Dateline: Viet Nam: A Military Thriller Double

by Robert Vaughan

  “We ran out of ammunition,” Todaro answered.

  Ernie ran his hand through his hair and looked at the empty pads. “Looks to me like you damned near ran out of men,” he replied.

  “It was rough,” Todaro said, not really reacting to Ernie’s comment. “It was really rough.”

  Todaro walked right by Ernie, moving in a slow, shocked shuffle. Ernie knew that it would do no good to shout at him or accuse him of leading good men to a useless death. At this very moment, Todaro was barely aware that Ernie was even there. Ernie watched him until he walked between the maintenance hangar and the operations shack, then disappeared behind a row of tents.

  “I wish I could write this story,” he said quietly. “If there was ever any one story that is symbolic of this entire war, it is this one. That’s exactly how I would lose my accreditation if I wrote it. But someday, Colonel. Someday, after this war is over and the Vietnam vet is a vague memory from a forgotten war, I’m going to tell what happened here today.”

  When Ernie stepped into the officers’ club a few minutes later, he could smell the food being prepared for lunch. The tables were set with tablecloths, silver, and napkins, while in the darkened bar area the nine pilots who returned, eight warrant officers and one captain, had pulled a couple of unset tables together. Open whiskey bottles sat on the table before them, and they were all drinking quietly.

  “There!” a Vietnamese voice said. “That’s them. I told them, ‘No drink before 1600!’ But they no listen. They come behind bar and get bottles anyway.”

  The voice belonged to the Vietnamese civilian who had been hired to oversee the other Vietnamese employees of the club. He was talking to the club officer.

  The club officer, a lieutenant, stepped over to the table. “Here, you men, what do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

  “What the hell does it look like we’re doing, you dumb shit?” Mike replied. He drained the rest of his glass, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We’re drinkin’.”

  “You can’t drink in here until 1600 hours!”

  “Let it go, Lieutenant,” Ernie said quietly.

  The lieutenant looked around and saw Ernie, in uniform, but wearing a press patch.

  “I will not let it go,” the lieutenant said. “These men have no —”

  “Throw the son of a bitch out,” Captain Wilson said. Besides Colonel Todaro, Captain Wilson was the only surviving commissioned officer from the mission.

  The two warrants at the end of the table nearest the lieutenant stood up and grabbed him under the arms, then dragged him across the floor and tossed him through the door.

  “I’ll be back!” the lieutenant called. “Just wait! I’ll be back with the provost marshal!”

  Ernie walked over to sit in a chair offered him by Mike. He looked at the men and saw a closeness between them that, at that moment, was closer than any relationship in the world. There was no love that could compare with this, not the love of a man for a woman, not the love of a man for his family or country. It was a private love, shared only by those who had been in the crucible of battle and understood by no one but them.

  “I’ll say this for Todaro,” one of the warrants said. “He’s got guts.”

  “Guts, hell. He’s crazy.”

  “What happened?” Ernie asked.

  “Todaro was the first one in,” Mike said. “He had the rockets. Rindell went in with the mini guns to cover him. Rindell got hit right off. He must’ve taken an explosive round in the fuel cell because his ship just blew up. I figured Todaro would break off his run, but he didn’t. He went right on in. It was all a waste. His rockets burst on the rock wall of the mountain.”

  “The next two to go in went down,” someone else said. “Then Joe and I went in, with Ollie and Fergus in the mini-gun ship. By then it was so hot that all I could think of was getting the hell out of there. We fired, but it didn’t do anything.”

  “It kept going like that,” Mike went on. “On the first pass we lost five. Five, on one pass! I thought for sure he would break off and come back; hell, it was obvious we couldn’t do anything. But Todaro ordered another pass. This time I figured I’d make sure it was our last pass, so I fired off everything we had left. We lost three that time. Then I heard Todaro order a third pass. I thought, the crazy bastard! He’s just going to keep going until we’re all gone!”

