A Tree by the River Read online

  The Warrior Mystic in Viet Nam

  Volume 1

  A Tree by the River

  a novel by

  James Lloyd Dunn

  Blue Forge Press

  Port Orchard " Washington

  A Tree by the River

  Copyright 2018

  by James Lloyd Dunn

  First eBook Edition

  November 2018

  First Print Edition

  November 2018

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except in the case of short excerpts for use in reviews of the book.

  For information about film, reprint or other subsidiary rights, contact: [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and all other story elements are the product of the authors' imaginations and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or other elements in real life, is purely coincidental.

  Blue Forge Press

  7419 Ebbert Drive Southeast

  Port Orchard, Washington 98367

  360.550.2071 ph.txt

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the folks who inspired me, hounded me a little, and insisted that I publish A Tree by the River, beginning with my wife Sally, our three children, and Lou Goldine, who read the earliest writings and urged me to continue. I would be remiss if I didn't also thank Donna Anderson, Scot Wilcox and everyone who encouraged me to "keep on keeping on."

  The Warrior Mystic in Viet Nam

  Volume 1

  A Tree by the River

  a novel by

  James Lloyd Dunn

  Chapter 1

  28 January, 1972, Northwest of Quang Tri, Viet Nam

  The politicians called it Vietnamization. Most of us here in this country call it insanity. But orders are orders, and so we all go through the motions of trying to train our South Vietnamese counterparts on the finer points of warfare. The problem is our reconnaissance training took twenty-six weeks. Our South Vietnamese friends will be lucky if theirs lasts six. Add to that the idea that in the daytime, they are our friends. And at night they hate us, shoot at us, and wish only to be left alone to manage their affairs.

  Most of the men on the ground, artillery, infantry and air guys know the reality of the situation. But politicians are so sure they have it all figured out from their comfy offices in D.C. The truth is that America is abandoning its’ ally. We all know it. And so do they. The latest irony in this most ironic war is that their cooks are cooking in our mess halls, and us Americans are “guests” at our own camps.

  I’m sitting with some of the guys and enjoying a mid-day meal of beans, rice, and some type of meat in the mess-hall. All the guys are raving about the shish-ka-bobs that the newest Vietnamese chef has cooked up.

  From behind me I hear the voice of a guy I thought was already on his way home. “Hey Toby, you’re supposed to get your ass down to the CO’s! Seems like some shot-down flyboy is hiding out by the river, and the Major wants to know if you want to lead the rescue party.”

  I turn around and spot the speaker. Sure as hell it IS McDuff! “I thought you were taking the chopper out tonight. Heard you couldn’t wait to get back to momma and the kid.”

  McDuff grins and rubs his chin, “Yeah, well, I told Major that I’d ride along on the condition that you’re team leader.” He rubbed his freckled hand through his short, sandy hair. His face had the magical ability to defy the hot sun of Viet Nam and maintain its ghostly white complexion as a startling background for all those bright orange freckles that covered his face.

  I sigh, staring at him. “Four more days for most of us, but we almost have to try getting the pilot out, but you…You could be gone today. Shouldn’t you be out there on the helipad?”

  A goofy grin spreads across his face, “Me? And miss all the fun? You better get into the Major’s office if you want to lead the pick-up team.” The Major nods when I pull the tent flap aside. His rugged face shows a lot of mileage, though he’s probably only in his mid-thirties. He’s a warrior and a mustang who’d started as an enlisted grunt. Exactly my kind of CO.

  Without preamble he spoke, “I know you’re real short on time in country, and I wouldn’t blame you if you passed, but I’m not sure ARVN is up to this one.”

  I shudder at the entire mess. We needed at least six more months to get the locals up to speed, but the way things were going, in no time they’ll be on their own, and definitely lost.

  Furrowing his brow, he continues,”It bothers the hell out of me that we’re running out on the ARVN troops, but we just can’t leave one of our own flyers…”

  “Did it happen? The Treaty?”

