Eagles Cry Blood

by Donald E. Zlotnik

  “We ain’t going to chase your punk ass!” One of the bigger men yelled over the water after his friend. “I hope a damn garfish bites your cock off!” The two white men laughed as they visualized their partner cockless.

  The small swimmer reached the rocky shoreline and turned his head to call back over his shoulder to his friends, “Hey, watch out for me! I’m going to take a shit over here in the brush!” The small man climbed over the rocks and disappeared in the thick bamboo.

  Paul saw his opportunity and exploded into action. He whispered quickly to Cooper, “Give me time to grab that bastard and then kill as many NVA as you can . . . starting with the traitors . . .”

  213

  Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood

  [ e - r e a d s ]

  Cooper nodded his head and slipped into a good prone firing position.

  He placed the crosshairs of his scope on the second jacket button the black was wearing and waited. Sweat was dripping off the black’s chin and running down his chest.

  Paul motioned for the old Montagnard to join him, and the pair of hunters slipped over the rocks and down the hill. Paul held his silenced .22-caliber pistol in his right hand and a set of interlocking plastic handcuffs in his left. The duo moved quietly but rapidly through the patchy jungle. Paul wanted to take the American alive, but he knew he would have to kill him if he started swimming back to the NVA-held side of the river. Paul paused when he reached the base of the cliff. He listened and heard a low grunt coming from a small stand of bamboo ten meters away. Paul crouched and slid through the green vegetation as silently as a hunting tiger, with the old man following close behind him. A single medium-sized wild banana tree separated Paul from the American. Paul paused and listened for the forced breathing of his prey. One rapid move around the tree revealed the small American squatting down with his back toward Paul. Feces were halfway out of the man’s rectum.

  “What in the hell are you doing over there . . . playing with yourself!”

  The voice startled Paul.

  “Shut the fuck up and let me take a shit in peace!”

  Paul covered the remaining meters in seconds under the cover of the man’s voice. The pistol butt caught the unsuspecting traitor on the side of his head, knocking him unconscious. Paul swept up the limp form and threw it over his shoulder. He was very surprised at how light the body was.

  The old Montagnard led the way around the backside of the cliff and stopped to cover Paul as he handcuffed the prisoner’s hands and feet. Paul unrolled a piece of green cloth tape from around his pistol belt and grabbed the man by his wet hair, turning the face toward him.

  Paul paused in his work. The man couldn’t be older than eighteen. Bourne pressed the sticky tape over the closed mouth.

  The old commando reached Cooper’s hiding place just as Paul finished securing his prisoner. The Montagnard grabbed Paul’s rucksack and signaled for the other tribesmen to join him.

  Cooper nodded and sighted his rifle. The sound of the explosion echoed over the water. He switched his sights from the black man, who fell face-first into the river, to the white man who stood waist deep in the river looking over at the far riverbank, and fired again. Blood spread out in the brackish water. The NVA started scrambling up the riverbank toward their weapons.

  Cooper locked the crosshairs on the back of the head of the last white traitor and squeezed the trigger. He watched the man slip on the wet rocks and spin 214

  Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood

  [ e - r e a d s ]

  around. Cooper could see the fear on the white enemy’s face change when the bullet entered his skull just below his nose.

  Cooper reached out without looking and wrapped his fingers around his rucksack straps. He found the trail and ran at top speed until he reached the rear guard of his recon patrol. Automatic fire cut through the leaves above their heads. The NVA were firing wildly into the jungle. Cooper sighted Paul running ahead of him carrying the naked traitor over his shoulder. Paul dropped down on one knee and waited for his men to pass by; he counted each of them and signaled Cooper to stop.

  “Use your PRC-10 and call for an extraction. We’ll have to STABO out of here through the trees . . . Tell them that we have a prisoner and will be need-ing a McGuire rig.”

  “Right, sir!”

  “Have the pick-up in the small clearing a hundred meters downstream . . .”

