by Chuck DeVore
He rolled over, got up and made his way to the tail. Behind him he heard a Marine hit the ground. He yelled over his shoulder, “Don’t return fire from the front of the aircraft. They’re aiming there. Try to make it to one of the buildings behind us and cover us from there. I’ll cover your movement. Go!”
Flint looked under the tail boom to get a view of the right half of the firefight. He saw the new RPG gunner on his knees setting up to fire. One of his compatriots was behind him. There was a flash and a puff of smoke. The man behind the RPG was cut down by the backblast and was holding his face and rolling on the ground. The round sailed over the downed helicopter and exploded harmlessly in the grass just in front of the church.
I see we’re dealing with amateurs here. Not that getting killed by an amateur made you any less dead than being killed by a professional. Flint put the rifle on the tail boom and fired once. He saw his round kick up a clod of dirt just in front of the RPG gunner who was struggling to put another grenade into the reusable launch tube. Up and to the left ought to do it. Flint squeezed the trigger. The M-16 kicked lightly and spit out a spent piece of brass. About 75 meters away the RPG gunner’s chest spouted red as he spun into the ground.
Now to find the machine gun. His peripheral vision caught two more Marines dropping to the earth to his left. Three out of the aircraft. How many were left alive in there?
His left cheek felt it before his eyes processed it. Heat. Intense, burning heat. The Huey was finally catching on fire. Flint yelled, “Any one in there?”
“Yes sir!” It was the lance corporal who tossed him his rifle, “Lopez is in here! I’m getting him out of here!”
“Get out now Marine! You’re on fire!”
“I can save him, sir!”
“Get out now!”
“I can’t hear you sir!”
The Huey was burning brighter now. The engine cowling Flint had slid down on only moments before was fully engulfed. He saw the machine gunners behind a fallen log just inside the tree line. They presented Flint with a six-inch high target. Bastards. He drew a bead, breathed out, and squeezed one round. The front of the log chipped up to reveal a lightly colored wood. A man behind the log slumped. Flint squeezed again. Another man fell. And again. The last of the trio was hit.
A deep concussive sound came from inside the Huey. Smoke was pouring out of the crew compartment. A limp body came into view. Flint screamed, “Not that side, it’s on fire!”
The unconscious form of Sergeant Lopez danced around to what used to be the bottom of the door. Flint fired two rounds down range, ducked under the tail boom and ran over to his dangling Marine, “Push him out, push him out!” He turned to fire three more rounds.
Sergeant Lopez fell. Flint broke his fall with his left shoulder, grimaced and began dragging Lopez by his equipment webbing behind his neck, while holding the M-16’s black strap with the same hand. The Huey belched fire. Flint saw the lance corporal’s hand vanish in smoke and flames.
Moments later he heard the welcome “whap, whap, whap” of a Cobra’s rotor blades beating the air into submission. It hovered between Flint and the schoolhouse. Flint dropped Lopez to point his rifle in the direction of the enemy and fire several rounds. The Cobra rose about 20 feet and let loose with its 20mm Gatling gun. The entire wall of trees spit bark and wood. Great chunks of sod were thrown into the air. The Cobra took on more altitude and fired a barrage of 70mm rockets into the trees. Tree limbs were blown apart and a thick smoky dust began to rise from the area that probably once held 30 men.
Flint turned to drag Lopez to safety. He wondered how the rest of his unit was doing. He felt a blast of heat on the back of his neck and lost consciousness as his face was kicked into the grass by the explosion.
* * *
“Colonel Flint, Colonel Flint! Hey, Doc, the Colonel’s awake!” It was a naval Corpsman. Flint was under a clean set of sheets and aboard the USS Belleau Wood.
“What happened? Ow, my head is killing me! What day is it?” Flint demanded, his voice picking up steam as he spoke.
The doctor, Lieutenant Colonel Myers walked over, “‘What happened?’ You got shot down. You broke your arm, cleanly and in one place. You got a concussion from the Huey as it exploded. I guess that also takes care of ‘Ow, my head is killing me.’ As for ‘What day is it?’ It’s Tuesday, February the 14th.”
The doctor’s attempt at banter bounced off of the wounded Flint, “How many dead?”
The doctor’s smile vanished, “12. Five in your aircraft and seven Marines from the BLT. The Thai weren’t so lucky. They lost 86 men.”
“How many. . .”
“. . .wounded? 35 Marines. 34 should make it for sure. One is touch and go. We’re also caring for 23 wounded or shell shocked Thai soldiers.”
“When can I get out of here?” Flint fixed his eyes on the doctor.
“You can’t. Not for a day anyway because of the concussion and the burns to the back of your neck. However, I have made provisions for you to visit with your wounded.”
Flint choked up, “Thanks Doc.”
* * *
Donna Klein saw the early morning report on the heavy Marine casualties on MSNBC. She sat atop her exercise bike and reviewed the likely fallout to U.S. policy in East Timor and Indonesia at large. Too much momentum now to stop it, too much at stake, just like in Vietnam. She paused, ashamed at having thought first of policy implications rather than the tragic personal meaning of 12 Americans losing their lives in service to their nation. Was this sacrifice necessary? She asked herself, already knowing the answer in her heart.
