Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars (20 page)

July 8, 1970—Zero Three Hundred Zulu

LTJG Eugene J. Bordelon, Jr. US Navy HA(L)-3
Solid Anchor Naval Base, Song Cua Lon
Republic of Vietnam

We’d had a busy shift. Early last night we had to give aid to a local Ruff Puff outpost which had come under attack, and rescued some South Vietnamese sailors in the Cua Lon when their boat was sinking due to mortar damage. The VC welcomed us back to the base with small arms fire from behind the triple-thick canopy of the mangrove swamps surrounding Solid Anchor. We responded appropriately to the threat, and when all the muzzle flashes had stopped, we set our bird down on the helo pad. The thick, moist air covered our base like a warm blanket; my shirt was soaked with sweat and plastered to my skin. I was glad I could grab a shower and get a beer in our air-conditioned hootch.

Solid Anchor was home to a Navy SEAL Team One, a Seawolf detachment (det One), and a support base including its own miniature Navy, consisting of all the Brown Water Navy oddities that were born out of riverine warfare.

A fire team consisted of two Huey gunships. The crew of each bird consisted of a pilot, co-pilot, and two mechanics, who served as the door gunners. The pilot of the lead bird was the FTL
(Fire Team Leader)
and the Trail AHAC
(Attack Helicopter Aircraft Commander)
piloted the trail bird. Each det had two crews. Each crew was on alert for twenty-four hours, and stood-down for twenty-four hours. There was no drinking while you were on your shift (on alert). Whenever we were not in our helos, we grabbed some sack time. This was our schedule year-round. There were no holidays or days off, not even Tet
(Vietnamese New Year)
, when the VC usually agreed to a truce. During Tet cease-fires, we flew weapons-tight, not firing unless fired upon. The VC used Tet cease-fires to move troops, supplies and weapons into position. It took some creative, borderline harassment to get them to fire at us so we could fire back.

I was the FTL on my shift, and my counterpart from the other shift LCDR “Wild Bill” Jernigan, FTL of the first shift and OIC met us at the pad. I turned my bird over to him. His crew rearmed and refueled, tied down the rotor blades and started with their preflight inspection and safety check.

I still hadn’t gotten a letter from my fiancée Beth in the past two weeks. No matter, my mail must have been rerouted to Binh Thuy as I was about to return stateside. My DEROS
(Date of Estimated Return from Overseas to Stateside)
was now one more off-duty shift, and one last shift in-country. After my last shift, off to Binh Thuy—then to Saigon—then San Francisco. From there I’ll catch an Air Force flight to England Air Force Base, which was five miles from my brother’s house. Beth, my brother and his family should meet my plane at England AFB when I get home. My fiancé had gotten me an interview with the Baptist Hospital in Alexandria, LA., to fly an air rescue helicopter. I had a couple of postwar plans. First, marry Beth, and then take the job offer. We’d save our money and eventually buy a bird of my own to start a helicopter transport service. Yes, indeed, my future looked bright, even if the prospects for Vietnam didn’t. The United States had lost its heart for this war. We were engaged in withdrawals and were turning the war over to the Vietnamese government, a process called
Vietnamization
.

The war in the delta was pretty much subdued and things were quiet in late 1970. However, in the mangrove swamps, in the heart of the U Minh forest, Charlie was imbedded in the last VC sanctuary. Solid Anchor was a bold move to challenge the VC in their sanctuary. The Navy’s Riverine forces, SEALs, Seawolves and Black Ponies continued to bring the war to the NVA and VC, even as the US Army regulars were pulling out. Solid Anchor was in the southernmost tip of the delta, on the Song Cua Lon (Cua Lon River). Since Charlie couldn’t move around freely in the delta anymore, he laid specific claim to the dense triple canopy cover of the U Minh’s mangrove swamps. This was no man’s land. Young men who served here found their faces age twenty years in a year. Previously in the war effort, the government didn’t care much if Charlie owned the mangrove swamps. There were only a few charcoal makers and woodcutters who even lived there. Everybody else was either Viet Cong or North Vietnamese Army Regulars (VC and NVA). The
pacification
part of army insurgency doctrine that promoted getting the populace to accept the government and the United States didn’t apply here. In the mangrove swamps of the U Minh, Charlie didn’t seem to want to be
pacified
. He owned the U Minh. Solid Anchor was here to challenge Charlie’s deed and title.

