Into the Treeline (Men of Valor Series #2)

by John F. Mullins

Overview

Special Forces veteran John F. Mullins continues his series of men at war with a story of explosive action and unrelenting drama -- from the home front to the front lines....
When Lieutenant James "No-Middle-Initial" Carmichael is wounded in the Central Highlands of Vietnam, he is medevacked to the U.S. and nursed back to health by a young medic with whom he falls in love. After two tours, he knows he could ask to be stationed Stateside -- but he has unfinished business in Nam. Back in-country, Carmichael joins the covert Phoenix Program, where his mission is to take out the Viet Cong high command. He proves himself so lethal that the enemy places a price on his head.
The Cong are not his only foes. His South Vietnamese "allies" betray him at every turn, even as he begins to doubt his own motives and honor. But when an ultimate act of treachery from within leaves him abandoned and surrounded, Jim Carmichael has only one choice....
Fight or die.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781416507604
Publisher:	Pocket Books
Publication date:	10/30/2004
Series:	John F. Mullins' Men of Valor Series , #2
Sold by:	SIMON & SCHUSTER
Format:	eBook
Pages:	368
Sales rank:	124,613
File size:	390 KB

About the Author

John F. Mullins joined the U.S. Army in 1960 and served three tours in Vietnam with the Special Forces, initially as a medic and then as an "A" Team XO and CO, and as a SOG Operative after being commissioned in 1964. After retiring in 1981, he has worked as a "for-hire soldier," conducting security and antiterrorism operations in such hot spots as Bogota, Colombia, Beirut, and Belfast. He lives in Oklahoma.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter I

Special Forces Lieutenant Jim Carmichael was moving through the elephant grass, getting cut to pieces. God, he hated the stuff. The leaves cut like tiny razors. Every exposed part of his body was covered by slashes. The individual cuts leaked only a little blood, but there were so many of them it looked as if he was sweating red. He wore sleeves rolled down and gloves stolen from an Air Force pilot but for all the good it did he might as well have been naked.

He was moving far faster than he liked. No time to scout an area for danger before moving the bulk of the company into it. The best he could do was keep a point man ahead fifty meters. It was impossible to send out flankers in the dense grass; too much chance of loss of contact, and loss of contact carried with it the probability of getting into a firefight with your own people.

Still, he had little choice. The brass had decreed that his company be on the day's objective by a certain time, and the artillery had the nasty habit of shelling every place except where you were supposed to be. He'd had the unpleasant experience of being on the receiving end of "friendly fire" before. Friendly fire, isn't.

The handset clipped to his harness hissed. "Skipjack one, this is Sharkfin six, over." Shit! he thought. What now? He answered the call.

"What's your situation, Skipjack?"

"Continuing to move on Objective Sigma. Expect to reach it in approximately three-zero, over."

"You were supposed to be there by now. You'd better move your ass if you expect to get there before dark. Out."

Carmichael wished helicopters had never been invented. Sure they were great for Medevacs; he'd been glad enough for them when he'd been wounded. Sometimes, when used properly, they provided good fire support. But they also allowed field grade officers who should have been sitting far in the rear to fly overhead and harass the troops. Most of them had never had to walk this particular terrain, had no idea how long it took to move, tactically, from one point to another, and so made arbitrary decisions and expected the troops to carry them out. This was the first war in which tactical decisions were not being made by the junior leaders on the ground, and the results showed.

He was damned if he'd try to move any faster. He cursed the fool who had dreamed up this operation in the first place. The lightly armed Montagnards, the hill people recruited, trained, and led by the Special Forces, were no match for the numerically superior North Vietnamese Army (NVA) forces who occupied the area. The only way to survive was to hide, beat the NVA at his own game, hit him when he wasn't expecting it. That couldn't be done if you constantly advertised your position with a chopper flying overhead.

The first night after insertion he'd heard over the radio the results of whatcould happen when the NVA found you. The area the task force was supposedly surrounding had been divided into four equal sectors. Four companies had been inserted, his in the northwest sector. The company in the southeast had been hit shortly after insertion and within two hours had been effectively destroyed as a fighting force. Forty Montagnards and two Americans were killed and almost everyone else wounded. One of the Americans had been an old friend, one with whom he had served in the first tour. He listened on the radio as his friend died, bleeding to death as the high command apologetically told the surviving American that they couldn't get anyone out, the LZ was just too hot.

His company had, on the other hand, been very lucky. Apparently most of the NVA had been concentrated in the southern sectors. They only came across trail watchers, who they promptly killed, and the occasional courier. The couriers they attempted to capture, with a notable lack of success. The Montagnards really couldn't understand why the Americans were so eager to take a Vietnamese alive and had a tendency to shoot them on sight. Northern Vietnamese, Southern, it didn't matter to them; but they got in trouble with the Americans for shooting the Southerners.

The documents taken from the dead couriers greatly troubled him. They indicated that the NVA was not suffering much from the almost incessant aerial and artillery bombardment. It was a big jungle and there were lots of places to hide. One report in particular worried him. It indicated that, while many of the battalions from the famed Yellow Star Division had already broken through the so-called cordon, there was still quite a large force somewhere to the north of his company.

He supposed the present situation was his own fault. He had made the mistake of sharing the information with Major Walters, the "B" Team commander, who became quite excited at the prospect of his people finding the enemy and fixing them in place, supposedly the purpose of the operation. The major pushed the company to move ever faster, insisting that they catch the enemy before he got away. Never mind that at this speed they would probably stumble upon him. It was always easier to make decisions like that when you were flying overhead. You didn't have to move through the stuff.

