This book is dedicated to all who,
however reluctantly,
served their country when called,
and to those who now stand ready.

Copyright © 1987 by James R. Reeves

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copy-
right Conventions. Published in the United Stales of America by
Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York,
and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Lim-
ited, Toronto.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 86-91589
ISBN 0-345-33136-2

Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition: April 1987

PREFACE

This story, like its predecessor, Mekong.', is based on
the actual experiences of James C. Taytor, a former SEAL
and Vietnam veteran. Like Mekong!, it is fictionalized, al-
though to a lesser extent. The reader will discern five epi-
sodes, any one of which could be expanded lo book length
if extensively fictionalized. All five episodes took place
during Mr. Taylor's first, and only, tour in Vietnam. The
second tour is completely fictitious. Many of the characters
are modeled on the men with whom Mr. Taylor served,
although some are totally creations of our imaginations.
The names of all characters are totally fictitious.

CHAPTER 1

We had the layout, and we knew his room number,
so once we got into the corridor, it was simple enough
to find his stateroom. We only had to worry about
someone coming into the corridor and seeing us. We
moved quietly. Bob lightly brushed with his fingertips
the door of each room as he passed along one side,
counting silently. I did the same on the other side,
and with my free hand took out the syringe I carried
on a cord looped around my neck- Bob came to the
door, gave me a little wave, and flattened against the
bulkhead while I moved up. Our bare feet made no
noise on the metal deck.

I flattened against the opposite wall and looked both
ways down the corridor before I checked the number
on the door. It was his room all right. Hell, they even
I

2      James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

had his name on a little plastic plaque on the door. I
wasn't supposed to know his name, but I couldn't
help but read it, and it registered in my memory. I
knew Bob had read it too. I looked over at him and
our eyes met for a minute. The usual wicked glint
was gone, and his forehead had little worry creases
in it. He was bothered by this mission, just like I was.
It was one thing to snatch a gook, or assassinate a
VC cadre, but an American officer?

Well, we had come this far. I nodded at him. "Let's
go do it!" I whispered.

He reached for his syringe, popped the cap on it,
and held it up in his right hand, like a doctor. Then
he reached for the doorknob with his left hand, and
slowly began to turn it.

I moved across the corridor and waited tensely by the
door. My job was to slip in, put a hand over the guy's
mouth so he couldn't cry out, and position his head so
Bob could stick the needle in his neck. The beds were
all on one side of the room, but a man could sleep with
his head toward either the aft or the forward bulkhead,
and I had to determine which way his head was turned
in no more time than it would take me to cross the
room. Unless he was afraid of the dark and slept with
a night-light, there would be only the dim glow of the
watch light over his door to see by. I wished I had a
flashlight, even a little penlight, in case the shadows
were darker than we had anticipated.

If I made a mistake and grabbed his feet, he'd yell
and bring the sentries running. What would we do
then? Take him anyway? Leave him, with him warned
now that NISO was onto him? Kill him? Could we
get away without having to kill a sentry or them kill-

COVERT ACTIONS           3

ing one of us? What if he woke up when the door
opened? Suppose the hinges squeaked. Suppose . . .

"Goddamn!" Bob whispered. "It's locked!"

I looked at his hand and saw it slipping on the knob
as he tried to turn it. I looked at his eyes again. His
forehead was furrowed, and big beads of sweat trickled
from wrinkle to wrinkle. He shook his head, indicating
he couldn't open the door. I glanced back at it as he
released his grip. There was a keyhole. It was possible
the colonel had a habit of locking his door. But I had
to try it myself. I couldn't believe we'd come all this
way just to find the damned door locked.

Then I noticed that the crack along the doorjamb
was wider at the bottom than at the knob, or above
it. In fact, the door appeared to have a slight curve to
it, as if it had to bend slightly in order to latch. Of
course! The bulkhead was warped. There was prob-
ably a change of stress in the hull because the ship
was virtually empty of fuel. The door might be
jammed closed instead of locked.

I grasped the knob with both hands, and pulled as I
turned it. My palms were sweaty and supped, so I auto-
matically rubbed them on my chest. The wetsuit hadn't
dried out, though, and it did no good. Bob grinned and
reached inside his wetsuit for the olive drab scarf he'd
brought along in case we needed a blindfold. I wiped
my hands on it and tried again. It began to turn. I pulled
and turned very slowly, so it wouldn't click loudly when
the latchbolt cleared the facing.

The click was very faint. I held the door closed
with the knob turned fully, so that the latchbolt re-
mained completely retracted, and looked over at Bob.
There were fewer worry-wrinkles around his eyes
now. He nodded slightly to signal that he was ready

4      James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

to go. I took the plunger end of my syringe between
two fingers of my left hand, so that it would be ready
if I needed it. I looked at my watch. About fifteen
minutes had elapsed since we'd first come aboard.

We hadn't been seen yet, but a sentry might step
into the corridor at any moment.

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. My heart was
pounding so hard it was almost shaking my body with
each beat, but not from fear. It was adrenaline pumping.

When I opened that door, I would go into the state-
room of an American officer to kidnap him and turn
him over to NISO interrogators for questioning. It
might be the end of his career. It might be the end of
his life-1 had come to Vietnam to fight communists-
armed Vietcong and NVA regulars. I'd never once
thought I might be moving against a fellow Ameri-
can. It went against the grain. Despite all the training
and indoctrination they'd put us through, it just didn't
seem right. It was more like something the enemy
would do. Once we went in that room, once we laid
hands on him, there was no turning back. We were
committed to a course of action, and we'd have to
live with the memory of it for the rest of our lives. If
I was going to back out, it would have to be now.
How the hell had I gotten myself into this situation?

Not many who know me would believe it, but I
was raised in a real churchy family. When I was a
kid I went to church every Sunday and read my Bible
for Sunday school, too, but not much of it took. I was
aware of the book of Job back then, but I never paid
much attention to it. I was young, and full of piss and
vinegar, and figured none of that kind of thing was
going to happen to me.

COVERT ACTIONS          5

Lately, though, I've been thinking that maybe old Job
and me have a lot more in common than I realized back
then. Of course, he was a godly man, and he didn't do
anything to bring on all his bad luck. It seems like God
and Satan had a little bet going about whether Job could
bear up if times were hard, and God let Satan dump on
Job. Kind of shiny business, if you ask me. I mean,
wasn't Job making all those sacrifices and crap in the
first place just so God would look after him?

Anyway, I made some sacrifices too: four years of
my life, and some blood, and the hearing in my left
ear, not to mention going through a lot of fearsome
and worrisome times. I did that for the people of the
United States, because it was their government that
said they needed me to do it. I expected a few things
from them in return, like getting my life started again,
and some help with my medical bills, maybe a break
getting a job. Instead, they dumped on me. They
made me a scapegoat for the war, and turned their
backs on me when it came to getting a job or even
trying to tell them why I was unhappy.

Old Job, he sat in the dirt and tore his clothes and
threw ashes over his head when he got uptight. I sit
here in my living room and stare at the fire and drink
Scotch. If I turn on the television, there's that god-
damned Jane Fonda in another movie making millions
off the notoriety she got from supporting our enemies.
Pisses me off.

At least Job's friends came around to see him
sometimes, even if they only sat there with long faces
and drank his wine and told him he ought to just curse
God and get put out of his misery. My friends don't
come by very often, and when they do, they don't
want to talk about what's happened to me. They want

6      James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

to drink my beer and whiskey and talk about almost
anything else. It makes them uncomfortable to talk
about the war, because they weren't in it. They were
safe over here, getting set up in careers and having
families and fucking their neighbors' wives and all
the time raking in the money, while I was over there
in the mud and rain with those damned little devils
trying to blow off a chunk of my ass.

Well, so be it. I'll sit here in front of the fire and sip
my Scotch until the sun comes up and the time for
nightmares is over. The fire reminds me of the camp
we hit with flamethrowers, and that starts me thinking
again. Thinking about the things I did and the people I
killed in the name of duty and honor and country.

I was in some firefights in 'Nam, a lot of them, and
I killed a lot of Viet Cong and North Vietnamese sol-
diers. Sometimes I think about the girt with the bomb
strapped to her back. or some of the others. I shot them
or blew them up or broke their necks or cut their throats,
but they were fighters—they'd have done the same to
me- The giri, too. I don't regret killing them. Their
ghosts don't haunt me. If I'd been just a little slower,
or noisier, or more careless, they might be thinking
about me now, and I wouldn't haunt them, either.

It's other ghosts that bother me. Some that didn't
die in combat. American ghosts.

When I left Vietnam that first time I thought I'd
seen the last of that godforsaken place. I was happy
as hell to be coming back alive, even if I did have a
hole in my head where my left eardrum was supposed
to be. Things didn't go well for me, though.

First off, in the airport in San Diego a runty little
MP told me I had to take off my black beret, because
it wasn't recognized in the States. I guess it bothered

COVERT ACTIONS          7

the peaceniks and little old ladies—of both sexes—
who didn't like to be reminded about Vietnam.

Then the stateside doctors decided my wound—the
damaged eardrum—wasn't severe enough to warrant
a discharge. If the entire eardrum had been missing it
would have been a total disability, but in the inter-
vening weeks some scar tissue had patched things to-
gether in there. I had partial hearing that would come
and go. It was bad enough I couldn't dive anymore.
Oh, ten or twelve feet in a swimming pool didn't
bother me, but the pain got pretty severe if I tried to
go deeper. So I lost my diver rating.

I still had two years of active duty to go before my
enlistment was up. The Navy would reassign me to
something for that time. They even tried to get me to
go back to 'Nam, in the riverboat Navy. They must
have thought that explosion scrambled my brains.

I'd brought some problems back with me. There
were things that bothered me that had happened over
there. There were times I fucked up. and got my men
killed because of it. There was one guy, named Billy,
whose death bothered me really bad. Some people
seem to think that to be in Special Forces you have
to be some sort of unfeeling superman. We're not.
We have feelings just like everybody else.

It had been months since Billy died, and I still
thought about it all the time. Billy had placed his trust
in me. He was forever telling his wife about me, and
how well we got along. I guess the reason I took him
under my wing was because he was one of the few
guys that really had a lot going for him. He loved his
family very much and they loved him a lot too. He
always got letters and tapes from home, telling him

8      James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

how much they missed him and how proud they were
of what he was trying to do in 'Nam.

Not very many guys got letters like that. I didn't.
His wife would always say hi and tell me to take care
of myself, or something like that, when she sent a
tape. I talked a little to his wife and his dad, once,
on the tape recorder. They recorded a little message
back. His dad said, "It sounds like Billy's got a good
friend." Not once did I ever hear them say that the
war was a lot of bullshit. Not once did they ever write
it. They were behind him all the way. They were
strong and proud people, and I guess I wanted to be
pan of that. He had everything going for him, and I
wanted him to have it. That's why I tried to keep him
from seeing a lot of action.

In the last tape he got, his wife told him that in five
more months his name was going to be changed to
Daddy. That really made Billy light up. He had been
in *Nam a little over three months, and he was look-
ing forward to being a father. She went on to say how
much she loved him and how much she cared. She
ended the tape, "You and Jay take care of each other,
and the baby and I will do the same."

The guys were forever telling me about their prob-
lems at home, or with each other, wondering what to
do. Billy just told me about how great everything was
at home. He knew I didn't get any mail from back
there. When he was around, I had someone to listen
to me for a change, and I could get all the shit out of
my head. He couldn't offer any advice; he'd never
had to make a life-or-death decision with someone
else's life, so he couldn't fully understand the hurt
and the guilt that you're left with. But he really cared,
and that was good enough.

COVERT ACTIONS          9

Then we walked into an ambush. They got around
us on three sides and were really pouring it into us. I
thought I'd get Billy out of it, and I sent him back for
help. They got him before he could get very far. We
fought our way out of the ambush, and it was a running
fight all the way back to the river. I carried his body out.
The ironic thing is, the rest of us only got flesh wounds.

That was months before I was shipped stateside, and
when I got back, I still couldn't close my eyes without
seeing the back of his head fly off, or feeling the stick-
iness of the blood as I held him in my arms. I was still
haunted by his wife's words on that last tape: "You and
Jay take care of each other. . . ."I tried. I tried.

I wrote a report on how it happened, and they sent
it with the telegram informing his family of his death.
I haven't heard from his family since it happened. I
think they blamed me, and rightly so.

But there were some other things, too. . . .

I had nightmares and flashbacks before I left 'Nam,
but not so bad as I had them when I got back to the
States. I didn't sleep as soundly in Vietnam. A lot of
the times, I took Dexedrine to keep me alert. On pa-
trols, I didn't sleep at all, unless they lasted several
days, and then I only slept lightly. If I had a night-
mare it woke me. When I got back to the States I
slept more soundly, and sometimes I wouldn't wake
up when I had a nightmare. I would be up, moving
around, and still be having the nightmare. It was like
sleepwalking. It scared me. I was afraid I would hurt
someone while I was dreaming.

The flashbacks were like nightmares, but they came
when I was awake. They'd come when I was tired,
or had been drinking, or had somehow let my guard
down. It was like I had this little sentry in my mind

10 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

keeping the flashbacks away, and they'd get in when
he was tired, or intoxicated, or had been distracted
by something. In 'Nam, the nervous tension of being
on patrol, the fear of being ambushed and killed,
kept the sentry alert. Back at the barge, I was with
people that could handle it if I flashed back. I wasn't
worried that I would flash back and strangle Bob or
shoot him; he could take care of himself. But in the
States, I worried about hurting somebody.

The newspapers didn't help either. They made a
big deal out of it every time something happened:

"VIETNAM VET GOES NUTS, SHOOTS MOTHER" OF

some such garbage. That just made me worry more.

Sometimes the nightmares would be scenes—things
I had seen, horrible things that make you lose respect
for your fellow man and start thinking of him as an
animal. Like that time in Bac Lieu Province.

It was one of those villages you encountered some-
times that was really neutral. They had their own armed
guards there to protect them, and some of them were
mean as hell. A real rough bunch. They were probably
smugglers and pirates, but that was their village and
they didn't want the Saigon government or the Viet
Cong coming in there telling them what to do. They
weren't from me Delta originally; they had been moved
down from I Corps—Quang Tri Province—by the Ma-
rines as part of a resettlement program. The village
they'd been in before had occupied a key position, and
they'd been caught in crossfire pretty often. They didn't
like the Delta much, but I guess me land was good for
rice, and there wasn't the constant fighting there had
been up north. They werc short of housing. There were
only four or five buildings in the village, and each was

COVERT ACTIONS         11

occupied by three or four families, with five or six peo-
ple to the family.

There were a bunch of elderly people there, and
some very young ones, but not many young adults.
Most of them had either taken up with one side or the
other and left the village to fight, or had been killed
by the Viet Cong or arrested by the government.

We went in on a mercy mission, carrying food and
medicine, and made friends with them, after a fash-
ion. We couldn't talk to them, because they didn't
know English, but we treated their sores and injuries,
and fed their kids. And we'd check in on them every
once in a while to make sure they were all right. We'd
help them with their boats and things.

Then an NVA regiment slipped into the area and
started building up. A patrol ran into them and took
four or five casualties. Then a Vietnamese Marine
patrol went into this village for a couple of weeks and
muddled around the paddies, but came back reporting
no contact. We were sent in to see if we could locate
the NVA so the Army could bring an air cav outfit in
and drive them out.

Bac Lieu Province was flat and mostly covered by
rice paddies, with lots of little villages scattered here
and there. Near the coast the rice paddies gave way
to marshes and mangrove swamps, and there were a
few little wooded areas scattered around. That's where
the Viet Cong and the NVA would hide out. There
were a few rubber plantations and banana plantations
in there too. Most of the villages were either near the
coast or along streams, because most of the transpor-
tation was by boat. There were damned few roads,
and only a few trails.

This NVA outfit practiced psychological warfare.

12 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

They would go into a village and warn the people that
the Americans and the ARVNs would torture them
and kill them. These NVA had some ARVN uniforms
and a white man working with them. He might have
been a Frenchman or a Russian. Or an American.
They'd dress up in the uniforms and go into the vil-
lage several days later and interrogate people, torture
them, maybe kill some. The white guy would go in
with them, and he'd "order" the murders and the
torture. That way they discredited both Americans and
South Vietnamese.

We went into the village with a interpreter and told
them what the situation was. They believed us. Maybe
it had happened to them before, up in Quang Tri Prov-
ince. Anyway, they told us the NVA had been there
several days before and had "warned" them. They told
us which way they'd gone. It was a cold trail, leading
out into the open paddies and marshes, and we didn't
follow it. We figured they might have set booby traps
on their back trail, or doubled back and ambushed it.
And we didn't think they'd go far across the paddies
anyway. We struck out instead to where we thought
they'd most likely be, and didn't find anything.

Coming back out, we thought we'd swing back by
the village and just check on them. As soon as we
caught sight of it we knew Charlie had doubled back
on us, and it hadn't been too long since they'd left.
Some of the houses had been burned down and were
still smoking.

A few villagers had survived. Some were unhurt,
some were just alive, and some were mercifully dead.
Some had been burned, and some had been mutilated.
They had lost fingers, toes, noses, and ears. Some
had been strung up between two trees, with their gen-


COVERT ACTIONS          13

itals cut off and stuffed in their mouths. One old man
had his tongue cut out and the stump tied off to keep
him from bleeding to death. He was damned near
dead from shock anyway. The younger men, the
guards who had fought back against the NVA's at-
tack, had been tied hand and foot and then the big
artery in their thighs had been punctured so they
would slowly bleed to death. There were big puddles
of blood around them. Some of the others had been
shot in the kneecaps, to cripple them for life. Others
had their amis broken at the elbows, compound frac-
tures with the sharp splinters of the bones sticking out
through the flesh. Some of the women had been im-
paled on bamboo stakes, with the stakes rammed into
their crotches and coming out their chests or their
mouths. Some had had their breasts removed. Their
babies were just lying there. They hadn't had any-
thing to eat or drink in a day. Other babies had been
beheaded or cut into pieces. There were little kids
crawling around crying who had been bayoneted or
shot. One woman had her breasts slit—not cut off,
just split in two. She had to hold them together with
her hands. If she let go, they started bleeding again.

Some of the older people had gotten out of it with-
out being mutilated. But not many.

It was the worst incident of this kind I'd ever seen,
or even heard about. Some guys who had been in Viet-
nam several tours said it was the worst they knew about
too.

Of course, we did all we could to help them, but we
didn't carry that much in the way of medical supplies.
We called in for medivacs and a team of medics, and
tried to staunch the flow of blood from the worst wounds
until they got there. It was just a finger in the dike

14     James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

compared to what they needed. The medics came on
the first chopper, and they just walked around in a daze
for several minutes, looking at the carnage.

It was a vile thing to do. Those people didn't want
to be involved with either side. They didn't want the
Americans around, or the South Vietnamese, or the
North Vietnamese. They just wanted to be left alone.
They'd learned to adapt to the war and survive the
war on their own, without help from either side. To
die the way they died, to be punished for surviving,
just wasn't warranted. They were decent people. They
didn't deserve that.

We were stunned by it. And we would get sick
thinking about it for days and weeks afterward.

I had a lot of animosity toward the enemy after that.

Before, when we'd capture a VC or NVA, if he
was just an enlisted man and unlikely to have much
information of value, we'd try to psych them out by
being nice to them. We'd feed 'em, fix up their
wounds, even bathe them and delouse them. We'd
put our black berets on them, pat them on the back,
and talk to them about baseball. They liked baseball.
We'd tell them about football, and about movies.
They liked westerns. Then we'd tell them, "We don't
want to kill your people. We'll kill those that are
shooting at us, but we*re not here Just to kill people.
We're going to let you go. You go back and tell your
people we're not here just to kill them. Now, go on."
And they'd run off. Others would walk away, looking
back every once in a while like they didn't believe it.

We weren't likely to do that anymore. We'd cut on
them or just kill them instead of letting them go. I
didn't care. After Bac Lieu, I never felt any compas-
sion for them.

COVERT ACTIONS          15

I had nightmares about Bac Lieu in *Nam, and when
I got back to the States. Especially when I got back
here. I tried to make people understand why, but they
didn't want to hear about it. A lot of them didn't want
to believe it. Uncle Ho could do no wrong in their eyes.

Sometimes the nightmares would be what I called
the Escape Dream, with me trying to escape and
Charlie coming after me. This dream also came out
of something that really happened.

It wasn't long after the massacre at Bac Lieu that
we went in for a recon patrol up the coast in Ba Xuyen
Province. We landed just inside one of the mouths of
the Mekong called the Cua Tranh De, intending to
walk about ten kilometers overland to a village. We
planned to observe for several days- Command sus-
pected supplies were being landed there by boat from
North Vietnam.

We went in about 0600, and it was raining. God-
damn, it was pouring down, and it was muddy- The
mud was over your ankles and sometimes up to your
knees. Everything was either mud or under water. The
boats dropped us off on a little sandbar right at the mouth
of the river, and that was the last firm ground we saw.
We moved directly into some jungle. There was jungle
along the river for quite a ways there.

I took the point, and I was the one who spotted the
gooks. I don't know how many there were, but they
had encased us. We weren't that far from the beach,
but the boats were already gone. They had our backs
to the water.

Bob was on my right flank and Tony on my left. The
bush was thick, and we were moving in close order to
stay in sight of each other so we wouldn't miss any
hand signals. We hadn't gone very far inland when I

16 James R. Reeves and James C. Taytor

spotted two NVA moving in a zigzag path toward me.
I raised my hand to signal a halt and glanced quickly
around at the team to make sure they saw me. When I
looked back to the front I saw another one on the left,
also moving in. Looking around, I saw two more, be-
hind the first two I'd spotted, also moving up.

The bush had thinned out right where we'd encoun-
tered them, and I was afraid I'd give our position
away if I moved, but the gooks appeared to be getting
more numerous- They must have heard the PBR throt-
tle down to land us, or else an observer on the bank
had radioed back a warning. They knew we were
coming in, and they were moving into position to hit
us. They were moving fast and knew what they were
doing. It was time to act.

I pressed the button on my hand radio. "Five Hotel
Charlies on the point and moving in. Reply?" "Hotel
Chartie" was the code for "hardcore" and was less of
a mouthful than "November Victor Alfa" for NVA.

"Three on the right flank." That was Bob-

"One on the left," Tony said.

"Okay, stand by to rock 'n* roll. On my lead," I
answered. There wasn't time to say much more.

I let the radio swing back down by my side and
switched my rifle to fully automatic. More enemy had
come into sight. When they were about thirty feet away
I opened fire. The others followed. It sounded like
Chinese New Year and the Fourth of July all at once.

"Back it up! Move! Move! Move!" I yelled. I was
moving backwards, firing with my rifle held high,
between my hip and my shoulder.

Bob was shouting, "Go! Go! Go! Damn it! Go/"

And the gooks were shouting to each other just like
we were. There was a hell of a racket out there.

COVERT ACTIONS

17

I had backed away about forty feet and had emptied
one clip and reloaded when pop! I was knocked for-
ward and down, face-first into the mud. I was in a
very small clearing, about the size of a bathroom, and
the mud there had come halfway up my shins. I
dropped my rifle when I went down, and pain started
shooting through my head.

I tried to get up. I got my knees under me and could
support my weight with my left arm, but when I tried
to stand up I fell to the right. I couldn't hold my head
up, and my vision was blurred. I tried once again,
but that time I couldn't even get my head off the
ground. I couldn't move my right leg or my right
arm, and every once in a while my body would jerk.

"Goddamn, I'm hit!" I yelled. I could still hear
the team shooting, and shouting to each other, but my
own words sounded distant and echoed in my head.
"They've blown my head off. Bob!"

"Damn you. Jay! You son of a bitch!" he shouted
back. He didn't want to leave me, but he knew he
had to. He was shouting to the team to move back
when a couple of NVAs ran past me. Two more en-
tered the clearing and stopped to look down at me. I
heard Bob yell "Let's go!" one more time, and that
was the last English I heard.

I could feel something warm running down the nape
of my neck. I thought the gooks might shoot me if I
moved, but I had to know how bad it was, so I felt
the back of my head with my left hand. I could feel
a large knot and a cut, but nothing that felt like jelly.
I wasn't losing any brains, anyway. If I had been
shot, it wasn't bad. There hadn't been an explosion,
so I was sure it wasn't a grenade or a mine. I probably
tripped a deadfall or Malay sling, and a pole or some

18 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

part of it had hit me a glancing blow on the head. It
had knocked the hell out of me.

My vision was starting to clear, but the pain was
still throbbing through my head. I could hear shots
fired somewhere in the distance, and I instinctively
felt for my rifle. I couldn't find it anywhere,

Several more NVA had come into the clearing.
They just stood there and looked down at me. Finally,
one rolled me over and stuck the muzzle of his rifle
in my chest and started jabbering at me. I didn't know
what he was saying, so I just lay there and looked at
him. Then he reached down and ripped my shirt open.
That seemed to be a signal to the others, who started
pulling my boots off and ripping my pockets to get
everything out of them.

One of them found my beret. He walked over to
me, shouting^ and kicked me in the nuts. The pain
took my breath away, and I had to struggle for air.
They rolled me over and stuck my face down in the
mud. I knew I'd had it then. I just knew I'd had the
big Green Weenie. He held me by the hair and put
his entire weight into pushing my head down. If I
struggled, I just burrowed my face deeper in the mud.
I tried to hold my breath, but I hadn't had a chance
to catch a deep breath when they rolled me over, and
soon my lungs were demanding air. I clamped my
lips together, but very soon an involuntary gasp filled
my nostrils with mud. I struggled harder, twisting and
wriggling my body to throw him off, but one of them
kicked me in the groin again. The sharp pain forced
another gasp past my clamped lips, and my mouth
filled with foul slime.

They rolled me over to twist my arms up behind
my back and tie my wrists together. I vomited, and

COVERT ACTIONS          19

cleared most of the mud from my mouth. They didn't
cross my wrists. They made a loop around one wrist
and then around the other, and jerked them so that
my palms were together. They tied off the loops, then
went around three or four more times and tied another
knot in the middle. They used something like a strip
of leather about half an inch wide. It wasn't rope.

When they tightened my hands down behind my back
I felt a warmth surge through my body, like someone
had injected hot coffee into my veins. I thought for a
second, "I'm dying now, they've suffocated me. In a
moment everything will go black." But it didn't. That
was when I realized they were tying my hands. Feeling
was returning to them, but too late. They already had
several turns of leather on my wrist.

Then they kicked me in the groin again and rolled
me over on my back. I was hurting too much from
the kick to fight, but at least I could breathe. I sucked
in a deep breath—still tasting the foul gray mud, but
it didn't matter right then,

I expected they would take my diving watch, but
they overlooked it or something. It was on a black
band and had been in the mud. Possibly they hadn't
seen it. I wore it on the inside of my wrist, and it was
partly covered by the bonds.

They worked on tying my feet while I gasped for
breath, and then they started kicking and stomping on
my legs. It surprised and confused me at first, then I
blacked out for a while. They really worked me over.
When I did come around, I realized they did it to make
my legs swell so it would be harder to get the bonds
off, and to make it hard for me to escape if I did get
loose.

When I realized again what was going on, they were

20 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

dragging me off into the bush. I couldn't see any fa-
miliar surroundings or anything. One of my eyes
wouldn't open all the way- It didn't feel swollen. I just
couldn't lift the lid more than a tiny slit. Even with the
other eye open, I couldn't see anything but the under-
growth they were dragging me through. They were
dragging me face down, by my amis, and limbs and
leaves kept slapping me in the face. I was worried that
a broken limb or thorn might jab me in the eye, and I
tried to keep my race turned back and to the side.

Then I'd think, "Shit! Don't worry about getting
an eye gouged out! They're going to do it anyway!"

I passed out several times while they were dragging
me.

While I was out I had nightmares about Bac Lieu.
I had visions of the men that had their genitals sev-
ered and stuffed in their mouths, and I was one of
them. I guess the pain in my groin and the shitty taste
of the mud in my mouth contributed to that.

Then I woke up. They'd stopped dragging me.
They'd taken me to the edge of their camp, but they
didn't take me on in. I guess I was too much of a
load for them and they got tired. There were three of
them around me. They had me on my side, and one
guy had hold of my forearm. When I tried to
straighten up, he lifted up on my forearm and it would
hurt through the shoulders.

I could hear voices and shouting and laughter. It
sounded to me like a village full of cannibals carrying
on over the missionary in the pot, hollering and whoop-
ing it up over the big kill they'd just made—or were
going to make.

CHAPTER 2

The people from the camp kept coming over and
looking at me. It was annoying. It made me feel like
a goddamned monkey in a cage. They'd come over
and they'd look down at me, and some of them would
kick me in the nuts with their insteps. It wasn't a hard
kick, just enough to hurt without making them numb.
It gave me belly cramps, and it hurt way up into my
chest. Every now and then one of them would kick
me in the back. The unexpected, sharp pain would
make my back arch. Then they would kick me in the
groin again and make me double up the other way.

They just wanted to keep me down. I was so much
bigger than they were, I think they were afraid I might
get loose and take after them.

After a while, the pain from getting kicked in the
21

22 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

groin just became part of a general overall pain. It
still hurt to get kicked, but the intensity was less. My
body would jerk, but the pain just didn't register in
my mind like it had before -

It was tough to judge what time of day it was, but
the rain had stopped, and the sun broke through the
clouds. It got hot fast with the sun beating down, and
the wet ground started steaming. The sun in my eyes
made my head hurt worse, and the drying mud on my
face gave me a peculiar feeling of tightening.

I was lying on my back with my arms under me,
and I noticed a lump in my back where my left wrist
was. I moved my arms and the lump moved also,
That was when I first realized they had overlooked
my diving watch. It had a compass attached.

One of them came up with a bamboo pole. It wasn't
a thick one, just an inch or so around. They were yack-
ing at each other, and they'd poke me with the damned
pole, in the face or in the belly or in the groin—espe-
cially in the groin. They seemed to get their kicks out
of that. When I stopped reacting to the kicks enough to
satisfy them, they began to whack me with the pole.
They hit me on the shins, causing big welts that began
to throb. Then they began to hit me on the ends of my
toes, and it hurt like the devil, like jamming your finger.
It made the joints swell and stiffen.

They just kept on and on like that, whacking me with
the pole and kicking me in the groin every once in a
while. The pain was like when you got a whipping.
They'd hit or kick and then wait a second or so to let
the blood come back, and then hit or kick again. Then
they'd wait, and hit or kick, wait, and hit or kick . . .

They'd say things to me in Vietnamese, but of course
I couldn't understand what they were saying. They

COVERT ACTIONS         23

weren't cursing me or spitting on me or anything like
that. I think it was just the usual military questions:

"How many of you were there? Where were you sup-
posed to rendezvous? What was your mission?" But
they didn't torture me to get information, because I
couldn't understand their questions and they didn't seem
to have anyone there who spoke English.

With all that, they didn't cut on me or anything.
They must have known I was Special Forces, and
they were holding off on that shit until I was ques-
tioned by someone who spoke English. I'd been
wounded in the head already, and they'd probably get
their asses chewed out if they did something to me
that killed me before they could interrogate me.

Finally, I was too dazed to react at all anymore, and
I closed my eyes and thought, "To hell with it. I'm just
going to sleep and end it all." That was when they left
me alone. When I realized they were gone, I tried to
open my eyes. My left eye still wouldn't open all the
way, and I couldn't get clear vision through it. Pain
shot through my head with every pulse-beat, and my
body throbbed all over from the beating. My toes felt
like they'd been broken, and the bonds on my wrists
and ankles were cutting off the circulation to my hands
and feet and making them swell and throb. I thought,
"Jesus, I wish I had an aspirin."

Then I got mad. Mad as hell.

When I did get my eyes open and focused, I was
looking at a thicket of bush about ten feet away. There
wasn't anything else in my line of sight, but I could
hear sounds around me as if there was a camp. I tried
looking over my shoulder, and no one hit me or
kicked me, so I rolled onto my back and then onto
my other side, to look around- The nearest gooks were

24 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

thirty or forty feet away. Several of them were squat-
ting by a fire. One of them turned his head and
glanced at me. I thought, "Oh shit, here they come
again," but he just turned back to the fire.

There were other groups sitting here and there under
tittle thatched roofs that kept the rain off their cooking
fires. It wasn't a big area, just a sort of park about thirty
yards across, with grass six or eight inches high, and
bush and trees scattered around. A couple of Americans
were sitting propped against a tree about twenty yards
from me, and scattered around the area were other pris-
oners lying face down, or on their sides. They were all
tied like I was, but the gooks didn't have us in a group,
and that confused me. I thought they'd want to have us
all together so if something happened they could ma-
chine-gun us all at once.

One thing I realized for sure: since this wasn't a pris-
oner-of-war camp, but rather a temporary camp, they
were going to take me somewhere else to be interro-
gated.

I knew what that meant: more heatings, more kick-
ing, water torture, bamboo slivers under the finger-
nails. Days on end of it. A cage too short to stand in
and too cramped to sit down in. Rice and maggots to
eat. Or they might decide to make an example of me
to convince someone else to talk. In that case, they
would really come up with something fiendish: bam-
boo slivers in the nostrils and ears, even in the anus
and the penis. A barbed stick rammed up the anus so
the intestine would tear itself to pieces trying to elim-
inate it. Or the old favorite—skinning alive.

I had to get out of there before they could start.

I didn't have anything to lose by trying to get away.
There was a slim chance I could make it, but a slim

COVERT ACTIONS          25

chance was better than no chance at all. I stopped
thinking about giving up and dying and started plan-
ning a way to get the hell out.

There was activity all around, people coming and
going all the time. There were fifteen to eighteen
gooks in sight, and it seemed as if there were more
out in the bush, but I couldn't be certain.

One of the gooks squatting nearby was muttering.
Every now and then he would repeat the same words,
and you could see some of them shake their heads. I
don't know if that meant the same thing to them as it
did to me, but it looked like something was wrong. I
imagined they were waiting for someone in charge
and wondering why he hadn't arrived.

A couple of hours went by without my being kicked
or beaten any more, and my head started clearing
some. Every five or ten minutes one of the gooks
would come over and poke at me a little bit, just to
harass me and check on me.

The sun had gone behind the clouds again, and it
wasn't bright enough to see very far but it was light
enough to see the other prisoners and the enemy sol-
diers. It seemed to be getting somewhat darker, as if
it was getting later in the afternoon. That's when I
began to believe I could actually escape. I said to
myself, "I can get out of here." Then I asked myself,
"How?" as if I were two people carrying on a con-
versation. I answered back, "Just do it. Just cut the
hell out. If I can get the feeling back in my legs and
feet ..." They tingled because circulation to them
had been cut off by the shrinking leather strap.

I just had to get over to that damned thicket of bush
and get into it. I didn't know where I would go once

26 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

I got there, but I knew damned good and well it would
conceal me until I could get my hands and feet loose.

Of course, if they saw me escaping they might shoot
me- Not likely if my hands and feet were still tied,
but if I got them loose . . . More likely, they would
just catch me and beat me some more- I surely didn't
have anything to lose, so I wasn't scared. I was just
determined to get away.

I thought, "If I'm going to do it, I need to go now,
but it's too light. If the damned sun would just set! I
wish there was a pull-chain I could yank and turn that
cocksucker out!" It got darker and soon started to
rain. That worried me, because my sense of time,
based on the dimming sunlight, might be off by sev-
eral hours. If the sun came out again after I'd made
my move there'd be no way I could hide from them.

The rain began to soften the caked mud on my face
and body. I rolled over on my side. My diving watch
was still on my arm, and I thought, "I've got to keep
that. I need to roll over on my back and keep that
watch in the mud. If the rain washes all the mud off
they'll see it and take it." So I rolled over on my
back, even though it was uncomfortable to lie on my
arms, and let the rain wash the mud off my face.

The gooks kept coining over to check on me every
few minutes, and I pretended to be in a daze.

There was movement going on all around me, even
on the other side of the thicket of brush I wanted to get
to, but suddenly everything got quiet. The normal jun-
gle noises stopped. The gooks stopped their muttering
and chattering, and a couple of them came over to stand
beside me, their weapons in their hands. I saw others
go do the same with other prisoners. One took his foot
and pushed over the two Americans propped against the

COVERT ACTIONS          27

tree. It didn't take much imagination to guess why:

someone was in the area. An American or South Viet-
namese patrol? Or the people they were waiting for?
The torture might be just beginning, or they might be
about to end my worries with a bullet.

The two gooks watching me suddenly took off into
the bush at a run. I relaxed a little. I wasn't going to
be shot right away, at least, but there was a patrol out
there. If it was one of ours, it might mean a rescue.
But these gooks would put a bullet in my head if it
looked like I was about to be rescued. If I wasn't
killed by a grenade or a stray bullet first. "God," I
prayed, "don't let this be a rescue attempt. I've got
a better chance of getting away on my own!"

About thirty minutes later, I guess—it seemed
longer—I heard gunfire. There was one shot, and then
a few seconds later I heard six or seven shots over
toward the other side of the camp. All the other gooks
I could see had their attention turned that way.

It was time to go.

I used my feet and my shoulders as much as I could,
and I rolled and rolled and rolled. It seemed like I'd
never get to the bush. Every move sent pain searing
through my bruised muscles and strained tendons.
Each time I rolled over, my head seemed like it was
going to split apart.

Once I was in that clump of brush, I started pushing
with my feet and inch-worming with my body, or
rolling from side to side and pulling myself along on
my back with my shoulders. I kept crawling and
pushing and crawling and pushing and crawling until
I got to an area where the bush was thicker. I man-
aged to crawl under where it was the thickest. I hadn't

28 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

gone that far—probably thirty or forty yards. Maybe
it was only half that far, and it just seemed farther.

I was tired, so I just lay there a while to get my breath
and think things out. Where the hell was I going to go?
Here I was, my hands and feet tied, lying under a bush
in a remote part of the Mekong Delta. There probably
wasn't another white man within twenty miles, except
for that patrol, and they were in contact with Chariie. I
wasn't going to be able to go to anyone for help. Most
likely the villagers around here would turn me in to the
NVA, even if they didn't favor the communists, just to
avoid trouble later.

I was going to have to save myself.

A slight breeze brought a whiff of salt air and an
idea: if I could just get to the water, I might be able
to hide there until a patrol boat came by. This area
was patrolled regularly. I had a mental image of my-
self hiding under overhanging foliage along a steep
bank while Chariie searched the bank, until a PBR
sped by. The water was my element, and I convinced
myself if I could just get to it, I'd be safe. My captors
were probably all soldiers. I hadn't seen any diving
gear in the camp. Probably they couldn't even swim,
at least not well. I was sure they'd never find me.

I lay there fifteen or twenty minutes, resting and
thinking. Just about the time I was getting ready to
move on again, I heard movement in the bush. They
were out there hunting me. Instead of moving on, I
had to crawl farther into the bush and hide. I listened
and could tell from the sounds that they were coming
closer. I closed my eyes and tried to convince myself
I was invisible. "They can't see me," I thought.
"They can look right at me and not see me." I was
psyching myself up to lie there without moving. I

COVERT ACTIONS          29

pictured myself lying there in the bushes, and then
made the image of my body fade out so the bushes
could be seen right through me. Then I concentrated
on that picture while they searched all around me.

There were sounds of movement everywhere.
Twigs snapped, branches scratched against cloth,
boots squished in the mud. I could hear one of the
searchers breathing from the exertion of walking in
that goop. "He must be awfully close," I thought,
and tried to control my own breathing while concen-
trating on that mental image. Brush rustled some-
where near my head.

Then a heavy weight suddenly mashed my foot into
the mud! He'd stepped on my foot! I stifled a gasp of
surprise and pain, but my body stiffened in anticipa-
tion of a kick or a bullet. Disappointment at failing
to escape and the certainty that I would be beaten and
kicked again filled my guts. And anger. I was angry
at God, at the gooks, at everything. "Oh, fuck, this
is it! I've had it now," I thought. "God, couldn't
you be on my side just this once?" Then I thought,
"Hell, I don't give a shit. Might as well get it over
with." I was trying to convince myself.

I lay there waiting for what seemed like hours. It
couldn't really have been more than a couple of minutes
before I realized he was moving on, slowly, still search-
ing every bush. The mud was so deep and soft my feet
had just sunk in under his weight. He probably thought
he'd stepped on a rotten limb or something.

"God," I said silently, "I'm sony I got mad at You.
Thank You. I know You're on my side now."

After the gook was gone, I listened until the sounds
of their search moved away. Then I took off, crawling.

30 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

I went another forty or fifty feet, I guess, and then
stopped again. I didn't hear any more movement.

By now 1 could move a lot more freely. I had
worked some of the stiffhess and soreness out of my
bruised muscles. I started thinking about getting my
hands free. I crawled into a little area that was open
enough for me to move around, and I started working
on getting them free.

Just as I got started, I heard the gooks coming back,
I went ahead anyway.

When I was a kid, I used to "turn cattails." That
means you hold onto a bar or a limb and work your
legs up between your arms. Some call it "skinning a
cat." I got over on my side, and I started trying to
work my hands down. With my long legs and my
long arms, and the way I was tied, it was awfully
hard to bring my arms down and put my feet back
through them. I kept working and working at it. And
I kept rustling the brushes and making other noises. I
was sure they would bring the gooks over to find me.
The bruises on my arms and legs made them ache
from the strain and stretching I was putting them
through. Worse was the shooting pain in my testicles.
They were swollen from the heatings too, and they
were being mashed between my thighs as I tried to
force my legs through my arms above the bonds.
Every once in a while I would have to stop to listen
and rest a little, and then start up again.

I finally got one foot through, but I couldn't work
the other one up high enough. My legs hurt bad.
Forcing my wrists apart as far as they could go put
an extra twist in the thong that bound them and cut
off the circulation to my hands. Even though my fin-
gers were tingling and swollen, I could move them,

COVERT ACTIONS         31

and I was finally able to grab my pant leg and squeeze
it and pull my leg up. I worked at it about thirty
minutes before I got it up and through.

All this time the gooks were out there. I could hear
them moving around, hunting for me, and I had to be
careful not to make noise while I worked. Fortu-
nately, they never got as close as they had been on
their first sweep through the area.

After I got my hands in front of me, I waited and
listened a little while. Then I started trying to untie my
feet. They had taken my knife, or I would have just
pulled it out and cut the bonds. I could reach the knot
but it was tied awfully goddamn tight, and when I tried
to pull on the knot to loosen it, my hands wouldn't grip
the wet leather. They were too hurt and swollen. Nei-
ther could I bend over and pull my feet up enough to
reach the knot with my teeth—that would have been
hard enough anyway, and I was too sore from the beat-
ing and kicking to bend very far. The knot between my
wrists was on the wrong side, and I couldn't get to that
with my teeth either, so I tried working my hands to
loosen the leather. That only made the bonds tighter and
caused my wrists to hurt worse.

I was going to have to get by with my feet and
hands tied.

Finally, I decided I'd try to stand up and see if I
could get along better by hopping. I rolled over and
got up onto my knees and slowly stood up from that
position. Balancing was difficult. My legs were weak
and tingling, and my feet were tingling and asleep. I
could hop, but it jarred me. With every hop, my nuts
would bounce. That hurt. I could stand up, but I
couldn't move as fast as I could by crawling.

I could get to the cover on my watch, and I pulled

32      James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

that off with my teeth and looked at the compass. I
knew I had to go south to get to the coast and east to
get to the river. Any other direction would just lead
me farther into the paddies.

It was 2030—8:30 P.M., civilian time.

I got back down and started crawling southeast. I
could make better time if I could grab something or
hook an elbow against something and pull. I could
move my legs better than I could earlier too. I stayed
in the thickets, because there I had better cover and I
could hook an aim around a bush or put a foot against
a root and help myself along.

I could hear the VC around me, beating the bush
for me. They knew I was in there, but they never did
come close. I just crawled on and on.

When I got to the shoreline, I figured I had crawled
about half a mile from the camp.

When I got close to the shoreline, I could smell the
water and hear the sloshing of the waves on the beach.
Then I wondered about the time, and I suddenly
thought, "The fuckin' tide's going out! And it'll be
after midnight before it starts coming back in!" That
would mean a hundred feet or so of open ground to
cross before I could get to the water.

When I came to the final trceline, I lay there and
looked at the opening and thought, "The only thing left
between me and escape is crossing that damned opening
and getting to the water." There might be places where
the gap between the bush and the water was narrower,
or where some driftwood had piled up all the way across
it, but there wasn't any as far as I could see up or down
the shoreline. I would cross right here.

I figured once I got to the water I could get out far
enough so that I couldn't be seen when I surfaced for

COVERT ACTIONS         33

air. If I had to, I could work myself along the bank,
hold myself in shallow water near the shoreline, and lie
in water about three feet deep and just push myself up
for breaths. I didn't want to get out into deep water. If
I stayed in the water long enough, the tide would come
in and that would take me out to the channel anyway,
but by then it would be near dawn and getting light,
and I had a chance of being picked up by a passing
boat. This part of the river was heavily patrolled, and
the chances of a boat passing near enough to see me
were pretty good. So I lay there and listened for sounds
of people moving through the bush, and thought about
how I could cross that area quickly. My head had cleared
up quite a bit by this time.

I heard a boat run by. I couldn't see it, but I heard
it. It was probably way out in the middle of the channel.

There were no sounds of anyone beating the bushes
nearby, so I started- I worked my way down to the
high-tide line. I couldn't crawl fast, and I knew the
damned VC were still around there looking for me,
even if I couldn't hear them at the moment. I knew
Fd leave a trail they would easily spot and could fol-
low, where I went in, but there was no helping it.

When I reached the open area I swung my body
around parallel to the water and started rolling over
and over. The bottom was fine silt and mud, which
made rolling difficult. My elbows and feet slipped,
and I got coated with the shit again. I hoped it would
wash off when I got into the river, or it would really
weigh me down. Then I rolled into the water. For the
first few feet it was more hindrance than help, but
when I reached a depth of four inches or so I was
able to lie on my back and push myself along with
my feet and get out into greater depth.

34 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

I tell you, when I hit that water I was really re-
lieved.

1 stayed in the shallow water, four or five feet deep,
along the edge so I could stand on the bottom and
stick my head above the surface to breathe. I had to
fight the current from upriver and the tide coming in
from the other direction to hold my position. The river
was dumping out into the sea and the tide was bring-
ing the sea in, and the water backed up where the two
met. The water kept getting deeper and forcing me in
toward the shore.

The moon was rising, and I could see that the
clouds were low and broken. Sometimes the moon
would be obscured and I could breathe easy, but
sometimes the clouds would open up and the moon-
light seemed as bright as day to me. The closer I was
forced toward the shore the better chance the gooks
had to spot me, so I stayed out where the waves would
just barely break over my head.

There was nothing to do out there but think.

First I thought about the patrol. I wondered how
many had been killed, and how many had been shot
up, or if they'd all gotten away- Had any of the others
been captured? I didn't think so: I probably would
have seen them. Several of them could have been shot
up. I hoped Bob was all right, although why I should
be concerned about that hard-nosed bastard I couldn't
begin to explain.

I thought about the other prisoners back at the
camp. Had any of them tried to escape? Did the gooks
beat on them when they found me gone? Probably,
though I hoped not.

I thought about my mother and my brother. I used
to worry that Mom might just fall apart if I was killed.

COVERT ACTIONS         35

Now I knew better. I knew she'd adjust. She'd cry
awhile, but then she'd go back to work. She'd go on.
My brother, too. I wasn't indispensable.

I stood out there up to my neck in the Mekong
River and thought about drinking bouts and bar fights,
and how I came to be in the Navy in the first place,
and what I was going to do next, or when dawn came.
I tried to decide what I would do if the gooks came
along the beach and found the trail where I entered
the water and sent a boat out to look for me.

I was out there maybe an hour or so before they
came. One man appeared on the muddy strip between
the water and the jungle and worked his way down-
stream- Just as he came to the tracks, the clouds parted
and let the moon shine through, so of course he saw
them. He looked out toward the river for a few min-
utes, then disappeared into the jungle- Five minutes
later he was back with five or six others. They saw
where I went in, and four of them even got out into
the water and started looking around. I caught my
breath and sank to the bottom and rested there until I
needed another breath. Then I'd pop up for a quick
breath and sink down again.

It was still night, but I could see. I could see them
every time I popped up for air. I really lucked out. A
night with a full fucking moon.

I could hear them talking and splashing in the water
around me. They weren't close, but if they kept wading
around out there they were going to find me. Each time
I'd sink back down after surfacing for air, I thought the
next time I popped back up they'd be standing there and
they'd see me. They couldn't wade out to where I was,
but they were working out to where the water was

36 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

maybe chest deep, looking and kicking at the water.
When I was under water I could hear the splashes-

At first I had been sticking my whole head up to
breathe, but now I just let my nose and face break the
surface, gulped in some air, and went back down. I did
that repeatedly, until about 0130 or 0200, when the tide
started to recede. The gooks stayed right there, working
farther from the shoreline as the tide went out.

Persistent little bastards,

That's when 1 decided it wasn't any good staying
there any longer. I had to get the nick out. If I got into
that goddamned channel I'd have a chance—a remote
chance, maybe, but a chance. So 1 started swimming.

In the Navy, they teach you what we called the
"worm swim." You can worm your body, that is, move
it like a worm, and you can actually swim, even with
your hands and feet tied. I had my hands in front of me
to help me too. I wasn't worried about the current. I
just wanted to get away from the VC and stay alive. So
I'd go down and worm-swim toward the channel just
below the surface, and worm my way to the top for a
breath. Just before I broke the surface I'd roll over on
my side, and by turning my head, I'd let my nose and
mouth break the surface for a quick breath. Every other
time or so, I'd just float there for a while and get several
breaths, and then I'd glance back. It seemed like the
shoreline just stayed at the same distance. I could see
the gooks only faintly because of the darkness, but they
were still there, still looking.

