Saigon (54 page)

Down-drafts - from the rotor blades of a dozen United States Army H-21 helicopters churned a swath of the Mekong delta’s muddy surface waters into a trembling wake as the aircraft charged across the rice paddies in formation at treetop height. Like the wings of dragonflies in flight, the whirling twin rotors were almost invisible in the burning air, and the flooded fields beneath them reflected only the swift-moving images of their banana- shaped fuselages. Inside the lead helicopter, a dozen wiry little South Vietnamese soldiers dressed in green combat uniforms gazed out through the open hatches with blank, indifferent expressions on their faces; although they wore field packs and steel helmets and clutched American M-2 automatic carbines in their hands, they squatted listlessly on the studded metal floor of the aircraft like bored bus passengers enduring the tedium of an unwanted journey, and only occasionally did they exchange a few desultory words with one another about what they were seeing. 

In contrast, the two white American officers crouching among them, wearing steel helmets and mottled combat fatigues, scanned the fast-changing panorama of fields and dikes with intent eyes; giants in comparison with the slightly built Asian troops, they subjected each belt of jungle to the closest scrutiny and paid special attention to the tree clumps that invariably ringed the delta villages. In the front and rear doorways, the eyes of the two American sergeant gunners also roved restlessly back and forth across the paddies, followed by the silent muzzles of their swivel- mounted machine guns as they covered every potential hiding place that might he used by Viet Cong snipers. Occasionally the white Americans and the little Asians, too, turned their attention back inside the aircraft to shoot a quick glance at the pale-skinned English television reporter who sat apart on a webbing seat, her long blond hair tucked out of sight beneath a badgeless combat cap. Sometimes they saw her talking quietly with the two white civilians hunched beside her amid the satchels, bags and cases that contained equipment for recording television film pictures and sound, but otherwise her wide gray eyes remained fixed in the shimmering distance beyond the open doors. Her expression betrayed no hint of fear, only a total absorption with the harsh landscape of the Mekong delta that had remained unchanged since biblical times, and if she was aware that her unflattering green fatigues did not entirely blunt the impact of her sexuality on the crowd of men around her, she gave no sign. 

Like everyone else riding inside the racing helicopter, she knew that the timeless serenity of the paddies flashing past beneath the aircraft was deceptive. The rich delta silts of the Mekong might have been tilled since the dawn of civilization with the same horned animals and crude wooden plows that the peasants of South Vietnam were still using; those peasants might still be living, too, in the same kind of crude bamboo and palm-thatch huts as their ancient ancestors — but now beneath the seemingly tranquil surface much had changed. Although they could see nothing, all the helicopter occupants were aware that guerrilla fighters loyal to Ho Chi Minh and his modern Marxist creeds 
--might easily be hiding under the muddy waters below them, breathing through hollow bamboo tubes; they might also be concealed in tunnels dug beneath the delta villages, and they would remain hidden all that day if they wished to avoid contact with the soldiers who came to “search and destroy” in the name of freedom, democracy and the West. 

If on the other hand they had already decided that they would give battle, they might be waiting in strength among the trees encircling Moc Linh, their target village — and the Americans and the South Vietnamese would only find that out when they jumped from the helicopters into the flooded paddy fields to begin their final advance. The aircraft were being flown fast ten feet above the ground for that very reason — to cloak the dangerous moment of their arrival with surprise. During the journey from My Tho, headquarters of the ARVN Seventh Division situated forty miles south of Saigon, they had flown at three thousand feet, using height as a protection against any Viet Cong guns that might be concealed in the trees and brush; then as the flotilla neared its landing zone close to Moc Linh, the pilots had swooped down to hug the ground contours and use the hostile tree belts as cover. 

The nearness of the ground heightened the sense of speed for all those inside the H-21s, and as they closed on their objective the helicopters began leapfrogging dizzily over groves of coconut palms and wild banana trees surrounding neighboring villages. When the English journalist touched her cameraman’s shoulder, he began filming their furious approach through the open hatch, and groups of thatched huts appeared abruptly in his viewfinder; startled faces of women and children stared up out of dark doorways, chickens and pigs fled squealing from the din of their passage — then on a broad dike two hundred yards short of the first hamlet of Moc Linh, the headlong dash ended abruptly, The H-21s fluttered to the ground and immediately the ARVN troops and their towering American advisers heaved themselves into the murky water of the rice paddy and began wading fast towards the tree line. 

As soon as the leading aircraft began to disgorge its troops, the English journalist and her film crew went swiftly into action; she jumped down onto the dike and dropped to one knee twenty yards from the H-21 so that its steel bulk framed the background on one side. Behind her the little South Vietnamese troopers in their overlarge American helmets were trudging away through the flooded field, holding their weapons above their heads, and she waited patiently while her cameraman squinted past her to check that the unfolding drama was contained within the frame of his lens. When he was satisfied, he set a reel of film spinning and at the same moment the soundman thrust a microphone into her hand and stepped aside to switch on a tape machine. 