Up ahead Jim saw one of the infrequent bare patches of ground upon which even the elephant grass refused to grow. He'd noticed several of them while flying to the insertion, four days ago. The grass would be smooth and green, rippling gently in the breeze. It gave no hint from above that it was ten or twelve feet high. Then holes like this one, looking like acne scars. The 'Yards thought such places were haunted because people had died there. He wasn't so superstitious. He attributed it to patches of overly alkaline soil, like the ones that popped up in the played-out cotton fields of his native Oklahoma.

He moved to the edge of the open area and signaled the company to halt. Free of the elephant grass, he could finally see the objective. It looked ominous, a long finger of land poked obscenely into the valley, its top swathed in the eternal mist of the jungle. The elephant grass covered it halfway up, then disappeared abruptly into a wall of green. The trees rose two hundred feet into the sky, their canopies so tightly interwoven that little light could penetrate. Inside, he knew, would be a second canopy a hundred feet off the ground, this one composed of vines and creepers needing little light to survive, drawing their sustenance from the living flesh of the trees that shielded them from the sun. At ground level would be the ferns and thorn vines growing in an eternal twilight, intertwined around the giant fungi that when disturbed gave off a graveyard stench.

He observed it for a few minutes, trying to figure a good way to approach. It didn't look promising. For all he knew an entire battalion could be hiding up there. If he'd had a choice he would have bypassed it, spending a couple of days working around it and coming up from the rear. He didn't have a choice.

He walked back to where Sergeant First Class (SFC) Zack Osborne and the second platoon waited. Zack's homely face crinkled into a smile as he saw Jim approach.

"'Bout fuckin' time you called a break, Trung Ui," Zack said. "I figgered you was runnin' a road race, fast as we was movin'. You sniff out a whorehouse up there?"

"Nah," Jim answered, dropping to the ground beside the burly sergeant. "A shitstorm, maybe, but no whorehouse. You know I can't smell as good as you anyway. I don't have the equipment."

Zack Osborne's outsized nose had been for years a matter of discussion in the Special Forces. Some said that it was larger than his male member. Others said it took the place of it. Of course, nobody wanted him to be self-conscious about it. So they called him Hosenose.

Zack rubbed his most outstanding appendage with care. "We don't get out of this fuckin' grass, this sumbitch is gonna be cut clear off. I'm about ready for this Chinese clusterfuck to be over. We ain't lost, are we? I mean, you bein' a lootenant and all!"

All Special Forces NCOs believed it was foolish to trust any officer below the rank of captain with a map and compass, even if that officer, as was currently the case, was a first lieutenant who had been a Special Forces NCO for several years.

"Glad you've got so much faith," Jim said sourly. "You know the only thing worse than a second lieutenant with a map?"

Zack indicated that, in his vast experience, the only thing worse was wet toilet paper.

"Nope," Jim said, "What's worse is some sergeant standing behind that lieutenant and saying 'You right, Sir!'"

Zack grinned. The lieutenant had, in fact, offered him the chance earlier to lead the element but, truth be told, one goddamn mountain looked just like another in this goddamn place. And how the hell could you navigate through the grass? It was like being underwater.

Jim pulled a worn map from the side pocket of his tiger-stripe pants and spread it on the ground.

"The way I see it," he said, "is that this finger would make a hell of a good fortified position; fields of fire in three directions, an escape route to the rear. Too damned narrow for us to hit head on; couldn't deploy most of the company. How about if you take second and third platoons around to the right and come up just about right here?" He pointed to the spot with a twig. "If they're up there, and I think they are, it'll make them have to fight in two directions. What do you think?"

Zack judiciously studied the map, taking his time before replying. Jim waited patiently. Had this been a conventional outfit, he would simply have given the order and expected it to be obeyed. Of course, Jim reflected, if it had been a conventional outfit he would have had no confidence that the order would be followed, or that the subordinate would be able to find his way to the designated point, or that he would attack once he got there. In Special Forces the officer didn't so much lead as suggest. And the NCOs were perfectly justified in rejecting the suggestion if, in their professional opinion, it was a bad one.

Zack finally grunted. "Looks okay to me. Gonna take me about an hour to get around there. You gonna be able to hold off shithead-in-the-sky that long?"

Jim grinned, cracking the encrusted salty dirt on his cheeks. "I think I feel some radio problems coming on. Probably won't be able to hear a thing until you call to tell me you're in place."

He got up, muscles complaining from the movement. Must be getting old, he thought. He was twenty-six.

At the front of the column the Montagnard company commander awaited him. Captain Buon was looking at the objective. "Beaucoup VC?" he asked.

"Yes, I think maybe beaucoup VC," Jim said. "Better get your people ready." He explained his tactics.

The captain smiled widely, showing his prized gold teeth with colored porcelain inlays. "We kill VC, number-ten goddamn sumbitch." He chattered in Rhade to the runners, who set off down the column.

Jim thought that the captain's previous advisors had taught him well, in both tactics and language. No one had to teach the little Montagnard bravery. It was his fifth operation with Captain Buon and Jim thought he was one of the finest soldiers he had ever known. Each year the captain survived he added another gold tooth, achieving much status in his tribe. He loved fighting, the Americans, and his tribe, in that order. Who he fought made little difference. He would have dearly loved to kill some of the Vietnamese soldiers who had for so long oppressed his people. But the Americans insisted that he not do so, and out of respect for them he confined his killing to those of the North. They were Vietnamese, too, and while they had a shorter history of killing his people, they had made up for lost time. His father and mother had been among those reduced to blackened husks in the village of Ban Tleng when the NVA, irritated because the villagers couldn't see the benefits of a socialist future, had brought in flamethrowers.

Jim sat back-to-back with Captain Buon, checking his rifle. He liked the newly issued M-16, but paid heed to the old saying, "Remember that your weapon was made by the lowest bidder." All along the column the indigenous soldiers, small in stature but great in heart, were doing the same. First they ejected the round carried in the chamber and inserted a fresh one. Blew all specks of dust from the action, gave it a little extra squirt of gun grease. They opened the front left magazine pouch, checked the strips of tape affixed to the magazine to provide a grasping point to make sure the moisture hadn't made them give way. They adjusted the red and green scarves, marking them as the 1st CIDG Company, Minh Long Strike Force, so that they could be clearly seen. The scarves were a source of pride as well as being a means of quick identification in the heat of a firefight.

