Ambush

by Eric Meyer

  “Walker, get your fool head down on the ground before they blow it off.”

  He didn’t reply, ran a few more paces, figuring the distance was about right. He pitched the grenade toward the enemy soldiers, and the lever flew off as it left his hand. It flew unerringly toward the group of enemy, who had no idea what was coming. As soon as it was in the air, he flung himself down, feeling the sting of a bullet that ripped a slice of skin from his neck. He flattened on the ground, face down, and waited.

  The explosion was devastating, and when he put his head up, he knew he’d taken down at least four men. The rest were dazed and starting to edge back. The incoming fire died, and Joe raced back to where Redman and Buck were dragging Lieutenant Early away. He was badly hurt, but still fired up, his eyes bright with fury and determination.

  “Get back there, and get all the men up here. We need to go in and finish them.”

  “Lt, we’ll call in a dust off and get you to a hospital. You’re hurt bad.”

  “I’m not going to any hospital! Get the men on their feet, Sergeant. We’re going in to finish the bastards.”

  “Chances are they’ll finish us first. Take it easy, Lieutenant, you’ll be okay.”

  He was raving, foam flecks coming from his lips, and trying to shake them off. Redman swapped glances with Walker and Buck. “You didn’t see this.” He hammered a fist against the side of his head, and his eyes glazed over as he lost consciousness. As he fell, Redman said, “Walker, take the Grease Gun. He won’t be needing it were he’s going.”

  Joe slung it on his back and helped himself to the spare magazine pouches. “Where to now, Sarge?”

  “We’re getting back to the LZ, get Lieutenant Early out of here, and work out how to get ourselves out of this mess.”

  “We’re leaving?”

  He gave Joe a savage look. “Leaving? No way, we came here to do a job, and we have the 1st of the 50th somewhere to the south, propped up in the Bradleys and waiting to see some action. We’ll get the Lieutenant medevacked out of here, and we’re going back in, but this time all the way to An Bao.”

  They stared at him in astonishment. “You said to pull back when we found out there were so many of them.”

  He gave them a hard stare. “I know what I said, and I was wrong. These bastards just shot our platoon commander, and I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about him, he’s our man, and I don’t take kindly to the Commies thinking they can get away with it. Besides, he was right about the antenna. They’ve taken it away, back to the village, which means they’ll be able to transmit. Early was right this time. If we’d seized the antenna, they couldn’t transmit. That would mean they couldn’t call for reinforcements and more supplies of weapons and equipment. We hit the village, shoot everything that moves, and we’ll take that antenna back to base and use it as a flagpole.”

  “We’ve got a flagpole,” Joe reminded him.

  “I know that, but this one’ll be different. We’ll hang a pair of North Vietnamese pants on it and place it next to the latrines.”

  The platoon was waiting for orders, and they watched the Huey marked with the red crosses take off and soar away over the jungle canopy. Redman was the effective platoon commander, and he called up the commander of A Company, the 1st of the 50th, on the radio. Captain Ray Clements replied immediately.

  “What is it?”

  He identified himself and gave their position. “Captain, we’re about to head into An Bao, and when the bullets start flying, there’ll be NVAs running every which way. I’d appreciate it if you positioned your Bradleys to take care of leakers. I gather you have a flamethrower mounted on one of the tracks?”

  “Yeah, we got a M132, Sergeant, that’s the modified Bradley. The guys call it a Zippo. Which direction do you plan to attack from?”

  “We’ll get the Hueys to land right in the center and come out shooting. I’m guessing they’ll start to run, and that’s where you come in.”

  “We’ll wait a few hundred meters south of the village and catch any that come that way. How does that sound?”

  “Sir, I was hoping for you to take up a position north of the village.”

  “North? Why north?”

  “That’s the other bit. The M48 Pattons, they’re not too far away. My idea is to ask them to park the tanks to the south. That way we should get most of them, whichever way they go.”

  He chuckled. “You worked this all out, Sergeant. It sounds like a plan.”

