13th Valley (75 page)

It was up there again. High over the valley. The music, the PsyOps bird with its loudspeakers blaring. Minh looked up but he could not see the bird. It is probably above the range of .51 cals, he thought. Minh did not like hearing the music. He tried to shut it out. The PsyOps people were playing the same tape they had played on the first and second days of the operation. The bird descended slowly, spiralling down, playing the music first near the firebase then over the north escarpment, now over the valley center. Minh could not help but listen. The sorrowful funeral music brought back many memories, memories of a war that had rocked his land all his life and much more. Minh had heard the music played for brothers and cousins and friends. He remembered how his cousin's body had been delivered to his family in 1965. The body came in an opaque black plastic bag. When the bag was opened the family found the body just as it had been at the moment of death. Minh's cousin was still in uniform. The blood was still sticky on the newly cold flesh. Above the valley the tune changed. Minh knew the new song also. It was said to be a popular song in the North. A girl sang woefully of her first lover who was far away. A metal drum beat the melancholy rhythm. When the song was over a third began. This one Minh found very saddening also for it was about a young boy who had left his love and gone off to combat. The melody began slowly. A lonely soldier sang the words. The PsyOps bird was directly over Alpha. The mist and fog had thinned but the helicopter was so high it could not be seen from the ground. With it two Cobras could be heard. Then all sounds of the birds left. Minh and Doc were seated just outside the CP circle.

“Funeral music again?” Doc asked quietly.

“Yes,” Minh whispered.

They sat quietly for several minutes. Suddenly they could hear helicopters again, many helicopters sounding as if they were diving directly for Alpha. All of Alpha looked up. A Huey was diving off the south ridge down toward the valley floor. Behind it to its left and right were Cobras. Behind them two more Cobras chased. From the Huey a spray of leaflets gushed, thousands of leaflets falling, being caught in the rotor wash of the helicopters and splaying then fluttering, falling gently with the rain. “Them crazy fuckas,” Doc whispered. “Trying ta draw fire so the snakes can shoot em up. Crazy, Man. Crazy.” The birds pulled out of their dive, gained altitude and the Huey began a new broadcast. The loudspeakers crackled. The tape recorded message in Vietnamese blared.

“Dear Comrades of the 812th Regiment, can you identify me?” Minh translated sentence by sentence for Doc. “I am Lieutenant Le Xuan Que, Political Commissar from the 812th. I have rallied to the Free World Forces.”

“That the POW?” Doc whispered quickly between sentences.

“Yes,” Minh said concentrating on the broadcast.

“Po fucka,” Doc said.

Minh continued translating. “For years I was with Battalion K-34. I served with KI/6 Company on 652 Mountain. Then I served with the K-19 Sapper Battalion. Three days ago I was captured. Now I am a free man with the People of the Republic of Vietnam. I appeal to all my friends to rally before you are killed by Free World Forces. Do you remember Battalion Commander, Duong, and Political Commissar, Co Rang Vau, told us many times about plans to encircle the enemy? After many days of fighting what have you accomplished? Do you see our comrades who fought with us? What has happened? I hope survivors of 652 Mountain and of Khe Ta Laou become clearheaded enough to understand the hollow promises of our cadre. I advise you to allow yourselves the opportunity to rally to the Government of Vietnam. Be like me. Or go back home. Leave the battlefield. Do you know that no one buried Phi, Link, Chieu or Song of the K-19 who died during our assault against the Americans? In the past week companies of Americans and South Vietnamese have killed hundreds of our comrades. Already this morning twenty of your friends have been killed. Much of your ammunition has been discovered and destroyed. The Americans have terrifying helicopters. They are coming to get you. You have a choice. Pick up the leaflets we are dropping. Hold them up to the Allies as they come for you. Do not hold your weapons. You will not be shot. Comrades, the Allies have treated me well and they have taken care of my health. Soldiers of the 7th Front, You Do Not Have To Die!”

The helicopter repeated the message down the valley, the message no longer intelligible to Minh at Alpha. Listening, squatting beside Minh, were Brooks, El Paso and Egan. Minh looked at them. Then he said, imitating Jax, “Shee-it. Aint no fucken way we aint gowin shoot em.” They all laughed.

At 1600 hours Alpha was ambushed again. They had moved back down toward the river, this time with two recon squads eighty meters forward of the main column. 2d Plt had led off with Baiez' and Mohnsen's squads reconning and Catt's squad at column point. Behind Catt's came the Co CP then 1st Plt and 3d at drag. The exhilaration of the earlier firefight had waned. The boonierats were again tired. They did not wish to descend again into the valley. Yet into the valley they went. Brooks had directed the unit in a spiral off the earthen swell, uphill, then east, then north and finally west again. The vegetation was patchy and discontinuous, elephant grass then secondary scrub brush, then bamboo. Five hundred meters from where they started hell broke loose slowly.

