The Time: 0530 on the morning of a day two weeks after the defoliation mission.
The Place: The bunker beneath the wayhouse constructed by the work detail from Tay Do Two battalion.
Phouc was finding it more difficult to maintain his Revolutionary Ardor with each basketful of earth he hauled from the bunker to scatter into the dead grass. Sergeant Van had been displeased with the implications of the message Phouc had relayed from Colonel Trinh and had placed Phouc in command of the bunker-construction detail -- which consisted solely of Phouc.
As he hauled what he had decided was this night’s final basket of damp dirt from the hootch to the grass, he misstepped and slipped, dropping the basket and losing half its contents. Fine, he thought. The load will be that much lighter. After he scattered the remaining dirt into the grass, he returned to the spill and halfheartedly spread the dirt with a handful of dead palm fronds. He glanced around and realized that he could now discern separate shadows. Ghost’s dawn, he thought. Time to go home before the Government soldiers manning the guardpost on the main road awaken…
“Heya, Tut.”
“Heya, Steve. What flavor is the bug-juice this morning?”
“Green.”
“My favorite. I think I’ll stick with coffee.”
“That’s green this morning, too. You AMCing the CA today?”
“Nope. Single ship COORDS mission. But with three Copperheads for company.”
“Ah-hah. Single ship and a heavy fire team? Sounds like the excrement is gonna hit the impeller -- wanna borrow my Swedish K?”
“No, thanks. If Sir Charles gets that close, I’ll beat him to death with the survival kit.”
As Pham Giang Xuan approached the newly-constructed wayhouse, he glared at the scattering of darker earth outside the door. Idiots. Why didn’t they just erect a sign reading “Occupied”? Pham didn’t bother to search the sky for the helicopters he had been hearing for the past hour -- the low muttering of the blades was well to the north, probably emanating from the American airfield west of the city. Stay up there, he thought. I have enough difficulties without your annoying presence. Pham scanned the entrance for the small knots warning of boobytraps. Seeing none, he entered the hootch, peering into the cool shadows. Very well, I am early. But it is still not proper that I should be unmet. He walked the few steps to the field table beside the newly-finished bunker, turned to face the doorway and struck a pose. Pham hadn’t risen through the Byzantine maze of Vietnamese politics to his present position without developing an appreciation of the theatrical.
We were at flight idle, waiting for our pax on the raised helipad outside the COORDS shack that sat on the eastern side of Can Tho’s soccer field, viewing the world through the semicircular bounce caused by one main rotor blade being slightly out-of-track. We figured any outfit called Civil Operations and Revolutionary Development Support had to be a front for spooks; the missions the COORDS guys came up with were either incredibly boring or brain-freezing scary. We’d learned that pax waiting on the pad usually meant the latter, because the planners would be anxious to get rolling, get done, and get back. The absence of pax did not bode well for our hopes of an interesting flight.
Senior Sergeant Ly Doan Chinh halted at the line of dried leaves and the file of men behind him froze in place. Ly quickly scanned the brown vegetation surrounding the clearing for movement and, seeing none, began a deliberate visual search. The tree-killers have been efficient, he thought. Even the pond scum is brown. When we built the wayhouse, it was invisible beneath the forest canopy -- now, it sits in the middle of a bunch of wooden pillars. He eyed the roof with distaste. Extravagance. The money for those tiles should have been spent for repair parts for the radios. Ly made a mental note to have the two youngest soldiers camouflage those portions that were not already covered with a layer of dead leaves.
He listened for a moment. The helicopters were well to the north, he decided, and presented no threat. Ly did not fear helicopters -- he had been awarded a medal for shooting a small one down three years previously -- but he had a great respect for what they could do. He raised his left hand and gave three signals that sent four flankers to opposite sides of the clearing, then mentally tracked their progress. When his mind told him they were in place, he stalked along the well-used trail through the clearing toward the wayhouse, carrying his AK-47 at waist level, right forearm braced against his hip. When he reached mid-clearing, he stopped, looking at the wayhouse but listening to the woods for untoward sounds.
If there were enemy troops in the area, they would not be able to resist firing at him.
Ly waited for the shots. He counted to one hundred, heard nothing to alarm him and resumed stalking toward the wayhouse. Five others emerged into the clearing and followed in a well-spaced file – his battalion commander, the major from Hanoi, their two bodyguards and Sergeant Van, the trailwatcher. As he drew closer to the wayhouse, Ly saw a shadowy figure within. Damn. The Junior Emperor is here already. Ly observed the damp earth as he drew closer and thought, The bunker detail has been exceptionally careless or Junior has a weak bladder…
“How are you guys doing this morning?” our passenger shouted as he entered through the left cargo door and sat down in the jump seat just to the rear of my seat.
“Just fine and dandy, sir -- where are we going today?” I hollered back.
Our passenger was wearing unmarked tiger fatigues and appeared to be armed solely with a map and a PRC-6 walkie-talkie. He placed the map on the radio console so I could see it without dislocating my neck and pointed to an area he had circled with a black grease pencil. “Right here.”
I blinked. It was the same Free Fire Zone we’d drenched with Orange a few weeks previously.