Jim called SFC Lally to the front. Lally was the replacement for the former heavy weapons man, who had been killed the month before. He had been another of Jim's friends. The lieutenant often thought he was running damned low on friends. This was Lally's first operation with the company.

"George, I need you to keep the fourth platoon behind us in reserve," Jim said. "Zack's taking second and third around to the right. I'm going to go with Recon and First straight ahead. There's not room for more than that on line and we don't know what we're gonna run into up there, so I'll need some backup."

"How about me going with the assault and you following up, Boss? After all, you being a highly trained officer and all, I'd hate to see the taxpayers' money get wasted if you get whacked."

"Sorry, buddy. Spirit of the Infantry, Follow Me! and all that shit. Besides, I wouldn't be able to see a fucking thing if I stayed back there. Somebody's got to and you're elected."

Lally shrugged. "Your funeral." He moved off.

In truth, though the suggestion had been tactically sound, Jim wouldn't even consider not being in the front. Now that the time was near he felt the old familiar prickling of excitement. His heart was beating faster, skin felt feverish. His senses were heightened, vision was clearer, sounds were more sharp, the tiredness from the long march had gone away. He had never felt more alive. He wondered if something was wrong with him. He should have been feeling fear, and to a certain extent was, but it was a familiar fear, almost an old friend, and he welcomed it and the adrenaline rush it brought.

It seemed forever before he heard the single code word spoken over the radio indicating that Osborne was in place. Mercifully, Major Walters had not bothered them in the interim. Perhaps he had been off irritating someone else.

He gave the crank-up signal to Captain Buon, who grinned again and started forward, the soldiers fanned out in a ragged line to either side.

They had advanced almost two hundred meters when the first shots were fired. A Montagnard point man, sighting a man in a khaki uniform through a break in the grass, loosed a full magazine at him. The man disappeared and the Montagnard advanced quickly, followed by several of his brethren.

Jim heard the firing to his left, identified it by sound as an M-2 carbine and thus friendly. He was about to ask Captain Buon what had happened when the whole world seemed to fall in on them. One second he was standing in a half crouch with the only sound the wind sighing through the tall grass. Then he was pressing his face into the ground as the hundreds of sharp cracks of bullets passing impossibly close sounded in his ears, followed by the roar of the gunfire. Bullets struck the ground in front of him, stinging his face with dust and gravel. He felt something jerking his pack, realized bullets were striking it.

To his right he heard a gurgling noise, saw the striker who had been guarding his flank lying there with blood frothing from his mouth. Then two rounds struck the man in the top of his head, the sound like a sledgehammer hitting a pumpkin. They tore off a great chunk of skull and splattered brains and blood on the grass behind him, where they slowly dripped to the ground.

The noise was deafening. He wondered why he had not been killed. No one could live through this firestorm. Realizing that he had not yet fired his rifle, he cursed himself and let off a burst. He could see nothing at which to aim. No matter. The bucking of the little black gun was reassuring. He quickly ran through one magazine and dropped it, loaded another and fired.

Think, you asshole! he told himself furiously while loading the next magazine. This is doing absolutely no good. Got to do something. Okay. What?

The firing showed no signs of slackening. But to his right and left he heard the sounds of others returning fire and this heartened him. At least everybody wasn't dead.

Looking closer at the pattern of bullet strikes around him, he saw that all were either hitting in front of him or passing just inches above his back. Through some great stroke of luck he had thrown himself down into a slight depression, perhaps a ditch from some long-ago field. The enemy fire had chopped down enough grass that he could see thirty or forty feet. He picked out individuals and clumps of people scattered along the depression. Some of them were using their dead comrades as cover.

The radio! He wondered if it worked, hoped it had not been shot to pieces. He grasped the handset and put it to his ear. Tears of relief jumped to his eyes as he heard the familiar hiss.

"Sharkfin, this is Skipjack, over." Silence. "Sharkfin, this is Skipjack, come in please." Again silence. "Goddamn asshole, when I don't want you, you're on the radio all the fucking time!"

"What was that, Skipjack?" came the familiar voice.

"Sharkfin, this is Skipjack. We've got a bad situation down here. We are under heavy, repeat heavy, fire from the objective. We need help and need it bad. Over."

"Roger, understand heavy fire. Do you have casualties? Over."

"That's affirmative. Do not know at this time how many. We are pinned down and cannot move. Can you get us some support? Over."

"Roger, what exactly is your position?"

"We are approximately one zero zero meters from the treeline. It appears that most of the fire is coming from that location. We need some relief. Over."

"Roger, the FAC is calling in a fire mission. We have eight inchers and one seven fives on call. Skipjack, as soon as we get the fire suppressed, I want you to move on that treeline. Do you understand me?"

"Roger, Sharkfin, I read you." Jim said, reflecting that he had little choice anyway. If he retreated, the enemy would shoot him in the back. If he stayed where he was, sooner or later a bullet would find him. If he assaulted, he would probably be shot too, but perhaps he could take a few of them with him. Once more into the treeline. Seemed like he had assaulted so many, all of them looking substantially the same. None of them, however, had been this bad.

He listened as the FAC in the tiny plane circling above called in the fire mission, hoped the artillerymen had the coordinates right, hoped the gunners had laid their pieces in properly, hoped that the 175, which was not really a precision weapon, erred on the side of being farther away rather than being too close. From the fire mission he understood that the first round was going to be willy-peter; white phosphorus, used as a marking round. He heard the FAC say "shot," repeating the transmission of the faraway artillery battery commander indicating the first round was on the way. He hunkered down, covering his head with his hands, knowing as he did how futile the action was.

