by Eric Helm
“Albright say he can find his way in the dark?”
“He seemed to think it would be no problem.”
“Then I can’t see any reason we should continue cross-country. We’ll stay in the shade.”
“Take us a little longer to get into position,” said Fetterman.
“But we’ll stay out of sight better.”
Gerber checked the time again, then signaled Albright. The Special Forces NCO got to his feet, checked his compass and began moving through the trees.
The tree line wasn’t like the triple-canopy jungle they sometimes had to walk through; it was more like a well-kept park, with only sparse vegetation that grabbed and clung. But the undergrowth could easily be avoided, since it was only short grass and prickly bush. With the shade provided by the overhanging branches, the sun was kept off them. The air was still hot and humid, but they didn’t have the sun frying them.
Albright picked up the pace, moving around the trees, trying to stay close to the center of the tree line. They found evidence of other American patrols — tin cans covered with fungus that grew on the scraps left in them; a couple of rounds of ammo, the brass tarnished jade green, suggesting they’d been there for a while; a bit of rotting cloth; and inexplicably, one boot, the leather beginning to disintegrate. They ignored it all, moving on.
Late in the afternoon they came to the end of the tree line. Albright halted them at the very edge of it, where they could look out at the swamp, beyond which was slightly higher ground, some of it divided into rice paddies. A few farmers still worked their fields. All were dressed in black shorts and coolie hats, and none of them looked up as aircraft passed overhead.
Gerber circulated, telling Fetterman and the two Vietnamese to relax for a few minutes. He instructed them to eat and drink something. After they had done that, the guard would be rotated so that Gerber and Albright could do the same.
With Tyme in the lead, they moved through the jungle slowly. The two in the middle carried a stretcher made from a poncho liner and a couple of saplings. They worked their way through the thick vegetation, being careful not to leave any signs. Tyme enforced noise discipline and walked the point, signaling the men to tell them of booby traps, pitfalls and the clinging vines that would tear at their clothes. He kept the pace steady, stopping every hour to rest for ten minutes.
Tyme was accustomed to the heat and humidity, but the flight crew wasn’t. In the first few moments they were soaked with sweat, breathing through their mouths and moving increasingly slower. They also took more frequent turns carrying the wounded man.
At a large clearing, Tyme held up a hand and waved the flight crew into hiding. He then crouched, leaned his left shoulder against a tree trunk and studied the clearing. It was forty or fifty yards long and the same in width. Scrub brush and short grass covered it, and there were a number of saplings scattered throughout.
Tyme shifted around. There was nothing on the ground near him. No sign of bunkers or enemy camps. In the jungle, where the LZs were rare, the enemy sometimes ringed them with bunkers. The bunkers weren’t always manned, but none were visible here.
Lifting a hand, Tyme wiped his face, rubbing the sweat onto his fatigue jacket as he listened to the birdcalls. Overhead a bright green bird wheeled in the air and then dived for the treetops opposite him. Then there was a rustling, and Tyme saw the thick body of a brightly colored snake as it disappeared into a bush ten feet away. Since the snake wasn’t coming toward him, Tyme ignored it. Instead, he peered through the drooping branches of a broad-leaved giant fern, waiting for someone to show himself.
After thirty minutes, Tyme was convinced there was no one around the clearing. He noticed that the flight crewmen had concealed themselves among the short grass and brightly flowered bushes near the bases of the tall jungle trees. They hadn’t done a good job of it, but at least they had tried, and he hadn’t heard their movement. He motioned for them to remain in place, then slipped out of hiding. Skirting the edge of the jungle, staying only in the shadows, he moved north. The ground was soft and the grass dusty. It was an even coat, suggesting that no one had been around recently. When he was satisfied there was no trap waiting to be sprung, he stopped again.
Using a poncho liner, Tyme folded it into an oblong panel and set it in the center of the clearing. He worked rapidly, the heat of the sun baking him. In seconds he was sweating heavily and breathing hard. The strain of walking through the jungle was almost nothing compared to working in the sun.
