by Eric Helm
An automatic weapon erupted. Le Tran heard the rounds snap by her. There was a wet slap of impact. The second MP collapsed. He groaned, rolled to his side and lay still.
Le Tran jumped forward and took the pistol from the dead American. She stripped the rifle from his shoulder and pulled the combat knife from the scabbard. She moved to the second man and realized that he wasn’t dead. There was a black puddle of blood near him. The breath rasped in his throat as he fought to breathe.
She stood over him. It was clear that he was unconscious, moaning in pain. She aimed the pistol, holding it in both hands. As she pulled the trigger, the muzzle-flash illuminated his features. A young man with light hair and a light mustache. He spasmed once as the bullet slammed into his head and punched out the back of his skull.
One of the men joined her. She whispered to him. “You grab his weapons. It was nice of the Americans to donate to our cause.”
“We have to get out of here,” warned the man.
“Why?” She gestured at the darkened sky. They could see lines of red tracers dancing upward in celebration. There were now bursts of firecrackers sounding like small-arms fire. The detonation of fireworks punctuated the sounds of the city. “No one will notice.”
As she spoke, the rest of the men approached, carrying the coffin they had dug up. They hurried to the gate and stopped.
“We’ll take the Americans’ machine gun and ammo, too,” she said. “One of you go get it.”
As the men scrambled to obey her orders, she looked at the bodies once more. Two Americans dead already and the enemy didn’t know what was happening. A good omen.
And then, at the corner, she noticed the flashing of a red light above the silhouette of a jeep. There were two small slits on the headlights providing very little illumination. Le Tran knew that someone was coming to check on the jeep and the firing. They’d have to leave the machine gun.
“Let’s go,” she whispered. They vanished into the shadows with the weapons from the grave and those taken from the bodies of the Americans as the second jeep skidded to a halt behind the first.
The first mortar round fell short, exploding in the wire outside the camp. Bromhead heard the crump in the distance and ran to the doorway. He stopped there, listening, waiting for the second one. It was closer than the first but still outside the camp, in the wire. Bromhead didn’t see the flash of the explosion.
He leaped to his feet and ran between two buildings. Leaving the redoubt, he scrambled up the ladder of the fire control tower. There was no one there. Snatching the handset of the field phone from the cradle, he spun the crank once and heard the communications sergeant answer immediately.
“Wait one,” ordered Bromhead. He set the phone down and crouched to open the case containing the binoculars. As he straightened up, the mortars began to fall again, this time on the compound. He saw the flashes as they detonated, looking like fountains of sparks. He began to scan the horizon around his camp, the thick jungle north and west and the hills to the east. He kept searching as more enemy shells landed. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the flickering of flames as some of the hootches started to burn. There was a rattling around him as the shrapnel from the mortars struck the tower.
In the north he caught a single flash when a mortar fired. He grabbed the field phone, his eyes locked on the target. “Pit One, Pit Two, I have a fire mission.”
When they answered, he gave them the range and direction of the enemy weapon. He told them what charge to use and waited until they fired in response to the enemy. The rounds dropped short of the enemy tube and Bromhead made corrections.
But as he did, more enemy rounds fell on the camp. Explosions began to blossom all over as the enemy gunners found the range. Bromhead didn’t pay attention to the damage being done to his camp. He kept watching for the enemy, and each time he spotted them he brought more of his weapons to bear.
Santini was in the NCO club at Nha Trang when the first of the mortar rounds fell. Because of the noise of the jukebox no one in the club heard the first explosions. The rounds dropped across the runway in the Air Force area.
Then came a searing note that cut through the pounding jukebox and the shouting of the men. The single loud note sounded like the horn of an angry driver in rush-hour traffic. Quiet fell like a curtain and someone pulled the plug on the jukebox.
“Everyone to the bunkers,” shouted one of the sergeants unnecessarily.
The men crowded forward toward the only door as the explosions started again. Men dived right and left under the tables and chairs. Two men rolled close to the bar, and the bartender disappeared behind it. It looked as if the club had been carpeted with men.
Santini listened from his position in a corner, his head stuck under a chair. The car horn faded, but the mortars kept failing. They were walking away from him, moving toward the center of the base.
But then came another sound — a loud, flat bang that hurt his ears and shook dirt from the parachute canopies hung in the rafters. The smell of cordite filled the air, and Santini knew that the enemy was using rockets, too.
Now he wished he could get out. Mortars didn’t scare him — they were small, ineffective weapons that could be neutralized easily — but rockets were different. Once launched they couldn’t be guided. They landed at random and had more punch than a mortar. They could blow up the entire club and kill everyone in it.
Santini crawled toward the door, climbing over a sergeant who had pressed his face to the floor and wrapped his arms around his head. Santini felt the sweat on his face and on his sides. He was breathing heavily as he worked his way forward.
As he neared the door, he felt a breeze. Outside, the mortars were still falling. He could hear them near the center of the base. A siren from a fire truck was wailing and men were shouting. From the perimeter came the hammering of the heavier weapons — the fifties were chugging.
