by Eric Helm
She shook herself and tried to figure it out. Lockridge had seemed such a child, a young man who had come to Vietnam with no concept of what war was. His main interest had been to see if he could get her out of her clothes, and she had made sure he would fail. The evening she had spent with him had suggested he would run when the first shots were fired.
And his friend had seemed to be no braver. From what she could learn, the whole of the embassy guard force was like them: young men who had never seen battle and who would run when the first shots were fired. Yet that wasn’t what had happened. The Marines had stayed at their posts, pouring rifle fire into the sappers as they tried to get close to the embassy building, dying bravely if necessary.
There was a burst from a machine gun, and she heard the bullets snap through the leaves above her head. She ducked quickly, her face in the dirt. She could smell the earth and was reminded of the odor earlier when they had opened the grave.
She pulled back, turned and began to crawl toward the side of the building where four men were supposed to be blowing open a door. As she neared them, she saw that one was dead, his head a mess of blood and brain. The other three were shooting at the windows on the ground floor. Occasionally someone shot back at them.
Yes, the whole plan was in ruins. There would be no great VC raid into the bowels of the American embassy. The best they could hope for now was to get inside the building and set pieces of it on fire. That would let the Americans know the enemy was tough and determined. She had hoped they would be able to capture and then execute some of the female employees. That would have made quite a splash on the evening news in the United States. But it was too late for that now. All they could do was damage the building and hope for the best.
Approximately the same time that the MPs began arriving at the embassy, Robin Morrow found Gerber crouched behind a jeep. She crawled forward on her stomach, using the technique Bromhead had taught her when they were all together at Camp A-555.
When she was close, she asked, “So what’s the story here?”
Gerber felt the blood drain from his face. “Jesus Christ, Robin, what in hell are you doing here?”
“Looking for a story.”
“You’ve found a hell of a good one,” said Fetterman. “Nice to see you, Miss Morrow.”
“Thank you, Master Sergeant. What’s going on here?”
Gerber wanted to pull her back out of the way, but to do that would expose her to sniper fire, if there were snipers. It seemed best to let her stay with them.
“Well,” he said, “we’ve got some VC inside the embassy walls, but we don’t have a feel for the situation yet.”
“Okay. So what are you going to do?”
“I’m hoping that someone with the MPs will be in contact with someone on the inside so that we can find out exactly what’s happening.”
She shook her head. “The boys over at the press bureau are going bug-fuck. They think it’s the end of the world. If they knew that the VC had penetrated the embassy wall—”
“That’s what I said,” interrupted Fetterman. “We’ve got to get the enemy out of there before the press arrives.” He glanced at Morrow. “Present company excepted.”
Gerber wanted to say something, but the MP commander crawled over and said, “Captain… ah…”
“Gerber.”
“Yes. Well, sir, do you have any observations about the present situation?”
“Nothing that would be of help. I was hoping you’d be in radio contact with someone on the inside.”
“I am, sir. We know the enemy’s scattered around the grounds and that he hasn’t penetrated any of the buildings.” The MP looked at his watch. “I think we’ll hit the wall in about fifteen minutes — at dawn. Shortly after that there should be an assault force landing on the roof.”
“We’d like to go with you,” said Gerber.
“Glad to have you, sir. I’m afraid the lady reporter will have to stay behind.”
Before Morrow could protest, Gerber said, “She’ll give us a chance to clear the enemy before she enters the compound.”
She glared at him and amended, “As long as you don’t take too long.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the MP. “If you all will come with me.” He led them to the rear where the two companies of MPs were staging. He showed them a map of the embassy grounds and detailed the plan for flushing the enemy from it. When he had given them a chance to ask questions, he said, “We’ll go in three minutes. Let’s get set.”
Using the last of the darkness for cover, the men spread out, surrounding the embassy. Gerber found himself on the street opposite the hole in the wall. Fetterman was with him, as were a dozen MPs. He watched the second hand of his watch sweep around, and as soon as it touched the twelve on the last pass, he leaped up to sprint across the street.
The men strung out behind him. They fanned out along the wall, Fetterman on the other side of the hole. Gerber looked at the master sergeant and nodded. Fetterman dived through, and an instant later Gerber followed.
He found himself behind bushes. There was no one around other than Fetterman. As he crawled forward, one of the MPs came through the hole. When Gerber reached the edge of the grass, he could see the body of one of the VC lying near the fountain.
The firing was sporadic — a burst from a machine gun, single shots from rifles or pistols. Outside the embassy grounds there were detonations from rockets and mortars as VC and NVA gunners fired indiscriminately into the city.
Gerber crawled to the right, just inside the cover of the bushes, searching for the enemy soldiers. He stopped again and eased his way forward, but the grounds seemed to be empty.
The Special Forces captain retreated until he reached the wall. He stood up and extended his left hand so that he touched the rough surface. Slowly he moved west along the wall, his eyes scanning the surroundings. Although there was nothing to see, he could hear the firing. It came and went as the two sides spotted, then lost sight of each other.
