Macv, p.10
MACV, page 10
After a few minutes Fetterman halted again, and Gerber approached him.
“They stayed here quite a while,” he whispered. He pointed at the spots where the vegetation was crushed and the jungle carpet disturbed. “Not much evidence, but enough.”
Gerber glanced upward toward the canopy but couldn’t see the sky. He then checked the time. “About seven hours to sunset.”
“No problem, Captain.”
Fetterman started out again. He skirted the huge trunk of a teak tree and slipped between two palms. He walked slowly, eyes on the ground, the trees and then the canopy. He now knew that he only had to follow a compass course. The other squad hadn’t varied from a straight path once they had gotten away from the LZ. Now he could look for signs that they had been followed, but the only indications were from the American patrol. No one else had been in there for a good two or three weeks. The jungle quickly hid any signs.
For two hours they continued on, stopping and starting, listening to everything around them. They slipped along through dark patches, avoiding the areas of brightness. The heat and humidity wrapped them like a wet blanket in a steam bath. Their uniforms were soaked and blackened by their sweat. Each of them pretended that he was unaffected by the environment, but even men in top condition found the jungle hard to take. It sapped their strength, turning them weak in a short time.
But Fetterman finally stopped. He glanced right and left and then waved Gerber forward.
“What’s the problem?”
“We’re there.”
“How do you know?”
“Captain, can’t you smell it? We’ve found the missing men.”
Gerber took a deep breath and said, “Oh.”
CHAPTER 8
MACV HEADQUARTERS, SAIGON
Reed sat in Maxwell’s office, trying to put together the briefing he had to give. He had spent fifteen minutes organizing the files, papers and documents that Maxwell had spread out earlier, before leaving. There seemed to be no reason or organization to it. Whatever Maxwell had needed was pulled out and then left where it had been when he finished with it. Unless it was classified. Then it was in the safe.
Reed had tried to sort it out, found the task impossible and then just stacked everything, pushing it all to the side, near the line of empty Coke cans. He then sat down, a legal pad in front of him, and the overnight, after-action reports near his right hand.
He sat there for a moment and realized that it was all beginning to fall apart. Maxwell was worried about a leak in MACV, and when they found the missing patrol, Maxwell would be even more convinced that there was a leak.
He rocked back and looked at the cinder block wall. Of course there were so many people privy to the information, it was hard to isolate a single source. In the last few weeks, Maxwell had been limiting the spread of information, slowly trying to reduce the number of people who knew what was going on, in order to eliminate the leak. The obvious problem was the South Vietnamese.
Reed had seen it happen a dozen times before. An American officer would have proof that a South Vietnamese soldier was Viet Cong. Definite proof that he would present to the proper authorities, but by the time anyone showed up to arrest the VC man or woman, he or she was gone. Warned by other friends who hadn’t been compromised.
There was a story circulating throughout the headquarters about the South Vietnamese man who seemed to be the most loyal of the Vietnamese. He helped without having been asked. He circulated through the building, almost at will, but no one could find one thing in his background to suggest he was anything but loyal. The day after the Tet attacks, his body had been found, an AK in his hand, a chest pouch strapped to him. He had been leading one of the attacks on the air base at Tan Son Nhut.
The task of preparing the briefing was forgotten as Reed concentrated on the puzzle. Where could he find a leak?
The Cambodians were an obvious source. Easy to blame them, but anyone who thought about it would realize that they could only be responsible for the one leak. When people started scrambling, looking for a scapegoat, they would surface and the cloud thrown up might be enough to obscure the issue.
He smiled to himself. If someone asked a few hard questions, then there was a man who had a relationship with a Vietnamese. That might be a place to begin an investigation. Men talked to women about their jobs and a man with a loose tongue might accidentally tell a woman everything he knew. More than one spy had been female, taking bedroom talk to the Intelligence headquarters.