It was time to head to the mess hall and pick up some grub. One thing the Navy could do in this God-forsaken hellhole was to feed us well. Huge steaks that covered your whole platter and lobster were common items at the mess. Showers with clean water, on the other hand, weren’t common. All clean drinking water was barged in. We bathed and washed our clothes in the river. My skivvies had taken on the color of brown river mud over time. As soon as I got home, I wanted nothing more than to get into a hot bathtub and soak the remainder of Vietnam off of my body.

After finishing off a huge steak, I stopped by my barracks to remove my skivvies. Next stop was the SEAL barracks to share a beer and find out where they were planning their op tonight, and then hit the rack for some much needed sleep. The off-duty SEALs would be there this morning, and it didn’t pay to wear skivvies when drinking with SEALs. SEALs had their own dress code. They seemed to think that skivvies were for civilians and other lesser mortals. The real reason they didn’t wear skivvies was because it kept their crotch drier and prevented various forms of jungle rot. Without warning, they would shout, “Skivvie Check!&rdquo to make sure that everyone who was drinking with them would drop their pants to prove that they weren’t violating their underwear dress code. Anyone caught wearing skivvies while drinking with them would suffer the fate of having them ripped off. That quirk aside, it was very good to drink with SEALs when the opportunity presented itself. They were a crazy, overachieving lot of push-it-to-the-limit warriors who lived hard, and played hard. SEALs loved Seawolves. We had their back when they were in trouble, and they didn’t forget that. Any time a Seawolf was being molested by army pukes or anyone else, SEALs would defend us like body guards.

On the way to the SEAL barracks, I found my trail AHAC, LTJG William “Prophet” Forrest, walking toward one of the two spare helo pads. A SEALORD was making its descent. Rumor had it he was bringing in my replacement. Prophet motioned me to join him. My Trail AHAC and I liked to haze the newbies a bit. There wasn’t much entertainment here, so we made do. It was too far for any radio station or TV, and there were no American women here. Finally, the chopper rotors stopped the whomp, whomp, whomp sound and the occupants climbed out. That would be him, I thought. He bore the marks of a newbie: new clean uniform, a seabag in his hand and a look of relief that he hadn’t already been shot down on the descent or killed by a sniper. Prophet immediately greeted him.

“Are you the new Seawolf pilot?”

“Yes sir, LTJG Donald James, Cherry Hill, NY.”

“Welcome to Solid Anchor. Your shift isn’t on alert. Relax, Charlie doesn’t start trying to kill us until after dark. I’ll show you your bunk, and we’ll go over to the SEAL barracks and get a beer and introduce you. By the way, we don’t drink when on alert,” finished Prophet. We took the new pilot to the barracks, got him settled in his new bunk and advised him to see the quartermaster later to get squared away with the personal flight gear he needed. Prophet would have a ball hazing this young Yankee. I kept silent and let him take the ball and run with it.

We introduced our newbie to the SEALs and accepted a cold beer. Prophet put his crosshairs on the newbie, who started relaxing a bit, happy he wasn’t already shot dead, bitten by a snake, or blown up.

“Newbie, what’s your DEROS?!” Prophet demanded loudly.

“Sir, 360 and a sunrise, sir!”

Prophet looked at him as an object to be pitied and removed his Colt forty-five auto from his shoulder holster. He chambered a round and checked it to make sure it was loaded, then put the safety on and laid it on the card table.

“Son, if you shot yourself in the head right now, no one will think the less of you. But do not, I repeat, do not throw yourself out of
my helicopter
. You’ll irritate the hell out of me if I have to fill out an incident report on you falling out of my bird,” he growled. Prophet hated unnecessary paperwork worse than the VC and had no use for a newbie inconveniencing him.

The newbie swallowed hard and shook his head. “No, sir. I’m here to be a Seawolf and to grease commies.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, then, I guess I’ll put this back up.” He retrieved his pistol and removed the round from the chamber, placing it back in his holster. The newbie had endured phase one of our hazing ritual. There were some amused looks from the SEALs, but by and large, no one gets very attached to anyone new until they’d proved that they weren’t going to get killed right way.

