THE VILLE

BY

ERIC HELM

Also available by
Eric Helm:

VIETNAM: GROUND ZERO
r.o.w.
UNCONFIRMED KILL
THE FALL OF CAMP
A-555
SOLDIER'S MEDAL
THE KIT CARSON SCOUT
THE HOBO WOODS
GUIDELINES


TORONTO.~.L~.

                  
First edition December 1987
ISBN 0-373b2709-2

Copyright @) 1987 by Eric Helm. Philippine copyright
1987. Australian copyright 1987.

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the
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Library, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario,
Canada M3B 3K9.

All the characters in this book have no existence
outside the imagination of the author and have no
relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or
names. They are not even distantly inspired by any
individual known or unknown to the author, and all the
incidents are pure invention.

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Printed in Canada


PROLOGUE
FRENCH INDOCHINA,
1954

A short, coded radio
message had come in the
middle of the night.
The brief transmission
had been tinged with
panic: a single, almost
frantic order to pull
out and take everything
of French manufacture
or design that was
stored in the village.

 As soon as he had
received the message,
Jacques Zouave switched
off his radio and left
the hut. It was a
dilapidated thatched
structure that kept out
the monsoon rains but
not the humidity ofthe
jungle. A notched log,
which sewed as stairs,
led from the door to
the muddy ground three
feet below. The hootch
was set up on stubby
stilts to keep out the
water and to discourage
the night creatures.

 Now, Zouave dropped
silently to the ground,
then glanced toward the
edge of the jungle that
loomed in the dark like
the gates to a mystical
forest. He knew that a
guard was supposed to
be watching the trails
that led to the
village. Zouave turned
to his left and worked
his way uphill, his
feet slipping on the
wet ground. Once, he
had to put out a hand
to steady himself, his
fingers brushing the
mud, which he wiped on
the ragged black cotton
shirt he wore.

 He approached the
hootch where his
commander slept. It was
a carbon copy of his
own. Thatched roof and
walls that

10 The Ville

rose from a platform of logs lashed
together to make a rough,
splinter-studded floor. Zouave stopped
by the door, an opening in the thatch
with no covering, and whispered at the
interior, "Sir, I have a message."

 A moment later Michel Sahraoui
appeared in the doorway, his face pale
against the darkness of the interior.
"What is it?i' he asked.

 "We are ordered to leave here.
Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow at the
latest."

 Sahraoui got up from his sleeping
pallet of woven bamboo and nimbly made
his way down the notched log to stand
barefoot in the mud. "Let me see the
message."

"I destroyed it as soon as I decoded
it."

- "Ah. And were we given a reason for
this sudden order?" "No, sir. Just
that we are to collect all our
equipment, move to the landing strip
and wait I^or evacuation by noon
tomorrow. We are to leave with as
little fanfare as possible, making
certain that nothing French remains
behind.')

  Sahraoui pushed a hand through his
disheveled dark hair and stared into
the night. "You are sure ofthe
message?'? :

  "Yes, sir. It was repeated twice and
I copied it down twice and checked
both versions."

  "All right, then. Let's wake the
others, check the weapons inventory
and the equipment hootches. Let's do
it as quickly and quietly as
possible." ~

  Zouave turned and disappeared into
the darkness,~heading back toward his
hut and his radio. Sahraoui placed one
foot on the notched log, carefil1 not
to slip, and crouched as he stepped
through the low doorway. Then he
dropped on all fours so that he could
crawl to his sleeping mat. He reached
out and touched the bare shoulder of
the woman who had not stirred when
Zouave delivered the message.

  Sahraoui sat and crossed his legs,
staring at the darker outline of the
figure in the gloom. She belonged to
the Meo tribe,

The H'lle 11

a light-skinned race found throughout
Indochina. Her long black hair
reflected the starlight that invaded
the hootch. She was an attractive woman
whose features indicated that she might
have had French in her ancestry. She
spoke French fluently and had begun as
their interpreter, evolving into
something more, at least to Sahraoui.

"Are you awake?" he asked.

  She rolled to her back and then turned
her head so that she could look at him.
"Yes." There was a glistening on her
cheek, just under her eyes.

"Then you have heard?"

"Yes."

  Sahraoui see for a moment Watching
her, waiting for her to give him a clue
to her reaction, but she didn't move or
speak. He glanced away from her, at the
uniform that was folded and sitting on
the crude wooden chair. He had
constructed it from teak and bamboo
because he occasionally felt the need
to sit in one. There were other things,
a cabinet that held a cooking pot and
eating utensils, clay pots and even a
small mirror, on the other side of the
hootch. Next to it were Sahraoui's
rifle and ammunition, his rucksack and
a box of grenades stenciled U.S. Army.

  When he looked at the woman again, she
had sat up facing him. Her bare breasts
were visible in the dim light. He
reached out as if to touch her and then
drew his hand back.

"What will happen to you?" he asked.

  "I will live here and someday a
warrior who wants children will come
into my house."

  Sahraoui stood and moved to his
uniform. It had been a while since he
had needed to wear it. Training and
advising the Mcos had dictated he wear
the same as they. He had grown used to
the loosely wrapped loincloth. As he
struggled into the uniform, he found it
constricting, unpleasant to wear. It
was

12 The Vile

almost impossible to pull on the
boots. His feet had changed during the
months of barefoot activity.

 As he finished dressing, he turned to
see her studying him. He knelt and
took one of her hands. "You could come
with us. You speak their language and
ours and that is a valuable asset." He
tried to ignore the tears that were
now obvious on her face, pretending
they weren't there.

"No, I think not. My people are here."

 A whisper from outside called him.
He dropped her hand and picked up his
weapon. "I have work to do. I shall
come back before we depart."

 She grabbed his arm and pulled him
toward her, brushing his lips lightly
with her own. " Do not forget me."

 He sighed. "I could never do that."
He tasted the salt of her tears and
found he could ignore that, too.

BY EIGHT, THEY HAD STOPPED the arms locker of
an the weapons, moving not only the
rifles and pistols but also the
machine guns, mortars and recoilless
rifles. They had stacked the crates of
ammunition near the weapons, and then
toured the perimeter of the village,
collecting the arms they had emplaced
in the bunkers.

 Now that all the weapons had been
accounted for, they began picking up
the radio equipment, the entrenching
tools, rucksacks and the knives. They
required the men to turn in their
boots, uniforms and even their
underwear. Everything that looked like
it was of French manufacture was taken
and piled at the grass-covered
airstrip.

 All morning Sahraoui had been
turning away his friends. They had
come to trust him and the other French
paratroopers, but were now to be
stripped of all means of protecting
themselves. He refused each request
for a rifle or pistol or grenade. He
told each of them that he was sorry,
but he had his orders and they all-
knew what that meant. Each time he

The Belle 13

gave the speech, he felt that he was
betraying a friend. To make it worse,
none of them protested or argued the
refusal.

  At ten, Sahraoui stood among the
crates and equipment, counting softly
to himself, feeling miserable. His
uniform was soaked with sweat and it
was like wearing a wet towel in a steam
bath. Sunlight streamed through the
gaps in the trees near the airstrip,
making it so hot that nearly everyone
refused to walk out to the airfield
where there was no protection from the
sun.

  After he finished counting, Sahraoui
sat on one of the wooden crates, pulled
a cloth from his pocket and mopped his
face. As his gaze found the village a
hundred yards away near the crest of a
hill, he saw a column of smoke mushroom
toward the sky. A moment later there
was a flat bang that set the monkeys
scurrying and the birds flying.

  Sahraoui leaped off the crate and
snatched his rifle. Behind him, his men
were spreading out, their weapons ready
as fring erupted in the village. Over
the staccato reports of gunfire, there
were shouts and screams of pain and
anguish. The people fled the village,
running into the jungle or toward the
landing strip.

  The timing of the Viet Minh assault
was perfect. With no weapons left in
the village, the residents couldn't
retaliate. The discipline they had
learned from the French disintegrated
under the onslaught. Without their
weapons, they felt vulnerable, and ran
in panic.

  There were more explosions as the Viet
Minh grenaded the hootches, shooting as
they found human targets. Crouched
behind the protection of their crates,
their weapons held at the ready, the
Frenchmen saw the villagers appear,
running at them. The firing at the edge
of the village increased then. Sahraoui
saw a man lifted off his feet, his
chest blossoming crimson as he fell
among the trees. A bullet hit a woman
in the middle of the back, snapping her
spine and exiting between her breasts.
She collapsed in a loose-boned heap,
dead before

14 Me Ville

she hit the ground. Two men were cut
down by machine gun fire that ripped
through their stomachs.

  Sahraoui recognized his Meo wife
running through the jungle, her bare
breasts bouncing. He raised a hand to
wave, as if beckoning her. Her face
was a mask of fear, her eyes wide, her
mouth open but no sound coming from
it. Once, she glanced over her
shoulder and stumbled, by stayed on
her feet.

  A bullet struck her in the shoulder
then, slamming her to the ground. She
started to rise, her face and chest a
mass of scratches, blood and mud. She
uttered a cry of agony as the pain
from the wound coursed through her.
The sound pro petted Sahraoui into
action, and he was up and running as
she fell back to the soft wet earth,
disappearing in the short grass.

  And then the Viet Minh were shooting
at him, their bullets buzzing the air
near him like angry bees. He dived for
cover, his hands over his head as the
odor of the hot, damp earth
overwhelmed him.

  Sahraoui's men opened flue, first
with their rifles, then with one of
the machine guns, halting the Valet
Minh advance at the edge of the
village. The enemy leaped for cover as
the hammering of the .30 caliber
slammed into the trees and bushes and
ground around them.

  The villagers were nowhere in sight.
Sahraoui guessed that they were either
dead or wounded in the village, or
running through the jungle searching
for places to hide.

  The Viet Minh lost interest in them,
turning their attention to the French
soldiers. Suddenly the enemy attacked,
materializing out of the jungle,
firing and shouting as they came. But
they ran into a fierce barrage of
return fire from the paratroopers that
stopped them immediately.

  When there was a lull in the firing,
Sahraoui crawled to his men who were
still crouched among the boxes and
crates. He rose to his knees and aimed
at the trees, but saw no targets.

"Michel, we have to get out of here,"
said Zouave.

The Tulle 15

 Sahraoui noted the position of the sun
above the airfield, then looked at his
watch. It would be more than an hour
before the plane arrived, if it ever
did. Above the trees he could see a
dense cloud of black smoke that showed
where the village was burning fiercely.

"Can't leave all this equipment," he
said.

  "Then burn it. Use the white
phosphorus grenades to set it on fire.
Then we get out."

"No," said Sahraoui, shaking his head.
"We stay."

  Then, to the left, more firing broke
out. Rifle and machine gun bullets
raked their position, kicking up clouds
of dirt and splintering the wood of the
boxes. Sahraoui dived out of the way
and came up firing, emptying his weapon
at the enemy who were hidden by the
thick green vegetation.

  "All right," he said. "Let's get out.
Zouave, Granwin and Mordal, grab the
grenades and set them. Pull the pins
and place them under the boxes so that
they won't arm themselves until the
boxes are moved. The rest of you each
grab two of the grenades."

  The three men worked feverishly to
place the booby traps under the crates
and weapons. When they finished they
grabbed their rifles but kept their
heads down as the Viet Minh continued
to snipe.

"Fall back," ordered Sahraoui. "Fall
back."

  Some of the men ran from their cover
near the boxes, heading for the jungle
and better protection. The others
turned their weapons on the Viet Minh
positions, firing as fast as they
could, forcing the enemy to keep their
heads down.

  Sahraoui kept glancing at the spot
where he had seen his wife struck down.
There had been no sign of her since; he
was now convinced that she was dead.

  Suddenly, rounds slamming into the
crate near his head diverted his
attention. Muzzle-flashes winked in the
dense vegetation where the sun couldn't
wash it out. He aimed at the

16 The Vile

center of it, triggered his weapon
twice and waited. Whoever was shooting
at him didn't return fire.

 By this time his men had reached the
edge of the jungle on the other side
of the airfield and opened fire to
protect the rest of the units. Almost
as one, although Sahraoui gave no com-
mand, the men were up and running.

 One of Sahraoui's men grunted with
pain and fell. His head hung down and
his weapon was near his hand. Sahraoui
slid to a stop and turned. He came
back and reached out as a second round
hit the man with a loud wet slap. As
he fell forward, he looked up at
Sahraoui but said nothing. His eyes
seemed to roll up in his head and he
dropped forward into a spreading pool
of red.

 Sahraoui spun and ran for the jungle.
Even the short sprint sucked the
breath from his lungs and covered his
face with sweat. He felt an adrenaline
rush, which created a nervous tension.
He could almost imagine the impact of
a slug slamming into the base of his
spine. At the tree line, he dived over
a log, rolled, and came up on a knee
in a puddle of muck that quickly
soaked through his uniform. The trees
and bushes around him shuddered as
Viet Minh bullets whistled through
them. Shredded leaves, bits of bark,
and splinters rained down around him.

 Over his shoulder, he spotted a lone
Valet Minh soldier. The man wore an OD
uniform and carried an old rifle,
poking the barrel into the bushes.
Sahraoui leaned to the right, support-
ing himself on his elbow. He let the
sights search for the enemy and when
the man stepped into the sight
picture, Sahraoui squeezed the
trigger. The soldier jerked once,
reached up to where the blood was
pouring from his throat and began to
fall. He reached out with one hand as
if to break the fall, then dis-
appeared.

 As soon as Sahraoui was clear, the
men began throwing their grenades. The
gray, tin-can-like bombs arced toward
the crates

The Elk 17

of rifles, ammunition and supplies, and
detonated into glowing clouds of
burning white. The flaming debris
rained down, setting everything near
them on fire. Smoke from the damp green
vegetation billowed upward, obscuring
the landing strip and the jungle beyond
it.

 When it was obvious that the
equipment was burning ferociously,
Sahraoui ordered, "Let's get out of
here. It's time to get out."

"What about the airplane?"

 "They'll never land when they see all
the smoke. They'll divert and try to
raise us on the radio."

"Where will we be?"

Sahraoui pointed. "Escaping through the
jungle."

 The men turned, with Mordal running
ahead to take the point. As he
disappeared into the jungle, Sahraoui
took a final look behind him. He could
not see the village, although black
smoke still marked its location. There
were no villagers about. He figured
that the survivors were scattered
through the jungle. All he could see
were the flames from the burning
equipment. Then the ammo began to cook
off. The detonating rounds, some of
them tracers, flashed randomly into the
jungle or skyward with streaks of red.
Sahraoui decided that it was time to
escape.

FOUR WEEKS LATER, the remnants of his
unit were picked up by a patrol boat
scouting the Mekong River in Cambodia,
and taken to Saigon. They were put on
a plane for France. None would return
to Vietnam or Laos, even after the
United States entered the war. Sahraoui
never did find out what happened to his
Meo wife, although he would think of
her often. But for him, the war in
Indochina was over.

MAI7V HEADQUARTERS,
SAIGON, RVN

Army Captain Jonathan Bromhead, a
tall, freckle-faced kid who had
completed one tour in Vietnam and was
well into a second, sat in the
air-conditioned conference room,
sipping Coke from a can and waiting
for the briefing to start. The room
was small, just big enough for the
mahogany table that was surrounded by
eight low-backed, cloth-covered
chairs. Stuck in one corner, crowding
the table, was a screen and opposite
it, near the door was a small table
holding a Kodak carousel slide
projector. On the walls, which had
been paneled with pressed wood that
imitated teak, were a number of framed
prints showing the U. S. Army in
battle.

  The door opened and a Marine
sergeant, dressed in jungle fatigues
and spit-shined boots, entered the
room. The Marine was a big man with no
visible neck. Although he had shaved
that morning, his cheeks were
blue-black with stubble, and thick
eyebrows met over his nose. He had
light-colored eyes and his head had
been shaved. There were sweat stains
under his arms, down the front of his
shirt and around his waist, where his
pistol belt had been.

"You Bromhead?" asked the Marine.

The H'lle 19

"Captain Bromhead, yes."

 "Sorry, sir. I'm Staff Sergeant
Nicholas Gilman. I was told to report
to you in here."

 Bromhead stood and realized that the
Marine was two or three inches taller
than he was, and at six-one, Bromhead
wasn't considered short. He stuck out
his hand. "You were told to report to
me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did they say what it was about?"

"No, sir. Just said to find you in here
and wait with you."

  Bromhead picked up his Coke and
drained it, then set the can on the
table. "Well, this beats walking around
in the jungle."

  The door opened again and another
sergeant entered. Directly behind him
was an Army lieutenant colonel carrying
a thick stack of folders. He kicked the
door shut with his heel, dropped the
files on the table and then switched on
the slide projector.

  "Okay," he said, "I'm Colonel
Petersen and will be working as your
liaison officer here. This other
gentleman is Sergeant David Hansen."

  Hansen was smaller than Gilman and
Bromhead. He was just under six feet
tall with a slight build. His jungle
fatigues were brand new as were his
boots. There was no evidence that he
had been outside in the past week. His
face was neither tanned nor sunburned
and he looked like a clerk who had es-
caped from the boring duty of typing
morning reports and duty rosters. He
sat on the opposite side of the table
and said nothing to anyone.

  Petersen opened one of the folders,
took out a number of aerial photographs
and gave one each to Bromhead, Gilman
and Hansen.

  "This small village is
anti-Communist," Petersen began. "It's
inhabited by an ethnic group known as
the Meo. They've

20 The belle

lived in the region for hundreds of
years and are familiar with everything
that goes on in it."

  Petersen moved to the slide projector
and picked up the remote control. He
flashed through several of the slides
that showed a village made of thatched
hootches on stilts. Some of the scenes
depicted people dressed in very little
gathered around a cooking fire. Men
chopping the heads offmonkeys, a woman
stirring a large black pot and
children running wild.

  "Okay," he said when he stopped.
"That shows the natives at home and at
work. From this point on, anything I
say in this room is classified as
secret. Is that understood?"

  Bromhead nodded and in unison the
sergeants replied, "Yes, sir."

  Petersen hit the remote control and
a map of Southeast Asia appeared. He
moved to the screen and picked up a
pointer. "The village we saw is
located right here in Laos. It is no
more than ten or twelve klicks from a
main trunk of the Ho Chi Minh Trail
north and east of Ban Tasseing."

  He let the words sink in and then
snapped off the projector lamp,
leaving the fan motor runrung. Taking
a seat at the head of the table, he
opened the top folder. "Now, what we
have determined, studying the old
records from the French pares, is that
the men of the village have received
some military instruction. There are
approximately seventy military-age
males available there, and another two
hundred and eighty in villages no more
than seven klicks away."

  The colonel studied each man's face
in turn. "Since the name of the game
is going to be Vietnam~zation, or in
this case Laoization, we're going to
put a team into the area to raise a
strike battalion with an eye on
interdicting the traffic on the Ho Chi
Minh Trail. By the way, this plan for
Vietnamization is not yet a matter of
public record, so let's keep it under
our hats."

17ze Tulle 21

  Bromhead glanced at the men with him.
A Marine NCO and an Air Force sergeant.
He twisted the aerial photo around and
stared at it. It was little more than
a black and white map of the area.

  "Handled properly, this could slow
the traffic on the Trail to a trickle
and relieve a number of units of their
duty on the border in South Vietnam."

  "Isn't this a MACV-SOG project? I
mean, isn't this the kind of thing
they're trained to do?"

  "You're right there," Petersen
replied. "But with the new demands on
people with a Special Forces background
for a wide variety of missions, the
Special Forces are strapped to complete
the missions they already have. Captain
Bromhead, you've already been in the
area and worked with a number of the
locals. That puts you one up on most of
the people. Sergeant Gilman was
unfortunate enough to go to the Marine
Corps language school and is conversant
in the Meo dialect. Since we wanted to
keep the nature of the mission as inte-
grated as possible, meaning we wanted
someone from the Air Force involved,
too, we recruited Sergeant Hansen. His
own specialty is in organizing and
training local populations in guerrilla
warfare as it relates to airfield
defense. Also, he has an expert
knowledge of the radio and a fluency in
French."

"Where?" asked Bromhead.

  "If you're worried about me," said
Hansen, his voice high and squeaky,
"I've worked with the British SAS in
Malaysia and with the Special Forces in
both Cambodia and South Vietnam."

  "No," said Bromhead. "I
justwonderedwhereyou'vebeen training
those people."

"It's a program that's just getting
under way."

"Uh-huh," said Bromhead.

  "These people, these Meos, they know
we're coming?" asked Gilman.

22 The Vile

 Petersen waded through the folder as
if looking for the answer to the
question. "Given the high
concentration of enemy soldiers in the
area, we thought it best to go in
cold "

 "Colonel Petersen," interrupted
Bromhead. "Why not let me put this
together with my team. I've a couple
of good men with real experience in
this . . ."

"But they aren't conversant in the
native language."

  "No, sir, they aren't, but I know of
a Nung tribesman who can speak that
language and English. Sergeant Krung
could handle the translating duties."

  "I'm sorry." Petersen shook his head.
"But the team has already been
determined and their backgrounds have
already been checked."

"My men all have the appropriate
clearances."

  "What about this Sergeant Krung? I
trust his background hasn't been
checked to the same degree."

  "Maybe not, but I trust him and in
the end, it's my life that's on the
line."

  Petersen made a show of considering
Bromhead's proposal and then shook his
head. "No. This is set up for now. No
time to change."

  "I can have my men ready to go in the
morning," insisted Bromhead.

  "I'm sorry, Captain, but we've
already stripped too many of the A
Detachments. I don't want to take any
more men out of the camps if I can
help it. We have trained people
available, we have them in place and I
think we'll go with the team we have
assembled here."

  Bromhead was going to press further,
but then realized that Petersen's next
move would be to make it an order,
stopping all debate. There was no
sense going to that extreme now, since
it would do no good.

  Changing the direction of the
conversation again, Bromhead said,
"How do we know these people will
support us?"

The Hlle 23

  "Oh, don't worry about that," said
Petersen. "The Vietcong have been
working that area for years. The Viet
Minh before that. Their demands for
taxes and their forced recrtutment of
the young men and women have not
endeared them. Besides, there's a
traditional animosity between the Meos
and the lowland Vietnamese. Hell, the
Vietnamese have persecuted these people
for centuries. Give them an excuse to
kill Vietnamese, they'll take it."

  Bromhead shook his head. "That still
hasn't answered the question. How do we
know that these people will support us
? "

  "I'm not at liberty to discuss all
the details of the preliminary recon.
Suffice it to say that the question was
asked at the proper time and in the
proper place. The people there will
support us."

  "When was the last time anyone was
there?" asked Gilman. "And what
equipment do the natives have?"

  "The recent recons suggest that they
have nothing other than a few primitive
firearms and their homemade weapons."

  Bromhead shook his head. "This just
isn't going to work. It'd take weeks,
if not months, to put together a
fighting force out of the tribesmen. We
don't have that kind of time."

  "You'll have all the time you need,"
said Petersen. "Once you're established
in the village, you can proceed with
the training at your own pace. You'll
be on your own to establish your
schedule."

  "Colonel, I have a camp of my own.
There are things there that have to be
done. I can't be running all over
Southeast Asia."

  Petersen closed his folder and folded
his hands. "You have an executive
officer there, Lieutenant Mildebrandt.
Isn't he capable of running the camp in
your absence?"

  "Of course," said Bromhead. "He'll do
an excellent job, but it's not his to
do. It's mine."

24 The Belle

  "Then consider this mission to be
your new job for the time being."
Petersen's face was impassive. "Unless
you've rnisled me about Lieutenant
Mildebrandt's ability. If that's the
case, I can get someone else in
there."

  Bromhead realized that he had been
outmaneuvered again. He fell silent.

  "We'll need equipment and supplies,"
said Hansen, filling the silence. "I
don't see any airfields around there."

  "Initial insertion will be by
helicopter. You'll take in just enough
to get started. Some weapons so that
you can mount the guard and organize
the first-strike companies. You'll
want to get an airstrip established
that will take an Otter."

"Jesus," said Gilman.

  "The Special Forces do this all the
time. It's an offshoot of the
strategic hamlet concept. We just want
to expand it outward, cover more
ground."

  Petersen then went on to explain the
plan a second time. Each man had been
selected because of his background so
that no special training was needed.
All they had to do were the jobs they
had been trained to do. It was just
one more assignment for them. Contact
would be maintained and if the
situation warranted it, they could be
pulled out.

  "Your only instruction is not to get
captured. Although you'll be working
for our government, you won't be
wearing any U. S. insignia and all the
weapons will be sterile. This will be
a covert operation."

"Do we have a choice in the matter?"
asked Gilman.

  "Certainly, Sergeant. You're free to
refuse the mission, remembering, of
course, that your refusal will be
noted in your 201 File." Petersen
flashed a grin, devoid of mirth.

  "When do we start?" Brombead's
shoulders drooped resignedly.

  "Airlift will be available tomorrow
afternoon. Insertion will be just
before dawn the following day. You'll
be responsible

The Hlle 25

for making contact with the villagers
and enlisting their aid. Anything
else?"

 "Neither of the men here has been
described as a medic. You have one
assigned?"

 "This is a covert mission and we don't
want to drop a lot of people into it
who aren't needed."

 "Excuse me, Colonel," said Bromhead,
"but a medic is not someone who only
adds to the complexity of the mission.
He is an essential part of it. The
Special Forces doesn't send a team out
without one. Hell, sir, we've gone out
with surgeons."

"There isn't a medic available."

"I can rustle one up quickly. It won't
be a problem."

 Petersen made a show of searching
through his file folders. "I'll make
the arrangements for a medic. I've a
couple of names here. I'll have one of
them meet us at Bien Hoa in the
morning. Okay?"

"That'll be fine, Colonel," said
Bromhead.

 Petersen's gaze rested on each man.
"Now, are there any other questions
before we adjourn?"

 A hundred additional questions sprang
to mind, but all Bromhead said was,
"We'll need maps to get into the area.
And the equipment."

 "All being arranged. You'll have a
final briefing tomorrow just before you
take off. Report back here at noon."
Petersen shook his head. "We were going
to hold you incommunicado but decided
that it wasn't necessary. Don't talk
about this to anyone. Until tomorrow at
noon, you're free to do what you want.
Buy a steak, drink, but be ready on
time."

BROMHEAD SPENT THE FIRST PART of the
afternoon alone and then headed over to
the Carasel Hotel hoping to find either
Gerber or Fetterman or with luck, both.
He walked through the lobby, a
cavernous structure containing a dozen
chairs, a half dozen couches and
numerous tables that looked as if they

26 laze H11e

had been stolen over several decades
and from different parts of the world.

 He exited, passing through French
doors and out onto the open-air bar.
For a moment he stood there, surveying
the crowd. There were civilians, most
of them working for the various media
or at the embassy, and a scattering of
military types in jungle fatigues and
khakis. Bright sunlight hid some of
them. Brombead heard a laugh that
sounded like breaking crystal. He
recognized the voice immediately.

 He glanced to the rear of the bar,
saw Fetterman, Gerber, and finally
Robin Morrow. He shouldered his way
between two male reporters, one of
them wearing a safari jacket. Bromhead
reached the table and grabbed a vacant
chair without waiting for an
invitation.

 As he dropped into it, Anthony
Fetterman, a small, wiry man with
balding, wavy black hair and dark,
almost olive complexion, glanced at
him. On his first tour, Fetterman had
been the team sergeant of the A
Detachment where Bromhead worked.
"Johnnie. It's good to see you."

 Mack Gerber, a tall, thin of ricer
with brown hair and blue eyes, held a
hand across the table. He was the
detachment commander. "Good to see
you." He then turned to Fetterman.
"Calls himself Jack now instead of
Johnnie."

 Robin Morrow turned so that she was
facing him. Her long, brown hair was
cut with bangs that brushed her green
eyes. She smiled at him, the
perspiration from the humidity beading
on her lip. "Jack, huh? I like that."

 "Thought it was better for the team
leader to be known as Jack."

"So, Johnnie, ah, Jack, can I interest
you in a drink?"

"Of courser Captain. I'm always in the
mood for a drink."

 Gerber beckoned the waitress, a
Vietnamese woman in a skimpy costume
that didn't seem to keep her cool. He
or

The Tulle

dered a round. Robin leaned on the
table, cupping her chin in one hand.
"What brings you to Saigon?"

  Bromhead glanced furtively right and
left before answering, more concerned
about Morrow than Gerber and Fetterman.
Morrow, as a journalist, was always
looking for a story and his later
mission would make a great one. "That's
a question I can't answer. High-level
briefing and then I'm off again."

  "Uh-huh," said Fetterman. He grinned
and added, "You sound like you just
escaped from a second-rate spy
thriller. High-level briefing."

  "It's true," protested Bromhead, and
then laughed as he realized Fetterman
was baiting him.

  "You can tell your old friendly
sergeant," said Fetterman. "I know all
anyway."

  Bromhead shot another glance at Morrow
but said nothing. He was saved when the
drinks arrived.

  Gerber picked up the ball then and
said, "You here for a while or you
heading back to your camp?"

  "I'm here overnight and then offin the
morning for a briefing. I won't be at
the camp for a while." As he said it,
he wondered if he was giving too much
away, especially in front of Morrow,
but decided that he had to say
something. Either Gerber or Fetterman
could make a single inquiry and find
out that he wasn't at the camp.

  "So you'll be going into the field."
Morrow was still trying to pump him for
information.

  Gerber caught the pained look on
Bromhead's face. He knew the young
captain didn't want to lie to Morrow so
he jumped in again. "Robin, you have
plans for dinner tonight or are you
heading back to the office?"

  "You offering to buy me dinner, Mack,
or are you just trying to divert my
attention?" She grinned at him.

28 The Ville

  "I didn't think I was that
transparent. Of course I'mtrying to
divert the conversation, but if I have
to buy you dinner to do it, then
consider it done."

  "And during dinner I can't ask about
Johnnie's, rather, Jack's, mission?"

  "Of course you can, but he gets to
lie about it. He can make up all kinds
of strange stories and you have to
believe them, at least for tonight."

  "I find your ground rules for the
free dinner acceptable." Morrow
laughed, showing perfect teeth. She
liked the company of these men.

  Gerber glanced at his watch. It was
not the cheap, camouflage-covered one
that he normally wore, but an
expensive Seiko with the Special
Forces crest engraved in the face. "I
make it about seventeen hundred. An
hour to get cleaned up and then meet
in the lobby. From there we can decide
where to go for dinner."

  Morrow slid her chair back and
stood. "I'll go to the room first and
get changed. You can meet me there in
a few minutes."

"Fine."

  She turned and made her way through
the crowd, each of the men at the
table watching her retreat, the hem of
her short skirt dancing around her
shapely legs. They could see the
perspiration dampening her blouse down
the back so that the material was
nearly invisible and the thin line of
her bra showed through plainly.

  When she disappeared, Brornhead
turned to Gerber. "She staying in the
hotel?"

  Gerber didn't respond, but Fetterman
did. He smiled evilly. "Our captain
has himself a roommate."

"Oh?" said Brornhead. "What about
Karen?"

  Again it was Fetterman who answered.
"I think Karen cut her own throat with
our captain."

The Vile 29

  "If you two are through discussing my
sex life and relationships, I think we
could move on to more important things,
like dinner." He reached into his
pocket for a handful of change.

  "We should take Jack out and get him
drunk," said Fetterman.

  "A good plan." Gerber dropped his
coins on the table, saw that one of
them wasn't money, but a
silver-dollar-sized token with the
Trojan Horse on it that he carried for
luck. He picked it up and slipped it
into his pocket. "Any place you want to
go?"

  "Just where they have loud music,
beer, and women dancing."

  Fetterman said, "Then it's decided. I
know just the place. Shall we adjourn?"

THEY SPENT THE EVENING in various clubs
drinking beer with Bromhead chasing
women, none of whom he caught. At one
point they ordered massive steak
dinners with everything including the
baked potato because they figured it
would be a long time before Bromhead
got the chance to eat that well again.
By two they were tired and headed back
to the BOQ at Tan Son Nhut to drop off
Bromhead. He stood watching the lights
of the jeep as they drove away.

 The next morning slightly hung over,
he got dressed and went to find
breakfast. By noon he was back at the
MACV Headquarters and waiting for his
instructions. He was joined by Hansen
and Gilman and three of them were given
new uniforms that contained no U. S.
insignia, weapons that looked like
leftovers from the Second World War and
several duffel bags full of equipment
that could not be directly traced to
the United States.

 After another briefing that provided
little additional information, they
were taken outside where a driver and
a threequarter-ton truck were waiting.
Gilman and Hansen tossed the

30 The Vile

gear into the back and climbed in
after it. Bromhead got into the front,
on a seat that was dirty and torn, and
nodded at the driver. Within minutes
they were on the streets of Saigon,
winding their way to the north and
Bien Hoa where their transportation
waited.

 They bounced along crowded streets
that were jammed with men in uniform
and women in the traditional an dad.
Heavily made-up prostitutes lounged on
some of the corners, their skirts no
more than wide belts and their blouses
either seethrough or incredibly tight.
Hundreds of T qmbrettas swerved among
the military vehicles and countless
bicycles. The driver dodged through
the traffic, missing the Hondas and
pedestrians, finding the gaps in the
traffic just before they closed.

 Bromhead sat with his back braced
against the door and one hand on the
dashboard. He listened to the rumbling
diesel engine and tried to ignore the
stench of exhaust fumes. Once, when
the driver swerved too close to a
gaudily painted car, he found himself
jamming his feet against the
floorboards, but said nothing.

 Soon they left the city and headed
into open country that seemed to have
been bulldozed. The green of the
jungle had been stripped away to
reveal the reddish brown earth. Water
from the various rivers had spread
from their banks, flooding some of the
surrounding area and puddles winked
brightly in afternoon sun. Men and
women were working, along with
machinery, some of it painted yellow
and some of it OD green.

 Across the river they turned to the
west and entered the Bien Hoa military
complex. The MP at the makeshift gate
didn't even leave the guard hut. He
waved an arm out the window, telling
them to proceed.

 The driver ground the gears as they
rolled along a dirt road, kicking up
a choking cloud of red dust. They left
the built-up area and pulled into an
open park that overlooked the edge of
the airfield. A jeep sat to one side,
next to a CH-47 Chinook

The Ville 31

with the ramp down and the doors open.
The flight crew seemed to be lounging
in the shade of the chopper, drinking
Cokes from clear glass bottles.

 As Bromhead got out of the truck,
Petersen walked over. He jerked a thumb
over his shoulder. "Gear is loaded on
the chopper. Got a list in the jeep and
you can sign for it."

 Bromhead gave Petersen a strange look.
He passed a hand over his face and
wiped the sweat onto the front of his
jungle fatigues. He took offthe soft
fatigue hat and mopped his forehead
with his sleeve. Finally he said, "I
don't sign for anything until I see all
that I'm signing for. And I don't sign
for anything that I'm expected to leave
in the field."

"You have to sign for it," said
Petersen.

"I don't have to do anything, Colonel,"
said Bromhead.

 "Well, we won't worry about that
right now. Why don't you have your men
put their equipment in the chopper? You
can check to see if you have everything
you need."

 Bromhead saw both Gilman and Hansen
drop to the ground. They pulled their
duffel bags from the rear of the truck.
Gilman shouldered his and then grabbed
Bromhead's.

"Thanks," said Bromhead.

"No sweat, sir."

 Bromhead picked up his equipment and
walked to the helicopter. He dropped
the bag and moved toward the crewmen.
"You all know exactly where we're
going?"

 The pilot was a young man with a
permanently sunburned face, white-blond
hair and almost nonexistent eyebrows.
"We've been thoroughly briefed." He
held a hand up to shade his eyes as he
spoke.

 "Then as soon as I've checked the
gear and gotten my people on board,
we'll be ready for takeoff."

 The pilot stood, brushed the dirt off
the seat of his uniform and said,
"Right." He drained the Coke and handed
the empty bottle to one of the others.
"Let's do it."

32 The Hlle

 As the crew scrambled to their
positions, Bromhead and his men got
their gear into the rear of the
chopper. The crew chief took the
duffel bags and stacked them in front
of several crates that were lined up
along the center of the aircraft. The
crates were strapped to pallets that
sat on rails, ball bearing-loaded
metal strips that let one man push a
huge load out of the helicopter. On
each side of the fuselage were troop
seats with a webbing of red that
formed the backs of the seats.

 Once everything was loaded, Bromhead
stepped out and walked over to the
jeep. Petersen was sitting in the
passenger's side, his foot on the
dash, gazing idly at the airfield
around him. He turned and picked a
clipboard off the rear seat when he
saw Bromhead approaching.

 Bromhead held out a palm. "I'm still
not signing for anything."

"All the equipment there?"

  "As near as I can tell, but I refuse
to be responsible for something I
can't carry out. We get into a bad
situation and have to dump the
equipment, I can see some rear-area
bureaucrat tossing forms at me and
deciding that I should pay for the
stuff."

"That's not going to happen."

"Damn right," said Bromhead. "Anything
else?"

  "Hansen has the schedule for
contacts. He knows how you're supposed
to make any radio checks to prevent
the enemy from triangulating. He has
the codes for messages to you as well.
He's been thoroughly briefed."

  "Okay," said Brombead. He glanced
around. "I don't see the medic."

  Petersen made a show of looking at
his watch and then at his clipboard.
"Guess he's not going to make it."

  "You know, Colonel, I would be within
my rights to refuse this mission right
now. Special Forces will back me up
all the way on this."

lithe HIS 33

  Petersen set his clipboard down and
stared at the younger of ricer. "You
will not scrap the mission because of
this. You'll have one stop en route and
if you can find a medic there who is
qualified to work in the field, you
take him. You cannot scrap the mission
because the medic missed the flight."

  For a moment Bromhead stood staring
at the colonel. He didn't like going
out without a medic, and there was
still a chance that he could find one.
He thought about it, almost refused and
then decided that he would get one at
the rest stop. He nodded. "Okay."

  "Now, if it looks like the VC or NVA
are going to make a push to overrun
your camp, get out. You run into the
night with Hansen and Gilman, and if
you can't get out, make sure that
neither of them is captured."

  Bromhead stared directly into
Petersen's eyes for a moment. "I assume
you mean that as a last resort, I shoot
them."

  "That's right. Then you shoot
yourself. It's the old Seventh Cavalry
rule. Save the last round for
yourself."

"Didn't do them a shit load of good,
did it?"

"No, but those are your instructions."

"I don't suppose you'd want to give
that to me in writing?"

"You suppose right."

  Behind them there was a high-pitched
whine as the turbine of one of the
engines began to spin. The sound was
followed by a roar as the engine
reached operating rpm.

  Petersen stuck his hand out. "Good
luck, Captain. I know this isn't a
choice assignment, but you pull it off
and people will notice. They'll be
Hateful, if you understand. Sorry that
everything seems to be so haphazard."

  "Thank you, Colony. I appreciate your
words." He turned and trotted to the
chopper, climbing the ramp into the
rear of the aircraft. Once he was
buckled in his seat, the crew chief
raised the ramp.

34 The Belle

 Through the round windows of the
fuselage, Bromhead could see a cloud
of swirling dust and debris as the
chopper picked up to a hover. It
tilted and spun, the sunlight flashing
through the portholes. Then the
aircraft began to move across the
airfield. The scream of the engines
increased and almost drowned out the
popping of the twin, heavy-duty rotor
system.

 They stopped moving, hanging in the
air just above the ground, the dirt
swirling about them, and then the nose
dropped and they picked up speed to
begin the climb.