“Nasty area. I sprayed that whole place a couple weeks back, so whatever you’re looking for won’t be too hard to find.”
He gave me a grin and said, “You have no idea how much I hope you’re right.”
Ly assumed guard stance just inside the doorway of the wayhouse as Colonel Trinh and the Northerner major entered. Pham Giang Xuan had neither moved nor spoken.
“Good morning, Eldest Brother,” said Trinh, with a slight bow. “I trust you breakfasted well?”
“Good morning, Right Hand of the Revolution,” replied Pham. He ignored Trinh’s polite inquiry to reinforce his authority and added, “And good morning to our Brother from the People’s Army.”
“Good morning, Province Chief Pham.” Major Nghiem Trong Tri was equally blunt and unimpressed with Pham’s position as Governor of Phong Dinh Province. “What news of such import have you that could not be entrusted to a messenger?”
“News that must be closely held, lest it generate disaffection. Messengers are soldiers, soldiers talk, and soldiers’ talk does not always reinforce revolutionary zeal.” Pham proceeded to recount the litany of recent setbacks…
Senior Sergeant Ly frowned. The muted sound of the helicopters to the north had changed pitch, becoming clearer and louder. He could now discern three, possibly four, different helicopters. Frogs, not sharks, he thought. Too many for a resupply mission and too few for an assault landing. And definitely coming closer. He did not hear the higher pitched sounds indicating the presence of the small scout helicopters, which would mean a reconnaissance mission, but then he remembered that the heavily-armed gunships of one particular unit did use the small scouts…
“Ly-anh, see what manner of Frog becomes so intrusive and report their flight direction.”
Ly stepped from the door of the wayhouse just as the lead helicopter flashed past, not twenty meters away.
“Geez! Hey, Back Seat -- Chuck had a hootch with a red tile roof under all those trees!”
“That’s what--”
“Got fresh dirt in front of it.” “Footprints!” “Fresh trails all over the place -- ”
I banked hard right and saw a guy in black PJs and web gear step from the doorway and dart back inside. “Armed male in the hootch!” Hah! First time I’ve ever seen a VC’s eyes get that round…
Ly turned and shouted,“Nói thầm chết!” Muttering Death! He took in the sight of the three men scrambling to roll into the bunker, calculated his chance of getting inside through the press as less than zero and thought, Well, maybe I’ll get another one before they get me. He wheeled in the doorway --
As I rolled level and kicked the Huey out of trim to give my crewchief a clean shot into the hootch, I saw the VC turn and raise his AK just as the first rocket hit the red tile roof. The walls of the hootch flashed into four clouds of smoke, dirt and grass, the roof shivered, shattered and collapsed, and the guy in the doorway evaporated in a pink mist.
“Got two guys running --” “Bust ‘em!” “Got another one on the west side -- he just went into a spider hole!” Ten 40mm grenades from one of the M-5s followed him down the hole. “Got a runner in the treeline!”
A minute later, the only movement in the area was a thin cloud of drifting smoke.
The Time: 1340, three days later.
The Place: The office of the S2, 164th Aviation Group, Can Tho Army Airfield, RVN.
I glanced from the Captain to his Staff Sergeant to the civilian from COORDS who were all standing with their arms folded across their chests. “Were you the AMC on a mission three days ago that destroyed a hootch with a red tile roof about ten klicks south?”
“Yes. Is that why I’m here?”
The COORDS guy said, “Captain, you killed the Province Chief.”
Oh, crap! I’m going to jail!
He grinned. “You also killed an NVA major, the Tay Do Two Battalion Commander and six other VC.”
My heart crawled back down where it belonged. “So, I’m not in trouble?”
The S2 said, “No. This gentleman just wanted to see what somebody worth 500 bicycles looked like. By the way, did you ever figure out what you did to piss Colonel Trinh off?”
“His name was Trinh? No.” I shook my head. “Sorry, but I haven’t got a clue.”
As I walked back along the dirt road to Tent City, I noticed Rat Catcher Six fiddling with a yellow Nguy Hiem box and gave him a small wave.
Sergeant Van Lanh Thu returned the pilot’s wave and watched as he faded into the distance. Then he resumed his work with the rat-box, thinking, You should have offered five thousand bicycles, Brother…
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Postscript: The names of the Vietnamese characters are mixes of common Vietnamese names; except for the ARVN Captain in Sequel As Prequel, who flew with us on several missions and whose real name I did *not* use, I have no idea what any of their true names were. Their actions in the weeks preceding this final portion of the story is only conjecture on my part, but based on the events -- all of which happened pretty much as I've timelined them -- *something* brought all the players together at that place and time, and I think I crafted a plausible (and sorta-kinda entertaining) scenario.
I *do*, in fact, know for certain
1. why "Colonel Trinh" wanted me whacked,
2. why the COORDS spooks were adamant about sending a heavy fire team to the site and
3. that one VC -- most likely a trailwatcher -- escaped the area.
And I know the Green Beanie who led the patrol into the area after we departed. He recovered a money belt full of VC Liberation scrip that the Province Chief had been wearing and said it would have been just enough to buy 500 Peugeot bicycles...
13 Comments