Soldier of Fortune Read online

  There were only a handful of Americans in the region at the time. In two years, they had established five camps from which to mount operations against the Cong. In each district were American Special Forces "A" teams, composed of three officers and eleven enlisted men each. They served to advise and assist their Vietnamese counterparts. Van had been one of these. He belonged to the LLDB (Luc Long Dac Biet) Special Forces. Between the Americans and themselves, they set groups, called the CIDG, or civilian irregular defense group, usually referred to as "strikers," in each camp,

  At Moc Hua, the province capitol, was the "B" 'team. They exercised control over the "A" team and provided assistance when needed. It was often needed. In those early days they had done much damage to the Cong. In the first six months of 1966 alone, they had killed over six hundred. In that preceding year the Cong had suffered losses equivalent to four battalions. Many caches of supplies were destroyed as the LLDB and the SF put them on the run.

  But on Easter night, as the Americans called it, of April 9, 1966, the Cong commander had decided to change their fortune. They chose that night to win a victory that they sorely needed to offset their losses and show the people of the region that they were still a dangerous, wily enemy and a force to be reckoned with.

  For the attack, the Cong commander had selected the 261st Dong Thap, the main force battalion, as the spearhead. They were reputed to be the finest in all Vietnam. They had been resting and training in Cambodia for some time, rehearsing their upcoming role in the war against the imperialists. They were to be supported by the heavy weapons company from the 267th Battalion and units from the 269th, both first line Vietcong units.

  During the lunchtime mess on April 9, the intelligence sergeant, one SFC Charles, had received input that an attack was going to be made on their camp, A-514, the forward operational base (FOB), a hundred man position in the forward staging area. Van had been the Viet officer in charge at the FOB at the time.

  Speaking to Charles on the radio, Van had wondered whether the information was true. They'd had many false reports of this nature, and they didn't have the manpower to react to each rumor that came down. But this time it seemed that too many things fit together. Certain similarities in today's input made him feel that this was the real thing. The last major attacks from the Cong had come on holidays, the Americans' Christmas and his Tet. Earlier reports indicated enemy movement along the border. All this put together had made his decision for him.

  Team A-514 called its headquarters, B-14 at Moc Hua, and requested air strikes to be held in readiness, to be dispatched with the least amount of delay to any target designated. The Viet LLDB and the American SF prepared themselves meanwhile for an attack that was not certain to come. He'd been uneasy during the wait, just as he was right now, watching Casey's back and not knowing what lay ahead, to their side, or behind them.

  The time had dragged by. Van was on watch at the FOB, and at 2307 hours the attack had finally set in. Mortars began to fall inside the FOB, with the Cong attempting to knock out the communications bunker and their main defensive weapon, a 60 mm mortar. It had begun to return fire as fast as the three CIDG troops could pass ammo to their gunner. The rapid reaction of the well trained CIDG was unexpected, and the Vietcong attack had been slowed somewhat. They'd been attempting to get over the north wall but had fallen back. The CIDG had killed three VC and had wounded several of the others. Van had personally shot one in the face as he carried ammo to a gunner along their walls.

  Another squad of VC infiltrated from the west. Undetected, they'd made their way under the cover of darkness, reaching the command post by their walls, and they had killed the radio operator. They were on their way back to the FOB when Van spotted the infiltrators from the west. A VC's back disappeared into their own communications bunker. He knew what was already happening inside and knew that he was too late to help his men. He rushed to within a few feet of the bunker door and took a quick look. He could see the radio man lying dead on the floor and the radio busted into pieces. The VC were going through papers and pocketing the code books from the desk. Van remembered now the startled look on one of their faces as he bent down to pick up some papers he'd dropped and spotted the grenade that Van had tossed inside now rolling between his legs. Van saw no more as he dove for cover.

  After the dust had cleared from the grenade blast, Van entered the rubble and shot each VC in the head, just to be sure.