My tour of duty afforded me a couple of medals, thankfully none of which was a purple heart. A point of pride for me was that none of the men in my bird got one. Staying alive for a Seawolf pilot was an accomplishment indeed. The NVA had a five thousand dollar reward and a month’s leave back home for anyone shooting down one of our birds. Our crews were especially hated. We expected to be tortured and killed if captured. It seemed that every VC took risks to bring us down. We were hated and feared almost as much as the
green faces
(SEALs). We flew close air support for the RPB, the Riverine Patrol Boats that made the backbone of the Mekong Delta’s Brown Water Navy. We also worked very closely with Navy SEALs, offering air support, and sometimes insertions and extractions if it was dangerous and needed a gunship to do the transport. The SEALs were quite loyal to us, and we were loyal to them. They liked to see us show up in a timely manner when they were in trouble.

I settled down to the card table with a beer and my thoughts while the SEALs introduced themselves to our newest arrival. Prophet grabbed a beer and began his usual endless drone of the causes for us being here. Prophet, my trail AHAC, always tried to vocalize some rational cause and effect for why we’re here.

“The way I see it, it is the fault of the French. If they hadn’t colonized Indonesia eighty years ago, there would have been no struggle for national sovereignty. Once the Japs left it would have been business as usual. There would be no emotional fuel for communism, no Ho Chi Minh, and no Americans dying.” He paused for effect, looking to see if anyone would argue the point. None did. We’d heard it all before. Prophet wasn’t actually a prophet; he was just a student of history looking for an audience. He was a tall, dark-haired country-boy from South Carolina who seemed to hold various philosophical viewpoints, mixed with a smattering of religious references now and then. He was not unlike the plantation owners and aristocrats of the old South in his convoluted mix of politics, philosophy and religion. But, he was the closest thing we had to a sage who bothered to find some rational cause for the war. After nearly a year of being in-country, we needed someone to make this all make sense.

I contemplated surviving one more twenty-four hour shift and going home. Prophet wasn’t through trying to get some conversation and headed to the card table.

“Hey, Cowboy. How does it feel to be going home to a target-rich environment of round-eyed women?”

I laughed. “Just cover my six one more shift and I’ll write you back all about it.”

“One more shift,” he snorted. “You’re due for a sick call. Don’t tempt fate. Nobody wants the get killed on his last day in-country, especially during a withdrawal. I’ve already passed my fit rep, done my FTL flight check and have a green light to take over as FTL when you leave. Your replacement is already here to start as co-pilot of the trail bird.” The SEALs listened intently to see if I agreed with his proposal.

“Not my style, you know that. Honor first day—honor last day—and all the days in between. Besides, if one American serviceman or friendly died the day that I faked being sick, you know I would take that to my grave. Tomorrow I start the last shift of my tour. When I’m through, I leave with no regrets.” SEAL faces broke out with approving smiles.

But I did have regrets. We killed NVA and VC guerillas by the thousands, but the late Ho Chi Minh’s DRV continued to wage war against the South. Though the kill rate was one of ours to ten of theirs, they never quit coming. Something ate at me about how we never seemed to get to the cause of communism. It seemed like we were perpetually trying to overcome an enemy who never seemed to want to quit.

I wasn’t one to make speeches, but I rose, lifted my beer and called for a toast, “To Ho Chi Minh and Mao Tse Tung.” You could have heard a pin drop. “May they rot in hell!”

“Here, here,” several voices echoed while the tension left the room and the conversations returned to normal. They were all relieved that I was leaving Vietnam with the same conviction and loyalty to my country that I had on the first day here. I hunkered down at the card table to carry on my conversation with my Trail AHAC.

“Prophet, President Nixon has assured us that the
war of northern aggression
is almost over. I fully expect when I get home to Louisiana that the Yankees will have all gone home.”

Prophet loved that one. He laughed until the tears streaked down his face. I made the promotion to FTL two months earlier, still a jaygee (lieutenant, junior grade) but having the most combat hours in the seat on our shift. Ironically, my co-pilot LT Robertson outranked me but didn’t have enough hours to be trail AHAC or FTL. The FTL would take the lead and the trail AHAC would follow behind and above and to the lead bird’s starboard side, so he could see ahead and to keep out of my rotor tail wash. Hueys worked best in pairs. They weren’t the fastest birds in the sky, and the fully fueled and armed Bravo model does not hover! It’s a good thing that Solid Anchor has an airstrip, versus the old LST of Sea Float, so we can get a full fuel tank and rocket load and still lift-off. A pair of Hueys with two seasoned door gunners was a force to reckon with.