* * * * *
Sarge quickly realized if he could move quickly to the high ground to his left – he wouldn’t have to flank the Russians. He would just set up an ambush and let them walk into it, ‘Damn he thought’ this is an excellent plan Spook. This is exactly what I would have come up with', he thought grinning to himself.
As Sarge was moving his own men to his left the Russians were moving their men to their own left also. At first the firing was intense from the Russian left but the firing began to diminish more and more as the heavy, equipment-laden men trudging through the dirty, dingy swamp water inadvertently stepped into the deep undertow of the river.
It was like leading sheep to the slaughter; however, the sheep leading them to slaughter was their own men. In the dark of that swamp, which now had its air laden with gun smoke; the Russians could not see their hands in front of their faces!
As one Russki stepped into the fast flowing water, the monster in the river, the undertow, gobbled him up. The next and the next followed suit and were immediately swallowed up too. In a few minutes the firing to Spook and Tex’s right stopped altogether. Sporadic shots came from their left but the shooting was from the Russians trying to out flank Sarge's team. Suddenly the night was ablaze with gunfire. This time it was full auto M-16 rifle fire - ours. The ambush Sarge sat up worked perfectly; at the time the shooting ceased no Russian was left capable of firing another round.
* * * * *
The wounded Russians were crying for mercy. They were moaning and groaning begging for medical treatment in Russian. One Russian yelled repeatedly MATb, MATb nomuraet MHe (Mother, Mother help me)!
Sarge was in the process of searching for the team’s medical aid bag – he might have to kill the enemy but if any were wounded his medic’s creed instructed him to provide aid, enemy or not.
He was still thrashing about in the muddy water looking for the big OD (olive drab) bag with the Red Cross on it, when he heard the report of an M-16 rifle firing. He immediately dropped face down into the dirty water. As he pulled his beret covered head up out of the muck there followed a fast series of rifle shots from more M-16s, but he heard no AK-47 or SKS return fire.
What were his men shooting at?
He finally found the aid bag and made his way out of the swamp onto the dry ground and moved swiftly toward the recent shooting. When he arrived he saw the results of the outburst; the ARVN scouts had advanced ahead of the other team members and had summarily shot and killed any wounded Russian soldier found still breathing.
They were taking no prisoners.
Only two of the ARVN scouts took part in the massacre. They were the only two scouts left alive. The other two were lying dead face down in that rancid %#$@&^ (Sarge had expired his repertoire of cuss words) swamp.
Little “S” approached Big ‘S’ saying, “Pop, I’m sorry I was up here but I didn’t know what was happening until it was over. I didn’t have time to stop them!! It happened so fast.”
Sarge replied, “Don’t worry Son. It wasn’t your fault, I'm the team commander, the fault lies with me. When we return to the real world I will report it, now lets carry on with our mission…and…
Sarge thought, ‘now we’re down to Eight!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE BLUE BERET RETURNS
Sarge made an observation, “There aren’t any hostiles close by, if they were they would have been in on this fight. Take your flashlights and get back into the swamp where them frigging Russians were. I want you to find that Speznaz Colonel Nikita 'frigging' Ergorov. I want to see his stone dead body. If you have to bring back just his head, do it! But don’t go over to far to the right – there’s a river over there.”
With these instructions all the men waded back into the slime and mud. When they found a dead Russian soldier, they would flip him over and check to see if he was the Colonel.
The rain was still falling in sheets and occasionally a crash of thunder would cause the men to dive back into the dank water, thinking the shooting was beginning again. After an hour or so of looking at each and every dead Russians they returned to the dry ground with nothing positive to report.
Near the end of the search Captain Scarburg came sloshing through the muck and stepped upon the dry dirt; handed a piece of material to Sarge and said, “Big ‘S’ I found this, nothing else.”
Sarge took the dripping wet woolen object from Little ‘S’ - it was a beret - a blue beret, covered in blood!!