It began with Mohnsen's squad. Smith was at point, Garbageman at slack, then Mohnsen, Jones (RTO), Greer, Roberts and Sklar. A single AK round broke the air. Sniper? Trail watcher? It seemed like a warning shot fired high. They stopped. Squatted. Jones radioed El Paso. There was movement in the brush twenty meters ahead. Mohnsen moved up to Smith, kept him from firing. The squad leader motioned Smith and Garbageman right. The squad moved forward. Roberts and Sklar to the left. Mohnsen, Jones and Greer straight in. Jones radioed their position and situation to the other recon squad. They moved out. Another sniper round cracked, slashed through the high vegetation. They all wanted to open up but the sound was somehow muffled, its location blurred. They pursued quietly, hearts pumping faster, adrenaline flowing. Three AKs opened up at them. Mohnsen's squad exploded in a charging fusillade. They attacked the noise, firing, meeting the challenge of an unseen enemy, breaking an unknown ambush, attempting to gain fire superiority. Again the NVA fired, lower now, more continuous yet still retreating. Garbageman saw one. He unloaded half a magazine at the fleeing soldier. The rounds slammed into the NVA's legs, ass, lower back and the body collapsed running forward—Mothafuckers, Garbageman screaming—Mohnsen, Jones charging—got em runnin, kick ass, take no names. Then from three sides the entire jungle explodes, rocking—grenades, RPGs, RPDs and AKs. The ground shakes and thunders deafening all of Mohnsen's people. Quickly, quickly, everything happening instantaneously, a long instantaneousness, last forever in a flash. Then slowly, the reality congealing and time again pacing—Got to get out, Mohnsen. Got to get my people out. Jones screaming, crying. He is down yet still he returns fire. Armageddon Two, he screams into the radio, the noise about him too loud for him to hear any response—a series of rounds catches Greer's right thigh ripping the flesh and shattering bone, the leg disintegrates, he falls contorted, the leg twitching violently. Rockets whiz over Mohnsen, explode. Tracers zinging, then fireballs and thunder and smoke, powder, odor, pinned down, fear. The earth about them erupts, the air above becomes a fire tempest. Four boonierats are hit. All seven lay flat trying to creep into the earth, burying themselves in the rotting vegetation hugging the swamp floor muck. Smith bellows loud from pain, hit in the neck and shoulder and arm—Save us, God, save us—Mohnsen crawling to Jones grabbing blood-sticky radio. No American fire now, the NVA settling back to a controlled second-by-second torturous rifle fire methodically pecking at every square inch of their ambush kill zone, life seeping out of Greer, out of Smith. NVA gloating but not closing overrunning the site. Boonierats sad remorseful run to death from stupidity of falling into a trap at least two thousand years old. NVA in a U-shaped ambush clockwork pelting the killzone unseen.

From fifty meters away Baiez maneuvers his squad to behind the NVA position. The enemy have trenched-in beneath thick bamboo, their firing heard but not seen. Within two minutes the left flank recon squad is atop the NVA rear firing at noise, not seeing, just firing trying to break the NVA hold over Mohnsen. Another minute later the main column flanking right and coming frontally—the NVA opening up again with all their force, now inward, now outward. Brooks screaming into the radio, screaming at boonierats, “Keep your fire low. Keep it low.”

“Come on, Man,” Mohnsen whispers to Jones. “Come on. Hang on to me.” Mohnsen works Jones' body on top of his own then begins crawling, retreating. Roberts pushes his bloody stumped torso after Mohnsen. Garbageman pulls Greer, wraps his arm over Greer's chest like a lifeguard pulling a drowning victim. Sklar helps Smith. Crawling, all crawling, retreating, faces in the mud, slime oozing into their eyes and mouths, blood, fluids oozing out.

“Get em back,” Brooks calls, “Get em back.”

FO calling in artillery behind the NVA position. Cahalan calling for a medevac. El Paso monitoring each squad's position, directing, passing the L-T's orders. Withdrawing, withdrawing. Disengaged.

“Mark it,” Brooks directs. At Alpha's flanks and from center three red smoke-grenades are detonated. They billow thick plumes. From high above the valley the GreenMan directs attack. Two Cobras swoop down firing rockets toward the concealed enemy fighting position.

“Where's Greer? Where's Garbageman?” Mohnsen asked.

