The Mekong river meanders it's way through the Mekong Delta of South Viet Nam to the South China Sea. Its muddy waters are banked by triple canopy jungle. Its banks abound with wildlife, prey and predator. There are tiny villages of 6 or 7 thatched huts, and rice paddies are abundant.
My first flight along the Mekong was an eye opener for me. It was so beautiful, like a scene from the movie "South Pacific". I imagined all the animals and jungle trails beneath the triple canopied, jungled mass, and wondered what it would have been like to be born here. To know the ways of the jungle and the life of the peasants. We see them as extremely poor. They feel incredibly blessed with the bounty of their forests. The Southeastern Mekong has become a haven for the Viet Cong. We control it during the day. It is theirs at night. No platoon in their right mind would ever stroll the trails after dark. There is no electricity there, no street lights, no 7-11's. Just snakes, bugs, swamps, and Charlie, (our nickname for the Communist Viet Cong). From the advantage of a helicopter or plane, you can see the land take on a resemblance of the dog "Snoopy" with his bulbous nose. The nose is approximately 6 square miles of jungle surrounded by the muddy river. It is estimated that 11 of the 14 small villages in the area are communist sympathizers, storing rice, weapons, and medical assistance. It is considered to be the most hostile piece of real estate in the Mekong Delta. Like ants the supply trails lead out of "the nose" to places like Dong Tam, Soc Trang, and Can Tho supplying the communist soldiers. It is a "free-fire-zone with curfew". Anything on the river after 2200 is considered hostile. Nice place to visit, but you sure as hell don't want to spend any extended period of time there.
Just before entering the Group Headquarters I reached down and pulled up a handful of mud and rubbed it across the ass of my fatigues. It was a gift to the bald, pompous Colonel McIntire. He wouldn't see it on the chair until I left.
Colonel McIntire is about to retire, that needed to happen a long time ago. Man, this guy needs to be dead or at least DEROS back to the states. His own troops have attempted to frag him. Hell even the Army housed him off post in a safe area. The brass put up with him. He did good stuff on paper, but he couldn't lead a troop to the mess hall. Mister personality. A perfect example of one who has reached the level of their own incompetence.
His secretary is a cute little Vietnamese girl who speaks perfect English. She calls, he makes me wait. After about fifteen minutes I stand and say to her, "Tell him I'm going back to MACV." I wasn't three feet outside the door before his beet-red face was sputtering and cursing, "God Damn it! You can fuck'n wait like everyone else!" I stopped and just stared at him.
"Are you ready to see me?", I say.
He spouts a curt "yes" and turns on his heel.
This is going great. He knows he has no control over me, and he hates it. I enjoy our talks when I am in his AO. I bait the shit out of him and he falls in head first, hook-line-and-sinker. I have never worn my rank insignia. It is common knowledge that when you work close to the border such trappings are inappropriate.
There were two others in his office. I knew both of them. Randy, I had worked with before. He was a top shooter, and was "mission, mission, mission". This man did not give any quarter, there were no loose ends with him. Truthfully, I was a little scared of him myself. The other was "Joolz" the Colonel's Vietnamese interpreter. Joolz turned and his eyes burned into me. I had heard that he was "riding the fence" and had good friends on the other team. He had heard rumors of me taking out non-combatants for fun. I swear to you, I have never done that and never would. If I got the chance, that son-of-a-bitch was dead. I knew he was playing both sides. Every chance I got I messed with him, called him VC. His thoughts were on his forehead in big block letters, "You need to die, Loong." What? I'm a hell of a nice guy! I figured Joolz would fuck up soon enough and I'd get my chance, and I wouldn't make it easy.
The bald headed idiot was speaking and I caught a familiar word phrase "Snoopy's Nose". Shit, I thought, a guy could get killed there. The Colonels eyes bore into me. "So what do I call you, soldier?", he said sarcastically. "You need to get a haircut and clean up, boy."
That's all it took for me. "Look, Colonel, it is your job to brief me. Now do your fuck'n job or I go back to MACV and let the CG (Commanding General) know what an asshole you are."
He has no choice. He stares at the wall. I know he is building his composure. I can see the blood throbbing through the veins of his forehead. This man hates me, really bad. I was thinking about Nixon and figured that millions hated him, who cared if this pompous ass hates me?
A special forces captain enters the room. He is formal, professional, with pointer charts, and the whole nine yards. He is nervous being around the pompous ass that sits behind the impressive desk. He swallows hard and begins, "Three days ago an Army Sergeant First Class with the Fifth Special Forces Group was working a pacification program and was captured by four Viet Cong about a click outside of Dong Tam. They were last seen heading for Snoopy's Nose. We need him out. There are no "non Combatants" in the area. Use extreme prejudice. Anything that moves is the enemy. We want him or proof of his death. You will be taking two ARVN Scouts (Army of the Republic of South Viet Nam). They are seasoned soldiers and will not run in a firefight. It will be Randy, two scouts, and you. Joolz will accompany as an observer. When contact is made and the body confirmed or "person of interest" is in your custody, we will pound the shit out of that place with F-4's and an ARC LITE (B-52) mission so don't hang around. Your mission is simple, track, smack, and get the fuck out. Questions?"
