of France, and no preference was given because you were a Montagnard, a Viet, or even a German, who had fought and conquered their country. To the French, as long as you served France, you were French.

  He recalled sadly the day of the surrender. That day, Captain Fremont, the commander of George's unit, was one of the few who had decided to break out rather than surrender to the Vietminh. Of the twenty men of their unit who'd broken free from their encirclement that night, only four had made it to the French lines. The remaining ten thousand men of Dien had been marched off to holding pens farther north to wait until peace came.

  George, along with many others, had cried when the tri-colored flag of France was taken down and the gold star of the communists was raised to take its place over Hanoi.

  To stay in the north was impossible. George had moved south, along with almost a million others, to escape the rule of the Vietminh. He'd returned to his tribal home outside Pleiku in the central highlands of South Vietnam. There he'd waited, not knowing for what. Then the troubles had started again. An ambush here, a tenor bombing there, assassinations and threats. The communists were not content with their lands to the north. No, like pigs, they wanted it all.

  George, because of his background, was made a company commander of a unit of the CIDG, a self defense force established throughout Vietnam. That had been his duty when he'd first met Casey and Van. Selections were being made for a spec unit, called a "mike force," consisting of specially trained Montagnards, Viets, and Americans, to conduct swift reaction raids on the Cong by chopper and parachute.

  Again, because of George's knowledge and past history, he was made the native commander of the troops in the mike force. They had made many successful strikes against the Cong in those days. George knew the depth of Casey's feelings when they'd raided that village in Cambodia and had found out what happened to an American there. George had agreed completely with Casey's actions in making the Cong crawl by the dead American's grave on their stomachs. If George had his own way that day, he personally would have killed them all and buried them in a mass, grave at the dead American's feet so that he would have had no shortage of slaves in the next life. With that many slaves, he would certainly have been considered a chieftain. Contact with the west had not changed George's beliefs and his way of thinking. Many of the old ways still made more sense to him than the things he'd been taught and told by the Down Broun, or big noses.

  It wasn't until much later that George had learned that Casey had also been at Dien Bien Phu.

  George was still deep in thoughts, both pleasant and unpleasant, when Lon's voice broke the silence of the night. The man's voice grated on George's ears, sending chills of remembrance and offensive shivers up and down his spine: memories of a voice that sounded a lot like this one some years before.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Lon called his sharpshooter to him, whispering. "Watch for the American's response. If it is negative to my question, your signal to fire will be the words, “It is your choice, American.' Do you understand me?" His man nodded.

  Lon yelled firmly and loud, his voice almost a shriek. "American, do you hear me? Your hour is up! What is your answer?" There was no response. "Come now, American, what is your answer? My decision will not be delayed. Answer me now or we attack and everyone dies. Men and women, do you hear?"

  He whispered again to his rifleman. "If he exposes himself and we shoot him, the others should not be too difficult to deal with. The loss of the leader, the loss of the nerve."

  "Answer me, American, you have no more time." There was nothing in the night except the sound of his own voice.

  Casey made his way back to the entrance of the temple, sliding outside to the same post he had lain behind an hour previous. Catching George's eye, he spoke in German. "Bewacht!" It was the German word for "beware."

  George grunted. Did Trung Si think this was his first time out?

  "Okay, Governor, we hear you. I need some more time to think it over."

  Colonel Lon could just make out the shape of Casey's head behind the column. "What did you say, American? I did not hear you well."

  Casey raised his head a little and repeated his request for more time.

  When he moved, Lon spoke. "It is your choice, American."

  Lon's man sighted. He fired with the last word from his colonel's mouth. The bullet burned a path less than an inch from Casey's face, making the unmistakable sound of a single clap, meaning you'd almost taken one the round had broken the wind by your ear. Casey felt the familiar twinge of cold fear pass through his gut, and his ass tightened with what was clinically known as tenesmus, or the spasmodic tensing of the anal muscles.

  Pulling himself lower, he called out, "All right, you yellow asshole, you called the game. It's up to you how we play it now." With his last words, he moved to the opposite side of the column and called inside to Phang. "Get your people ready. I think we'll be hit soon. Any word from your man in the rear?"

  "None yet," called the old one, "but he must have found something to be taking so long."

  "Dammit, go and check him out. We can't wait all night."

  The old Kamserai gave a few quick instructions to his men and disappeared into the darkness at the rear of the temple. Making his way around falling and crumbled stone and dank, musty growth, he went the way his man had gone before him, stooping and crawling in places where the roof of one room had partially collapsed. No light was visible through the hole in the ceiling. Taking his flashlight out, he snapped the beam on full and made his way deeper into the rear of the temple.

  The beam of his torch picked up the feet and lower legs of his man, protruding from a hole barely large enough for a good sized man to crawl through. Phang went to him, kicking the bottom of his feet.