Cramming “Thumper’s” beret into his pack Sarge turned to his men, “Gentlemen, our objective is at the end of this friggin’ swamp. We will proceed around this left edge on dry ground until we encounter resistance from the defending forces at the berm.
Captain Scarburg you, Bonnie, Tex and one of the Scouts take out the resistance on the left of the berm and then attack the machine gun emplacement on the left corner of the main building. Teach, Spook, me and the other Scout will do the same with the one on the right. Good luck, it’s been a pleasure serving with you all!”
The rain was still pouring like God was emptying the heavens; the thunder was rumbling and the lightning was crashing but the men felt none of the wet rain, heard not the thunder or paid no attention to the flashes of lightning – their minds and bodies were now totally consumed by the coming attack.
They knew, just as Sarge knew, this was going to be someone’s last mission – as calloused as it seemed, each was hoping it would be someone besides themselves….
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
STORMING THE BERM
The small remaining ODA-113 ‘Photo Search’ team rounded the last portion of the swamp. The lightning was so fierce it illuminating the surrounding area as if someone had switched on a light.
Sarge motioned the men to fall down on their bellies and low crawl toward the berm.
Through the constant lightning flashes Sarge could not see any defenders on this side of the berm. This might only mean that the heavy rain had them hunkered down, stealthy, awaiting his men to begin their approach. They could then spring up and unleash hell’s fury in all its might upon them.
Big ‘S’ motioned Little ‘S’ to take his men off to the left, he would proceed to the right. Still no sign of the enemy – ‘was that a good sign or bad,’ Sarge wondered? With all the recent shooting and blasts occurring in the swamp just a couple hundred meters away, the presence of the team could not be a surprise to anyone defending the berm.
Sarge, slowly and cautiously, unhooked from his web belt a small, 2-1/2 “ spherical piece of pure hell” - a US Army M67 fragmentation grenade. Signaled with his hand for Little ‘S’ to do the same. Holding the piece of cold steel Angels of Death in one hand they inserted the index finger of their opposite hand into the circular pin holding the grenade handle in place. Until this spring loaded handle is released the grenade is ‘safe’; at the time the pressure on this handle is released the grenade will, in 3 seconds, unleash its 6.5 oz storehouse of high explosives. Thus insuring an instant agonizing death to anyone within 10 meters of its hellish discharge.
Sarge looked at Little ‘S’ and silently signaling with his empty hand’s fingers, counted –thumb ‘One’, index finger ‘Two’ and middle finger ‘Three’. At the count of ‘three’ both drew back their arms, and simultaneously lobbed the grenades over to the opposite side of the berm.
A second passed, then another, then the earth rocked with three tremendous explosions. The flashes were blinding with rock and mud soaked earth flying in every direction.
Sarge thought, ‘I threw one and Little ‘S’ threw one, who threw the third?’ Sarge quickly realized one of the explosions was not a grenade it was one of the anti-personnel mines ‘Sam’ had warned filled the berm. But still no reaction from anyone hiding behind the hill of dirt; Sarge could not understand, where were the defenders?
* * * * *
He hand signaled for the men to move out and cross the pile of dirt…no sooner had t
hey began Sarge heard a tell-tell “click”. This was not an unknown sound, he had heard that metallic “click” before and each time it caused his heart to stop.
That “click” is the sound made when someone’s big GI boot sits itself down on the arming switch of an anti-personnel landmine.
Sarge inhaled sharply, afraid the “click” came from pressure his foot had exerted on one of those despicable devices that God should never have let be invented. Before he could look down or exhale, immediately to his left came the inevitable thunderous detonation.
Without looking he knew what type of results to expect – they are always bad – that’s the purpose of those little bastards; however, as difficult as it was he forced himself to turn and look to see ‘who got it’. What he first saw was a trail of light blue smoke curling skyward leaving the earth still smoking from the blast. Even the hard downpour of rain could not erase that devilish device's gunpowder smell from the air – and the victim, or what was left of him, was mangled almost beyond recognition.
Sarge’s eyes riveted on a blood soaked green bandana lying amid the still smoking remains of what a second ago had been his friend.
