Eagles Cry Blood
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The pause from the general’s end of the line lasted at least half a minute.
“Clewell . . . You don’t have any idea what perfect timing your discovery is . . . Send the location.”
“Grid 3 . . . 7 . . . 6 . . . 2 . . . 8 . . . 2 . . . I say again, 376282. That’s located in our Snake area of operations . . . over.”
“The North Vietnamese Army has been massing for a major offensive for the past two weeks. If we can hit their ammunition depot and destroy it . . . I’m sure we can have General McWorth’s Air Force Support.” There was a pause and then the general added, “Which of your teams found the depot?”
“It wasn’t a team, General. It was one man . . . Lieutenant Paul Bourne.
You might remember him from when you were here last. You decorated him with a DSC.”
“Alone? I don’t understand . . .”
“Yes, sir, alone. He gave up his extraction rig to a fellow soldier . . .”
Clewell spent the next ten minutes explaining to the general exactly what had occurred concerning the lieutenant—from the charges the helicopter pilot had pressed, to the reasons why he had sent the lieutenant out on a mission to wait for the general’s return to Vietnam.
“I’m due in Da Nang tomorrow for a meeting with the Corps commander.
Meet me at the airport when I land.”
“Roger, sir. Do you have any further traffic for this station?”
“None! Out.”
Major Galviston smiled at his boss. They both knew that all kinds of hell was going to break loose when the two general officers met the following day.
Lieutenant Bourne found a comfortable spot on the edge of the ravine above his cave and took a reading from his compass so that he could face the exact direction of the supply depot. He was on much higher ground than the 276
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bunkered ammunition center, and if the Air Force bombers made it during the night, he would have a grandstand view of the action.
Paul dozed with his head jerking down and touching his folded-up knees
. . .
The earth-shattering blast from the first two-thousand-pound bomb echoed over Paul’s ravine, waking the lieutenant with a jolt from the soft shock wave. Paul slipped behind a boulder as the explosions walked toward his ravine increasing their tempo. The last bomb in the string landed less than five hundred meters from his location. This was the nearest Paul had ever been to a B-52 strike, and the effects of the powerful explosions were awesome. Secondary explosions erupted in the jungle thousands of meters to the west where the depot was hidden under the jungle canopy. The ammunition would continue to explode well into the next day.
“Hickory . . . Foxfire . . . over.” The static from the moving aircraft fragmented the broadcast.
“Foxfire . . . Hickory . . . over.”
“Foxfire . . . Christ, you won’t believe this, but fire is shooting up a thousand feet in the air! . . . I can almost feel the heat coming from the burning ammo . . . That is one big depot down there, and all of it is going up in smoke.”
The radio operator located on the radio relay site answered in a calmer voice, “We believe you . . . We can see the fires from here.”
Major Galviston listened to the radio relay site operator talking to the forward air controller.
“We’ve had calls coming in all night long from aircraft pilots who’ve spotted the explosions. That boy sure has done one hell of a fine job!” Galviston spoke to Michaels and Loveless.
Lieutenant Loveless smiled. His friend had really outdone himself this time. Mister Michaels excused himself from the men standing around the operations room listening to the action over the radio and left the building.
He got into his jeep and headed out of the camp gate toward the sprawling Corps Headquarters compound.
“Where’s the reporter going?” Galviston nodded toward the exit.
“I guess he’s checking in with his wire service downtown. He mentioned last night that he was going to have to submit an outline on his article today.”
Jay stretched and continued talking to the major. “Sir, I think I’ll run over and get some breakfast.”
Galviston didn’t look up from the map he was studying. “If you don’t mind picking me up a couple of bacon ‘n’ eggs sandwiches, I’d appreciate it.”
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Jay nodded and left the building. He blinked his eyes in the bright natural light of day. The gate guard nodded when Jay flashed his badge and walked down the sand-strewn sidewalk running next to the headquarters building. The mail clerk knocked against the Plexiglas window, drawing Jay’s attention away from his personal thoughts. The sergeant waved for Jay to come around to the small window through which he dispatched mail to the American team members.
“You’ve got a bundle of letters today, sir.”
“Thanks.” Jay held the banded letters in one hand and thumbed rapidly through the pile, looking for anything worth reading right, away. Jay looked up at the watching clerk. “Does Paul Bourne have any mail?”
“Just a minute and I’ll check.” The clerk returned and handed Jay three letters.
Lieutenant Loveless looked at the return addresses on Bourne’s letters as he walked to the mess hall. His friend had received a letter from his bank in California and a letter from the Infantry Officers Branch back in Washington.
The remaining letter was from an Army nurse in one of the hospitals located in II Corps.
Jay slipped Paul’s letters in the side pocket of his fatigues and opened one of his own letters from his hometown steady girl. His mind slipped from war to love-making as he walked toward the mess hall.
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20
Lieutenant Colonel Clewell sat erect against the seat back in his jeep as he waited for the arrival of General Pick’s Lear jet. The Da Nang airfield was busy, as it normally was during the peak arrival period of aircraft bringing in replacements from the States and loading up those soldiers and marines who were completing their tours.
