At least here I was a uniformed soldier up against uniformed soldiers, and although I didn’t like them, I could at least respect them to some extent, even when I was trying to kill them. When they were trying to kill me. If the Communists besieging Khe Sanh were VC I’d have felt differently, but somehow, I felt cleaner fighting men in uniform. This was a war between soldiers, not terrorists. Not men and women smiling at you during the hours of daylight, pretending you were their friend, then doing their best to murder you once night had fallen.

  I went on, crossing the open ground and pushing into the jungle where I’d seen Phan disappear with his men. I had a new lightness in my spirit, the kind a man feels when he’s committed his soul to death. When there is no need to be scared, for the end is imminent, and I had minutes, maybe hours at best to live. What was there to be frightened of? Certainly not dying, when I was reaching out to shake death by the hand. I was so absorbed in my thoughts I almost died there and then.

  He heard me walking through the jungle and must have mistakenly assumed a man on his own was one of their own. Perhaps he’d gone out to relieve himself, or even to look at the stars. Did Communists ever look up at the stars? I somehow doubted it. Every Communist I’d seen appeared to have their backs bent against ruthless oppression, and why would a man look up to the beauty of the heavens, when his masters were busy turning the earth beneath his feet into a shithole? Or in the case of Vietnam, an even worse shithole than it had been before.

  He grunted something in Vietnamese, and I replied with the few Vietnamese words I’d learned since I’d been in country. “Xin Chao.”

  He said something back, a string of Vietnamese which I guessed that meant, ‘what the hell?’ But he’d heard the familiar Vietnamese greeting, and he wasn’t suspicious. Even when I stepped toward him holding the combat knife, the blade dulled to not reflect light at night, he probably felt some misgivings when I lunged toward him. When the blade tore into his guts, he knew for sure. He tried to scream out, in agony or a warning to his comrades or both, but I’d clamped my free hand over his mouth, and I snatched out the blade and sliced it across his throat.

  His body thrashed and jerked, trying to breathe, to fight off his assailant, trying to fight off what he must now suspect, his imminent death. To no avail, and his movements became weaker until they stopped altogether, and he was dead. His pith helmet had rolled onto the ground, and I considered for a moment wearing it instead of my helmet. An idea I discarded almost immediately. Ever since Gracie’s death, I’ve had a thing about insurgents disguised as something they weren’t, and if I was going to my death, I’d go as an American soldier, not some miserable excuse for a gook.

  I left his body on the ground where it had fallen. In the darkness, I doubted anyone would see him, and although they’d spot him next day, I knew it wouldn’t matter. I’d either be dead or far from here. Probably the former. I was close now, and I snaked through the tangle of vines and creepers, careful not to stumble on any roots. Although I’d lost all fear of the enemy, for when a man has accepted an imminent death, what is there to fear? There was one thing. Snakes.

  I felt it before I saw it, a cold, slimy creature that crawled over me as I paused next to a tree. I’d put my hand on the trunk to steady myself before I went on, and I felt it on my bare flesh. I went still, praying it would go away. Or maybe it was ill, and it would just die. Whatever, I wanted it away from me. I was rigid, not daring to breathe, and although I couldn’t see it clearly, it must have been huge, for it took what seemed like a week to slide past me.

  And then it was gone, and I snatched my hand away and started walking again. They were close, the enemy. I could hear them, men talking quietly, and I could also hear a man speaking in loud tones. Berating his men for something I didn’t understand, but one thing I did understand was I’d found him. This was Major Phan Dung, and he was well named. An officer for whom the death of friend or enemy alike meant nothing. And in finding him, I almost died there and then.

  I was in pitch-black shadow, impossible to see with the naked eye, and he was standing right next to me. Not looking at me, he unbuttoned his pants and squatted down to relieve himself. After a short while he realized another man was close, and he said something in Vietnamese. I grunted a reply, a repeat of the greeting I’d tried earlier, but I garbled the vowels and consonants to keep him guessing. The stink was terrible, but he finally finished his business, buttoned up his pants and went away with a few words. He sounded pissed, as if he’d wanted to be alone for a very personal moment, but I didn’t give a shit. Literally.