There was a single, tremendous crash as the artillery on Nha Trang fired in response. As the shells roared outward, the lights in the club snapped off.
“What the hell?” shouted someone.
“Reducing the target,” rasped another.
Santini reached the door and peered out. Nha Trang was almost completely dark. None of the normal lights were on and only the flickering of fires lit the area. To the right, one building was burning out of control, the flames shooting into the night sky. And around them the mortars continued to fall.
Santini decided he had to get out. He had to make contact with the SF camps around Nha Trang to see if they were experiencing enemy action. He needed to coordinate the information so that Major Madden would know what to do if calls for help came.
He got to his knees, watching the ground in front of him. One man ran by bent over as if opposing a stiff wind, his hand pressing down his helmet.
As Santini started to make his move, several mortars fell. He dropped to his stomach as the shrapnel riddled the side of the club. There was a crash above and behind him and one man screamed in pain.
“I’m hit,” shouted another. “I’m hit.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
Suddenly everyone was on his feet, pushing, shoving, fighting to get out of the door. Santini was pushed from behind, and he stumbled forward, his feet missing the steps. He tried to leap but failed and fell to the ground. Around him the men stampeded, shouting and shoving, trying to get to the bunkers.
The mortars fell as if aimed. There were more screams and cries of anguish as men dropped and others dived.
“Medic! Medic!” shouted one man over and over, although there were no medics around.
Santini crawled toward another man who lay on his side, his hands on his knee. He was whimpering and mumbling, his eyes closed tightly.
The sergeant pushed the man’s hands out of the way and looked at the bloodstained pants. He held the knee steady and studied it. Shrapnel was stuck there. Santini could see it glinting in the flickering firelight. He reached down and touche
d the shrapnel. The man flinched and grabbed at Santini, who pushed his hands aside.
“Keep still,” he ordered. He then gripped the metal and added, “You’re going to be okay.”
Santini yanked the shrapnel free. The man shrieked in pain and surprise. The sergeant pressed his hand against the man’s knee as the blood began to flow freely. “You’ll be okay,” he said. “Just push here.” He took the man’s hands and put them against the wound.
Through clenched teeth, the man said, “Thanks.”
“Yeah.” Santini got up and started for the protection of the buildings. He slid to a halt, his back against the rough wood of a hootch. There were now flares overhead — bright points of light swinging under parachutes. These were tossed out of aircraft and stayed up longer than those fired from artillery. The ground around him was now wrapped in an eerie orange-yellow light.
Wounded littered the ground near the club. For a moment Santini thought he should stay, but there was plenty of help. Two men carrying medical bags had arrived and were treating the wounded.
There was nothing there for Santini to do. Instead, he ran between the buildings. One, on the left, was nothing more than a smoking ruin. He stopped long enough to make sure no one was in it who could be helped, then continued on, running to the side of a long one-story building that was a supply depot. He stopped there and listened. Artillery going out. First a crash that drowned out all other noise and then the sound of a freight train overhead. And, from the perimeter, small-arms fire. Santini wondered if there was anyone to shoot at, or if they were just firing at shadows.
He ran across Nha Trang until he reached the Fifth Special Forces Headquarters. Once, he stopped to listen and realized that the mortars had ceased for the moment. Then they started again, far across the base, apparently landing in the Navy area on the bay.
Santini ran into the building and found Madden. The front of his uniform was dirty as if he had spent some time on the ground. Santini grinned at him.
Madden ignored that. “Glad you could make it.”
“Me, too,” said Santini. “I wasn’t sure I would.”
“Grab your gear and we’ll decide what we’re going to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER 15
THE WIRE SERVICE BUREAU, DOWNTOWN SAIGON
Robin Morrow was sick of it all, sick of the men who thought they knew more about military operations than the military, or more about national policy than the Administration. She was sick of hearing about the end of the war and how with the Tet truce coming there wouldn’t be anything to do. And most of all she was sick of the poker game going on in the corner of the room.
She was still trying to concentrate on her notes and ignore the laughter being generated by the game when one of the newest staff members ran in. He waved the tear sheets from the teletype around his head like a banner as he announced, “All hell is breaking loose.”
The poker players didn’t stop, but Morrow got to her feet. She yelled at the man, “What are you talking about?”
He slid to a halt and looked at the senior men still engrossed in their poker. He turned to Morrow. “Reports of mortar attacks all over the place. Reports of large numbers of VC hitting targets everywhere. Large forces moving on Hue, Da Lat and Quang Tri. The base at Nha Trang is under attack and there are ground forces moving in on Song Be.”
Hodges dropped his cards and stood. “What are you saying?”
“The enemy is attacking all over the place, sir. Hundreds of them. Thousands.”
“Good Christ.” He shot a glance at Morrow. “You sure?”
“The reports are coming in from all over.”
Hodges ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. Okay,” he said, thinking fast. “We’ve got to get some people on this now. Got to get someone over to MACV.”
“That’s mine,” said Morrow. “I was there all day talking to people and it’s only fair.”
“I want someone with a better military background,” said Hodges.