2
QUI NHON, RVN

They had been airborne for more than
three hours when the pitch in the
Chinook's engines changed and Bromhead
realized that they were descending. He
opened his eyes to see the sun
touching the horizon, bathing
everytlung in bright oranges and fiery
reds.

 The crew chief sat next to him and
yelled over the noise, "We're going to
land for refueling. It'll be a couple
of hours before we take off again if
we want to hit the LZ at dawn."

"where are we?" asked Bromhead.

"Qui Nhon."

4'Qui Nhon? That's on the coast."

  "Yes, sir. Given the time frame, it
made sense for us to stop here.
Besides, they've got one hell of an
enlisted personnel dub. Serves steaks
an inch thick, beer in buckets and all
the French fries you can eat. Not to
mention the waitresses who wear very
little because it's warm inside."

"Great," said Bromhead.

  The crew chiefgot up and made his
way to the forward section of the
aircraft. Bromhead glanced across the
fuselage. Gilmr4D had stretched out,
his hat over his eyes. -H?4Dsen was
kneeling near the equipment, checking
to see what they had.

36 We ~11e

 A moment later the aircraft bounced
and the crew chief reappeared as the
engine whine died. "AC said that we
had four hours here. Grab some food or
whatever, but be back here by
midnight."

 Gilman pulled his hat off his eyes.
"You have any plans, Captain?"

"No. Didn't know we were going to
land."

  "Well then, sir, come with me. I'll
take you to that club where the steaks
are thick, the beer is ice cold, and
the women nearly naked."

  The last thing Bromhead wanted to do
was sit in a hot, smoky club with a
bunch of drunken soldiers and sailors,
but he didn't want to alienate his new
men. There had been no time to get to
know them. He had been thrown together
with them and told that he would be
working with them behind enemy lines.
They would have to support one another
and each would depend on the other. It
was not a situation that Bromhead
liked. Now that Gilman had made the
first move he would have to respond
and he didn't want to give the
impression that he thought he was
better than either Gilman or Hansen.

"Okay," said Bromhead. "But I'll buy
the beer."

  The big Marine clapped his hands
together and nearly shouted, "You got
a deal there, sir. Hey, Hansen, you
going to join this party or you going
to be a tucking stick-in-the-mud like
last night?"

  Hansen shrugged his shoulders but
didn't look at Gilman. "There's work
to be done right here. I think I'll
just stick around."

"Hell, man," said Gilman. "You got to
eat."

"We've got cases of C-rations."

  "Jesus Christ!" said Gilman,
laughing. "Fucking C-rats when you can
have steak, probably the last you'll
see in a long time. Well, don't say we
didn't ask."

The belle 37

  "Okay, Hansen," said Bromhead. "We'll
leave our weapons here and you watch
them. We won't travel too far from the
club so that if anything comes up,
you'll be able to find us."

Hansen grinned. "Yes, sir."

  Bromhead was on his feet and moving
toward the hatch. He stopped and
turned. "Listen, I've had it with this
'yes sir' crap. Can we, for my sake,
suspend it for a while, at least until
we get into the field?"

"Certainly," said Gilman.

"Then let's get this show on the road."

  In the fading sun, the lights of the
base were barely discernible. Some of
them were single bulbs that glowed
dimly, others were bright, marking the
edges of the airfield or one of the
many clubs. Bromhead wondered about it
but realized that Charlie didn't have
any air power so that blackout
regulations didn't mean much. Later,
after midnight, the number and
brightness of the lights were probably
reduced to inhibit~the enemy mortar
crews who needed aiming stakes more
than they needed lights.

  They crossed the airstrip, a runway
of PSP surrounded by dirt taxiways, and
walked out onto a dirt road. To the
right was a low building that seemed to
pulse with the throbbing beat of rock
music. Outside the building a group of
men sat drinking beer from cans,
smoking and talking noisily among them-
selves.

  Gilman pushed past them and dragged
Bromhead into the building as the music
died and the swell of conversation
rose. The interior was everything that
Bromhead had expected. Small tables
crowded together, a bar that dominated
one side of the room with men four deep
around it, and a jukebox on a raised
platform where two soldiers stood
reading the selections and feeding
quarters into it.

  The atmosphere in the room was hot
and thick with cigarette smoke that
immediately burned the eyes. Overhead,

38 The Tulle

three ceiling fans rotated but did
nothing to circulate the air or
dissipate the smoke. There were nearly
two dozen waitresses pushing their way
among the men, some of them carrying
trays with drinks, while others
balanced platters of food deftly above
the crowd. Each was dressed in a tiny
skirt that displayed ruffled panties
as she moved and tight-fitting blouses
cut low to reveal flashes of breast.

 Gilman grinned as one of the
waitresses pushed by him. He swung a
big hand at her backside, missing it
by inches.

 A voice from the left stopped them.
"You've got to be an E5 or above to
use this facility, gentlemen." The
speaker was a fat, balding man with a
cigar clamped between his teeth.

 Gilman took the wallet from his
pocket and flashed his ID card. "This
do it?"

"For you, yes. What about him?"

"He's my guest."

"Yeah. Okay."

  Gilman shouldered his way in, found
a table just as two men vacated it. He
grabbed a waitress by the arm and
yelled over the growing din, fueled by
the tunes beginning on the jukebox,
"Bring us a couple of beers."

  Bromhead dropped into the chair
opposite him, leaned forward on the
table, but didn't speak. He watched
the ebb and flow of the crowd,
listening to the blaring music,
raucous laughter and swearing
soldiers.

  "You shouldn't have that wallet,"
said Brombead, "especially with your
ID card in it."

  "Military regulations require that we
carry the Form Two, military ID card,
wear our ID tags, and do not carry
concealed weapons."

  "Not on a covert mission. Before we
get into the field, you're going to
have to destroy that."

Gilman studied him for a moment. "Yes,
sir."

T)'e Belle 39

  "Okay, why don't you wait here while
I go see if I can scare up a medic?
That asshole Petersen promised one at
Bien Hoa and didn't deliver."

  Gilman, happy that the subject was
changed from his ID card, said, "You
sure we need a medic?"

  "If you get wounded, who do you want
treating you? Me, or a fully qualified
medic?"

  "I see your point." He was silent
until the music died again. "You want
to eat here?"

"Why not? Couple of steaks or
whatever."

  The drinks arrived. As Gilman leaned
close to the waitress, he could see
that she was sweating heavily, her
clothes almost drenched.

  Bromhead drained his glass in a long
gulp and then stood. "I'll be back in
a little while. Give me about thirty
minutes and then order the dinner.
Steak, rare. Potato baked, with butter,
and a beer."

"Yes, sir."

  Bromhead returned a few minutes
before the waitress brought the food.
He explained to Gilman that he'd had no
luck, but one major promised to try to
help. He hoped to have someone out to
the airfield by midnight.

  (lilman thanked the waitress, who
flashed a practiced smile, then
disappeared. "So," he asked Bromhead,
''thisyourfirst tour in Vietnam?"

  Bromhead knew what Gilman was asking.
Not if it was his first tour, but if he
had any experience. Gilman wanted to
make sure that he wasn't going into
combat with a man who hadn't been there
before.

  Bromhead grinned. "I have good news
and bad news. I've only been here for
a couple of months." He saw the expres-
sion on Gilman's face change and added
quickly, "But I've been here once
before for a year and a half."

"Then you know the score, sir."

40 fleelle

 Now Bromhead didn't know whether he
should be insulted or not. It wasn't
the place of the NCOs to question the
assignment of the officers.. Then he
remembered something he had been told
by an enlisted man a couple of years
earlier. It was his life on the line,
too, and sometimes he had ideas that
made sense. It was only a complete
idiot who didn't listen to the en-
listed men just because they held a
lower rank.

"I've been around for a while, if
that's what you mean."

 "Yes, sir. Anyway, this is my second
tour end I want to make sure that I
have the opportunity for a third."

"You want a third tour?" asked
Bromhead.

 "No, just the opportunity for one.
There is a difference. After the first
tour, I didn't expect to be back. For
a while there, I didn't expect to
leave."

"What happened?"

  "Got trapped on a hilltop with about
twenty other Marines while it seemed
that the entire army of North Vietnam
tried to overrun us. Spent the night
beating back the enemy and treating
each other for wounds. Artillery was
raining down around us as our boys
tried to stop the assaults, and enemy
mortars kept dropping on us in answer
to the cannon cockers." Gilman took a
deep drink of his beer.

  Bromhead didn't know what to say.
Some men considered it impolite to ask
questions about past actions. Some men
repressed them, preferring to pretend
that it never happened. Others wanted
to talk about it, share it with men
who understood the feelings.
Understood how it was possible to
shoot someone at close range and not
feel guilt.

  Gilman was opening up and it was
something that Bromhead didn't want to
stop. There were questions he could
ask but he wasn't sure that Gilman
wanted them asked.

  And then the spell was broken. 1 hey
began to eat, but didn't talk. The
jukebox, fed with a continual stream
of coins from the parade of men,
drowned out conversation. Around
eight,

The Vile 41

the bartender unplugged the jukebox and
turned on the club's stereo system with
its concert hall speakers. As the
driving beat shook the building one of
the waitresses, newly attired in a long
dress, gloves and high-heel shoes,
began dancing. Slowly she removed her
clothes until she wore only the shoes,
a G-string, and a garter belt with
fishnet stockings. Her fingers dipped
into her G-string, pulling out cotton
balls that she tossed at the roaring
crowd.

 When they finished eating, Gilman went
to the bar and got two more beers. On
his return, he stopped next to a
waitress in an incredibly short skirt
and whispered something to her. She
smiled and nodded enthusiastically.

 Gilman suggested that they drink the
beer outside, and they left the club.
Bromhead found a spot under a tree and
sat on the bench, letting the cool
breeze from the ocean wash over him.
There was a hint of salt in the air and
the odor of fish, but after the
steam-bath heat of the club and the
stench of cigarette smoke, it was a
welcome relief. He felt the sweat
drying quickly.

 Bromhead noticed that Gilman had
rolled up the sleeves of his fatigues,
revealing a tattoo on his forearm, the
birdy on the ball, the insignia of the
Marine Corps. That told Bromhead
something about the man. But it was
also one more way for the group to be
identified as Americans, if the enemy
got a chance to examine the bodies.
Bromhead decided that he didn't think
much of Colonel Petersen and the people
who had planned the mission. Obviously
they had consulted no one from the
Special Forces.

 The other unknown was Hansen. He
didn't seem to be the type to end up in
a mountain village teaching the Meos
how to fight the VC and NVA. A
conscientious man, but not a soldier at
heart, because a real soldier wouldn't
have joined the Air Force. A man
interested in aviation would, but not
someone who thought like a
ground-pounder. Bromhead figured it

42 The Vlle

would be up to him and Gilman to do
the fighting. Bromhead wanted to ask
more about the battle that Gilman had
mentioned, but as they drank, the
opening never came.

  Neither said much. Both seemed to be
enjoying the music playing softly in
the distance. When they finished, they
left the bottles on the ground but
stayed where they were. Neither seemed
anxious to return to the airfield.

  A little later, the waitress that
Gilman had spoken to slipped out the
door. She hesitated there, brushing
the sweat-damp hair from her forehead
and ignoring the shouts and whistles
from the men near her. She looked
around, spotted Gilman and raised a
hand in acknowledgment as she came
toward him.

  Gilman hopped up and held out a
hand. When she was near, he said,
"This is Lim. I have a date with her."

  Bromhead stood and bowed slightly.
"Very nice to meet you, Lim."

  She smiled and cast her eyes down
shyly. "Thank you," she said in
heavily accented English.

  Bromhead dropped back onto the bench
and Gilman waited until T im had perched
herself on the edge of a wooden crate
that someone had dragged over as a
makeshift chair.

  "Well, Lim," said Gilman sitting
across from her, "how long have you
worked here?"

  "I been here three month," she said,
grinning. Her teeth were nearly
perfect, the only defect being a gap
between the two front teeth. As she
leaned forward, her elbows on her
knees, her skirt rode higher,
revealing the flawless skin of her
thighs.

"Working in the club all that time?"
asked Gilman.

  "I dance there. Yes." She crossed
her legs very slowly, watching the
eyes of both men. Then she sat up
straight, pulling her shoulders back
so that the material of her~blouse
stretched across her small breasts. It
was obvious that she wore no bra. Her
nipples strained against the fabric.

T7ze Belle 43

"Dance and waitress," said Gilman.

  "That right. I do both. Before I
hootch maid. Clean room and shine
boot."

"Are you from this area? Qui Nhon?"
asked Bromhead.

  "I from Tuy Phouc. My father and
mother there. They farm but I do not
like that. Too hard. I come here and
get good job. I make much money."

  Gilman stood suddenly and seized her
hand. She smiled up at him but didn't
stand. "I think we'll take a walk,"
said Gilman.

"I'll be right here," said Bromhead.

  Now Lim stood and followed Gilman to
a large bush, partially in the shadows.
They disappeared behind it and then, a
moment later, Lim stood where Bromhead
could see her. She was looking down, as
if studying something on the ground, as
she slowly unbuttoned her blouse,
shrugging it from her shoulders. It
fell away, and then she unzipped her
tiny skirt. She slipped it over her
hips. Now there was only a wisp of
paleness around her and she pushed that
down her thighs to her knees. She ran
a hand through her long, thick hair so
that it all hung down her back to her
waist. Then she turned so that she was
facing Bromhead, rating him examine her
nearly naked body.

  Even in the half-light outside the
club, he could tell that she had a fine
body. Small breasts that were
beautifully sculptured with large, dark
nipples. An hourglass shape and then a
tangle of dark hair. She grinned at him
and then vanished again, crouching
behind the bush.

  There was a cooing, then a giggle and
a sigh of pure pleasure.
Foramomenttherewasquietandthenaquiet,
rhythmic slapping~of flesh on flesh
that began slowly but increased in
tempo. There was another sigh and then
a moan that was drawn out into a cry of
pleasure. It grew steadily, peaked and
dropped off into silence.

44 The Vile

 A moment later Lim reappeared
wearing her skirt and her unbuttoned
blouse. She was carrying her panties
in her hand. She dropped to the bench
next to Bromhead and twisted around so
that he could see her breasts, her
knee touching his hip.

"You like?"

"More than you'll know, Lim."

  She spread her legs slightly, one
foot on dhe ground and dhe other
tucked under her. "What you mean?"

  "It means I've got to get back to
work. I have much to do tonight."

She looked as if she was going to cry.
"You don't like Lim."

"I Mink you're a very nice girl, but
I've got to go to work."

  She pouted for a moment, then spread
her blouse wide, as if cooling her
chest, and Then closed it slowly,
buttoning it carefully. "You go to
work and not know what you miss. I am
very good. Best you ever find."

  She stood in front of him, drew her
skirt up to her waist and Then slowly
stepped into her panties. She wiggled
from side to side, watching Bromhead
all the while, as The underwear fi-
nally covered her genital area. She
yanked them tight, snapped dhe
waistband, then smooched her skirt
over her hips. Without a word, she
spun and trotted back to The club.

As she left, Gilman stepped close.
"She's very good."

  Bromhead already knew chat. It had
taken quite an effort to ignore The
show she put on for him. To Gilman he
said, "I think it's time we returned
to the aircraft."

"If you insist, sir."

  When they got to The airfield, the
flight crew was still missing, and
there was no sign of a medic. Hansen
was sitting in the cargo compartment,
reading a paperback by flashlight. He
looked up, acknowledged their presence
with a nod, Then turned his attention
back to the book.

"Anybody been by here?" asked
Bromhead.

The Ville 45

  "No, sir," replied Hansen. "It's been
very quiet. Jeep drove by once but when
I looked out the hatch, he took off
without a word."

  "Damn." Bromhead thought about
calling the major again and asking the
status of the search for a medic, but
knew it would do no good. The man would
either find him a medic in time or he
wouldn't, and calling wouldn't help
hirn.

  Bromhead lay down on the troop seat,
and put an arm over his eyes. He tried
to tune out the noise around him,
including the roar of aircraft engines,
the pop of rotor blades and even the
chattering of machine guns on the
bunker line. The heat no longer
bothered him that much although he
unbuttoned his fatigue shirt, letting
it hang open.

  The flight crew came aboard just
before midnight and went about their
duties. The crew chief woke Bromhead,
instructed him to strap in. They would
be taking off soon. Bromhead inquired
if the medic had arrived, but the crew
chief knew nothing about any medic.
They were almost ready to take off with
one more stop scheduled at a small
Special Forces camp at Dak Sut. This
was necessary so that they would not be
too early to the landing zone in Laos.

  Once they were airborne, Bromhead
went back to sleep. He was awakened
just before landing and watched the
approach to the darkened hillside.
There was jungle all around and in the
center of a gray patch a single
flashing light.

  When the aircraft touched down,
Bromhead moved to the rear and checked
through the equipment. He pulled out
his rucksack and pistol belt. There
were three canteens hung on it, all of
them empty. As the roar from the
engines died, Bromhead approached the
crew chief. "How long will we be here?"

"Awhile. Why?"

  " Need to get my canteens filled and
my pack ready. And talk to the
Detachment CO."

46 Tile belle

 "Shouldn't be a problem. The sneaky
Petes inside will help with the water
and tell you where the CO is."

 Within twenty minutes Bromhead was
back and in a black mood. Like almost
every Special Forces camp in South
V~etnamj this one had been stripped of
personnel by MACV-SOG to make up the
various details for Project Delta. One
of the first men taken had been the
senior medic from the camp. That left
them with one and the CO wasn't going
to give him up. Bromhead thanked him
and cursed Petersen. The tucking,
ground-pounding leg didn't understand
that a medic was essential.

 Back at the aircraft, Brornhead
sorted through his equipment, made up
his pack, keeping it light since they
would be relocating to the village
quickly. Then he sat in the darkened
interior of the aircraft to wait. He
tried not to think about Petersen,
except as he might look dangling at
the end of a rope after the skin had
been slowly peeled from his body.

 Hansen, who had gone to the Special
Forces comma bunker to make a radio
check, returned a few minutes later.
He played his flashlight around the
interior of the aircraft and then
switched it off.

 "You ready for this mission,
Captain?" he asked, trying to strike
up a conversation.

 Brornhead looked toward the sound,
but could only see a dark lump where
Hansen sat. "As ready as I'll ever
be."

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

 Hansen didn't say any more and after
a while, Bromhead heard a snore. He
grinned and then lay down. Gilman re-
rurned a short while later, but didn't
speak. They all were silent then, each
lost in his own thoughts. Brornhead
wanted to say something, give them a
last minute pep talk, but didn't know
what to say to them. He didn't know
the men with him and that worried him,
just as it had worried Oilman.

The It 47

  When the flight crew returned from
the mess hall, they went through the
preflight procedure again. This time,
when they were airborne, Bromhead
didn't lie down. He watched the
landscape under the aircraft but could
see little in the darkness. A ribbon of
silver that marked a river, or a thread
of black that was a road. There were
splatterings of dark gray that sig-
nified villages, some of them with
scattered lights, and patterns of flat
black that marked thick jungle around
them. Bromhead watched them all,
searching for the flashes of enemy
weapons and the lines of tracers
climbing toward them. He saw nothing.

  Suddenly Bromhead saw a blinking red
light outside the aircraft. He moved
forward and tapped the crew chief on
the shoulder. "What's that?"

  "Escort aircraft. To make sure that
we hit the right place. The AC is in
touch with an AWACS aircraft that is
using various electronic devices to
pinpoint the LZ. The aircraft you see
out There is going to lead us in."

  "Great," said Brombead. "Just what we
need on a covert mission." He moved
back to his seat to wait.

  Widhin minutes the crew chief was
standing near him and yelling over the
sound of the engines. "We're about five
out. Get ready."

  Bromhead joined Gilman and Hansen at
the rear of the aircraft. Two crewmen
also came up to them. Bromhead was
about to ask how much longer when he
felt his stomach reach his throat as
they began a rapid descent. It seemed
that dhey were plunging to the ground.
Bromhead's hand shot out in reflex,
grabbing one of dhe support legs of the
troop seats.

  There was a sudden increase in
gravity and Bromhead felt himself
forced down. An instant later dhe
pressure let up as the aircraft bounced
once then settled to The ground. The
crew chief ran back as one of dhe other
crewmen hit dhe switch to lower the
ramp.

48 The Vile

  "Go. Go. Go! " yelled the crew chief
as he flipped open the buckles on the
cargo belts that held the pallets in
place.

  Bromhead grabbed his weapon and his
duffel bag and leaped out of the open
hatch. He landed on the soft ground,
scrambled to the edge of the jungle
and halted. Over his shoulder, he
could see that Gilman had taken a
position on the other side of the LZ
while Hansen helped to discharge the
equipment. Qtuckly, they had it piled
at the bottom of the ramp and the
crewmen had disappeared inside. The
engine noise increased and the
aircraft rose, the rotor wash swirling
around the LZ, kicking up anything
that was loose. The sound faded as the
helicopter climbed out, the engines
belching streaks of fire.

  Then the chopper was gone and the
quiet became eerie. The silence was so
deep that Bromhead wondered if
something had gone wrong with his
hearing until he heard a piercing
scream, probably from some animal
awakened by the helicopter.

  Bromhead settled down to wait. He
glanced to the east and saw the first
faint fingers of dawn reaching into
the sky. Overhead, in the jungle
canopy, scrambling noises drew Brom-
head's attention. He hoped that it was
a monkey disturbed by the chopper. He
looked up, but could see nothing in
the darkness.

  Unsnapping the camouflage cover on
his watch, he lifted it to check the
time and then refastened it. He turned
toward the LZ, but could only make out
a pale lump at one end where the
equipment had been pushed. He let his
eyes shift over the jungle, listened
to the light rustling of leaves as a
breeze blew through, but there was no
evidence of humans.

  Suddenly he realized that he could
pick out individual trees and bushes
and that the jungle had become gray
instead of black. There were patches
of mist drifting among the trees,
making it look as if the jungle was on
fire. The sky was now light gray.
Bromhead got to his feet and drifted
back into the LZ.

The Tulle 49

  "Okay, we've got a lot of work to do
today." Brombead spoke quietly, his
voice barely above a whisper, but the
two NCOs heard him.

  When they were grouped around the
equipment, Bromhead unfolded his map,
now that it was bright enough to read.
He was about to speak when the jungle
exploded into a riot of sound. Monkeys
were howling at each other, birds were
screeching and parrots squawking. Each
of the men dived for cover, their
weapons at the ready, but there was
nothing to shoot at. They could see the
animals running through the treetops,
shaking the branches, screaming.

  For twenty minutes the noise kept up,
louder than the inside of the
helicopter. They could hear nothing
unless they were right next to one
another, shouting directly into each
other's ear. But they couldn't hold a
three-way conversation.

  Then, as abruptly as it started, the
noise ended. Through the early morning
mists, Bromhead could see no movement.
Everything settled down, as if the
creatures had gone into hiding.

  Brombead got his men together again,
the map spread out on the top of a
crate. "We're supposed to be here and
the village is supposed to be here. Two
klicks at the most. I'll head off to
make contact with the villagers. You
two stay here and guard the equipment.
I suggest you do it from the jungle.
Watch it, but don't sit on it. I expect
to be back before noon with enough men
to move everything into the ville."

  Gilman spun the map so that he could
look at it. He traced a route to the
vine and then the line of a river. "If
you don't return by noon?"

  " Then you take charge. You can do
one of two things. Either try to make
contact with the villagers or E and E
to South Vietnam."

"What do you suggest, sir?" asked
Gilman.

50 The Vile

 "That you try to fmd me before you
bug out, but as I say, that's up to
you."

"Yes, sir."

 Bromhead slapped Gilman on the
shoulder. "Now you got it." He looked
at his watch, the camouflage now
folded back. "I make it ten of five."

 " So you have seven hours to the
ville and to get back here," said
Hansen.

"Right."

 Bromhead folded the map and stuffed
it into a side pocket. He shouldered
his rucksack and buckled his pistol
belt. He then checked the magazine on
his weapon, an old M-1 carbine and
chambered a round. As he set the
safety, he said, "Seven hours and then
you're on your own."

"Yes, sir," said Gilman. "Good luck."

 With that, Bromhead crossed the LZ
and entered the trees to the north. He
halted just inside the tree line and
crouched near a giant bush with huge
leaves and large pink flowers. He
glanced to the right where a
thorn-covered vine climbed the trunk
of a tree, strangling the life from
it. Overhead, the canopy closed, the
broad leaves of the trees intertwining
to form an unbroken roof. To the rear,
he could see a patch of blue and the
shafts of light from the sun. Water
dripped down from the top, running
along the broad leaves of the plants
and down the trunks of the trees. It
splashed on Bromhead, soaking his al-
ready sweat-damp uniform. As he wiped
his sleeve across his forehead, he
could smell the moist dirt. The dank
odor reminded him of summer and his
mother's fruit cellar. He knew the day
was going to be hot and muggy, with
the humidity draining everyone's
strength.

 Rising to his feet, Bromhead found a
narrow game trail and began to follow
it. He knew that inside Laos the VC
and NVA would not booby trap the
trails or lay ambushes because the
Americans and South Vietnamese were
not supposed to be

The Tulle 51

there. Booby traps would be more of a
hindrance to the Communists than to the
Americans.

 Bromhead crouched so that he could
move along the tunnel created by the
tightly intertwined bushes. The ground
was soft and damp, his footprints
filling with water as he made his way
along the trail. He reached out to push
a vine aside and immediately felt a
burning sensation. He jerked his hand
back and saw a red welt forming on the
skin of his hand. With the barrel of
his carbine, he pushed the vine out of
the way and ducked under, careful not
to let it touch him. From that point,
he used the rifle to brush aside any
vegetation that blocked his way.

 Within minutes he was tired, hot and
thirsty. His pace slowed as he began to
climb. His mouth hung open as if he
couldn't get enough air and his lungs
ached. It was almost as if he had run
a klick or two instead of only a
hundred meters. His condition was due
in part to being in the jungle again,
and part of it was due to the altitude.
He was three or four thousand feet
above sea level where the air was
thinner. Before leaving on the mission,
he should have demanded a couple of
weeks for conditioning.

 He worked his way deeper into the
twilight of the jungle. There were
occasional patches of sunlight where
there were tiny breaks in the thick
canopy, but those were few. The deeper
he went, the dimmer it became, until he
was in a world of perpetual twilight.

 After thirty minutes he stopped and
took out his map, but the jungle was so
dense there were no landmarks visible.
Just mahogany, teak, palm and coconut
trees. Some of these grew nearly two
hundred feet tall, others shorter. Then
there were bushes and brush that clung
to the ground. And a small stream that
wasn't marked on the map.

 Bromhead pulled out his compass,
sighted on a distinctive tree, a dead
teak that was turning gray, and headed
toward it.

52 The Hlle

When he got there, he stopped long
enough to drink from his canteen, and
waste a little water on his go-to-hell
rag. He made another sighting, then
started off again. Two hours later, he
decided that he had missed the
village. Suddenly he heard voices to
his right. He dropped to the ground,
listening and realized that they
weren't speaking Vietnamese. He
crawled forward slowly, easing his way
among the bushes and trees, being
careful not to make noise.

 The jungle thinned abruptly, the
broad-leafed plants and lacy ferns
giving way to thick grass two or three
feet tall. Bromhead found a rotting
log and used it for cover. Craning, he
could see into the village. Thatched
hootches sat on stilts with notched
logs leading to them. Some were
surrounded by fences of woven branches
and fires burned near others. Bare-
chested women with bright clothes
wrapped around their waists, tended
the fires. Men wearing loose
loincloths walked around chasing pigs,
chickens and children. He could see
stagnant pools of water and the odor
of an uncovered sewer assaulted his
nostrils.

 Bromhead watched the village for a
moment, wondering if this could
possibly be the right place. The
report had suggested that the French
had taught them about slit trenches,
penning the animals, and personal
hygiene. The report had outlined how
the French had brought civilization to
the area. Either the villagers had
forgotten the training, or this was
the wrong place.

 And there was no evidence of military
discipline. The report had said that
the vine had been organized into a
strike force, but none of the men wore
anything that looked like a uniform.
There was no evidence of weapons,
other than a machete carried by one
man and a crossbow held by another.

 Bromhead wasn't sure what to do. He
took out his map and checked it
carefully. According to it, there were
no other villages close, but that
didn't mean much. A thatch hootch
didn't

The Klle 53

take long to construct and the fluid
nature of the war could easily force
the villagers to relocate. There was no
guarantee that this was the right
place, or if it was the right place,
that it was the right group of people.
The natives sometimes built their
villages on the sites of old, deserted
hamlets.

 Bromhead decided he had no choice.
Even if this was the wrong place, he
would have to make contact. Slowly he
got to his feet until he was standing
in full view. When no one seemed to
notice him, he began to walk forward.
As he moved he slipped his weapon to
his shoulder using the sling. He kept
his hands held high where they were
easily visible to anyone who wanted to
look.

 He was within ten yards of the
village when someone spotted him. There
was a shout of alarm and three of the
men ran forward, forming a human wall
in front of the village. Bromhead
halted, grinned and shouted in French,
"Greetings. I bring you assistance and
weapons."

3
MEO VILLAGE
SOUTHEASTERN LAOS

For a moment they all stood there
looking at one another. The women
gathered the children and fled toward
the rear of the village until they
were out of sight. A dog, hidden under
one of the hootches, began to bark. No
one spoke, although one of the males
was swinging his machete in tiny
circles.

 Bromhead spoke again in French.
"Greetings," he said, and was tempted
to add, "from the people of the United
States," but that was supposed to be
something of a secret. He tried to
think of something else to say, but
his limited French, taken in high
school and his first year of college,
and only augmented in a limited
fashion by the Army, deserted him.

 The men began jabbering among
themselves. Another three males joined
them. One of the original group came
forward. A short, skinny man with
long, thick greasy hair. He was cov-
ered with mud, had extremely long
fingernails, and blue eyes. There was
a ragged, puckered scar on his
shoulder so that his left arm hung at
an almost impossible angle. He held a
hand up and began speaking to Bromhead
slowly and distinctly in a language
that Bromhead couldn't understand.

The Vile 55

 Bromhead had only been in the village
for a few minutes and it already seemed
to be a disaster. He couldn't
communicate with anyone and the natives
didn't look all that friendly. One of
them kept eyeing his M-1, as if he
expected to take it off Bromhead's
body. Another kept his machete in
motion, drawing Bromhead's attention to
the blade. It looked incredibly sharp.

 Bromhead tried it again. He held up a
hand, palm out in a friendly manner,
and said, "Greetings. I have arrived to
help in the war against the Vietcong
and North Vietnamese. I have weapons
and equipment."

 There was some response from the men.
They looked at one another and spoke
among themselves rapidly in a singsong
language. Bromhead didn't like the way
the situation was developing. He let
his right hand drop to his side where
he unsnapped the strap on his holster,
which held a Browning M35 9 mm pistol,
his eyes locked on those of the man
standing in the middle.

 Then suddenly, from somewhere in the
village, a feminine voice shouted in
English, "Who in the hell are you?"

 Everyone turned. A woman, dressed
like the natives, bare to the waist
with a brightly colored cloth knotted
around her waist appeared. She had
blond hair that hung in a tangle. There
were tan lines on her breasts and she
wore sandals. She was taller than the
natives by a good four inches. She
stopped walking, ran a hand through her
hair, pushing it away from her face,
and then put a hand on her hip.

"I asked, who in the hell are you?"

 Bromhead was momentarily stunned. He
hadn't been ready for a white woman to
appear among the natives; one who spoke
English and who seemed to
haveherownideas. The rest ofthe women
remained hidden, this one was now
standing behind the men, a hand on her
hip. Remembering his directive that

56 The belle

demanded silence, Bromhead merely
said, "I'm Bromhead. Jack Bromhead."

"And what in the hell are you doing
here?"

  "I've been sent to provide, ah, aid
for these people." He found himself
staring at her breasts. They were a
golden brown while her shoulders and
stomach were quite dark. They were
firm, well-shaped breasts and as he
watched, the nipples grew erect. He
tried to pull his eyes away but
couldn't.

  She noticed his gaze and was suddenly
embarrassed by it. She raised her
hands, dropped them and then tried to
casually fold her arms over her chest,
hiding herself.

"Who are you?" he asked.

  "I'm Jane Lucas." She recrossed her
arms, splaying her fingers out to hide
her nipples. "I'm studying the culture
and internal structure of the Meo.
I've a grant from the National
Endowment for the Sciences. I've been
here for twelve weeks. Arrived with
the help of the Laotian government, on
that grant. A legal grant. Here to
study these people in their natural
habitat."

  Bromhead realized that she was
babbling. Maybe she was embarrassed by
being caught seminude. He let his eyes
fall to the ground and found himself
staring at her ankles. Very trim
ankles that were smeared with dirt.

  T he man with the scarred shoulder
began speaking, first to Lucas in Meo,
his voice rising and falling harshly,
and then to one of the men. He was
taller and stockier than the rest and
wore only black shorts. His hair was
braided. He said something in a sharp,
quiet voice. The woman looked at him,
stood her ground for a moment and then
spun, stomping off. Bromhead watched
her retreat.

In French, the man said, "You have
brought weapons?"

  "Yes. Many. And other equipment.
Things that you need and you can have,
all of it stored close to the village.
We have

The Ville 57

a great deal of work to do." He kept
his eyes on Lucas until she disappeared
around a corner.

  "Then let us get started," said the
man. He faced the village and put his
hands to the sides of his mouth,
yelling in a high-pitched, warbling
voice. He kept the call going, sounding
as if he was calling the men to a
prayer meeting.

  People began to appear from inside the
hootches, out of the jungle, and from
behind the fences and near the
scattered trees. They formed a ragged
line behind the tall man, looking as if
they were trying to remember their
military lessons. A couple of them
stood with their crossbows at their
sides. One man held a rifle with a
stock made from bamboo.

  Bromhead moved down the line like a
general reviewing his troops. He
glanced at each man and the weapon he
held, trying to ignore the odor of
unwashed humanity that radiated from
the villagers. Each of them was smeared
with dirt, their feet black. One of the
first things that Brombead would have
to do was institute a program of
cleanliness.

  When he finished, he walked back to
the headman and stopped. He was anxious
to suggest that they set up a guard
system, get a roving patrol into the
jungle to watch for the enemy, and to
start a regular program of parroting so
that they wouldn't be surprised. He
wanted to get things cleaned up and
start on building bunkers. There were a
hundred things that needed to be done
immediately but it wasn't the time. He
would have to learn patience. He
couldn't get it all done in one day.
There would have to be a program of
priorities so that he didn't drive
himself crazy trying to do too much too
soon.

  "I will need," he told the man who
seemed to be the leader, "thirty men to
help move the equipment from the
landing zone to your village. We will
need a place to store it, and then I will
want to talk to all the men who have
received some kind of military
training."

58 The Vile

  The leader nodded through the speech
and then spun, trying to execute an
about-face. With his hands at his
sides, he shouted at the men in their
language. He pointed at them,
splitting them into two groups. When
he was finished, he turned back to
Bromhead. "We go now."

  "Okay," said Bromhead in English. He
had hoped for a chance to look around
the village before they went after the
equipment, but that couldn't be done.
Besides, there were no signs of any
other military presence. The only
problem was the white woman, but it
was a problem he would have to deal
with later. Now the headman was
anxious to get moving, and so was
Bromhead.

  He nodded at the headman and then
spoke in French. "Form the men into a
line. I will take the point. I want
three men at the end of the line as a
rear guard. You understand?"

  "I have it." He grinned, displaying
broken and yellowed teeth.

  Bromhead unslung his carbine,
thought about it, and then handed it
to the headman. "You carry this," he
said. "I'll use my pistol."

  Bromhead led them to the game trail
that he had used to find the camp. He
promised himself that it was something
he would never do again in South
Vietnam. In the combat environment of
Vietnam, using the same trail twice
was the quickest way to get ambushed
and eliminated. But this wasn't South
Vietnam and not a combat environment.
The enemy didn't expect the Americans
to be operating in Laos and weren't
looking for them. Once they had their
camp established and began military
operations, Bromhead would have to be
careful about violating the rules, but
at this moment, the quickest route was
the best.

  Once they were into the jungle, away
from the village, Bromhead stopped
long enough to review the column. It
was obvious that the men had had some
military training, and as

The Tulle 59

they fanned out through the trees, that
training was coming back. They didn't
bunch up, and although they were
talking, they kept their voices down.
Not absolute noise discipline, but like
the rest, Bromhead ignored it for the
moment.

  They filtered through the jungle,
moving down to the LZ. It was an easier
trip for Bromhead. He kept the pace
rapid and didn't give them a break.
When he was close to the LZ, he halted
them and entered it on his own. Once
Gilman and Hansen were warned that
Bromhead and his party was there,
Bromhead ordered them into the LZ.

  Gilman and Hansen moved to the
equipment and began to separate it into
loads for the men. Some of the men,
using saplings cut to form poles, were
able to pair up and carry a couple of
crates. In just a few minutes they were
ready to sears the trip back to the
camp. Bromhead told the headman to lead
them, keep the pace steady, but make
sure that they didn't get too far
ahead. He wanted the column to remain
together as much as possible.

  As the men moved out, Bromhead grabbed
Gilman. "I want you to stick here for
a while. Make sure we've left nothing
on the LZ that will identify us to the
enemy. Then follow at a shore distance
so that we can get a reading on how
much noise these guys make."

  "I'd bet, sir, that they can glide
through the jungle without a sound if
they want."

  "You're probably right. See if they
leave any signs. Pick up anything they
might drop."

"Yes, sir."

  Bromhead was about to caution him
about calling him sir, but then decided
against it. In South Vietnam, the
officers always tried to do nothing
that would call attention to them. They
didn't point, tried to stay clear of
the radio, and didn't require saluting.
But here these things might become
important. It might become a way of
establishing and maintaining

60 The Hlle

authority. Dealing with people of
different ethnic backgrounds could
become a real pain in the ass.

 So, instead of any of that, Brombead
said, "Just don't get yourself lost or
captured here."

"Don't worry about that."

 "See you at the village." Bromhead
hurried after the men, joined the rear
of the formation and watched them
climb the trail leading home. The pace
uphill seemed faster than it had been
down. Bromhead wondered if the men
were hurrying so that they could break
into the crates and grab the weapons
and ammo.

 Bromhead watched the column,
fascinated. The heat, humidity and
altitude didn't seem to bother them.
They didn't sweat, nor was any of them
breathing hard. They ran up the hill,
carrying the loads that should have
slowed them considerably. And the
closer they got to the village, the
faster they seemed to move.

 As they approached the village,
Bromhead began to see and hear signs
of it. Signs that hadn't been visible
or audible in the early morning hours.
Smoke from a dozen or more campfires
worked its way into the sky, marking
the ville. Women and children were
laughing and shouting. There were
bleatings and bellowing from the
animals. From somewhere came the
discordant music favored by some of
the people of Asia. The annoying
sounds penetrated the jungle and
Bromhead wondered why a village that
was so primitive would have a radio.
It had to be battery-powered since
there was no other electricity
available and was probably some form
of government propaganda. A gift to
the poor.

 They came out of the jungle, crossing
the open ground toward the village. As
the first group of men entered it,
they were met with wild cheering. The
males who had been left behind had not
been idle. They had been organizing a
celebration. They had selected a water
buffalo and staked it in the middle

17'e Vile 61

of the village. They were waiting for
the return of the men before they began
the ritual of beating it to death.

