Camp Enari was south of the city and hosted the 5th Special Forces Group. Together, they were a formidable force against the communists of the north. Montagnards ( pronounced mountain-yards) had a large population in the jungles nearby. They are the indigenous peoples. The North Vietnamese called them "silent death" (blow guns), and made a wide path around them when trekking south. They took no notice of orders from anyone and were for the most part left to their own lifestyle. An attack on a Montagnard village was paramount to suicide.
Travel between the two cities of Pleiku and Khontum involved a thin dirt road, littered with mines, and snipers hiding on the steep banks on either side of the road. The pass was ours during the day and a free fire zone at night. Anything movig after 10:00PM was to be considered hostile and could be fired upon. The eyes of the enemy were on you 24/7.
Randy and I swooped into an LZ just south of Pleiku in the lush jungle of the pass. The little compound was held by the 5th Special Forces. It was a simple concrete building with a radio, surrounded by tiny villages of Montagnard and enemy trails. A beautiful stream bubbled it's way through the village and exited by eans of a spctacular waterfall down the side of the mountian. For a pack of cigarettes or a .10 cent box of tide, you could drop your ruck, your weapon, flak jacket at the entrance to the compound and know it would be guarded. It would not be touched without the loss of life. The "yards" were fierce warriors, and I am damn happy that they were friendly to the American forces. There were times when I needed refuge, and there was no safer place in the country than inside a Yard compound. Skulls of their enemies were perched atop high bamboo fences that surrounded each community. You could do alot of razy stuff in vietnam and get away with it, but messing with these guys was not one of them. You observed ettiquette or you died. There was no in between stuff.
Being on PTDY (Permanent Temporary Duty) for all geographical areas of South Vietnam, I have slept in everything from a bag on the ground (pulling off leaches) to some great French Villas. But had never felt safer then when I was surrounded by these warriors who dressed only waist down, and carried blow guns. These were centuries old peoples, wonderfully skilled and fiercely loyal.
So, why in the hell are we in the middle of the highlands drinking rice wine and beer from a skull? Apparently there was this guy, "Crazy Charlie" who took one or two shots at the LZ every day. He never hit anything but it drove the LZ commander nuts. He would pop off a few shots every afternoon and then melt into the jungle. He was like a pesky mosquito but I guess he messed with the SF ego. We visualized him as a little old man carrying an old AK-47 with a broken stock. For his few shots each day he probably received about .25 cents, enough to feed his family. The Commander of Command and Control Central for the 5th Special Forces was pissed at him. Apparently Crazy Charlie had shot a hole in his shiny Huey. High ranking officers had highly waxed, low hour birds with An Arc 102 radios. They could call home at 6000 ft, or stay the hell away from the heat of battle. The "6" bird was always the Commander, and he was always 10,000 feet above the action, far from bullets and mortars. "directing" the encounter.
Randy and I had been dispatched to put an end to it. Crazy Charley had to go. He hit the CO's bird. Fuck, he was like a pet. The guys spoke of him affectionately. Of course they would like to cut off his balls and make him ride a water buffalo. We were hedging, hell, he hadn't killed anyone yet, and it sure as hell didn't look like he would in the future. He was just pissing people off.
The Brief was not an afternoon tea, Randy was pissed, and more than a little hung over. Why in hell did we dance with the Yards?
"Why us," Randy asked, "I mean you SF guys should be able to take care of one guy."
Our answer was short and to the point. "We don't want the bad PR, leaflets have been "found" in the jungle (The American way of using psychological warfare). Cong Ma (the Ghost) has been sighted in the area." So, we are going to let "Cong Ma" take him out. "These people are ver supersticious. No patches, no jungle boots. Carry AK's and light gear". So, if Crazy Charlie got it, it was Cong Ma (Duh).
With a topo and compass we decided to set up about one click (1000 yds) west of the LZ near a trail and running water. We wore the standard pocho with monkey hair shawls that kept us invisble without infrared. Tiger tracks, I found fucking TIGER tracks! OK, now you got me scared. Sitting on a trailside with fucking tiger tracks, now how smart is that?
If things went well, Charlie would be somewhere between us and the compound. During the day we scoured the area and other trails, and at night we slept in the bunker back on the LZ. For three days nothing. On the fourth afternoon we heard the shots, three of them. Charlie was on the east side today, about 300 yards from the compound. There was no way we would have him today, but what the heck, I didn't have anyplace to go, and I wanted to see his site. We trekked for what seemed like hours only to find a bare spot in the jungle with human footprint, bare footprint. The feet were tiny and left barely an imprint in the soggy soil. The site told us nothing.
