Eagles Cry Blood

by Donald E. Zlotnik

  Sergeant Braverman smiled as he turned to muster the troops and head back for the camp site. One of the things he liked most about the lieutenant was that the man could be relied upon for telling the truth. He told it the way it was and took praise or an ass-chewing, whatever he deserved.

  Sergeant Dryman caught up to Lieutenant Bourne as they were walking in single file along the narrow dike. “Sir, do you need . . .”

  “Shut up, Dryman. I don’t want to talk to you just yet. You know damn well I didn’t send you back for help.” Paul cut the sergeant’s words in mid-sentence and started walking faster. He had already decided that he wasn’t going to push the issue with the sergeant, nor was he going to report the man for cowardice.

  Paul believed every man was entitled to one mistake under fire, but only one.

  Captain Hetten was standing next to the makeshift gate leading into the rapidly formulating A-Camp when the night patrol returned. Sergeant Loau was with the point element, and he stopped next to Hetten and briefed him on how many dead enemy were still out on the battlefield and on the weapons captured. Hetten’s eyes were on the men filing through the gate.

  Each Hoa-Hoa carried at least two enemy weapons along with a lot of main-force VC combat gear. Paul and Sergeant Braverman brought up the rear guard. Hetten was ecstatic with joy when the two Special Forces soldiers reached his position at the gate.

  It had worked. Paul had read during one of his college history classes about a Roman general who had angered one of the emperors during a major 140

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  battle by going against the leader’s poorly directed plans. The general had won the battle but had been in great danger for his life. In order to calm the enraged emperor, the general ordered all of his soldiers to carry the captured loot to the emperor’s camp ahead of him. The ruse had worked then as it was working now, almost two thousand years later.

  “Lieutenant Bourne! You’ve done a great job!” Hetten’s eyes were counting the loot and his mind was reeling with the glory he would received from the C-Team leader for all the captured enemy arms.

  “No swear, sir. You made the right decisions last night. They could have been waiting for you in ambush outside the main gate.” Paul’s words dripped with a sarcasm that Hetten missed. Paul’s anger burned like a hot coal in his stomach. “It was really smart of you to send Sergeant Braverman out with a small force to test the enemy’s strength.” A voice deep inside Paul screamed for him to kill the captain.

  “Yes, I was very worried about a counterambush force. They pulled that off last year at Lai Duc, if you remember,” Hetten stammered.

  “Check, sir. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get some chow and a little sleep,”

  Paul talked as he watched the exhausted commandos drop their gear and wrap up in their sleeping blankets. He kept his eyes off Hetten, knowing that he would kill the captain if he looked directly at the man.

  “Go ahead—I want to inspect some of these weapons for unit mark-ings.” Captain Hetten half-stumbled, rushing toward the growing stack of communist weapons.

  Paul forced himself to walk over to the commo shack and dig out a can of beans. He nearly fell asleep eating the cold food. Paul set the half-empty can on one of the nearby folding tables and started walking toward his fighting bunker, on the perimeter, that also served as his sleeping quarters. He glanced over to where the pile of enemy weapons had been stacked in the center of camp and saw Hetten and Dryman talking, each of them holding an AK-47 Russian assault rifle.

  Paul thought to himself that they made a compatible pair. He dismissed the danger of the two of them conspiring under the hot sun. He only wanted to sleep.

  The bunk felt good as he sat on it and loosened the laces of his boots. He was covered with layers of drying mud from his hair down to his boots but he didn’t care. He’d wash when he woke up. Paul dropped back against the folded poncho liner he used for a pillow just as Hetten stuck his head through the bunker entrance.

  “Lieutenant Bourne. I wanted to say something to you out there, but it would be better said in private.”

  Paul kept his eyes closed and waited for the captain’s apology.

  “Paul . . . You fought a good fight last night. You brought back a lot of good weapons, which always makes a good impression on the brass. It proves that you were in a big fight . . .”

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  Paul remained lying down with his eyes closed. He could feel the slight burning sensation under his eyelids that was caused from lack of sleep.

  “I’m going to recommend you for the Silver Star,” Hetten reached over and touched Paul’s arm. “I would like for you to sign this document for me before you go to sleep. There’ll be a lot of choppers coming in soon, and I want it processed as soon as possible.”

  Lieutenant Bourne tried figuring out why Hetten wanted him to sign his own award, and in his half-dazed state he was having trouble. Paul opened his eyes and raised himself up on one elbow. He reached for the papers and read.

  “I know that I was back here, but I did expose myself on the berm when I was directing the 4.2 fire. . . . There were VC snipers out there . . .”

  Paul’s eyes narrowed. “Those were ricochets, probably five hundred feet over your head. . . .” he said. Paul slowly realized what Hetten was doing and the full impact worked its way through his exhausted mind.

  “Get the fuck out of here before I blow your fucking brains out!” Paul reached over for his pistol.

  Hetten stumbled backward toward the door holding his phony recommendation for the Silver Star in his right hand. “Lieutenant, the right hand washes the left!”

  Paul pointed his pistol at the captain and cocked back the hammer. “Get out . . .” Paul couldn’t control his urge to kill the man and fired a round into the roof of the bunker, inches above Hetten’s head.