The general’s aircraft was already forty minutes late. Colonel Clewell wiped the sweat from his forehead with his index finger and flicked it onto the PSP, where it evaporated almost instantly upon contact with the sun-baked steel.
The door to the control tower burst open and an overweight Air Force sergeant called out to the colonel, “Are you Lieutenant Colonel Clewell from the Special Forces unit down the road?”
Clewell nodded his head and left the jeep. He paused to tell his driver to move the vehicle over to the shady side of the tower and wait for him.
“I’m Clewell, Sergeant.” He spoke with a tinge of disgust in his voice as he drew close enough to the fat man to see the bulging gut and sweat stains the size of plates under the man’s arms. Clewell didn’t know why, but a fat man sweating seemed to him as something unmilitary.
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“General Pick’s aide-de-camp called and told us to have you and the Corps commander stand by over at the VIP lounge.” The fat sergeant began breathing heavy from trying to talk in the bright sunshine.
“Thanks, Sergeant. You had better get back inside before you get a heat stroke.” The sarcasm completely passed over the sergeant’s head.
“Yes, sir; it’s too hot out here for me!” The sergeant released the door and returned to the comfort of the air-conditioned tower.
Clewell’s thoughts returned to Lieutenant Bourne, who was alone and trying to survive in a hostile jungle. The thought of the Air Force sergeant working in the safety of the control tower and Lieutenant Bourne, both drawing exactly the same amount of money for combat pay, brought a smile laced with irony across the combat colonel’s weathered face. It really didn’t
seem fair.
The VIP lounge was furnished with a plush decor accented with carpets and heavy chairs. A full-time bartender worked the Philippine-built mahogany bar.
“May I help you, sir?”
“A glass of orange juice. Heavy on the ice, please.” Clewell took a seat next to the window facing the long north-south runway. He could see a jeep bearing a three-star plate pull up in front of the tower below him. The corps commander had arrived almost an hour late. Clewell wondered if the corps commander had talked with General Pick and knew of the delay, or if the lieutenant general had arrived late on purpose, planning on having the senior general wait for him.
Clewell took in a deep breath and adjusted his jacket. He knew that the corps commander would definitely have a piece of his ass over the Bourne incident.
The lounge door swung open and the corps commander strode into the room followed by a pair of brigadier generals and a cluster of colonels. The lieutenant general glanced over at the Green Beret officer and ordered a whiskey and water from the bartender without acknowledging Clewell’s presence. The general drank half of the cold drink, then walked slowly up to the colonel, who had remained standing at attention.
“Well . . . Lieutenant Colonel Clewell . . . isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How are things going in the reconnaissance business?”
“Fine, General . . . thank you.”
“Thank me?” The corps commander glanced around the room, gaining smiles of support from his staff. “You really should thank me for not court-martialing you!” He spun around to face Clewell directly before continuing, “Hell, you can’t control that goddamned bunch of hoodlums you call officers . . .”
Clewell’s eyes narrowed into slits, but he remained standing at attention and held his tongue.
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“Well? Do you have an answer?” the general grinned. “You know that I can’t stand back and allow a lieutenant to pull a gun on a senior officer . . .”
Clewell cut into the conversation. “Sir, have you heard the other side of the story?”
“How could I?” the general sneered. “Didn’t you sneak your lieutenant off on some wild goose chase so I couldn’t see him?”
Clewell’s heart skipped a beat.
The general continued talking. “Anyway . . . I don’t have to talk to him until he’s in court. Your lieutenant threatened a senior officer with a gun, who, by the way, has been decorated for bravery in the past. I have heard some talk about the pilot refusing to rescue a suspected crash-site victim, but the decision to risk the lives of the people on board his aircraft is his to make, as the commander—not your lieutenant’s.” A slight change in the tone of voice alerted Clewell that the corps commander was verbally maneuvering. “Besides, the captain tells me a very believable story. He states that he was very low on fuel and needed to divert to a Marine base before going after the downed pilot. It sounds to me like your lieutenant was a bit hasty and got carried away with his gun.” The general glared at Clewell, daring him to challenge the statement.
Clewell took the challenge.
“Sir, the pilot had the mission to fly supplies out to our relay site, which so happens to be sixty kilometers farther away than the downed pilot’s aircraft. If the pilot’s story to you is true, he would have crashed from lack of fuel before they would have reached Hickory.”
The corps commander glared over at one of his staff colonels, who had taken a seat on the other side of the room by the bar. The colonel had been the one responsible for fabricating the low-fuel story.
General Pick had entered the room unobserved through a private side entrance and had been listening to the corps commander lay into Clewell for the past couple of minutes. He stepped forward into the lighted portion of the lounge and caught the lieutenant general’s attention.
“Sir! We failed to see you come in!” A fake smile lighted up the craggy old face of the junior general. “I was just discussing the incident with Clewell.”