  The Major nodded. ”Kissinger signed it, the North signed it, and so the South really has no choice.”

  All of us had listened to the news, gathered around a desk in the mess. Congress was getting ready to pull all the funding for the war. Americans were getting just plain sick and tired of this part of the world.

  “So, not just some of us, but all of us out by April?”

  He nodded. “But today we’ve got a downed airman. Want to take a team and find him, or not?”

  “Couldn’t live with myself if I went home knowing an American flyboy got left behind just because I was down to four days.”

  “Good!” The Major slapped a topographical map and then pointed to a line representing a river. “He’s real close to us, right here somewhere…and here’s your drop zone.” He glanced at his watch. “Shit! I’ve got orders to get my ass to Saigon ASAP. Guess I’ll be taking McDuff’s chair on the mail plane.”

  “So who does the briefing, me?”

  “Lieutenant Holden will do the briefing. Pick your team and be back here in thirty minutes.”

  I did something I don’t normally do. I came to full and proper attention, and saluted the Major. “It’s been an honor having you as CO, sir. You’re ten times better than the guy you replaced.”

  “Thanks for the glowing assessment, but it’s time for a shift change.” He glanced towards the tent flap. “I’m hoping you’ll treat this new guy with the same respect. Right now I have to catch a hop to Saigon. My wife and I bought a home in Lawton, near Fort Sill, and I’m eager to see it.”

  “Paul’s Valley isn’t that far from Lawton, sir. Maybe I’ll look you up when I get back.”

  The Major nodded, grabbed and slung a nearby duffel bag across his back, “By the way, as usual, the brass wants you to do your best to avoid engaging the enemy.”

  “Roger that, sir. If I never see another black pajama hombre, I’ll die a happy man.”

  He turned and headed to the area where the mail chopper sat with its huge props idling lazily. I watched him scrunch down with that duffle bag on his shoulder and scoot under the blades. Then and there I decided all officers aren’t assholes, just the majority of them. But his replacement, Lieutenant Holden, is for sure.

  I went back to the mess to gather my team. When we got to the CO’s tent, that short and chubby Second Lieutenant was staring at a map on the chart table.

  “The pilot is here, we get dropped here! We’ll have to hump it the last eleven clicks from the drop zone…” his nasal voice conjured memories of fingernails on blackboards.

  I wanted to go, not talk, and the CO usually let me brief the team and pick the landing zone. So I spoke up. “Pardon the interruption, sir, but I have two questions. One is why can’t we land here, and cut the hike in half?”

  Lieutenant Holden seemed to puff up to try to make him look taller than he was. I was sure he was going to stand on his tippy-toes, but he didn’t. “The last officer’s briefing showed us that the zone,” his chubby finger s
wept the map along the river, “is heavily infiltrated. So what is your second concern, Sergeant?”

  “Why do you keep saying we?”

  The Lieutenant stretched up as much as his fat little frame would allow, which might have been five feet six in thick heels. “This is my mission, Sergeant, and I’ll lead it by the book.”

  I glanced at the team, and the disgust on their faces was almost funny. The Lieutenant failed to notice.

  “I just came from the Major’s tent, sir, and I was given the mission. Tradition in country says that officers stay in camp. Recon teams are run by the NCO’s.”

  The Lieutenant glanced out the tent flap and watched as the Huey to Saigon lifted off. “This isn’t a Recon job. It’s a rescue. And with the Major on that chopper, it looks like I’m the ranking officer in this unit.”

  I couldn’t believe this arrogant, ignorant green-ass dweeb. I was wondering if I’d face a court-martial if I told him he could have my seat, but before I could open my mouth McDuff spoke.

  “With due respect sir! If you insist on leading this mission, sir, you’ll end up with a load of gooks. There’s not a man here who would volunteer to follow you into the boonies, sir!”