“These sweltering paddy fields that you’re looking at in an obscure corner of Southeast Asia have suddenly become the front line in a new hot war between the West and the Communist world,” she said, raising her carefully modulated English public school voice to make herself heard above the noise of the other helicopter engines. “But it’s not the sort of front line that anybody who fought in the Second World War or in Korea would recognize. These South Vietnamese troops and their American advisers are hoping to catch a concentration of Viet Cong guerrillas unawares in Moc Linh, the village you see behind me — Moc Linh is only one of five thousand such settlements in the region, and because the guerrillas can hide themselves easily in the jungle or among the villagers, on many missions like this no trace of them is ever found. Even if this dash into the heart of the Mekong delta succeeds in taking the Viet Cong by surprise, we still probably won’t know just how successful it’s been — because the guerrillas invariably melt away into the jungle again after each action, carrying their dead with them 

A brief burst of gunfire from the direction of the tree line augmented the roar of the helicopter engines suddenly, and the television reporter quickly ducked aside while the H-21 rose into the air again to allow its door gunners to join the action. The leading ARVN soldiers, wading quickly, had almost reached the trees, and the cameraman filmed them on telephoto for a few seconds before turning his lens back towards the reporter. 

“That could be a nervous South Vietnamese trooper setting off his trigger-happy companions,” she said, speaking calmly towards the camera once more. “That often happens when you’re searching for guerrillas who seem to be able to appear and disappear at will. The key question in this trying situation is: Can America with its vastly superior military resources help the South Vietnamese destroy their elusive enemy quickly without getting more deeply involved? Or could this frustrating little war be the beginning of something bigger? That’s what we’ve come here to try and find out 

As she finished speaking she stepped down the bank into the muddy water of the paddy field and began wading towards the distant tree line. The cameraman continued filming her receding figure for a full minute more until the little grinning Vietnamese sergeant assigned to protect them finally motioned for him to follow. Holding their equipment clear of the water, the cameraman and the soundman slithered into the paddy with looks of extreme distaste on their faces and trudged after her. 

The first hamlet was deserted when the troops reached it, A few scrawny chickens were scratching in the shade of one of the huts, but otherwise there was no sound or sign of movement. At a signal from Captain Hoang, their Vietnamese commander, the ARVN soldiers advanced cautiously beyond the trees and began moving slowly from door to door, searching the dwellings. After several minutes they had assembled in the middle of the clearing only three sullen-looking peasant women dressed in shapeless black trousers and tunics, and Captain Lionel Staudt, the senior American adviser, turned away, cursing softly beneath his breath. 

“You see now, lieutenant, no matter how good ARVN intelligence is, Viet Cong intelligence is always better.” He loosened his helmet strap and scowled at the fresh-faced young West Point officer standing beside him. “Maybe a battalion of main force guerrillas was here recently — hut it sure as hell isn’t within five miles of Moc Linh now.” 

“Aren’t we jumping to conclusions too quickly?” asked Lieutenant Gary Sherman earnestly. “There are half-a-dozen hamlets strung out along the canal according to the map.” 

“There always are, son, there always are. And you won’t find no main force VC in any of them. After a year here you get to know their style.” The lean, sharp-featured infantry captain, who had seen action in the ranks in Europe and Korea, turned his back on the hamlet and wandered through the trees to the edge of the rice paddy once more to wait for the British television crew; for a moment his eyes lingered on the slender figure of Naomi Boyce-Lewis as she waded towards them, the muddy water lapping halfway up her long thighs. “And if our little friends shooting at shadows and warning off the enemy isn’t enough to try our patience today,” he said quietly, “we’ve got ourselves saddled with a spoiled English debutant who wants to play Hemingway games in the rice fields of Asia.” 

“I don’t think she’s come here to play any games,” said Gary Sherman seriously, following his gaze. “She’ been out on a couple of long foot patrols from My Tho — and walked all the way both times. She’s a real tough cookie. There’s nothing she won’t do to get a good story.” 

“Nothing?” Staudt’s features relaxed into a lecherous grin. “Are you sure about that?” 

The young officer ignored the innuendo. “I meant, captain, she’s very professional and very ambitious. The story going around the mess is that she comes from a wealthy family. Her father was a baronet — until he got himself killed out here at the end of the Second World War. But apparently she’s very determined to prove she’s got what it takes —without his money.” 

The captain let out a low whistle. “So there’s a whole bunch of money riding OH that classy English ass too? We’d better make sure the ‘friendlies’ take good care of her.” He raised his arm and waved to the little sergeant escorting the film crew, indicating that he should hurry up, but the Vietnamese NCO continued trotting obliviously through the water beside the taller Europeans, grin- fling and chattering animatedly in pidgin English, his rifle hanging loose on his shoulder. When the English reporter reached the bank, Staudt jumped down into the water and offered his hand to steady her as she climbed out, but with a little dismissive shake of her head she declined his help and clambered nimbly out of the water on her own. By the time he caught up with her she was entering the hamlet, and they both saw that some idle ARVN soldiers had begun chasing the villagers’ chickens, hoping to snare one for lunch. Staudt took in the scene at a glance and nodded towards the cameraman who was preparing to film the apprehensive-looking village women. 

