CHAPTER 30
25 AUGUST 1970
Alpha slithered away from Campobasso, slithered into the still night like one long segmented snake seeking prey. The boonierats had risen from their slumber, stretched the cold exhaustion from their weary backs, lingered until prodded, pulled by Brooks at point. They glided east, moving with no signs of movement, concealed beneath the renewed ground mist. The NVA too were on the move.
Where are they? Brooks demanded of his mind. Where are the little people? Have they been going there? Basing there? Hiding there? What will they do when we …
His thoughts shattered as fire erupted 1200 meters east. Audio concealment, he told himself. The noise from the east increased. Small arms fire, AKs, RPGs, maybe an SKS. Return fire, frags, claymores, M-16s and 60s. Alpha continued its slinking east then south toward the river.
Who’s hitting Bravo? Brooks asked. Good, he thought. They’ll be away from their base camp. Let Bravo take some. We’ll go in and get their REMFs. Headquarters, huh? Who mans headquarter units? Clerks and jerks. Chairborne commandos. REMFs. Don’t worry, Doc. This is not a suicide mission. Valley of death? Why? Why should it be? Why can’t they make it easy on me? Why can’t we agree on the plan? They know the score. Score? It is a language which translates war reality into clouds. I should write that down. Good fog. If we’re lucky it won’t clear before we cross the river. Stop it, Ruf. Just nice and steady, he said to himself. Easy, ease under the mist. Quiet. Lila, sweetie, when I get back, me and your Jody-boy are meeting one-on-one and my tactics are no longer limited to street games. I just may call in arty support.
Brooks had dived into his bag of tricks, had tried harder than ever to come up with a plan that would deceive the enemy and put Alpha in good attack position. FO’s got every possible target listed “on-call,” he thought. Instant fire. Instant support. No one hurt. Capture their headquarters, take prisoners.
* * *
Two hundred meters from the river the serpent’s tail detached. Brooks led the CP, 3d and 2d Plts due south toward the river. Egan led 1st Plt southwest toward the riverbend on the east side of the knoll. The audio concealment continued. Mortar and artillery rounds exploded. Bravo’s 2d Plt was on the hook calling for an urgent Dust-Off. Egan advanced with Marko, the M-60 gunner, at slack. “Need fire power,” he had told Cherry. Cherry was fourth back. Egan slid through the valley brush, the bamboo, the elephant grass, as if he need not step, as if he could will his body three feet forward and have it materialize there without motion. The artillery for Bravo ceased. The thick valley air began to move, at first ever so gently, then a bit stronger until it became a breeze and bent the tops of the elephant grass and swayed the bamboo. Egan swayed with the bamboo, bent with the grass. Egan was born for the jungle valley, raised for a jungle valley war. He was the essence of the infantry. Marko looked at him from behind. All he could see was a boonie hat above a heavy rucksack and two legs below. He was impressed with the perfect balance of ruck and man. He would have been horrified had he known Egan’s thoughts.
Egan’s thoughts had deteriorated steadily since the high Stephanie’s letter had brought. He had been uncharacteristically silent during the meal at the CP but he did not think anyone had noticed. They had all been quiet. Egan had covered it well. When Cherry had joked, “You know what I’d really like? I’d like a real roll of toilet paper. A nice soft roll of facialquality tissue.” And Brown had extended it by quipping, “Hemorrhoids gettin you?” Egan had whispered, “I think we just might be able to help you.” He had risen, gone to his ruck and returned with a real roll. Everyone had been amazed.
After dinner they had slept, rested, waiting for 0200 hours, and Egan had asked himself again and again, “What the fuck have I produced? What the fuck makes him crazy like that?”
