Eagles Cry Blood

by Donald E. Zlotnik

  “Hai-yeh! Hoa-Hoa! . . . Hai-yeh! Hoa-Hoa!” The commandos screamed their thousand-year-old war cry, sending shivers down Paul’s spine. A battalion of Scottish pipers couldn’t have had a better effect against the unwary Vietcong soldiers. They had been too lax, and were about to pay for their folly.

  The commandos climbed up the far side of the stream bank and gained excellent protection for their firing positions. One of the Hoa-Hoa commandos stood up on the far bank and fired his BAR from the hip, screaming the tribal war cry like a chant.

  “Fix bayonets!” Paul gave the command followed by Loau, who repeated it in Vietnamese.

  The chatter from the Browning Automatic Rifles, carbines, and M-79

  grenade launchers produced a weird musical background for the chanting Hoa-Hoa. The first rank of VC were decimated before they could even 133

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  unshoulder their weapons. The second rank wavered and then charged the stream.

  “Fight, Hoa-Hoa! Do not dishonor your ancestors!” Paul’s voice rose above the sounds of battle for a fraction of a second and then was lost. Loau repeated what Paul had said, and the Hoa-Hoa war cry became deafening.

  Lieutenant Bourne reached down in his ammo pouch for a new magazine and felt mud jamming his weapon receiver when he tried inserting it.

  He dropped the useless weapon onto the rice stubble and reached for his handgun and Randall knife. Paul stood to meet the first VC coming over the edge of the stream bank. He aimed and shot the soldier in the face, using his right leg to kick him backward. The second and third Vietcong soldiers came at Paul together, with their needle-shaped bayonets pointed at his chest. Paul crouched down under the second VC’s bayonet, lifting the rifle with his shoulder and ramming his Randall into the enemy’s exposed throat, shooting the third enemy in the stomach at the same time.

  Paul whirled around and checked the surrounding area for more Soldiers and saw Sergeant Loau holding the barrel of an AK-47 assault rifle and trying to kick the owner of the weapon in the groin at the same time. Paul sidestepped and pushed his Randall into the back of the VC’s neck. He twisted the handle of the sharp blade and pulled the red steel out of the dead man’s flesh.

  “Thanks, Lieutenant,” Loau gasped for breath, and yanked the AK-47

  from the VC’s quivering hands. The sergeant pushed the enemy soldier over on his back and tore the full ammo pouches from the VC’s chest packs.

  “Did your carbine jam?”

  “No, sir, out of ammo . . .” Loau choked as he tried breathing and talking at the same time.

  A trumpet could be heard above the din of battle. The remainder of the Vietcong soldiers began withdrawing immediately. Paul aimed his pistol at one of the enemy soldiers who looked like a leader and squeezed the hair trigger. The soldier dropped down on his knees, holding his chest. Paul shot again, and the man pitched forward with his face smacking the mud.

  “They’re pulling back . . .” Lieutenant Bourne sat back in the water and mud, exhausted from the hand-to-hand fighting.

  “They will return.” Loau waved his arm at one of his squad leaders, beckoning for him to come over to where he was located.

  The adrenalin continued coursing through Paul’s veins, causing his body to begin shaking when the natural chemical couldn’t find an exit through active muscles.

  “Loau . . . we need to get an ammo count and I need to get an idea how many casualties we got . . .”

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  A hand touched Paul’s shoulder, bringing an involuntary jerk from the still-nervous lieutenant. Ro-Den handed Paul his CAR-15. Paul felt along the side of the weapon and could see in the bright moonlight that the submachine gun had been disassembled and cleaned. The boy had cleaned the weapon during the fight!

  “Thanks, Ro-Den! You are very brave!”

  “No, you brave men. Ro-Den no fear VC . . . Trung-uy will protect Ro-Den!”

  Paul smiled at the young warrior. He sure did have a lot of faith.

  “Give me the radio, Ro-Den,” The boy handed the handset to Paul. “Tire Six . . . Five . . . over.”

  “Tire Six! What in the hell is going on out there!”