“I’d sure appreciate it if you decided not to record the hen- hunt for posterity, Miss Boyce-Lewis,” he said in a mock- beseeching voice. “We try to teach the ‘friendlies’ that nobody loves a looting army — but they just giggle and tell us they’re underfed and underpaid.” He paused and rolled his eyes. “And maybe they are — their generals pay them only fifteen dollars a month each because they stash most of our military aid into their private bank accounts.” 

“We’re after something a little more telling than frightened chickens, captain, thank you.” The English reporter smiled perfunctorily and turned to watch Gary Sherman hurrying towards them across the clearing. 

In his hands he carried a crumpled cotton banner, half red, half blue, with a gold star emblazoned in its center, and his eager young face was alight with excitement. “Look, captain, the intelligence was right. They have been here.” 

“Sure — you’ve captured the flag of the People’s Liberation Front, lieutenant,” said Staudt sarcastically. “But this isn’t the kind of war where you get a Purple Heart for that. We need to find the bodies of one or two brave Asian boys who fight under it to make it count.” 

“But there’s a whole VC propaganda kiosk set up in the hut where I found this,” protested the lieutenant. “And there are lots of those big earthenware jars that they use as personal air-raid shelters buried in the floors of most of the huts.” He broke off and gestured eagerly towards his Vietnamese counterpart, a young ARVN lieutenant who was beginning to interrogate the three silent women. “Lieutenant Trang tells me that he thinks one of his men has found a tunnel entrance under one of the stoves — it looks like we’ve hit a fortified VC hamlet this time for sure.” 

Staudt rubbed his sleeve across his brow and glanced slowly about him. Although it was only nine-thirty, the morning was already hot; sunlight shimmered on the roofs of the thatched huts, and the heavy air was still and hushed. “Surprise, surprise,” he said softly. “Out of five thousand hamlets in the whole Mekong delta we know four thousand have already gotten to be fortified VC hamlets of one kind or another. If we can stumble into just one of them from time to time against all those odds and find it empty, I guess the war’s as good as won.” 

A flush of embarrassment reddened the young lieutenant’s cheeks, and he turned away suddenly so the English reporter would not notice. 

“I’m just glad, Gary, that we’re finding this kind of crowning success at the end of my year in Vietnam —- and at the beginning of yours’ Staudt favored the television reporter with a brilliant smile. “Lieutenant Sherman’s been here just two weeks, you see, miss. Ten days from now I wind up a twelve-month tour and twenty years of service in the U.S. Army that began on the Normandy beaches. I guess capturing an empty VC hamlet, a muddy flag and a propaganda kiosk alongside fine Asian soldiers like these is as good a way to cap all that as any, isn’t it?” 

“Does this mean you intend to abort the mission, captain?” asked the English reporter coolly. 

Staudt shook his head with exaggerated slowness. “No, ma’am. Not at all. There’s nothing the ‘friendlies’ would like better than to call back the choppers and haul their little asses out of here right away. They’re too fond of using good intelligence about Viet Cong movements to make sure they arrive too late. That’s how they keep their casualty rate down. But I’m going to teach ‘em a lesson today. They’re gonna search all six goddamned hamlets and work up a sweat at least before we head for home — or my name isn’t Lionel Staudt.” Turning irritably on his heel, the captain strode over to where the young ARVN lieutenant was questioning the last of the three women, and Gary Sherman and the British news crew followed. “What are these old crones telling us about the VC, Lieutenant Trang?” demanded the American officer brusquely. 

The pale, obviously Eurasian features of the ARVN lieutenant, who had been assigned to the unit only the day before, registered instantly the offensive note in Staudt’s Voice, and although he’d clearly understood what had been said, he waited deliberately until the sergeant interpreter beside him translated the question into Vietnamese, When he’d finished, Trang answered in his own language so that Staudt had to wait again for the sergeant to translate. “The women are lying as usual. They say only what they have been told to say — that several hundred Viet Cong troops passed through the village yesterday. Because they were frightened, all the men and boys of the hamlet ran off to hide in the jungle.” 

The American officer listened with ill-concealed impatience to the explanation, then his face hardened. “It couldn’t be, Lieutenant Trang, could it, that you’re not trying hard enough? All our lives could depend on your Interrogation of these bags, remember?” 

The ARVN lieutenant’s eyes glittered suddenly, and he answered this time in English. “Maybe you’ve already guessed, captain, that my father was French, He fought against the Communists in the north before Dien Bien Phu. He was captured on a patrol one night after he got separated from his unit. When they found him next day he’d been tortured to death — but that wasn’t all. To show how deep their hatred was they’d Cut off his testicles and forced them down his throat before he died. So if you think you’ve got more reason to despise the Communists than I have, captain, you’re welcome to your delusions!” 

For the moment the American officer looked startled; then a smile spread slowly across his weather-beaten face. “It’s good to know, lieutenant, you’ve got good reason to be one hundred percent on the team. It makes a real nice change.”