Gerber stopped when he reached a corner. He crouched and, through gaps in the foliage, saw three or four VC barricaded across the parking lot. They had turned over a car and dragged a fifty-five-gallon drum and a couple dozen sandbags to it. Hidden in their makeshift bunker, they were shooting at anything that moved. Marines on the roof fired down at them, but weren’t having any luck.
Gerber turned and waited for Fetterman. The master sergeant caught up, and Gerber pointed at the enemy. Fetterman nodded his understanding and slipped around Gerber, keeping low. The Special Forces captain checked his watch. The rising sun was lighting the scene for him now. Rather than a black shape spitting fire, there were individual gray shapes. A few more minutes and he would be able to see their faces.
While he waited for Fetterman, Gerber crawled forward slowly. His elbows and knees were wet now as he dragged them through the moist earth. He could smell the dirt and a sickeningly sweet odor from the flowers that were beginning to respond to the sun. Smoke drifted toward him, carrying the stench of burning flesh.
He shook himself and kept moving until he could see the enemy barricade. Then he stopped and pushed his rifle out so that he could aim. He waited as the VC shot at the Marines on the roof or poured fire into the windows of the embassy building.
One of the VC stepped back, and as he did, he exposed himself. Gerber didn’t hesitate. Training his M-16’s sights on the man’s head, he pulled the trigger. He felt the recoil of his weapon and saw the round strike the enemy. The pith helmet the VC wore flew off in a spray of crimson as the man’s head exploded.
As the VC tumbled to the ground, Fetterman dashed from hiding, dived for the rear of the car and lay still. The bullets fired by the Marines on the roof slammed into the barricade. The car rocked gently under the impact of the rounds, the large can vibrated and sandbags began to bleed sand.
Fetterman rolled onto his back, took out a grenade and pulled the pin. He hesitated, then let the spoon fly. After a pause, he tossed the grena
de over the rear of the car, then rolled onto his stomach and scrambled to the rear.
An instant later there was an explosion. As the grenade detonated, Fetterman spun and leaped to his feet. He jumped to the barricade, his weapon ready, but the enemy had been killed. Looking toward the vegetation where Gerber hid, he held up a thumb.
Gerber ran over to him and dropped to a knee next to the car. He glanced over at the bodies of the dead men. All three had been shredded by the explosion and shrapnel. Their blood stained the concrete and their white shirts. Gerber turned away, not wanting to see any more. He’d seen too many dead men, their bodies obscenely ripped apart by bullets and grenades. A quick look told him that all three were dead. They couldn’t be playing possum; the wounds were too severe.
One of the Marines stuck his head over the edge of the building. Fetterman held a thumb up, telling him that the site was secure now. There was still firing from other parts of the embassy grounds, but it had dropped off.
Then, overhead, came the pop of rotor blades as a single Huey dived for the rooftop helipad on the embassy building. It came almost straight down, first rolling over onto its right side and then twisting as it pulled out, the rotor blades popping heavily like a machine gun firing slowly. When it disappeared from sight, Gerber expected to hear an explosion, but that didn’t happen.
“We’re in good shape now,” said Fetterman. “Reinforcements.”
Gerber nodded as the MP captain ran up. “Guys from the 101st Airborne are landing on the roof.”
“Great,” said Gerber.
“Not much more to do here,” he said. “We’ve secured most of the grounds and killed all the VC.”
Lockridge set his full magazines on the edge of a desk and counted them again. He was running out of ammunition. He had burned through too much of it too fast. That was something that no one had bothered to tell him in training. He had thought it was great that everyone had an automatic weapon and hadn’t thought about the fact that holding the trigger down emptied the magazine in seconds. He could have fired all his ammo in a minute if he had worked at it.
Lockridge crossed the floor, staying low. His feet crunched the broken glass from the windows. Staying in the shadows, he looked out into the graying dawn. There was no one visible.
He moved around and looked out another window. The fountain was visible as was the body of a dead VC. There was rubble, broken bricks and pieces of stone scattered across the lawn.
Lockridge crouched and went to the last window. There was an expanse of concrete, lawn and then foliage that concealed the wall. Suddenly he saw a flicker of movement at the edge of the lawn behind the branches of a bush and the lacy leaves of a giant fern. He ducked under the window and popped up on the other side so that he could get a better look at it.
The firing from outside had tapered to almost nothing now. Farther away, from outside the embassy grounds, it sounded as if the world were ending, but inside it seemed safe. He made another quick circuit around his room, but there was nothing to see — only a couple of bodies, rubble and smoke.
Le Tran knew the assault had failed. She’d known it the moment they had failed to get into the embassy building. She had hoped they could salvage part of the mission and blow up the bottom floor, but now even that was impossible.
Staying where she was, Le Tran hid under a thornbush that ripped at her white shirt and snagged her black shorts. She moved as little as possible, watching the slow destruction of her sapper team as the American MPs methodically hunted them down and exterminated them. At least none of her men had tried to surrender. They all died fighting, and that was something.