The thought of Cherry with his fingers in Minh’s brain had made Egan retch. He had fought against the retching, fought against the feeling. Then he had gone over and spoken to Cherry: “Yer nuts, Mothafucker. Yer goin nuts. Get hold a yerself, Man. Think. Don’t be an asshole.” And Cherry had rolled back snickering and had grabbed his groin and laughed, “I got hold a myself. Hey Man, my bag is killin gooks.” And Egan’s thoughts had continued sinking. He had gone to Doc and had tried to talk to him but Doc wasn’t talking. Then he had gone to Jax and Jax had sensed it before Egan had said it. They had exchanged a silent dap then Egan had said, “Jax … Jax.” “It okay, Eg.” “Man, do you … I don’t think a dude’s death bothers him after he’s dead … not like just before he’s scattered. If you can control your thoughts before … it won’t bother you at all.” “Cool it, Eg,” Jax had said but Egan continued, whispered, “Everybody’s got a life wish and a death wish. When the second’s stronger than the first, Jax, then a dude eats it. Death aint random, Jax.” “Shee-it EgMan, this aint even …” “I got it, Jax.” “No fuckin way.” “I got it,” Egan had repeated. “I got it. Remember when Hutch got it before 714?” “Where yo guts, Man?” “It don’t lie, Jax.” “Aint yo got guts?” “It’s cool now,” Egan had said and he had relaxed. Jackson cried and barely listened as Egan talked. “I was just thinkin I’d like to go fishing. You know, go and just sit back, lie back maybe in the shade of a tree and let a clean breeze blow over my face. My shirt would be open and I could feel the breeze on my chest. I’d have a line in the water not ten feet in front of me and not a fish in the world would bother it. I wouldn’t even bait the hook. I wouldn’t even tie a hook to the line. Why should I want to go fishing, Jax? I never went fishing except as a little kid and then I never caught anything. I don’t even think I like fishing. Funny, huh? Ya know, I was just thinking about fishing with Escalato. I can see that dude standin there that last night, standin there in the middle of the LZ directin in the Dust-Off while all that shit was fly in at him. He was really somethin, Man. It should a never happened. An ol Rafe, as much as I hate to admit it, that dude saved my ass twice. And Little Minh. And Garbageman and Silvers. I bet they all like to fish.” Jax pulled his knees up and buried his face in them and he cried. Jax remembered Hutch getting the feeling. Others had too. Some died. Some survived. “Don’t mean nothin, Jax,” Egan whispered. He had cupped his hand over Jax’ shoulder and had squeezed and shook it. ‘Really, Bro. Thanks. It’s okay now. Don’t say nothin, okay?”
During the night Egan had relaxed more and more and everything changed. He found he could think of himself as nonexistent, as dead. Egan had heard the radio call for them to move out yet he had not heard the words. He felt stronger as they left, stronger as they walked, very strong as he led 1st Plt toward the river. He was at peace. He was greatly aware of life, of the mist and the wind, of the wonderful lush green vegetation of the valley and the rich humus beneath his feet. He thought of himself in the third person. His fate is sealed, he thought. He can go forth without apprehension. He knows the future. It’s okay. It’s okay now that he knows it is coming. What terrible timing, though, just when Stephanie writes. Just when there could have been a future. Fuck it. Don’t mean nothin. It’s okay. Everyone dies sometime.
Before Alpha reached its river crossing sites Bravo was hit again. The medical evacuation had just begun when the NVA opened up with rifles and machine guns, and the helicopters had not been able to extract the wounded. The noise was ferocious. Helicopter gunships were attempting to strafe enemy locations but targets were not visible and the only known locations were those in very close and mixing with Bravo. From a kilometer away the small arms cracked and disguised any noise Alpha might have made. Alpha proceeded to its river crossing sites undetected. The wind had blown the covering mist off the river. Three huge explosions flashed, boomed to the west. Now Charlie Company was getting hit.
For nearly two days the NVA command had restricted the movement of its troops. Their thoughts had been simple. The Americans have been ambushing us because we have lost contact with several of their elements. We do not know the exact locations of all the Americans. The enemy has a temporary advantage. However the Americans resupply by helicopter and thus must give away their positions. We can pick them up at their LZs, adjust while we follow them and then hit them whenever possible.
The NVA had adjusted. Charlie Company had two dead, two wounded. They too were calling for Dust-Off.
Beneath the aircluttering thwacks of the Dust-Off fleets Alpha prepared to cross the Khe Ta Laou. At the site beneath the knoll Cherry stripped. He sat in the rivermud, feet in the current, body concealed from the view of possible knoll observers with night scopes by the ragged foliage. The knoll loomed up like a tremendous monster before him. The summit seemed three hundred feet up, the sides appeared as vertical crevice-lined cliffs. At the top the tree looked like a horn on a monster’s nose, a horn with a massive hood spreading over the top. Cherry sneered at the knoll. Eat it, fucker, he thought at the knoll. You’ll get yours. Then he began a rhyme in his mind. He laughed as he chanted it silently.
Here we go, up and down,
over and out and over again.
Here we go.
I think that there shall never be,
anyone crazy, as crazy as me.
Ha, Cherry laughed loudly within his head. The sound could not have been louder for him had it existed for him and all the men about him. He screamchanted in his mind:
Men at war, once again,
Peace’s a bore,
Let’s have fun.
Men at war, you and me,
And I know,
I’m crazy.
