Cambodia, p.1
Cambodia, page 1
part #2 of The Vietnam Trilogy Series
CAMBODIA
Book Two
The Vietnam Trilogy
By
Martin E. Silenus
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Martin E. Silenus
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Contents
Chapter 1: Jungle
Chapter 2: Firebase Foxtrot
Chapter 3: Briefing
Chapter 4: Testing
Chapter 5: The Stalk
Chapter 6: The Village
Chapter 7: The Gook Camp
Chapter 8: The Firefight
Chapter 9: Sleep
Chapter 10: Pursuit
Chapter 11: Mai Lei
Chapter 12: Lunch
Chapter 13: Detour
Chapter 14: Extraction
Chapter 15: Colonel Smith
Chapter 16: Debrief
Chapter 17: Recovery
Chapter 18: Home Sweet Home
Chapter 1: Jungle
We are surrounded by a primordial jungle, the heat and moisture is like a sauna wrapping around us and makes even breathing difficult. I’m puffing to extract the rich oxygen from the damp air. My uniform is soaked and sticks to me in all the wrong places furthering the wet blanket sensation of claustrophobia. Thank Christ we aren’t wearing underwear. Bunch balls and crotch rot we do not need. There is no room to sweat, no room to cool off.
The trees are enormous prehistoric structures, hundreds of feet high, and hundreds, maybe thousands of years old. The base of the trees as they curve to meet the earth are more than twenty feet high at the apex and covered in moss, assorted jungle flora and fauna, and vines climbing and twisting out of sight. Shit, there could be an army of gooks in the trees and we would never know until we’re dead.
Everywhere there are clumps of ferns as large as houses. The leaves on giant unidentifiable plants are 10 feet long and 3 feet wide. A fleeting thought of monster meat eating plants flits through my mind. We cannot move without stepping on or disturbing the plants. The plant leaves shaking and waving as we pass is a dead giveaway of our presence.
It is half-light even though it is the middle of the afternoon. We are shielded from the sun by the canopy of the trees hundreds of feet above us. Yet occasional spots of sunlight slip through from above and hit plants which light up like neon lights. Drifting amongst the trees and plants are patches of mist or fog just hanging and floating in the air, like vaporous alien life forms. I smell the rich odor of vibrant vegetation over the pungent stench of plant and animal rot. It is a surrealistic world. Nature’s living breathing Salvador Dali painting.
Around us the jungle is a cacophony of creature sounds, birds clattering and squawking. Tree animals, some form of monkey I suppose, are rustling the branches and yipping and howling as they move from limb to limb. Insects by the truckload, some biting, some crawling, all contributing their sounds into the jungle orchestration. Reptiles everywhere, coiling and hanging in loops from tree branches, the flick of motion as they strike and seize their victims, the soft sighing rustling sounds as they flow across the leaf carpeted jungle floor and through the greenery. Christ, I hate snakes.
Such prolific life forms all living and functioning in a careful time and evolution engineered chain of biology of who eats who. Nature on steroids. I am getting confusing signals, a sense of peace and contentment of Mother Nature doing what she does best, and at the same time a sense of expectancy of pending disaster. It is a confusion of emotional senses clouding my self-preservation radar.
Cambodia, the deep jungles of Cambodia, so this is what they mean by a steaming jungle. How the fuck can anyone live in this, survive, and conduct war. Just living and not being consumed by the jungle is a full time job. We are but another entry in the biological food chain. A pair of large rich blood bloated bipedals, ripe for the jungle to pluck and feed on.
I glance at P-man, noticing the beads of sweat rolling down over the camouflage grease paint on his face, and signal a direction towards a cluster of coiling vines climbing a tree trunk. Using my machete I single out a thick vine and slice it open. Immediately water pours out and I drink. P-man follows suit.
“Christ,” mutters P-man, “We must be in the jungles at the beginning of time!”
I just nod and take a pull of bourbon chaser from the canteen on my belt and offer it to P-man. He shakes his head.
