Eagles Cry Blood

by Donald E. Zlotnik

  “Ro-Den! Have you seen Sergeant McGrath or Sergeant Braverman?”

  “Him go Trung-uy! Braverman, McGrath, and Loau . . . him go . . . take Vietcong AK-47 to target shoot . . . him go . . .” Ro-Den pointed down the canal.

  Paul knew.

  He ran out the main gate and onto the narrow trail that bordered the canal leading to the district headquarters. He knew he had to stop them.

  Hetten was a first-class son of a bitch, but he was still a commanding officer.

  Paul ran harder. His lungs hurt. He reached down with his right hand and held his French canvas holster against his side. The awkward movement threw 161

  Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood

  [ e - r e a d s ]

  him off balance, but he continued running as fast as he could, dodging through the overhanging branches.

  Ten minutes of hard running brought him to a gradual curve in the manmade canal. He heard voices filtering through the dark green growth and slowed down. Hetten’s boat was drifting in the middle of the wide ditch.

  “Damn it, driver! Get this thing running!” Hetten was standing in the front of the boat.

  “One minute, Dai-uy!” The Vietnamese driver pulled on the start cord.

  Lieutenant Bourne crouched and slipped past the drifting gunboat in the underbrush. The team sergeants couldn’t have had time to travel much farther up the canal. A sharp bend in the muddy water appeared off to Paul’s right.

  He stopped creeping and lay down against the cool, mud path. This was an excellent spot for an ambush. The boats would have to slow down in order to negotiate the curve. Paul’s eyes scanned the canal banks. A brief flicker of reflected light caught his eye. Paul heard the boat motor roar to life as the operator gunned the throttle. He knew that he wouldn’t have time to reach the group of sergeants. The lead boat was already passing the bend in the canal. Hetten’s fiberglass craft was beginning to reach the danger point of the curve. Paul noticed that the rear boat was intentionally falling back in the distance and hugging the canal bank. Paul knew that he would have to act.

  He stood up and yelled, “Ambush!”

  Hetten’s boat reached the bend at the same instant. The driver jumped overboard and three AK-47s opened fire from the underbrush bordering the canal. The rounds shattered the fiberglass hull, throwing pieces of the green plastic across the water. Hetten fell backward into the thick muddy water. Paul couldn’t tell from where he was if Hetten had been hit or if he had jumped.

  Seconds passed.

  Hetten’s head appeared through the brown water. He still had his camouflage hat on his head.

  The last boat slowly moved through the kill zone without receiving any fire. Hetten’s head bobbed in the boat’s wake.

  “Over here, Captain!”

  Hetten turned in mid-canal and dog-paddled over to Paul’s position on the slanted canal bank.

  “Shoot, Bourne! Give me cover!” Hetten swallowed water as he struggled to talk and swim at the same time.

  Paul sat on the canal bank in full view of the ambushers and watched Hetten drag himself up out of the water and scurry over to where he was sitting.

  “Get down, Lieutenant! You dumb ass!” Hetten sprayed water from his mouth as he yelled to his lieutenant.

  162

  Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood

  [ e - r e a d s ]

  “You haven’t figured it out yet, have you, Captain?” Paul’s voice remained on one level. “You can stand up.”

  The three sergeants stepped into view on the trail, carrying their captured AK-47s balanced in the palms of their hands. Braverman wore a determined expression. It was cold and mean. Hetten looked up at the sergeant and then lowered his eyes to the weapons the three NCOs carried. He knew then what had happened.

  “You’re the ones!” his voice dropped in amazement, “. . . you tried to kill me?” Hetten turned on the muddy canal bank, slipping back into the water up to his waist, and faced Paul. “You’re their leader!”

  “Shut the fuck up, Captain!” Braverman whispered through his teeth and glanced over at Paul. “Sir, I don’t want you mixed up in this . . . Would you leave?”

  “No . . . it’s over. Sergeant . . .” Paul stood firmly between the sergeants and Hetten. “Put the weapons away.”

  “Can’t do that, Lieutenant. You know that . . .” Braverman placed the still-warm barrel against Hetten’s wet temple, causing the captain to flinch.

