Major Grenault, the operations chief for 3rd REI shook his head.
“No, sir,” he said. “2nd Battalion was mauled by those jets. We’re moving 3rd Battalion forward, but it will take time to complete the forward passage of lines since we’re still taking artillery and mortars.”
At that moment an American jet dove on the treeline, fire spewing from six fifty-caliber machine guns in its nose. The pilot had to be firing blind through the thick green jungle canopy, but it still sent men running for cover.
“And strafing runs,” the intelligence lieutenant added lamely.
Vanderburgh studied the map for a moment, then exchanged a look with Foom, who nodded agreement.
“Sir,” Vanderburgh said. “We can make it to their LZ in time. Captain Foom’s men travel light and we know the terrain.”
Faucher considered that for a moment.
“You’ll be on your own, too far for us to reinforce or even to support with mortars if something goes wrong,” he said.
“With all respect, mon Colonel,” Vanderburgh said. “What else is new?”
A harried-looking captain pushed a tent flap aside, jogged up to Colonel Faucher, and handed him a piece of paper.
“Sir, from General Cogny regarding the air situation,” the captain said, then he saluted and left the tent as rapidly as he’d come.
Faucher’s eyes scanned the paper for several seconds, then he grinned.
“Our friends in the Air Force have a surprise for the American mercenary pilots,” he said. He scratched his chin for a moment, then nodded. “Alright, Vanderburgh. You’re clear. Get moving.”
* * *
The late afternoon sun cast the nameless fishing village in dappled gold as the last lift of 2nd Company boarded their helicopters. Several dozen stone-faced civilians stood, watching them embark. Jack felt a twinge of conscience, but quickly dismissed it.
The French probably won’t fuck with them. Besides, the enemy had pretty accurate targeting data on the command post and ops center. Likely a lot of these fuckers are working for them.
The thwapthwapthwapthwapthwap of the Hiller H-23’s rotor blades drowned out Jack’s thoughts and hot rotor wash threatened to blow away anything not tied down. Jack looked dubiously at the insectile metal airframe of the unnatural aircraft as it settled on its skids. He leaned over, putting his lips practically to the captain’s ear and screamed to be heard.
“Sir, are you sure about this?” he shouted.
Rapicault shouted his answer in Jack’s ear.
“You may swim if you’d rather, Sergeant!”
Jack shot the Marine a baleful look, but Rapicault only grinned at him. Without another word, he slung his Thompson, and ran forward at a crouch under the rotors. Rapicault grabbed a hold of the skids and the side of the cockpit. McClung joined him on the other side. Growling under his breath, Jack followed suit, running at a crouch to the next helicopter, a Vietnamese squad leader, the highest ranking NCO left in 2nd Company, took the opposite skid.
I’d rather fucking swim.
A set of dazzling white teeth and full lips smiled up at him from under a flight helmet when Jack looked in the cockpit. Despite his terror, Jack tightened his grip on the helicopters and smiled back, giving the famous flying lady-doctor a thumbs up.
Jack’s stomach lurched as the bird gained a few feet of altitude and started to fly slowly southward over the green water of the lake. They were so close to the water, closer than the high dive board of the pool back at the YMCA. The urge to jump off and swim the rest of the trip was strong, but he resisted. Duty aside, there wasn’t a body of water in Vietnam that didn’t have leeches and other parasites floating about in it.
Without warning, the leftmost helicopter disintegrated, its skeletal metallic frame crumpling like a crushed beer can. The helicopter burst into flame as its fuel stores ignited, and then the ruined bird crashed into the muddy water with a SPLOOSH. Jack’s heart hammered as a stream of tracers passed in front of his face, missing him and tearing into the mud and vegetation of their intended landing zone.
Jack’s eyes snapped left, to the helicopter’s six o’clock. He saw a swept wing jet closing on them fast. Instead of speeding up, the helicopter slowed. Jack looked incredulously at the pilot only to see her jerk her head to the side; motioning for him to jump.
Don’t have to tell me twice!
