The Chameleon Soldier: NOW AS AN ALIEN BLUE HE CANNOT DIE. (24 page)

“It was different, and eerie,” answered the reporter.

“In what way was it different?”

“We were at a typical A-Team camp. The duty of the Special Forces Green Berets, along with their Montagnards, was to provide a road block to stop the North Vietnamese Army from bringing tanks and mechanized equipment through the Western Highlands. One morning, a Green Beret junior officer, in the A-Team, was taking the Montagnards out on a patrol to look for the enemy. They were equipped with white phosphorous munitions for loading into grenade launchers or mortars for tanks and armored vehicles. I was allowed to go along as an observer, as long as I carried a weapon. About an hour later, as we came up over a hill, we met an enemy patrol. Immediately a firefight broke out. I have to admit I was scared as hell; I’d never been so close to the real action. Men were being killed on either side. Then, about fifty yards out, I saw four of the enemy soldiers running along a ditch toward us. They seemed fearless. We fired at them as they weaved back and forth. We could see they were being hit. Two of them went down, but the other two kept coming. I could see bullets striking both of them as they came on toward us. Their clothing was ripped, and blood was spurting from their bodies. Nevertheless, they continued coming, still firing their weapons at us. One of the Montagnards, who was carrying a grenade launcher, fired it at the two approaching enemy soldiers. The white phosphorous grenade exploded in front of them and they were set ablaze. We could see them continuing to run toward us, and then, for a split second, they changed into wolves standing on their hind legs, and they howled. We all heard it. It was spooky. Then there was a bright flash of blue light, followed by two ribbons of blue-white smoke that ascended up into the sky. It was the same bright flashes I’d seen before, in the field of elephant grass, only this time up we saw it up close. The Green Beret officer and I were stunned. The Montagnards were visibly shaken. We went down to the spot where they’d had been set on fire, but there wasn’t anything, no weapons, clothing or body parts. They had completely vanished. It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. Later, I learned the Montagnards, who are Buddhists, believe you have to have a body, or your soul wanders the earth aimlessly.”

Killian nodded. “I was hoping to see that sight while on patrol in the highlands, but it never happened.”

“Believe me, Killian, it did happen, twice,” Bradberry assured him.

“Oh, I believe you one hundred per cent. I’ve heard of it happening in the Indian nations of the American West.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It has been noted before.”

Martin Bradberry nodded, and tapped his pen on the table, “Interesting.”

“I’d like to talk to that Green Beret officer who was with you the second time. Do you know where he is?” asked Killian.

“Unfortunately, I do. He’s dead. I heard about it a month ago. A short time after we saw that strange sight, he was in his hooch when a grenade was thrown into it.” Bradberry shook his head sadly. “He was on his second tour here in Vietnam. He liked being in the highlands, and he loved the Montagnard people. I was sickened to hear of his death.”

There was a pause, and then Killian stood up. “Thanks for telling me about this. I’m very sorry to hear about the young officer.”

Martin Bradberry also stood up. “Will you be going back up to the Central Highlands?”

“Yes. I also like the Central Highlands and the Montagnard people. But it will be after I return from the States. I need to go back and celebrate the eightieth birthday of an old friend.”

They shook hands.

“Well, good luck. Maybe I’ll bump into you some place along the line,” said the reporter.

Killian nodded and walked away.

Two days later Killian arrived back at the National Airport in Washington, D.C., where he was met by Kip. They shook hands and embraced.

“Damn, it’s good to see you Killian. I can’t wait to hear all about what’s happening in the highlands of Vietnam.”

“It’s an interesting and dangerous place, Kip.”

“I’m sure it is. Let’s get your luggage and go to the ranch. Zack’s been looking forward to your return.”

“I don’t have any luggage, Kip, just this carry-on bag. I’m going back to Vietnam right after the party for Zack.”

“Why so soon?”

“I liked being in the highlands with the Green Berets and the Montagnards, plus I know Lupan is over there. I intend to find him.”

They headed for the parking lot and Kip’s car. On the way to the ranch, Killian told Kip about his meeting with the reporter, Martin Bradberry, and his time fighting with the Special Forces.