  “We’ll know when it’s over, Sir. We want get them all, but they’re still recovering from the hiding we gave them at Tet, and this should hurt them badly.”

  “That’s an affirmative. Leave the tanks to me. I happen to know the commander of B Company, 69th Armored, and I’ll make sure he plays ball. Sergeant, it strikes me you guys are getting the worst of it, dropping in on the enemy headquarters like that.”

  “It’s the only way to handle them, Captain. Shock and awe, hit them hard, and give their asses a good kicking.”

  “Good luck with that. Clements out.”

  Redman regarded the men standing around waiting for orders. “You heard. Mount up, we’re going in.”

  He climbed aboard the helicopters for the short flight to the village. As they climbed into the sky, Joe looked to the south, and he could see the line of Bradley M113s driving a circular route to get around to the north of An Bao. The flamethrower was a Bradley chassis with a small turret and the tube mounted on top. The interior was modified, with the space normally allocated to troops replaced with fifty-gallon tanks and pressurization equipment for the fuel. It was fearsome, and often the mere sight of the terrible weapon was enough to cause men to take flight.

  There was no more time to survey the countryside. They were coming up fast on the village, and suddenly the Huey gained height to clear a tall stand of trees. The huts were in front of them, and it wasn’t just the huts. In the short interval since they’d dismantled and removed the antenna, they were already working to install it against the trunk of a tall tree, and men were running around like ants. Engineers were laying a long length of cable, and they froze and looked up, jaws dropping open as the helicopter soldiers came into view.

  They recovered fast, dropped the antenna, and began to run for cover, except not all of them. Four men raced toward a hut, and it was no hut. They ripped away the flimsy bamboo roof and sides thatched with palm leaves, and instead of some Viet mama-san busy cooking the midday meal, an anti-aircraft gun was exposed to them, squat and deadly.

  “Shit, they’ve got a ZSU!” The pilot shouted, “There’s no way we can land here. We’re leaving.”

  “Forget that!” Redman bellowed, “Put us down as close to the village as you can.”

  “They’ll shoot the shit out of us,” he grunted.

  He had a point. One of the North Vietnamese had vaulted into the gunner’s seat and already the barrel of the gun was elevating to start sending the first heavy caliber 23mm bullets to smash them from the sky. The pilot dropped even lower, brushing the tops of the trees as he raced away to the east, and almost immediately found what he needed, an open field less than two hundred meters away.

  “This place is too hot for a landing. As soon as the skids are a couple of meters off the ground, get out.”

  “Copy that.”

  He put the nose down, but the Viets were too quick. Joe watched a stream of heavy caliber slugs reach out to the Huey like a swarm of huge, black, threatening killer insects.

  One of the men shouted, “We’re gonna die.”

  Chapter Three

  They didn’t die. The pilot, Warrant Officer II Jimmy Creswell, was a second tour veteran, a man who’d been everywhere, done everything, and got the T-shirt. Enemy anti-aircraft fire was no surprise, and nor was that ZSU 23mm. After so many missions he’d learned to expect the unexpected, and a heavy caliber anti-aircraft gun appearing out of nowhere was nothing new.

  He chopped the throttle and adjusted the collective. The Huey almos
t stopped dead in the sky, hovering over the grass, and the stream of lead roiled the air ten meters in front of them. Another adjustment on the collective and the aircraft dropped like an out-of-control elevator, until they were hovering over the grass.

  “Get out of here!” the co-pilot shouted, “Two seconds, and we’re out of here.”

  They jumped, the second Huey dropped low, and the other half of the platoon jumped. They landed sprawling in the grass and began running. Two hundred meters to the village of An Bao, and after the first one hundred they were out of the grass and into the jungle. Pushing through the thick tangle of foliage, smelling the rich, rank odor of rotting vegetation, and all that was missing was the animal, bird, and insect noises. They were long gone, probably no strangers to the noises and destruction of modern warfare. Fifty meters, and they’d taken the enemy by surprise.

  “We’re gonna make it!” a soldier shouted in excitement, “We’ll cut the bastards in half.”