Seconds later he heard the sound of an express train rushing overhead, heard, barely, the FAC saying "splash" as the round impacted fifty yards into the treeline. A great umbrella of white smoke and fiercely burning pieces of phosphorus erupted. None of it penetrated even the first layer of canopy.

As the FAC called in a fire-for-effect, he inched his way to the nearest group of people to his left, hoping to find Captain Buon. The firing had scarcely slackened with the impact of the artillery round, and now resumed full force. Again and again the rounds plucked at his pack, struck the ground both in front and behind him, missing him almost as if he were in a protective bubble. The constant snap as they passed overhead sounded like the sharp-pitched crackling of pine boughs in a bonfire, a hundred times amplified.

The first high-explosive rounds hit the treeline at about the same time he reached Captain Buon, who was smiling his gold-toothed smile at the sky. A fly was crawling in his exposed eyeball. Suddenly the ground shook and the high-pitched whine of metal fragments filled the air. He cautiously raised his head and watched as the dirty black explosions obscured the treeline, some hitting in the trees, others impacting just in front. He thanked God this bunch of artillerymen seemed at least to be able to hit the target. To either side the surviving Montagnards were watching this display of power in awe, some even getting onto hands and knees for a better look. He shouted for them to get down, knowing as he did it they could not hear him.

When the first fire-for-effect ended the enemy fire began again and chopped several of them to pieces. One fell next to him, the reflex action of his legs drumming the ground as nerve synapses fired in mad abandon in the final expenditure of energy.

The handset crackled. "What's your situation now, Skipjack?" it asked.

"Simple enough. God, Jesus Christ, Buddha, Mohammed, and Mickey Mouse, along with at least half the fucking North Vietnamese Army, is shooting at me. What the fuck do you think my situation is!" he screamed. "Goddamn artillery didn't do a goddamn bit of good. They are obviously dug in. We need delay, I repeat delay, fuse. Most of the shit didn't even get through the trees, much less to them."

He heard the major direct the FAC to specify delay fuses for the next volley. The command net was jammed with demands for clarification of the situation. Walters ignored them. Soon the sky would be filled with helicopters, as every senior officer in the area came to get their two cents in. The longer the major could hold them off, the more likely it was that he would be able to put himself in for a decoration for controlling the action.

Jim heard the next rounds crash through the trees on their way to the ground. The first encounter with a tree branch, however small, began the delay mechanism. It generally gave the shells time to bury themselves in the ground before exploding, though some went off scant inches aboveground. The effect was far more efficient than the point-detonating rounds they had used before. Great gouts of earth erupted all along the treeline.

"Six, this is Skipjack. Much, much better. Give me another twenty minutes of the same, then walk it back from the treeline a couple of hundred yards, over."

He received a curt "Roger" and, since the enemy fire had slackened to a few stray rounds cracking overhead, decided to chance a rush along the deadspace. His heart sank. After a quick tour he saw that little more than half the original force was able to function. The Montagnard soldiers he passed, those still alive, grinned almost apologetically at him; sorry they hadn't done more, but encouraged that he was still well and able to lead them. They trusted in only two things: the Americans who helped them and the Buddha. When ready to assault they took the medallions of Buddha hanging from leather thongs around their necks and clamped them firmly between their teeth, secure in the knowledge that should they die they were assured of being reunited with the godhead.

Back at his original position he assessed the situation. The artillery was suppressing the enemy but he held no illusions they had been destroyed. The best to be hoped for was that the enemy would pull out. He hoped so. It was a very long hundred meters to the treeline.

No use delaying. The artillery had started working its way back into the trees. Now or never, he thought. No guts, no glory. Fuck it. Nobody lives forever.

The psyching wasn't working. He was seized with lethargy. How easy it would be! Just to lie here and let someone else worry about it. Nobody could blame him. Nobody else would subject themselves or their troops to that killing zone. Major Walters would raise hell, maybe relieve him. But fuck him anyway! Let him come down here and do it, if he wants it done so badly. I'm tired. I've had enough. No mortal man should have to go through this. It's just too much.

He checked his rifle. Half a magazine left. He ejected it, inserted a fresh one, put the partly depleted one into the side pocket of his pants. Grenades, yes. None broken loose in movement. He felt the blood rushing through his veins, knew he was going to do it. Couldn't, if asked, have explained why. He just had to, that was all. And perhaps that was good enough.

He jumped up, shooting into the treeline, running forward and hoping someone was following. In a ragged line they were, the well and the walking wounded, their shot-up comrades providing covering fire. Fleeting thoughts struck him as he ran forward. How easy it was to get through the elephant grass, since most of it had been neatly mowed by bullet scythes. How little noise there was except the blood rushing in his ears. How the specks of fire in front of him looked almost beautiful even though he knew them to be muzzle flashes. How his legs seemed to carry him impossible distances with each stride, and yet how far away the treeline continued to be. How could the Montagnards run faster than he? Yet here they were, surrounding him, firing as they ran, their faces contorted with effort. In front of him went two, grinning back at him when he shouted at them to get out of his way. One stumbled, coughed a great gout of bright red blood. The other took his place.

And what was this? A tree? It took a moment to realize that he was out of the open. All round him were scenes of carnage, pieces of corpses draped in abandon half in and half out of collapsed bunkers, steam rising from torsos ripped apart by the blasts. And people were still shooting at him. The artillery hadn't killed them all. Not nearly.

