Saint Crispian's Day

CHAPTER ONE

12 JUNE 1970, NEAR PO’LEI MEO, REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM, 1500 HRS

The fifty one caliber machine gun was blasting away the embankment above Captain Mike Mallory’s head, the heavy rounds taking huge bites of grass and dirt as the Viet Cong gunner swept the big gun back and forth along the berm. Small arms fire from several AK-47’s assault rifles joined in, and bullets buzzed overhead like angry hornets. Mallory checked his patrol, counting the men who were strung out along the shelter of the streambed, pinned for the moment, and maybe forever, by the heavy incoming fire. His count was one short. He took a deep breath, then popped his head up over the embankment to search for his missing man. He saw the body sprawled out like a rag doll about thirty meters away. Most of the man’s head was missing, having exploded when one of the heavy machine gun rounds smashed through the back of his skull. There was a dark red stain radiating across the ground where the blood had sprayed from the hit.

The new guy, Mallory thought, dragging his arm across his brow to clear the sweat from his eyes. He tried to remember the man’s name, but couldn’t. He hadn’t been around long enough to have a name. Nong, was it? Vinh? He had come in sometime last week. Well, whoever he was, he’s dead. Mallory shook himself back to reality. The rest of the men had managed to reach the rapidly diminishing safety of the streambed, but he could see the near panic in their faces as they hunkered down in the mud and waited for orders.

Get some return fire going! he yelled to his corporal, Tran Minh Jones. Jones barked out an order in Vietnamese, and several of the South Vietnamese soldiers who made up half of the patrol raised their M-16’s above the embankment and fired blindly into the tree line that hid the VC gunners. It wasn’t much of an effort. His men weren’t willing to risk even minimal exposure to the withering fire for very long, but Mallory hoped it would be enough to keep the Viet Cong from charging out of the tree line across fifty meters of clear ground and overrunning his position. He also hoped that the enemy had no mortars. If they did, his patrol would soon be blown to pieces.

Cisco, he shouted over the gunfire. Where the hell is my air? Specialist Francisco Gomez had been on the radio calling for air support for ten minutes, ever since the patrol had tripped the Viet Cong ambush and fought its way to the streambed. The recon patrol was now about two kilometers from its extraction point, but without some air support to suppress the VC fire, getting there looked to Mallory like a very long shot.

Nothing, Boss, Gomez yelled as he kept at the radio. Gomez had slipped when he jumped down into the streambed, and his face was covered with black mud. It occurred to Mallory that he looked like one of those old vaudevillians in black face, for he had only cleared the mud from his mouth and eyes. If they survived this firefight, they would laugh about how Gomez looked as he screamed into the radio. Right now, it was no laughing matter.

Mallory looked around for his second in command. Porterfield, Mallory yelled, take Tran and Big Quan and the M-60 and work your way down the streambed about fifty meters. Try to draw some of this fucking fire! It looks like we’re on our own. Once you get the ‘60 going, we’ll throw some smoke and haul ass across to the trees behind us. When we get there, we’ll cover you across.

First Lieutenant Reese Porterfield was about ten meters down the line from Mallory, but appeared not to hear the order. His back was to Mallory and his head was jammed against the embankment. There was blood on his flack jacket, and Mallory thought he might be wounded. A huge chunk of dirt blasted out by the incoming fire tumbled down on top of him. Porterfield flinched and burrowed further into the mud.

Jones, Mallory shouted, check him out. See if he’s hit. If he’s not, then get him the hell moving!

The corporal belly-crawled over to Porterfield and checked him for wounds. He found none, but he could almost smell the paralyzing fear that gripped the Lieutenant, who jumped each time Jones touched him. Jones was tugging and shouting at Porterfield, trying to get him to move, when Gomez gestured frantically to Mallory that he had made contact with air support.

Hold it, Tran, Mallory shouted above the exploding noise of the fire-fight, I think we’ve got air.

Two Sandies, incoming westbound five minutes out, Boss, Gomez reported excitedly as he handed Mallory the muddy handset. Sandy was the nickname for the A-1 Skyraider, a rugged propeller driven fighter-bomber that carried a lot of ordinance and could loiter over a target for a long time. It was the perfect close air support aircraft, and just exactly what Mallory needed to break out of the streambed before it became a killing ground for his men.

Sandy Lead, this is Merlin, say your ordinance, over. The enemy fire seemed to intensify, and Mallory had to scream to hear his own words above the din.

Two full loads of twenty millimeter, four two fifty cans of napalm and about thirty minutes loiter time. Let us know where you want it, Merlin, over.