I didn't think much while I was out there- I was
too busy thinking about catching my next breath and
about the gooks on the beach to worry about anything
else. After a while, I noticed the beach and the gooks
were farther away. I was out where the current was

COVERT ACTIONS          37

sweeping me toward the sea. I could hear the roar of
the breakers when I was submerged. For some reason
it reminded me of an old hymn that I used to hear
when I was a kid and went to church regularly, some-
thing about Crossing the Bar. The refrain ran through
my mind again and again as I surfaced for a breath
and sank back, floated for a while, then surfaced for
a breath and sank back , . . and all the time was swept
farther out to sea: "Let there be no moaning of the
bar, when I put out to sea."

It was a relief to be out of their sight, but at the same
time I was a little scared. I had escaped from the gooks,
but now I was depending on a boat to come along and
rescue me before I got exhausted and drowned.

The water began to get salty, and soon I was able to
float with less effort. I surfaced and rolled over on my
back to float for a time, to let my exhausted muscles
rest.

I couldn't keep it up endlessly, of course. It still
required a certain amount of effort, and the kick I had
to do with my feet tied wasn't a good one, and pulled
things in my groin. After a while, it was back to the
routine of surface and breathe, hold your breath and
relax, let yourself float just at or below the surface
until you have to breathe again, and repeat it again
. . . and again . . . and again.

I was exhausted from the effort of the escape, and
from the swimming, and from the beating. Every
muscle ached, and every bruise throbbed. My head
pounded, back where I'd been hit. If only I could just
lie still for a time, close my eyes, and let sleep take
over! It was like those long hours on sentry duty, or
when you're sitting on an ambush and nothing is hap-
pening, but you're awake, and you start to remember

38      James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

something that happened or some girl that you liked,
then suddenly you awake with a start as your head
starts to sink toward your chest. I had to fight to keep
from dozing off, even though I was holding my breath
and then struggling to the surface to breathe. Sleep
became a very real threat to me. If I dozed off, I'd
drown. It might seem impossible to someone who has
never been that tired, but a couple of times I was
startled awake when I almost opened my mouth to
breathe while I was still under the water.

It quit raining, and the visibility got better. About
0915 I heard a boat coming. I heard him coming when
he was still miles away, even over the growling of
the breakers. I knew it was a PBR or a Swift boat
because of the moan of the engines and the high-
speed propellers. For a long time it seemed as if he
wasn't getting any closer, but then suddenly he was
right on top of me. Then I got a little scared that he
might run right over me, but they passed about twenty
yards away. I kicked to the surface and broke the
water with my head and shoulders and raised my
hands over my head. They saw me and circled back.
The coxswain cut the engines and they coasted up
beside me. The twin-fifty on the bow was pointed
right down at me, and some of the crew had rifles
pointed at me as well. I didn't care at that point.

"Get me outa this water," I croaked.

"He's an American!" somebody yelled, and the
guns swiveled away. Three crewmen came to the rail
and reached down and pulled me up. It was a Coastal
River Squadron boat.

They didn't bother to untie me: one sailor got out his
knife and they cut that shit off me. Then it really hurt!
It was like when you mash your thumb and when the

COVERT ACTIONS          39

blood returns to it it throbs. They rubbed my hands and
feet to help the circulation, and, oh my God, it hurt!

I looked down at my diving watch, still on my
wrist, and thought, "Thank God they overlooked it!"
Then 1 leaned back and took a deep breath, and
thought, "Well, you made it, you old son of a bitch."

I told them what had happened to me. And I told
them, "They've got more prisoners in there. Some-
body ought to get *em out."

"Well, where's it at?" they wanted to know.

"I'll lead ye back in there. I want to kick some
gook ass."

"Fuck that. You're in no shape to lead us anywhere.
Tell us where it is and we'll call it in to Command."

I told them the coordinates as best I could. I told
them how far I had come out, and how far I thought
I had crawled. Hell, I was on my damned belly and
crawling five or six hours. Then I was in the water
another ten or twelve, something like that.

They radioed in, and somebody got on the stick and
sent the air cav. An hour later they arrived and went
in. They did a good job, too. They hit the camp fast
and pinned the gooks with their backs against the
water. They really kicked ass. The coordinates I gave
got them within about fifty yards of the place. They
got there just in time, too, because the enemy had
three or four sampans in there and had loaded some
of the prisoners up. They rescued twenty-one prison-
ers altogether, but they only got twelve or fourteen
kills. The rest of the gooks got away, but they didn't
take any of the prisoners with them. One of the pri-
soners said they'd had him three or four days. Some
of them were South Vietnamese—1 just hadn't seen
them—and some of them may have been civilians.

40 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

I asked the coipsman about my head, and he said,
"You've got a pockmark back there: it's busted, but it
won't do any good to put stitches in it. It's not that
deep."

The NVA were starting to build back up in the area.
There had been a major battle there back in 1967, and
it had been patrolled pretty heavily until the Americans
started pulling out. When the patrols slacked off, Char-
lie infiltrated. The villagers had dug tunnels for air-raid
shelters and hideouts, and the NVA took them over.

The guys, they didn't have much to say, except
Bob, who told me, "We were going back in there.
We'd told Command that we'd lost you and we were
going in to get you out."

I was the only one captured. Several of the guys
were hit, in the leg or the arm or the side—fatty-tissue
wounds, nothing serious. No bones broken. They
were able to maneuver around, and they got out. Of
course, when the gooks got me and started hollering,
the patrol knew about it-

1 hadn't done anything heroic. I had just wanted to
get the hell out of there. I was just trying to survive.

CHAPTER 3

I get frustrated when I think about being captured,
and I especially resent getting my ass whipped. I
swore I was never going to let them get me in that
position again, that nobody was ever going to get me
down and stomp my ass like that. As long as I could
get a finger on the trigger, I'd take as many of them
as I could with me, and save the last round for my-
self. If I lost my rifle again, I'd pull the pin on a frag
and lie on the son of a bitch before I'd let them get
their fucking hands on me.

Sometimes I dream about swimming with my hands
and feet tied. They tell me that I lie on my side and
move my hands together in a swim stroke as though
they were tied. Sometimes I just swim and swim and
swim, and it gets harder and harder to break the sur-
41

42      James R. Reeves and James C. Tayfor

face for a breath, and the boat never comes. Some-
times I'm swimming to get away from the enemy and
one of them is swimming after me, or they're coming
after me in a boat, holding torches over the water.

When I got back from 'Nam, before they'd let me
furlough home, I had to go see this shrink and tell
him about all the bad shit I did over there. I went in
every day and talked to that son of a bitch for an hour,
but it only took me about ten minutes to figure out
that he wasn't hearing a word I was saying. I could
tell from the stupid questions he'd ask that he hadn't
been listening. Every time I'd stop talking for a while
he asked some question to get me started again. He
wasn't listening to the answer, he was only hearing
the sound of my voice.

That pissed me off. He was a doctor, and he was
supposed to help the veterans who came there to ad-
just to life in the Land of the Big PX after they'd
been through all that murder and mayhem over in
'Nam. He was getting paid for it. He probably
charged the goddamned taxpayers fifty bucks an hour
to sit there and draw dirty pictures on his little note-
pad. But he couldn't be bothered with listening. How
the fuck would he know if you had a problem?

I started saying all sorts of shit, saying the ABCs,
describing how I'd fucked his wife the night before,
telling him how I was going to rearrange his face . . .
he didn't hear any of it. He never reacted to anything
except his nurse ringing to remind him the session
was over, or when I quit talking. I tried just not say-
ing anything, but the son of a bitch would repeat his
stupid questions over and over and over like a broken
record until I started talking again. Then I could start
reciting, "Mary had a little lamb . . ." and the dumb

COVERT ACTIONS          43

fucker would start scribbling on his pad like he was
taking notes.

Finally, about the third session, or maybe the
fourth, I stood up and walked out the rucking door,
still talking. I don't think he ever noticed.

His nurse squawked, "Where are you going? The
session isn't over!"

I told her, "Yes it is, lady. It was over three days
ago."

I didn't go back. I went on my furlough home.

That lasted about three days too. I listened to how
everybody's crops were, and how their kids were
doing in school, and who was still married and who
was divorced, and after a while I realized I didn't
care, so I got drunk and stayed drunk. Then I had to
listen to their complaining about my drinking. Fi-
nally, I got on the plane back to San Diego and spent
the rest of my two weeks partying around. I even
made the jail in Tijuana.

There was some trouble there. I don't remember
much about it, but I woke up in the back of a van
with a hell of a hangover and my hands and feet man-
acled. The SPs had got me out of jail and were taking
me back to base. Uncle Sam had paid my fines and
docked my paycheck for the next six months to get
the money back. When they saw I wasn't violent, the
SPs took the manacles off and took me with them into
a cafe. Over coffee they laughed about me getting
picked up. They said it was just a Drunk-and-Disor-
derly until I resisted the Mexican police, and that it
took half the police force to lock me up. I told 'em
if I hadn't been drunk it would've taken the Mexican
army. It could be all bullshit for all I could remember,
but I had a knot on my head with some ugly-looking

44     James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

stitches in it and blood caked in my hair, and my ribs
were bruised like someone had kicked me there.

Shit, wouldn't you know it: when I reported back
to base they reassigned me to the damned Shore Pa-
trol. After the ass-chewing, of course.

I screwed around in the Shore Patrol for a couple
of months. The first few days were okay. I was doing
something different. But I just couldn't keep up my
enthusiasm for picking up drunks and AWOL sailors.
I sympathized with them too much. After all, I had
been in their shoes too many times. Sometimes there
would be a scuffle with a drunk, but for excitement it
didn't measure up to the months I'd just lived through.
It got dull pretty fast.

Then, one night out on a jeep patrol with my part-
ner, Bill Something-or-another, we came across a car
with its hood up on a residential street. A sticker on
the door said "Chaplain." There were two women in
it, and they seemed really happy to see us for some
reason. When we pulled up behind them, they got out
of their car and came back toward the Jeep to tell us
what was wrong. They were none too steady on their
feet, and they slurred their words and giggled when
they talked. It turned out one was an Episcopal chap-
lain's wife and the other was her sister. They'd gone
out for an evening off-base and developed "car trou-
ble" on the way back. They'd killed the engine and
flooded it when they tried to start it.

I got in the car and started it with no problem.
When Bill put the hood down, I told him, "Follow
me in the jeep. I'd better drive these broads home
. . . before they show their asses. Our asses would
be in trouble for not picking them up if they did, and

COVERT ACTIONS          45

if we take them in, the Chief 11 send 'em home and
chew our asses out for embarrassing the chaplain."

They couldn't agree about where they were going,
and kept arguing about where to turn or if I should
go straight. I finally got tired of it, grabbed the chap-
lain's wife's purse, and hunted through it until I found
her driver's license. The name on it was McFee. Pa-
tricia McFee. The address was nearby. When I pulled
into the driveway, the younger one squinted near-
sightedly at the door and said, "Oh, there it is! Stop
here!"

"If I didn't, we'd be parked in the living room,"
I told her.

"That sounds like a good idea," Mrs. McFee said.

I killed the engine and took the keys, and went
around to the other side to open the door. "Come on,
ladies, let's go in the house," I told them. I helped
them out of the car and steadied them each by the
arm until Bill came over and took the youngest one's
arm. We led them to the front door, where I tried the
keys one by one until I got the door open.

Inside, Mrs. McFee flopped down on the couch and
propped her feet on the coffee table. She wasn't very
careful about her skirt. As she slouched back against
the pillows it rode up over her knees and showed lots
of thigh. The younger lady tripped coming through
the door, and Bill had to catch her with both hands.
She smiled at him and put her arm around his neck
as he led her to a chair and sat her down.

I'd switched on the lights when we came in, and
got a good look at them for the first time. The younger
one was really a good-looking broad, and the chap-
lain's wife, who couldn't have been more than thirty,
wasn't bad either. Not at all what I would've ex-

46     James R. Reeves and James C. Tayior

pected. As she lay back on the couch with her skirt
pulled up, and grinning a lopsided, dmnken grin, it
would have been easy to forget she was somebody's
wife.

"Where's the chaplain?" I asked, thinking I'd bet-
ter get in touch with him and get him home. These
two might decide to go out somewhere else after we
left and get in trouble.

"He's out at sea," she said, almost gaily.

It was unlikely that he'd be coming in that night,
so I asked the other one about her husband.

"He's left my ass! Run away to Canada' He's a
draft dodger." She giggled.

"Your old men are gone, so you went out for the
evening and kicked up your heels, huh?"

"You got it, sailor!"

"Give the man a prize!"

I looked at Bill and shrugged. So much for that
effort. We'd have to try something else.

"How about if I fix you some coffee?" I asked
them.

"I don't want coffee." Mrs. McFee sounded de-
termined- She'd probably lock her jaw shut and refuse
to drink it.

"You ladies have had your fun this evening. You
need to sober up a little so we can leave and know
you won't get in any trouble."

"Aw-w-w-w," the younger girl pouted, "are you
goin' to leave us?"

"Don't want to get sober," Mrs. McFee insisted.

"Now, look, Mrs. McFee, this isn't a good situa-
tion for an officer's wife to be in, and a chaplain's
wife especially. It could be a real embarrassment to
your husband if you got into any trouble tonight, not

COVERT ACTIONS          47

to mention that Bill and me would get our butts
chewed out—pardon my French, ma'am—for not
headin' you off."

"Have you ever been 'headed off?" Mrs. McFee
said to her sister.

"No! How do we do it?"

"Mrs. McFee, your husband's career . . ."

"Fuck his career!"

Bill turned his head away to hide a snicker. "Lady,
you sure don't talk like a chaplain's wife," he said.

"I talk like I damn well please," she told him.
"I'm tired of bein' Miz Goody-goody all the god-
damn time. Can't say bad words, might upset th' ad-
miral's wife! Can't have but one drink at a party, the
ofTcirs wives might gossip! Can't wear shorts, some-
body might not like it! Can't swim in my bikini,
somebody might see me! Shit! It's like livin' in a
glass jar!"

I didn't blame her for feeling that way, but it wasn't
solving my problem.

"Is there somebody we could call for you?"

"Somebody to hold my hand, you mean? What's
wrong with you, sailor? Can't you hold it?"

"Maybe he likes guys!" her little sister butted in.

"Somebody to sober me up is what you mean,"
she went on, "somebody to babysit. Keep me outa
trouble- No, nobody you can call. You'll have to han-
dle th' job yourself. Make me a drink, sailor."

"That sounds like an order from an officer," I told
her.

"Iss an order from an officer's wife," she said,
slurring her words just a little.

"Me too. Make me one too, honey," the younger
girt said to Bill.

48 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

I looked over at Bill and shrugged.

"Well, what do you want?"

"Culabibra . . . cula . . . cubra ... oh, hell! Rum
*n' coke/* the younger one giggled.

"Scotch 'n' soda. In the pantry," added her sister.

Bill and I went into the kitchen.

"You're not going to give 'em more to drink!" he
said.

"What the hell," I told him. "If their husbands arc
gone, what'ne we going to do with 'em? Maybe they'll
get enough to drink and they'll pass out. Anyway,
they want us to stay around: they said so. Let's see
what they've got in mind." I was looking him in the
eye, and saw his pupils enlarge as he understood what
I was thinking.

"That's trouble with a capital T, man."

"Hand me that Scotch."

"You're not going to drink with them? You're on
duty!"

"I ain't that crazy!"

"Couldn't prove it by me."

"You Jist go out to the jeep and call in. Tell 'em
we brought them home and now we're gettin' 'em
quiet. I'll take care of things in here."

The women didn't sip their drinks, they gulped
them. I sat down on one end of the couch, and Bill
sat down on the arm of the chair where little sister
was sitting. They tried to get us to drink with them
but we told them no, we were on duty.

"Is being married to a chaplain worse than being
married to a minister?" I asked Mrs. McFee.

"No . . ."she said, letting her voice trail off as if
she were thinking about it-

COVERT ACTIONS         49

"Well, if you're damned unhappy, why'd you
marry him?"

"He wasn't a chaplain when we married. We were
in college. And he liked to party as much as anyone."

"When did he get religion?"

"When his student de-fer-ment ran out." She said
the word deferment very carefully.

"You mean, he became a minister so he wouldn't
have to go fight in 'Nam? You have to go to school
for that too."

"It's easier to get a deferment for studyin' religion
than for business administration. He got drafted any-
way, but a chaplain doesn't have to fight- And he gets
officer's pay."

"But it's not what you had in mind when you got
married."

"No. He was going to be a banker. A rich fuckin*
banker. We were goin'a live in a goddamned big
house and drive a fuckin' Cadillac. Now look at this
dump! And that piece of shit I'm drivin'!"

The house really wasn't very nice for an officer's
quarters, but it beat a fucking bunker in a firebase, or
a bunk in a barrack. The old Ford she drove had a
lot of miles on it, but lots of people drove worse. I
couldn't see she had so much to complain about.

"Well, be glad he's smart enough to stay out of it.
It ain't no place I'd send my worst enemy."

"He isn't that smart, he was just desperate. He
doesn't have any balls." I realized she didn't give a
shit about the guy. She'd married him for the money,
or the money she thought he was going to have, and
she felt cheated when he switched from banking to
religion.

She'd turned and was sitting with one leg thrown

50 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

up on the cushion of the couch. Her dress had worked
up even more as she wiggled her bun into a comfort-
able position, and she didn't bother to pull it down.
A little bit of her panties was showing. If she wasn't
on the make, no woman had ever been.

"Were you over there?" she was asking me.

"Yeah! Yeah." I had to get my mind off what was
in those panties. "I was over there. I'd still be there
except I was wounded."

"What ship were you on?"

"I wasn't on a ship. I was with the SEAL teams."

"Oh, I know who they are. They like to raise hell
a lot. And they have balls. You must have had balls."

"Yeah, and I still got *em," I said, thinking how
close I'd come to losing them.

"I'll bet you know what they're good for, too?"

I did.

Bill took the little sister into one of the bedrooms.
Pat—that's what she said I should call her—started
undressing right there in the living room.

"I wanta do it on the front lawn with the porch
light on," she told me. I talked her out of it.

Well, I was worried there might be some problems-
We were late calling in, and I thought the neighbors
might call the main gate and ask what was going on
at the chaplain's house, but nothing came of it.

As long as her husband was at sea, I'd meet her for
a few drinks and a roll in the hay. Rarely would I go
over there, only when it was already past midnight,
and then I'd leave before dawn. She seemed to get
her kicks from being indiscreet, though. She despised
her husband, or what he'd chosen to be, and instead
of leaving him, she was out to hurt him. I don't think
she was attracted to me especially. She'd made up

COVERT ACTIONS          5f

her mind to cheat on him, and I was a young, homy
sailor who was damned fool enough to screw around
with an officer's wife.

Bill and I brought in a drunk one weekend, a brown
water sailor who'd betfn back from 'Nam just a few
weeks, and he got a little wild when we started to
lock him up. He broke loose from Bill, who made a
grab at him. The guy caught Bill flush on the chin
with a right that backed him up against the bars and
glazed his eyes. Then he tried to kick me in the balls.
I got my knee up and partly turned, so that he just
got me with a glancing blow. He lunged right past
me and down the corridor between the cells. He was
heading for the front door, but he didn't get far. The
CPO on watch heard the ruckus and came to see what
was going on. When he stepped into the corridor the
guy hesitated for a second, and I caught up with him.
I grabbed him by the hair and threw him up against
the bars, banged his head against them a couple of
times, then let him have my nightstick in the kidneys
once or twice. I lost it for a minute. The CPO had to
stop me.

Later, after he complained all night about his side
hurting, they took him to the hospital. They thought
at first his kidney might be ruptured, but it was only
bruised.

It might have blown over with Just an ass-chewing,
but just after that Pat called. She wanted me to come
over after I got off duty. Like a fool, I did.

Then, when they took the sailor in to the hospital,
the CPO on watch wanted to get hold of me. I wasn't
in, so he called Bill. Bill was sleepy and tired, and
probably still a little dazed from the crack on the chin.

52      James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

The Chief got the number from him, and called, and
Pat answered the phone.

She answered, still half asleep, "McFee resi-
dence."

After that, the shit hit the fan. Needless to say, it
was the end of our relationship.

Sometimes I'd meet a girl in a bar, or on the beach,
and we'd be getting along just fine until she asked
what I did. When I told her I was a sailor, that was
usually enough for her to lose interest. To some of
them, just serving your country instead of yourself
was enough to mark a man as a damned fool. If she
stuck around after that, she would probably want to
know what I did in the Navy. That meant she had a
brother in the service, or relatives, maybe even her
father—or her husband. But when I told her 1 had
been with the Teams, she'd find some reason she
needed to be somewhere else.

There was the rare one that it didn't bother. One
spent an entire evening with me after she found out I
was a SEAL. It wasn't until we got to her apartment
that I found out she'd been a biker*s girl. She had
"Harley Davidson" tattooed on her butt and "If you
can read this stick out your tongue" right above her
pubic hair. The others were about as rough. Most of
them were looking for somebody to knock them
around a little, rough them up, maybe make them do
some kinky sex.

Not even the toughest ones stuck around after I had
a nightmare or a flashback when I spent the night.
When I was flashing back, they weren't in control
anymore. I wasn't playing by the rules, and it scared
them. So they'd leave, or kick me out of their place.

COVERT ACTIONS          53

I began to think I would never have a normal re-
lationship with a woman again. And this after just a
couple of months.

I didn't understand the people I met in San Diego,
so I went to L.A. and Frisco. There they were even
worse. Flower children with their values all warped.
I knew from my furlough that it wasn't any better
back in Arkansas, just different. People back there
had their tidy little lives, and there wasn't room for
me anymore. I had changed, and so had they. Even
though we grew up together and shared the same
background and culture, our values were just as dif-
ferent as mine were from the flower children and the
other fruits.

So I was contused, and lost, and uncomfortable
even around my own people.

I began to get angry.

When I got angry, I drank. When I drank, I got
drunk and angry and got into fights. When there was
trouble on the job, like when a sailor tried to fight us
when we picked him up, I went into a bar after I got
off duty and drank, and heaven help anybody that
even looked at me the wrong way.

They were usually short fights, and nobody got hurt
really bad. Either I was too drunk to fight and got my
ass waxed, or I was sober and they didn't stand a
chance. Some of the bartenders got to where they
didn't like to see me coming around.

I'd go down to where the SEALs hung out, in Co-
ronado. They were more friendly. I was one of them,
even if I wasn't part of their immediate team. I didn't
enjoy it that much. It made me feel washed up. A
has-been.

Over in this bar in Coronado where the SEAL teams

54      James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

hung out, I'd mn into their commander. He'd heard
from some of them I had been in the Teams and had
had a tour in *Nam. He introduced himself and we
had a few drinks. I guess I had more than a few,
because he told me, in a friendly way, I shouldn't
drink so damned much. "Stay off the damned rum,"
he said. "It'll rot your liver, if it doesn't get your

brain first."

I started telling him what a rough time I was having
getting adjusted to shore duty here in the States. He
asked me why I had transferred to the Shore Patrol,
and I told him. Then I told him I didn't like it at all.
He listened. He actually, honest-to-God listened, and
he heard what I said.

Then he told me his own story, and it sounded a
lot like mine. He'd come back from duty with the
Teams in 'Nam and gone through the same sort of
adjustment. For him, it resulted in a divorce. She'd
waited for him while he was in combat, but she
couldn't stand him when he got back. He started
drinking a lot, and even got into a fight with another
officer at a party. He damned near lost his rank before
a friend, a CPO with one of the Teams, straightened
him out.

"How'd he do that?" I'd wanted to know.

"He got me interested in soccer," he said, straight-
faced-

"Wha-a-at?"

"He went to the Admiral and told him he thought
he could help me, but the Admiral had to back him
up—in other words, make me cooperate. Then he
came to me and told me his son was on a city league
team, and they needed a coach, and I was him- Of
course, I told him to fuck off. He just called the Ad-

COVERT ACTIONS         55

miral and handed me the phone. The Admiral told me
to do it or I'd lose my commission and spend some
time in the brig drying out. It was the brig time that
bothered me."

"They wouldn't do that to a gold striper."

"They had me convinced. Anyway, I took it on.
Thought I could fiddle around out there for a few
weeks and they'd finally give up on me."

"So what happened?"

"I got interested. They were a great bunch of kids.
They had lots of spirit, they Just didn't know much
about the game. But they were eager, and that made
it easy to teach them. The first thing I knew, I really
cared whether the little fuckers won or lost. It got to
the point where I couldn't wait to get off duty so I
could go down there and work with those kids. I quit
drinking so much—1 had to, to measure up as a
coach—and straightened my life up- What it took was
a real interest in something."

"I don't think that would work for me."

"Sure it would. You just have to find something
you're real interested in. Something you want to do."

"Well, sports ain't it."

"So build model airplanes or something. Decide on
something you like to do, and don't think about all
this other crap."

"I like to drink," I'd told him with a grin.

When the commander of the SP detachment there
called me in and told me, "Tyier, we're going to
have to ship your ass out of here or get you help.
Would you prefer the Philippines or the shrink?", I
thought of the SEAL commander. I told the SP com-
mander I wanted to talk to someone before I an-
swered.

56

James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

"You want legal counsel?" He sounded like he
doubted he should let me.

"I want to talk to someone," I insisted.

He wanted to know who. I didn't want to say. I
figured he might stop me somehow.

"You should go back to the psychiatrist," he said,
but he let me call the SEAL commander.

I arranged to meet him in the bar after duty hours.
He wasn't all that sympathetic.

"I told you what to do," he said.

"Model airplanes and Little League soccer are just
too . . . trivial. I couldn't spend any time on that shit.
Get me back on the Teams until my enlistment's up.
I'm bored with this Shore Patrollin'."

"You said you couldn't dive anymore."

"I can't dive deep. I can still dive twenty, thirty

feet."

He looked away for a while. He might have been
thinking, but I thought he just didn't want to look at

a has-been.

"I can still jump, and all that other stuff. Let me
teach some of the tadpoles about booby traps, or sneak
'n' peek patrols," I insisted. "I'm good at that covert
shit."

He looked at me then, for several minutes. I knew
he was thinking really hard about something, because
he scratched between the first two knuckles of his
right hand with the index fingernail of his left, and
I'd seen him do it before.

"Would you consider intelligence work?" he

asked.

"You mean, like spy 'n' counterspy, an' all that?"
"Something like that, yeah."
"I did a lot of recon over in 'Nam."

COVERT ACTIONS          57

"Well, this would go beyond just recon. You might
have to go up into North Vietnam, maybe even
China."

"Do I look like I'm that crazy?"

"I guess we'll see what the shrink says about that.
If you keep getting your ass in trouble you'll be back
to see him. In a hospital. One of those with the ten-
foot chain-link fence around it to keep you from
jumping ship."

"Don't I have no other choice?"

"Not that I know of."

"I guess I could go to the Philippines."

"You'd just get in trouble there. Do you think Su-
bic would be any better than San Diego?"

I wasn't really warm on the idea of going to sunny,
stinking Subic. I'd been there once, and that was one
time too many.

"Would it be real spy shit?" I asked. "I don't
speak any foreign language, just 'come here' and 'put
your hands on your head' and 'lie down' in Vietnam-
ese."

"COMPHIBPAC has put together a roster of second-
tour and third-tour SEALs for special "over the fence'
operations in North Vietnam. The CIA and DIA need
combat veterans that are good at 'sneaky Pete' oper-
ations to escort their agents through combat areas.
Marine Recon and the Green Berets have rosters too,
by the way. COMPHIBPAC wants to do more than that:

they want to put together a team specializing in that
kind of operation, a team that isn't just haphazardly
put together from the personnel available at the time.
That kind of team would get better and better with
each mission.

"After the war, the Army and the Air Force will

58

James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

be fighting with the Navy over a share of the defense
budget, a budget that will certainly be cut back by
the anti-military forces in Congress. The SEAL teams
will be competing with the fleet Navy for a share of
the Navy budget. There'll be pressure to cut back to
one team, or do away with the SEALs entirely. Ad-
miral Jameson thinks the Teams have something
unique to offer the country in a cold war as well as
in a shooting war, and it won't hurt to have friends
in the CIA and DIA when the budgets are decided.
That's the politics behind this special team idea.

"Some of the missions may involve diving, but I
imagine mat most of them won't, because the agents
would have to be trained as divers. The agents would
do the 'real spy stuff.' Your job would be to get them
there alive and back out again, and to supply some
firepower. There might be more recon missions, like
you did on your last tour, but up north."

"I don't think I'm interested. I don't want to go
back to that damned Vietnam. That place sucks."

"You might get sent somewhere else. The Canal
Zone, Central America, the Caribbean, South Africa,
the Middle East. . . they're all possible trouble spots.
It could even be somewhere in Europe. But it would
probably be 'Nam. Or you could get sent to the Phil-
ippines."

"Olangopo smells like shit and dead fish," I said,
remembering.

"If you stay with the Shore Patrol, you'll probably
get sent there anyway."

He was right. To Subic or a psychiatric ward. What
a fuckin' choice. "What do I have to do?" I asked.

"I'll check on it. Put in your chit for Intelligence

COVERT ACTIONS           59

School anyway, and if there's anything beyond that,
I'll let you know."

The bar maid came by to see if we wanted another
round, and I shook my head. The Commander waved
her away and grinned at me.

Intelligence School wasn't too tough. Like most
military schools, there was a lot of review of what
had gone before, and I'd done all right in mat part of
SEAL training- Mostly, it was common sense.

I also had to get back into shape and refresh myself
on some basic skills. I started out with a beginning
BUDS class until I was fit, then I stayed that way
with several hours of PT and running the beaches
every day. The instructors worked me in with the
UDT and SEAL trainees so I could refresh myself on
certain skills I hadn't used much, like parachute
jumps. Then I had three to four hours classroom time
a day. That's hard on an old country boy who never
did like schooling that much anyway.

My evenings were free, except when I had some
assigned reading or problems. I still spent a lot of
them in the bars around Coronado. I kept a close
watch on how much booze I was taking in, though. I
still was unhappy, but Intelligence School had given
me something to concentrate on. The Commander had
been right about that. When I thought about the les-
sons, I could block the rest of it out of my mind. The
physical activity of PT and retraining helped too.
During those weeks with the Shore Patrol I'd missed
being in situations where I was tested physically and
mentally.

There was something still missing, though. I didn't
know then what it was. All I knew was that life still

60 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

seemed pretty stale and flat. It wasn't until I got back
to Vietnam and heard the snap of AK rounds cutting
the air close to my head that I realized what it was
that was missing: danger, and the excitement that goes
with it. It's like a drug. Once you've known it, once
you've conquered your fear and felt the adrenaline
pumping, you're hooked. You get high on besting the
other guy, on killing him when you know that if you
let down your guard for a minute he can kill you.
Elephant hunting or tiger hunting must have been like
that in the old days, before modem guns gave man
the edge. And like quitting a drug, you get with-
drawal symptoms when you go back to a humdrum

life.

I felt there was something missing, I just didn't
know what.

Sometimes I wondered what had happened to Pat,
if she and her husband were still on base, or if she'd
finally divorced him. I never tried to call.

One night I picked up a broad that I had seen hang-
ing around in the bar before- She wasn't turned off
when she found out I was a SEAL. In fact, she
seemed turned on by it. She was a real firc-brcather.
Thought we ought to nuke Hanoi, and got right
friendly when I told her I was probably going back.

A couple of weeks later we were married.

As the Intelligence School neared its end, we started
running exercises. At first they weren't anything spe-
cial. We'd just go a ways up or down the coast and
insert a four- or eight-man team and make our way to
some assigned destination with the instructors there
on the shore looking for us. Then the exercises got a
little tougher. They might bring some guy in and tell
us to insert with him somewhere near Encinitas and

COVERT ACTIONS         61

get to Escondido by dawn. Then they'd get some Ma-
rines out of Camp Pendleton and offer a weekend pass
to whatever outfit caught us. Or we'd have to get onto
San Clemente Island to find some guy and get him
off, with the area being patrolled by boats and heli-
copters.

Then one day they told us to get ready to go "out
of town" for a week or more. The next morning we
loaded up a C-130 and flew off, and none of us knew
where in hell we were going. It turned out to be an
extended exercise. There were several of us from the
Intelligence School and a bunch of newly graduated
SEALs and UDTs (underwater demolition teams).
First, we staged into this base in Central America-
mat's all they'd tell us. We ran several exercises, and
then went by sub on down to the Falkland Islands for
some exercises there.

After finishing the school, I got my new security
rating and my new assignment.

I looked at the little ID card they gave me and said,
"These damned letters and numbers don't mean a
thing to me. Did I pass?"

The instructor looked at me and shook his head.
"Goddamn, Tyier, you got a 'Q' clearance. That's
about the highest they give out. About the only people
that have better ones arc the President and the Joint
Chiefs. Hell, you could go anywhere you wanted to
in the Pentagon."

"Well, I'll be damned. The Pentagon, huh?" Shit,
the East Coast wouldn't be a bad assignment.

Then I looked at my new assignment.

Vietnam.

CHAPTER 4

I was running away when I went back to 'Nam, run-
ning away from rejection, and from nightmares, to a
nightmare world. Somehow I felt safer among my
known enemies over there than among my supposed
friends on the other side of the Pacific. And there was
something I must have been running back to also.
Call it brotherhood, if you like: a shared sense of
purpose, a shared identity, a feeling of belonging to
a tight, close-knit group. Those things were missing
in the States. I didn't feel like I belonged there at all.

In a way, it wasn't as bad going back for the second
time as it was the first when it was all a big unknown
to me: what the country was like, what the people
were like, what war was like. Now I dreaded what I
knew about instead of what I didn't know.
62

COVERT ACTIONS          63

I spent the night before I left carousing with my
new wife. Just before dawn, I showered and cleaned
up—1 knew it was going to be a long plane ride—and
then she took me to the airport where I caught an
eariy commuter to L.A. It was like a business trip,
except that I carried a seabag instead of a briefcase.
She kissed me goodbye at the gate and reminded me
that I hadn't turned in the GI life insurance form. I
was making her the beneficiary in case I was killed.
I showed her it was in an envelope in my pocket, and
told her I'd mail it in L.A. I caught the Saigon Special
in L.A. and was on my way. I forgot to mail the
envelope.

There were lots of soldiers and Marines and a few
sailors on the plane. It had a full load, and the stew-
ardesses were kept busy serving drinks and slapping
hands off their asses. I slept all the way to Honolulu,
because I hadn't slept any the night before.

There was a layover in Honolulu, and I found my-
self in a bar with an Army sergeant. He was going
back for his third tour. I thought at first he was a
glutton for punishment until he told me he was a sup-
ply sergeant. He said his outfit had been rocketed
once, but other than that, the toughest action he'd
seen was trying to keep the Saigon Commandos from
stealing everything in the warehouse. He thought it
was funny how so many people back in the States
envisioned *Nam as being such a dangerous place.
"You're in more danger in downtown Chicago!" he
said.

He sure as hell hadn't been in the same 'Nam I'd
been in.

That got him to talking about his old lady. He'd
met her and married her just before he went over the

64 James R. Reeves and James C. Taytor

first time. He thought then he was going to be in
danger every minute. He said he figured the only rea-
son he married her was to have somebody to think
about him, somebody who gave a flying fuck if he
came back alive or not. They kept up a regular cor-
respondence for a while, until he began to write her
that being in the rear in Vietnam was no more dan-
gerous than being on a post stateside. Then, after a
bit, her letters got to be more infrequent, and their
tone changed. He wrote a buddy to go by and check
on her to see if anything was wrong. Something was
wrong, all right: she was shacked up with a guy.

The sergeant got her on the telephone from Saigon
and had it out with her. She told him he'd married
her under false pretenses: he'd told her he might be
killed in 'Nam, and now he was saying he wasn't in
any danger after all! He told her to get the divorce
papers started. She had the brass to ask if she would
still be the beneficiary of his insurance!

"That was all she wanted, the insurance," he said.
"She thought she had a sure thing: she could sleep
with me for a few weeks, and I'd go off and get killed,
and she'd get the check. A lot better than fifty bucks
a trick! And she'd be able to take right up with her
old boyfriend." He chuckled and shook his head. "1
guess there's a lot of her kind around."

I told him I reckoned there was. After a while I
went to the men's head and took out that envelope
with the insurance form. I looked at it a long time,
and thought about her, and the way she'd been the
only one that really seemed interested in me. Then I
thought about the sergeant and his ex-wife, I thought
about my widowed mother back in Arkansas. I started
to tear it up. I even tore the edge of it a little bit.

COVERT ACTIONS          65

Then I changed my mind and started to go mail it.
Finally, I just said, "Fuck it!" and stuck the damned
thing back into my pocket.

I reported to Special Forces Command Headquar-
ters in Saigon, to a Navy Captain in NISO, Naval
Intelligence Special Operations. He kept me waiting
for fifteen minutes to show me I wasn't anyone spe-
cial and then had me come into his office. After he
introduced himself, he waved at a chair and told me
to sit down, and then started telling me why I was
there. His name was Gartley.

He was a tall blond man with short, very curly hair
that gave him an umnililary look. He seemed more
likely to be boozing it up in a college frat house than
commanding special forces in a war zone. His uni-
form was very neat, though, and he was erect as a
flagpole. I mink he might have been a schoolteacher
in civilian life, because he talked like he was deliv-
ering a lecture, even though I was the only one in the
room with him.

"You are aware, Tyier, that we do a considerable
amount of clandestine intelligence gathering in North
Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia. This is normally car-
ried out by agents inside the countries. Some are na-
tives that, for one reason or another, agree to provide
us with information. Some are foreign nationals. Some
work for money, some for ideology, some because
their government wants them to. Some arc Ameri-
cans."

I sat and listened to his bullshit, thinking, "Man,
this son of a bitch is proud of his work!'* He was
strutting back and forth in front of his desk like a
rooster that had just gotten off a hen.

"Americans can get into a country in a number of

66 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

ways," he went on. "Diplomatic staff, for example-
Businessmen. Even reporters. Despite the press's ap-
parent hostility toward the government, some report-
ers are individually cooperative, even to the point of
spying for us. Usually, they just keep their eyes and
ears open for anything of military or political signif-
icance—they're trained for that, and they do it very
well.

"Since we don't have diplomatic relations with
North Vietnam, the avenue of employing spies on the
embassy staff is closed to us in this case. We have to
depend on businessmen and reporters, and on foreign
nationals we can pay off. There are many foreign na-
tionals in Hanoi. The French, for example. Many of
them are still smarting from the loss of their colony.
They may even have personal grudges against the Viet
Minh. So they can be bought, or persuaded to collect
information for us. We often insert our own people
disguised as French citizens. Or Japanese, or Chinese.
But that method takes some time, because they are
closely checked and watched at first. It takes a while
before surveillance slackens and they leam their way
around enough to slip away.

"Frequently, however, we must use a trained agent.
Perhaps it's a highly technical job that needs to be
done quickly. An agent inserted by the usual means
wouldn't be able to get started fast enough. In those
cases, we insert our agents surreptitiously.

"But North Vietnam is a war zone. Not to the ex-
tent that the South is, but a war zone nonetheless."

"No shit!" I thought.

"There are frequent exercises for troops in training,
and frequent patrols out looking for pilots and crews
of planes that have been shot down. There are anti-

COVERT ACTIONS

67

aircraft batteries along the roads and railroads, and
garrison troops around strong-points. There are large
numbers of troops being moved south toward the
combat area. There are patrols out to interdict Mon-
tagnard raids—the 'Yards are conducting their own
guerrilla war against the North Viets, with our help.
All these things get NVA soldiers out into the coun-
tryside, not to mention the peasants who have their
own business out there, and that makes it difficult for
agents who aren't trained or experienced in that kind
of thing to make it to, say, Hanoi, without being ob-
served. And, of course, they know we run operations
into their country, and they have patrols out to inter-
dict them,

"The agents need trained and combat-experienced
escorts when they insert through the North Vietnam-
ese countryside. NISO has agreed to make SEALs
and UDTs with the appropriate experience available
to the CIA and DIA for these missions.

"In addition to armed escorts, the intelligence
agencies frequently have need of men to conduct
snatch operations, assassinations, shoplifting jobs—"

"Shoplifting?" I hadn't heard the term before.

"Snatching a specific hardware item, like a radar
set or antenna, or a missile. I'm sure you've heard
the rumors that a couple of years ago a SEAL team
went into North Vietnam and stole a complete sur-
face-to-air missile. That sort of thing.

"At any rate, we have a lot of specialized recon-
naissance missions requiring men of your experience
and training. Contacting and exfiltrating defectors.
Surveillance jobs, maybe some special photogra-
phy." He picked up a manila folder and leafed
through it. "I see that you had quite a bit of combat

68 James R. Reeves and James C. Tayfor

experience on your last tour. There shouldn't be much
of that on this assignment. If shooting starts, you've
probably failed in your mission."

"Not necessarily, asshole," I thought.

"We don't at this time have a standing force exclu-
sively for this mission, but we do have a roster from
which we select the individuals, according to the con-
ditions and specific requirements of each operation.
However, we have enough of these special recon mis-
sions that we want a quasi-permanent group organized
and used to working together, so they can do the job
more efficiently.

"The roster contains the names of second- and
third-tour veterans with appropriate experience and
training. The Army Special Forces and Marine Forces
Recon also maintain such a roster and have in the past
supplied men for the specially assembled teams. They
may also organize special teams. We want to beat
them to it.

"Your chain of command will come through NISO
from MACV, not COMPHIBPAC. Specifically, through
me, as long as I am assigned responsibility for Tac-
force."

"Tacforce?"

"That's what they're calling this outfit, for lack of
a better name. Right now, we're it, you and me. Your
job will be to select and organize the team, and lead
the team you select. If a second team is needed, a
second team leader will be recruited and will select
his own team from the roster. Once you get the men
together, you'll plan and rehearse the operation until
you are functioning well together. If there's time.

"You will be operating out of the Quang Tri area.

COVERT ACTIONS          69

First priority will be to acquaint yourself and your
men with the terrain along the approaches to Hanoi.

"Chief Johnson will show you your temporary
quarters."

"Come o-o-on Chief!" I was thinking. "Get me
the hell away from this James Bond motherfucker!"

"When you get your gear stored, take an evening
on the town," Gartley went on. "I'll brief you some
more in the morning, and we'll give you a look at the
roster. There should be some names you know on it."

He sure was a windy bastard.

Saigon hadn't changed, of course. It was still
crowded, noisy, smelly, and busy. Chief Johnson and
I hit a couple of bars and ate some native food—1
figured I might as well get diarrhea and get it over
with. After a couple of hours the Chief excused him-
self and went home to the Vietnamese woman he was
living with and left me to drink alone or go back to
the barracks, as I pleased. I had a few more drinks
and then left. I hadn't seen any familiar faces, and
the bar girls looked old and worn out.

It wasn't exactly a cheerful "homecoming."

Through the relative quiet of the barracks, I could
hear distant explosions. An Arc Light attack some-
where near the city—probably up by Tay Nin.

The diarrhea hit me right after breakfast the next
morning. Captain Gartley really didn't have much
more to say to me, which was good, because what he
did have to say he had to work in between my trips
to the head. Finally, in mid-aftemoon, my bowels
settled down a bit and I got a look at the roster.

It wasn't a long roster. There weren't that many
second- and third-tour SEALs in-country. And some

70 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

of the names I did recognize. Some were guys I'd
gone through BUDS with; others were guys I'd met
in San Diego or 'Nam. The names were split about
evenly between Teams One and Two, but I knew only
two or three of the Team Two SEALs. Some of them
looked like they'd be pretty good: there was a guy
from Colorado who'd spent most of his first two tours
on long-range patrols up along the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
Of course, I looked for certain names, and in some
cases I wasn't disappointed. My old comrade-in-arms
Bob Brewster was on the list. Somehow, I knew he
would be, because during our first tour we made one
of the best recon teams operating in the Delta, and
that's a fact. That ain't just bragging. Chief Petty
Officer Tahlequah Mackintosh was not on the list. I
wondered if he just hadn't come back for another tour,
or if Charlie had gotten him in the end. The Chief
was a full-blooded Cherokee Indian, and the best
scout and tracker in Vietnam. On our side, anyway.

In the end I had a list of names of people I knew
that were good and some that looked to be good from
their records.

Bob Brewster was several months into his second
tour. He'd put in his chit for a second even before his
first one was over. Some men might have been
changed by the brutality of the war, but not Bob.
He'd be the same. Life had already shit on him, until
there wasn't a lot that could happen to him worse than
what he'd been through already. He was about five-
feet-eleven and 220 pounds, all muscle. He had a
round face with heavy whiskers that made him look
unshaven, and somehow his uniform was always dirty
and wrinkled. He sometimes looked like he'd just
walked right out of one of those Kentucky coal mines

COVERT ACTIONS          71

he used to work in. Not only was his uniform dirty,
his body and his mind and his mouth were, too. He
even embarrassed me sometimes. He was a hell of a
patroller, though, and you could depend on him in
any situation.

Phillip Casbum was a Texan. Not a tall one or a
big one, just medium height, kind of slender. He even
had small feet and a small head. He wore those high-
heeled, pointy-toed cowboy boots and a cowboy hat
when he was in civvies, and they were both way too
small for me. The only thing big about him was his
mouth. Not that he was a bragger. He just talked a
lot. He was a good man in the bush.

Anthony Delucchi was from Chicago, and he
looked just like you would expect: black-haired and
olive-skinned. He tanned real dark in the Vietnamese
sun. He wasn't talkative, but he was very good-hu-
mored. He kidded around a lot, and kept the other
guys in a good humor. He and Bob got on well, and
they joked back and forth a lot. During SEAL training
he had to bunk next to Bob, and the stink of Bob's
farts would sometimes drive him outside. Bob told
him the ingredients of his farts were a military secret.

Darren Fitchew was another talker. He was a Con-
necticut Yankee, and I thought they were supposed to
be men of few words, but not Fitchew. He loved to
play cards, and spent a lot of his off time gambling.
He'd play any card game, but he mostly played
Spades for money. I hadn't seen him since we shipped
over for the first tour, and that was too often. He got
on my nerves when we were in barracks, but he was
a good shooter and fighter, and I knew he could be
counted on in a pinch.

Another guy I knew from training was "Cajun"

72 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

Jerry Quinn, from Shreveport, Louisiana. He had big
thick lips and dark curly hair, and I always suspected
there was a "nigger in the woodpile" somewhere in
his background. He was always grinning and laugh-
ing and telling Cajun jokes, and he could talk French
to the Viets that understood it. He was about six-foot-
three and weighed 190 pounds when he was at fight-
ing trim. He had broad, sloping shoulders, and the
little Vietnamese girls practically swooned over him,
Before he joined the Navy, he had been a stevedore
and a boxer. He and the Chief used to go a round or
two.

It was harder to pick men I didn't know. The in-
formation in the roster package wasn't all that com-
plete. It gave their name, rank, and serial number,
and their current assignment. It gave a little about
them personally and physically, and described their
previous experience very, very briefly. There were
evaluations by their former or current commanders. I
picked five other names, more or less at random, re-
lying pretty heavily on the evaluations.

I would make my own evaluations when I got them
together and out in the field.

I submitted my list of names to Captain Gartley,
and he started making arrangements to get them all
together in Quang Tri- I went on up there and got
settled into a barracks to wait for them to show up. I
knew that most of them would be in the field, and
they wouldn't be sent up until they finished their mis-
sions. It might be a week or more before they all
arrived. In the meantime I had to leam my way around
the base there at Quang Tri and find out where to
check out equipment and get supplies. It was always

COVERT ACTIONS         73

a good idea to get to know the petty officers and ser-
geants in charge of supplies.

I hoped Bob would be one of the first to show up.
just so I could see the look of surprise on his face
when he saw me again. We could have a reunion-
go to the bars and get in a fight or two with the Ma-
rines. But the first three to show up were Cajun Quinn
and Tony Delucchi, and a Team Two SEAL named
Joe Magoun. Quinn came in laughing and back-slap-
ping and telling his latest Cajun joke. Tony was kid-
ding around with him, and Magoun was watching the
two of them and grinning like a new kid in school.

Magoun was the smallest of the men picked off the
roster, at five-seven and about 165 pounds—that was
on his records. I'd say he'd leaned down to 150 from
diarrhea and bush rations, but he was wiry and strong.
He didn't tan much—he had a ruddy complexion and
just got redder. He had a boyish face and a boyish
grin, besides being smaller, and it made him look
younger than the other two. It was hard for me to
believe he was really pushing thirty pretty hard. He
was one of those people that mature late and age late.
He'd done one hitch in the Navy as a diver before he
put in for SEALs, and had gone through all that tough
physical training when he was twenty-five. It was hard
on me at twenty-one.

I'd thought from the name he might be French or
Belgian or of some kind of Eastern European descent.
But he was Irish, and he was a scrapper. I found that
out very quickly, the first time I saw him. I stepped
up to him and stuck out my hand when Quinn intro-
duced me.

"Hello, Joe, how're ya doing? I'm Jay Tyier," I
said.

74 James R. Reeves and James C. Taytor

He took my hand, all right, but said, "The name
is Joseph, Jay Tyier, like Mary's husband, the step-
father of Jesus. Joseph's the name my father gave me,
and I'll thank you to call me by it."

So, of course, we called him Joe.

"Hey, Joe," we'd say, "seen Jesus lately? How's
he doing?"

Or, "Hey, Joe, had a letter from Mary lately? I
heard she was three months pregnant. Let's see,
you've been here six months? Must have been another
immaculate conception."

"Have your fun, have your laughs," he'd say, "the
Lord will pay youse back for your abominations."

He cussed and drank and chased whores just like
the rest of us.

He had worked out of Kontum and Pleiku, and all
the way over the Laotian border to Thac Hiet, mostly
recon missions on the Ho Chi Minh Trail with Army
Special Forces—Green Berets and LRRPs. He'd been
shot up a few times, but he'd come back for more.

He was a Petty Officer Second Class, and he had
more time in service, but I was still in charge of get-
ting them together and selecting the final eight. If he
was one of them, he might be selected to lead the
team on any one mission, if the team members de-
cided he was the most experienced and competent. In
that case, I'd want him to lead. Rank didn't mean a
lot in the bush. Even if Captain Gartley came along,
the most experienced man would lead the patrol. If
that was the Captain, it would work out fine. If not,
he could give all the orders he wanted and no one
would hear them until we got back to base or into
camp. He could make the big decisions, like whether
or not the U.S. should nuke Hanoi, but the patrol

COVERT ACTIONS         75

leader made the important ones, like what tactics to
use or whether to move or stay put.