There! A foxhole he had run completely by. A rifle muzzle was protruding from it, firing at his people. He pulled an M-26 grenade from its keeper, yanked the pin, and let the spoon fly. Training now took over. Let it cook off, count one-one thousand, two-one thousand. Pop it down the hole, take cover. In two seconds, not enough time for a man in the hole to find it and throw it out, it goes off, blowing the camouflage cover off the hole and filling the air with the black smoke of high explosive. Nobody can live through that, but better make sure. Jump up, point the M-16 down at the hole, look into the muzzle of an AK-47 being held by a very much alive, if somewhat explosion-addled NVA soldier. Jesus! Finger locks down on the trigger, twenty rounds of 5.56 into him, rendering a human into a pile of bloody rags.

Away, break away! Fire coming from a bunker farther up the hill. Shield behind the bole of a tree, machine gun bullets kicking off bark on both sides. Toss a grenade at the bunker. It bounces off and rolls back toward him, explodes just to the front and fills his calf with tiny wire fragments. It is more painful than incapacitating. Another grenade at them, this one thrown with more force. It goes off behind them, temporarily stilling the fire. Two Montagnards assault, one cut in two from another bunker, the other making it to the first, where he very carefully shoots the occupants in the head.

It becomes a pattern: Toss grenades at the bunkers until close enough to wound or daze the occupants, then assault. When he runs out of grenades he uses those tossed to him by the 'Yards, who know they cannot throw them as far and as accurately as he can.

The bunkers are tied in with interlocking fields of fire. It is bloody work. He realizes that his assault force is getting smaller and smaller. The bodies of most are scattered down the hill behind them. Still, nobody falters.

He tosses a grenade, watches in pleasure as it hits behind a hole, then rolls neatly downhill into it. No worry about live ones here; the RPD machinegun that had been firing at them is blown completely out and comes to rest a couple of meters away. Pieces of flesh still cling to it.

His ears are ringing from the shooting and the explosions, but he begins to realize that the firing has died down to a few reports on the flank. He rushes forward to the last bunker, sees that it is placed just below the crest of the hill. He also sees that the hill he has just assaulted at such cost is only a bump on the finger, rather like a raised knuckle, and that after a small dip another hill rises to at least double the height of the one on which he is standing. He can see people moving around up there, many more.

He slumps behind a tree, aware for the first time of his exhaustion. The trembling takes over, as he knew it would. The surviving tribesmen watch in silence as he shakes, most of them too tired to care.

After a moment he roused himself, aware that if he did not do something everybody would stay just as they were, and he very much feared a counterattack. He searched for a leader who was still alive, found the first platoon leader, ordered him in broken Rhade to position his people to defend themselves, then went to search for Lally and the reserve platoon.

The smell was overpowering as he stumbled back down the hill. An unholy mixture of blood, TNT, shit, and smokeless powder. A sweet smell, full of rottenness. The tiger-striped bodies of his troops and the khaki-clad of their foes lay together in fraternal intimacy. Here and there the Montagnard medics moved, attempting to save whom they could. Smoke and mist hung close to the ground, drifting gently around his ankles. The uncaring trees were already sealing their wounds off with congealing sap.

Just into the treeline he found Lally and the fourth platoon moving carefully forward. The sergeant's face blanched when he saw him.

"Jesus Christ, you're hit!"

Jim looked at him as if he were speaking in an unknown tongue, then, as the meaning soaked in, looked down at himself and realized he was covered in blood. Some of it, he knew, was not his. Part of it, especially that which was still leaking through his fatigues, obviously was. He didn't remember being hit, other than by the grenade fragments. Stretching his mind he could remember being struck with a sledgehammer blow to the leg, but he had dismissed it with the thought that he had run into something.

Lally insisted that he sit down; tore open his pants leg to expose a nasty-looking hole in his upper thigh. The edges were puffed out and blue. It leaked blood at a slow but steady rate. Obviously didn't hit an artery, he thought. I'd be dead by now.

"No time for that now," he said, grabbing the sergeant by the collar. "Get the platoon forward. The cocksuckers are gonna come back at us and we've got at the most fifteen effectives up there. They'll shove it right up our asses, you don't get somebody there. I don't know where the hell Zack is with the others. You're what we have right now. Now!" he screamed, when Lally looked as if he were going to object. "Go! I can take care of this. I used to be a medic, remember?"

Lally shouted commands at the platoon and they moved off at a trot. "At least let me help you put a bandage on it," he asked.

"We fuck around here much longer and we're all going to be dead, and I won't need a bandage. Do us all a favor and get the hell up this hill!" Lally moved off to catch up with the platoon.

He tore his pants leg further, dreading what he would see on the back side. The bullet had passed through, and none too cleanly. The hole was much larger and more ragged. A large chunk of meat hung down, held to his leg only by the skin. Still, it didn't appear that anything vital had been hit, and there was still no real pain. He knew the pain would come later. He removed the field dressing from the pouch on his shoulder strap and opened it, placing the main pad on the worst part of the wound and winding the tails around his leg as tightly as he dared without cutting off blood circulation. Debated giving himself an ampoule of morphine, decided that at this point the pain would be preferable to the further addling of his brain. The grenade wounds he decided to ignore. The fragments would not be easy to dig out. He might not survive long enough to worry about that anyway.

After resting for a moment he became aware of a nagging voice at his shoulder. He grabbed the mike, answered with his callsign, listened for a moment as the voice on the other end shouted in his ear, keyed the mike to shut it off, and waited until he figured the tirade might be over, then released the push-to-talk switch.

Satisfied, he again keyed the mike. "Sharkfin, this is Skipjack. Sitrep. Over."

"Send the sitrep, over."

He was amused to hear the suppressed anger in the voice. Supposed that his next Officer Efficiency Report was going to look like dogshit. Couldn't bring himself to worry about it.

"Have taken the objective. Suffered heavy casualties in first and recon platoons. Approximately one five effectives left. Fourth platoon moving forward to reinforce. Have negative contact with second and third. There are a hell of a lot of people on the hill above the objective and we are at this time getting ready for a counterattack. Over."