Mallory looked down the line and waved Jones over to him. Sandy Lead, this is Merlin...wait one, over. Jones hurried over to squat next to Mallory. What about Porterfield?

He’s not hit, but he might as well be. He’s lost it, Captain, Jones replied.

Shit, Mallory muttered. Alright, here’s the deal. Gomez has the radio so he’s with me. Tell the ARVNs to follow me when we move out, and I want moving flanks and a point for security when we get to the trees on the other side.

Jones jerked his head in the direction of the still immobile Porterfield. What about the Lieutenant, Captain? Somebody better get him moving. Mallory glanced at his new lieutenant who was now curled up in a tight ball, holding his helmet on his head with both hands as the incoming fire hammered around them.

You dig Porterfield out of the mud and bring him with you. Jones started to protest but Mallory cut him off. "Bring him, Corporal. I’m calling in the Sandies for a gun run north to south along that tree line. We move when they come in. Their second run will be napalm, so everybody hauls ass and keeps moving after we hit the trees. Head for the LZ. Got it?" Jones nodded and moved off to brief the five remaining South Vietnamese soldiers that made up half the patrol.

Mallory pulled a smoke grenade from his web gear and keyed the radio mike. Sandy Lead, this is Merlin, over. The pilot of Sandy Lead responded, and Mallory keyed the mike again. I’m popping smoke to mark our position. Call the smoke, over. Mallory pulled the pin on the grenade and tossed it about ten meters south down the embankment. It landed, popped, and began to spew thick green smoke. Several of the VC gunners shifted their fire towards the smoke. After a few seconds, Sandy Lead was on the line.

Merlin, this is Sandy Lead. I see green smoke, over.

Sandy Lead, this is Merlin. Roger green smoke. We are pinned in the streambed east of the smoke, and there’s VC in the trees to the west. I need a two ship gun run north to south along the tree line west of the smoke. Try to stagger it to give me as much suppression as you can. We’ll be moving east across the stream under your cover. Once we’re across, we’ll keep moving toward our landing zone. That’s about two klicks due east of where we are right now. I expect pursuit, so I need your second run to be napalm. After that, hang around as long as you can. And be careful, Sandy Lead, Charlie’s got a fifty one caliber in there and he’s pretty good with it, over.

Roger all, Merlin. Charlie’s west of the smoke with a fifty one in the trees. We’re rolling in. Sandy Lead, out.

Mallory handed the radio handset back to Gomez, and the two men strained their eyes to the north for the first glimpse of the incoming aircraft.

I’ve got ‘em. About three klicks out! Gomez shouted.

Mallory spotted the two black dots as they adjusted their spacing and lined up their approach. On my signal, Mallory yelled up and down the line. Nobody goes until I give the word. Jones echoed the order to the South Vietnamese troops.

The A-1’s were lined up now and began firing from extreme range to draw the VC fire. Their heavy twenty millimeter cannon rounds slammed into the tree line, splintering tree trunks and suppressing some of the enemy fire as the VC sought cover. The enemy gunner on the fifty one caliber machine gun shifted his target from Mallory’s position to the incoming aircraft. Mallory was just about to give the word to move out when Lieutenant Porterfield suddenly pulled himself out of his burrow, shouted Let’s go! and began to sprint across the streambed toward the safety of the jungle on the other side. The ARVN soldiers heard the shout and saw the lieutenant on the move. They thought that Mallory had given the order, so they dashed after Porterfield. Only Gomez and Jones remained with Mallory.

Come on, Mallory yelled above the roar of the first A-1 as it swooped low over their heads, Let’s get the hell out of here!

Porterfield was crouched beside the M-60 machine gun crew which laid down covering fire for Mallory and his group as they crashed into the tree line and on into the marginal safety of the jungle undergrowth. Mallory checked his troops again. No more wounded, and except for the deployed machine gun, the perimeter was set the way he had ordered. He turned back to the streambed just in time to see the second A-1 finish its gun run.

Goddammit, Porterfield, get that ‘60 packed up and on point, he yelled as he grabbed the Lieutenant by the shoulder and spun him violently around. We’ve got to move and move right fucking now before we get flamed along with Charlie.

Porterfield stared back at Mallory, surprised that Mallory had laid hands on him. I didn’t order this, Captain, he said defensively. It was the damned ARVN gunner’s idea. I told him...