“Hit.” Jones gurgles sputum blood.

“Where?”

Jones pointing toward the inferno.

“Stop the birds. Stop the birds. Stop the fire.”

The helicopter barrage ceases, the birds circle. A rear element administers to the wounded. There are no cries of pain. Medics and soldiers helping. Cherry watching disattached as if not comprehending yet completely comprehending. “Medevac,” Cahalan screams into the handset. “M-E-D-E-V-A-C. You dumb mother. Got that.” Fear and bile surge to his throat, into his mouth, burning. The odor of explosions, gunsmoke, cordite and burned flesh is incredible and disgusting. He vomits. He does not care. “Get me a Dust-Off, here. Now … Fuck you, don't tell me not to cuss on your freq … you crazy … crazy son of a bitch. Get off this freq … get me Mercy Eagle. Fuck the colonel. Get me Dust-Off or this company's comin back in an looking you up. Over.” Cahalan shaking uncontrollably, crying. Doc Johnson working on Roberts. Both of his arms are torn apart at the shoulders. Fragments of bone and bamboo stick to the raw tissue, Doc Johnson works over the body like a highly trained mechanic. He works quickly, systematically, having Minh and Brown assist. Doc removes Roberts' left boot and begins an IV of plasmatine in the foot. He shoots Roberts with a syringe of morphine, then returns to the mangled stumps retying them off, quickly cleaning and wrapping the meaty shreds.

Simultaneously Brooks maneuvers 1st Plt and the remains of 2d back to the ambush site while 3d Plt retreats to an open space 250 meters east to establish a perimeter and an evacuation LZ. Egan directs the frontal assault. “Jax, take your squad around right,” he speaks with complete confidence and authority. “Cherry, Bill, we'll go left. Take it easy. 3d Sqd out farther right. Monk, you bring 2d straight in easy. Don't know one push it too hard. We all cover each other.”

Cherry looks at Lt. Thomaston. It is obvious Thomaston will follow Egan, will let Egan direct everything. All 1st Plt knows who commands 1st Plt. Thomaston had long ago put his rank and authority behind Egan and followed.

“Right on,” Jax says leading his squad right.

The flank elements waddle forward. 2d Sqd eases up the center. The Cobra rockets had blown chunks out of the jungle exposing two NVA bunkers and a vacated lateral fighting position. 1st Plt moves in, then stops. The bodies of Greer and Garbageman, a mangled mix of blood, mush and jungle, are splattered and nearly unrecognizable as human.

“Cover me,” Egan whispers to Cherry. He crosses to the fighting position, slides in, freezes, waits, then inches forward. His 16 is in his left hand, a grenade in his right. Jax tightens 1st Sqd on the right. Whiteboy closes the far right. To the far left Baiez' squad pinches in. Egan slithers from the foxhole toward the bunker, rolls, lays up next to the opening, rolls tosses in the grenade and rolls back. The concussion seems tame compared to the earlier hell. Cherry slithers to the fighting position and sets up cover for Egan. Brooks appears next to him from nowhere. Egan crawls to the second bunker and blows it. Then he dives in. Brooks jumps up and dives into the first. A second later they each reappear. Brooks has a shattered AK-47 rifle. Egan a sachel of grenades and two cans of AK ammunition. There are no NVA bodies. Alpha sweeps through the miniature bunker complex and fifty meters beyond. There are signs of enemy activity everywhere but no NVA and no blood trails.

Twenty minutes after blowing the bunkers Alpha retreated to where 3d Plt had cleared the evac LZ. The bunkers had exuded ghosts upon Alpha. They were not on a trail. The recon squad was in the middle of thick brush away from all trails. The ghosts followed the boonierats, infectiously passed from one to the next until a plague of skittish panic seized all but the doped wounded and dead.

The Dust-Off bird arrived and circled high above waiting for Alpha to bring its casualties to the LZ. Then the helicopter descended, set down. Medics helped the wounded, boonierats loaded the dead, the bird rose, sped off. It was late afternoon. Mist fumed from the sodden thickets building to fog. The jungle closed, pressed in. Alpha had to escape.

Egan did not stop to analyze any of the numerous trails he crossed. He did not study the tracks in the mud. It was clear, too clear. They had crossed into the midst of the long established enemy area. That madman Brooks, Egan thought. Mad. Flee behind their perimeter. It's beautiful. Sweat poured from Egan's armpits. Beads formed on his forehead, broke and streamed down his face. The salt burned in jungle sores on his face. He paid it no attention. He walked carefully, quietly, looking left right up down. He sniffed the air with each step. He saw no movement. Only fetid valley odor registered in his brain.