  “Braverman, don’t kill him.” Paul gently pushed the weapon aside and stepped over to place his body between the two of them. “There are other ways of handling Hetten. General Pick seems like a fair man and I’m sure he’ll understand why . . . why you would be pushed into doing this . . .”

  The three combat sergeants stared at Lieutenant Bourne for a long time.

  The pause gave Hetten courage.

  “You are all under arrest!” Hetten stood up, and water dripped from his clothes to the packed mud causing a large puddle to form around his feet. He stuttered, “I promise you will all receive a fair trial for this attempted murder of your commanding officer.”

  Paul looked at the captain with undisguised disgust. “Damn it, Captain!

  Set your ass down and shut up for once! Unless you would rather die?” Paul shook his head. The dumb ass didn’t realize that he was within a hair’s breath of death. Bourne reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a squashed package of cigarettes. He offered them to the sergeants and then lit himself a menthol. Paul squatted and the men followed suit. An idea had occurred to Paul, and he nodded for Hetten to sit down where he was.

  “Hetten, just sit there and stay quiet until I finish talking.” Paul frowned to ensure the captain realized that he was very serious. Smoke left the lieutenant’s mouth and drifted against the captain’s face. “We’re at a Mexican stand-off. If you press charges against these men, a court-martial will surely bring out your phony Distinguished Service Cross—and that will be the end of your career.” Paul spat out the words. “I don’t think General Pick will take kindly to being made a fool out of by you.” Paul could see that Hetten was 163

  Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood

  [ e - r e a d s ]

  interested in making a deal and he looked over at the three sergeants. “And if you kill him, regardless how much he deserves to die, sometime, somewhere .

  . . the word will get out about the murder.” Paul could see he was beginning to get through to them. “. . . so, Captain Hetten, will you agree to what I’m going to propose?—we will keep quiet about the phony Distinguished Service Cross and, by the way, the Silver Star, and allow the medals to go through channels without trying to stop them. Your part of the bargain will be to forget about this ambush and allow for the team members to transfer out of your command without any black marks following them.”

  Hetten saw his opening and grinned, “I’ll go along with you, Bourne, but under one condition: the sergeants are free . . . but I want you!”

  Paul smiled.

  “The lieutenant goes free, too!” Braverman raised his AK-47.

  “I’ll forget the ambush, Bourne, but don’t forget—I write your efficiency report.” Hetten knew Bourne wouldn’t commit murder, and that he wouldn’t allow the sergeants to either.

  Sergeant Braverman pushed off the safety selector switch on the communist weapon. Paul put his hand on the barrel and gently pushed it down.

  The lives of his men meant a lot to Paul, much more than his own career in the military.

  “It’s a deal.” Paul felt sick to his stomach. He motioned for the sergeants to head back to camp.

  Paul waited until the two officers were alone on the canal bank and then spoke to the captain. “Hetten, do you really want the DSC that bad?”

  Hetten didn’t look at the lieutenant. “I have a career to look out for, Lieutenant. You have never been a part of the peacetime army—I have.”

  Hetten’s face showed no signs of guilt. “If your numbers haven�
�t been punched in war, you can hang up seeing stars on your shoulders . . . even eagles.”

  What about respect from your men? Does that mean anything to you?

  Paul thought. He was beginning to get so frustrated in his attempt to reason with Hetten that he felt like crying. “What about your own pride? Service to your Nation? . . . Don’t you think the survival of the Nation is more important than one single man’s career?”

  Hetten’s head turned from looking out over the water and his eyes locked on Paul’s. The captain’s face reflected no remorse, only hate for the lieutenant.

  “Sure, Lieutenant . . . if it’s not mine.”

  164

  Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood

  [ e - r e a d s ]

  11

  Captain Hetten and Lieutenant Bourne hurried toward the jeep parked near the C-Team helipad. Paul slipped onto the rear seat as the driver started moving the vehicle away from the dust cloud created by the landing helicopter.

