Eagles Cry Blood

by Donald E. Zlotnik

  “Damn it, sir! You’ll hit our own men!”

  “It’s a VC! A Vietcong!” Hetten was screaming and struggling with Paul, trying to take his weapon back.

  The sound of the CAR-15 firing caused the occupant of the spider hole to exit rapidly and throw both his hands high in the air.

  “He is surrendering.” Loau spoke.

  “Don’t trust him! He could be armed!” Hetten had recovered his weapon from Paul and pointed it at the lone figure. He pulled the trigger but nothing happened. He had forgotten to replace the empty magazine.

  “He’s not carrying a weapon.”

  Braverman touched Loau’s arm. “Tell him to stand still.”

  Loau gave the command in a loud voice, and the Vietnamese communist raised his arms even higher in the air.

  “I’m not going to risk any of my men’s lives! Kill him! ” Hetten yelled at Sergeant Loau.

  “No! ” Paul stepped out from the group. “He’s a prisoner of war!”

  “Christ, sir, look—he’s just a kid!” Braverman pointed at the youth.

  “He still could have a grenade under his clothes!” Hetten was obsessed with killing him.

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  “Sergeant Loau, tell the boy to remove all of his clothes and turn around in a circle.” Paul was bordering on an insubordination charge, and knew that he had to do something quickly or the boy would be killed.

  Loau spoke rapidly to the youth, who hesitated over the command and then slowly started removing his clothing. He removed the black Vietcong hat and pajama-style pants and shirt, and stood naked, shaking with fear in front of the group of armed men.

  “Damn it, sir.” Paul was angry over having to humiliate the child. “The boy’s almost dying from fear! Do you want to start killing kids?”

  Paul turned, with his face showing the contempt he felt for Hetten, and spoke to Loau, “Go get the boy and let him get dressed.”

  Sergeant Loau smiled at Paul and ran over to the small boy and spoke softly in Vietnamese.

  By the time Sergeant Loau returned with the child, Hetten had gained control of himself. The boy ran straight over to Paul and wrapped his arms around the soldier’s waist. The young boy tried talking between the sobs that wracked his thin body.

  “The child is thanking you for his life.” Loau’s voice was near-breaking as he explained what the child was saying. “The VC forced him to bring them food from the village while they were occupying this outpost.”

  Paul looked down at the boy who was still holding onto his waist and noticed that he had light reddish brown hair. He reached down, lifted the child’s chin, and looked into the tear-filled dark blue eyes.

  “His father was a Frenchman,” Loau’s voice softened. “The VC used his half-French mother as a whore until she took her own life. The boy has been used as a slave ever since. I am ashamed to say this, but sometimes my people are very cruel to half-breeds, especially those children whose fathers were French soldiers that were defeated by the Vietminh. It is a double shame.”

  Sergeant Braverman laid his hand on the small set of trembling shoulders.

  “Christ—my oldest son isn’t much bigger than he is,” Braverman smiled down at the child. “Loau, ask him his name.”

  “Tuc Tre.” Loau patted the boy’s wet cheek.

  “Tell him his name is now changed to . . . Bobby.” Braverman looked over at Paul, who nodded his approval. “He has to have an American name if he’s going to live with us.”

  The boy’s face lit up when Sergeant Loau translated Braverman’s words.

  “Get the kid something to eat and bring him with us,” Lieutenant Bourne spoke to Braverman, realizing that the seasoned sergeant had taken a shine to the small boy.

  “Yes, do that. He should be of some use to us. We can send him back to the C-Team for interrogation and get credit for a POW at the same time.”

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  Hetten had regained some of his composure and had completely forgotten his totally unprofessional actions over the last few minutes. “Actually, Lieutenant, if you would have tried to kill the child, I would have stopped you. I was testing to see if you would commit an atrocity under combat conditions. I’m glad that you’ve passed the test.” Hetten spoke loud enough for all of those assembled near him to hear.