  Paul flipped the man back over his shoulder. A slight movement from the body told Paul that the man was regaining consciousness. The team moved rapidly through the jungle. Time was very important. The NVA would be calling for help and would cross over the river in full force within the hour. Paul was sweating heavily when they reached the extraction site. He flipped the body off his shoulder and let it land on the ground hard. All five of his team were present. Paul pointed out fighting positions to each man and then looked down at his prisoner. The man’s eyes were wide open and centered on Paul’s face.

  “You had better be hoping that our choppers get here before your friends do . . . one way you’ll end up living . . . the other way your ass is going to be dead . . .” Paul waved the business end of his CAR-15 at the wide-eyed man.

  The jungle sounds began again around the hidden recon team. Cooper whispered to Paul who was lying next to him under a thick jungle plant, “I told them to bring a McGuire rig for the prisoner . . . they sounded really surprised . . .”

  The helicopters could be heard coming from a long way off. Paul began preparing the prisoner for the extraction. Cooper removed three syringes of morphine from his first-aid kit and handed them over to Paul. The young prisoner’s eyes enlarged when he saw the needles.

  “Feel damn lucky that this is all that’s going into your fucking body . . .

  you damn traitor!” Cooper watched Paul shove the first needle deep into the man’s buttocks. “Lieutenant, why don’t you put the other two shots in his nuts!”

  The prisoner started thrashing around on the dead bamboo leaves.

  Cooper placed his knee on the soldier’s chest and grinned. A muffled scream came from behind the tape.

  “Let him be, Cooper!” Paul nudged his team mate.

  215

  Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood

  [ e - r e a d s ]

  “Just trying to make him sweat a bit, sir!” Cooper frowned.

  The first of the choppers appeared and hovered over the small clearing.

  Three rappelling ropes with sandbags attached to weight them down were dropped out of the open side doors. The fourth rope had a horse-collar-shaped device attached to it. The two Americans carried the semiconscious man to the harness and strapped him into the seat. Two of the Montagnards hooked their STABO “D” rings to the ends of the dangling ropes. Paul yelled for Cooper to ride with the prisoner. Cooper hooked up and grabbed the McGuire rig at the same time, wrapping both of his legs around the prisoner.

  Lieutenant Bourne would never forgive Cooper if the prisoner managed to jump from his seat when they were airborne.

  The second helicopter appeared shortly after the first one had pulled away from the opening in the jungle floor. Cobra gunships opened fire near the riverbanks, covering Paul and the old Montagnard as they rushed to hook up.

  Paul looked up at the crew chief and gave a thumbs-up sign for them to take off. The old Montagnard grabbed Paul’s left strap on his web gear and held his CAR-15 under his left arm. The old commando motioned with his head for Paul to do the same thing. The helicopter dropped its nose in the screen pattern of green tracers. The Montagnard pointed his weapon and opened fire at the spot of the jungle from where the tracers emerged. The last chopper turned and dashed for safety with Paul and his team mate firing down at the enemy.

  216

  Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood

  [ e - r e a d s ]

  16

  The two helicopters carrying Bourne’s recon team continued climbing toward the protective cover of the thick clouds roll
ing over the jungle. The Cobra gunships continued making passes over the extraction site, returning fire to the enemy gunners. The jungle below Paul changed from individual trees into a solid dark green carpet as he hung suspended on the nylon rope. He relaxed his body in the STABO harness once they had gained enough altitude to leave the arching tracers below them. The wind blowing against Paul’s sweat-soaked fatigues withdrew his body heat, causing his muscles to shake.