  That was a split second before the long burst from ahead of them chewed into his body. They’d lowered the elevation of the ZSU to use it as a defensive weapon against a ground attack. The heavy bullets almost tore him in half, yet his momentum carried him for another two paces before the catastrophic damage to his body threw him to the ground. Nobody shouted for a medic, and the corpsman running with them didn’t even stop to check. There was no need.

  They veered away from the long, heavy burst, half the men going left and the other half right. Joe was in the front of eleven men, with Bo a pace behind him, and Sergeant Redman urging the rest of the men on. Pushing their way through the thick tangle of vines and branches, the gunner of the ZSU failed to understand his targets had shifted and kept sending his bullets to the same place. They broke out of the jungle and came face-to-face with a squad of Viets. In the shock of the sudden attack they failed to understand the proximity of the threat, and the Air Cav troopers cut down seven of their number before the rest turned and fled toward the huts.

  Redman bellowed an order, “Walker, Buck, take care of that gun. The rest of you men follow me and flush them out. Bennett, cover us with the M-60.”

  The men detached themselves to follow their orders, and Joe and Bo headed toward the huge anti-aircraft gun that could wipe them out if they didn’t take care of it. They were closing fast, but the enemy wasn’t about to let their precious asset fall to the helicopter soldiers, and a half-dozen men popped their heads up from spider holes where they’d been hiding and suddenly let loose.

  “Cover!” Joe shouted, unnecessarily. When six assault rifles fire at you on full auto, no order is required. They dived into a shallow ditch barely deep enough to give them cover, and the stench was appalling. They’d used it for everything from liquid kitchen waste to sewage, and there were several inches of rank water in the bottom.

  “We need to get closer,” Bo shouted over the racket of the battle.

  “That’d be a good idea, but this ditch leads away from that gun. We need something else.”

  “Like an airstrike?”

  He grimaced. “Our fast movers aren’t that accurate. We’d be trapped inside target zero.”

  The jet jockeys, fast movers, the pilots of the fighter-bombers who roamed the battlefields of South Vietnam were skilled flyers who did a superb job of supporting the men on the ground and taking the war to the infantry. Unfortunately, their boasting about being able to put a bomb in a barrel from five thousand meters was no more than that, a boast. In reality, that accuracy was often as much art as science.

  “We can’t stay here.” He popped his head up and ducked back down as a vicious burst whipped past them. One bullet even glanced of his helmet, “Shit, we can’t move, can’t do anything. Joe, how about a grenade?”

  “I was thinking the same thing, but it’s too far for accuracy. If we could get any closer, then maybe. Except you’re right, we put our heads up, and we’ll get them shot off.”

  “I gotta plan,” Bo murmured, “Most of the shots are coming from two places. Two guys who’re real determined. How about I put them down, and you get close enough for a grenade?”

  “Like you said, they’ll blow your head off if you stick it up, and there’s no other way to shoot that rifle.” He looked around, and the battle was hanging in the balance. The platoon was swapping bullets with the enemy, and he risked a quick glance to the side and saw North Vietnamese emerging from a hut carrying heavy wooden cases. Nearby, more men were attempting to reel in a cable, and he got it all them. The radio hut, the communication center was nearby. Now they knew they’d been discovered, they were attempting to move it out of danger.

  Like the Sarge said, once they re-established the radio and connect the antenna, they can call in reinforcements. Shit, they could call in the entire People’s Army of Vietnam.

  “Bo, they’re moving the radio equipment. If we don’t get this gun mighty soon, they’ll spirit it away and set up shop someplace else. Which means we’ll have this to do all over again. You sure about popping those two guys?”

  “I ain’t got nothing better to do.”

  Walker considered the distance to the anti-aircraft gun, and what he’d face on the way. Two grenades, and he unhooked them from his webbing. Removed the pin from the first and moved his head a fraction to look at Buck. “Me either. On a count of three. One, two, now!”