  “The colonel wants to see you ASAP.” The driver seemed very uptight and uncomfortable talking to the two officers. The sergeant slowed the vehicle down to negotiate around a screen of barbed wire, and then he floored the gas pedal for a couple hundred feet, braking to a jerky halt when they reached the main compound gate. The guard waved them through without getting up from his seat in the shade from a low building.

  Lieutenant Colonel Bakersun was standing in the hallway when Hetten and Bourne entered the headquarters building.

  “Lieutenant Bourne, wait in the S-1’s office until I call for you.” Bakersun’s voice was sharp. He turned to face the captain. “Did you bring the sworn statements with you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Hetten was smiling.

  Lieutenant Bourne went through the open office area to the narrow hallway that led to a dead-end door marked with the adjutant’s name in black lettering. He 165

  Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood

  [ e - r e a d s ]

  wondered as he walked what Hetten and the colonel were having a private meeting about, and what he had meant when he mentioned getting signed statements.

  “The colonel told me to wait in your office, sir.”

  Major Cragmore raised his eyes over the top of the paper he was reading from and held out his hand. “Hello, Bourne. It’s been a long time.”

  “I haven’t seen you since you were promoted to major. Congratulations!”

  “Thanks!” Major Cragmore motioned to Paul with his head. “Let’s go in the back, I’ve got a good bottle of bourbon stashed away.”

  Paul noticed that all of the clerks had stopped typing when he had entered the major’s office and were listening to what was being said between the two officers. Paul closed the door to the major’s private quarters, which were attached to the building, and dropped into the soft lounge chair. The major fixed two stiff drinks with ice cubes and handed Paul one of them.

  “Sir, do you know what the colonel wants to talk to me about?”

  “You don’t know yet?” Cragmore didn’t try to conceal his surprise. “Hell!

  Every clerk in the compound knows why you were brought back here!”

  “Knows what?”

  “Well . . . I had better let the colonel tell you, seeing that Captain Hetten hasn’t mentioned anything.” Cragmore looked quickly down at the floor. “I still have to work here . . .” He looked back up at Paul’s questioning eyes.

  “What in the hell did you do to piss Hetten off so damn bad?”

  “You should know what kind of officer he is . . . He was the S-1 here before you.” Paul reined in the frustration he was beginning to feel and spoke slower. He was on Hetten’s old stomping grounds, and he had to be careful what he said—and to who he said it.

  “Captain Hetten and I aren’t exactly friends.” Cragmore threw his head back against the chair. He stared at the young lieutenant and wondered if Hetten had been telling the truth when he had briefed the colonel.

  Paul changed the subject. “Sir, what do you know about Lieutenant Vainbane?”

  “Vainbane!” Cragmore grinned, “he’s out of the same mold as Hetten.

  Hell, when Vainbane reported in here, he was carrying his own paperwork for a Medal of Honor recommendation—for himself!” Cragmore sat up in his chair. “It really cracked me up. He said that his old team leader might lose the documents, so he personally hand carried them here. I’ll say one thing—if he did what those papers said he did, then he’s one hell of a super soldier!” Cragmore smiled a knowing grin. “The only problem is, he is the only American who’s written a statement. All the rest are Vietnamese strikers.”

  “What you’re saying, in effect, is that he’s recommended himself for the Big One?” Paul shook his head in disbelief. “How in the hell can the guy even try to pull that off?”

  166

  Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood

  [ e - r e a d s ]

  “His commanding officer signed off on it.” Cragmore swallowed his laughter with a sip from his bourbon. “So I’m forced to process the paperwork.”

  “Are you sure his commander signed the document?” Paul spoke softly. A month ago, he wouldn’t have believed that something like that could happen; today, he wasn’t sure.

  “Maybe we had better check and see if the colonel is ready to see you.”

  Cragmore stood and motioned for Paul to remain sitting, “You wait here.” He wiped the back of his mouth with his hand and left the room.

  Paul leaned back in the soft chair and enjoyed the luxury. He wondered if he should just give in and agree with whatever Hetten had said or if he should try and explain what had been going on at My An. He knew that a second lieutenant didn’t have a chance standing up against a captain, especially a commander. Paul frowned. It seemed as if nobody cared if they won a fight with the enemy; the awards afterward seemed to be the name of the game in Vietnam. Paul became angry over the thought. Someone had to stand up to the Hettens in Special Forces units.