 Bromhead hurried to the head of the
column to speak to the leader. "We need
to store the equipment somewhere so it
will be protected. Somewhere out of the
rain."

"We give to the men. They protect it."

 "No," said Bromhead. "First we must
store it and check it all. Then as we
form the strike force, we will issue
the equipment. But first we must check
it. We have to make sure that we got
all we are entitled to."

 The man nodded as if he saw the wisdom
of that, and ordered his men to take
the rifles and ammo and supplies to a
long, empty hootch in the middle of the
village. This thatched structure was
used as the sleeping quarters for
visitors. It was situated in the center
of the vine where the men could protect
it and where their visitors could sleep
in safety.

 Bromhead moved to the interior of the
hootch to watch the men bring in the
boxes. He didn't want anyone raiding
the equipment. Issuing it would become
a ritual to mark the completion of a
portion of the tuning. It would be a
reward for a job well done. If he
allowed the men to steal from him, it
would undermine what he needed to do.

 The interior of the hootch was bare.
The floor of split logs was rough and
through gaps in it, he could see the
ground. The thatch was thick and there
was a platform of blackened stone at
one end for a fire. Part of the wall
was reinforced with stone and there was
a hole in the roof for the smoke to
escape. Bromhead suspected that the
hootches for guests burned down
frequently if people built fires in
them.

 Once all the equipment was stacked
inside, Bromhead left Hansen in charge
to count and examine the equipment. He
side-stepped a foul-smelling puddle of
water, avoided a fence of woven
branches loaded with thorns and
approached the headman who was studying
the water buffalo. To the left,

62 The Vile

Bromhead could see the white woman,
who now wore a brightly colored bra.
He smiled to himself, finding it
difficult to avoid staring at her. He
noticed that she had washed herself
and combed her hair. It was pulled
back off her face in a ponytail.

  The headman spoke in French. "When
all your men arrive, we will begin the
celebration."

  Bromhead nodded. " Shouldn't we
begin getting things into a military
shape?"

  "Tomorrow." The man waved his hand.
"We start that tomorrow. Today we
celebrate the assistance we get from
our friends in far away France."

  Bromhead's head jerked upright at
the village chief's comment. He was
grinning happily. Apparently he had
assumed that the French paratroopers
had returned, and since the common
language was French, it was a natural
mistake. Bromhead decided to do
nothing to change the man's opinion.

  "Tomorrow we begin to train to fight
the Communists. We learn how to kill
them and drive them from your
homeland."

"Yes."

  Leaving the headman to worry about
the water buffalo, Bromhead moved off,
searching for Gilman. He was standing
alone, watching a group of women
working around a cooking pot. On
Bromhead's approach, Gilman looked up.

  "Let's head over to the guest hootch
for a couple of minutes. I want to
know what you saw on your way in."

  "Sure thing," said Gilman. "Say, I
have a question. How are we supposed
to treat the women around here?"

  Bromhead studied the huge man and
then glanced past him to the
diminutive women. Gilman was nearly
three times as big as any of the
people in the village. "Let's treat
them with respect and let them take
the lead. We don't want to insult them
or alienate them."

The Vile 63

 Gilman shook his head sadly. "I would
do nothing to insult them, sir."

"Then we have nothing to worry about."

 They reached the hootch where the
equipment was stored. Hansen was
sitting on the floor with rifle
components scattered in front of him.
When he heard the others, he said,
"They're all packed in grease. Before
we can use them, we're going to have to
clean them thoroughly."

 "Good." Bromhead found a seat on a
crate stenciled Hand Grenades. "That'll
inhibit the men until we get
established here. Now, we need to
discuss a few things."

 Gilman joined Hansen on the floor and
took out a canteen. He drank deeply,
letting some of the water run down his
chin to soak into his shirt. He wiped
his mouth on the back of his hand. "Go
ahead, sir."

"First thing, what did you see on your
way in here?"

 Gilman rubbed a hand over his lips.
"The LZ was clean. Hell, there were
depressions in the grass where our
stuff had been, but the natives grabbed
everything, including the wood of the
pallets and the bent nails. Some paper,
but I picked that up, so once the grass
springs back, no one will know we were
there."

 "Good. Now I think we should establish
a rank structure." He held up a hand to
stop any protest. "We're going to be
forming a guerrilla army here. I'm
going to operate as the commander with
a rank of colonel. The headman will be
my counterpart and be a colonel. You
two will be battalion commanders with
ranks of major. For the sake of
appearances, you'll have to take orders
from the headman. Under each of you
will be two company commanders who are
captains and then platoon leaders who
are lieutenants."

 "That's an awfully big army, Colonel,"
said Gilman, grinning.

64 T7te ~11e

 "Right now we'll start with a single
platoon and rely on the headman to put
his best men into it. We'll tell him
what we're looking for and see how he
responds. It'll also give us a clue
about his thinking. From there, after
we've trained them, we'll draw the
officers and NCOs."

"When do we start all this?" asked
Hansen.

 "Tomorrow. We start slowly,
interviewing the men. We'll have a bit
of a communication problem, but we'll
be able to work around that. Just
slide into it. I think the key to this
whole thing is going to be patience.
Don't try to take them too far too
fast."

"What kind of training?" asked Gilman.

 "I think it should be in two stages.
On one hand we'll want to begin the
military training immediately and on
the other we'll want to institute a
program of civic action. Get some of
the filth out of here."

 Gilrnan got up and walked around the
interior of the hootch. He touched the
thatch, looked at his fingers and then
rubbed them on his shirt. He looked at
Brornhead. "I just don't know about
this. The more I think about it, the
more I feel that we haven't been given
the training necessary to complete
this mission. They threw us into this
situation and let us have our heads.
I'm a tucking combat infantryman, not
a tucking teacher."

 "I'm afraid," said Bromhead, "that
we've all become fuc~king teachers.
We'll just have to do the best we can.
Take it slow and build a strike force
and a fortified camp. Teach these guys
what you know. Think about what was
done to you in basic training and
structure your program like that. We
don't have to worry about someone
looking over our shoulder with a lot
of bullshit regulations. That's all
there is to it."

"Yes, sir," said Gilman.

 "Among ourselves we can let the
military courtesies slip, but in front
of the natives we'll have to follow
strict military tr~un

The Hlle 65

in"." Bromhead smiled. "The first
lesson. Lead by example. Let the men
see that you know how to do it right
and they'll follow."

`'Yes3 sir."

  "Okay, for tonight, let's just relax.
We'll take turns going to the party. I
want one of us in this hootch at all
times so that no one can get into the
equipment. You've got to eat and drink
out there, but use some common sense.
No one gets drunk."

Both Gilman and Hansen nodded.

  "Tomorrow, after we have a chance to
look at the men, we'll get together
and plan a strategy. Any questions?"

A female voice came from the doorway.

  Bromhead turned and saw Jane Lucas
standing there, one hand on the thatch
as she crouched to enter.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"Answer one question. Who are you
people?"

  "Just soldiers who have been given
the task of assisting these people. We
have been given a job to do. Training
these people so that they can defend
themselves from the Pathet Lao and the
North Vietnamese."

  She entered the hootch and looked at
the pile of equipment. "Can we talk
about that?"

  "Sure," said Bromhead. He waved a
hand at the wooden boxes. "Have a
seat." He pointed at Gilman and
Hansen. "Why don't you two look around
outside for a few minutes? Get a feel
for the layout of the village."

  Lucas sat down. She had changed again
and now appeared to be on safari. She
wore a bush jacket complete with loops
for bullets like the one favored by
the Saigon journalists, a skirt that
stopped well above her knee, khaki
socks that reached the knee and soft
leather boots. All that was missing
was a pith helmet. She sat on a crate
and crossed her legs slowly.

"You have to leave," she said.

"Leave? You've got to be kidding."

66 Me Vile

  "No, I'm not. You're messing up my
project here. I'm studying these
people. Observing them in order to
learn how they live. I'm trying to
understand their social structure. Now
you come in and give them weapons and
teach them to fight a war. If you
stay, you're going to destroy their
social structure."

  "We're not here to destroy anything
or to necessarily fight a war. We're
also going to teach them something
about sanitation, food preservation
and self-defense. Maybe show them ways
to improve these structures, give them
some first-aid knowledge. There is so
much they need to learn. There is so
much that we can do for them."

"But if you do that, then my job is
wasted."

  "I'm afraid I don't understand." He
remembered the way she had looked as
he had entered the village, dressed
like the natives and covered with
dirt.

  "To study these people, I have to
gain their trust. To do that, I have
to live with them, live like them and
become one of them. It isn't right to
bring them into your war. They want no
part of your war and can understand
nothing about it. It isn't right to
pretend that your way of life is the
correct one and everyone should live
that way."

"Look, Jane. May I call you that?"

She nodded. "Please."

  "Jane, I, too, have a job to do here.
It's not as cut and dried as you may
think. I'm not here to bring the war
to these people, but to assist them if
it should arrive."

  "But don't you see? I can't do mine
if you're out there changing
everything. One of the rules I operate
under is that I don't interfere in
their life. I study and watch, but I
don't participate."

  Bromhead shook his head. "How can you
do that? How can you sit by and let
them do things that you know are going
to

The Hlle 67

make them sick or injure them? How can
you sit back and la the sick die when
you know how to treat the disease?"

  ''BecauseIdon'tmakemoral judgments,"
she said. "That is not my place. Who is
to say that their way of life is
inferior to ours?"

  Bromhead looked at the floor. He
breathed deeply and then glanced up. He
thought Jane Lucas was an attractive,
intelligent woman. He wanted to be able
to tell her what she wanted to hear,
but it was impossible. There was no way
he could pack up and get out. He said,
"I'm not making any judgments. I'm here
to help these people. Give them a way
to protect themselves from the VC,
teach them ways to prevent sickness .
. ."

  "To involve these people in a war
that they aren't involved in?"

  "Oh? Is that a fact? I saw a few
people with scars that suggest they are
shrapnel and bullet wounds. I noticed
that the men knew a little bit about
military operations. They knew how to
march through the jungle in military
fashion. Somebody has been here
teaching them something. I would sug-
gest that these people have already
been involved in a war. And I'll bet
they'll be involved again, whether we
stay or not."

  "I've been here for twelve weeks and
I haven't seen a sign of your feared
Communists. That's just an excuse for
you. A reason to get these people
involved."

  Bromhead held up his hands. "What
would you have me do?"

  " Get out of here now while you have
the chance. Leave these people alone."

  "I'm sorry. I can't do that. In fact,
I might tell you to do the same thing.
Get out of here. You don't belong here.
There is a war going on all over this
place. It has spilled from South
Vietnam into Laos and Cambodia and
threatens Thailand. Find someone else
to study."

68 The Vile

 Lucas stood up, her hands on her
hips. "I knew I wouldn't be able to
reason with you. I knew you were just
another pawn of the Pentagon and don't
care about anyone but yourself." She
spun and headed for the door. She
stopped short and added, "You're going
to get a lot of these people killed.
I hope you can live with yourself."
With that, she disappeared.

4
MACV HEADQUARTERS,
SAIGON

Captain MackGerber sat quietly while
Master Sergeant Anthony B. Fetterman
picked up the chain from the
floorboards of the Army jeep and
looped it through the steering wheel.
Using the padlock at the end of the
chain, he fastened it so that no one
could turn the wheel. It was the only
way they had of locking the vehicle so
that it wouldn't be stolen.

  When the ritual was completed,
Gerber got out, grabbed his M ;16 from
the back, and waited. Fetterman joined
him and they both headed up the wide
sidewalk that led to the double doors
of MACV. The MP didn't challenge them,
having become used to the two of them
coming and going during the last
several weeks.

  Once inside, the pair shivered at
the sudden change in temperature as
they walked down the air-conditioned
and arflficially lit hallway. The
floor was tiled and the walls were
painted a light green. They were lined
with photographs of every imaginable
chain of command. There were pictures
of the American President and his
staff, including the civilian Sec-
retaries of Defense, the Army, Air
Force and Navy. The m -itary leaders,
from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs
of Staff,

70 The Vile

through the various regional and area
commanders smiled out from their
official, black and white portraits.

 There were also official Army
posters. Some demanded that the men
and women wear the uniform proudly and
properly and others detailed the
correct order to wear the various rib-
bons and decorations.

 There were dozens of men and women
roaming the halls. Many wore jungle
fatigues that had been ironed and
starched and showed no sign of sweat.
Most of the women were in civilian
clothes. They wore fashionably short
skirts and light blouses and most of
them wore sweaters because of the
efficiency of the air-conditioning.
Gerber thought there was something
wrong here. They were living in a
tropical environment where the
temperature rarely, if ever, dipped to
the point of coolness. The women
shouldn't need sweaters to keep warm.

 They reached a stairwell and
descended into the basement. They were
stopped by an iron gate guarded by an
MP with a .45 on his hip and an M-16
within easy reach. Once again, the
guard recognized them, but he demanded
to see their ID cards. Satisfied, he
made them sign in before he unlocked
the gate. After they had been
admitted, the guard locked the gate
again.

 They walked down a barren
cinder-block hallway. The green tile
floor was rust stained where metal
cabinets had once stood and had since
been moved. They stopped in front of a
plain wooden door with nothing to
indicate what was on the other side.

 Without a word, Gerber knocked on the
door. It was opened a moment later by
a short man with dark hair and dark
eyes. He had the kind of sunburned
complexion that never tanned. The
white suit he wore was wrinkled and
stained and his thin, black tie had
been loosened.

77'e folk 71

  For a moment Jerry Maxwell, resident
CIA man, stared balefully at them. "To
what do I owe the dishonor of this
visit, Gerber?"

  "You see," said Gerber to Fetterman,
"I told you he wouldn't be happy to see
us. We help him out all the time, take
missions that suck, and he's never
happy to see us."

  "Yes, sir. Maybe we should just trot
on over to the embassy and ask our
questions there. At least they are nice
to us."

  "That's a good idea. Maybe stop by
the press office and see what they
might know."

  Maxwell shook his head. "It's this
way every time. You guys show up with
a tired comedy routine that you think
is the funniest flung since the whoopy
cushion."

  "You going to invite us in, Jerry?"
asked Gerber. "Or are you going to
conduct business in the hallway where
everyone in the world can listen in?"

  Maxwell sighed. He stepped out of the
way and waved them in. Then he closed
the door. "Have a seat and tell me what
you bandits want."

  Gerber dropped into the chair
reserved for visitors. It was a
plush~chair that had seen better days.
Across the small office was a row of
four-drawer file cabinets, the last
having a large combination lock on it.
Maxwell's battleship-gray desk was
shoved into a corner. The side next to
the wall was lined with three rows of
empty Coke cans. The top of the desk
was littered with manila file folders,
many of them stamped top and bottom
with a big, red Secret.

  The only picture was an Army
lithograph titled "The Wagon Box Fight"
and showed the U. S. Cavalry fighting
the Sioux Indians in northern Wyoming.
The glass was cracked.

  Fetterman moved into the corner near
the file cabinets and leaned on it. He
picked up a folder that lay there, saw
it was classified and then opened it.
"Interesting," he said.

72 The Hlle

 "Put that down," said Maxwell, and
then fell into his chair. He leaned
his elbows on his desk and asked, "Why
do I even bother?"

 Gerber snatched a folder from the
desk, read the label and asked, "You
really interested in the standing army
of Togo?"

"What's on your mind, Captain?" asked
Maxwell.

 "Jerry!" said Gerber, surprised.
"Aren't you going to tell me that this
is classified? Aren't you going to
grab it out of my hand and shout at
me?"

"Would it do any good?"

 Gerber looked at Fetterman, who was
still absorbed in the file he had
found. He turned back to Maxwell. "I
don't know. It might."

"I have work to do," said Maxwell.

  "You always have work to do. Even
when you're planning to send us into
the North to steal missile guidance
systems you have work to do."

  Maxwell's head snapped up. "You're
not supposed to talk about that."

"Even here? Don't tell me you've
forgotten about it?"

"What do you want?" asked Maxwell.

  Gerber turned to Fetterman. "What do
we want, Master Sergeant?"

  Fetterman closed the file and dropped
it on the file cabinet. "What we want,
Mr. Maxwell, is to fmd out where young
Captain Bromhead has been sent and
what he's doing?"

"Can't help you. I don't know where he
is."

  "Come on, Jerry. You know. You can
tell us. We won't tell anyone that you
talked," coaxed Gerber.

  "You don't understand," said Maxwell.
"I really don't know. Oh, I've heard
some rumblings about a super-sensitive
mission and knew that they had grabbed
a couple of guys from various places.
Bromhead mixed up in that?"

"That's what we're trying to find
out," said Gerber.

The lfille 73

 Maxwell turned so that he was looking
directly at Gerber. "You know, you'd be
better off talking to your friends at
SOG. If there is a clandestine mission
going on, they'd be the ones running
it."

 Gerber clapped his hands together and
said, "What say, Tony? Over to SOG to
see who might know something?"

"I think maybe Mr. Maxwell knows
something."

"Jerry?"

  "IfI knew anything, I'd tell you guys,
just to get you the hell out of here."

  Gerber got to his feet. "If you do
hear anything, give me a shout, will
you?"

"If I do, I will. But don't hold your
breath."

  "Come on, Tony, let's get out of here
so that Jerry can study the military
strength of Togo."

IT WAS ALMOST DUSK when the village
chief announced that the meal was
ready. Bromhead had watched them
earlier, a dozen men with heavy clubs,
as they advanced on the water buffalo.
They had surrounded it and stood
waiting. The animal seemed to sense
something as it strained at the rope
tethering it to a stake, its eyes
rolling wildly as it bellowed its
fright. Without a signal, the men moved
in as one, striking the arumal with the
clubs. Smacking its flanks and back and
rear. Stinging blows that rained down
on the beast as it bucked and jumped,
jerking its head from side to side,
trying to free itself.

 The men seemed to be fearless. They
danced close to the animal, swung at it
like a hitter going for the center
field fence, and then pranced away. For
thirty minutes the men kept at it.
Blood stained the animal and splattered
as it was hit. It fell to its knees and
then to its side, the bellowing
diminishing to a whimper.

74 The Vile

 The headman approached then, swung at
the head and crushed the skull. As the
animal died, a man with a machete ran
forward, knelt in front of the beast
and swung from right to left. The soft
skin of the belly split, dumping the
entrails into the dirt with a burst of
blood and a belching of foulsmelling
gases from its ruptured abdomen.

 Other men, not selected to
participate in the sacrifice of the
animal, dug a shallow pit and started
a fire. When it had burned down to
glowing orange coals, they covered
that with flat rocks and another layer
of wood, which burned rapidly.

 When the animal was dressed, its
carcass was dragged to the fire pit
and thrown in. The heat scorched it,
burning the hair from it and sealing
in the juices. A half dozen men were
assigned the task of cooking the meat
while the majority of the others stood
around watching and drinking a
home-brewed beverage, yelling at one
another and laughing uproariously.

 The headman found Bromhead and
invited him out, giving him a gourdful
of the foul-smelling liquor. Knowing
that half his job was to earn the
respect of the villagers, he accepted
the gourd and drank deeply. It burned
his throat and set his stomach on
fire. For a moment he wasn't sure that
he would keep it down, but the nausea
passed and he grinned at the natives.
They cheered, rushed forward to slap
him on the back, and went on with
their own drinking.

 During the afternoon, Bromhead caught
Lucas staring at him several times.
She was on the edge of the group,
standing near the corner of a hootch
watching him. When he turned in her
direction, she would vanish, only to
reappear later near a different
hootch. She didn't appear to be angry
with him, or resent his intrusion. In
fact, it was so bizarre, he wasn't
sure what to make of it. The first
time he saw her, she was wearing her
safari outfit, the next time she was
dressed like the native women again.
He decided that the best course was to
ignore her.

 .   ..

file Bilk 75

 And then it was nearly dusk and the
men were running through the village,
calling to everyone, summoning them to
the pit. When the crowd was gathered,
the carcass was pulled from the fire
and hoisted on a tall tripod. The
headman, a machete in his right hand,
began cutting strips of steaming meat
and handing them out. The first chunk
went to Bromhead, who took a huge
bite, letting the juices run down his
chin. The second went to Gilman and
the third to a man who placed it on a
palm leaf and took it to Hansen in the
weapons hootch.

 When the men were served, the women
paraded through, taking food on palm
leaves, which they used as plates, and
moving off by themselves. Bromhead
watched Lucas as she walked among
the-women. She paid no attention to
him, apparently participating in the
feast because the villagers were doing
it and it had been their idea, and not
because she approved of the new
arrivals.

 More food was brought out, steaming
pots containing th entrails of the
water buffalo, some filled with monkey
and snake and a few with vegetables
that grew wild. Others contained rice
and more alcohol. All of it was passed
around and everyone, using palm leaves
for plates, helped themselves.

 As the sun disappeared, fires were
lit throughout the village. The men
began dancing, darting among the women
until nearly everyone in the village
was involved in the dance. Only the
headman and his three wives, Bromhead
and now Hansen, and Lucas were
excluded from the ceremony.

 Bromhead finally got up and walked
over to Lucas. He sat down next to her
but kept his eyes on the dancers. In
the flickering firelight, Bromhead
could see the shape of her face quite
well. She was bare-breasted again, but
now it seemed to be a matter of
defiance. She kept her attention
focused on the party, refusing to
acknowledge Bromhead, except with a
curt nod as he sat down.

76 The Tulle

 Although they didn't speak, neither
of them moved. The villagers, drinking
more of the obnoxious alcohol, were
becoming noisier and drunker. The
movements of the dance degenerated
into staggering until people began
collapsing into the dirt. No one paid
attention to those who were passed
out, dancing over them and around
them. The later the hour, the more
people lying on the ground.

 Bromhead tried to engage Lucas in
conversation several times, but she
only answered with one or two word
responses. The interesting thing was
that she didn't move away. She sat
there as if inviting conversation and
then refused to participate.

 Bromhead decided that he was going to
wait her out. Either she was going to
talk to him, or she was going to have
to get up and leave. Periodically he
renewed the assault, but it was always
repulsed.

 It was nearly midnight when Gilman
appeared. "Your turn to watch the
equipment, sir."

 Brornhead looked at the bodies, saw
a couple of men seated so that they
were braced by stilts of the hootches.
"I'm not sure there is anyone in the
village alert enough to steal anything
from us."

"Up to you, sir."

 "Well, I set up the rules so I
suppose I should live by them. You
might want to keep an eye on the
perimeter. I seriously doubt that we
have anything to worry about, but
let's not go to sleep, either."

 Brornhead stood up and glanced at
Lucas. She hadn't looked at them. She
seemed fascinated by something,
although the celebration had burned
itself out. There was still a glow
from the cooking pit, and several of
the other fires were still burning
brightly, throwing a flickering light
over the village.

"If you'll excuse me, Jane," said
Brornhead.

The Tulle 77

  "Of course," she snapped, and then
turned to face him. i' Sorry. There is
no reason to be rude."

  "Yes, well." Bromhead turned and
headed to the weapons hootch. As he
entered, he noticed that Gilman had
left a lantern burning. There was a
magazine near it and Bromhead picked it
up. He had hoped for something better
than a worn, dog-eared copy of Sports
Illustrated. It had to belong to Hansen
because Gilman would have brought one
filled with pictures of naked women.

  He flipped through it and then tossed
it aside. Inside one of the boxes he
found a blank journal and opened it. He
dated the top of the page, then began
a log of the day's events, struggling
to jot it down in French, and keeping
it generic enough that anyone finding
it wouldn't be able to use it as evi-
dence against them. It was an
accounting of the evens so that
Brombead, on being debriefed, would
have something to jog his memory.

  He kept at it for fifteen minutes,
putting everything he could think of
into the journal, using it as a
planning guide as well. Writing down
his ideas for the training of the men.
Then, as his hand was beginning to
cramp, he heard a sound outside and a
voice asked, "Can I come in?"

Bromhead sat up. "Yes,ofcourse."

  Jane Lucas entered, stopped and
blinked at the lantern. She shook her
head almost sadly. "I can't even have
the luxury of a lantern. Oh, I have one
for emergencies, but I don't dare use
it. I have to live just as these people
do."

"Seems to be an extreme way to live."

  "I suppose it is." She moved into the
circle of light around the lantern and
sat, folding her legs Indian fashion.
"I think we got off on the wrong foot."

  Bromhead scratched his neck. Although
it was cooler now with the sun gone, he
found himself beginning to sweat. He
wished he had something to do with his
hands. He picked up

78 The belle

his pencil, twisting it between his
fingers. "Yes, I suppose we did."

  "Some of that was my fault," Jane
said. "I should have realized that you
had your job just as I had mine. But
now, thinking about it, I realize that
we don't have to be working against
one another. I realized, as we sat
together watching the dancing, that we
can work together."

  "I'll do everything I can to
cooperate," said Bromhead, "as long as
it doesn't interfere with my primary
function."

  "Now that's what I mean," she said.
"How would you like it if I came in
here and told you that I would do what
I could as long as it didn't interfere
with my job. Besides, I was here
first."

  "That's not a real point, is it? You
being first. I'm trying to help these
people. You're here to watch. So
watch."

  "Mr. Bromhead, I don't think you
understand. I think your presence here
constitutes a danger to these people.
The Communists haven't shown an
interest in them in the weeks I've
been here."

  "All I can say," responded Brombead,
"is that I'll do what I can not to get
into your way." He suddenly realized
how that sounded. His job was
important and hers was just something
that she was doing. "Let me rephrase
that. Hell, let me rethink my whole
attitude here."

She smiled. "Please do."

  He stood, moved from the circle of
light, inspected the fire stones at
the end of the hootch and then came
back. He sat on the floor next to her.
"Your job is to study the social
structure and culture of these people.
Mine is to teach them things that
they're going to need to survive in
the world. Does that make our jobs
mutually exclusive?"

  For a moment she was quiet. Then she
spoke. "I'm only supposed to watch
them. Observe them."

The belle 79

  "Right. Now, if you were teaching them
the things that I plan to, you'd be
violating your oath or principles, or
whatever, but I'm not violating mine.
So you're presented with the
opportunity to watch a society in the
state of flux."

  "You're trying very hard," she said,
her attitude softening.

  Bromhead reached out to touch her arm.
His hand froze in midair. In the
distance, outside the hootch, he heard
a quiet pop. He looked at the thatched
wall, hesitated and then dived across
the floor, pulling Lucas to her side.
As he rolled onto her, he felt her
sweat-damp skin against his hand and
the softness of her body. He felt her
tense and then kick out with one leg.

  "What the hell are you doing?" she
shouted. She tried to roll to the left,
away from him, and kicked. She brought
her knee up sharply, but hit nothing.
She levered her hands under his
shoulders and tried to push him up.

"Quiet," he whispered. "Incoming."

  But she wasn't quiet because she
didn't understand. She struggled. She
tried to get away from him, working her
feet and legs and arms. Shoving and
pushing and trying to bite him and
force him off her.

  The first explosion, a loud bang that
rained debris on the village, stopped
her. There was a second and a third,
each louder than the last. Bromhead
slipped forward, covering more of her
with his body. She didn't resist.

"Coming at us," he said.

  Then it seemed that the explosions had
leaped over them, walking away from
them. Bromhead lifted his head. "I
think thaws it.',

  He scrambled to his feet, forgetting
the feeling and texture of her body. He
grabbed at his weapon. "You stay here
for a moment. You're safer here than
you are running around in the dark.''

80 Thelle

 "I told you," she admonished. "I told
you you'd bring trouble down on these
people."

 Bromhead was out the door then. He
saw Gilman coming at him. They
crouched near the edge of a hootch,
the light from a fire giving each of
them a flickering appearance.

"You spot the flashes?" asked
Bromhead.

"Think the tube is offthe south. What
do you want to do?"

 "Leave Hansen here. We'll go out and
see if we can fmd anything, though I
doubt it. I don't like this. We're
here for less than a day and we're hit
the first night."

"I'll grab my belt and a couple of
grenades."

 Bromhead found Hansen, gave him his
instructions and then joined Gilman at
the edge of the village. They crouched
in the darkness for a moment, watching
the jungle in front of them, but saw
and heard nothing. Bromhead slipped
off the safety and stood, moving
through the tall grass and into the
jungle. He stepped around the trunk of
a palm tree and it was like stepping
into another world. The light from the
fires seemed to go out immediately. A
blackness descended hiding nearly
everything. Bromhead halted, heard
Gilman push a branch out of the way
and saw him about two feet away. Gil-
man took the point, leading them both
deeper into the jungle.

 Bromhead stayed with him, moving with
him as they worked their way toward
the enemy. It wasn't easy, trying not
to step on anything that would make
noise. They had to keep quiet, yet
they had to move quickly, before the
enemy had too much time to get away.

 They ducked under fallen trees held
up by the thick vegetation around
them. Pushing aside vines that tried
to snag their uniforms, they stepped
around large bushes. They veered from
a trail, deeper into the jungle,
listening and watching for the enemy,
but the darkness blinded them.
Everything was reduced to black shapes
and blacker shapes. Bromhead didn't

The Vile 81

think they had a chance of finding
anything, but they had to make the
effort.

 Bromhead was about to reach out to
tap Gilman's shoulder to stop him when
they heard the sound of laughter and a
subdued voice telling someone to shut
up in Vietnamese. Gilman halted, cocked
his head to locate the sound, and
turned to the right.

 Without a word to Gilman, Bromhead
moved farther to the right so that they
were moving nearly
shoulder-to-shoulder. He stopped again
when he heard the quiet clank of metal
against metal and a whispered order.
Bromhead stepped forward, reached out
to grab a branch, then froze.
Immediately in front of him a shaft of
moonlight cut through the jungle
canopy. In a clearing there were three
men crouched around a mortar tube.
Bromhead couldn't believe their luck.

 Before he could move, Gilman opened
fire. In the strobing flashes beside
him, Bromhead could see the leaves of
a bush and the trunk of a tree. One of
the trio dived for cover. Another
screamed, a high-pitched sound.

 There was a ripping sound as one of
the enemy opened fire with his AK-47.
The green tracers bounced through the
darkness and the muzzle-flashes
revealed the man.

 Bromhead aimed and fired once, then
dropped to the ground. He fired a
second time. The enemy soldier spun and
returned a burst at Bromhead, the
rounds slamming into the jungle near
him. Bromhead felt one of the slugs
impact the tree, showering him with
bark and splinters of teak.

 Gilman squeezed off a couple of shots
and then ran. Bromhead could hear him
thrashing through the jungle as he
tried to flank the enemy soldiers.
Green tracers followed him as the VC
fired at his fleeing form.

 Bromhead crawled forward and craned
his neck. One of the enemy was kneeling
near the mortar tube. Bromhead looked
over the sights of his weapon and
pulled the trigger rapidly.

82 The Vile

He saw the rounds connect, slamming the man
backward. As he fell, the VC jerked the
trigger, unleashing a burst into the sky.

The firing stopped as suddenly as it began.
Bromhead let his

 i  eyes sweep over the field, but there
was no movement. The

only sound was a quiet moan coming from
the wounded man.
Bromhead didn't move. He was suddenly
aware of everything around him. A stench
rose from the jungle floor. Rotting
vegetation mixed with damp earth. He
could feel the
moisture soaking through his uniform,
chilling him in the
cool, mountain air.

 When nothing happened after a few more
minutes, Bromhead slowly got to his feet.
He stepped away from the trees and into the
clearing. As he entered it, he crouched in
order to see better. There was tall grass
around him, spreading out like a thick
carpet, hiding the bodies of the enemy. He
found one and rolled it over. The moonlight
filtered through a break in the canopy to
reveal a dark stain on the man's chest and
a ragged hole just above the right eye.

 From there Bromhead worked his way to the
mortar tube and found several rounds
stacked near it. He figured that the enemy
were setting it up to drop more rounds on
the village, rather than breaking it down
to escape.

 Out of the corner of his eye, Bromhead
discerned movement. It was Gilman. He
stopped, stooped, and then a flash of
reflected moonlight from a knife blade.
There was a rustling on the ground, but no
other sound. Gilman stood and moved closer
to Bromhead.

"What's going on?" asked Bromhead.

"Enemy soldier expired due to his wounds."

 "Shit!" exploded Bromhead. "What the hell
did you knife him for? A prisoner we can
interrogate, not a corpse."

The belle 83

 "He was too shot up to move and
wasn't going to last much longer
anyway. Couldn't see the point in
letting him die taking a shot at one of
us."

"There was a third man. Find him."

 "Already have. He's dead, too. Took a
couple of bullets in the chest. That
stopped him."

"Why didn't you use grenades?"

 Gilman shook his head. "I didn't want
to damage the tube. I figured we could
use it and I thought I could take them
all with a single burst."

 "Okay," said Bromhead, sighingin
exasperation. "Gather the weapons,
equipment and any documents you can
find. I'll break down the tube and
we'll add all this to our supplies."

 Both froze at the sound of a snapping
twig. Bromhead pointed to the right and
then moved to the left as Gilman began
sliding toward the trees. Bromhead
found cover, listened and then began
easing his way back to the right. There
was a thud, lye a body hitting the soft
ground and Bromhead wondered if Gilman
had found another enemy. Then there was
a giggle that someone tried to
suppress.

 Bromhead crouched, heard the laughter
again, and moved toward it. He found
one of the villagers, a crossbow
clutched in his hand. At Bromhead's
approach, the man looked up, tried to
get to his feet and toppled to his
side. He continued to laugh.

 "What'll we do?" asked Gilman, who
had appeared suddenly.

"Collect the gear, then get the fuck
out of here."

"You think there's more of them? I mean
the VC."

 "No. I think it was one team sent out
for harassment. We'll have to talk to
the headman and see how often this
happens. I hope it's a coincidence and
not because some smartass VC figured we
were in the area. If they know we're
here already, we're tucked."

84 The lolls

"Right."

 "Let's break down the tube," said
Bromhead, "and get out of here."

"Right," repeated Gilman.

 They returned to the village quickly,
the giggling man following them and
making enough noise to wake everyone
in the village, except that the
majority of them were drunk instead of
asleep. As they entered, Bromhead
directed the man to the rest of his
sleeping friends, most of whom had
slept through the mortar attack. Then
Gilman and Bromhead headed for the
weapons hootch.

 Hansen was alone inside, pawing
through a canvas bag that had a red
cross on it. ~

"Any wounded out there?" inquired
Bromhead.

  "No, sir. Mortars landed at the edge
of the village. One dropped near here
and another on the far side. Might
have been someone hurt if they hadn't
had the party."

"Where's Jane Lucas?"

  " She took offright after you left.
Said she was going to check on the
children, but none of them were
injured." Hansen closed the bag.
"Funny how they all slept through it."

  "Given the fact that the majority
were drunk out of their skulls, I'm
not surprised."

  Hansen set the bag down and stood.
"What do you think of that lady?
Running around here dressed like that.
I mean, showing her tits and going
native like that."

  "She's some kind of a scientist."
Bromhead could have told Hansen that
she was an anthropologist, but didn't
want to complicate the matter. He knew
something of their methods, and given
that, he wasn't surprised by her.

"Yeah, well, she should still cover
herself. It's not right."

  "It may not be right," said Bromhead,
smiling, "but it's not such a bad
idea."

"Yes, sir," said Hansen, unconvinced.

faze Vile 85

  Gilman entered at that point. "Are we
going to put out a guard detail
tonight?"

  Bromhead rubbed a hand across the
back of his neck, surprised at how wet
it was. He wiped the perspiration on
his sweat-stained fatigues. "I think
we're in the clear for tonight. The
important thing was that the mortar
team wasn't moving the tube. If this
had been a response to our presence, I
think they would have had more teams,
including a security unit. I suspect
Charlie and his friends don't know
we're here."

  '`But when the mortar crew doesn't
return, he's going to suspect
something," said Gilman.

  c`Thatpointisdebatable, too," said
Bromhead. '`Butwe'll assume it's
correct. For the rest of tonight, I
want us to form a roving guard. Two
hours apiece, moving inside the trees
where we'll be hard to find, but can
hear or see the enemy if they
approach. Tomorrow, the second thing
we do is work out a schedule for guard
duty."

  Gilman sat on the floor and punched
the magazine release on his M-1
carbine. He worked the bolt to eject
the chambered round and then watched
as it rolled between the cracks in the
floor and disappeared. He pulled a
full magazine from his pouch and
slapped it into the well. He leaned
over toward a box of ammo and
extracted enough to refill the used
magazine.

'`I'll take the first shift, if no one
objects," said Gilman.

  C`Suit yourself." Bromhead shrugged.
`'I guess I'll catch some sleep in
that case. Hansen, you want the next
shift or the last?"

"I'll take the next one."

  "You got it." Bromhead was silent for
a moment, watching the men with him.
He moved to one corner of the hootch
with his sleeping bag. c After tonight
we'll spread out. Don't want to give
the enemy all of us with one round.
Any ideas you come

86 The Vile

up with, let me know. Now, I'm going
to try to catch some shut-eye."

  Gilman, holding his weapon in his
left hand, ducked out the door,
stopped and glanced back. "Captain,
there's a lady here to see you."

  Brombead groaned and shook his head.
"By all means," he said, "send her
in."

  Lucas entered, her face a mask. She
wiped a hand through her hair,
whipping it out of her eyes as she
stared straight at Bromhead. "I told
you this was going to happen. I told
you, but you wouldn't listen."

  "I know what you said," responded
Bromhead evenly, "but I don't think
the attack was our fault. We'll know
more about it in the morning."

  "This hasn't happened before." She
moved forward, facing him, her hands
on her hips. There was dirt streaked
across one shoulder and on her
stomach. Her hair hung loose, tangled
and dirty.

  "Jane," he said patiently, "there is
no way the attack can be blamed on us.
It takes time to get men into position
to launch a mortar attack. It had to
be planned days in advance and is a
coincidence that it came tonight."

"Says you."

  "Okay, before we reduce this to a
completely childish level, let me say
this. We'll ask tomorrow. If this sort
of thing has happened before, we'll
know that it wasn't our fault.
Besides, you saw how ineffective it
was. Charlie would never have tipped
his hand in such an amateurish
fashion." He wiped a hand across his
forehead and then sDd at the sweat on
his fingers. It wasn't that hot now,
but he was sweating. He couldn't
believe he was that upset by the
debate with Lucas.

"Again, that is your opinion."

  "That doesn't change the facts. It
only underscores the need for our
help."

The belle S7

  "If you had any respect for these
people, if you cared for them, you'd
be gone in the morning." She spun and
vanished into the night.

  Brombead sat there, staring at the
door for several minutes. Then he
looked at Hansen, who was lying on his
side trying to get some sleep. "You
know," he said, "I think she might be
right."

  "No, sir," said Hansen, without
turning. "She thinks she's right, but
she doesn't understand the ways of the
world. She doesn't understand that
people will not leave others alone
when they can dominate them."

  Bromhead turned down the lantern
until it was barely glowing. He lay
back, his hands locked under his head,
and stared into the thatch above him.
Hansen was right. She didn't
understand.

s
THE MEO VILLAGE, LAOS

Bromhead was up with the sun but the
villagers weren't. They were still
scattered around the village, sleeping
on the ground, under the hootches and
behind the fences. A few of the women
were awake and had started cooking
fires under black pots holding water.
The children were sitting in the
doorways of their hootches, waiting
for the adults to tell them what to
do. None of them were making any
noise.

  After completing one circuit,
Bromhead returned to the weapons
hootch. He looked inside and saw
Gilman sprawled in one corner, an arm
over his eyes, snoring. Hansen was
sitting quietly to one side, cleaning
the grease from bne of the M1
carbines.