  “What happened?”

  “Like me, everyone else had fired everything on their first two passes. So, Todaro didn’t have any choice but to order us home.”

  “What I’m wondering about is, what happens now?” Captain Wilson said.

  “What do you mean?” Mike asked.

  “You may not have noticed it, Mike, but we don’t have a company left. Our exec, most of our pilots and damned near all of our aircraft are gone. What happens now? Are we going to be broken up and sent to new companies, or what?”

  “I don’t know about the rest of you guys,” one man said. “But I ain’t leavin’.”

  “Amen to that, brother,” another said.

  At that moment, the club officer returned. This time his attitude was totally changed.

  “I’m sorry, guys,” he said. “I didn’t know what happened. Drink all you want…the club’ll take care of it.”

  Mike smiled. “Lieutenant, there’s hope for you yet.”

  Chapter Nine

  In My Tho on Sunday morning, Le got up with the sun and walked through the quiet house, picking her way carefully through the sleepers whose straw mats were strewn about on the floor. She stood on the open porch and looked out toward the Mekong. A soft breeze blowing off the river carried with it a fish smell that was somehow reassuring...as if reminding Le of the timelessness of Vietnam.

  The fishermen of the village had already gone out and their flat boats glided effortlessly through the still water, the reflection of the painted eyes on the boats glaring back from the mirrored surface. The clacks of the wooden blocks the fishermen slapped together to attract the fish rolled across the water with a rhythmic, almost musical quality.

  Most of the pre-dawn mist had been burned away by the red disk of the rising sun, but enough remained to clothe the scene in a diaphanous haze, making it appear as if the village were a painting on silk in pastel blues, purples, and rose.

  As the morning shadows lightened, Le became aware that she was not alone on the porch. The father of her sister’s husband was also there. He was sitting quietly at the other end, looking at Le with deep, dark eyes.

  “The sunrise is very beautiful,” Le said, startled by his presence and speaking merely to overcome her awkwardness.

  The old man didn’t answer.

  “I was unable to sleep,” she added.

  Still no answer.

  “It was hot, and I came for a breath of fresh air.” Le was very uncomfortable, and the more she tried to cover her embarrassment, the more obvious it became.

  “You are troubled by the American,” the old man said, finally speaking.

  “What do you mean?”

  “At first, you thought merely to entertain yourself with the American. As long as it was merely for amusement, your husband would allow it. But it is no longer entertainment. You are in love with the American.”

  Le turned away from the old man and looked out over the water again with tear-dimmed eyes.

  “You are old and wise. Tell me, why is such a thing to be? Why must my heart be filled with love for one I cannot have?”

  “You ask a question for which I have no answer,” the old man said quietly.

  “Then what should I do? Should I get a divorce?”

  “Again, you have asked a question that I cannot answer.”

  “What good is it to live so long if you have no wisdom to share?” Le asked in frustrated anger.

  “You are a woman of the world and have met many foreigners. In the world of the foreigners, how are such things handled?”

  “In America, one can easily get a divor
ce and marry another. It is frequently done and brings no shame.”

  “And you would divorce your husband for this American if you could?”

  “Yes.”

  “Such a desire in your heart is a deed done,” the old man said. “It is too late for counsel.”

  The sounds of the others awakening reached the porch. The private conversation between Le and the old man halted and their relationship changed as abruptly as the closing of a door. He became once again the extra houseguest, the old grandfather waiting to die. And she became the almost feared lady from Saigon, a relative by blood but a stranger by lifestyle. The temporary bridge they had built between them was gone. It was as if they had never spoken a word this morning. And now there would be no more real communication between them, only superficial conversation. Not even their eyes would exchange an awareness of the brief encounter they had shared.

  It was late in the afternoon and the sun was low on the western horizon. The pilot lowered the collective and the helicopter began its descent into My Tho. He looked around toward Mike, who was riding in the back, not his usual place, but he had hitched a ride on a courier flight.

