Dateline: Viet Nam: A Military Thriller Double

by Robert Vaughan

  “Ah…they are peasants, unable to think of the future of their village,” Colonel Mot said. “Pay no attention to them.”

  “But didn’t you just say that this bridge was built for them? Surely you are interested in what they want?”

  “A child does not like to take medicine, but it is good for him,” Colonel Mot said. “Perhaps these villagers don’t want this bridge now but it is good for them and in the long run they will be glad.”

  “Why don’t you let them decide that?”

  “Mr. Chapel, you have been in my country for a long time now. You have written stories about our struggle. Surely you, better than any other outsider, can understand our unique problems. Vietnam is divided into two classes of people. There are those of us who, by the results of our own initiative, are the leaders, while the others, by their sloth and laziness, are the followers. Obviously, to such people abstract thoughts of the future are not possible. These people don’t really know what they want, so it is up to us to tell them.”

  “So much for the principles of democratic reform,” Ernie noted.

  Colonel Mot, who was already smoking, lit another cigarette from the butt of his old one, then flipped the old one away. Half a dozen children ran to the discarded cigarette butt to fight over it.

  “Please, do not misunderstand,” Colonel Mot said. “We are for democratic reform but first I think we must create a society stable enough to accept democracy.”

  “That’s the same thing all dictatorships say,” Ernie said.

  Colonel Mot laughed and wagged his finger back and forth at Ernie. “Ah, but at least we are not a Communist dictatorship and right now, as far as your government is concerned, that’s all that’s important.”

  “Yes,” Ernie agreed reluctantly. “I’m afraid you’re right.”

  “Tell me about Mr. Carmack,” Colonel Mot said, changing the subject so sharply that, for a moment, Ernie didn’t follow him.

  “What?”

  “Carmack,” Colonel Mot said again. “Your friend, the American pilot.”

  “What about him?”

  “He is fucking my wife.”

  “Colonel, that’s quite an accusation to make,” Ernie stammered, but Mot held up his hand to interrupt him.

  “I know that he is fucking her, Mr. Chapel. And, within the guidelines I laid out for my wife, I am willing to accept that.”

  “Guidelines?” Ernie asked with a puzzled expression on his face.

  Mot laughed. “I don’t expect you to understand,” he said. “My wife and I agreed long ago that our relationship wouldn’t be limited by conventional restraints. But there were certain guidelines that we agreed to follow and she isn’t following them. She went to My Tho and I have it on very good authority that Mr. Carmack visited her there.”

  “I...uh...am sorry,” Ernie said, not knowing what else to say.

  “It isn’t your fault or your problem,” Colonel Mot said. “I was merely letting you know that I am aware of the situation. Ah, the ceremony is about to begin. Shall we let the subject of my wife’s infidelities lie, for the moment?”

  “Yes, of course,” Ernie said, glad the subject was changed. He had no wish to discuss Madam Mot’s extramarital affairs with her husband.

  The band from the Vietnamese Army was dressed in starched khaki uniforms with gleaming silver helmet liners and white Sam Browne belts. At the signal from their director they raised their instruments and began to play.

  To pay honor to the Americans for building the bridge, the first song the band played was the “Star-Spangled Banner.” Despite Ernie’s uneasiness over participating in what he felt was an affront to the villagers, he still felt the same thrill he always did at hearing the national anthem.

  With an amazing sense of ironic coincidence, the first explosions on the bridge went off just as the anthem reached the part of “bombs bursting in air.” The first bomb was followed by a series of explosions as the entire bridge went up in smoke. The villagers screamed and the dignitaries who were standing ready to cut the ribbons dived for cover, along with the soldiers and members of the band.

  Ernie watched from the reviewing stand. He was far enough away from the explosions not to be in any personal danger from flying debris but close enough to watch with morbid fascination as the bridge slowly crumpled, then fell into the water, a useless pile of twisted metal and broken concrete.

  The smoke was still hanging in the air when a soldier reported to Colonel Mot. The soldier spoke in Vietnamese, but Ernie had been in the country long enough to understand what he said.