Jack took a deep breath, let go of the helicopter and fell into the water with splash. He fought instinctive panic and let himself sink to the bottom, knowing they’d been near the shore when he’d bailed. Sure enough, his feet hit the muck long before he ran out of breath. Squatting down, Jack dumped his ruck, knowing his radio wouldn’t have survived the submersion anyway, then kicked back up to the surface, and took another deep breath before re-immersing himself in the lake, not wanting to stay a target for longer than necessary.
The murky seconds it took to reach shore seemed like an eternity, and his muscles and lungs burned as he kicked his way through the lake. Finally his boots hit mud and Jack dragged himself onto shore, rifle at the ready. Looking up he saw the swept wing jets and the American P-80s turning and diving on one another.
Godspeed, Tigers.
Jack had no idea where the rest of 2nd Company was other than that they were somewhere on this side of the lake. A few meters to his right he spotted the FVA NCO wading out of the lake as well. He realized it was the scar-faced sergeant he’d yelled at over the M2 magazines six days and a lifetime ago. Looking back south he saw, to his surprise and relief, that their helicopter had managed to land more or less intact among sharp blades of the elephant grass.
Jack turned back to scar-face, pointed a thumb into his own chest then pointed to the helicopter. Then he pointed at Scar-face and scanned the horizon with his rifle to indicate the FVA sergeant should cover him. Scar-face nodded, running out of the water to a bamboo copse and where he kneeled and scanned the area with his rifle shouldered.
Cover set, Jack sprinted forward to the H-23’s cockpit.
He was greeted with the muzzle of a Colt 1911 pistol in his face.
“Whoa, doc!” Jack shouted. “Friendly!”
The lady doctor looked at him for a second, nodded, and put down her weapon.
“Sorry, can’t be too careful,” she said. “Help me out of here, would you? My buckles are bent.”
“Are you hurt?” Jack asked as he took out his bayonet and began sawing on her restraints.
“Bumps and bruises,” she said, and Jack noted her French accent. Another expat like Rapicault. “My name is Durand.”
“Jack Beasley, ma’am,” Jack said.
Just as he severed the last restraint, Jack heard voices in French followed by two gunshots.
“Into the grass,” Jack hissed as he pulled Durand out of the cockpit. Smart woman, Durand did not question or complain, but followed him down into the dagger sharp elephant grass. As he dove, a bright green grass blade ripped a gash across Jack’s left forearm, leaving a bright trail of blood on his fatigues.
As he lay in the grass, barely daring to breath, the French voices became more distinct. Jack could make out one in particular:
“Abandonnez-vous, Lieutenant Rapicault! Ne me force pas à te tuer, Pierre.”
* * *
Vanderburgh saw the man stumbling away from the burning wreckage of a helicopter and he knew, he knew. The man started to reach for an American Thompson sub-machine gun lying on the ground. Vanderburgh fired two shots into a bamboo tree a few feet away from the man.
“Surrender, Lieutenant Rapicault!” Vanderburgh shouted. When the man paused, he continued. “Don’t make me kill you, Pierre.”
Rapicault straightened, spared a glance for the three other men with Vanderburgh, then looked Vanderburgh in the eye.
“It’s actually Captain, now, Jean-Baptiste,” Rapicault said. “And congratulations on your promotion as well, Adjutant.”
“Forgive me, sir,” Vanderburgh said, suddenly furious with his old
friend, a lieutenant he’d mentored from a teenager into an outstanding young officer. A friend who’d betrayed his country. “I had difficulty discerning your rank since you seem to be in the wrong uniform.”
Rapicault snorted.
“Indeed,” Rapicault said, glancing meaningfully at Vanderburgh’s camouflage fatigues. “It was very reasonable of the Nazis to allow you to keep French rank insignia when they put you in their uniform. Then again, the Americans don’t make me hand over children for them to gas or vivisect.”
“Is that how you justify betraying your country to the Viet Minh?” Vanderburgh said, stepping closer to Rapicault, STG-46 trained on his chest. “American propaganda about the Jews?”
“It’s not propaganda, Jean-Baptiste, and you know it. I would’ve happily died for France,” Rapicault said, uncowed despite the automatic rifle leveled at him. “But I will kill every last one of you before I let the Reich have the world.”