"Move! Mallory bellowed as he grabbed Porterfield by his collar drew his face within inches of his own. Now! The two ARVN soldiers manning the machine gun didn’t wait for any further orders. They were already on their feet and moving off down the trail behind Jones. Porterfield recovered quickly from his second manhandling and turned and ran after them, with Mallory bringing up the rear. Mallory heard the deep growling drone of the lead A-1 grow louder behind him as the plane came in for its bomb run. There was a dull pop", then a bright flash as the napalm canister exploded behind Mallory and all hell broke loose over the VC position.

Mallory felt the superheated air from the bomb blast shove him along the trail as the stifling odor of gasoline filled the air. Gomez stopped to turn and look, but Mallory pushed him forward. Keep moving, Cisco, keep moving! And keep a lookout. We don’t know what’s between us and the LZ or how many VC leaked around us while we were pinned. Pass the word. Mallory heard noises in the jungle to his left and right. He hoped it was his ARVN flankers breaking through the undergrowth. If it was Charlie, they would know soon. He kept the men moving, and prayed.

They moved on through the jungle without incident for twenty five minutes before Mallory called a halt. The jungle foliage had thinned out and he could see the edge of the landing zone. Jones and Gomez joined him, followed by Porterfield, as the remaining members of the patrol took up defensive positions around the group.

Jones, clear the LZ, then join up with us on the south side. Jones nodded and moved off to gather his men to sweep the area. Gomez, check in with Sandy Lead and tell him where we are, then try to raise Cowboy. Cowboy was the call sign and the nickname of Ray Cowboy Rogers, the warrant officer helicopter pilot who generally flew insertion and extraction missions for Mallory’s team. "Tell him we’re here and are clearing the LZ. Red smoke if it’s hot. If it is hot, we’ll pull back to the south while Sandy flight works the LZ over." Gomez began his conversation with Sandy Lead while Mallory moved a little closer to the edge of the clearing, trying to spot Jones and his men as they swept the area. Porterfield followed and crouched beside him.

I guess I lost it for a minute back there, Captain, Porterfield began, his voice light and steady, as if he were talking about losing some pocket change instead of his nerve. Mallory turned to look at him. First time jitters, Porterfield continued, an embarrassed little smile playing across his face. And as for the M-60 crew, well, they disobeyed my direct order to keep moving. It won’t happen again, I promise.

Save it, Lieutenant, Mallory replied, turning back to check the clearing. We’ve all had a first time. Now you’ve had yours. Just stay when I say stay and move when I say move. Porterfield nodded, then turned and moved off to Mallory’s left to take up a security position. Mallory watched him go and shook his head. It could be a very short war for Mr. Porterfield, he thought.

Hey, LT, Gomez whispered to Porterfield. You got some blood on the back of your flack jacket. You hit? Porterfield’s eyes flew wide in shock as he reached around frantically to feel his back, then quickly brought his hands to his face to see if the dampness he felt was sweat or blood. Gomez came over and kneeled beside him. He examined Porterfield’s jacket for holes, found none, then wiped at the bloodstain with his index finger.

It’s blood, alright, LT, Gomez announced happily, but lucky for you, it ain’t yours. You must’ve been haulin’ ass ahead of the new guy when he bought it. Looks like he sprayed you good when he went down. Porterfield quickly stripped off his flack jacket to confirm Gomez’ information, then, as if it were some alien thing, he tossed the bloody jacket into the jungle. There was no color in his face as he sat on his knees and began to wipe his hands repeatedly on his trousers.

It’s a good thing you were ahead of him, LT, Gomez continued, otherwise I’d be talking to him instead of you. Gomez winked and patted Porterfield on the back as he moved back to join Mallory.

Mallory and Gomez crouched at the edge of the landing zone as Mallory prepared to call in Cowboy for the extraction. The rest of the patrol was scattered around them in perimeter security. The LZ was secure and the napalm drop had done the job. There had been no pursuit by the Viet Cong. Jones was whispering in Vietnamese with the ARVN soldiers, and they were softly laughing about something. Porterfield sat by himself at the edge of the group, alternating his time between glancing at the group of ARVN’s and staring intently into the murky shadows of the surrounding jungle.

Kinda rough back there, huh Boss? Gomez whispered, chewing on a piece of grass and looking out into the landing zone clearing. The LT really lost it.

Shut up, Gomez, Mallory said tiredly, And quit screwing with the Lieutenant’s head. He thumbed the mike button on the radio handset. Cowboy, this is Merlin. Nine to pick up. Call the smoke, over.