“I know. I heard you talking . . .” General Pick looked over at the bartender. “A glass of ice water, please.” He turned and stared at the drink the corps commander was holding, and frowned. The look that passed between the generals was a reprimand.
General Pick spoke in a low tone. “I would like to talk with you and Clewell . . . alone, if we may?”
The corps commander locked his lips and nodded to his staff. The room emptied quickly, including the bartender. General Pick motioned for the two officers to take seats and then joined them.
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“Sir, if I may!” The corps commander was trying to take the offensive and set the tone for the meeting.
“Sure, General—go ahead.” Pick raised his eyebrows and leaned back against his chair to listen.
“The morale of my pilots has hit rock bottom after the incident with Lieutenant Bourne. The lieutenant’s charge of cowardice against one of my most senior pilots is very serious. I hope you understand that I have three hundred pilots under my command, and I can’t let a damn whippersnapper get away with pulling a damn gun on an aircraft commander!” The corps commander hardly stopped to breathe as he rambled on, “. . . We must punish this maverick officer severely in order to protect the morale of my troops and maintain discipline! I don’t give a damn what in the hell it’s going to take, but I demand his court-martial!” The lieutenant general slapped the tabletop with his open palm to emphasize his stand on the issue. The tactic was a cheap shot that failed to impress the four-star general watching him. Pick realized that the junior general was trying to force him into backing him in front of a very junior field-grade officer.
The corps commander closed his argument, “I want his ass!”
General Pick smiled. A long pause filled the room adding to the silence.
Clewell felt very ill at ease sitting between the two very powerful generals.
He was well aware that either of them could destroy his career without very much difficulty.
“Well, I agree the action the lieutenant took seemed rather drastic,”
General Pick reached down into his black leather briefcase and removed a pre-edition copy of Stars & Stripes, Vietnam edition, “but have either of you had a chance to read today’s edition of the paper?”
Clewell and the lieutenant general looked at each other, neither knowing what General Pick was driving at.
“No, sir.” the corps commander answered. Clewell just nodded in the negative.
General Pick placed the open paper in front of the lieutenant general with the headlines upside-down to Clewell. The bold headlines read: LONE LIEUTENANT DESTROYS NVA AMMUNITION DEPOT—STOPS ENEMY WAR
EFFORT IN THE SOUTH. A large picture of Paul Bourne covered the rest of the front page.
“Do you know who that lieutenant is, General?” Pick was enjoying playing his trump card.
The corps commander could guess who he was looking at.
“Would you still like to court-martial him?” Pick stood up and grinned down at the other general. “I wouldn’t.”
Clewell spun the paper around and opened it to the page that described the page-one cover story. It told of Paul’s stay-behind tactic.
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“How in the hell did the paper get this story!” Clewell’s voice reflected his concern. “He’s still out there! The NVA will have a copy of this paper by this afternoon! Damn it—this could get Bourne killed!”
“Newsweek magazine had the story printed nationwide. Mister Michaels feels that the American people need a hero that they can sink their teeth into—and I tend to agree with him, especially after seeing firsthand what the hippie movement is doing to our country.” General Pick lowered his voice and added, “In fact, I have to return ba
ck to Washington and testify before Congress on the war, and when I return, I want a complete packet on Lieutenant Bourne for the Medal of Honor!” General Pick looked at the corps commander with a tinge of malice reflected in his eyes. “We really don’t want to court-martial the biggest American hero to come out of the Vietnam War . . . do we?”
Clewell smiled and turned his head away from the corps commander, who dropped his glare down to the floor.
“I plan on personally tying the Medal of Honor around Lieutenant Bourne’s neck when we pull him out of there. The President has given me permission . . .” Pick answered the lieutenant general’s question before he had a chance to ask it. The President normally presented all Medals of Honor personally, in the White House. General Pick leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “Clewell, do you know a Mister LeBlonde?”
“Yes, sir. He’s one of the better Agency men assigned to the Vietnam office. I’ve dealt with him a quite a few times and always ended up impressed.”
“I tend to agree with you. LeBlonde has an excellent agency network of agents established in the area surrounding Lieutenant Bourne. LeBlonde has ordered his people to link up with Bourne and extract him.
“I hope they’re moving fast, sir.”
“It’s already in progress as we’re talking. By the way . . .” General Pick reached down, opened his briefcase, and removed a piece of blue cardboard with a pair of silver eagles attached, “take off those oak leafs. You’re a full colonel as of today. The Department of the Army answered my query concerning your eligibility early this morning, and I wanted to personally pin these on you.” The general went over to where Clewell stood and pinned one shiny eagle on his collar, then handed the second eagle to the newly promoted colonel. “Here’s one for your beret.”
The jeep driver stared at Clewell’s beret as the colonel approached the vehicle. “I didn’t know we came here for a promotion ceremony, sir!
Congratulations!”
“Just between the two of us, Sergeant . . . neither did I!” Clewell’s thoughts flashed back and forth between hundreds of personal thoughts as the jeep pulled through the gates of the airfield and headed back to the Command and 283