Solemn Duty (1997)

  Solemn Duty

  Leonard B. Scott

  *

  Part I

  1972

  Chapter 1.

  May 9, 1972, Camp 147, Cambodia.

  Captain Robert Anderson stood outside the sandbagged command bunker rigid with anger. Minutes before, a radio message from his operational commander, Lieutenant Colonel Richard Stroud, had ordered Anderson and his ten-man team to turn over responsibility for Camp 147 to their Cambodian Special Forces counterparts and be ready for chopper extraction within the hour.

  Sick to his stomach, Anderson lowered his head. There must have been some kind of mistake. My God how do I face them? he asked himself. Only six months earlier he had ordered the helicopter pilots to circle over the village so the rest of the team could acquaint themselves with the lay of the land. For Anderson, the Special Forces A-team commander, the aerial view had only confirmed what he'd already known after being briefed by Colonel Stroud. The Cambodian village designated 147 was strategically perfect. Located only a kilometer from the border of South Vietnam and flanked by rugged mountains, the hamlet was situated on a small hill in the neck of a bottleshaped valley. If a large North Vietnamese Army force wanted to strike quickly into South Vietnam, it would have to use the bottle-shaped valley as an invasion route. Stroud assigned Anderson to turn Hamlet 147 into a cork by training the indigenous population and fortifying the village.

  Anderson shook his head to clear the memories of the past and looked out over the camp. That was a mistake; the rectangular fort depressed him even more. It had once been a beautiful village, with tall stands of green bamboo lining the paths that led up the hill to magnificent, elevated, thatched houses made from sayo and yellow bamboo. But all that was gone; he had seen to it. To clear fields of fire, the bamboo had been cut down and replaced with iron pickets and miles of barbed wire and concertina forming three concentric perimeter fences. The villagers' beautiful elevated houses next fell victim to his plans. They had been torn down because their thatch roofs would have made them fire traps should the new fort be attacked. The farmers' homes were replaced with sweltering tin-roofed huts surrounded by six-foot walls made from stacked sandbags. Nothing remained that remotely reminded him of the serenely beautiful village. Where children had once played, there now were dug-in mortar positions and machinegun bunkers. Interconnecting trenches and fighting positions crisscrossed the once grassy slopes where water buffalo had grazed; and where the women had dried rice, there were supply and ammunition bunkers. Yeah, I accomplished the mission, Anderson thought. I turned this once peaceful village into a Southeast Asia version of Fort Apache.

  "Sir?"

  Anderson turned and faced his best friend and operations sergeant, Staff Sergeant Jerry Rhodes. "What is it?" Anderson snapped, hoping the sergeant would get the hint and leave him alone.

  Rhodes frowned. "Christ, sir, it ain't like we're hangin"em out to dry. We'll only be thirty klicks away, and we'll have a battalion-size strike force on call to reinforce 'em if they get into trouble. Plus, sir, don't forget the air support. Our counterparts can hold things down until we get here. Hell, this is just a temporary thing. That fuckin' Stroud has another wild hair up his ass is all. You'll make him see the light once we get back."

  Anderson nodded in silence. Kicking a stone with his boot, he motioned toward the bunker entrance. "Have Shark find Lieutenant Tram and tell him to see me. And make sure the rest of the team talks to their counterparts before we go. I want this handoff to go right. Understood?"

  Rhodes stepped closer and put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Look, Bob, you're lettin' this get to ya. Hell, none of us like it any better than you do. It's another Stroud fuck-up.

  Sooner or later the higher-ups are gonna catch on he's a loose cannon. In the meantime ya best get hold of yourself. Lieutenant Tram is bringing the chief up so you can tell him the bad news. Ya sure as hell don't want to be showin' him that long face of yours. He'll read ya like a book, and then things really will be fucked up."

  Anderson's jaw tightened at being told to get his emotions under control. What really angered him was knowing that the sergeant was right. He lowered his head. "It doesn't make me feel any better, Jerry, but I'll do my part with the chief. Now let me stew awhile in peace."

  Allowing himself a small smile of victory, the sergeant turned and walked back into the bunker. Alone again, Anderson looked out over the fort, feeling no pride in what he and his men had accomplished. The mission is complete, but at what cost? What have I done? he wondered. Then he saw

  Frenchy, the chiefs twelve-year-old grandson, walking toward the bunker. The small boy was wearing his usual infectious smile and ridiculously large fatigues. Waves of guilt washed over Robert. Christ, I don't even remember his real name. Wasn't it enough that I destroyed their village, their rice paddies, their lives? Did I have to change them, too?

  A minute later the small boy bounded up, came to attention and saluted. "Captain Robert, Frenchy, ports!"

  Anderson forced a smile as he returned a salute. "And what's my chief scout have to re-port?"

  The boy grinned and pointed to a distant bunker. "Sergeant Louie say bunker sayen fun."

  "So seven is finished, is it?"

  "Yes sir, A-O-kay, fini," the boy said, bobbing his head.

  Anderson fought back his emotions as he regarded the beaming almond-skinned boy who had stolen his and the team's hearts from day one. Not quite four feet tall, Frenchy was different from the other villagers in that he was half French.