  What I didn’t need my last week in country was a mutiny, or a court-martial. I raised my hand, and the men were instantly silent. The Lieutenant looked at me. “Sir, this is a totally voluntary mission. All of us are short timers.”

  “What the hell happened to chain of command?” His voice went nearly an octave higher.

  “Reconnaissance Patrols are usually made up of enlisted men, with an NCO in charge.”

  His face went purple with rage.

  I nodded in the direction of the ARVN command tent. “Maybe the locals wouldn’t mind if you rode with them.”

  “Damn it!” he pounded his fist on the map. “You all know I just got in country. If I just sit here in camp I won’t see any action at all!”

  Miller had quietly stepped outside and was using the radio to try to raise the Major. He shook his head at me. “Can’t raise anyone, must be in a blackout.” he said softly. The other guys looked to me.

  The best I could come up with was, “It’ll only be a six hour mission, sir. You’ll have plenty of other chances to see some action.”

  “I go, or the mission is off!” He puffed up and tried to stare me down and then growled, “I am the ranking officer on the post. That’s final! That’s how it’ll be!”

  I looked at the men. For the same reason as the other guys, I wanted a chance to grab that Navy Pilot. Most of us had our asses saved by flyboys before.

  There was a long silence as each man waited to see how this was going to go down.

  Smitty’s voice came from the back of the room. “Here’s an idea. The Lieutenant goes as an observer, but Sergeant Allman’s the team leader.”

  “I’m in,” says Miller.

  McDuff steps forward one step. “Me too!”

  Three more stepped forward. I looked at the Lieutenant.

  “Shit! Since when do the enlisted men run the army?”

  McDuff looked maliciously at the Lieutenant. “It’s the only way I’ll volunteer, sir!”

  The Lieutenant glares at me.

  “I’m fine with you as an observer, but it’s my show, or it’s a no go, sir.” I was still wondering if we’d all be busted for insubordination or maybe even treason.

  The Lieutenant exhaled. “Whatever! As long as I’m on that chopper.”

  McDuff grabs my arm as we headed out and whispers, “Maybe that asshole will accidentally step in front of a stray bullet. I’d be happy to arrange it.”

  I shake my head. “Too much paperwork. If we shoot anybody, we shoot Charlie. The Major said avoid any contact if at all possible.”

  McDuff shrugs and smiles. I come close to telling him to stay in camp, but I know I need his ears and eyes.

  So we load up and go airborne, but the mood is not right at all.

  I usually try to nap on the longer trips, and the “pop-pop-popping” of the chopper’s blades normally lulls me to sleep. But, not this trip.

  I’m Staff Sergeant Toby Allman, and a veteran on more than 50 Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols, but today our task is literally to find a needle in a haystack. So off we go… one slim chance to save the life of a bad luck fly-boy shot down in the closing days of a bad luck war. And me in charge of a squad that wants to cap an officer who’s looking for a medal. It just don’t get any better than this.

  I decide to get my head into the game ASAP. Find this pilot and get him home without casualties. The flyboy’s position was triangulated to be on or near the infamous Ho Chi Minh Trail, which isn’t really a single trail but a whole network of interconnecting paths and roads all through the border area between Viet Nam, Laos and Cambodia.

  Technically his position might be in Laos, and that’s a no-go zone for us. But the powers that be have decided it would be in bad taste to abandon a fly-boy anywhere in these final days. So naturally, we get tasked to go find him.

  Normally, borders are a big deal, but one side of a river is Laos, which is a no-go land. Wade about thirty feet though, and it’s all cool. But when an American warrior gets in a jam, borders don’t mean squat.

  Besides, there’s been some recent intel indicating major enemy movements all through this area, and someone higher up has modified the operation so that we get to be dropped in a “secure” zone, and then we get to hump through to an “unsecured” area.

  “Unsecured” is military double talk for enemy positions. The flyboy’s last message has been the sightings of a heavy troop movement right under his treetop perch.