14
Massacre
Indonesia was at a crossroads. The nation was an artificial construct built out of the ashes of the Dutch Empire following its collapse brought on by World War Two. For 55% of the Indonesian population, one overlord (the Javanese) simply replaced another (the Dutch). And that overlord, no longer constrained by the bounds of Western civilization, proceeded to throw away its moral mandate of leadership. As long as the price of oil kept the economic skids greased, the corrupt leadership of President Suharto could survive. In the midst of economic ruin the end came quickly, and with it, the last of the government’s ability to keep a lid on the growing turmoil caused by an economic system that rewarded the families of those who already had it made. President Suharto was followed by a transitional figure, and, after an indecisive election in 1999, another figurehead with even less power.
This weak and tottering government could do little to stem religious and ethnic strife.
In the Indonesian town of Kupang on the western edge of Timor, not far from where the infamous Captain Bligh landed in 1789, a mosque full of worshippers was set on fire. The fire setters were not Christian, neither did they hold traditional beliefs. What mattered next was that a rumor was planted that wealthy Chinese businessman paid for this act of religious terrorism—a rumor intensified and spread by the virtually instantaneous passing out of handbills that reinforced the “fact.” Within three hours, the town’s business district was in flames as were all the town’s churches. Dead littered the streets. The Indonesian police and military were nowhere to be seen.
In the city of Ambon on the island of the same name, some 300 miles to the north-northeast of Dili in East Timor, a similar outbreak of violence occurred. Only four hours later, almost 600 were dead.
In the province of Aceh, 1,090 miles northwest of Jakarta, on the northern tip of Sumatra, separatist rebels seized the provincial capital and began broadcasting from the local radio station. Civilian casualties were light, but the Indonesian military and police lost more than 200 men.
In Irian Jaya, the former Dutch colony in western half of New Guinea, pro-independence rebels attacked armories in Sorong and Manokwari, taking weapons and killing 54 security personnel.
Within a day, the government in Jakarta was reeling from strife, violence and military reverses across the length and breadth of its 13,600 islands. Under pressure from hard-liners
, the military and police began to lash out.
Two days later, the nationwide death toll stood at more than 10,000 and rising. Churches were in flames and the Chinese minority, particularly hit hard, was on the move, fleeing out of the country any way they could.
Western news crews descended on the nation of islands in force (many of them coming from their East Timor assignments). It was only a matter of time before dramatic, live footage would make its way to America and move that nation closer to a large and forceful intervention. That footage arrived, as no other television news footage before, on Sunday, March 12, from the central Javanese city of Bandung.
A news crew had been filming a large demonstration of at least 30,000. The crowd had been enraged by the false rumor that a group of local Christian Chinese businessmen had made disparaging remarks about Islam. Further, they had supposedly paid a large sum to a crime boss to burn down the city’s three most prominent Mosques.
The crowd advanced on one of the city’s largest churches. Inside the church a Sunday service was being held for more than 800 frightened worshippers.
Someone in the mob noticed that the cameraman for the news crew was wearing a small cross. A stone was thrown. The news crew hastily retreated into the church.
The news crew’s equipment was transmitting to their unmarked van parked less than half a mile away. From the van a satellite link fed the raw footage directly into the studios. Indonesia’s propensity to produce dramatic stories caused the studio to shift to live coverage. It was 10 PM on Saturday night on the American East Coast.
The reporter, a veteran stringer from the Asia beat, seemed strangely detached. He let the cameraman pan the crowd in the church and kept his commentary to a minimum. The strained hymns and prayers in the church contrasted with the growing fury outside.
A brick crashed through a stained glass window. Then another. A few seconds later a Molotov cocktail sailed through the broken glass and burst in the aisles. The fire spread up a curtain. As the church was modern and in a good part of the city it was equipped with fire sprinklers. They soon came on and doused the fire. The congregation cheered and praised God.
Someone in the mob discerned what was happening and worked his way around the building until he found the chained water shut off valve. Within five minutes he broke the chain and cut off the water.
The television news studio back in America was just about to cut off the live coverage when the fire sprinklers stopped and the church grew silent. A woman sobbed.
Another Molotov cocktail came in, followed by another. Four more. The congregates gave up trying to stomp out the flames and huddled closer and closer. The news crew stood on a pew to get above the spreading oily flames and get a better view of the ongoing action. The reporter began coughing and took out a handkerchief to cover his mouth.
Three men tried to pry open a door, but it was blocked shut.
The camera’s last images were of writhing bodies in silhouette against the flames. Gut wrenching screams of pain and terror filled the air. The cameraman lost his grip and dropped the videocam. Its last images of inky smoke and its last sounds of crackling wood.
