Sergeant Billy James was somewhere out in that huge expanse of unknown landscape, probably dead, if not, then possibly badly injured. In either case Sarge had no alternative, they had no time to possibly go out looking for him. Sarge had only one thing on his mind: The Mission… and...
Sarge thought, ‘now we’re down to Twelve!’…
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SEARCH FOR PAC TOUL BEGINS
Sergeant Scarburg instructed the men to prepare to move out as he stood upright and surveyed the landscape…. everything was dripping wet from the recent monsoonal downpours, but the air was cool and sweet to the smell. He, sniffing, caught the faint aroma of something that reminded him of the pine forests back in Alabama. This area of Cambodia was well known for its logging operations so maybe it was the smell of tree sap from a recently felled tree. The variety he did not know, but it sure smelled good to his nose, and he yearned again to relive those warm memories from times so long ago.
After this brief repose, they all assembled around Sarge without a word being spoken. The 2-engines of the Caribou's Pratt & Whitneys were just a faint hum off in the far distance. Even if it had been right overhead the dark stormy gray clouds above would have obscured it from view.
By the barely audible sounds of it’s engines Sarge could tell it was many miles away and there was no indication that their flyover and parachute drop had been discovered.
He pointed to his palm of one hand with the forefinger of the other and made an up and down motion. One of the scouts immediately understood the hand signal: Sarge wanted to read the map. After the Scout unfolding the map on the ground the men covered Sarge, Spook, the Scout and Captain Scarburg with one of their green rubber covered Army issue rain ponchos.
Sarge used his blue filter lens on his flashlight not wanting to take any chance of the light being seen by some nosy un-friendly neighbors. Its dim blue glow did not provide much light but it was sufficient to read their map as the four of them knelt in the wet Cambodian mud. Most protocols called for the use of the red lens on the flashlight since red was supposed to preserve night vision, but Sarge knew 'red' was easily detectable by night vision equipment such as the Starlight scope. Correct, the Starlight is U.S. but the enemy has equivocal night sensing devices.
After surveying the map and obtaining their compass readings the four of them came to the same consensus: they had landed about two klicks (1.2 miles) northeast of the satellite photo’s possible location of this secret place called Pac Toul.
Sarge switched off the 'L' shaped Army flashlight removed the poncho and very quietly whispered, “Look guys according to the map Pac Toul is only two klicks to our southwest. The terrain is in the foothills of the Dangrek Mountain range, it will be a heavily tree studded forest but quite passable. Our objective is a small clearing on the western bank of an un-named tributary of the Mekong River. We should be there long before daybreak.
And men from now on we have no rank – you have no identification of rank on your uniforms, nothing in your pockets of a personal nature, we carry nothing but our dog tags to identify us if captured or…” Sarge did not have to finish the sentence; they knew… if KIA (killed in action) the dog tag was the only way to identify their bodies. Most SF men on missions would put an extra dog tag behind the laces of their combat boots. Grisly, sure, but sometimes a foot is all that is found, and the guys wanted someone to be able to identify the remains, if only by one severed foot.
“One thing I want you all to do for Captain Scarburg and myself… refer to the Captain as Little 'S' and call me Big 'S'. How little did the men in that small group of American warriors understand how important this disclosure was to Big ‘S'.
In the past couple of months they had not only become his friends, his buds, his pals, they were now his “closest” friends. Friends that could possibly soon be holding his life in their hands and he likewise could be doing the same with theirs. Sarge knew that some of them would be ‘lifelong’ friends… because it was highly possible their lives were not going to be very long; theirs, perhaps, were going to be cut short.
Statistically, the nature and danger of their mission stacked the odds against them all returning safely.
Sarge had his gut feeling: their time on this side of Eternity was now being measured in a matter of days, if not hours, and they would not be making the return trip back to Kontum. Some of these guys had ridden their last plane and made their last parachute jump.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE SOUTHWESTERN TRAIL
That cool, sweet Alabama pine scent was still strong on the southwestern breeze as Big ‘S’ quietly gave the command to, “Lock and Load, Move Out!!”