  Major Cragmore entered the room wearing a coat of white around his jaws where his teeth were locked together. He was controlling a great deal of anger.

  “Paul, the colonel wants to see you now. Just be very careful what you say.”

  “Thanks for the drink and the conversation.” Paul adjusted his pants legs at the tops of his jungle boots.

  The clerks stopped typing when he walked through the outer office, and then almost simultaneously began banging away at the typewriter keys as Paul approached the colonel’s office door. Paul realized that something was very wrong and knocked cautiously on the closed door.

  “Come in!”

  Paul glanced back over his shoulder and saw that all of the clerks were watching him as they typed. Major Cragmore was leaning against his door frame watching with a tight smile on his face. He looked more sad than content.

  Paul faced the grizzled senior colonel. “Lieutenant Bourne reporting as ordered, sir.”

  “Shut your damn mouth, Lieutenant!” The colonel’s voice penetrated through the thin walls of the office back out into the clerk area. “You’re the sorriest example of a lieutenant that I have ever ran across in my thirty years in the army! You are one fucking sorry officer!” Colonel Bakersun’s face was red with rage. “I can’t believe that a Special Forces officer would do what Sergeant Dryman stated in his affidavit!” Bakersun stood and slammed the paper in his hand down onto his wooden desk. “And you’re a damn officer!”

  Hetten sat in a high-backed chair on the far side of the large room. A sick smile was pasted on his face. He was enjoying every minute of the colonel’s conversation and every second of his rage that was directed at the lieutenant.

  167

  Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood

  [ e - r e a d s ]

  Paul frowned. “Sir, what are you talking about?”

  The colonel lowered his voice and struggled for control of his surging emotions. “Sergeant Dryman’s sworn statement concerning your conduct during
the Easter Eve fire-fight at My An.” Bakersun wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his fatigue jacket sleeve. “How in the hell could you just run off and leave him to fight alone during the Easter Eve attack against My An? How? How! And you’re supposed to be a damn leader! A commissioned officer!” The glare in the colonel’s eyes changed from pleading for an answer to steel. “You are a damn coward!”

  The colonel’s words cut into Paul deeper than any whip. “Sir! I am not a coward!” He looked over at Hetten and saw the look of triumph written on the captain’s face.

  “I say you’re a damn coward!” The door shook from the colonel’s fist smashing down on the desk. “There’s a plane leaving this camp for Nha Trang in an hour. You have your worthless ass on it or I’ll have you fucking shot! This unit has never had an officer even suspected of cowardice in combat, and I’m not going to mark that record with the likes of you! The only thing that’s saving your ass, Lieutenant, is the memory of the good Special Forces men who’ve died—and Captain Hetten, who begged me not to use you as an example and give his camp a bad name! Consider yourself very lucky!”

  “Sir—”

  “Don’t you sir me! Take that beret off your head and get the hell out of my office!” The colonel waved his hand at the lieutenant in disgust. “And don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out!”

  Lieutenant Bourne caught a swift glance at Hetten when he saluted and turned to leave. Captain Hetten looked like a contented Cheshire cat.

  Paul kept his eyes on the exit as he walked the long gauntlet of wide-eyed clerks.

  Hetten had won.

  Lieutenant Bourne pushed both of the swinging doors open with his palms and left the C-Team headquarters building without looking back over his shoulder.

  Major Cragmore, along with all of his clerks, watched the lieutenant walk down the narrow dirt road toward the officer’s quarters. The colonel’s voice had carried through most of the building during the conversation with Bourne, leaving nothing to the imagination of the clerks. Major Cragmore slowly shook his head from side to side with the realization that the lieutenant had been dismissed from his A-Team for cowardice. The word would be spread, via the grapevine, to all of the operational detachments before the end of the week. The lieutenant’s reputation would be destroyed. The major stood and walked across the office floor holding Bourne’s green personnel 168