  "What is wrong with you, lazy one? Are you asleep?"

  The answer to his question came with a lightning swift streak that threw itself at Phang's face, barely missing as the old man leaped backward. A giant tree cobra had lunged, striking at its prey and missing by only millimeters. Several drops of golden venom fell to the floor as the serpent's hollow fangs overfilled and leaked with the expectation of another kill. It lay unmoving for only seconds.

  The giant serpent pulled itself forward, toward Phang, curling, coiling, raising its head to a height that was level with the old man's eyes. Their organs of sight locked.

  Phang started to take a step to his rear and felt a cool stone touch his hip. No way to escape here. The giant cobra moved slowly forward as if aware that his quarry had no place to run. No escape route. An easy victim waited.

  Phang stopped all motion, locking his eyes again on the snake's. The cobra hissed, letting its split tongu
e dart in and out, tasting the air about it, sensing the heat of the prey before it.

  Phang began to rock slowly from side to side, as he'd seen old women of the snake cults do. Gradually increasing his motions from side to side, he continued rocking. The ancient serpent began to ape his movements, its eyes never leaving Phang's lidless, unblinking eyes, yellow with untold years.

  Options passed through Phang's mind. He could not keep moving like this forever, and if his attention left the snake for even an instant, he would die. No time to call for help. Even if they heard him, there would be no time. He must do it, whatever there was that could be done, himself. So be it! The time to move was now.

  Increasing the reach of his sway, Phang without hesitation threw his left hand suddenly to the side. The cobra, in rapt attention, went instinctively for the object in motion. In less time than the blink of an eye, the serpent's fangs sank deeply into his hand, catching his palm in the center. At the strike, Phang's fist closed around the cobra's head, keeping the deadly fangs embedded in the palm. In one clean, swift motion, he pulled his long razor sharp blade from the scabbard on his right side and, in a continuous swing, severed the head of the snake from its body. He swung once more, even before the severed trunk of the cobra could hit the floor, and felt a cold and then a burning pain as the blade in his right hand cleaved his left hand at the wrist, allowing the fist, still locked tightly on the head of the cobra, to fall to the floor, joining the divided body that lay there as if it were still alive; writhing, moving as if it possessed a separate brain from the one Phang's clenched fist still held.

  He dropped the blade, grabbing his left arm at the wrist and squeezing tightly to arrest the flow of blood. He squatted down, holding his arm in close, and waited to see whether he'd been swift enough to beat the venom's race to the circulatory track. A few seconds more and he would live or die.

  It was hard to tell for sure. Was the burning in his mutilated arm from the poison or from his own quick amputation? Rocking back and forth on his heels, still squatting, he closed his eyes, taking quick, shallow breaths. The seconds passed. Rising, he looked down at the still writhing, winding body of the giant cobra. He knew that he had beaten the venom.

  "Well, old one, we are even. You took one of my men and my hand. I will leave you both and forgive you. This was your home for decades. We were the intruders. You were only protecting your domain. Keep my hand and my man. Perhaps one or the other will serve you in the next incarnation. Peace, old one!"

  Phang released his arm long enough to pull the body of his Kamserai warrior from the hole. Bending, he examined the entrance. It was not far! He could see a brighter glow about fifty feet away, filtering in from the outside. Perhaps this would prove to be their way out. Pushing and crawling, holding his bleeding and tender stump close to his chest and out of the way, he inched through the hole and across the space until the light was clear enough to show a partially covered exit. Looking out carefully, he could see that the wall of the treeline came right up to the opening. The swamp was just outside. Not much would have to be done to clear enough rocks away to be able to get out. The tunnel he was in appeared to have been an old drainage ditch, a shaft to release the waters during the rainy season.

  Phang withdrew and returned to the main chamber. His arm was throbbing, but he would bear the pain. Men of his race prided themselves on their ability to endure anguish that would drive western men insane. He'd been gone no more than ten minutes, when he entered the main chamber and fell at Casey's feet. He smiled, looking up at Casey's questioning eyes.

  "We have a way out, my son." He closed his eyes and fell into deep slumber.

  Casey threw his arms up in wonderment. "What the hell are you doing sleeping now? Those bastards outside aren't going to wait much longer before rushing"

  He was interrupted. A gush of bright red arterial blood spurted out and into the dirt. He stared at the raw bleeding stump of Phang's arm and caught it before it could fall into the dirt beside him. Taking time for no more inquiries, he squeezed tightly, reaching into his first aid kit with his other hand. He removed a roll of gauze bandages and quickly bound the severed wrist of his friend. Time for questions later. But what had he said before passing out? A way out?

