Men in Green Faces (17 page)

“Yes.”

Gene poured a cup of water and gave it to him. “Why are you on that river?”

The VC sipped, then looked down. “To keep you out.”

“Where is your village?”

Staring at the floor, the VC refused to speak.

“Show me on the map where your village is.”

“Far.”

Pointing to the area where they’d captured him, Gene asked, “Were you going to your village when we caught you?”

There was no reply.

“Are there NVA there?”

The POW’s eyes widened.

“How many NVA?”

Silence answered.

“How many VC?”

“I know nothing. I talk no more.”

Gene studied him for a moment, then turned to Willie and the advisor. “I’m done. Get him out of here. I’m going back to Seafloat.” He’d developed a fierce headache during the interrogation.

He was halfway across the Son Ku Lon, between the shore and Seafloat, when he heard the shot from the KCS camp. He turned the Boston Whaler and headed back. The VC’s body lay on the ground in the center of the camp. He’d been shot in the head. Executed. Willie was in a pissing contest with the KCS interpreter.

“What the hell went on here?” he asked when Willie approached. “What happened?”

Willie ran his fingers through his red hair. “They took the prisoner outside and gave him to Tong. The new KCS.”

Gene knew who Tong was. He’d never forget the sound of his weeping, the sight of his two little girls. “And?”

“They told Tong to kill the POW. He did.” Willie took a deep breath. “They wanted to know he was one of them. Well, they found out.”

Chow had ended by the time Gene got back to Seafloat. Grabbing some fruit, he set out to find Jim. When he did, he told him about the interrogation. “I believe we were real close,” he added. “Real close.”

“Get the men,” Jim said. “We’re going back in.”

Gene coughed. His head felt like it was going to split wide open. “What time is the Warning Order?”

Jim thought for a minute. “1700 hours.”

His head pounded. “Okay.” Since they were going out later that night, he’d have a chance to hit the sack for some Zs once he’d contacted the rest of the squad and given them the WO time. He coughed again as he reached the door of their hootch.

The next thing he knew, Brian was waking him. “Gene, come on. Everybody’s waiting in the briefing room.”

He lowered himself slowly to the floor from his top rack, pulled his blue and gold T-shirt over his jeans, and walked barefoot to the Warning Order.

The only change from the night before was their insertion point. They’d be going in three rivers to the east of Twin Rivers, the same way they’d extracted with the now dead POW.

Time seemed to compress and suddenly he was back in full combat gear aboard the MSSC, heading out in darkness, light rain, and a slight wind. He felt like shit. His head still ached, his throat hurt, and he was hot. Taking a deep breath, he felt a cough coming. He ripped off his headband and shoved it deep in his mouth to cover the sound. It was dry and raspy. Sweat ran down his face.

He stood to catch the breeze as the boat moved slowly down the river. It cooled his face. Look after us, he prayed. Lay Your healing hands upon me and give me the strength to get through this op. Quiet my cough.

“Gene?”

Jim, a worried look on his boyish face, had come up to stand beside him.

“Gene, are you okay? Are you going to make it? We can abort and come back in a day or two.”

He swallowed carefully. “I’m all right. I’ll make it, but when we get back, I’m going to need a few days to recoup. I—” He jammed the headband into his mouth and coughed again as the boat turned into the bank.

Jim squeezed his shoulder before following Brian over the side and into the jungle.

Gene, inserting after Roland, knew from the Patrol Leader’s Order that Brian would lead them past the first two rivers. Then he’d have to take over point because of the bunkers they’d passed the night before. This time, the enemy might be waiting. The VC they’d taken as prisoner hadn’t returned to the village and they’d be wondering where the hell he was. Maybe, he hoped, the enemy would figure he’d been tired and hungry and just split.

Headband in his mouth, he coughed again. His head ached something fierce.

Crossing the first two rivers brought him some relief, cooled his temperature down. When Jim signaled for him to change places with Brian, he again took a second to pray for strength, remembering his burning muscles and the aches of being point with the 60, the night before.

He raised the 60 to his shoulder and kept it there. Going through the bunker area again was more scary than before. Each one seemed to have eyes.

The heavy foliage scraped his shoulders, and the mud was thick.