  I glance at the team, mostly guys I’ve fought beside and learned to love and trust. There’s Miller, a tall, skinny, black kid from Detroit who has only been in country five months, but as professional as any. He is our radioman, and a crack marksman who had a special knack for killing VC tree snipers, and he has five notches on his CAR-15 stock to prove it.

  Next to him is Smitty, fresh from the not-so-mean streets of Des Moines, but a heads-up guy with an uncanny ESP-like ability to smell trouble. McDuff is a string-bean kid from Tennessee who can shoot the left eye out of a rat at 300 meters, and serves as our official resident sniper. He earns good beer money by snookering other soldiers into shooting contests.

  I still have Hardy, my munitions man, and Dillard. Both of them are great soldiers and good guys who are true professionals. Hardy is toting the ditty bag with all the claymore mines and booby-traps, while Dillard is an expert on setting trip-wire traps in the unlikely event we’ll spend the night in the field.

  The only fly in my ointment is that dip-shit Second-Lieutenant who got to camp last week, fresh out of OCS. He got under everyone’s skin right away by spending most of his time crying that there was not going to be much war left to fight and it was just his luck to miss all the action.

  And of course, there’s McDuff, who wants to cap said Lieutenant.

  Miller caught my eye, and tapped his chest pocket while raising his eyebrows rapidly. Inside a Huey, talk is minimal because it’s not exactly a quiet place, so we use sign language. He’s asking me if I have my baby bible in my chest jacket pocket. I smile and use the thumb and index fingers of my left hand to lift the battered black book to reassure him. I’m not particularly religious, having confined my church visits to Easter, Christmas, and the occasional wedding, but most of us have amulets of some kind, a rabbit’s foot, or a lucky picture we carry. The little black bible is my amulet.

  My mom made me promise to keep it with me twenty-four-seven, and being a veteran of too many Patrols without a scratch makes me think it may indeed protect me, since I’m something of a legend around here. So I’m not about to piss off the Goddess of Luck on my last mission.

  On paper, the plan is simple. We go low, jump out, and hump about eleven clicks to a river, find the flyboy in a tree and call in another chopper. But there’s no guarantee that we won’t get ambushed at the drop
site, or even find the pilot. Plus, we have no clue if it’ll be too hot a zone to get a chopper to the pick point.

  Outside of that, it’s your normal mission. Come to think about it, not one of my fifty-six missions would have been described as normal.

  The chopper lurches down hot and fast, and we bail out on the first pass. Barely eight seconds later, the seven of us fanned out in a defensive circle. Only six of us actually fan out, because the Lieutenant manages to twist his ankle getting out, so he’s softly howling and hanging back. As ranking NCO I guess I’ll be writing his Purple Heart report.

  Worse thing is he’ll be slowing the whole team down, but since the Huey’s long gone before we know about the ankle issue, we are down to just two choices. Leave him here and make haste to the river, or let him slow us down and get there later.

  McDuff smiles, winks, and raises his hand like a school kid. “Sergeant,” he says sarcastically, “I’ll be glad to stay here with the Lieutenant. You guys can go on ahead. The chopper can pick us up on the way back.”

  I scowl darkly, “We stay together… I’ll be point. Dillard, you’ll cover the rear.”

  There is a theory in the Rangers that says that the sooner a mission goes screwy, the better it’ll be in the long run. So I’m actually a little bit glad this green asshole tweaked his foot. Maybe it’s the total of our bad luck. Maybe in the grand scheme of things, he is only along so he could go home with a medal, even if it is just a purple heart.

  Eleven kilometers is just over six miles. In a perfect world, without enemy snipers, snakes, booby-traps and the Murphy factor, that would take the squad around thirty to forty minutes.

  But Rangers aren’t trained to operate in a perfect world, so we set out, knowing only that the dip-shit Lieutenant is going to slow us down. The jungle here is light to moderate overgrowth, and recent rains make it easy to see any tracks of enemy movements. And there aren’t any tracks. But we still have to be careful and guard against ambushes.