BAT-21 (2 page)

Dazed and fighting panic, he looked around. There
should be other nylon blossoms popping in the blue sky. He swung
around full circle. There were none. Then he spotted the plume of
smoke below him, spiraling down like a huge sinister corkscrew. He
followed it with his eyes until it disappeared into a low bank of
clouds.

He could see no chutes…

A wave of nausea hit him and he went limp in his
harness. Five of his old friends. Wiped out within seconds. What the
hell had gone wrong? But for the grace of God—and the SAM break
that had left him the least vulnerable to the explosion—he would be
with them!
Sweet mother of Jesus!

Completely numbed by the shock, he dangled in his
chute, unable to take his eyes from the fading twist of smoke below
him. And then as he watched, the plume began to blur. Odd. He looked
away. He looked through his swinging feet to the cloud deck far
below. It, too, was swimming. So was the horizon. What the hell? Was
it shock that completely clouded his vision? And then, the instinct
for survival surfacing through his emotion, he realized. Good God!
Oxygen! He was in the rarefied atmosphere!

Frantically he fumbled at the side of his chute
pack and pulled out the rubber hose attached to the small cylinder of
oxygen. He stuck the tube into his mouth, yanked the little "green
apple" knob that started the oxygen flowing from the bail-out
bottle, and began sucking. He took deep breaths. With overwhelming
relief he noticed his vision was clearing. Things were coming back
into focus. Careful, Hambone, he told himself, ease up! Too much
oxygen could be as dangerous as too little. He inhaled more slowly.
He began to feel better, almost giddy as the blue-fingernail signs of
anoxia were dispelled by the life-giving oxygen.

Damn, it was quiet up here! It was the first time
he had ever had to bail out. Under different circumstances the nylon
descent might even have been enjoyable. But there was something wrong
with the harness. He reached down to adjust a strap, and as he did
so, noticed that the glove on his left hand was dripping blood. More
out of curiosity than concern, he peeled off the glove. There was a
nasty gash on his index finger. It had undoubtedly happened as he
ejected. He had hung up on something. That was what had sent him
spinning through space.

He knew it would take some twenty minutes to
parachute thirty thousand feet. He might as well put the time to good
use. He reached into his survival vest, pulled out his first-aid kit,
and proceeded to disinfect the wound and bandage it. Then, as he
floated silently under his nylon umbrella, he replaced the kit,
donned his glove, and began to assess his situation.

Where in hell was he? He dredged his memory for
the last position he had made on his navigational charts. Luckily he
had plotted a position shortly before the missile hit. Mentally
calibrating the elapsed time, he figured he was over the Cam-Lo
area. Maybe a dozen miles south of the DMZ.

The Demilitarized Zone! His hazy memory of the
premission briefing kicked out a disquieting thought. Depending on
how far south the invading forces had come during the night, he could
be floating down into the midst of forty thousand enemy troops in the
big push toward Quang Tri. Christ on a crutch!

Time to deactivate his beeper. He reached around
his parachute harness for the little built-in radio that
automatically started sending out a signal when the canopy was
popped. Its purpose was to send out a homer for aircraft searching
for him when he was down, but it could just as easily lead unfriendly
troops to his position. He pushed the button to silence it.

He instinctively pulled up his feet as he entered
a thick cloud layer. The temperature was getting warmer. He had to
start thinking about landing. Floating through the milky mist, he
broke out between cloud layers. As he did so he saw something that
brought him up short.

It was an 0-2! A little American puddle-jumper
airplane used by forward air controllers to direct fighters and
artillery to enemy objectives. To his amazement he saw he was
descending right through the center of the small plane's orbit.

At first glance he was overjoyed at seeing an
American airplane. A friendly. But then a sobering thought hit him:
The little FAC 0-2's were used in very close support to pinpoint
enemy targets. The presence of the plane here could only mean one
thing. He must be coming down very near enemy troops. In fact, he
could be landing right in the middle of them.

He reached into his vest and pulled out the small
survival radio. He switched it on and began calling. "Oh-two.
FAC Oh-two. Come in."