The birthday party was held on Friday night at the county club. Killian was a bit surprised, as only family members were seated at the long, colorfully decorated table. None of Zack’s friends or ranch employees was there. Jesse, Ralph, Kip, Maggie and Whelan sat along the sides of the table, with Zack placed at one end and Killian at the other. A waiter poured each of them a glass of Dom Perignon Rose champagne. Then Kip stood up.

“This is a very special occasion for our family. Tonight we’re here to celebrate the birthdays of two men we admire and love.” Kip hesitated as he looked at Zack and then at a surprised Killian, “Zack, happy eightieth, and Killian, happy number one hundred and thirty.”

They applauded and gave a small cheer.

Kip raised his glass. “Here’s to many, many more.”

Killian could feel his eyes beginning to well up; he didn’t blink for fear of having tears run down his face. He smiled and drank to Kip’s toast.

The next evening there was a second birthday party, held at the ranch. This time there were over two hundred guests, who drank, danced to the music of a famous country band, and ate thick rib-eye steaks, barbecued pork, corn on the cob and an assortment of food from the long buffet table. Later, when a large flat cake with white frosting was rolled out on a cart, most in the crowd were amused, but mystified by the significance of the inscription, printed in blue frosting. It read:

Happy 80th Birthday, Zack

We hope you also live to be 130

Killian had a change of heart and stayed on at the ranch for three months. Once again he enjoyed the company of Zack, his good friend Kip, and the family atmosphere of the holidays.

In January, the postman delivered a medium-size package for Killian. He took it out to the stable, put it on the ground, and opened his round-top 1840s leather-covered trunk with brass fittings. He had brought the trunk back with him when he and Kip had returned from his Texas ranch. The old trunk was packed with a variety of his belongings. He removed the top tray and took out two of his old lariats, which he, as an old cowboy, called his “catch ropes”. Then he replaced the top tray and closed the trunk. He tore the brown paper from the package, and opened the cardboard box. Inside were three bolas throwing weapons. Killian removed one of them. It had ten feet of interconnected cords which had weighted balls on each of the three ends. A week earlier, he had seen a colorful picture of a bolas in a magazine; it showed a bolas being thrown and bringing down an animal by entangling its legs. Killian picked up the two lariats, and the bolas, and walked out to the large corral alongside the stable. For the next two hours, he lassoed everything in sight, practiced rope tricks, and tossed the bolas at a tall wooden post in the center of the dusty corral.

“What in hell you gonna’ do now, Killian, join a rodeo?”

Killian turned and saw a chuckling Zack standing by the corral gate.

“No, my friend,” he answered. “This is serious. You know I’ll be leaving for Vietnam very soon.”

“I know that, but what’s with the lariats and bolas?”

Killian walked over to Zack. “I’ve been thinking of Lupan and the other evil Blue Warriors, who are fighting with the North Vietnamese Army against us. I can’t kill them with a knife or gun, only with fire.”

“Well you sure as hell can’t kill them with a rope,” Zack pointed out.

Killian held up the bolas he was about to throw when Zack came to the corral.

“See this, Zack?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, watch.”

Killian whirled the bolas over his head and tossed it at the post. The bolas hit the post and wrapped around it like an octopus.

Zack looked quizzically at Killian. “So, that might hurt your intended target, but it sure isn’t going to kill him.”

“It will, if one of those balls is a napalm B grenade,” said a grinning Killian.

“Jesus, Killian, that’s damn smart! It’ll blow ’em to hell.”

“And set the Blue Warrior on fire,” said Killian.

Zack chuckled, “Adios, Blue Warrior.”

“Right and I don’t even have to fight with him.”

“That’s mighty clever, and makes a lot of sense, but what about the lariats?”

Killian walked over a few steps, picked up a lariat, and went back to Zack.

“Two reasons for the lariats. The Montagnards are fascinated by the Green Beret advisers’ knowledge of weapons and warfare, and by the western movies they show them. The Montagnards think John Wayne is the greatest. They even try to emulate him, his walk, talk and dress. I’m going to use that to my advantage. I’ve been a cowboy for most of my one hundred and thirty years. When I return to the Central Highlands, I’ll do rope tricks and teach a few of the Montagnards how to lasso. They’ll more readily accept me, and I’ll be able to join them in their fight against the North Vietnamese Army up in the mountains.”