Glorious, he thought. That is a glorious rhyme. He screamed it twice as loud in his head until he felt certain every boonierat, every enemy, the tree, the knoll, God, they all must have heard it. Cherry stared into the dark jungle about him. No one was visible. He smiled. Poor Eg, he thought. Poor guy DEROSes in two weeks. He’s goina miss all the fun. An Jax. Dude leaves in several months too. El Paso in a month. Even the L-T’s leavin. Poor dudes. They oughta extend. I’m already becomin an old-timer. What a great bunch a guys. If I could only keep em together, we could do anything. It’s sad. It’s almost over. They’re goina extract us and then these dudes’ll split. I can keep em together, he whispered to himself. I can keep em together, he said, he shouted, he swore it before God. His inner voice building to a crescendo. I can keep em together in my head. They only exist in my head.
Then the voice crashed. Jesus Christ, he said aside to himself. Jesus Christ! If Jesus Christ was a man and all men are brothers, does not that mean Christ was my brother. He is the Son of God. Then it follows that I too am the Son of God and thus a God myself. I am immortal. I am immune to destruction. I am a man-God. If I get blown away I will resurrect myself. My friends, Leon, Minh, Whiteboy, I hold the power to destroy you, yet I love you too much. This is a love the others do not yet understand. My friends, we have become one being. Your cells are my cells, my cells are yours. I have this love in me for you, in me, through me, with me, in the power and the spirit of this man-god you are resurrected and you shall live. I am the Mangod and ye shall not raise false gods before Me.
The plan of attack at Khe Ta Laou had evolved with each skirmish, with each POW and document captured, and with each new report from aerial reconnaissance. Each information bit fit like a piece into a jigsaw puzzle, and with each piece placed the puzzle became easier. The Old Fox, brigade commander, had been certain Bravo’s Comeback Ridge contained the NVA headquarters he so badly wanted. The GreenMan had disagreed and said the bunker complex would be at valley center. Each Intelligence Officer had his own idea. One by one the alternatives had either been proved wrong or simply, expediently, bypassed. Comeback Ridge had contained a hospital complex but no communications center or operation center were ever found. Areas of the north ridge went unexplored because of Delta Company’s bungling. All attention turned to the valley center with the discovery of the amphibious cart. It was the last alternative. Perhaps, as the GreenMan later asserted, it should have been the first, with an entire infantry company having been inserted atop the knoll on 13 August.
Later the Old Fox would defend his initial planning by saying the 7th of the 402d had circled the valley on the first morning and no major enemy units broke out of the trap thus nothing was lost. The argument would be purely academic. The plan had evolved and by the 24th the final squeeze had begun. Bravo Company closed down from the east, Charlie Company from the west. At first light 25 August both companies were stalled in defensive positions with wounded. Delta Company descended the north ridge quickly under the direct leadership of the GreenMan. By first light Delta had closed off the enemy highway below the ridge and was advancing into Alpha’s old AO. During the night Recon had descended the southern cliffs. First light found them disoriented and attempting to regroup among the mounds. NVA booby traps and snipers would hamper all four elements all morning. Alpha, which had not resupplied, had not been pinpointed by the enemy. They crossed the river undetected.
The sky is no longer black yet the brightest stars are visible. The earth is dark. In the hour before sunrise everything, everyone—the foliage, the earth, the mountains—takes on a blue-black tint, almost transparent. The wind is steady. The last remnant of fog has dissolved. It is the 13th day of the operation.
Egan leads 1st Plt. He is ecstatic. He is higher than he has ever been and he is at peace within. He has forgotten he is alive. He moves spiritlike, stealing along softly. His mission is to clear and secure the high feature, to cut an LZ on the knoll and to establish a base from which to support and reinforce 2d and 3d Plts if necessary. Behind him twenty-three boonierats advance cautiously. They are on a well-used trail, beneath canopy cover. Everything they see appears permanent. Everything is vacant.
No, Thomaston cries inside. No, we aint really doing this. I’m down to sixteen and a wake-up. Sweat rolls from his forehead into his eyes. Sixteen and a wake-up, he repeats. I’m a lieutenant. I’m not supposed to be in the bush with sixteen and a wake-up.
One mo step, Jax says to himself. One mo little step. His right hand twitches toward his pocket wanting to grab his hair pick. He resists. The ol right in front a the lef, he tells himself. Yo jest keep yo fuckin eyes all over the mothafuckin jungle. Jackson studies the trail briefly. His eyes dart up to the canopy. He keeps his head as still as possible moving only his eyes. A tree there, he says. Bush there. Grass there. If they opens up from the lef I jumps to that bush an do em a damn-damn. If they opens from the right I get in that depression. Jax, yo gotta git a job in comp’ny supply. What yo dowin fightin a white man’s war? If they opens from the lef I can make that clump. If they opens from the right I goes back ta the depression.
