Men in Green Faces (39 page)

The woman called out, motioning them to come.

Gene froze. Something was wrong with the whole damned thing. Shit! Women always hid or ran when they came in. Always. She was calling them to her! Then it hit him—the baby’s forehead was shiny and white! It was a doll!

He scanned the area—fast. Movement. Bushes to the left.

“Ambush left!” he yelled, and opened the 60 up.

In an instant the entire squad came on line, firing. Bodies jerked erect, and some fell, dead or wounded, out of the brush. The squad faced the rest, hit them hard, and firing nonstop, moved toward the enemy position.

“Kill the woman,” Cruz yelled. They spun. She had disappeared—baby and all.

There was a yell from Brian. “Ambush, right!”

Gene and Cruz spun and fired right, driving the enemy from concealment.

“Tommy!” Cruz yelled. “Get the Wolves in here. John, stay with Tommy!”

From the rice paddy, Tommy yelled back, “Reports coming in! Teams Two, Four, and Six getting hit!”

The 60 sang, and with Brian and Cruz firing beside him, they drove more enemy forces out of ambush and into the open. Even as they blew them away, Gene realized they were surrounded. The squad had dropped dead into the center of an enemy camp.

“Team One’s been hit,” Tommy yelled. “Enemy pulling back, contact broken. Enemy’s coming our way!”

It was like a turkey shoot. There were enemy targets everywhere he looked. “Cruz,” he yelled, “look out!” About six feet ahead of him, Cruz was firing left, and couldn’t see the machine-gun post turning on him. Gene opened up.

Cruz turned, saw, and turned back to see the 60’s tracers pass just a foot from his body. Two enemy soldiers fell, taking some of the bushes down with them, and exposing their ,51-caliber machine gun.

As the three of them forced the NVA back, Tommy and John relayed radio messages. “Got to get out,” Tommy yelled. “The NVA are all coming into this location. We’ve got combat to our rears!”

“Have the Wolves keep their heads down!” Cruz yelled back, and Gene knew the Wolves couldn’t use their rockets for fear of hitting one of the other teams. They were making fake runs to keep the enemy busy.

The 60 blazed. He, Brian, and Cruz had to keep the enemy backed up—keep the area clear so the Wolves could land to pick them up. They’d shoot one NVA, and as he fell, the others would jump up and try to rim away, only to be hit themselves.

They had to get out. The NVA was swarming the area.

“Pick up what you can on the way back,” Cruz shouted. “Tommy, call the Wolves in!”

Bodies lay everywhere, bleeding among weapons, ammo cans, bushes…

They grabbed three ammo boxes from one hootch—they couldn’t be ammo, Gene thought; they were too light—and ran for the drop zone. Around them, gun smoke whirled and rice flattened in the wind as the Wolves set down.

“Gene,” Cruz yelled, “get ready. “You’re first!”

It was SOP for the 60 to be first on. Gene took in the situation. Tommy, John, Brian, and Cruz were turned toward the left rear of the Wolf.

“Come on,” Tommy yelled, “they’re coming through the bushes!”

Half on, he discovered he couldn’t get a clear shot, with the 60, without hitting the helo’s tail blade.

Jumping off, he ran the fifteen meters to where Brian and Cruz stood fast, returning enemy fire. Rounds were striking and erupting the paddy water all around them. Gene let the 60 sing.

Never letting up on the trigger, he yelled, “Get out of here! Get on the chopper. I’ll cover you. Dammit, get!” And when they didn’t instantly leave, he screamed, “Go, dammit! I’ll keep their heads down.”

The 60’s barrel glowed red. Rifling in the barrel was burning out. He ran backward, firing, hearing voices yelling, “Let’s go! Let’s go!”

Gene was five meters from the door. The enemy was trying to maneuver. He stopped, reloaded, and opened up again.

Brian and Cruz were aboard, and the pilot was yelling, “We’re hit!”

“Take off,” Gene yelled back. This was it. He wouldn’t be going home. “They’re coming in! Take off! I’ll hold them down!” The 60 roared. “Go! Go!” he screamed, and the Wolf lifted behind him.

With the Wolf eight feet above the ground, the 60 blazing, melting in his hands, Gene leapt, hooked his left arm over a skid, clutched the front of his cami shirt in a death grip, and the helo took off. Hanging under the helo, he fired down at the enemy, who were trying to run underneath and bring the Wolf to ground.

Above him, Brian was on his belly in the doorway, reaching down and trying to grab him, but he couldn’t reach far enough.