Quinn and Tony had been together down at Can
Tho. They'd been working on one of those special
missions the Captain was talking about. The Captain,
I found out, had been in the bush with them some,
and wasn't too bad at it.

"We've been chasing some North Viet dude around
down in the Delta," Tony told me. "We've been
working with ARVN's Military Security Service down
there, with a Major Thi. He's been using every source
he could come up with to get a line on this guy, a
Colonel Dong—"

*'Dong-g-g-g!" interjected Quinn, like a ringing
gong.

"But every time we got to a village we found out
the Colonel had been there and gone. It got to be a
standing joke: every time we got the bad news, some-
body would say 'Dong-g-g-g!' Major Thi sure got
pissed whenever he heard it."

"What is this Colonel, that they want him so
much?"

"Psyops. He goes around from village to village
keeping the people in line, making sure they know
it's better for them to support the NVA than the gov-
ernment. You know, strings up the local school-
teacher or some hamlet official and cuts him up a
piece at a time. The usual bullshit. They think he
might have been responsible for that massacre in Bac
Lieu. Remember Bac Lieu?"

Did I ever.

"In one ville," Quinn put in, "where they hid their
rice from the VC tax collectors, he tortured the vil-
lage chiefs old lady until the chief told mem where

76 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

the rice caches were. Then they dug up all the caches
and took all the rice, killed the old lady anyway, and
made the chief carry the rice away for them."

"Major Thi had a helicopter load of rice sent out
to them, to replace what they'd lost," Tony added.
"Then we went chasing off to try to catch them. Dong
came back, took all the new rice, and had all the
village elders castrated. Twenty-four or -five of
them."

"So now, nobody wants to talk," Quinn pointed
out. "They don't want to say anything about where
he is or even if he's been there."

"I don't blame 'em. How did you find out any-
thing?"

"Somebody always talks. A kid lets something slip,
or somebody wants revenge. Thi never lets on who
talks to him and who doesn't."

"Thi's sly," Quinn told us. "Sometimes, when he
finds out where this Dong might be, we pack up and
leave the area, so Thi can send another outfit to sneak
up on Dong."

"But you ain't got him yet."

"We're gettin' closer. Or were, till we got called
up here."

"We've had one break," Tony said. "A helicopter
gunship spotted an NVA column in the bush and made
a pass at it. Turned out to be Colonel Dong and his
crew. They missed Dong, but he tripped over a root
or something as he was running away and fell down
a bank. Wrenched his hip, or maybe even broke it.
He can't walk. They have to carry him around in a
litter. Thi got that information from a prisoner we
brought in."

The next day Lusk and Thompson arrived. Thomp-

COVERT ACTIONS          77

son had been operating out of Quang Tri, so he was
just back in from a patrol. Thompson was about my
size, about six-feet-two and 190 pounds, with brown
hair and a deep tan. He was outgoing and had very
strong likes and dislikes. He was from Tupelo, Mis-
sissippi.

Thompson was real competitive, and he liked
sports, all kinds. When he had time off he was usually
in a baseball game or a football game with the REFs—
the Rear-Echelon Fuckoffs. If he was in barracks he
was listening to some game broadcast over Armed
Forces Radio. He was very self-sufficient in the bush,
according to his commander's evaluation, and had a
lot of willpower and determination. It seemed to me
he liked to be in the spotlight, to be the center of
attention around the barrack or on the ball field, and
lost his temper too often if things weren't going his
way.

He'd spent most of his first tour along the coast
between Qui Nhon and Quang Tri. They kept watch
on small-boat traffic along the coast and in the inlets
and rivers, and called in air or sea strikes when they
observed supplies or troops being brought ashore. The
population was pretty dense along that coast, but it
had been a Viet M inn-controlled area before the
country was partitioned, and a lot of the people still
had strong loyalties to the communists. He'd operated
with a team of three others. On the last patrol of his
first tour, two men were seriously wounded and the
other two shot up before the boats could get them off.

After R-and-R, he'd put in for a second tour. Since
then, he'd been working the Quang Tri area. He came
in from his patrol with his camo headscarf tied around
his head like a sweatband. His uniform was sweat-

78 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

soaked and his face smudged where he'd just wiped
off the camo paint. He found himself a can of beer
and sat down on his bunk and just looked at all of us.
Then he belched loudly and lay back on the bunk,
muddy boots and all. In seconds he was asleep.

Dwight Lusk came in that afternoon on a C-130
from Saigon. He was a slender blond from McClure,
Pennsylvania. He was real quiet, didn't talk much at
all unless you spoke directly to him, and stayed kind
of aloof from the rest of us. Quinn and Tony would
be joking around and the rest of us haw-hawing like
a pasture full of jackasses and he'd just smile a quiet
little smile and go on with what he was doing. He
seemed to be a tittle suspicious about everyone, as if
we were about to pull a dirty trick on him. His com-
mander's evaluation had been that he was very steady
and practical, but warned that he would procrastinate
and obstruct a mission if he had reservations about it.

The one time he did open up and really talk to us
was when Quinn mentioned the French restaurants in
Saigon. He and Quinn discussed their relative merits
for thirty minutes—the rest of us were sort of left out
in the cold—and he seemed to know what he was
talking about. They got to arguing about which was
better, French cuisine or New Orleans Creole cook-
ery. It got to be obvious that he enjoyed the good
life, good food, good wine, good women—but then,
who doesn't? Still, I got the definite idea that the
Lusks were probably quite well off back in McClure.

Lusk had been working out of Song Be with the
South Vietnamese riverboat sailors. One of the tri-
butaries of the Song Be called the Hoyt formed a part
of the border with Cambodia, and they ran patrols up
and down the river in specially muffled PBRs. He'd

COVERT ACTIONS

79

worked with the Vietnamese Special Forces up there,
watching supply routes off the Ho Chi Minh Trail,
and occasionally ambushing supply parties. He said
it really got nasty up there. They had contact almost
every patrol. VC and NVA regulars paraded through
there like it was downtown Hanoi.

He spoke only a little Vietnamese. He'd worked
with an interpreter or with Viets that spoke some En-
glish. His worst experience was when his interpreter
got hit only seconds after they'd made contact. He
hadn't gotten off a radio call. The Viet radioman at
their base camp didn't understand English, and Lusk
couldn't tell him in Vietnamese they needed support.
So he got on the radio and called in the clear, in *
English, until he got a U.S. firebase that had a trans-
lator and could relay his call for help in Vietnamese.
The firebase was too far away to help with its artil-
lery. I guess he was pretty scared until the helicopters
showed up, and even then, because they circled the
area a long time before making firing passes. He knew
they wanted him to pop smoke, but he couldn't even
tell them in Vietnamese which side of the smoke he
and his men were on. Finally, one of the Special
Forces realized what was going on and came to the
radio. They got out all right, but from then on Lusk
made sure he went out with no less than three men
who spoke English.

Phil Casbum came in two days later, in cowboy
boots and hat, with a big red bandanna around his
neck.

*'Why, howdy, Arkensawyer!" was the first thing
he said, and after that he didn't stop talking for two
hours straight, except to light a Camel. He'd been in
My Tho with our old outfit, doing rccon and setting

80      James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

up ambushes, mostly out in the Plain of Reeds. He
had the usual stories of man-eating mud, living on a
daily basis with poisonous snakes and alligators—
"Some of 'em were around so much we give 'em
names!"—and sparrow-size mosquitoes that made
dive-bombing attacks. I'd seen all that shit when I
was there last tour.

Casbum had come back to 'Nam after taking his
furlough in Austin. He hadn't fit in back in the Real
World either,

"ljust couldn't bear to see them longhairs 'n' other
misfits running around the streets like real people that
had good sense. Damned unwashed anti-'Mericans.
What's (he white race coming to? Even the damned
Mexes looked cleaner."

He and Bob Brewster had seen each other occa-
sionally in My Tho.

"He's as omery as ever," Phil said.

"I wish he'd show up," I told him. "I'd like to
see the asshole."

All of us went out on a short patrol along the DMZ
to get used to working together, and to get me back
into the routine. We saw some infiltrators, some No-
vember Victor Alfas, or NVA regular troops, but they
didn't see us, and we called in an artillery strike.

When we got back, Darren Fitchew and a guy
named Mike Olfson were in the barracks. They had
been working together down in the Ca Mau, off of a
barge called Seafloat. Fitchew said they were glad to
be away from the place.

I told him the ground was a lot steeper up here.

"Yeah, and it's a hell of a lot drier, too. I'm sick
of mud and mangroves. Even the 'Cong get sick of

COVERT ACTIONS           81

that place. I don't know why we don't just give it to
'em."

Olfson was a big, fair-skinned blond from Minne-
sota. He was a likable guy, who right away joined
the conversation and seemed to get along with every-
body. I soon found out that he was good on ambushes
because he was very patient and self-disciplined, and
he was embarrassed when he did something wrong or
failed to accomplish a task. Fitchew was always trying
to get him into a card game, but Olfson was real
careful with his money. He had a wife and kids in
Minnesota, for one thing, but that was just his way.

They'd found an enemy "hotel" in the U Minh
Forest near Vinh Long, a bunker-and-tunnel complex
Charlie had waterproofed with plastic liner. Where
they got the plastic was anybody's guess- Small
groups of NVA would pass through the area and lay
over there for a day or two before moving on. Fit-
chew and Olfson and two Biet Hai Rangers had lain
in the mud for two weeks watching the place and
waiting for a large group to come through. Two of
them would pull back far enough to pick up water
and C-rations dropped from a helicopter, and then
they'd wallow back to the camouflaged observation
spot. It was an exhausting crawl, taking all night each
way. The NVA seemed always to move in small
groups. At one point. Fitchew was ready to call in a
strike, but Olfson talked him into waiting a while
longer. Then two groups arrived at the same time,
about eight in one and twelve in the other, coming
from different directions. The smaller group passed
within twenty-five feet of the four watchers but went
on by.

That's when the strike was called in. A-4s off the

82      James R. Reeves and James C. Fay/or

USS Hancock made the first attack, and then a com-
pany of air cav finished the job. There wasn't much
fighting. A few gooks tried to escape afterward, but
the cav had the place surrounded and cut them down
right quick. Those that survived went back into their
holes. The troopers went around blasting the bunkers
and entrances to the tunnels. They worked through
the area with long poles, poking into the muck every
foot or so to find tunnels near the surface. They found
several and blasted them.

The four watchers stayed where they were the
whole time. The troopers never found them. They
stayed there that night. No one came out of the com-
plex after the cav left. Two nights later seven NVA
came out of the jungle and looked around the place,
chattered excitedly, then went away. The watchers
pulled back to their LZ during the fourth night. They
were satisfied. Not one gook had gotten out of the
tunnels alive.

"They probably drowned when the damned tunnels
flooded," Olfson concluded.

Bob Dasher flew in from Cam Ranh Bay, where
he'd just gotten back from one of these special jobs.
He said he'd been up to Haiphong to take pictures of
the cargo on some of the ships being unloaded up
there. I thought maybe he was talking about radar or
missiles or tanks.

"Nope," he said, and kind of hesitated. I thought
maybe he was going to keep it to himself, but then
he really opened up. "Shit, you wouldn't believe it.
Clothes, medicine, boots and shoes, that's what we
slipped in to photograph. I thought that CIA guy was
nuts or something until I started looking at the stuff.
He was photographing the shipping labels on the

COVERT ACTIONS          83

crates and the labels on some of the stuff. I said,
'What's so important about that shit?' 'It says "Made
in the USA," ' he told me. So I took a look at it. It
was brand-name stuff, all right. Major companies.
Even the clothes. And there were oil drums from a
major oil company."

"You're shittin' us! American companies?"

"Guns?"

"Didn't see any."

"By clothes, you mean uniforms?"

"Civilian clothes, mostly. But some that could've
been uniforms- Like service station attendants wear."

"Was there any plastic? Like big rolls of it?" Fit-
chew wanted to know.

"Plastic? Yeah, now that you mention it."

"Come on, tell us the names."

He shook his head. "They made me sign my life
away not to tell anybody those names. I must've
signed fifteen or twenty papers, and it took three hours
to do it. They told me, 'You read it, then sign it!'
And I sat there and read every word. What it said
was, 'This never really happened, and if you say it
did, we'll prove you're a liar.' So I'm not saying
anything. I'll remember them, though. I'll never buy
anything those bastards make, and my family won't
either."

"Damn it, we've all got security clearances here.
You can tell us."

"Uh uh. They told me not to tell anybody, not even
my wife. 'Maybe the President of the United States,
if he comes to you and begs you to tell him.' That's
what they told me. They said they'd stop those com-
panies from doing that kind of shit, but I bet they
don't stop'em for very long."

84 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

Well, we sat around and thought about that, and we
all began to get kind of down about it. American
companies trading with the enemy. War materials,
yet. It made you wonder what we were fighting for.
It reminded me of something my old uncle used to
say, the one who was in World War II: "The Rus-
sians always said we'd sell them the rope they need
to hang us." It looked like he was right.

After a while, Lusk spoke up. "Sometimes I don't
think I want to fight this war anymore."

We got Dasher to tell us over some beers that night
about his experiences in Cambodia. He'd worked out
of Phnom Penh during his first tour, some against the
Khmer Rouge, but mostly watching the Ho Chi Minh
Trail in eastern Cambodia. He did a lot ofrecon work
in the Parrot's Beak and Fish Hook areas for the Joint
US-ARVN push into that area in the spring of 1970.
His main criticism of the operation was that it moved
too slow. By the time the forces converged inside
Cambodia, the NVA troops had slipped away.

"They were in there,*' he said. "I saw them, I saw
their big supply dumps and commo bases. And I
watched them pack up and leave when the invasion
first Jumped oif. If they'd been a little faster, they
would've done a lot more than just destroy supplies
and camps."

Brewster finally dragged his ass in about two days
later- He was dirty, and his greens looked like he'd
slept in them for three days, which he probably had.
He had grown a thin black mustache. He dragged his
seabag over and threw it under a cot. I walked over
and stuck out my hand.

"Hey, Bob! How the hell have ye been?"

"Hey, Tyier," he said. He didn't look at all sur-

COVERT ACTIONS

85

prised to see me. He just stood there with his hands
on his hips and a smirk on his face. "I think I've got
worms again. Do worms make your ass itch?"

Same old Bob. You just didn't want to stand too
close to him, or downwind.

"Ain't ye gonna ask me what I'm doin' back, for
Christ sakes?"

"Yer jist like a fly, Tyier: ye couldn't stay away
from this shit."

"Speakin' of shit—you had to take cover in any
more latrines?"

"Why don't you drop it, Tyier, while yer still
ahead?"

"Well, fuck you. I'm goin' to get a beer."

"Fine, Bring me one, will ye? I wanta lay down
here awhile an' rest."

"Yeah, I'll bring ye one: I'll bring ye a used one,
you lazy fucker!"

"Piss on you, too."

I walked out and headed for the EM club down the
street where the other guys were getting together.
After fifty yards or so I heard footsteps behind me.
In just a matter of seconds he'd caught up to me and
was walking in step with me.

"So what the hell's all this shit about, Tyier?"

Yep, things were back to normal. Bob was here.
The brotherhood was back together. The war could
go on now.

CHAPTER 5

Bob was a good man to have around when the shit was
flying thick and fast. He might be personally repulsive
to a lot of people, including a lot of SEALs, but he was
beautiful to me. On patrol, he was my good right ami.
Or maybe I should say my good left ear.

After I'd escaped from the little bastards that had
captured me, and had been checked out at a hospital
in Saigon, they gave me some pills to take, and some
shots, and sent me back to the team. When I got back
to the barge Bob came up to me and asked, "You
going to be all right?"

I told him, "Yeah."

He said, "Well, that's good. I'm glad you're going
to be back. I was afraid I might have to take over this
son of a bitch as patrol leader. Next time you decide
86

COVERT ACTIONS          87

to go AWOL for a couple of days, check with me
first, okay? You really don't need to be pulling that
kind of shit, Tyier."

I said,<t! understand, you concerned son of a bitch!"

He really was concerned, in his way. He looked at
me and shook his head a little, and went over and
started bullshitting with some of the other guys. He
didn't say anything more about it. It had scared him,
and it was unusual for him to worry about anything.

My gonads swelled up, but aside from the pain there
wasn't any problem. My toes were sore, and it was hard
to walk. It was like trying to walk around after an op-
eration. I was stiff and sore for a long time, and I had
to work out to get the soreness out. Bob would say,
"Man, better take it easy. Don't overdo it," but's that's
all he would say about it. He might bring me a cup of
coffee or a beer or a Coke, something he'd never done
before. He didn't babysit me or anything, but for a while
he wouldn't get too far away from me.

And it was Bob who kept me afloat and got me on
board the boat when I was wounded-

For the next couple of weeks the team worked to-
gether on minor missions, to get to know each other
and how we would work together in the field. At the
same time, the South Vietnamese had picked a group
of Lin Dei Nugel Ngai, their equivalent of SEALs,
for us to work with and get familiar with, so we car-
ried out several joint operations. Not that these were
picnics in the woods: we just hadn't got to the heavy
stuff yet. These were ambushes and raids, and patrols
around the DMZ. Of course, we weren't limited in
the territory we could cover.

They'd asked us to test certain weapons under combat
conditions. So we'd pick an area that had thick bush

88 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

and known enemy camps and villages, and we'd go in
and hit one. Then we'd come back and report how the
weapons performed: the kill factor was so-and-so, or
the bullet penetrated a two-inch tree and deviated only
so many degrees and still took the target down. After
fully automatic fire the barrel cooled down quickly. The
kick was light. The accuracy was good, or poor. We
had five misfires, the firing pin is faulty. It jammed
twice, because the cartridges don't feed into the cham-
ber smoothly. On this one, the forearm broke and the
damned barrel fell off. On that one, a lime grit jammed
the trigger. In cool rainy weather the barrel stayed
cooler, but me stock swelled and threw the sights off.
The sights caught in the bush. And so on.

Near the end of my first month in-country. Command
sent us on a mission in the Central Highlands to check
the rate of NVA infiltration down near Kontum. It was
right after the big South Vietnamese push into Laos west
of Khe Sanh, Operation Lam Son 719, and MACV
wanted to know if the offensive had reduced the rate of
infiltration south of that point. It had been a routine
patrol, with only a few small enemy patrols sighted.
They were so small they weren't worth calling in air
strikes or artillery fire. We just ambushed them.

By the time we saw them we were sure there weren't
any big units around, so we didn't mind giving away
our position. We would hit them hard with grenades
and small arms, then pull back before they could react.
We might kill three or four each time. If they came
after us we'd hit them again and withdraw again. If they
turned back before they got close to us and went on
down the trail, we'd catch up to them and hit them
again. We kept picking at them, killing one here and

COVERT ACTIONS         89

two there, until there weren't but two or three left. We'd
let those go, for psychological effect. It was the same
tactics they used on our troops.

We were coming back in to our LZ when we heard
a patrol coming. We lay low and waited, but even
before they came in sight we knew they were Ameri-
cans. We could hear them talking to each other, just
strolling along a damned trail, looking up in the trees
and off at the clouds, bullshitting and playing grab-
ass. They went right by us. Their point man was
slouching along about ten yards ahead with his rifle
at trail, and the first guy behind him had his rifle
across his shoulders with his hands draped over it.

"Sixteen more days and I'm goin' home!" one of
them hollered back at someone in the rear. "Eat your
hearts out, motherfuckers!"

"Sixteen more feet and you're going home in a
baggy," I thought, as he shuffled past the muzzle of
my rifle,

Two came down the trail together, going through the
motions of watching the bush, but one was describing
some woman to the other. Both were looking at the trees
and brush along the trail but they were seeing breasts
and ass. Talking like that takes your concentration away,
even if you're whispering. They weren't. They were
probably distracting the guys around them too.

The entire platoon went by less than five feet from us
and never saw a damned thing. We let them get out of
sight before we moved on. I wished one of us'd had a
camera to take some pictures. It might have done them
some good to see pictures of themselves on patrol taken
when they thought no one was around.

The trail they were following cut our path at about
a 45-degree angle, so we were soon a good half to

90 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

three-quarters of a mile from them. That was when
we heard the shooting.

I knew right away they'd been hit.

It wasn't unusual to hear gunfire when you were out
on patrol- There wasn't a constant roar of battle over
there. It was more like deer season. We'd hear three or
four shots over on that hill, like a deer just ran past a
couple of hunters. Then it might be hours before we
heard anything else. Then you might hear pow.'pow!
from another direction, and just a few minutes later an-
other two or three shots from somewhere else. Then you
might hear nothing else for the rest of the day.

We heard a short burst of shots, and then a few
singles, and a burst of what was obviously M-16s.
Then there was a lull with a few more single shots,
and another burst of fire from the Americans.

I thought, "What in the hell have they got over
there?" There wasn't enough return fire to justify the
amount of M-16 ammunition they were putting out. I
looked around at the guys, and they just shrugged.

We tried the radio, and sure enough they were on the
radio crying for help. We answered, and they said they
were taking heavy fire and could we assist. Bob shook
his head and said, "Heavy fire? If they are, them gooks
must be usin' silencers!" We asked for their location,
and they gave us coordinates about half a mile away,
so we decided we should go over and give them a hand.

At first I thought we'd flank the gooks and drive
them off, but after listening to the panicky officer on
the radio I was a little afraid we might get shot up by
the Americans if we tried it, so we told them what
direction we were coming from and went on in to talk
to the platoon leader.

They had followed the damned trail right across a

COVERT ACTIONS         91

clearing. The gooks waited until they were all in the
open and hit them. They went down on their bellies in
the grass, and stayed there, afraid to move, so bunched
up they were nearly piled on one another. Those that
were shooting were shooting blind, just spraying the
trees. They'd hold the goddamned guns over their heads
and spray a clip or two, but they weren't firing low
enough. They weren't bothering Chariie at all.

I left eight of the guys back at the edge of the clear-
ing, and three of us ran in to talk to the platoon leader,
who turned out to be a green Second Lieutenant. He
probably hadn't been in 'Nam more than two weeks.
We found him on his belly with his head down,
pleading into the radio for some air support. We tried
to find out from him how many enemy there were,
and where they were, but he didn't know. And he
didn't know what to do.

We scanned the area quickly and could only pick
out five or six enemy shooters. They were sharpshoot-
ing, just firing single shots, aimed fire.

"You need to turn their flank," I told him, "Get
some men out. My men are back there. I'll send them
around that end of the clearing. You send yours around
the other way. And pass the word to your other men
that we're starting a flanking movement on both sides."

I got on the radio to Bob and told him to take the
men out to flank the gooks, I told him how many
positions we'd spotted and where they were, and what
the soldiers were doing. While I talked, the two men
with me took some of the gook positions under fire.
By the time I'd finished, the Lieutenant had passed
the word to his men and they'd started moving.

They raised up in a bunch and ran for the trees.
Right toward one of the gook positions.

92 James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

Shit! I thought. I should've kept my damned mouth
shut! In time, my men could probably have mn all
the gooks off without any casualties to ourselves.

We took the enemy positions under fire right away,
of course, but there were only three of us doing any
effective shooting, and that bunch of GIs was between
us and the one gook.

"Spread out!" I yelled. "Spread your asses out!"
as I shot, but it was all over by then. The bunch were
down on their bellies again, with three or four of them
hit, and I knew they'd never move again.

I told the Lieutenant, "You need to spread them
out. Scatter them out."

He said, "Yeah, go ahead. Put 'em out."

I told him, "This ain't my command, asshole. It's
your baby."

"You got any suggestions?'* he asked. The fucker
was battle-happy.

"Yeah. Get their asses spread out!"

We spread ourselves out so we could get a better
angle on the gook positions. We'd move and shoot,
shoot and move, in short hops and single shots. I was
stepping on bodies, the doggies were so bunched up.
"Spread out! Scatter out!" I kept telling them, and a
few began to scatter out a little, and to shoot back at
the gooks with more determination.

The return fire petered out. Before long, all the
shooting was M-l6s.

Bob called in to say they'd killed one gook and
wounded one, and captured two more running across
a clearing. They came in, bringing the enemy and
their weapons.

Two scrawny, half-starved peasants. Leftover Viet

COVERT ACTIONS         93

Cong. And two weapons, one an AK-47 and the other
a U.S. 30 carbine.

The soldiers had a medic with them who started
working on the wounded. The others were standing
there waiting for their platoon leader to do something.
He was just standing there rubbing his face, pushing
his helmet back on his head and then pulling it down
by the brim, and kicking at the dirt.

Bob went over to him. "You got some wounded
here, and some dead. You need a Medivac in here."

"Yeah. Call a Medivac. Radio a Medivac," he
said. He went over to the dead gook, and the wounded
one, and looked at them awhile. He shook his head
and wandered over to look at some of the bodies of
his men. I think he wanted to cry, but he wouldn't
let himself show any emotion.

The radio man yelled over that HQ wanted to know
how many casualties he had. The Lieutenant just
looked at us and asked, "How many casualties?"

"Fuck! It's your goddamned platoon, numbnuts!"
I yelled at him.

A noncom took over and got the wounded and the dead
brought to one side of the clearing. There were eight
dead and six wounded, two of them pretty severely.

The soldiers were walking around saying, "Jesus
Christ!" and started lighting up cigarettes. Some of
them refused to look at the dead, even those who
were friends. "Looking at them ain't going to do no
good," they'd say.

The Lieutenant was a case of nerves. He stood there
shaking, and pushing and pulling his helmet back and
forth on his head. He didn't know what to do next.
His men looked to me for orders.

"What the fuck do we do now?" one of them said.

94

James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

"Get some men out to watch the perimeter. Make
sure Charlie doesn't come back in on you," I told
them. It wasn't my place to tell them anything, but
somebody had to look out for them. Two or three
hardcores could have wiped out the whole rucking
platoon. Several of my team had gone out already on
their own initiative-

We stayed with them until the Medivac came, but
then we pulled out. We had our own mission, after
all. And we didn't want to be too close to that outfit.
They were a walking liability.

One guy just stood there looking at the corpses wait-
ing for dustoff. They were staring right back at him.
"Close their eyes," I told him,
"They're dead," he said. "Why bother?"
"They've seen enough of this fucking war al-
ready," I told him.

Some time in early May they called us in to brief
us on a mission. There was a Marine officer present,
and he did a lot of the talking. It seems that we were
second choice, but the Marine Recons were all tied
up, and they wanted some area checked out in a hurry.
We were the closest available team.

They called us in and showed us what information
they had. There was some NVA activity up north. Air
reconnaissance had flown over using infrared detectors
to spot enemy troops on the ground, moving around at
night. There was a strong buildup about sixty kilometers
west-northwest of Quang Tri, tight up against the DMZ.
They were probably building up to make an attack after
we pulled more troops out and left ARVN on its own.
Our people wanted to knock out that buildup, but there
were five or six camps in there, and they weren't sure

COVERT ACTIONS          95

which were real and which were just decoys. They also
wanted to find out how supplies were coming in and
what kind of defenses had been put up. They'd taken
aerial photographs of the area and had made maps from
them. They also had some maps captured from North
Vietnamese that showed the terrain.

Other patrols had tried to get into the area and had
failed.

Charley was smart: he would set up decoy camps
and run fake supply trains. He also had cardboard
trucks to fool the air photo interpreters. I never saw
any, but I knew guys who had. Supply trains might
follow two or three different routes into an area, but
only one would really be carrying munitions, medi-
cine, or food. We had to know which ones to hit.

When we were planning our route in we looked
over the terrain to figure its effect on maneuverability.
We wanted the shortest possible route, but we always
had two or three optional routes that we could take to
get out of an area. Going in we usually had just one.
We could look at the maps and aerial photographs and
figure out the best way to insert the team. In this case,
we chose to go in by para-insertion. They'd drop us
off as close to the hit zone as we wanted to get.

We looked at hills, streams, and any rivers that
might provide a water supply or a transportation route.
We didn't necessarily choose a route with heavy brush
for cover, but once we had dropped in, we wanted a
covered area nearby where we could hide. We also
liked to be close to a supply of fresh water.

We picked one of the smaller camps to check out.
To get to where we wanted to go, fast, we made a
parachute insertion from a helicopter. We dropped
into a very small clearing one night. We had a quick-

96 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

opening chute, for quick-delivery situations, that you
could jump with from 500 to 700 feet up. They took
us over in a helicopter, and hovered, and when we
went out we pulled the cord.

When we got down, we regrouped and checked to
make sure that none of the guys had been hurt or had
lost any of their weaponry. I'd made them all cany two
pads and pencils apiece, because usually someone would
lose one. We also carried two extra weapons, because
a strap might come undone, or someone might hit the
ground and break a stock or something. We made it
okay, so we destroyed the extra stuff, pinpointed our
location, got our bearings, and took off.

When we found the supply route, we hid and
watched the NVA go by to determine what kind of
weapons they were carrying. It was all small arms,
nothing heavy, so we knew this wasn't the main route.
We did find out where the weapons were coming
from. We logged it and called in, and they flew in
and picked us up. We were out two or three days.

When we got back we reported to Intelligence, and
they sent us right back in. They dropped us off in a
thick area about two or three miles from the enemy
camp. We jumped from a C-130, which was flying at
a higher altitude than the helicopter had been. To con-
ceal the sound of our aircraft, and to confuse them,
we had four or five planes fly over, including some
C-130 gunships to attack any movement they detected
and to create a diversion.

The rear hatch of the C-130 was big enough so that
all of us could go out together. We tried to stay in
close order when we jumped, so we wouldn't get sep-
arated, but we didn't want to stay so close that our
lines would get tangled up.

COVERT ACTIONS          97

We free-fell down to 700 or 800 feet before we
pulled our ripcords. By the time our chutes opened,
we only had a hundred feet or so to go. A low-altitude
jump at night is hard to detect. The higher the jump
altitude, the easier it is for them to see you. The chute
makes a silhouette against the sky, and you're up there
longer. With a low jump, you're below the horizon,
and by the time they look up, you're gone. It's es-
pecially hard to spot those green camouflage chutes if
you go in against the face of a mountain that's cov-
ered with green vegetation.

The whole string landed within about sixty yards,
but we'd been dropped off right in the goddamned
trees, and two guys got hung up in some branches.
They weren't hurt, so they just cut the lines and went
for it. It was either climb down or fall.

By the time we got into our area of reconnaissance,
(he NVA had extended their patrols and strengthened
them, and they had more patrols out. In fact, it seemed
like every time you turned around there was a patrol.
They didn't have many booby traps out because they
didn't want their own men or the damned monkeys trig-
gering them. Instead they just put out more manpower.

We took note of their weapons: a lot of AK-47s, a
lot of automatic weapons, grenade launchers and ba-
zookas, some SAMs and camouflaged antiaircraft guns.
They had a hell of an ammo stockpile too. This had
to be the main camp.

Getting close was like trying to break into the mint.
They had guards out, some that would move around and
others every thirty or fifty yams who were stationary.
They were NVA regulars, well trained and very alert.

We were able to get inside their kill zone, but man,
was it spooky! They had cleared out all the under-

98 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

brush and a few of the trees for about sixty to eighty
feet to make the zone, but they had left as many trees
as they could, so they would still have foliage over-
head to hide them from aircraft. They had put out
concertina wire, too. Inside the fence of concertina
wire was an area of about one city block.

They had set perimeters ofpunji sticks around some
of their camp areas outside the wire. A lot of the
troops, especially the sentries and patrols, slept out-
side the wire.

In the camp itself, little shacks had been built for
the commanders. At night their fires smoldered under
open-sided hutches with vented roofs that came way
down low to conceal the glow from enemy patrols
and low-flying helicopters.

We had brought along a camera with infrared film,
and we used it to take pictures of the camp.

It took us two and a half hours to go fifty yards
through the wire. Just for comparison, depending on
the thickness of the brush, once you're experienced
you might move through it two miles in an hour.
That's a normal walking speed. They had put out
stakes and tied the concertina wire down so it couldn't
be dragged off or rolled back.

Lusk did the mapping. He stayed outside while Bob
and I and Dasher and Magoun crawled in through the
wire. We called in on our radios and told him our coor-
dinates and everything we saw, and he wrote it all down.
Then we came back out just as slowly as we went in.

We stayed in the area a while longer. We looked for
weak points, tried to get an approximate head count,
and tried to figure out how many sentries they would
maintain through a twenty-four-hour period. We ob-
served incoming and outgoing traffic. We timed patrols

COVERT ACTIONS            99

to see if they were keeping on a regular basis or if they
were staggered. We watched where they went and what
they did when they came back. There was a lot of ac-
tivity around there during the daytime.

We found out the supplies were coming from the
north, off the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and later we fol-
lowed the traffic and found three or four bridges they
were crossing as they came down. There were trucks
and people on foot.

We didn't set any explosives or anything like that.
We didn't try to hit the place, because we had more
sense. We just went in, observed, and got back out. We
gathered all the information and took it back to Intelli-
gence, and they had to decide when to hit it and how.

Their most critical decision was how long to wait
before they attacked. Should they wait until the
buildup peaked and the NVA were about to launch
their attack? That way they could destroy everything.
Or should they hit them before they got all their
strength built up? The problem was firepower. If they
let the camp get too strong, it would take too many
helicopters to get enough men in there, and they might
have to move artillery into some firebases within range
of the camp, thus tipping their hand.

In this particular case, they waited. They sent a
company in to hit the decoy camps, to make Charlie
think we were buying his trick. Then we moved in
and hit the big one.

They sent us back in to blow the bridges, but they
didn't want them blown until the main attack, so the
communists would have no way to retreat. We booby-
trapped the trails, and set explosives on the bridges
and blew them up. Then we went back in toward the

100 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

main camp and set booby traps and claymores so that
when they came out, they'd run into them.

The results were very impressive. The enemy troops
went this way and that, like a bunch of blackbirds scat-
tered by a shotgun. They were dispersed all over the
place, running and scared. Then it was just a matter of
cleanup. We knew some of them would try to make it
to the other camps, but the Marines had that escape cut
off.

They probably got 180 kills on that operation.

Once the Marines had moved out, we went in and
destroyed what was left. There wasn't much because
they had bombed the hell out of it.

That was the last major NVA buildup in that area
until after the goddamned peace talks.

A few days later we hit them again, to the west of
that area, in Laos and in North Vietnam Just above
the DMZ. We went up by helicopter and were gone
four days. We blew up some bridges and booby-
trapped some waterways and streams. Charlie was
coming down the rivers from the highlands on rafts
and sampans, so we set explosives with their triggers
just underneath the water. We also blew up a hell of
a lot of swinging bridges and bamboo bridges.

The following week, as part of our familiarization
with the area, we went into North Vietnam and blew
the hell out of Highway 1 just about thirty-five miles
out of Hanoi. We were just supposed to blow up the
damned road and get back out. We set the charges,
but we wanted to make a kill out of it, so we waited.
The North Vietnamese were shipping some armament
down that way, and we blew up four or five trucks
out of a convoy of fifteen.

It was pretty country up there below Hanoi.

CHAPTER 6

Hill 484 is the highest peak on a steep and jungle-
covered ridge that rises out of the coastal plains near
Dong Ha, right up against the DMZ. It's an ideal
observation post for artillery directed against the
coastal plain. In 1966, the Marines went in there and
kicked the North Vietnamese 324B Division off the
ridge and back across the DMZ.

CINCPAC thought that as more and more American
troops were withdrawn, the VC were moving back
onto Hill 484 and getting ready to swoop down and
take over as soon as we were gone. CINCPAC wanted
a reconnaissance team to check and see whether Char-
lie was indeed reinfiltrating. They wanted to know if
he had reoccupied bunkers left from before or was
building new ones, and if he was moving back into
101

102 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

huts in the ravines. We had been watching the area
closely, but when the enemy made his move up north,
we had to turn our attention toward keeping him as
far back from the DMZ as we could. That's when
Chariie decided to move back onto the hill.

We were flown in by helicopter and dropped off
about three miles from the foot of the mountain. Hill
484 was nothing but pure hell, with lots of under-
growth and an eighty-foot-high double canopy of
brush and trees that made a murky darkness below.
Movement would be slow and at times damned near
impossible. It had rained for four or five days before
we went in, and the slopes were still muddy despite
the sunshine and heat during the days since then. In
places where the sun got through it had dried out the
leaves and made them treacherously noisy. Except for
the battle in 1966, we couldn't have moved at all.
When the Marines had come in, they had bombed the
hill to clear out some of the undergrowth, and there
were still patches less overgrown than the natural
areas. They had used "daisy-cutters," which didn't
make much of a crater. Other clearings were places
where one side or the other had camped. The only
trails were those the VC had made while moving in,
and to follow them would have been a fatal mistake.

I was told the battle for Hill 484 was one hell of a
battle. I may bullshit about the grunts, but they pay
their dues, and in high numbers. They'd sure as hell
paid for Hill 484. Now, as we pulled more and more
troops out. the hill was being given back to Charlie.

This was a recon patrol, so we were to engage only
when necessary. If needed, we were to call Cam Lo
for artillery support or Da Nang for air strikes. We
carried a pack radio to call for support, and each of

COVERT ACTIONS         103

us carried hand radios to use in the bush. We were
also carrying our personal weapons, some claymores
and C-3 and C-4 explosive, and five hand grenades
apiece. We would set the claymores in a defensive
perimeter if we laid up to sleep.

I had been lucky so far and hadn't screwed up, but
this patrol would soon put doubts in my mind. There
were twelve of us that went in: eleven from the Tac-
force and one LDNN named Bac Vo. At the time, I
didn't know only eight would return alive and un-
wounded.

Almost from the time we Jumped out of the heli-
copter and left the LZ, I regretted bringing such a
large force- It was tough enough to move through the
bush without making noise, and twelve made more
than twice the noise of six; I don't know why that is,
but it always works that way. It was also tougher to
keep them spread out enough and yet keep them mov-
ing as a group. In the lower terrain Bob and I took
point positions, and we moved with a flanker on each
side and a rear guard. On the steeper slopes they had
a tendency to bunch up, and we ended up with more
of a column.

We were all on Dexedrine. When we started up that
hill it was like we were all eyeballs and ears and
noses- It intensified every sensation.

We hadn't gone far when Tony found signs at the
foot of the hill that Chariie had been there, and it
hadn't been too long ago, either: maybe three or four
days. There was some freshly cut brush, and the grass
was trampled down. I couldn't tell how many there
had been, but certainly more than one.

I told the guys to spread out and we would make
short sweeps up the hill. I wasn't going to take any

104 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

chances that Charlie was still nearby. I took the point,
but couldn't go out very far because the bush was too
thick and the visibility poor. I told everyone to watch
the trees. If Charlie was in there, he'd have spotters
out. I was also sure he would have booby traps out,
and patrols. We had to be on our toes all the time.

I had a small funny feeling about it when we started
up. At one point I said to myself, "Nope, I'm scrap-
ping it. Let's get the hell out of here and go on back
and just tell them we blew it. It wouldn't be the first
time, and it's no real disgrace or anything." But they
train you until you arc totally mission oriented: the
mission must be accomplished despite all. So I went
on with it.

The sun was just barely up, but the humidity was
already high and the temperature was rising. Little
biting gnats were swarming everywhere. You could
tell it was going to be a hot sticky day in the bush-
We didn't want to make any unnecessary noise, so
we didn't use our machetes. We moved by parting
the undergrowth and slipping through, but that meant
we moved more slowly than usual.

Thompson was carrying the pack radio, an AN/
PRC-41. It was bulky, and it caught in me underbrush
and made more noise than I was comfortable with. It
also weighed forty pounds, and it was quite a burden
to haul up a steep, muddy hill in the heat. Its range
was line of sight, so it would be useless down in the
ravines. We'd barely started up the hill before I de-
cided to leave it behind. I convinced myself that if
we saw anything, we could mark it on our map and
report back to headquarters about it. They could hit a
camp or an observation post by coordinates on a map

COVERT ACTIONS          105

without an observer spotting for them. We cached it
and booby-trapped it and moved on.

The monkeys were plentiful on the hill. They chat-
tered and screamed and barked when we frightened a
bunch of them, and fled through the treetops. A few
brave ones would stick around to scream at us and
throw sticks and handfuls of shit. It worried me that
they might give us away, but then I realized they
could just as easily betray a VC patrol to us. Anyway,
who was going to know if they were screaming at us
or at each other?

We were about an hour onto the hill and about 150
or 200 feet up when we spotted the first patrol. There
were seven of them, and they were moving fairly fast
along a trail. They were carrying backpacks. We hid
and let them go by, although we could easily have
taken them out. Our mission was to find out what was
on the hill, and if we took out the patrol, there was a
certain element of risk that we would be discovered.
If one man slipped up and let his man cry out or
shoot, they'd know we were there. Or the bodies
might be discovered by another patrol.

After they were well out of sight, we moved out
around the mountain, following their back trail. I
thought that by backtracking them we might be led to
their camp or strong point. We had been following
their back trail for a little less than two hours when
Bob broke squelch on his little hand radio to get my
attention and motioned for me to come over. When I
got to him he said, almost casually, "Olfsonjust went
down."

I immediately got a cold lump in my stomach, as
if I'd swallowed an ice cube. I thought we were dis-
covered already.

106     James R. Reeves and James C. Fay/or

"Where was he?" I asked.

"About forty feet over that way," he said, and
pointed to his left.

I signaled the others to hold their positions while
Bob and I checked it out. There hadn't been any gun-
fire, so I thought he had been either shot with a cross-
bow or Jumped. I hoped it was a crossbow. The VC
that could take Olfson down as fast as he went down
was someone I wouldn*t want to meet in a dark al-
ley—or jungle, either.

"You stay about twenty feet to my left," I told
Bob. "You watch the trees and I'll watch the
ground."

"You got it," Bob said as he moved out.

When a man goes down, you've got to figure what-
ever caused it has moved, so you don't go directly to
that spot. You go a little ways ahead and a little ways
behind where he went down and circle to try to cut
their path. We did, and didn't find anything. So we
went over to check on him.

Olfson had found a booby trap. A pit full of sharp
bamboo stakes.

"Son of a bitch," I said, after I looked at him.
There was blood foaming from one of his lungs where
a stake had punched through his chest, and another
one had gone through his neck and out his mouth,
There was no sign of life.

"Damn," Bob said. "Why didn't he see it. Jay?"

I thought a damned monkey had probably distracted
him.

It was suddenly clear what that patrol had been
doing. They were going around the mountain check-
ing their booby traps, to make sure they hadn't been
sprung by some animal, and to see if they'd bagged

COVERT ACTIONS          107

any victims. That would be a regular patrol, and there
might be more than one a day. Or the one that checked
this pit going out might also check it coming back in.
One way or the other, they would be back. If not
today, then tomorrow. They would see the blood on
the broken stakes and know they'd gotten somebody.
Then they'd know there had been a patrol on the hill,
and that it might still be there.

The backpacks indicated they planned to be out
overnight, probably for several nights. It might be
days before they were due back. Or this might have
been their last day.

A couple of the guys started to climb down and get
him out. I stopped them. I should have aborted the
mission right then and let them carry him back out,
but they drill it into you that the mission takes prec-
edence over everything else. Aborting just didn't seem
to me to be an option at that time. Still, I had an
uneasy feeling about it. And I wasn't the only one.
A couple of the guys had doubts. When you've got
two guys that are feeling uneasy about a mission right
off the bat, how are they going to perform?

I turned to them and said, "It's a hard decision to
make. I don't know whether to go on or turn back.
But I'd sure like to know what's up there."
Tony said, "Do you think we really should?"
And because Intelligence wanted to know if any-
thing was going on in that area, and our mission was
to find out, I said, "Hell, yes. Let's go for it!"
"But we've got to leave him," I told them.
"He deserves better than that. Jay," Tony said.
*'Goddamnit, I know it!" I snapped at him. I'd
never snapped at him like that before, or at any of the
others- But my ass was in a bind between what I

108 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

wanted to do, get the body out and take it back, and
what I had to do, which was complete the mission.
They weren't helping me make the hard decisions by
appealing to my emotions. Didn't Tony know I felt
the same way?

"Look," I went on, a little more rationally, "let's
get that patrol. Catch 'em and get rid of 'em. Then
we*ll come back here and get him out, and I'll send
three of you back with him. That'll leave me eight
men; that's enough. It'll buy us some time. But we
have to get that patrol first."

They left him reluctantly. I spread them out about
thirty feet apart and paired them up, one man to watch
the trees for spotters, and one to watch for booby
traps. I took the point again and went out a little far-
ther than before. I wanted to make sure I had enough
time to get back to them and warn them if we ran
into a patrol coming toward us. I picked up the pace
a little. I thought we might have to overtake the gook
patrol and pass it. If they were stopping to check their
traps, we should be able to do it. Otherwise, we'd
catch them when they made camp, or got back to their
main camp if their route took them that way.

They had doubled back. I spotted them before we
even got back to where we had seen them the first
time. They weren't moving very fast, and they were
walking in single file along a trail. I backed off from
them until they were almost out of my sight, then
turned and hurried back to the team and called them
in.

"They're ahead of us, heading our way, in single
file on that trail over there. There's twelve to fifteen
feet between them. I'll take the seventh man, Bob'11
take the sixth. Tony the fifth, and so on. Number off

COVERT ACTIONS         109

and get in position. The rest of you scatter out to the
sides and cover us. Don't anybody make their move
until you see me go first."

They quickly numbered off and took their positions
along the trail- The heavy underbrush was a definite
asset now. We stayed eight to ten feet back from the
trail so there was no danger of being seen.

When the gooks came by I could see they were
NVA. They were in uniforms and wore boots and
helmets. The seventh man had his chin strap fastened
and pulled up tight. That would make it easier for
me, but he had that damned knapsack on, and that
would make it tough to get a grip on his shoulder. So
I took out my knife and waited until he went by.

As soon as he was past I raised up to a low crouch
and slipped over to the trail behind him. He heard
nothing and Just kept trudging along. I leaped for-
ward, covering the few feet between us in a second
or less. I stabbed him in the left shoulder and grabbed
the front rim of his helmet with my left hand all in
the same move. The knife buried in his shoulder gave
me the grip I needed to hold my right forearm at the
base of his neck while I pulled back hard on the rim
of the helmet. His neck snapped without his ever hav-
ing made a sound. I glanced past him as he went limp
in my grasp and saw Bob in the act of leaping on his
man.

We took them down one by one, from back to front,
like dominoes.

I cut his throat and stabbed him in the heart to make
sure he was dead, and dragged him off the trail into
the bushes down the hill about twenty yards. I cov-
ered him with loose leaves and humus. The rest of
the guys dragged their victims off the trail and did

110     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

their best to cover them up. In a few hours they would
start to smell anyway, and before long anyone that
came that way would know they were there, but it
might buy us a few hours.

There was some blood on the leaves around the
trail, and scuff marks and bloodstains leading through
the bush. We covered that up as best we could, and
destroyed their weapons.

I should have stopped right there. I should have just
counted the kills, aborted the mission, and got the rest
of them the hell out of there. But we were so mission
oriented. . . .

We went back and got Olfson's body out of the pit.
I tolled off Quinn, Casbum, and Fitchew to cover the
pit and take the body down. It was starting to smell
already, because of the heat. Quinn had the strength
to cany the body without any trouble. Fitchew and
Casbum could spell him, and the two not carrying the
body could watch the bush for the other one.

"You stop and get that radio on the way down," I
told them, "so you can call in for a dustoff. Don't go
to our LZ or to our pickup spot- Find another spot,
and nave them come to you. Then you stay around
after they take the body out. We'll rendezvous about
a mile from our LZ and get picked up together. Re-
member that ledge of rock that stuck up down by the
bend in the river? We'll rendezvous there. We'll call
you when we come off the hill."

It was mid-aftemoon when the rest of us started
back up the hill. We all stayed on the same side of
the hill, because I figured the patrol we'd taken out
was responsible for that sector. We followed off to
one side of their trail. Soon we came to a long, gentle
slope that went up the crest of one of the divides

COVERT ACTIONS         111

between ravines. The trail followed the incline for
quite a distance. The trees formed an almost solid
canopy, and where there was an opening, the brush
grew up in a second canopy so the light came through
the leaves in little pencil-thin beams. When you were
in the darker parts, your eyes got accustomed to it
and you could see all right: it was like dusk- When
you came to one of the more open areas, though, the
light dazzled your eyes, and you couldn't see what
was lurking in the shadows. The monkeys gathered
near the open spots. You could generally tell you were
coming to a clearing from all the shrieking and chat-
tering.

Magoun found a Malay sling. It was a sapling
mounted against a couple of trees and bent back so it
would whip across the trail just about waist high.
There were sharpened bamboo stakes lodged in it that
would be driven into the belly or groin of the person
that triggered it. We left it untouched.

Just before sundown we came upon a bunker right
at the top of a little knoll. We checked it out. It was
empty, and there were no signs that the enemy had
been there recently, so we moved on. Beyond the
knoll was a little clearing. It covered the crest of the
ridge. On either side of it the ridge fell off sharply
into ravines. The ravines were steep and heavily over-
grown with bamboo and all kinds of brush, because the
trees were very patchy. The trail swung to the left and
through the brush at the head of one of the ravines. It
was an ideal site for an ambush or a booby trap, so we
avoided it. The choice was to cross the clearing or work
our way through the ravines.

We were all tired, and the idea of bucking the brush
some more didn't sound attractive, so I sent Vo and

112     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

Tony down for a closer look. They came back and
said it was all clear, but the grass was short, so we'd
best wait for dark before crossing. We spread out
around the knoll and waited. Bob worked fifty yards
back along our trail as an outpost in case we were
being followed. Some of the guys took the opportu-
nity to eat their C-rats or take a drink. I sat and stud-
ied my map and looked ahead at the terrain, as much
as I could see of it. We were about a third of the way
up, and the roughest country lay ahead of us.

It was dusk when we got ready to move out again.
Bob and I were conferring before going out as points
when he spotted two gooks moving out on the far side
of the clearing.

I dug out the binoculars and watched them. There
was no real need for a starlight scope.

"What arc they doing?" Bob asked.