  "Wake Gilman up," said Bromhead.
"I'll see about getting some hot water
for coffee."

  "I'm awake," came a muffled voice
from Gilman's direction.

  "Hand me the canteen cups," said
Bromhead, ignoring Gilman.

  As he walked through the village
toward one of the cooking fires, he
found the headman sitting on the
ground, his head

The 89

down as if staring at the ground
between his legs. When he heard
Bromhead, he looked up and smiled
weakly.

  "When you have had your breakfast, '
said Bromhead, "please come by our
hootch so that we can begin."

  The man nodded carefully, as if afraid
his head would fall off.

  Bromhead laughed and headed toward the
smoke. He had to check two pots before
he found one with boiling water. It
wasn't as easy getting some as he had
thought. Most of the villagers didn't
speak French but he finally, through
gestures and sign language, conveyed
his desire. The woman nodded happily,
as if it was an honor to share her
water with him.

  Back at the weapons hootch, Bromhead
sat cross-legged on the floor and
poured the contents of a small, brown
envelope into his cup. The coffee
grounds sank immediately. He used a
white plastic spoon to stir it,
swirling the water, but the coffee
refused to dissolve.

  "I wonder who is responsible for
buying this shit." Bromhead spoke to no
one in particular, shaking his head.

  " Some congressman who has an instant
coffee manufacturing plant in his home
district," said Hansen. "He gets the
owner a government contract to produce
it, the owner hires the local
population to work in the local factory
who in turn vote to keep the
congressman in office, and the product
is sent to military bases thousands of
miles away. So who cares if it's not
the best coffee. Who's going to know?"

  Bromhead set the cup down and looked
at the mud on the bottom. "You'd think
that the people would take pride in
their work. You'd think they'd want to
give their soldiers the best product
they could."

"Yes," said Hansen, "that's what you'd
think."

"What happened to Gilman?"

  At that moment Gilman appeared,
clapping his hands against his arms as
if he was cold. "I needed to piss," he
said.

so The Belle

He then sat and asked, "That the
coffee?" in a voice that was gravelly
and too loud.

"In theory." Bromhead's face was
serious.

  "Well, I'll take a cup anyway." He
blew on it, took a small
sipandmadeaface. "Man,that's shifty.
Whatisit? Some kind of local brew?"

  "Nab," said Bromhead. "This is the
good stuffmanufi~ctured in the U. S.
of A. for the fighting men. It's the
best there is."

"Thanks," said Gilman.

  Bromhead changed the subject. "I
think one of the first things we
should do is find the mortar site,
check it in the daylight and then bury
the bodies. Two reasons for that. One
is to make it harder for the enemy to
find them. Maybe they'll think the men
defected. And two, we can prevent
disease."

  A noise at the door attracted
Bromhead's attention. The headman
stood there waiting for permission to
enter. Bromhead waved him in and
gestured at the floor. When he was
seated, Bromhead said, "Good morning,
Colonel."

  The headman nodded and then snapped
his head up. "Colonel?"

  "Yes," said Bromhead. "We shall
organize strike companics in your
village and you will, of course,
command them. We'll draw the officers
from the men you think will be re-
sponsible enough for the task."

"Yes, yes," said the man. "Colonel
Beu. Yes, I like that."

  "Now, Colonel Beu," said Bromhead,
"might I suggest that you give Major
Gilman a list of the men you'd like to
see trained in the first company.
These should be men who've had some
training. Know something about the
military."

"Then we kill Communists?" asked Beu.

  "Just as soon as we have things
organized, yes, we'll kill
Communists."

The Tulle 9I

IT HAD TAKEN GERBER and Fetterman most
of the afternoon and part of the
morning to learn the identity of the
man they needed to see. They had
circulated MACV Headquarters,
buttonholing everyone who might have
had the slightest knowledge of
Bromhead's mission. Finally a platoon
sergeant who claimed to be part of the
Special Forces and who was wearing jump
wings told them they should talk to
Colonel Petersen.

  They finally got to Petersen about
midmorning. They pushed past the clerk
who sat in the outer office typing on
what looked like a brand new IBM
typewriter. He leaped to protest, but
neither Gerber nor Fetterman paused.

  Inside the inner office, they found
Petersen lying on a couch, a copy of
Stars and Stripes over his head. The interior
of the office was dark, the blinds
drawn. A massive, wooden desk with a
green blotter on it sat near the center
of the room, a brown leather judge's
chair behind it. Two similar highbacked
chairs faced the desk. There was a
conversation area in the corner, which
contained the couch where Petersen
slept. A smaller, two-person couch
flanked that, and a square, dark,
coffee table rested in front of them.
The walls were paneled and the
obligatory weapons of the Saigon
chairborne commandos hung on the walls.
There was even a Russian RPD hanging
there.

  "You think we should wake him?" asked
Fetterman in a normal tone of voice.

  "No. He's probably worn out from
fighting communism in the officers'
clubs all over Southeast Asia. We'll
just sit quietly and wait."

  Petersen pulled the paper from his
face. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and
stared at Gerber and Fetterman. As he
dropped the paper to the floor he
demanded, "Who are you downs and how in
the hell did you get in here?"

92 The Vile

 "We're Captain Gerber and Sergeant
Fetterman." Gerber decided to take a
seat. "We just walked in. We have a
couple of questions and then we'll
go."

 Petersen sat quietly for a moment,
as if he couldn't believe what had
just happened. He reached up and
fingered the collar of his uniform
shirt as if fearing that the eagle
sown there had fallen off. The look on
his face told the visitors that he
felt reassured his rank was visible.
"Why don't you get out of here before
you find yourselves in some real
trouble?"

 "Yes, sir," said Gerber, "just as
soon as you tell us where Captain
Bromhead was sent."

 Petersen got to his feet and walked
to his desk. His face was puffy and
there was a red crease in the skin
near his right ear where the edge of
the couch had been pressed while he
slept. He sat and rummaged through the
drawers briefly. He took out a mirror
to examine himself. He ran a hand
through his hair, dropped the mirror
into the drawer and then looked up,
surprised.

"You men still here? I thought I told
you to get out."

  "Yes, sir," said Gerber, "as soon as
we know where Captain Bromhead is."

  "There a special reason you want to
know this? You have orders from a
higher headquarters, or are you here
merely to make me angry?"

"No, sir. We just want to know about
Captain Bromhead."

  "Well, since you have no authority,
I would suggest that you leave now."

  Gerber looked at Fetterman, who had
remained standing. "He's not going to
cooperate, Tony."

  "Sir." This time Fetterman addressed
Petersen. "I know we're outside of
normal channels, but you must
understand that we have to watch out
for the young captain. He's a babe in
the woods and we want to make sure
he's all right."

The Vile 93

  Petersen rubbed at an eye and then
tugged at his ear. "Why this interest
in Bromhead?"

  "Used to be my exec," said Gerber.
"He's a damned good man but he's out of
touch with us."

  "I assure you that he's safe. He's
operating a covert mission for us here
and will be out of touch for quite a
while, I'm afraid."

  "We understand that, sir," said
Gerber. "We're not going to talk out of
turn. We just want to know where he
is."

  "There's nothing you can do for him."
Petersen took a folder from his desk
and opened it.

  Neither Gerber nor Fetterman moved.
Finally Gerber spoke. "Our speculation
leads us to a number of conclusions."
He remained quiet for a moment and then
continued. "He's obviously operating
either in Cambodia or Laos. That would
mean, at the very least, a limited CIA
connection, although our case officer
claims to know nothing about it."

  "Captain," snapped Petersen, looking
up from his folder, "such speculations
can lead you into a great deal of
trouble. Now why don't you and your
sergeant leave?"

  "Of course, we have your name, too,
and you have inadvertently told us that
you know something about this . . ."

"Are you threatening me?"

  "Oh no, sir," said Fetterman. "We'd
never do that. We're only suggesting
that we'll need to take our inquiries
elsewhere and some facts may leak. If
we had the information, we could go
quietly about our business."

  Petersen stared at Fetterman for
several long seconds. The colonel
seemed to be making up his mind.
Finally he said, "It's against my
better judgment to say a word, but you
two have been around long enough to
know the score. I doubt you'd do
anything that would leak information,
because if I did believe that, I'd have
you both up on charges."

94 T7'e Vile

 "Yes, sir," said Gerber. "We're just
trying to look out for one of our
boys."

 "None of this goes beyond this room.
That's it. I find out you've talked to
anyone about anything, the shit hits
the fan. Understood?"

Both Fetterman and Gerber nodded.

  "Captain Bromhead and a small team
are in a little village in Laos
training a couple of strike companies
to interdict the Ho Chi Minh Trail."

  Gerber stood and pulled a small map
from his pocket. "Exactly where?"

  Petersen looked annoyed, grabbed the
map and stabbed a finger at it.
"Here."

  "Thank you, sir." Gerber folded his
map. "Sorry to have bothered you."

"Remember what I told you," warned
Petersen.

"Yes, sir," said Gerber as he and
Fetterman retreated.

  In the corridor, Fetterman turned to
the captain. "Now what?"

  "We get assigned to one of the
Special Forces camps on the Vietnamese
side of the border where we'll be in a
position to offer help if Johnnie
needs it."

"You mean Jack?"

"Yeah. Jack."

IT TOOK THEM AN HOUR to work their way
to the mortar site using the proper
military procedures. Brornhead and
Gilman didn't give many instructions
because they wanted to observe and
find out how much the locals knew. The
villagers, realizing that it was a
test of some kind, slipped into their
military roles with ease. They knew
about patrol procedure and noise
discipline, and although they were
hung over from the night of
celebration, no one let on that he was
sick.

The Tulle 95

 Bromhead and Gilman brought up the
rear. Gilman surprised Bromhead by
twice slipping into the jungle to
relieve himself, claiming it was a
result ofthe heavy drinking the night
before. But since he did it in a
military fashion, being careful to make
no noise and leave no sign, Bromhead
gave it no further thought.

 They found nothing at the mortar site
that would prove useful. The dead men
were lying where they had fallen. Beu
danced around them, firing kicks at the
corpses. He wanted to cut off the ears,
noses, and fingers, but Bromhead
refused, claiming that his men had
killed them so it was his right to
choose to mutilate the bodies or not
mutilate them as they saw fit. Beu saw
the wisdom of that and ordered his men
to hop bury them.

 Once they were back in the village,
Beu gathered the fifteen men who had
worked with the French and had them
standing in a line outside the weapons
hootch. Bromhead inspected them, made
a few comments in French that were
translated into Meo by Beu or Gilman,
who used the skills he had learned in
the language school.

 Bromhead explained what they wanted
to do. He ducked into the hootch and
returned with one of the AR47s and
handed it to Beu. Bromhead told the men
where they had gotten it, and it was
the first of many weapons that would be
taken from the Communists as trophies
and signs of victory. Naturally the men
could keep any weapons they captured,
but they couldn't jeopardize the
mission to take weapons. If someone
did, then he forfeited his right to the
weapon.

 Hansen appeared and pulled a number
of boxes out of the hootch. He arranged
them on the ground and opened them.
Bromhead told the men that these were
their uniforms. Each man was
responsible for the condition of his
uniform. He was to keep it clean and in
good condition.

96 T)'e~lle

 The men started to swarm forward, but
Bromhead halted them with a single,
shouted command. Since there were
enough uniforms, he would tolerate no
mob action. They had to form a line
and he and Hansen would hand out the
clothes. Each man would give Hansen
his name.

 When the uniforms were issued,
Bromhead had the men return to their
own hootches for their weapons. They
returned carrying machetes or
crossbows and three of them had old
rifles that had been cared for
lovingly. The blueing was wearing off
the barrels and the stocks were worn
smooth, but it was obvious that the
weapons would fire. If there had been
any ammunition for them.

 By the time Bromhead and Gilman had
finished examining everything, it was
nearly lunchtime. Bromhead told Ben to
have the men break for lunch and he
would expect them back in an hour.
Training would begin in the afternoon.

 Bromhead and his men retreated to
their hootch for lunch. Inside, Hansen
handed out the C-ration boxes and then
sat down to eat.

 Bromhead opened a can of boned
chicken with a P-38 can opener. "After
lunch I'm going to take Ben and four
of his men on patrol. Gilman, you'll
go with me. We'll sweep to the east,
toward the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Hansen,
you stay here and begin the training."

 "If you don't mind a suggestion,
sir," said Gilman. "Let me stay here.
I can get the men started on creating
a line of defense. Bunkers at the four
corners and locate the spots for
others. With enough people working on
it, we'll have a good start by
nightfall. And that'll give Hansen a
chance to get out in the field
finally."

 Bromhead dug at the boned chicken
with the white plastic spoon, then
salted the food liberally. It was the
only way to make the chicken
palatable. He took a bite, chewed and
swallowed. "I guess that makes sense."

The Tulle 97

 "Mer we return, sir," said Hansen, "I
can work on a few more of the weapons.
Clean them up."

 "No," said Bromhead. "I want you to
have one available for Beu and one each
for the company commanders when they're
selected, but I think the others should
clean their own. It'll be good training
for them."

 Bromhead finished his chicken, opened
a can of bread and pulled it apart.
There was a thin tin of jelly and
Bromhead opened it. It was runny, but
it was jelly. Bromhead dumped it on the
bread and ate that. The last thing he
opened was a can of fruit cocktail.
When he finished eating, he jammed the
empty cans back into the box. He held
up the pack of cigarettes that came
with the meal. "Either of you smoke
these?"

"No, sir."

  "Okay, let's collect them all and use
them as bribes for the men."

  "Say, sir," said Gilman, "you seen
anything of that Lucas woman today?"

"No, but she's around though. You can
bet on that."

  Gilman nodded his agreement and then
excused himself because he felt an
uncontrollable urge to urinate.

IT TOOKNO TIME to organize the patrol.
Bromhead and Hansen, both carrying M-
1 carbines and several grenades, told
Beu to get his best men and choose four
of them for the mission, but to exclude
the men who had gone out in the
morning. Once those men were chosen,
and Beu had assured them that each of
the men knew how to use a rifle, the
equipment was issued.

 Bromhead outlined the mission in
French, with Gilman standing by to
translate anything that Bromhead
couldn't get across. It was a simple
recon through the jungle in the
vicinity of the village. They were
going to see if there was anything or
anyone around that suggested the enemy,
meaning the Pathet Lao, Vietcong and
North Vietnamese. The equipment would

98 The lAlle

be limited to a carbine, a knife,
canteens on a pistol belt with a
first-aid kit, and little else. No
sense carrying things in the heat of
the afternoon if it could be avoided.

  Then Gilman split off to take charge
of the working party, showing them
where the bunkers would go. Bromhead
watched him for a moment and,
satisfied with that aspect of the
mission, took the point with Beu.

  As they moved across the grassy plain
to the jungle, Bromhead spoke to the
headman "Normally we wouldn't go on
the patrols. We'd send them out to
learn what was happening around here,
having them report to us, but the
circumstances dictate that we make the
initial recon."

  "It is just as the last white men
said," replied Beu. "They told us many
of the things that you tell us."

  At the edge of the jungle, Bromhead
halted for a moment. The men had
spread out in a military formation,
one man directly behind the man in
front of him, separated by five or six
yards. Each man held his weapon in his
hands, his finger not on the trigger
but on the trigger guard. It indicated
that the men had been well trained and
that their training was coming back to
them. It also meant that Bromhead's
program could proceed faster than he
had anticipated.

  They entered the jungle, a green
hothouse. The vegetation on the ground
was sparse here and allowed them to
move rapidly. Bromhead touched the
smooth trunk of a teak, surprised to
find it covered with moisture. The
ground under his feet was soft, giving
with each step, and then springing
back as the pressure was removed.

  Water dripped from the broad leaves
of the bushes and as the men rubbed
against them, splattered their
uniforms. In minutes it was as if they
were walking through a steam bath
wrapped in damp towels. And the
wetness didn't provide relief from the
heat. The humidity kept the sweat and
water from evaporating. It made the
patrol more miserable.

The belle 99

 By the time they had been on the move
for thirty minutes, Bromhead was ready
to call it off. His mouth felt stuffed
with cotton and hung open. His muscles
ached, burning like red hot wires
stretched across his shoulders and
shoved into his arms and legs, but he
couldn't call a halt yet. It would show
weakness to the villagers and that was
the last thing he wanted to do.

 When Beu looked at him, Bromhead
closed his mouth and smiled weakly. He
pointed to the right, where there was
an outcropping of rock barely visible
through the veil of green. Beu turned
toward it and when he reached it, fell
into a depression where he could rest.

 As the men approached, he pointed and
was pleased to see that they understood
what he wanted. They formed a loose
circle where each man could watch the
man on his right and left. They faced
outward, their weapons ready. Then, as
if some unheard command had been
spoken, every other man set his rifle
down, careful to keep the operating rod
out of the dirt. They drank the water
from their canteens in short sips,
poured some of it over their heads,
letting their soft caps absorb it, and
then returned the canteens to their
canvas covers. As they picked up their
weapons, the other men went through the
procedure.

 Bromhead slipped close to Beu. "Your
men are very good in the jungle," the
American whispered.

 "We slip up on the Communists and cut
their throats. They never know what bit
them."

"In time that is exactly what we'll
do."

"I bring best men to show you. These be
my officers."

  "Good choices, every one," said
Brombead. "I'm very pleased with them."

  "We go kill Communists then. We get
even with them for chasing us."

"Soon. Very soon."

100 The Ville

  Beu nodded grimly, his knuckles
turning white where he gripped the M-1
carbine. It was as if the answer
didn't please him.

  "Let's swing to the south now," said
Bromhead. "I think everyone has had
enough rest."

  Beu got to his feet and raised his
hand over his head. The men stood and
waited. The silent command was just
another proof of their training.
Someone had worked long and hard with
these men, not only teaching them the
techniques, but showing them that it
worked better than anything else.

  This time Bromhead strained to catch
the sounds ofthe men moving through
the jungle. But all he heard were the
animals in the trees, the birds
flapping and the chirps of insects on
the ground. He could hear nothing that
would indicate a party of men was
near. He stopped once, heard a monkey
overhead and saw the beast swinging
from tree to tree, squawking as it
went, as if alerting its fellows. It
disappeared quickly.

  Suddenly, ahead of him, Bromhead
heard the babble of voices. Two or
tree men talking to one another. None
of the voices was loud and the talk
didn't seem to be a conversation. It
sounded more like orders being given.

  Bromhead raised his arm to halt the
patrol. Over his shoulder, he saw the
men take up positions facing in
opposite directions so that no one
could sneak up on them. When they were
set, Bromhead touched Beu on the
shoulder, then pointed to the front.
Together they worked their way toward
the sound, moving slowly, avoiding the
twig that might snap or the bush that
might rustle.

  It took ten minutes to move twenty
yards. The voices were sporadic,
coming quietly. Bromhead dropped flat
once and felt the damp of the ground
soak through his uniform. As he
crawled forward, he felt mud and slime
stain his clothes and coat his hands.
He ignored it, his attention focused
on the people in front of him.

The Hlle 101

  He came to a large log lying at a
slight angle where its thick branches
had been caught by another tree. He
slipped under it and looked out into a
tiny clearing bordered by a brook.
Sunlight danced on the water's surface,
splintering the light and reflecting
it.

  Seated around a small fire were six
men wearing the green uniforms of the
NVA, ill-fitting fatigues that hod no
insignia. Each of the men had a pith
helmet with a red star on it and each
wore a chest pouch that held spare
magazines for their weapons. One man,
who was probably an officer, had a
holster holding a Makarov pistol. The
enlisted weapons, AK-47s, were stacked
near them. Now that Bromhead could see
the fire, he caught a whiff of the
smoke, but couldn't see it rising. He
noticed that the soldiers had built a
canopy over the fire, which helped to
disperse the smoke. It was a layered
affair that caused the smoke to
dissipate.

  Beu crawled up beside him, his weapon
ready. He aimed it and slipped off the
safety. Bromhead put a hand on the
barrel and shook his head. He held his
hand up, indicating to Beu that they
should wait. He then moved backward,
his eyes on the enemy soldiers. Before
they attacked the group, Bromhead
wanted his whole force in position.

  At that moment a snapping sound to
the right made Bromhead look up.
Standing over him, his hand on his fly
was an NVA soldier, a bewildered look
on his face. His jaw dro ped and he
reached for his pistol.

  Bromhead pushed himself onto his
back, swinging up his M-1 toward the
man. Before Bromhead could fire, there
was a single shot behind him and the
enemy's face disintegrated into a
crimson pulp. His hand spasmed, jerking
his weapon from his holster and
dropping it into the jungle.

  From the clearing came a shout.
Shooting broke out around him. Bromhead
heard his men running forward and
throwing themselves to the ground. He
spun, scrambled to his feet and

102 The lAlle

leaped for the fallen tree moments
before a burst of AK fire slammed into
it, making it shudder. Bark and wood
splintered, flying all around him.
Bromhead aimed over the top. He fired
rapidly, jerking at the trigger in his
haste.

 One of the enemy was hit, spinning to
the right. He fell to one knee and
reached out for the rifle he had
dropped. Bromhead fired again. The
round thudded almost dead center into
the enemy's chest. The man flipped
back, his legs doubling under him.

 Two men sprang up, AKs in their
hands, firing on full automatic. The
bullets ripped through the jungle,
snapping at the leaves and bushes. One
man went to the right and the other
left, trying to outflank Bromhead.

 Bromhead turned, his rifle sights on
one of them. He pulled the trigger,
missed and fired again. The bolt
locked back as the man dived into the
vegetation. Bromhead spun, his back to
the tree and hit the magazine release.
As the spent magazine fell free,
Bromhead grabbed another, slammed it
home and jerked at the bolt. With a
round chambered, Bromhead dropped to
the ground, searching for the enemy.

 Around him the others were firing
now, a rippling noise of M-1 carbines
and AK-47s. There were bursts and
lulls as the men searched for each
other in the jungle. There was a grunt
and a shot and then more silence.
Bromhead was afraid to move because he
didn't know where his men were now.
They had obviously advanced toward the
edge of the clearing.

 Firing broke out on the right, unseen
in the mist rising from the jungle
floor and the half-light created by
the dense vegetation. Bromhead turned
and crawled under the log. In the
patches of light in the clearing, he
saw the bodies of three men. He pulled
his gaze away from them, watching the
jungle, searching for the NVA.

 He caught movement at the very edge,
aimed, but didn't fire because he
didn't know who it was. A moment later
one of

.

Me'lle 103

Beu's men slid into view. Then, behind
him, another shadow approached.
Bromhead couldn't see dearly, but the
shape of the weapon was wrong. As the
man closed with the first, Bromhead
pulled the trigger. There was a shout
of pain as the man jumped sideways into
the jungle.

 Beu's man leaped into the clearing,
rolled and came up firing at the enemy
soldier Bromhead had hit. Then, his
weapon empty, he jumped back for cover
among the trees.

 Bromhead crawled out from under the
log and stood, the log to his back. He
scanned the jungle and saw no more
movement. The firing had died away,
only the distant echoes resoundin-g and
fading in the distance. Bromhead took a
hesitant step forward, heard a crash of
vegetation to his right. He spun in
time to see the NVA soldier launch
himself. He hit Bromhead in the chest,
bowling him over.

 Bromhead rolled with the blow, losing
his rifle. The man scrambled forward,
sitting on Bromhead's chest. In his
hand he grasped a knife, the blade
glittering. Brornhead's hand shot out
to grab the wrist. He locked his elbow
as the knife came plunging toward his
chest. At the same moment, Bromhead
swung with his right hand. The punch
slammed into his adversary's neck just
under the jawbone. A spray of spittle
flew out of the Oriental's mouth as he
grunted and rolled to his right.

- Bromhead grabbed at his holster. His
pistol cleared the leather, and he came
up on one arm and fired. The first
round hit the enemy in the side with a
loud, wet smack. He grunted in surprise
and pain. Bromhead fired again and the
man jerked upright, as if trying to
sit. Bromhead's third shot struck him
in the face, ripping off his lower jaw,
leaving a dripping, gaping red wound as
the man died.

 From the other side of the clearing
came the chattering of an AK-47. That
was answered by two M-l carbines teeing
fired semiautomatically. An instant
later Hansen emerged. He crossed the
clearing, ignoring the dead enemy.

104 The Hlle

  "At least one of them got away. Had
too much of a lead on us. I think we
got the other."

  Brombead turned to Beu. "Check the
bodies. Pick up the weapons." Then he
told Hansen, "Don't run across the
battlefield until we've cleared it."

"Those guys are dead."

  "You don't know that. Could be some
brave suicide lying in wait for a nice
fat target to get into range. Now, why
didn't you follow the enemy?"

  "Too far ahead of us. One guy dropped
back to shoot while the other ran. I
didn't want to get us spread too
thin."

'~'Good thinking."

"Thank you, sir."

"Anyone hurt? You see any of our men
go down?"

  Hansen shook his head. "No. I've seen
them all. Ben was talking to one of
them. We got through this in good
shape."

  "That's good. Now, help check the
bodies. Grab anything you think will
be useful to us, but don't leave
anything for the enemy to recover. And
take one of the weapons as a souve-
nir." He rubbed a hand over his face,
wiping away the sweat.

"No thanks," said Hansen. "I don't
want one."

  Bromhead shook his head. "Doesn't
matter. You take one as a souvenir.
Maybe we can convince these guys that
the weapons make better trophies than
ears and fingers."

"Oh."

  Brombead crouched by the man he had
shot with his pistol. The sight of the
corpse almost made him sick. He didn't
like the sight of broken human bodies.
The act of killing the man didn't
bother him because that was expected.
Since he had selected an armed force
for his career, he had expected to be
placed in a position to have to kill
another human and had long ago made
his peace with himself. He didn't like
the act of killing, and regretted
having to do it, but he preferred that
it was the enemy lying dead in the
dirt, not himself. It wasn't something
he wanted to try. But sometimes the
sight of the broken

The Ville105

bodies, arms blown off or stomachs
ripped open or heads smashed with the
brains leaking out, bothered him. He
would have preferred the clean, sterile
wounds often portrayed by Hollywood.
But real battle and real death were
never quite that clean.

  "We've got everything," said Hansen.
"Except from this guy."

  Brombead looked up. "Get the men
formed and ready to move out. I'll take
care of this guy."

  Trying to keep his eyes off the mess
that had been the man's face, Bromhead
patted the pockets and extracted a
wallet. He put it in his own pocket. He
took the weapons, the knife and the
canteen and felt the pants pockets. He
pulled out a couple of coins and
wondered about the wisdom of running
around the jungle with loose change. Of
course, this was Laos and the NVA
didn't expect trouble in Laos.

  Bromhead got to his feet and looked
at his men. They stood in formation at
the edge of the clearing in the shade,
away from the burning rays of the sun.
All eyes were on him, and he wished
their discipline was a little better.

  He pointed at Beu and said in French,
"Let's head back to the village. Weep
the pace steady, but not too fast. I'll
bring up the rear."

Beu nodded and waved a hand over his
head.

  As the patrol moved out, Brombead
took a final look at the battlefield.
Not much of a firelight.. Probably
lasted less than five minutes, but to
the men who had died, it was the most
important one they would ever fight in.
Too bad no one would ever hear about
it. He turned and followed his men into
the jungle on their way home.

6 ~
THE MEO VILLAGE, LAOS

While Bromhead and Hansen were
wandering around the jungle, Gilman
was standing in the center of the
village, trying to explain the
importance of building bunkers. The
men couldn't see the point of building
them when it was easier to fade away
in the jungle. They didn't want to
fight from holes in the ground, but
wanted to be out in the open where
they could move around, and where
their ancestors could see them.

 Gilman explained it to them at
length and then realized what was
happening. It wasn't that the men
didn't understand whet he was talking
about. They didn't think soldiers
should build bunkers. Building bunkers
was something that the men who were
not worthy of being soldiers should
do. Soldiers would fight in them, not
build them.

 Finally Gilman said, "But you are
the men who will be fighting in them.
Do you want to trust someone with the
knowledge you have gained by building
your fighting position? Would you let
that man handle your weapon, clean it
and maintain it? Isn't it the
soldier's duty to take care of his
weapon? Isn't it a soldier's duty to
build his own bunker?"

 They saw the logic of the argument
and finally agreed. Gilman, weary from
the argument, dragged a couple of
shovels

The tile 107

from the weapons hootch, tossed three
axes out and then pushed out several
bundles of empty sandbags. He assigned
men to each of the tools and then led
them to the corner of the village.

"Here," he said, "we'll build our first
bunker."

  With his knife, he sharpened a stick
and used it to draw a square on the
ground. He pointed at it and was
tempted to tell them that their dirt
was in his hole, but was sure the joke
would be lost on them. Instead he
showed them how to dig the hole with
straight walls, how to fill and stack
the sandbags. Then he got out of the
way. The men with the axes were
instructed to get some logs about six
feet long and a foot thick. They would
be used to reinforce the bunker and to
build the roof.

  As he moved back to watch the
progress, surprised that the men needed
so little supervision once convinced
the task wasn't beneath them, Jane
Lucas appeared. She was dressed in the
native costume of a brightly colored
cloth knotted around the waist. It hung
to her knee on one side but left her
thigh bare on the other. She wore
sandals and nothing else.

  "Good afternoon." Gilman averted his
eyes from her breasts. Beads of
perspiration glistened on her face and
ran down her chest. When she didn't
respond in English, he greeted her in
the Meo's language.

  She snapped around as if she had been
shot, her gaze unwavering. "You speak
the language?"

  "Yes, ma'am. After a fashion. I'm not
real proficient on all the tenses and
some of the words, with their slight
changes in inflection, throw me off."

  "I'm surprised. I heard your commander
speaking his high school French, but I
didn't know that any of you were con-
versant in Meo."

  Gilman grinned at her and asked in the
native tongue, "What brings you out
here this afternoon?"

108 The Ville

  She pointed at the work party and
asked, in English, "What are you
doing?"

  "Constructing the beginnings of a
defensive system. If Charlie, or
rather the Communists, decide to hit
this village, we want to be ready for
him."

  "And if you weren't here, none of
this would be necessary," she said
angrily.

  "I'm not sure you're right on that
one, ma'am," said Gilman.

  "I am. There have been no attacks on
us until you arrived. Then, all of a
sudden, someone starts dropping bombs
on us last night."

  "Colonel Bromhead seems to think that
you would've been mortared last night
even if we hadn't shown up. The bad
guys got into position too fast for us
to be the cause."

  "Well, if the colonel says so, then
it must be right," she said
sarcastically.

  "Ask Ben if they've ever been
mortared before. I think you'll find
that it's not that rare an occurrence.
I've seen a couple of people running
around here with scars that suggest
that all has not been peaceful."

  "You all think alike," said Lucas,
"I'll give you that. It's like talking
to your commander. Don't care about
anything but doing your job, no matter
who gets in the way."

  Gilman looked at her and then turned
back to watch the men working. He
wiped the sweat from his face with his
sleeve. "And people like you don't
think anyone else knows what he's
doing. There is the possibility that
we do know what we're doing here."

"Of course," she said. "You'd believe
that, too."

"If I didn't, I wouldn't be here. You
know, if the North

  ~etnamese win in the South, there's
nothing to keep them from moving into
Laos and Cambodia. And when they do,
they're going to eliminate everyone
who ever fought them or

The ~211e 109

spoke out against them or had any kind
of education. It won't matter to them.
They'll just round them up and kill
them."

"And you believe that?"

  Gilman looked at her, stared at her
bare breasts as if trying to embarrass
her. He became aware of a burning at
his crotch. "Nothing I can say would
change your mind. You have all the
answers because the Communists are such
wonderful people they would never lie
and they certainly wouldn't hurt any-
one."

  "I didn't say that, but I don't think
they're the evil that you people claim
they are."

  "Look, I have a lot of work to do
here. The colonel said not to be rude
to you, so if you'll forgive me, I'll
get back to my work." He stepped closer
to the hole and crouched at the edge.
He pretended to inspect it, said
something to the men working in it and
then turned. Lucas was walking toward
the center of the village. He watched
her for a moment, wondering if she was
going to cause them problems. Suddenly
he broke into a run toward the jungle.
The burning had become an overpowering
pain and he had to relieve himself
quickly.

BROMHEAD AND HIS PATROL arrived at the
village about an hour before dark. They
halted at the tree line, just inside
the jungle, to observe the men working
at the edge of the village. Gilman had
taken off his fatigue shirt and was
standing there bare-cheated, his ID
tags tossed over his shoulder. All
Bromhead could see was the chain around
his neck.

 The work was progressing well. One
bunker had been completed. It was a low
affair, sticking only two feet above
the ground, hidden under a layer of
sandbags. It was barely visible over
the grass and Bromhead realized that
they were going to have to burn off the
field.

 As they entered the clearing, Gilman
caught movement out of the corner of
his eye. He jerked to the right to
snare his

110 The belle

weapon and then saw Bromhead. He held
up a hand and waved.

  Bromhead turned to Beu. "Tell the
men we'll have a weapOM check in
fifteen minutes. I want to see the
weapons cleaned and oiled and ready
for inspection. Anyone who needs help,
see Major Hansen."

  Hansen was about to protest the rank
when he remembered that Bromhead had
given him the brevet promotion.

  "Follow me," said Hansen in English,
moving toward the weapons hootch.

  "Major Gilman," said Bromhead. "I
need to have a word with you."

  Gilman stepped away from the men
working on the bunker and then
laughed. Not one of them could speak
English. "What do you need, sir?"

  "We ran into a group of NVA and got
into a firefight with them. IWled most
of them, but at least one got away."

  "Oh shit! " Gilman picked up his
shirt and wiped his hands on it. He
found his weapon, then spoke to the
men, "You keep working here until the
sun touches the horizon. Then you can
go." He slipped the shirt on but
didn't button it. The sweat on his
shoulders and back soaked it quickly.
"What are you planning to do?"

  Bromhead turned, heading toward the
weapons hootch. "Haven't figured it
out yet."

"Wasn't Hansen's fault, was it?"

  "No. He did quite well, as a matter
of fact. Oh, he could have been a
little sharper, but I can't complain.
And the Meos are terrific. They know
exactly what they're doing. If Beu can
come up with another thirty of them,
we've got our cadre. A good,
experienced cadre."

"So what are you planning?" asked
Gilman.

  "Haven't thought about that, either.
If we had gotten them all, we could
figure on a week, maybe longer, before
we had

The KUe 111

to worry about the enemy showing up.
But someone got away and that cuts into
our time."

"Did he see you?"

 "Who knows? Christ, Gilman, it was a
firelight. I don't know who saw what."

"Then at best we have forty-eight
hours."

 "That's kind of what I thought," said
Bromhead. "If Ben has the men, we could
hand out the weapons tomorrow, spend
the day cleaning them and get an ambush
out the next. Slow down the VC a
little."

 Gilman stopped at the notched log and
let Bromhead climb it first. Inside,
they found Hansen and two of the men
cleaning weapons, the parts scattered
on the floor around thern. Hansen
looked up and grinned, then went back
to work.

 Bromhead unbuckled his pistol belt and
dropped it to the floor. He moved to
the stack of C-rations and pawed
through them, searching for a can of
peaches. When he found them, he sat
down on the floor, used a P-38 to open
them and drank the syrup. A hundred
thoughts flashed through his mind.
Plans for dealing with the coming of
the NVA, the VC and the Pathet Lao.
Things that needed to be done before
the enemy arrived. He wondered if the
ambush was a good idea. If it would buy
them more time, then it was right. But
it might also tip their hand.

 Bromhead watched the men reassembling
their weapons. They studied Hansen's
movements and followed his lead, but
they did it rapidly, demonstrating a
knowledge of firearms. It wasn't
something he expected to find in a
primitive village in the Laotian
mountains.

 "That anthropologist lady visited me
this afternoon," said Gilman.

"And told you to get out of the
village."

  "No, sir. Suggested we were doing more
harm than good, though."

112 The 1~?11c

 "I don't have time to worry about
her. She's just one of those college
liberals who believe in the ideal
world and don't realize that the real
world bears no resemblance."

"So what do we do?"

  Bromhead continue-d to eat. He
chewed and swallowed. "First, I'm
going to finish my peaches. Second,
we'll talk to Beu and see if he has
the men we need."

  "You want me to go out and see if I
can find the man who got away?"

  "No. It'll be dark in a few minutes
and you'd never be able to find the
trail at night. That gives him a good
twelve-hour head start. We'll need all
the help we can get here without
worrying about a frightened enemy
soldier."

"So when does all this start?" asked
Gilman.

"First light tomorrow."

BEU HAD FORMED THE MEN into a straight
line behind one of the new bunkers.
Some of them wore the uniforms that
had been issued the day before. Others
stood in the early morning light in
only a loincloth. All stood at
attention, their eyes locked forward,
waiting for Bromhead and his staff to
arrive and give them their orders.

 When he approached, Bromhead saluted
Beu. "Good morning, Colonel."

 Beau returned the salute and
responded, "Good morning. I have the
men ready."

 "Yes, I see." Bromhead counted them.
Forty-seven ofthem stood there. "All
these men have had military
experience?"

"Yes," said Beu. "All have training."

 "All right. I want to get everyone
into a uniform. Then we'll pass out
the rifles. Each man will be
responsible for cleaning his own
weapon. When that's finished, we'll
visit the range for a little target
practice."

The Belle

 Beu nodded his agreement. Bromhead
pulled him aside and spoke to him
quietly, "But first we need to get some
scouts out. You must select five of
your very best men and send them out to
look for the Communists. They must not
kill them, only count them and bring
the information back to us. They must
be here tomorrow morning at the latest.
Do you understand?"

"I understand."

 "It's important that these men count
the enemy soldiers and not shoot them.
They cannot take their rifles, only
their crossbows. They must dress in
loincloths. They must be quiet and not
be seen."

"The men will not like leaving their
guns."

  "It is something they must do. You
tell them the rifles will be here when
they return. The best we have, and the
first weapons we capture, will be given
to them. They must understand the
importance of this. If they do it
right, we will be able to kill many of
the Communists."

  Beu crouched and rocked back on his
haunches, studying the problem. He
picked up a twig and scribbled in the
dirt with it. "This will be
difficult.""

  "Only the very best men can do this.
Once we find the enemy, they will lead
us to him and we will kill many more of
them." Bromhead smiled.

  "I see what can be done." Beu stood
and walked among the assembled men. He
tapped five of them on the chest and
pulled them out of the formation. He
took them aside and spoke in low tones
for several minutes. When he finished,
he waved at Bromhead.

"The men understand."

  "Tell them," said Bromhead, "that we
want them to split up and circulate to
the north and east of here. Look for
the Communists but don't shoot at
them."

114 17'e Elk

 Beau repeated the instructions and
when he finished, Bromhead said, "I
want to see them before they go. You
have them come by the weapons hootch
when they are ready."

 Bromhead split the remaining men into
two groups of twenty. One was given to
Gilman who was instructed to take them
to the weapons hootch and get them
into uniform. Bromhead and Hansen took
charge of the other group, most of
whom were already in uniform, and
marched them to the hootch. While
Gilman was handing out the uniforms,
Hansen distributed the weapons.
Bromhead instructed them in the
cleaning of the weapons while Ben
translated into their own language.
Gilman was left alone with his group,
doing the same.