  Outside, F-100 jets and AF C-47s had arrived over the FOB. During the time between the request for air and its arrival, the VC had let loose with their heavy stuff recoilless rifles, machine guns, heavy and light mortars, including a heavy 50 caliber machine gun. The fight was on.

  Van ran to where SSGT Rodney, one of the SFers on the FOB, was moving from one position to another, shouting instructions to the CIDG troops. Van told him what had happened to his radio. They would have to use the Americans'. From the amount of fire they were receiving, it was obvious that this was more than just a spoiling attack. There had to be more than a reinforced battalion hitting them. Van began spotting for the U.S. radio operator, Sergeant Roberts, pinpointing enemy positions for him to relay to the fighters and the Spooky, as the FC-47 was called. Spooky cut loose with its Gatling guns, pouring a burning hail of death in an arc over the positions spotted, sending six thousand rounds a minute pouring down. The speed of the plane and gravity were what made the rainbow like arc of the falling thousands of bullets.

  The F-100s started laying on some napalm. That and the heavy fire from Spooky kept the Cong from breaking into the small camp in force. By this time the only Americans left were Rodney and Roberts. The other SF had been killed by an infiltrator. A Vietcong suicide squad had taken the machine gun bunker on the west side of the camp and was pouring a concentrated fire on the CIDG positions, keeping them down and unable to return fire effectively. Spotting this condition, Van and Rodney organized a counterattack; while Van poured fire on the position, Rodney flanked it and came in from the outside the same way the Cong had come. They were not expecting anyone to approach from this direction. Their gun was firing out of the entrance into the interior of the FOB. Van kept their attention on him; then came a dull thumping sound, and a cloud of dust poured out of the doorway. It was Rodney's grenade. Lunging forward, Van and one trooper rushed to the bunker door, spraying the interior with automatic fire. They tossed out the bodies of the dead Viets and called some of their own men over to reoccupy the bunker, using the still operable VC gun. About midnight a small group of Cong made their way up the northeast edge of the camp wall and began spraying with a Chinese flamethrower, setting fire to a barracks from which several strikers were firing at the Cong. The defenders were forced out by the flames, and Van put them into new positions to fire from. Van moved wraithlike through the smoke and dust, the flames from burning structures making scenes from Dante's Inferno seem altogether reasonable.

  Van moved to where he could see the torch man, figuring that all things being equal, anyone who plays with fire must expect to be burned.

  Van raced back to where he had stationed some of his men and took an M-1 grenade from them, emptying the clip. He had the Viet CIDG hand him some new rounds of tracers. Loading the piece, Van made his way back to where he could spot the Vietcong torch man who was having so much fun. The Cong flamer, illuminated by the fires he had set, was raised to one knee, looking for fresh targets. Van sighted by those same lights and aimed not at the man but at the tanks of liquid fire on his back. Grinning slowly, thinking, Sin loi (sorry about that). He took a breath and squeezed off the slack. The vintage 30 caliber weapon bucked, and before it settled back down, the Viet torch man was a running, screaming ball of flame, hands and face already charred black and shriveling, his eyes melting out of his head. If you play with fire, do not complain if you get burned, thought Van again.

  Then the Vietcong began laying down rounds of white phosphorous with their mortars, igniting the USSF command post and knocking out the only remaining ra
dio. When the FC-47 received no more directions from the ground, he began picking his own targets, using the light from the Cong's own tracers to spot them.

  Enemy fire had almost stopped all friendly response at this time from the defenders on the east side of the camp. Spooky came in with all guns firing and reversed the situation in less than ten seconds of concentrated hell that he let loose on the terrified recipients of this deluge of steel and fire.

  At 0100 hours the "B" team requested additional supplies and an armed helicopter platoon and any other fighters and Spookies they could get. From the last word they had from the defenders at the FOB, this was a big one and the allies' chance to waste one hell of a lot of Cong.