Since many of the secrets were kept out of the hands of the South Vietnamese, that seemed to be the place to look. And Gary Pittman was seeing a Vietnamese woman. He had been with her on many a night. Reed couldn’t help grinning as he thought about it. Pittman was seeing Thi, too. He had been seeing her for more than six months, and Thi had chased Reed out of the house once because Pittman had appeared at the front door. Reed had even had to hide his jeep so that Pittman wouldn’t suspect he’d been seeing Thi.
It made sense. Pittman was privy to everything at MACV Headquarters. Reed could turn the man in, have him investigated, and the mere fact that he had been under suspicion was enough to get him transferred home. His rival for Thi’s affections would be gone.
But then, if he was wrong, he could be the one in trouble. Someone might learn that the leak was not Pittman. No, decided Reed, the move of the hour was to follow the man himself, build evidence against him and then they’d have to get rid of him. Later they might learn he was innocent, but by then it would be too late.
He turned his attention to the after-action reports, reading through them quickly. Not much action the night before. Mortars falling on a few camps, and rockets into a couple of cities. No trends had manifested themselves, so there was nothing to say along those lines.
The only thing going on was the possibility of another VC and NVA attack on Saigon. A thousand men, two thousand, thrown into the city to disrupt services, blow up a few buildings and sacrifice themselves in front of the news cameras so the people in the United States would think that the VC and NVA were still a major force.
He took his legal pad, wrote “Secret” at the top, then began to list the incidents from the night before. Now that he had thought of a solution to his problem, he could concentrate on the immediate task. He didn’t know that he was smiling as he added in the reports of three Americans who died because a mortar had fallen on an NCO club in Ban Me Thuot.
Gerber realized immediately what the stench blowing at him meant. Death. There were men lying in the jungle, dead for twelve or fifteen hours, the heat baking the juices from their bodies, the tropical environment accelerating the process of decay. And since the deaths of the men were violent, their bodies ripped open by bullets and shrapnel, exposing the soft interiors, the decay spread even faster.
Gerber reached up and rubbed his nose, but it did no good. “I guess we found them, all right.”
Fetterman moved in closer. “I’ll check them if you’ll handle the security.”
“No,” said Gerber. “I think we’d better both look at them. McCarthy and Hoffs can take security.”
Gerber drew back and found Hoffs facing to the rear. “I think we’ve found them. You and McCarthy take security for us. Fetterman and I will move in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hoffs found McCarthy and the three of them moved toward Fetterman. With Fetterman on the point, they headed deeper into the jungle. Fetterman moved around a bush and found the first of the bodies. It was that of a young man, lying on his face, the back of his uniform riddled with holes. The blood, dried to a rusty brown, had stained it and the ground under him. His helmet was gone, as well as his weapon and his equipment, and there was a single bullet hole in the back of his head.
Gerber moved past the master sergeant and around a bush. He found another corpse, lying on its right side, the knees hiked up and the arms wrapped around its belly. There was a thick pool of blood under him, the surface sticky.
The man’s intestines were gathered in his hands as if he were trying to stuff them back into his stomach. He had died trying to keep his body together.
And like the first man all his equipment was gone, as were his boots. Gerber knelt next to him and saw that two of his pockets had been cut open. That meant the enemy had time to search the bodies. It was more than just picking up the equipment, it was a systematic search for intelligence data they might have.
Gerber moved on, found a third man with a single bullet hole in his face. The eyes had bulged out. He apparently had died in the first few minutes of the battle and had fallen out of the way. All of his equipment was gone, too.
Fetterman found one of the Cambodians. Not only had he been killed, but the body had been mutilated. All the fingers were cut off, the eyes were gouged out and his heart was missing. The equipment the man had carried was stacked near him, telling everyone that the man was so despised that no one would steal his gear.
“NVA telling the Cambodians that they won’t tolerate anyone assisting the South Vietnamese or the Americans. Mutilations are ritualistic, especially that nonsense with the eyes. Means the spirit wanders because it is blinded,” said Fetterman as Gerber approached.