 The whole morning was spent getting
the weapons ready. The grease on some
of them was so thick that it could be
removed in handfuls. It took an hour
just to get them ready to be cleaned.
Bromhead led his group through the
process slowly, showing them how to
clean the grease by using rags. Once
they were cleaned, they were oiled
carefully and reassembled. Bromhead
walked among his group, watching and
pointing and assisting, checking the
progress of the work. And as the day
before, he saw that the men had been
well trained by someone. They were
attentive, listening to each of his
instructions, and they were careful.
No one left small parts out. No one
inverted anything or inserted it
backward.

 The only interruption was when the
five scouts arrived. Bromhead checked
them closely to make sure they were
carrying nothing that would help the
enemy. He cautioned them again about
getting back by the following morning,
even if they didn't find the
Communists. Then he sent them on their
way. If one of them failed to return,
Bromhead intended to order Ben to have
his villagers flee because it would
mean the Communists were on the way.

T7te belle 115

 When the weapons were ready and
checked, Bromhead issued magazines for
them. He opened a crate of .30-caliber
carbine ammunition and started the men
loading the magazines. They kept at
that until each man had five banana
clips with thirty rounds apiece. For
target practice, he issued each man two
fifteen-round magazines and told them
to load those.

 By then it was time for lunch.
Bromhead called a halt and was about to
send the men to their hootches for an
hour off when Beu invited him to eat
the afternoon meal with him. Bromhead
had looked forward to eating a C-ration
lunch but didn't see how he could
refuse. He let Beu lead him away.

 The lunch was served on palm leaves
by Beu's wives. One of them sat in the
corner, watching the other two. One of
them, a slender young woman, served the
main course of monkey. The other, an
older woman with a bad scar on her
back, served snake and parrot and
vegetables. She knelt near them, wait-
ing for instructions from the other two
women.

 Bromhead studied the scar. It was a
bullet hole that had hit her in the
back above the shoulder blade and
exited in the front, leaving an ugly,
puckered wound. Her left arm did not
work as well as it should and she held
it at an awkward angle.

 Halfway through the meal, Beu looked
up and saw that Bromhead had finished
most of his stew. Beu snapped his fin-
gers at the woman. The first wife
leaped from her place in the corner and
slapped the woman. There was a burst of
shouting as she hit the woman again and
again.

Bromhead said, quickly, "That's not
necessary."

 Beu looked at Bromhead and grinned
widely. "You like this woman?" he
asked.

"She is a human being," responded
Bromhead.

"Then you may have her."

  "What do you mean, have her?" asked
Brombead. "She is one of your wives."

116 The Belle

 "I took her in because no other man
would have her. Filth her crippled
arm, she cannot carry a full load or
do her share of the work. No other
warrior wants her."

 At first Bromhead was going to
refuse. Then he remembered that the
customs of the Meo were different. To
refuse might be seen as a lack of
feeling for the locals. He was pushed
into a corner, having to accept the
gift, even if the gift was a human
being.

 Bromhead nodded. "Then she must go to
my hootch and wait for me there."

 Ben grinned again and said something
in rapid-fire Meo. The woman glanced
at Bromhead but said nothing. She
turned, ducked her way out of the
hootch and disappeared.

 When she was gone, the meal resumed
with the number two wife serving
alone. The atmosphere of hostility
vanished when the crippled woman left.

 After lunch Bromhead returned to the
weapons hootch. The woman was inside,
kneeling near Bromhead's gear, waiting
for him. He told her to relax because
he had nothing for her to do. Then he
left for the south side of the village
where his men had assembled for rifle
practice.

 Using boards ripped from the ammo
crates and a marker pen, Bromhead
created a number of bull's-eye targets
and set them up about a hundred and
fifty yards from his makeshift firing
line. He explained what he had in
mind, told the ten men on the Bring
line to shoot only at the target in
front of him and to only fire five
shots. They would inspect the targets
afterward.

 The afternoon was spent putting each
group through the procedure, ten men
at a time. Again Bromhead was sur-
prised. Most of the men were good
shots, many of them excellent. None of
them had the habit of closing their
eyes or firing high, which was the
trouble with men who had never fired a
rifle before. He selected the best of
the shots as squad

The Hlle117

leaders and platoon sergeants. Beu
choose two lieutenants as platoon
leaders and Bromhead made Gilman the
company commander.

 By dusk he had his first-strike
company, trained and ready for action.
As they left the rifle range for the
evening, the company dispersing into
the village to join their families,
Bromhead wondered just how good the
training was. He hadn't trained them
and hadn't expected to be this far
along for weeks. He was relying on
someone else's work, and although that
work had been done well, Bromhead was
a little worried about it. After all,
he had only seen five or six of the men
in combat, if the brief firelight in
the jungle could be called combat. They
had reacted well, had been disciplined,
but that was a small group with
everything breaking their way. A
pitched battle against an equal force
of NVA or VC could be a disaster.

 He walked into the weapons hootch,
set his carbine down and then sat on
one of the unopened crates. The woman
came to him and touched his arm.
Bromhead looked at her and smiled. He
told her that she didn't have to
remain. Without a word, she crossed the
hootch and sat near the stone platform
that was the fireplace.

 Bromhead wished he had a cold beer.
He needed something to chill the throat
and freeze the stomach. Instead he
could only sit on the crate, his elbows
on his knees, and stare at the floor.
At best, there was some warm water in
the canteen. He realized just how
important the little things were. Cold
beer, air-conditioning, a shower and a
flush toilet. He could remember
thinking about each of those sometime
during the day.

 If he wanted a bath to remove the
grime and sweat, he would have to find
a stream. If he wanted
air-conditioning, he would have to wave
a piece of cardboard in front of his
face. But there was no beer, cold or
otherwise. Only the local brew, luke

118 The Hlle

warm, that could blow off the top of
the head in a matter of seconds.

 Bromhead unbuttoned his sweat-soaked
shirt and wiped his face with the damp
ends. His entire uniform was soaked,
as if he had just run through a heavy
rain. If he changed it, the same thing
would happen within minutes. After
nightfall, the mountain air would cool
but he still wouldn't be comfortable.
There was absolutely nothing he could
do about it except forget it and
concentrate on something more
important.

 He heard a noise at the door and
turned to see Jane Lucas standing
there. She half-waved at him. "Mind if
I come in?"

"Suit yourself."

 Jane entered, surveyed the mess, and
then noticed the woman at the far end
of the hootch. The anthropologist
looked at the open crates, the
scattered packing paper, the cardboard
boxes that had held ammunition. When
she finished looking it all over, she
said, "So it's true."

 Bromhead looked up at her and
realized that she was back in her
safari outfit. He wondered why he
found the costume more erotic than the
bare-breasted native garb she
sometimes wore. Then he wondered why
he thought about it at all.

 "What's true?" he asked, thinking
about the softness of her skin as he
had pulled her to the floor during the
mortar attack. He remembered the
texture of her skin, the dampness of
it as he had tried to protect her, and
found the thoughts exciting.

 "That you're planning something big.
The women are having some kind of
death ritual, which means they think
their men are going offto war."

 Bromhead shook his head. "Now that's
one thing I never thought about. The
men and women preparing for battle
with a funeral. Sure telegraphs the
moves."

 "Why?" she asked as she rubbed her
hands on her thighs as if to dry them.
"Why do you have to do this?"

The Vile 119

  "Jane, let me ask you a question.
Have you talked to these people about
their life before you arrived? Have you
asked about the wounds some of them
have?"

  She moved closer to Bromhead and sat
on the edge of an upturned crate. She
glanced at the woman near the fireplace
again. She put her hands on her bare
knees and studied the floor between her
feet. "Yes," she admitted. "I've talked
to them and asked about the wounds."

  "Then you have some idea of what is
happening here. What has happened
here."

  "Yes. Some. But I know that your
being here is endangering everyone
else."

  Bromhead turned his head so that he
faced her. He could see the sweat on
her forehead, on her upper lip and
dripping down her throat to disappear
under the open neck of her safari
shirt. For one wild moment he wanted to
brush it away. Lick it away. He wanted
to touch her, but he forced that out of
his mind.

"I'm not endangering anyone," he said.
"I'm here to help."

  "By taking the men out to die in some
kind of heroic fight. A fight they
can't win."

  "If we don't do this, the enemy will
be here before we have a chance to do
anything about it. There will be a
wholesale slaughter."

"But if you hadn't come," she snapped,
"then the . . ."

  "Makes no difference now,"
interrupted Bromhead. "We can't take
back the fact that we're here. If I had
known a few more things about this
village, then I might not have come.
But I didn't know them and I did come.
I have to live with that. And I have to
live with my obligation to these
people."

"I hope the villagers can live with it,
too."

  "that's why we're going out.
Tomakesuretheycan. Maybe the only thing
we'll do is hold up the Communists for
a couple of days. If that's the case,
then the people have a chance to slip

120 The belle

away. Now get out of here and let me
get to work." Bromhead stood, took a
step toward her and then stopped.

 "Why don't you get out?" she asked.
"Just leave. Then the Communists have
no reason to come here."

 "Doesn't work that way. The
Communists will wipe out this village
to prove a point. They will kill
everyone here as an example."

`'You can't know that," she said.

  "But I can. They've done it before.
The Soviets did it. Stalin wiped out a
whole class of people because they
wouldn't give up their small farms.
Six million people dead and no world
cry against it. The red Chinese did it
during the revolutions. More thousands
dead. When the Communists take over,
they always kill thousands. They've
done it time and again. What's to stop
them from eliminating a small village
in the mountains in Laos?"

  "Then you knew what would happen when
you came," she accused. "You knew what
they would do and you still came. Even
knowing that, you came." She was on
her feet, her face a mask of outrage.

  "I know what they'll do if South
Vietnam falls. This village and a
hundred like it will cease to exist.
The Communists will sweep through here
and round up the people, moving them
to relocation camps and in those camps
millions will die. By coming here, I
provide these people with the weapons
and the ability to fight for their
lives. I've brought none of this down
on these people." His voice was rising
as he spoke, the anger flowing through
him like an increasing electrical
current. "I may have speeded up the
process, but that's all I've done. I
didn't make the situation."

  "You're an arrogant, obnoxious pawn
who doesn't know shit! " she screamed.

  Bromhead smiled at that, wondering
how he could think of her as
attractive. Her whole attitude had
been formed in a

The Ville 121

drearnworld, one that didn't exist,
although it was impossible to convince
her of that. She thought all people
were honorable and it would be a long
time before she realized they weren't.
A long time before she realized that
most people were motivated by
self-interest. He said, "Your kind
always turn to personal insults when
you have no argument."

"My kind?" she said.

"You pinko university liberals."

Now she smiled. "You got them all
there. Everyone of the cliches used by
the military. Pinko university
liberals."

"Then why aren't the university types
in the streets over the North
Vietnamese atrocities? The North
Vietnamese propose holiday cease-fires
and then break them at will. The
Communists, the North Vietnamese
violate the neutrality of Laos and
Cambodia and no one cares. Every
Commumst country sends supplies to the
North Vietnamese and no one cares.
Hell, there are even advisers from Red
China in South Vietnam and no one
cares."

"That's different," said Lucas.

"How? How in the hell is it different?
We're talking about one thing here."

"The North Vietnamese asked for the
help."

"Well, so the fuck did the South
Vietnamese and so would these people
here, if they had a way to do it. You
saw how we were treated when we
arrived. Like honored guests, not as
invaders. They can't wait to get out
and kill the Communists."

"That's only because you brought new
weapons. Gifts for them."

"Well, I don't see any Vietnamese or
the Pathet Lao arriving with gifts of
any kind. And I hear a lot of talk
about killing the Communists."

"I knew it would do no good coming
here," she said. "I thought that I
could reason with you, that you had
some intelligence, but I see that I was
wrong. I just hope you don't get

122 The H'lle

too many of these people killed."
With that she moved rapidly to the
door.

As she ducked out, Bromhead called
after her, "I hopeyou don't get them
all killed."

7
THE MEO VILLAGE, LAOS

Long before dawn the men assembled
near one of the corner bunkers. Work
on them had been continued the day
before, although most of Bromhead's
and Gilman's time had been spent
getting the ambush patrol ready. Those
villagers not involved with it had
been assigned to the bunker detail,
and although the progress had been
slow, two of the bunkers had been
finished and eight more had been
started.

At two in the morning, the last of
the scouts returned. He went directly
to Beu's hootch, who escorted him to
the weapons hut where Bromhead slept.
The man was filthy, covered with dirt,
sweat and a hundred scratches. He had
lost his crossbow but he had found the
enemy. A column of soldiers moving to
the south following a small,
ill-defined trail. When questioned
about the number he would only say,
"Many. Many," and then "beaucoup," one
of the few French words he knew.

Bromhead finally sent the man away
and used a map to determine how far
the enemy was and his route of travel.
Showing the scout a map did no good
because the man couldn't read it. The
symbols were so much nonsense to him.
Gilman and

124 The Belle

Bromhead plotted a course, figuring
where the enemy colurnn would be the
next day.

Afterward, they went through the
equipment one last time. They unpacked
several claymore mines, hand grenades,
and anything else they thought might
be useful in the ambush. Bromhead
wanted to do more, but while standing
in the litter of equipment he could
think of nothing else. At best, they
would tee gone the
majorityofonedayandatworst, two. A few
cans of C-rations, an extra canteen or
two, and that was it.

Bromhead finally settled down to
rest. He slept fitfully, waking up
with a start every few minutes. He
would jerk awake, his nerves
screaming, his senses alert, as if he
had heard something outside. Finally
he got up, moved to the outside of the
hootch where he could sit on the edge
of the floor in the doorway and watch
the world.

The moon was up, giving the
surroundings the strange, black and
white look of an old movie. There was
a light ground fog that hugged the low
spots and almost no breeze. Bromhead
pulled at some of the thatch and
wrapped it around his finger, watching
the jungle. It was a black, ominous
place beyond the grassy plain. A
foreboding place that seemed to beckon
him. He felt chills up and down his
spine as if he were looking at the
moors in England where the phantom had
just vanished. All he needed was the
howling of a wolf in the background
and it would be the perfect setting
for a horror story.

But he didn't move. He turned so that
he was looking at the village. The
rows of hootches, each up on stilts,
the bare ground under it visible.
There was a flickering of firelight
and he saw a dog trotting along.
Nothing else was moving. Nothing else
was making any noise. It was as quiet
as death and that made the setting
even more ominous.

Behind him, he heard a scrape of
leather on wood and looked over his
shoulder.

"You worried, Colonel?" asked Gilman.

The belle 125

Bromhead took a breath;and sighed.
"Worried? What the hell is there to be
worried about? We're going to chase
down a large NVA column, with a bump of
men who were trained by someone else
using weapons that belong in the Second
World War. Why worry?"

"Sure, Colonel. Why worry?"

"Listen, tomorrow, keep an eye on
Hansen. He's not that experienced,
either."

"Yes, sir."

"And Nick, you watch out for yourself,
too."

"Sure. I always do." He hesitated and
then said, "Guess I'll go take a piss."

Bromhead stood and ducked into the
hootch. He wiped a hand over his face,
felt the stubble, the sweat, and rubbed
it on his shirt. "Think I'll catch a
little sleep. Be about an hour or so."

He hadn't slept during that hour. He
had thought about the mission and that
scared him. He forced those thoughts
from his mind and planned a model
railroad for when he returned to the
World. An HO railroad with lots of
boxcars and a steam engine. That did it
and before he knew it, Gilman was
moving around. Hansen sat up, checked
the time and began to collect his
equipment.

As the three of them left the weapons
hootch, they saw that Ben had collected
his men and had them ready. Bromhead
and Gilman checked the weapons while
Hansen inspected the rest. He
scrutinized their pistol belts,
canteens and first-aid kits.

Standing there in the early morning
mist, the sunlight just beginning to
drive the night away, Bromhead briefed
the men in French while Ben translated.
They had to maintain unit integrity,
maintain interval and be patient. If
they did those things, they would not
be hurt and they would kill a lot of
the Communists. That was met with a
rousing cheer. Bromhead started, but
said nothing. With luck, there were no
enemy

126 17'e Vile

soldiers around to hear the men
cheering, and if there were, then it
was too late to do anything about it.

And it was then that Gilman pulled
Bromhead to the side. " Sir, I've got
a problem."

Bromhead shot a glance at the Meos
and at Beu, then leaned close to
Gilman. "What is it?"

"Think I picked up a dose."

"A dose?" asked Bromhead.

"Yes, sir. The clap. I think I caught
a dose of it."

Bromhead shook his head. "One hell of
a time to tell me."

"I thought maybe you could get me
some pills or something. I heard that
you Special Forces guys take
penicillin and that takes care of it.
Just get me some pills and I'll be
fine."

"Damn it all to hell," muttered
Bromhead. "If this isn't always the
way. I knew coming out without the
medic was going to fucking kill us.
Christ, I don't know if penicillin
pills will cure it. Shit. About the
only thing I know is that it has to be
treated."

"But not now, sir," said Gilman.

Bromhead rubbed a hand over his
head. "Well that does explain a couple
of things. You know, I really should
leave you here. We can't have you
dropping out of the formation every
hour to piss."

"Get me the pills and I'll be fine."

Bromhead stared at him for a long
time. He was a dark gray shape
outlined by the faint glow of a fire.
"Damn it all anyway."

"The pills, sir," said Gilman.

"Major Hansen, you take charge here
for a few minutes while Major Gilman
and I converse on an urgent matter."

Hansen didn't look pleased, but he
said nothing.

At the hootch, Bromhead went through
the medical kit, found a bottle of
pills and checked them. As he dumped
sev

Tale belle 127

eral into his hand, he said, "I don't
know anything about this. Are you
allergic to penicillin?"

"Not that I know of," said Gilman.

"Well, here, take four now and another
four in a couple of hours. You have a
discharge or anything? You dripping?"

"A little. Not much."

"At least you had the good sense to
head into the jungle to piss so that
you don't infect the village."

"Yes, sir."

Brombead shook his head again. "This
is exactly what we needed. I knew we'd
need a medic before this was over.
Hell, we haven't taken a casualty yet
and we need the medic." He watched as
Gilman swallowed the tablets, washing
them down with water from his canteen.
When he was finished, Bromhead said,
"Let's go find the patrol and get
going."

As the sun peeked over the horizon,
the patrol moved out, a long column of
men with Bromhead, Hansen and Beu in
the lead and Gilman bringing up the
rear where he could discreetly take
care of his problem. They crossed the
open, grassy plain quickly and entered
the jungle. Travel at first was slow
because it was still dark on the
ground, but as the sun rose, the
shadows lightened and the earth took on
the twilight of a dense jungle so that
they could move faster. They spread out
more, using a trail that led lower into
a wide valley with a small stream
bubbling through its center. They
crossed it quickly and turned to the
north.

The jungle around them opened up
slightly, the dense vegetation giving
way to lighter scrub at the base of the
giant trees. Brombead and Beu used
their machetes to hack at the vines and
branches. At first the work was easy,
the machete seeming to cut through the
plants on its own, but the heat and hu-
midity sapped Brombead's strength until
it felt as if the machete weighed
twenty pounds. Finally he let one of
the

128 The Ville

others take the point, Bromhead
walking right behind hire, a compass
in one hand and his map in the other.

By midmorning they came to a wide
trail. It was a well used path that
had sandal prints in the soft dirt
where it was visible. Most of it was
carpeted by decaying vegetation.

Bromhead halted the column and stood
watching as they slipped deeper into
the jungle. He and Gilman then went on
ahead, looking for a good ambush spot.
They wanted a straight section of the
trail so that they could see the whole
column at once. They wanted a place
that would offer them protection and
have a limited amount for the enemy.
That was the ideal. Bromhead figured
they would have to settle for
something less.

They found the spot not more than
half a klick away. There was a rocky
outcropping along the eastern side of
the trail that was the perfect place
for Bromhead's patrol. On the other
side was a slight depression that
would offer the enemy sanctuary from
the fire pouring into them. That was
even better. If Bromhead planted his
claymores in that ditch, he could
trigger them as the enemy retreated
there. It would be a devastating blow
to them, creating panic.

They hurried back to the main body of
the patrol, got them on their feet and
moved them into position. Bromhead,
Gilman and Ben set the men, telling
them that they were responsible for
the section of the trail immediately
in front of them. They were to shoot
when they had a target and stop when
they didn't. The signal to fire would
be an explosion. Bromhead planned to
toss grenades and had told both Gilman
and Hansen to do the same with him.

When the men were ready, Bromhead and
Hansen worked their way to the trail,
stood there for a moment and then
crossed it. Bromhead placed one of the
claymore mines so that it would fire
down the ditch. He anchored it against
a tree, and played out the firing
cables, covering them with dirt and
vegetation. Hansen put another at the
far end, firing back toward

Lee H11e 129

the first. Together, they planted three
others that were set at angles so they
would rake the likely hiding places.
After they covered the cables? they
crossed the path and found firing po-
sitions among the rocks. Bromhead laid
the firing controls out in front of him
so that he would know which mine would
fire.

The ambush itself was laid out
parallel to the trail. There were three
men about a hundred meters behind them
to prevent a counterattack from the
rear. Bromhead sent another man half a
klick to the north to watch for the
enemy, with instructions to come back
when he saw the head of the column. And
there were two men to the south of
Bromhead's patrol to make sure that
they didn't get caught by an unexpected
move by the enemy.

Then there was nothing left to do but
wait. Sit in the jungle, listening to
the noises around him, the animals
moving through the trees or along the
ground. There was a quiet rustling near
him and Bromhead watched a snake
appear, moving toward a patch of
sunlight on a section of rock. It
stopped there, ignoring everytlung
around it, basking in the sun. Bromhead
studied it, trying to identify it,
wondering if it was poisonous. All he
knew was that the majority of the
snakes in Southeast Asia were poisonous
and some of the poisons were extremely
deadly. He decided that the first thing
he would do, after tossing his
grenades, was shoot the snake.

He suddenly felt thirsty. Since the
scout had not reappeared, Bromhead
slowly took out his canteen, his eyes
on the snake only twelve feet away, and
unscrewed the cap. He tilted it to his
mouth and drank deeply. The water was
warm and tasted of plastic. He let some
of it drip down his chin and neck. That
cooled him momentarily. He put the
canteen down where he could get it
again without having to unsnap a cover.

Then he sat still, watching the snake
and listening to the jungle. He flexed
his muscles so that they didn't stiffen
or cramp. He had to keep the blood
circulating. He concert"

130 The Vile

bated on his breathing, keeping it
regular. It was something to do while
he waited.

THE AIR FORCE C-123 left Tan Son Nhut,
climbed high into the bright blue
morning sky, and turned to the north
once it reached altitude. Gerber sat
in the red webbing of the troop seat,
his rucksack at his feet and tied down
by a long cable that had been applied
by the loadmaster just prior to
takeoff. He held his M-16 in both
hands, the butt on the deck, the
barrel pointing toward the top of the
fuselage. He had stripped the magazine
from it and ejected the chambered
round.

Fetterman sat beside him, his head
back and eyes closed. While the plane
sat on the ground, he had been
sweating, but once airborne, he had
cooled off, still not opening his
eyes.

They landed briefly at Ban Me Thuot,
Pleiku, and Kontom, to let
offpassengers, discharge cargo, and
then pick up passengers and new cargo.
At Kontum, Gerber and Fetterman exited
into the stifling midmorning heat. The
loadrnaster tossed their equipment out
the door to land in the soft red dirt
at the edge of the taxiway.

They picked it up, and walked across
the blazing PSP to the tiny terminal
building. To one side, two Huey
helicopters sat unattended, their
blades tied down. Gerber dropped his
equipment to the ground and told
Fetterman to watch it.

Inside he found a typical terminal.
A few broken-down chairs for those
awaiting rides, a long, low counter,
and behind that a scheduling board. A
short, thin man with badly peeling
skin and thin blond hair was using a
black grease pencil to make a note on
the scheduling board. He wore a sweat-
damp, OD green T-shirt, jungle fatigue
pants and jungle boots.

When he dropped to the floor and
turned around, Gerber asked, "You got
anything going north to any of the
Special Forces camps?"

We Ville 131

The man leaned on the counter. "Which
one?"

"Preferably A-245 at Dak Seang, but
anything up in that area will do. Dak
To or Dak Sut."

"You want a chopper or what?"

"Anything."

The man pulled a loose-leaf notebook
across the counter and flipped it open.
He leafed through the pages until he
found what he wanted. "Think we've
space on a chopper out about two this
afternoon. That'll give you time for
some lunch and to see all our sights.
Name?"

"There's two of us and some equipment."

"Shouldn't be a problem. Name?"

Gerber gave it to him, and a list of
the equipment that they carried. Before
he left, the man said, "Remember, this
ain't no scheduled airline. It's best
you be here 'bout an hour earlier. That
way, if the flight crew gets antsy,
you'll be here to fly out 'cause they
ain't gonna wait."

"Thanks," stud Gerber.

THE WAIT TURNED OUT TO BE relatively
short. An hour after the scout was
sent, he returned. He whispered to Beu,
who then moved down to Bromhead.
"Communists come now. Many ofthem. Tau
saw only a few but heard many morel
They are on the trail." He grinned,
showing broken, yellowed teeth that had
been filed to points.

"All right," said Bromhead. "It is
imperative that no one moves now. We
don't want to tip our hand. Everyone
must wait for the explosions before
they shoot. If they don't we won't be
able to kill all the Communists."

"The men understand," said Beu.

"Then get ready," said Bromhead.

Beu moved to the right several feet
and crouched among the rocks. He held
his carbine in both hands, waiting.

132 The Tulle

Bromhead looked at the rock, but the
snake had slithered away. He hoped
that it was wending its way to the
trail, not coming closer to him. He
felt the hair on the back of his neck
stand on end and there was a tingling
at the base of his spine. It wasn't
the coming action that caused it, but
the disappearance of the snake. That
scared him more than the approaching
enemy because he knew it was out
there, but not where it was.

He kept his eyes moving, searching
the ground, but the snake was gone. He
felt his ears twitch at the slightest
sound, but when he turned to look, the
source of the noise was gone. His
attention was wandering, distracted by
the snake, but he couldn't help it. It
was out there, waiting for the
opportunity to strike. The only thing
he knew about it was that it wasn't a
cobra. He was sure that he would
recognize a cobra.

And then he heard the enemy column.
They had no noise discipline. The men
were talking, their equipment
rattling. It meant that they were at
home in this section of the jungle and
that they feared nothing in it. They
were out for a stroll, and they would
destroy the first village they found.
That was assuming that these men had
been sent to destroy the village.
Bromhead didn't care why they were
there.

The point, four men grouped together,
appeared in the distance. All wore the
OD green of the NVA, which didn't sur-
prise Bromhead.
Theyworepistolbeltsholdingtheircantee
ns, chest pouches for the banana clips
for their weapons, pith helmets with
red stars on them, and carried AK-47s.
Two of them had slung their weapons,
one carried his in his hands, and one
had leaned the rifle on his shoulder,
clutching the barrel.

The point passed Bromhead, the men
looking neither right nor left. It was
as if they didn't have a care in the
world. Ten or twelve feet behind them
was the leader of the column.

Bromhead prayed that the men of his
patrol would have the patience to
wait. If the ambush was sprung too
early, the

The ~11e 133

Communists would gee away. They would
be able to escape the way they came,
runnung quickly out of small arms range
and out of sight.

The head of the column reached
Bromhead and behind them he could see a
hundred men, maybe more. Now he won-
dered if the ambush would be large
enough to contain the whole column. He
reached down and picked up one of his
grenades. Slowly, his eyes fixed on the
enemy soldiers, he pulled the pin. He
held the spoon tightly.

The point reached the far side of the
ambush as the end of the column
approached. There was nothing he could
do to keep the point inside the killing
zone. He had to let the point go. Four
men couldn't cause that much trouble if
the rest of the column was shot to
pieces.

When he saw the rear, Bromhead turned
and threw his grenade at it. In the
same motion he snagged a second
grenade, jerked the pin free and tossed
it at the trail. Then he dropped flat
and grabbed at his M-1 carbine.

A second later there was an explosion.
It was followed by a second and a few
moments after that, three more.
Bromhead lifted his head and saw the
column disintegrate. The enemy soldiers
were shouting, screaming, crying. Rifle
fire broke out? raking the trail with a
deadly accuracy. Bromhead could see the
bullets hitting the ground, kicking up
the dirt and striking the men still
there. He-saw bodies falling and ripped
apart. There were splashes of blood,
the bright red staining the dark browns
and deep greens of the jungle.

The firing increased as all the men
with Bromhead opened fire, pulling the
triggers as fast as they could. The
enemy, shocked, momentarily standing
there, confused, turned to flee.

Bromhead saw the North Vietnamese
soldiers falling and dying. They were
missing hands or arms or heads. Bodies
tumbled on top of one another. Bodies
dropping all around as

..

134 The H211e

the sound of the shooting increased
until it was a roar that eclipsed all
others in the jungle.

Some of the Vietnamese dived to the
ditch and turned. They poked the
barrels of their AKs into the open and
began to shoot. First only a couple of
them, and then more of them as those
still alive vacated the trail, leaving
the dead behind.

As the enemy bullets began to snap
the air around him, Bromhead dropped
his carbine and seized the firing
controls of the claymores. He stuck
his head up, glanced at the enemy
soldiers and let two of the controls
fall to the rock. He held the one,
peeked again and then fired.

From behind the trail came the
explosion. Hundreds of tiny steel
balls cut through the air, slamming
into the rear of the enemy. There were
shouts of surprise. Screams of pain.
Shrieks of panic. Men died as blood
blossomed out their chests or stomachs
or fountained from their throats. They
collapsed in heaps.

Again Bromhead looked up. The NVA
were still holding the ditch, putting
out rounds. He dropped down, hugging
the sun-hot rock. He scooped the
remaining claymore controls and
punched them all off. There was a
series of explosions that blew the
resistance out of the enemy. Firing
from the ditch tapered offuntil it was
sporadic. Bromhead grabbed his rifle
and sighted. He could see two men
moving, one of them running hunched
over, zigzagging in and OUt of the trees
and bushes.

Bromhead aimed at the other man. He
squeezed the trigger, felt the weapon
fire. The enemy soldier jerked once
and reached behind him as if to brush
an insect from his shoulder. He
stumbled and fell, losing his weapon.
But then he was up again, running,
disappearing into the trees.

Bromhead turned and looked down on
the ambush. His men were up, some of
them out from their cover, firing into
the bodies lying on the trail. There
was no return fire. Bromhead

We V'lle 135

Invoked at Ben who was still shooting,
burning through his ammo as fast as he
could fire.

"That's it!" yelled Bromhead. "Cease
fire! Cease fire! Cessez tirant!"

Beu looked up, starded. He lowered
his weapon and grinned as he saw the
bodies scattered on the trail and among
the bushes and ferns around it. Then he
began to shout for his men -to stop
shooting. The cry was taken up by
others until the shooting died away.

For a few minutes Bromhead stayed
where he was, watching the trail. He
saw no movement along it or behind it.
There was no evidence that any of the
enemy still lived. He got slowly to his
feet and climbed out of hiding. He
moved carefully, watching for some kind
of trick.

This was the thing that he hated the
most. Checking the bodies. Not because
he was repulsed by the dead, but be-
cause it was so damned dangerous. Many
good men had been killed or wounded by
dying soldiers who figured they might
as well take one more with them.

Once on the trail, it was obvious to
him that most of the enemy were dead.
Their bodies had been badly broken in
the firing. Arms and legs ripped off,
stomachs laid open so that the entrails
spilled out. Heads with holes so big
that the brains had slid out. There was
blood everywhere and already the flies
were beginning to land, creating black
spots in the pools. The trail was a
mess, looking and smelling worse than
a slaughterhouse. ='thin moments, flies
had begun to swarm, filling the silence
with their buzzing.

Gilman approached, his carbine
clutched in his hands. The barrel was
pointed at the enemy bodies as if he
expected them -to react to him.

"We've four dead and seven wounded,"
he said. ; "How bad are the wounded?"

136 The Ville

"Two aren't in very good shape. One
man was grazed in the head by a round
and the other four are crippled right
now, but should be okay. Hansen's
treating them."

" Some got away," said Brombead.

"Yes, sir. Want me to organize a
party to look for them?" asked Gilman.

Bromhead knew what Fetterman would
do. He would take off and track down
each of the enemy soldiers who had es-
caped, but Fetterman was exceptional.
There was no one else like him in
South Vietnam. Besides, Bromhead
didn't think the enemy soldiers would
pose that much of a threat. When they
stopped running, they would find
themselves lost in some of the worst
jungle in the world. If they survived
that, it would take them a long time,
several days, to find help.

"No," he told Gilman. "You'd never
get them all. I saw one man run back
the way they came, one run into the
jungle opposite us, and the point had
to break the other way. They're
scattered all over the place."

"So what do we do now?"

"Collect the weapons, or rather as
many as we can carry. Destroy the
others and then get the fuck out of
here."

"Yes, sir." Gilman turned and shouted
at several ofthe men. They began
picking up the dropped AKs and SKSs,
stacking them away from the trail.

As they worked, Bromhead said, "You
see a snake around here anywhere?"

"Seen a couple of them," said Gilman.
"You looking for a specific one?"

Bromhead had to laugh. "No. I saw one
just before we sprung the ambush and I
was afraid of stepping on it. I'd just
like to know what happened to it."

"I'll keep an eye open and if I see
it, I'll give you a shout."

The Ville137

Bromhead pointed at Beu. "Colonel,
recall the men from the rear of the
ambush and prepare to move out. We
don't want to remain here too long."

"They come when they heard the
shooting. They didn't want to miss
anything."

"Great," he said sarcastically. "You
get some people to the rear now and
have them watch. Get a couple of men a
hundred meters up and down the trail.
I want to get out of here in a couple
of minutes."

Beu nodded.

"Colonel," said Bromhead, "I want you
to understand that we can't have men
leaving their positions. They could
jeopardize the whole patrol. If the
enemy had mounted a counterattack we
would have had no warning."

"I understand."

"You get those men out there and tell
them not to move until they get
instructions."

With that, Beu took off to organize
the security. Bromhead wandered around
the ambush site, checking on
everything. The men were picking up the
weapons and stacking them at the side
of the trail. Others were building
stretchers for the wounded and the
dead. They were using their poncho
liners and long, flexible saplings cut
from the jungle. By laying the liners
over the poles and using the weight of
the body to hold it in place, they had
an effective stretcher.

Normally he would have buried the
dead where they fell, but Bromhead
didn't want the enemy to End them and
identify the attackers. Besides, the
Meos wouldn't leave their dead because
they believed that an unburied body was
cursed to roam the Earth looking for
its grave, and that grave had to be in
a certain place.

Within thirty minutes they were ready
to move out. Each of the men had two
captured weapons, the ammo for them,
and his own weapon. The rest of the
SKSs were stacked and

138 . Lee H11e

Bromhead was prepared to blow them up
with a couple of hand grenades as soon
as everyone was clear.

Before they moved out, Bromhead
pulled Beu to the side. "We don't take
the easy trail back. We could use it
conung down because no one was looking
for us, but now they know we're here
and to use it again is suicide."

"I understand."

"Good. Then move them out. Major
Gilman and I will catch up in a few
minutes."

Hansen approached and said,
"Stretchers are ready and so are the
wounded."

" Keep them in the middle of the
column. If there is a problem, don't
be afraid to call a halt, but don't
take too long."

"Yes, sir." Hansen returned to the
main column to give the orders.

"Okay, Colonel Beu," said Bromhead.
"Let's get going."

Beu nodded, trotted to the front of
the column. He halted there, looked
over his shoulder and waved a hand.
"Forward," he commanded.

As they moved out, Bromhead asked,
"What's the best way to do this?"

"Stack up everything, ammo, grenades,
everything, and toss a Willie pete
into the middle of it. The detonation
should damage everything and destroy
most of it. The fire will take care of
the rest."

"Then let's do it."

They moved down the trail and
Bromhead handed Gilman a white
phosphorus grenade. "On three?"

" Sure."

Bromhead pulled the pin, counted to
three and both men tossed the grenades
at the same time. They turned and ran,
and three seconds later there were
twin explosions behind them. They
could hear some of the rounds cooking
off, popping and whizzing as the
burning white phosphorus spread.

The belle 139

"If there was anything of use left,
they'll be hard pressed to find it."

"Yes, sir," said Gilman.

They took off then, hurrying to catch
up with the patrol. When they spotted
it twenty minutes later, they slowed to
a walk. "That was a good ambush," said
Gilman. "Well planned and very well
done."

"You saying that because you don't
think an army officer knows what he's
doing?"

"No, sir. Said it because we didn't
know how these guys would do. They did
very well for a bunch of amateurs and
didn't make many mistakes."

"That's right," said Bromhead. "I was
surprised that we could convince them
to let the enemy walk right by without
shooting at them, but they sat there
quietly until we triggered the ambush."

"Sign of good training."

"Yeah," said Bromhead. "Now let's
just get the hell out of here."

8
THE JUNGLES OF LAOS
NEAR THE HO CHI MINH
TRAIL

An hour after the ambush and two
klicks away from it, Ben halted the
column. They spread out in a loose
circle, half the men eating the food
they had carried, the other half
watching the jungle, waiting for the
enemy to return. Bromhead moved around
the circle, checking on the men, their
weapons and their equipment. He
noticed that the heat and humidity
were beginning to take their toll on
the Meos. They didn't seem to like
being in the valley where the humidity
hung thick like yesterday's underwear,
and they didn't like being away from
the mountain where the village was
located.

He said nothing to them, just
noticed the first signs of fatigue.
They were being a little careless with
their weapons and were complaining
about taking the long way home. He had
heard Ben tell several of them that
the direct route was now the most
dangerous. Still, it didn't make them
happy.

After an hour's break, the men
rested and weapons checked, they began
the march home. There were now three
point men, each armed with a machete
so that they could chop their way
through the vegetation.

File Ville 141

They kept at it, the sweat pouring
from them, soaking their uniforms,
until one of the men could stand it no
more. He buried the blade of his
machete in the trunk of a tree and
stripped off his shirt. He wadded it
into a ball and tossed it away. As it
disappeared in the jungle, he jerked
his machete free so that he could
continue to work.

Because of the heat, they halted again
to rest and to drink water. Bromhead
drained one of his canteens, pouring
some of it over his head in an attempt
to cool off. He wiped the water from
his face and rubbed it on the back of
his neck. It didn't refresh him
completely, but it helped.

Once more they started struggling up
the rocky side of the mountain.
Progress slowed to a crawl as the
afternoon slipped away and the light
began to fade. Brombead had been con-
cerned that they would not make it back
to the village before dark, but tactics
dictated the plan. Never use the same
trail twice.

When they halted for another rest
break, Brombead searched out Hansen to
find out if any of the wounded were in
immediate danger.

Hansen was sitting with his back to a
tree, his legs straight out in front of
him. His face was pale and he was
covered with sweat. He had removed his
helmet and his hair hung in dark
strands around his face.

"Christ man, are you all right?"
asked Bromhead.

~ "Tired. Didn't know walking through
the jungle was so hard."

"We're not walking, we're humping.
There's a difference and I think that
you've just learned it."

"I think so, too."

"You drink any water?"

"As much as I could stand."

"Well, you'll have plenty of time to
rest. I think we'll camp here for the
night. Put out a couple of short
patrols to make

14t lie1k

sure we're not being followed.
Everyone else gets a good night's
sleep."

"I can use it."

"Yeah," agreed Bromhead. He sat down
beside Hansen and took off his helmet.
"How're the wounded doing? Anyone in
danger of dying if we don't press on?"