  “We were hit prior to reaching the stream junction,” Paul whispered into the handset. “Five minutes later and we would have been caught in the open rice paddies!”

  “What kind of unit did you run into? A squad?” Hetten’s sarcasm lost all of its effect as it traveled the airwaves from the command bunker to the patrol.

  “Squad! My ass, sir!” Paul looked up over the edge of the stream bank and saw only dead VC in the moonlit rice paddy. “I need some mortar fire placed to my east and along the far side of the canal to our northwest . . .” Paul whispered the request.

  “Tire Six . . . how many casualties do you have?”

  “Wait . . .”

  Lieutenant Bourne turned on his side looking down the line of soldiers for Sergeant Loau and located him crawling along the mud bank toward him.

  “Loau! Lai-day!” Paul waved for the sergeant to join him. “How many casualties do we have?”

  “Twelve wounded . . . no dead, but the problem is ammunition. We are out of BAR ammo and M-79 grenades.”

  Paul nodded and pushed the handset switch. “Tire Six . . . Five . . . over.”

  “Six . . .”

  “Five . . . twelve wounded and no dead.”

  “That’s all! You were shooting like you really had a fight going on out there!” Hetten’s voice cut through all of Paul’s mental defenses.

  “We did have a fight! We were lucky to have reached the stream before the VC did. They took a lot of casualties . . . We need a resupply of BAR

  ammo and grenades for the M-79 . . . What’s the status on the mortars? I haven’t heard any explosions . . .”

  There was a long pause before Hetten answered.

  “I’ve thought about it, and I don’t think they will attack you again tonight.

  It was probably just a chance encounter with a small scouting party. Let’s wait and see—maybe we can get this fight to develop into something worthwhile.”

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  Paul choked on the emotion that was welling up from his stomach. “If you’re going to do that, then let me withdraw from this position to better ground. Hell, I’m facing at least two companies!”

  “I said that I want the fight to develop!” Hetten’s words were sharp. “If they attack again, I’ll come out and relieve you, but there won’t be any 4.2

  rounds wasted tonight!”

  “You stupid son of a bitch!” Paul’s voice rose above a whisper, and he immediately regretted it. “If they attack again, we’ve had it.”

  “Lieutenant! I’m getting really tired of your smart-ass mouth!” Hetten yelled into the handset.

  “Out.” Paul handed the handset back to Ro-Den. He looked at Loau and couldn’t control the hate filling his voice. “Loau, we must stay here. Tell the men to crawl forward and get as many of the dead Vietcong weapons and ammunition as they can. We’re going to have to fight the next round with their stuff.” Anger tightened Paul’s vocal cords, making him sound hoarse.

  “The captain will not fire 4.2s?”

  “No! He’s the biggest shithead in Special Forces! If I ever get out of this alive, I’m going to report his ass!”

  Paul’s anger-filled speech was interrupted with the heavy thudding sound coming from a Chinese-built .51-caliber heavy machine gun. The green tracers from the weapon smacked against the muddy stream bank removing huge clods of grass. Paul’s courage waned. Only battalion-sized units in the Delta carried heavy machine guns with them on patrol.

  Sergeant Braverman stood on the camp’s berm watching the green tracers dance in the sky. He looked at Captain Hetten who was standing nearby with a
pair of binoculars hanging around his neck.

  “Sir, squads don’t have .51s in the Vietcong units.”

  “It could be a squad coming to harass the camp.”

  “Sir, I think Bourne’s patrol is in trouble and needs some help. I’ll take the reserve companies and reinforce him.”

  “And then who will defend the camp if that’s only a diversionary tactic out there?”

  “Sir, if there’s a battalion out there, and I so happen to think there is, our people need help and quick! We can cover their withdrawal with the 4.2s or reinforce them . . . either way . . .”

  Braverman’s voice concealed the rapidly developing hatred he felt for the team commander. It wasn’t difficult to mentally change positions with the lieutenant and be in a fire-fight without support.

  “We’ll wait and let the fight develop for awhile.” Hetten lifted his binoculars to his eyes.