"Roger, Skipjack. How many KIA, over?"

He grimaced. The all-important body count! Didn't matter how many people you lost. But you needed that body count to put up on the general's briefing charts. Otherwise how could you get your attaboys?

"Haven't had time to go around and count toes," he replied, "but I estimate three to four zero. Listen, we need some more heavy stuff on the hill above the objective. Estimate there is at least one reinforced company, possibly more, up there. We don't have the people to stand them off. Also need reinforcements, over."

"Affirmative on the heavy stuff, negative on the reinforcements at this time. We'll see what it looks like after the artillery get through, over."

"Goddamn it, we were supposed to find and fix them, and if they ain't found I'll kiss your ass. I don't know how much longer the company can hold out. I need the Cav in here, over."

There was a silence on the radio, and the answer, when it came, was almost apologetic. "There's a Cav company in trouble on LZ Monkey and all available are going there. I don't even know how much arty we can give you, but we are attempting to get air. You're gonna have to hold out there, Skipjack, until we can get something to you. Out."

It was a measure of how resigned he was to the status quo that he did not bother to object. Of course the Cav company would get priority support. They were Americans. His company of indigenous troops would have to take the leavings.

He got up, almost fell back down. The leg had stiffened badly. As he stumbled up the hill it loosened up but started bleeding again. It soaked through the bandage, trickled down into his boot. With each step it oozed out the ventholes in the instep.

When he reached the troops he saw that Lally's people had spent the time well. They were digging in, clearing fields of fire, siting weapons to ensure interlocking fire.

He found the command group, such as it was. Lally was busy giving commands, looked at him as if to ask the lieutenant if he would like to take over. Jim wearily signaled him to go on, found a shellhole, and hunkered down in it. Time to try to do something more for his leg. He wondered about the bombardment he had been promised, was ready to call about it, then heard the shells rushing in. Not nearly as many as before. Perhaps only one battery firing. There were long pauses between volleys and the pattern was skimpy. Not nearly enough.

Then through the trees he saw them coming. Many times during his two tours in Vietnam he had been frustrated because he had not been able to see the enemy. Mostly you fired at muzzle flashes, at scarcely seen movements. It now seemed ironic, because at this one moment he could see more enemy soldiers than he had seen in almost two years of combat. When going through basic training he had been fascinated by the tales of the human wave attacks in Korea. He had never expected to see one. Now he was. And wished he wasn't.

He'd been wrong in his estimate. There was much more than a reinforced company. Much more.

The Montagnards, he was glad to see, were maintaining fire discipline. They waited until the front rank was less than fifty meters away, then opened very effective and accurate fire. The shooting from the enemy ranks was intense and, though wild and inaccurate, began to take its toll. To add to the problem, an RPG gunner located somewhere to the front started firing grenades into the hastily prepared company positions.

Ignoring the bullets striking around him, knowing that they were random rather than the deadly accurate fire of before, he crawled to the CP. It was behind a felled teak tree, and had been spared the worst of the fire.

"You see that fuckin' gunner?" he asked Lally.

"Thought I saw a backblast about a hundred meters up." Lally chanced a glimpse above the tree. "There the cocksucker is. I got the runner looking for an M-79. I'm gonna put a grenade right up his ass." A diminutive Montagnard made a sliding stop into the hole, triumphantly clutching the grenade launcher and a bandoleer of forty-millimeter high-explosive rounds. Lally broke it open, inserted the massive round. "Now watch this, Boss," he said.

You could almost watch the low-velocity round in flight. It was deadly accurate up to seventy-five meters; required only a slight elevation at one hundred. The round impacted just at the feet of the enemy gunner, reducing his feet and calves to hamburger and sending hundreds of tiny serrated wire fragments up into his groin, where they spun through intestines, liver, and heart, killing him before he had a chance to realize he was dead.

Lally turned to Jim, opening his mouth to say something. His face dissolved in a spray of blood. A stunned look fogged his eyes. He dropped to the bottom of the hole, writhing in pain.

Carmichael grabbed him, held his head in his lap. The wound, he saw, was not fatal. The bullet had passed through the side of his face, narrowly missed his tongue, and exited just under the chin. It appeared that the force of the impact had broken his jaw, since it wobbled when Jim tested it, but other than being extremely bloody, the wound was not that bad. He searched his mind for dimly remembered medical training, finally settled upon packing Lally's mouth with gauze from the company first aid kit and placing a pressure bandage on the outside wound, the tails of which he tied over his head. Lally now looked like a child with a very bad toothache. He was in obvious pain, but Jim hesitated to give him morphine. There was too much chance that he would pass out, and unconscious he might aspirate seeping blood, drowning himself.

He turned his attention back to the battlefield. The enemy soldiers were still coming over the bodies of their comrades. He had to admire their courage. The surviving Montagnards were still pouring fire into their ranks, especially the little Browning Automatic Rifle gunner, who was firing precise three-round bursts. Each time he fired people dropped, most shot through the head. But it couldn't last. The firing from his side was growing more and more sporadic as the troops fell victim to enemy bullets or ran out of ammunition.

Time to die, he supposed. The thought didn't frighten him nearly as much as he had thought it would. There was regret that he had not lived as much as he would have wanted, would never go to the places he wanted to visit, would never love as many women as he would have wished. Mostly there was resignation. He loaded another magazine into the rifle, took careful aim at an oncoming soldier, dropped him, took aim at another and missed, cursed himself and got a third. He kept on firing, hitting more than missing, but it seemed to make no difference. He loaded another magazine, took the .45 from the holster at his hip and jacked a round into the chamber. He could not, would not, be taken alive, and it was much easier to blow your brains out with the pistol than with the M-16. He laid it to one side and continued to fire into their ranks. They were within grenade range now and he could see the stick grenades arcing overhead, smoke trailing as they flipped end over end. Had their grenades not been notoriously unreliable it would have been all over. Only a small percentage went off, but the damage they did further reduced his effectives. Not too long now. He moved the .45 closer.