"Haven't checked them in a couple of
hours. Last time I looked, they were
resting comfortably. Bleeding had
stopped."

"You haven't checked on them for a
couple of hours?" asked Brombead.

"Well, an hour or so maybe. Told the
stretcher bearers to let me know if
anyone suddenly took a turn for the
worse. And then I was busy just trying
to keep up with the column."

"I understand," said Bromhead. "Why
don't you take a look now and let me
know how they are?"

With an effort, Hansen picked up his
helmet and got to his feet. He stood
there for a moment, looking as if he
was about to faint. Then he shook his
head and moved off.

Bromhead went in search of Gilman.
The Marine was sitting on the ground,
his back to a teak tree, eating from
a can of beans and franks. He grinned
at Bromhead. "These are better heated,
but we can't risk a fire."

"How come you always get the good
stuff?" asked Bromhead.

"Because I go through the boxes and
pick it out. Who wants to lug a can of
ham and lima beans through the jungle
when there is actually some good stuff
in there?"

"Good point. How are you doing?"

"Pills helped a little, but not
enough." Gilman looked down at his
crotch. "Burns to piss and it's
dripping now."

''without a shot, I don't think I
can help you. They use the penicillin
pills after the massive injections.
I'm afraid we're only making things
worse this way."

We Ink 143

"Christ, sir, I'm sorry about this."
He face changed to a mask and he
stuffed the spoon into the can.
"What're we going to do?"

"If we can get a medic in, we'll be
in good shape. Otherwise you're going
to have to be evacked and that's going
to piss off the people in Saigon."

"Because I got a dose?"

"No." Bromhead shook his head. "
Because you were dumb enough to do it
on the way to a covert mission."

Hansen appeared then, looking even
paler. "They're gone," he said in a
tremulous voice. "The wounded are gone
and no one will tell me where. You
don't think they shot them do you?"

That was exactly what Bromhead
thought and then he remembered their
belief that the dead needed a grave. A
marked grave. "No," he said. "Come on
Nick, let's find Beu and ask him."

THE CHOPPER RIDE FROM PEEIKU to the
Special Forces camp at Dak To was a
wild one. The pilot never got more than
three feet above the trees as he
slipped through the mountain valleys
and over the tops of the hills that
looked like a huge green sea spread out
in front of him. They were jerked up
and down, at first seeming to float
against the seat belts and then forced
toward the deck by a giant, unseen
hand. With the roar of the wind through
the open cargo compartment doors, the
scream of the turbine engine, and the
snapping and popping of the rotor
system, there was no way to be heard.

Gerber sat in the center of the troop
seat, his back to the transmission, at
first watching the jungle through the
windshield and then turning so that he
could see out the cargo compartment
door. As far as he could see there was
a vast sea of unbroken green. It
swelled and dipped, the motion of the
helicopter giving the jungle the
appearance of ocean waves.

144 The H'lle

He shot a glance at Fetter~nan, who
was watching it all with a grin on his
face. Gerber knew that Fetterman was
thinking there were people in the
World who paid good money for just
such a ride. They would wait in long
lines to be thrilled by the latest
marvel in roller coasters or water
slides. Fetterman was getting it all
for free, or even better, was being
paid to do it.

In the distance Gerber saw a break in
the green. A cloud of dark smoke
seemed to point at the circle of a
Special Forces camp at the top of a
hill. The helicopter begin a climb,
the nose pointed at the camp.

Seconds later they were over it and
the chopper rolled up on its side so
that the camp was visible straight
down, out the left door. They dropped
from the sky, seemingly out of control
as the pilot held a tight circle over
the camp. At the last second, he
rolled out straight, hauled back on
the cyclic so that the aircraft was
nearly standing on its tail, all the
aerodynamic capabilities of the
chopper destroyed. Then as the nose
fell and the skids leveled, the pilot
pulled in an armload of pitch and the
helicopter eased to the ground, the
skids touching it lightly.

Gerber unfastened his seat belt, and
started to stand, but his knees were
weak. He grabbed his equipment,
slapped the pilot on the back of the
head to get his attention, then held
up a thumb.

He jumped to the ground, waited until
Fetterman climbed out, then moved
back. The chopper picked up to a
hover, the rotor wash snagging the
debris scattered around and swirling
it into a whirlwind of dust and dirt.
A second later the aircraft turned,
the nose dumped and it began racing
along the runway, gaining speed. As it
neared the end of the runway, where
the jungle had tried to recapture some
of the cleared land, it leaped
skyward, climbing out rapidly.

When the helicopter was gone, a man
left the protection of the camp,
walked along the road that led to the
runway and stopped at the edge. "You
Gerber and Fetterman?"

Lee Ink 145

Gerber nodded. "I'm Gerber and he's
Fetterman."

"Yes, sir. I'm Sergeant Davies.
Captain asked me to escort you inside
and see what all you need."

Gerber shouldered his gear. "Lead on."

Inside the camp, a small Special
Forces base like so many others, Gerber
and Fetterman were taken to the team
house. On the way, Gerber saw the
sandbagged structures that had to be
the comma bunker, the command post at
the base of the observation tower, and
the dispensary, nearly buried under-
ground with only the roof showing. They
were taken down a short flight into the
dim recesses of the team house.

It looked like almost every other
team house that Gerber had ever been
in. There were tables surrounded by
chairs. At the far end was a bar and
behind it, a woman stood, cutting veg-
etables with a giant knife.

Davies pointed at the man sitting by
himself. "That's our CO." He approached
and added, "Captain Blanchfeld, this is
Captain Gerber and Sergeant Fetterman."

Blanchleld got up and shook hands
with both men. The captain was a tall,
stocky man who looked as if he had lost
a number of fistfights, some of them
recently. There were scars on his right
cheek and forehead. His nose had been
broken and there was a scab on his
chin. He had thick eyebrows and thin-
ning hair. He waved at a couple of
unoccupied chairs. "Have a seat. You
want some grub?"

"That would be fine,'' said Gerber.

The captain turned to Davies. "Have
Lei bring our guests some food and find
them a couple of beers." He turned back
to Gerber and Fetterman. "Water's
really foul and the milk is spoiled and
some of the men would kill just to see
a Coke can, let alone for what might be
in it."

Gerber thought of the rows of cans
that Maxwell had on his desk and how
easy it was to find Coke in Saigon and
Bien Hoa. And he thought about all the
men who talked about how rough

146 The Tulle

they had it, being away from home and
their families as they chased the
local women, dined on steak and told
each other that war was hell.

A young woman, her face badly scared
by fire, brought the food and set
plates in front of Gerber and
Fetterman. She grinned shyly at both
of them and then fled. Davies arrived
with the beer.

"I'm afraid it's warm, but what the
hell?"

"That's all right," said Fetterman.
"At least it's wet and that's what
counts."

As they started to eat, Blanchield
asked, "Radio message was a bit
cryptic. Just what do you need?"

Gerber put his fork down. "We'd like
to arrange to have a company of
strikers on standby in case we need to
make an insertion into Laos."

"Uh-huh," said Blanchleld. "And given
the way you've slipped in here, I
suppose you have all the paperwork on
it."

"Of course," said Gerber, grinning.
Both officers knew that no paperwork
would ever exist on the mission, if
there was one. "The deal is, I've got
my old exec on a covert just on the
other side of the border and his butt
is hanging out. I'd like to be in a
position to make sure that Charlie
doesn't kick it up between his
shoulder blades."

"What do you want me to do?" asked
Blanchleld.

"Just give us a strike company if we
need it, and the use of a radio so
that we can coordinate airlift if we
have to. I don't think there's going
to be a problem, but if there is, I
want to be around to help."

Blanchteld dug a pack of cigarettes
out of his pocket and shook one out.
He lit it, breathed deeply and exhaled
a cloud of blue. "I think the
first-strike company would be the
best. I'll have them standing by."

"Might come to nothing," said Gerber.
"If nothing happens in the next week
or so, we'll just fade away."

The belle 147

"In the meantime," said Blanchfeld,
"I'll put you to work."

BEU WAS WITH A GROUP of his men, each
holding an AK-47 as if it was a trophy.
He smiled at the Americans as they ap-
proached. "We have done well."

"So far," said Bromhead. "Now, tell
me where the wounded are. What have you
done with them?"

"Wounded have been taken care of."

Hansen was looking from one man to
the other, trying to understand what
was being said. He stared at Gilman and
demanded, "What's happening?"

"Nothing yet," hissed Gilman.

"What do you mean they've been taken
care of?" said Bromhead. "You didn't
kill them, did you??'

"No, of course not. Wounded on the
way home. On the way to the village."

Bromhead felt the blood drain from
his face. His stomach knotted up as he
realized what it meant. "How are they
on the way home?"

"Too hard carrying stretchers this
way. Ground too rough. I tell the men
to take the trail home." He grinned,
still not understanding what was taking
place. "They should be to the village
now. In time for evening meal."

Bromhead spoke slowly, as if
lecturing a child. "I want you to
listen carefully. You may have blown us
out of the water. If the NVA or VC pick
up the trail, your men are going to
lead them to your village. Right to
them."

Understanding dawned on Beu's face.
He stood up but didn't speak.

"We have got to get going. Now! "
said Bromhead. "We do not have time to
rest, time to sleep, time to eat or do
anything. We must hurry."

Ben nodded and moved around the
perimeter alerting his troops. Bromhead
pulled out his map, folded it and
crouched.

148 The Hlle

He laid it against his knee and
pointed. "We should be about here. The
trail they used is here, maybe three,
four klicks away. If we cut through
the jungle here, we can reach it and
follow it back to the village."

"That a good idea, Colonel?" asked
Gilman.

"No, it's a terrible one. But, if the
NVA or VC are following the wounded,
we might come up behind them. Give
them a surprise."

"Or we could walk into an ambush
ourselves, effectively cutting
offaid," said Gilman.

"I think that's a chance we're going
to have to take. We have got to make
some time and by following our current
route, we won't reach the village
before tomorrow morning."

"I understand, Colonel," said Gilman.
"I would like to hang back a klick or
so with five or ten men as a rear
guard. I can bail you out."

"How are you feeling now?"

"If I was dying, I wouldn't tell
you," said Gilman, a smile on his
face.

"Good," said Bromhead. "Very good,
but you can only have five. We'll load
you down with grenades."

IT WAS KATE AF rERNooN when Jane Lucas
decided that she had to do something.
She had spent most of the day wander-
ing around the village, passing the
weapons hootch frequently. Although no
one had bothered to consult her, she
knew what was happening. Too many of
the men were gone, as were the three
Americans. They were out, taking the
war to the suspected enemy.

And since all three of them had gone,
it meant that the weapons hut was
unguarded. Finally she stopped in
front of the door and looked up into
the dim interior. She stepped up on
the notched log and peered inside. She
could see the outlines of the boxes
and crates and equipment. Guiltily she

The Vile 149

looked over her shoulder and then
scurried up the notched log and into
the hootch.

She dropped to her knees in front of
a crate marked Ammunition, Ball, .30
Caliber. Ignoring everything, she
levered her fingers under the wooden
cover and tried to pull it free. When
that didn't work, she found a scrap of
wood and used it as a crowbar. The top
came off with a screech of protesting
nails. Inside was just what the crate
had said: Ammunition, Ball, .30
Caliber.

She glanced to the right and saw
cardboard boxes that contained Oration
meals. Others holding grenades, or
flares, or weapons. Everything that the
modern army needed to kill human
beings, she thought wryly.

She got to her feet and ducked back
out the door. There were a couple of
men working on a bunker and she called
to them. As they approached she asked
if they would like to have a weapon and
when both nodded, she moved out of
their way. In minutes everyone who
remained in the village was in front of
the weapons hootch, waiting for a turn
inside. The men were carrying off the
carbines, magazines and ammo. A few
took knives. The women and children
stole the clothing, sleeping bags and
all the food. Lucas found the cache of
cigarettes and passed them out. It
didn't take the villagers long to empty
the hootch, taking even the wood from
the ammo crates and the cardboard from
the C-ration cartons.

Wheneverythingwasgone, Lucasleft,
too. She turned back and smiled. "Now
wage your war," she challenged.

She felt satisfied that she had
actually done something effective. She
didn't delude herself because she knew
how much material the Americans had. It
would take very little time to replace
the stolen gear. A few days at most,
but it was time that she could use to
convince the villagers they were better
off without the gifts of the American
soldiers. In the end the soldiers might
have to leave.

150 The belle

It was almost dusk when she heard the
shout from the eastern side of the
village. She was sitting in her
hootch, using the last of the fading
daylight to write her notes of the
day's activities. She had used nearly
two pages in her journal explaining
how she had engineered the taking
ofthe supplies. Proud that she had
found a nonviolent action to
accomplish her mission.

When she heard the shout, a cry
between anguish and physical pain, she
dropped her pen and let it roll to the
floor. She leaped up and ran to the
doorway stumbling as she jumped to the
ground. Then she was up and running.
The women and children followed her as
she charged through the village until
she came to the limits and stopped.
The tattered remnants of the patrol
staggered in.

She saw dead and wounded and no sign
of the Americans. The men who had
remained behind ran across the grassy,
ashcovered plain to help. She started
forward, stopped, afraid that she was
violating a taboo and then decided
that she could help.

The men set the stretchers at the
edge of the village. Some of the
wounded men sat up, grinning, pleased
that they were home, and pleased that
they had wounds to show for their part
in the battle. They were going to
become heroes because of the fight.

Anxious women passed among them,
looking for their men. One stopped at
a poncho-wrapped body and peeled the
covering back. She was glad to see
that it wasn't her husband. But there
was a cry behind her, a wail of pain,
as that woman recogruzed the
bullet-scarred face of her husband.
She collapsed to the dirt, her hands
clutched together, screaming in an-
guish.

Lucas touched the woman's shoulders,
trying to pull her away from the dead
man, but she refused to move. She fell
across his chest, her voice howling.
She beat the ground with

her tiny fists and refused to be
comforted.                  ,

The H211e 151

The scene was repeated again and
again as more women learned that their
men were dead. Others, who couldn't
find their men, demanded to know what
happened or where the rest of the men
were. One of the stretcher bearers, his
face split by a grin, told how they had
slipped away from the main column to
hurry home. The rest of the poor men
were wandering around the jungle
because the big, white soldiers thought
it was the thing to do.

Slowly the crowd dispersed. The
wounded were taken to their hootches.
Lucas made the rounds, looking at the
wounds, treating them as best she could
with her tiny first-aid kit, although
most of the injuries had been dressed
already. She was reduced to replacing
bandages and pouring more disinfectant
onto them.

The bodies were taken away to be
prepared for burial. Outside the
hootch, Lucas could still hear the
crying of the women. She was surprised
by the public outpouring of grief.
These people were normally more stoic,
but she had not witnessed the death
ritual since she had arrived. Filth the
death of a relative, it seemed that
such a display was demanded.

She finally returned to her own
hootch and turned on the
battery-powered lantern that she had
brought and kept hidden for
emergencies. She didn't use it much
because the batteries were hard to find
in the jungle, but there were some
notes and observations that she wanted
to make. She found her pen where she
had dropped it, then sat on the floor,
her back propped against one of the
corner posts of the hootch, her journal
against her knee. She wrote quickly for
several minutes.

A muted pop in the distance stopped
her. She turned toward the sound,
frowning. The crash of the explosion in
the center of the village startled her.
She threw her book and pen aside and
dived onto her stomach, her hand
reaching for the

is2 The Hlle

light to shut it off. It was then that
the firing broke out around her.

BROMHEAD CURSED THE DARKNESS because
it slowed his progress. He had already
given up trying to maintain any type
of noise discipline because he had to
make up time. He was in the front of
the column with Ben, who was urging
the men to hurry.

They had slashed their way through
jungle, no longer worrying about
leaving trails and signs for the
enemy. They were clearing a path as
fast as they could move. They rotated
the point men frequently, giving those
who had been up front a chance to rest
with the rear guard. Although progress
was rapid, it took them more than a
hour to reach the trail and that put
them more than three hours from the
village, if the sun was up and they
could see what they were doing.

Even the need for speed wasn't
sufficient for Brombead to use any
lights. On a dark night on the open
sea, a match could be seen for miles
and although he was in dense jungle,
light had a way of filtering through.
It would be suicide to use a light.

Instead they had to feel their way
along. The Meos were good, sensing the
danger before they reached it, but the
night still slowed them. It couldn't
be helped.

And all through the march, Bromhead
was sure that the NVA and the VC were
ahead of them, attacking the village.
Too many ofthe enemy had escaped the
ambush. And he knew that the enemy
sometimes let large patrols pass to
catch them on their return. That was
why he never used the same trail
twice. But now there was no choice.

So they tried to run up the mountain,
moving as fast as they could. Their
lungs ached and the breath whistled
through their nostrils. They ran when
they could, even as the pain

The Vile 153

spread through their bodies, radiating
from their chests. Only when the jungle
became too dense did they slow down.

When it seemed that they wouldn't be
able to move any faster, the moon rose,
bathing the trail in patches of cold,
harsh light. Then the pace picked up.
Bromhead ran to the head of the column
and fell in beside Beu. "We've got to
hurry. Make up some time."

Beu turned his head, but said nothing.
He increased the pace again.

They had gotten close to the village
when they heard the sounds of firing.
Beu looked as if he was going to sprint
forward, but Bromhead grabbed him and
pulled him to the ground. "Wait. Let's
recon first. Order the men to stay
put."

"The village is being attacked. We must
go help."

"Of course," said Bromhead. "But we
don't want to rush in there without
knowing what is going on. We have to
take a look and plan the assault from
here."

At that moment there was an explosion
from the direction of the village. A
mortar round, fired from the north
somewhere. Bromhead stared into the
jungle, but they were still too far
from the village to see anything. They
could only hear the sporadic firing.
Bursts from AR47s. Bromhead expected to
hear return fire, but it didn't come.

"Colonel Beu," said Bromhead,
stressing the use of the rank, "you
must convince the men to wait here.
Wait for us to determine what is
happening in the village. If we just
charge into it, a lot of our people are
going to die."

Beu nodded but didn't look convinced.
He moved to the rear and began talking
to his men.

Bromhead was up and moving. He found
Gilman. "Nick, we've got to find out
what's happening."

"I'm right behind you, Colonel."

154 17'e Ville

Bromhead stepped to Ben and put a
hand on his shoulder. "Colonel, you
must wait right here. Do not move
until we get back."

From the village there was a burst of
fire. A lone weapon on full automatic,
the sound stitching the night like a
cloth being ripped. ~

"Nick," said Brombead. He nodded to
the right.

`' Right with you."

Together they ran into the jungle,
following the path. After ten minutes
they slowed. The village wasn't far
away now and Bromhead didn't want to
accidentally find the enemy. They left
the trail, skirting it, following it
at the edge of the jungle. They came
to the tree line and surveyed the
grassy plain where the village stood.

There were a couple of fires burning.
Hootches had been set ablaze by
tracers or red-hot shrapnel. White
smoke poured from one of them, looking
gray in the moonlight. There seemed to
be a body lying in the dirt at the
foot of a notched log. There was no
sign of the villagers or the enemy. It
was quiet. Not even the dogs were
barking.

For a horrifying moment Bromhead was
sure that the villagers had all been
captured and led away. Then in the
flickering firelight, a shadow leaped
up and ran to the south. It dived
under one of the hootches and didn't
reappear.

From the north came a short burst
from an AR47. The green tracers ripped
through the dark. Bromhead sought
their point of origin. The
muzzle-flashes winked among the trees.
He touched Gilman on the shoulder and
pointed. Gilman nodded.

They pulled back deeper into the
jungle, stopping near the trunk of a
gigantic tree. Bromhead put his lips
next to Gilman's ear. "Let's see
what's happening over there."

They continued still deeper into the
jungle, working their way north, being
careful of the vegetation. Bromhead
cau

The.Vlle 155

tiously placed his heel on the ground
in front of him and slowly rotated his
foot forward until he could shift his
weight to that leg. It was a tedious
way to walk, but it prevented him from
making noise. He came to the trail,
crouched for a moment watching it, then
crossed to the other side. Somewhere
the VC or the NVA had to have a guard,
he figured. Someone to warn the others
that reinforcements for the villagers
were on the way.

Bromhead waited until Gilman came
close. "Find their rear guard and
eliminate it."

Gilman nodded. He slung his carbine
and drew the Kabar Combat Knife. He
grinned, his teeth flashing white in
the blackness of the night. Then he
disappeared.

Bromhead stared after him and then
dropped to the ground. He crawled
forward on his belly using his elbows
and knees, the carbine clutched in his
hands. Once across the trail and safely
hidden in the bush, he got to his feet.
He followed the edge of the jungle, all
senses alert. Dropping to the ground
again, he crept forward. He could feel
the wetness of the jungle floor seeping
through his uniform but ignored the
cold, clammy feeling.

Ahead of him he heard the bolt of a
rifle slam forward. He turned toward
the sound and saw two men standing next
to a palm tree. One of them was leaning
on it, holding his rifle by the barrel,
the butt on the ground. The other was
aiming at something in the village, but
did not fire.

Farther to the west, there came a
burst as one of the NVA soldiers
emptied an entire magazine. Bromhead
saw the green tracers disappear into
the thatch of a hootch. Moments later
fire began to spread upward from the
point of impact.

Bromhead continued to move to the
west. He passed the two men, saw
another crouched near a bush and then
found still more of them. They seemed
to be fairly casual. No one was
actually watching the village or
shooting at it with any regularity.
Suddenly he realized what they were
doing. They were

156 He11e

holding the villagers in place,
waiting for the rest of the men to
arrive. The NVA expected Beu's men to
run up the trail, and as they entered
the ville, the enemy would open fire.
Two squads would be able to set up a
devastating cross fire. He hoped that
Gilman wouldn't find a guard along the
trail. It would be best to slip away
without taking out the guard.

OILMAN KNEW EXACTLY what he had to do.
He turned to the east and crawled off
slowly, his eyes moving, watching the
dark shadows around him, searching for
a flicker of motion. His knife was
clasped in his right hand, the tip off
the ground, pointing upward.

He paralleled~the trail for several
yards, stopped and listened. Then,
suddenly to the left, he heard a
muffled cough. It was almost inaudible
and if he hadn't been listening he
would never have heard it.

He turned his head slowly, searching
with the corner of his eyes. At first
there was nothing to see. The bushes,
trees and ferns of the jungle had
blended into a single black smear. And
then there was a flicker of motion.
The enemy soldier took form, his
outline barely visible in the
surrounding jungle.

Gilman grinned, retreating a couple
of feet. He stood, his eyes roaming
the area where the enemy soldier was
standing. Gilman spotted him again,
saw that the man was watching the
village, occasionally glancing at the
trail but obviously not expecting
trouble from that direction.

Gilman moved forward slowly, being
careful where he put his feet. He
reached out with his left hand,
feeling his way along until he was
only a few feet from the enemy. Gilman
let the man look at the trail and as
his head pivoted toward the village,
Gilman struck.

He stepped forward, grabbed the man
under the chin, lifting the head as he
pulled back. Gilman went down on his
left knee. His right came up, striking
the man in the spine. As the

The V;lle 157

man fell against the fulcrum of his
knee, Gilman's knife flashed. He heard
the quiet whisper as the knife slashed
the tender skin of the throat. The
enemy spasmed and bucked as his blood
washed over Gilman's hand in a warm
flow. Gilman felt the man's mouth
working as he tried to scream a warning
to his friends but there was only a
soft gurgle.

Gilman moved back, stretching the man
out and then jamming his knife up under
the ribs to pierce the heart. The sol-
dier's muscles went rigid as he drummed
his heels into the rotting vegetation
making a quiet, rustling sound, and
then he relaxed immediately.

Gilman grabbed the enemy's rifle and
slipped deeper into the jungle as a
voice called out in Vietnamese. He
heard the soft steps of someone
approaching and realized it was a sec-
ond guard. Gilman moved forward,
closing on the body. Through a gap in
the vegetation he saw the dark outline
of another NVA soldier.

As that man crouched over the body of
his dead friend, Gilman attacked. He
reached around the man, his hand over
the mouth and pinching the nose shut.
As he lifted the enemy's head, he
struck with the knife, cutting the
throat with such force that he nearly
severed the head from the body. The
blood spattered the surrounding jungle,
sounding like a morning rain on the
broad-leaf plants. Gilman felt the warm
liquid splash him as he lowered the
dead man to the ground.

Again he stripped the weapon from the
body, and cut free the chest pouch for
the spare ammo. He wiped the blood from
the blade, and sheathed his knife. He
looped one of the AKs over his shoulder
and held the other in his hands. If he
had to shoot, it would sound like one
of the enemy taking a potshot at the
village.

He started walking until he found the
trail. Here he crouched near a fern
that dripped water onto his shoulder.
Several minutes later he saw Bromhead
cross the trail, and

158 The Lilly

moved toward him. Together they
slipped away from the jungle and once
clear Gilman said, "I got two of
them."

"Shit," said Bromhead. "I really
wish you hadn't done that now."

Gilman was confused. "But you told me
to get them."

"I know. Maybe the VC won't find the
bodies before we get back. I think it
would be easier to get in if they
don't know how close we are."

"You have a plan, then?" asked Gilman.

"Sure. We're going to attack one of
the enemy squads from the rear and run
right into the middle of the village.
We can't get involved in a long
firelight outside because we used so
much of our ammo in the ambush. Once
in the village, we can resupply from
the supply hut. If we do it right,
we'll catch these guys by surprise."

"Yes, sir. If we do it right."

"You're such a pessimist," said
Bromhead.

Gilman nodded and realized that
B=mhead couldn't see the gesture in
the dark. "Yes, sir," he said. ''filth
very good reason, too."

9
THE JUNGLES OF LAOS
EAST OF THE MEO
VILLAGE

It took forty minutes to get back to
the main column, have Beu translate
the plan for the men, and make sure
they all understood that no one could
act on his own. An individual mistake
could kill everyone in the village.
They had to be patient, but once the
battle started, they would have to be
ferocious.

Each of the men complained about the
slow pace as they returned to the
village. They wanted to hurry, but
each remembered that the problem had
come about because they had refused to
listen to Brombead. He had warned them
and they had ignored it. Now the
village was in jeopardy.

They left the trail short of the
destination and moved through the
jungle. Brombead knew the Meos were
there around him, but he could no
longer see or hear them. They were
quieter than the wind in the trees,
slipping in and out of the shadows
like spirits. Thirty men had suddenly
vanished as they moved through the
forest.

Then they were behind the VC and NVA.
Bromhead, who hugged the ground, could
see one of the enemy soldiers, an
AKclutched loosely in his hands,
facing the village. The fires

160 The Sidle

had almost gone out, some of the huts
reduced to glowing embers scattered by
the light breeze blowing up the
mountainside.

Bromhead checked the safety on his
M-1 carbine, making sure that it was
off. Slowly he got to his knees and
then to his feet, crouching among the
shadows. He raised his weapon and
sighted over the top of the barrel as
he had learned to do in night-firing
training. When he was looking at the
enemy soldier, he froze, took a breath
and let half of it out. He wanted to
glance to the right and left, but knew
the gesture was useless in the dark.
He forced his concentration back to
the single enemy he could see. His
finger tightened on the trigger until
the weapon fired. Bromhead lost sight
of the soldier in the flash from his
muzzle, but he heard the round impact.
The man screamed in pain and
disappeared.

At that moment everyone was up and
running. Gilman was beside Bromhead,
firing his M-1 from the hip as they
advanced on the village. Shooting
broke out to the left, the dark jungle
sparkling with the muzzle-flashes like
woods loaded with lightning bugs.
Green tracers whipped out, some of
them striking the ground and bouncing
high.

Bromhead ignored them, his eyes
focused on the village. He ran toward
the corner of a hootch and dived for
cover there. He rolled through a
puddle of water, coating himself with
mud. As he got to his knees, a bullet
struck the hootch near his head,
showering him with debris. He spun,
saw the enemy soldier and aimed. He
squeezed offs quick three rounds, but
the man kept coming. Bromhead aimed
and fired again. This time his
adversary went down. His weapon flew
into the air as he disappeared into
the grass.

Now Bromhead looked into the hootch,
but in the darkened interior, he could
see nothing. He couldn't tell if there
was anyone in there or not. He called
out in French, but there was no reply.

He H~ 161

Firing increased all around.
Individual weapons shooting on full
auto, the strings of detonations of
grenade and mortar combining into a
drawn out explosion. There was shouting
as the Meos called to each other,
searching for their families.

Bromhead ran from the hootch in a
crouch, moving toward the center of the
village. He leaped up the notched log
and into the weapons hootch, rolling on
his shoulder. He wanted to get a crate
of grenades and one of hand flares. A
few of those over the village would
give them an advantage, but the hootch
looked empty. He scrambled around,
feeling with his hand, but found
nothing. He risked using his flashlight
momentarily and saw that the only
things left were a few scraps of lumber
and some paper. Everything was gone,
including the spare ammunition.

He dived back out, rolling away from
the hootch. He stared into the
distance. In the moonlight, and the
flickering of a newly started fire, he
could see people running. Men were
carrying M-ls or AK-47s. Enough of his
own men had AKs that he didn't dare
shoot at anyone until he identified the
target better.

From the east, where the path lead
into the jungle and then down the
mountain, came a burst of finng. A line
of tracers from a Russian RPD stitched
the night. Bromhead marked the
position. Normally he would toss
grenades, but he only had one. Besides,
without support, he'd never be able to
get it.

The firing continued, the bullets
ripping through the village. Bromhead
crawled forward, his face nearly
pressed to the ground. He worked his
way under one of the huts until he was
against the support leg. He aimed his
carbine at the muzzleflashes of the
RPD. He pulled the trigger rapidly
until the bolt locked back and his
weapon stopped fain". As he rolled to
his right, he hit the magazine release.
The magazine dropped to the ground, and
he slapped another one home, worked the
bolt and aimed. The RPD had stopped
shooting for a moment.

162 Me Ville

And then it opened up again, the
flashes pointed straight at Bromhead.
Green tracers apparently the size of
basketballs came at him. Somehow they
seemed larger than those fired at
another target.

He hugged the ground, pressing his
face into the soft, moist earth. He
could smell the dirt. Could taste it.
And above him, the bullets drilled
into the wooden floor. He could hear
them splitting the air, sounding like
angry insects.

Without a conscious thought, he
raised his rifle again. Two hundred
yards away' he could see the
muzzle-flashes of the enemy. He chose
a spot at the center and began
shooting. Feeling the recoil of the
weapon as it slammed back into his
shoulder. He could smell the cordite.
It was an acrid stink that reminded
him of Fourth of July firecrackers
tossed around the front yard.

When the bolt locked back, he didn't
bother to reload. The firing was
tapering off. There were no AKs firing
now. Even the RPD had fallen silent.
Some of his men were still pouring
rounds into the jungle, but there was
nothing coming back.

Bromhead crawled from his hiding
place and reloaded his weapon. It was
his last magazine. If the enemy
decided to rush them, there would be
some shooting and then it would all be
hand-to-hand. But the enemy had broken
the contact. They had decided that the
battle was over and withdrawn. Brom-
head knew that it was only a momentary
respite. They would be back as soon as
they had regrouped.

He pulled at the camouflage flap on
his watch and saw that it was nearly
three. It would be light in less than
three hours, closer to two. If the VC
and NVA held true to form, they
wouldn't launch an assault with so
little darkness left. They would wait
until the following evening.

Of course, that was the tactic the VC
used in South Vietnam where the
Americans could call on air power to
help them. A hundred helicopters
carrying six hundred soldiers could
land

Me H211c 163

within mmutes of a cry for help. The
tactics in Laos, where help didn't
exist, might be different.

Bromhead turned and ran back to the
weapons hootch. He found Gilrnan,
Hansen and a couple of the Meos
standing there. As Beu approached,
Bromhead started to demand an answer,
realized that Beu probably didn't know
anything about it, either. He lowered
his voice and asked Beu if he knew what
had happened

The headman didn't know. He told
Bromhead the men wanted to find their
families. They had searched the village
and the only thing they had found were
three dead men and a dead woman.

"All right," said Bromhead, "we need
to get some security out now. Colonel
Beu, we'll need ten men. Five to go
with Major Gilman and five with Major
Hansen."

"Men find families first."

"No, Colonel, we get security out
first. If the Communists come back and
surprise us, we'll all die. We get the
security set and then we try to find
the families."

"We find families first," insisted Beu.

"Colonel," said Bromhead patiently,
"I don's went to have to say flus, but
you saw what happened when you ignored
my advice. This didn't have to happen."

Beu lowered his eyes and stared at
the dirt. "First security and then we
search."

"Good." Bromhead chipped Beu on the
shoulder. "You find the men who will go
on patrol. Might I suggest that the
family men be excluded if we can fill
out the patrol without them."

As Beu turned to select his men,
Bromhead called, "Major Gilman?"

"Here, sir."

"You get the thankless job of going
back into the jungle on patrol. Near
the path I would guess, about a klick
or two out."

"Great."

164 The H'lle

"Yeah, I thought you'd like that.
We'll keep the patrol out until first
light."

"Major Hansen, get on the radio if
you can find it, and report in. Tell
them we need a medic in here. There
are wounded that must have medical
assistance."

"Yes, sir."

"Then we "

He was interrupted by a shout from
the south side of the village.
Bromhead could see nothing except that
the tiny force was beginning to melt
away. More shouting and cries of joy.
Bromhead followed the crowd, and
stopped. The missing villagers were
pouring out of the jungle, running
across the grass toward their homes.
Some of the men dropped their weapons
and rushed out to meet them.

Bromhead pushed his way through the
knot of people who were jabbering
happily to one another. He found Ben
and told them, "We need to get the
people out of the open."

Ben looked at him, distracted. He
held one wife under one arm and a
second under the other. He was
grinning widely. Standing to the rear,
in the shadows, was the woman that he
had given to Bromhead during a noon
meal. She was confused, looking from
her husband, the headman and then to
Bromhead, wondering which man she
should run to.

"We can hold the reunion in the
village, Colonel," said Brombead,
glancing at the woman, but giving her
no indicadon about his intentions.
"There are things that have to be
done." At the edge of the group stood
Jane Lucas. She was dressed in khaki,
looking a little pale, although it was
hard to tell in the moonlight.

As the people began moving slowly
into the village, Bromhead turned from
the Meo woman and approached Lucas.
"You okay?" he asked.

"Okay?" she repeated.

"You hurt?"

The belle lots

"No," she said, shaking her head.
"No, I'm not hurt. Scared.
I'mplentyscared."

Bromhead reached out as if to put an
arm around her shoulder and then let
his hand drop to his side when he felt
her tense. He was still confused by the
woman. She seemed to be strongwilled
and able to take care of herself. Not
everyone could go running around a
hostile jungle and survive. As they
walked toward the ville, Bromhead shot
a glance over his shoulder. The Meo
woman was following him at a
respectable distance.

"Let me help you," said Bromhead,
again reaching out to Lucas.

"No," she said. "I'll be all right."
She was silent for a moment, walking
along with the crowd, Bromhead beside
her' Then she said, "They didn't even
warn us. They just started shooting.
All we could do was run from them."

"They didn't sweep through the
village?" asked Bromhead.

"No. Stayed in the jungle, shooting.
Killed some people. Wounded some. Just
shot them down with no warning.
Nothing."

"Wounded. How badly?"

"We took care of them," she said,
almost as if her mind was elsewhere.
"It was like they wanted us to leave
the village. Like they had some plan."

"You're sure they didn't enter the
village."

"They stayed in the jungle and shot at
us," she repeated.

Bromhead rubbed a hand over his face.
He could feel the combined stubble from
not shaving, dirt from crawling through
the mud, and the grime from firing his
weapon. He also realized how tried he
was becoming. His eyes burned as if he
had been standing in a smoke-filled
room for hours. He felt slightly
lightheaded, and he had an
uncontrollable urge to laugh, but there
was nothing funny.

166 The Hlle

They stopped walking when they came
to the weapons hootch. He noticed the
blank look on her face. Her eyes were
wide and white, giving the impression
that there was no pupil in them. She
turned to him and spoke. "They just
started shooting. Didn't master that
you and the soldiers weren't here.
Didn't matter that the majority of the
people were women and children. They
just started shooting at us."

Bromhead reached down and took her
hand. "I'm not one to say that I told
you so, but I did warn you about the
Communists. They're not interested in
leaving the people alone. Communists
think that everyone was put on the
planet for the benefit of the state.
If the people don't respond to the
state, then they're eliminated."

She shook her head. It was as if she
didn't hear a word that Bromhead had
said. "Just started shooting."

"Jane." Bromhead tried to jerk her
attention back to reality. "Jane. Do
you know what happened to our
equipment?"

She looked at him for a moment, as if
confused by his words, and then said
in a voice devoid of emotion, "I gave
it away."

"You what?" Bromhead was unable to
believe what he had heard. He stared
at her. "Gave it away? To whom? Why in
the hell would you do something that
stupid?" He felt like vomiting. His
stomach twisted and churned.

She lifted a hand and waved it. "I
gave it to everyone here. Told them to
take what they wanted and kept at it
until everything was gone."

"Shit! Why?"

"I don't know," she said, whining. "I
thought . . . I just thought that it
would show you. I thought . . ."

Bromhead was seized with the urge to
shake her. To slap her. He started to
speak, his voice filled with anger,
stopped and started again, forcing
himself to talk in a calm tone. "Why
would you do that? You've put us all
in jeopardy."

The belle 167

She shrugge i helplessly. "I didn't
know. I thought it would make you
leave. That everything could go back to
the way it was before you came." As she
looked at him, her eyes filled with
tears. "I just wanted these people to
be left alone."

That didn't satisfy Brornhead. He
still wanted to slap her but didn't. He
wanted to shove his hand through the
wall, wanted to kick something. The
rage burned through him, threatening to
consume him. His fists clenched and his
muscles tightened until they ached. He
took a half-step toward her, and then
stopped himself. Standing there, ready
to attack her, he forced himself to be
calm. He forced himself to retreat.
Through clenched teeth, he asked, "Only
to people in this village?"

"Yes. I suppose so. I guess. It's all
still here somewhere."

"Then all I have to do is talk to Beu
and convince him to have the people
bring it back," said Brombead. He felt
the cloud lift because the equipment
could be recovered. "We can still
salvage something from this. Maybe
it'll work out after all.''

"They kept shooting," she repeated,
ignoring him.

Bromhead pushed her to the notched
log and made her sit down. "You stay
here," he ordered. "Don't move and
don't think. I'll be back."

He left her sitting there and headed
toward Gilman. Approaching the big
Marine, he said, "Let's get some
sentries out, then you organize your
patrol. Tell the sentries to fire twice
if they spot anything and then get the
hell back here."

"They could jump the gun. Shoot at
shadows," said Gilman.

"That's better than having them
afraid to do anything and having the
enemy sneak up on us."

"I'll get on it, Colonel."

"One thing you'd better know. Lucas
told the villagers they could have
anything in our hootch they wanted.
Cleaned us out. That's why I'm sending
you out like this. I'm going to try to
recover our stuff."

168 ~ The Vile

"Great, Colonel. Any more good news
I should know about?"

"That about covers it."

As Gilman disappeared, searching for
recruits for his patrol and guards,
Hansen said, "Colonel, I've been on
the radio to our control."

"Jesus, I wanted to talk to you before
you did that."

"Yes, sir, sorry, sir. I didn't
think. Besides, we'd already missed a
check-in and they've been broadcasting
to us. They were madder than hell."