  At 0130 hours a second group of F-100s came in, laying down sheets of burning napalm, providing a badly needed respite for the camp defenders to regroup and reorganize. That time was urgently needed, as several of the defenders' machine guns had become inoperable and Rodney and Van needed the time to cannibalize enough parts from the inoperable weapons and assemble one gun that was critically needed. At 0210, communications were restored by the dropping of a radio from one of the new Spookies. With the restored communications, the "B" team was informed that the Americans and their only surviving LLDB, Van, were still alive.

  For the next two hours the fierce battle continued. Although heavily outnumbered, the defenders had blunted the first VC attacks and with the air support were keeping them from being able to capitalize on their numerical superiority. The defenders' steady and accurate fire was inflicting heavy casualties, and the number of Cong dead and wounded was continuing to mount. Lt. Col. Williams, the U.S. Special Forces commander for the entire delta, had arranged for and personally accompanied a supply aircraft loaded with emergency equipment for the battered outpost. It arrived at Moc Hoa at 0310 from his detachment C-4 at Can Tho. Simultaneously, a platoon of armed helicopter gunships had arrived from the 7th Infantry division. A light section of two gunships was dispatched immediately to assist the FOB. One of the choppers had a hitchhiker, one Sergeant Casey Romain. Romain had been at the "B" team headquarters and saw the reports from the FOB as they came in. He knew they needed more bodies there; even one extra man might make the difference. Besides, he owed Rodney a debt. It wasn't too long ago that Rodney had pulled his ass out of the fire at Duc Co in the highlands.

  The heavy section of choppers would be delayed slightly while they loaded with supplies and additional manpower for the post.

  At 402, Casey unassed the chopper, bringing with him an M-60 light machine gun and a half dozen belts of link ammo.

  The first thing Casey saw when he leaped to the ground was a smoke covered and smiling face of a South Viet officer wearing the insignia of the LLDB and speaking in a Cockney accent.

  "I say, old boy, it is good of you to join us. Would you care to meet the others? They are beginning to approach us now from the west wall, and I do so believe that you and your companion in your hands would have an interesting dialog with them."

  Casey had started to speak but could only stand, staring open mouthed at the slant eyed Englishman for a moment. He laughed loud and headed for the wall. Throwing himself behind some sandbags, he began to lay down fire from his M-60 machine gun. The Cong were taken by surprise, and several rows of their troops became twisted dolls in only a matter of seconds.

  Van had nodded in approval at Casey's fire and said: "Cheerio, old bean. Sorry terribly, but I must run now, though it looks as if you shan't lack for company during my absence. I see that more of the bastards are coming to visit you now. Well, I really must be off."

  Laughing, Van had disappeared, ducking, dodging, and rolling from one place of cover to another, until he was finally out of Casey's sight in a cloud of smoke. Van had sent one of his men to aid Casey, acting as his loader and assuring the unwelcome guests the same fate as the first ones.

  At 0410 hours the heavy section of choppers arrived, bringing desperately needed supplies and ammo along with two more SF men, a Captain Rivers and a Captain Sheldon. They quickly unloaded their supplies and took up positions with the others inside the camp.

  More reinforcements were on the way, he'd learned from the new arrivals. A relief and blocking force of company strength, accompanied by Master Sergeant Morison, Staff Sergeant Roberts, and Staff Sergeant Donaldson, had been dispatched from main camp toward Van's position at 0210 hours. The enemy forces had received a mauling and rightly feared that major reinforcements were on the way. They began a hasty retreat to the north and northwest, toward the Cambodian border. By 0500 hours, the badly battered enemy from the north was in complete withdrawal and had broken contact with their forward base.

  Daybreak came slow and clear, almost startling to a man's eyes after the night. The light of day showed a picture of almost unbelievable destruction in the small camp. On the north wall there were but four men. Two of them were wounded and had set up positions in a ditch outside the wall. Four members of a Viet suicide squad lay dead in the inner perimeter of the camp. Their physical defenses had been ripped apart by the recoilless rifles and flames. Sixteen of the camp's defenders were dead, fourteen badly wounded, and three missing. His report would read one out of three KIA, WIA, or MIA. Three CIDG families were missing also.