Suddenly from the flank came a great burst of fire. It scythed the enemy ranks, cutting them down like so many stalks of wheat. Within seconds the lead rank had been annihilated, throwing the second into confusion. As they milled uncertainly the fire was shifted, as if some precise machine were controlling it. Most of them did not survive the first few seconds. Those who did were cut down by the suddenly revitalized survivors on their former objective. The third wave wisely decided to retreat in haste.

His mind uncomprehending, he did not at first realize from whence his deliverance had come. He stared, dazed, at the masses of khaki-clad bodies before him. Some, he saw, had come within just a few feet of the defensive line. Some still moved, but not many. Those who did were being picked off by the surviving Montagnards. He wondered if he should stop them; after all, the rear-echelon commandos always wanted prisoners. Decided that it would do little good to try. And he was just too tired.

He heard a familiar voice calling his name, felt Lally tugging at his pants leg to get his attention. Turned and saw Zack Osborne coming through the smoke and fog. Opened his mouth to tell him to get down, didn't the damned fool realize they were under fire? And felt himself slipping from consciousness. Fought, couldn't surrender, not now, too much to do. They'd be coming back.

He came to with the sharp smell of ammonia in his nose. Brushed the evil-smelling thing away and saw Zack smiling down at him.

"Glad you're back with us, Trung Ui. Don't move your arm! Got some serum albumin going in you. You lost a lot of blood. Lie back down! We got everything under control right now and you need the rest. We ain't out of this yet, I'm afraid."

Jim tried to talk, found his mouth so dry he could barely croak. Zack gave him a sip from his canteen.

Finally he asked, "Any help coming?"

"'Fraid not. I called Sharkfin just a couple of minutes ago with a sitrep. Cav's got themselves in a real shitstorm up on Monkey. Looks like we're it right now. Don't look too bad at the moment. Charlie's up there lickin' his wounds. Gave a real quick count; looks like we dropped close to a hundred out front. It'll take them a little while to come at us again. Meantime, I've got the 'Yards taking the most seriously wounded back down the hill to the edge of the treeline. Cocksuckers did at least promise us some Medevac choppers. You want to get out on one? Don't know how long the dressing on your leg is gonna keep the bleeding stopped, and you're leakin' from a bunch more small places."

Jim shook his head. "How about you, George?" Zack asked. Lally was sitting there looking at them, his lower face horribly swollen. The bruising had already crept up to his eyes, almost closing them. He signaled his intentions by switching his M-16 from safe to rock-n-roll.

Zack shrugged his shoulders. "Didn't think so."

"Not that I'm not grateful for you showing up when you did," said Jim, who was feeling somewhat better from the blood expander flowing into his veins, "but where in the fuck were you all this time?"

Zack looked offended. "You should have seen the shit you sent us through, Trung Ui," he said. "Goddamnedest thicket I ever saw. We were about halfway through when we heard the firing cut loose. Tried to get to you, but there was just no way. We finally got through and were getting ready to join you when we saw the guys uphill massing and coming down. Figured we could do you more good on the flank than down here."

"You hadn't done that I guess I wouldn't be here asking you where the fuck you had been. You sweet motherfucker, we get out of this alive, I'm gonna buy you the best blowjob in Qui Nhon."

"Yeah, well, we got to get out of this one first. Now the bad news. Second and third platoons weren't hit bad, we got about thirty people there. But the rest of the company is chewed up."

"How many?"

"Near as I can figure, there's nobody that's not wounded. Probably twenty of 'em can still fight."

"How many for Medevac?"

"Another eighteen."

Which meant that he had lost thirty-two KIA. Counting the seriously wounded, exactly half the company was out of action. Zack had been guilty of a gross understatement when he had called it bad news.

He looked at his watch, tapped it to see if it was still running. It was hard to believe that scarcely an hour had passed since the first engagement. He felt immeasurably older. "Think they'll hit us again before dark?"

Zack nodded. "They don't know we're not gonna get help. They'll want to knock us off here as soon as they can, then get set up to kick ass on the Cav as soon as they chopper in down below. They get back down to the treeline, they'll eat those boys' asses up while they're trying to land."

"You got everybody getting ready, I guess?"

"They're setting up what Claymores we've got right now. Everybody else is digging in. Actually, as positions go this one isn't too bad. Trees are too thick to let 'em use mortars. They're on higher ground than here, but too far away for it to do them any good. So they've got to come down the slope, into the saddle, and back up again to get at us. There just weren't so many of them, we might have a chance."

Jim got on the radio. "Sharkfin, this is Skipjack, over."

"This is Sharkfin. Skipjack two says that you have been hit. Get yourself on the first Medevac, over."

"Negative, negative. We need everybody we can get down here. Listen, can we get any support at all, over?"

"We've got some fast-movers that got weathered out over the Trail and are looking to expend ordnance. They will be on station in approximately one zero. Can you use them?"

"What are they carrying, over?"

"Five hundred pounders and twenty mike-mike. Over."

The hill where the enemy was forming up was dangerously close for the bombs. Still, it was better than nothing. "Roger. When they come in have them drop the five hundreds up toward the crest of the hill. I figure that's where the CP must be. Then have them come in and strafe with the twenties. I'll mark our front line with a flare. They're going to have to get in close."

"Roger, understand. Am having the Dustoffs bring in some ammo to you. Understand you are low. Goddamn, Skipjack, I want you to know you're doing a hell of a job down there. I'm asking for a Silver Star for you."

And what about the thirty-two dead 'Yards? What are they going to get? A death gratuity for the dependents, he knew. A few thousand piastres that the Vietnamese would cheat them out of.