1st Plt reaches a point approximately 100 meters in from the river at the knoll base. 3d Sqd breaks off and begins climbing. Cherry joins them, leads them. They form a three-man point with Cherry at center, Harley to the left and Hill to the right.
Centered behind them is Frye with the new XM-203, then in column, Andrews with the radio, Kirtly, Mullen and Lt. Thomaston at drag. They advance very slowly, letting the other squads continue across the base of the knoll. After 10 meters 2d Sqd breaks off and heads uphill into the knoll. 1st Sqd continues, then turns. 1st and 2d form advancing arrows similar to 3d’s. These three-man points have the machine gunners at center, riflemen to each side, grenade launcher just behind ready to lob rounds over the point. Now all three squads advance, begin the sweep up the knoll.
Brooks thinks, this is the last time. This is the last time I will lead an infantry company. Three and a wake-up. He leads 2d and 3d Plts in an arc away from the river, behind the knoll, behind 1st Plt. Their mission is to find, enter and destroy the NVA headquarters. Brooks thinks now without speech. He hears, feels, sees inside his thoughts, without words, the bunkers are west, northwest, at the base of the knoll. He leads the boonierats through brush and grass and into a nearly impenetrable bamboo forest. Brooks works slowly, quietly, patiently. He slithers with the patience of a hunter, the natural patience of a cat stalking prey, waiting for the moment to strike.
Behind Brooks no thoughts enter Pop Randalph’s mind. He is part of the machine. He is a machine. He is an acute sensor with the responsibility of protecting the point, taking the shock when it comes.
At the middle of the column Doc Johnson’s mind is full of thoughts, full of words. He is angry. They got no right, he thinks. No right. The oppressor got no rights the oppressed got to respect. Jax right. Cleaver right. They got no business sendin us down here ta be butchered. This aint a mission; this is suicide. Doc hears a twig snap. His heart freezes then beats one immense pulse which he feels throb down through his abdomen and up to his shoulders and on, building, surging, splashing up behind his eyes. He winces. He does not locate the origin of the sound.
Brooks breaks out of the bamboo thicket and leads them across a red ball. Bamboo frames an arch over the road concealing it from above. The platoons move into a mix of brush and bamboo and grass. 3d Plt begins spreading right, 2d left, the CP remains at middle. Nahele moves to the far right flank. He moves easily, cautiously. His M-60 machine gun seems to pull at his finger as if the weapon wants to be fired, wants to fire. He fights the gun’s desire. He pulls his squad, now his squad without Ridgefield or Snell, right. Then he turns and advances and begins the sweep northeast toward the river at the west base of the knoll.
On the knoll 1st Plt reaches the mid-point of their ascent. Every step has been quiet yet they feel a presence, are oppressed with apprehension. They slow further. Cherry smells the air. He smells them. Egan smells them. Cherry looks left right. He drops to one knee and across the sweep they all drop into the brush vegetation. 1st Plt’s three prongs have closed from a thirty meter width to a twenty. Cherry smells again. He looks up. The massive tree is 250 meters ahead, 50 meters up. Its colossal spreading limbs seem to stretch over him. He searches the boughs and leafage. He becomes aware of warmth on the back of his arms and neck. The sun is up, has crested the eastern ridge. The noise of helicopters comes from the east and west. Medevacs, he thinks. And the C & C. Suddenly pure white flashes cut across his world. He whirls squeezing his 16, firing at the sight before the sound registers, before he knows he is firing. Bursts of AK-47 fire flashing from the right, then the sound erupts in his ears. There is firing to the left, explosions, the crackcrackcrack M-16s returning fire, his 16 barking.
“I’m hit,” he hears Hill yell. Cherry and Harley leap, hit the ground firing. They do not pause for Hill. Frye fires from both barrels. He pays no attention to outgoing. Enemy rounds rip up the dirt at his side. Cherry snaps a second magazine into his 16. He is charging, firing. Great whooshing noises tear the air at his ears. RPGs. Rocket Propelled Grenades. Booming. The concussion rocks his eyes. His concentration does not break. He continues firing. Andrews is screaming, “Bravo! Bravo!” Alpha’s code for medic.
