If only that had been true - but the command and leadership role of Big ‘S’ was about to get tested, and much, much harder….
“Damn it to hell!! It’s a snake!!”
As soon as those words were uttered by Doc Mayo one of the Scouts, with a singular motion so swift and smooth, slid his long machete knife out of its sheath; swung it with one silent arc and be-headed the venomous reptile before it had a chance to move another inch. It was eerie the skill he exhibited. He calmly cleaned the fearsome razor-sharp steel blade by methodically wiping the snake’s red blood on his trouser leg, and unceremoniously re-holstered the blade in its sheath, which hung loosely on his belt. During this entire episode his facial expression never changed.
“Oh, hell!!” frantically yelled Doc Mayo, “It’s an Asiatic Cobra!!”
The Asiatic Cobra is a cousin, of sorts, to the better-known King Cobra, but both are extremely deadly, if not properly treated in a timely fashion. The only proper treatment is the use of anti-venom, and it must be administered within a few minutes of the Cobra’s bite - "Sorry Doc" Sarge said with a trembling voice," you know we don't have any anti-venom."
"Yeah I know, damn...” Doc said, “just my luck... I was reaching for... for... what I thought was a piece of firewood in the dark, and wouldn’t you know it, hell, it WAS A SNAKE!! I’m sorry Sarge, Lieutenant…” he motioned around the room to the rest of the men, “guys I’m sorry! I know you were depending on me and I’ve let you down! I’m... I’m... sorry!”
You would never think battle hardened veterans such as these would show emotion… but around the room, in the flickering yellowish light of the warm fire, the trails of wetness could be seen emanating from the corner of their eyes and trickling down their black, green and tan camouflaged faces.
They tried, unsuccessfully, to hold back these tears - but they had no control over them. They all comprehended Charlie’s fate!
The men knew the Cobra, Asiatic or King, as the one-two-three snake. One bite, two steps, three drags on a cigarette and…. well no further explanation is necessary…
The men spread a couple of ponchos on the ground up close to the fire. Lay Doc, who was already beginning to feel the pain of the Cobra’s bite, down on them in an effort to make his last few minutes as comfortable as possible.
The place of the bite, his hand, was swelling and Doc began moaning loudly and began to have difficulty breathing. Sarge had applied a tourniquet to Doc’s upper arm but he knew he was just delaying the inevitable.
The men, Green Berets through and through, believed the difficult could be done at once while the impossible took just a little longer. There was nothing they couldn’t do… they wanted to believe this was true now but they fully understood nothing more could be done for Doc except, as friends, be by his side and not allow him to die alone, lying on a cold rock floor, in a hole in the ground somewhere in a sorry-assed place not even shown on a map!!
His life was now being measured in minutes, certainly no more than an hour. And his last minutes were going to be filled with excruciating pain, muscle paralysis and finally complete respiratory failure.
Big ‘S' standing in the golden shimmer of the fire said to his men, “Guys, Doc’s aid bag has 5 morphine syrettes (1/4 grains of morphine each, in small toothpaste type tubes for instant injection) plus we each have two in our breast pockets. We will probably have use for all of them for ourselves before this mission is complete but I am going to make Doc’s last few minutes this side of eternity as peaceful and painless as possible.”
Saying this he reached into his pocket, removed his two small morphine tubes. Pushing the little wire on the end to break the seals, he kneeled down beside Doc and injected, through fatigue pants, the two tubes, directly into Doc’s leg. Without another spoken word the rest of the men opened their breast pockets and each removed their syrettes and starting handing them to Big ‘S’.
“Thanks fellows!! I believe just a couple more is all he will need.” The rest he handed back to the men. “Thanks again guys, I know Doc Mayo would appreciate your sacrifice for him too!” Big ‘S’ injected a couple more tubes, stood back up turned and stared into the fire… and…
Sarge thought, ‘now we’re down to Ten!’…
CHAPTER TWENTY
ENEMY PATROL
As the last medic for Big ‘S’ lie dying on the hard cave floor there was a rustling of the brush at the cave entrance. The Scout was motioning that someone was coming down the trail.