  “I’ll be back here at seven tomorrow morning, Chief, if you want a ride back,” the lieutenant said.

  “Thanks,” Mike answered. “I’ll be here.”

  Mike walked away from the helicopter and started toward the house where he was to meet Le, following the directions he had written on a sheet of paper. The house was an easy quarter-mile walk from the airfield.

  The contrast between the elegant villa where Le lived in Saigon and the home of her sister in My Tho was unbelievable. Her sister’s house was built on the river’s edge and the back part of it was on stilts, actually protruding over the water. The house was covered with sheet tin made from pressed soft-drink and beer cans. A naked child sat in the dirt and others ran alongside Mike, laughing and shouting with excitement.

  An old man was sitting on the porch of the house holding a fishing pole. He looked at Mike but didn’t speak.

  “Are you catching many fish?” Mike asked.

  “No,” the old man answered. “I have told the fish I do not want trouble with them. I only appear to fish, so that I may sit here and sleep, and the young ones will not say that I am lazy. You are the one called Mike?”

  “Yes,” Mike answered. “How do you know my name?”

  “I am the father of the husband of Le’s sister,” the old man said. “Le has spoken of you. She is waiting now to see you.” He pointed to the house.

  “Thank you,” Mike said.

  Mike was met at the door by an old mama-san. Her face had the texture of old leather and black spittle hung in the wrinkles of her chin.

  “I’ve come to see Madam Mot,” Mike said.

  The old woman stared at him unblinking and he would have thought she didn’t hear him had she not motioned for him to follow her. He walked through the house to the back. Then she stopped and pointed to a door.

  “Is she in there?”

  The old woman said something in Vietnamese.

  “I don’t understand.”

  The old woman spoke again and when Mike still didn’t understand, she slid the door open and motioned for him to step through. When he was on the other side, she slid the door shut.

  Mike stood there for a moment, looking around the room. It was a fairly large room, filled with lacquered furniture, an ornate mirror, a dressing screen, a bed, and a small bedside table. The floor was covered with some type of ceramic tile. He was certain that this was the best room in the house.

  Mike heard the musical lilt of Vietnamese being spoken. Then he looked up to see Le enter from another room.

  “Mike,” she said, smiling. “I am glad you could come. I have food prepared for you.”

  Mike caught his breath. Le looked completely different from any previous time he had ever seen her. She was wearing an ao dai, but not the expensive, richly embroidered kind she usually wore.

  This one was pale blue and plain. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup; her fingernails were unpainted. And yet, he believed he had never seen her more beautiful.

  Le led him into another room, where he saw a fully set table. She invited him to sit and he was immediately surrounded by silent shuffling women. From one he received a scented, dampened doth, from another a beer and from still another a heaping serving of fried rice.

  “Who are all these people?’’ Mike asked.

  “They are the family of my sister,” Le said. “They wish to serve. I cannot tell them no. They will be hurt.”

  By the time they finished their dinner, it was dark. Le invited Mike out on the porch, the same porch where she had stood to watch the sunrise that morning. Out on the river, a big cargo boat slipped by, its passage marked by a looming black shadow and two tiny running lamps. Mike could hear a baby crying from inside the boat and he knew that one or more families lived on the vessel all the time.

  “I like to come to My Tho,” Le said. “It is more peaceful here than in Saigon.”

  “Yes,” Mike agreed.

  “Peace,” she said. “That word has a good sound. Even when spoken in Vietnamese the word hoa sounds like a soft sigh. Will we ever have peace, Mike?”

  “I don’t know,” Mike answered. “I really don’t know.”

  “I think not,” Le said. “There are too many men…men like my husband, who must have the war. They don’t care who wins or who loses…they don’t care who is right and who is wrong. They care only that there be a war.” She looked at him and smiled. “But,” she said, changing the subject and the tone of her voice, “you have come to My Tho to see me and this is a happy event. One should not talk of unpleasant things in the midst of a happy event.”