“Can’t get enough speed to clear the trees,” the pilot yelled. “Hold on!”

Gene held. Arm hooked over the skid, cami shirt clenched in one fist, the 60 in the other, he held on.

The helo climbed almost straight up, trying to clear the triple canopy. Gene was terrified. They weren’t going to make it. Dangling from the skid below, he was going to be ripped off against the trees.

For a moment, the helo seemed to stall. Then it spun 180 degrees around, and they were heading down, and back over the enemy position. Gene managed to throw one leg over the skid just as they skimmed again over the NVA. The enemy fired up, and Gene, hanging on below, fired back.

By the time they’d crossed the enemy zone, the chopper had picked up enough speed to clear the tree line.

Above him, Cruz lay flat beside Brian, who reached down and took the 60 from Gene. The white-hot barrel sizzled against his arm and fried the skin, even as he threw it back and away.

Cruz grabbed Gene’s shirt, then Brian took hold. Together, they pulled Gene inside.

Brian had a burn that was four inches long and two wide, starting at his wrist. He whipped off his headband and wrapped it around the wound.

Gasping for breath, Gene asked, “Are you okay, Brian?”

“Yeah. How about you?”

He nodded. “I’m okay.”

“Look at that!” Cruz yelled.

Gene looked. Off to the side, just above the trees, he saw Seafloat’s American flag, flying straight out and full. Tears flooded his eyes, and he blinked rapidly, then wiped them away as best he could, filled with thankfulness at the sudden, beautiful sight of it.

They’d been scared to death. The op that was to have been so easy had turned out the most dangerous ever. They should have died in that rice paddy. They almost had.

The helo made its approach and landed on Seafloat.

When they got off, both Seafloat’s doctor and Doc were there waiting. So were people with stretchers, and people waiting to take care of them. The op had been aired over Seafloat’s PA system, and everybody on it had heard the pitched battle.

When they saw the squad was not only all safe but nobody even wounded, the crowd began to applaud, and as the squad made its way through them, the applause grew louder. People patted them on the back as they passed, and Gene heard a man say, as he stepped clear, “Those are some bad motherfuckers.”

They stopped at NILO with the strangely lightweight ammo cans.

“Here, Johnny,” Gene said. “Some documents.”

Standing beside Johnny, Jim asked, “Are you all okay? Anyone hurt?”

“Brian got burned on the 60’s barrel. Doc’s got him.” Gene said, “And Jim, we need a drink. A stiff drink.”

At the hootch, Cruz broke out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. They passed it around, each taking a big swig.

“Jim,” Gene asked, “how about the other teams?”

“They’re all coming back in. No one hit.”

They stared at him.

“Well,” Gene said, “we found them.”

Doc scratched at his mustache. “No shit, you found them. Listening to you guys over the PA scared the hell out of me.” He jumped up and started walking around. “All I could see was you guys all shot up. And everybody was waiting, if not to help, to see the blood. Nobody thought you’d come back in one piece.” He walked around faster. “You could hear the gunfight as the radio messages came in. You ever scare me like that again, and I’ll shoot you!” Hands on hips, he glared at them, eyes glittering with tears.

“No sweat,” Brian said, his voice soft. “We had the charm with us. Gene’s still got the luck.”

The metal bed frame was cool in his palm. He looked down at his feet. Canvas jungle boots against a steel floor. Was it luck? Or was it really Him? What, for Christ’s sake, had kept them alive out there? Alive with rounds coming in from all sides. He reached for the bottle.

They finished it, and still shaky, started on six-packs of beer.

All the ammo he’d wrapped around his body was gone. He counted the remaining rounds left on the 60’s belt. Forty-seven. He’d used 1,453 rounds that day—and it hadn’t been for fun. He sucked in his breath, then let it out slowly.

After a while, they went outside and cleaned their gear, then stowed it in their footlockers, ready to fly home. After several hours, the 60 was cool again. Taking it apart, he’d seen the barrel was shot, as was the operating rod, the spring, and the firing pin. Looking at the pieces, he wondered if it would have fired even one more round.

There was a bullet hole in the forward hand grip. He touched it, ran his fingers over it. How it had gone through without hitting his arm, he would never understand.

The squad walked to chow together, their fear numbed by booze.

He looked up as Tommy came over.