  Lieutenant Bourne looked over to his right and saw the helicopter carrying Cooper and the prisoner. Sergeant Cooper had the naked man held in a tight bearhug, trying to keep the hundred-knot wind from killing him. Paul looked up at the bottom of the helicopter and saw one of the door gunners leaning out over the skids. The only device holding the man to the aircraft was a thin nylon safety strap. The gunner was pointing down toward the jungle. Paul followed the door gunner’s arm with his eyes and saw where he was pointing. A Marine fire-support base stood carved out of the foliage, less than a mile away. Paul let go of his CAR-15, allowing it to hang from its sling, and 217

  Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood

  [ e - r e a d s ]

  gave the door gunner the thumbs-up sign. The pilot was planning on landing in the clearing near the old base to let the recon team scramble inside for the long ride home. The helicopters approached the unmanned fire-support base with extreme caution, since the NVA were fond of scrounging around abandoned American bases for C-rations and equipment that had been left behind by American soldiers.

  A Cobra gunship appeared from the west, flying at treetop level as Paul’s helicopter hovered above the base area, descending slowly to the ground with its dangling human cargo. Paul watched the ground as it rose up toward the toes of his boots. He instinctively stretched his toes toward the safe brown earth, and felt the pressure ease up in his harness when his legs absorbed his weight. It felt good to touch the dry clay. Paul and the old Montagnard stumbled into the open side doors of the idling helicopter on blood-denied legs.

  The harnesses from the STABO rigs had cut off the circulation of blood to their lower extremities. Paul felt his cheek touch against the cool metal deck of the chopper as the door gunner nearest to him grabbed his pistol belt and pulled him into the vibrating machine. Paul and the Montagnard remained lying on the steel floor, neither of them having the energy to pull themselves up into the nylon mesh seats. They were safe.

  The four Cobra gunships left the slicks over Quang Tri and headed for their home base at Camp Eagle. The slicks banked and aimed toward the South China Sea’s coastline in the distance. The lead chopper turned south at the waterline and angled for the CCN base camp located at the base of Marble Mountain. Paul’s body relaxed in increments as he recognized familiar landmarks. Large groups of Vietnamese fishermen covered the calm sea in their round bull boats. All of the bobbing craft remained within sight of the shoreline and maintained a respectable distance from the cruising naval gunboats. The tail of the helicopter dipped as Paul’s aircraft slowed its speed for a landing. Paul looked out the door and saw the black van parked near the fifty-foot-long “H” marker. Lieutenant Colonel Clewell and Major Galviston were both standing near the open van doors, looking up at the approaching craft.

  Paul forced himself to pick up his rucksack and ignore his sore muscles when the skids touched the PSP pad. Galviston grabbed him by his arm and helped Paul into the van.

  “Damn it, Lieutenant! You did it again!” Galviston and the colonel were both smiling. “We were expecting your team to stay on the ground at least a week . . . I’ll be damned! One day out and you’re back in camp . . . mission accomplished! Great job!”

  Paul tried grinning. “I have a good team.”

  “Let’s get in the van!” Clewell patted Paul’s shoulder as they all entered the dark chamber inside the vehicle. Cooper and the rest of the team 218

  Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood

  [ e - r e a d s ]

  joined them, carrying the naked prisoner. The doors closed and the van shot across the helipad. The black vehicle came to a rocking halt in front of the isolation area.

  “Get our friend inside . . .” Galviston helped Cooper carry the half-conscious man through the open door. “Paul, use the intercom and get a medic over here . . . pronto!”

  “Christ! He’s a kid!” Clewell picked up a poncho liner off one of the bunks and wrapped it around the shaking body. “Cut those handcuffs off his wrists . . .”

  Cooper obeyed and used his knife to cut the man’s hands free. He pulled the tape slowly off the soldier’s mouth and watched as the man inhaled a deep breath of air and partially opened his eyes. He still suffered from the effects of the morphine shots and the cold air from flying underneath the chopper.

  “He’ll need some rest, but he should be able to talk in the morning.” Paul dropped back down in a nearby chair.

  “He’s shaking like a leaf.” Clewell placed his open palm on the prisoner’s chest and felt his heart rate and breathing both at the same time. “Damn! I hope he’s not going to die on us!”

  “He may be suffering from exposure. Our ride back was pretty cold.”

  Cooper stood behind the colonel.