"What's so tucking important?" said
Bromhead. "Christ! Why does everything
have to be so hard?"

"We're being pulled out," said Hansen.

"what?" Bromhead was incredulous.

"Yes, sir. Apparently there has been
some flack on the home front and the
pressure has caused the President to
deny that there are any American
combat troops in either Cambodia or
Laos. Because of all that, they're
pulling all the teams. We're to get
out as quickly as possible."

Bromhead took a deep breath. "We
can't go now. How the fuck are we
supposed to get all the equipment
out?" He wiped a hand across his
forehead and thought about
paper-pushers and university liberals.
Neither group seemed to understand the
nature of war, but each group kept
acting as if they did.

"We're going to be pulled out by
helicopter the day after tomorrow."
Hansen glanced up at the lightening
sky. "Or rather tomorrow. In the
meantime, we are to do nothing that
would cause any kind of a ripple."

Now Bromhead smiled. "You mean like
ambushing the NVA in Laos and beating
off a Communist attack?"

"They didn't go into specifics, sir,
but I think you've hit the nail on the
head."

Bromhead turned and walked back
toward the weapons hootch, Hansen
right beside him. Lucas hadn't moved.
She

The belle 169

was sitting with her head down, staring
at the dirt. Bromhead halted and said
to Hansen, "Okay, why don't you get
some sleep? In about an hour, we're
going to have to get up and put in a
long day."

"Yes, sir," said Hansen.

As Hansen stepped around Lucas and
ducked into the hootch, Bromhead had
the urge to kick her butt. He squashed
the feeling and said as calmly as he
could, "Got to ask you a favor."

Her voice seemed to come from a long
way. She didn't look up as she said,
"Yes?"

"Since you gave our equipment away, do
you think you could get most of it
back? I think the Communists are going
to return. This time they're not going
to be satisfied with shooting into the
village, and killing or wounding a few
people. They're going to sweep through
here and kill everyone they can before
they burn the village to the ground."

"Then we have to get out." Her voice
shook.

"No, I think that if we put up a good
fight and drive them off, it'll be
better. If we run for it, they'll
follow and we won't have a big enough
lead, especially with the sick, wounded
and the kids. But if we fight, it'll be
a week or more before they come back.
Give everyone a chance to get out."

Lucas stood up. She started to speak,
stopped and then started again. "I
don't know if this is your fault or
not. Your fault for being here. Maybe
if you hadn't come this would have
happened anyway. Maybe it wouldn't. I
don't know anymore." She stopped
talking for a moment, looked up at him
and then added, "But I know what we
have to do now. Yes, I'll see what I
can do to get the equipment returned."

"Then I'll give you the good news. In
a little more than twenty-four hours,
my men and I will be on a chopper
flying out of here. We'll take our
weapons of war with us." He stressed
the last sentence, but it was lost on
Jane Lucas.

170 The H'lle

"What about the people here?" she
asked.

"That's the one thing that everyone
seems to overlook. We blow in and
provide some aid, train the people to
fight the Communists and then we blow
out with no thought of how that will
affect them. Suddenly we're a
political potato and the politicians
don't give a buck about the people.
The people may want it or maybe they
just don't know how to refuse it.
Makes no difference what the people
think once we're in. We owe it to them
to see it through to the end, but the
politicians in Washington refuse to
understand that. We owe these people
and can't just leave them."

"You have orders," said Lucas.

"So, we tell them to get the hell out
of here and leave them as much of the
materiel as we can. Leave the weapons
because we owe them that much, at the
very least." Brombead shook his head.
"I don't understand this. Not at all.
I don't know what these idiots are
thinking about, but the last thing on
the list has to be the people."

"What are you going to do?"

" Spend the day trying to prepare for
the attack that is going to come
tonight. Buy as much time as I can for
these people, and then get on the
chopper to go home."

"Jack," she said, "I didn't
understand what you were trying to do,
or what was going on here. All I saw
was that you were bringing your war to
these people who didn't want a thing
to do with it. But I was wrong. I
didn't understand the mind of the
enemy." She stopped suddenly as she
realized what she was saying. She let
her eyes drop again and continued. "I
don't know if you're right, or I'm
right, or anything now, but if there
is anything that I can do to help you,
please let me know."

"Right now, all we need is to get our
equipment back." He turned, thought
for a moment. "It might not be safe
for you here anymore. Maybe you had
better get out with us."

"You mean the people here would harm
me?"

The Vile 171

" No. I mean the Communists would
have a field day if they captured you.
Have you sign documents confessing to
everything from spying to using poison
gas."

"You can't be serious."

"The mere fact that you're an
American puts you in jeopardy. Your
affiliation with a university won't do
you any good. Even if you don't go out
with us, you'd better think about
getting out quickly."

She sat quietly for a moment, as if
thinking about her options. She looked
around the village, hard to see in the
fading moonlight, and the early glow of
the rising sun. She shook her head.
"I'll have to think about this. My work
is here."

"You can find other work, " said
Bromhead, "if you're still alive. You
can let me know sometime tomorrow."

Lucas stood and brushed at the seat
of her skirt. "What are you going to
do?"

"Catch some sleep and then get up at
dawn to see if I can get ready for the
Communists."

"Good luck."

"Yeah. I think we're going to need it."

10
THE MEO VILLAGE

The light seeping into the weapons
hootch woke Bromhead just after dawn.
It wasn't very bright out, and
Bromhead had only been asleep for a
little more than an hour, but it was
enough. He rolled to his side, groaned
and sat up.

Behind him, almost touching him, was
the Meo woman. She had slipped closer
to him as he had slept. For a moment
she didn't move, then she rolled over
and stared up at him.

Hansen was sleeping on the bare
floor, his hand clutching the handset
of the radio. He was snoring quietly.
Bromhead decided to let him sleep a
little longer.

Bromhead got to his feet, saw dark
for a moment because he had stood up
too quickly, and closed his eyes. He
pressed a hand to his head, took a
deep breath and stood still. When the
dizziness passed, he moved to the
door, then glanced back at the woman.
He smiled at her, ducked, and looked
into the early morning mist.

Unlike the lowlands, the mornings
were chilly. There was a wispy fog
rising from the jungle, some of it
drifting into the open, making it look
as if the trees had caught fire.
Bromhead inhaled deeply, felt the cool
air sear his throat and he nearly
coughed.

The Hlle 173

Then, on the ground near the notched
log he saw a couple of crates. Bromhead
dropped to the earth and noticed that
there were over a dozen boxes sitting
there, too. Lucas had been true to her
word. Already the villagers were
returning the equipment.

One of the boxes held C-rations. It
hadn't been opened. Bromhead crouched
near it, levered a hand under one of
the cardboard flaps and ripped upward.
He looked at the twentyfour meals and
pulled one out.

As he opened the scrambled eggs,
Gilman materialized out of the mist,
saw the boxes and said, "You rear area
commandoes have all the luxury. Sitting
around eating tasty meals why we poor
soldiers have to hump the bush."

"Here, grab something to eat."

Gilman leaned his weapon against the
log and knelt near the C-rations.

"Something you don't know," said
Bromhead. "We've been recalled.
Sometime tomorrow they're sending a
chopper to pull us out."

Gilman selected one of the meals.
"I'll eat the beans and franks, then.
No sense in saving them now."

Bromhead shoved the plastic spoon in
to the eggs and set the can down. He
wasn't sure if he could eat any more of
them or not. He looked at Gilman.
"You're taking it remarkably calmly."

"Figured that we'd be out of here
quickly. This kind of mission makes too
many of the bureaucrats antsy. They
think about the unconventional nature
of it and then about their careers, and
they back down. Came a little quicker
than I expected, though."

"How you feeling?" asked Bromhead.

"You mean, am I tried? Hell, yes. Can
I go without sleep a little longer?
Hell, yes."

Bromhead grinned. "No, I meant your
other problem."

174 The Vlk

Gilman sat down and used his P-38 to
open the C-ration can. When he had it
opened, he spooned out a bite. "Hurts
like hell to piss. My arms and legs
hurt and I'm hotter than hell. Other
than that, I'd like to throw up."

"Then the good news. Should be a
medic on the choppers. Get you a
massive shot of penicillin and solve
yourproblem."

"That'll be a relief," said Gilman.
"Those damned pills weren't doing much
for me."

"TeU you what," said Brombead. "Why
don't you catch a nap now and join us
later? Hansen and I'll get the people
started on what needs to be done
here."

Bromhead picked up his eggs, looked
at the sickly yellow concoction and
took another bite. At that moment,
Lucas, escorted by two men carrying a
long crate, appeared.

"Told you I'd get your stuff back,"
she said.

"You get any sleep?" he asked,
noticing that she was still wearing
her khaki safari outfit.

"Figured I could get enough after
this is over. Had a lot to do."

"As a point of interest," said
Bromhead, "you've gotten the right
stuff back to us. Those boxes of ammo
are going to be as precious as gold
before the day is over."

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"As soon as everyone is awake, we
organize work details. If Beu agrees
to abandon the village after the
battle is over, then we turn some of
the hootches into bunkers. We make a
couple for the families to hide in. I
doubt that Charlie or the NVA will
bring anything bigger than a mortar
and a couple of thick logs will
protect the civilians. We get a line
of defense established and then wait
for the bad guys."

"This will work?"

"Naturally," said Bromhead. He was
amazed at how completely her attitude
had turned. One day it seemed that she
couldn't stand the sight of him and
the next, she was doing

The Ville 175

everything she could to help. Maybe it
was seeing the enemy standing in the
jungle sniping at innocent women and
children. Maybe it was the way the
Communists responded to the presence of
the Americans. No talk, no discussion,
just a volley from the jungle. Seeing
something like that could change
anyone's mind.

"Colonel," said Gilman, getting to
his feet, "I'm going to catch some
sleep."

"Okay."

As he disappeared into the hootch,
Lucas moved closer and lowered her
voice. "I've been thinking about what
you said last night. About getting out
of here when you go. I think you're
right."

"You'll be going with us?"

"If you'll let me."

Bromhead jammed the spoon into the
remains of the eggs and set the can
aside. "When the chopper arrives, you
just get on it. I doubt the pilots or
the crew will say anything. All hell
will break loose in Vietnam, but then
you'll be there and it'll be someone
else's problem."

"You don't seem too concerned about
it."

" Lady, it's the least of the problems
staring at us right now.''

"I guess you're right. What should we
do?"

Bromhead pushed the can back into the
box and dumped the remains of the meal
into the carton. He dusted his hands
together. "Right now I'm going to see
Ben and start the ball rolling."

"Mind if I tag along?"

"Please do."

FETTERMAN SAT IN THE DIM recesses of
the comma bunker, his feet propped on
an empty ammo crate, sipping coffee and
waiting for a reply to his latest
message. During the night he had
listened to a wide range of radio
reports, some from

176 The belle

artillerymen using their weapons to
interdict the Ho Chi Minh Trail, some
from helicopter pilots as they flew
over the area and others from grunts
stuck deep in the jungle.

He had heard the coded transmissions
directed at Captain Bromhead and his
team in Laos. With growing apprehen-
sion, he had waited for an
acknowledgment, and then had gone to
find Gerber. Together they waited
until someone on Bromhead's team had
responded. During that time they had
tried, without success, to find an
Army aviation unit that would
knowingly cross the border to drop
strikers into the jungle. One or two
commanders said they would check with
higher headquarters and get back.

Finally Fetterman heard it all.
Bromhead's radio operator using both
code and transmitting in the clear,
told of the assault on the village.
Although Fetterman's first reaction
was to rush in to help, by the time he
had the information he needed, it was
clear that the attack had failed.

Now he waited for the aviation unit
commanders to call back with a
detailed listing of the air assets
that were available. He watched the
green boxes, their tiny lights
glowing, and listened to the crackle
of static. There were a couple of
messages directed to the Special
Forces camp, but those were logged by
the young, stocky, sergeant who sat
near the radios, dozing in the cool
darkness of the bunker.

Gerber made his way down the wooden
steps, the leather of his boots
scraping on the coating of dust. He
stopped at the entrance and blinked.
"Tony?"

"Over here, Captain."

Gerber made his way through the
dimness, missing the map table shoved
against one wall, barely visible in
the half-light filtering in. He
stepped around a wooden folding chair.
"What's the word?"

"One called back and said that a
cross-border op was out of the
question unless orders were issued in
Saigon. I suggested

The Tulle 177

that we'd be retrieving a unit of
American soldiers and he said he was
sorry but orders were orders."

Gerber nodded. "Can't blame him for
that."

"Well, sir," said Fetterman, "I
believe he'd want to do
anythinghecouldtohelpotherAmericans.
Hell, sir, Iwould."

"Yes, well, not everyone feels that
way. Some men are more concerned with
careers and family than they are about
unknown soldiers caught in trouble
somewhere else. I don't understand it,
either."

At that moment the radio squawked and
the message started. Both Fetterman and
Gerber looked toward it.

"Zulu Six, Zulu Six, this is Vampire
Six."

Gerber crossed to the radio where the
NCO handed him the mike. "This is Zulu
Six."

"Roger, Six. Be advised that I will
be able to supply seven aircraft,
available after fifteen thirty hours."

"Roger. Will the ships be on standby
here?"

"Negative. They will remain on
station."

Gerber turned and snapped his fingers
at the NCO. "Where is Vampire Six
located?"

The NCO pulled a small booklet out of
the open safe and flipped through it.
"Vampire Six is the CO of the loath As-
sault Helicopter Company at Kontum."

"Shit. Not close enough." He pressed
the button on the mike. "Request
aircraft standby here."

"Negative, Zulu Six. I repeat.
Negative."

"Roger," snapped Gerber. "How long
are the aircraft available?"

"You can have the ships for thirty
hours."

"Roger. Thanks." Gerber handed the
mike back to the NCO.

"Better than nothing," said
Fetterman. "Gives a little breathing
space."

178 The Ville

"Except that with those helicopters
standing by at Kontum, it'll be over
an hour before we could get off the
ground here. Hell, considering the
relaying of the messages, getting the
crews out and the people loaded, it
could take two hours and we'd still
not be on the way."

"So what do we do?" asked Fetterman.

"Get with Blanchfeld and have him
request aviation support but not give
any destinations. Have the backup
ships available and see if we can get
them to stand by here."

"Why?" asked Fetterman.

" If we've got the people on the
ships and kept directing the flight
lead, we might be able to sneak across
the border."

Fetterman grinned. "You really think
the pilot won't know where he is or
that he's operating near the border?"

"No, I guess not. Might be able to
slip a klick into Laos by accident,
but never far enough to help Johnnie."

"You mean Jack."

"Whatever," said Gerber with a flip
of his hand. "Once we're on board and
heading out, I doubt they'll abort the
mission. Besides, most of those
chopper pilots are crazy anyway."

"So what do we do now?"

Gerber rubbed his eyes. They felt
like someone had thrown a handful of
sand into them. "Right now I suggest
we grab some breakfast and then see
what else we can arrange. Especially
for tonight."

IT TOOK ALMOST NO TIME to get the work
parties started. Ben agreed that the
village would have to be abandoned
after the battle because the
Communists would just return with a
larger, better equipped force.

Bromhead explained how he planned to
use the logs from the floors of the
huts and the stilts for makeshift
bunkers. He told Beu he wanted a large
one in the middle of the village for

The Hlle179

the families. And they would finish
those on the perimeter, use them for
the primary defense and then retreat as
the ground attack started.

Beu wasn't interested in the tactics.
He called his men together to give them
their instructions. Once that was done,
the working parties spread out, some of
them taking axes into the jungle to
fell more trees.

Everyone worked quickly. By noon they
had completed all the bunkers on the
corners of the village and erected one
on each side between them. They were
fairly makeshift affairs of shallow
holes covered by logs, but they would
protect the defenders from mortars.

Then Bromhead began burning off the
grass around the village to deny the
enemy that cover. Others were busy
building bunkers for the families,
erecting a second line of defense, and
stocking the entire perimeter with
weapons and ammunition. They sighted a
couple of machine guns along the most
likely routes of assault where they
could support one another.

There was a short break for lunch.
Hansen handed out the C-rations for
everyone since they figured they
wouldn't need them much longer. The Meo
woman hovered in the background, saying
nothing, but trying to anticipate
Bromhead's needs. She was never far
from him and refused the C-ration meal
that Hansen tried to give her. As the
people finished eating, he collected
the cans and stored them, sure that
someone would find a use for them
later.

Throughout the afternoon, they
strengthened the defenses. They built
hidden punji pits to channel the
assaults. They set up some grenades in
the cans that Hansen had saved, added
trip wires so that the enemy would jerk
the grenade free to explode. Using
several of the claymore mines, they
rigged a couple of booby traps inside
the trees where the enemy might
assemble, then set the others facing
across the grass to be command
detonated. These were mechanical
ambushes de

180 The Vile

signed to frighten the enemy and alert
the defenders of the VC's approach.
They also created a couple of false
bunkers to draw enemy fire and booby
trapped those.

In the late afternoon Broml'.ead set
up several listening posts with
instructions to return by moonrise if
they had heard nothing or had seen
nothing. He sent Gilman and three men
down the path and told them to wait
there for a couple of hours. Gilman
suggested another mechanical ambush,
grenades in cans and a claymore rigged
to a trip wire. Bromhead agreed.

Finally, Bromhead realized that there
was nothing else to be done. There was
no time left and it was getting dark.
He suggested that Ben have the
families enter the bunkers in the
middle of the village. Bromhead asked
Beu to instruct his people to stay put
and not stray too far. If an attack
came, it would be swift, and the
people caught in the open would be in
great danger.

With the setting of the sun, Bromhead
stopped roaming. First he went to the
weapons hootch where the Meo woman
waited patiently. Bromhead sent her to
wait with the rest of the women and
children in the family bunkers. As he
stepped into the cooling evening, he
saw Lucas. She glanced at him, started
around a corner and then turned back.

"You have a minute to talk?" she
asked.

The defenses were as close to being
ready as he could make them. Gilman
was still out, listening for the
enemy, and Hansen had reported their
status to their control. Now it was up
to the enemy to either attack them, or
to avoid them.

He nodded. "I have some time."

She came closer, halted and looked up
at him. "I've spent my whole life in
school," she said. "From high school
to college and into the graduate
program. Everything I've learned has
been from books. Some of the books
were accurate. I

The H'lle 181

studied the influence of alcohol on our
society and could sit in a bar and
predict the behavior of the people."

"This is fascinating," said Bromhead,
"but do you have a point?"

"Too much of what I learned was the
ideal. If everyone did this, there
would be no more war, or poverty, or
murder. If we outlawed handguns, the
murder rate would drop. . ."

"That's a load of horse "

"I realize thatnow," she said,
cutting trim off. "I realize that the
use of her dguns in murder is a
symptom. Eliminating the gun will not
eliminate the cause of the murder."

Bromhead glanced around.

"Please," she said. "Bear with me.
This is very difficult for me. I've
thought about it all day and I have to
admit that many ofthe things I thought
were true are not. I'm trying to tell
you that I think you might be right."

"Right, Miss Lucas? Right about what?"

She looked away, at the ground and
then at the notched log leading up into
the weapons hootch. "Right about what
you said. This war isn't going to end
because I don't like it. Those men last
night.. ." She shook her head. "They
didn't ask questions, they just started
shooting. The Communists talk about
equality but if you don't believe . .
." She shrugged.

"The difference," said Bromhead, "is
that we don't come in shooting. We try
to show the people what they need to
know to make their lives a little more
pleasant." Now he stopped because he
realized that he sounded like a
propaganda film.

"Anyway," said Lucas, "I'm sorry for
all I've said and done."

"Thank you for that, Jane."

"I'm not saying that I think war is
the way to solve our problems, but I've
seen some things here that make me won-
der. Maybe there is a good reason
for..." Again she was stumped, almost
as if unsure of what she now felt. She
real

182 The Vile

ized that she wasn't saying what she
wanted to. Finally she just said,
"Anyway, I'm sorry for what I said."

"Well, no harm done," said Bromhead.
"I think you'd better join the
families in their bunker. It's going
to be a long night."

As she turned to go, Bromhead moved
to the bunker that guarded the path
leading into the jungle and crawled
in. The disadvantage was that the low
firing port made it hard to watch the
jungle. He gave it up and crawled out.
At first he lay on top of the bunker
and then realized it would be a target
for the enemy gunners. Instead he
crouched beside it, using his bin-
oculars to search the jungle, looking
for signs that the enemy was near.

As he lay there he realized just how
hot and tired he was. He could feel
the sweat dripping down his face and
along his sides. He swiped at his
forehead with the sleeve of his
fatigues, then took a deep breath. His
eyes felt sore. It was nothing that
three days of sleep wouldn't cure. In
two days he would be in Salgon, could
take a hot bath and lie naked on clean
sheets. The image danced in his head
and in the fantasy he could see Jane
Lucas enter the room dressed in
nothing except a tiny towel wrapped
around her waist.

He shook the thoughts from his mind
and concentrated on the task before
him. As the last of the light faded,
Bromhead had expected some relief from
the heat, but the normal light evening
breeze didn't develop and it was as
muggy as it had been during the day.

Movement along the trail caught his
attention. He turned the binoculars on
it. Gilman, leading his three men, ran
across the grass. As they entered the
village Bromhead stood and waved
Gilman over.

"They're on the way, Colonel," he
said.

"You saw them?"

17'e Mile 183

"Heard them and then slipped away.
Didn't think it was real smart to wait
for them to find us. They were moving
slowly, as if they had the whole night
to get into position."

Bromhead nodded. "I suppose they do.
Why don't you take the middle bunker on
the north wall as your command post?
I'll stay here. Hansen has the one on
the south."

Gilman grinned. "This is going to be
an interesting twelve hours. The boys
in Saigon would be doing flips if they
knew what was going on here."

"There's nothing we can do about
that." Bromhead stopped as a distant
pop drifted to them. It was followed by
two others, and then a louder
explosion.

"They've hit the mechanical ambush.
That puts them about a klick to the
east. We can expect incoming anytime
now."

"Okay, Nick, get to the bunker. Good
luck and I'll see you in the morning."

Gilman stuck out his hand. "Good luck
to you Colonel. You're not bad for an
officer."

"Thanks." He watched Gilman trot into
the dark, disappearing a moment later.
Bromhead got up and moved to the rear
of the bunker. He stood there for a
moment, looking at the jungle across
the now burnt grassy plain. He hoped
that the listening posts would come in
now that the enemy had tripped the
mechanical ambush. Then, almost as if
answering him, three men appeared at
the edge of the jungle. They ran
forward, bent low, their weapons in
their hands. As they neared the village
they slowed, dodged around one of the
punji pits and then slid into a bunker.

Bromhead ducked and crawled into his
bunker. It was black inside with only
a rectangle of gray to mark the firing
port. He could hear the rapid breathing
of the two men already in there. Their
sweat reminded him of the odor of a
caged animal. It was the stink of fear
that he smelled. Fear from men who
hadn't been forced to hold ground in
battle. Fear from men who had

184 The Ville

either had the upper hand at the
beginning of the battle or who had
fled when the shooting started. Now
all they could do was wait for the
enemy to attack.

Bromhead moved forward so that he
could peer out the firing port. He
realized how hot it was in the bunker
now. Hotter than the surrounding
jungle. Hotter than a steam bath. Hot
enough to make his head swim. But he
couldn't abandon the position now. The
enemy was too close.

From deep in the jungle came a series
of pops and Bromhead knew they were
firing mortars. That made sense. The
first stage of the assault was to fire
at the village with mortars. Scare the
villagers with the unseen death that
rained down on them. But they were
prepared and the mortars would do
little harm.

Bromhead heard an explosion behind
him and then another and another as
the shells hit. They tossed up loose
dirt and threw out red-hot shrapnel,
but the logs covering the bunkers were
thick enough to stop the mortars. Even
a direct hit would do little damage.

Bromhead crawled closer to the firing
port so that his chin was braced on
its edge. He watched the jungle, heard
the mortars firing, but could not see
the flashes of the mortar tubes.

As the shells hit, he ducked,
figuring there was no reason to tempt
fate. He remembered his first mortar
attack. Pure terror, waiting for the
shells to fall on him and kill him, or
for the red-hot shrapnel to tear into
him. He had crouched in the bunker,
listening to the retreating explosions
of the mortar rounds, never realizing
that he was in no danger.

There was a loud bang over his head
that shook the bunker. He could smell
cordite envelop him and knew that a
mortar had hit the logs over him. The
man next to him screamed and started
to scramble for the entrance. Bromhead
grabbed him

The Ville 185

and held him, saying in French, "Stay
here. Stay here." He held tightly as
the man fought him as the mortars fell.

And then there was silence. The man
stopped struggling, his breathing
regular. Bromhead turned back to the
firing port, waited, and heard a pop in
the jungle.

"More incoming. You won't be hurt if
you stay put."

With one hand on the man's shoulder,
Brombead listened to the mortar attack.
Explosions all around. Dirt and debris
scattered. Shrapnel buried itself in
the thick wood of the bunkers. The
smell of gunpowder hung in the air. And
when they thought it was over, another
barrage fell on them.

The longer the attack lasted, the more
confident the men became. Bromhead
could sense the exuberance in the
bunker. He heard the men chattering at
one another, chuckling and laughing
loudly. A few shouted curses at the VC
and the NVA, taunting them. They had
realized that the mortars weren't going
to kill them.

Then the mortars stopped and at the
edge of the jungle, Bromhead could see
movement. There were bugles in the dis-
tance and shouts in Vietnamese. A
whistle sounded shrilly and was
answered by another. The leaves at the
edge of the jungle seemed to tremble,
to vibrate with excitement. Bromhead
edged to the side so that his body was
protected by the bulk of the bunker
logs.

There was a pop overhead and the
grassy, ash-covered plain was suddenly
bathed in bright light as a flare burst
into illumination above him. Bromhead
looked over his shoulder, but couldn't
see anything. He knew that Gilman was
back there somewhere, firing the hand
flares, giving the VC and NVA something
to think about.

Then there was a burst of fire from a
single machine gun and a rising shout.
As he glanced out of the firing port he
saw the surging charge of the enemy as
they ran toward the village.

11
THE MEO VILLAGE

The moonlight silhouetted the enemy as
they raced across the ash-covered plain,
charging toward the center of the
village. In the strange, flickering
light caused by the muzzle flashes, the
moon, the flares and the fires started
by the mortars, the enemy soldiers
jerked and fell and died. Brornhead
shoved the barrel of his M-1 carbine to
the edge of the flung port and began to
snipe. He kept his eye away from the
sight, aiming by simply pointing the
barrel, and then squeezing the trigger.

For Brombead the battle suddenly
narrowed to the tiny sliver that the
firing po* allowed him to see. A dozen
enemy attacking across the open ground,
their feet kicking up clouds of ash from
the burnt grass.

He emptied his weapon at them, jerked
the magazine free and reloaded. He let
the bolt slam home and fired again. The
enemy soldiers were closer now, no more
than fifty yards from him. But more of
them were falling and dying. Some were
turning to flee as the firing from the
bunkers increased.

Suddenly the attack broke and the
targets disappeared. Bromhead could hear
shouting from the jungle, shouting from
the bunkers around him, and moaning from
the field in front of him. Through the
firing port he saw one of the wounded
enemy soldiers trying to get to his
feet. He reached for his

l

Thelle 187

weapon, fell to his knees and then rose
again. He staggered a few feet and
collapsed, rolling onto his back.

Moments later the shooting started
again. Russian RPD machine guns and
AK-47s erupted from the protection of
the trees. Bromhead saw emerald tracers
streaking into the night. Muzzle
flashes winked in the jungle where the
enemy hid. He heard the rounds thudding
into the logs of his bunker or into the
ground in front of the firing port.
Dust hung in the air outside, obscuring
his vision.

Then in the distance came the sounds
of bugle calls, whistles and shouts as
another charge came from the trees.
Bromhead aimed at the enemy, waiting
for them to get closer. Waiting for
them to become more than vague shapes.
Waiting so that every shot would count.

But the men with him couldn't wait.
There was a rippling of sporadic fire
as the Meos tried to kill the VC. All
along the makeshift bunker line the
firing erupted.

But rather than continue their
assault, the enemy dived for cover,
throwing grenades. At first they fell
short, exploding in the open field,
geysering dirt and ash that hung in the
still, humid night. And then the VC
found the range because a few of the
grenades began to detonate among the
bunkers. A moment later the third
volley hit the mark. Dirt and dust
choked the men, making it difficult for
them to see.

Bromhead shouted at his men and turned
to crawl from his bunker. He burst into
the clean, night air as a rising shout
from a hundred enemy throats cut
through the dark. He spun, resting his
weapon on the top of the bunker,
searching for targets on the
dust-choked plain.

Overhead, a flare popped and in the
eerie, greenish-yellow light, Bromhead
could see clearly. He used the sights
of his weapon, firing rapidly. He saw a
man clutching at his chest, staggering
into the dust and dirt. A second
appeared, leaning forward like a man in
a high wind. With bayonet extended, he

188 The Vile

ran toward the American. Bromhead shot
him twice and he fell five feet in
front of the bunker.

There was a shout from the left as
more of the enemy appeared. They
charged across the open ground,
screaming and shooting. From somewhere
on the north came the hammering of a
.30-caliber machine gun. Bromhead saw
the tracers lancing into the night.
Firing increased as the NVA tried to
kill the gunner. Grenades detonated
near the bunkers, and Bromhead was
afraid that the men there would be
killed. The noise built slowly until
it was a continual roar, washing out
all other sound.

Suddenly the firing began to
diminish. Bromhead dropped to his
knees, crouching behind the bunker.
The enemy was now fleeing to the east.
As they vanished, there was a volley
to his right. On the south, the NVA
were launching still another attack.

HANSEN HAD SPENT the mortar attack
lying in his bunker, his hands over
his ears, praying silently. When the
shooting started, he had looked out
the firing port but had seen nothing.
He fell back to the ground and waited.

Slowly he became aware that the men
around him were shooting. The noise
from their weapons reverberated in the
confines of the bunker. His ears hurt
from the pounding and he heard nothing
more than the hammering of the M-ls
and the machine guns.

He pushed himself forward, shoved
his weapon at the gun port, and began
to fire. At first he tried to use the
sights, but couldn't find a target in
the half-light and the rising cloud of
dust. Finally he just pointed and
shot, pulling the trigger until the
bolt locked back.

He reloaded and went through the
process again. When his carbine was
empty, he moved to the rear of the
bunker and crawled out. The enemy was
still coming, dodging across the open
fields, firing and shouting as they
ran.

The Lilly 189

He reloaded for a third time and
opened fire. One of his rounds struck
the ground near a VC and he raised the
sights. This time he saw the soldier
whirl as if slapped in the shoulder.
The man lost his weapon, staggered and
then fell.

A flare popped overhead, throwing a
bright light on the open plain. Hansen
could use the sights now. He aimed and
fired, knocking down more of the enemy.
When he ran out of ammo, he retreated
to the second line of defense. He
dropped to the ground next to the stilt
support of a hootch and reloaded from
the cache there.

As he worked with the magazine, he
felt the breath rasp in his throat.
Sweat made his fingers slippery and he
dropped the magazine once. He snatched
it from the dirt, wiped it on his sweat
soaked shirt, and slammed it into his
weapon. He wished he could breathe, or
see. Then he wished he was somewhere
else.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead
with the sleeve of his uniform. He
closed his eyes and took a deep breath,
ordering himself back into the fight.
Ordering himself to kill the enemy,
even though all he wanted was to stay
right where he was with his head down
and his eyes closed. He forced himself
to his feet and started back to the
bunker line. He was about to open fire
again when the enemy turned, running to
the east as if to rendezvous on that
side of the village.

IN THE NORTH, Gilman was having little
luck. After the first assault, he had
abandoned the bunker because he found
it too confining. He couldn't see the
enemy well enough to kill them and if
he was going to direct the battle, he
had to know where they were.

He dragged the . 30-caliber machine
gun out and set it on top of the
bunker. A group of Meos joined him,
taking what cover they could find. When
the first of the enemy appeared at the
edge of the plain, Gilman shouted,
"Wait for them! Wait for them!"

190 The Hlle

A rippling volley began as the men
fired sparingly. A few ruby tracers
were greeted by dozens of green. The
ground around them erupted and Gilman
saw two of his men fall. The rest hung
tough, waiting. And then everyone
opened fret A solid wall of lead was
thrown out, blowing holes in the on-
rushing enemy line. The enemy unit
disintegrated until it was no longer
an assault but knots of men suddenly
fleeing for their lives.

Gilman dropped so that he was seated
behind the machine gun. He opened
fire, raking the trees two hundred
meters away. He inhaled deeply, the
odor of the cordite in his nostrils
and lungs, acting like a drug. He held
the trigger down, leaning into the
bucking weapon, unaware that he was
screaming, ordering the enemy to
attack him. Ordering them from the
jungle, and ordering them to die.

The shadows that had been prancing
inside the trees, organizing the
assaults, shouting encouragement to
the NVA, forcing the men across the
open ground, disappeared in a hail of
bullets. Gilman kept firing at them
until the belt broke and the barrel of
the gun glowed red.

WI~ ME SECOND ATTACK beaten back, B=mhead knew
that the NVA would try something
different. The three-pronged assault
had failed because they had spread
their men too thin. There hadn't been
enough to force their way into the
village. Now, in front of him were the
scattered bodies of twenty or thirty
VC soldiers who had died trying to
gain the village. They had barely
reached the edge of the bunker line.

Bromhead ran from his bunker, keeping
low. He found Gilman kneeling over the
body of a wounded Meo, wrapping a
-pressure bandage around his shoulder.
The man was half sitting, half leaning
against the logs of the bunker,
moaning in pain.

"They're going to hit one side of the
village now," said Bromhead quietly.

The belle 191

"Mass their force," agreed Gilman.
"Makes sense."

"Thought maybe we should pull everyone
out of the bunkers and have them stand
by. Shift them around as we need them."

"Better leave one man in each in case
the enemy sends a suicide squad. It
wouldn't be good to have a dozen VC
suddenly appear behind us."

"Then let's get at it," said Bromhead.

Gilman picked up the wounded Meo and
carried him to the family bunker only
thirty feet away. Inside, Lucas and a
couple of the Meo women were working
feverishly to bandage the injured.
Lucas, still in her safari outfit, was
now splattered with blood. As Gilman
brought in the wounded Meo, she glanced
up but didn't indicate that she saw
Bromhead.

Gilman told two of the women to look
after the injured man. Before he could
get away, Lucas asked, "Will we be able
to stop them tonight?"

Gilman shrugged. He rubbed a hand over
his face and then wiped the
perspiration on the front of his
fatigue jacket. "As long as they don't
come up with any more surprises, yeah,
I think we can stop them."

There was a moan, a quiet, drawn-out
sound. Lucas nodded and then went back
to her work, shaking out a pressure
bandage.

Gilman turned and raced to join
Bromhead. Together they moved around
the perimeter, giving the villagers
instructions. One man was to remain in
each bunker, everyone else outside. If
the call for help went out, everyone,
except the man in the bunker, was to
rush to that position.

Then Bromhead returned to the
northeast corner of the village to
wait. The moon was dropping lower,
making it harder to see. There were
sounds from the jungle, men moving
around, hidden behind the trees. Shots
were being fired by both sides, but the
sniping was having no effect. Bromhead

.                ..

192 The belle

knew that the big attack was about to
be launched. He prayed that it
wouldn't be.

He didn't have to wait long. A
hundred of the enemy swarmed out of
the jungle, funneling toward the
corner where he stood. Bromhead
slipped to one knee, raised his rifle
and said, "Well, shit." He began to
shoot. First single, spaced shots, and
then as fast as he could pull the
trigger. All around him the men did
the same until that side of the bunker
line was sparkling like a giant Fourth
of July display.

The attackers, supported by several
machine guns, sprinted forward.
Grenades, launched from other weapons,
began to walk toward the village. Some
of Bromhead's men dived for cover as
others broke and ran, fleeing for the
safety of the family bunkers. The
enemy attack was taking its toll as
casualties began to mount. Bromhead
knew that his meager force wouldn't be
able to turn them this time.

He stood, one hand to the side of
his mouth and yelled, "Fall back! Fall
back! " But the command was lost in
the din of the battle. He turned to
run to the south, to alert each
position. An explosion on the top of
the bunker lifted him and threw him to
the ground. He rolled to his back,
stunned.

Gilman saw Bromhead fall and raced
from his position. He knelt beside
Bromhead but before he could speak,
the enemy was there. Gilman aimed at
two men on the bunker and fired, the
muzzle flash reaching out to touch
them. One flipped to the ground,
rolled over and was still. The other
jumped to the right and fired his own
rifle. The emerald green tracer burned
by Gilman's eyes, momentarily blinding
him. On instinct alone, Gilman shot
back. His round caught the man in the
stomach, dropping him.

Gilman turned back to Bromhead. "Are
you badly hurt?"

Bromhead shook his head to clear it.
"No. No! Get the men out of here."

The Tulle 193

Gilman got up and shouted the
orders. "Fall back! Fall back! " This
time the Meos heard them. They
abandoned their

. . . .

positions, runmog to the rear.

Bromhead struggled to his feet and
with Gilman's assistance, raced to the
family bunkers. The VC and NVA, seeing
part of the defense collapse, surged
forward. They leaped the bunkers,
ignoring the few men who might still be
alive there.

Bromhead grabbed the controls for the
claymores. As the enemy materialized in
front of him, he hit the firing
controls and watched as the mines
detonated. Thousands of tiny steel
balls slashed through the attackers,
tearing them to ribbons Those who
could, turned to flee, running the
gauntlet of Meos scattered in the
bunkers. Many of the enemy died in the
hail of bullets and the crashing of
grenades before they could gain the
safety of the jungle.

As the attack broke, Bromhead slipped
to the ground. There was an
overpowering smell of copper in the air
and he knew it was the odor of fresh
blood. As the firing tapered and then
ended except for the periodic sniping
of both sides, he could hear the
moaning of the wounded and the crying
of the women. There was shouting behind
him and the children panicked.

"Checkthe bodies," said Bromhead.
"Get the weapons and ammo. They can't
be through with us yet."

Gilman relayed the orders in Meo and
watched as they quickly swept the field
nearby. Once or twice there was a shot
as the men killed a wounded enemy.
Bromhead didn't like that, but he could
understand the emotion. These men had
suffered through a mortar attack and
two ground assaults. They had seen
their friends and members of their
families killed. They were not inclined
to take prisoners. Each of them knew it
was the same thing the Communists would
do if the circumstances were reversed.
Besides, they had no way of caring for
a wounded enemy, no way of guarding
him. The

194 The belle

safest thing to do was kill him before
he had a chance to kill someone else.

As the men took their positions
again, Bromhead became worried. They
had barely held on during the second
attack. It was only the sudden
detonation of the claymores that had
saved them and he had used the
majority of them to break the assault.
If the enemy hit them again with an
equal force, Bromhead wasn't sure they
could survive it.

He crawled forward and checked some
of the bodies. He found several dead
Meos and began to wonder if the enemy
hadn't done more damage than he
thought. If the casualties were too
high, then another assault would
easily overrun the village.

Surrender, he knew, was out of the
question. Given the circumstances, he
doubted that the Communists would
leave anyone alive. They would sweep
through the village killing every man,
woman and child. They would torture
their victims as they killed them. If
they hoped to survive the night, they
had to fight.

He retreated, circling to the family
bunkers. The structures had sustained
some superficial damage and a couple
of people had been slightly wounded.
Hansen had treated them with sterile
dressings and then had run back to his
post.