  The chief had explained that the boy's mother worked for a rubber plantation years ago, as a cook, and became involved with a French engineer. The Frenchman left her and his new son soon after the boy was born. Shamed, the boy's mother brought the boy to the village to live with her parents, then left for Phnom Penh to begin a new life. She had never returned.

  Anderson looked at the small boy, feeling his heart breaking. As usual, Frenchy's fatigue pockets bulged with cans of C-rations, and around his thin waist was the ever-present frayed web belt from which hung an old metal canteen and a battered K-bar sheath knife that reached almost to his knees. A sweat-stained, faded green beret that Anderson had given him as a present covered the boy's brown hair. And, of course, he wore his usual broad smile.

  "Captain Robert, what wrong?" the boy asked, pointing at his own eyes. "You not see Scout Frenchy?'

  Anderson put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'm sad, Frenchy, because I have to leave you and the village. The team and I have been ordered to Pleiku for a while. On, now, don't give me that look. You know I wouldn't leave you for very long. It's just that-"

  He stopped in mid-sentence, feeling the presence of another.

  He turned and faced the boy's gray-haired grandfather, whose face was like cracked brown leather. He was followed by Anderson's counterpart, Cambodian Special Forces Lieutenant Quan Tram.

  Anderson brought his steepled hands up to his chest and bowed. The elderly chief returned the greeting and spoke to Lieutenant Tram, who interpreted.

  "Captain, the old one says he heard you and the team were going to Pleiku. He wants to know how long you will be away."

  "Tell Po I'm sorry he heard the news from others. I wanted him to hear it from me. Tell him not to worry, we will return very soon. It's a mistake of some kind."

  Dressed in shorts and a dirty fatigue shirt, the old man nodded as if very tired and spoke with obvious sadness.

  "Captain, old one says his heart will be heavy until you return. He thinks the enemy will come soon. He says scouts and patrols have seen their trail runners. He says the trail runners are like the small winds that come before a big storm."

  "Tell the chief to remember that my team and I gave our word of honor a
nd the honor of our nation that we would stand with the people of the village and defeat the nonbelievers. Tell him when his scouts see the enemy approach that he is to report to you, Tram. Remind him that you will call us on the radio in Pleiku and we'll come immediately in helicopters with a battalion of strike force soldiers. Tell him planes and helicopter gunships will come, too, and help stop the nonbelievers."

  After listening to the translation, the chief looked out over what had once been his village with a somber expression.

  Finally he spoke, almost in a whisper.

  Tram stepped closer to Anderson and translated quietly.

  "Captain, the old one says war is no good. He says he prays to the enlightened one that when the battle comes and the nonbelievers are defeated, the war will end forever. It is time for peace."

  Anderson swallowed a dry lump in his throat before speaking. "Tell him, I too pray for the war's end. I have teamed to love his people as he does. I want more than anything for his people to live in peace."

  Po listened to the translation then reached into his fatigue pocket and took out a small brass cross that gleamed in the sunlight. Stepping closer to Anderson, the old man reached up and pulled the dog tag chain from beneath Anderson's shirt and attached the cross to the chain. Lifting the cross, he touched it to Anderson's lips, and with his other hand he placed it over the captain's heart.

  "Old one say you have become son to him, Captain Robert He says go to Pleiku with knowledge he and his people are here, in your heart forever. He made the cross for you from shell casings. He says he made it so your God will keep you safe."

  Anderson's eyes welled as he patted the old man's hand.

  "Tram, tell him I will always carry him and his people in my heart and will always wear the cross he has given me. Tell him I will be back very soon . . . we will fight for peace together."

  The ten men of Anderson's team stood bent slightly forward under the weight of their heavy rucksacks. Like their leader, they stood solemnly as the people of the village watched them prepare to leave. Robert Anderson faced his counterpart Lieutenant Tram and raised his hand in a salute. "My friend, I turn over command of 147 to you. I wish you Buddha's blessings."

  With tears in his eyes, Tram returned the salute. "I accept command, my friend. I shall miss you."

  Hearing the choppers approaching, Anderson turned to walk to the landing pad, but saw Preachy standing at attention only a few feet away. He forced a smile and saluted. "Chief Scout, I want you to give your new commander all the support you have given me."

  The boy saluted with the wrong hand. "okay Captain Robert. You come back t-t time o-kay? Scout Preachy wait for you. All people wait. You come back t-t time o-kay."

  Anderson's eyes were watering and he only managed to nod and say, "Okay." He motioned his men toward the pad and looked over his shoulder at the throng of villagers. Sick at heart, he tried to lift his hand to wave but couldn't find the strength. The wind from the landing Huey suddenly tore at his clothes and he whispered, "I'm sorry."

