Origins of a Hero
Chapter Eight
"Back Into the Bad Bush"

-xxx-

Supply convoys bogged down, tanks and One-Thirteens were useless death boxes in road ambushes, and air support couldn’t always fly. None of us wanted to be near ground zero after calling in an Arc Light mission either. So, we left the fast movers and Buffs to shit canning other choice pieces of terrain.

-xxx-

The rain fell hard like mid-western hailstones, pelting the corrugated steel roof of the Roadrunner squad hooches as if there were a thousand Pygmies tap dancing in the sleeping soldiers’ heads. A few of the soldiers tried to lull themselves into a fitful slumber, while others rolled noisily in their government cots and ratty field blankets. In some ways, the rat-a-tat-a-tat of the torrential storm on the hooch was hypnotic, but in all of the soldiers’ heads, the sounds that the rain could be masking were much more dangerous.

Sergeant Hauser snoozed lightly, while two of the racks next to him lay unoccupied. Doggie had pulled bunker duty with Sparks, and the camp troublemakers no longer lived in the same hooch – they had been regrouped when a VC mortar hit on their original quarters collapsed it and forced them all out.

When thunder rolled across the sky and added to the natural symphony of the falling drops outside the hooch, the noise finally triggered Hauser’s sense of insecurity. He rolled out of his rack and slipped into a fresh set of camouflage utilities. His M-177 carbine and bandoleer with fresh magazines rested at the foot of his cot, and he snatched them up, throwing a green vinyl poncho over his head.

Intending to find his buddy’s assigned bunker to chat a few hours of the rainstorm away, Hauser opened the flimsy wooden door to the hooch and struck out into the stinging, pelting maelstrom.

-xxx-

-xxx-

"Knock-knock! Anybody home?" Duke asked as he stood in the stinging downpour outside Bunker Sixteen, looking into the wood-framed doorway.

"No one but us chickens," Doggie replied from his place at the sound-powered telephone. Newman and Goodland kept silent, smoking marijuana cigarettes while flanking the M-60 machinegun mounted behind the bunker’s slit window.

The distinctively pungent smell of the smoldering marijuana leaves nipped at Duke’s nostrils, and he tried to draw a breath without coughing from the rain’s stench outside and the drugs’ stench inside. He locked his gaze on Doggie, but could tell his friend was glassy-eyed from taking a few hits himself.

"Jesus, you guys have to smoke that shit out here too?" Hauser groused, keeping his M-177 pointed with barrel down and in an unthreatening manner.

"We can do what we want, Hauser," Goodland growled with a slight slur in his voice. "This ain’t yer duty station. You kin get the fuck right outta here, if you don’t like it."

"Not our fault we like the smell of burning our cigs better than the rain," Newman added.

"You assholes are on perimeter duty!" Duke shouted. "If Charlie hits your section of the wire while you’re high on this shit, those damn zips will run right through you like diarrhea through a Bangkok whore!"

Doggie fell silent, not even trying to stand up for his friend. Instead, he accepted a joint from Goodland and took a long drag. With a small cough, he managed to say, "This shit keeps us warm out here. Don’t knock it, Duke."

"Duke?" Newman whispered, as he and Goodland chuckled between themselves. "You sure as hell ain’t no fuckin’ John Wayne, Hauser. This bunker is getting a bit too full for comfort, m’ man. Best you haul ass so we can finish our tour, okay, compadre?"

Doggie’s eyes sank meekly, while Newman and Goodland’s almost burned holes in Hauser’s chest. "I’ll see you back at the hooch, Dobbs," Hauser whispered as he flipped the poncho hood up over his blond hair. He left the bunker quickly, taking an occasional backward glance as he made his way to the camp latrine.

-xxx-

-xxx-

Hauser reached the latrine after passing a handful of patrolling guards and other soldiers that had trouble sleeping. The structure was empty of people and unlit at night, but Hauser found the angle-head Army flashlight someone was smart enough to keep hanging from the entry door. It even had fresh batteries.

The young sergeant selected a hole and proceeded to do his business, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell of human excrement wafting up from the collection drums. The rain continued to fall, rapping and popping as it hit the angled wooden roof of the latrine.

Many of the soldiers knew every little creak in the wooden planking, having used the camp latrine religiously when not patrolling. Hauser’s ears were so entranced by the rainfall that he didn’t hear a hinged access door under the latrine being opened.