With the panel set, he retreated to the cover of the vegetation. He took out a red smoke grenade and placed it near his foot. Then, with one hand on the ground he crouched, waiting for an enemy patrol. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were in the jungle around him somewhere, even though he hadn’t seen any sign of them.
He listened for the welcome pop of rotor blades, signaling the presence of a helicopter. If one came close, he would throw the smoke. Seeing it, the pilot would veer toward the clearing and spot the panel. He probably wouldn’t land, but he would investigate, and that would lead to their rescue.
It was quiet for almost an hour, with no sound other than the animals, birds and the high-flying jets. Then, in the distance, he heard the approaching chopper. He reached down and picked up the grenade. As the sound came closer, he moved to the edge of the clearing. When it was obvious that the chopper was going to cross the clearing, he pulled the pin and tossed the grenade into the center of the LZ.
For a heart-stopping instant it seemed to Tyme that no one on the aircraft had seen anything. Then the chopper banked left and came around. Tyme stepped into the sunlight, moving toward the panel. He took off his beret and waved it, then saw the crew chief lean out and wave back.
The helicopter broke away, disappearing from sight, but Tyme could still hear it. When the sound started to get louder again, Tyme retreated into the jungle. He moved rapidly toward the downed flyers and rasped, “Let’s move it.”
He didn’t think the helicopter would land, but in case it did, he didn’t want it sitting on the ground for very long.
The others scrambled from cover, two of them lifting the makeshift stretcher. They hurried forward, and Tyme waved them back to cover at the very edge of the LZ.
The helicopter swooped down as Tyme crouched at the edge of the clearing. The skids almost brushed the leaves off the tallest trees. It flared suddenly, and the noise from the engine increased as the blades popped. The grass was flattened as if a hurricane had suddenly hit. Loose grass, leaves, twigs and the smoke from the still-billowing grenade swirled around as they were sucked up by the chopper.
Tyme rushed out, his hands held high, his weapon over his head. The door gunner, sitting behind his M-60, tracked Tyme until he was sure that he was an American. As the others emerged from the darkness of the jungle, the door gunner followed them the same way. Then all of them were climbing into the chopper or helping to lift the stretcher in. When the last man stepped up onto the skids, Tyme held a thumb up and nodded. The AC didn’t need any encouragement. He pulled in the pitch, and the chopper leaped into the air.
When they crossed the tree line, and the clearing was no longer visible, Tyme breathed a sigh of relief. They were safe for the moment.
The crew chief worked his way out of his well, touched Tyme on the shoulder and shouted, “Who are you guys?”
As soon as Tyme explained it, the crew chief let out a rebel yell and said, “Welcome back to the world of the living.”
They passed an hour resting. The sun changed from a glowing yellow ball to an orange blob as it dropped toward the ground. Soon the rice paddies and the farmers’ hootches were wrapped in purple shadows. The sound of Vietnamese music drifted on a light breeze, not AFVN but a Saigon station. Lights suddenly appeared and flickered as lanterns and fires were lit.
Gerber ate his cold meal, drank his warm water and then leaned against the trunk of a tall tree. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to isolate the sounds
around him. Insects buzzed, a water buffalo bellowed and several unidentifiable animals screeched. Then there was a sharp burst of Vietnamese as a wife yelled at her husband.
Soon the ground around him began to darken and disappear. The definition of the bushes and trees faded and blended until it was a single black mass full of scrambling tiny claws and the calls of frightened animals. When it was completely dark, with only the sounds of the breeze through the trees and a distant radio, Gerber got to his feet and moved forward. He touched Fetterman on the shoulder and leaned close to the master sergeant’s ear.
“Think it’s time?”
Fetterman nodded, then realized Gerber wouldn’t be able to see the gesture in the dark. “Yes, sir,” he whispered. He slid to the rear and stood slowly, the bones of his knees popping like corks from wine bottles.