Chapter 2: Firebase Foxtrot
The dust, choking red fucking dust, in my eyes, ears, nose, throat and choking my lungs! Jimmy Hendricks guitar, Purple Haze, howls out of Roseler and Shaker’s bunkered hooch.
“Jesus H Christ,” I complain bitterly, “If it isn’t the gooks, the jungle, or the fucking snakes trying to kill us, the fucking dust will smother us!”
I pull my ghillie hat off and wipe the dust and sweat of my face with my t-shirt and check the photo of Daria inside my hat brim.
“You forgot the fucking military command shitheads,” adds P-man, “Don’t forget those incompetent assholes!”
Firebase Foxtrot, Vietnam, fifty clicks from Pleiku, on the edge of the La Drang Valley, real close to Cambodia. Less than two acres on top of a high hill stripped of vegetation, all red dirt, with a collection of dirty bunkers and ratty sandbags surrounded by coiled razor wire and minefields. And dust, Christ, dust billowing up in swirling clouds from the choppers thumping their way in and out resupplying ammo, men, mail, food, gear. Ass and trash they call it, hauling ass and trash.
My name is Corporal Hudson (Hud) Reynolds, 24 years old, Marine sniper, ho-yah, 15 confirmed gook kills. We snipe in teams of two, a spotter and a shooter. I shoot a tick better, so P-man spots. PFC Phoenix (P-man) Wall is a good lad, solid as the day is long, good man to have at your back, a Canadian volunteer. We’re short timers, less than a month left in our rotation. God, I can’t wait to get back to Daria, and yet I have terrible anxiety she will reject the version of me that comes back from Nam.
Today P-man and I have drawn the sand bag maintenance detail. Check all the bunkers for broken sand bags and replace them. No leaking sandbags allowed. Shit, like it makes a bloody difference. Besides they are just bags of red dirt anyway. There’s no goddamned sand for miles in any direction. But when Major Farris says, “You two boys have a special treat today, you are on sandbag detail!” You do not be bitching or moaning or you will get to be on latrine duty and burn barrels of shit and piss.
Roseler and Shaker are doing latrine duty right now, pulling the barrels from the backs of the latrines. Then pouring in some jet fuel from the Huey’s fuel supply into the barrels, lighting it up, and stirring the excrement with a stick while the noxious odors of burning shit and toxic black sooty clouds billow into the air. Most everyone vomits from the stench. It warms my heart just thinking about it because I know how much everyone hates latrine detail. Sandbag detail doesn’t seem near as bad.
It has been a quiet routine for the last week or so. The patrols go out they come back without contact with the gooks. Everyone is glad, but also uneasy as we don’t know what the hell is going on. OPCOM seems to know even less than we do. Charles is likely planning something huge while we wander around with our dicks in our hands being useless. There is an uneasy pregnant air over the firebase.
Chapter 3: Briefing
OPCOM briefing and sniper team assignment is underway. Major Farris, the huge black dude chewing the cigar who should be playing football, is assigning the day’s missions to the squads, and the sniper teams to the squads. P-Man and I are not assigned to a patrol squad. This is an ominous sign as we may be assigned to pull a special Ops duty. Not good!
Major Farris waves us over to his corner of the Operations tent.
“Got good news and bad news for you two boys,” he states around his cigar.
“Good news is I had one of the boys back home acquire one of these babies for me,” he clunks down a 10 inch long black metal tube on his desk, “And I want you boys to try it out and give me a full report on its performance!”
“How the hell did you get a silencer sir?” I ask in awe.
“Never you mind how I got it. And it is not a silencer! It is an NSD, noise suppression device. Just use the fucking thing to smack some gooks!” his face wrinkles into a crooked grin.
“Now the bad news is,” he continues, “I want you two humping over to some co-ordinates where we think there is some very important gooks planning a big op, and fuck their day up royally!” he points to a position on his wall map.
“Shit Major, we aren’t supposed to be in Cambodia.” I say. “Besides P-man and I are low time, fuck we have less than a month left in our rotation, how about send in a fresh meat team!”
