Men in Green Faces (16 page)

It didn’t bother him to take point, but it was hard. Big and carrying the most weight, he now had to be the eyes and ears for the patrol, as well as find a way through the heavy brush. His body ached, his thighs burned. Block it out, he told himself, and move forward.

There must have been thirty bunkers, Gene estimated, once past them, but thank God, no contact. He stopped the patrol and signaled to Jim: Danger area.

When Jim came up, he squatted next to Gene. They faced a small stream about three feet wide. Jim pulled out his map to get the exact location of their position but the stream wasn’t marked. He handed the map to Gene.

He studied the terrain features, then shook his head. The stream was not on the map. He handed it back.

Just as Jim stood to go back and give the danger-crossing signal to the squad, Gene heard a slight finger snap. The signal had been sent by Doc, at rear guard. Each man ahead of him pointed first to his ear, then to the rear, indicating someone was coming up behind the squad.

Gene listened intently. The sounds of disturbed leaves and bushes came not directly from their rear, but to the right rear of their position. Birds flew up, chirping alarm. Almost without sound, the squad, already in file formation, came on line and dropped down to conceal themselves within the foliage. The last thing they wanted was contact.

Through the bushes and trees Gene caught movement. It was one lone VC in black pajamas, talking to himself even as he strolled closer to their location. Not another person in sight. Just ten feet farther to the left, and the VC would have seen their tracks in the mud. Thank You, Gene thought.

The squad was dead quiet. Their personal discipline never faltered in combat.

Almost mesmerized, Gene watched the VC strolling closer. The man passed Doc without detection, then Cruz and Alex. He came within eighteen inches of Brian, who was still in Gene’s position. The VC, carrying an AK-47 over his shoulder, holding it by its barrel, continued to talk to himself, just walking along within inches now of Jim.

Jim grabbed the VC, slapped a hand over his mouth, and took him down. There was virtually no sound.

Before Gene realized he’d moved, he had the VC’s AK-47 in his hand and the rest of the squad had backed in around the three of them, ensuring 360-degree security.

In a low, soft voice, Jim said, “We’ll take him out for interrogation.”

Gene positioned his 60 inches from the VC’s head. The man’s eyes were stretched wide, almost popping from their sockets. He knew about the men in green faces, and it showed.

Jim pulled off his sweatband and stuffed it deep into the VC’s mouth, then motioned for Gene’s.

Keeping his finger on the trigger of the 60, Gene used his left hand to pull off his headband. Jim tied it around the VC’s face to keep the first one in his mouth. When he rolled the man over to tie it, Gene pushed the barrel of the 60 into the back of the VC’s head.

Finished, Jim snapped his fingers and waved for Cruz, who was responsible for prisoners. Taking out a pair of plastic handcuffs with a small wire going through the center, Cruz bent down and fastened the VC’s hands behind his back. The cuffs would have to be removed with wire cutters.

After securing one end of a small line around the POW’s neck, Cruz looped it around the center of the cuffs. Now he could control the POW’s movements, by lifting and pulling on the line. He jerked on the line to pull the VC to his feet.

Absolute quiet returned. The sunlight faded and in the dimness rain began to fall again and the wind picked up. By 1200 hours, it was very dark and raining harder. Gene looked up. He couldn’t see the sky through the treetops, but something up there had begun to roar.

What the hell? He glanced at the others, who were also looking. It sounded like jets coming in. Maybe a screwup by TOC. Maybe they had an air strike on. His shoulders tightened. Rain pounded down, but the sound overrode it. Wind, they realized with relief. It was howling, shrieking wind, tearing through the very top layer of the triple canopy.

Jim motioned
move out
and pointed to the left. They were pulling out. The storm would eliminate their tracks forever.

They headed due east, crossing the river. By 1400 hours, they passed the river they’d come in on, met the third river, and were headed north to the Son Ku Lon. Roland radioed their new extraction location to the boat. By the time the MSSC picked them up, it was 2300. The squad made it back to Seafloat at 2315 hours. They’d been out just over twenty-one hours.

Willie waited until Gene climbed aboard to say, “It’s almost midnight. A bit longer and y’all might have turned into a pumpkin. Now that you’re back, I’m going to bed.”

