Men in Green Faces (21 page)

Gene shivered, watching the EOD people board their chopper. “Thanks again,” he called.

“Tell me,” Tommy said, “when it was placed. And how.”

Gene told him and added, “We thought they were coming in, not leaving. We don’t stand watch. Seafloat personnel does.”

“Who sets the watch?”

“I hear, the supply officer.”

Tommy spit in the water. “I want to speak to that asshole,” he said, and stormed off.

“Some of you better go with him,” Chris said.

Followed by five others, Gene went after Tommy, catching up with him just in time to see him slam the door open.

“Where’s Lieutenant Smith?”

“Here,” said Smith. “What’s the problem?”

Tommy loomed over him. “I want to speak to those men on watch last night, and the watch section tonight. Get them.”

The lieutenant, about five foot six and 130 pounds, was obviously intimidated by Tommy’s size and anger, and didn’t hesitate. He sent for the men. When they walked in, Tommy laid into them.

“You people fucked up. You’re not out there to drink, sleep, or play grab-ass. If you’re on watch, you’d sure as hell better be watching for those guys.” His fists clenched. “This is our home. We’re supposed to be safe here. If I find or see or hear of one of you fucking up again, I’ll slit your throats myself.”

He turned to the lieutenant. “And I’ll drop his body in your rack. You’re responsible for seeing that they stay alert. If you can’t, I’ll be back for you.”

Gene stepped back as he whirled and left. It didn’t take long for the word to spread. The legend that was Tommy had definitely returned.

“C
OME ON OVER,”
T
OMMY
said when they reached Hotel’s hootch. “I want you to meet our lieutenant. He wants to get out in the bush soon. I’ve already told him about you.”

Heads turned when they walked in. They’re so young, Gene thought, forgetting he was only months older himself.

“John,” Tommy said, “this is Seaman Gene Michaels.”

“Lieutenant Hagar,” Gene said, taking the outstretched hand, “nice to meet you, sir.” The man was a ringer for Steve McQueen. Same cool measuring look in the blue eyes, same curly, sandy hair. Even built like him.

“It’s John, here,” the lieutenant replied. “Tommy told me you’re the only one that could fill his shoes while he’s gone. Says you’re one helluva operater.”

Gene shook his head. “I can’t fill his shoes. No one could. But I do know the area, and I can take you out. I’ve got a B-40 rocket team location.”

Lieutenant Hagar, hands on hips, tilted his head just a bit in silent question.

“Let’s go out tomorrow and set an ambush.” Gene paused, giving the lieutenant time to say something. He didn’t. So Gene outlined the plan he had in mind.

“We’ll get in before the rocket team comes down to set their night ambush. The men can get used to the weather and the night sounds. It will be a light contact.”

“Your information good?”

“Yes, sir. I was planning to run it with my squad.”

“Okay,” Lieutenant Hagar said, “we’ll talk tomorrow morning.”

Tommy walked him to the door. “Good job.”

Gene waved as he left. He had to get an M-16 ready for midnight and the old man.

Within the next half hour, he’d gone to supply and found a gunner’s mate to take four M-16 rounds apart and plug up the necks of the shell casings. Putting the four rounds of homemade blanks in his pocket, he went back to his hootch.

It took about two seconds to locate Marc Kenau. He had a fistful of Freddy Fanther’s blue-and-gold. Fanther dangled about a foot and a half above the floor, both hands protecting his face. He was looking out between his fingers and yelling for Marc to set him down.

Gene sighed. He walked over and stood behind Fanther where Marc could see him. When he did, Gene motioned toward the door and raised his eyebrows in question. At Marc’s quick nod, he went back outside. Moments later, the Eagle joined him, leaving Freddy Fanther inside and yelling, amid the roar of the SEALs’ laughter.

“Piss you off?”

“Always,” Marc answered. “Biggest mouth I’ve ever seen.”

“Parakeet ass, though.”

“Got that right. What’s up?”

Gene pulled the blank rounds out of his pocket. “Got ‘em. Wanted to check them and the M-16 out with you. I thought we should inspect them together and get ready.”

At the cleaning table, they checked the empty chamber of the M-16 to be used, then counted the rounds which were placed in the magazine. Two live rounds first, then two blanks, two live, then the last two blanks. When they were both satisfied, Gene handed the M-16 and the magazine to Marc.