In the minds of Big ‘S’ and Little ‘S’ the rainstorm had produced both good and bad. The good had been that they found shelter within the cave - that was good because it provided a warm dry place to hide, but the cave and its Cobra killed Doc!
That was bad... real bad!
The good also was the fact that the hard rain had washed away all traces of their footprints either on the trail or at the river crossing. So patrols following the same trail would have no reason to suspect that foreign trespassers were treading on their soil.
“Bao nhieu?” (How many), asked Little ‘S’.
The Scout held up seven fingers. ‘That’s good’, thought Big ‘S’, ‘we can handle seven.’
Little ‘S’ moved up close to Big ‘S’ and whispered in his ear, “Let’s try to get a prisoner. We need information.”
‘Good idea,’ Sarge thought motioning to the Scout. As he and the Scout conversed quietly, the men were beginning to get restless. ‘What’s going on?’ was on each of their minds. Once Sarge got through talking with his Scout, the Scout motioned to the other remaining Scouts and they all exited the shelter together.
Sarge whispered, “form a circle," the men quickly obeyed. “Our sentry scout saw an enemy patrol coming down our trail - there were seven in the squad. We could engage them with weapon fire, but that would give away any surprise advantage that we might still have at Pac Toul. So, the scouts are going out on the trail and capture the last person in the on-coming patrol. We need a prisoner to glean information from.”
“Big ‘S’, spoke one of the men, “that seems mighty risky. Why don’t we move out and provide support cover in case a firefight erupts. Regardless of our blown mission or not we need to help those guys out if they get into trouble!”
“I know you’re right,” Sarge said, “but our Scouts are good. If I get a bunch of you guys out there the patrol might ‘smell a rat’ and there could be some fireworks. I know it’s a gamble, but I trust our Scouts, let’s give’em a chance and see what happens.”
The room grew eerily quite.
Only the inhaling and exhaling of air from each individual could be discerned. The rain and wind were still quite audible outside but the men felt as tho’ their heartbeats were drum beats that could be easily heard by that enemy patrol sloshing down the wet jungle trail. Doc Mayo had not uttered a sound either; the morphine syrettes had performed their job admirably.
* * * * *
After what seemed like hours (when in actuality it was only a few minutes) the rustling of the brush at the cave entrance gave the alert that someone was coming into their 'hole'.
A couple of the Scouts shuffled in followed by a blindfolded member of the enemy patrol. The remaining Scouts were pushing him into the cave. As they neared the center of the room one Scout gave a large shove to the prisoner. Loosing his balance the enemy soldier fell upon the hard rock floor, close to the fire.
It was at this moment, as the dancing glow of the firelight illuminated his body, the men in the room became enraged; the prisoner lying on the floor had on a green military shirt - not an enemy combatant's shirt - an American U.S. Army jungle fatigue shirt!
At once the men recognized it!
It belonged to Jesse! He was wearing Sergeant William 'Jesse' James' shirt!
Tex, the closest man, had his fighting knife drawn and fell upon the bound, blindfolded prisoner in the blink of an eye. Had it not been for the quick reaction of Bonnie grabbing Tex’s knife welding arm the prisoner’s t
hroat would have a nasty gash from his right to left ear.
“Turn me loose!” Tex yelled. “Let me at that bastard, I’ll cut that damn shirt off him and him still in it!” pulling hard on the men that were restraining him. “Easy now, easy,” said Big ‘S’ we need this weasel.
Little ‘S’ moved over to the Scouts and started conversing with them in Vietnamese. Their conversation went back and forth – one would say something the other would nod in agreement or they would shake their heads negatively.
When they finished Little ‘S’ turned to all and explained, “they hid alongside the trail waiting on the enemy patrol to approach. Once they had them in sight, even with all the wind and rain, they at once recognized that they were wearing pieces of Jesse’s uniform, and some were carrying pieces of his equipment - one even had his M-16. The Scouts realized that finding Jesse’s body had tipped off the patrol to our existence; therefore, the Scouts immediately decided to kill them all except for this one lying on the floor. The Scouts were outnumbered 7 to 4. That made the odds about even… they eliminated the other patrol members and saved this piece of shit to bring him back.”