  “No,” Mike said. He put his arms around her and pulled her to him, then kissed her. “There are too many other things we can do.”

  “Come,” Le invited, leading him away from the porch and back into the bedroom. A small lamp burned on the dresser, barely pushing the dark out of the room. “Please get undressed, Mike,” Le said, “unless you intend to sleep with your clothes on.”

  Mike looked at her. They had made love before, but that time it was a few stolen moments in the afternoon of a hectic day. Now he was being invited to spend the night with her.

  As Mike undressed, Le stepped behind the screen. He could see her only from the shoulders up, but even so, he found her undressing immensely stimulating. There was a balletlike grace to her movements as she undressed behind the screen, and when, at last, her shoulders were completely bare, she reached up to release the ivory comb and let her hair tumble down below the screen. Then, and only then, did she come around to show herself.

  “Do you want to—” Mike started, but Le put her finger on his lips.

  “No talk now,” she said. She put her arms around him and pulled his face to hers in a consuming, almost urgent kiss, grinding her naked body against his. Mike grew dizzy with the musk of her perfume and the intensity of her kiss. A fire ignited inside him and spread with amazing speed throughout his body. “Mike,” she murmured from deep in her throat. “My own, sweet Mike.”

  Mike wasn’t aware of moving, but somehow, they wound up on the bed, tongue to tongue, naked flesh to naked flesh. His hands moved down her body; he felt her skin pulsate beneath his fingers. He moved his fingers deftly across her stomach, and into the silky growth of hair where he felt her incredible hot wetness. She moved to position her body under his, and he rested on top of her. The electric connection of their bodies shot through him like a bolt of flame. She answered his thrusts by moving up to take in more of him, until their bellies were tightly pressed together. She sucked in sharply, whimpering a little from the pleasure of it, as she raised her legs up, then locked them around him.

  Le climaxed first; the tingle began in the soles of her feet, then spread in intensity until she was screaming and groaning with pleasure. Somewhere in the explosion, Mike’s own orgasm ignited, and he joine
d her as wave after wave of pleasure broke over them.

  Afterward they both slept.

  Mike awoke once in the middle of the night. The moon was shining brightly, sailing high in the velvet sky. A pool of iridescence spilled through the window and onto the bed. Le was bathed in a soft shimmering light.

  She was asleep and breathing softly. Mike reached over gently and put his hand on her naked hip. He could feel the sharpness of her hipbone and the soft yielding of her flesh. The contrasting textures were delightful to his sense of touch. He let his hand rest there, enjoying the feeling of possession until finally sleep claimed him once again.

  Chapter Ten

  Ernie Chapel was Colonel Mot’s guest at the opening of the new bridge at the village of Due Tho. It would be, Colonel Mot insisted, a good story of how the Saigon government was helping its people.

  The old bridge had consisted of wood and rope, allowing only foot traffic, bicycles, and carts to cross the small river that separated Highway 13 from the village. No vehicles were allowed on the old bridge. There was another bridge about ten miles downriver for vehicles and a dirt road that ran back to the village. It had served its purpose without significant problems, until the last rainy season, when a flood destroyed the bridge.

  Now, at the request of the Saigon government, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers had built another bridge. The villagers were pleased, but they had no idea that the bridge replacing the one they lost would be a big steel-and-concrete bridge capable of allowing five-ton trucks to cross. That meant that their village, which had been spared the military traffic—and, consequently, the fighting—could now become embroiled in the war. The villagers were not pleased about that. They weren’t pleased at all.

  “What do you think, Mr. Chapel?” Colonel Mot asked, pointing to the flag-draped bridge. “It is a wonderful thing we have done for the poor people of Due Tho, don’t you think?”

  “Colonel, I’ve heard that some of the people aren’t pleased with this bridge,” Ernie said. “I’ve heard they would have preferred a small bridge, like the one they lost.”