To his surprise the response was immediate. "This
is FAC Oh- two, call sign Birddog. Identify yourself."

"This is Bat Twenty-one." Hambleton used
the call letters of his aircraft. "Bat Twenty-one. Look up,
Birddog. I'm the parachute at about twelve grand. Coming down in the
middle of your orbit."

There was a pause, then, "Son of a bitch!"

"I think I need help," Hambleton
transmitted. Then he felt a little foolish. Hanging up there like a
puppet on a string, that last transmission might be termed
superfluous.

"Bat Twenty-one. Homed in on your beeper.
Have you in sight. Can the chatter. Gooks monitor this frequency.
Will advise. Happy landings."

"Roger." Hambleton clicked off. Time to
get ready for landing. He sure as hell hoped it would be happy. He
looked below him. With relief he saw that fingers of coastal fog had
groped in from the sea, covering the low-lying terrain beneath him
with a thick blanket. At least he wouldn't be visible for target
practice as he swung helplessly under his canopy.

Closer to the ground he started picking up the
sound of heavy mortars and the popping of small-arms fire. Beautiful!
Nothing like making your first emergency parachute drop into the
middle of a firefight!

As he entered the layer of ground fog, he got into
impact position. Dimly, he sensed rather than saw the ground leaping
up to meet him. Then he hit hard and tumbled, unhooking his chute
harness as he rolled. Disentangling himself, he looked quickly around
him. He was in the center of a dry rice paddy. The thump of mortars
and the noise of big guns seemed to circle him.

Had he been observed? He wasted no time finding
out. In the center of the rice paddy he felt as naked as a lone eight
ball on a billiard table. Crouching low, he sprinted to the first
cover he spotted, a low ditch that rimmed the rice field. He flung
himself into it, lying prostrate while he caught his breath.

The firing continued, but apparently it wasn't
aimed at him. At least not yet. He took a moment for personal
inventory. All his limbs seemed to respond normally. He checked the
gash on his finger. It had stopped bleeding. He seemed to be in one
piece. He ran his hand over his face and discovered a startling
thing. He was wearing his Air Force reading glasses! Half
prescription, half plain glass, he rarely used them except for close
work—which is why he had had them on when he ejected; he had been
using them to work on his navigational charts. Miraculously, the
glasses had stayed firmly on his nose all through punch-out, descent,
and landing.

He was suddenly hit by the incongruity of the
situation. Here he was, hunkered down in a ditch in the middle of a
combat zone, wearing these ridiculous reading glasses. Well, by God,
if they had stuck with him this long—if they had survived—he
damned well could too. He decided he'd leave them on. By wearing
them, there was less chance of their getting broken than if he
carried them in a pocket of his flight suit. Anyway, there was
something homey about them. They made him think of Gwen. And Pierre.
Now if he only had his pipe and slippers...

Something caught his eye.

It was his parachute! Lying in the far corner of
the rice paddy, it was barely visible in the swirling fog.

A dead giveaway! Even though his descent had been
masked by ground fog, he knew the enemy would be looking for him. If
the Birddog pilot had homed in on his parachute beeper before he had
clicked it off, chances are the gomers had too. And the radio
transmission—even brief—would be a giveaway, using Guard
channel. With the going price of a lieutenant colonel's head in
the Vietcong marketplace, they'd leave no stone unturned to find him.
Even in the middle of a big offensive.

There was no alternative. He'd have to dash from
cover to retrieve his telltale chute. As he gathered himself for the
sprint, the harrrumph of a bursting mortar shell in the middle of the
field changed his mind. Rather than risk life and limb trying to bury
the chute, it might be prudent to let it stay right where it was.
Besides, it wouldn't be long before the Jolly Greens arrived to pick
him up.

He settled himself into the ditch, making himself
as comfortable as possible. Fighting to control his breathing
and his pounding heart, he waited for the first sound of chopper
rotors.

His flares were at the ready, to mark the spot.

The revving of the Birddog's two little
push-me-pull-you engines overhead suddenly snapped Hambleton to
attention. He switched on his radio. "Bat Twenty-one," came
the pilot's voice. "This is Birddog. QSY to Baker channel."