“All yours until 2300 hours.”

“You can bet nobody’s gonna fuck with it between now and then. Who else knows what’s coming down?”

“Right now, only Jim, Willie, NILO, and us. Brian will have to.”

Marc smiled. “Turned into a mother hen with the old man, Brian has. You’re right. Little as he is, he’s nobody to get mad if you can help it.”

“Got that right, buddy. I’ll come get you when Jim gives the word. By the way,” he added, “I’m just wondering…”

“What?”

“Well, about you writing poetry. Have you—”

Marc shook his head. “Been thinking about it, but that’s all.”

“Hope it comes together for you.”

“Yeah.”

End of conversation, Gene thought, and was taken by a fit of coughing that left him sweating and holding his throat. Damned tonsils. Sooner or later, they had to go.

Back inside, he settled down to reread the packet of letters from Karen.
I love you
, she wrote, and he wished she could know just how much he loved her, longed for her, wanted to be with her. He read on slowly, relishing every word.

“Let’s do it.” Jim was standing beside his rack. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you, but it’s time.”

Gene sighed. “That’s okay.” He folded the letter and put it back in its envelope.

“I’ll get NILO,” Jim said. “You get Marc and the old man.”

“Yeah.”

Willie was playing poker. Gene tapped him on the shoulder, and he looked up. “You ready to go?”

“Sure,” he said, and folded his hand.

Willie went to the KCS camp to get an interpreter and bring him back to Seafloat, while Gene talked to Brian.

“Get the old man’s clothes too and bring him outside. When Willie gets back with the interpreter, we’ll have a Whaler warmed up and standing by.”

Brian brought Raggedy out just before midnight. The old man was almost too drunk to walk in spite of Brian’s help. He was not only nodding and smiling, he was giggling and trying to sing.

Marc stood at the edge of Seafloat, next to an empty M-60 can weighed down by the sandbag inside. Gene faced him from some distance away, with Jim and Johnny from NILO standing behind him.

He motioned to his right. “Brian, take Raggedy and stand over there, by Willie and the interpreter.”

While Brian walked the old man over, Gene checked the inside of the magazine again before putting it into the M-16. He cocked the weapon. When Brian and Raggedy were in place, he spoke to the interpreter. “Tell the old man SEALs cannot be killed. Tell him we are letting him go back home, to tell his people that they have three days to surrender or we will come back in and kill them all.”

Gene waited until the interpreter had finished. Then he raised the M-16, aimed it at the middle of Marc’s chest, and squeezed the first blank round off. When he looked at Raggedy, Gene saw his eyes were wide. He was shocked.

Marc hadn’t flinched. He stood immobile, his startling light blue eyes slightly narrowed, with a look on his face that was absolutely cold—totally without feeling.

Gene cocked the M-16 and fired the second blank into him. He didn’t even blink. The Eagle, Gene thought, is one scary-looking dude. Raggedy was clinging to Brian’s arm, staring.

He cocked the M-16 again, knowing the old man would never notice. All his attention was on Marc. After firing, he had to re-cock the weapon. Having the bullet removed, and replaced with light wadding to keep the powder in, wasn’t enough to blow the bolt back. He’d have needed a blank firing adaptor, but they were only used in training. None was available on Seafloat. Too late for training here.

He fired two live rounds into the M-60 can, blowing holes in it that Raggedy could clearly see. Gene thought the old man was going to have a heart attack. He was praying and muttering a thousand words a minute.

“You evil spirits, you evil spirits,” was all Gene could make out.

After he’d fired two more blanks at Marc and two more live rounds into the M-60 can, Marc, still with that awful absence of feeling on his face, simply walked away and disappeared in the crowd of SEALs, who’d appeared at the sound of the first shot.

It took a little while for Brian to get the old man calm enough to listen.

Gene turned to the interpreter. “Tell him to tell his people what he saw, and that they have three days. No more.” He glanced around. “You-O, show him the M-60 can, up close.”

The old man looked, but wouldn’t touch it. He was repeating, “You evil spirits,” over and over.

“Brian,” said Gene, “get him dressed in his own clothes, will you?”

“Right,” he said. “God, I hope this works.”