His sharp hearing did catch the metallic ping that followed, instantly warning his brain of potential danger – a familiar sound, but out of place. He flicked off the flashlight and scrambled to gather his rifle and pull his trousers up from around his ankles.

Something dark and small rolled across the plank floor, out from under the bench with the holes cut in them. In the dark, Hauser’s eyes picked out that it was about the size of a baseball…

"Shit!" Hauser managed to exclaim when he realized the sound and the object were exactly what he feared. The fuse spoon from a hand grenade had popped just before someone from outside rolled it under his feet.

Scrambling quickly, he burst out of the latrine door mere milliseconds before the high explosive grenade ripped the fragile structure apart. Hauser didn’t care about the warm feeling on his back, or the stinging bite of a few small pieces of wood splinters that cut at his flesh. When he landed face first in the mud, he only cared that he was still alive. That thought was followed by anger, and an instant suspicion about who was actually behind the blast.

It was certainly not a VC mortar…

-xxx-

-xxx-

Master Sergeant Draper stood just inside the canvas door flap that hung at the entrance of the medical hooch, leaning against one of the support uprights and popping a piece of chewing gum in his mouth. He regarded Hauser with a lopsided grin on his face while the sergeant slipped back into his uniform.

"So it was your fault my whole camp had to wake up in the middle of the night," Draper growled. "That damn latrine is still a fuckin’ magnet for VC mortars, even after we half-buried it in the shit can pit. Good thing you got out with just that pig sticker up your ass. But since you decided to go tramping around the perimeter and then lit up the damn place, maybe you ought to be in charge of repairing the damage, if there’s anything left of it when the bucket brigade is finished dousing the fire."

Duke steamed as Draper mentioned the usual cover up for a fragging attempt. "There was no VC activity in the woods, Sarge! Some asshole inside this camp rolled a Mark One firecracker under my shitter!"

"That’s a mighty dangerous accusation," Draper said, chewing his gum noisily like a cow. "Could start a whole mess of trouble. Bring in CID… They’d wanna question you about the latrine blowing up. Not to mention most of the CIDG’s and ARVN’s will think there’s a VC agent in their midst. If you wanna see a camp witch hunt, just spread that rumor around without any proof. And then you can forget about the majority of those people deciding to stick around when the shit hits again."

"I understand that our mission is to mobilize the ARVN’s and CIDG’s to fight the VC here," Duke replied. "But I think I know who put the frag under my ass. Just go ask Goodland and Newman. Either one of them could’ve followed me back from the wire and done it, and gotten back to the bunker during the scramble."

"Fat chance of that, Hauser," Draper growled. He pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and held it up, even though Duke couldn’t read the writing. "This is the last check in log from the CP. I pulled it when the alert sounded. I also know you popped in to find out where your precious buddy Dobbs was posted for his bunker duty – Sergeant First Class Thomas told me after you left. Bunker Sixteen, manned by Dobbs, Goodland and Newman was manned up two minutes before the latrine went up. They also called in after the scramble to report no enemy contact in their section of the wire. None of ‘em left the bunker."

"Bullshit, Sergeant!" Duke growled. "Had to be one of those bastards! They’ve been peddling their shit to my buddy and I’ve had it!"

Draper stood tall and blocked the door flap. "Maybe you’re not ready to return to duty yet, Hauser. I think you should stay in here and cool your jets for a while. Your team lieutenant has a mission warning order, and will brief the team in a couple hours. And, between you and me, I think while you’re out there humping the bush on this one, you had best seriously reconsider this stink you’re thinking about making. Let my experience as the top fucking kick in this camp burn into your headgear. You read me, soldier?"

Duke couldn’t put down the anger he was feeling, but he knew Draper could do too much to him if he disobeyed. "I read you, Sarge. I’ll be at the briefing and get some rest here until then."

"Good." Draper turned to leave and looked over his shoulder. "And, watch your ass better next time."

-xxx-

-xxx-

"Good to see you up and around, Hauser," Lieutenant "Candy" Wilson said with a half joking tone when Duke drew aside the canvas tent flap that was being used to keep water out of the command hooch’s outer room.

The sight that spread before the young sergeant was not the usual for the day watch at the camp. Rather, the Vietnamese radio talkers and their American sergeant of the watch were someplace else.

The camp commander, Master Sergeant Draper, an American with dark sunglasses over his eyes, and three unfamiliar Vietnamese men were all huddling over the metal folding table that the radiomen normally used to pass reports around and do general clerical work.