The UH-1H Huey helicopter whumped in over the southern edge of the landing zone and hovered just inches above the ground. Jones released the men in twos for loading into the waiting chopper, then he and Porterfield climbed abroad, followed by Gomez and Mallory. Nine men with field equipment was more than a full load for the Huey, and the men squirmed into whatever space they could find as Cowboy pulled up on the collective. The Huey lifted over the tree line and turned for home in the gathering darkness.

Porterfield sat near the open door next to the helicopter crew chief. As they flew over the dark jungle, he remarked at the green fireflies he saw flash occasionally below. Those ain’t fireflies, LT, the young crew chief chuckled. They’re tracer rounds. In the dark, Charlie can’t see us, but he sure can hear us, and when we fly over he lets loose in our general direction with whatever he’s got. Heavy machine guns, rifles, AK’s, pistols, shotguns. Hell, we even took an arrow in our tail boom a few weeks ago. For every tracer round you see down there, there’s probably fifteen or twenty non-tracer rounds being fired at us.

Porterfield stared dumbly at the crew chief for a moment, then began to move as far away from the open door as he could. Both Gomez and Jones overheard the exchange between Porterfield and the crew chief, and saw the look on Porterfield’s face as he crabbed away from the door. This was the man who was soon going to replace Mike Mallory as their leader.

It was time to worry.

CHAPTER TWO

13 JUNE 1970, FIREBASE ZEBRA, REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM, 1000 HOURS

Firebase Zebra was in the wrong place. It should have been on high ground, but it wasn’t. Instead it sprawled in the middle of a marshy narrow valley about ten kilometers from Kon Tum, the capital of Kon Tum Province, Republic of Vietnam. It was bordered by low hills to the east and west, and by marshes and rice fields to the south. Its battery of six 155 mm self propelled howitzers was supposed to provide heavy artillery support for troops in the field, out to about twenty kilometers, but the hills restricted the range of the guns to the east and west to about ten kilometers, barely enough for good perimeter defense. It probably didn’t matter anyway, for there were rarely troops in the field to support, except the long range reconnaissance patrols (LRRPS) that staged from the firebase, and these usually operated well out of the range of firebase guns.

Originally, the firebase had been an Army Special Forces pacification camp, part of the U.S. Army’s plan to win the hearts and minds of the people of South Vietnam. When it became obvious that the hearts and minds of the people who lived in the vicinity had already been won by the other side, the Green Berets had left the area. But the firebase remained, mostly to appease the insecurity of some South Vietnamese General who lived in Kon Tum and who had the political clout to demand protection from the Saigon government. The United States Army had provided the artillery battery and a headquarters command to run the place, and the Army of the Republic of Vietnam had provided a company of ARVN Rangers for defense of the firebase. The present purpose of the firebase was to show the flag to the Viet Cong and to provide intelligence on VC troop concentrations and movements from information gathered by the long range reconnaissance patrols operating out of Firebase Zebra and along the nearby Cambodian and Laotian borders.

But even though the guns of the firebase were tactically ineffective, every day they lobbed shells into the surrounding hills just to make sure that the local Viet Cong remembered that the Americans were still around. By order of the base commander, Major Philip Donner, United States Army Reserve, the full artillery battery had a standard fire mission of three rounds every day at 1000 hours.

Mallory had been dozing fitfully in the damp, suffocating heat of his bunker for hours, unable to fully disengage from the LRRP that he and his team had completed the night before. It was always that way. His mind ran through each patrol over and over again, trying to spot mistakes made or opportunities missed. He had learned that these replays had lessons in them that could keep him alive. With only seven weeks left in country, Mallory was making sure that he learned each and every lesson the VC had to teach.

The explosion of the daily fire mission and the resulting concussion showered dirt from the roof of the bunker down on Mallory and brought him fully awake. The headache he had gone to sleep with had stayed with him faithfully through the night, although it was not as bad as it had been the night before. He swung his feet over the edge of his cot and onto the rough wooden floor of the hooch. He had just swallowed two aspirin tablets and was squishing the water from his canteen around in his mouth when Specialist Gomez stuck his head inside the door.

Morning, Boss, Gomez said cheerfully, Major’s lookin’ for you. Mallory grunted and reached for his fatigue trousers. Said to remind you that debriefs are at 0900 hours. It’s 1000 hours now, and you ain’t there yet. Mallory shot him a warning look, and Gomez grinned. He looked down where Porterfield lay sprawled on his bunk in his skivvies, boots and helmet, his arm across his eyes and his mouth open in the middle of a loud snore, then remembered. Oh yeah, the Major said to bring the Lieutenant along. Gomez smiled and was gone.