  Buck’s head came up, and using the finely honed instincts of a hunter, he was aiming and firing before the enemy had a chance to blink. Two bullets, and two heads flung back. Walker was on his feet, racing toward the lethal gun, and toward the four North Vietnamese who suddenly realized the danger and rose up out of their spider holes. They were close together; close enough to take them with a single grenade. He pitched it forward and flung himself to the ground. The missile exploded, and he kept his head down until the shower of hot metal fragments had passed.

  When he looked up, he saw three bodies, and there was no sign of the fourth. In front of him, the ZSU gunner had seen the danger and was busy cranking the barrel around to put him in the crosshairs of the huge machine gun. If he managed to draw a bead on him, those big shells would tear them into shreds, and he ran like he’d never run in his life before. Like he was running for a catch to clinch the World Series, and everything depended on it. His career, his wealth, the big house, the powerful sports cars, the beautiful girls hanging on the arm of this famous baseball player, and if he didn’t make it everything would come crashing down. As would his life torn apart by Commie machine gun shells.

  Screw you, pal, you’re going down!

  He’d reckoned without the fourth Viet defending the gun, and suddenly he was there, standing in front of him, AK-47 held at the shoulder. Joe desperately threw himself to the side, knowing when he hit the ground he’d avoid that long burst of assault rifle fire, but he’d be a sitting duck for the ZSU. The 7.62mm chewed up the ground close to where he’d fallen, and he could have taken the guy with a grenade, except Bo was covering him. He fired once, the noise of the bullet cracked across the open space, and the soldier went down. Walker didn’t wait. He was back on his feet, running toward the ZSU, intending to pitch the second grenade at the gun.

  He was flying, his legs pounding along like pistons, nearly there, and nothing could stop him. The corpse of a soldier lay in his way, blood pouring from a terrible wound in his belly. He vaulted the corpse, but the man wasn’t dead. Dying, sure, but he still had enough in him. Enough hatred, or maybe it was enough stubborn determination to kill the man who’d almost killed him. And as Joe leapt over the body, he brought up his rifle and fired a single shot as he went past. The bullet took him in his right shoulder, and the stunning blow caused him to drop the grenade, and it rolled into a patch of thick foliage. He hadn’t yet pulled the pin, for which he was thankful, but the Communist soldier had given the ZSU time to adjust their aim.

  A single shot fired from behind him, and a voice shouted, “I got him, Joe. It’s all yours.”

  He waved his left arm to th
ank Bo. His right was useless, hanging down limply at his side, with blood oozing from the shoulder wound. He couldn’t throw a grenade, couldn’t even fire his rifle, and he was running toward one of the most powerful heavy machine guns in the Vietnam conflict zone. Not knowing what to do, he kept running. With nothing to fight with, but maybe if he got close enough he could pitch a grenade with his left arm. As for the M-14, forget it. With his right arm and on a good day he was okay. This wasn’t a good day.

  Although he still had the M-14 under his left arm, and maybe he’d find a way to use it. He kept running, getting closer to the ZSU. Any second they’d open fire, and his only hope was maybe they’d miss. Maybe he’d get close enough to hit them with a grenade or rifle fire, and he saw the yawning muzzle of the gun staring at him. Instinctively, he threw himself down. Forgetting the shoulder wound, he struck the ground on his right shoulder and almost passed out with the agony. A stream of heavy shells hammered overhead, missing him by inches, and he was pinned down. Whichever way he went they’d see him move. A slight change of aim, and they’d chew him into mincemeat. Yet he had to do something. Even though he was too far for a left-handed throw, he’d have to try. He put his left hand up to his webbing to unsnap another grenade, and his hand touched the strap of a rifle.

  He was puzzled for a moment. He had the M-14 still tucked under his left arm, and then he remembered the Grease Gun. The M3 Lieutenant Early had carried like a talisman, in case anyone was in any doubt he was an authentic swashbuckling hero. Submachine gun carried at the hip, helmet strap hanging down, and eyes battle weary, to help with the image. He needed something he could shoot with, something to spit out bullets. He left the M-14 on the ground and wriggled around to get the gun. Tucked it under his left arm, made sure the safety was off, and selector pushed to full auto. The ZSU bellowed again, another burst, and then stopped.