“You’re not as dumb as you look,” Zack kidded.

Killian grinned. “Zack, the best part of it is I also plan to use the lariats to catch rope any Blue Warriors I get near. I’ll hog-tie them like a steer. On one end of the lariat will be a napalm B grenade. I’ll pull the pin, and move quickly away.”

“Again adios, evil Blue Warrior,” said a smiling Zack.

“You think my plan will work, Zack?”

“I’ve got no doubt about it after watching you handle those ropes, Killian.”

A week later, Killian and Zack were sitting in the living room, having an after-dinner drink and reading the evening newspaper.

“There’s one damn disaster after another in Vietnam,” said Zack, with disgust. “Now a battle’s gone snafu at AP BAC, near Saigon. Our military advisers can’t teach or trust the officers in the South Vietnamese Army.”

Zack handed the section of paper he’d been reading to Killian, who took the paper and read the article.

He looked at Zack as he lowered the newspaper. “It was a debacle. The Army of the Republic of Vietnam had the Viet Cong outnumbered ten to one and still lost the battle. There were sixty-five killed and over a hundred men wounded.”

“The Special Forces advisers should toss in the towel,” Zack replied. “They’ll never teach those Vietnamese officers how to lead. Hell, they’re all paid followers, not leaders. Our government is wasting millions of dollars over there.”

Killian didn’t say anything. He was thinking about the time he had spent with the Montagnards, fighting along the South Vietnam border, protecting the static camps. The Montagnards were brave, fearless fighters, and he knew the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese Army would find a more worthy opponent up in the Central Highland Mountains.

Two weeks later, Killian returned and checked into the Brink Hotel in Saigon. The hotel was known as the Brink Bachelors Officers Quarters, as officers, non-commissioned officers and civilian military personnel made up most of the guests. The six-story building, with its one hundred and ninety-three rooms, was popular, as its food and drinks were highly regarded. In addition, it had a special seating area on the roof for the showing of nightly movies.

One evening, after dinner, Killian visited the well-known rooftop lounge at the Saigon Caraville Hotel. It was a popular watering hole for military personnel and wartime reporters. As usual, the lounge was crowded, but Killian found an empty barstool and ordered a scotch and soda. While he sipped on his drink, he looked in the bar’s mirror at the happy crowd behind him, who were talking, drinking and laughing. Then a familiar face appeared in the mirror. Killian turned around quickly.

“Connor, it’s good to see you.”

The two men shook hands.

“You too, Killian, I thought by now you’d have left this shit hole and gone stateside.”

They both laughed as Killian took in Connor’s new uniform.

“What’s up with the new rags and stripes?”

“I’m no longer a cargo master. I recently transferred. I’m now a staff sergeant in the Forward Air Control, working as an aerial observer.”

“Well, you said you wanted out from under the CIA. Do you like being an observer?”

“It’s interesting, and more dangerous, but I’m glad I transferred.”

“Conner, flying over Laos was darn dangerous, how’s this more dangerous?”

“Follow me. I’ve got a table over by the window. I’ll tell you all about it.”

Killian picked up his drink and they walked over to a two-top and sat down.

“I heard the Forward Air Control was short of observers, so I checked into it. It turned out I was already qualified, as I knew mapping, weather, terrain and coordinates, and could handle being a radio operator. The big plus was I already had top-secret clearance. So I was accepted and transferred.”

“What exactly does an observer do?” asked Killian.

“I’m assigned to an officer who’s an experienced pilot. We fly in a Cessna 0-1 Bird Dog. It’s a slow, propeller-driven plane with only a front and back seat. I’m a backseat reconnaissance aerial observer. We look for enemy encampments, and we call in air strikes or mark targets for destruction with white phosphorus. We don’t carry any firepower, as the plane is too light.”

“Damn, Connor, that’s got to be dangerous as hell.”

“It is, but not as bad as you’d think because most of the time, unless we spot the enemy, they don’t fire at us as they don’t want to give up their location. It’s difficult to see them as we’re looking down through double or triple canopy.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means double or triple foliage growth,” Connor explained. “The coverage makes it hard to see their encampments.”

“I guess that’s the reason for the herbicide spraying I’ve heard about,” said Killian.