"What's the problem with you guys, can't you go get him?", asked Randy.
The Captain is a little flustered, "We need this quiet, we need this fast. We fucked up and that's it. Your battle dress will be conical hats, white blouse, and black pajama bottoms with tire tread sandals. You will carry no identification and affiliate yourselves with no one. If you must engage, do it quietly. You won't get much sleep."
"OK if we leave at daybreak?"
"Yes"
"Where is our LZ?"
"Six clicks south of Dong Tam."
"How much time do we have?"
"You have three days. If you have him in sight and there is no way to extract him you will "terminate" the mission, is that understood?"
"Yes Sir" Randy says. He's an army sergeant, he has to respond appropriately.
My response was "yup".
Joolz pipes up and says, "I don't like him sir", pointing at me. The Colonel laughed. "You and half the world, Joolz!"
Calmly I responded, "Joolz, I probably shot at your mother yesterday, or maybe even got a piece of your little sisters ass." We were promptly dismissed, but not before I wiggled the mud on my ass onto the leather chair.
We had dinner on the Navy Barge in Bien Samoi (spelling may not be correct). The Navy always has the best food. After a good meal, a pack of Marlboros, and a half a fifth of Jim Beam I staggered off to the Bachelor Officers Quarters (BOQ) for some sleep. I have to get drunk to sleep, otherwise the mission will play itself out hundreds of time in my mind. Fuck, I have to be nuts to do what I do. But the JB helps.
I am awakened at dawn. I can smell the JP-4 of the turbine engines and hear the sound of them running up right outside the bunker. The five of us would depart in a UH-1 "Huey" and escorted by the Ah-1G attack helicopter that carried 17 lb warheads in it's rocket pods and a twenty millimeter cannon. The area would be "prepped" before we were inserted. I looked down at the dark green jungle zipping below us less that 300 feet away. Charlie can't get a lock on us that fast if we are this low. The Cobra is far above, like an eagle looking for a mouse waiting for the chance to pounce and kick some mouse ass.
Two clicks out of the LZ, the shit hit the fan. The ground fire was oppressive; our bird was taking hits. The pilot had guts of steel. He rolled us to the right and plopped us right into the middle of the zone, yelling, "Out, get out, now!"
Well, that was fun. The five of us run for the treeline as the cobra spits it's venom in all directions. As they depart the gunfire settles.
It is eary quiet, scary. "Looong!, hey Looong"" He drew out his pronunciation, the flat of the Mekong carries it far. "I am glad you are here my friend."
Fuck!, "he's" here. Too many kills to count, in the city, in the jungles, everywhere. All we know is that he has been in the jungle since the age of ten, he is in his thirties now. He has been here since the French and we replaced the French. I call him a pleasure killer, he calls me Cong Ma (the ghost). We have never met. There is only one way he could know I was here, one fucking way. Joolz. I made a personal note: Joolz and I would have a drink when I got back, and the Colonel will need a new interpreter. I looked over my shoulder at Joolz, he was smiling. I should have shot him right there.
"Hey Asshole" I yelled.
"You want some of me, ghost?" he replied.
"Fuck you asshole." Aren't I the gentleman?
Silence, we needed to move. I didn't want to be around if he was doing the hunting. So we took a heading to flank into the nose area, away from the possibility of a confrontation. We both knew neither of us wanted a confrontation. He did his thing, I did mine. He just happened to be a lot better at it than me. We came within 1000 yards of each other once. I was picking small pieces of bullet schrapnel out of my upper right thigh for two months. I need to pee in the right places, assert myself like an alpha dog. Phan was his name and he would not kill me. He would parade me. I knew that he would make me suffer terribly if he got the chance.
As we pass through the jungle several things are apparent. The trails are well worn by many people passing over its surface. Here and there are campsites, flat areas and palm frond roofs. We are in Indian country. By 1400 the ARVN's have found the track. The cong had been lazy, eating their captive's C's and leaving trash. We could see where he had been tied to a banyon, there were traces of blood and small pieces of bamboo with blood. They had taken his boots and beat his feet. It made for slow travel.
By sunset we were in the middle of Indian country. The scouts were spooked and complained that they were only supposed to get us here and leave. Randy wanted to shoot them, I wanted to use them as bait, so we kept them around. We always joked about being Cowboys and Indians.
We decided to get two or three hours of rest. Yeah, like that's going to happen. I dozed and dreamed. I dreamed about Joolz. He was laughing at me. I awoke to the sound of distant laughter, pots clattering, the smell of fish and rice. I figured they were about a click away. A thousand yards is a long way in the jungle. He was there, I could feel him, their trophy. Randy was already up poking me with a canteen cup of warm coffee. A canteen held close to the belly can actually get warm enough to dissolve the coffee crystals from the C-rats. I was starting to freak, feeling an ambush, feeling like I was flanked.