  “Really, sir? A test?” Paul felt his stomach roll. “How about giving me a break on the testing in the future?” Paul beckoned with his head at Braverman.

  “Let’s get the base area defense set up for the night.”

  Paul and Braverman spent the rest of the daylight hours inspecting the defensive perimeter and recommending changes to some of the crew-served weapons. The active day was beginning to show in Paul’s posture as he sat down next to one of the radios lined up in the shallow depression that had been selected as the command center. He slipped his pack off his shoulders and unhooked the buckle on his BAR belt.

  “How do they look?” Hetten spoke with a newfound friendliness.

  “Good, sir. We have a company set up in each quadrant surrounding this canal junction, and two companies forming an inner perimeter and reserve force.” Paul opened a can of C-rations with the P-38 opener he carried on a chain around his neck. He stirred the cold beans and franks with one of the white plastic spoons that came with the boxed combat rations while he briefed his commander. “We should be in a reasonably good fighting posture in case we get hit tonight.” Paul crunched up two of the canned crackers into the beans.

  “Tonight will be our most vulnerable for attack.” Hetten patted the stock of his submachine gun. Paul agreed with the captain’s reasoning for the first time since they had met back at the C-Team. The first night in a new location was always a disadvantage to the patrolling force.

  The sun hiding behind the horizon left a faint glow in the sky waiting for the predicted full moon to appear. Paul was glad that the C-Team operations officer had held off on the insertion of the new A detachment until the moon was full. It was much easier to defend new territory when you could see the enemy. Total darkness would have been to the VC’s advantage for the first week while the Special Forces detachment was building fighting bunkers and digging in. Sergeant Braverman had learned from the boy that the VC had a main-force battalion stationed less than three thousand meters from them down the canal. It was just a matter of whether or not they wanted to fight tonight. Paul placed his half-eaten can of beans and franks between his feet and called Sergeant Yater on the nearby radio, informing him that he would be staying at the command post for the night and that the sergeant wouldn’t have to send a squad back for him.

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  The defensive position was quiet, with very little movement among the troops as they settled in for the long night. Paul looked around the area for a place where he could stretch out for a couple hours’ rest before early morning arrived and he had to check the guards. His body was wracked with short stabs of pain coming from his overworked muscles. Paul located Braverman lying next to a low paddy dike and decided to occupy an open spot twenty meters away. The moon broke through the light cloud cover and revealed hundreds of soldiers lying in small groups around the perimeter anywhere there were spots of thick vegetation or dips in the flat terrain that would provide some cover against grazing fire.

  “Lieutenant! One last thing before you take off for your rounds.” Hetten was stretched out on a poncho with a camouflaged poncho liner pulled over him. “Would you ensure that the prisoner is tied up for the night?”

  “I don’t think Sergeant Braverman would take too kindly to that idea, sir.”

  Paul pointed to where the sergeant was resting with his neck leaning against his rucksack. Cuddled up close to his side was the boy, sound asleep.

  “Sergeant Br
averman has seven kids of his own and I don’t think this one can pull the wool over his eyes.”

  “I don’t think we should allow him the chance to escape or, worse yet, throw a hand grenade in the commander post!” Hetten was determined to have his way.

  “Sir, Sergeant Braverman is awake. He’s just resting against his pack. I’m sure the boy can’t move an inch without him knowing about it.” Paul stood and walked to the place he had selected for the night, carrying his pack in one hand and his CAR-15 in the other. Paul could see Braverman’s open eyes glisten in the moonlight as he passed his position. Tonight was probably the first time since the boy’s mother had died where he slept securely. Tuc Tre—

  Bobby—moved closer to Braverman in his sleep. There had been an immediate bond formed between the boy and the crusty old sergeant, and like it or not, Paul knew that Braverman had adopted himself another son.