  May 12

  As the sun began to sink behind the mountains, the silence of the forest was broken by the sound of a small frightened boy's tortured breathing as he ran down a hard-packed clay trail. Barefoot and wearing too-big U. S. Army fatigues, Frenchy had been sent ahead of the others in the patrol with the horrible news. He veered off the track, slid down an embankment, leaped over a small stream, and fought his way up the slippery bank where low-hanging branches and vines tore at his face and caught his shirt The boy spun, kicked, and fought until he broke their tenacious grasp, then continued naming as fast as he could. Seconds later he crossed a rise and in the distance finally saw his village looming ahead in the twilight Although his pounding heart felt as if it would burst through his chest, he pumped his legs even harder. Bursting out of the tree line, the boy jumped onto a rice dike and raced moss dry, fallow rice paddies. Ignoring the pain in his chest, he followed the twisting serpentine path that led through the barbed-wire perimeter fences. Finally, through the obstacles, he screamed as he made the final sprint toward the command bunker. albe nonbelievers are coming! They are coming!"

  .

  Plethu.

  In the underground tactical operations center the radio operator tossed down the handset and quickly picked up the field phone. Seconds later he had the duty officer on the line. "Captain Anderson? . . . Sir, Lieutenant Tram just radioed in from Camp 147. He reports at least a battalion-size NVA force has crossed the river and is headed toward 147. He requests immediate air support and the strike battalion."

  Anderson made himself speak calmly although his insides felt like a bowl of Jell-0. 'Tell him we're on the way, then call the aviation battalion and have them scramble the gunships and slicks. I'll notify my team and the strike battalion. We'll all be ready for pickup in twenty minutes at the airfield. Contact the Air Force forward air controller and have him get fast movers there as soon as possible. Got it?"

  "Yes, sir. Will do. Out."

  Anderson !cradled the handset and spun around, yelling at the men playing poker behind him. "The NV A are moving in on 147! Sergeant Rhodes, notify the strike-battalion commander to saddle up his boys!"

  Rucksacks on their backs, and holding CAR-15s, the team approached the tarmac where the five hundred men of the strike force stood waiting in full combat gear. Anderson searched the early evening sky for the choppers and was about to ask for the radio handset to find out what was holding them up when a sergeant approached and saluted. "Sir, Colonel Stroud wants to see you immediately. He's in the TOC."

  "I don't have time to bullshit with the colonel," Anderson snapped. "The birds will be here any second."

  "Sir, you'd better talk to him-I don't think the lift birds are coming. I heard that he canceled them."

  "What?"

  Tall, sandy-haired, and wearing glasses, Lieutenant Colonel Richard Stroud stood studying a wall map in the tactical operations center when Anderson stormed in and confronted him.

  "Sir, what the hell is going on? Where are the slicks?"

  Stroud slowly cocked up an eyebrow. "Captain, surely I don't have to remind you who's in operational command here.

  You do not have the authority to mount an operation without my say so. And you most certainly don't have the authority to authorize the use of aviation assets or the calling out of the strike battalion. You were out of line, Captain."

  "Out of liner Anderson repeated incredulously. "One forty-seven is going to be attacked! As duty officer I ordered what was necessary so we could respond as quickly as possible."

  "Captain, I'm well-aware you were responsible for the training of the indigenous population of 147, but one sighting report from an inexperienced Cambodian officer does not justify mounting an operation. May I remind you I have six other camps under my operational control, and each is just as important as 147. Confirmation of the report is necessary; there are procedures that must be followed and priorities that must be considered."

  Anderson closed his eyes for a moment to try and control his seething anger. He took in a breath, let it out slowly and spoke, trying not to sound condescending. "Sir, Lieutenant Torn is anything but 'inexperienced.' He has been in the program for four years. He was a college professor and taught English at Phnom Penh University before he enlisted in our program. He rose through the ranks, sir, and has been in more action than all our teams have seen put together. He's been wounded three times and he's been awarded more medals for bravery than Audie Murphy. When he says the NVA are approaching and that he needs support, I believe him. Tune is critical, as We must have the fighter bombers hit the lead NVA units before they have time to deploy and organize for the assault."

  Stroud smugly held out a handwritten report from the radio operator. "Look for yourself, Captain. lieutenant Tram reported his scouts saw a single battalion of North Vietnamese regulars. One forty-seven has over three hundred drialdaS. A single battalion of NVA is almost the same strength ... hardly a threat to an entrenc
hed force I should think."

  Shaking with frustration, Anderson ignored the report and pointed at the map. "That's right, sir, he reported a battalion.

  Their lead battalion. The terrain restricts the enemy's movement until they reach the valley. If the NVA are moving in battalion-size strength, you can bet more battalions are following the first. This is it, sir. This is what we've been waiting for. We've got the enemy in strength, and in the open. We can annihilate them."

  The other operations staff officers and NCOs had stopped wort and were watching, holding their breath. Stroud felt their eyes on him. He raised his chin and motioned Anderson toward the planning room. "1 think we should discuss this matter in private."

  "Discuss what?" Anderson blurted. "There's nothing to discuss! Every second we delay reduces the chances of getting the strike force there in time, and the Air Force's chances of hitting them before they deploy. I need those slicks, sir. I need them now!"

  Stroud began to respond but was stopped by an excited voice coming over the nearest radio speaker box. "Papa Zulu Three, this is Camp One-four-seven. We are being hit by mortar and rockets. Where is the air support? Over."