Randy sat beside me and whispered, "I already took care of it." I was confused until I saw him drop three ears beside me in the dirt and say "Nobody heard nothin." He had taken out their OP's (observation posts). They wouldn't know it for a while.
"Three fuck'n ears? You brought me fucking ears?" Fucking ears!??? You weren't supposed to do that. Discuss it with Randy for me will you? He went on missions, he completed them well, he didn't take orders. Some said he was DIA, some super secret intelligence operation. I never asked and he never told. Randy was a loner. And he had that "thousand yard stare". That scary look that gives you the creeps when you imagine what his eyes have seen.
"Our man is less than a click away" Randy said. "Between him and us are three squads of VC, machine guns, mortars, and B-40 rocket launchers. I came upon 5 wire trips and two tiger cages. You want him sir?"
THWACK! One of our ARVNS slumped into the hillside, his head barely recognizable. We were on the ground and heading for cover in a fraction of a second. Phan, his style.
The "Bitch" was taken out of her sleeve. She gleamed in the low light under the canopy. I slipped back the bolt nearly silently and heard the thunk of the round move into the smooth breach. I moved to a slight rise and mounted the MK2 scope. Slowly I swept the jungle looking for the least bit of movement. At my 11 O'clock I saw it, a very small patch of white at about 75 yards. It was a hand holding the stock of an AK-47 tightly. He was kneeling in the bush. He would be on LP (listening post) and would have risked the shot to the ARVN as a matter of attrition. He was between us and our guy. The supersonic round took him in the head long before he ever heard the report of the weapon.
The four of us moved out, crouching. Randy was in the lead disarming the traps that would surely have killed us. I really liked Randy, but kept everything official. I never want to look at the horror inside his head. I have never been afraid of any man, but Randy gave me the wooglies!
About three hundred meters in Randy motioned us down and pointed off to our two O'clock position. I squinted. There were two VC laying beside each other, one manning a machine gun on a bipod and the other laying out ribbons of ammunition so the feed would be smooth. Randy placed his hands over his ears in a question, "quietly?". I nodded yes. He and the ARVN left their rifles and crawled through the jungle to meet the pair, some 80 yards or so away. For three hours Joolz and I lay in the underbrush, no longer seeing either of them. Then a small click of a bush and they were beside us.
Randy spoke first in a whisper. "Loong, it's bad. Our guy's one of the gunners, he's turned Indian."
"Bullshit" came from my lips. I knew instantly it had been the wrong thing to say. The flash suppressor of Randy's M-16 was under my chin.
"He's turned man, live with it!" No wonder the "extreme prejudice" shit came out of the Colonel's mouth. Decision time. We did a 9, 12, 3 fan. If you picture a clock you can see us, surrounding the pair. I was at the twelve O'clock position, the only means of escape. Twenty yards from them. Bipod attached. Shots are fired, one is dead, the other turns to the escape route. I see his face, his boonie cap, and his American features. I have been trained not to hesitate. Three rapid rounds punctured his mid-section. As he went to his knees in awe, the fourth round caught him in the throat, but not before my forearm opened up and the adrenaline caused the blood to flow quickly. Our other scout was dead, and Joolz, well Joolz was smiling again. Randy was in a rage, he jumped, grabbed Joolz by the neck with one hand and plunged his K-Bar deep into his gut, twisting it. I watched with open eyes, unbelieving eyes. Joolz' smile faded slowly, his last sight was of me folding a piece of gum into my mouth. So there we are, me and Randy. He had taken the dog tags off the target and made sure he was dead. Now it is just a matter of getting to the pick up zone.
Night had fallen and the rains came, drops as big as your thumb spattering on the broad leaves of the jungle. A good time to move. The turnaquet worked well on my forearm and the bleeding had stopped. Through the brush in front of us on the path was the sound of breaking branches and something moving fast. We crouched as two water buffalo stampeded by us. They can be pretty mean. I'm glad to have avoided that confrontation.
The "Z' was 100 yards ahead. We sat for and hour before activating our locater device so we could make sure the area was "friendly". At the sound of rotors we popped yellow smoke and F-4's screamed to our flanks with napalm and 20mm cannon fire. A bird dropped like a freaky dragonfly, doors open and gunners raking the flanks. The hundred yard run was full of adrenaline. But not a shot was fired. Randy and I jumped in the bird and "superchief" had the skids off the ground. Damn, I need a shower.
"I will ask you one more time, WHERE IS JOOLZ"? McIntire yelled.
Randy spoke up, you could hardly hear him. "He tripped a wire, man."
"SIR, GOD DAMN IT, YOU CALL ME SIR!" McIntire screamed.
"SIR, he's rotting in the fucking jungle, SIR!" (sarcastic as hell).
McIntire just slumped and rubbed his bald head. Randy stood up and threw the dog tags, three ears and Joolz' boonie cap onto the Colonel's desk. "Get out, you son of a bitch, get the fuck off my compound".
I wiggled my ass in the leather chair again, stood up and made my exit. Randy and I laughed and smoked all the way to the flight line. There has to be a bird headed north. I need a drink and some friendship. Saigon would be a relief. Ton Son Nhut was a friendly place.
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