The sun was just rising, so the temperature was only about 110F as I slogged along the PSP taxiway bordering the North Swamp. I passed a Scout pilot single-mindedly preflighting a Loach in the Cav revetments and loosened the underarm fasteners of my chicken plate to let some of the heat out. I wanted a drink of anything cold and wet, and I wanted a shave and a shower to get rid of the night’s accumulation of sweat, dust, blood, jet fuel, gunpowder residue, grease and hydraulic fluid -- aka, Vietnam Helicopter Pilot Flight Funk. I crossed the packed dust of the airfield boundary road and ambled toward my tent, mentally shedding flight gear and praying that the local VC wouldn’t mortar the shower shed while I was in it.
I had just divested myself of armor and armament when the company clerk trotted up and said, “Hey, Dai-Uy, Six wants to see you as soon as you get presentable -- he said take your time, but hurry up.”
*?*
I did a quick-strip, grabbed my soap and towel and dashed to the shower. I wasn’t in trouble, or the invitation to the CO’s office wouldn’t have been delivered so casually. It sure wouldn’t hurt to be prompt, though. Ten minutes later, I was freshly-shaved, de-funked (but still slightly damp) and suitably attired in clean jungle fatigues as I rounded the corner of the admin hut and almost collided with the Boss.
“Well, that was quick -- is the cobra back inside the showers again?”
“No, Sir, but the immersion heater’s out of gas. Not that I don’t enjoy a cold shower as much as anybody else, you understand…”
“Hah. Well, at least you’re fit for polite society, for a change.” He gave me an odd look, then said, “Take my jeep and get on over to 164th Group -- the S2 wants to see you. You’ve got trouble, but not with us.”
*?!?*
I parked the jeep in an empty slot in front of Group HQ, looped the you-can’t-steal-me chain around the six o’clock spoke of the steering wheel and secured the loop with the padlock. I still hadn’t the vaguest idea why the intel staff would want to see me, and my CO’s warning had me just a wee bit apprehensive (Did I dust off an ARVN GO? Did those SEALs go bragging in the wrong bar? Did that TV crew figure out where the CS cloud came from?)...
I stopped before the closed door with the “S2 -- Knock, Then Enter” sign. I knocked, then entered. A captain looked up from the tattered piece of paper he was perusing, rose from desk defilade and peered at me. He turned to the staff sergeant at the desk behind his and said, “Yeah, it’s him, all right.”
*!!?!!*
The captain picked up paper by one corner and held it in front of me. I looked at it and saw --
Me. Walking along the flight line, looking slightly to my left. With a couple of paragraphs of Vietnamese below.
“Do you remember anybody taking your picture recently? Do you know where it was taken? When?”
“Well, judging by the flight gear I’m wearing and the helicopters in the revetments, I’d say the picture was taken on the flight line. And I don’t remember anybody pointing a camera at me, but it had to have been within the past month, ‘cuz you can see the railroad tracks on my collar and I just got promoted on 2 June.”
“Who do you usually see on the flight line?”
*shrug* “Other pilots. Crew chiefs, gunners. Locals with PA&E (Pacific Architects and Engineers, aka Promises, Alibis and Excuses). Why? What’s this (pointing at the paper) thing, anyway?”
“VC ‘Wanted’ poster. We found another one with two other pilots’ names on it, but this one is the only one with a picture. And it’s the only one personally signed by the Tay Do Two battalion commander.”
“A ‘Wanted’ poster? *grin* What’s the reward, a lifetime supply of nuoc-mam?”
The E-6 grinned back and said, “One thousand piastres for your dogtags and that metal unit patch you’re wearin’. Two thousand piastres for your dogtags, patch and nametape. Five hundred Peugeot bicycles or the cash equivalent for your dogtags, patch, nametape and -- your head.”
Okay, the South Vietnamese piastre was then worth about eleven cents, US -- but --
Five hundred friggin’ *bicycles*?
“How much if they get me alive?”
“Nothing. This VC colonel wants you very, very dead. You got him royally p*ssed, whatever it was you did, Captain.”
“I guess so. Uhhh, any chance I could have that as a souvenir?”
“No.”
*sigh* “Okay. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Yes. Let us know what you did, if you figure it out.”
“Sure.”
I left and walked back to the jeep. Now, it’s one thing to realize that the enemy, generically, wants you, generically, dead -- that’s just the way things are. It’s something else entirely to realize that the enemy battalion commander, personally, wants you, personally, dead. But --
Five hundred friggin’ *bicycles*?!?
I parked the jeep near the “O” Club and walked in to sort things out. Since I hadn’t eaten anything since my usual midnight supper of C-rat tuna fish, I figured a shot of JD and three beers would jumpstart the surviving brain cells. As luck would have it, I spotted Two-Niner in the corner, nursing a cold can of lunch.
“Pull up a chair -- you look pretty bent.”
“I just discovered what I’m worth.” I then recapped my meeting with the S2 and the five hundred bicycles.
He grinned, “I’d be extra careful, if I were you. In this country, a man could start his own trucking company with five hundred bicycles.”
“Or the cash equivalent. What’s a Peugeot bicycle go for around here, anyway?”
“About thirty bucks. But around here, that’s two month’s pay.”
“Okay, so five hundred bicycles would -- geez, *twenty years’ pay*?!?”
“Yeah, roughly. That VC colonel must really hate your guts.”
“I guess so. I just wish I knew what it was I did to p*ss him off.”
“Why?”
“So I can go do it some more…”
To be continued…
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