He moved slowly, watching, listening for any movement. As he passed one bunker, he trained the 60’s barrel on the next. Behind him, Jim aimed at the one just passed, then Roland would, and so on down the line. Alex, with the grenade launcher, had the ability to fire into the smallest opening of any bunker that might open up on them.

As they moved, Gene could feel their tension. Every man wondered if one of the bunkers would come alive, or if all of them would. Were they holding their fire until the entire squad moved into their kill zone? He could catch no scent of the enemy within the thick, dank smell of the dark jungle, but until the bunkers were passed, they wouldn’t know.

Finally he reached the narrow stream where they’d captured the VC the night before. No tracks, no sound. No contact. Thank God. He lowered the 60 from his shoulder and signaled
danger area
with a hand across his throat. Behind him, the squad set flank security while he waded the stream, entered the brush, and checked out the area beyond. Satisfied, he returned and motioned to the squad to cross.

When Jim came over, he signaled for a break. Whispering, Gene told him, “No bunkers. Not much brush under the triple canopy. Bring Brian back to point.”

Jim nodded and brought Brian forward. Relieved, Gene left point and took his normal place between Roland and Alex.

Patrolling was easier as they paralleled the river. But it was only a matter of time until they found something or someone. With the patrol slowing down, he concentrated on making sure he didn’t miss anything.

With dawn, light began to reach through the trees. Brian signaled.

Halt.

Gene knelt and watched Jim go to Brian. Jim circled his hand above his head: Rally point. The squad closed in on him to be silently pointed into positions that would give them 360-degree security.

When Gene’s turn to approach came, Jim whispered, “There’s some kind of structure ahead. No sign of the enemy. We’re going in to recon.”

Gene returned to position, and shoving his headband into his mouth, silenced yet another short series of coughs, as Alex went to Jim.

When the patrol moved out, they were able to see the strange area ahead. Closing on it, Gene found himself wondering what the hell it was.

They halted just outside its perimeter. Studying the area through a screen of heavy foliage, Gene saw no signs of life, but humans had to be somewhere near. In front of them sat five two-level platforms on stilts. Wood shavings were everywhere. Trunks of large trees lay scattered around. A three-foot-wide monkey bridge, with waist-high hand railings made of flat boards, was supported and tied with rope. It stretched across the river. Definitely a work area. But where were the people?

Jim motioned for security elements to cross the bridge and recon, parallel to him, on the other side of the river. Gene signaled to Cruz to take point.

Just as Cruz reached the far side, Gene, at mid-bridge, heard a finger snap. Immediately he looked back. Jim pointed. Gene dropped flat. A sampan, carrying one person, was floating down the river. There was no way that it could pass without its occupant seeing him.

When the sampan came parallel to Jim’s position, Jim stood up, his Stoner aimed.
“Li dai.”
Come here.

By the time Jim came fully erect, Gene and the rest of the SEALs were standing too, their weapons pointed at the old man in the sampan. The old man, obeying Jim’s command, poled his boat to the bank.

He looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies. A true Joe-shit the ragman, he wore old, torn clothing. Dirty and stinking, his face wrinkled with age, his teeth were black and decayed by the beetlenut the Vietnamese used to numb their aching teeth and gums. He put up no resistance.

Brian directed him to move toward Jim. When he had, Brian pulled the sampan up on shore and secured the ragged man. That done, Alex and Doc crossed the monkey bridge to join Cruz and Gene. Hidden, with security set, they waited for any others coming into the work area.

The village lay close by. Gene could smell wood smoke drifting through the trees. Nobody came.

Wanting to take a look at the village before heading out, Jim passed the old man to Brian to handle. Across the river from Gene and the rest of the security element, Alex and Cruz, he took point himself.

Gene snapped his fingers. He wanted to signal Jim to have the old man lead point. But thirty to forty yards separated them. Jim couldn’t hear the snaps. Gene spoke very slowly but urgently, hoping to be heard. “Jim…Jim…”

Ka-boom!

Jim, thrown about four feet by the concussion, went down. He’d tripped a small claymore and now lay unconscious.