  Until another man moved toward me, and I assumed the guy taking a dump had called a warning. Now I really did give a shit. I was almost in it, right up to my neck, and Phan fucking Dung was getting further and further away.

  Chapter Ten

  If they were impressed at his narrow escape from the North Vietnamese, they hid it well. "Who the fuck are you?"

  They'd shouted as they approached the wire, conscious of scores of rifles pointed at them. Getting inside was going to be difficult, and it was one of those times when they fervently prayed those M-16s would jam. They were still outside the rolls of concertina wire, and in front of them enough rifles and machine guns to chew them up and spit them out.

  "Massey, Sergeant, Army Rangers. I'm coming in with two North Vietnamese prisoners and a reporter."

  There was a moment of silence, and he could sense their incredulity. Someone shouted for a man to fetch the duty officer, and a few minutes later another voice shouted across to them.

  "Identify yourselves."

  "I already did. Sergeant Massey, Army Rangers, with two North Vietnamese prisoners and a reporter. Who the hell are you?"

  "Marine Captain Rogers, and I'm the man who decides whether these soldiers will open fire or let you through. Stand up and be recognized."

  He didn't like it, not one little bit. Behind them, the forces of North Vietnam, any of whom could have them targeted right this moment. In front of them, a bunch of Marines, with itchy trigger fingers. And rightly so, they were massively outnumbered, and facing one of the cruelest and most brutal armies the world had yet known. Yet he had little choice. They had to stand up in full view of scores, maybe hundreds of rifles and hope no one decided they needed some target practice.

  "Minh, Le Linh, take off your pith helmets."

  They hesitated, and he snarled, "Those things are a symbol of the enemy. When they see them, they won't be able to resist taking pot shots at you."

  They obeyed with alacrity. The helmets came off, and Massey slowly got to his feet. He leaned over and helped Brooke to stand, pushing her behind him, offering her shelter of his body. The two North Vietnamese were hesitant, but he snapped at them to stand up in full view, and hands in the air, arms forward. He didn't want any mistakes, not here. Not in the killing ground.

  "Come forward!" the officer's voice shouted, "I want to see all of your hands."

  They walked forward, and all the while he felt a churning in his guts. He felt like that when he was in the line of fire, hands held high, inviting anyone who'd had a bad day to let off some steam by filling his belly full of lead. He led the way, slowly, carefully, and she stayed behind him, the prisoners one on either side. They reach the wire, and a soldier pointed to a gap they'd opened for them to walk inside. The moment they were through, men rushed to close off the gap. Once again, the rolls of concertina wire were back in place, waiting for the next attack. Inviting the enemy to try their luck and festoon the wire with bodies.

  "How did you get here?"

  The voice was a whip crack, querulous, like a government tax inspector who’s taking a businessman to task for not completing his returns on time. Massey swiveled to face him, and what he saw didn't impress him. Two men, a Marine captain who he assumed was Rogers, and a Marine sergeant standing next to him with a sneer pasted on his ugly features. He noted both men were fleshy, especially the officer, who was tall with a pale, blonde moustache and wisps of lank, blonde hair showing beneath his helmet. His cheeks bulged, almost like a hamster, and one thing was for sure. This man didn't spend much time away from an ample supply of food. The sergeant was short and squat, and beneath his camos he displayed bulges that were altogether different, solid muscle. It didn't take an expert to examine his blunt features and broken nose to know he was staring at a bully. And an officer who was anything but a fighting soldier.

  "Sir, I'd sooner make my report to Colonel MacArthur."

  The sergeant's expression darkened. "The Captain gave you an order, Sergeant, so you'd better tell him what he wants to know."