In front of her, barricaded in the ground floor of the embassy, was a Marine. She had seen him in there as he had run from window to window. Once or twice she had tried to kill him, but he seemed to lead a charmed life.
Now there was nothing left to do. The great attack had failed and there was no way she was going to be able to get out of the embassy area alive. Too many Americans were swarming over the ground. All she could do was die in one great defiant act. She would take the Marine with her, the man who seemed to symbolize her defeat.
Before she attacked she checked her weapon one final time, making sure she had a full magazine. Carefully she slipped out of the equipment she wore, leaving the chest pouch, the pistol belt with the canteen and first-aid kit, and her knife behind her. She hid them the best she could to deny them to the Americans, not that the rich capitalists needed the equipment. They would turn it into souvenirs to be sold to the young and unsuspecting.
Now she waited, watching the window in front of her, waiting for the Marine to show himself. There was a flicker at the window, and she knew the man was there. Without a thought she was on her feet, running forward, screaming at the top of her voice and firing her weapon as she ran. She saw the bullets striking the wall by the window, saw the last of the glass disintegrate and then saw the man — saw his face in the half-light cast by the rising sun and recognized him.
Lockridge had finally convinced himself that he was going to live through the siege. He peered out of the window at a flicker of movement. A human shape burst from cover and ran toward him. He heard the scream, a cry of rage, and saw the weapon being fired. He heard the bullets striking the wall around him and snapping through the remains of the glass.
Instinctively he raised his weapon and aimed. As his finger tightened on the trigger, he got a good look at the face. Through the smoke and darkness, he saw that it was a woman. He knew her. He’d dated her.
He lowered his rifle and stared. He was rocked with confusion. Unsure of what to do, he stepped to the side. Staring at the dirty face, the soiled white shirt and the black shorts, he felt his stomach flip over and his head spin. The window frame beside him exploded as a round smashed into it.
Anger overwhelmed him then. She had never cared for him. Like so many others on both sides, she had been using him just as Jones had suggested. She had only wanted information.
He pressed his rifle against his shoulder, pulled the trigger and kept firing until he saw her stumble. She fell to one knee and lost her rifle. She stood up slowly, wobbling, and tried to walk. Blood spread rapidly on her white shirt and on the side of her head.
Lockridge stepped forward, his rifle pointed at her. She leaned to the side and tried to pick up her own weapon but fell to her hands and knees. She rolled onto her back, lifted one hand into the air as if to ward off a final blow, then died.
Within minutes more helicopters landed on the roof of the embassy. When the assault force was formed, they started down, checking each of the floors as they went. There was heavy damage caused by rockets, but no evidence that the VC had penetrated the building. By 8:30 the assault force had linked up with the MPs who had attacked on the ground. The bodies of the VC, including Le Tran Duc, had been dragged into the open.
Gerber and Fetterman stayed in the rear, watching the men do their jobs, impressed with their professionalism. They cleared the embassy grounds quickly, determining that there were no more enemy soldiers around.
The press, which had been kept out until the Army and the Marines were certain the enemy threat had been eliminated, walked around in a daze. They pointed to the bodies of the enemy dead, photographed the damage and demanded to know how such a thing could happen.
Fetterman leaned close to Gerber, watching the press swarm like vultures. “They’re not going to understand. They’re going to think of this as a terrible defeat, never realizing that the enemy achieved none of its goals.”
“You could tell them, Master Sergeant.”
“No, sir. Wouldn’t listen to me. It’ll all hinge on how General Westmoreland handles the press briefing.”
Both of them glanced up at the flagpole on the corner of the building and watched as the Marine guard raised the Stars and Stripes.
They were only five hours late.
***
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AFTERWORD
Contrary to the belief that has been reported repeatedly in the media, Tet wasn’t a defeat for the American forces in Vietnam. At least it wasn’t until the press turned it into one.
As the first reports came in, members of the press, as well as members of the Administration and Congress, were stunned by the initial gains of the enemy. Within a week, with a few notable exceptions, those gains had been reversed and wiped out. The loss to the enemy, particularly the Viet Cong, was enormous.
The media finally understood that Tet wasn’t a military loss for the Americans. But they had to say something. They began labeling it a military victory but a psychological defeat. It wasn’t a psychological defeat until they turned it into one. Even today many “history” books claim Tet as a partial victory for the enemy.
The purpose here was to explain how these views could be developed and to show the reader the danger of a press that isn’t held accountable for its mistakes.
ALSO BY ERIC HELM
THE SCORPION SQUAD SERIES:
Body Count
The Nhu Ky Sting
Chopper Command
River Raid
THE VIETNAM GROUND ZERO SERIES:
Vietnam: Ground Zero
P.O.W.
Unconfirmed Kill
Fall of Camp A555
Soldier’s Medal
The Kit Carson Scout
The Hobo Woods
Guidelines
The Ville
Incident at Plei Soi
The Iron Triangle
Red Dust
Hamlet
Moon Cusser
Dragon’s Jaw
Cambodian Sanctuary
Payback
MACV
Tan Son Nhut
Puppet Soldiers
Gunfighter
Warrior