  Paul eased his head against the rucksack frame and stretched his legs out on the ground. The relaxation felt as good as a hot bath to his muscles. He let his mind drift over the day’s events and closed with a personal thought to God for letting him save one small life in the miserable war being fought. Paul smiled. He was glad he hadn’t said that out loud. Special Forces soldiers weren’t supposed to feel that way. There was an image to maintain.

  The bright moon drifted through the night sky to its early morning position. Paul read the dial on his watch: 0212 hours. He felt rested after the light combat sleep. He was slightly angry at himself for taking the luxury of sleep during the first night. He was sure that the VC would try attacking the outpost before the men had a chance to dig in and fortify 116

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  their positions. Paul stood up and stretched the stiffness out of his muscles. He could see small groups of sleeping men lining the dikes with one man in each group sitting up, wrapped in ponchos to keep the heavy night dew off.

  Paul looked down when he passed Braverman’s position and noticed Bobby sleeping alone under a wet poncho. Sergeant Braverman approached Paul from the direction of the perimeter.

  “Looks good so far out there,” Braverman slipped down to the damp ground and took a seat on the folded-over edge of the boy’s cover. Paul joined the sergeant. “The guards realize how vulnerable we are tonight. I don’t think we have to worry about them falling asleep.”

  “I saw Sergeant Loau walking the perimeter earlier,” Paul whispered.

  A loud snore carried across the damp ground from where the command post was set up. Hetten was in a deep exhausted sleep.

  “I’m really impressed with Loau.” Braverman sat looking out at the perimeter. The tough sergeant was unconsciously brushing the youth’s hair with his fingers, a reflex that was comforting to the sleeping boy and the man alike.

  “Look over there . . .” Braverman pointed to a green tracer round spiraling high in the night sky. The round burned out at its zenith.

  “.51 caliber. Wake up the ol’ man.” Paul and Braverman both grabbed their weapons and rushed to alert the base camp. The watching guards had also observed the North Vietnamese round and were quietly waking the sleeping soldiers around them. Two minutes later the whole camp was alert and in fighting positions waiting for the attack. Not one word had been spoken. The lone tracer was joined in the sky by hundreds of others. At first only green tracers danced in the sky, then they were joined by the red American brand. The Mike Force companies were locked in battle.

  “Lieutenant, turn up the radio that’s on the Mike Force frequency!”

  Paul obeyed the captain and turned up the portable speaker attached to the radio so they all could hear the messages coming from the Mike Force commander.

  “Are we also under attack?” Hetten was having difficulty orienting himself after taking the luxury of sleeping so deeply.

  “Not yet. It looks like the Mike Force is locking horns with something big!” Paul turned down the volume on the speaker and picked up the attached handset to monitor the radio better.

  “Damn! They just punched through my First Platoon!”

  Another voice came over the radio.

  “Turn your A-6 over here!”

  “Shit, where are you?”

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  A calmer voice cut in on the near-panicked voices. “This is Skull Six . . .

  Four and Five . . . Hold your positions . . . I’m popping smoke and star clusters for Spooky to orient me . . . mark your perimeters . . .”

  “Roger.”

  “Roger, Six . . . they’ve just backed off a bit . . . popping smoke . . . Four out.”

  A static-filled voice broke into the conversation taking place on the ground, “This is Spooky 44 . . . I see you . . . red smoke?”

  “Roger that, Spooky 44 . . . Smoke is red . . .”

  “Everything west of those star clusters is fair game?”

  “Roger . . . west of the star clusters is fair game . . . I spell W-E-S-T . . . over.”

  Paul saw the solid red stream burst from the dark patch in the moonlit sky. It resembled a moving water hose that sprayed death instead of liquid. The Gatling guns mounted in the C-130 aircraft spit forth hundreds of thousands of pieces of steel a minute that covered areas as wide as a football field in seconds. The battle aircraft flew the skies nightly over the Delta track waiting for calls of assistance from ground-based units. The Mike Force’s call for help had reached the plane just as it had been passing by overhead. The timing couldn’t have been better.