Gene couldn’t help but grin, watching him walk away, before taking control of the prisoner and getting him over to the KCS camp. Interrogation would be at 0600 hours.

Back at Seafloat, the cooks had fixed hot coffee, eggs, and toast, for which he was grateful. With the exception of Doc’s canteen full of water for medical purposes, they never carried food or water on an op. They took salt tabs. For one thing, water was noisy. It sloshed. For another, if they were going to add weight, they’d rather carry ammunition. Too, ops were normally overnight—seldom lasting longer than thirty-six hours. He was really hungry as he sat down. They hadn’t eaten for over a day.

Finished with chow, themselves and their weapons cleaned, the squad hit their racks. Gene lay down, thinking how good it felt to get into dry clothes, how good to stretch out and relieve the pressure from his legs. In the midst of a prayer of thanks, he fell asleep. Five hours later, he’d be getting up to attend the interrogation.

T
HE ROAR OF THE
wind through the treetops in the Twin Rivers area returned in Gene’s dreams. Once again, the squad cowered below the shriek of jets that weren’t, waiting for rockets to blow them apart. He moved restlessly in his sleep, waking frequently, dreading the coming interrogation.

He’d only be a viewer, only offer a list of questions. The rationalizations didn’t work. The VC they’d brought in would be going through a hell Gene didn’t want to see and didn’t want to be a part of. He might die.

His pillow was sopping wet. He turned it over. All any of them wanted to do was live through it. But live through it with honor if humanly possible. To go through so much, and then die during an enemy interrogation…Jesus, at least they’d never face that. Not as long as they had bullets, knives, and the pill—for themselves and for each other.

The KCS conducted all interrogations. They had built up such a hatred for the NVA and VC that they never hesitated to put a fellow Vietnamese through excruciating pain. Their methods weren’t always effective. When torture didn’t break the victim, they simply killed him.

Mosquitoes droned outside the net around his rack.

Before dawn, he gave up trying to sleep, dressed, and walked out to the west end of Seafloat. Their two Sea Wolves were black silhouettes against a night sky filled with a trillion stars. He prayed for forgiveness, holding his Bible tight. What did God think of him, now that he’d left church behind to become a SEAL? As a member of the most effective, most highly trained military unit in the world, had he fallen from grace? With a tightness deep in his throat, he wondered if he’d ever be forgiven for what he’d done, and would yet do.

Standing alone in the pre-dawn night, he wondered how many other veterans of combat agonized over their religious beliefs. Especially the commandment Thou shalt not kill. He killed often. He was good at it. For his country, he thought. For those two little girls, Tong’s daughters.

Bible in hand, Gene walked back to the east side of Seafloat, taken with a need to watch the sunrise. Before going to the KCS camp, he wanted to see the beauty of dawn breaking. Automatically he returned the small Bible to its shirt pocket and lit a cigarette.

The sun rose, blazing over the jungle. The sound of male voices mingled with the smell of food cooking in the chow hall. He turned away, drawn by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The day would be a scorcher.

Carrying his coffee, Gene took a Boston Whaler to the KCS camp. Willie waited on the dock. “Is everything ready?” Gene asked.

Willie nodded, his red hair shining in the early morning sun. “They’re already inside with the prisoner. Come on. I’ll fill your cup and we’ll head over.”

“How does it feel to have just a week left in country?”

“Great,” Willie answered, “.but I’ll miss y’all, and I’ll miss operating, even though I don’t get to do it much.”

They detoured around a group of children playing some kind of game involving stones and twigs.

Gene smiled at them, and wondered what his and Karen’s child would be like, which reminded him that Willie was getting married. “Getting nervous yet about tying the knot?”

“Not yet.” Willie smiled. “But I’ll probably be a mess when the time comes. When I’m home.”

Gene grinned. “Probably. What are you going to do when you get out?”

Willie bent to pet the dog pushing at his knee. “I’m going to work for my dad. Be selling cars during the day and finishing school at night.”

“School? What are you studying?”

He gave the dog a final pat and stood. “History. I plan to be a teacher.”