"I don't know, unless they just got tired of fighting
the bush. Maybe they're looking for a place to bed
down for the night. I do know one thing: they feel
safe up here. And they're not in any hurry."

We held up until the dusk had deepened into dark.
There was a full moon out. All the time, I was going
over the possibilities in my head. If we tried to go
through the brush at the head of the ravine, it would
be a real bitch. The moonlight would help some, but
we were going to make noise enough to make up for
the extra cover we would have. If we cut through the
clearing we might be spotted. And if we held up here
until morning before working our way through the
bush, Charlie would be moving too.

When we started to move out I told Bob, "We're
not going through the clearing. Tell everybody to stay
close. We'll go through the brush to the right of the

COVERT ACTIONS         113

clearing." It was more open and less steep than the
other side.

"Fuckin* A," he agreed.

We worked our way through the bush just at the
edge of the clearing. We were about halfway across
when I heard voices. I had the others hold up, and
then crept up closer. I could see at least two men,
probably the ones I'd heard talking. With the starlight
scope, I could see others in some of the bushes. They
had an L-shaped ambush set up, but they weren't very
serious about it. I could hear them muttering to each
other every once in a while, and once one of them
chuckled. If they'd kept their damned mouths shut,
they could've had eight of Uncle Sam's best to brag
about to Mama-san.

I backed away until I felt safe breaking squelch and
called the team. I just mouthed the words into the
mike in a very quiet whisper, but they heard it. Tony
moved up near me, and we watched the ambush while
Bob led the rest of the team into the edge of the clear-
ing. They went one at a time, the rest crouching down
to cover the moving man. They sounded like a herd
of water buffalo to Bob, but I didn't hear them, and
the Talking Ambush sure didn't.

After they were past. Tony and I followed them.
We leapfrogged across the edge of the clearing, in the
patchy brush as much as possible, one man moving
while the other watched over him.

About 2100, in the thicker bush up the ridge, we
laagered for the night. We lay in a rough circle, in
pairs, each pair about fifteen feet apart. The guys in
each pair were about three feet apart. One would sleep
while the other kept watch. We were close enough to
wake each other without much movement, and the

114     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

pairs were far enough apart that Charlie couldn't get
everyone at one swoop if he did hit us.

The monkeys and the birds had settled down, and
except for the occasional call of a night bird, it was
silent. At this season, at this altitude, there wasn't
any noisy insect life or tree frogs. They'd come later.
Every now and then you could hear a loud crack as
the trees cooled and contracted. Green troops might
have been panicked by it, but we were all used to it
by now. It was a normal night sound in this area, due
to the extreme temperature range.

Tony and I paired up. I had the first watch. I lay
there and tried to concentrate on watching my zone
of responsibility, but my mind kept going back
through the events of the day. Had I made the right
decision, splitting the team? As far as our own move-
ment and security, I was sure I had. I could only hope
the other three were making it all right. If they didn't
make it, if they were spotted and ambushed, I knew
I'd blame myself. On the other hand, it had seemed
necessary for the morale of the group to let them carry
the body out. No one wanted to think of his body
being left behind to rot and become a part of Viet-
nam.

When we first stopped, my greens were wet with
sweat, and I could smell the blood on them from the
gook I'd killed earlier. Later, as the night cooled, the
sweat sapped my body heat, and I got chilled, I started
craving a smoke, but the smell would carry a long
way at night and might give us away. There was noth-
ing to do but lie there without moving, and look and
think.

The moon was high and big and unobscured by
clouds. That would give us an advantage if Charlie

COVERT ACTIONS          115

came by. I looked up at the moon and thought about
that same moon shining over the hills back home in
Arkansas, and I could almost hear the music of the
coon dogs down along the Buffalo. I loved the moon
back there. Not that I was a coon hunter, although
I've been a few times. These moonlit nights were the
best ones for a hot date and a watermelon roast down
by the lake. Over here, the moon might be a help to
you, or it might help Charlie. It seemed to change
sides pretty often. I thought, "Whose side are you on
tonight, moon? All I ask is: keep shining until day-
light."

When I reached over to wake Tony for his watch,
he woke up without jerking. I think he wasn't really
asleep. I stretched out on my back and closed my eyes
but never did go to sleep. I was aware every time
somebody awakened for his watch. Time just seemed
to drag on. I took my watch again, then Tony took
the last. When he poked me the next time, it was
getting light. It was time to move.

As we started up, we found a broad area that had
been cleared by the bombing during the big battle. It
was quite a bit easier to travel through, and we made
up for time lost in the other areas. The monkeys were
plentiful again, and we took that for a good sign that
Charlie wasn't in the area in big numbers. Neither
did we see any patrols until mid-afternoon, when we
were nearing the top of the ridge. By then we'd gone
three-quarters of the way around.

The patrol was larger than those we'd seen farther
down: there were about a dozen men. I thought that
might indicate we were close to the enemy's strong
point, and when we saw a second patrol about the
same size just a little way farther on, I was certain. I

116     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

decided to hold up until dark. We searched the im-
mediate area to make sure the two patrols had gone,
and circled up to wait until sunset.

When we moved out, I put Bob out on the right
flank and Tony on the left. I spread the group out just
far enough so that we could still see hand signals.
The bush was far more open than before, but we still
had to take it easy or we'd make too much noise.

We had gone about half a mile when I spotted a
patrol. I signaled the team to drop down and stand
by. I didn't want to take them out.

They got closer and closer, and I got tenser and
tenser. It looked as if they were going to walk right
onto us. Actually, they did. They were spread out
too, and for a moment they were all around and
among us. Then they passed on. The rear guard
passed within six feet of me. I thought, "You lucky
slopehead asshole! If we were going down this hill
instead of up it, I'd stick your ass!" They weren't
carrying packs. That meant they weren't out for more
than half a day, so we were getting close to their
camp. They were probably a perimeter patrol, so there
would be another not far behind them.

We didn't move until the last of them was out of
sight. Tony gave the all-clear signal, and I motioned
that we should move out. We were getting close now,
and everyone knew they had to be more alert.

We hadn't moved much more than a hundred yards
when I happened to look over to the left and saw
Dasher relaying a signal from Tony—an indication
that someone on the left had visual contact and wanted
us to wheel in that direction.

We made a broad sweep, keeping our relative po-
sitions so that Bob ended up on the right flank, but

COVERT ACTIONS         117

we crossed our former line of movement at about right
angles.

I could see a light ahead, thirty yards or so through
the bush. The guys had automatically pulled in closer
because the light was failing fast, and they were stay-
ing within sight of each other. I called them even
closer so we could whisper and hear one another.

"Okay, listen up. Bob, you and Tony take the right
and see what they have on that side," I told them.
"Be damned sure to watch for booby traps." I still
had Mike Olfson on my mind. "Dasher and me will
take the left. Thompson, you and Vo cover the rear.
You other guys hold your positions here. We'll meet
back here in one hour."

Bob and Tony moved out to the right and Dasher
and I went off to the left. We went about fifty yards
before we turned toward the camp—a little area
cleared of brush, with six huts in it. Four of them
were new; the other two were run-down, seedy, as if
they had been there for some time. They weren't
much, just bamboo frames with some leaves to shed
the rain. A gook was squatted down in front of one
of the huts with his head resting back against it. The
huts didn't have any doors, and I could see maybe
ten people inside the one where the guy was leaning.
There were about twenty more outside, standing or
squatting around in little groups, bullshitting. Dasher
counted four sentries around the perimeter, walking
posts about a hundred feet apart within about twelve
feet of the edge of the clearing, and he pointed out
two more near the entrance to a bunker. They were
standing there talking with their weapons slung, but
their positioning suggested they were guarding some-
thing. In the middle of the clearing there was a small

118    James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

fire built underneath a bamboo frame with a roof to
hide it from the air. The kill zone—the cleared area-
on our side was cleared to about 200 feet from the
huts. There were five sandbagged mortar pits. Every-
one in the place seemed to be carrying AK-47s, and
they were all uniformed NVA. I estimated there were
probably fifty men in the camp, plus those out on
patrol. We knew there was at least one patrol out, but
I didn't know if the two we'd seen earlier had come
back in.

We had watched them for about thirty minutes when
Dasher pointed out one of the gooks talking on the
radio. About five minutes later a patrol of eight en-
tered the camp from off to our left. Three men from
inside the hut came out and started talking to the
leader. We couldn't hear them, but I could see the
leader shaking his head from side to side. They talked
for just a couple of minutes, then the leader went
inside with the three that had come out to meet him,
and the rest of the patrol dispersed.

I glanced at my watch. It was time to head back.

We rendezvoused back in the bush where Lusk and
Magoun were holding their positions. The guys
checking the back trail had already returned, and Bob
and Tony had got back just ahead of us.

Thompson made his report. "We went about a
hundred yards back and out fifty to each side, and
seen nothing."

"There were five sentries over on our side, and the
kill zone is about a hundred feet wide. The bush over
there has been thinned down and it isn't as thick as it
is over here," Bob said. "You can move around in
it a lot easier, but there's still some patches of brush
there for cover. It looks like it might be some kind of

COVERT ACTIONS          119

•an escape route." Then he recounted essentially what
Dasher and I had seen of the layout of the camp.

"Are there any huts in back of the main ones?" I
asked him.

"There's one, a little one. Looks like a shithouse.
I didn't get close enough to smell. And there's two
sandbag bunkers. One of them has a machine gun in
it, and a gook. The other I couldn't see very well."

"Do the sentries have a clear view of each other?"

"The ones right and left of them, yeah. And the
ones on the end could see each other across the clear-
ing if they looked. We could take out the middle
three, and risk the other two missing them. They don't
walk a regular post . . . sometimes they take longer
on their route than they do other times."

I asked about booby traps.

"Didn't see ary a one,"

"None," Tony agreed.

I told them what we'd seen, and about the patrol
coming in. We sat there and thought over the situation
for a while in silence.

Then Bob asked the Question: "Well, what are we
gonna do?"

I made a show of studying the map while I thought.
I lay down and covered my head with a shelter half
and looked at the map with one eye by the light of
my little penlight, but I knew what the map showed,
anyway. We had covered the hill pretty well. Any-
thing we had missed so far, we were likely to miss if
we stayed another day on the hill. That really wasn't
the question Bob was asking. What he was really say-
ing was: "Okay, you stupid fucker, you left the pack
radio at the foot of the hill. How do we call for artil-
lery or an air strike?" I turned out the penlight and

120 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

lay there under the shelter half while my eye read-
justed to the dark.

I could see three options open to us-

One: We could leave, report the location of the
camp as we had it on our map, and let them fire on
it blind, or hit it with a blind air strike. More likely,
they would send someone back in to observe and cor-
rect the artillery or the air strike. Probably they would
send us, since we'd been there and knew the way in
and what to expect. We'd have to climb the damned
hill again. Or they might send the Marines in to clear
Charlie off the hill. If they did that, some Marines
would get killed. Maybe a lot of them.

Two: We could go down the hill, meet the other
guys, and get the radio. Then we could come back
up the hill and call in the air strike or the artillery.
That would take at least three more days, and there
was the risk of being seen by a patrol. As we got
tired, we'd make mistakes, and the risk grew. That
option was not as good as the first.

Three: We could hit the camp ourselves while we
were up here. We had hit camps this size before with
very few problems. Bob and I and a mixed bunch of
Green Berets, 101st Airborne, and ARVN Rangers
had hit a camp bigger than this, not once, but twice,
and got away with it. When the claymores and the
explosives went off, there was so much confusion that
Charlie really couldn't organize an effective defense
effort for several minutes. The idea was to hit hard
and get out fast.

There were definite advantages if we hit the camp,
even if they had to come in later with airpower or the
Marines to finish the job. Psychologically, it was more
damaging to their morale to be hit hard and hurt bad

COVERT ACTIONS         121

by a few men on the ground than to suffer the same
destruction by air strikes or artillery. If they took
twenty-five or thirty casualties from an air strike,
they'd just think, "Look how much effort they had to
put out to cause this many casualties—they used all
those planes, and bumed all that fuel, and dropped
all those bombs, and it probably cost them ten thou-
• sand dollars to kill one Viet Cong!" But let six or
eight men hit them and cause the same number of
casualties, and they'll think, "Holy Buddha! What's
going on here? They did all this with eight men? Let's
hope they don't bring in a whole company when they
come back!"

I pulled my head out from under the shelter half.
Bob was sitting there looking at me- I started folding
away the shelter.

"Well?" he said. "You see anything on that map
you ain't seen before?" He knew I'd been thinking it
over.

"Let's hit'em."

"Fuckin' A, man!" When he grinned his teeth
^   made a white flash in the darkness.

We had a council of war there in the dark. We
knew what lay ahead of us, so we could sit down and
figure out what we were going to do: draw it out in
the damned dirt. Put all of our heads together. It
wasn't me telling the guys, "Well, we're going to do
this or we're going to do that, and the hell with your
opinion." A lot of times they made more sense than
I did. I wasn't the type to want credit for whatever
we all did right. None of us wanted individual credit
for anything. We weren't glory-hungry sons of bitches
like some soldiers I've seen.

&

^    We decided to hit the camp from one side to panic

122     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

them, so that when they tried to escape, they would
run into trip-wired mines on the other side. We would
wait until just before dawn, so that the patrols out for
the night would be in, and the morning patrols would
probably not have gone out. When we had worked it
out, I repeated the plan to make sure we all had it
right.

"Okay," I said, "Bob, you and Tony and Thomp-
son set your claymores in that cleared area. Trip-wire
them. Then move up and take out those middle three
sentries and put delays in those two bunkers and the
shithouse. Set your timers so they'll go off at 0535.
Then work around to this near end so you can shoot
into the camp, if necessary. Dasher and Vo and me,
we'll take out the middle two sentries on our side,
and set our charges on the bunker and the mortar pits
for 0530. Lusk, Magoun, set a perimeter of clay-
mores in the bush about fifty yards from this end of
the village. Leave a clear path so we can get through.
Then stay back here to secure our backs. We go in at
0500. Remember, the first charges will go off at 0530.
Be back here by 0520, so we can get started down
the hill. Is that clear enough to everybody?"

They all agreed it was.

"All right, it's 2218 now; we have a chance to get
some sleep. We'll laager up here. We seem to be out
of the path of any patrols. Two men will maintain a
watch on the camp. Bob and I will go first. The rest
of you count off: odd numbers take the first watch.
Two-hour watches. Be ready to saddle up at 0400."

At about 2330, we were startled by a racket that
turned out to be some men in the camp getting a little
drunk and loud. Two of them got in a tiff over a
bottle, and another man came out of one of the huts

COVERT ACTIONS         123

and chewed their asses out. We saw no patrols going
out or coming in. Then, just before we pulled back
and let Thompson and Magoun take over, there was
some radio traffic that generated some excitement in
the camp. One man left the commo hut—we could
identify that by the antenna wires strung from it—and
ran to one of the other huts. In a few seconds he
scurried back with another man, probably the com-
mander.

"Did you see what hut he came from?" I asked
Bob.

"Yeah."

"Well, remember it. It could be their officers* quar-
ters, Put your charge on that one instead of the shit-
house."

We moved back and let the other two take over the
watch. I took Magoun's spot in the circle, and Bob
took Thompson's. When my turn to sleep came, I
was too nervous to close my eyes. Mom had always
joked that my brother and I weren't afraid of work,
because we could lie down right beside it and go to
sleep. That sure wasn't the case now. "Work" was
fifty yards and three hours away, and I hadn't slept
in seventy-two hours, and I still couldn't doze off.
Maybe because the Dexedrine was still in my blood-
stream. I don't know. All I know is I lay there and
thought about everything that could go wrong.

At 0330, when Bob rousted me, I went around and
double-checked on everybody, making them eat and
drink, and empty their bladders and move their bow-
els, if they hadn't already. "When we start down this
hill, we're going to be moving damned fast," I re-
minded them. "We won't be able to stop and wait
while ya shake the dew off yer lily." I made sure

124    James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

they had their charges and claymores, and the deto-
nators they'd need, and that their weapons were
loaded and working properly. By the time I'd finished
I hardly had time to check my own gear. It was time
to move out.

I reminded everybody, unnecessarily, of the tim-
ing, and to make sure they got a clean kill on any
sentries they took out. Then we saddled up. We left
our packs behind and took only our weapons and ex-
plosives. I checked my rifle to make sure the banana
clips were clear, and my knife to make sure it was
free. Then I switched the rifle to full auto and popped
some Dexedrine, and we moved out, me, Vo, and
Dasher in one direction. Bob Brewster, Tony, and
Thompson in the other, and Magoun and Lusk di-
rectly ahead toward the camp.

Only the sentries were moving around in the camp.
A couple of drunks were still curled up on the ground
by one of the huts, sleeping it off. It was a little too
early for the sober ones to be up and moving around.
They'd wake up at sunup—about the time our charges
started going off. I was relieved to see there wasn't
an early patrol going out.

At 0500 I signed to Vo to move in on his sentry.
He was to delay five minutes before taking him out.
That would give me time to get into position to get
mine. We left our rifles with Dasher.

My sentry was holding his rifle in his right hand,
by the pistol grip, but he didn't have his finger on the
trigger. He'd laid the rifle back on his shoulder with
the pistol grip forward, so that the barrel stuck almost
straight up. He was short and wiry, as most of them
were. He had his helmet on, but his chin strap wasn't
fastened, so snapping his neck was out of the ques-

COVERT ACTIONS         125

tion. He was walking too close to the bush, which
was to my advantage.

He was approaching me and about thirty feet away
when there was a disturbance in the bush. He stopped,
brought the rifle down into firing position, and edged
toward the commotion. My mind was racing: Was
Dasher doing something on his own? Had Vo mis-
understood his assignment? I got ready to run like
hell. Then the sentry bent down, picked up a rock,
and threw it off into the bush. At once there was
screaming and chattering as a monkey took off for
parts unknown, cursing back over his shoulder at the
sentry. The sentry relaxed and came on toward me,
mumbling.

He was probably cursing the monkeys. I know I
was.

When he passed, he had his rifle back on his shoul-
der and his finger off the trigger. Sometimes when
you grab a sentry and stick him, he'll pull the trigger
by reflex, so I was glad to see he didn't have his
finger on it. He'd put his left hand in his pocket,
probably because it was cold.

I glanced at my watch, and it was time to go.

I raised into a low crouch and stepped out of the
bush behind him. He was about eight feet ahead of
me and walking away, so it took me three quick steps
to catch up to him. I grabbed him under the chin with
my left hand and jerked his head to the left and back
so he couldn't cry out. He was so small I lifted him
right off the ground. He dropped the rifle and grabbed
for my left forearm. I placed the knife between his
shoulder blades, and it hit his spine and slipped off to
the right. For a second I thought I'd screwed up, but
I turned the blade to the left and forced it in, and it

126 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

went in front of his backbone into his lung and heart.
He kicked a couple of times as I carried him into the
bush. I left his rifle lying there. When I dropped him,
I realized he was dead, but I cut his throat anyway,
as a sort of double-check.

Over to the right, I saw Vo had taken his man out.
I grabbed the demolitions and headed for the bunker
in a low crouch.

It was that period of false dawn, when the sky light-
ens a little just before true sunrise. The moon was
low in the western horizon, and together with the light
in the eastern sky, lit the scene a little brighter than
full moonlight would.

I had to pass one of the sandbagged mortar pits to
get to the bunker. There was one guy posted there,
but he was sitting on his ass, sound asleep. One of
the guys posted by the bunker had gone over to the
fire to warm his hands. The other one sat with his
back and head leaning against the bunker. He wasn't
asleep, though, because he would move his head a
little and look around.

I was about thirty feet from the bunker when a man
came out of the commo hut and walked right toward
it. He was probably the radio operator on duty. I was
in the open with nothing to hide behind. I pressed
myself flat on the ground and became a bush. I con-
centrated on being a bush. I even dug my fingers into
the ground like roots, and mashed my face into the
ground and smelled the good rich soil and wished it
would rain. There for a few seconds, I was a bush.

Either the guy wasn't alert or I sprouted leaves,
because he went off to the other side of the bunker. I
waited a few seconds and then went for it. He was
taking a leak behind the bunker. I would have waited

COVERT ACTIONS          127

until he finished and left, but I was on a tight sched-
ule. I set the timer and laid a charge by the front
comer. Then I set another timer, laid a charge on the
top, and went back to the rear. The gook was still
there. It was sure taking him a long time. He may
have been playing with himself. Anyway, he was
making me run behind schedule. I needed to set a
charge on the hut he'd come from, and I didn't want
him coming back and interrupting me.

Cursing him silently, I drew my K-bar and stepped
around the comer of the bunker. He heard something
and turned to face me, his hands still on his penis. I
grabbed him by the throat with my left hand, crushing
his Adam's apple with my thumb, and rammed my
knife into his solar plexus. He didn't even kick. He
just stiffened up for a second and then went limp. I
laid him down easy. I was tempted to cut off his
penis—I'd seen what they did to our dead—but I didn't
have time for such nonsense.

I glanced around the comer at the guy sitting by
the front comer of the bunker. He had drawn his knees
up and rested his forehead on them. He was breathing
slowly and regularly. If he wasn't asleep, he was
damned near it. His companion by the fire was stand-
ing with his backside to it, wanning his buns, and
watching one of the huts—probably keeping an eye
out for signs of an officer or noncom stirring. If he
looked back toward the bunker, he'd see me heading
for the hut.

I worked my way around the other side of the
bunker, crouched there, and checked my watch. I was
about three minutes behind schedule. I was about
ready to go for it when the jerk by the fire turned
around.

728 James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

I practically sprinted over to the hut. Not quite flat
out, because every muscle was tense, and I was care-
ful not to let my feet thud on the ground. I put the
third delay on top of the hut. I wanted to put it inside
the door, but with that asshole standing by the fire
out front, it was out of the question.

After a quick look around, I worked my way back
past the bunker to the mortar pit. The guy in there
was still catching some Z's. He was propped against
the back wall. I set the timer and lowered the charge
over the sandbag wall until I felt the strap go slack. I
let the strap go, praying the charge wasn't caught on
something and that the gook had not wakened. I could
imagine him calmly taking the charge out of my hand
as I lowered it, then raising up over the wall and
shooting me. Nothing tike that happened, though, so
I checked to make sure there was no one moving
around, and slipped back to the edge of the clearing
where Dasher was waiting.

Vo tapped his watch. "You late," he said disap-
provingly. He was almost covered with blood from
the sentry.

"I had to take another one out," I told them. "Let's
get the fuck out of here."

CHAPTER 7

We rendezvoused in the clump of brush where we'd
laagered during the night. Bob was cursing to himself
as he slipped his pack on his shoulders. There were
only seconds to ask him what was wrong, and while
he muttered something about the detonator on the last
charge, I was already thinking about calling in Lusk
and Magoun, so whatever he said didn't register. I
picked up my hand radio and called in the other two.
I kept checking my watch as we waited, even though
it only took a few minutes. We were still running
late.

Then one of the damned claymores on the perimeter
went off.

For about half a second we all stood there, frozen,
looking at each other. Had a patrol moved into the
129

130 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

perimeter? Had some gook slipped out of camp to go
AWOL and triggered it?
I called Lusk and Magoun to see what was going

on.
Lusk answered. "Stand by ... Joe is checking it

out."

Bob said, "I got the left flank!" and took off.

I pointed at Thompson and then to the right. The
hill would soon be swarming with NVA, and we
needed flankers out. Thompson was gone in a flash.
The others spread out,

I called on the radio again. Magoun answered.
"Alfa Blue One? Joe, what the hell?"

"It was a damned monkey. Jay."

"Get back here, fast." There wasn't any need to
tell him they'd be all over the hill soon. "We'll move
out north," I told them all over the radio. "They
won't expect that. Joe, take the rear guard- Dasher,
you drop back with him."

Magoun ran to catch up. There was no need to be
quiet now. As soon as I saw him behind us, I signaled
the group to move out. We moved away as fast as we
could while still checking ahead. Any patrol still out
would be coming back toward the camp, and we
didn't want to run onto one without warning. I moved
out front, taking Vo with me.

It wasn't the first time I'd had trouble with the
damned monkeys. On my first tour, there'd been one
place with so goddamned many monkeys we called it
Monkey Hill. I guess a lot of outfits had their Monkey
Hill, or Monkey Mountain. In our case, we were set-
ting ambushes, and the monkeys got to messing
around with our claymores. They didn't set any off,
but they stole one from one of our team while his

COVERT ACTIONS          131

back was turned. We didn't get any Viet Cong that
day, but we sure took care of the monkeys. Now it
looked like the little bastards were getting back at us.

We'd gone about 150 yards when Vo reported con-
tact on the left. There were two NVAs about fifty feet
ahead of him, moving toward the camp. I turned the
team downhill, to the right. It was probably a mis-
take.

The turn made me left flanker. I hadn't gone five
yards before I ran into two gooks hurrying through
the bush toward the camp. They looked at me, star-
tled, and I shot them both from a range of ten feet.
The rifle was still on full automatic, and it blew them
backward into the bush. Then I heard firing behind
me: Vo's M-16 and Bob's shotgun. They seemed to
be coming from the left. I looked that way and there
was another one. He saw me at the same time and
fired. I could hear his bullets pop as they went by my
head. The muzzle climbed on him as he shot. I fired
from the hip and saw him go limp, then I ducked
down into a very low crouch and looked around. As
I did, the dirt in front of me flew up into my face. I
couldn't see the shooter, but the angle of scatter told
me he was to my right. I didn't study it. Things like
that become instinctive or you don't last long. I
blasted a nearby clump of brush and jumped behind
a tree.

The first two time-delay charges went off, followed

^   half a second later by a larger blast. There must have
been ammunition in that bunker. Immediately, shoot-
ing started over by the camp. Either someone was
blasting away at monkeys, or some small-arms am-
munition was cooking off from a fire in the bunker.

:"   A flare shot up.

-fn                                               •

132    James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

1 figured we'd run into a patrol hurrying back to
camp. They weren't sure what they'd run into. They
probably thought we were the rear guard for a larger
force attacking the camp. It sounded like the Fourth
of July over there, with charges going off at irregular
intervals and a lot of shooting. The patrol, if that's
what it was, backed off a little to study the situation.

I took out the hand radio and told everybody to hold
their positions and to listen and watch for movement.
It was dawn now and getting brighter by the minute.
I checked my rifle. The clip was empty. I reloaded
and switched over to semiautomatic.

The radio crackled a bit as Bob reported, "Two
moving in on my right, toward Vo." I started zigzag-
ging toward Vo myself. I went about fifty feet before
I saw them. They were approaching our position at
an angle, leapfrogging—that is, one would move
while the other crouched behind a bush and covered
him. They were trying to work in between Bob and
Vo. I raised my M-16 and took aim at the one squat-
ting behind a bush, watching over the other. I had an
angle on him because he was keeping the bush be-
tween him and Vo. I aimed at his left ear, and he
went down when I fired as if he'd been kicked in the
head by a mule. I crawled off to the left to get an
angle on the other one, but he moved to his right to
put a bush between us. A second later Bob's shotgun
blasted him over the bush ass-end foremost.

Bob called in again. "I've got three working in on
my left."

Magoun reported two moving toward the camp.
There was a shot behind me, and Thompson reported
he'd got a single. Tony reported that he'd gone fifty
yards down the hill and it was clear. I sent Lusk and

COVERT ACTIONS         133

Magoun twenty yards back toward the camp to watch
for anyone coming from that direction. I told the oth-
ers to head toward Tony.

It was as still as a tomb on that hillside. The noise
from the camp had stopped almost as quickly as it
had started. All the charges must have gone off. I
could imagine them running around trying to get a
defense organized without having the slightest idea
what was happening. I broke squelch to tell the others
not to shoot unless they had to. We tried to break
contact with the patrol by slipping away downhill.

We hadn't gotten down quite as far as Tony when
the claymores went off. There was screaming this
time, and it wasn't any goddamned monkeys. I hoped
we'd gotten a lot of the gooks. The monkeys sure
screwed it up for us. If they hadn't set off that clay-
more, most of the NVA in the camp would have been
in their huts, and we'd have taken care of a lot of
them there. I figured most of them, by now, would
have been mustered outside by their officers and non-
corns. At any rate, they'd gotten into the claymores,
and that, at least, would slow down their pursuit.

I glanced over to my right and saw Magoun moving
down the hill. He stopped for a moment, then held
up his hand and lowered it slowly. I couldn't see any-
thing, so I dropped on down the hill a little. Sure
enough, there they were. I didn't know if they were
coming from the camp or were part of the patrol we
thought we'd slipped away from, or if they were part
of another patrol. They were trouble, anyway.

Magoun started to move. He was going with his
knife after the gook he'd seen. A second one raised
up and fired. Magoun went down and yelped, "I've

134    James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

been hit!" Vo and Bob were behind me. They opened
up on the gooks as I hurried over to him.

He'd been hit in the side, but not real bad. The
bullet had ricocheted off one of his ribs. It made a
long, nasty-looking wound, and it bled a lot. The rib
was probably broken.

"Son of a bitch, it bums," he said.

"Can you move all right?"

"Yeah, I can keep up."

Bob came sliding in like he was stealing third.
"Don't give him any morphine!" he barked. He
meant he didn't want the guy conking out on us.

"I didn't," I told him. "He ain't hurt bad. You
stay close to him, though."

"Sure," Bob said.

"Sure as shit. Bob!" I snapped at him. His eyes
widened a little. I never snapped at him that way.
"Do it!" I told him.

"Okay, don't get your balls in an uproar."

I signaled for the group to move on. We went about
a hundred yards downhill without seeing Charlie, and
I called them in to regroup.

After I counted off to make sure we were all there,
I laid out the situation for them, as if they didn't know
it already. "All right, listen up! They know we're
here, and they know which way we're moving. They
also know we have to go downhill. I'm sure they'll
try to get in position to ambush us on the way down.
They'll expect us to drop straight downhill, though.
because that's the fastest way out- So we'll go diag-
onally. That should throw them off a little. We'll veer
to the left here about forty-five degrees.

"We ran a recon coming up this damned hill, and
that's how we're going to go down it," I told them.

COVERT ACTIONS         135

"Flankers out, two point men, and a rear guard. Ma-
goun, you stay in the middle. Bob, take the point on
the left; Tony, you take the left flank; I'll take the
point on the right; Lusk, flanker behind me; Vo,
Thompson, rear guard. Dasher, stay in the middle
with Magoun. Keep an eye on him, he's been hit in
the ribs. He's lost some blood, and he's still in some
pain and could pass out on us.

"We don't have that much ammo with us and we
can't be pissing it away, so set your weapons on semi-
auto and make every shot count.

"We'll go to a Morse code system with the radios.
No talking. Odd numbers on the left, number one
being the point, number three the flanker, number five
the rear guard. Even numbers on the right, starting
with number two. You in the middle, seven and eight.
Signal first that you've spotted movement by breaking
squelch twice, then give your number in Morse code.
Then signal how many you've seen. Three quick
clicks will mean all clear. One click after your num-
ber means 'help.' They might run a decoy at us to
draw our fire and get us to give our positions away,
so make damned sure they're not decoys before you
shoot. Let them go by if you can.

"It'll be early tomorrow morning before we can get
down. If we get separated, keep going. Rendezvous
with the other guys, but wait until tomorrow after-
noon before you call in for pickup. If everyone isn't
at the rendezvous by 1700, assume they're dead. Any
questions?"

"Yeah." It was Bob.

"What is it. Bob?"

"Can we get the flock off this hill?"

"Move yer ass, then."

136 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

I glanced at my watch as we spread out and started
down again. It was 0730.

It was mid-moming when we made contact again.
I heard two clicks on my radio, followed by a short
pause, three short clicks, and two long ones—Morse
code for number 3. It was Bob. He sent four more
clicks, meaning he'd seen four enemy. We all lay
silent for nearly thirty minutes before he sent the all
clear. We moved again, but hadn't gone ten yards
before two more pops came: "five," the rear guard
on the left. Two more pops told us he'd spotted two
Charlies. Again we waited. This time it was almost
an hour before we got the all clear. I had begun to
worry that Charlie had gotten to him before he could
shoot or signal.

This time we covered considerable ground before
there was contact again. The left rear guard spotted a
patrol of eleven Charlies. Then the left flanker sig-
naled he'd seen two, and Bob, at the left point, spot-
ted five. They may all have been part of the same
group. I broke radio silence to tell everyone to hold
their positions. They were moving fast and zigzag-
ging back and forth across the slope, searching for
us- They were moving too fast: their right flank al-
most stepped on our left flankers. But they went on
past without incident, and moved ahead along our
planned path.

I decided it was time to change direction and de-
scend across the slope to the right. It was a steep
slope and the brush was thick, but about a mile back
that way was the little knoll with the clearing below
it, and the long gentle slope down the crest of the
ridge just beyond it. It was ground we were more
familiar with, and we would come off the hill near

COVERT ACTIONS         137

•where we'd started up on it. The chief problem with
that route was that we would have to cross a ravine
about 150 yards below us, a good place for an am-
bush.

We held our formation and swung around to the
right about ninety degrees. That took us into the rav-
ine to just below the narrowest part. Ledges of rock,
dense patches of bamboo, and a thick carpet of dry
leaves on the steep slope didn't make moving easier.
The underbrush was heavy and tangled, and we had
to yank it aside with our bare hands and rifle barrels,
and twist our bodies through.

It was 1330 when we reached the bottom. The tem-
perature was well over 100 degrees, and it was still
and muggy. Even the monkeys and birds had called
it quits and were lying in the shade. I popped a hand-
ful of salt pills, took one swig of water, then started
up the other side.

About halfway up. Dasher called to say Magoun
was getting run-down with the effort of working
through the undergrowth. I was feeling pretty run-
down myself. I hadn't slept in eighty hours, more or
less. I called a break for his sake, and mine too. We
found some thick brush and came in close together.
We decided to stand one-hour watches, and two men
awake at all times. I picked a number and wrote it in
my notebook. The guys who guessed closest got the
last watch. It was less effort than drawing straws or
tossing coins. I would take the first watch. Bob vol-
unteered to take it with me. We spread out about
twenty feet apart and tied our pinkies together with
string, all the way around the circle. If anyone passed
between us while we were sleeping they'd trip on the
string and wake us. And we could jerk the string and

138     James R. Reeves and James C. Tayior

wake someone if we needed to. It was a system we
used often on ambush.

I lay there during my watch and thought about Mike
Olfson. He had a wife and three kids back in Min-
nesota. He'd told me that he and his wife had had to
get married when they were both just seventeen. Her
daddy wouldn't help them out at all, and Mike's par-
ents couldn't, so they had to make it on their own.
She had held down two jobs while carrying their first
baby, and Mike did too, whenever he could. Mike
was like that.

You could count on him. And he'd always known
what had to be done before you told him.

We had taken some pictures three weeks before of
him and me clowning around, and I still had them. If
I made it back, I'd send them to his wife. It wouldn't
be much, but at least he was smiling.

I heard something big moving through the brush
and jerked around to look, expecting an elephant or
at least a water buffalo. It was only Bob.

"It's 1630. Let's wake these guys and get some
shut-eye ourselves."

I rousted Tony while Bob kicked Lusk in the ribs
hard enough to wake him. I told Tony to wake me
right before sundown. Then I checked on Magoun
and saw that he was asleep. That was good. He
needed it. Then I lay down on a cushion of leaves
and crashed.

It was 1800 when Tony woke us up. I woke up
feeling dehydrated and wishing I had a beer and a
cigarette. Magoun was feeling a little better but was
stiff from lying in one spot. The flies and other insects
were swarming around his wound and worrying him.

COVERT ACTIONS          139

We had some water and rations. I ate a chocolate bar
and the last Vienna sausages I had.

It was 1820 when we saddled up and moved out.
The small clearing was just around the ridge, and I
wanted to make it before nightfall so we could take
the clearing under observation for a while before
crossing it. We still had a hundred feet of heavy brush
to go before we got out of the ravine. We were mov-
ing downward. We really weren't climbing, but we
were moving across the natural grain of the terrain,
and the going was tough. And of course, when the
going got tough, we tended to draw in together, as
always.

Just when we reached the top, all hell broke loose.
Chariie was waiting for us, and we were in a firefight
again. Lusk was the first to return fire. Then Bob
opened up on my left. I looked over toward Lusk and
saw one moving my way. I raised my M-16 and fired
twice, dropping him. That gave my position away and
suddenly there was hot lead ail around.

"Move back, damn it!" I hollered, and immedi-
ately followed my own advice. Firing from the hip at
the bushes In front of me, I moved back toward the
ravine. Only one or two Charlies would move at a
time, but they were moving in. We kept firing and
backing away, and it seemed like we were bunching
up again. Probably Chariie was trying to work around
our flanks, and the natural tendency is to back away
from the fire, not straight back the way you came.

"Spread it out!" I yelled at them, and several of
them repeated the order. We backed about seventy-
five to a hundred feet before the firing slacked off.
We had spread out more, and Charlie wasn't too ea-
ger to pursue us down into the heavy bush. An oc-

140     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

casional shot still sang through the bmsh, but they
were mostly nuisance shots thrown out to make us
return fire and give away our position. I got on the
radio and told the team to quit moving.

"Was anybody hit?"

Tony came on the radio, "Jay, Dasher's hit in the
face."

"Is it bad?"

"It hit him in the mouth and came out his left jaw.
He's lost some teeth and he's bleeding bad. But he
can travel."

"You're fuckin* right he can. He'd better. Any-
body else hit?"

There was no other response. I called Tony back
and told him to get Dasher fixed up. He rolled up
gauze and stuffed it into the wound where Dasher's
teeth had been and then immobilized the jaw with a
triangular bandage. That would have to do until we
got back to medical facilities. After about five min-
utes Tony called back and said, "Okay, let's go."

Now I had to turn about and tell Magoun to keep
an eye on Dasher and help him along.

I didn't really know what to do next. Our asses
were in deep trouble. We were in danger of getting
sandwiched between two enemy patrols, and I knew
Charlie had a lot of firepower on that hill. It was time
to make a decision, and I dreaded making decisions
under pressure more than anything in the world. The
problem is you're looking at these guys, and they're
looking back at you, and their eyes are saying,
"Okay, asshole, what do we do?" You've got to de-
cide right now, and worry later if it was right or
wrong. You don't find out until it's all over with,
until you're back home or you're dead.

COVERT ACTIONS         141

"Let's go for it," I thought. "We've got to go for
it. Let's get out of this ravine and off the hill."

We moved down the ravine a hundred yards and
tried again to come out. I think we'd barely flanked
the enemy, because Thompson reported seeing two
Charlies moving into the ravine behind him as we
headed down the slope. We went at an angle again,
trying to move fast but cautiously. We'd gone about
a quarter of a mile when there was a pow! pop! off to
my right and rear, and someone screamed.

"I've been hit! Goddamn! I've been hit!" I recog-
nized the voice. It was Lusk.

I knew the louder sound was an AK-47 firing, and
the pop! was an M-16 round—probably Lusk firing in
reflex when he'd been hit-

1 ran to where I could see him sitting up. I hollered
and asked him how bad he was hit.

"I took a round in the belly," he said. "I think I
can move, though." He got up and he went a little
ways, then said, "Fuck it!" and just sat down.

Bob was hollering, ' 'Get the fuck out of here! Let's
go! Let's get the tuck out of here!"

Thompson came on the radio. "Sniper . . . one
Charlie ... I got him. Lusk is down."

"Hold your positions!" I told the team. "I'm going
over."

He was grunting. I could hear him grunting before
I ever got over there. When I got to him, he was lying
on his back holding his stomach and pushing himself
along the ground in agony. 1 dropped to my knees
beside him and tried to pull his hands off the wound
so I could see how bad it was, but as I would get one
off and reach for the other, he would clamp the first
hand over his belly again. At the same time he kept

142     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

digging his heels into the dirt and pushing himself
along so that I had to crawl along on my knees beside
him. Finally I looked up to see Thompson backing
toward us, watching the bush. There had been no
more firing.

"Did you get the gook? Then get over here and
give me a hand!"

He came over and sat on Lusk's knees and pulled
the hands away for me. There was one hole, low down
inside the right hipbone. The exit hole was in his left
hip. Both were clean. The bullet hadn't tumbled, but
he was bleeding badly.

"Ohshitohshitohshitshitshit!" he was muttering
through clenched teeth. "It bums, it bums. My guts
are on fire!"

"I'm going to put you out," I told him, reaching
for my syringe of morphine.

"Oh, goddamn, hurry! I don't want to die looking
at this shit!"

"You're not going to die," I told him as I grabbed
his left arm and shot the morphine into him. I used
mine, and then took his own and shot him again. It
was only a minute before he relaxed.

"Is he dead?" Thompson asked.

"No, he ain't dead!" I snapped. "Get yer ass back
out there and make sure there's none moving in on
us,"

I got on the radio and called Bob over.

"He's been gut-shot," I told him. "He's got a
chance if we get him out. I want you to take the guys
down. If you see you're getting your ass caught, bust
a flare so I'll know where you are. Same with me. If
I get caught, I'll pop a flare. If I'm not there by to-
morrow afternoon, write me off and call the pickup."

COVERT ACTIONS          143

"He's not going to make it, and you know it, Ty-
ler. Leave him, and let's get out of here!"

"It's a clean wound," I argued. "He's got a
chance. If we could call in a dustoff, he'd make it for
sure. If I can get him down, he'll make it. You get
the rest of them down!"

"Ah, you stupid asshole! Yer going to fuck around
and git yourself killed! And he's going to die any-
way."

I looked him in the eye—it was hard to do, because
it was getting darker by the moment—and told him,
"Bob, take over the goddamned patrol and get them
down the hill in one piece. That's a fucking order!
Do you understand?"

"Well, yes, rucking sir. Mister Petty Officer Tyier!
Will do, can do, and all that do-do! But you'd better
show up!" He turned and stomped off. I heard him
snarl into the radio, "Awright, you simple bastards!
Off yer asses! We're moving out!"

He'd gone before I remembered the starlight scope,
so I took it out of my pack and gave it to Thompson
as he went by.

"Take care, Tyier," he said.

I took what I could carry in my pockets and buried
my pack and Lusk's. I looked around until I found
his rifle, field-stripped it, and threw the parts as far
as I could in different directions so the gooks couldn't
use it. I used what gauze I had to stuff in the bullet
holes and staunch the bleeding. I held the gauze in
by wrapping our shirts tight around his belly. I took
the ammunition that he had, and kept both our re-
volvers. Then I popped my last Dexedrine, set him
up, and worked him up onto my shoulder. I used my
M-16 for a brace to help me stand up with him.

144 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

I headed for the clearing and the long, gentle slope
down the ridge crest.

I couldn't travel very fast. It was hard to keep my
balance on the slope, and I had to stop and rest every
ten minutes or so. I would shift him from shoulder to
shoulder as my muscles on one side or the other would
begin to ache. At first, I put him down while 1 rested,
but each time it got harder to pick him up. Finally, I
just leaned against a tree—1 didn't dare put him down,
or I would never have gotten him up again.

About 100 yards from the clearing I heard move-
ment off to my left. I stopped to listen, but all I could
hear was my own heavy breathing. I laid Lusk down
in a clump of brush and covered him up. Then I
slipped off about thirty feet and again listened.

I had about decided it had been my imagination
when one of the shadows took the form of a man.
The gook was moving very low to the ground with
his rifle out in front of him. He moved very slowly
and stopped frequently, looking off to both sides be-
fore moving on. He wore black, or a dark uniform,
but no helmet. He moved like a hunter, and I figured
he was hunting me. A chill passed up my spine as I
watched him. Very few of them scared me, but he
did.

I started to think then about Lusk and the morphine.
I wasn't sure how long that stuff lasted. If it wore off,
and he started making noises . . .

There were no other gooks with the stalker. After
he moved off into the night I lay there for thirty min-
utes before I even thought of moving, then I made
myself lie there another five minutes for good mea-
sure. I was stiff when I moved, so stiff I wondered if
I could have handled the gook if he jumped me.

COVERT ACTIONS         145

Lusk hadn't twitched a muscle since I hit him with
the morphine, but he came around a little bit as I got
back to him. He grunted a little bit, and said some
words I couldn't understand. Then he passed out
again.

I got him up on my shoulder again and headed for
the clearing. It was 2048.

Time passed slowly. It seemed like I would never
make it to the clearing, and when I got there my legs
were as tired as if I'd been climbing stairs all the way.
Yet only fifteen minutes had passed.

I put Lusk down in some brush about fifteen yards
back from the edge of the clearing and covered him
again. He still had a pulse, but his skin felt cold. I
thought it was probably the night chill. 1 had nothing
to wrap him in for warmth, since my shirt was tied
around his belly. I could do nothing more for him but
hope. At least he wasn't awake and begging me for
water, or more morphine. I hoped what I had given
him would last until I got him off the hill.

I went over to the clearing and observed it from a
clump of brush. With a full moon you can look just
over the tall grass, and if anyone is walking through
it, you can see them. I saw nothing moving yet, but
I thought about the Viet Cong manhunter I'd seen just
a hundred yards back there and shuddered. He might
be in the bush behind me right now. He might also
be watching the clearing. I crouched there and kept
an eye on the clearing until 2200. The moon was full
and bright, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It
hadn't rained in eight days, and everything was dry.
The leaves crunched underfoot when you walked
through the brush, and the bamboo rattled like dry
gourds. "Monsoon, where are you when I need

146    James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

you?" I thought. I looked at the moon, beaming hap-
pily down as if it were pointing at us and saying,
"There they are, guys, go get them!" I thought, I
know whose side you're on tonight, motherfucker!

I went back and checked Lusk's pulse. It was still
there, but slow. The effect of the morphine, I figured.
I covered him the best I could with long grass and sat
down about thirty feet away where I could watch. I
sure as hell wasn't going to sleep.

I wondered how the patrol was making out. I was
sure Bob and Tony could get them down all right.
They'd be slowed down by the two wounded, but not
as much as I had been by Lusk. There had been no
firing, so they must have succeeded in getting past
the patrols. I wondered if they had come this way, or
if they'd chosen another route. I thought about the
two wounded guys and hoped they weren't in much
pain. Magoun's wound wasn't that bad, unless the rib
was broken. He would heal and come back- Dasher
was going home- I wondered what the wound would
do to his looks. He was a good-looking guy, in his
way, and single. I didn't even know if he had a steady
girl. I don't think so, because he talked like he had a
girl in every port, and a dozen waiting to jump in bed
with him when he got home. Well, the wound might
put an end to that.

About 0100, I noticed some high, thin clouds cov-
ering the moon. Not enough to reduce the light much,
but an indication that the weather might be changing.
I looked back in the northwest, which was the only
direction in which I could see very far, and thought I
could make out some clouds beyond the mountains
there. I slipped down to the clearing, but it was still
well lighted. Too well lighted to cross.

COVERT ACTIONS          147

About 0400, the moon was getting low in the west,
and some broken clouds appeared around it. They just
skirted its edge, though, and only covered it for a few
minutes. Not enough time for me to cross.

By 0430, false dawn was beginning, and it was
getting lighter. I went down to the edge of the clear-
ing again and thought, "I'm moving out at 0500,
clouds or no clouds."

The clouds were getting bigger and closer together,
but they still weren't blocking out the moon for any
substantial amount of time. It was almost as if they
were purposely going around it.

When the time came, I rose and started back toward
the bush where I'd left Lusk. As I turned my eyes
away from the clearing something registered on the
edge of my field of vision. Sometimes in dim light
you can see objects better if you don't look directly
at them. That's what happened in this case. Even as
I turned back, I thought, "Bushes."

They weren't. Four men were walking across the
clearing, line abreast. Even as I watched, two more
appeared in the edge of the brush. They were sweep-
ing across the clearing from my near left to the far
right. They must have thought we were hiding in the
grass. I wondered if they'd tracked me or followed
me, or if the rest of our patrol had come this way
before me. For whatever reason, they were ahead of
me, and hunting.

I decided I could move around behind them, cutting
through the left edge of the clearing just far enough
into the brush to avoid being seen. They wouldn't
expect me to be behind them where they'd just swept
through.

148     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

There were fifteen or twenty in the line in the clear-
ing when I moved back toward Lusk.

I heard a limb crack a little way ahead of me, back
in the bush. That was a common sound in early eve-
ning but not in early morning. It wasn't the sap rising
in the morning warmth, either. The only sap moving
around that time of day had two legs. Was it an ani-
mal flushed out of the clearing by the patrol sweeping
through it?

Off to the right there was a scuffle of leaves. I
crouched as low as I could and pressed slo-o-wly back
into the brush so as not to make a crackle.

Somewhere in front of me there was a faint clunk
and a gurgle of water. A canteen bumping against
something. Off to the right again, someone snuffled.
Runny nose. I raised my M-16, but I wasn't sure if I
wanted to shoot. I kept thinking of Lusk lying there
wounded but alive in the brush, and what they'd do
to him if they found him. If I fired a shot, those fif-
teen or twenty men in the clearing would be here
inside of a minute. I might get away alone, but I'd
have to leave Lusk. If I tried to use my knife, the
sound of the scuffling would alert the others. There
was only one course of action open to me: hide. I
froze.

A gook stepped out from behind a bush not three
feet from me. He moved very slowly, his rifle leveled
and his finger on the trigger, but he was walking up-
right, like hunters do when they're not expecting to
see game. He sniffed again, and wiped his nose with
the back of his hand. Another appeared about five
yards behind him. I could hear faint rustling behind
me—a third one. So mere was a line sweeping through
the bmsh around the edge of the clearing too.

COVERT ACTIONS          149

I crouched without breathing while two of them
walked straight toward the brush where Lusk lay.
When they found him still alive but wounded they'd
know I was nearby. Even if they shot him to pieces
they'd see he'd been bandaged. I decided I'd wait
until they found him and clustered up. Then I'd shoot
the shit out of them and run like hell down the hill
behind me. I wished I had a grenade.

They stopped right beside the bush, and I thought
I'd shit in my pants. My stomach knotted up as if I
had eaten a pail full of green apples. My mind said,
put your weapon on full auto and get ready. But my
finger refused to move. They looked at each other,
and then one made a gesture with his rifle barrel and
they walked on, on either side of the bush.