When the Roadrunner Nine survivors were added to the gaggle, it made for a very stuffed space, with everyone trying to shuffle around the low spots in the dirt floor, where rainwater was already pooling and mud had started to form.

"Settle in, people!" Draper’s voice boomed over the assembly. "This’ll just take longer if we don’t get on with it!"

Eventually, the murmurs stopped and the bespectacled man stepped forward. The moment he stepped under the single yellow bulb that lit the hooch interior, Duke had the feeling that the guy wasn’t all as he appeared.

The man wore rather expensive-looking sunglasses, steel-rimmed and specially shaped to fit, much like the amber-lensed sniper’s shooting eyewear in contemporary times. He had standard OG-107 olive drab fatigues, which hung loose and baggy from the moisture, pocket cargo and the generally poor fit of the pattern. He didn’t stand too tall, maybe five foot three or four, which was roughly Sparks’ height.

But there, the similarities ended. The man’s fatigues bore no sign of having identifying name tapes ever sewn above the breast pockets. He didn’t wear a unit crest or patch, and his collar didn’t have any rank marking, not even the black or olive threaded "subdued" stuff that was unofficially adopted by units in Vietnam.

The man unrolled a silk-screened map that he was carrying in a sealed protective case, before clearing his throat and addressing the assembled group.

"Okay, everyone. Thanks for settling down so quickly. My name is Mister Black. I’m a member of the strategic intelligence section of General Westmoreland’s headquarters, working out of MAC-V-SOG. The three Vietnamese gentlemen that arrived with me are advisors and critical to my mission out here."

"A couple of them don’t look like much more than backwater farm boys," Sparks whispered to Duke under his breath, catching a glare from Candy before clamming up and paying attention.

"The reason we have requested the Roadrunner Nine team to assist in our mission," Mister Black continued, "is because you have extensive knowledge of the Ho Chi Minh Trail movement network in and around this sector."

He pointed at a section of the map, which all of the American members of Roadrunner Nine knew well. The indigenous fighters of the team didn’t need the map to understand what Mister Black was driving at.

"We have a reliable source of intelligence which has indicated that a small staff of North Vietnamese Regular Army officers will be moving south along the trail, bypassing the usual DMZ infiltration routes, with orders to escort a high-priority package of instructions for dispersal to the regional Viet Cong commanders.

"The priority package is most likely the outline for a coordinated offensive against all of South Vietnam, and may include instructions for another Tet-like destabilization operation. Some of the officers may also be moving south to act as liaisons should an NVA push be timed to coincide with the VC guerilla actions these dispatches are suspected to contain."

Mumbles began to rise in the room, mainly from Draper, the Roadrunner team members and their CIDG fighters. Mister Black waved to everyone to be silent.

"You now know the gravity of this mission. Even if we end up humping the bush for a few days and find out that it was all a cluster fuck and wild goose chase, we are performing a critical task towards stopping the enemy’s ability to run us into the ground all over this war zone.

"If we can get their plans, we can get their locations and rough numbers. Sure, other groups will probably be carrying copies of orders, or spy networks might be moving the plans south as well. But we can stop the coordinated attacks from going off without a strong response ready. We could stonewall Victor Charlie in his tracks."

"What do you know about their escorts?" Candy asked, scribbling a few reminder notes in a small memo pad.

"They are supposedly traveling with one of the usual supply columns, except you can probably expect a hand-picked company of North Vietnamese commandos specifically assigned to protecting the NVA officers. For now, our orders are to find them, fix them, and call down fire. If anything new develops, I will brief you in the field.

"We’ll be moving under strict radio silence, except for check-ins that I might have to make with MAC-V-SOG in Saigon. Even those will be at random periods, so the enemy cannot attempt to fix our position and movement.

"We’re not even going to insert by helicopter, since it draws VC attention. Instead, we’ll chopper out from here at around oh two hundred and rendezvous with a motorized sampan on the Xon River, skippered by one of our intelligence assets.

"The motorized sampan will run us up to our drop site and we march in. If the timing of the column is right from our surveillance photos, and we don’t get held up avoiding any roving VC patrols, we should hit them during bivouac. We identify our bag men, and call in the big guns. Then we walk the hell back out again."

"Sounds like another day at the office, for these boys," Draper jibed, cracking a piece of chewing gum between his teeth.