Big ‘S’ surveyed the direction of travel. They would be moving directly into the southwestern wind. This was good. He quickly spotted an animal trail leading in the right direction, toward the southwest. “This way” Big ‘S’ said whispering and motioning the team forward with his arm and hand.
He was glad that the wind was blowing toward them. Being down wind does not afford the enemy a chance to ‘smell’ them as they approached. Sarge knew that enemy combatants ate a diet of rice, grain cereals, potatoes and an occasional turnip. Captured VC prisoners had stated they could actually ‘smell’ Americans as our troops moved through the jungle. During the past month Sarge’s OPS 113 ‘Photo Search’ team had been eating those very same VC type rations, and only those foods!
By eating those foods, the idea was to cleanse their bodies of the ‘American’ food and thereby eliminating that peculiar ‘American’ odor. They were trying to cover all the bases.
* * * * *
The team swiftly but carefully moved down the trail uneventfully until they approached a large rain-swollen stream so rain gorged it probably should now be classified as a small river.
Stream or river it was blocking their path and had to be conquered and crossed.
Big ‘S’ held up his clenched fist, head level, indicating the team should ‘Freeze’. Then he drew his hand palm down across his neck in a throat cutting motion – ‘Danger Area”. Big ‘S’ then extended his arm at a 45 degree angle and motioned up and down – “Take Cover," while he and Little ‘S’ surveyed the near side of the river’s bank.
The first human signs that Little ‘S’ and Big ‘S’ spotted were footprints in the mud along the swollen river’s bank! They were not alone, someone was here, and had gotten here before them!!
‘Was it that Russian pig?’ thought Sarge. Little ‘S’ instructed the men to take out the x-large pair of socks each one had brought, just for this occasion. The team slipped the socks over their combat boots and gently stepped from the river’s bank into the waist deep monsoon swollen waters.
At first the water was cold, emanating from the upper reaches of the Dangrek Mountains, but after a step or two, the water actually felt good to them. They had not realized how tension and fear could get the skin so hot and sweaty; however, the cool fast flowing water brought a soothing relief that was both unexpected but gratifying. The socks were to disguise their boot imprints, going into and out of the water. This subterfuge should afford them a better chance of not being discovered if an enemy patrol happened along after they passed the stream.
* * * * *
Just as the water crossing appeared to be going smoothly one of the ARVN scouts was struck by a large piece of driftwood that had come swiftly floating down the flooded river, knocking him from his footing. The weight of his heavy load immediately pulled him under the fast flowing turbulent waters. The man to his front and the one behind tried, as best they could, to grab him before he went under the water, but it was to no avail, they were unsuccessful.
He was gone!
The team’s arrival on the far side was somber but the scout's drowning changed nothing... the mission must go on. As professional soldiers they had to put this incident behind them - they quietly stepped upon the muddy river’s bank, walked a few feet onto the grass and removed their ‘sleuth??
? socks. Clearing his throat, Big ‘S’ whispered, “Keep your eyes peeled! We’re not alone out here!” They continued down the trail toward the encampment, Pac Toul that they were seeking… and…
Sarge thought, ‘now we’re down to Eleven!’…
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ODORIFEROUS ENCOUNTER
From the footprints at the stream, the team expected an ambush or at the very least a few rounds of artillery fire, so far nothing. No enemy combatants were encountered along the narrow trail; the only activity was the men’s occasional outbursts, under their breath, of cussing, as they kept slipping and sliding in the sticky Cambodian mud. Each and every team member had the same thought - where were the people, ‘friend’ or ‘foe’ that made the tracks?