Fuck him and fuck you, Mallory muttered as he slowly gathered his shaving gear and went searching for his shower thongs. And fuck you, too, Lieutenant, Mallory mumbled in some disgust as he shook Porterfield awake. Let’s go, Lieutenant, Major’s waiting for a debrief. Porterfield came awake slowly, straining himself up to a sitting position on the side of his bunk, holding his head in his hands like a GI the morning after a Saigon drunk. Mallory finished locating his gear, then stepped across Porterfield’s outstretched legs and moved toward the entrance to the hooch. Come on, Porterfield, he called over his shoulder, you’re an hour late already.

Major Philip Donner was doing time. He was a career officer, but it was a career going nowhere. His second chance for promotion to lieutenant colonel had come and gone, leaving him still a major. Getting passed over was a very bad omen, and if it happened again, his Army career would be finished. He had spent a good amount of time trying figure out just why he had been twice passed over, and had finally decided it was all politics. It’s not what but who you know, he told himself, and then he got busy trying to get acquainted with people of influence. That was something easier said than done when you were in command of a firebase that was in the wrong place. Donner had figured that out, too, but he also realized that the LRPP’s that staged out of Zebra were important because they provided information about enemy activity along the Laotian and Cambodian borders, something in which the generals in Saigon and the politicians in Washington had a great interest.

It was for this reason that Donner made sure his reports to command were thorough and filled with as much information as he could get out of Mike Mallory. Mallory was the best at these patrols, and noticed things that another man might miss. Mallory’s information had made Donner’s reports effective and informative in the opinion of the Saigon command, and had brought Donner in contact with people to know. The only problem was that, just when it seemed that Donner was becoming part of the in crowd, Mike Mallory was getting short. In seven weeks, Mallory’s second tour of duty would be finished and he would be gone. Donner saw his last chance to make colonel going with him.

Then, out of nowhere came First Lieutenant Reese Porterfield, a West Point graduate, airborne and Ranger qualified, and maybe just the man Donner needed to help him grab some real political influence. Reese Porterfield was the son of Richard Fox Porterfield, United States Senator from the great State of California, member of the Senate Armed Services Committee and well known supporter of the United States effort in Vietnam. Donner couldn’t believe his luck when he received notice that the son of the Senator was to be Mallory’s replacement. The only possible problem was that the Senator’s son might not live through his tour of duty, but Donner intended to do his best to see to it that he did. He had pulled a few strings to get the A-1’s in as the LRRP air support, but it had definitely been worth it. The short visit he had with Cowboy this morning had convinced him that without excellent air support, there would have been no debriefing today, late or otherwise.

Donner sat in the command tent behind his battered gray metal desk and checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. It was 1030 hours and still no Mallory. He was just about to shout at Specialist James Jenks, his clerk, to go looking when Mallory and Porterfield stepped inside.

Sorry to be late, sir, Mallory said comfortably as he pulled a bridge chair around and sat in it backwards, leaning on the back and facing Donner. Late night. He took off his helmet and fished in his shirt pocket for a can of Copenhagen, taking a pinch of the shredded tobacco and carefully placing it inside his lip.

Porterfield watched Mallory’s casual demeanor in astonishment, then braced to attention, saluted and reported. Lieutenant Porterfield, reporting as ordered, sir!

Donner returned the salute and motioned Porterfield to take a chair. Don’t spit that crap in my tent, he ordered Mallory.

Real men don’t spit, sir, Mallory said flatly, then swallowed.

Donner gave him a disgusted look. Jenks, get your book and let’s get this started. The clerk dragged up a chair for Porterfield, who was still standing at parade rest, and Donner motioned him to sit. Jenks pulled his chair over to the group and Mallory began.

Cowboy put us in about half way between Plie Bo and Po’Lei Moe, west of the trail that parallels the Cambodian border there.

Show it on the map, Donner interrupted, and before Mallory could rise, Porterfield was up and locating the area on the map that was spread on Donner’s desk.

Map reference 357 at 226, about five kilometers east of this trail, he said. Donner looked at the spot that Porterfield marked with his finger, then raised his eyes to Mallory, who smiled and nodded.

I’ve got it, Lieutenant, thank you. Porterfield returned to his seat. Go on, Donner said to Mallory.

"The LRRP was made up of me, Lieutenant Porterfield, Corporal Jones, Specialist Gomez, and a squad of the ARVNs. Sergeant Vinh’s squad, with Big Quan, Privates Trang and Ho, and another private who bought it at the river. A new guy. I can’t remember his name, but Jones can get it for