"Get everybody dug in deeper," he instructed Osborne. "We're gonna get a lot of shrapnel down here when the jets drop their stuff." He turned to survey the front. "Ah, fuck, here they come again."

The North Vietnamese, having seen how ineffective the mass attacks had been, started using fire-and-maneuver. It looked like a company-sized unit was moving up on them. They were maneuvering by squad, one unit setting down a base of fire from covered positions while another made a short zigzag rush forward. Again the bullets snapped by his head. Again people jerked, lay forever still. It seemed it would never stop. He wondered if he was already dead and this was hell and he was forever condemned to fight this battle. He fired until the barrel grew so hot the smoke from the lubricating oil obscured his vision, grabbed a carbine from the dead man beside him and continued to shoot. The enemy was so close that a person didn't have to aim, just point and shoot. One he hadn't seen ran in from the flank, firing wildly down into his hole. Bullets jerked the dead man beside him, tore gouts of earth, sent spumes of dirt into the air. He swung his weapon, shot the man in the chest once, twice, three times. The underpowered carbine bullets seemed to have no effect on him, hopped up as he was on combat euphoria and drugs and God knows what else. He pulled the trigger again and again, watching in horror as the bullets tore holes in the khaki, blood spurting, smoke rising from smoldering fabric. What nightmare was this? The enemy soldier, young, probably no more than eighteen, had his lips drawn back so far the teeth looked like tombstones. His eyes were blank and staring. He moved toward Jim, the triangular bayonet affixed to the end of his AK-47 in the thrust position.

Lally, successful at last in freeing himself from the soldier who had fallen on him, fired a burst from his M-16 up into the man's armpit. The powerful little bullets exploded from his face and head, effectively terminating him from the neck up. He fell forward, blood from carotid arteries spraying across Jim's legs.

Jim threw down the carbine and retrieved his M-16. He'd thank Lally later, if either of them survived. More were coming. At least two points on the line had been breached, the NVA occupying the holes and shooting into the flanks of his troops. Only a matter of time now. Take as many of them as you can with you, then stick the .45 into your mouth and pull the trigger. Can't get taken alive; there are things worse than dying. He rose to a crouch, barely aware he was screaming. Gun on full auto now, no need to worry about conserving ammo. Shrapnel from a bullet impacted the tree beside him, slashing his cheek. Blood ran warm and smooth down his neck. Claymores were going off all down the line, mowing down flesh in a hail of explosive-driven ball bearings. Grenades were tossed so close that friendly and enemy alike suffered from their effect.

All semblance of control was gone, the battle crazily joined. People ran by him, he didn't know if they were friend or foe anymore. Butt-stoke one, shoot another, grab another and throw him to the ground with fingers wrapped around his throat. Feel the trachea collapse beneath his thumbs as the man claws ineffectually at his eyes. Legs drum the ground, pelvis thrusting up in obscene travesty.

The shock wave of a massive explosion struck him, heat like an oven. Heavy pieces of metal set up a low-pitched hum through the trees, shearing off heavy branches as if they were twigs. With what conscious mind he had left he realized that the bombs were much closer than he had planned.

"Get down!" he screams, knowing as he does so it is useless. Nobody can hear over the jets rushing in, the rattle of gunfire, the heavy explosions. He huddles, covering his head with his hands. Fetal position, return to the womb of mother earth. Only she can protect him now. As if she hears, dirt from a nearby hit covers him, the rich smell filling his lungs. Can hardly breathe, feels the shock of the heavy bombs transmitted directly to him. Wonders if his lungs will collapse from overpressure; eardrums are already gone.

He waits for the shocks to end. Gives it a count of one minute when they do, then cautiously raises his head.

The very face of the earth has changed. Trees are gone, uprooted, sheared off at the ground. Great craters pockmark the once-smooth slope. The attack has been broken. Anyone who was not under cover when the bombardment started has disappeared. Here and there are pieces of clothed flesh, the only sign anyone had ever been here.

The jets came in again, the roaring of their twenty-millimeter cannon filling the air. The enemy hill was obscured by the smoke of the shells' impact.

Intense calm settled over him. He shook the dirt from his rifle and worked the action to make sure it was clear, then checked ammo pouches, finding that he still had four full magazines. He felt no real emotion, only that there was a job to be done. They all had to die, every one. No mercy. Mercy was for the civilized world, the world that had sent him here, and that world didn't exist anymore. Nothing existed outside of now. Only this existed, only this was truth, and truth was that you killed them before they had the chance to kill you.

He got up and hobbled down the line, methodically pumping a round into the head of any enemy soldier who still moved. The blast blew their heads apart, spattering him with blood and brains. He ignored the pleading looks, the hands thrown up in futile attempts to ward off the bullet. When none were left living he shot the dead. After a while he ran out of ammunition, kept futilely squeezing the trigger, hands working convulsively, killing them over and over again in his mind in the hope that they would never again rise, never come at him with fire and flame and thunder.

Zack Osborne pulled an ampoule of morphine from his pack, caught the lieutenant in a bear hug and injected it into his hip. He held him close, felt the trembling of his body, the great shuddering breaths, the anguish that came from him like a palpable force. It took a long time for the drug to take effect.

He woke as they were loading him onto the chopper. The troop-carrying birds of the 1st Cav were disgorging their loads as quickly as they could land. What was left of his company was marshaled off to the side of the LZ waiting to be taken out. They were pitifully few.

The helicopter rose into the air, banked, and flew over the valley. Below him the elephant grass had been felled in great fan-shaped swaths, corresponding to the fields of fire of the enemy gunners. The Valley of the Fan. Hiding the face of death, its ribs watered by blood. If the world were right, if there were such a thing as justice, nothing would ever again grow from such a bitter flood. But it would, even more rank than before. The earth had limitless ability to soak up man's insanity and make itself whole again. He turned away.

Copyright © 2004 by John F. Mullins