“You mean one of the geniuses here who couldn’t see the truth. Someone who didn’t believe this was going to happen,” she snapped.
“I want to confirm this before we go off half-cocked.”
There was a sudden burst of machine gun fire from the street below. The men rushed to the window and looked down. A single ARVN soldier was weaving drunkenly. He carried an M-16, and as the reporters watched, he fired another burst.
“There!” yelled Hodges. “There’s your problem. It’s got to be like that all over South Vietnam tonight. Drunks celebrating Tet. A couple of wire service guys got nervous and put things on the machine.”
Morrow took the tear sheet from the hand of the young man. She read it quickly and shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Too much detail here. The attack has begun.”
Again Hodges ran a hand through his hair. He looked at the smear of grease on his palm and wiped it on his shirt. “Okay, Morrow, you think this is a big story, you hotfoot it over to MACV and see what they’re doing.”
She reached down and plucked her camera bag from under her desk. “I’ll be glad to.”
“Check in with me every thirty minutes, even if there’s nothing to report.” He stopped talking as another machine gun fired. This one was farther away and was quickly joined by others. It began to sound as if the war had broken out again.
“I remember Tet last year,” said Hodges. “Shooting all over the fucking place. MPs racing around the city with their sirens blaring trying to find out what was happening. It was just the Vietnamese celebrating their new year.”
“You get reports of mortar attacks on American bases? You get reports that the provincial capitals were being overrun? You get any of that?”
Hodges shook his head. “No. Just shooting all over the place.”
Morrow shouldered her camera bag and started toward the door. “Then this is something new. You’ll see.”
Hodges had lost his confident look. He turned toward the window and stared into the darkness of the Vietnamese night. Behind him someone turned out the overhead lights so that only the desk lamps remained on. Far in the distance they could see lines of ruby tracers leaping into the air. Hundreds of weapons were firing. Flares burst over the city, but that wasn’t anything uncommon.
Uncertainly he turned to stare at Morrow. “It’s just like last year.”
“Sure it is. Just like last year.” She spun and hit the door with the heel of her hand. She ran down the steps and stopped at the door that led outside. For an instant she wasn’t sure she wanted to venture out onto the streets but then decided that she was a reporter. She had to go out.
She opened the door and was struck by the heat and humidity. Even late at night it was muggy, the moisture in the air coating her before she could move to the curb.
Around her the city seemed to be a living entity. Thousands of people were in the streets, shouting and laughing, singing and drinking. The celebrations had spilled from the parties and the bars, filling the streets. With the curfew canceled, there was no reason to go inside.
She fought her way through the crowds. Over the merriment she could hear shooting. There were explosions that could have been enemy rockets doing damage, or friendly rockets fired in the celebration. Tracers, all of them ruby-colored, filled the night skies.
She hurried along one street, staying close to the walls of the buildings so that she could get through the crowds. People were dancing on the sidewalks. They were handing bottles of beer and fifths of wine to one another. They had abandoned all concerns of the war and most of the inhibitions of society for the night.
As she came to an alley, a machine gun opened fire near her. She felt her heart leap into her throat and her stomach flip over. When she danced back out of the way, she caught a glimpse of the muzzle-flashes and realized it was a string of firecrackers. Breathing easier, but with her hands still shaking, she hurried on.
There was a roar overhead and then a loud bang. Smoke filled the street, a
nd Morrow could smell cordite. The revelers around her stared upward, but they didn’t settle down. She wasn’t sure if it had been an enemy rocket directed into the city, or a fireworks display that had malfunctioned. She pushed her way through the crowd, crossed the street and turned. The upper floor of a building was now engulfed in flames, but no one on the street cared.
Now she hesitated. She didn’t want to walk in all the way to MACV and she didn’t want to return to the office. She knew Hodges would be sitting in his office looking smug if she returned. It would be an opportunity for him to tell her that he had told her so. That was the last thing she wanted.
Instead, she pressed into the crowd, looking at the faces. Most of them were happy, but a few were grim, determined. She studied those people and noticed that most of them wore a red armband. She didn’t know what that meant.
Fetterman stood outside Gerber’s door and pounded on it. When the captain finally opened it, Fetterman said, “We’ve got orders to head for MACV.”
“What’s the problem?”
Fetterman raised an eyebrow. “Can’t you hear?”
Gerber cocked his head to one side. “I hear M-60s and M-16s, but no enemy weapons. Those are the celebrants.”
“Yes, sir. Well, those attacks that we’ve been worried about have been launched all over South Vietnam and we’re wanted at MACV.”
“Okay.” Gerber spun, leaving his door open. He moved into his room and grabbed his fatigue jacket off the back of a chair. As he donned it, he continued to the wardrobe set against one wall. He finished buttoning his shirt and then took his weapon out. First he checked that there was no round chambered and that the safety was on.
“Anytime, Captain.”
Gerber smiled and picked up his steel pot. He looked at the pistol belt with its canteens, first-aid kit and pistol. At first he was going to leave it, but the increasing volume of firing on the streets worried him. He picked up the belt and then moved toward Fetterman.