  Discarded and inoperative weapons lay all over the ground. Van was carrying one of his wounded to their new temporary aid station that had been set up in one of the machine gun bunkers, when he saw the sergeant who'd dropped from the heavens, Casey Romain, approaching with Rodney.

  Van laughed now, staring at Casey in front of him, remembering his words as he'd spoken to Rodney: "What the hell is this guy, a Limey Viet?"

  Rodney had laughed also, saying, "You'll get used to him. Van is something of a show-off but a damned fine officer. Van, this is Sergeant Romain, Casey Romain. He'll be with us for a while, I hope. I'm trying to get him assigned to our team."

  Van and Casey had locked eyes then, and one of those rare cases of instant like and respect had taken place.

  Yes, Van thought now, that Easter day had brought few things to all of them. Most important to Van, it had brought a friend and comrade in arms.

  The fresh troops had arrived shortly after that, and they'd all moved out in pursuit of the retreating Vietcong units. All in all, it was a bad day for Charlie, as his new friend, the scarred Sergeant Romain, called them.

  Van grunted as he bumped into Casey's back, thinking it was weird how one could lose oneself in daydreaming. Moving up to the side of his big nosed friend, he looked down, following Casey's pointing finger. Casey spoke.

  "The lake, Van! Tell the others to take a break now. From here on, we look for the family."

  "Can they cook while they wait?" Van asked.

  "Not yet. We still don't know what's out there. Maybe later, after we check everything out, we can all have some hot chow. Now, get a move on."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Fifteen miles to the rear of Casey and his men, Lon and his troops made their way up the mountain on which they had spent the previous night. He was cursing his bad fortune. The rain had wiped out what little trail there was, and not even his Meo trackers were able to find it. Besides that, he'd spent an absolutely miserable night. The colonel often moaned privately about his frailties and delicate senses. In reality, he was as fragile as a water buffalo and possessed about the same soft and delicate sensibilities of one that was in heat. But he still moaned and swore at his men, driving them through the brush and searching for any signs that the invaders might have passed this way.

  This was, after all, the general direction in which they'd been heading, and with any luck at all their trail would be picked up by his men again. He refused to let this one and only chance to get out of the jungle and obtain a nice desk job slip through his hands. He would keep these ignorant peasants searching this jungle until their babies were old enough to join them if necessary. He would find the enemy invaders, no matter how long it took.

  The Kamserai troops,
under Casey's orders, spent the rest of the day scouring the surrounding hills for signs of the Chinese family. It was late now, and Casey had received no word of their presence. If they were out there, they were damned sure laying low. He thought the situation over. Once he'd looked at it from their point of view, it was simple. The only way they were going to expose themselves was after being assured that they would not be harmed. How to accomplish that?

  He reasoned that the only way they could let the family know they were in the area was to let their own position be known openly. That would also throw them open to any hostile elements in the area, but as it now stood, there didn't seem to be any choice in the matter.

  Calling his men in from the perimeter, Casey walked the short distance to a cliff overlooking the valley and the lake. He stood there looking over the scene below him. Dusk was beginning to throw shadows across the sides of the valley as a cool breeze rustled the leaves and brush.. The seemingly peaceful jungle was ripe, green, and lush, serene as the forests north of Rome. Yet he knew it was deadly, alive and teeming with thousands of animals and insects. Birds were beginning to fly in to nest for the evening. There was the equivalent of a swift change beginning to take place. One set of hunters, those who worked by day, were now coming in, while the second and generally more dangerous shift were just beginning to stretch themselves, to scratch and yawn. Soon they would go to drink at the clear waters of the lake and then fade softly into the dark wall of the jungle to hunt from their favorite places of concealment. They would wait there, some perched on branches, others lying belly to the ground. All had one thing in common. In order for them to live, others must die.

  He took in the panorama below him and filled his lungs with damp warm air, calling out: "I am an American! I have been sent by your family to take you back with me to Taiwan."