  The day was beginning to gnaw on Casey's nerves. But now, with the message of a way out from his placid old friend, things were looking somewhat better. He left Phang to the care of Yu Li and her mother and returned to the doorway, smiling at Huan, who was still vigilant and protective of his brood. Taking his old .34, keeping the piece on single shot, he pulled back inside to where the shadows covered him. Full night would be on them soon. That, combined with the dense, impenetrable fog overhead, would give them additional cover. But it would also make it more difficult to see one's target. If it was going to happen, it would be soon.

  "Van," he called. "George. Get ready and stay close to me. When I pull out, don't linger. Phang says there's a way out of here in the rear. Keep close when I say so."

  Receiving affirmative responses from both men, he lay down behind the gun and waited, placing himself slightly off to one side so that he couldn't be hit by any direct fire coming in from the entrance and could still cover the doorway with his weapon. He hoped Phang's men were ready. How would they react under fire without their chief? he wondered.

  Lon gathered his men around him, whispering orders. "Attack! We attack now! We have them outnumbered seven to one. Give them to me, and I promise each of you shall be rewarded. Fail me, and you shall all pay dearly, directly to me personally. It appears that they have only a couple of submachine guns. Move rapidly and show no mercy. These are our enemies and would destroy us and our nation."

  For this attack; there would be no fancy battle plans. A straight assault, head on at the enemy, using superior numbers to win would be his only tactic. There was no way out from the rear, according to his scouts, and with luck a few survivors of this slaughter would give him sufficient information to allow him to gain in stature at central headquarters.

  Dull and heavy, the repeated sound of 60 mm mortars striking the temple signaled the attack from the Khmer Rouge. The mortars, however, were having little effect on the stone walls and ceiling of the old temple other than stirring up dust that made it hard to breathe.

  Van yelled down. "Here they come!" Automatic fire and screams from the attacking Khmer made it sound as if an entire division was trying to reduce this one small stronghold.

  They came, weapons firing. Van switched his piece to auto fire and, taking careful aim at the oncoming enemy, reduced their numbers by twos and threes each time the HK G-3 cut loose. A group of four Khmer soldiers reached the right side of the temple and were working their way along the columns leading to the entrance when George rose from his position.

  Raising his automatic shotgun to hip level, he slowly squeezed the trigger. The combination of the bore's contents buckshot and solid rounds ripped through the backs of the stunned Khmer troops, the lead tearing holes in their bodies large enough for a grown man to stand in with his boots on, shredding their clothing to rags.

  Leaping over the dead Khmers, George raced inside and lay down beside Casey, who was in the process of reloading. Van followed close behind and took up position on the opposite side of the doorway.

  The Khmer rushed them in a rage at the loss of their comrades. They threw themselves into the doorway of the temple, firing blindly, confident that their numbers would give them victory, as their commander had said. They raced to meet death at this disputed barricade.

  Casey cut loose on full automatic, letting his piece take command. Six hundred plus rounds per minute, ten per second, poured from the barrel, ripping their way through the massed bodies of the Khmer soldiers packed into the entrance of the temple. He hosed them down, supported by Van's G-3 and George's shotgun. The Kamserai were doing their best to reduce the odds also. Motioning for the soldiers of Phang to retreat while he and his two men covered them, Casey yelled for them to take Phang
and head for the rear of the temple in order to cover them when they broke contact with the Khmer.

  Suddenly, the assault from the Khmer ceased. They were taking up stations outside the doorway, several of them crawling up the porticoes to see whether there was any way in from the top. Realizing their new strategy, Casey and his men moved quickly to the next chamber to their rear, deciding to defend one room at a time as they retreated. The interior of the temple was almost pitch black. They rested for the next onslaught. Casey reloaded, knowing that his men were doing the same.

  There was no immediate attack coming now, and he decided to use the break to check out Phang's exit. He wondered then how old Phang was faring. If they didn't get him something to prevent infection soon, he would die. He told George to take over the MG. Flipping his flashlight from his belt, he headed for the rear, passing Yu Li and her family on the way. The Kamserai were also in position two rooms behind Van and George's location. Phang was being looked after by two of his men.

  Casey moved as fast as he could in the darkness of the interior, waving his flashlight here and there, seeing where Phang and his men had left tracks in the floor's aged dust. Following this trail, he weaved and half crawled until he came upon the body of Phang's man. He saw the remains of the giant serpent and Phang's hand still holding onto its head. He knew then what had happened previously and felt even more respect for the old man. It had taken a lot of courage for the old man to lop off his own hand. It was damned painful. As he looked down at the hand, Casey remembered the time he'd lost his own, at Kushan, or Afghanistan. He'd been ready to leave Persia, heading for China. The elder, Dacort, had chopped it off because ah, hell, that was too many terrible years ago. At least he'd gotten his back. Phang never would. What kind of warrior could he be with one hand?