  “Colonel, did he say the sappers have been trapped?”

  “Yes,” Colonel Mot answered. “We had patrols all around here, anticipating something like this.”

  “You mean you knew the bridge was going to be blown?”

  “We received some letters that threatened to do so,” Colonel Mot said. He smiled. “Now it seems as if our V.C. friends have been…what is the quaint English saying? ‘Hoisted by their own petard’? Come. Would you like to go with us?”

  “Yes,” Ernie said.

  Ernie followed Colonel Mot to a nearby Jeep and seconds later they were roaring down the road with a rooster tail of dust flying behind them. Less than a mile from the edge of the village they saw an armored personnel carrier and another Jeep. Three dozen Vietnamese soldiers were standing in a semicircle around four young Vietnamese men. None of the young men was armed nor did any of them wear an armband or anything else that would suggest they were V.C. One of the four had been shot and he was being supported by two of the others. His stomach was bright red with blood and as Ernie looked at him, he realized that the young man was going to die quickly if he didn’t get medical attention soon.

  “Colonel, that man needs a medic,” Ernie said. “That man is one of the ones who just blew up our bridge,” Colonel Mot answered. “He will be attended to when he answers the questions we have for him.”

  “Colonel, you can’t deny him medical attention,” Ernie insisted.

  “I suppose you will write about the cruelty of the Vietnamese government if I do?”

  “There’s always that possibility,” Ernie said. “Very well, Mr. Chapel, if it will make you feel better, I will see to his wounds.” Mot paused for a moment. Then he laughed, a low, evil laugh. “And then I will have him executed.”

  Colonel Mot called to one of his officers and a couple of men took the wounded man over to one of the Jeeps.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Ernie started. “I think you will find that—”

  Ernie’s comment was suddenly interrupted by an explosion. He looked over toward the Jeep where the wounded man had been taken. A puff of smoke hung over the Jeep, but where the wounded man had been there was now nothing but a pile of bloody rags. He had managed to set off a grenade just as the medics bent over to help him. He’d killed himself and the two Vietnamese medics.

  “Oh, my God,” Ernie said.

  Colonel Mot laughed as if it were the greatest joke he had ever heard. Ernie looked at him, shocked that anyone could laugh at such a moment.

  “Oh, come now, Mr. Chapel,” Colonel Mot said. “Don’t look at me like that. The blood of those men is on your hands. You are the one who insisted that I provide him with medical treatment. Maybe now you have learned a valuable lesson in the way we conduct our war.”

  Ernie held on to the windshield of the Jeep and fought the urge to be sick.

  The losses sustained by the Gunslingers during their assault on Widow’s Peak were so high that all the pilots were put on a two-week stand-down. Mike, not wanting to spend two weeks without activity, agreed to fly “slicks,” as the UH-lDs were called, until the Gunslingers were ready for action again.

  The slicks had door guns, but nothing else. Albritton, who was Mike’s regular door gunner, went with him. Smitty, the crew chief who doubled as the other door gunner, stayed back to work on their aircraft.

  After flying Gunslinger missions, the insertion seemed pretty tame
and Albritton was every bit as bored with the routine transportation flight as Mike Carmack.

  Occasionally, Albritton would fire off a round at a water buffalo but he couldn’t coax Mike to fly low enough for him to shoot monkeys. Albritton yawned, blinked his expressionless eyes as they landed to insert a squad of Vietnamese infantry. Albritton looped his mike cord around the neck of the last Vietnamese soldier who disembarked.

  Mike took off just as Albritton hooked the Vietnamese soldier, who quickly found himself dangling by his neck some fifty feet above the trees. A soft croaking sound came from his lips and his American M-16 fell from his flailing hands.

  “Mr. Carmack,” Albritton said laconically, “we’ve got a gook hooked up.”

  “What the…?” Mike called out. He racked the helicopter into a tight turn and headed back for the landing area. The small soldier was swinging freely.