Vanderburgh’s jaws clamped shut on his next words.
There is no point to this. He is a prisoner of war, and we have fucked around long enough.
“You won’t be killing anyone, Captain,” Vanderburgh said. “The war is over for you, Pierre. For what it’s worth, I hope they treat you like an American POW and don’t hang you.”
* * *
Jack risked whispering his plan in Durand’s ear.
“I’m going to throw this grenade, pin still in it, and shout, ‘grenade,’” he said, voice barely a breath. “When they scatter, I will shoot any of them I see, you grab the captain and start heading that way. Once you’re back in the grass, low crawl. I’ll cover you. Move out quick, because after the bluff, I’ll be throwing the real thing.”
She rolled slightly away from him, met his eyes, and nodded. Her expression was stern, her gaze steady. He didn’t know what had happened to make this woman born again hard, but he had no doubt he was dealing with someone just as accustomed to killing as himself.
He didn’t have time to communicate with Scar-face, but he hoped the FVA sergeant would have the initiative to provide covering fire from the bamboo copse once the ruckus started and the marksmanship not to kill any friendlies while he was at it.
Jack risked another peek at the spot where Captain Rapicault stood, hands in the air, surrounded by a Frenchman and three native troops with weapons trained on him. From the prone, Jack tossed the grenade into their midst.
“GRENADE!” He screamed.
As he’d predicted, all five men scattered, diving for cover in different directions. He cranked off a shot at the Frenchman and missed as the big man circled behind a cypress tree trunk with surprising agility. He shifted fire and put a round through one of the native troop’s neck, sending a spray of bright arterial blood into the air.
Durand closed the distance in two seconds. One commando was getting back to his feet, his STG-46 coming up to his shoulder. Durand, one hand on Rapicault’s arm, leveled her .45 in her other hand and put a round right through that man’s eye socket with a loud CRACK, emptying his cranial cavity onto the elephant grass behind him.
Rapicault quickly snatched the dead enemy’s weapon and fired a few quick bursts, splintering bark off cypress trunks and kicking up great clods of dirt before turning and running alongside Durand south toward Jack’s position.
Jack cranked off a few more shots to keep the enemy’s heads down. From across the clearing Scar-face’s M2 joined the hail of gunfire, allowing Jack the chance to move south himself.
Regrouping in the grass, they systemized their retreat. Durand and one man at a time peeled back, with the other two men firing north to keep their pursuers honest. Durand argued that she should provide covering fire too, but Rapicault quickly tore that argument apart.
“Doctor Durand, your courage is already beyond doubt,” he said. “But given that you have only a pistol, and that a helicopter-flying surgeon is unquestionably more valuable to the war than three mere grunts, kindly do as I order you.”
They ran and traded fire with their pursuers for agonizing minutes as elephant grass cut them, vines pulled at their feet, and the persistent heat pulled life sustaining water from their bodies at a frightening rate. Finally, as they cleared a rise, several blasts of machine gun fire flew over their heads toward their pursuers.
Jack and his companions hit the ground.
“Kết bạn sắp ra! Kết bạn sắp ra!” Scar-face and Rapicault both shouted at the top of their lungs. The fire slackened long enough for the four of them to sprint into the midst of 2nd Company’s defensive lines, then the jungle erupted with carbine, rifle, and machine gun fire.
Despite its ordeal, 2nd Company still stood at more than three quarters its original strength combat effective. Faced with such a force in good order on terrain of its choosing, the pursuing GCMA commandos chose the better part of valor and retired from the field. The sound of gunfire faded as the setting sun bathed the jungle in pink and orange light.
Rapicault’s radio crackled to life. Jack was surprised to hear the same modulated southern voice that had coordinated the bombing runs with them. But he sounded worried, almost frightened rather than the calm, collected fighter ace.
“Angel Three-Five, Angel Three-Five, do you read? Margot? Do you read?”
Durand stood from where she’d been resting, stumbling over in her haste to reach the radio. Rapicault handed her the mic without comment.
“Benny, I’m alright,” Margot said. “I’m walking out with the boys. I’ll see you back home.”