"It’s gonna be dangerous to go back in that part of the bush," Candy added. He pointed to the map where the team had lost three of the replacements that had joined the squad. "We got hit not even a week ago while humping to a preplanned extraction site between the Ho Chi Minh Trail and the Xon River. Three of my CIDG’s didn’t come back from that patrol. Hope you’ve got a backup plan in case this place is still thick with a garrison from the bad guys."

"I understand the risk factor," Mister Black said. "But the rewards are worth the risk. I would’ve tried to blow sunshine up your asses, but you and the three sergeants over there are reported to be really smart guys. If we don’t come back because the enemy got us, nobody’s gonna shed a tear. The objective is that important."

"Anybody want out of this one?" Draper asked, glaring across the communications room at the members of Roadrunner Nine. No one flinched or offered up any objections.

"Good," Mister Black said. "Gear up, draw weapons and supplies according to the packing list I provided, and meet me on the chopper pad at oh two hundred hours. Don’t be a second late, any of you…"

-xxx-

Meanwhile, at a 25^th Infantry Division "Tropic Lightning"
Fire Support Base, southwest of the Pleiku sector…

"Come on in, Staff Sergeant Wilkinson," Major Justin Briggs, the fire base commander, said. He beckoned to the tall, black soldier waiting outside the doorway to his office.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" SSGT Lonzo Wilkinson asked. He and three other men in his Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol team had just ended a six-day scouting mission and were hoping for a break, especially since they had lost two men in the patrol. Two of the LRRP patrol survivors, PFC Richard "Dickie" Saperstein and Corporal Wade Collins were being treated with minor wounds sustained in the field.

"Sorry to do this to you, Wilkinson. I know your boys just hustled back inside the wire after a hairy one. The guys from Delta Company picked up the bodies of Joey Thompson and Frank Stoddert where the Cong ambushed you. You might want to check them out before Graves Registration gets hold of ‘em.

"While your team was humping back in, I got new orders," the major added. "We’re gonna be pushing north to hit the Ho Chi Minh Trail and clear out a whole bunch of hamlets in this AOR, in conjunction with the 3^rd Brigade of the 4^th Infantry Division, which is marching west from the Pleiku sector and Central Highlands.

"Brigade wants all the LRRP assets from the division stomping on snake holes up along the trail, to see what kind of reinforcements or NVA regulars we might be going up against. Unfortunately, that means you and your band of rogues: Escobedo, Collins and Saperstein. Collins’ request for leave time at China Beach has been revoked by emergency orders, of course.

"Standing orders are find ‘em, fix ‘em, and the arty boys will wipe their asses for ‘em with TNT. Word on the street is you’ll also have "Arc Light" available on command. The zoomies will probably have Buffs from Guam on overflight to Korat, Thailand during our entire movement.

"Good news is, you get twenty-four hours to recycle and draw gear before we chopper you out with a Pink Team that’s scouting ahead for one of the leg battalions. I’ve also got two replacements for you, from another LRRP team that got wasted in 1^st Brigade’s AOR. ‘Guy Next Door’ looking one, good on the pig, and a Japanese-American kid from California, some kinda whiz with bow and arrow and a damn decent marksman. Some people say both of ‘em are on second tours, and have one uncanny sense for the shit out in the bush.

"There’s no time to make friendly with them, so you’ll have to do that in the field. They’re choppering in around midday, but they’ve got their brief already." Major Briggs passed along a few sheets of typed paper from the personnel clerk. "This stuff is the fifty-cent tour of your replacements. It’s all I’ve got so far. Meet them on the chopper pad when their slick comes in and see to ‘em. Good luck, Ranger."

"No problem, Major," SSGT Wilkinson replied, snapping a quick salute to the FSB commander. "We’ll get the job done."

-xxx-

-xxx-

The black-painted Vietnamese motorpan was very unassuming in its accommodations, although she was definitely operated by some salty river pirates. The CIA had been rather generous in their retainers to the crew, because the watercraft sported twin mounts for fifty caliber machineguns, concealed on the bow and fantail. Not to mention two crates with shiny, American weapons that sat inside the wheelhouse behind the skipper’s chair, inevitably for the crew’s use in a hot situation.