When Raggedy was dressed, Willie, Brian, the interpreter, and Gene loaded him into the Whaler and moved out to drop him off at the mouth of the river to the east of Twin Rivers. After the old man had scurried off into the darkness, they returned to Seafloat.

Johnny, from NILO, stopped Gene, who was on the way to get some rest. “It just might work. We can’t go get them. Maybe they’ll bite and come to us.”

“Time will tell.” Gene started coughing again. “Gotta get some sleep.”

In bed, he said a prayer for the old man. He’d hated frightening him so, but maybe the villagers would come out, maybe Raggedy would have the chance to live out his life in peace. He reached for one of Karen’s letters. Tomorrow would bring another day—and another op.

G
ENE WOKE BEFORE SUNRISE
, drenched with sweat, his bunk soaked with it. He squinted at his watch and calculated he’d had a badly needed six hours of sleep. In one motion, he sat up, swung his legs over the side, and dropped to the floor. The impact sent a shock wave through his body that culminated in his skull. His chest and throat were so congested, he choked, setting off a chain reaction of coughing. It felt like twenty pounds of C-4 had gone off, high-order, in his head.

He dressed in the dark and tried to suppress the coughing so it wouldn’t wake the others. They wouldn’t be getting up for another two and a half hours. Don’t want to be the one to do that, he thought as he took his meds. He sprayed his throat, wiped his face, and quietly left the hootch.

Outside, Seafloat lay silent in the night. Gene went to the east end of the barge to watch the sun rise. The dark sky, vast and majestic, glittered with what seemed a billion stars. Far off, on the horizon, the pale aura over the jungle told him a light rain fell there. The sight conjured memories of the rhythmic sounds of rain against a gray-black backdrop of sky, the cool night smell of it that always surfaced thoughts of home.

He stood watching, silently describing the feel of pre-dawn to himself—quiet, still, calm, peaceful. And suddenly he thought of Sara—her softness, how pretty she was, and how much she cared—not just about her patients but about all of them out here. She would never know how much she had eased his pain and loneliness.

Arms crossed, he stared out across the dark jungle, seeing only her face. Before they’d held each other, he’d seen the effects of stress, constant involvement with pain, and the weariness in her face. Afterward, for a while at least, there had been the absence of those things.

But he should never have…Even as he asked God to forgive him, Gene thanked Him for bringing him and Sara together. They would probably never see each other again. Fare thee well too, he wished her silently.

The horizon turned rose and lavender and peach. Forget, he ordered himself. Somehow, thoughts of Sara had to be buried. Dreaming of her, out here, was distracting—too dangerous to allow. Once back in The World, it could be dangerous to his marriage, and hurtful and unfair to Karen. He jammed his hands into his back pockets and focused attention on the fiery rim of the rising sun.

A gentle breeze came out of the west, caressed his face, and brought the aroma of coffee brewing. He headed in that direction. As he passed the hootches, he heard voices and the sounds of men getting ready for the day.

The hot coffee tasted great. Sitting with a cupful in his hands, Gene thought about the coming break-in op, for Hotel Platoon.

It would be a good op for them. And they’d be operating in an area close to support and extraction. Intel had it that three to five VC had set up a B-40 rocket sight, about a mile east of Old Nam Cam Annex. Their intent, as always, would be to launch rockets at the riverboats on night patrol. Fortunately previous teams had never been able to hit one of the boats, but sooner or later one would.

Overtaken by coughing, Gene almost spilled his coffee before he could set the cup down. Afterward, he felt limp. Each time he coughed it felt as if his head exploded, and a rough, tight chest pain followed. The more he coughed, expelling a thick green mucus, the more raspy his lungs felt. It hurt to take a deep breath.

He took several sips of coffee to soothe his throat before he picked up his fork again. A few minutes later, Hotel’s lieutenant, John Hagar, walked over, set his tray down, and joined him. As they ate, Gene went over the basics of the break-in op. They adjourned to the briefing room a short time later, where he gave Hagar the full intel report on the target.

“The insertion should be around 1600 hours,” Gene advised. “We’ll move slowly to enable the men to get used to the terrain they’ll be working for the next six months.” Unlike all other military units in Vietnam, the length of a SEAL tour was 180 days. With the number of operations they performed, under their Military Directive, in actual combat time their half year would probably equal a two-year tour with any other unit or service.