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  Sergeant Braverman turned and jumped down from the berm. He rushed over to the closest 4.2 pit and told Sergeant McGrath what was happening and what Hetten had decided.

  Braverman added, “The lieutenant needs our help. Let your conscience be your guide, but remember one thing—you might be the next man out there under fire.” Braverman left the pit.

  Sergeant McGrath paused for only a second and then lifted a mortar round off the ready rack, removed the pin, and dropped the high-explosive round down the prelaid tube. He made small adjustments in the weapon deflection to disperse the rounds over a large area around the lieutenant’s defensive position.

  Braverman arrived at the alert company’s position just as the first faint crump from the 4.2 round reached him. He smiled. The captain would probably relieve him and McGrath, but the lieutenant’s life would not be on either of their consciences.

  Braverman spoke in broken Vietnamese. “The ambush patrol is in a big fight. They need ammunition and help. I will not order you to come with me, but I am going to help them. Anyone who wishes to follow me is welcome.”

  The guards at the main gate unlocked the chain for the team sergeant.

  Braverman did not look back as he walked down the narrow path out of the base camp. He stopped when he reached the treeline and checked his M-16.

  When he looked up, he saw that the whole company, plus the gate guards, had followed him.

  “Sergeant Loau, do you have any hand grenades?”

  “Five.”

  “Good. You crawl to the right, and when you get within range of that machine gun, throw. I’ll go around to the left side.” Paul handed his CAR-15

  and his BAR belt to Ro-Den. He held an M-26 grenade in each hand and had Ro-Den pull the pins. If they jumped him, he planned on taking a few more VC with him. Paul started to crawl, at an oblique angle, to the starting point of the green tracers. Bourne’s platoon couldn’t lift their heads above the stream bank to return fire, which allowed for VC sappers to start crawling forward. Paul could hear a pair of flank guards talking to each other as he neared the machine gun. The Vietcong commander was smart in posting the guards, but they should have remained quiet. Paul raised his torso up from the ground just enough to locate the barrel of the weapon spitting out the deadly metal.

  He rolled over, using the movement to give himself additional momentum, and heaved the first grenade at the weapon’s position, followed closely by the second grenade, which was aimed at the flank guards. The two locations were encompassed with orange flashes. The machine gun stopped firing. Paul pivoted around on his belly and slid through the mud faster than the fish he had watched in the shallow inlets feeding into the large canals. He slid over the 137

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  edge of the stream bank seconds ahead of a stream of tracer rounds and smashed into Sergeant Loau.

  “You made it back OK?” Paul wiped the mud off his face with the back of his hand.

  “I didn’t even have a chance to leave the stream. The machine gun had me pinned down.”

  “Check the men and see if we have enough ammunition to withstand another attack.”

  “I’ve already done that, sir. We’re in real good shape, considering that the most of the men who can still fight are using AK-47s and SKS rifles.” Loau spoke rapidly as if he sensed an impending attack. “Our A-6 machine gun was jammed during the whole fight, but we’ve got it working now—the head-spacing and timing was off. I had the crew give the BAR men some of their ammo.”

  “Great! Have the machine gun placed in that clump of brush to our rear—

  over there by that bomb crater.”

  “To our rear, sir?” Loau thought the lieutenant had cracked under the pressure.

  “Yes, we can cover either flank from there at the same time. The next fight will be at close range, and if they mass at either of our flanks, they’ll just plow right along the stream through our ranks, never facing more than a couple men at a time.” Paul felt an urgency to hurry, even though he couldn’t see any enemy troops.

  “Good idea, sir,” Loau spoke over his shoulder as he ran bent-over down the stream.

  “Ro-Den, have you seen Sergeant Dryman?” Paul laid his head back against the wet bank, trying to rest a little before the next major assault.

  “Him go.”

  “Go where? Help hurt men?”

  “No, him go,” Ro-Den pointed toward the A-Camp.

  A bugle broke through the early morning mist and Lieutenant Bourne didn’t have time to pursue the topic any further. Paul narrowed his eyes as he strained to locate a target. The A-6 machine gun started firing in short bursts and then broke out in a solid stream of fire. Paul became angry, knowing that it wouldn’t take the VC long to locate the machine gun and destroy it with the kind of identification the crew was making by firing continuously.