He knew this person. He had once been in a gang and he had never quite given up the habit of wearing bandanas. In his gang it was red, in the Army he had exchanged it for a green one. He belonged to the East 59th Street Gang…. in New York City… it was... it was Tex!
* * * * *
No sooner had the realization of loosing Tex began to sink in there was the exact same ‘déjà vu’ 'click' again, the same reverberating explosion.
This time to his right - Teach...? Spook...? Or was it the Scout?
Sarge did not want to look – he didn’t want to loose any more friends but he knew deep within his bones God had called another soul home.
Forcing his eyes to look, this time to his right, Sarge could still see the blue smoke from the mine filtering out of the brown Cambodian earth into the coolness of the morning rain; the smoke filled the air with the same smell of cordite, blood and death that Sarge has experienced on his left only a moment ago.
The Death Angel had come for his next victim – the Scout!
Pulling his bayonet out of its scabbard he motioned all the remaining men to do likewise – kneeling down on their hands and knees they used the bayonet to probe for additional anti-personnel mines.
Each would stick the bayonet into the wet dirt and feel for the knife’s touch on something metallic (the mine). Hoping that the knifepoint had not touched the mine’s ‘trigger’. If one was found, it would not be removed it, since no friendlies were coming up behind them; they just implanted a small stick in the ground beside it and continued on.
It was a slow nerve-racking process, climbing, clawing and probing for unseen mines to reach the top of this deadly pile of sticky, slimy mud. At the summit Sarge was so elated he had the feeling that a flag should be planted – ala Mount Suribachi on Iwo Jima.
This was no mountain, nor even a large hill just a big pile of Cambodian dirt; to a fighting man the feeling of summiting this molehill gave him the feeling, for a moment, the same type of self-adulation the Marines felt when Joe Rosenthal snapped that iconic World War II picture of the Raising of the Flag on Iwo Jima.
Sarge realized their accomplishments were minuscule in comparison but in his heart he felt the same sense of achievement and pride that they too must have felt that famous day standing on that volcano peak deep in the South Pacific Ocean.
After his adrenaline and its accompanying elation subsided somewhat he had a chance to peer over the ‘summit’ to the other side of his ‘mountain’. The early morning light was beginning to erase the previous night’s darkness.
The fighting in the swamp and the storming of the beam had taken the better part of the night – now morning was upon them. At least the rain had stopped for the moment as Sarge gazed over the berm’s crest into the compound spread out before him.
The bad news, maybe not bad exactly but worrisome - no one was visible, or at least, no one was seen moving around. Were the defenders hiding? Ready to spring out at the team’s exposure? Sarge slowly inched his body over the top with Teach and Spook. Captain Scarburg did likewise with Bonnie and the remaining Scout…and…
Sarge thought, “now we are down to Six!”…
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
FIRST VIEW OF PAC TOUL
Arriving on the other side of the berm, Sarge surveyed the surrounding area
“So this is Pac Toul!
Not much to look at and sure the hell wasn’t worth what it cost to get her”, Sarge said out loud to no one in particular. “I hope to hell this big building is stacked full of American C-Notes!”
‘Sam’ had been correct, the huts were empty – and from their appearance, had been abandoned for quite a while. ‘Sam’ didn’t mention the thatch-roofed watchtower off to one side, but no need, one could see guards were not present now. The two machine gun posts were as ‘Sam’ indicated but both were abandoned too.
Arriving at the sandbagged machine gun emplacement on the left front of the building Captain Scarburg, Bonnie and the Scout quickly saw it was an American made machine gun - a Browning .50 cal (caliber) M2HB heavy machine gun. GI’s from as far back as World War I, when Browning invented it, have always referred to it as “Ma Deuce”, Ma for M and Deuce for 2. HB just meant Heavy Barrel.
* * * * *
Thomas 'Bonnie" Clyde, the Demo Specialist, hopped over the black sandbags and jacked the loading handle back on the ol’ Ma Deuce. Immediately an ear-splitting detonation completely obliterated the gun emplacement, the weapon and poor ol’ Bonnie.