Gilman approached, a dozen AKs slung
from his shoulders. He leaned sideways
and let them slide to the ground. He
glanced at the faces of the women and
children, seeing masks of terror as
they waited for a mortar round to blow
them apart or a bullet to slam into
them. There were tear streaks on some
of the children's faces. Lucas was
working hard, bandaging the wounded,
passing out water and trying to
comfort those who needed it. She
ignored Bromhead.

He looked at the pile of weapons
lying on the ground, then approached
Gilman. "I think we've had it," he
whispered. "I can't see how we can
beat off another assault."

Me 195

"Yeah," agreed Gilman grimly. "We've
lost too many of our men and used all
our tricks. I think it's time to pull
out of here."

Bromhead ignored that. Instead he
nodded to the rear. "I'll tell Hansen
to put out a distress call. Broadcast
it in the clear and see if we can't get
someone to help us. I'm not sure it'll
do any fucking good, but it certainly
can't hurt us now."

Bromhead crouched, picked up one of
the captured AKs, arid worked the bolt,
electing a live round. He dropped the
magazine from the weapon, looked into
it and then slammed it home. As he did,
a Mco carrying another dozen of the
rifles dropped them into the pile.

"If we had the men," said Bromhead,
"we could rearm them with these. First
time this has happened to me. Plenty of
weapons but no one left to use them."

The idea came to him in a flash. He
whispered it to Gilman, who laughed out
loud. "I don't see why not."

Bromhead spent the next several
minutes getting things ready. Once he
was sure that Gilman understood, he ran
off to meet with the men. Through Ben,
he told the men what they had to do.
They had to put up a stiff fight at the
perimeter and fall back slowly. Draw
the enemy in. But for it to work,
everyone had to do his part exactly. To
falter in the slightest would mean
death to everyone. Bromhead, through
Beu, made sure they understood.

Bromhead sent everyone to their
positions. Next he found Hansen, told
him to make the radio calls in the
blind, telling whoever might be
listening that they were in danger of
being overrun. He was to use the
emergency frequency of 242.0 becausc
everyone in Southeast Asia monitored
that. Once he made the calls, he was to
take his position on line. Bromhead
then returned to crouch behind the
corner bunker and waited.

It didn't taRc the enemy long to
regroup or work up the courage for
another assault. There were whistles in
the dark. Bugles called to one another
and then orders, shouted in Viet

196 "e H~11e

namese, drifted across the open
ground. Overhead, a flare burst into
brightness with an audible pop. It
descended slowly, the burning
magnesium describing a smoking arc
under the parachute.

As the flare burned out and darkness
fell, the VC and NVA swarmed from the
trees. There was a rising shout and a
burst of firing. Bromhead got to one
knee and aimed, returning the enemy
fire. Beside him, one of the Meos
opened up, cranked off three rounds
and then toppled over with a quiet
moan, a spreading stain of wetness on
his side, looking black in the
moonlight.

All around, the Meos began to shoot,
their M-ls barking rapidly. The
outgoing fire didn't seem to bother
the enemy soldiers. They kept coming,
their heads down, their weapons at
their sides.

Behind them, the jungle was alive
with more of them. The Russian-made
RPD machine guns raked the Meo
positions, kicking up great clouds of
dirt and debris, pinning them down.
Grenades began to explode. Dust and
smoke from the weapons hung in the
still night air.

Bromhead got to his feet to meet the
onrushing enemy. The firing tapered as
the two sides clashed. The fighting
changed to hand to hand. Now the air
was filled with shouts, grunts of
pain, metal clinking against metal.
Men screamed insults at one another. A
lone man leaped to the top of the
bunker in front of Bromhead, who swung
his weapon around and pulled the
trigger. The enemy was thrown off the
bunker.

Bromhead tried to find another target
but his own men were so mixed with the
enemy that he couldn't shoot for fear
of hitting one of his own. He stepped
to the rear and an NVA soldier jumped
toward him. Bromhead turned, the
barrel of his weapon in front of him,
but the man swung with his own rifle.
The barrels locked and Bromhead's was
forced to the side. Bromhead whipped
the butt of his M-1 around. There was
a solid smack and the enemy staggered.
Bromhead kicked up

Me Klle 197

ward, his foot smashing into the
soldier's crotch. He dropped his rifle,
his hands between his legs as he
collapsed into the dirt, whimpering.

More of the enemy were rushing from
the jungle to join the fight. Bromhead
could see that his men were being
pushed back. They were giving ground
reluctantly, but they were giving it.
In minutes it would be too late.

"Fall back!" he ordered. He shouted
the command in French and then heard
Gilman screaming in Meo. Bromhead saw
some of the men crying to break
contact, but the VC and NVA were
pressing them hard. Some of the men
turned and fled, exposing their backs
to the VC gunners. A few of thern died
because of that.

Brombead kept shouting his order as
he retreated. He bumped into the side
of the family bunker and stopped. He
fell to one knee, aimed and pulled the
trigger of his weapon. It recoiled
sharply, but Bromhead kept fining until
it was empty. With his left hand, he
jerked at the pouch on his pistol belt
but couldn't get it open.

One of the VC rushed at him. The
enemy held his weapon out in front of
him, the bayonet extended. Bromhead
turned to face the man. As he thrust,
Bromhead dodged to the right and used
the butt of his rifle. The enemy ducked
under it, spun and slashed with the tip
of blade. Bromhead parried the swipe,
pushing the bayonet to the side. As the
man stepped to the left to keep his
balance, Bromhead swept his Not in an
arc, chopping the VC's feet out from
under him.

The soldier fell to his side, landing
on his arm. Even over the sounds of the
battle around him, Bromhead heard the
popping of the bones as they snapped.
The VC shrieked. Bromhead kicked again,
as if he was trying to put the man's
head between the goalposts of a
football field, cutting off the
screams.

As the enemy died, Bromhead crouched.
He began to shout, "Get down! Everyone
get down! "

198 77'e H'11e

From somewhere near him, Gilman was
yelling in the men's native language,
giving the same order.

Then suddenly, all around them, AKs
opened fire. Nearly a hundred new
weapons joined the battle, the green
tracers arcing out of the bunker and
stabbing into the enemy. The hammering
of the individual weapons was lost in
the cacophony from the carbines on
full automatic.

The attack that had been pressing
forward stopped as if it had slammed
into a brick wall. There was confusion
among the enemy. They faltered.

At that moment Brornhead and the
remainder of his men, lying on the
ground near the bunker, opened fire
again. New weapons added to the fight.
Bromhead triggered the last of the
claymores and some of his men threw
the last of their grenades. The air
was split by the explosions. Dirt hung
heavy around them and there was the
odor of cordite everywhere.

And then the enemy began a retreat.
Not a coordinated effort to get out
but a headlong flight. Men were
throwing away their weapons, running
for the safety of the jungle as the
village around them erupted into
sheets of fire and flame and redhot
steel.

The Meos, led by Gilman, were on
their feet, chasing the enemy, forcing
them from the confines of the village.
At the perimeter, they leaped for
cover as RPDs opened up again, their
fire raking the ground around the
Meos.

As the VC and NVA cleared the field,
mortars began to fall once more. In
the village, the men scrambled for
cover as the enemy weapons exploded
around them. Brornhead leaped into a
bunker, and felt like shouting. He
slapped the men with him on the back,
and yelled at them in English. When
they failed to pick up on the
jubilation in his voice, he switched
to French, telling them the fight was
over. The NVA were using the mortars
to cover their retreat. They had been
beaten.

Slowly, from around the perimeter,
Bromhead heard the cheering break out
as the news spread. Charlie, the NVA,
the

The belle

Commu~usts had attacked in force and
been driven from the field. The
villagers, who years before had
witnessed the French driven away by the
Viet Minh, and who had watched as the
Communists forced their will on others,
now had beaten the best that the enemy
could send against them. Farmers and
hunters, trained by French paratroopers
over a decade earlier, had avenged the
defeat handed them in 1954.

Bromhead, of course, did not know
that. He only knew that he had been
thrown into the jungle with a stack of
supplies and told to assist the Meos.
Against almost impossible odds, he had
won.

The only thing wrong was the order
telling him to collect all the weapons
and to get out. He didn't like it, but
there was nothing he could do.

As he climbed from the rear of the
bunker, listening for the telltale pop
of a mortar tube, he was proud of the
villagers. They had performed when it
was necessary.. They had done it well
and the bodies of the dead enemy
scattered over the field proved they
had been deadly.

As the first faint traces of daylight
stained the night sky, Gilman left his
bunker and walked toward Bromhead.
"Well, Colonel," he said, "what next?"

"We get these people organized and
get them the hell out of here The
Communists will probably come back with
a battalion and anyone they find around
here is going to die slowly and
horribly."

"How soon?"

"A week, maybe two. Gives everyone a
chance to get out," said Bromhead.

"Too bad we can't get a strike
company in here to ambush them. Really
hit them where it would hurt."

Bromhead nodded. "Let's just be glad
we got out of this one alive."

Then, from the distance came the
first pop, a noise that could barely be
heard over the sounds from the jungle.
Brom

200 The Ville

head turned and looked over the tops
of the trees. There were wisps of fog
there, drifting to the south in the
light morning breeze. There was a
column of black smoke from one of the
fires.

As Bromhead watched, specks appeared
that slowly turned into helicopters.
For a moment he stood and stared, and
then remembered that they had just
beaten off a Communist attack. If the
enemy was close, it would be the
perfect time for an attempt to overrun
them. He turned to say something to
Gilman, but the Marine had
disappeared, obviously to set up the
security that Bromhead had ignored.

Before the choppers got much closer,
Hansen was at his side. "An answer to
our radio message."

"You get a call sign?"

"Zulu Six," said Hansen.

Bromhead tore his eyes away from the
approaching choppers and laughed.
"Zulu Six?"

"~You know who it is?"

"Yeah," said Bromhead. "I know who it
is. Just like him to arrive on the
scene with the help." He glanced at
the choppers. "You going to throw
smoke?"

Hansen showed him the grenade and
said, "All ready. Where do you want
them to land?"

"South side of the ville, on that
grassy plain. Better advise them of
the ash." Just before Hansen ran off,
Bromhead added, "This might be the
first time in history that the U.S.
Cavalry did not arrive in the nick of
time."

:

.. .

12
THE AMERICAN
EMBASSY SAIGON, RVN

The conference room was larger and
better furnished than the last one
Bromhead had been in. The table had
enough chairs around it for thirty
people, and the majority of them were
filled with general officers,
admirals, men in dark, three-piece
suits, and a couple of colonels. Three
chairs had been placed at the head of
the table and all were vacant.

Bromhead and his two sergeants,
attired in the proper uniforms with
all their insignia on them, stood
against the far wall, behind a few of
the lower-ranking men at the table.
Bromhead clutched a green beret in his
left hand. He leaned back against the
paneled wall and IQoked at the
powder-blue carpeting that seemed
nearly a foot thick. Instead of the
normal framed prints, there were
original watercolors on the walls.
Behind the empty chairs were both the
American and South Vietnamese flags,
although there were no South
Vietnamese in the room.

He wondered about the Meo woman that
Beu had given to him. She hadn't said
a word as the people scattered into
the forest after the battle. She had
IQoked at him once and then turned to
follow her people. There had never
been a real re

202 The Ville

lationship there, but Bromhead felt
bad about the situation. He imagined
that Ben had taken her back so that
she wasn't alone. It was too bad, but
there wasn't much that he could do for
her.

Gilman leaned close to Bromhead.
"How long they going to keep us here?"

"Don't know." Bromhead noticed that
several of the men were turning to
glare at him.

"Who are these guys?"

"Don't know that, either." Bromhead
wiped the sweat from his face. It
wasn't that he was hot. In fact, it
was chilly in the room, but he was
sweating. The summons to the
conference had been anything but
cordial.

They had been met at the airfield
when the helicopter landed. Two MPs
armed with M-16s and wearing highly
polished helmet liners with a white
716 on them, had been standing at the
pad. With them were a Naval captain
and an Army colonel. The captain had
given Bromhead a sealed envelope that
demanded he be at the embassy at nine
in the morning, in uniform, to explain
what had happened. Neither the captain
nor the colonel had been ready when
the woman had climbed off the chopper
and asked innocently if Bromhead could
take her to the hotel.

Bromhead had been thinking about the
night at the hotel when the door
opened. An Army first lieutenant
stepped in and looked at the men at
the table. "Gentlemen, the ambassador
and General Anderson."

The two men entered. The ambassador
smiled and nodded at a couple of the
people. "Hello, Fred. Glad to see
you."

"Thank you, Mr. Ambassador," said a
man in one of the suits.

As the ambassador sat down, Anderson
asked, "Are these the three men?"

"Yes, sir," said the lieutenant.

17'e H'11e 203

"Okay, Bromhead," said the general,
"why don't you let us in on what in the
hell you thought you were doing?"

Bromhead moved forward so that he was
standing near a corner of the table
opposite to the ambassador and the
general. He was at a relaxed attention,
his hands at his sides, his feet
together, and his beret in his left
hand. Beads of perspiration stood on
his forehead. He knew that anything he
said was going to be wrong. These
people were pissed and they weren't
going to let him forget it.

"General?" he said.

"You were ordered out of the village.
You were ordered to recover the
weapons. You were not told to engage in
combat with representatives of the
Laotian government. That was just the
sort of incident we were trying to
avoid."

"General," said Bromhead. "Mr.
Ambassador. My original orders were to
train a battalion of strikers to fight
a guerrilla action in Laos and to
interdict the Ho Chi Minh Trail because
of the increased activity on it. That I
did."

"Then you did a hell of a job," said
the general. "In less than a week you
had a combat force and employed them to
ambush a column and to defend a
village."

"The men were already trained," said
Bromhead. "I did what I thought I was
supposed to."

"Even after you had been ordered out,
you engaged in hostilities with
Communists." The general stopped,
consulted a folder sitting in front of
him, "And you did it all in front of a
civilian witness."

"What was I supposed to do? Shoot her?
Or let the Communists overrun the
village and kill everyone?"

"Bromhead," snapped the general, "I
will ask the questions and you'll
answer them. And be damned careful be-
cause you're about six inches from a
general court."

For the next hour Bromhead detailed
what happened in the village. Talked
about the ambush, the assault on the
village and how they had beaten it.
Then he talked about the next

204 The V211e

morning. The bodies strewn over the
landscape, most of them Communists.

He talked about picking up the dead
Meos and preparing them for transport
out of there. How the villagers didn't
want to leave the bodies of their dead
because of their religious beliefs. He
told how Hansen had prepared the
wounded for travel with the help of
Jane Lucas.

And although he didn't know exactly
what Gerber's orders had been, or if
he had been operating on his own, he
talked about the helicopters landing.
With the reinforcements, there had
been medics who had treated the
injured. Several of the Meos, whose
wounds were more serious than the
rest, were loaded on the choppers for
treatment at the closest Special
Forces camp. Arrangements would have
to be made to get them back to their
families.

The villagers had gotten out of
there by noon. Ben had an idea of
where they should go. A place they
could hide from the Communists.
Bromhead had been going to lie about
the weapons, but didn't. He told the
general that he gave all the captured
weapons to the Meos and that he had
also given them a number of M-ls and
ammunition.

Once the villagers were gone,
Bromhead and his men, and Jane Lucas
had headed out with the helicopters.
They had been ferried to a Special
Forces camp and dropped off. Gerber
and Fetterman had taken the strike
force back to its camp and Bromhead
didn't know where they were. Later
that day another helicopter had
arrived to pick them up. The pilot had
no instructions about Lucas since no
one had told him about her. Bromhead
prevailed, saying that they couldn't
leave an American woman on a Special
Forces camp. They had an obligation to
get her to Saigon where she could get
a commercial flight back to the World.

"And that brings us up to date,"
finished Bromhead.

The belle

The ambassador remained silent but the
general slammed his hand to the table
with a sound like a shot. "You have got
to be the dumbest son of a bitch in the
United States Army.'>

"Now hold on, Anderson," said one of
the admirals. "I'll admit that some of
Captain Bromhead's decisions might be
open to question, but I will not
tolerate this kind of namecalling, even
though he is an Army officer.""

For the first time, Bromhead began to
relax. It seemed that everything was
not as cut and dried as the general was
making it seem. A moment later, the
admiral confirmed it. ~

"We are here to determine if Captain
Bromhead should be court-martialed.
From what I've heard, it would seem
that the original scope of the
captain's orders was not sufficiently
narrowed. His actions seem to be in
keeping with those instructions and
when they were changed, in midstream,
events took control."

"Come on, Peter, " said Anderson,
"your boy took off on his own,
violating his instructions and came up
with this cockand-bull story to cover
his ass." ~

The admiral opened his folder, didn't
wait for Anderson to speak. "That is
not the impression I get from these
reports. At worst, Captain Bromhead
could be charged for the cost of some
obsolete Second World War weapons that
he purposefully left with the natives.
Given the fact that the villagers
suddenly had possession of a hundred or
more AK-47s, I doubt that the M-ls are
going to have much of an impact."

That was the way it went for the next
hour. The men at the table questioned
Bromhead, Gilman and Hansen, touching
on all aspects of the mission. The
ambassador was surprised to find that
no one had known the Lucas woman was in
the village until Bromhead and his team
walked in. That had been a breakdown in
the intelligence system.

The ambassador turned on the CIA
representative, demanding to know how
that had happened. With all the per

206 The Tulle

miss, all the coordination'it would
take to get her into Laos, the CIA
should have known that she was there.

The man simply shrugged. "It's one of
those things that slipped through the
crack."

The ambassador laughed. "You people
want to hang Captain Bromhead and his
people and then you tell me that one
of the major problems is just
something that fell through the
crack."

The ambassador leaned over and
whispered to the general. He nodded
and said, "Lieutenant Davis, would you
please escort Captain Bromhead and his
men to the waiting room? We'll send
for them if we need them again."

As soon as they were out of the room
and the door was closed, Bromhead
breathed a sigh of relief. "That's got
it," he said.

"What do you mean?" asked Gilman. His
face was pale; sweat stood on his face
and stained the collar of his shirt.
Even the underarms of his Class A
uniform had been soaked through.

"I mean," said Bromhead, grinning,
"that they would have kept us in there
if they were going to nail us. They'll
fight it out among themselves, trade
off and blame each other, but in the
end we'll be in the clear. They'll
bring us in and pretend that we're in
deep shit and had better toe the line,
but everyone is going to try very hard
to forget this episode."

"You're sure?" asked Hansen.

"Positive," said Bromhead. "I've been
through it before. Hell, I was in one
deal where they decided to give us
medals for it instead of
court-martials. I guess that's how
heroes are made. They fuck up and
someone decides the only way to handle
it is hand out a few citations."

It took the men in the conference
room two hours to decide what to do.
They brought the three men back in,
had them stand at attention and the
general read them the riot act.
Dressed them up and down and told them
that for the good of

We Milk 207

the various services and the U S.
mission in Vietnam, the incident was
going to be forgotten. The men were to
report to MACV Headquarters in the
morning for orders. They were dismissed
for the rest of the day.

As they left the room, Bromhead had
the urge to whoop, leap in the air and
slap the others on the back. With great
effort, he walked calmly down the hall
until they reached the entrance to the
embassy.

Sitting there, dressed in a short
skirt and a white blouse, her blond
hair washed and combed, was Jane Lucas.
When she saw them, she leaped to her
feet, at first afraid that it had gone
against them, but then realized that
they were in the clear.

"What'd they say?" she demanded.

"Chewed us out for getting into the
fight with the Communists, but decided
that it wasn't our fault. Chewed us out
for getting into a fight with an
American civilian there but decided it
wasn't our fault. Chewed us out for
leaving so many of our weapons behind
but decided that with all the AKs lying
around after the fight, it made no
difference."

"Then you're in the clear?" she said.

"Yeah," said Gilman. "In the clear.,'

Lucas looked at Bromhead. "So what
now?"

"Have the day off. Have to report
tomorrow. You want to grab some lunch
and see if we can waste the afternoon?"

"Lunch is fine,'' she said, "but
let's not waste the afternoon. Let's
think of something."

"Sure," said Bromhead.

GLOSSARY

AWAircraft commander. The pilot in
charge of an aircraft.

ACTUAL Actual unit commander, as opposed
to the radiotelephone operator (RTO)
for that unit.

AFVN Armed Forces radio and television
network in V~etG. Army PFC Pat Sajak
was probably the most memorable of
AFVN's DJs with his loud and long,
"GOOOOOOOOOOD MORNing, Vietnam!" The
spinning Wheel of Fortune gives no
clues to his whereabouts today.

AIT Advanced Individual Training.

AR47 Selective fire assault rifle used
by the NVA and VC. It fired the same
ammunition as the SKS carbine, which
was used early in the war. The AK-47
replaced the SKS.

AO Area of Operations;

AO DAI Long dresslike garment, split up
the sides and worn over pants. Rarely
seen in the countryside.

APC Armored personnel carrier.

AP ROUNDS Armor-piercing ammunition.

The belle 209

ARVN Army of the Republic of Vietnam. A
South Vietnamese Army soldier.
Sometimes disparagingly called Marvin
Arvin.

ASH AND TRASH Single ship flights by
helicopters taking care of a variety of
missions, such as, flying cargo,
supplies, mail and people among the
various small camps in Vietnam, for
anyone who needed aviation support.

BAR .30-caliber Browning Automatic Rifle.
A sort of Second World War vintage
squad automatic weapon.

BEAUCOUP Many. Term derived from the
French presence in Vietnam prior to the
war.

BISCUIT C-rations. Combat rations.

BLOOPER See M-79.

BLOWER See Horn.

BODY COUNT Number of enemy killed,
wounded or captured during an
operation. Used by Saigon and
Washington as a means of measuring the
progress of the war.

BOOM-BOOM Term used by the Vietnamese
prostitutes to sell their product.

BOONDOGGLE Any military operation that
hasn't been completely thought out. An
operation or idea that is ridiculous.

BOONIE HAT Soft cap worn by the grunts in
the field when they were not wearing a
steel pot.

BURP GUN Any compact submachine gun,
especially the 7.62 x 25 mm Soviet
PPSh-41 or any of its variants, such as
the Yugoslavian M49 and M49/57, the
Hungarian M48 and the Chinese Communist
Type 50, which was sometimes called a
K-50.

210 The Hlle

BUSHMASTER Jungle warfare expert or
soldier highly skilled in jungle
navigation and combat. Also a large
deadly snake not common to Vietnam but
mighty tasty.

C AND C Command and Control aircraft
that circled overhead to direct
combined air and ground operations.

CARBINE A shortened rifle for use by
cavalry or vehicle crews or special
troops, such as, paratroops who
require a light, compact weapon. The
Soviet SKS and the U.S. M-1 and M-2
are carbines.

CARIBOU U.S. Army twin-engine cargo
transport plane.

CHINOOK Army Aviation twin-engine
helicopter. A CH47. Also known to the
troops as a shit hook. Depending upon
the model, it could carry thirty to
forty-five troops, or up to eight tons
of cargo in an external sling.

CHURCH KEY Beer-can opener used in the
days before pop tops.

CLAYMORE Antipersonnel mine that fires
seven hundred and fifty steel balls
with a lethal range of fifty meters.
It can either be command detonated by
electricity or manually detonated by a
trip wire or pull device. It was a
directional mine, designed to throw
its fragments outward in Unshaped
pattern rather than indiscriminately.

CLOSE AIR SUPPORT Use of airplanes and
helicopter gunships to fire on enemy
units near friendly troops.

CO Young unmarried Vietnamese woman. Co
is roughly equivalent to Miss.

CO CONG Female Vietcong soldier.

DAI UY ARVN rank equivalent to a U.S.
captain.

DCI Director, Central Intelligence.
The head of the CIA.

DEAD ZONE Radio dead spot. A location
where, because of the geographic or
atmospheric conditions, radio
communication is difficult or
impossible.

The grille

DEROS Date of Estimated Return from
Overseas Service. It came to mean
going home.

DING To shoot someone was to ding him.

DINK Slang applied initially to any
Vietnamese. Later it was used for any
person of Southeast Asian extraction;
usually it was uncomplimentary.

DINKY DAU Crazy. From the Vietnamese Dien
cai dad, literally, off the wall.

DONG Unit of North Vietnamese money,
about equal to a U. S. penny.

E and E Evasion and Escape.

EOD Explosive Ordnance Disposal. This
aspect of demolitions deals with
booby-trapping and the disarming of
explosive devices.

FAC Forward Air Controller. U. S. Air
Force pilots who flew tiny 0-1 and 0-2
light observation aircraft, later
OV-10, and directed artillery fires
and close air support strikes, served
as scouts and as aerial radio relay
links and conducted psychological
warfare operations.

FAST MOVER Jet aircraft. Also called oil
burners. Usually referred to a
tactical support aircraft, such as the
F-100 or F-4 fighter bombers.

FCT Fire Control Tower. An elevated
structure protected by sandbags, used
within a camp to direct mortar,
artillery and machine gun fire when
the camp was under attack.

FIFTY Browning . 50-caliber heavy
machine gun.

FIIGMO Fuck It, I've Got My Orders.
Pronounced fig-mt.

FIRE ARROW Large wooden arrow with
burning gasoline cans affixed to it
used in Special Forces camps to mark
the direction of enemy troops for
close air support at night.

FIVE Radio call sign for the executive
officer of a unit.

212 The Tulle

FNG Fucking New Guy. Any replacement
that had recently joined a unit.

FREEDOM BIRD Name given to any aircraft
that took troops out of Vietnam.
Usually referred to the commercial jet
flights that took men back to the
World after they had completed their
tour of duty and were eligible to
DEROS.

FRENCH FORT Distinctive,
triangular-shaped fortification built
by the hundreds throughout Vietnam by
the French.

FUBAR Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition
(or repair).

GARAND Second World War vintage U.S.
rifle, .30-caliber M-1. It was
replaced in U.S. services by the M-14.
The Garand was issued to Vietnamese
troops and Special Forces advisors
early in the Vietnam War.

GOOR Derogatory term used by U. S.
troops chiefly to describe the
Vietcong enemy. Later it was made into
a racial slur by the American media,
although to grunts it remained a
generic term for the enemy without any
particular prejudice attached to it,
much as calling a German a Jerry
during the Second World War. See also
Dink.

GO-TO-HELL RAG Towel or any large cloth
worn around the neck by grunts to
absorb perspiration, clean their
weapons and dry their hands.

GUARD THE RADIO Term meaning to stand by
in the comma bunker and listen for
incoming messages.

GUNSHIP Armed helicopter or cargo plane
equipped with muniguns, used in the
close air support role.

HE High-explosive ammunition or bombs.

HOOTCH Almost any shelter, from
temporary to longterm.

He V'lle 213

HORN Specific radio communications
network in Vietnam that used
satellites to rebroadcast messages.

HORSE See Biscuit.

HOTEL THREE Helicopter landing area at
Saigon's Tan Son Nhut Airport.

HUEY UH-1 helicopter.

IN-COUNTRY American troops operating in
South Vietnam were all said to be
in-country.

INDIAN COUNTRY Bush slang for
enemy-controlled territory.

INTELLIGENCE Any information about the
enemy's operations, including troop
movements, weapons' capabilities,
biographies of enemy commanders and
general information about terrain
features in a specific area of
operations that would be useful in
planning a mission. Also refers to the
branch of the military specifically
dealing with the gathering and
dissemination of such information.
Often abbreviated to Intel.

JP- 1 Enhanced kerosene fuel used in
military jet aircraft and jet turbine
helicopters.

KABAR Generic term for a type of
military combat knife.

KEMCHI Foul-smelling Korean delicacy made
of fermented cabbage.

KHMER SEREI Cambodian underground
political group similar to the KKK
(which see) but more reliable and
trustworthy.

KIA Killed In Action. Since the U.S. was
not engaged in a declared war in
Vietnam, the use of the term KIA was
not authorized to refer to U. S.
troops. Americans were referred to as
KHA, or Killed in Hostile Action,
while KIA came to mean enemy dead.

214 T7te ~11e

KKK Khmer Kampuchea Kron, a nominally
pro-U.S. Cambodian exile group, which
operated as guerrillas against the VC
in Cambodia. It was often difficult to
manage, sometimes being little more
than a group of border bandits.

KLICK One thousand meters. A
kilometer.

LBE Load-Bearing Equipment. Web gear. A
pistol belt and attached shoulder
harness assembly for carrying a sol-
dier's individual equipment and
ammunition.

LBJ Long Binh Jail. A military
stockade near Saigon.

LEGS Derogatory term for regular
infantry soldiers used by airborne
qualified troops. Also known as
grunts.

LIMA LIMA Land Line. Refers to telephone
communications between two points on
the ground.

LLDB Luc Luong Dac Biet. The South
Vietnamese Special Forces. Sometimes
disparagingly referred to as the Look
Long, Duck Back.

LP Listening Post. A position outside
the perimeter of a camp manned by a
few men up to a squad to warn of the
approach of enemy troops.

LZ Landing Zone. An area designated for
helicopters to land.

M-1 Either the 8-round, clip-fed Garand
M-1 rifle, or the smaller M-1 carbine,
which fired low-powered .30caliber
ammunition from a 15- or 30-round
magazine.

M-l - Standard rifle of the U.S. Army
and Marine Corps during the late 1950s
and early 1960s. A replacement for the
Garand M-1 rifle, it was itself
eventually replaced by the M-16. The
M-14 fired the 7.62 x 59 mrn NATO car-
tridge, known to civilians as the .308
Winchester.

M- 16 Became the standard infantry
weapon of the latter part of the
Vietnam War. Derived from the
excellent AR-15

         17'eV'lle 215
assault rifle designed by Eugene Stoner
of the Armalite

i   Corporation. The rifle underwent a
series of modifica
tions by the U. S. Army, which made it
both fire at an
excessively high rate and prone to both
fouling and jamming. This version,
properly known as the M-16A1, is
the weapon most grunts carried in Vietnam
after late
1966, and accounts for the weapon's poor
reputation as
a combat rifle. The original AR- 15
design was an excellent weapon, and the
few examples of it that found their
way into Vietnam frequently brought high
prices on the
Little Black Market in Saigon.

M-79 Short-barreled, shoulder-fired weapon
launching a 40 mm grenade. The grenades
could be high explosive, white phosphorus
or canister (sometimes called buckshot
rounds). The M-79 was also known as a
blooper, bloop tube and elephant gun, the
former deriving from the sound made as the
grenade left the barrel, the latter
because of the diameter of the weapon's
bore. It could effectively launch grenades
up to about three hundred and fifty
meters, and the bursting radius of the
grenades was about fifteen meters.

MACV Military Assistance Command, Vietnam.
The headquarters of the U.S. advisory and
assistance effort in Vietnam. MACV
(pronounced Mack-Vee) replaced MAAG, the
Military Assistance Advisory Group, in
1964.

MARS Military Affiliate Radio System.
Alink through Sig

1   nal Corps and Stateside volunteer
amateur radio oper
ators allowing a soldier to send messages
to the World.

MEDEVAC Medical Evacuation. Also called
Dustoff. A helicopter used to take the
wounded to medical facilities.

MG Machine gun.

216 The Hlle

MIA Missing In Action. Someone who has
vanished while in contact with enemy
forces.

MOST RICKY TICK At once. Immediately.

MP Military Police. They enforced order
and escorted convoys.

NCO Noncommissioned Of ficer. A
noncom. A sergeant.

NCOIC NCO In Charge. The senior NCO in a
unit, detachment or patrol.

NDP Night Defensive Perimeter (or
Position). A secure or defensible
position for troops to laager in
overnight.

NEXT The man who said it was his turn
next to be rotated home. See Short.

NHA TRANG SFHQ was located in this city
about halfway up the seacoast of South
Vietnam. The term was used
interchangeably by Special Forces
troopers to mean their headquarters.

NINETEEN Average age of the U.S. combat
soldier in Vietnam, as opposed to
twenty-six during the Second World
War.

NOUC MAM Foul-smelling fermented fish
sauce used by the Vietnamese.

NVA North Vietnamese Army. Also any
soldier of the NVA.

OD Olive Drab. A dark brownish-green
color.

OP Observation Post. A location for
observing the enemy.

OP Operation. Any military mission.

OPERATION BOOTSTRAP Program in the U. S.
Army to help men on active duty
complete a college education. Men in
the program were considered to be
still on active duty while attending a
college.

Talelle 217

P-38 U.S. Army designation for a small,
two-piece, hinged can opener supplied
with C-rations. One of the few really
good items of equipment the Army came
up with.

PBR Pabst Blue Ribbon beer.

PETA-PRIME Black tarlike substance used
to hold down dust during the dry
season, applied to roads and runways
alike. It had a tendency to melt in the
extreme heat of day in Vietnam, turning
into a sticky black nightmare that
clung to boots, clothing and equipment
and frequently ruined them. Pilots
considered the stuffto be almost
useless.

PETER PILOT Copilot of a helicopter.

PF STRIKERS Popular Forces. Similar to
RFs but used on a more local level.

POL Petroleum, Oil and Lubricants.
Frequently used to indicate a refueling
point for aircraft.

POON TANG See Boom-Boom. The product.

PRC- 10 U. S. Army portable radio
transceiver used from the Second World
War through Vietnam. Eventually re-
placed by the PRC-25. Both were
backpack-type units with a
telephonelike handset.

POGUES Derogatory term used to describe
the fat, lazy soldiers who inhabited
the rear areas, taking all the best
supplies for themselves and leaving the
leftovers for the grunts in the field.

PSP Perforated Steel Plate used instead
of concrete paving for runways and
roadways.

PULL PITCH Term used by helicopter pilots
that means they are going to take off.

PUNJI STAKE Sharpened bamboo stake hidden
as a booby trap to penetrate the foot.
Sometimes dipped in feces or

218 The V211e

water buffalo urine to increase the
likelihood of infection.

QT Quick Time. It referred originally to
the rate of march of foot soldiers,
but came to mean talking to someone on
the side in order to expedite matters,
rather than going through channels.

R AND R Rest and Relaxation. It came to
mean a one- or two-week vacation
outside Vietnam, where the soldier was
supposed to be able to forget about
the war. Shorter, in-country R and R's
were also sometimes granted to
soldiers who had done a particularly
good job. R and R was also known as I
and I (Intoxication and Intercourse)
by the troops, since these were the
two activities most often engaged in
when one went on R and R.

RF STRIKERS Local military forces
recruited and employed within a
province. Regional Forces were usually
used to guard key locations, such as
power plants and bridges, and to
protect the province political chief.

RING KNOCKER Graduate of a military
academy, such as West Point. It refers
to the ring worn by all graduates.

RON Remain Overnight.

RP Rally Point or Rendezvous Point.

RPD Soviet 7.62 x 39 mm light machine
gun.

RTO Radio Telephone Operator. The
radioman of a unit.

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT Rules that told the
American troops when they could shoot
and when they couldn't. Full
Suppression meant they could fire at
will. Normal Rules meant they could
return fire only when fired upon first
by the enemy. Negative Suppression
meant they could not fire back even if
fired upon.

SAPPER Soldier trained in the use of
explosives. Especially a VC soldier
whose primary job was to blow up

The Ville219

bunkers and barbed-wire entanglements
during an attack on a camp.

SCRAMBLED EGGS Distinctive design on the
visor of the cap of a Field Grade or
General Officer..

SFHQ Special Forces Headquarters. In
Vietnam, SFHQ was located in Nha Trang.

SHIT HOOK Another name for the CH-47
Chinook helicopter, so called by troops
ar d pilots because of all the "shit"
stirred up by the massive rotors during
a landing.

SHORT Term used by everyone in Vietnam to
tell all who would listen to him that
his tour was almost over.

SHORT-TIMER GI who had been in Vietnam
for approximately the duration of his
tour (usually about a year), and who
would be DEROSed or rotated back to the
World soon. When the Short-timer's
DEROS time was the shortest in the
unit, that man was said to be "Next."

SIX Radio call sign for the Unit
Commander.

SIX-BY U.S. Army six-by-six-wheel drive,
two-and-a-half ton truck. Also called
a deuce and a half.

SIXTY M-60 General Purpose Machine Gun,
caliber 7.62 x 59 mm NATO. Feeding from
a disintegrating metal link belt, it
had a biped fixed to the barrel for use
as a squad automatic weapon (SAW) and
could also be mounted on a tripod,
coaxially in a tank turret or on a
vehicle pintle mount.

SIXTY U. S. M-60 Main Battle Tank.

SKS Soviet-made semiautomatic carbine
firing the same round as the AK-47 and
eventually replaced by it. It was also
used as a generic term to refer to any
of the ComBlock or Chicom copies of it.

SMG Submachine gun.

220 The Vile

SOI Signal Operating Instructions. The
booklet that contained the call signs
and radio frequencies of the units in
Vietnam.

SOP Standard Operating Procedure.

STEEL POT Standard U. S. Army helmet used
in Vietnam. It consisted of a fiber
helmet liner with an outer steel cover.

STRAC Strategic Army Command or Soldier
Trained and Ready Around the Clock.

STORMY WEATHER Code name for the
Cambodian border.

TAI Ethnic minority group composed of
several differing tribes found
throughout Southeast Asia and
inhabiting chiefly the mountainous
regions and the Mekong River i delta.

TDY Temporary Duty.

THREE Radio call sign of the Operations
Officer.

THREE CORPS Military region around
Saigon. Vietnam was divided principally
into four corps areas and a few special
zones.

TOC Tactical Operations Center.

TOT Time On Target or Time Over Target.
The former referred to a concentrated
artillery bombardment, the latter to
the time that an aircraft is supposed
to be over a drop zone or bombing
target.

TRACK Any tracked military vehicle.
Especially the M-113 APC (Armored
Personnel Carrier).

TRUNG SI NHAT Vietnamese rank equivalent
to a U.S. staff sergeant.

TWELVE-SEVEN The Soviet made Degtyarev
12.7 mm heavy machine gun. Also
sometimes called a . 51-caliber machine
gun.

The Ville221

TWO Radio call sign of the Intelligence
Of ficer.

TWO-OH-ONE (201) FILE Military records
file listing all the qualifications,
training, experience and abilities of
a soldier. It was passed from unit to
unit so that the new commander would
have some idea about the capabilities
of an incoming soldier.

UHF Ultra High Frequency long-range
radio. Sometimes referred to as the
Uniform, short for its phonetic alpha-
bet abbreviation, Uniform Hotel Fox.

VC The Vietcong. Often called Victor
Charlie (from the phonetic alphabet for
the letters) or just Charlie.

VIETCONG Contraction of Vietnam Cong San
(Vietr~amese Communist Party,
established in 1956).

VNAF South Vietnamese Air Force.

WIA Wounded In Action.

WILLIE PETE Also called WP, Willie Peter
or smoke rounds. White phosphorus
shells or bombs used for marking
targets and as antipersonnel weapons.
They were very effective due to their
psychological effect.

WORLD The World. Term used to refer to
the United States, where supposedly
sanity was still in force, unlike
Vietnam, which to the grunts (foot
soldiers) was clearly dinky dau. Also
sometimes called Stateside, or just the
States.

XO Executive Officer of a unit. The
assistant commander.

ZAP To ding, pop caps at or shoot. To
kill someone. Also called grease.

ZIPPO Slang for a flamethrower, derived
from the cigarette lighter popular with
the troops. Sometimes refers to a
search-and-destroy mission.

          Mach Bolan,..
               in'

by Dick Stivers

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