“That’s right, Hud,” he grins, “Low time, ain’t it a bitch, but you two boys are the best team I have and I need you guys to do recon and to wreak some havoc, if there is anything there. Besides a fresh meat virgin team will not make 5 clicks in the shit!”
“Major, it’s at least two days hike in and two days back and if anything goes to shit we can’t call for an extraction or medic dust off, or fuck all as we are in Cambodia!” says P-man.
Major Farris just grins all the wider, “Yup, its beautiful isn’t it, no paper work because the Special Op doesn’t even exist. So don’t fuck it up and it will be a walk in the park. Now head over to maintenance and get this beauty screwed on yer damn sniper rifle, Hud, and get your sorry asses out of here!”
Nobody says no to Major Farris more than once, and lives to not regret it. There is no choice; we are going into Cambodia, fuck, fu ck, and fuck!
The devil rears his head and begins to smile!
Chapter 4: Testing
Budweiser beer cans at 300 yards. A short range test to evaluate the effect of the silencer on my Remington Model 70 bolt action sniper rifle in .308 caliber. I lay the gun over a sandbag and sight up the first beer can and squeeze the trigger. A soft “POOOF”, like disconnecting a compressor air-line is all the rifle says and the beer can leaps off the tree branch.
“Son of a bitch,” says Roseler “Damn rifle doesn’t make any noise at all. It’s quieter than a pellet rifle!”
“Your point of impact is low by one inch,” says P-man, as he peers through the binoculars, “a couple of clicks up will fix it!”
“Roger.” I say, spinning off the top turret cover and clicking in a couple of clicks of vertical adjustment, cycle the bolt, get quiet, and sight up the second beer can.
Millar, the laid back Texan, wanders over to view the activities.
“Har, those beer cans put’n a dangerous move on you peckerheads, or are you just executing them on general principle?” he drawls.
My sniper rifle says “POOOF” and the second beer can leaps off the tree branch.
“Point of impact is right on,” says P-man.
“What in the fuck is the matter with your rifle, Hud?” asks Millar.
“Silencer,” I say.
“You gotta be shitting me,” he gawks, “Where in the hell did you steal one of those, you prick?”
“Got it from Major Farris, he was grinning like a damned cat when he handed it to me.” I chuckle.
“Some fucking deal,” grouches P-man, “We have to go into Cambodia to use it on a possible gook encampment.”
“Cambodia, oh man, you two are so fucked!” drawls Millar, “Shit we won’t even try to find your maggot ridden remains, that’s how fucked you are. Farris can shove his damn silencer up his ass. I sure as hell ain’t going in to Cambodia!”
“POOOF”, says my rifle as the third beer can gets shot to hell.
“Big talk Millar, you asshole, when was the last time you told Farris to go fuck himself when he gave you orders?” glares P-man.
“What choice do any of us really have?” Roseler interjects. “Here, have a pull on this and think about it, fools.” he passes a silver flask of bourbon to Millar.
“POOOF”, says my rifle and a beer can dies. “Christ, Roseler, has Shaker got you drinking that damn horse piss too?” I ask.
“Hair of the dog, Hud, hair of the dog,” grins Roseler.
“Well fuck, as much as it pains me to say so, you’re right,” says Millar, “Nobody says no to Farris more than once and lives to brag about it!” He tips back a long pull from the bourbon and lights a smoke.
“So like when you two dumb fucks get wasted by the gooks, how’d it be if I go back home and fuck your women for you, how about it? Daria is too fucking hot for you anyway, Hud, you dead asshole!” he continues.
“Millar, you’re a fucking asshole to be sure,” I grin. “But that little pecker of yours wouldn’t make a woman do anything but laugh until she pees!”
“Fuckin eh, you be needle dink the bug fucker Millar,” guffaws P-man.
“Yeah right, fuck y’all, you’re both walking dead men, assholes!” sulks Millar as he picks up his rifle and flicks his cigarette butt at us and wanders off to guard duty.
Chapter 5: The Stalk
We have our gear collected and it makes a pretty impressive pile. Enough water is a problem. There will be lots on the way but likely contaminated. Fresh rain water in leaves and water from vines will be our best bet. Field rations eaten cold. Some tinned shit supposed to be boned chicken and rice, or bacon and eggs, etc, etc. When you open the damn tins you can’t even tell what the hell the mess is!