The LZ wasn't very happy with us, getting shot at and all. Randy got pissed and after about 4 beers let his mouth go. "Hey, fuck you people. Charlie has been shooting at you for fucking months; what have you done about it?"
It was no secret that we were disliked. No one wanted to talk to us. After all, to them we were "prima dona." Called in by their commander who didn't think they could do the job without mucking up the small villages scattered through the jungle. After the beer and Randy's mouth incident, we settled in for the night in the little shack. Charlie was shooting in the afternoons, so we got some good sleep and a healthy breakfast before hitting the trail.
We weren't in the jungle for more than 30 minutes when the smell alerted me. The smell of raw fish and nuoc mam (fish oil). I gave the signal and touched my nose. Randy stood perfectly still at a crouch sniffing the air. The morning mist brought it to me from my left flank. I signaled Randy to follow me cautiously. For twenty minutes I crept through the jungle, careful not to break a stick or move a bush. Small sounds came to my ears not 30 yards away. It seemed like hours, taking baby steps, placing every leave carefully. The last thing I wanted was a full firefight.
His small back faced me. He was in the familiar resting crouch of the Vietnamese people. His rifle an old SKS lay to his left. He was busy chewing beetle nut, watching the LZ, and never heard a thing.
In Vietnamese, Randy whispered, "Don't you move a fucking inch, not one fucking inch".
I pressed the flash suppressor of my rifle to the base of his neck, there was a small jerk of shock, then a wooden pose not moving an inch. We sat that way for probably five minutes, listening to the forest for the tell tale sign of company. Not a sound. I moved very slowly around to face him. I have never seen such Beautiful almond eyes. Wide eyes of fear and surprise. A young girl, a fucking GIRL! All the evidence was there, a crude drawing of the small LZ, lines drawn to sniper sights, a schedule. "Crazy Charlie" was a girl. A tiny, dirty little girl, maybe 14 yrs old. Tears filled her eyes and she peed involuntarily on the jungle floor. Randy was gentle, he calmed her, tied her and began a light interrogation.
We sat and talked for about an hour in whispers as we sat there with her. Asking questions. When he found out what village she was from, Randy ordered her to take us there. We knew there were no regulars in the area during the day. So travel would be safe. Her village chief was friendly to US Forces. When we entered the compound of five tiny huts the villagers gathered to meet us. A wrinkled mother cried, her whithered face streaming tears, her hands templed beneath her chin, quietly begging for the life of her daughter, "Crazy Charlie".
As per custom, the Village Chief escorted Randy, me and the girl to his hut. There we smoked and drank rice wine. Words of pleasantry about the land and harvest were spoken, the chiefs wife served us rice cake. She sat acoss from us in the hut in the prayer position.
"Loong, I am honored" . The old man knew me, word had gotten out. Loong is "Little Dragon", the name given me by the Yards.
"Grandfather, this young woman has been shooting at the LZ." Randy interpreted excellently. Randy understood that her .25 cents was vital to her village and it's survival.
"She has been missing Loong, she has harmed no one. It is our duty so that we may survive. If she does not do this Loong, our village will be burned, our animals slaughtered. Everyone killed." I had seen it before. I have walked into a silent village with every living thing slaughtered. Huts burned to the ground, women raped and cut from genitals to breast by bayonette and left to bleed out. Every single animal, every egg, every nut smashed. It was genocide on a small scale. A terroristic technique that kept the little villages in line.
"Grandfather, with words from your heart, you must guarantee she will NEVER hit another helicopter or EVER hit a person. It must be in your heart Grandfather."
With hands steepled beneath his chin and head bowed low he said, "Loong, it is difficult to live on the edge of a sword. You have my word".
The young girl was sure she would be executed in front of her village. It is what the NVA would have done. Randy whispered to her, "Keep shooting and start missing better." He gave her a small peck on the cheek and a pack of chewing gum. Damn, I never knew he had a heart. Coldest son of a bitch I ever met. We all stood, steepled our hands beneath our chins, and bowed as a show of respect and to seal the agreement.
After riefing the commander, we stayed in the AO for another couple of days, just taking some time.
Crazy Charlie plunked one at me yesterday, missed me by yards.
So crazy Charlie never died; and Crazy Charlie never ever hit anything again. The Command and Control Central Commander was briefed and agreed to the slight adaptation of the order to keep the villages friendly. The guys took to waving and whistling at her whenever she shot. Some danced around the sand bagged bunkers for her.
Saigon was but an hour away in a UH-1, and I was sure that we could find a bird headed south. I needed some time, and three days would do it. Randy confirmed our orders and wrangled the three days out of USARV/J-2. Apparently soneone liked us.
I miss you Crazy Charlie. Your beauty haunts me.
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