No sooner had these thoughts faded than Bonnie caught a faint scent of ‘something’. He sniffed again…wrinkled up his nose…and being fourth in line - behind Big ‘S’, Little ‘S’ and Spook - said in a whisper to Little ‘S', (over Spook’s shoulder), “LT, sorry...! Little ‘S’ do you smell that odor?” Little ‘S’ relayed the same question to Big ‘S’. Immediately Big ‘S’ held up his arm signifying “Freeze." He motioned them down ‘to take a knee’ position. The men knelt on the muddy trail watching, Big ‘S’ holding his head back and sniffing… sniffing… and sniffing again. ‘Damn’, he thought, “what is that smell?” Whispering to Little ‘S’, “what is that gut reeking stench?”
“Don’t know, but it sure has a foul aroma! Reckon it could be the bodies that might have made those river tracks?”
"Nah, that's not dead bodies, smelled them suckers too many times," Sarge said.
Little ‘S’ turned back to Bonnie and gave him the ol’ shoulder shrug sign.
The whole team began sniffing, some turned and sniffed toward the north; another in a southerly direction and the rest split sniffing toward the east and west. Each had their noses in the air, trying to sniff out, not only what the odor could be, but from what direction it emanated.
Suddenly, in a wooded spot of ground off to the left of their muddy trail, the sound of rustling leaves and the breaking of twigs could be heard. All safeties on the rifles were immediately switched to the “Off” position and the weapons pulled to their shoulders and pointed toward the source of the noise – the wooded area.
At this time one of the Vietnamese scouts spoke up, loud, not softly and said: “Di An Cut!! Di An Cut!!”
Big ‘S” said also in a normal voice (if anyone had been close at hand their team would have how been compromised anyway), “What the hell is he saying?” No one answered.
Again the Scout spoke using these words this time: “Di An Bo Cut! Di An Bo Cut!”
Another Scout translated, “He say, “Go Eat Cow Shit!! Go Eat Cow Shit!”
Big ‘S’ looking at the Scout rather annoyingly, “That CAN’T be right!”
Little ‘S’, also a Linguistics expert who spoke Vietnamese, spoke up, “Listen! Listen! What he’s saying “IS” literally ‘Go Eat Cow Shit”. I don’t believe that is what he means…
“Well I hope the hell not!” said Big ‘S’, “MR. LINGUIST'S EXPERT would you care to enlighten us?”
“Certainly, I believe he is trying to say, “It IS cow shit! That is cow shit we are smelling!” retorted Captain Scarburg the LINGUISTIC EXPERT. Spook nodded his head in agreement.
Spook said, “The Captain is correct, Scout is saying, ‘Eat Cow Shit’, but he is trying to say, “SMELL Cow Shit!” the meaning loses something in translation!”
“I’ll say! Sarge said shaken his head.
With this piece of information, Big ‘S’ moved his men across the grass toward the trees. As they got closer, what they saw shocked them all!!
Those weren’t cows, hell Big ‘S’ thought, ‘as big as they were he didn’t even know if they were even in the cattle family’; however, they were in the cattle family all right, they were Oxen. To be precise – they were Kouprey, the wild Ox of Cambodia’s northern forests.
Those beasts normally weigh between 2000 to 6000 lbs. and had horns so huge a redneck Texan would be proud to have them mounted on the hood of his Cadillac. Big ‘S’ could tell by their huge size that the ‘Di An Cu’ was an apt description of the source of that pungent (yep, he’s right Cow Shit) smell. He had seen cow pies in his day, but had never before seen such huge cow PILES. He thought to himself, ‘I wonder how much shit a two ton cow can shit in one day? By the looks of the present evidence, a bunch!’
Little ‘S’ along with the rest of his team, especially Tex, who had already slipped his razor sharp M-16 bayonet knife from it's sheath, was about to make steaks out of one of those suckers, right then and there.
Big 'S' called a quick halt to the proposed BBQ with the simple words. "Duty calls," and pointed back toward the trail. So, ‘Adios’ Mr. T-bone, another time another steak… perhaps…
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE CAVE
They were beginning to trek back across the wet thick grassy area to resume their march on the muddy animal trail when out of nowhere a series of crashing peals of thunder shook the ground. Lightning so fierce and constant it turned the blackness of the night into day, and then the rain – rain being driven horizontally by the sheer force of almost hurricane speed winds.