  The sound of the echoing explosion filled the confined space in the bunker. Hetten fell backward out the doorway and shuffled on his hands and knees away from the dark opening.

  A voice filtered back into where Paul was stretched out. “Bourne! I’m going to ruin you!” Hetten’s voice had taken on an insane quality that had been brought on by fear.

  Lieutenant Bourne didn’t care. He just wanted to sleep.

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  9

  The light from the afternoon sun covered Paul’s feet on the cot inside the machine gun bunker. Sergeant McGrath stepped into the narrow entrance, changing the light pattern filtering through the doorway. Lieutenant Bourne rolled over and pointed his Smith & Wesson at McGrath’s left eye.

  “Hold it. Lieutenant!” McGrath leaned back against the steel frame.

  “Christ, you’re jumpy!”

  “You should have knocked,” murmured Paul in a sleep-filled voice. “What time do you have?”

  “It’s almost 1700 hours, sir.”

  “Hell, I must have been really tired—I slept ten hours! Damn, I feel rotten.” Paul stretched and leaned forward on the cot. “Is the Australian shower set up?”

  “Yes, sir. We thought you’d want to get the mud off when you got up. I put two five-gallon cans of water on top of the bunker. They’re been up there since early morning, so you should have a warm shower.”

  “Thanks, McGrath . . . ‘preciate that.”

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  The mud had dried and caked on his hands, cracking and flaking when he made a fist. Paul reached down to finish unlacing his boots. “Is the ol’ man at the Tactical Operations Center?”

  “Naw, he left yesterday—in fact, right after you got back. What in the hell did you say to him?” McGrath shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “He came over to the commo bunker right after he had t
alked to you and told me to call a chopper to come and get him.”

  I just couldn’t take the man’s bullshit last night.”

  “We all could hear what you were saying to him,” McGrath lowered his head. “Hell, both of you were yelling. I guess that’s why Sergeant Braverman told him that he had some personnel administration matters that he needed to take care of and rode back with him. At least you’ve got someone there who’s on your side.”

  “Braverman’s a good man . . .” Paul stood and wrapped a camouflage-colored towel around himself, “but I think the ol’ son of a bitch has my ass in the palm of his hand.” A grin flickered across his face. “I was going to kill him last night. You know what he can do with that back at the C-Team. His good buddy, Major Reth, will believe anything Hetten tells him.”

  “I wouldn’t sweat that too much, Lieutenant. There’s not a man in this camp who wouldn’t side with you, except for maybe Dryman . . . but I’ve heard talk . . .”

  “What kind of talk?”

  “Just NCO talk . . . doesn’t concern you, sir.”

  Paul stepped out into the hot sunshine and stretched again before walking along the narrow path constructed from empty 4.2 mortar-round crates to where the outdoor shower had been built next to the canal. He poured one of the five-gallon cans of water into the canvas bag and stood directly under the shower head before rotating it, releasing a fine spray of warm water. As the liquid covered his body, he could feel the tension in his muscles mix with the soothing, sun-enriched molecules and drain off into the ground. Paul poured the second can of water into the bag just as he heard a helicopter in the distance. He hurried to finish the single pleasure that My An furnished.

  The helicopter landed on the newly constructed helipad outside the camp and Captain Hetten jumped off, followed by Sergeant Braverman. The crew chief threw two boxes from the chopper as the pilot dipped the machine’s nose and pushed the left rudder, forcing the helicopter, to cant sideways over the canal. Braverman picked up the two cases of frozen meat by the steel bands.

  Paul strapped on his leather NVA pistol belt and adjusted the canvas French holster on his hip. He started toward the helipad and met Hetten halfway to the TOC.

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  “Lieutenant Bourne, meet me in the operations center in ten minutes.”

  Hetten didn’t even slow his pace as he passed his XO.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Paul as he turned to help Braverman with the heavy cases.

  “What did you get?” McGrath yelled across the clearing from his bunker doorway.

  “A case of T-bone steaks and fifty pounds of frozen french fries!”

  Braverman smiled

  “Whahooo!” McGrath yelled above the roar of the D-4 dozer operating on the berm behind him. “Throw a steak over here and I’ll eat it raw!”

  Braverman waved the commo sergeant off. “Tonight, McGrath . . .

  tonight!”

  Braverman and Paul went over to the outdoor kitchen and put the cases of food under the lean-to cooking shelter in the shade.

  “Well, what’s he been up to?”

  Braverman took a seat on a stack of rice bags. “His case is real shaky, sir.

  He tried pressing charges against you, but I had a talk with the team sergeant major and he sat in on the conference with the commander.” Braverman stepped on a centipede crawling next to the food cases with a twisting motion of his boot. “You owe the sergeant major one. He told the commander about your excellent war record.”

  “I knew Hetten would try to cut my throat.” Paul’s words filtered through his clenched teeth. “I think I’d better make a trip to headquarters myself.”

  “I’d let things cool for awhile, if I were you. You’ve a damn good reputation with those who count up there.” Braverman threw a cover over the meat case.