When they were out of sight, I took a deep breath
and let it out slowly. It caught a few times. I made
myself wait five minutes. I broke out in a sweat and
then got cold. When the five minutes were up, I was
shivering. I went and picked up Lusk and got the hell
out of there.

I went straight down the hill instead of around the
clearing and along the ridge. I went fast at first, but
slowed as I calmed down. I saw no more patrols.

I laid him down in the edge of the heavy brush at
the foot of the hill and checked the more open terrain
ahead. There were no gook patrols and no sign of
any. It was almost noon. As I was picking him up
again, it dawned on me mat he felt cold. I checked
his pulse and found none. His mouth was open and
his tongue was dry. I listened for a heartbeat and put
my cheek next to his nostrils to feel a breath. He was
dead.

150 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

He wasn't stiff, though. He'd died sometime that
morning.

At least he'd gotten his last request: he died uncon-
scious, not "looking at this shit." I guess he meant
the jungle. Vietnam.

I sat there for a while on the hillside. It was a long
goddamned way to the LZ, and I was near exhaus-
tion. I was out of water and out of rations. I could
have justified leaving him there and going back for
the body later. I was alone, and carrying a burden
like that made it tough to watch for enemy patrols.

I'd carried Billy's body out the same way. I had
made a mistake and got Billy killed, and now my
mistake had got Lusk killed too. I owed him the same
last favor. So we went the rest of the way together.

I called ahead to let them know I was coming in. I
ran into Fitchew and Quinn, who were outposted, as
I approached. They were tired and ragged, but they
looked great compared to the rest of the guys, who
were all sitting around in a little sheltered area, look-
ing worn out and beaten down. Their uniforms were
rags, and every one of them was covered with welts
and cuts from the underbrush. Come to think of it, I
guess I looked like that too. I counted heads as I
walked in. They were all there. Olfson's body was
lying on the ground in a little clearing. They hadn't
called a dustoff for him.

Tony helped me lay the body down beside Olf-
son's. He just looked at it, and said, "Shit," and
walked back to Dasher and sat down beside him.
Dasher had Tony's blood-soaked shirt pressed against
the side of his face. They were all staring at me. It
was like I'd just cursed aloud in church. I knew what
they were thinking: "He fucked up. If he hadn't left

COVERT ACTIONS         l5i

that goddamned pack radio at the foot of the hill, we
wouldn't be shot up like this." I could see it in their
eyes. I'd fucked up, and they were wondering if they
could trust me anymore.

Bob was staring at me too. I knew he was thinking
of something to say—like, "I told you so."

"Don't say a fucking word. Bob," I told him. "Not
a fucking word."

He didn't say anything for a while. They had some
water there, and I got a drink and sat down. After a
time, he said, "There's the radio. Call the pickup."

"I know where the damned radio's at!"

I looked at the men, and they were looking at the
ground. All except Bob Dasher, who was staring at
me. It pissed me off, him sitting there staring at me
that way. "Why don't you just turn yer fucking head?
Goddamn!"

I went over to the radio and jerked up the handset
and called for extraction. I gave them our coordinates
and told them to come get us there instead of at the
LZ. Then I sat down and folded my arms on my
knees and rested my head on them.

Bob came over and squatted down beside me. I
thought he was going to put his hand on my shoulder.

"Just keep yer hands off me. damn it!"

Finally, he said, "Yer right about this patrol leader
job. I wouldn't want it."

It was a quiet trip back.

CHAPTER 8

All the way to Quang Tri I psyched myself up to meet
the criticism I expected from the officers and me team.
Not that I wasn't being critical of myself. I'd screwed
up bad, leaving that pack radio at the foot of the hill.
A man died because of it, and two more were shot up.
Mike Olfson—well, he might have died in that punji
pit anyway. Or hell, he might not; he might have
missed that booby trap if he'd been carrying the radio.
You could play a lot of "if" games.

I kept remembering what Captain Gartley had said:

"If you get in a firefight you've probably screwed up
and failed your mission anyway." We had accom-
plished our mission, but I'd damn sure screwed up.

At the debriefing. Bob said he'd tried to count ex-
plosions, and he thought one of his hadn't gone off,
152

COVERT ACTIONS          153

He said he thought the timer on the detonator was
screwed up somehow. It was the one that was to take
out the officers' hut. If it had gone off with the officers
in the hut, the gooks might have been too disorganized
to pursue us.

I figured that when the monkey yanked on that clay-
more trip-wire he woke up everybody in the camp, and
they all ran outside. Only a few of them could have
been hurt even if all the charges went off.

Captain Gartley took the casualties hard, but he
didn't seem especially perturbed about the mission. We
gave him our estimate of NVA strength and the number
of casualties we caused, the location of their camp and
all the booby-trapped areas we saw, and he took it all
to the ARVN brass. They screwed around for weeks,
When we left Quang Tri, they still hadn't done a
damned thing with it.

After I'd screwed up on Hill 484, I thought the guys
would want a new patrol leader. After all, we had lost
three men up there. Two killed and one wounded that
was sent home to recuperate. All of them SEALs. We
didn't often lose that many SEALs on a job. We sure
lost a lot of the other guys that woriked with us, but being
a SEAL usually meant survivability. It was a matter of
training. And, I guess, aptitude. Some absoibed more of
the training than others did.

SEALs and Marine Recons were about the most highly
trained of the outfits the U.S. had over there, along with
the older Green Bercts. The Anny expanded the Green
Berets too fast, and turned out too many men only par-
tially ready. Still, they were better off than your run-of-
the-mill soldier, who got only a few weeks of the most
rudimentary training before being tossed into the meat
grinder. The average Marine was better trained than the

154     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

average soldier, but after a few of them died in a training
accident and there was a scandal, they let up on the train-
ees. They only killed more by doing that—not in acci-
dents, but out in the bush of Vietnam. It didn't help
quality when they started drafting kids into the Marines
either. There were some other good units over there: the
101st Airborne, the 82nd Airborne, the Army Rangers:

they got good training too, but maybe not enough. The
brown-water sailors weren't trained enough when they
were sent over there. They were hardly trained at all for
fighting on land, but they did one hell of a lot of it.
They'd go out with us when we needed more strength
for a mission and couldn't get any other SEALs or other
special forces. We sure got a lot of them killed off, too.

If they survived the first few firelights, though, guys
usually did pretty well. They learned battlefield sur-
vival. Sailors, soldiers, any of 'em. There were indi-
viduals who did well no matter how much training
they'd had. Fighting and surviving seemed to come
natural to them.

After the debriefing I crashed for two days. When I
finally came around, I felt considerably better, except
for being so hungry I was nauseous, and completely
dehydrated. The mess hall took care of the hunger, and
hoisting a few with Bob and the guys took care of the
thirst.

The barracks seemed mighty empty without Lusk,
Dasher, and Olfson. Magoun left the hospital on the
third day. His rib wasn't broken, but he was on the
invalid list for the next couple of weeks.

One afternoon, I got the team together. "Look," I told
them, "we've been on a major operation now. We had
two men killed and one wounded and sent home. If you
want another patrol leader, I'll understand."

COVERT ACTIONS          155

They all sat there and looked at me without saying
a word. I had the idea they all really wanted to pick
somebody else, but nobody wanted to be the first to
say it. So I looked over at Bob, who was studying me
with his head tilted over to one side, and an unhappy
frown on his face.

"What about you. Bob? You want it?"

He looked at me for a while without saying any-
thing. I thought he was thinking it over- Finally, he
said, "Naw. I told ya out there when ya come in with
that body I wouldn't want the job. They ain't nobody
else could do no better than you, anyway. You keep
it,Tyler."

I looked over at Magoun, then. He had been wounded,
and he had more experience man the others; if anybody
was to say anything he surely would be the one. He was
grinning like a possum in a persimmon tree. "Is it gettin'
to be too much for you?" he asked.

"Well, no," I admitted, "not really. But I thought
some of you might have a few doubts about whether I
can handle it."

"I've done the job before," he said. "I'll take over
if you get hit, but I don't want it till then. There's too
much responsibility for me."

"What's happened so far, hell, you weren't to blame
for it," Tony chipped in. "Up on Hill 484, we all had
a part in those decisions. I didn't want to cany that
fuckin' radio up the fuckin' hill any more than you
did. And as for going on when Olfson got into that
punji pit, you didn't get any argument, did you? If it
hadn't been for the damned monkeys, we might have
gotten off the hill without anybody more than Olfson
being hurt,"

"Well, here's somethin' to think about: they had me

156    James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

once. They captured me, and I sure as hell don't intend
for it to happen again. There ain't no bastard going to
get me down and tie me up and kick my ass like they
did," I told them. "I might get you killed tryin' to
avoid it."

"I don't intend for 'em to get me alive, anyway,"
Bob said.

"All you got to do. Bob, is fart: they'd all run off,"
Tony told him.

"He couldn't do that," Casburn replied. "Gas war-
fare is against the Geneva conventions."

' 'You bastards is just jealous.''

I never could get them back to the idea of picking
another squad leader.

When they mustered us in for the next briefing, we
went down to the Marine headquarters at the base. There
was a tight security area where we had to show our iden-
tification to get in, and we had a little card to insert into
the door lock to open it. Just like James Bond.

When we went in for briefings, we usually knew all
the officers there: Captain Gaifley, Admiral Jameson of
COMPHBBPAC, some general's aide, or a Navy Intelligence
captain. Every now and then there was a CTA man.

This time was different. Gartley was there, and so
was a man in civilian clothes. They were sitting behind
a long table with some maps laid out on it. Captain
Gartley looked up and nodded when we came in, then
introduced us to the man with him. "Gentlemen, this
is Mr. Smith," he said. "Mr. Smith is with a federal
intelligence agency."

He was a tall, ruddy-faced blond man, about my
height, but somewhat overweight, and sweaty-looking-
He had a big mustache and bushy eyebrows several

COVERT ACTIONS          157

shades darker than his hair, which was starting to re-
cede a little. There was something busy-looking about
him, but he didn't talk much.

A black steward brought in a tray of mugs and a pot
of coffee. Captain Gartley and "Mr. Smith" helped
themselves and Captain Gartley waved casually at the
mugs, indicating we were to take some for ourselves.
We did, then sat down in some chairs they had there
on our side of the table.

After the steward left the room, Captain Gartley
started the briefing.

"When Mr. Tyter first reported to me, I told him
the missions he would be assignee were of the kind
that, if there was any shooting, he'd probably already
failed to accomplish the mission," he said. He paused
for a moment, looking from one of us to the other.

"I lied.

"The missions you've had so far, including this last
one up Hill 484, were the usual type of recon mission.
You were to engage the enemy at your own discretion.

"You will have no such discretion on this mission.

"What we want you to do is guide a team of agents
into Hanoi," He paused to let that sink in for a while.

Bob repeated "Hanoi" very softly, as though it was
something he wanted to commit to memory. No one
else said anything. I glanced around at the team, and
they were all looking attentively at the captain. With
considerable interest, I thought.

"Mr. 'Smith' here has a team of five men he wants
inserted into Hanoi," the captain went on. "We want
you to guide them to the city, and back out again when
their mission is accomplished. You are to lead them
through the countryside, keep them clear of booby
traps, help them avoid patrols, and cover them.

158 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

"You must avoid contact with the enemy. If you en-
counter an enemy that must be taken out, absolutely must
be, do so as silently as possible. Your presence must
remain undetected on the way in. On the way out, use
your discretion. Remember, if you get pinned down ex-
changing fire with an enemy patrol, you are a long way
from home, and a long way from help. It would be better
to avoid contact altogether, but if you have to shoot your
way out of a situation, do it. If you get into that kind of
a situation on the way in, you'll have to abort the mission
and call for us to get you out. Do not continue on to

Hanoi."

That made a lot of sense, considering how far into
North Vietnam we were going to be, and it really was
no different from the way we operated on recon pa-
trols. If we got into trouble going in, we'd normally
abort the mission: the enemy was tipped off that we
were there, and it wasn't likely that we would be able
to slip in and observe them without being spotted our-
selves. That had been one of my mistakes on Hill 484,
and I wasn't going to repeat it.

"Mr. Smith" then took over. "This is a sterile mis-
sion," he said. "You will be provided with 'neutral'
uniforms—that is, uniforms made outside the United
States and not designed for any specific country, available
over the counter to anyone. You will be provided with
Soviet-made weapons, and you will carry no identifica-
tion linking you to the United States. No personal matter,
no letters, no pictures of sweethearts. Your Saint Chris-
topher's medal or lucky rabbit's foot is okay, so long as
it says 'Made in Japan.'

"If you are caught or killed the United States will
deny any knowledge of this operation, and your citi-
zenship. That's right: we will deny that you are Ameri-

COVERT ACTIONS

159

cans. You will become men without a country, and I
assure you that you will be treated as international
criminals by the People's Republic of Vietnam. If they
should offer to return your remains for burial, the offer
will be refused. Your family and friends will be told
you are Missing in Action.

"If it looks as if an agent will be taken alive, or if one
has been taken, you are to eliminate him if possible.

"They are not combat veterans. They can handle
themselves well in hazardous situations that may arise
during the normal course of their mission, but if they
are caught in a combat, they may not recognize that
they cannot escape until too late. You must protect
them as much as possible and get them out alive if you
can, but if in your opinion one of them, or all of them,
are about to be captured, you must eliminate them.
Consider them as valuable assets to be kept out of the
hands of the enemy at all costs, and not to be destroyed
unless absolutely necessary.

"The nature of their mission is not your concern.
You will observe one man working with maps and air
photographs, and another man carrying photographic
equipment. Outside the obvious function of ground-
checking aerial mapping and photographing enemy in-
stallations and bomb damage, you have no need to
know other details. They are professionals, as adept at
their jobs as you are at yours.

"Do you have any questions at this point?"

I glanced over at Bob and saw him looking at me. I
wondered what he was thinking. Was he wondering
about the possibility of having to kill an American? I
used to think of Bob as absolutely cold-blooded, some-
body who could cut an American's throat just as
quickly as he could cut a Viet's. I knew better now.

160    James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

The others were sort of looking around from face to
face too.

"Mr. Smith" waited a few moments, and when we
didn't ask him any questions, he turned the briefing
back to Captain Gartley.

The captain, pointing to one of the maps spread out
on the table between us, showed us the insertion point,
and our route into the city.

"What size force arc we going to have?" I asked
the captain.

"We want to keep this thing as small as possible to
minimize the risk of detection," he replied, I couldn't
have said it better. "Since there are five agents, I think
we should keep it to the six of you in this room. Eleven
all together."

"That ain't many shooters, if the shit starts to fly,"
I told him.

"That far from help, you might as well write your-
selves off anyway," he pointed out.

"No way," Bob said. "I ain't writin' myself off of
nothin', I'll get my ass out of there if there's any way.
Just be sure you do your part and send help if we need
it."

"You say we're supposed to bring the agents back
out again after they've completed their mission?" I
asked. Both the captain and "Mr. Smith" nodded.
"And the mission isn't really a success unless we get
them back alive?" Again they nodded. "Don't worry
about it. Bob. They'll send help if we need it or they'11
have to write the mission off too."

"How long will it take you to cover this distance?"
the captain asked. "The route is about forty-four miles
as the bird flies."

"It depends on the terrain, and how many people

COVERT ACTIONS          161

arc moving around on the route," I told him. "Maybe
four days. Maybe eight."

"That's too long!" the Agency man snapped. "Four
days at the outside. If you can, get this thing off the
ground inside of sixteen hours!"

That told me what I wanted to know: timing was
critical to the mission. Something was coming down
in about four and a half days, and he wanted his men
there when it happened. I just stared at him awhile.
Those spooks made me uncomfortable. They'd "write
you off" in a minute—eliminate you, in other words,
if they thought it was the thing to do, without a second
thought. So let him be the uncomfortable one.

"Ya shoulda come to us yesterday," Bob told him.

"That's fairiy open ground up mere," Quinn reminded
us. "It's not dense shit like we just came out of. We
ought to be able to make it in four days, easy."

"Yeah, we can," Bob said, "but what about them
damned agents? Can they keep up? Or do we have to
cany their asses?"

"They can keep up!" "Smith" snapped. "They're
in excellent physical condition."

"They better be," Bob told him. "If they're a bunch
of pussies, we'll leave 'em along the way. We're goin'
to be humping to cover that kind of ground in four
days."

Actually, I thought we could make it in less, prob-
ably in three days, but I didn't want to reassure the
Agency man.

"Well," I told Captain Gartley, "we'll need to study
the air photos and the maps, and discuss it some more
between us. We'll let you know later just how quick
we think we can make it. Right now, we need to get
some other things clear. We need to know details about

162 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

the weapons we're going to cany and the uniforms
we're going to wear. We need to figure out what kind
of radios to bring, and how many, and what the radio
procedures and codes will be. How much ammunition
we need to carry, what kind of rations and how many."

The captain seemed kind of relieved to get back to
his "script." "Well," he said, "we've got AK-47s
for all of you, and four thirty-round magazines. You'll
be issued Makarov nine-millimeter automatics to re-
place your thirty-eight revolvers. You'll carry Japa-
nese-made knives. We considered Russian or Japanese
radios, but our opinions favor American made."

He went on from there, and after he'd covered all
the details, we started picking at them. We wanted
more ammunition, and ended up with six magazines
for each AK-47. We wanted revolvers, too, but there
weren't any foreign makes to compare to ours except
the British Webley and a Chinese copy of it that shot
nine-millimeter automatic ammunition from half-moon
clips. We gave up on that and accepted the Makarov
pistols. I don't believe that any of us had ever had an
opportunity to use our .38s anyway. We were loaded
up with Russian grenades, too.

We carried U.S.-made radios, one large set with the
range to reach a communications plane if we needed
help or wanted to be picked up, and individual sets to
communicate with each other- The larger set was a
PRC-77, chosen because it was only slightly more than
half the weight of the standard AN/PRC-41 used by
ground troops. The small sets were AN/PRR-9 receiv-
ers and AN/PRT-4 transmitters. The receivers were
normally mounted on a helmet, but had been modified
so they could be worn over a bush hat or with no hat
at all. The transmitter was limited to line of sight, and

COVERT ACTIONS          163

the antenna had to be angled about forty-five degrees
toward the receiver for best transmission, but they only
weighed about two pounds apiece. Everyone, includ-
ing the agents, wore one of the receiver headsets and
carried a transmitter. You could talk over them or send
signals by breaking squelch with the transmit button.

To get ready for the operation, the first thing we did
was strip. We got rid of our socks, our underwear, our
handkerchiefs, everything. We took off our dogtags. That
part wasn't unusual: we didn't wear our dogtags on mis-
sions anyway. We left everything personal behind, any-
thing that might identify us or that might suggest we were
Americans: our watches, our pocketknives, you name it.
Like the man said, "Made in Japan" was all right, but
"Made in Schenectady" was definitely out.

They furnished everything we might conceivably need,
from the skin out. Then we laid out everything we were
going to take with us, everything, and Captain Gartley
and "Mr. Smith" checked over our stuff to make sure
mere was nothing that would give us away.

Possibly the worst part was wearing new boots, and
having to break them in on the mission. There weren't
enough hours between the time they were issued and
the time we had to mount up and leave to break them
in before we left. Fortunately they fit well. Casbum
had to swap the first pair he was issued for a second,
but then anybody that wears those pointy-toed shit-
kicker boots all the time has funny feet anyway. I wore
mine from the minute I got them to break them in as
much as possible before we got out into the bush,
which was a hell of a place to get blisters.

I checked over my AK-47 to make sure the action
worked smoothly and the cartridges fed through the clip
without hanging up. I worked three clips of ammunition

164    James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

through the action before everything worked to suit me.
The AK-47 assault rifle, made by Kalashnikov, was in-
troduced into the Russian anny right after Worid War n,
and its design was based on lessons the Russians
learned fighting the Germans, who had a similar weap-
on. Along with the folding-stock version, known as the
AKS, it became the most widely used of all small arms
produced since the war. It's gas-operated and air-cooled,
and allows the shooter to select fully automatic or
semiautomatic fire. It uses an intermediate-size cartridge
mat's lighter and less powerful than the 7.65-millimeter
round used in our M-60 machine gun or M-14 rifle, but
faster in operation. The round is more powerful and has
greater range and accuracy than the .45 ACP or 9-milli-
meter rounds used in submachine guns. It has a cyclic
rate of fully automatic me at 600 rounds per minute, but
its practical rate of fire is about 100 rounds per minute.
It uses a 30-round magazine, and changing magazines
slows the rate of fire a little, but the main reason for the
slower practical rate is that it is prone to overheating,
making me weapon hard to handle and sometimes caus-
ing rounds to "cook off" accidentally.

The "AK" is simple, rugged, and reliable. That's why
guerrillas and other forces that have a supply problem or
pooriy trained personnel like to use them. They can even
be manufactured by machine shops and gunsmiths in less-
developed countries. About the only real mechanical
weakness of the weapon is the exposed gas tube, which
can be dented easily. Dents in the tube lead to malfunc-
tions due to uneven gas pressures.

One combat weakness of the weapon is the maximum
effective range of the cartridge—on automatic, only about
200 yards; on semiauto, about 300. The lower muzzle
velocity allows the action to work faster, but it also gives

COVERT ACTIONS          165

the bullet a very high trajectory. The short distance be-
tween the sight blades makes drawing a fine bead dim-
cult, and the bullet loses accuracy very quickly anyway.
Of course, there weren't many fircfights in Vietnam
where lack of range was any problem.

Where we were going, the *'AK" would have two
advantages over the M-16 or any other American
weapon: we could replenish our ammunition supply off
almost any NVA we killed, and they wouldn't be able
to distinguish us from their own patrols by the different
sound our weapons made when fired.

We dressed in the new uniforms and packed our new
packs and laid out our new weapons and ammunition.
Then we checked each other's pockets to make double
damned sure there was nothing incriminating or iden-
tifying. Mail call had come while we were getting
ready. Most of the guys had looked at their mail and
then stuffed it in their seabags to reread when they got
back from the mission. Casbum had stuffed a letter
into his shirt pocket, and I had to chew his ass about
it. The letter was from his giri in Texas, and if found
on him, it would have been enough to identify him as
an American. How that would have affected the U.S.
or the course of the war I don't know, but I was re-
sponsible for the team, and my butt would have been
in trouble.

Seeing his letter reminded me that I hadn't gotten one
from my wife in about a month. That wasn't so long that
I was going to get upset about it, but I had to wonder
why I hadn't heard from her. Before we went up Hill
484 I thought, "It's probably just delayed in the mail."
Well, maybe it had been lost. Maybe she had written,
and her letter had been lost, and now she was wondering

766 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

why I wasn't writing her. I'd have to write her as soon
as 1 got back from this mission.

When we were all set to go, I did some Dexedrine.
Then we shouldered the packs and picked up the weap-
ons and rode out to the helipad.

To that point, I hadn't had much time to think about
anything except getting ready and making sure the guys
weren't taking anything they shouldn't. On the ride out,
I went back over everything in my mind, just to make
sure I wasn't forgetting or overlooking something. We
saw some guys we'd been drinking beer with a few days
before, and they waved and hollered. We waved back,
and yelled insults at them, and the thought sneaked into
my mind: "I wonder if I'll ever see them again?" It's a
common thing to think when you're going out on a mis-
sion. Usually you don't dwell on it. Your mind is on the
details of the mission, checking and double-checking, or
should be. So you acknowledge the thought, and answer
yourself with a little personal philosophy, like, "What
the Hell, you can't live forever." Then you go back to
your mental checklist.

This time, though, I had a premonition. Nothing
strong, just a disquieting feeling that something was
wrong or was going to go wrong, as if my subconscious
mind was trying to tell me I'd overlooked some detail.

I'd had mat sort of a premonition before, and the
damned NVA sappers had placed a mine underwater
that goddamned near finished me off.

Then we were rolling up to the helipad, and there
was no more time for premonitions.

CHAPTER 9

^    "Mr. Smith" was at the helipad, with five other guys.
They were dressed just like we were, but their packs
were even larger. Part of their load was gear, because
the cartographer had to carry his alidade and altime-
ter, and the photographer had to carry his cameras
and lenses and film. And they all carried the same
weapons that we carried. Another part of their load
was civilian clothing they had to have to go into Ha-
noi.

We dropped our gear beside theirs and started in-
troducing ourselves. There were two white Americans
and two Vietnamese- The fifth man was an Oriental
of some kind. They were friendly enough and shook
our hands, but they only gave us one name each, and
I suspected those weren't their real names. The map-
767

168     James R, Reeves and James C. Taylor

maker called himself "Kilroy" and the photographer
was "John." The two Viets were "Due" and
"Dinh," and the other Oriental said his name was
"Cesar." He spoke really good English with a trace
of an accent I couldn't quite place. Due and Dinh
spoke very little English. They may have understood
more than they spoke. They would chatter in Viet-
namese between themselves, and sometimes Cesar
would Join in.

I sidled up to Kilroy and asked, "Where y'all
from?"

He just kind of smiled and scratched his ear and
said, "Saigon." I got the message.

"John" was in charge of the other four agents.
"Mr. Smith" stressed that "John" was responsible
for their actions in Hanoi and for the successful com-
pletion of the mission.

"Let's get it straight before we leave. I'm in charge
when you're with this team, going in or coming back
out," I told him. "I won't stand for any arguin' or
questioning my orders. You got that?"

He nodded.

"See that ya remember it," I added.

I wouldn't have been surprised if our transportation
had been a Russian-made helicopter, or at least a
French model. It turned out to be a Jolly Green Giant.
They were about the only helicopters with the range
to get us that far into North Vietnam. The Air Rescue
and Recovery Service used them to rescue pilots out
of North Vietnam when their planes went down. But
this wasn't a rescue helicopter. I think it was from an
Air Commando unit. It was painted in an odd cam-
ouflage pattern, very dark green and very dark brown,
so it looked almost black. There were two others with

COVERT ACTIONS         169

it, but we only loaded onto the one. The other two
were decoys.

When we threw our gear on board and climbed in,
the crew seemed to know the intelligence agents. The
door gunner greeted them like they were old buddies,
and Kilroy stuck his head in the cockpit and said
something to the pilot. Cesar and the door gunner
started rattling to each other in Spanish. That really
took me back. I looked at Cesar again and began to
wonder if he really was Oriental.

The first part of the flight was over the China Sea.
We took off and headed east and a little north until
we were well off the coast, out near Yankee Station.
When we got near the fleet there, we dropped down
to just above the water and headed north for a while
before we turned northwest. We made several course
corrections a few minutes before we reached the coast,

^   turns of forty-five degrees or more, first to the north,
then south, then north again. I wondered at first what
the hell they were doing, but then I realized they had

':"    to coordinate their landfall with jamming and a di-

%    versionary aerial attack. They were tacking back and

;.     forth to kill time.

The noise level inside the chopper was enough to
discourage talk, even if everyone hadn't been busy
with his own private thoughts- I started my mental
checklist again, even though it was too late to get
anything I might have forgotten, but I was scared
going behind the lines like that, really behind the
lines, right up to the enemy capital, and going over
my checklist kept my mind off my emotions.

Landfall was at the mouth of a river. We came in
low, flying between the trees for several miles upriver.
The night was dark, with scattered clouds that got

no

James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

thicker as we went farther north. The surface of the
river was only a little less dark than the black mass
that was the jungle on either bank. I wondered how
the pilots could see well enough to fly that low at that
speed. When we reached a place with low hills on
either side, we pulled up a little, just enough so that
we could fly a more or less straight course above the
trees instead of swinging back and forth to follow the
bends of the river. After a few more miles, we swung
westward between some low hills, and fifteen minutes
later the pilot signalled that we were approaching the
LZ.

We passed low over a small clearing, visible
through the open door as a patch of gray in the hum-
mocky blackness of the jungle canopy. I saw one of
the other helicopters dropping into it. I knew he would
hover just above the grass and simulate an insertion.

I was really getting uptight now, breathing shallow
quick breaths through my nose with my jaws clenched
and my lips pressed together. There were too many
hot LZs in my recent past.

I noticed Tony was staring, unblinking, at the other
door. His eyes were focused far beyond any possible
view from the door, probably on his memory of one
of those LZs- Quinn was rubbing the sweat from his
palms onto his pantlegs. Magoun was sort of grin-
ning, but without mirth. Only Bob seemed his natural
self, absentmindedly scratching his crotch, totally un-
concerned. On the surface, anyway.

Two or three other small clearings slipped by un-
derneath us, and then I felt the helicopter rear back
as it started down. I picked up my pack and swung it
up on my shoulders and yelled "Lock and load!" to
the others. I locked and loaded my own AK-47. The

COVERT ACTIONS

m

helicopter dropped quickly into the clearing and hov-
ered just above the grass. It didn't touch down, be-
cause they didn't want to leave a skid mark. We
jumped out and gouged deep footprints in the muddy
soil where we landed. As soon as we hit we humped
for the treeline, bending way low to duck under the
rotor. The agents were the last out; the last of them
gave the thumbs-up signal to the door gunner, and the
helicopter tilted forward as it lifted upward maybe
fifty feet, then spun around and headed south.

A minute or two later, the third helicopter came
over, also heading south like a scalded dog. By then
we had laagered up in the treeline, AKs bristling out-
ward like spines on a porcupine.

Everything got quiet.

Well, not too quiet. When you take those uppers,
you can hear the crickets sigh and the cats walk, and
you're ready to shoot the sons of bitches. You're not
just alert, you're wound up tight, and you jump at the
slightest sound. For me, with poor hearing in one ear,
they were a definite help. I didn't even notice being
partly deaf, and when I did, it was because a sound
was coming from the left side, and I couldn't tell
whether it was from in front or in back or straight off
to the side. I would have to turn my head and listen
for it, and hope it came again.

We formed up in the treeline on the northwest side
of the clearing, and moved out right away. Bob and
I took twin point positions, Fitchew and Magoun were
the right and left flankers, and Tony and Quinn were
twin rear points. The five agents made up the central
group, and Casbum was with them- They were pro-
tected all the way around. We moved out to the south-
west, going up toward the ridge line but away from

172 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

Hanoi as a little bit of misdirection. When we got to
the ridge line we held up for thirty minutes to see if
the North Vietnamese were going to react to our in-
sertion. Then we moved north.

We had illuminated compasses for traveling at
night, but you can't keep stopping every few minutes
and looking at your compass. Even that faint light
will degrade your night vision. We'd take a bearing
and look for some natural object that was just about
in line with the bearing. Then we'd go toward it.

If you knew where you were on the map, you could
use the slope for a guide. You could go along the side
of the hill or directly up or down, and you could tell
when the angle of the slope or its direction changed.
This night it was cloudy and misting rain. It wasn't
pitch black, but it nearly was. The ridge top was wide
and nearly flat, so the slope wasn't a good guide. We
had to use our compasses pretty often, and when the
slope seemed to steepen we'd turn away from it, back
uphill.

Bob and I carried spray cans to mark the path for
the agents, and to mark any booby traps we might
come across. The spray was a powder, like a dry
spray deodorant. It would fluoresce in ultraviolet light.
We used a lot of it to mark safe paths and booby traps
when we were on recon patrols. We might be marking
a safe path out for ourselves, in case we had to get
out fast, or we might be marking a safe path in for a
search-and-destroy patrol or attack group following us
in. We didn't use much on this patrol, because we
weren't going into an area that was likely to be booby-
trapped, but we had it handy. Of course, it would
wash off in the rain.

I didn't expect that we would see many patrols un-

COVERT ACTIONS          173

less we had been spotted landing. Still, we were cau-
tious. We didn't just stroll along single file, and we
stayed away from clearings. We moved fast when we
moved, and then we'd stop and look and listen for a
few seconds, and move again. We covered a lot of
ground that night, considering how dark it was.

About 0200 we came to a peak. It wasn't much of
a peak. Just the highest part of the ridge. We could
see enough to tell it was broad and rolling, with some
scrub bushes around it, and some rocks sticking up.
We went on across a clearing there.

I led them over the clear ground and into the brush
on the other ridge, the one that led off to the north-
west. We held up there, waiting for it to get lighter.
We'd come about seven klicks, or four and a half
miles. I figured we were a safe distance from the LZ.
and anyway, I had been whipped in the face by
branches and had stumbled over rocks and logs in the
darkness until I was tired of it. The agents were grate-
fill for me rest.

We laagered up in pairs, lying in a circle facing
outward. One man in each pair was supposed to be
awake and watching while the other slept. Natu-
rally I couldn't sleep, with all that Dexedrine in me,
and I didn't want to anyway. I was too worried about
being so goddamned many miles from "home" in
South Vietnam. It was a long walk back. If anything
went wrong, if, for some reason, we missed our
pickup . . .

I put that out of my mind. Nothing was going to
go wrong. I was just getting uptight. I made myself
think about something else, like home. Like my wife.
I hadn't thought much about her since I'd been back
in-country. I wondered: did I really care about her,

174 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

or had I married her just to cover up some of the other
problems I was having? Maybe she was just a kind
of anchor for me, to keep me from losing contact with
the States completely. It was hard to know. I'd been
concentrating on surviving and hadn't had much time
to think about her. I pictured her the way I'd first
seen her, through the haze of smoke in a bar in Co-
ronado. I pictured her face. Then I tried to picture her
naked body. It didn't work. I couldn't see it. I re-
membered swimming with her down on Silver Strand
Beach, and I thought of her body in the swimming
suit, and tried to remove the suit mentally. It stili
didn't work. I tried to remember cuddling with her,
kissing her, anything, but all that came to mind was
that cocksucking GI insurance.

Then I realized I was losing my alertness, and I
made myself concentrate on the shadows that were
trees and rocks in the darkness, and listen for the
slightest sound, or a change in the natural sounds.

We laid up there, on the ridge just beyond the peak,
until it began to lighten up. On a clear day, that might
have been as early as 0400, but as cloudy as this day
was, it was about 0530 before it was really light
enough to see the trees and bushes before you walked
into them. We moved out then, down the ridge and
toward the northwest.

It was about four miles to the Phu Ly road. We
made it by 0730, and while it was considerably lighter
by then, the clouds that were down in the valleys
when we started our walk had risen to the level of the
ridge, and we were moving through a fog with visi-
bility at about a hundred yards. We were right on top
of the ridge, where the road crossed the pass. It was
a good place to cross the road because any trucks

COVERT ACTIONS         175

approaching would have to climb several switchbacks
on the way up, giving us plenty of warning. The only
drawback was the lack of dense brush on either side
of the road for cover. We had to move from clump
to clump to conceal ourselves.

I sent Fitchew and Magoun out about a hundred
yards in either direction along the road to watch for
traffic. When they gave us the all clear, I crossed,
then Bob. We took up concealed positions to cover
the others. Casbum sent the agents across one at a
time. Tony and Quinn followed, and Fitchew and
Magoun moved last.

I wanted to move away from the road right away,
but we had to delay a few minutes while Kilroy
checked his altimeter.

<t! thought those things had to be corrected for bar-
ometric pressure," Tony said.

"They do," Kilroy told him, "but I'll record the
date and time and the location, and when I get back,
they'll have records of the daily pressure changes."

"How do they get records from way up here?" Bob
asked,

"We've got weather stations scattered all over this
country. Some of them are automatic, dropped by air-
craft. Others arc run by special units. They radio out
their information, and it's combined with satellite data
down in Saigon."

About two miles from the road we came across a
clearing right on the crest of the ridge. We studied
the maps and air photos and decided it was the ex-
traction LZ. Kilroy couldn't get a sun shot with his
sextant to confirm it, but he agreed it seemed to be in
the right place. We avoided it, as we did all the other
clearings, by working our way around the edge. I

276    James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

looked around at the terrain and tried to memorize
what it looked like, so I'd know it on the way back.

I kept them moving until we got about two miles
beyond the clearing. The ridge turned slightly east
there. We could either move on down the ridge, where
the going was probably easier, or descend into the
valley and follow the stream. That route would be
rougher, but safer.

It was 1000, and the fog had lifted. It was now
overcast and drizzling. While it wasn't likely that we
would encounter an enemy patrol in this area, I didn't
feel comfortable moving around in the scattered brush
on top of the ridge in the daylight. The NVA might
even have patrol planes out. Just down the side of the
ridge was a thick patch of timber and brush. It looked
like the next best place to hole up during the day. The
best place would have been the brush along the stream
in the bottom of the valley.

I moved them down the hillside and we laagered
up in the brush. We stayed there until about 1800. It
rained off and on all day, and the temperature got up
to 85 or 90 degrees. The rain didn't seem to keep the
insects away, either. The agents and a couple of the
SEALs managed to nap a little, despite all, but I still
had too much Dexedrine in me.

Cesar was paired with me. I had the first watch,
and he napped. He woke up by himself at the right
time.

"My watch," he said. "You'd better get some
sleep."

"I won't sleep," I told him.

"You got to sleep sometime."

"No."

He was quiet for a while after that.

COVERT ACTIONS         177

"How long can you go without getting some sleep,
man?" he finally asked.

"The whole fucking mission, if I have to. Knock
off the damned talking.''

I lay there for a long time, until finally it was my
watch again. I told Cesar to get some more sleep if
he could. He shrugged and laid his head down on his
arm.

"Where you from, anyway?" I asked him.

"You know I'm not supposed to tell you any-
thing."

"How many languages you speak?"

"Three, counting English."

"Jesus! I have 'nough trouble with one. Ya go to
school to learn to do that?" All this was spoken in a
whisper, of course.

"I learned Vietnamese in a service school."

I didn't ask him any more right then, but I was still
curious. He looked a little bit Oriental, but if you saw
him on the street in Tijuana, you would have had a
tough time telling him from a Mexican.

We moved out just before dusk. We worked our
way slowly down the hillside to the valley floor,
where the treetops formed a solid canopy above us.
The going was somewhat easier there because the un-
dergrowth wasn't quite as thick, but it was darker.
We stayed near the stream, where the noise of the
water would drown out the sounds we made moving
through the brush.

The agents weren't as quiet as my men were, and
they weren't as fast. They hadn't been taught to move
the vines and branches aside and slip between them.
They tried to bulldoze their way through. After a

178     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

while, it wore them out. I told Casbum to teach them
how to do it properly as we went.

We kept going as far into the night as we could. I
wanted to reach the river before we stopped, so that
we wouldn't have to make up time the next day. It
was still cloudy and drizzling, and that made it pitch
black down on the valley floor. Even with our night
vision fully developed, all we could see was black
shadows on a background only slightly less black. We
changed to single file, each man touching with one
hand the shoulder or pack of the man in front of him
to maintain contact. The point man had to feel his
way along, moving very slowly, with one hand out
in front of him so he wouldn't run into a damned tree.
Since I didn't trust anyone else in that position, I took
the point. As we groped forward I kept imagining that
the next thing I touched would be a cobra or a python,
and every time I put my hand out and touched a
damned vine, I knew I'd found one. Finally I gave
up and called a halt. We crept in close together, took
a head count to make sure we were all there, and
stopped for the night.

I sat in the blackness and cursed myself for not
starting earlier in the afternoon. Was this going to be
another mistake that would endanger the mission and
the men?

Of course, the uneasiness came back, stronger than
ever.

We sat there in that absolute blackness and strained
our eyes into the darkness. There was nothing to see.
The rain dripping off the canopy of leaves overhead
made a constant soft patter that was just audible.
Every once in a while there would be a louder sound,
perhaps a splash as some large leaf got overloaded

COVERT ACTIONS         179

and dumped an accumulation of water. That always
brought you instantly alert, because it could easily be
a splash from someone stepping in a puddle.

The night passed uneventfully, however. Finally—
I won't say "soon," because it wasn't—it was light
enough to begin to make out the dark trunks of the
trees, and we moved out. It was late, nearly 0700,
and we would have to make up for the lost time by
moving earlier in the afternoon and traveling later in
the morning. I also tried to move them a bit faster.

We soon broke out of the really densely canopied
area and began to travel faster. We made far too much
noise, but we only had limited time left to get the
agents into Hanoi. I thought the risk was justified,
We were just hitting our stride and moving along at
a pretty good clip when we spotted a patrol.

Bob saw them first. He gave a couple of warning
clicks on the radio and we froze. Then he came back
with his position number and the number of gooks in
the patrol, all signaled by the number of times he
broke squelch with the radio. Obviously they were
close enough that he didn't want to talk.

I crouched behind a big plant that looked like it
ought to be potted and growing in a dentist's office,
and prayed they weren't coming our way.

Finally, Bob signaled "all clear."

I broke silence and called him on the radio. It was
taking a chance, but I wanted to know more about
them.

"What'dyasee?"

"Patrol. Twelve of *em at least, going from our
left to right, about sixty or seventy-five degrees to our
course. They were following a trail, but with points
and flankers out. Allowing for the flankers I couldn't

180 James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

see, there were probably fifteen or eighteen. We were
overtakin 'em."

"They gone now?"

"Out of sight."

I thought awhile. If they were following a trail it
was a good bet they were on a routine patrol instead
of searching for someone. It was unlikely they would
zigzag or change their direction of movement much.
Somewhere up ahead was a river we had to cross, so
it seemed smart to work to the other direction, to our
left. Upstream, according to my map.

"We'll bear left forty-five degrees," I told them.
"Bearing three-one-five. Stay with it until we hit the
river. And stay quiet."

Pivoting left would mean the right point and right
flanker would have farther to go than the rest of us,
so I moved very slowly at first. We came to the river
much sooner than I had anticipated, and sooner than
I liked. I wanted the gook patrol to be farther away.

It really wasn't such a bad river to cross, this far
upstream. The current wasn't fast, and me tree can-
opy almost touched over midstream. There were also
several fallen logs and tangles of debris in the channel
to provide cover. We found a shallow spot and waded.
The water came to our chests at one point.

On the other side, we were in broken bush. We had
veered to the west of the course we'd planned to take,
so we followed a bearing of 360 degrees until a spot
I estimated to be five miles north of the river. Kilroy
took a shot on the sun and said I wasn't far off. We
turned east from there. It was only a short way until
we got into rice paddies and a populated area, so we
stopped there until dusk.

I dreaded crossing the damned cultivated area.

COVERT ACTIONS          181

There wasn't enough cover out there for me to be
comfortable. The VC did all right, hiding in such
areas, but the villagers helped by hiding them.
It was the morning of the second day.

We started off again just before dusk and had gone
only a little way before we saw another patrol. I saw
this one first. They were crossing a little open area,
moving from our right toward our left. There were
only eight. The careless way they carried their rifles
and the way they strolled unconcernedly across the
clearing told me two things: they weren't expecting
to encounter anything they couldn't handle, and there
were no mines or booby traps to worry about, at least
not nearby.

After they were out of sight we moved on.
Crossing the cultivated area was not soothing to the
nerves. There were places where we could find no
cover to follow, and had to just cut right across the
paddies or risk getting too close to the villages we
were passing between. Not only were there more peo-
ple moving around near the villages, but every one of
them had a pack of damned dogs that did what dogs
all over the world do best: bark. They were constantly
barking. If it wasn't us they were barking at, it was
the local peasants or the soldiers or some animal, so
it wasn't anything unusual to hear. I had a nightmare
sometimes that we were slipping into a village or a
camp to grab somebody, and a damned dog got wind
of us and went apeshit. In the nightmare he would
stand about three or four feet away, barking and
growling and making a dive for me every once in a
while, like they do when they have an old boar coon
backed into a corner. I would stand there, unable to

182 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

hit the son of a bitch with my rifle, and not wanting
to shoot him, because that would wake the whole
camp. That's why I steered the patrol as far away
from the villages as I could. Later, I found there
weren't that many dogs in most of North Vietnam.
Maybe the Vietnamese had eaten most of them.

We had come a little farther north than we'd
planned, and we had to swing back to the south to
skirt a little lake. Then, according to our map, we
had to go due east to cross a small river below its
junction with a canal. If we crossed north of the junc-
tion, we'd then have to cross either the canal or a
second river before we got to Highway 1. Of course,
in the dark it was easy to misjudge, and it turned out
that the lake we detoured around wasn't the one we
expected but a smaller one west of it. We soon came
to the shore of the second, larger lake, which drove
us still farther south. On the southern tip was a little
village, about six or eight fishermen's huts and at least
that many barking dogs. We lay in the bush and
cursed the dogs and prayed until an old man came out
and started throwing rocks at the dogs to either shut
them up or drive them away. He cursed them just like
we were doing, only he did it at the top of his lungs.
After several of the rocks hit, the dogs scattered and
we bugged out. Only one of the dogs followed us into
the bush, barking like we'd just stolen the mint. Bob
wanted to cut its throat, and it was tempting to let
him, but that would just tip them off that we were
around.

When we came to the river, it was only twenty or
twenty-five yards across, but the channel was full
from bank to bank, and it took us forty minutes. The
water came up to my neck, and the two Vietnamese

COVERT ACTIONS          183

had to ferry their packs and guns across on a raft of
limbs. Fortunately, the current was slow.

About three miles beyond the river we crossed the
next highway. There was more traffic than we ex-
pected on a spur road, and Kilroy made a note that
something was going on, probably down where the
road ended.

We crossed without incident and headed east
through the rice paddies. There was one more river
to cross, and it proved to be very much like the last
one, except wider. This time we all made rafts of
branches for our packs. I found a bar about halfway
across, and from there on the water only came to my
waist, but it had been at least neck deep in that first
stretch.

In that more open terrain, on such a cloudy night,
we could travel all night if we needed to, and so we
did. Bob and I were both reluctant to try to find a
place to lay up during the daylight hours out in that
paddy country. There would be too many people
moving around during the day, too much chance we
might be discovered. I conferred with him, and also
got opinions from the rest of them, but the decision
had to be mine. We were all tired, the agents more
than the SEALs, even though they had slept and at
least some of the SEALs had not. I tried to judge how
tired I was, and if I was to the point of making stupid
mistakes. I looked at the map to see how far we had
to go. Then I popped some more Dexednne and sig-
naled them to move out.

We came to Highway 1 about 0130, and while there
was construction activity and traffic on the highway,
the only delay in getting across was waiting for Kilroy
to take his notes and take a star shot when the clouds

184     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

opened for a few minutes. He marked the construc-
tion on his map. He had a penlight for reading and
posting notes. He covered his head with a dark cloth
so the light wouldn't show. I assumed they were re-
pairing bomb craters, but he said they were widening
and resurfacing, probably getting ready for the in-
creased traffic when they moved their heavy combat
forces south, after we pulled out of South Vietnam.

Sometimes he'd just make a mental note and jot
things down when we stopped to rest, but he said this
was too important.

We went only about a mile east of the road before
we turned north. That was halfway between Highway
1 and the Red River. At that point we were only seven
and a half miles south of Hanoi, and I knew it would
start getting more populous as we got closer. I didn't
want to blunder into a village or an AA gun emplace-
ment in the darkness, so I signaled the group to hold
up, and we rested until 0400.

We could hear truck traffic on the road as we rested.
It had begun to rain lightly just after we stopped, and
the moist air carried the sound well. There was a lot
of air traffic, too, and once there was an air strike to
the south of us. Flares lit up the night, and we could
plainly hear the crump! of bombs. The jet jockeys had
probably spotted some trucks moving. I was glad we
weren't down that way trying to cross the road.

We moved out again at 0400. We moved much
more slowly, for we frequently spotted AA gun em-
placements and missile launching sites. We didn't see
foot patrols, but there was truck traffic and there were
people on the roads. We had to take it very carefully
and stay hidden much of the time. We finally got
there in late afternoon, just before sunset. Just outside

COVERT ACTIONS          185

the edge of me city we came up onto a low ridge. We
stopped there and waited until dark before we went
in closer. The agents got their civilian clothes out of
their packs and got ready to go into town.

I squatted down by Cesar while he dressed.

"Something puzzles me about you," I told him.
"You look kind of Oriental, and you speak Vietnam-
ese, but you said you learned that in a school, and
you chattered Spanish to that door gunner. Just what
die hell are you, anyway, a Mexican?"

"Would you believe black?"

"Hell. no!"

He laughed. "I'm Japanese, man. Grew up in L.A.
speaking Spanish and English. I didn't leam much of
my native tongue, although hearing an Oriental lan-
guage spoken at home probably helped me leam Viet-
namese."

"Well, you sure sounded like a Viet to me when
you were talking to Due and Dinh. And you sounded
like a Mex talking to that door gunner."

He finished changing clothes and started sorting out
the gear he was going to take into Hanoi. He packed
a couple of cameras and some lenses into a canvas
bag along with a lot of film. He kept glancing toward
the city. I could tell he was nervous.

"Now that I risked my ass getting you here, why
don't you tell me what the hell you guys are going to
do in there?"

"I'm going to take pictures, can't you tell?" he
said with a nervous little smile.

"Yeah, but what the heck of? I mean. they've got
all these damned recon planes that can take a picture
from thirty or forty thousand feet so you can read the
date on a nickel lying on the street."

186    James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

He exhaled with a short sigh, as if he were getting
tired of my questions, and looked at me out of the
comer of his eyes. He looked like he was trying to
judge the risk of telling me. Finally, he said, "Pris-
oners. I'm going to photograph some POWs."

"POWs?" I said it too loud, and got an angry look
from him. "How are you going to get close enough
to take pictures of 'em?"

He didn't answer. He just took one of the lenses
out of the bag and let me get a look at it. It was a
telephoto.

"What about John? Is he going to be doing the
same thing?*'

He just shook his head.

We were right on the outskirts of town, as close as
we could get without losing most of our cover, and
you could see the lights of houses and the street
lamps. It surprised me at first, because I just assumed
they'd be blacked out, but I then realized that with
radar and infrared bombsights, it wouldn't do any
good. The city wasn't lit up much, anyway, at least
this far out.

John, Kilroy, Cesar, Due, and Dinh left us there
and all went in together toward the edge of town. I
didn't have any idea if we would ever see them again.
They told us nothing except that they would be met
at the edge of town and guided in. And that they
would see us in two, maybe three days. If they didn't
show up in seventy-two hours, we were to assume
they had been discovered and start back without them.
As they walked off into the darkness, I began to feel
uneasy again.

CHAPTER 10

We sent a prearranged signal that we were moving
back to the ridge. That was so that if they had to
come back out suddenly, they'd know about where
to find us. From the ridge, we watched the outskirts
of town through binoculars and checked with the
agents as long as we dared send and they dared re-
ceive. When they made it to their safe house, they
signed out.