  Suddenly a stream of 40-mm anti-aircraft fire slashed up from the jungle floor, tore the legs off the Vietnamese soldier, and laced into the bottom of the ship. One final look of surprise showed in the brown eyes, then the soldier was cut loose by the shells and dropped to the jungle floor. Rounds slammed into the fuel tank and transmission deck. The fuel tank exploded in a mass of yellow flames that changed into a stream of fire trailing the aircraft.

  Mike fought for control of the helicopter, but it was impossible because the transmission mounts had been knocked loose and excessive vibration had begun. He attempted to set down in the open clearing, but his rpm deteriorated and he had to slip in between two trees, wiping the blades off and banging into the ground. They skidded across the earth, spewing parts and fire.

  The nose section ripped free and Mike and Dobbins found themselves dangling unhurt from their seats. They watched the rest of the aircraft smash into a dike and cartwheel several times, finally coming to rest as an inverted burning hulk.

  The crew chief, who had jumped out when the aircraft first hit the ground, ran over to them. “Are you two all right, sir?” he yelled, helping them from their seats.

  “Yes,” Mike replied. “Did both of you get out?”

  “Albritton is still in there,” the crew chief answered.

  Mike started toward what was left of the aircraft but another explosion drove him back.

  The three men stood by, helpless, as the aircraft burned with an angry roar. The horror of the moment was so engrossing that they didn’t hear the Huey coming back to pick them up until it was already on the ground.

  “Albritton, you dumb shit,” Mike said. “Why did you do that? Why did you do that?”

  “Come on, Mike,” Dobbins called as he started toward the helicopter that had landed for them. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I can’t just leave him,” Mike said, pointing to the burning chopper.

  “Sure you can,” Dobbins called. “Come on, goddammit! There’s nothing you can do for him now. Let’s get the hell out while we still can!”

  Reluctantly, Mike moved over to the rescue chopper. He had just slipped inside when the pilot picked it up and the motion of the takeoff rolled him back against the transmission tunnel. Dobbins, who was already strapped down, helped Mike onto the red bench. They circled around once and Mike looked out the door, beyond the tip of the spinning blade, to see the burning remains of what had been his helicopter. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, fighting the nausea that welled up inside.

  The co-pilot turned around and looked toward the back. None of Mike’s crew was wearing headsets, so he had to yell his question.

  “You guys all right?”

  “Yeah,” Mike said.

  “Jeez! What the hell happened? What’d you go back for?”

  “We had an ARVN soldier hung up,” Mike said, without telling why he was hung up.

  “A damned dink? You went back for a dink? I would’ve let the son of a bitch fall,” the co-pilot said. He turned back around and Mike could see his lips move as he told the pilot what happened. The pilot shook his head.

  Mike thought of the weekend just past. He had spent it with Le. It had been a moment of tranquility. Now that moment was gone, the memory slipping away into eternity. Would he ever know such a peaceful moment again?

  Chapter Eleven

  The village of Hoa Ginh was proud of the Xa Hoa Pagoda. The pagoda was not only their church, it was their social center as well. It was the largest and most beautiful Buddhist temple in the entire province.

  In the Xa Hoa Pagoda in Hoa Ginh, the village faithful had gathered to burn their joss sticks and to make their offerings to Buddha. The air hung heavy with the sweet smell of incense and the sound of prayer chants echoed melodiously through the cavernous red-and-gold temple.

  No one paid any attention to the convoy of vehicles when it rolled through the street of the village because the army frequently conducted maneuvers in the area. The lead Jeep had a two-way radio and messages coming over it were so loud that they wafted across the landscaped garden of the pagoda like voices from a loudspeaker. But even that didn’t cause undue disturbance among the villagers.

  The convoy stopped and South Vietnamese Special Forces poured out of the trucks. Officers shouted commands and gave orders and the men formed into precise military platoons. This was unusual, so the people stopped and began to watch them.

  Colonel Mot had been in the lead Jeep and he walked along the line of vehicles until he stood in the middle, where he remained to watch the junior officers getting the soldiers into formation. A little girl stepped up to him and jerked his pant leg. When Mot looked down she held her hand out, palm up, already an expert in the art of begging. Mot ignored her.