  “Anyway, if he tries to smoke you, he’d get burnt—and he knows it. Just be careful when you deal with Hetten in the future. He’s going to really try and catch you cold, without any recourse. The son of a bitch is vindictive as Satan himself!”

  “I’ll agree with that comment, Top.” Paul stood and stretched from the strain his muscles had taken squatting. I’d better not keep him waiting.”

  Hetten was playing with a black grease pencil on his battle map when Paul entered the Tactical Operations Center.

  “Pull up a seat and sit down.” Hetten gave the order with a tinge of fear left in his voice from the earlier encounter with his lieutenant. He continued looking at the map as he spoke. “Major Reth has given me a new area to work. Do you realize with these additional thirty square clicks added to what I already have as an operational area, I’ll have the largest combat AO

  in Vietnam!”

  “I really thought the AO was already too big for our camp, sir.” Paul wanted to reach over and slap the captain’s face so bad that his hand actually hurt in anticipation. He knew damn well that Major Reth hadn’t given the 145

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  extra area to Hetten. The team headquarters operations officer had probably been begged until he relented and gave the ground to Hetten, just to have some peace.

  “Lieutenant, about what happened last night . . .” Hetten started scrib-bling lines on the battle map as he talked, “. . . if you’re worried. I didn’t mention the incident up at the headquarters. I realize that you were under considerable strain and battle fatigue and didn’t really know or mean what you were saying to me . . . So . . . we’ll forget about that incident in the bunker . .

  .” Hetten waved for Paul to join him by the map. “Come here. See this area? I bet there’s a VC battalion hiding around this lake to our south.”

  “I doubt that, sir.” Paul tapped the map with his finger. “Too much marsh, low shrubs, and a high water table so they couldn’t dig in against artillery or bombs. Also, there’s not a village close enough for them to get food from.”

  “Well, I told Major Reth that I was going to patrol through that area.”

  Hetten kept his eyes averted from Paul’s. “Have three companies ready to leave at dusk. You can hold the camp using the reconnaissance platoon, can’t you?” Hetten shrugged his shoulders. “I mean, the berm is almost finished and the fighting bunkers done.”

  Paul forced a grin, “Sure, sir. Anyone can hold this camp with sixty men.

  By the way, did anything else happen up at the headquarters?”

  “Oh, nothing much, except . . . we’re getting another lieutenant on the team. Seeing that we’re the hottest A-camp in the Delta, they let me have him to take over part of the load patrolling. He should be arriving tomorrow sometime.”

  “Good! We can use another officer to rotate combat patrols.” Paul’s voice revealed a genuine relief. “What’s he called?”

  “First Lieutenant Vainbane. He’s coming from the III Corps Mike Force.

  He outranks you, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Paul ignored the obvious slight. “Did you turn in my after-action report for last night?”

  “Thanks for reminding me. I took it with me to headquarters. The commander wanted to see it right away and I thought that you would rather have the extra time sleeping, so I filled it in for you.”

  “That was considerate of you, sir. Who signed the report?”

  “I hope you don’t mind. I signed your name for you.” Hetten quickly looked back at his map. “Don’t you have something to do, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One more thing. If you want to stay in the army, I expect you to show a little more loyalty. General Pick is going to come here tomorrow to present some impact awards, and I expect you to act like my executive officer and not some damn kind of maverick!”

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  “Impact awards?” Paul was puzzled. �
�For what action?”

  “That’s not your concern, Lieutenant. Go and alert the companies for tonight’s patrol.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh . . . have the camp cleaned up and the men that are staying back here with you in clean fatigues. I should be returning right after dawn, so we’ll have a chance to clean up before the general’s arrival.”

  “See you at supper, sir.”

  “I almost forgot. Tell Sergeant Braverman not to open those cases of steaks and fries tonight. We can wait until I get back from patrol tomorrow.”

  “Sir, you know as well as I do that the men haven’t had steak since we left the launch site to build this camp. There’s at least fifty steaks in the box, sir, and the men are really looking forward to a good meal tonight.”

  “Damn it! Why do you always question what I say?” Hetten’s face con-torted with hate. “Now go and tell Sergeant Dryman that he’s going on patrol with me tonight!”

  Paul left the Tactical Operations Center feeling a deep frustration welling up inside of him. He was the executive officer on the team and should have the right to speak his opinion to his boss. The pressure Paul placed on his foot caused the PSP flooring to squeak as he left the entrance to the TOC.

  Sergeant Braverman was standing outside the bunker, waiting for the lieutenant.

  “Hey, sir. We can keep the steaks until tomorrow. No problem.”

  Paul realized that Braverman had been standing outside the TOC just in case there had been a reoccurrence of the evening before. “Damn! He acts like the men would eat all of the food on him. The bastard has steak three times a week when he goes up to the headquarters to brief the commander and his buddies!” Paul had released his anger and changed the subject. “Let’s get the word out about tonight’s patrol.”

  Captain Hetten watched the First Company pass through the main gate from his overview position on the ten-foot-high berm the KD Team engineers were building around the entire camp site. He was going to travel with the Second Company and use the Third Company as a rear guard. Sergeant Dryman was standing on the slope of the berm with his CAR-15 slung Saigon-style over his shoulder.