Standing tall, Tommy turned to Cruz. “You did a great job out there as PL, kid.” He shook his hand before looking down at Gene and holding his hand out again. “If you hadn’t jumped back out with your 60,1 don’t think we’d have gotten off the ground. You kept them down long enough to get out.” He paused, then added, “The chopper took a hundred and thirty-one rounds. It’s a miracle we’re here.”

He shook Brian’s hand. “You three did some ass-kicking. John and I only got one magazine each off, into the first ambush site.” He walked away, leaving them looking after him.

To have Tommy, a legend in the teams, compliment them, was a real honor. There was a moment’s silence before they grinned at one another.

“Well, guys,” Johnny said as he and Jim sat down at the table, “want to know the outcome of today’s little op?”

Gene shot him a dark look. “I’d rather forget it, but okay. Let’s hear.”

“The ammo cans you brought back had more documents and maps than have ever before been captured. You found what we were after.” Johnny smiled.

Gene stared at him. “Excuse me, sir, but the next time you have a simple op, keep your mouth shut, sir. There is no such thing as a simple op.”

Johnny nodded. “You’ve got it.”

“Total op time,” Jim said, “was ten minutes. Three minutes air time, one and a half minutes each way. Seven minutes on the ground.”

“Ten minutes,” Brian repeated, wonder in his voice. “Ten minutes…”

“Yes,” Johnny said. “You landed in the middle—the very center—of the 89
th
Artillery Company from the T-10 NVA Battalion. Today’s the first time they’ve ever lost in combat. During your seven-minute visit, you killed twenty-two and wounded forty-seven. With more intel coming in, those figures could climb.”

Their “Hoo-Ya!” deafened the room.

“So,” Cruz asked, “it was a success?”

“Oh, yes.” Johnny grinned. “Very much so. Again, thanks a lot. You guys did a great job.”

Back at the hootch, after chow, things were quiet. Doc, Alex, Roland, and Jim wanted to party. Brian, Cruz, and Gene were still shaken. They’d never come so close to dying.

“Never,” Brian said. “Never. Not even on the Mighty Mo.”

Gene left the hootch. He wanted to go over to the KCS camp and see Truk before leaving Seafloat. He respected Truk more than any other Vietnamese he’d met or fought beside, and this would be his only chance to say good-bye.

He got a Whaler and headed for shore, thinking of all the firefights Truk had survived during the six months Gene’s platoon had been on Seafloat. He wondered just how many more Truk had experienced through all his years. Not only was he a courageous man, Truk was also a loyal, truthful man who loved life. He was dedicated to his wife, Chou Li, and was a compassionate father to his children.

Gene landed, walked into the KCS camp, and a half dozen children ran up yelling, “Michaels, Michaels!” They wrapped their arms around his legs.

“Where’s Truk?” he asked.

“With Momma-san,” the oldest answered.

Gene went to the hootch doorway and yelled, “Truk! Truk, you old fart. Get out here.”

Truk limped out of the door, still pulling his pants up.

Gene laughed. “Sorry if I got you at a bad time, my old friend.”

Truk smiled. “No problem. Chou Li heard your voice. She say to take my time. She wait for my return.”

“Glad you’re still going strong. Be careful, wise one. You’ll have another baby soon.”

“I hope so, my friend. Children are most sacred to us. Through our children, we live forever.”

“I know,” Gene said. “Did you hear I’m a Papa-san now?”

Truk nodded. “Yes. I happy for you. You make good for your child. You good man. Now, you too will live forever. You have many baby-san. They will carry on all you do.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Yes. My heart is sad. You know our people.” Truk nodded to himself. “I also happy for you. You brave man. Much fighting for our people. You kill boo-koo Viet Cong, many Communist. Yet your heart sorrows, and you cry for our losses. I will miss you, Gene Michaels.”

“And I, you, Chief. I hope the war ends soon, my friend, for all of us. The children are the ones who are losing. I’ll be glad to hear them laugh freely again.”

Truk patted one of his sons. “They will miss you.”

“Truk…” Gene made his decision. “Truk, when I first came over, I planned on making only one tour here. I’m no longer planning that. I have about eighteen months left to serve. I want to return. I just don’t know how to tell Karen—my wife—or if she’ll understand. Your freedom is worth fighting for.”

Truk hitched up his pants. “I will wait for you. Now you say good-bye to Chou Li.”

Gene could not refuse. He had been their dinner guest many a night. He followed Truk inside.

Chou Li was standing, a sheet wrapped around her waist. She wrapped her arms around Gene’s waist, her eyes filled with tears, and squeezed tight.