Without another word, the small patrol formed, with Albright in the lead and one of the Vietnamese strikers beside him. The sergeant stepped off to avoid the razorlike leaves of a bush, staying just inside the tree line. His gaze remained on the gray expanse of rice paddies and open fields just beyond the trees. Then he turned north and crouched for a moment before slipping out of cover. He stepped on a rice paddy dike, then eased his way down its steep slope so that he was standing ankle-deep in the foul-smelling water. Moving along there, he rolled his foot from heel to toe to keep the mud from making a sucking sound.
The men of the patrol strung out behind him, dropping farther apart as they left the protection of the tree line. They moved across the rice fields in a low crouch until they came to a clump of trees with a half-dozen hootches hidden among the tall palms. A single light burned with the whiteness of a lantern, and there was quiet music from a Vietnamese station.
The patrol kept moving across more rice paddies that finally gave way to more swamp. Gerber didn’t like moving through the swamp at night, but that couldn’t be helped. At first it was only knee-deep, but they were soon up to their chests. The tall grasses and reeds covered their movements, and the wind from the west covered their sound.
As they worked their way deeper toward their target, Gerber kept his eyes on the stars blazing overhead. Somehow they seemed brighter than those above the cold November swamps of North Carolina only a few weeks before.
The air was also filled with the sound of jet aircraft and propeller-driven fighter planes. When those came close, the patrol halted and crouched, the water up to their necks, and when the planes passed, they began moving again.
After nearly an hour in the swamp, they came to a short rise topped by a road. They fanned out along it, but there was no traffic. Albright took a compass reading and then climbed from the swamp and slipped across the road on his belly. When he was in the water on the other side, the rest of the patrol followed him one at a time.
They made their way through the tepid water for another half hour, then Albright stopped. He held a hand up briefly, then moved toward a small island in the middle of the swamp. The land was dry and covered with thick grass and short bushes. He crawled up on it and then returned to Gerber.
“We’ve arrived. Good cover here.”
Gerber followed him back to the island. In the distance he could see a two-story building, yellow light burning in two of the windows.
“That it?”
“Yeah.”
Gerber took out his binoculars and studied it closely. In the dark it was hard to see anything except the rusting tin of the roof and the pale color of the walls. There were dark words painted on one side in Vietnamese. Music drifted on the breeze.
Gerber leaned close to Albright. “That what I think it is?”
“If you think it’s a bordello, then it’s what you think it is.”
“Shit!” said Gerber. He tucked his binoculars into his pack.
“That explains why they can get away with showing light like that.”
Fetterman slipped up on them and whispered, “There’s a clump of trees on dry ground about a hundred yards to the west. It’ll put us about fifty yards from the rear of the house.”
Gerber turned and peered into the darkness until he discerned the darker shapes of the trees. “You take one of the strikers and a radio and cover it.”
“Just one thing. How are we going to know if our boy is in there?” asked Fetterman.
“Albright?”
“Let Nguyen walk in and take a look around,” said Albright.
“Or we could just stake out the place and watch for our guy,” Fetterman suggested. “If he arrives later, we’re in good shape. If he’s there already, it means we’ll have to spend another day out here.”
Gerber shook his head, thinking rapidly. It was the one problem with the plan. They had to either stake out the house and wait patiently or send in someone to look. The safest bet was to hang back and scrutinize everyone as he entered.
“Won’t Nguyen be recognized?”
“No. He should be okay,” said Albright.
Gerber was about to give permission and then realized that patience was its own virtue. “No,” he said. “We keep our eyes open, and if we see him go in, then we move. If we don’t, we’ll lie low during the day.”
“Sir—”
“That’s it, Sergeant,” said Gerber.
“Yes, sir.”
“If our man doesn’t show up by an hour before dawn, I want everyone to go to ground. We cover ourselves and play possum until tomorrow night. Questions?”