  “Pull that blanket off and start rubbing him down.” The Special Forces medic edged his way in between Cooper and the colonel. “He’s suffering from extreme heat loss and will slip into terminal shock if we don’t hurry!”

  “Shit! If that son of a bitch dies on us . . .” Cooper grabbed one of the man’s legs and started rubbing vigorously.

  “Let’s put him under a hot shower.” Paul walked around to the far side of the bed.

  “Good idea!” The medic picked up the light body in his arms and carried him into the open shower room. The warm water spraying against his shaking body woke the prisoner. He looked around at the staring faces and gained control of himself. The expression of surprise surrounding his eyes changed to fear. He knew what he had done and realized that he would have to face a lot of trouble.

  “How are you feeling, boy?” Clewell’s voice was fatherly and allowed the prisoner to relax slightly on the tile floor of the shower.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong!” The young soldier tried standing up on the slippery floor.

  “Lieutenant Bourne, see if you can find him some clothes,” the colonel kept his voice soft.

  “They forced me to help them!” Fear crackled through the youth’s voice.

  “After they captured us, the NVA said that they would torture us if we didn’t help them . . . really!” His eyes traveled from face to face, looking for some-219

  Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood

  [ e - r e a d s ]

  one who believed what he was saying. “They tortured Jim . . . he died! . . . I just want to live!”

  “Relax, son . . . We’ll find you some clothes and get some hot chow in your stomach and then we’ll talk some more . . . just rest for a while . . . OK?”

  Clewell stepped back and allowed the medic to hand the shaking youth a towel to dry off with before leaving the shower. Paul appeared in the doorway carrying a new set of camouflaged jungle fatigues.

  “The S-4 had these sent over. I guess they saw us carrying the prisoner in.” Paul handed the uniform to the medic.

  “Bourne, come over here a second.” Clewell stepped over to one of the beds at the far end of the room and put his foot up on the steel frame. “Every time you get near that kid he starts shaking harder . . . Why don’t you release your team and come back over to the command center in the morning for your debrief. I’d like to talk to this kid alone so that he’ll calm down.” Clewell nodded over to the man and asked, “Why is he naked?”

  “He was swimming in the Sapone River with two of his buddies. A third was playing guard carrying an AK-47 . . .”

  “What happened to them?”

  “I killed them.” Cooper had joined the officers. “I didn’t have much of a choice . . . either kill them or they would have joined the NVA against us . .
.

  I mean, the black was carrying an AK-47 and he was guarding the swimming group. The man could have escaped at any time . . . if he had wanted to.”

  “Don’t start feeling guilty. You followed orders—and remember, the Marines reported that they were fired on first by the Americans . . . that doesn’t sound like POWs waiting for a chance to escape!”

  Lieutenant Bourne hung his web gear and weapons on the wall pegs in his hooch. He went over to the window and pushed back the curtain, allowing the bright sunlight to burst into the small room. Paul opened the ammunition box under his bed that he used for a storage container and removed the partially full bottle of Jim Beam, then laid his head back against the chair and took a long pull straight from the bottle. The whiskey burned his throat as it traveled down to his empty stomach, ending its trip in a fireball. Paul poured a plastic cup half full and propped his feet against the wall that faced the sea.

  The plastic cup slipped out of his hand down to the floor.

  The gentle sound of waves breaking against the beach woke Paul. The sea wind was starting to pick up with the early-evening tide change. Paul stood and stretched. He looked at his watch and noticed that it was nearing eight o’clock at night. He had slept through the whole afternoon in his chair.

  Paul stripped down to his shorts and grabbed a towel. The shower building was located between two of the team hooches across the small clearing of 220

  Donald E. Zlotnik—Eagles Cry Blood

  [ e - r e a d s ]

  sand that separated him from the rest of the recon company buildings. The sun-heated water tanks located on the roof of the building provided a warm cleansing shower that removed the sweat, dirt, and camouflage paint from his body.

  “Hey, sir!” The voice came from the other side of the wooden shower wall. “You going to the movies tonight?”