Duke and Doggie sat amidships, dangling their legs over the edge of the deck as the brown water of the Xon River sloshed past a few inches below the soles of their jungle boots. Both men listened to the night sounds moving around them, as they allowed their eyes to adjust to the darkness. Very few lights were kept on aboard the motorpan, aside from those in the wheelhouse that the skipper used for navigation and as anti-collision beacons.

"You feel worried about this mission, Conrad?" Doggie asked as he shook off some drowsiness and picked at an open can of C-ration ham and lima beans.

"Not really, Henry," Duke replied. "You? Something eating you?"

"Yeah. We’ve been using our time doing recon up on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and when we got into the shit with the VC, we’ve been badly outnumbered. Now, it looks like this "Riptide" job is offensive. What the hell are we gonna do when so few of us are actually going in to pick a fight with an enemy column?"

"We’re gonna do our job and watch out for each other, Staff Sergeant Henry Dobbs. That’s what friends do."

"I know, Conrad," Doggie added. "But it’s just nagging at me this time. I feel like it’s my time to get my ticket punched."

"That’s good, buddy. Knowing that the fear is there will make you more alert to what dangers are around you. Your ticket won’t get punched if you don’t let it by being crazy brave or plain stupid."

"I- I- I’m sorry for getting roped in by the dope crowd, Conrad," Doggie said. "I’ve decided to quit the stuff after what happened to you in the latrine."

"That’s good," Duke said. "You’ll live longer that way. What do you know about the latrine?"

"All I know is that Goodland and Newman have friends, especially the guy who gets the stash into camp. He’s obviously got the most to lose if you were to bring CID into the camp to investigate the drugs. All they said in the bunker was that someone was going to find a way to silence you. I’m sorry. I should’ve warned you somehow."

"And gotten yourself in the same pickle?" Duke replied. "Hell, no! Who’s to say that whatever they used to tag me and send me to the great beyond wouldn’t have gotten you too?"

"I’m just glad whoever it was didn’t actually get you. It’s hard enough trying to stay alive out here. But to have to look over your shoulder even in the camp where you have to feel safe…"

-xxx-

"LZ Night Raider is in sight, Staff Sergeant Wilkinson," the Huey pilot shouted over his shoulder. "We’re doing it fast and hot. Best I can do in this soup is hold the skids in place. I can’t guarantee you a nice easy step down."

"Then find us a soft spot," Wilkinson shouted back over the throbbing rotors and hum of the turbine engine. He signed with his fingers that the LZ was in sight, and the other five LRRP soldiers nodded. One by one, they finished smearing dark camouflage paint on their faces and checking their gear. The men nearest the troop bay door slid it open and helped the door gunner suspend his M-60 machinegun from a bungee cord.

The LZ was on the edge of a flooded rice paddy, set upon by the locals to get a quick harvest and replant before VC tax collectors made their monthly rounds. The humidity of the previous day had caused an extraordinary amount of condensation and evaporation in the flooded field, covering the ground in a gray pall that floated as high as a hundred feet above. It was sufficient to make the pilot’s ability to judge his altitude and approach a difficult task.

The LRRP team in the Huey also knew that fog like what they were about to land in could also be concealing nasty enemy surprises. Without exchanging words, the six men glanced to one another and charged their weapons, including the two new arrivals who had joined Wilkinson’s team as replacements.

The arrivals seemed like old friends – actually, more like blood brothers. The two knew what the score was with one another without so many words. The Japanese-American soldier, a fresh-faced man who could pass for a nineteen or twenty year old on any street in suburbia, had a depth to his eyes that hid the secrets of what he had witnessed in his two tours. His name was Thomas Arashikage – the last name translated into "Storm Shadow".

His partner was a tall, blond man. As nondescript as Tommy was, his partner was the same. Dark eyes hid beneath dark brown camouflage paint and the shadow of his round-brimmed boonie hat. They held the horrors of war inside. No one called him by his real name, not even Tommy. Some REMF in a headquarters records unit probably knew his name, typed neatly on a DD-201 dossier. Everyone in the field knew him as "Snake Eyes".

Wilkinson regarded his new teammates across the troop bay. He couldn’t believe that the two men were on his team. They had an almost mythical reputation in First Brigade. It was something that paper pushers and officers never heard, just rumors and tall tales whispered about over beers in the noncom hooches. Snake Eyes and Storm Shadow by themselves were reputable dealers of death, or so the rumor mill had spread. But together, they were nearly invincible.

Wilkinson hoped that their battlefield luck would somehow be a talisman for the entire team…