To the left Egan is screaming, charging into the fire coming down from above. He fires and charges quick, agile. He is everywhere at once firing rounds like walls of lead. He whirls. He kills. He does not linger on the sight of enemy death. He swings firing right left. “For Minh,” he screams. He does not know he has yelled it. Marko and Jackson advance with him. Sachel charges explode before them. The concussion dissipates. Their ears ring. They do not know it. “Let um know they fuckin with the Oh-Deuce,” Egan screams. Marko shouts his battle cry. No sound leaves his throat. They dive for concealment, reload.
Moneski from 2d Sqd dives in behind Egan. Beaford and Smith dive in behind Cherry and Harley. 2d Sqd has split up, five reinforce 3d Sqd, three 1st Sqd. The NVA do not capitalize on the split by driving up the center.
Cherry crashes forward, smashes forward, firing firing. He leaps a meter at a time and crashes down into the brush, the bamboo. Stalks stab him. Sticks rip his fatigues, his skin. Grass and vines trip him. He falls forward. Thorns rip his face. He does not know it, does not feel it.
“My toes! My foot! It’s shot away.” Hill is screaming. There is enemy fire coming from above and right. 1st Sqd is battling left. They are diverging. Cherry reloads. It is his fifth magazine. Hill crawls inward, toward the center, away from the firing. He slips under a bush for cover. His right leg drags. Blood is spurting from his ankle. “Medic,” Andrews screams. “Medic!” Fuck codes. Doc McCarthy is with 1st Sqd. He and Numbnuts are pinned down. They do not fire. They do not move. Andrews lays his rifle down carefully. He strips the pants from Hill’s left leg below the knee. Blood is everywhere. It shines brightly on Hill’s white skin. It saturates Andrews’ pants where it spurts. Andrews rips Hill’s battle dressing from the wounded man’s web belt. “My leg,” Hill screams. “My foot. It’s blown off.” “Shut up,” Andrews snarls. “Bite your tongue. You want a gook zeroin in here.” Andrews slaps the dressing over the now flowing wound and wraps it over the holes. The ankle is shattered. Tendons are broken. The foot flops lifeless. “Aaaaahh,” Hill cries, pain firing up his leg as Andrews clamps his hand on the wound. Direct pressure, Andrews thinks. Hill is thrashing, moaning, under the brush.
Fire from bunkers or fighting positions above slices through the brush, shattering it, smashing it. Marko sprays back into the noise, into the streaming lead, his machine gun ripping smashing ferociously. “Keep em down,” Egan yells. He throws a frag at the bunker thirty feet away. He runs, dives, advances six feet, crawls. Marko keeps firing. Jax fires. Denhardt fires. “Move yer fuckin ass,” Egan screams firing. The grenade explodes harmlessly below the bunker. Jax advances. Marko keeps firing, mixing fire with enemy fire. Jax throws a frag, his last. He fires. Egan rushes up left. Jax’ grenade explodes. Trying to throw a one-pound grenade into a two foot wide slit from thirty feet while taking fire is impossible. Numbnuts with his XM-203 firing grenade rounds would not have been more effective, was he trying, but he had buried his head in a bush with the first volley. He is crying, weeping. “Let me go home. Let me go home.” Doc McCarthy raises his eyes. He hears Andrews call. He can’t move. He is trembling. An RPG round explodes above him. His stomach twists, he vomits. He tries to move away from his vomit. Machine gun fire cracks over his head. He drops flat, face-down in his own retchedness. He curses Numbnuts for infecting him with fear. “Medic!” he hears Andrews scream. I can, he says. I can. I got to. Doc McCarthy crawls. “Where ya goin?” Numbnuts cries. “No,” his teeth chatter. “No, Doc.” He hears, feels a sachel charge erupting up, up there, between Egan and Marko. He flattens, cries. He is sure he is pinned down forever. Mc-Carthy’s gone.
“Rover Two,” Brooks’ voice comes urgently over the radio. “Rover Two, Quiet Rover Four. Over … Rover Two, Quiet Rover Four. Over.” Marko’s firing steady. The barrel of his 60 is burning. Lairds and Denhardt firing bursts alternately. Reloading alternately. Most of 1st Sqd firing, Egan charging. At the bunker. Egan dives into the bunker with his 16 flashing. He sprays downward left right. It is not a bunker. He sees it immediately. Knows it immediately. It is a trench running horizontal, arcing about the knoll. There is no one in this segment. They can be anywhere. Move anywhere. Fighting is raging to the right.
“Rover Two, Quiet Rover Four,” Brooks whispers frantic.
“Four, Two. Over,” Hoover answers.
“Sit-rep? Over,” Brooks asks urgently.
“We got em running. Over.”
“How large an element? Over.”
“Fifteen. Maybe eighteen. We can kill em. Over.”
“What’s your position from basket? Over.”