  Massey stared at him, looking him up and down. The nametape said he was Thorn, and the stripes showed an equivalent rank to himself. Which gave him a certain latitude.

  "I wasn't talking to you, Sergeant." He felt like saying I was talking to the organ grinder, not his monkey, but he wisely decided it wouldn't help. He looked back at Captain Rogers. "Sir, this is important, really important. One of our men is still up there, and he needs help."

  "You're not going anywhere until you've explained yourself. I asked how you got here."

  "And I asked to speak to Colonel MacArthur on a matter of extreme importance."

  Rogers sighed. "Sergeant, take a few men and put them in the stockade. There's something strange going on here, and until I get to the bottom of it, they're going nowhere. When you're done, wait for me in the stores. I'm due off duty soon, and we need to go over the inventory."

  A look passed between the two men, and Massey found it hard to interpret. All he did know was these men weren't inclined to help after he'd come in with two prisoners, and that was strange. Unless…

  "Captain, which unit are you with?"

  "Marine 3rd Force Service Regiment."

  "You're not a fighting soldier so maybe you don't understand. Sir, I'm asking you to let me speak with Colonel MacArthur."

  The man's face darkened. "How dare you insult me in front of these men? Sergeant Thorn, take them away and lock them up."

  He tried one last time. "Sir, it's vital we prepare an airstrike to be readied for a dawn attack. A man out there is risking his life, and that strike has to be ready to go in."

  Rogers grimaced. "You're asking me to issue orders based on your word? One man who's come out of enemy territory in suspicious circumstances with…"

  "Fuck suspicious, I brought in two prisoners and a reporter who almost lost her life. What more do you want, a fucking letter from General Westmorland?"

  "Take them away. And, Sergeant…"

  "Yessir?"

  "Those two NVAs, you don't need to be too gentle with them."

  The noncom smiled. "Understood, Sir."

  The base was still under fire, and yet the half-dozen Marines guarding them ignored the bullets and shells that constantly whined overhead. The Sergeant stomped ahead, leading the way, and behind him one of the men who clustered around Massey's group seemed less hostile.

  "I'm sorry about this, but that Captain Rogers is something of a bastard. Thorn is his sidekick, and between the two of them, they're a complete waste of space. We need more fighting men on the base, not pencil pushers like Rogers and his tame gorilla."

  "I need to get the message to Colonel MacArthur. It's critical. An attack is due in sometime soon, and this will make all the difference."

  The man frowned. "Listen, we're under attack every day, especially the outpost, and the last I heard to have been overrun. Talking about an attack is old news, and no one is likely to listen."

  "Pal, this isn’t old news. There's a psychotic NVA Major out there, in command of a punishment regiment. He's planning to hit us with everything they have, and he'll pile the bodies of his men on the wire so the ones following behind can climb over them. This is nothing like you seen before."

  He shook his head. "I don't think so. They can pile the entire North Vietnamese Army on the wire, with Ho Chi Minh on the top, and we'll still fight them off."

  "That's a given. I don't expect the Marines to crack. What worries me is the number of casualties they'll take fighting them off. A lot of men are going to die unnecessarily."

  He looked thoughtful. "I see your point. I'm still not sure I can do anything, but I'll try. I can't say more than that."

  They herded them into the cramped prison bunker that stank of piss and fear. The escorts hadn't finished their work, and Sergeant Thorn explained to them what he wanted them to do. They pushed Brooke inside the cell, and two men grabbed Massey while the hulking Sergeant used his fists to work out on his belly. He finished with a final stunning blow to the head, and they pushed him inside, slamming the door shut.

  The two NVA officers were still on the outside, and he heard them getting a hard pasting. When the door opened again, they threw them inside. They were in a bad way, beaten and bloody, covered in bruises, and Le Linh spat out several teeth. They tried to help them, but there was little they could do, and although he knew if they’d been prisoners of the North Vietnamese it would have been worse, a lot worse, it didn’t feel any better.

