Missing in action part 2, p.1
Missing in Action Part 2, page 1
BLACK OPS RECON IV
MISSING IN ACTION Pt 2
Copyright 2023 by Eric Meyer
Published by Swordworks Books
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Foreword
March 1970 - Thirty klicks west of Saigon
They’d attached Heller’s Recon unit to a company of 2nd Infantry. The enemy had attacked and destroyed a supply convoy carrying food and ammunition to a fortified post on the Laotian border. Just one man survived by diving into the bushes and playing dead. He watched, sickened, as the butchery continued. There was no other word for it but butchery. Some men threw down their guns, throwing up their hands to surrender. It made no difference. The maddened, fanatic soldiers of the NVA ignored every rule of war and cut them down. Slaughtered them, and more.
It wasn’t enough for Hanoi’s finest to cross the DMZ and shoot them dead. They wanted more, much more. They set about their deadly work with knives and machetes, surrounding the unarmed men and slashing them to ribbons. When it was over, the ground was littered with the corpses that a few minutes before had been living, breathing human beings. The NVA left with their booty, not sparing a backward glance. When he was certain they weren’t coming back, the soldier walked in the direction of Saigon. To Tan Son Nhut, the sprawling military base and MACV headquarters outside of Saigon. He was lucky and flagged down a ride with an armored column heading home. He told them what’d happened and gave a fuller account to MACV in every gory detail. They wanted revenge, so they sent out an infantry company to locate the attackers and mark them for an airstrike. Heller’s Recon Team was assigned to scout the ground ahead of the infantry. The laden Hueys took off and landed in a clearing three klicks from the ambush site. Before long, they came across the initial evidence of the massacre.
Vehicles had become burned-out wrecks. The mutilated corpses of the fallen lay nearby. A grisly warning to those who may be inclined to come this way again. Heller was inclined to come this way again. The rest of the troops arrived, took one look at the carnage, and they were similarly inclined. This had to be avenged. Captain Raymond Witherspoon, the company commander, was in a state of shock. His black face had paled several shades since they’d arrived.
“What the hell’s going on? This isn’t war. It’s sheer, cold-blooded murder.”
Heller gave him a sympathetic glance.
No, Captain, it’s the Communists.
The officer’s reaction was understandable. He hadn’t been in-country for long, and since he’d arrived, his assignments had concentrated on problems of logistics and requisitions to streamline supply bottlenecks. Desperate for officers, MACV had assigned him to lead the company into combat after the previous company commander stepped on a mine and lost a leg. Witherspoon was a good man, committed to looking after the soldiers under his command, and unlike most officers and enlisted men, genuinely concerned about making a difference in Vietnam. A believer. Until now.
Heller had long since lost any idea they were winning the war, despite MACV’s propaganda. He’d been a soldier for more years than he cared to remember. From the early days as an infantry rookie, he’d achieved the rank of Master Sergeant through sheer fighting ability. He was no shrinking violet. ‘Built like a brick shithouse’ was a well-worn phrase that applied to the veteran Recon NCO.
He was tall, over six feet, with shoulders as wide as library shelves, yet he moved with an easy grace. His body was packed with wiry muscle, his hair shaved close to the scalp. He was a soldier who’d fought his way in and out of more scrapes than most, earning the trust of those who knew him well and looked to him to get results. He was a man who knew how to give orders, and how to work out which orders handed down to him were bullshit and which weren’t.
He shrugged. “Captain, this is war, Vietnam style. Welcome to the club.”
He looked at Akulov, a member of the Recon Team, as he strolled toward him. “Anything?”
Tulok Akulov, an Eskimo who hailed from Saint Lawrence Island, Alaska, was expressionless. Short, compact, with a swarthy, weather-beaten face, he moved with the grace of a hunting leopard. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him prowling the snowy wastes of his home state, hunting polar bears or other animals his people relied on to survive through the long, dark winters.
His first name, Tulok, meant ‘hunter.’ His family name, Akulov, was a throwback to his ancestral origins. The name originated in Russia, the country that used to occupy parts of Alaska in the nineteenth century.
“Yes.” He was a man of few words, and Heller had to drag it out of him. He’d picked up tracks heading northwest, which was no surprise. Heading toward the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
“What kind of a lead do they have?”
“They’re twelve hours ahead of us.”
“Okay.” He looked at Witherspoon. “If we leave now and force the pace, we can follow, but they may be expecting us to do just that. There’s a danger we could walk into an ambush.”
“My orders are to track them and call in their location for an airstrike We go now.” He looked at Akulov. “Is he up to it?”
Akulov was up to it, no question. He wasn’t so sure about Witherspoon’s company. Vietnam in 1970 was a different place from when Heller first arrived. No matter how the Pentagon and MACV painted their successes, almost every grunt and most officers believed otherwise. Disbelieved the bullshit enemy kill counts. Disbelieved the bullshit strategies of MACV, and so far, the new commander, General Creighton Abrams had done little to change the way they saw things. Men served their time with one eye on the calendar, marking off the hours, the days, and the months before their tour ended and they could go home. Alive, if possible.