“200 … maybe 150 mikes. They’re running to the sidelines. Can we get ARA on them? Over.”
“Affirmative. Will try. Cut to the basket. Direct your niner, cut to the basket. Set up number five. Over.”
“Medic,” Hoover hears Thomaston scream from the center. Thomaston is with Hill. Hill is still moaning. His dressing is slick with blood. Thomaston grabs him, unfastens his belt, makes a tourniquet about Hill’s thigh groin-high. “Keep it tight,” Thomaston directs Andrews. He grabs Andrews’ radio. He hears Brooks and Hoover.
“Affirmative,” Hoover says.
“Negative,” Thomaston cuts in. “Right forward engaged. Double whiskey india alphas. One priority. Over.”
“Shoot for the hoop,” Brooks comes on the net. “Set-up five. Over. Out.”
1st Sqd sprints for the trench, leaps, jumps dives in. Denhardt leaps from the trench uphill, Lairds follows. They rush foot-by-foot, run crouched, meter-by-meter, toward the center. Egan stays in the trench, runs, fires semi-automatic, rounds splatting in the trenchwalls before him. Jax and Marko cover the left flank, one above one below the trench. There is no fire from above. There is an explosion in the trench. Egan’s legs burn whitehot, his equilibrium lapses, he cascades forward still running. He has triggered a booby trap, a sachel charge, stone shrapnel burns in his legs. He drops his rifle. The sound of the explosion reaches his brain. He feels instant nausea. It is not a big explosion, he thinks. RPDs, AKs, RPG fire explode from the trench before him, beyond his sight, around the curve. He hears Harley scream, “Medic.” Egan grabs his 16. Carefully now, he checks it. He ejects the magazine and inserts a fresh one. He chambers a fresh round then tries to crawl. His legs burn, his back feels hot, wet, sticky. Egan pulls his knees up under him, rocks back and stands. He charges down the trench.
Cherry charges the trench from below, his eyes blazing. He has enemy soldiers in his sights. He fires killing one. The other is fleeing. Cherry leaps. He is on top of the enemy. The soldier falls. He is small, lean, hard, but no match for Cherry. Cherry is on him gouging his eyes. “Choui Hoi,” the enemy yells cries into Cherry’s madly punching fists. The man gashes at Cherry defensively. Cherry is infuriated. He digs his fingers into the enemy’s face. The soldier bites Cherry’s hand. Cherry bites his face, the nose crushes, Cherry bites, mad-dog, bites and rips the soldier’s neck simultaneously thrusting his bayonet into the enemy stomach. Blood explodes in Cherry’s mouth. He freezes. He feels Egan standing over him, staring at him.
Firing erupts sporadically all over the valley. The firebase is being mortared, the C & C takes fire. The NVA’s coordinated plan is now being implemented. All four US perimeter companies are being attacked at once. It is costly to the NVA. They have at least thirty-six killed. American helicopters are strafing NVA concentrations. Red smoke is billowing from a dozen US marking grenades, marking US front lines or NVA positions.
American units do not advance. They are too close to each other for artillery or tactical air support. The NVA are attempting to have them fire at each other. From the C & C bird the GreenMan sees their plan. He also suspects, as does Brooks on the ground, that the NVA plan does not include Alpha Company, that Alpha has indeed lost itself in the valley and the ruse of not resupplying has worked. Only a skeleton crew of enemy soldiers is protecting the headquarters complex.
They are sweeping northwest through the brushforest. The sun is playing in the valley vegetation throwing dappled shadows against vegetation and ground and men. The shadows seem to dance in the stalks and leaves as the men sweep silently. They are in three rough lines, the front line men seven meters apart, too far, they think, yet that is how Brooks ordered it. The second line is three to four meters back, splitting the distance between the men in front, each second row man walking slack for two front row men. Behind, the third line are the reinforcers, the reactors, and the co-ordinators. The sweep has advanced 300 meters. They have halted, listening to 1st Plt’s fight, waiting to be directed to help.
“Hey, L-T,” FO whispercalls. “Hey,” he gestures quickly at a camouflaged mound, a swell not eight inches higher than the valley floor around it. “Hey,” he whispershouts, “we’re on top of a bunker complex.”