Gerber nodded and moved on. He found the second Cambodian. He too had been mutilated. The enemy hadn’t liked them at all. The American bodies showed only the wounds inflicted in the fighting.
Gerber returned, moving back along the line, counting the bodies. There was a snap of a twig and Gerber dropped to one knee. McCarthy appeared. “I think someone’s coming up on us.”
Gerber turned and looked into the jungle. He heard a noise, equipment rattling. He glanced to the right and saw that Fetterman was crouching, his face turned toward the sound. When the sergeant pointed at it, Gerber nodded and motioned to the rear. Hoffs stood up and moved then, drifting toward the center. They hurried away from the ambush site. Fetterman took the point and then slid to a stop.
When Gerber caught him, Fetterman whispered. “They’re in front of us, too.”
That made sense. The enemy, if they knew that Gerber and the patrol were there, would want to send out a blocking force. Wouldn’t have to be many men, just four or five guys, and who would be able to stop them?
“Captain?”
Gerber nodded. “Head to the south.”
McCarthy caught up and said, “They’re no more than fifty yards behind us.”
“CS and then explosive grenades,” said Gerber. “As soon as we get the detonations, we move to the south.”
“Got it.”
Hoffs appeared, a CS grenade in his hand. “Hoffs, you and McCarthy throw toward the blocking force and Fetterman and I’ll hit those chasing us. Then all four throw the explosives at the chasing force.”
“Got it.”
Gerber took a CS grenade, pulled the pin and then nodded. As he did, he came up and threw the gas bomb as hard as he could. There was a series of dull pops as the CS grenades detonated. Gerber then grabbed the other grenade. He jerked the pin and said, “Now.”
All four grenades crashed through the jungle. Gerber hit the ground as did the others. A moment later there were four quick detonations. Dirt rained down and shrapnel slashed through the air. There were a couple of screams and AKs began to fire indiscriminately.
Fetterman was moving immediately to the south, from between the two enemy forces. He hurdled a log, then dived for cover. The rattling of a machine gun cut through the afternoon.
Gerber heard the bolt lock back just before it fired, and he dived. Hoffs yelled a warning that was lost in the burst.
“In front of us,” said Fetterman.
Gerber leaped up, ran forward a dozen yards and dived down again. He flipped the selector on his M-16 to a single-shot but didn’t have a target.
Fetterman was moving, heading into the thickest part of the vegetation, where the machine gun was hidden. Gerber popped up, fired three quick shots and dived to the right, rolling. The air over him snapped with the sonic crack of the machine-gun bullets. He fired again, one round overhead, trying to keep the machine gunners’ attention.
Fetterman was up again, his weapon held at port arms. The selector was on full-auto. He tilted his head, searching for the chattering machine gun.
Then through a gap in the vegetation, he saw the head and helmet of the assistant gunner. A small man in khaki, a pith helmet on his head. Instead of shooting, Fetterman pulled a grenade. He watched as the gunner suddenly appeared, worked the bolt and then dropped out of sight again.
Fetterman slipped carefully to his knee and jerked the pin from the grenade. He aimed the throw, cocked his arm and let fly. As he did, he hit the ground, yelling, “Grenade!”
A moment later there was an explosion, and the machine gun fell silent. Immediately Fetterman was on his feet, moving. He leaped forward to where the twisted wreckage of the machine gun lay. Both the gunner and his assistant were dead, the shrapnel having peppered their sides and back.
Gerber moved forward and dropped to one knee. He saw movement behind Fetterman and fired once. The round took the NVA soldier in the chest, spinning him. He squealed as he tossed his weapon into the air before he collapsed.
“Getting sloppy,” said Gerber.
“Knew you were covering.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Where’re the others?”
Hoffs appeared and said, “Right behind you. McCarthy’s watching our rear.”