“I’ll be,” Gene said. “I didn’t know you wanted to teach.” He took his hand off the 60 long enough to wipe the sweat away from his eyes. The day was already like a steam bath.

“Neither did I,” Willie said, pouring coffee into their cups, “until I came here.”

The interrogation hootch was a few yards distant. It was an eight-by-eight plywood structure, with a few chairs and a table. This morning, Gene saw, they also had a map of the Twin Rivers area available.

The VC prisoner, tied to a chair, sat amid three KCSs and a SEAL advisor. The advisor acknowledged their presence with a nod. By the looks of the VC’s bloody mouth, the process of questioning had already started. The KCSs had knocked some of his teeth out.

The translator repeated the question just asked. “Where were you heading when you were captured?”

When the POW looked at the floor and remained silent, a short, wiry KCS slammed him across the chest with a rubber hose.

Inwardly Gene winced. The hose hurt badly.

Again and again, questions asked brought no response and silence brought the hose. Frustrated, the KCS began to hit the POW in the face with his fist again. Blood ran from the VC’s mouth.

Grim, Gene, as the platoon’s intelligence officer, asked the next question. “Where were you coming from?”

When there was no answer, the KCS interpreter ordered the two other KCSs to wire the prisoner. After ripping off the VC’s pants, they brought out a field radio. Two wires ran from the radio’s crank generator, and they attached them to the VC’s testicles. Spreading the map before him, they asked again where he’d been coming from.

When Gene heard no response, he clenched his teeth.

The cranked radio sent a high volt of current and the VC screamed and stiffened.

“Where were you coming from?”

Silence.

This time the KCSs made the radio “call long-distance,” which meant the current ran twice as long as before.

Sweat ran down the VC’s face and mingled with the blood. Still, he refused to reply.

The thin, wiry KCS yelled, and kicked the prisoner in the face, breaking his nose. The interpreter repeated the question and received no answer.

Gene was aware that silence, in spite of torture, was not unusual. Neither was the KCSs’ next move. They cranked the radio again.

The VC’s scream split the air. He could have been heard on Seafloat.

It was too much. Gene jerked the wire leads off the POW’s testicles and started to untie the man.

Angry, the wiry KCS gave Gene a violent shove, and within an instant, faced his bowie knife.

“Back up!” the interpreter yelled at the KCS.

“Tell him,” Willie ordered, gun in hand, “that if he touches Gene again, I’ll blow his fucking head off. Tell him that if he doesn’t like it, we’ll take him and his family back to the village they came from.”

The SEAL advisor looked at the interpreter. “Tell him.”

Hearing, the wiry KCS stepped back. A return to his village meant sure death for himself and his family.

“Get them all out of here, Willie, except for us and the interpreter.” Gene walked behind the VC. With a sweep of his blade, he cut the handcuffs off, then replaced the bowie in its sheath.

The man smiled slightly, for a second, before fear returned.

Gene turned to the interpreter. “Tell him to get dressed. He’s not going to break,” he added, to Willie and the advisor. “I’ve seen it before.” He picked up a rag and handed it to the POW so he could wipe the blood from his mouth and nose.

When he’d dressed, Gene put the map of Twin Rivers in front of him again. “Where were you coming from?”

Silence.

“Where were you coming from?”

The VC said nothing.

Gene turned to the interpreter. “Tell him that if he doesn’t start talking, I’ll let the KCSs return and begin where they left off.” He didn’t want that to happen, but they had to have the information.

While the interpreter talked, Gene replaced the radio and wires on the table, setting them next to the map. When he looked at the VC, the terror in the man’s still-bleeding face was obvious. “I’ll ask you one more time. Where were you coming from?”

The VC pointed to the map.

Gene sighed with relief and leaned over. The VC was pointing to an area about five hundred meters from where they’d inserted the night before. “What were you doing there?”

Through the interpreter, the VC said that he was with a B-40 rocket team.

“Were you there last night?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear or see anything?”

“No. It started to rain hard, and we all went inside the bunker.”

Thank God for the rain. “Were many with you?” Behind him, Gene could hear Willie’s relief in the relaxed pace of his breathing.

“Two.”

“Are they there every night?”