At the end of the explanation by Little ‘S’ the Vietnamese Scouts started piling up Jesse’s equipment in the middle of the room. Most of everything was there, including his M-16 rifle. The Scouts stripped the patrol of every single piece of Sgt William James’ captured equipment. Some of it was muddy and still had warm blood on it but it was all there.
When the last piece was placed on the pile, one of the Scouts stretched out his hand toward Big ‘S’. Sarge reached to retrieve whatever the Scout was offering him – the Scout opened up his hand and dropped something into Sarge’s hand - it was Jesse’s personal set of dog tags still attached to their chains. The black rubber electrical tape (the men put these around their tags to hide the noise of the two tags bumping together) was bloody, but still intact.
Incensed, Sarge usually the reserved one, grasped the prisoner by his shoulders, jerked him upright, stripped the shirt from his body - so hard the buttons ripped off and flew in all directions.
Once he got Jesse’s shirt off he turned and tossed the shirt into the fire with a fury as if the shirt had been plague infested; and the only way to rid it from its foul contamination was to incinerate it.
Burn it until nothing was left… ‘Burn it...! Burn it...! Burn it...’, was all Sarge could think to do…!
* * * * *
Captain Scarburg realized something must be done quickly. This situation was beginning to take a hostile turn for the worse. He knew the prisoner was going to be the object of their rage. He really didn’t care if they killed him; he just needed to extract whatever information he processed first.
To get the pandemonium simmered down Captain Scarburg approached the prisoner gripped him by the upper arm and moved him over to a large rock and sat him down.
The Captain removed the prisoner’s blindfold and started talking to him in the Khmer language of Cambodia. Khmer is the official language of Cambodia but this man spoke a dialect of Khmer which Captain Scarburg, a linguist, understood as Northern Khmer; fortunately, the Captain had studied this dialect in preparation for this mission.
The people who understand basic Khmer easily ‘recognize’ northern Khmer, but usually basic Khmer speakers cannot ‘understand’ the Northern Khmer’s speech dialect. Their Khmer speech is so different some linguists believe it should be classified as a totally different language, not just a dialect.
Meanwhile, the prisoner, scared and alone, wasn’t very cooperative at first. After a few minutes of 'ice-breaking' conversation he explained to the Captain that his patrol had stumbled upon the American soldier hanging in a parachute all tangled up in a tree, dead. They cut him down and split his personal belongings between themselves.
They reasoned he must have been a pilot because they had heard a plane flying over them very low and assumed it must have been in trouble. The prisoner further stated they thought the pilot had jumped from the damaged airplane and killed himself when he landed in the tree.
Captain Scarburg asked the prisoner if the patrol could tell what was the cause of death - did his 'chute fail to open? No, the prisoner replied, a broken limb on the tree had penetrated his chest. Killing him instantly. He also told Little ‘S’ they were not aware of any other Americans being on the ground or in the vicinity!
Little ‘S’ turned to the assembled team and relayed the prisoner's disclosure. When he got to the part about the patrol not knowing about them, the team found that hard to swallow. They didn’t believe this Commie piece of human excrement or any of that shit about his patrol. Any soldier, Commie or not wasn’t that friggin’ stupid. They were glad that their Scouts had killed the rest of the bastards. One thing for sure - THAT patrol wasn’t looking for them!
Sarge had taken about all he could. He had been sitting on the stone floor with his back leaning against the cave wall listening to, as Sarge thought, this ‘fairy tale’. Without warning he leaped to his feet, bounded across to the prisoner and with clenched fist knocked him from his seat on the rock. He reached down to administer another blow but Little ‘S’ grabbed him, “Settle down Pop, settle down, let me handle this!”
A trickle of blood oozed from one nostril and the corner of the prisoner’s mouth as Captain Scarburg continued the interrogation - although being asked repeatedly he still maintained that his patrol did not know about the men in the cave.
Glancing over at Sarge, he adamantly reiterated the fact that they were not looking for any Americans - they were just trying to get back to Pac Toul.