* * *
On Sunday in New York, the Chinese UN ambassador called for an emergency session of the Security Council to condemn, in the strongest words, the atrocities in Indonesia. He darkly warned of the reaction of the Chinese people to the word that thousands of their brothers had been murdered in a coordinated genocide. If the rest of the world refused to act, China might act alone. In America, he found an audience receptive to his message after the shock of seeing over 800 people martyred for their faith in Bandung on live television.
The Chinese resolution proposing a large UN intervention force (carefully drafted in secret more than a week before in Beijing) passed overwhelmingly. China’s ambassador to America immediately went on a tour of major U.S. cities to tout the importance of China and America agreeing jointly to intervene to bring peace and stability to Indonesia. The small protests against his visits by Tibetan, Christian, pro-democracy, and Taiwanese activists were ignored or treated with hostility by the American press.
Several large Chinese companies with close connections to the Communist Party placed media buys on American television. The ads were originally intended to soften American public opinion in the face of an expected campaign to intimidate Taiwan during the Taiwanese Presidential election in March. The ads were innocuous, mainly showcasing the famous hospitality of the Chinese to tourists. Some highlighted the growing market in China for American products. As a coordinated adjunct to the Chinese ads, several American high tech and aerospace companies with huge orders at stake in China also launched their own ad campaign. This effort was designed to ensure another year of normal trading relations with China since Congress was due to take the issue up again after its Easter recess.
The ads, combined with the ambassador’s tour and the fawning afterglow of the major media outlets (“New Life for the UN?” “The U.S. and China, the New Unstoppable Partnership?” “The New, New World Order” blazed the front covers of Time, Newsweek, and U.S. News and World Report, respectively) had their desired effect. First, Americans felt optimistic that China’s legions, if put in service for good with America, could bring a large measure of peace and stability to the world. Second, Americans’ general attitude towards China turned around overnight. Those who publicly fretted about nuclear espionage or repression against Chinese Christians, cultists, Tibetans, or democracy activists were considered ill informed, out of date, or warmongers seeking a new Cold War. Finally, the propaganda offensive worked to divert American attention away from China’s growing aggressiveness towards Taiwan. With the Balkans, Iraq, Indonesia and a couple of other hot spots to worry about, the U.S. leadership considered China’s offer for a substantial UN troop commitment to be a welcome lifeline to a dangerously over-committed U.S. military.
In less than a week, military plans were approved (over Indonesian objections) to send 50,000 peace enforcers to Indonesia. The force mix would include 20,000 Chinese troops, 10,000 Pakistani, and an additional 8,000 American troops (including several thousand Army National Guard soldiers) on top of the 12,000 in East Timor who would be deployed outside the troubled former Portuguese colony.
* * *
Donna Klein reread the latest press accounts and shook her head. As she grew older she was becoming more and more aware at how fickle the American public could be. In 1999 we were ready to hang the Chinese, now we can’t thank them enough for saving us from having to battle the chaos of Indonesia alone.
She read a classified commentary on the detailed negotiations behind the scenes at the UN—the gist of which would likely appear in the pages of the New York Times tomorrow. It seemed that the Chinese were more than willing to send 20,000 troops as long as the UN (read U.S.) would pay for their transportation and cover 80% of their expenses while in Indonesia. She smiled incredulously when she read that the Administration was favorably disposed to this request.
She frowned. Why the sudden turnabout for China? Why is it in their national interests to be in Indonesia? Certainly they hadn’t suffered a sudden attack of good will.
Something was up; she just couldn’t put her finger on it yet. Her more immediate concern was to help assess the level of training of the troops China was to send to Indonesia as well as the reaction to those troops by the Indonesians. This would directly impact the safety of U.S. troops. She couldn’t remember the last time she thought about the long-term strategic implications of a policy or a trend. Management by crisis was becoming the norm.
15
The Price of Peace
As soon as the last of his Marines was aboard, Colonel Flint left the bridge and went down to sick bay four decks below. His arm was still itchy from the cast that had been removed a month before. He was greeted by the groans of freshly wounded men from a SAM ambush over Ocussi. Forty-one in all, bandaged and bloody. But still alive. One hundred and thirty-nine of their fellows
had not been so fortunate in East Timor over the last few months. Colonel Flint flashed back to Lebanon. What a slaughter that had been. But then he hadn’t been in command. This—carnage—was his responsibility.
He went from bunk to bunk, giving his wounded men—all but a handful were conscious—small words of encouragement. “A couple days on the beach in Satahip,” he told them lightly, “and you’ll be fine.” The thought of Satahip brought a smile to most of the faces looking up at him. The Thai naval port for which they were bound was legendary for the quality of its resorts and the friendliness of its hostesses. Of course, the more seriously wounded would be immediately medevac’ed out of the nearby airport of Utapow to hospitals in the States, but he didn’t tell them that.
The Belleau Wood shuddered slightly as it got underway. The 31st MEU had finally been relieved by the Army’s 25th Infantry Division after weeks of going it alone in the wake of the 3rd MEF’s redeployment to the Persian Gulf. In light of the 31st’s causalities, the Army agreed it could live without the 31st as backup. It was now free to steam away and lick its wounds.