  The hours wore on, and he assumed that Marine had failed to get the message to Colonel MacArthur. He thought of Yeager out there in the middle of hostile territory, and he knew in his heart the man would fail. He had to fail, how could he possibly sneak through hundreds, maybe thousands of NVA, locate Phan, and be in position to let go a smoke flare at dawn? A smoke flare that would be totally wasted, because there’d be no aircraft waiting overhead to drop a ton of munitions on top of the target.

  Brooke climbed to her feet in the cramped space. She’d finished trying to ease the wounds of the prisoners, and she looked at Massey.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think we’re fucked. There’s no way we’ll get out of here, and we’ll have to sit it out until either a salvo of shells scores a direct hit on this place, or we have to listen to men dying.”

  “You don’t think he’ll make it?”

  He hesitated, not wanting to tell her he knew he wouldn’t make it, but dammit, she had to know. Probably she knew already and was hoping, praying there might be a different answer to the one he was about to give. There wasn’t.

  “I don’t think he’ll make it, no. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “What will they do to him? Will they take him prisoner or kill him? Is there any chance he’ll wind up in the Hanoi Hilton?”

  She meant Hoa Lo prison in North Vietnam. Built by the French during the colonization of Indochina, it had recently become a prison for American POWs. It had also acquired a reputation that was beyond evil.

  “I doubt it. They’ll have other prisons in the South, most of them underground.”

  “So, he’ll survive?”

  “It’s possible.”

  She was silent for several minutes, and when she spoke again her voice was a subdued murmur. “You don’t believe he will survive.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “No, I don’t.”

  * * *

  One moment I was there on my own next to the enemy latrine, with the stink of shit to keep me company. The next they were all around me. They dragged me out, and they weren't gentle. One man kicked me to the ground, they relieved me of my pistol and knife, and his pals laid into me with their rifle butts. I thought the beating would go on forever, but when they decided they'd had their fun, they dragged me by the heels, face down, into the center of the camp.

  They released me, and I turned around to lay on my back, looking up at the cruel faces staring back at me. I knew in that moment I was dead. I also knew I’d failed, and that meant Major Phan would live, and fling these men into a hopeless assault on the Khe Sanh wire. An assault that would leave most of them dead or dying. As well as many Marines, and if I'd succeeded the casualties would be lessened. Except I hadn't succeeded, so I was looking at men who would join me in death.

  They didn't look as fierce as I would have expected. Sure, their faces mirrored their hatred of me, an American soldier, but beyond that I saw despair, and in that moment I understood.

  I know they’re going to die, but they also know they’re going to die. Too bad, they shouldn't have come.

  "Who are you?"

  The question was followed by a hard kick in my kidneys, and I jerked in pain. I was looking up at an officer with the rank tabs of an NVA major. I didn't like the look of him, not that I liked the look of any of them, but this guy was something else. His eyes blazed with fanaticism, and if a man was going to drive these soldiers to their deaths, it would be him. I recognized him as Phan Dung.

  "Who the fuck are you?"

  He didn't like that, and he nodded to his men, who laid in again with boots and rifle butts. Another beating that lasted an eternity, and at a nod from him, they ceased and stepped back.

  "Last chance, American. Who are you, and what are you doing here? Answer me, or I'll tell my men to cut out one of your eyes."

  "Warrant Officer Carl Yeager, Army CID. That's all you get from me, buddy."

  "You're a military policeman?"

  "Yeah, that's right."

  He paused, thinking. "What are you doing up here? What is there to investigate?"

  I'd given him all I was required to do as a POW, but I saw no reason not to tell this commie shithead the truth. Okay, I was having some fun, but what else is a man to do when he’s close to death. "I'm investigating a murder."

  The eyes widened and then narrowed to slits. "Are you making a joke? A murder, here in Khe Sanh?"

 

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