Now we were on our own, so to speak. We had no
specific assignment except to wait for the agents to come
back out of the city, but we had to do something to
occupy our time. There's nothing worse than sitting and
waiting in enemy territory. If one of those guys was
caught and talked, half the North Vietnamese Army
would be out scouring the countryside for us. We'd
187

188 James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

have about as much chance of getting away as a one-
legged blind man crossing an L.A. freeway.

We split up into two groups of three. Three didn't
have much fircpower, but if we were spotted up here,
firepower wouldn't make a whole hell of a lot of differ-
ence anyway. One group was to patrol around the ren-
dezvous site to make sure the enemy didn't surprise the
seventh man, who was left there in case the agents came
back out, and to monitor the radio in case they called.
The other group of three—ft happened to be Bob and
Tony and me—was to patrol westward, recording the
locations of AA batteries and SAM sites, foot traffic and
vehicles on the streets, noting how many military trucks
and tanks we saw, how well the area was patrolled, and
how heavy the air traffic was. The airport was over that
way. All of us carried our radios, and never took our
headsets off. The guy with the big radio could monitor
for a signal from the agents while keeping in touch with
me two patrols.

Three men can move a lot quieter than six or ten,
hide in a smaller area, and see just as much—and the
loss of three men wouldn't be as significant to the
successful completion of the mission as the loss of a
bigger group would be.

We went as far as we dared, avoiding NVA foot
patrols and sentries around AA gun emplacements and
missile launchers. There were radar vans and trailers
around: they'd move them a quarter mile or so away
from the guns and hide them under trees or camou-
flage netting, and of course they'd set sentries out
around them. We noted their locations, and locations
where we saw trucks or soldiers moving around on
foot. There were plenty of foot patrols in this area.
We knew they had been patrolling for some time,

COVERT ACTIONS         189

because me trails were worn out where they'd walked.
Whether they were on training exercises to keep the
men on their toes, or they were expecting some sab-
otage, I don't know. I suspect some officer was keep-
ing the troops busy. They were very lax.

We could see quite a way into the city, even though
the ridge was only about eighty feet high. There was
one building in there we decided was a whorehouse.
Big staff cars would often pull up to the door and
some older man would get out. Usually he was
dressed as an officer anything from a colonel to a
general. He would usually stay several hours, but
sometimes all night. There might be four or five of
these guys in the building at one time. Bob swore he
could recognize the cars when they came back for a
second time. "That's the Mercedes," he'd say, or
"That's that Citroen again. Second time today. The
old boy must really be homy." They all looked the
same to me. I never was good at identifying those
foreign makes. Some of the officers were recogniz-
able, though, the second time they came.

, The second day, we headed on toward the airport.
This time we got to a little low hill overlooking the
end of the runway. It was very sandy, with some trees
growing right on the top of it. It was probably a sand
dune that had been there a long time. The trees pro-
vided the cover we needed so the planes wouldn't see
us as they were landing, and the height was just
enough so that we could see the whole airport with
binoculars. I was a little let down that I didn't spot
any MiGs, just cargo planes. Some of the guys I'd
talked to said they'd seen MiGs up here around Ha-
noi, but it must have been at some other base.

There were some big Russian cargo planes out

190 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

there, and planes from several other countries, in-
cluding some of our NATO allies. I wished I had
Cesar's camera and that telescopic lens to record some
of it. Even my own little 35 millimeter. We watched
about a hundred big muscular guys in ciwies unload
from an Aeroflot airliner. They were dressed in slacks
and sport shirts, but they fell into ranks to wait for
their duffel bags, and marched off the field in single
file. "Tour group," Bob growled. "Ya can always
tell the damned tourists by the way they're dressed."

We had to leave our observation post too soon to
suit me. Going back to the ridge, we traveled a lot
faster. We knew where the gun and missile emplace-
ments were, and the radar vans, and we didn't have
to stop and record them. We could avoid them easily
and not worry about suddenly coming upon a sentry.

When we mustered at the rendezvous site. Fitchew
wanted to go out and scout around. He had done his
turn holding the ridge position while the rest of us got
out and looked around the town. I had to pull rank and
keep him there. There was too much chance that the
agents would come back out in a hurry, like chicken
thieves out of the henhouse with dogs on their heels. I
wanted him around in case we had to move out quickly.

They didn't signal that evening, though, and the
hours started to drag. Even though I knew very well
they might be gone for the full three days, I started
thinking about all the things that could have gone
wrong. We had seen no excitement on the streets that
might indicate they had been discovered, but still we
grew more nervous as the hours passed.

Then an NVA patrol came by. That didn't help my
state of mind at all. They crashed through the brush like
a herd of water buffalo, and called to each other in loud

COVERT ACTIONS          191

voices, a sure sign they weren't looking for anyone, but
I still got apprehensive. Suppose the agents returned and
were discovered by that bunch, or one like them?

As soon as it was safe I pulled the guys together
and told them four would stay on the ridge while three
went down to the edge of town to wait for the agents.
I picked Quinn and Magoun to go with me. If we
didn't return before dusk the next day, the others were
to get the hell out of Dodge.

We waited there by the road at the outskirts of Hanoi
until eariy dawn the next day before we got the signal,
and let me tell you, I was getting nervous. So nervous
I got a bad case of me shits. The more time passed
without them calling, the more uneasy I got that some-
thing had gone wrong. Even after we got their signal, I
was uneasy.

It started getting light, and they hadn't shown up
yet. Fortunately, it was foggy. I really got uptight
when they were late. I was ready to pull back to the
ridge without them because it was getting so light
when the radio broke squelch, and from the strength
of the signal I could tell they were close. I signaled
back "all clear" and soon saw this figure appear
through the fog. It was just a vague shape at first, and
I tensed up until I was sure it wasn't carrying a rifle.
It was joined by two others, moving confidently along
the road, then by two more, and finally another single
figure. They walked along as if they were heading for
the next village and wanted to be there by breakfast.
If they were our agents, they would walk along the
road until hidden from prying eyes by brush or fog,
and then take to the underbmsh. So far, so good.

Except, where five went in, six were coming out.

My heart started pounding, and my stomach felt

192 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

like it had been quick-frozen. Who was the sixth fig-
ure? Was he holding a gun on one of them, forcing
them to lead him to us? Whoever it was, we had to
be ready to take care of him and get out of there fast.

I glanced around at the guys and signaled them
"alert." They looked at me like I was crazy. I held up
six fingers to let them know the reason I was suspicious,
even though I had to lay my rifle down for a moment
to do it. Then I assigned them their targets, using hand
signals.

When I looked back at the oncoming figures, it was
over my rifle sights, and they were much closer. Even
in the fog and morning light, I could see the leading
figure well enough to identify it. It was John. After
him came Kilroy and Dinh.

What the hell was going on? Who was number six?
I signaled Magoun and Quinn to hold their fire.

When the next pair came into sight, I could see it
was Due and another Oriental. Not Cesar. This man
was dressed in a raincoat and a fedora. His hands
were in the pockets of his coat. I settled the butt of
the rifle firmly against my shoulder and pressed my
cheek to the stock. What was he carrying in there?
Was he holding a gun on Due? I took a fine bead on
his left temple. W^ere was Cesar? I began to squeeze
the trigger. The sixth figure took form and emerged
from the fog; it was Cesar. He was carrying his cam-
era bag and a briefcase. I eased off the trigger and
tilted the barrel upward over the fedora.

I signaled Quinn, who made a bird-whistle sound.
John glanced casually at the bushes where we sat, and
kept walking for twenty steps or so. Then he casually
turned and walked over to the side of the road as if he
was going to take a leak, and just walked on out into

COVERT ACTIONS         193

the bushes. The others followed him after a few sec-
onds.

We joined up with them about a hundred yards from
the road before heading back to the ridge. The sixth
man held back as if he was shy,

"Who the fuck is he?" I asked John.

John didn't want to say.

"Enough of this secrecy shit," I told him. "We
almost blew your butts away when we saw six where
we were expecting five. Now you talk fast and tell
me who the hell he is, or we'll slit his throat and bury
him here and now."

"He's a defector," John admitted grudgingly.
- "Not good enough," I told him. "Did youjist hap-
pen to meet him on the street? Who checked the bas-
tard out, anyway?"

"I am not accustomed to having my actions ques-
tioned by an enlisted man."

"Get used to it. Your responsibility for the mission
just ended, and mine started."

He stood there and glared at me. I kept the rifle
pointed at the midsection of the "defector," and my
finger on the trigger, but I was glaring at John. We
stood like that for a few seconds before John shrugged
and half turned away.

"It was part of the mission to pick him up and bring
him out. I decided that the less any of you knew, the
less you could divulge if you were captured. So I didn't
tell you. I meant to call ahead to you when we got out
into the bush and I could get the radio out without risk-
ing being seen. I thought I'd tell you then that there
would be six of us. I didn't think you would wait down
by the road."

"Quinn, search him."

194 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

"Mr. Quinn, don't do that. It would be an insult
to him. We want to keep him well disposed toward
us so we can get as much information as possible
from him when we get back."

Quinn stopped and looked at me. I was watching
the "defector" but talking to John. The man was
looking from John to me to Quinn and back again,
and there was something in the look that made me
suspect he understood what we were saying. His face
was as expressionless as a wooden mask, but his pup-
ils had contracted even in the dim morning light.

"I think he would understand. I think he'd have
you or me searched if the shoe was on the other foot."

"Mr. Tyier, I have to protest. In my opinion, and
I think I'm more experienced in this intelligence game
than you arc, to search him could do irreparable harm
to his value to us as an intelligence asset."

"Not searching him might do irreparable harm to
this mission and the men on it. We don't move until
he's searched." It wouldn't make sense to take him
up onto the ridge and let him see the full strength of
the force before we checked him out. Not that he
could do much damage with any weapon he could
have concealed on him. It was a radio transmitter I
was worried about. Not necessarily a voice transmit-
ter, either. Just a repeated beeping signal could lead
the enemy right to us.

Of course, I really wanted to get the heck away
from that road, too, but I wasn't going to give in. We
stood there in a kind of Mexican standofF until John
finally sighed and said, "Go ahead."

Quinn searched him thoroughly. 1 told him to look
for a small radio beeper, especially in the guy's hat
and coat, and I'll swear the man's pupils contracted

COVERT ACTIONS         195

even further. Quinn didn't find anything, of course,
and John got to say, "I told you so."

When Quinn finished the search, I said, "All right,
he can come with us, but he'd better be able to keep
up. If he slows us down, we'll have to kill him. Now,
let's get out of here." And I signaled to Quinn in deaf-
mute signs, "Stay close and keep your gun on his
back."

When we were about five minutes out, we called
ahead and told Bob we were coming in with an extra
man.

The agents wasted no time. In fact, they seemed to
be in a real hurry, but then, I guess that would be
normal. I was eager to get the hell out of there my-
self. They dug up the gear they'd cached, changed
out of their civilian clothes, and picked up their weap-
ons. The "defector" took off his raincoat, and some-
one gave him a jacket. He kept his fedora, though,
and it sure looked stupid over that camo jacket. They
buried the ciwies and tried to conceal the evidence
of the burial by scattering the dirt and raking loose
topsoil over the disturbed area. Then they shouldered
their packs and we formed up.

I started up to my point position. Cesar grinned as
I walked past, and said, "Home, James!"

I was still pissed at John. I just looked at him like
I was thinking, "Grow up, you dumb shit," and
walked on past.

We covered ground a lot faster coming back out
than we did going in, because we knew the terrain.
It stayed foggy until early afternoon, so we were able
to travel almost all day. We reached the crossing of
Highway 1 before me fog broke and lifted, and held
up there until dusk. That gave us all night to cross

196 James R. Reeves and James C. Tsytor

the cultivated area and get back into the bush-covered
hills before we stopped again, and we made good use
of the time. The weather cooperated too, giving us a
moonlit night with scattered clouds. Coming back out,
we knew the best places to cross the rivers, so we
gained some time there, and since we had already
recorded the activity on that secondary road we
crossed, I wouldn't stop for Kilroy to make more
notes. I told him to take mental notes and nil in his
notebook when we laagered up the next morning. We
skirted way south of the lake and avoided the fishing
village with the pack of dogs. The "defector," if
that's what he was, kept up pretty well.

We crossed the last river and climbed up into the hills
just as the morning was getting light. We could have
pushed on another two hours or so without running too
much risk of seeing a patrol, but we hadn't stopped but
four hours in almost twenty-four, and everyone was
tired. I was happy with the ground we'd covered, so
Bob picked a brushy spot where we could take cover
and keep a good watch all around us, and we rested
until late afternoon.

Cesar was busy with some of the crap in his pack.
I went over and squatted down beside him. He was
sorting through a bunch of photographs.

"I'm splitting them up. just in case," he explained.

"Just in case what?"

"In case I don't make it back and my gear can't be
recovered.'*

"Hell, you got it knocked now. Getting in and out
of that damned gook city without getting caught had
to be the worst part."

"That was easy. We just walked in like we be-
longed there. They never once stopped us."

COVERT ACTIONS         197

"All of you went in? I figured Kilroy and John
stayed in the safe house."

"No, why should they?"

"Well, it's real obvious they're Caucasian. They're
so damned much bigger than the Viets, they got to
stand out like a sore thumb even if they wear some
kind of makeup to make 'em look Oriental."

"Hell, there's all kinds of Caucasians in there. Be-
sides the Russians, there are French, Italian, and Aus-
tralian reporters, not to mention the usual diplomatic
staffs. I don't even stand out: there are Chinese and
North Koreans in there, and they're big too."

"I seen some of them damned Russians," I admit-
ted. "I sure wished you was along, with your camera,
while we was watching the airport. There was lots of
airplanes out there from countries that are supposed
to be our friends and allies."

"They see mem all the time on air photos, you know.
Not only can they tell what airiine, they can read the
numbers and identify individual planes. You ought to
see the ships in the harbor at Haiphong. . . ." He sud-
denly realized he was saying too much, and stopped.
He finished sorting the photos and started packaging
them up in waterproof envelopes, and then put them all
in a heavy waterproof bag. "I want you or someone
else to cany these," he said. "They're duplicates or
near duplicates of the ones I'll cany."

"What do you mean, *near duplicates'?"

He showed me. He took a photo out of each group.
They were two slightly different views of the same
building. Then he showed another pair, telephoto shots
of a Caucasian man's face taken from different angles
and with different shadowing, showing the man had
moved.

198     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

"If I don't make it, you get your set back out," he
said. "It could be important." He put the two photos
back in their respective bags.

"How'd ya develop these damned things anyway?
These ain't Polaroid pictures. Was there a darkroom
in your safe house?"

"Keep them in the plastic wrapper so they don't
get ruined when we cross the rivers."

I could see he wasn't going to answer any questions,
so I rcwrapped the bundle and put it in my pack on the
very top. "After all," I thought, "if there's all them
damned reporters for the communist newspaper's in
there, there has to be plenty of darkroom supplies."

Things had gone very well up to this point, and I
had lost most of the uneasy feeling that had been
bothering me. Then, at about 1430, a patrol came by.

We saw them coming, so we laid low. I kept a
sharp eye on the agents to make sure they didn't panic
and shoot or anything, but they stayed calm. I guess
the ability to stay calm and controlled when the en-
emy is around is a definite asset to a spy.

The patrol was well out of sight when I got the guys
ready to move at 1600, but I cautioned Bob and the
two flankers to keep a sharp eye out, in case the gooks
changed directions and crossed our path. I planned to
take the same route back we'd come in by, the densely
canopied valley. It would be dark in there at midday,
and virtually impossible to move through on a cloudy
night, so I wanted to go as far as we could while there
was plenty of light. It was my goal to gain the ridge
top before we stopped during the darker hours, and
move on to the LZ in the early morning.

We made good time at first, but as it got darker
the going became slower and slower. I could see we

COVERT ACTIONS         199

weien*t going to make it to the ridge by die time I'd
hoped. Finally, I called the points and flankers in and
told them to stay tight. It was getting so dark we might
get separated, and we had to go back to moving single
file. When we formed up, I led off, feeling ahead of
me with one hand and moving only a foot or so per
step. But when I took my compass bearing, I led mem
away from me stream, toward the south.

When you can't see anything at all beyond arm's
length, and only shadows at less than that, you don't
realize at first when the slope of the ground changes.
The most marked difference as we got away from the
stream was that the rushing noise in the background
diminished until we began to hear our own move-
ments again. Finally it became so faint a rustle that
even the soft night sounds could drown it out. About
then, I noticed that there was a slight slope to the
ground, but it seemed a long time later that the tree
canopy began to open up, as we got to the thinner
soil on the steep slopes. The darkness around us grad-
ually faded from pitch black to dark gray, and we
could begin to make out tree trunks and clumps of
brush again. Then, when clouds parted and let the
moon shine through, a beam of moonlight pierced the
canopy ahead like a spotlight. A few yards beyond
mat, dense clumps of vegetation gave way to small
clearings of grassy slope.

I spread the men out into our usual patrol formation
again, and we headed up the ridge.

Near the top, I thought I heard movement and broke
squelch to signal a halt. I waited for what seemed like
five hours—but was really about five minutes—to hear
the sound again, then, when it didn*t come, cau-
tiously moved a few feet. Off to my left there was a

200 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

sudden rustle in the brush. I reacted: turning, crouch-
ing, almost firing before I realized it was some little
critter scurrying away. Maybe it was one of those
little deer they have over there. So I relaxed and was
Just turning back to start up the ridge again when I
saw movement in a nearby clearing-

1 crouched down in the shadow of the bush next to
me and waited. After a few moments I saw a second
movement, and this time I saw it was a man, where
none of our group was supposed to be. He was mov-
ing slowly, in a crouch, with his weapon ready. He
moved out of sight behind some bushes, toward my
left. Still I waited and watched, finally spotting one
more higher up on the ridge. He was also moving to
my left. They were going parallel to the ridge crest,
and we were moving up it at an acute angle. They
were moving toward our left flanker. I signaled my
position and how many I'd seen and waited for sev-
eral minutes. If Magoun had not gone too far up the
ridge before I stopped him, he'd be safe.

There was no scuffle in the brush, and no shots
were fired. Finally, Magoun signaled that he saw
them, and there were four, not three. When he gave
us the all clear, we moved out carefully. I took every-
body up to the top of the ridge, and we laagered up
for the remainder of the morning.

"That last patrol worried me," I told Bob. "They
were looking for somebody. They moved different
from the others we've seen. They weren't as casual,"

"Maybe they're combat vets."

"What are they doing way up here?"

"Could be a unit that's rebuilding. One that got
their asses kicked and had to pull back."

"But why are they patrolling up here at night?"

COVERT ACTIONS         201

"Training the new guys."

Well, that sounded like a good explanation, but I
wasn't totally satisfied. My uneasiness had come back.
We'd seen two patrols in a stretch of less than three
miles. The Lord only knew how many we might have
passed in the dark down under the trees. I shuddered as
I imagined feeling my way along and putting my hand
on somebody's face. A firefight, blind and at that range,
would have been devastating to both sides.

By this time we were not in the best of shape. We
had been out seven days already. Our uniforms wens
torn by the brush and had mildewed on our bodies
from the constant moisture. We'd developed rashes
of several kinds, and some of us had infections where
the brush had scratched us. Our shoulders were chafed
raw from carrying our packs over wet clothing. I slept
while we were outside Hanoi, so I had recovered
somewhat from being alert twenty-four hours a day
on the walk in, but I hadn't slept since we started
back out, and neither had the other SEALs. The
agents had. We were getting low on food and were
stretching the rations by eating less, so we were more
tired than we would have been on full rations. We
were all looking forward to a hot bath and a beer,
some clean clothes, and getting the rashes and infec-
tions taken care of.

The "defector" was tired, but he was in better con-
dition than the rest of us at that point, because he'd
started out rested, dry, and clean. I noticed he'd lost
his hat.

There were sighs and groans when we saddled up
to move out for the last stretch, and the first few yards,
moving with stiff and sore muscles and weary minds,
we were noisier than we should have been. Fortu-

202 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

nately, we were back in the groove before we went
very far, because after we'd gone about a quarter of
a mile we hit another patrol.

There were at least ten of them, coming down the
ridge toward us, and they were moving slowly and
cautiously, as if they expected to find something. That
gave us time to pull our group back and down off the
ridge toward the east, so that they passed on while
we hid ourselves in a dense grove.

I turned to Bob and said, "What the fuck is going
on?"

He shook his head. "Don't know. Looks to me like
they're hunting. Do you suppose they found our trail?*'

"Nah, it rained too much after we passed this way.
Do you think they might have caught on to these guys
when they were in Hanoi?"

"Yeah, I've been wondering about that. When you
get ded up with these spooks you can never tell what's
going to happen. They may have been discovered. Or
they may have been double-crossed. And I don't trust
that son of a bitch they brought back with them, either.
I thought he might have a little radio beacon on him,
but Quinn searched him and didn't find anything. Then
again, any one of mem may be a double agent."

"Well, what do ya suggest, damn it? Search 'em all?"

"Shoot 'em all, and get our asses out of here."

"Let's just get our asses out of here and back to
theLZ."

When you're very tired or very cold your brain just
doesn't work right. You don't think cleariy. I was
very tired, and I made another mistake. I led them on
along the ridge.

We were about three miles out from me LZ, by my
estimation, when I started getting uneasy. Something

COVERT ACTIONS         203

wasn't right. Something was missing: animal sounds.
When we'd hold up for a few minutes to listen or take
a look around, we didn't hear me sounds we'd heard on
the way up—no binds or monkeys hollering, and even
the insect sounds were subdued. When I got to thinking
about it, I realized we hadn't spooked a monkey or deer
all morning. I called a hah, and we all gathered up to
talk about it and rest for a little while.

I told them what I'd noticed, and Bob said he'd
noticed the same thing. "Maybe a patrol has come
through here,** he said.

"More than one, I'll bet," Magoun added. "It
takes quite a bit of activity to move the animals out
of an area."

"Let's not follow the ridge all the way," Tony
suggested. "Let's take a different route." We all
agreed that was a good idea.

I pulled out my map, and Bob and I both looked at
it. I pointed to where I thought we were on the ridge.
"Let's go down this side about half a mile, and then
head toward the LZ."

"We can't get too far down the slope. We might
walk right into this damned village here, this Duck
Key place," Bob pointed out.

"We'll be all right if we don't get more than half a
mile from the ridge crest. We'll follow the route we
planned to take, just half a mile to the east of it. It won't
be easy walking, because we'll be 'side-hilling' all the
way. but it'll be better than walking into an ambush."

"Lead on."

The others agreed, so we deviated from our route
a little.

CHAPTER 11

We moved down the slope to the east of the ridge
until we thought we'd gone half a mile, and then
turned back to the south. The bird sounds and animal
noises had returned to normal, and I felt less uneasy.
The going was rough, though. We had to fight thicker
brush on the slope, and we had to cross ravines and
hollows. We were slowed down by the bmsh, the
terrain, and our own exhaustion.

When we judged we wete about a mile from the
LZ, we started working our way diagonally up the
hill. The LZ was right on the crest of the ridge, in a
little saddle- As we got closer, I started getting uneasy
again. I had the agents hold up, and Bob, Tony, Ma-
goun, and I went on ahead to check it out.

We were still about a half mile out when Bob spotted
204

COVERT ACTIONS         205

someone in the bush to our right. I moved up beside
him and we used the binoculars to see what they were
up to. At first we only saw a couple of heads, but as
we scanned the area, we started picking out more of
them. They would move a little, or shift their positions,
or scratch, or flick a bug off and give themselves away.
We counted eight, wearing NVA unifonns, in a quarter-
arc so that they faced along me slope as well as down-
hill. They were waiting where they would have the best
killing zone against anyone moving up the slope, but
we'd approached unseen by moving through the thicker
brush and avoiding the trail.

We crawled backwards away from our observation
spot, keeping very low, and then worked back to
where Tony and Magoun were waiting.

"What do ya think?*' I whispered to Bob.

"Looks like they're expecting us," he whispered
back. "I don*t think they'd ambush this slope just as
a routine.'*

"They weren't watching uphill too well. We might
be able to work past them on the uphill side."

"They might be easy about that side because there's
another bunch up there," he pointed out.

"Maybe that patrol that passed us was supposed to
cover the ridge," I suggested.

"They were too far out," Magoun objected. "They
were probably just a perimeter patrol."

"Well, the four of us can check it out, anyway.
We can do it a lot quieter than if we brought the
whole bunch up."

"Bet there's an ambush right at the top," Bob said.

There was. We spotted one guy's silhouette before
any of them saw us. We pulled back to the main group.

"Well, Charlie's up there," I told them. "He's

206 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

waiting on us. He's got between us and the LZ and
set ambushes on this side. Can anybody tell me what
the tuck is going on?"

Cesar said, "Oh, my God!" I accepted the remark
as a normal reaction to the news, but something about
the way he said it made it stick in my mind, and 1
kept recalling it as we discussed what to do.

Just then, I was mainly interested in how we were
going to get around those bastards and get to the LZ.

We studied the map and the hillside and tried to
remember the details of the ground around the LZ,
but no one had any good ideas.

Finally, I suggested that we try to circle around and
below the ambush site and come into the LZ from the
southeast.

Bob and Magoun and Tony and I went off again.
We'd gone about eighty yards when we saw movement.
An NVA patrol was coming our way. It would have
passed behind us, and in front of the rest. We backed
up out of their sight, then humed to warn the group.

There was just enough time to find some good hid-
ing places before they came upon us. Fortunately, the
bush was thick—that's why we'd chosen that spot in
the first place. We lay there while they passed by.
They never did come within sight of us, but they did
come within hearing distance. You could hear them
going through the brush, the leaves and branches
brushing against their clothes and their boots. They
moved like deer that've been spooked, in short rushes
with short stops in between to listen.

When the noise got fainter, we moved out. All of
us. I didn't dare leave the group behind while we
scouted ahead. We cut in behind the gook patrol and
went on south along the ridge. Every now and then

COVERT ACTIONS         207

we'd try to turn back uphill toward the LZ, but we'd
spot a patrol or an ambush. We stayed almost three-
quarters of a mile east of our original route, and every
time we tried to cut back in toward it we saw gooks.

We went well past the LZ, and still we saw gooks.
We went on past the highway, and they were still up
on the ridge. They had us cut off. That meant we'd
have to be extracted from one of the alternate LZs.
LZ Charlie was almost due east of us, but none of us
had ever seen it. We would be at a definite disadvan-
tage trying to approach it without knowing the terrain.
LZ Alfa, the drop zone, was also an alternate. I
couldn't say that we really knew the area well, but at
least we had been on the ground there, even if it was
pitch-dark night at the time. Of course, if the NVA
had spotted us coming in, or tracked us, they'd be
there waiting for us to come back. If we pressed on
to LZ Alfa, and they were there, we'd have to turn
around and come back north to LZ Charlie. I doubted
I could convince this tired bunch to turn around and
walk back north. On the other hand, if we went east
to LZ Chariie and the gooks were waiting there, I
was damned sure I couldn't convince them to turn
around and climb the ridge again.
And if they were at both the alternate LZs . . .
Goddamn! I thought, this ain't gonna cut it! I can't
just call in for a pickup if they've got us cut off. I'll
have to pick a spot I can locate on the map and give
them coordinates. And the damned gooks may be lis-
tening in! They couldn't just fly over and spot us:

we'd have to be out in the open and pop smoke or a
flare, and I didn't want to risk it. The NVA had cap-
tured some American radios—hell, maybe they'd
bought a bunch of them somewhere, too—and they

208 James ft. Reeves and James C. Taylor

used them to listen in on our transmissions. A lot of
them could understand English pretty well, and if we
didn't use code they'd know what we were sending.

I had to make a choice. I led them down to LZ Alfa,
the clearing where we'd come in, and sure enough, those
suckers were there, too. Waiting for us.

I was thinking, I am not going to go through it
again. I am not going to be captured again. They're
not going to get their goddamned hands on me! But
it was looking mighty grim-

We pulled back down the side of the ridge and found
a little clearing where the slope flattened a little bit. We
looked at it and decided it was big enough to get a
helicopter into, barely, and level enough to land on.
And it was far enough from the first LZ so that the
chopper could get in and out before the gooks could get
there to stop it. We were pretty desperate by then, of
course, and it probably wasn't big enough, or flat
enough either.

We broke out the radio and started calling.

We got an answer on about the fourth try. From the
call sign. Royal One Four, we figured it was someone
offshore. We gave them our coordinates, as we figured
them from the map, and asked for a helicopter pickup.
The radio operator on the other end repeated the coor-
dinates to make sure he had them right.

"Hold five," he told us.

Then in a few minutes he came back: "You are
non-recognized."

"What's this 'non-recognized' shit?" I came back.
"I don't expect ya to know me—just send a helicopter
and get us the hell out of here! The gooks are onto
us! They're all around, and we can't avoid 'em very
long! Just get us the hell out of here, for God's sake!"

COVERT ACTIONS         209

"I'm sorry, but you're non-recognized."

"What do you mean, non-recognized? This is Ho-
tel India Two Niner Sierra, requesting a slick. We've
had to change LZs. You have the new coordinates.
Over."

No answer.

After a few minutes we tried again. We got the
same fucker. We identified ourselves, made our re-
quest, and gave our coordinates. He was off the air
for about two minutes this time.

"Hotel India Two Niner Sierra, you are non-rec-
ognized," he said when he came back on the air.
"Royal One Four, clear."

Bob started cussing a blue streak.

"Try a different frequency," Tony suggested.

We changed the frequency and called again, hoping
to get someone else. The same guy answered again.
Royal One Four.

"Try him again," Tony urged. "Maybe they'll
know who we are on this frequency."

But the reply was "non-recognized." He didn't
even go off the air to check with anybody this time,
just came right back with it.

"Check with the goddamned NISO in Quang Tri,
you bastard!" I told him.

No answer.

"What was that other frequency? Weren't there
three?" I asked.

"Sixty-five, I think. Try sixty-five," Tony urged.

I set the radio to 65 mhz and tried again.

The same bastard answered -

"Jesus!" Bob said. "The bastard's on all the chan-
nels!"

210 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

I repeated everything to him again, hoping we'd be
recognized on this frequency.

He came back "non-recognized" almost before I
could say, "Over."

I said, "YouyucAer! Forget the goddamned formal
bullshit! Take your non-recognized crap and stuff it
up your chickenshit ass! Check with Captain Gartley
with NISO, and then get us a facking helicopter up
here!"

"Tell him who Babe Ruth is!" Dinh suggested. I
glanced at him. He was pale and his eyes were big.
He was scared.

Whoever Royal One Four was, he wouldn't reply
to any more transmissions.

"Gartley told us it would be hard to get air support
once we got away from the LZ," Magoun said bit-
teriy. "He didn't say it would be impossible."

Bob said, "Somebody fucked up. That Royal bas-
tard on the radio doesn't know who we are. Some-
body didn't pass the word."

I had a different idea: maybe we weren't being rec-
ognized because we weren't where we were supposed
to be. But what could we do about it? We couldn't
get back to the LZ where we were supposed to be
picked up. We might call in and give those coordi-
nates, and then try to get the helicopter to divert to
the new site after he was already in the area, but he
might figure it was an ambush and just abort. More
than likely. We had to get them to send the chopper
even though we were at a different location.

Casbum was outposted to watch for patrols while we
made the call. He called in now, on his little radio, and
said there was one coming toward us, like they were
coming to check out the clearing. We moved away at

COVERT ACTIONS         211

right angles to their path, down into a little valley. We
held up again in the valley, and I put Casbum, Quiirn,
and Fitchew out as outposts again.

I called the others together again and told mem,
"Okay, you know where we are: we're back to where
we came in. We're way past the alternate LZ. There's
gook patrols and ambushes all along the ridge. We've
got to get the hell out of here or we're going to wind
up getting our asses kicked. We can't hide from these
guys forever.

"We've called in for a pickup, and they keep tell-
ing us we're not recognized. In other words, they
don't believe we're really Americans on a legitimate
mission. Maybe somebody forgot to pass the word.
More than likely, they've got instructions not to send
the chopper anywhere but the prearranged LZ.

"Now, as I see it, we've got two choices; we can
go on and try to get closer to the coast before we call
in for a pickup, or we can try to go back to the alter-
nate LZ. If we go on, they might not recognize us at
the new location, either. If we go back to the other
LZ, we may find Charlie all around it, too. If you've
got any opinions, let's hear 'em."

John said, "What the hell is going on? Why are
they all around like this?"

I looked at him, and at Cesar kneeling beside him,
and remembered Cesar saying, "Oh, my God!" when
I told them about the ambush at the LZ. Something
about the way he said that was still bugging me. The
"defector" from Hanoi squatted a little ways behind
John, his eyes shifting nervously from me to Bob to
Tony to Magoun and back again. I was sure the bastaid
understood English and knew exactly what was going
on.

212     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

*'I hoped you could tell me," I said to John.

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

"I don't think they found our trail, and I don't think
they saw us coming in. I think something happened in
Hanoi. Somebody was spotted, or somebody talked."
John's mouth opened and he rose slightly as if he were
going to stand up and say something. I pointed toward
the "defector." "Or that son of a bitch is an agent, a
plant, carrying a little radio beeper to signal our loca-
tion."

John glanced over his shoulder as if to make sure the
guy was back there being quiet and not flashing signals
with a mirror or something. Then he started shaking his
head. "No. No, he's clean," he said. "He's been thor-
oughly checked out. We're absolutely sure of who he
is. He wouldn't have anything to gain by betraying us
to the North Vietnamese, You can be sure of that."

"We've only got your say-so for that. And you
could be a double agent, for all we know."

"I wouldn't be fool enough to come along if I'd
betrayed the route or the LZ to them. After all, I'm
just as likely to get shot by you as by the Vietnamese
if it looks like we're going to be captured. And the
same goes for the others."

"If you were expecting it, you might be able to get
away," I pointed out.

"How far would a white man get, running away
from a firefight? A Viet might have a chance, but not
me. And not Kilroy, and probably not even Cesar.
He's too big. Anyway, even a Viet would have trou-
ble getting away in these uniforms. They'd shoot him
down with the rest of us."

"So maybe you were seen in Hanoi," Bob insisted.

COVERT ACTIONS          213

"Maybe you guys were seen outside Hanoi," John
countered.

Quinn called in. The patrol was moving slowly
along our trail toward us. The guys started looking at
me expectantly.

"I want to search this son of a bitch again," I told
him, nodding at the "defector." Somebody behind
me shifted nervously, itching to go.

"Goddamn it, you've searched him once. Aren't
you satisfied?" It was a stupid question. Obviously I
wasn't. "You're going to insult him. He's given his
word that he's not carrying any kind of transmitter.
If you insult his honor, he won't talk when we get
him back to Quang Tri."

It was interesting that he'd given his word about it,
since none of us had asked. Either John had asked
because he didn't really trust the guy, or he was lying.

"If we don't search him, he ain't goin' back to
Quang Tri," Bob told him. "I'll cut his throat and
leave him right here."

"He's my responsibility. I'll make the decisions mat
concern him," John insisted. "I won't have him
searched again, and I can't let you kill him. If you do,
I'll see you're charged and court-martialed when we get
back."

"For God's sake," Cesar spoke up, "they're get-
ting closer while you argue. Let's move on, and you
can search him later."

I just shook my head. "We search him before we
move, or we leave him here. No use moving just to
have them follow a radio signal right to us."

"What's up, Tyier?" Quinn called m. "Those
gooks arc getting awfully close."

"Just hold tight a minute," I told him.

214     James R. Reeves and James C. Tayior

"John, they mean business," Cesar said, tiying to
reason with him instead of me. "You're going to blow
this mission, insisting they take your word Vuyen is
clean. Let 'em search him. The rest of the mission is
important, too."

That was the first time the "defector" had been
called by name.

Vuyen now leaned forward and said some words to
Due in Vietnamese. Due chattered back for a few mo-
ments and then said, "He wants to know what is hap-
pening."

I knew he understood English! He knew very well
the NVA patrol was getting nearer, and that his life
was hanging by a thread. He was trying to conceal
that he understood by asking what was going on.
Maybe he was trying to give Due the chance to tell
him we wanted to search him, figuring that if he of-
fered to let us do a search, we'd think he was clean,
and we wouldn't bother.

Sure enough, he said something else in Vietnamese
to Due, who replied briefly, and then Vuyen stood up,
his arms spread, offering himself to me. John looked
daggers at me as I stepped past him to frisk the Viet, I
did it as quickly as I dared, but carefully, pinching the
seams and pockets to make sure there wasn't a little
beeper sewn in there. He'd lost his hat, or I would have
checked that, too. He was clean as a whistle.

John had the last laugh after all. He sat there smirk-
ing at me.

Of course, I checked Vuyen's pack. I emptied it
and even turned it inside out. Nothing.

Tony called Quinn and asked about the patrol.

"They're about twenty yards from me," Quinn told

COVERT ACTIONS         215

him. "They're moving very slowly. They've almost
been stopped for the last two or three minutes."

"How many?" Tony asked.

**I can see four."

"Why arc they moving so slow?" Bob wondered.

"Maybe they know we're here and they're being
cautious," Cesar suggested.

"They know we're here, somewhere," Tony told
him. "They're following our trail. But they're being
awfully slow about it. It's almost like they don't want
to catch up yet. It could be that there's only four or
five, and they know there are more of us."

"They'd have sent somebody for help," Bob
pointed out. "They're hanging back until some more
gooks get here. Then they'll move fast enough."

"We'd better get out of here before their help ar-
rives," Kilroy suggested.

I grinned and pointed at Vuyen's boots. He took
them off. They smelled, but there wasn't any radio
transmitter in the toe or built into the heel.

"Are you satisfied, for God's sake?" John snapped,
when I handed Vuyen the second boot.

"No," I told him. "He could have slipped a trans-
mitter into someone else's gear. Let's get a look at
your stuff now."

"GOD ALMIGHTY JESUS CHRIST!" John ex-
ploded, jumping to his feet.

"Sh-h-h-h!" I hissed at him. "They'll hear you."

He balled his fist like he was going to hit me, but
he knew better than to try it. He just waved it around
for a minute while he got red in the face and cussed
to himself. "It's absolutely . . . you have no author-
ization ... I never heard of such ... no need to
know . . . that material . . . damned nonsense . . .

216     James R. Reeves and James C. Taytor

not for your eyes . . . you can't . . ." he spluttered
around for a minute. Finally he regained his temper
and his dignity and shook his head. "No," he said.
"You cannot search our packs. The contents of our
packs are Agency materials, classified documents, and
you can't go through them. It's outside your authority
as patrol leader."

"I don't want to go through any documents," I
pointed out to him. "I just want to search for a radio
beeper."

It was Bob's argument that convinced him. Bob
pointed his AK-47 at John's middle and loudly
snapped the safety off.

"Our orders was to eliminate you fellows if it looked
like you was goin' to be captured," Bob reminded him.
"Now, it looks to me like they're about to catch up to
us. We can search yer junk now, or we can search it
after. It don't make no difference in the end."

We didn't find anything.

Quinn called in again while we were still searching.
This time he was whispering.

"For Christ's sake, what's going on back there?
They're only ten yards away! I'm moving back!"

We broke squelch twice to acknowledge that we
heard and understood. Then we finished the search.

Nothing.

"All right, load it up." I told them. "Let's move
on out before they get here."

Now I had to make a decision, fast, and I decided
we'd go back to LZ Charlie. If we failed there, we
could try for the coast. It would only add a few miles.

John was giving me dark looks when we moved
out. I told Bob it gave me a funny feeling to have
John behind me with a loaded rifle, he hated my guts

COVERT ACTIONS          217

so right then. He just grunted and scratched his ass
and moved on over toward his point position.

Fortunately, LZ Chariie was south of the road, so
we didn't have to cross it again, but I was worried
mat mere might be troops around.

There were.

When we were close, we left the agents laagered
up and went on ahead to scout the approach. We'd
long since outdistanced the gook patrol behind us.
We'd waded almost a mile up the little stream that
ran down the middle of the valley, although it finally
got so small we were walking single file. I had no
doubt that the gooks knew we were here now, but
with any luck we'd thrown them off our trail long
enough to get a helicopter in before they found the
trail again and caught up with us.

We went up and located the clearing and checked
out the perimeter. Three-quarters of the way around
it was all clear, but then we saw six or eight NVA
working their way through the thick bush right at the
edge of the clearing. We pulled back so they wouldn't
get between us and the rest of the group and had a
council on what to do. We agreed to break radio si-
lence again and see if we could get the helicopter. If
they dispatched it, we could go right through six or
eight gooks with no problem. If they didn't, we'd
have to head for the coast anyway.

I tried not to think about that. It was a long walk,
and if they wouldn't pick us up here, they wouldn't
come get us there, either. We'd have to steal a sam-
pan and try to make it south on our own. That would
mean dodging American air and sea patrols as well
as the gooks.

I should've written that letter to my wife. It looked

218     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

like it was going to be a long time before she got one
from me. She might never get one.

We pulled back to where the others were waiting and
told them there were some gooks at the clearing and
we'd have to take them out, but we didn't mink there'd
be a problem. Then we broke out the radio. I think
everybody there was praying, or had their fingers
crossed, or something, when we started signaling.

Royal One Four answered on the third call. My heart
sank when I heard the call sign, but it helped when Bob
pointed out, "The other bastard's gone off watch." He
was light. The voice was different.

We gave them our call sign, and told them we needed
a pickup at Lima Zulu Chariie, location November Que-
bec Romeo Niner Three Four Zero Two One.

"Hold five,'* the fellow on the other end told us
while he checked it out. It seemed like it took forever.
We sat there and looked around at one another and
worried, and watched the damned bush around us.
The tension was so thick you couldn't have stirred it
with a stick. I should have been worried about how
the others would take it if they came back and said
we were non-recognized again, but I was only think-
ing about my ass, and whether, if they didn't send
the chopper, I could keep it away from the Charlies
long enough to get it to the coast to steal a boat and
make it south on our own.

Then the radio crackled again, and the operator
came back. It was probably only two minutes later,
but it seemed like hours.

"Two Niner Sierra, Royal One Four. I need an
identity confirm- Over."

"Roger, One Four. This is Two Niner Sierra Ac-
tual. Fire away. Over." An identity check was stan-

COVERT ACTIONS         219

dard practice on one of these "over the fence"
missions. We'd all filled out a little card that had
things like our favorite color, our mother's maiden
name, our favorite sport, and so on. "Actual" just
meant they were talking to the unit leader.

"Actual, what is your favorite color? Over."

"Green, until I came to 'Nam. Over."

"Wait five. Two Niner." He was relaying this to
someone else who had the information. Probably
Captain Gartley at NISO.

"Two Niner Actual, Royal One Four: What is your
middle name? Over."

What the fuck? That wasn't one of the questions on
the little card. It wasn't even proper procedure. I hes-
itated, wondering what was going on. But I wanted
thai chopper so bad I would have told them my life
history and details of my sex life if they wanted it.

"One Four, it's Ellis. What the fuck? Over?"

"Hang tight. Actual."

I was squeezing the damned mike until my knuckles
were white and wishing it was the balls of whoever had
fucked us up. Royal One Four came back again.

"That's a confirm. Hotel India Two Niner Sierra."

Man, did we ever feel like cheering! I thought for
a moment some of the men might. Big grins spread
across their faces, and you could almost feel them
relax. Cesar looked as if he were going to faint and
fall over in relief. Even the Viets were grinning.

So what if there were six or eight NVA between us
and the clearing? We'd worry about them when the
time came! The helicopter was on its way, and for
me moment, that was all that was important.

Then came the bad news.

"What's the Echo Tango Alfa on that Hotel X-

220 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

Ray?" we asked. How long do we have to wait for
the whirlybird to come and take us away from here?

Again, he replied, "Wait five," while he checked,
then came back in a couple of minutes. "Ahhh, Hotel
India Two Niner Sierra, that Echo Tango Alfa is a
deuce and a half."

Two and half hours!

Well, I could have figured it out. We were in the air
just over two hours from the time we left Quang Tri
until we inserted. They'd have to have time to get the
crew into the helicopter and warm it up, even if they
were standing by. I didn't know where it was based,
either. They just picked us up in Quang Tri, and I hadn't
seen any of those big black jobs around there. In two
hours we could be in a peck of trouble. We'd best have
some help available in case we needed it.

"Royal One Four, there is heavy November Victor
Alfa patrol activity this area. The Lima Zulu may be
hot. Can you arrange some muscle to help us out?
Over."

"Roger, Two Niner, zoomies will be standing by.
Anything else I can do for you? Over."

"One more thing. Royal One-Four: Have the helo
give us a call when he's three zero minutes out."

"Roger, Two Niner. Big Bird will ring you at Echo
Tango Alfa minus three zero."

"Hotel India Two Niner Sierra, clear."

CHAPTER 12

We laid up for the next hour and a half, waiting for
the helicopter, in the densest thicket we could find,
about half a mile from LZ Chariie. I sent Tony, Cas-
bum, Fitchew, and Quinn to outpost, and Bob and I
outposted in the direction of the LZ. Magoun stayed
with the agents. They laid up in a circle, watching in
all directions. Magoun stayed in the middle of them
watching out, but also watching Vuyen.

When you're very, very tired, as we were, to sit
and wait and watch for an hour or more may give you
some needed rest, but it's damned hard to stay awake
and alert unless the enemy is right there and the dan-
ger is apparent enough to make your heart pound and
the adrenaline flow. The afternoon heat made us
draggy and lethargic anyway, and to sit silent for that
221

222     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

long meant we had to fight dozing off the whole time.
Then, when you do have to move again, your muscles
are stiff and sore, and your body protests having to
stand, to walk, and to fight the brush again.

Those are times when you get to craving a ciga-
rette, but you can't smoke, because that odor can cany
a long way in the still air under a jungle canopy. The
smell of a cigarette could give you away to a patrol.
Smoking dulls your own sense of smell, too, and if
you light one up, five or six hours later you might
fail to smell a gook's B.O. or the nuoc-mam sauce
on his breath as he slips in to knife you.

Of course, I'd like a beer to go with the cigarette, so
cold the sweat on me can freezes into little slivers of
ice. The water in our canteens, scooped from little
streams in the hills, was hot and tasted of halazone and
plastic. I could almost hear the pop as I opened the can
and felt the cold brew trickling down my throat. . . .

After a while, I got very drowsy- I tried to fight it
off, but my mind would start to wander, and I would
go into a sort of trance- I was in that state when I
started having a nightmare that I'd been captured by
the NVA and was trying to escape again. They beat
me and kicked me until my muscles wouldn't work,
then they left me with my hands and feet untied, as
if they were daring me to try to get away. I tried and
tried, but my arms and legs wouldn't move. Then,
somehow, I got into the water, but instead of swim-
ming away, I was drowning.

I finally woke up, sweating and exhausted.

Nothing happened. Although I was expecting the
bunch that had been following us earlier to find our
trail again and track us to the thicket, we didn't even
see a patrol.

COVERT ACTIONS         223

When the hour and a half was up, I called the out-
posts in and we got ready to approach the LZ. Bob and
I took the point positions again as we advanced on the
clearing, and I left two men back to guard the rear.

The NVA were still there, waiting in ambush at the
perimeter of the LZ. They looked as if they were
expecting us to show up. That was good—for us. We
knew where they were, and they didn't know where
we were. It would have been different if they had
been patrolling around.

Bob and I pulled back and conferred with Tony and
Magoun. It seemed the best thing to do would be to
hit them while they were between us and the LZ. That
way, we would either scatter them, or drive them back
to the LZ and have them in the open.

Then I faced another dilemma. I wanted to spread
the Tacforce out in a line, so we could completely
flank the enemy patrol. But what would I do with the
agents? Did I leave them with one SEAL, who would
have orders to kill them if anything went wrong? Bob
was the best man for that job, but I wanted him up
front. In the end, I decided to have them right up front
on the line with us, to strengthen the middle and beef
up our firepower. I would put Bob on their left. I
would be on their right- Tony would take the far left
flank, and Magoun the far right. Cesar carried the
radio, and I would keep him close to me. When we
got the half-hour warning call from the helicopter, we
would spread out and advance on the enemy in a line.
That would give us time to move into contact with
the enemy and finish him. I passed the word, and we
crept into position in a thicket about two hundred
yards from the LZ to wait.

It was hot and still in the thicket, the air so thick

224 James R. Reeves and James C. Tayior

with humidity it pressed down on you like a wet blan-
ket. Even when one of the scattered clouds drifted
between us and the sun for a few minutes, you
couldn't detect a change in the temperature. We were
shaded by the brush and trees anyway. They kept the
sun off OUT backs, but they also trapped the air and
kept off any breeze there might have been. You felt
as if you were breathing the same used air over and
over again, as though the thicket were a closed coffin.
The locusts were making a racket, as if they were
trying to warn us of something. There was no other
sound except the occasional buzz of a big fly. Once
we heard the rumble of jets somewhere in the dis-
tance, and I got my hopes up that some air support
was on its way, but the rumble never got any closer,
and slowly faded away.

It was 1626 when we first picked up the transmis-
sion from Big Bird.

"Two Niner Sierra, Two Niner Sierra, this is Big
Bird. Two Niner Sierra, come in. Over."

I had the sound turned down so that someone five
feet away couldn't have heard it, but I was sitting
with my back to Cesar, my head against his pack,
and I heard it clear enough. I had the mike in my
hand all ready to reply.

"Two Niner Sierra. I read you, Big Bird- Over."
"Two Niner, I need an identity check. Over."
"Big Bird, this is Hotel India Two Niner Sierra,
Actual. Go ahead. Over."
"Actual, do you have a dog? Over."
"No . . . where would I keep a ftickin' dog? Over."
Wrong answer. Too late, I realized they wanted a
name. They didn't give a flying fuck if it was a dog
or a cat or my brother-in-law. There was silence for

COVERT ACTIONS         225

a long moment. I got a cold, heavy feeling in my
belly, like I'd just drunk a gallon of ice water, even
though all the water I'd had for days was tepid. If
there was a hick-up this time, I'd just made it.