“Sir, if he sneaks in the back, you might not see him, though I would,” said Fetterman.
“Then you get a message to us. Radio checks on five after the hour. If he shows, we’ll make the strike about three in the morning. That’s when everyone should be at the lowest ebb.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s get at it.”
Fetterman touched the shoulder of one of the strikers and slipped into the swamp. There was quiet splashing and then silence.
Gerber crawled forward until he was at the lip of the island, the water inches from his face. Again he dug out his binoculars and studied the front of the building. There was a covered porch with flickering candlelight and shapes were moving. More light filtered from a window, illuminating a Vietnamese woman in a skirt but no blouse.
Albright whispered, “If he comes, it’ll be in a car. He’s an important man and has a car. That’s how we’ll know for sure. And I don’t see a car out there now.”
“Good,” said Gerber. “There’s a chance we’ll get him tonight.”
“Could we get that lucky?”
“Sure,” said Gerber, not believing it.
CHAPTER 11
SONG BE SPECIAL FORCES CAMP
It was midmorning before Tyme was able to get back to Song Be. He had been forced to spend the night at Tay Ninh after the rescue. By the time all the debriefings had been attended and all the intelligence obtained, Tyme couldn’t get a flight back to Song Be. He had wanted to share his observations with Captain Bromhead, to tell the captain that he thought the enemy was beginning to swarm into their AO.
On the flight back to Song Be, Tyme had thought about the word. Swarm was the right one. Just as bees when the hive became too crowded and they swarmed to find a new place of residence, it seemed that the enemy was out searching. He hadn’t seen that many of them, it was true, but coupled with everything else, including the fact the VC felt confident enough to fire on the chopper in daylight, something seemed to be in the air.
They landed on the red dirt runway, and Tyme was surprised that no one was out there to meet him. The helicopter took off as soon as Tyme had climbed out. He stood there for a moment, looking to the east where the Montagnards had their village. Then he turned and looked at the star-shaped camp. Beyond it, far to the west, he could see black clouds boiling, but the rain was falling into the jungle.
He waited for a jeep from the compound, but nothing came for him. Finally he shouldered his weapon and began the short walk into the camp. He was a little upset that they weren’t out
there to welcome him home, especially after all he had been through, but then it was another workday and he hadn’t told them what time he would return, only that it would be sometime in the morning.
Using the wide road, he walked between the wires and entered through the camp’s wooden gate. It was strangely quiet in the compound. There had been a flicker of movement behind the firing ports of some of the bunkers, but that would be the men on guard. The compound itself was deserted.
Tyme was going to head to his hootch and drop off his gear, but then decided he should tell Bromhead that he was back. He detoured toward the team house, wondering if he was walking into a trap. The thought came to him that the camp might have been overrun in the night and the enemy was now letting him walk in. The thought wasn’t as crazy as it sounded because the old Triple Nickel had been taken by the enemy. Of course there had been evidence then — burned buildings and wrecked helicopters.
Before he reached the team house, the door burst open. Grenades flew out and hit the ground near his feet. Tyme stood still as each of the grenades popped, then began to billow Technicolor clouds of smoke. He was wrapped in it, losing sight of the team house, the compound and the sky. He smelled the burnt gunpowder, which reminded him of Fourth of July displays when he was a kid.
Then there was a shout — a single voice that was quickly joined by others who penetrated the cloud. Tyme was surrounded by his friends, who shouted, laughed and slapped him on the back.
“Welcome home!” yelled Bromhead.
“Good to see you,” said Bocker, taking the weapon from Tyme. He was going to tell Tyme that he had been out searching for him, and that he had been recalled when the chopper had picked Tyme out of the jungle, but the moment passed.
The others crowded around him, shaking his hand and asking questions so fast that he couldn’t answer them. As the cloud of colored smoke began to dissipate and the sun was visible again, Bromhead eased Tyme toward the team house. “Come and tell us about your adventures.”