  “Colonel, the detail is formed,” one of the officers reported. Mot returned the officer’s salute, then raised his arm to look at his watch. For several moments there was an eerie tableau vivant, illuminated by the brightness of the moon. Colonel Mot stood silently, his arm crooked, staring at his watch. The soldiers were in neat lines, absolutely motionless, faces devoid of all expression.

  The villagers appeared mesmerized by the scene, neither moving nor talking. The prayer chants and cymbals had stilled and the village was in absolute quiet. The only sound was the flat clanking of a cowbell. It was hanging from the neck of a water buffalo that was tethered and grazing nearby. Occasionally a rush of static would pop over the two-way radio in the command Jeep.

  “Commence the operation,” Mot said quietly.

  What happened next was totally unexpected and everyone stood rooted in shock, unable to react until it was too late. One of the officers shouted a command and the neat military ranks surged forward, yelling and brandishing truncheons, attacking everyone.

  The screams of fear and pain were drowned out by the sound of destruction as the buildings were set ablaze and the meager furnishings smashed.

  In house after house, the hiding places of the most prized possessions were discovered, and the treasures—perhaps a flashlight, a packet of steel needles, or an oil lantern—were destroyed or stolen by the soldiers. The women begged and cried and the men shouted in anger. But they were clubbed into silence.

  Gradually all the villagers were herded toward the pagoda and forced inside, shaking in terror and rage.

  For several seconds there was no further activity on the part of the soldiers. Everything was silent save the continuous clanking of the cowbell as the buffalo quietly grazed, oblivious of the destruction going on around him.

  Colonel Mot took a battery-powered loudspeaker and spoke to the people inside the pagoda.

  “Attention! Attention! As commander of this area, I have declared a state of martial law. One of the restrictions of the law is the Pagoda Assembly Act. All buildings of the Buddhist religion are to be used for religious purposes only. The gathering in such a building of anyone for any purpose other than religion is strictly prohibited. I order that the Xa Hoa Pagoda be evacuated immediately.”

  Mot put the loudspeaker down and a handful of terrorized citizens started to leave the p
agoda. A squad of soldiers rushed at them and began beating them, forcing them back inside. Mot watched the proceedings impassively.

  “You have only thirty seconds remaining in which to evacuate,” Mot said over the loudspeaker again. “I plead with you to do so at once!”

  A few others tried to leave, but they, too, were driven back inside by the soldiers.

  “You were warned and your time has expired,” Mot said.

  Inside the pagoda, the people were wild with terror. They knew now that the soldiers wouldn’t let them leave. They also knew they were all about to die.

  “Look!” one of them shouted. He pointed to a hissing object that had been tossed in by one of the soldiers. That object was soon joined by several others, and then, with a popping sound, tear gas began spewing thickly, nauseatingly, from the small gray canisters.

  The terror turned to hysteria, and the wheezing, crying mob surged for the doors. Many were cut down by rifle fire, others by skull-smashing blows, as the troops quieted them with grim efficiency. Fires licked at the night sky. Silhouetted against the green flames, soldiers could be seen dumping buckets of feces from the community toilets into the community wells.

  “Recall the detail,” Colonel Mot ordered.

  Shouted commands from the officers brought the troops back to the trucks, where they climbed on board as calmly as if boarding a bus. Mot pulled out a silk handkerchief and looked over the destroyed village as he wiped his hands. He climbed back into the lead Jeep and signaled for the convoy to leave.

  When the convoy pulled out, they would leave behind a burned-out village. The screaming, shouting, and rattle of musketry had stilled. Now, there was only the crying of a child and the crackling of the flames. The stunned survivors stared at their destroyed village in disbelief as the trucks roared away.

  Colonel Mot led the convoy down Highway 13 to their next stop, Di An. Di An was much larger than Hoa Ginh, so he wouldn’t be able to sack and pillage the whole town. However, he planned to destroy the pagoda and to bring back the patriarch of the Buddhist sect there, a priest named Vu Dinh Due. Though he had no proof, Mot believed that Vu Dinh Due was a V.C. officer.