"Big Bird, this is Two Niner Sierra, Actual. The
name you're wanting is Chester. Over." Chester was
a damned gimp-legged old boar that used to chase me
around the farm when I was a kid. It was the only
name I could think of when I came to the question
about childhood pets.

"Ah, roger. Actual. You called it. Touchdown mi-
nus thirty, Lima Zulu Charlie. At November Quebec
Romeo Niner Three Four Zero Two One. Over."

"That's a roger. Big Bird. We arc moving toward
the end zone now. There are unfriendlies in the way.
Do you have some help, just in case? Over."

"Roger, Two Niner. We have fast friends on the
way. We'll rendezvous at the site. Over."

"See you later. Big Bird. Two Niner Sierra, out."

That was our signal to move. I thumbed the mike
button on my little transmitter twice, then twice more.
I couldn't see more than five yards in the dense brush,
but I knew that out there the guys were locking and
loading, patting their grenades to make sure they were
handy, and wiping the sweat off their foreheads. Then
they would rise to a low crouch, look around care-
fully, part the brush, move, stop and look ahead and
back, and move again.

I knew they were doing it, because I was.

I patted Cesar on the shoulder as I slipped past him,
and motioned for him to move ahead and to his left.
Then I slipped over toward the right—not far, just far
enough so that they couldn't get us both with one burst.
Quinn was out to my right, but I only caught an occa-

226 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

sional glimpse of him through the brush. Fitchew was
posted back behind us about thirty yards. He had the
"defector," Vuyen, with him, so he could keep an eye
on the one person I was most suspicious of.

We broke out of the dense thicket and into a more
open area after about twenty yards. It was still
brushy, but there were plenty of open spaces. The
treeswerc mostly large ones, mahoganies with trunks
two or three feet thick, and their shade choked out a
lot of the smaller growth. Just over halfway to the LZ
we had to pass through a strip about forty yards wide
where there were not many trees at all, only dense
brush and clumps of reedy grass about five feet high.
There was water about ankle deep in there, and un-
derneath that was a tangle of roots slippery with mud.
The devil must have designed the place himself. As
for Charlie, he was moving.

We were out in the middle of the mudhole when
Bob spotted them moving out of a line of trees ahead
of us. 'Tour coming your way. Jay," he whispered
into his mike. "Fifteen yards in front of me. Looks
like they got tired of waiting for us."

"How far down the line from you?"

"Twenty, thirty yards."

That would put them nearly in front of me.

"Tyier, it's Cesar: I've got two in sight."

It was one of those times when in seconds you have
to make a decision that may cost you your life or
those of some of your friends.

If there were four patrolling in front of us, there
were two to four others somewhere else. Maybe they
were still at the ambush site. Maybe not. They might
be around on the other side of the LZ.

It looked to me as though they had made a mistake

COVERT ACTIONS          227

and divided their forces. Even though we couldn't hit
them all at once, we could probably wipe out these
four, and then the other four wouldn't be much of a
force to reckon with-

"Push on ahead. When you see 'em, shoot 'em.
Flankers, try to close 'em off." I had to point the
antenna first at the guys on my left, then at those on
my right, and repeat the message. Then I checked to
make sure my AK was off safety, and I'd hardly done
that before the first shot was fired.

I think Cesar fired it. It was awfully close to me,
just over to my left. I jumped like I'd been shot my-
self. After all, it was an AK-47, and I was used to
being on the wrong end of those weapons. I suddenly
needed very much to pee.

That's all there was for the moment: just one shot,
followed by a splash, and then I heard somebody
cursing softly in Spanish. I thought, **0h, my God!
He slipped or tripped and squeezed off a round, and
now they know we're here!"

Then I heard somebody splashing toward me—not
loud, as if they were running, but softer, making swish-
ing sounds to move fast but quietly. An NVA stepped
from behind a clump of reeds about five yards from me.
I saw his feet first, then he took another two steps and
stopped where I could see all of him cleariy. He was
looking toward the source of the shot. His face was
screwed up into a snari and flushed red. I knew ... I
knew, with an enlisted man's instincts, he was a non-
corn, probably a sergeant, and he was going to give
somebody a hell of an ass chewing for being so damned
careless as to give their position away.

He saw me just an instant after I saw him. His AK-
47 was lining up with my midsection when I squeezed

228 James R. Reeves and James C. Tayfor

off a short burst into his chest. The first round hit him
and knocked him backward before he could shoot. He
splashed into the shallow muck without making a sound.

Before I could move again, somebody fired a short
burst in my direction, walking their shots right up to
me. The line of splashes started about ten yards away
and came at me faster than I could react and stagger
backward away from them. The last round splashed
water up between my feet and soaked my crotch just
as I tripped on a root or something and fell on my ass
onto a mud bank. I rolled away and got to my feet,
wondering if I could be so lucky again.

I saw one of the little fuckers about twenty yards
away, through a narrow space where some chance
had parted the brush. I caught just a glimpse of him
running toward the right as he tripped and fell on his
face in the mud. I pointed my rifle that way, but he
was gone before I could draw a bead. I was looking
around for others when a movement in that direction
caught my attention again. It was the same fellow,
this time high-steppin' off toward the left like a
chicken thief with a load of buckshot in his britches.
I could tell it was him because he was coated with
mud from head to toe. I pointed the AK-47 at him
again, but he slipped and fell on his ass in a shower
of slime just as I was cranking down on him. I sent
a short burst his way, but I think all it did was hurry
him on his way a little.

The volume of fire had really grown. It seemed that
I could hear firing all down the line, but I couldn't
be sure, because all the weapons sounded alike. That
must have confused them a little, too. They seemed
to be spraying shots all over the place, firing high for
the most part, on fully automatic. Then they'd slack

COVERT ACTIONS         229

off for a while and start up again, really pouring it
on. I could tell when they were shooting, even though
the weapons all made the same sounds. I could tell
by the goddamned bullets whipping by my ass.
There'd be the crock-ak-ak-ok'. of full automatic fire,
and the thud and splat of bullets hitting the mud and
barking me trees, and two or three ricochets. The bul-
lets made sort of a popping or snapping noise when
they went past your head.

I wanted to move forward, out of that mudhole and
into the thicker brush beside the clearing, but there
seemed to be a lot of lead in my way. I pulled back
out of the water and started trying to raise people on
the radio.

Bob was the first to answer. "What the fuck do you
want now?"

"What's it like over there?"

"Did ya ever get into a hornet nest?"

Tony said he was getting pretty heavy fire, and Ma-
goun thought there must be more than six or eight. I
agreed.

"Break off. Pull back to the treeline," I told them.
"Cesar! Get over here with that goddamned radio.
I'm going to call for some air support."

He came crawling over, cursing quietly in Spanish.
Or praying, maybe.

"Big Bird, Big Bird, can you read me?" I called.
No answer. I begged, I pleaded, I cursed, I threat-
ened. "Big Bird, come in, for God's sake!'7

"Two Niner Sierra, this is Red Horse Leader. Big
Bind is below your radio horizon. Can I relay a mes-
sage? Over."

"Send us some help. Red Horse. Anybody. Any-
thing. The shit has hit the windshield down here."

230 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

*'Two Niner, we are on station at fifteen grand. We
have eight five-hundred-pound retards and sixty-seven
mike-mike rockets. Also twenty mike-mike. Mark
your target. Over."

So they were up there somewhere. Shit, I hadn't
even heard them over the gunfire.

I checked with the guys to make sure they were all
back in the treeline. All of mem rogercd back that they
were, and that they were unwounded. "I'm going to
pop smoke for the flyboys," I told them. I pulled out
one of the wooden-handled Russky smoke grenades
they'd given us, yanked the pin, and threw it as far as
I could toward the clearing. It landed in the middle of
me mudhole area and started spewing black smoke.

"Red Horse, I've marked the target with smoke.
They are in the trees between the smoke and the clear-
ing. Do you see my smoke? Over."

"Roger, Two Niner, I see black smoke. Gooks in
the treeline- We're on the way."

"Put 'em on the money. Red Horse. We're in pretty
close to them. Over."

"We always do, fellow." He sounded a little pissed.

There wasn't any warning. The gooks were shoot-
ing at us and we were shooting back. and the smoke
was drifting around out in the thirty or forty yards
between us. If the zoomies were making a run I
couldn't hear it over the gunfire. Then suddenly there
was a series of sharp cracks followed immediately by
explosions. Mud and black earth were thrown up in
front of us in geysers, and shrapnel started flying
around thudding into the trees, bringing down limbs
and leaves onto our heads. The explosions started
somewhere to my right and moved from there toward
the left in a sort of roll that lasted four or five sec-

COVERT ACTIONS         231

onds. Each was about as big as a mortar round would
make. Rockets. Rocks and chunks of earth started
raining down around us. I had been crouching by the
radio looking toward the LZ. When the rockets started
hitting, I doubled over to me ground and covered my
head with my arms. About the time my mind regis-
tered that the shriek I'd Just heard was a jet passing
over instead of someone getting hit, I heard a strange,
fluttering hum. Then the ground dropped away from
beneath me and came back up to knock me sprawling
over Cesar and the radio. Mud and a fine spray cas-
caded around us.

I grabbed the radio mike and thumbed the button.
"Goddamn, Red Horse, too close! The other side of
the smoke. The other side!"

It was too late. The second Phantom was making
its pass, and the rockets were starting to hit in the
edge of our treeline. Seconds later he dumped his load
of bombs. They tore up the ground just in front of us.

"Goddamn! Stop!" I yelled into the mike. The third
jet pulled up and went whistling over without drop-
ping anything or firing rockets-

"... how was that? Over," Red Horse Leader was
saying when the ringing in my ears subsided enough
for me to hear again.

"Hit the other treeline, goddamn you! We're in this
one!"

"Mark the target better. Two Niner. We went after
the smoke. Over."

"Wait five," I told him. Then I called up the guys
on our little personal radios. They were all okay, but
they sounded dazed. I told Magoun and Tony to pop
smoke with me on the count of eight, and to throw
me damned grenades as far as they could throw them.

232 James R. Reeves and James C. Taytor

Then everybody was to pull back. I gave them die
signal to start the count, then grabbed my own gre-
nade, stood up, and threw it, taking a running throw
despite my wobbly knees. I couldn't tell if this one
went much farther than the first one had, but if pray-
ing could make it fly, it did. As soon as I had turned
it loose, Cesar and I pulled back twenty yards.

Then I got back to Red Horse Leader.

"We've popped smoke. Red Horse Leader. We
marked both ends of our line and the middle. Hit the
trees on the other side, by the LZ. Over."

"Red Horse Leader to Red Horse Three, do you
copy that?"

"Roger, Red Horse Leader. Hit the trceline by the
clearing, east of the smoke. Going in."

This time I heard the whine of the jet engine as Red
Horse Three started his run.

"Take cover . . . here they come!" I told the men.

It was just like before. By the time he'd completed
his run, I was begging them to hit closer to the clear-
ing. Number Four interrupted me by dumping his load
almost on our heads.

Again, when my ears stopped ringing, I called the
guys. They were all okay. A few of them had nicks
and cuts, but nothing serious.

"Two Niner, Red Horse Leader. We still have
twenty mike-mike. We can make about two more
passes each. Over."

"Hold off. Leader. Let us check the situation out/*
I told him. To the men, I said, "Let's move up. Char-
lie can't do as much to us as the damned Air Force.
Let's take that goddamned clearing.'*

We moved out again and got to within thirty yards
or so of the treeline before they opened up on us. The

COVERT ACTIONS          233

mudhole was now a mess of water-filled craters and
tangled exposed roots. There were small craters from
the rockets and big ones from the bombs. It was bad
footing, but the piles of dirt and debris and the craters
gave some cover. I thought I was about where I'd
been when I shot the NVA noncom, but instead of a
crumpled body in the mud there was just a large dou-
ble crater where two bombs had hit almost together.
I could see the treeline had been hit, but not as hard
as the middle ground. The gooks were still in there,
and they opened up full auto again when we got close.

Bullets started snapping around my head and clip-
ping splinters off a nearby overturned bush. When I
ducked, I stepped into the edge of the muddy crater
and went sliding down feet first, hoping the water at
the bottom wasn't over neck deep. I heard someone
cry out nearby about the time I splashed down. Cesar
came sliding into the hole after me, so I thought he'd
lost his balance and slipped in like I did. It didn't
sound like someone wounded.

I glanced at my watch. It was 1650. We had to
make it to the LZ soon and get the NVAs out of that
damned treeline. We couldn't bring the helicopter in
with all that shooting going on, and we didn't want
them orbiting around forever. With the fighting and
the air strikes down here, there were probably several
hundred gooks on the way down the ridge already.

I tried moving forward, but the slick walls of the
crater slowed me down, and I was stepping out three
feet and sliding back two and a half by the time I got
to the top, a slow-moving target for Charlie, who
opened up on me right away. I stopped trying to run,
crouched below the dirt rim of the crater, and slowly
slid right back to the bottom,

234 James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

Bob called in: "You okay, Tyier? I heard some-
body yell like he was hit."

"Yeah, I'm okay, but I can't see what's going on
from this nicking hole. Have we made it to the tree-
line yet?"

"Not over here. I'm in a damned hole myself. Any-
body made it yet?"

No one replied in the affirmative, but several of
them came on and said they'd gone as far as they
could, that the firing was too intense to go on. Tony
guessed there was an entire company of NVA up
there. Quinn said he was next to the treeline, but me
bombs had made such a tangle of limbs and vines he
could barely worm through, and some fucker was
sniping at him every time he moved.

"The zoomies have got to do it for us," I decided.
"Every fucking thing we've tried has gone sour for
us. If they would just hit Charlie, instead of us, he'd
be blown out of there, and we could mop up." But
Charlie appeared to be just as strong as before the air
strikes started. It was almost as if the air support was
for his benefit.

"Wait a fucking minute," I said.

Cesarsaid, "Huh?"

I'd just put two and two together and come up with
an answer other than three. First, the NVA seemed to
know where our LZs were. Second, when we called
in for a pickup at an LZ where there weren't any
gooks, we were "non-recognized." Third, we'd been
told that we were supposed to kill the agents rather
than let them get captured. Fourth, the air strikes
seemed to be aimed at us, instead of the gooks. It all
seemed to add up to one thing: someone wanted to
make sure the agents didn't get out alive.

COVERT ACTIONS          235

That someone had to be in a position to order the
pilots to hit us instead of the enemy. It had to be
someone in our own camp. Either the CIA or the
NISO. Maybe MACV headquarters, but that was an
outside chance.

I got real pissed off. The agents were to be elimi-
nated, and to hell with the rest of us. That's the kind
of people we were working for. Even if we'd killed
the agents for them, and then got ourselves out, they
probably would have gotten rid of us anyway just to
keep our mouths shut. Sent us on a suicide mission
or something.

I called Bob and told him what I thought.

He didn't answer. He was either pissed off or still
thinking it over.

I turned to Cesar. "What do you think?"

He looked trapped. He looked at me, then hurriedly
glanced away toward the edge of the crater. Maybe
he was just checking to make sure no gook was slip-
ping up on us, but it looked like he was trying to
think of some lie to avoid answering me straight.

*'I . . . I don't know what to think."

"Back there, when I told you the gooks were wait-
ing for us at the LZ, you said, 'Oh, my God.* What
did you mean by that?"

"I don't remember saying anything."

"Well, you did. And you said it like you knew they
might be there."

"Well, I guess I meant 'Oh, my God, what do we
do now?' I didn't ... I hadn't worried about it. I
hadn't thought about it," he said.

He would just go on denying that he knew any-
thing. That was how they were trained. It wasn't even

236 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

worth asking if Vuyen was the cause of the problem.
If Cesar knew, he wouldn't say.

Of course, if the jets were under orders to get rid
of us, what about the helicopter? Who would have a
better opportunity than the door gunner? As we came
running up, one long burst would get us all. But then,
why send the helicopter at all? In case we avoided
the enemy and didn't call in the air strikes. The heli-
copter was the last chance to get at us.

Well, if we were expecting it, we could handle it.
We'd stay scattered out and approach the helicopter
from several different directions, a few at a time.
Some of us would have the door gunners covered at
all times. If they started to shoot, we'd have the gun-
ner first, and the helicopter would be in flames before
it could get away.

I was determined now. I would get back, and get
to the bottom of this.

In the meantime, how were we going to get through
the gooks to the LZ? They were still there, shooting,
although the volume of fire had fallen off to random
sniping. They must have had lots of ammo, or else
they knew help was close.

Well, if the jets were here to hit us, why not let
them? Or let them think they were. We'd just mark
the gook positions and call them our own.

"Tony, Magoun. get ready to pop smoke!"

"Again? Wasn't it bad enough for you the last time?"

"Throw your grenades into the treeline by the LZ.
Then get back twenty or thirty yards, fast! I won't
call in the zoomies until we've all had time to get
back. The rest of you start now. Check in and let me
know when you're ready."

COVERT ACTIONS          237

I got my own smoke grenade ready as they checked
in, each of them saying his name over the radio.

"Quinn."

"Casbum."

"John."

"Kilroy."

"Dinh."

"Bob."

"All right. Tony, Magoun, you ready?" I waved
at Cesar to start back, and he scampered up the wall
of the crater, making two long gashes where his feet
slipped in the mud.

"That ain't all of 'em." Bob's voice.

"Who else, then?" I asked him. "Cesar's with me,
Fitchew and Vuyen are already back there."

"Let's see. ..." I could picture Bob counting
them off on his fingers, trying to remember who had
called in. I did my own quick count: six called in,
Cesar's gone back, there's three on the line and two
outposting the rear. That's twelve. That's it.

"Due," Bob said. If he hadn't said it so matter-of-
factly I would've ducked. I almost did anyway. Not
that I was getting nervous, or anything, with both
sides after my ass. Then I realized he was right. Due
hadn't called in. With Vuyen along, our original
twelve had grown to thirteen.

No wonder everything had gone sour for us.

"Has anybody seen Due?"

"He was in position when we moved out last time.
He may have been the one that yelled," Bob said.
"I'll look for him."

"Don't get your ass shot," I told him, and tried
calling Due on the radio a couple of times. There was
no answer, I waited in the bottom of the crater for a

238 James R. Reeves and James C. Tayfor

few minutes, thinking if he was wounded he'd answer
the call, and if he was dead there was no use delaying
things by looking for him. Of course, if he was only
unconscious, calling in the jets might finish the job.
It occurred to me that he might have been a double
agent and gone over to the enemy as soon as he
thought he could get away from us. He could have
done it while we were moving through the heavy
brush. But I'd heard the yell too. It hadn't been a
scream so much as a yelp, and I'd assumed it was
Cesar losing his balance and falling into the crater. It
wasn't the type of sound that signaled anything worse
than a flesh wound.

When Bob didn't call back, I called him.

"No luck yet," he replied.

Well, I was the patrol leader. I had the responsi-
bility of deciding whether to look for him some more
or call in the jets. I knew if I was out there wounded,
maybe with my transmitter shot up, listening to all
this, I'd want them out looking for me.

"Bob, don't shoot my ass. I'm coming out."

I scrambled out the back of the crater the way Cesar
had gone and then cut over to my right. A few shots
kicked up mud and clipped twigs around, but nothing
close.

It wasn't hard to figure why it was taking so long for
Bob to find him. The going was extremely bad. With
every step your feet slipped and slithered and tripped on
mots. Spotting a crumpled body in that mess wasn't
going to be easy- Add to that the fact that I didn't know
exactly where he was and it got to be nearly hopeless.
I spent precious minutes looking anyway.

"Tyier, Tyier," Cesar's voice interrupted my look-
ing. "Big Bird is on the hom. Wants to talk to you."

COVERT ACTIONS          239

As soon as he said it, my mind registered the dis-
tinctive whopping sound of a helicopter rotor just au-
dible between shots.

"Tell him to hold off, to orbit until I get back to
him."

I went another ten yards, looking around quickly as
I dodged from bush to bush, trying to stay out of the
snipers' sights. Then Bob called up to say he'd found
him.

"I got *im.*' he said. "Pop your smoke."

"Is he hit?"

"Yeah - . . he's dead. I'll get him back. Go ahead
with your smoke."

I checked with Tony and Magoun to make sure they
were ready, and then we threw the smoke and ran back
as fast as we could. I tripped once and slipped down
while I was staggering to regain my balance, and then
slipped down again after I'd gotten up, bmising my thigh
on a root. When I got back to Cesar, I was breathing
so hard I could hardly talk into the mike.

"Red Horse Leader, you still there? Over."

"Roger, Two Niner. Not much longer, though.
We're getting close to Bingo fuel. Over."

"We've marked our position with smoke. Do you
see the smoke?"

"Roger, I see white smoke, three places, like be-
fore, Two Niner."

"The smoke is us. Red Horse. Make a run on the
ground you chewed up before, where all the craters
are."

"Say again. Two Niner? The smoke is on your po-
sition, and we make a run on the same area we hit
before?"

240 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

"That's affirmative. Red Horse. Two Niner clear."
To Cesar, I said, "What frequency is Big Bird on?"

"The same one."

Red Horse was obviously using a different frequency
to chat among themselves, because we weren't picking
them up. I thumbed the mike and called Big Bud, who
came back just as Red Horse Leader was making his
approach.

"Big Bird here," they replied to my call. "Hear
you're having some trouble with the natives."

"They're definitely unfriendly," I told them.

Big Bird came back, but it was drowned out by the
roar of Phantom 20-millimeter cannon. I looked up,
but couldn't see the rounds impact. I could see the
tracers, though, and it looked like they were going
right into the smoke. Both Red Horse Leader and his
number two plane were making the pass at the same
time. Numbers three and four were already entering
their approaches.

In the brief respite between passes, I heard Big Bird
talking to someone, but couldn't make out if they
were calling us or Red Horse.

After the last two planes streaked overhead. Red
Horse Leader got on the hom to us. I didn't answer.

"Aren't you going to answer him?" Cesar asked.

"No," I said. "Let him think he did his job." I
held on to the mike, but pushed the transmit button
on my hand-held radio. "All right, let's go get that
LZ," I told the Tacforce.

We moved out into the blasted mudhole again', slip-
ping and tripping and cursing.

Red Horse Leader finally gave up and called Big Bild-

"Big Bird, Two Niner does not answer. We have
Bingo fuel. We'll have to Romeo Tango Bravo and

COVERT ACTIONS          24.1

leave you to finish up here." Romeo Tango Bravo
was RTB: Return to Base.

"Okay, Red Horse Leader. We will orbit as long
as we can, or until things get too hot, and try to raise
them."

Red Horse Leader signed off and the jets rumbled
off into the distance. The helicopter kept circling at
what seemed about a mile or so out.

There was some half-hearted sniping from the tree-
line, but we returned the fire in volume and the sniping
died out. The strafing appeared to have done a good
job.

We halted at the edge of the treeline, looking out
across the clearing. Bob dropped Due's body, then he
and Quinn swept toward Magoun to make sure there
was no one hiding out on that flank to sneak in and
snipe at us when we were feeling secure. Casbum and
Kilroy cleared the left flank as far as Tony's position.
There were still some gooks out that direction, but
they weren't too enthusiastic for the fight anymore.

Due had been shot in the neck; his carotid artery
was severed.

Big Bird was on the horn to us. The jets were long
gone, so I responded.

"Where have you been. Two Niner? We've been
trying to raise you for ten minutes now. There are
boocoo trucktoads of NVAs on the road about a mile
north of you. They're unloading already, and they'll
be on top of you in ten minutes.''

"We've been securing the LZ, Big Bird. There are
still a few snipers, but they can be suppressed. We're
ready for that ride home."

"Roger, Two Niner. We're on our way."

242     James R. Reeves and James C. Tayfor

"Two Miner, this is Chickenhawk. I have a mini-
twenty and lots to say. Where are these snipers?"

"Negative, Chickenhawk. They're all mixed in
with our people, and we all look alike from up there.
Hold off until we're airborne."

"Arc your people over by the road?"

"Negative, Chickenhawk. We are all at the LZ."

"I'll go discourage those Charlies a little, then."

I was suspicious, to say the least, that he'd be straf-
ing the treeline on his first pass, but when I heard the
hum of the minigun, it was from me north, toward
the road.

"Stay about five yards apart in the bush," I told
the men. "When he lands, go out two at a time. Stay
as far apart as possible. And get in the chopper when
you get there. Bob, Tony, Quinn, you guys keep an
eye on the door gunner. If he starts shooting at us,
waste him."

Fitchew called in from his outpost position. "Ty-
ler, there's a gook patrol moving in. Ten or twelve
in a big hurry. We're pulling back."

"Get your ass on up here," I told him. "The chop-
per's coming in."

Big Bird popped up over the treeline on the far side
of the LZ and reared back as it slowed down less than
a hundred feet from our side of the clearing to hover
just above the ground. The pilot wanted to be air-
borne to get a faster start when he lifted off. He turned
the big ship parallel to the treeline so the door gunner
would have a clear are of fire. I hesitated for a few
seconds to see if the gun would open up on us, then
ordered the men out. John and Cesar went. They ran
low but straight toward the door. They were just
ducking under the rotor when the shooting started.

CHAPTER 13

The shots came from somewhere on the left. It was a
short burst, just three or four rounds. Both John and
Cesar went down but scrambled up again almost at once
and ran for the chopper door. The door gunner swiveled
his machine gun and opened fire—at the treeline, much
to my relief. There was a sudden flurry of shots from
that direction as Tony and Casbum found themselves
having some trouble breaking off from the gooks. Just
before he reached the helicopter door, John arched his
back and fell heavily against the machine. Even without
me blood splashed on me helicopter's airirame, I knew
he was hit. Cesar was already inside. Bob and Quinn
ran up, picked John up by the amis, and passed him to
a crewman and Cesar, who pulled him on board.

Dinh and Kilroy were running for the helicopter, and
243

244 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

Magoun was backing toward it, watching the treeline.
On the left. Tony and Casburn were moving in short
sprints, leapfrogging one another, firing back at the tree-
line when they paused. Fitchew and Vuyen came tearing
through the bushes and raced for safety as if the whole
North Vietnamese Army was hot on their heels.

"Zigzag* Zigzag!" I yelled at them, and Fitchew
immediately started cutting back and forth. Vuyen
either didn't understand or didn't care. He could sure
cover the ground fast for a short fucker.

It dawned on me then that everyone else was on his
way to the chopper and I was still standing there like
a spectator. I said to myself, "You're a part of this
three-ring circus; you'd better get your ass in gear or
you'll be the main attraction in Hanoi." So I picked
up Due's body and started for the helicopter. He must
have bled nearly dry, because he hardly weighed any-
thing at all. It was like picking up a kid. I zigzagged
a couple of times just in case someone was trying to
draw a bead on me, and got to the door about the
same time as Magoun and Tony. A crewman took the
body from me and laid it on the floor, and somebody
gave me a hand up. Once inside, I emptied my last
clip into the treeline while the gunner started yelling,
"Go! Go!" into his intercom and me pilot hit the
throttle. Casbum was lifted in by Tony and Bob, his
feet scrabbling in the air as the chopper lifted off. We
were forty feet up by the time he was inside.

Looking out the door past the gunner, I could see a
second helicopter raking the treeline with his mini-
guns. A dozen or so NVA had spilled out of the brush
into the edge of the clearing and were firing up at us
until he scattered them with a strafing run.

COVERT ACTIONS          245

We'd obviously gotten out with no more to spare
than a squeak and a hair.

For some reason, I noticed the shadows of the trees
extended halfway across the clearing. In an hour or two
it would be dark. It had been a long fucking day. I lay
down on the floor of the helicopter and put my palms
over my eyes and pressed until I saw funny-colored
swiris on my eyelids, and kept them that way until we
were somewhere over the Gulf of Tonkin near Yankee
Station.

When you've just come in from a long, nasty mis-
sion and you go into debriefing, all you can think is:

let's get this shit over with and hit the shower and the
sack. You've been four or five days without sleep,
hiking and climbing and running through the god-
damned jungle, and you're exhausted. You've had
nothing to drink but warm, foul water for days, and
nothing to eat but C-rats, and you have diannea so
bad you walk bent over from the cramps and your ass
is raw as hamburger. And you're uptight- Charlie's
been trying to kill you out there. Bullets have been
flying around you, and your people have been getting
killed. Your nerves are shot. Then people start asking
you the same questions over and over again, in two
or three different ways, and you get pissed, and you
snap and bark at the dumb fuckers.

So I screwed up in debriefing. I realized it later, and
then lay there in my bunk thinking about it.

When we got off the Big Bird at Quang Tri, we
were loaded on a bus and taken right to Special Forces
headquarters. A guy in ciwies took our AK-47s and
our pistols and grenades, and two others took Vuyen
away. An Army Special Forces sergeant led us into

246 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

the debriefing room and closed the door behind us.
Captain Gartley was in there, and "Mr. Smith.*' Kil-
roy, Cesar, and Dinh joined us for this session, but I
knew they'd have their own debriefing later on what
they did and what they saw in Hanoi,

"Get comfortable, men, and let's get this over
with," Gartley said.

There was a coffee um in the comer. I went over and
helped myself. It wasn't beer, and it had all the endear-
ing qualities of Mekong River water—it was full of sed-
iment and it was fishy-tasting—but at least it was wet. I
killed half a mug while standing by the um looking at
Gartley and Smith over the rim, and thinking about the
gooks around me LZs, and the air strikes mat hit our
positions, and the "non-recognition" response we got. I
refilled the mug before the spigot had stopped dripping
and sat down on the edge of a table. Some of the others
were getting coffee, and Gartley was waiting until they
settled down to start the debriefing. I watched the two
of them over the rim of my mug until I couldn't keep
quiet any longer.

"Just what the fuck is going on?" A lot of hostility
was loud and clear in my voice.

Smith was chewing gum a mile a minute. He
stopped chewing abruptly and looked at me, but his
pudgy pig's face never changed expression. His eyes
did, though. They seemed to lose luster, as though a
plastic curtain had dropped in front of them. Gartley
looked startled for a second, then assumed a look of
innocence, like a kid caught with his hand in the
cookie jar. Then his innocent look quickly turned into
anger as he reacted to my insubordination in a way
any officer typically would-

"I'm not sure I know what you mean, Mr. Tyier," he

COVERT ACTIONS          247

said, his voice practically crackling with ice. My coffee
instantly got ten degrees cooler. "This is our usual de-
briefing."

I really hadn't known how to start, but he gave me
the opening I needed.

"Yeah ... but it wasn't our usual mission, was it?
I mean, it was a one-way mission, and that ain't our
usual type."

"I don*t know what you're talking about. You were
to see to it the agents got in and back out alive,"
Gartley protested.

"And kill them if they were about to be taken alive.
And we were going to have all this air support if we got
in trouble. But when me gooks got onto us somehow,
and we called for a helicopter to pick us up, they kept
telling us we were non-recognized. They didn't ask for
an identity check, they just said we were non-recog-
nized."

Gartley opened his mouth to say something, but I
cut him off.

"Then, when we finally got hold of a different radio
operator, he sent a helicopter up for us, and air sup-
port, but the damned flyboys kept dropping their
bombs and rockets right on top of us. They kept hit-
ting us, not the enemy. We finally marked the ene-
my's positions with smoke and told them they were
ours, and they came in and knocked 'cm out for us.
They were trying to get us!""

"Now, calm down, lyier. You just caught some
friendly fine, that's all. An accident," Gartley tried to
tell me, but I wasn't having any of that bullshit, and told
him so.

"I've had air support before, and I've called in artil-
lery from fircbases and a cavalry division, and even a

248     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

damned ARVN outfit, and they didn't screw up. They
put their shells and their bombs right where we told them
to, or right where we marked them. They didn't screw
up. Why would the U.S. Air Force screw up, not once,
but over and over? It wasn't no accident. They did it on
purpose, and they did it because they were ordered to.
Somebody was trying to get rid of us, damn it."

"Stop and think, Tyier. That doesn't make any
sense. Successful completion of the mission involved
getting agents to Hanoi and getting them back alive.
And getting the defector out too, I might add." Can-
ley was doing all the talking, I noticed. Smith was just
standing there watching me. Every once in a while
he'd glance at Gartley or one of the others, but he
kept turning his gaze back to study me.

"Then maybe what I'm saying, Cap'n, is that some-
body wanted this mission to fail." I thought it was time
to mollify him a little by going back to military courtesy.
I lit a Mariboro and took a long draw on it to give myself
a moment to think. I'd been chain-smoking since the
helicopter reached Yankee Station.

Gartley looked at Smith and then around the room
at the others. Out of the comer of my eye I noticed
Bob's head nod imperceptibly.

"It sure looked that way to me, too. Captain," To-
ny spoke up.

Smith looked at somebody with narrowed eyes. There
was only one thing that look could mean: don't dare say
a rucking word. I glanced over my shoulder to see who
he was looking at. Cesar, Kilroy, and Dinh were sitting
in a right little knot, and he was looking in their direc-
tion. He could have been looking at any one of them,
or at all of them.

"Somebody tipped off those gooks," I went on.

COVERT ACTIONS          249

"Either somebody told them we were in there and how
we were getting out, or we were seen going in, and these
guys were seen in Hanoi, and they put two and two
together. I think somebody told them where to look for
us."

The captain still wasn't ready to accept that. "It
would have to be somebody in the Agency or NISO
or MACV," he pointed out.

"Sounds like a lot of people knew where to find
us," Bob observed.

"Not that many." Gartley was immediately defensive
again. "Only a limited number of people in any of those
staffs have access to classified operations plans."

"Well, that narrows it down. You don't have so
many to check out." I think it was Quinn who said
that. It looked like they were all behind me on this.

"We don't need to check out anybody," Smith spoke
up. "The NVA obviously spotted you after you left Ha-
noi and moved men into the area to intercept you. Then
you called in air support, and they dropped a little close
to you, and you panicked. This is all a product of your
overactive imaginations. Get a little rest and sleep and
you'll see there's really nothing to it."

"Bullshit!" I couldn't handle that kind of crap right
then, especially from a bastard that made his living dou-
ble-dealing. "Those troops weren't 'moved into the
area.' They were moved right to the goddamned LZs,
all three of them, Alfa, Bravo, and Chariie, and they
weren't at any of the other goddamned clearings in there-
And that's another thing: when we found a clearing
without troops around it, we were 'non-recognized,' but
when we went to LZ Chariie, with the fucking troops
mere waiting for us, then they recognized us."

Smith and Gartley both started to speak at once, and

250 James R. Reeves and James C. Taytor

both hesitated, waiting for the other. Smith deferred
to the captain.

"That's standard operating procedure on that type of
mission," Gartley pointed out. "We only recognize
pickup calls for the designated LZs. There's too much
risk of the North Vietnamese capturing a team and radio
and calling the helicopter into an ambush. The teams
cany no identification, but it's ham to deny that helicop-
ter is one of ours. People all have the same kinds of
features, but helicopters, especially long-range ones like
we use, are distinctive, even without markings."

"That's why you use identity checks," I pointed out.

"The North Vietnamese monitor our radio traffic.
They know the procedure, and the questions to ask a
team member. They might be able to respond to an
identity check correctly."

"If they can find that out, they can find out where
the LZ is," Bob pointed out.

"I hope you people realize how stupid this argu-
ment is," Smith interrupted. "The fact that the heli-
copter went out and picked you up proves there's
nothing to your theory that someone was trying to ter-
minate your mission. Otherwise, the helicopter would
never have gone." That was just like him, that cold-
blooded phrase "terminate your mission.*' Why
couldn't he just say "kill you"?

"It don't prove nothing at all," I told him. "If the
helicopter hadn't come, there wouldn't have been any
need for the damned jets to try to kill us off before they
got there. If Captain Gartley is right about me standard
procedure, then the helicopter was probably dispatched
by some little j.g., or a petty officer, who wasn't in on
anything. This was all on the radio, you know. All kinds
of people might've wondered about it. So whoever is

COVERT ACTIONS          251

behind this, they probably had the jet pilots lined up in
advance anyway, as an ace in the hole. The jets left long
after the helicopter, you know. There was plenty of time
to get orders to them."

Smith shook his head. "Jesus, you people have sure
built up a fantasy," he said.

Gartley took it more seriously. After all, it was his
troops mat were threatening to mutiny. But I could tell
he thought we were full of shit too.

"What would be the point?" he wanted to know.
"Why would someone on the staff of NISO or the
Agency or MACV want to eliminate you?"

"Not us, necessarily. The agents. We didn't go into
Hanoi, after all. Maybe it was something they found
out while they were there, or something somebody
thought they might find out, and he was trying to cover
his ass. Maybe it was for money. Or maybe . . .
maybe it was that Vuyen fellow they were trying to
get." The thought had just occurred to me. "Maybe
whoever was doing this was a double agent, and
Vuyen could finger him."

"Maybe, maybe, maybe! I've never heaid such a
crock of shit!" Smith barked. "You people screwed up.
You fucked up and let the North Vietnamese see your
patrol, and now you're trying to blame someone else.
You've built a case in your imaginations for a double
agent in the headquarters staff somewhere, but I'll tell
you right now to forget it. It's a house of cards, and
we're not going to take it seriously." He turned to Cap-
tain Gartley. "Captain, I'll have to insist you get better
control over the debriefing. I still have to conference
with my agents tonight. Let's move on and get this over
with. I suggest we start at the beginning, and that you

252     James R. Reeves and James C. Taytor

keep Mr. Tyier on the subject of the insertion and ex-
traction, and put an end to his stupid accusations."

Things were strained after that. We went over the
bare facts and gave clipped, short answers to their
questions. After a while they saw they weren't going
to get much more out of us and sent us off to rest.

The next day wasn't a lot better. Their questions were
more detailed, but our answers were still short. They
wouldn't discuss what we really wanted to talk about,
and we gave them a minimum of anything else. Gart-
ley's aides really got pissed off, but we didn't give a
shit.

I'd had a few hours to think it over. I took Tony
and Bob aside and said, "Look, I ain't going back up
there for that damned Smith. No more jobs for that
fucker. And I recommend you don't either. But if you
decide to go on another one up north, don't think I'll
be pissed off if either of you wants to lead it. I just
ain't going to go."

Bob said, "Oh, hell . . . ya wUl too. You'll go.
You like this shit."

"Not if the Agency has anything to do with it, I
ain't," I insisted.

I surprised them. The next time Captain Gartley
started talking about a mission up north I asked him
if the damned CIA was involved with it, and espe-
cially that fucker Smith. He wouldn't tell me whether
it was the Agency or DIA or just NISO, but he did
tell me Smith wasn't involved. We went back up there
not just once but several times in the next couple of
months, and none of the missions were as hairy as
that first one.

In all that time, there wasn't one letter for me from
my wife. I finally started worrying about it. I went in

COVERT ACTIONS         253

to Special Forces headquarters and told Captain Gart-
ley what the problem was. He let me use the telephone
in his office to call home.

The phone rang about eight times before a man an-
swered.

I didn't say anything for a minute because I was con-
fused.

He said, "Hello, damn it! Who is this?"

"Well, who is this, damn it?" I said.

"Who did you want?"

"Well, I didn't want you! I was callin' my wife."

"You got the wrong number, motherfucker!" he
said, and hung up, but in the background, just before
the phone clicked down, I heard a woman's voice say-
ing, "Who is it, honey?"

Her voice.

I sat there for a few minutes, thinking of every pos-
sible answer except the obvious one, but I couldn't deny
it forever. Eventually I had to admit she was shacked up
with some guy. Then I got mad, really pissed, and
slammed out of Gartley's office and went to get a beer.

After three or four beers, my temper had cooled
down, but I was feeling hurt and sony for myself. If
only there had been someone to talk to about it. Bob
would only wise off, and I couldn't discuss anything
that personal with the others. If only Billy was still
around! Then I thought of my partner in my Shore
Patrol days, and the first thing I knew, I was calling
him up. He was still there. He said he'd go by and
check on her and get back to me.

We were on a recon patrol west of Hue in the A
Shau Valley. We'd been out about four days when

254     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

CINCPAC broke radio silence and told us to abort our
mission and return to the LZ for a pickup.

I called in when we were still a little way out and
told them we were getting close. Once we got there,
I broke radio silence again and called for a pickup-
"Delta One Five, Delta One Five: the Eagle has landed."

"Roger, Eagle. ETA two five. Repeat: Echo Tango
Alfa two five." He was obviously on his way, to be
only twenty-five minutes out.

It wasn't long until we heard the whop! whop! whop!
of the rotor blades, and the radio crackled with a trans-
mission.

"Eagle One, Delta One Five. How's traffic down
there?"

We came back with, "Delta One Five, you have a
green light."

The chopper flew low overhead and past us, then made
a quick turn and came down to hover just off the ground-
Within a minute we were on board.

At 1103 we touched down at the base. The guys
grabbed their gear and jumped off. There was an LTJG
waiting for us, holding on to his hat to keep it from
being blown off by the rotor blast. "Tyier?" he asked.

I nodded yes as I walked toward him. The helicop-
ter pilot chose that instant to hit the throttles and lift
off, so I knew he couldn't have heard me if I yelled.

When the chopper was a couple of hundred yards
away and the roar had died down a little, he said, "I
have two jeeps here, waiting to take you to HQ."

"What's going down. Lieutenant?" I asked.

"I don't really know," he said, "but the command-
ing general of MACV is here, and I'm sure he does.
Hop in." In less than a minute we were in the jeeps
and on our way to the harbor.

COVERT ACTIONS         255

"Do you suppose the Navy could wait long enough
for us to clean our asses and get something to eat?" I
asked, leaning forward.

"Yeah. They've made provisions down at the har-
bor. You'll be able to chow down, shower, and check
your weapons," he replied.

When we reached the harbor, the lieutenant stopped
the jeep in front of a two-story building and led the
way inside to the first room on the right of a long hall.
There he turned us over to an Army sergeant behind
a counter. The counter had a strong steel screen from
floor to ceiling, with a couple of sliding steel-screen
openings to pass gear through. We checked our weap-
ons with the sergeant. It reminded me of checking
athletic equipment with a coach.

"Sergeant Long will take it from here," the lieu-
tenant said.

The sarge told us we would be issued new weapons
later, and that until further notice we would bunk
aboard the U.S. S. Eldorado. Our gear had been trans-
ferred there from the barracks. I asked him what was
going on, and he said the base was closing down. All
U.S. personnel, except a few advisors, were going to
be gone by the end of the month.

The Eldorado was the flagship of the Seventh Fleet,
and carried the fleet commander. Admiral Jameson.
When we walked aboard, they had Marine guards posted
and a lieutenant commander was OOD. Sergeant Long
told him who we were, and he called a first class petty
officer to escort us to our quarters, one deck up.

I noticed as we went down the passageway that
everyone we met was giving us hard looks. Could it
have been because we hadn't showered or changed
clothes in four hot, hard days?

256 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

It had been a long time since I had been on board a
ship. The billet was small and would only hold two
people. Bob and I bunked together. I went in and
flopped down on one of the bunks. Our gear wasn't
there, and the petty officer went looking for it. Bob
started looking through the lockers to see if he could
find something someone had left behind. Finally he
sat down and leaned against the bulkhead.

"You need a bath, Jay. You know that?" he said,
rubbing his face with his hands and looking at the little
threads of oily dirt on his palms. I didn't answer him.
There wasn't any use bathing until our seabags and
fresh uniforms caught up with us. I just sat on the
edge of the bunk and rubbed my cheeks and looked
down at the floor. I hated sitting around waiting. It
was nothing but time to worry or get homy, and there
was nothing you could do about either one.

Of course. Bob always had a way to break your
train of thought -

"When the war ends, we're rucked. You know what
I mean. Jay? What kind of work are we going to do?
All we know is search and destroy, and there ain't
much future in that. Boy, are our families in for a
surprise!" He was feeling down.

"Well, hell, it's good training for a revenooer!" I
joshed him.

He put his head back against the bulkhead and said,
"Shit! By the time we get back, all the moonshiners'11
be growin' maryjuany anyway."

I shrugged and said, "Same-same. Maybe you can
get a job as a private eye. All these sneak-'n'-peek
patrols oughta be good training for that. You can sneak
around peekin' in people's windows to see who's run-
ning around on their wives or husbands."

COVERT ACTIONS           257

He snorted. "Nobody's gonna give a shit by then,
with all this sleepin* around and wife swappin'."

"Well, you can always dive. Work on an offshore oil
rig—they use divers, don't they? I can't even do that."

He didn't bother to answer.

"Look," I said, "at least we won't have to put up
with each other's bullshit every day."

He turned his head to look at me, and I could see a
greasy spot on the bulkhead behind him. "You tellin'
me you won't miss that?"

He was right. I would miss him—and the other guys
on the team. I would miss being part of a special group
with a purpose. When the war ended we'd see each other
for a while around San Diego while we waited for our
enlistments to end, but then we'd all go our own ways.
We might even run into each other at times, but it would
be different.

The knock on the door broke us out of our down
moods. It was the petty officer. He had our gear and
we could start getting cleaned up.

We showered, chowed down, then went back to our
rooms to get some sleep. About 1800 they woke us
and took us to meet the brass. Everyone was quiet
walking down the long halls of officers' country.

When the door to the conference room opened, the
first face I saw was Admiral Jameson's. He introduced
us to an Army general who turned out to be the com-
manding general of the armed forces in Vietnam, Gen-
eral Creighton Abrams.

"Pull up a chair, men, and we'll get started," the
general said after the introductions. He didn't sit back.
He picked up a folder, pulled out a photograph, and
passed it around to us. It was a picture of an NVA
officer. The General scratched his forehead with his left

258     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

index finger before continuing. "The picture you have
in front of you is Colonel Minh Tho of the North Viet-
namese Army. He was one of the NVA commanders
who planned and organized me overrunning of Hue two
years ago, and he is also one of the main advisors to
me NVA Chief of Staff, Senior General Van Tien Dung.
The information we have from our intelligence work is
that his advice influences where and how NVA troops
make their strikes and raids, as well as where their main
supply dumps and routes are located in Laos, Cam-
bodia, and North and South Vietnam.

"As you are probably aware, one of the hazards of
being a general is that you are often, if not always,
accused of fighting the last war instead of the one you're
involved in, insofar as tactics and strategy are con-
cerned. We've been aware for some time that General
Giap, the Commander-in-Chief of the North Vietnam-
ese Army, has been attempting to repeat his victory over
the French at Dien Bien Phu, and that the results have
been disastrous. He may be a hero to the hippies and
peace freaks in Berkeley, but he's in disfavor with the
North Vietnamese Politburo. It's hard to get rid of a
hero, though, even in North Vietnam, so he is hanging
on to his position. Frankly, we want to keep him there.

"General Dung is more innovative and flexible, and
less predictable. Especially with Minh Tho advising
him. If Dung replaces Giap, we could find ourselves
in hot water fast. By the end of this year, we plan to
have Vietnamization largely completed, and less than
half the forces in-country that we had at the end of
1970. Our chief concern is that Dung will attack us
as we withdraw, hitting the weaker stay-behind gar-
risons, cleanup crews, and the truck convoys to dis-

COVERT ACTIONS          259

courage us from ever reentering the war. A sort of
kick in the ass for the retreating troops.

"Then they will build their strength and invade South
Vietnam, confident we won't return to stop them.

"Colonel Tho will have a major role in planning
and organizing the attacks. Our sources in North Viet-
nam tell us he has already been sent down to a camp
just outside of Lang Mo—right here, about twenty
miles southwest of Dong Hoi, and about twenty-five
miles north of the DMZ. We think he's there to or-
ganize and amass forces for a major attack here at
Quang Tri. If such an attack were to increase the pres-
sure from Congress and the protesters to speed up
withdrawal, it could topple President Thieu and lead
to the fall of the Republic of Vietnam.

"For every man we send home, the Communist
forces arc relatively one man stronger. Sooner or later,
they'll smell victory, and they'll come swarming over
the DMZ with everything they've got, whether all our
people are withdrawn or not. As you know, we're
talking to them right now in Paris, trying to reach an
agreement that they will hold off with their attack until
we have all of our troops withdrawn. However, they
haven't always kept their agreements.

"If we knew where their troop depots were, and their
supply dumps and supply routes, we could attack them
from the air to disperse their troops and destroy the sup-
plies and equipment. That's where you come in. We
want you to snatch Colonel Tho and bring him back here
to us."

CHAPTER 14

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It was bad
enough reconnoitering south of the DMZ, with all the
troops the NVA was slipping across the line. Up
north, they were thicker than flies around a latrine.
To go up for a sneak-and-peek job was dreadful; to
go up and grab this asshole who was probably the
second or third most guarded gook in the North—and
try to get back with him—was damned near suicide.

I had to speak up.

"Just how well has Intelligence done their home-
work on this? I mean, you're asking an awful lot from
seven people. General."

"You're Tyier?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"We know where the camp is located and approx-
260

COVERT ACTIONS          261

imately how many men are with him. We also know
in which building he's staying. I understand your con-
cern about the quality of our intelligence, but I assure
you, we have been watching him closely for the last
ten weeks, and on a less intense basis for several
years. It will not be a wild-goose chase. I can also
assure you we're not going off half-cocked on this.
The man has information that will be very beneficial
to the U.S. and to South Vietnam."

"How do we go in?" Bob wanted to know. "That's
a long way to hike."

"We'll have you dropped in about halfway. If we
tried to get you any closer, we might get into their
triple-A zone. They have SAMs up there now, and
light and heavy AA guns. It's getting almost as bad
as the Hanoi area. That's another reason we believe
they're building up for a major attack: they've really
built up their AA defenses.

"We don't have a layout of the building we think
he's in, just the location. It will be up to you to de-
termine how it is configured inside, and the best way
to get in and get him out."

"How long do we have?" I wanted to know. "And
what kind of support can we have to get it done?"

"You can have anything you need. Just let Lieu-
tenant Burke, here, know what it is." He waved his
hand toward a slender Army lieutenant who had been
standing quietly to one side. "He'll see that you get
it. But time is critical. We needed him yesterday . . .
last week, even. We'll take him as soon as you can
get him- It'll take a while to get the information from
him, and we probably don't have very long."

Somehow, I knew that would be the case-

"We'll need to beef up a little," I said. "Right off

262     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

the top of my head, I don't believe seven can handle
it. There arc some South Viets we've worked with in
the past, some LDNNs—part of a South Vietnamese
SEAL team we've been training. If it takes a lot of
paperwork to get them attached to us, someone had
better start it right away."