‘PAC TOUL!! ‘Bingo! What a catch!’ thought the captain, ‘he is the first person that we have ever heard mention this name.’
Little ‘S’ was so excited he immediately turned from the prisoner to his men and blurted out, “He said Pac Toul! Pac Toul, he said it! Pac Toul!”
Tex, standing close to Captain Scarburg, spoke up, “Little ‘S’ ask him where it is? How far? How many guards? How…….
“Hold on Tex,” Little ‘S’ said cutting him off, “give me a minute. I’ll get to all those details just let me work him a little bit… kind of gain his confidence… or scare the hell out of him… whichever works.” He turned back to the prisoner (he hated to keep referring to him as ‘the prisoner’), so he asked ‘the prisoner’ his name.
He answered, “Samnang Cheang.”
The Captain said to Samnang in Northern Khmer, “That’s a nice name, it means, I believe, ‘Good Fortune’, ‘Prosperous’. I believe you are indeed having ‘good fortune’, because you are with us and still alive. And if you help us out, you might live long enough to become ‘prosperous’ but for the time being we are going to call you ‘Sam’. Samnang now ‘Sam’ nodded his head in agreement. ‘Well’, thought the Captain, ‘now we’re getting somewhere.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘SCRAMBLED BRAINS’
The Captain realizing that ‘Sam’ could not speak English – he might know a word or two, but not enough to converse with him; however, he quickly found that ‘Sam’ knew, not only his native Northern Khmer but he spoke enough French that the Captain could substitute French words for words he could not translate into the Khmer language.
Cambodia had been a colony of France for almost a hundred years at an earlier time. The schools taught the students in the French language. And in most cases Cambodians, using the Khmer language, whether regular or Northern had to use French words for names of machinery or other things related to modern technology since their native tongue had no words for them.
Knowing now how he and ‘Sam’ could ‘communicate’ opened the door wider for a more intense, precise interrogative probes. He questioned him in French on the place called ‘Pac Toul’.
“Is it very far?"
“Yes,” said ‘Sam’ “it was a just a little farther down the same trail that they were following.”
The Captain asked him if it was well guarded. ??
?Yes,” answered ‘Sam’, “well guarded and the defense is strong.”
“Are there many guards, tell me about the guards, how many and where are they situated”, the Captain asked?
“Yes," Sam said they have many guards all around!”
“The compound - is there many buildings?”
“Yes,” ‘Sam’ said, “One big building, small huts.”
It was at this point that Spook, who had been close by listening, said to Captain Scarburg, “Sir, I would not attempt to interfere with your questioning of this man but I have some pertinent information I believe could be useful to you.”
“Certainly Spook, any help would be appreciated.”
“Captain Scarburg when you were learning the Khmer language did your instructor tell you the Cambodian people always answer ANY question with the first word ‘Yes’. This ‘yes’ does not mean ‘yes’. It’s more of a courtesy, similar to ‘I understand’, or ‘I am listening to you’.
“Thanks Spook…. no I was not taught that." Once this information was made available to Little ‘S’ he started to make sense out of ‘Sam’s’ answers.
After intense questioning and eliminating the ‘Yes’ from all ‘Sam’s answers, the Captain came to the following conclusions that he wanted his men to know.
“Gentlemen,” began Little ‘S’, “I believe ‘Sam’ has provided us with some highly valuable intelligence concerning Pac Toul.
Here is what Spook and I have gleaned from him.
First, Pac Toul is just a klick or so down the trail. The bad news is the trail ends at a... need I say it... a dismal dangerous swamp. We will have to proceed through it to a clearing where we should find a large two-story building that is surrounded by a number of peasant huts.
There are an unknown bunch of sentries guarding the main building complex. We found out from ‘Sam’ that there are possibly two machine gun emplacements – one on each corner on the entrance side. He also said, and this is peculiar, the so-called guards are not using the machine guns that are positioned there. They use some kind of weapon that he said he had never seen before. Those weapons are real shiny too. But the good news is the emplacements are only fortified with sandbags.