Sarge, fearing for his men’s safety, reasoned they had to seek some type of protective shelter, lest a lightning bolt was 'fixin' to fry them all, standing out exposed, among those dark grey trees. Trees so tall their upper-most branches could not be viewed from the ground.
Big 'S' was almost to the point of having the men retrieve their ponchos, cover themselves and lie flat on the ground when one of his Scouts ran up excitedly and exclaimed, “Come quick, me find shelter!”.
Sarge motioned the others to follow and the ARVN Scout guided them a few hundred meters to a small cave he had discovered. Luckily, it was big enough for all to get inside out of the wind and rain, and especially to be safe from the continuous lightning display that Mother Nature was putting on.
Once all were inside the cave Big ‘S’, Sarge snapped on his flashlight – the one with the blue lens and hand motioned for one of the Scouts. After talking, the Scout went outside. Over the din of the rain, thunder and crashing bolts of lightning chopping sounds could be heard. The sound emanated from a machete blade striking against something, possibly small saplings or brush.
The wet, soaked to the bone, men stared at each other. Each of them thinking what was the strange chopping noise outside the cave entrance and what does it mean? Before they could answer their own questions the answer became apparent.
The Scout was pulling and dragging small brush and bushes to cover the entrance to the cave, thus concealing their temporary hiding-place; however, the Scout never returned to the safety and dryness of the cave. He found himself a hiding place next to the now hidden cave entrance, squatted down, and began an alert vigil for any and all possible intruders. His dedication to duty was exemplary, making him impervious to the driving rain and dangerous lightning strikes.
With the blue tinted flashlight casting an eerie ghostly light the team commander surveyed the inside of their safe haven. It was totally rock enclosed, with debris of every description scattered in every nock and cranny. The smell of urine and human excrement was almost unbearable.
The ceiling was blackened with soot from hundreds of fires from other strangers, such as themselves, whom possibly, had also sought temporary shelter from the perils of countless previous storms.
With the brush covering the cave entrance, they, for the moment, were safe from unwanted visitors and the fearsome natural elements being unleashed outside. The time was a little past 0200 (2 am) hours and their destination was less that an hour’s march away; still plenty of time to reach their objective before sunup. Big ‘S’ reasoned enough time was available that a fire would do wonders for the men’s moral, including his own.
The men were instructed to police-up (pick-up) any loose wood lying around the st
one and dirt floor and make a small fire back at the rear of their enclosure. This area had a natural crack in the ceiling that would allow the smoke to escape. Sarge reasoned with the storm driving the rain and wind at such a furious pace, it would be impossible for the smoke to be observed outside.
All the team members began gathering anything that would burn. After hastily throwing together a sad assortment of combustible refuse the faint glow of a small fire was beginning to illuminate the inside of their temporary stone-age dwelling.
As the fire grew brighter, some began to remove their wet clothing and hold them close to the fire hoping, perhaps, to at least get them a little drier. At the same time the rocky hole in the ground began to warm up the dampness of their subterranean sanctuary seemed to be abating somewhat also. Others began to pull cigarettes out of rumpled packs and began to fire them up. The smell of tobacco quickly permeated the small room. Helping in part to mask that repugnant odorous aroma of human urine soaked feces.
Things were beginning to look up… until…
* * * * *
”Hey, something just bit me!!” came an excited voice from over on one side of the cave. It was Sergeant First Class 'Doc Mayo' Hellmans, the only remaining medic on the team. Of course Big ‘S’ was a medic too, but not on this OPS, his medical skills were not of the utmost importance. That was his reason for requisitioning two medics. One was already lost, now the second seemed to be in some kind of trouble.
“Someone get a flashlight over there, check on Doc!” commanded Big ‘S’.
Sarge’s first thought when he heard Doc yell the word ‘Bite’ was a scorpion or centipedes had probably bitten him. He knew damp, dark places, exactly like this hole they were in, were perfect hiding places for those little mischievous devils. Both varmints sting were painful and caused considerable swelling but neither was fatal.