Brooks looks. He stares. It is not FO’s style to conjure up nonexistent bunkers yet Brooks does not see a bunker. The commander and the forward observer are fewer than two meters apart. They are kneeling behind the front two lines. Brooks stares. FO is covering the mound with his 16. He has risen and is advancing on the mound. The immediate area is silent. 1st Plt’s battle for the knoll is quieting. Brooks stares, he sees nothing. Then the form emerges from the camouflaging background. It is like an optical illusion which, once seen, one cannot easily reverse. Brooks scans the area. He sees what FO has seen. There are bunkers everywhere, before them and behind. The camouflage seems to melt away, and there is a field of bunkers, a field of low square mounds buried beneath growing layers of brush and vine and some bamboo and some low trees. A few of the bunkers are beneath what appears to be old Montagnard thatch hootches that have collapsed and rotted.
It happens to Pop Randalph at the far left and to Nahele at the far right. Some still see nothing even as others point out mounds to them. Never have any of them seen such perfect camouflage. There seem to be no openings. A spooky feeling sweeps across the invaders. Where are they? Brooks thinks. Where are the little people? Why haven’t they hit us? He directs the unit to squeeze in at the flanks and bulge at the sides. “Have them form a perimeter,” he tells El Paso. “We’ll clear from inside out. Get Nahele up here. And McQueen. And Pop.”
The boonierats react as if they were muscles in Brooks’ body. They operate silently as if they communicate by telepathy and not by voice. Fear keeps them silent. Nahele is the first underground. He dives into a bunker opening that FO has found, one of only three discovered in all the square mounds Alpha has now investigated. With a .45 and a flashlight Nahele dives in as an underwater demolition expert on patrol might dive into a harbor across from his target. He comes out in only seconds. “It’s empty,” he whispers. “It’s a vacant room. There’s three tunnels leading out a it.”
Brooks and Pop and McQueen follow Nahele back in. Brooks follows a tunnel south. The tunnel is large enough for him to walk hunched. It curves right then left and opens into a second room larger than the first. There is another tunnel leaving it. The sides are stacked with cases and crates. Holy fucken Christ! Brooks thinks. Pop is behind him. Then Nahele. McQueen has stayed in the empty room to guard against enemy coming from the other tunnels. Brooks comes from the second room with a case of mortar rounds. He pushes it up, out, above ground where FO grabs it and pulls it aside and helps Brooks from the hole. Brooks moves quickly now. He grabs Cahalan, grabs the handset of his radio and calls the GreenMan. In the second-long pause before the battalion commander answers, Brooks directs El Paso to tell Lt. De Barti that he, Brooks, wants Baiez’ squad immediately. “Red Rover,” Brooks addresses the GreenMan, “we’ve found it. We’re in it.” He continues explaining. “The tip of a iceberg,” he says. He hears the GreenMan laughing joyously in his C & C bird circling three thousand feet over the valley. He hears the GreenMan laughing and saying, “This is it. Get it all out. I’ll get ya a back-up element for security. This is what I’ve been looking for.” Brooks hears, feels the GreenMan’s enthusiasm. It makes Brooks feel good.
And up it comes. Cases, cartons, crates. Cases of 82mm mortar rounds, each individually wrapped in corrugated cardboard.
Cartons of fuses. Boxes of paper-like explosive propellent discs that the NVA mortarmen used instead of the powder bags used by the US and ARVN forces. Baiez and Shaw are grabbing the supplies, stacking them, building piles. They are breathing hard, sweating. The day is becoming a scorcher.
Below ground it is cool. Pop is investigating a third set of rooms. I bet they’re all connected, he thinks. I bet they’re connected to Whiteboy’s Mine up on the ridge. He and McQueen go into a fourth room. It is filled with radios and communication equipment. They take, one radio and drag it through the tunnel network to the entry room. Brooks orders four more men below ground. The air is filled with discovery. Never have any of Alpha’s boonierats seen such a cache, captured such quantities of equipment. They are smiling, laughing quietly, working eagerly. Brooks thinks, this is an NVA haven, a refuge for their battle weary soldiers. They could crawl into these bunkers and hide here for weeks. And it is their command and communication center. We have it. This is what it should be. Brooks is elated. This, he thinks, is the headquarters of the 7th NVA Front.
Jenkins on the right flank discovers another opening. He and Spangler slip in and find an entry room with tunnels leading northeast and south. They investigate moving south. More equipment. The C & C bird is now circling at fifteen hundred feet. Escort Cobras circle above the C & C. The stack of equipment grows. Chi-com claymore mines fill one entire room. Cases of 37mm anti-aircraft rounds fill another. There are RPG rounds and cans of RPD machine gun ammunition and three thousand sachel charges. The GreenMan can see the stacks growing from one thousand feet.