The explosion totally destroyed the corner of the building adjacent to the gun emplacement. “Damn!” said Captain Scarburg. “That had to have been wired with C4! Hell, I don’t even see anything left of Bonnie; it just blew the hell out of him! They must have used a whole frigging stick! Hell he wasn’t just blown up, it vaporized him!” As he motioned with his hand toward the air that had taken on the look of Bonnie tinged pink smoke.
Sarge yelled to the Scout to be careful, look for more booby traps but the Scout only shrugged his shoulders and cupped one hand up against his ear, indicating he couldn’t hear. The Scout, being so close to the blast, was rendered totally deaf for the time being – he was unable to recognize anything being said to him.
“Forget him,” said Sarge, “he frigging well can take care of himself.” Sarge walked over to the second gun emplacement on the opposite corner of the building. Carefully he and the Scout slowly stepped over similar black sandbags. The same as had been used on the other machine gun.
Right as rain, another Ma Deuce, but Sarge was checking it out closely before touching. “Yep, you sons-of-bitches, you won’t fool us twice.” Attached to the loading handle a small, almost invisible, strand of wire - Sarge began tracings down to…Sarge yelled, “Little ‘S’ it’s a whole stick of C4, I’m going to pull the blasting cap out.”
Removing the small sensitive primary explosive device the 1-¼ lb block of pure hell became as innocuous as a block of silly putty.
“Hey, Little ‘S’ this stuff is made in the U. S of A., this crap is our own stuff! Shit, now we’re blowing up each other!”
Sarge noticed around the emplacement were stacked a number of “fifty” (.50 caliber) cans of ammo. ‘Those might come in handy later,’ he thought.
* * * * *
‘Well’, Sarge thought, ‘at least we’ll have some firepower when we need it now.’ He left the Ma Deuce with the Scout and signaled for Spook to follow. Walking around the right corner of the two-storied building they immediately saw a large, steel grey, sheet metal building constructed close to the river. Walking down toward the river Sarge and Spook wanted to check out this building. Both the building and river couldn’t be more than 100 or so meters from the ‘house’.
Sarge began to have a strange feeling in his gut concerning this place. As well known, Sarge’s gut did
n’t lead him astray often. Something didn’t fit, things just didn’t feel right – where are the guards in their silver/white uniforms – where are the people?
He noticed there were no animals; no birds in the trees and none could even be seen flying around. Something else bothered Sarge – he could hear a suspiciously low almost unperceivable humming sound. He sensed he was feeling the noise rather than hearing the hum. He knew the noise had to be coming from somewhere, but where?
Sarge approached the big metallic door on the metal building. Surprisingly the door was not padlocked or restrained but did have a red-lettered sign posted in French: “DANGER SURTENSION."
He pushed open the large sheet-iron door. The door responded with a loud clanging sound; Spook and Sarge cautiously peered inside. Light coming in through the open door allowed them to see into the darken room. The rays of sunshine illuminated a behemoth of an electric generator. Staring at this monster and merely calling it a generator was similar to saying the Queen Mary was merely a boat! Sarge walked to the door and yelled back up to the house, “Son, get you’re ass down here!! We’ve found something you’ve got to see!”
Little ‘S’ hastens into the building as Sarge questioningly addressed Dr. Kim. “Spook’ do you know what this apparatus is?”
“Damn right I do Sergeant! I didn’t get all my education for nothing! This is a frigging big assed electric generator. That French sign on the door says “DANGER HIGH VOLTAGE’ for a particular reason - this baby. Water from the river drives a turbine, which in turn runs this generator to produce electrical power - a hell of a lot of electric power.’
Sarge asked, “How much power can this generator produce?”
To answer Sarge’s question Spook and the Captain walked over to the generator and found the data plate attached to a panel on the generator’s side. The information from the data plate indicated it was a180mw, 50hz generator.
Spook and the Captain conversed between themselves for a second or two when Sarge, haughtily, asked, “Well?”