  Screams sounded above the clattering of the gun. The enemy had tried attacking the small ambush patrol from the rear and had run into the A-6

  machine gun.

  A large group of VC, who had been low crawling, sprang to their feet near the edge of the stream and charged. Paul’s platoon opened fire sporadi-cally, trying to save ammunition. Off to Paul’s left, a tremendous volume of 138

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  fire erupted. The camp had sent a relief force and the enemy was caught in a crossfire. Paul heard the renewed Hoa-Hoa war cry as the company formed a skirmish line and assaulted the VC positions.

  “Lieutenant Bourne!” Braverman’s voice reached Paul as sweet music to his ears.

  “Over here!” Paul stood up in the knee-deep stream. “It sure is good to see you! What in the hell changed Hetten’s mind about sending a relief force?”

  “Nothing.” Braverman changed the subject. “Sir, there’re dead Cong lying all over the place! Damn, this reminds me of Korea, when the Chinese would make one of their human-wave assaults.”

  Loau interrupted, “We have eighteen wounded men.”

  “How many dead?”

  “None yet, but a couple of the men are hurt bad and probably won’t make it.”

  “That’s great, Lieutenant! No dead and you really kicked ass! You’re lucky!” Braverman was giving one of his rare displays of emotion.

  “Not luck . . . it’s Easter Eve, isn’t it?” Paul looked over at the senior sergeant from the corner of his eye.

  “I’ll call for a med-evac.” Braverman took the handset.

  Paul removed the small plastic bag containing his cigarettes and matches from the inside of his hat. He pulled one of the menthols out and straightened the white paper with his muddy fingers. He held his bush hat up in front of his face as he lit the cigarette. He inhaled the first drag of white smoke deep into his lungs and held it there.

  “Sergeant Braverman, have you seen Dryman?” Paul released the smoke with his words.

  “Yes, we picked him up about a
thousand meters from here. He said that you sent him back after help.” Braverman reached for the radio. “Something wrong?”

  “No . . . just getting my thoughts together.”

  Braverman looked closely at the lieutenant. He sensed that there was something bothering him.

  Morning arrived, along with a thick mist sweeping the ground in front of a mild wind coming from the east. The med-evac ships appeared on the horizon with the first light. Paul helped with the wounded, and then joined Braverman and Loau when the helicopters departed for the nearest hospital.

  “Would you get the men ready to sweep the area, Sergeant Loau?” Paul pushed his hat back on his head and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. It was already hot and it wasn’t even noon.

  The Vietnamese sergeant formed the relief company into a skirmish line.

  Morale was high as they swept the battlefield, searching bodies for intelligence information and the field for weapons. The men returned from the sweep an hour later. Sergeant Loau half-ran to where Paul and Braverman were sitting in the shade.

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  “Sir! There are a hundred and six bodies out there!” Loau could barely contain his excitement, “and there’s a hundred and ten weapons—including two .51-caliber machine guns and four rocket launchers!”

  “We sure whipped them this time!” Paul’s mind reeled over the report.

  The VC never left their dead behind and only did so if there weren’t enough remaining men to carry them off the battlefield. It was a great victory for Paul’s small ambush patrol.

  “Have you talked to Hetten lately?” Paul spoke to Braverman.

  “No, sir. He tried to reach me last night but I didn’t answer him.”

  Braverman spoke without any real concern over what the captain might do.

  “Hetten will probably try and have my ass, but I have a few aces in the hole to play if I really have to.” He knew that he had done the right thing by reinforcing the lieutenant’s patrol—and he would face a court-martial if need be to clear himself.

  Paul wrinkled his nose and then spoke, “I hate to do this, but tell Ro-Den to put a bullet through the radio and we’ll tell Hetten it got hit during the fight.” Paul turned and hesitated. He saw the look on Ro-Den’s face and changed his mind. “Wait? On second thought, I haven’t done a damn thing wrong! Screw him!”