Suddenly fire erupts at the south perimeter. 2d Plt’s CP and 2d and 3d Sqds are receiving fire, returning fire. All hell has broken loose. Molino is at the center. He cannot tell what is happening. He has hit the dirt with the first burst. He hears someone screaming, “Bravo! Bravo!” Then he sees Doc Johnson running across the top of a bunker. Doc is breaking his way through brush and small trees. He carries his medical bag in his left hand and he is firing his .45 pistol with his right. Doc disappears from Molino’s vision. Molino cannot see the wounded because of the thick undergrowth. He sees Pop Randalph running. Pop has sprinted from Alpha’s center. He is running in the direction Doc ran. He is screaming in his hoarse high voice, yelling at the top of his lungs. He has a grenade in his left hand and grenades strapped to his web gear. He fires his 16 and yells. Molino cannot understand the words. Pop disappears into the foliage. The fighting is building. The noise is fogthick in the steaming air. Molino hears shrapnel slashing into the vegetation to his left. Someone is screaming. Molino looks leftright. He cannot let them go it alone. He hunches his back, brings his legs up under him, his hands are on the earth, his rifle is stuffed in the muck. He is sprinting. He throws a grenade. He did not even know he had prepared one, he did not know he knew the enemy location. He is firing. He is with Doc and Pop and Calhoun. Doc Hayes is wounded. Doc Johnson is applying battle dressings to his chest. A horrible sucking gurgle is coming from Hayes’ chest. Blood froths from Hayes’ mouth. It disgusts Molino. The NVA disengage, disappear, dissolve. Pop wants to charge them, pursue them. They have wounded his medic.
“Negative that,” Brooks is adamant. It has been his most successful move ever. He does not want it ruined, he does not want it to end. “Pop smoke in front of your position,” he radios 2d Plt. Calhoun takes over from there. Red smoke is billowing up from a smoke grenade before them. Calhoun is in radio contact with the Cobras. “Dinks at two one zero degrees,” he radios and first one Cobra and then a second roll from the sky diving across Alpha unleashing their mini-guns into and south of the smoke, running cutting a swath on the 210° course. The electric Galling guns fire so quickly they sound like buzz saws. The pilots report no kills. They do not see the enemy.
Woods comes from the bunker opening. He is livid. He wants to go back in. “There’s a map room in there, L-T,” he says. “I just know there’s goina be a full fledged TOC down there.” As he speaks firing erupts behind him where Lt. Caldwell and 3d Plt CP are manning the perimeter. Woods drops flat, scrambles to his ruck and slips in. He grabs his rifle and crawls toward the fight. Again the boonierats pop smoke and again the Cobras dive in but Lt. Caldwell has retreated, has ordered his men back and the NVA have followed. The enemy is on Caldwell’s side of the smoke. Kinderly is hit in the head by shrapnel from a B-40 rocket. The skin is torn to pieces, the skull is splintered. He is running, retreating. El Paso, Brown, L-T and FO run into the fight. They overtake Woods. They sweep past Caldwell who is still giving ground. They are firing madly. A shot grazes Brooks biting a skin chunk off his left wrist. He fires. He sees the man firing at him as he fires. The NVA skull bursts, explodes.
He is sweating, crawling, calling in air support. A Cobra pilot sees movement toward the bunkers from the east. He dives his ship firing rockets and mini-gun. Other gunships are diving to the west and the south, then rolling, circling above Alpha and diving again. The NVA are pulling back from hitting Bravo, Charlie and Recon. They are falling back to cover their headquarters complex. Brooks looks up and sees the C & C bird at twenty-five hundred feet. Rockets and Cobras and LOHs are everywhere. There is fire spewing from the sky over Alpha in every direction. The sky is darkening with smoke.
At the complex center Nahele is with the stacked munitions and equipment. He rigs two blocks of C-4 explosive to the radios and inserts a blasting cap. He works quickly, forcing his mind to concentrate, forcing his fingers to operate. Alpha is pulling back. Nahele sees Doc Johnson carrying Doc Hayes on his back. Nahele attaches his claymore wire to the blasting cap wire and quickly unrolls.
“Fuck that,” Caldwell screams at him. “They can blow it with ARA. Dinks are poppin up all over.” Caldwell is running, running for the knoll. Nahele checks his claymore firing device, looks once more at the bunker orifice. It is dark, black in the light of the day. The blackness explodes, Nahele’s chest explodes with pain. He falls, is thrown backward. His body racks in spasms. He can hear the crunched bones. The pain ends quickly which surprises him. He can no longer feel it. He hears the impact of rounds slamming into his legs, abdomen, chest, but he does not feel it at all.
Brooks and FO, shouting orders that go unheard, try to organize the boonierats. Alpha retreats to the knoll behind a screen of ARA.