Gene gave the command verbally. “Get back across!” Jim needed Doc. Running across the bridge, he saw Roland go to Jim and roll him over. Brian stood guard over them, watching for enemy troops coming in. Automatically Alex, Cruz, and Gene joined him in setting a circle of protection around Jim. Doc took Roland’s place at Jim’s side. Roland joined the circle.

As they formed, Gene felt their shocked stares. They believed he was their lucky element. But now, for the first time, one of the squad was hurt. Had their luck run out at last?

Gene didn’t know the answer. He only knew the anvils of hell pounded within his skull and fire raged under his skin.

Behind him, Jim regained consciousness. “There’s a burning in my left calf,” he told Doc.

Doc, without a moment’s hesitation, took out his knife and cut open the left leg of Jim’s jeans.

Jim was stricken. “Goddammit, Doc, couldn’t you have just pushed it up?”

Doc smiled and continued cutting.

Gene was amazed, a moment later, to learn that Jim had caught just one small piece of the claymore’s shrapnel. There was very little bleeding.

Doc put a field dressing over the wound. “That’ll keep it clean, keep infection from setting in.”

Infection could set in in less than an hour. That could be costly, Gene thought, waiting for signs of the enemy. Surely they’d heard the claymore explode.

Long minutes passed, and still the area was silent.

Gene rose, went to kneel next to Jim. “They’re probably waiting. Securing the village. Other forces are probably coming in from their ambush positions securing the mouth of Twin Rivers.”

“We’ve got to get the hell out of here,” Jim whispered.

“Can you stand?” Doc asked.

“Think so.”

Gene and Doc lifted Jim to his feet.

Doc looked at him. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah. Let’s go,” Jim replied. But before he took a step, he glared at Doc. “Did you have to cut my fuckin’ jeans?”

Doc just smiled and took his rear security position.

Gene couldn’t help but think of the monkey bridge Doc had straddled. Maybe Doc was getting back at Jim for laughing so hard or taking revenge for being sent out on the two-man op. Right now they had to haul buns to get out safely and before nightfall.

By the time they’d crossed two rivers to arrive back at the third, where they’d head due north, Jim had to slow the patrol down. His leg ached, and he was really limping. They took a short break.

Jim looked down. “My fuckin’ jeans!”

Gene looked away, not wanting Jim to see him grin. He was more concerned over the loss of the jeans than his wound. They’d each been allowed to take three pairs to Vietnam. There was no way to get new ones.

A few minutes passed before Jim stood up. He gave the signal to move out.

He’d had a harder time standing, Gene noticed, and he was limping badly.

Doc stopped the patrol and walked up to Gene. “What about bringing the boat in to extract us?”

“I’ll talk to Jim.”

“We’re three rivers away,” Gene said, “and the enemy will be moving into the village area.”

Jim nodded. “Call the boat in.”

Gene relayed the order to Roland, who immediately got on the radio. He moved Jim to sit next to the river, then directed Roland to sit on Jim’s left, while the rest of the squad set heavy security to the rear in case they were being followed. Doc took the opportunity to change Jim’s bandage.

For the next thirty minutes, nobody moved. Deep in enemy territory, weapons ready, they waited, watched, and listened. Their hostage sat silently, next to Cruz, watching everything.

Finally Gene heard the MSSC’s engines and had Roland bring the boat in on Jim’s location. The moment they were all on board, he told its crew, “Get up on step and let’s get the hell out of here!”

While Doc stayed with Jim, Gene positioned the rest of the squad, putting three on each side of the boat. Just in case they were hit, the old man sat on the deck, between them.

“We have a WIA,” Roland radioed to TOC. “Have medical standing by.”

When they arrived at Seafloat, a doctor and a stretcher were waiting. Jim was taken to sick bay, with Doc at his side. The rest of the squad headed to their hootch. They were outside, cleaning their weapons, when Doc rejoined them.

“He’ll be okay. Found the shrapnel and closed, with only a few stitches. Gave him penicillin in case of infection, but he won’t be going out until the stitches are removed.”

Gene coughed and shook his head. Something must be wrong with Doc. He hadn’t cussed once. Or maybe, something was right with him.

He was just pulling on clean clothes when Jim limped in. Seafloat’s doctor had done even more damage. His jeans were ripped to mid-thigh.