Gerber was going to tell Fetterman to take the point, but there was too much noise now. Shouting in front of them. Screams and orders and then bugles.
“Shit!” said Gerber. “Here they come.” He turned to face the threat.
A dozen enemy soldiers appeared, then just as quickly vanished through the gaps in the jungle. Flashes of khaki and faces. Gerber fired at them on single-shot. Fetterman was beside him, blasting away. McCarthy behind them, firing to the rear. Hoffs stood up, fired and then ducked. Rounds were squeezed off as targets appeared. A sporadic rattling of the weapons.
The enemy shot back with AKs. There were two long bursts and then shouts. After a quick volley, someone called in English, “Marine! You die!”
A soldier appeared, head down, bayonet extended. He was growling like a rabid dog, but when Gerber shot him once in the top of the head, he dropped straight down and didn’t move.
But there were others. One man shooting from the hip came at them. Gerber fired, missed and fired again. The second round struck him. As dirt flew up from the Viet Cong uniform, the enemy gunman squeezed the trigger of his AK, putting a burst into the jungle floor at his own feet.
“Two on the right,” yelled Fetterman.
“Reloading here,” said Hoffs.
“Clear behind us.”
Gerber fired at the two men on the right. One fell into the vegetation, the other dived away and then came up firing. Gerber heard a round snap by his head. With his thumb he flicked the selector to full-auto and fired at the sound. There was a startled scream and then silence.
“Coming up behind us, now,” said McCarthy. He opened fire with short bursts.
That was answered by an AK. One weapon on full-auto. The rounds slammed into the trees, stripping the bark.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” shouted Gerber.
Fetterman moved forward in a crouch, his head swiveling right and left. He found the body of an NVA soldier. The man had lost part of his face and one hand. His still-wet blood had turned the jungle around him slightly crimson. Fetterman picked up his weapon and slung it.
Gerber was next, moving parallel to Fetterman. He stopped near the trunk of a palm, reached out to touch it and went to one knee.
Behind him came a shout. “Grenade!”
Gerber didn’t move. He hadn’t heard the explosive thrown, and Hoffs was far enough behind him that he was outside the killing zone. He ducked his head and counted to three.
Even as the explosion ripped through the jungle, Hoffs was yelling, “Go! Go!”
Fetterman shouted, “Clear to the front.”
Gerber moved toward the master sergeant. He glanced back and saw McCarthy working his way through the jungle. He had lost his boonie hat. He held his weapon up, like a man wading in a chest-high stream.
“Hoffs is behind me.”
Gerber whirled and hurried off. He caught Fetterman who had stopped and was staring into the distance.
“There’s a couple of guys in front of us still.”
“How many?”
“No more than three. Maybe just two.”
“Where?”
There was a noise behind them and McCarthy caught up again. Gerber pointed at him and McCarthy turned, facing to the rear, watching.
Fetterman lifted his weapon and sighted. He squeezed the trigger. There was a scream.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Hoffs catch us?” Gerber asked.
“Right here,” whispered the man, appearing suddenly.
“Let’s keep it tight,” said Gerber.
Fetterman took off again, running forward. He dodged around a thick stand of trees and bushes, heading back to the west, deeper into Cambodia. They came to a clearing, a huge open meadow. Short grass in the bright afternoon sun.
“To the left,” said Gerber.
Fetterman nodded and skirted the meadow, staying inside the trees, hurrying. He leaped a fallen log and then ran forward, where he came to the remains of a bunker. It was old, built years earlier. There was no evidence that the enemy had used it in a long time.
They continued moving. Far behind them came a wild burst of firing. AKs and an RPD. A few Chicom grenades.
Fetterman turned long enough to say, “Sounds like they’re shooting up each other.” Then he was off again, running back to the east this time, toward South Vietnam.
They kept at it, hurrying on as the sounds of the firing faded. Fetterman led them toward the border, never stopping, never slowing, running forward in a nearly silent half crouch.