  “Man, you’re blowing their shit away!” The unknown voice filled the speaker on the radio.

  Another voice joined in, “You see that. Skull Six? Spooky caught that VC

  company in the open rice fields . . . Nobody is moving out there!”

  “Roger, Skull Five . . . Regroup your men and withdraw to my position while Spooky can still protect us.”

  “Roger that transmission . . .”

  “Skull Four . . . Skull Six . . . Pull back and link up with me also . . .”

  “Roger, Six!” The operator’s adrenalin was still flowing in huge amounts through his body, causing his voice to stay high in excitement.

  Captain Hetten tore at the radio handset and pushed the talk switch.

  “Skull Six! This is Rimmed Tire Six . . . Over! ”

  “Rimmed Tire Six . . . this is Skull Six . . . Get the fuck off my command net and come up on the alternate!”

  Hetten dropped the handset as if it had burned him. “That ungrateful son of a bitch! I was only trying to offer our help!”

  “Sir, the Mike Force commander is fighting for his ass. He’ll call us if he wants our help.”

  “Whose side are you on?” Hetten slid closer to the radio.

  Paul ignored his captain’s question. “We had better get our shit together in case the attack on the Mike Force was a diversion.”

  Hetten looked wide-eyed around the area. “Take the spare radio with you and I’ll stay here and monitor the Mike Force command net . . . in case they call for help.” Hetten placed his ear against the external speaker.

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  “Tire Six . . . Skull Six . . . over . . .”

  Captain Hetten fumbled for the handset. “Skull Six . . . This is Tire Six . . . OVER! ”

  “This is Skull Six . . . Spooky can’t stay up there much longer. He has to refuel, and it’ll be at least forty minutes before another one can get here from Ton Son Nhut Air Base . . . Do you have any heavy mortars with you?”

  “Yes . . . but they’re still on the barges—”

  “On the fucking what! ” The Mike Force commander’s voice rose for the first time that day. “You mean you haven’t set up your defensive protective fires yet? You have to be one of the dumbest fuckers in the Infantry . . .” The contemptuous words didn’t lose their force f
iltering through the headset.

  “Don’t talk to me like that! What’s your rank?”

  “I’m a Captain . . . you asshole!” The voice sounded threatening, even with the owner’s face not present. “Now listen to me! You have thirty minutes to get those mortars set up and laid on my defensive grids! Now move your sorry ass!”

  Captain Hetten stumbled to his feet and yelled for Sergeant Braverman but failed to receive an answer from the darkness. He saw Sergeant Dryman and McGrath and ordered them to get the two 4.2-inch mortars off the barge and set up near the canal bank. McGrath tore the canvas off the boxes trying to control the anger he felt. Hetten had sent both of the team’s small-arms men out on patrol with the companies, even after they had told him they had to set up the heavy mortars. Loau and a squad of Vietnamese joined the American NCOs in their frantic effort to uncrate the weapons and ammunition. It took them thirty-five minutes to break out the tubes and three dozen rounds of high explosive ammunition. The Vietnamese soldiers continued breaking out ammo while McGrath ran over to Hetten’s position.

  “Is it still quiet out there?” McGrath was breathing hard from the effort of setting up the weapons.

  “They’re still digging in, but they think the VC are getting ready to hit them soon . . . are the mortars set up?”

  “Yes, sir.” McGrath ran his hand down the stock of his weapon in anticipation of the upcoming resumption of the fight.

  “ Skull Six this is Tire Six . . . We have the mortars ready and locked on your grids . . . OVER. ”

  There was a long pause.

  “Skull Six . . . good . . . We’re almost ready . . . I’ll tell you when to fire. I want rounds dropped along both of our flanks . . . understand?” The voice coming over the radio was a very soft whisper.

  “Roger . . .” Hetten whispered back.

  Lieutenant Bourne and Braverman finished their inspection of the perimeter and moved back to their vantage point, from where they could control the 119