Many of the new conscripts, demoralized from the word go, assuaged their misery with drugs, and by doing everything possible to avoid getting into fights with the enemy. The men in Witherspoon’s company were typical of these new arrivals. After they’d left the helicopters, they hung back to avoid contact with the enemy, so the Team had to constantly wait for them to catch up. They were also noisy. Laughing and chatting with each other, smoking, and it wasn’t always tobacco. One man even had a transistor radio playing, until Witherspoon ordered him to switch it off. They committed every cardinal sin of the jungle fighter and did everything to alert the enemy to their presence.
They must know we’re here. They could hear those guys as far away as the Cambodian border.
The first five klicks passed without incident. They got no further. PFC Barry McGuigan, the big, tough Irish American, was on point when the enemy opened fire. They were walking along a path threading through dense jungle and had almost reached what looked like a clearing where they could pick up their bearings and get a clear signal on the radio. They didn’t make it. McGuigan threw himself off the path and into a clump of bushes as gunfire erupted all around him. He crawled back to where the Team had gotten into cover.
“About ten hostiles, but my guess is there’s a shitload more tucked out of sight. Any moment and Witherspoon’s grunts are gonna get their first taste of action.”
He’d been talking to Heller, but Second Lieutenant Sam Cruz interrupted.
“Private, you make your report to me, not Master Sergeant Heller. You’re sure that’s all? Ten men?”
McGuigan stared back at him. “No, Lieutenant, I’m not sure. Like I said, I reckon there’s a shitload more out there, but it’s impossible to be sure. Do you want me to go back and count them?”
Second Lieutenant Cruz flushed. He was new to Recon. Puerto Rican, and an officer who’d been promoted from the ranks. Filled with enthusiasm, usually. Good with a gun, and the word was he’d requested a transfer to Recon when he won his commission. A good sign, Recon drew the toughest missions, and they needed men who didn’t get scared when the shooting started. Men who shot back when they found a target, men who killed the enemy.
Still, Heller had misgivings. Something about him didn’t seem right, didn’t gel. Sometimes his enthusiasm seemed to evaporate, and he’d descend into a black mood. Almost like he was depressed. Then again, Vietnam was enough to depress the Angel Gabriel. Cruz’s moods fluctuated, almost as if he had some mental problem, although that couldn’t be. The Army would have found out and discharged him.
He had the build of a fighting soldier, a body packed with solid muscle, he was of aver age height, and good with a gun. A good man to have on your side when it came to a fight. Yet when he descended into his moods, Heller found himself more and more having to make command decisions.
He strolled to cope with McGuigan, and Lynch, no surprise there. Nobody coped well with McGuigan and Lynch. Cruz flushed at McGuigan’s sarcasm and pretended he hadn’t heard.
“This must be the outfit who ambushed the convoy. Witherspoon will have heard the shooting, so we’ll wait for them to catch up. When they get here, we can split up and take them on the flanks.” His eyes sparkled with fire and determination, “If we do this right, we won’t need to call in an airstrike, we can get them all.”
Heller looked at McGuigan and Reggie Lynch and sighed. As usual, McGuigan’s lips were twisted into a sneer. He was a hard-bitten soldier who'd known nothing other than violence. A hugely-built man with the remnants of a harsh, Northern Irish accent and a harsh face to go with it. And a chip on his shoulder as wide as the land of his ancestors. PFC McGuigan hated everybody. It wasn’t his religious beliefs that caused him to join the struggle in Northern Ireland. It was to beat up on his fellow man. He lived for violence, lived for the rule of the gun, and if it wasn’t possible to use a gun, he’d use his fists instead.
Lynch was a soldier who also carried a chip on his shoulder. Like McGuigan, he hated everybody. He was black, with an acute dislike of white folks, especially officers. Although like McGuigan, he could summon up plenty of hatred for most other ethnic groups. He’d arrived with a good record in the field, so Heller chose to overlook his avowed antipathy of whites, Hispanics, gooks, Chinese, and citizens from just about every other region in the world. Provided he kept up and shot straight, he could live with the rest of it. Not that the Army gave him any choice. He was tough enough, a man of medium height, whose broad chest stretched his T-shirt to the limit. Lynch had seen his share of fights, both on and off the field, and proved himself to be a tough fighter. That was good enough.
Both men caused him problems, sure, but they could both fight. Herman Weiss who followed behind could fight, but he was also a man he could rely on. When he joined the army, they nicknamed him ‘Kraut.’ His parents had fled Nazi Germany in the 1930s, yet Weiss was as American as the Empire State Building.
He looked the part of a typical German with cropped, blonde crew cut, pale skin, washed-out blue eyes, and an erect posture that made him look like a caricature of a Prussian general. Weiss was of medium height and medium build, a Mr. Average. He took the joshing in his stride and never objected to the nickname. The European war had been over a long time, and many men serving in Vietnam hadn’t been born when the last shot was fired.