"Roger." Hambleton channeled his radio.
"Birddog, Bat Twenty-one. How do you read on Baker?"

"Five square, Bat. Everybody and his dog uses
Guard channel. May take the gooks a while to pick up this frequency.
How you doin'?"

"Good shape."

"Outstanding. What's your dog's name?"

Hambleton blinked at his radio. His dog's name?
Then he remembered. Like every American flier assigned to Asia, he
had had to fill out a secret card for his personal folder listing
four questions and the answers, which only he knew. This was to
provide positive identification in the event he were ever shot down
in combat. After much head scratching he had filled out his card and
sealed it in the secret envelope, to be opened only if he were downed
behind enemy lines:

1. What's your favorite color? Red

2. Who's your favorite athlete? Ernie Banks
(shortstop for Chicago Cubs)

3. What's your dog's name? Pierre (French poodle)

4. What's your favorite hobby? Golf

He had thought it all pretty silly at the time.
And now, Jesus! Here he was, shot down in enemy territory and
actually being queried from his secret card. It had all happened so
fast! For the first time the gravity of his situation hit him.

"Dog's name's Pierre," he managed.

"Spell it. Phonetically."

"Peter Item Easy Roger Roger Easy."

There was a pause before Birddog responded. "You
are an old- timer. Would you believe Papa India Echo Romeo Romeo
Echo?"

Damn! In his confusion he had resorted to the old,
outdated phonetic alphabet. At a time like this! "Roger,
Birddog."

"Who's your favorite sports player?"

"Ernie Banks."

Another short pause, then, "Positive
identification, Bat Twenty-one. We'll get you out. But not tonight.
Weather stinks. Dig in. Pick you up in the morning."

Hambleton tried to acknowledge with a cheery reply
that aborted in his throat as he clicked off. The morning! Would he
still be a free man in the morning? Would he even be alive?

If he were stuck for the night he had to find a
safer place. As far as possible from that parachute. He peered over
the edge of the ditch and dimly made out a wooded area to the west.
If he could make it to the protection of those trees…

He memorized the terrain as best he could through
the scudding fog and took a compass line on a likely looking spot to
dig in. It seemed his best chance for safe cover during the night.

Then he lay back, stretched out and tried his
damndest to look like a ditch as he nervously waited for darkness to
fall.

The night settled down around Hambleton like a
black, damp shroud. There were only the rays of a tyro moon trying to
filter through scraps of fog that lined the low pockets of terrain.
It ought to be dark enough to seek safer surroundings.

He sat up and looked around, listening. Things
seemed fairly quiet. He crawled stealthily out of the ditch,
crouching low and moving swiftly toward the line of trees. Reaching
it, he darted along a thick hedge lined with dense undergrowth until
he found his memorized spot.

He dove into the foliage and lay still, listening
to the heart thumping in his chest. Had anyone seen him? Followed
him? He lay still for a long time, trying to quiet his heavy
breathing. All seemed to be serene. Maybe the fog was holding up the
war.

Cautiously he moved to a sitting position. His
eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and peeking out of the foliage he
could see no signs of life. Good show. Except for the remote boom of
heavy guns, there was no noise.

After an hour of alert apprehension, a sort of
languor crept over him. He seemed to be safe for the moment. And
farther away from that damned parachute he felt more secure. It was
time to get his life in some kind of order. He would start with a
personal inventory.

Methodically he went through the pockets of his
flying suit. For combat flying it had been stripped of its name tag,
usually worn over the left pocket, but there were lieutenant
colonel's silver leaves sewn on the shoulders. Would he be smart to
cut them off? In case of capture— To hell with it! He wasn't going
to get captured. The Jolly Greens would be picking him up in the
morning.

His flight-suit pockets produced very little. In
his hasty departure from the airplane he had left his cigarettes,
matches, and gum. What he wouldn't give for that half of a Mounds
candy bar he had left on the navigator's console! And a cigarette.
God, he craved a smoke! All he had salvaged were his damned reading
glasses, which he needed like a turtle needed an afterburner. And his
flying helmet, for which there didn't seem to be any obvious need
down here in the mud.