“Roger,” Tiger Four, Benny, croaked. “Be safe.”
“Whoever this Benny is,” Rapicault said, grinning as he accepted the hand mic back. “He is a most fortunate man. I have never met anyone quite like you.”
“Second that, Doc,” Jack added.
“You are both too kind,” she said, favoring them with a dazzling smile. “It has been quite the experience, but if you would be kind enough to escort me to the nearest airfield, I believe I have had enough of this infantry bullshit for one war.”
Jack and Rapicault both laughed.
“Of course, mademoiselle,” Rapicault said. “If you’ll follow me, your airliner is just a few kilometers down this mountain.”
* * *
The FVA base at Plei Mrong fell a week behind schedule, and only after the Americans airlifted most of the materiel out and the 112th Regiment escaped into the hinterlands with approximately seventy-five percent of its personnel strength. Already the armored force under de Castries was being slowed by anti-armor ambushes along Colonial Routes 14 and 19.
Thus, Adjutant Vanderburgh stepped into the Central Command headquarters with trepidation. As a warrant officer, he was normally far too junior to be the whipping boy for such a military setback. Protocol demanded a general, or at least a senior colonel take the fall for such a catastrophe. Given the importance of the GCMA’s part in this operation, though, perhaps he was the sacrificial lamb this time.
The main operations center was a bustle of activity. Vanderburgh saw not just French and colonial officers and NCOs, but two Wehrmacht and one Luftwaffe officer meandering through the operations center, offering comment on occasion, but mostly radiating smug superiority to their French, “allies.”
Asking one of the French staff NCOs for directions, Vanderburgh was gestured to a quiet corner of the operations center. Vanderburgh was surprised to see General Trinquier, the commander of all GCMA forces in Indochina, waiting for him there. Trinquier was a tall man with close cropped gray hair, overly prominent and pointed ears, and a hard-edged face.
Young for his rank at forty-two, Trinquier’s theories on how to deal with guerilla and terrorist forces were in vogue, not just in the French Army but in the upper echelons of the Greater Reich itself. Additionally, unlike many of France’s effective combat commanders, Roger Trinquier was unsullied by any association with de Gaulle whatsoever. Vanderburgh had served under Trinquier in some capacity for a large chunk of his career, first in Algeria, then in I
ndochina both before and after World War II.
“Sir,” Vanderburgh saluted crisply. “Adjutant Vanderburgh, reporting as ordered.”
Trinquier returned the salute casually.
“Hello, Jean-Baptiste,” Trinquier said. “I’ve heard from the regular Army, now I want your thoughts on the operation.”
Vanderburgh spent the next hour recounting his part in the mission. Trinquier interrupted rarely, only asking a few questions for the sake of clarity. When Vanderburgh finished, Trinquier stood quiet and still for a full minute.
“I am convinced you did as well as anyone in your position could have done, Adjutant,” Trinquier said. “You will retain command of your GCMA battalion.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Trinquier nodded. Another silence ensued for several seconds, then Trinquier shook his head sadly.
“He really was such a promising young officer,” Trinquier said. “If it were not you reporting it, I could not bring myself to believe he had turned coat.”
There was no need to clarify who, “he,” was. Vanderburgh’s glance flicked to the three Germans taking up space in a French Army operations center. Days of prolonged battle and exhaustion loosened his tongue.
“Who hasn’t these days?”
Trinquier’s eyes snapped over to Vanderburgh, then to the Germans, then back to Vanderburgh.
“Ours isn’t to set policy, Adjutant,” Trinquier said, his voice low and furious. “We are sworn to obedience. Dislike of our allies is no excuse for treason.”
Vanderburgh stiffened to attention.
“Of course not, sir,” Vanderburgh said.
Trinquier glared at him for another long moment, then turned and walked away.
“Return to your command, Vanderburgh,” Trinquier said without looking back.
Vanderburgh exhaled and made his retreat from the operations center with all possible haste, his mind churning.
No excuse at all, sir. Then again, if there’s an excuse for any of us, it’s lost on me.
Trouble in the Wind Page 39