He looked at the other men. Tulok Akulov, a pale-faced, taciturn Alaskan, and Frank Collins, a lean, long-faced, rawboned Floridan. Florida with its sunny days and picturesque beaches. The ‘Sunshine State.’ Collins rarely looked anything other than miserable, and he sure brought little sunshine into the unit. He had to be an experienced soldier, or he wouldn’t have made it this far, but he didn’t look like he was enjoying it. Maybe it was Vietnam.
They were both new to Recon. He hadn’t formed any opinion about them either way, although they seemed okay. They’d better be.
Lieutenant Cruz worried him. One moment a real fire eater, like now, ready to do anything to get to grips with the enemy. No matter how stupid the idea.
Heller tried to hold him back. “Lieutenant, that’s not a good idea. They’re probably all around us. It has the hallmarks of a well-planned ambush, so we should keep to plan. When they arrive, get Witherspoon to call in air support.”
“Sergeant, it’s just ten men? You can’t be serious. We can handle this ourselves.”
He kept his voice calm and even. “Lieutenant, there’s sure to be a lot more than ten, and while we’re discussing it, they’ll be working their way closer ready to attack.”
“I don’t think so. Private Lynch, go back and inform Captain Witherspoon we need his men here fast. Tell him we have a chance to wipe them all out.”
Lynch wasn’t inclined to listen to officers. He despised officers, especially white officers. Cruz was Puerto Rican, but he still despised him. He despised everybody.
“Fuck you.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said fuck you. You wanna get us all killed, you go tell them yourself.”
“Private, I gave you an…”
He got no further. The shooting intensified, and it wasn’t coming from up front. It was coming from behind. Witherspoon’s infantry didn’t need to attack, the attack had come to them. Cruz looked indecisive, but Heller knew what had to be done, and fast.
“Fall back, they’re in trouble. McGuigan, watch our six. Lieutenant, move your ass!”
He raced back, with Weiss and the rest close behind. They found them fighting desperately. The company was in deep shit, surrounded by hostiles. Frightened men, blazing away at anything and nothing. Some tossed grenades, but to no effect other than to shred the foliage. The Communists had chosen the ground well and were hitting them hard with long bursts of machine gun fire from concealed positions. Dug into spider holes, hiding in the bushes, balanced in the tops of trees, pouring on a steady stream of fire that tore into Witherspoon’s company.
The Captain was shouting into the handset of the PRC-25 radio, calling for air support. Calling for reinforcements, for anything they could send. Meanwhile, his men loosed off unending streams of ammo, most of it wasted. Men screamed and called for medics, and for some, it was too late.
The Team got closer to the main enemy position, about one hundred meters north. Crouched low, they pushed through the tangle of vines and undergrowth, getting closer. Heller tried to work out how many they were up against. It was a lot more than ten, judging by the incoming fire. They had to number at least fifty soldiers, and it could be as many as a hundred. To call in an airstrike would mean getting close enough to toss a smoke grenade to mark them. So far, they didn’t appear to have realized they were edging near, and they dropped onto their bellies to crawl closer. Until they found them.
“About fifty meters, Sarge,” Akulov grunted.
“Roger that.” He took out a grenade, “This only needs one. Cover me. I’ll get closer and mark their position.”
Cruz didn’t argue. He snaked through the tangle of undergrowth, and after the first few meters realized he wasn’t alone. Weiss was following to cover his back, which suited him just fine. NVA soldiers were everywhere. Snipers in the trees, men tucked into well-concealed holes in the ground, waiting to put a bullet in his back when he crawled past. Thirty meters from where he could hear Vietnamese voices shouting orders, he stopped. They were close enough. He was on the edge of a small glade, where several Viets were clustered around an officer bellowing orders. A clear target, he could toss the grenade without fear of getting it entangled in overhanging branches.
A bullet whined past his head, a second shot cracked out, and he looked behind as the body of a North Vietnamese soldier dropped from a tree. Scratch one gook. Weiss was covering him, searching for more hostiles, and he nodded his thanks. Pulled the pin on the smoke grenade and tossed it out into the clearing. They looked around, spotted them, and it was time to make a sharp exit. Both men raced away before the shit hit the fan big time. The enemy they feared most wasn’t the Communists, it was the helicopter gunships circling nearby. The moment they saw the smoke, they’d move fast. Within minutes, maybe seconds, streams of lead would fall on the area like rain. Except more lethal than rain.
They got back to the Team, and Cruz started to ask him a question. He didn’t give him a chance to finish. “Run! Run like fuck!”
They ran like fuck, reached Witherspoon’s company, and they were in a sorry state. He’d got them into cover, tucked behind trees and sheltering in shallow gullies where they were protected from the worst of the incoming fire. But not all. The enemy was regrouping on the flanks, preparing to hit them and kill the rest of the round-eye soldiers. The renewed attack didn’t happen. Just in time, the gunships arrived, preceded by a heavy salvo of 2.75-inch Folding-Fin Aerial Rockets from the incoming gunships.