Given we are close to the Cambodian border anyway and most of the stalking will be in enemy occupied territory we elect to wear our complete camouflage ghillie suit right from the get go. Every piece of equipment is covered in camouflage tape, and ghillie strips, even the silencer, gun barrel, scope and stock of my sniper rifle. Grease camo paint on our faces. From 40 feet away in the jungle we are invisible shadows. Ho yah!
The boys in communications have installed a high tech scrambling chip in a PRK 10 portable transmitter/receiver. Grunts like us just call them “prick 10” radios. We are instructed to check in every 4 hours, with extremely short transmissions. We do not want Charlie, or anyone really, knowing where we are. Our frequency will be monitored 24-7, our call sign is Streetgang, and the firebase is Almighty.
Our orders are pretty simple. Hump twenty clicks into the Cambodia jungle, avoiding any enemy contact, recon the gook encampment at the designated co-ordinates, kill as many gook officers as possible, destroy as much as possible, hump back to our Fire Base avoiding any contact.
We shoot a compass heading and set out.
I check the pic of Daria in my hat and murmur my love for her. My stomach tightens at the thought of not coming back and seeing her again...
Millar is at it again “Well, well, the houseplants are off to get smoked in Cambodia, tough shit suckers.”
“Kiss my ass Millar, you motherfucker,” growls P-man.
I give Millar the one finger salute as I hump by.
It is tense setting out, always is, but this time it is a long mission and the chances are not good at all of returning. It all seems very contrived, the more you cheat death the tougher the missions get until you are finally smoked. Under a fucking month left and we are off to Cambodia, fucking son of a bitch, fucking Army!
The devil is standing and begins to chuckle...
By noon we are deep in the Cambodia jungle, stopped to recheck our position, rest, drink a bit of water from the vines, and eat some rations. The swig of bourbon cuts through my thoughts and pushes the situation into increased clarity. It is too easy to get complacent in the jungle, distracted by the multitude and richness of the environment, distracted until you are dead.
“Almighty, Almighty, this is Streetgang, radio check,” I mummer quietly into the Prick 10.
“Streetgang, Streetgang, this is Almighty, check affirmative,” comes the low hissing reply.
The terrain is rough with deep ravines running across our path, handy for course deviations. We never hump in a straight line toward their target. Directional changes must be made every hour at least. Otherwise anyone tracking you will know immediately where you are going and set up an ambush for you. Also we must backtrack a couple of times per day to pick up anyone tracking us. It is a very dangerous game of cat and mouse and we sure as hell do not want to become the mouse.
“Nice and peaceful,” whispers P-man. “Just like a jungle should be.”
“Sure,” I whisper.
Checking the pic of Daria in my hat I think, God, I love that woman. I am so scared of getting smoked out here in this rolling clusterfuck...
P-man is in his element in the deep jungle. His disposition is in harmony with our surroundings. He is calm, quiet, relaxed yet attentively aware to changes in the jungle sounds and rhythms. Moving calmly and silently on point he slips through the jungle, a predator on the hunt. We hump along quietly as possible for the next 2 hours, no talking, no smoking, no noise, and trying our best to be invisible.
Entering a shallow stream in the bottom of a ravine we elect to walk up-stream several hundred meters before going to shore. The running water makes it difficult for predators to follow our tracks and scent. Leaving the stream we climb slowly up the side of the ravine staying in the cover of the jungle foliage as much as possible and avoiding open ground. We are very careful not to let anything metal scrape across the rocks as we climb. Sounds like that are out of place in the jungle. Approaching the top we pause in cover and rest while scanning the far side of the ravine for any indications of being tracked. There is nothing, just the jungle and the sounds.
It is getting darker, almost evening half-light gloom as the sky clouds up and the afternoon thunderstorms begin to grumble in the distance.
P-man says, “What’d think Boss, you want to keep going until the storm gets close and then hole up until it passes?”