"No problem," he replied.

"Do you have somebody that can identify this
joker?" Casbum asked. "All these damned dinks look
alike to me."

I made a mental note. Casbum would not be in on
the actual snatch, if he couldn't tell them apart.

"Some of our agents in North Vietnam would be
able to," the General said, "but I don't know if we
have anyone in the South who could. I'll have it
checked out."

The big brass left then, probably to go hoist a few
in the Admiral's stateroom. They shook hands with
us before they left. Frankly, I was impressed. I'd
never been briefed by COMUSMACV before.

It took two days' planning to get everything worked
out. The maps and air photos they had were helpful
as far as getting in and out, but I was skeptical about
the building they had picked out. It was out near the
edge of the camp, and I figured they would have him
staying in the middle of it.

We wouldn't know exactly how we could get him
until we had gotten to the camp, and then we would
have to do at least a two-day recon, watching for who
entered and left the building, how many guards were
posted, and if there was a set routine for changing
and standing guard. The LDNNs would play a critical
part because they could translate anything we man-

COVERT ACTIONS         263

aged to overhear. It was conceivable that they could
leam what room Tho was in. The General hadn't been
able to come up with anyone in South Vietnam who
could positively identify him, so we would have to
memorize his picture, we were told. Once we were
in the building, it wouldn't be easy to pick his face
out of a crowd, but the way I had it figured, the build-
ing housed only officers, so there wouldn't be very
many staying there.

Not much bullshitting went on during those two
days, and not much of anything else except the work
of planning the mission. We were confined to the ship
until we left on the mission. The four LDNNs were
also brought aboard and detained. They helped with
the preparations.

We requisitioned some booby traps and C-3 and C-
4 explosives, plus some silenced AK-47s and two
hundred rounds of ammo each. We also got radios
and two starlight scopes. We might need a sniper, so
we decided on Joe Magoun, who was a crack shot.
He was issued a sniper rifle with a telescopic sight
and a silencer that looked like a length of two-inch
pipe. Two of the Viets took crossbows as well as their
AK-47s. We were pretty heavily loaded. We figured
it would take two days going in and two days of
watching the camp before we were ready to move.
We were planning on a quick extraction, though.

We would be paradropped from a helicopter about
thirty miles northwest of Quang Tri, just above the
DMZ and about twenty-seven miles southeast of Lang
Mo. The camp was about five miles northwest of Lang
Mo, which was a major assembly point for troops and
supplies heading south.

Extraction would be by helicopter operating out of

264    James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

Laos. One of those big black birds again. They'd pick
us up at an LZ just south of the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
A chopper would be kept on station for the length of
the mission so it could reach us in a matter of minutes
when we called.

The day before the mission we had mail call at
about 1500, right after we finished the planning ses-
sion. There was a letter for me from Bill, my old
partner in the Shore Patrol,

I didn't open the damned thing for half an hour or
so. I just let it lie there on my bed while I fiddled
around and wondered what it said. I knew what it was
going to say, that's why I didn't want to open it-
Finally, just before we had to go pick up our weapons
for the mission, I gave up and tore into the son of a
bitch.

It was short and to the point. "Dear Jay, I went by
and checked on your old lady like you said, and you
were right. She's shacked up with a guy. This big
black buck come to the door with just his shorts on.
Write her ass off. Jay, she ain't no good. Bill."

Even if I was expecting it, the confirmation hit me
like a punch in the stomach. Or a kick in the balls. I
sat down on the bed and took a long, deep breath,
trying to get control of myself. I was goddamned mad.
The bitch had only been after my GI life insurance.
She figured to ruck me for a few weeks and then play
the grieving widow all the way to the bank. Her
damned boyfriend probably moved in the day I left
for 'Nam.

I dug down in my seabag and found the envelope
with the form in it changing my life insurance bene-

CO VER T A CTIONS          265

fieiary. I'd signed the damned thing but never sent it
in. I tore it into little pieces and shit-canned it.

"Honey, I promise I'll take care of you when I get
back from this little trip," I said to myself, and then
put her out of my mind.

The night before the mission started we went to bed
around 2100. They were to wake us at 0200 to get
ready.

I didn't dream that last night, but I did think about
what was going down. I guess everybody did. Just
how good were we? We all had experience in sneak-
ing into enemy camps and setting explosives and cut-
ting throats, but not in kidnapping. The way we
normally took prisoners was to blow away everybody
around them, splash them with blood and brains, let
them hear the bullets snap by their heads, and then
yell at them to surrender. I didn't worry about the
men doing their jobs right, but I did worry about how
we would get back. If we got him without their know-
ing it, it would only be two hours or less until all hell
broke loose when they checked on him and found him
missing. If we rucked up, our families wouldn't even
get a body back to sing and cry over at the funeral.
This little bit of Arkansas clay would become part of
the Vietnamese soil.

Getting back, that's where the real test would be.

In the middle of the night there was a soft knock
on the door by an apologetic sailor. I hadn't slept a
rucking wink, and apparently. Bob hadn't either. I
hadn't heard him snore, and he got up immediately,
red-eyed. He rubbed his face with his hands and used
his favorite words a few times to get his mouth

266 James R. Reeves and James C. Taytor

wanned up. "Shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck, god-
damn."

"Doin' yer momin' exercises?" I asked. "Get the
makeup . . - I'll meet you in the stutter."

The other guys were just coming out of their billets
and going toward the head as I stepped out into the
passageway. There was a muttered exchange ofgood-
momings, and I could tell from their glum faces they
hadn't slept much either.

"Let's go get 'em, Jay," Tony said, putting his
hand on my shoulder. He was cheerful, as usual.

"Fuckin' A," I replied. I went over to the stainless
steel sink and turned on the warm water.

Bob came in and took the sink beside me. He
handed me the camouflage paint, then started working
on his own face. After a few minutes he backed off
and admired his work in the mirror.

"Eat yer heart out, Twiggy," he said, turning his
head this way and that.

I had to laugh. "Bob, if you was a model, they'd
call you Stumpy."

He stopped admiring himself long enough to shoot
me a finger. The guys laughed, and the mood light-
ened quite a bit.

"You hungry. Jay?" Bob asked.

Food was the last thing on my mind, but I didn't
want my growling stomach giving my position away
to the gooks, so I went to eat with the rest of the
guys.

It was about 0245 and time to go. The twelve of us
gathered on the foredeck of the Eldorado and a chief
petty officer showed us to a truck that took us to the
airstrip. When we unloaded beside the helicopter, I
got everyone together and told the team to muster

COVERT ACTIONS          267

after we landed so we could regroup and get our bear-
ings. I also told them to make damned sure they knew
where each of the others was at all times when we
got on the ground, and to stay within sight of one
another so we could see hand signals. And they were
to look behind them when they moved, not just for
gooks, but so they would be seeing the terrain as they
were going to see it coming back out, and would know
the trail. Nobody said much when we boarded the
chopper. Everyone was taking it damned serious, and
they had good reason to.

The helicopter was one of Big Bird's sisters, big
and black, with miniguns on sponsons and detachable
fuel tanks for long-range work.

The rotors sped up and the pilot pulled back on the
joystick, and we were airborne. As soon as we had
leveled off I put my parachute on and started checking
the rigging. Everyone else took their cue from me and
did the same. Then we sat back down and waited.
We wouldn't hook up to the anchor line cable this
time. We were making a free fall.

Still no one said a word. We just looked around at
each other, knowing that if one screwed up it could
cost all of us our lives. The silence was broken by
the pilot's voice.

"Standby."

I looked down at my watch and it said 0330. Before
I opened the door I had everyone synchronize their
watches. I looked around at the men and reminded
them, "Don't forget: fifteen minutes and muster. If
you get caught up in a tree, hang tight. We'll find
you. But try to stay close going down."

"Two minutes," the pilot said.

I unlatched the door and stood ready.

268 James R. Reeves and James C. Fay/or

"Go!"

I went out, and quickly took the spread-eagle po-
sition. Once I was stabilized I glanced over at the
altimeter on my left wrist. I had marked the critical
altitude on the dial with a grease pencil, and hoped
that I'd remembered to allow for lag in the instru-
ment. I always avoided counting to myself, one thou-
sand and one, one thousand and two, and so on,
because once I started down I'd speed up—the sight
of that ground coming up just naturally made you
count faster. I avoided looking at the ground, too,
because it would always fool you into popping your
chute at the wrong altitude. On a dark night it ap-
peared too far away until too late, and on a bright
night it seemed too close, and in any case, without
man-made objects to judge size by, visual estimates
of altitude were undependable. One mistake and you
were dead meat. When the altimeter needle was about
to cut the mark, I pulled the ripcord.

As soon as the chute was open, I took a quick look
around for the others- The first man out is usually at
a disadvantage when it comes to looking for those
following him, because he has to look up, past the
open chute. When you free-fall to a given altitude,
all the other chutes should pop at about that same
altitude. Some pop early, of course, and some a little
later, especially if they're keying on your chute in-
stead of their altimeter. I spotted the chutes nearest
me as they blossomed, but the treetops started coming
up around me, and I had to concentrate on landing.

When we hit the ground I released my chute and
gathered it up. Then I started looking and listening
for the others. Someone had hit the ground about sixty
feet from me. It turned out to be Tony. I headed to-

COVERT ACTIONS         269

ward him. When Tony had finished rolling his chute
up, he went with me to the next man, and so on, until
we had the whole group together.

"Okay, let's move out about a hundred yards and
wait until daybreak. We'll bury the chutes. Bob, you
and Tony take the far flanks. Quinn, you cover the
rear, and I'll get the point. The rest of you fill in
between." They signed that they understood. "Okay,
let's do it," I said. I raised my rifle and headed out
to take the point.

I wanted to wait and see if Charlie had heard the
chopper when we flew over, or if there was a patrol
in the area that might have seen our chutes or heard
us land. You could never be sure where Charlie was.
Sometimes he would pop out of nowhere. I also
wanted to move during the daytime going up so we
could study the terrain. That would make moving at
night on the way back out a lot easier. We would
have a better idea of where we were going.

We buried our chutes in a shallow hole with an M-
5 pressure-release booby trap underneath. If Charlie
found them, he'd get a hell of a surprise.

I looked up at the moon and saw that it was half
full. It couldn't seem to make up its mind whose side
it was on. I hoped that when things came to a pinch,
it would be on ours.

It started getting light about 0545, and I motioned
for them to move out. Chariie hadn't shown up, so
we appeared to be safe for the moment.

None of us had worked in this area before, so we
had to move slower than normal and with more cau-
tion. The brush was thicker than it was south of the
DMZ, where big areas had been defoliated. The sun
was almost up, and already I could tell it was going

270     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

to be a hot day. There was a light mist rising from
the ground that reminded me of the old vampire mov-
ies I used to watch back home. God! Were they ever
spooky! God! Was this ever spooky! This was what
you'd call a bad trip.

I had Magoun watch the treelines on the left and
Casbum watch those on the right. I was sure the closer
we got to the camp, the greater the odds that we'd
see a patrol. We weren't to take anybody out or draw
any attention in any way going in, and we couldn't
leave any signs of our presence.

We didn't go straight toward the enemy camp but
worked our way to it in a zigzag fashion, checking
out the terrain about half a mile on either side of us
as we went. I wanted to have the best route back to
our LZ figured out, and to have an alternate route in
case Charlie blocked the best one. It never hurt to be
on the safe side.

The camp was about thirty-two miles from the LZ.
We had gone almost six miles when I came upon a
trail. I signed to Casbum and Magoun to halt. They
relayed the message to the others, and I went forward
to check it out. There had been some traffic along it,
but just how long ago and how many I couldn't tell.
I wished the Chief were here. The old Indian could've
told me that, plus what they were carrying and what
they'd had for breakfast. I didn't cross it. I followed
it awhile to see which way it went. After a bit I could
tell we would have to cross it sooner or later. It ran
diagonally across our path. It wasn't very wide, so
we could step across and not leave footprints. I went
about four hundred yards to make sure it didn't turn
toward Lang Mo before I turned back.

That was way too far, I knew. If a gook patrol

COVERT ACTIONS          271

grabbed me that far away, and I didn't have a chance
to shoot and warn them, the patrol could be am-
bushed. I would just have disappeared. I let an inex-
perienced man walk point once, and he just
disappeared like that- He had only been forty yards
or so ahead of us.

I went back to the men and signed for Casbum and
Magoun to signal the men in. When they mustered
up, I told them, "We have a trail up ahead, and we've
got to cross it. I don't need to tell you not to leave
any footprints on it. It's narrow enough that you can
step from one side to the other, or hop across it, with-
out stepping on it. Bob, you and Quinn set a booby
trap, but don't arm it. We'll do that coming back out.
When we come out, Charlie will take the trail if he's
after us." It would be the fastest way to move through
the bush, perhaps get ahead of us, and cut us off.
"Mark it with that spray powder so you can find it at
night. When we are across, take up your positions
again and move on out."

By sundown we had only covered eighteen miles or
so, as the bird flies, at least. That left another fourteen
or fifteen to go. I decided to stop for the night, so
when I spotted a good hidey-hole, I called them in,
set four-hour watches, and posted two men with star-
light scopes on opposite sides of the circle.

They spread out into the bush. Bob and I took up
our positions, and he dug a roll of fishing line out of
his pocket to tie our fingers together. He tied the end
of the cord to his own finger and passed the roll to
the next man. By the time it came around to me there
was just enough to reach back to Bob. I put a loop
around a twig because there were some things I
needed to do before I settled down.

272 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

Looking at the map, I figured we were about five
miles past Luat Son. We were also only ten to twelve
miles from the Ho Chi Minh Trail network. That
really made my asshole pucker. We infiltrated a lot
of recon teams to watch traffic on the trail, and Char-
lie tried to keep them out, or discourage them at least,
by setting booby traps along access routes to the trail.
It was also heavily patrolled down this far, and the
troops were hardcore. And if this Minh Tho was as
important as the brass thought he was, the gooks
would have their best watching him. I didn't want to
tangle with them, but sooner or later we would have
to.

I opened a can of C-ration peaches for "dinner."
The juice helped quench my thirst and preserved the
water in my canteen that I would've had to drink if
I'd opened a can of beans and franks or lima beans
and ham. Anyway, I wanted to avoid those, because
they made me fart too much. The sound, not to men-
tion the smell, could tip Chariie off if he came close.
A slight breeze had sprung up as the sun set and the
dusk grew into darkness, and it was blowing from
Bob toward me. I sincerely hoped Bob would avoid
the beans and franks too.

After I finished "dinner" I took a crap and buried
the can in the same hole. Then I tied on to the fishing
line and settled down to listen to the bush crack and
pop as it cooled. I wasn't really sleepy, but I knew
we would need all our strength later. I tried to get
everything out of my mind so I could drift off, but I
Just kept coming back to thinking about the mission.

The moon rose to where I could see it through a
clear space in the foliage overhead. It was half full. I
guess that means we'll have a fifty-fifty chance, I

COVERT ACTIONS          273

thought. Wish you'd come down on my side on this
one. Moon.

I was lying there thinking again about how we were
going to cross the Ho Chi Minh Trail when I felt a
tug on the string, followed quickly by two more. My
watch already. My mind had been working so hard
that time had just slipped away. It didn't mean a
damn, though, because I was still bug-eyed. I rolled
over to take my watch, and kept thinking about what
lay ahead of us.

Even before the appearance of the faintest gray in
the east, the night birds and insects stopped their quiet
sounds, and the monkeys began to wake up. By the
time dawn started to dispel the night gloom, they were
sere xhing and chattering at each other, and the mom-
ing birds had begun to call. As it got lighter, the
daytime insects started to sing. All this activity trig-
gered a sense of unease, yet it was all normal. I
thought back to yesterday's Journey, and how a troop
of monkeys just sat there in some trees almost within
arm's reach and watched us walk by. It was unusual
behavior.

The significance of it was now suddenly apparent.
If the monkeys didn't run from us and alert the NVA
that we were nearby, they wouldn't flee from the NVA
patrols and alert us, either.

I tugged on the fishing line. Bob rolled toward me
and half sat up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.
"What's wrong?" he asked, in a whisper.

"Bob, the damned monkeys—for the last three or
four miles, yesterday, the monkeys just sat there and
watched us go by."

"Oh, you noticed?" he interrupted, sarcastically.

"They're used to traffic in here. That's why they

274     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

didn't get scared off—they see people moving around
all the time."

He nodded as if he'd realized that all along. "You
got it, bud." He looked at his watch. "Oh, well,
0530. Time to get up anyway."

I looked around at the growing light and agreed.
"Wake 'em up. It's time to get moving."

Before we moved out I called the team together and
reminded them of the monkeys and pointed out they
weren't going to give us any warning of NVA patrols
nearby, "That means we'll have to depend on our
eyes more than our ears. Charlie will be doing the
same, of course. But we're expecting Charlie, and
with any luck, he ain't expecting us. So from now
on, we're moving in close order, and each of you
make damn sure you don't make any unnecessary
noise. Keep your eyes open and check the rear."

The heat started to build almost as soon as the sun
lifted above the horizon. We continued our zigzag
movement just as we had the day before, but we ex-
pected Charlie to raise up out of every bush and blow
someone away. Moving in the heat and constantly
expecting an ambush put a mental and physical strain
on us that wore us down quickly and slowed us con-
siderably. I had hoped to cross the Ho Chi Minh Trail
area in the early evening before we laagered up for
the night, then press on to the camp in the early morn-
ing. It began to look as if that wouldn't be possible.

After covering six miles or so, the expected hap-
pened. I looked to my right, and Bingo! there he was,
Charlie, moving slowly and scanning the area cau-
tiously. I stopped and went down, signaling with my
arm to halt, but never taking my eyes off him. Even
though he was moving slowly he appeared to be at

COVERT ACTIONS          275

ease, so I figured he'd been this way before and was
used to the area. I glanced to my left and saw nothing,
but when the gook's head was turned, I looked back
toward my men, and Thompson signaled there were
three more out there. I decided we would be better
off just to sit still and let them pass.

It took them about ten minutes to move on out of
sight, but I waited five extra minutes before moving
out.

Everything was pretty much routine for the next
three miles or so. It was between 1300 and 1400 when
I spotted another NVA. The bush was starting to thin
out there, and I knew we were getting close to the Ho
Chi Minh Trail. This one wasn't moving, he was sit-
ting and looking around. He was almost directly in
front of me and about twenty yards away. I spotted
another one off to the right so I signaled for Bob, who
was covering the right flank, to go check it out, and
for Tony to get the left. When they returned they both
signaled that there were two more on each flank. It
looked like we had run right into the middle of an
ambush but hadn't sprung it. Was it going to be an-
other case like the return from Hanoi? Had the North
Vietnamese been tipped off? Or had they just set the
ambush as a routine precaution?

It was much too light for us to try to cross the
ambush perimeter or even to move back, so we played
the waiting game, where a minute became an hour,
and an hour seemed to last all day. If your leg started
to cramp you couldn't move it; if your asshole started
to itch you couldn't scratch it. You had to sit abso-
lutely still, unmoving, hardly breathing. I started wor-
rying about the patrol that had passed us earlier. They
might sweep back toward this ambush and catch us

276    James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

between them. They had to have a radio with them
to report in now and again. If they didn't pull out,
we would certainly have to take them out before we
headed back out with Colonel Tho, because when they
noticed he was missing they would contact all their
patrols to be on the lookout. Somebody would have
to come back and take out the ones with the radios
just before we went in to get Tho. They could wait
for us here. Bac Vo and Le Xuong had crossbows—
they could do the job quietly.

Time dragged on, but eventually the sun set. As
soon as it was dark enough to move, I went back to
where the guys sat and called them together.

"How far do they spread?" I asked Bob and Tony.
"How far would we have to go to get around them?"
They just shook their heads. "All right, then we'll go
between them. In pairs. They're spread out too far for
night positions, and we can get through without being
heard or seen. Bob, you and Thompson go first—To-
ny and 1 will bring up the rear. We'll regroup about
fifty yards past them."

Bob and Thompson led the way, and we passed
through without any problems. We regrouped just as
planned, but a little closer to the ambush than I liked.
I told Bob to go fifty yards the next time I said fifty
yards. He probably shot me a dirty look and maybe
even a finger, but I couldn't tell in the darkness. Not
that I cared. I took one of the starlight scopes and had
Bob take the other so he could see my hand signals.
Then I took the point and left Bob with the main
group.

The Ho Chi Minh Trail was about two miles in
front of us now, and we had no idea what we might
run into. I figured that once we were across it, we

COVERT ACTIONS          277

wouldn't see another patrol until we were within about
a mile of the camp at Lang Mo. But there probably
would be booby traps.

When I estimated we were within a quarter mile of
the Trail I signaled Bob to bring the men up.

"Okay, watch your step, stay close, and keep
checking me rear. We'll move in pairs, at thirty-sec-
ond intervals, and we'll cross the Trail that way.
Watch the pair ahead of you, and don't move on until
they do. Go four hundred yards on the other side be-
fore we regroup. Look out for several trails . . . don't
cross one and relax . . . there are three or four par-
allel trails in places."

Tony and I led the way. It was between 1930 and
2000 when we started across. Surprisingly, every-
thing went smoothly. There was one trail at this point,
really a narrow dirt road, and we crossed between
columns of porters on bicycles after waiting for a
dozen or so trucks to go past. The trucks were spread
out and driving slowly with dim, hooded lights.

We regrouped as planned and headed toward the
camp at Lang Mo. If we didn't run into any more
trouble we would have a few hours to rest before
sunup, and we all needed it. There wasn't a muscle
in my body that hadn't been used on this trip.

Nobody had anything to say. They just listened and
did what I asked. So far, I had been right in my de-
cisions, and I hoped I could continue until we got
back. They'd done well. I was damned proud of them.
ft isn't easy to move without making noise. It takes
a lot of concentration and patience, and they arc the
two hardest things to maintain under pressure.

I just hoped that son of a bitch was worth what they
were going through.

278 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

We passed Lang Mo, and it was 2205 when I saw
a dim light over to the left. It could only be the camp,
and I felt relief all over my body, like sinking down
in a deep, cool pool on a hot day. It wasn't over half
a mile away.

When the brush started to thin out I stopped and
brought the guys on up. From there we could see the
buildings and some soldiers moving around in the
camp- Some were sentries they had posted. There
were a few lights, like streetlights, but dim, and I was
able to study the camp with binoculars.

Quinn put his hand on my shoulder and leaned close
to whisper, "Think they've got a cold beer in there,
Jay?"

"I'm willing to bet my ass on it," I told him. My
dry lips cracked when I grinned.

"Fuck the beer. I wonder if they got any pussy,"
Bob said.

I just looked at him and shook my head. Then I
noticed the LDNNs, staring at me as if they wanted
to take a look. I motioned them to come up and
handed them the field glasses. Vo studied the camp
for a few minutes and then passed the glasses to the
next man-

"Weil, what do you think, Vo?"

"You say piece of cake, I say piece of cake!" he
responded.

"Well, I say piece of cake, bro. Piece of cake." He
liked that and so did the other three. They grinned and
said something to each other in Vietnamese. About all
I knew about them was that they had all lost their fam-
ilies in the war, and they had been fighting the com-
munists since they were fourteen or fifteen. I judged

COVERT ACTIONS          279

them to be in their lower- to mid-twenties, except Le
Xuong, who acted more lihe eighteen or nineteen. There
was an air of pride about them as we lay there and
watched the camp. They were proud to have gotten this
far into the enemy's territory, proud to be members of
South Vietnam's elite SEALs, proud to be trusted mem-
bers of our team. And they were eager to get Tho. It
would be an honor for them, and it would give them
something to brag about to their kids and grandkids.

I told everyone else to stay put while four of us
checked out the immediate area for security patrols. I
didn't want to start the recon until the morning, so I
told them we would just make sure there weren't any
close by, then rest until morning. I took Bob, Tony,
and Casbum. We found no one in the immediate area,
but we found a dense clump of bush to hide in.

It was 2300 when I posted the first watch. I had the
Viets take the first watch for three hours, Thompson,
Quinn, Fitchew, and me the next three, and Tony.
Magoun, and Bob the last watch because I wanted
them rested especially well. They were the most ex-
perienced. Also, Magoun was our sniper, and I
?   wanted his eyes rested in case we needed a long kill.
We slept close together so that if anyone started to
snore, someone could reach him to wake him. I made
them all roll over on their sides or face down to go
to sleep because they would be more likely to snore
if they lay on their backs.

I was feeling much more relaxed now that we were
here. I silently said good night to the moon peeping
at us through the treetops and went right to sleep.

CHAPTER 15

When everybody was awake, I started assigning du-
ties.

"Bob, you, Casbum, and Xuong check out the sen-
tries on the right- Find out how many there arc and
how often they arc relieved. See how close we can
get to them. Also, how close together they arc. Tony
and I and Hu will do the same on the left. Thompson,
Quinn, check out the area right in front of us here.
Magoun, Vo, Bao—watch the buildings and move-
ment in the camp. See if you can spot their generators
and ammo dump. Be back here by 1700. Any ques-
tions?"

There weren't. We moved out. I had Tony take my
left flank and Hu the right. We moved out to the left
about four hundred yards and turned in toward the
280

COVERT ACTIONS          281

camp. We were about sixty feet apart and stayed
where we could see one another. I was surprised how
close we got before we saw the first sentry. Tony
spotted him. I stopped and started looking for another
one in my area, but didn't see any. I motioned for Hu
to advance when I did, but we didn't go more than
twenty feet before I spotted one. When I looked over
to Hu, he was already signaling me that he had also
spotted one. They were about the same distance apart
as we were. They barely moved as they watched the
bush in front of them. Every now and then they would
look toward one another. Again we played the wait-
ing game and time dragged on- I estimated we were
about fifty yards from their kill zone. We still had fair
cover and could maybe get another forty or fifty feet
closer and be safe. I could hear faint voices coming
from the camp.

At about 1000, I saw the gook looking back over
his shoulder so I looked past him and saw another
NVA walking toward him. It was his relief. If the
time schedule was regular, they relieved sentries every
four hours. The two sentries stood and talked for a
few minutes before the one who had been relieved
started back toward camp. The new sentry had a radio
slung over his shoulder. I waited for him to settle in
on his watch, then motioned for Tony and Hu to back
off and move on farther to the left. We needed to see
how many sentries there were down that way and, if
we could, find where the patrols were going in and
out.

We went another hundred yards and started forward
again but didn't get very far before we spotted another
sentry. We still hadn't seen a trail where their patrols
were entering and leaving. A little after 1400 the sen-

282     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

tries were relieved. So far, it appeared we would have
at least four hours to get in, get Tho, and get out
before they found the dead guards. I hoped Bob's
group could report they had found where the NVA
patrols were entering and leaving the camp. I mo-
tioned for Tony and Hu to head on back to where
we'd split up from the others.

Bob reported that they'd spotted eight posted NVA
about seventy feet apart and that they each stood a
four-hour watch. He also thought we could get a little
closer and be safe. Thompson said there were four
buildings that had NVA troops going in and out con-
stantly but the one closest to us seemed to have more
officers entering and leaving, Bao said that, judging
from the photos of the camp, that was the one we
wanted, but to be sure, we would have to get a closer
look. Also, it looked as if the NVA opened the doors
and windows and left them open all day. There was
a three-man jeep patrol that came around at irregular
intervals, and the jeep was mounted with a heavy ma-
chine gun. That could be a real complicating factor,

My mind started to tick. If we could get in close
enough to see inside the building when the doors and
windows were open, we could figure out at least part
of the layout. Our next step was to see if the sentries
moved in closer at night and if they stood longer or
shorter watches. I sent Bob, Casbum, and Magoun
back out to the right when the sun had almost set,
and Tony, Thompson, and Quinn back to the left. I
took Vo and Bao to try to get in closer to the buildings
for a closer look. If we found enough cover we could
stay there all night and the next day. I would send
one of the others back to let Bob know if we were
going to stay over.

COVERT ACTIONS          283

The two LDNNs and I moved out toward the camp.
We ran into a sentry about two hundred feet from
where we left the group. Slowly we moved forward,
trying not to make any noise. We were almost within
spitting distance when he turned and looked in my
direction. I almost peed in my pants. I pointed my
rifle at him and watched every move he made. I hadn't
made any noise, but he might have seen my move-
ment out of the comer of his eye. Something had
caught his attention. He looked hard and long before
he turned his head back and started his routine again.
I moved on, and the two LDNNs followed. They were
so quiet I had to look back to be sure they were there.
The bush was getting a lot thinner, and I was looking
for a place to hide. Over toward the suspect building
the brush hadn't been thinned out so much as else-
where.

I motioned for the LDNNs to move out in that di-
rection. We were moving off to the right, staying low
and checking the ground in front of us for booby traps.
The bush I had spotted for cover hadn't been thinned
at all. I guessed it was an emergency exit.

The sun wasn't up yet, but the sky was getting a
little brighter. I couldn't see what was on the other
side of the brushy patch, and I thought it would be a
good idea to check it out before we entered- I told Vo
to see how far back it ran and Bao to see how wide
it was. I would check out the middle. If we were
going to hide in there, I damned sure wanted good
cover.

It was plenty thick enough to hide us, and from it
we could get a good look at the south end of the
building we were interested in. The front faced west.
There was an exit on the south end. The building was

284 James R. Reeves and James C, Taytor

about forty feet wide. By moving a little bit you could
get a view of either the front or the rear. I heard a
noise on my left. It was Bao, with Vo close behind.
They reported that the area looked clear of booby traps
or concertina wire and was about fifty meters wide.
It went back about sixty meters, and it didn't seem to
get any thinner. I mentally translated those distances
to 150 by 200 feet so I could picture it in my mind.
Vo also had spotted a sentry off to the left. I decided
it was definitely an escape route. If there was an air
strike or a raid, the officers could exit out the south
door right into the bush. They probably had a slit
trench or air raid shelter in there. It was getting near
dawn and I had to make my mind up before it got too
bright to be moving around. I sent Bao back to tell
Bob we were staying.

We got in as close as we could, keeping bush be-
tween us and the building for cover. By looking
around carefully as I moved in, I found their slit
trench. It was well camouflaged and partly roofed over
with sandbags. I moved toward the left edge of the
brush so I could watch the front and south end. Vo
went off to the right to watch the rear. I lay down on
my stomach and laid my field glasses and weapon in
front of me.

The sun was up and people began to stir. I hoped
to get a look at Tho if he left the building. There
were two sentries posted in front, and one at the south
end who didn't seem to be paying much attention to
the bush in front of him where I was lying.

Gooks came and went all day but not through the
south door. At about 0915, a Russian-made jeep
pulled up in front. A noncom stepped out and went
inside. Twenty minutes later, he came out with Tho

COVERT ACTIONS         285

behind him. I had looked at pictures of his damned
slope head so much that I couldn't mistake him. They
got in the jeep, turned around, and headed north down
the street. They were soon out of my sight.

Moments later the south door opened and two more
noncoms came out. After they bullshitted a while with
the sentry they went off to my left. Around 1000 the
watch was changed. The new sentry was just as re-
laxed as the first one. The south door was left open,
and I could see down the entire length of the hall-
Looking through my field glasses, I could see there
was a cross-hall about halfway down the other end of
the hall, probably leading to the east and west en-
trances. At the north end was an office-type door; it
was closed. Every now and then I would see a soldier
walk across the end of the hall, so I could tell it made
a T there. From where I was, I could only see three
or maybe four doors on the right of the hall. The
rooms might be offices, or billets for officers, or even
billets for the sentries.

I was starting to get stiff and needed to move. I
waited until the guard walked to the end of the build-
ing and leaned up against it. When he did I slowly
moved to the right but not out of sight of the front.
It felt good to move my legs and stretch.

The jeep patrol passed twice, at 1038 and 1302.

Around 1400, Tho returned, got out of the jeep,
and went in the front door. The watch was changed
a little late, at 1635. Everything was going smoothly
for us so far.

Tho and two other officers came out and walked
across to a building just across the street and went in.

As the sun was starting to set, I heard an engine
start up. Soon lights started to appear in some of the

286 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

buildings, so I knew I'd heard the generator. I
couldn't tell just where it was, and I hoped Vo could
tell. If things went badly we could knock out their
generator and kill the lights. There was a light on a
pole, just off to the comer of the building to my left,
that lit up the front and south end of Tho's building,
though it wasn't very bright. There was another near
the north end. It seemed odd to leave lights on at
night. They would make the place a very easy target
to spot for bombing. Maybe they felt secure with all
the SAM sites and AA guns they had around. Or
maybe they realized the B-52s aimed their bombs with
radar, and a blackout wouldn't help them much.

It was just after 1800 when Tho came back. About
thirty minutes later two jeeps pulled up and three of-
ficers got out and went inside. With the light on, I
wished I was on the east side so I could see in. After
an hour had passed, a gook came out and said some-
thing to the drivers of the jeeps and they drove off. It
was around 2000 and time to meet Vo and head back.

Vo told me he had seen a light come on about 1800
in a large room about midway down the length of the
building. That could have been where Tho and the
officers went. Vo had heard the generator too, but
couldn't tell which building it was in.

Bob was waiting for us when we got back. He
seemed a little anxious. "How did it go?" he wanted
to know.

"Get 'em in here. It's time to rock 'n' roll," I said.

I didn't know if it would work, but I had a plan. It
took about an hour for everyone to get in from their
post positions. When they had mustered up I de-
scribed the building and the layout of the camp to
them and outlined the plan.

COVERT ACTIONS         287

"Thompson, you and Hu take one of the starlight
scopes and go back where the ambush was set, back
by the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Get the gooks that have
the radios, and any others you think you should get.
Use the crossbow. Open a good-sized gap in their
ambush line, then set a perimeter of claymores to keep
them from closing it. Meet us back where we crossed
the trail. Set some command-detonated claymores
there to clear the trail about a hundred yards in either
direction just in case there's traffic when we come
back through and we're in a hurry. If we aren't there
by 2200 tomorrow, you get the tuck out and go on
back to the LZ. Take some claymores from the other
guys here to be sure you have enough. You got it?"

Thompson repeated his instructions back to me, and
I told him and Hu to take off.

"Quinn, Casbum, we're goin' to need about forty
yards of area down to the right cleared of sentries, so
yer goin' to have to take out at least three of them.
Wait until they've been relieved, about 0200. That's
when we're goin' in. Once you have them down, set
claymores to take out anybody that comes running
down the street from either direction, and then stand
by there to cover our withdrawal.

"Bob, you and Tony and Xuong will go in with
me. Make sure you've got the handcuffs and the tape
and all the other shit we'll need. Fitchew, you keep
the radio. You're rear security. Find us a place to hide
about two hundred yards back out in the trees. There
will probably be shooting, and I want to lay low with
the asshole if the whole damned camp turns out to
hunt us. So make damn sure it's a damned good
place."

288 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

"We're not going to be moving at night?" he
asked.

* 'If there's an alarm, this place is going to be crawl-
ing with gooks," Bob answered for me. "We can see
them a hell of a lot better in the daylight, and make
better time when we move." It was good to hear he
agreed with me.

"If it gets really bad before we can get out of the
camp, there's a slit trench in that bushy patch beside
the building," I told them. "We'll try hiding in there.
But only in an emergency.

"Joe, you get in position to take out the sentry in
front of the building—and the one on the north side,
too, if you can. Don't get too far away from Casbum
and Quinn, though. I want to be able to pull out in a
hurry."

To the others, I described what I had been able to
make out of the hall in the officers* quarters.

"When we go in," I told them, "I want one man
to post right away at the cross-hall, and one to go
down to post at the T. The other two of us will check
the rooms. Make sure you've got plenty of magazines
and that your silencers are on your weapons- Use gre-
nades only if the shit hits the fan and we have to get
out under fire."

Bob and I would take out the sentries on the south
and east sides. Then Vo and Bao would get into NVA
uniforms and replace them.

"Any questions?" I asked when I'd finished.
"Let's get going, then."

Quinn and Casbum moved off to the right. The rest
moved out with me at the point. Before, time seemed
to drag along, but now it began to pass more quickly.
It wasn't long until we were back to the bush where

COVERT ACTIONS         289

Vo and I had hidden. It was a little after 2400 when
we arrived. The door to the building that Tho had
come out of was open now. Raising the field glasses
to my eyes, I could see a gook with a set of head-
phones sitting in a chair. I couldn't see what was in
front of him, but I could tell the building was the
commo shack. That radioman would have to be taken
out.

"Magoun, come here and see if you can see this
son of a bitch clear enough to get a clean shot," I
said.

He moved over to where I was sitting and raised
his rifle to his shoulder, sighting through the scope.
"I can get 'im if he doesn't move much. Otherwise,
1*11 have to move back to the left and maybe shoot
him through the windowpane."

"Okay, then. As soon as the guard is changed, take
him out. Then stand by to take that front sentry out
too, but don't shoot him unless he starts inside or we
come out shooting." He was already screwing the big
silencer onto his rifle barrel.

"Time?"

"It's 12:45, Jay," Bob answered.

As fast as time was passing now, from here on in
we would be working against it.

"Tony, Bob, you'll go in with me. I'll enter first
and start down the hall. Now, I don't know what's in
the damned place or how many gooks arc in there,
but if even one shows his face, bust a cap in his ass
and start for the door. I'm going to take a chance and
say that Tho's billet will be at the end of the hall, on
the right. If I'm wrong, we're rucked. Also, if we
have to open up. Bob, you and Tony set a time delay

290     James R. Reeves and James C. Taytor

to blow the place to hell. But only if we have to open
fire."

"Holy shit, I hope you're right," Bob said.

Pointing to Vo, I said, "You'll replace the sentry
on the south end when I take him out. Cover me until
I get him. Bob, you and Bao take out the sentry on
the east side. No knives—I don't want blood all over
the side of the building to alert somebody. Snap his
neck."

It was 0100 and we started moving into position.
The light on the pole was on but it wasn't very bright.
It lit up only about half of the south side of the build-
ing. The door was in shadow, and that would make
it a lot easier to get in without being seen. The only
problem was the amount of open ground we had to
cross.

I took my boots off so 1 could move in more qui-
etly. The others followed my example. We stuffed the
boots in our packs and left the packs where we could
grab them when we came out of the building.

The duty sentry seemed relaxed and didn't walk a
set pattern, but I would have to watch his relief for a
few minutes before I moved in. Bob would have to
do the same.

Everything was quiet in the camp around 0130
when the door opened and a gook stepped out. The
sentry turned to talk to him. The night was still and
very quiet, and you could hear them talking plainly.
I could see past them into the building. A glow was
visible at the end of the hall, but I didn't see any light
in the hall itself. The two gooks bullshitted for a
while, then the other dude went back inside.

I looked over at Vo and asked him if he could make
out what they were saying.

COVERT ACTIONS         291

"He say he gots the shits but he come back, relieve
the sentry soon as he get out of shitter. The sentry
ask if the meeting over, and the other he say yes,
they just talking now. You say 'bullshitting.' "

About fifteen minutes later the door opened again
and the guy with the shits came out and relieved the
sentry. Yawning, the former sentry waved goodbye
and walked around the comer and on down the road.
I waited until he had gone, then motioned Magoun to
bust the fucker in the radio shack. I watched until I
saw the man's body go limp. The shot was no louder
than someone spitting forcefully. Then I turned my
attention back to the sentry by the door. He'd noticed
nothing.

It wasn't quite 0200. I watched him as he walked
a regular beat back and forth in front of the door.
When he turned around he would stop, look over at
the other sentry, then step back with his left foot,
turning as he did so. It was more casual than an about-
face, but similar. He made a counter-clockwise turn
at both ends of the beat, so when he was at the west
end, he turned facing the bush, but when he was on
the east end, he turned toward the building. A fatal
habit. When he made his turn toward the building, I
would make my move-

Of course, I had to coordinate with Bob. His sentry
was walking a longer beat, so their turns didn't often
coincide. We had to wait several turns until his man
was turned and going back north and mine was just
making his turn. In order to be within sight of one
another but not be seen by the sentries, we had to be
close together. That put us in a position where I'd
have to cover twice as much ground as Bob.

When the sentry started back toward the east, I

292 James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

slung the AK-47 over my back and made sure it was
strapped down tight. I checked to make sure that my
knife was handy, up by my left shoulder. I was ready
to go. He was in a bad way, all right. He hadn't made
it to the corner when he stopped and half turned to-
ward the building, bending over from cramps in his
belly. He put one hand on his gut and the other on
his left knee. Bob's man had turned and started back.
Bob moved, then hesitated. I moved. It was now or
never.

I covered the ground between us at a sprint. I had
to get to him before the cramps passed and he turned
back toward the comer.

I got there just as he straightened a little. My left
forearm slammed into the back of his tiny little neck
and my hand clamped down on his right shoulder.
The impact snapped his head up, and my right hand
caught the front of his pith helmet and snapped it
back. He didn't yell, and his neck was broken before
he could even grab for my arm. His bowels emptied
down his legs, loose and smelly.

Vo stepped right in and took over the sentry rou-
tine. I carried the body back to the bush. To drag it
would have left marks. Of course, I got shit all over
my arm. I laid him down where Magoun was crouch-
ing.

"If he moves, kill him," I said.

"Shit!" he said. with that gee-whiz grin of his.

"He did," I pointed out.

About five minutes later Bob showed up and
stepped on the dead gook.

"What the hell?" he whispered. "Damn it, Tyier,
why don't you put the son of a bitch in the way? I
could've sprained an ankle."

COVERT ACTIONS         293

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," I said. "Shut up and let's

go."

We headed for the open door. Vo and Bao contin-
ued their sentry routines as if we didn't exist. In the
dim light they were indistinguishable from the two
they'd replaced. Vo even pretended to have a belly
cramp at times.

We stopped for a second in the shadow of the en-
tryway, until all four of us were there and ready to
go in.

"Have to give them boys an Oscar," I whispered
to Bob.

"I hope he don't overdo it," Bob whispered back.
"They might relieve him and take him to the sick
bay."

We switched our AK-47s to fully automatic. I
opened the door slowly, just a crack, and looked down
the hall. It was empty, and lit by only the dim glow
I'd seen before. I opened the door wider and went in,
with Bob and Tony right behind me.

The hall was dark, and I looked at the bottoms of
the doors to see if there was any light showing through
the cracks. We moved quickly but quietly. At the
cross-hall, I signaled Tony to stay and cover all di-
rections, and Xuong to go on down to the T. There
was a door down on the right with a light shining
through the crack at the bottom. I elbowed Bob and
pointed to it. We had to check it out before we could
start searching for Tho. Bob moved over to the other
side of the door and put his hand on the knob, ready
to push it open. I could hear voices coming from the
other side.

I nodded and Bob pushed the door open. We went
in fast, in a crouch. It was a big room laid out for a

294 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

conference, with a long mahogany table opposite the
door. There were six gooks in it, four sitting round
one end of the table with a teapot and some teacups
on the table in front of them. One man was sitting
sideways on a chair between the table and the door.
The sixth was standing near the head of the table, as
if he*d been just about to leave and had stopped to
bullshit for a minute more. Tho was the second man
from the right end of the table. For the briefest instant
we all froze, looking at one another. The image
burned into my memory, and probably Tho's, as I
looked right into his eyes and watched them widen
with surprise.

The gook sitting sideways on the chair grabbed for
something at his side and started to stand up. Bob had
no choice. He opened up. When he fired, I did too.
I shot the one standing at the end of the table and the
one just to the right of Tho. Bob swung his gun to
the right as I swung mine to the left. The gooks'
bodies danced in the chairs and pieces of wood and
teacups flew around the room. A chair fell over with
a bang as the body in it slumped to the side. Ejected
brass rattled onto the floor and rolled around under-
foot. A piece of china flew up and nicked Tho's
cheek, and he started to raise his hand to his face,
then froze.

"That was the smartest move you ever made," I
growled at him. I stuck my AK-47 in his face and
then grabbed him by his shirt, lifting him to his feet
and shoving his face against the wall. The scratch on
his cheek left a smear of blood. "Don't move, don't
make a rucking sound!" I told him. Bob quickly
kicked the weapons away from the others, in case
they were playing possum or came to, and then he

COVERT ACTIONS          295

stepped over and clapped the handcuffs on Tho. He
taped over his mouth with a wide roll of green plastic
tape, going around his head twice.

"We got 'im," I said to Bob. "Let's go!"

I pushed Tho ahead of me to the door. Bob got
there first and checked both ways before stepping out
into the hall. Tho stepped on some empty brass and
it rolled under his foot, sending him to one knee. I
grabbed him by the collar in the back and yanked him
to his feet. As soon as Bob went out, I went and
pushed Tho out in front of me. We rounded the comer
and started for the south door. Bob ready for any-
thing, and me holding Tho by his shirt collar and
pushing him along, my AK in one hand.

The silencers really muffled our shots. All you
heard was a sibilant stutter, but there was no way to
muffle the drumming noise of the bullets hitting the
table or the teacups smashing. Someone would be
coming to see what all the racket was about very soon.
I expected to see doors open and heads stick out all
down the hall.

Tony waved at Xuong to come on, and was re-
peating in a loud whisper, "Let's go! Let's go! Let's
go!"

One door opened as we went past, and a man
stepped out, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He dropped
his hands and stared when he saw me pushing Tho
along. Tony shot him from close range. The man
slipped to the floor without a sound.

Bob stopped to cover Tony and Xuong as they came
down the hall, and I pushed past him with Tho. I
stopped in the shadow of the entryway and looked
over at Vo. He was still walking his sentry rounds.
He stopped at the west end of the beat, looked at the

296 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

sentry on his right, and started back. I knew then the
sentry in front hadn't been alerted. Once outside I
headed into the bush and held up there until the guys
were all out of the building. Magoun and Vo were
covering the front. Bao was covering the rear. None
of the sentries outside had been alerted by the firing
inside.

Once they were outside, they headed for the tree-
line. They waved to Bao, and he came at a dead run,
I took off too. I still had Tho by the shirt and was
halfway dragging him. He knew better than to try to
fight. He knew he was the one we'd been after and
he wouldn't be hurt as long as he did what we wanted
him to do. We must have frightened him, though. All
of us were so damned much bigger than he was, and
younger and stronger. Hell, sometimes I looked
around at those green- and black-painted faces, with
the intense eyes about the only thing you could see in
the darkness, and they frightened me.

We grabbed our packs on the run and beat it on
back to the treeline. We had gone about a hundred
yards when we heard Casbum whistle from off to the
left and headed in that direction.

"Did you get 'im?" he wanted to know. Then he
saw our little prisoner and said, "Well, goddamn!"

"Get Quinn and Fitchew in here," I told him, and
he left to round them up.

Those of us with our boots off hurried to put them
on. The bottoms of my feet were tender, and my right
heel was bruised from coming down on an ejected
cartridge. Bob's foot was cut by a piece of broken
teacup and bleeding a little. He took the time to apply
a disinfectant before putting on his boot. Then we all

COVERT ACTIONS         297

shouldered our packs. We were ready when the other
three showed up.

Bob and I took the point, and Bao and Xuong the
flanks. Fitchew stayed behind with the radio. He
would let us go about 150 yards before he followed
us, to watch for any pursuit. I put Vo in charge of
the prisoner, because he was the steadiest of the three
Viets. We cuffed Tho's hands in front of him so he
could keep his balance better and wouldn't slow us
down so much. Just to make sure he didn't get away,
we taped a grenade between his wrists and attached a
wire to the pin. We ran the wire between his legs and
tied it to the middle of a stick about three feet long.
Hu carried the stick. If Tho tried to run away, even
if Hu was shot and down, the stick would catch on
the brush and pull the pin. And the grenade was right
there in front of him, where he could see it and pon-
der on it.

All this hadn't taken long. It was just after 0200
when we went in, and it was about 0220 when we
moved out.

We went about a mile from the camp before we
stopped. I figured they would mount a really intense
search right around the camp as soon as they found
out we'd been there, and they'd find that out when
one of the sentries on the west or north sides began
to wonder why they weren't seeing those on the south
and east sides anymore, and went to check on them.
I expected the alarm was given about the time we
moved out, but Fitchew didn't report any pursuit.
Their next step would be to put out a cordon of pa-
trols to try to cut us off. They'd have to estimate our
rate of travel and try to put their patrols in ahead of
us. By not moving for several hours, we might throw

298 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

their timing off. They might have their patrols farther
out. We'd get to them after they had searched several
hours without success, and they would be starting to
get discouraged and tired. And careless.

They'd also try to guess which way we would go.
Straight south toward the DMZ was too obvious. West
across the border into Laos would lead into the moun-
tains. The route we were taking led right past the
town of Lang Mo, and I thought it would seem to the
North Vietnamese the least likely for us to take.

Casbum found a thick stand of brush for us to hide
in. "It's heavy all back through here," he said.

"Okay. Spread out about thirty feet apart. We're
going to play hide-and-seek." I rctaped Tho's mouth,
going all the way around his head with that wide plas-
tic tape. He was breathing hard from exertion, and
his breath whistled and bubbled through his nostrils,
like his nose was stopped up. To Vo I said, "Tell
this son of a bitch if he even breathes heavy we'll
take one of his eyes out. And if he does, do it." Tho
was supposed to speak English, but he looked a little
dazed, and I wanted to be sure he understood. I left
him with Vo and moved off to the right to cover my-
self with brush. It was time to play the waiting game
again. It was around 0340 when we spread out to
hide. Time would go slow until dawn.

It was close to 0500 when I heard movement in the
bush coming from the direction of Lang Mo. I saw
nothing but I knew he was out there. I switched my
AK back to fully automatic and turned it in the direc-
tion the noise came from. Suddenly I heard a branch
whip against something off to my right. There was
more than one now, and probably more on the way.
The noise was getting louder so I looked for a place

COVERT ACTIONS          299

to move to in case they decided to walk over my ass.
I was looking hard into the bush in the hope of seeing
where the son of a bitch was and which way he was
moving.

"Come on, asshole, I just want to see your pointed
little head," I thought. Bingo! there he was about
twenty feet to my right. He was heading toward Bao
and Tho. If he kept moving in the same direction he
would pass between us. I turned back and looked to
the left. Holy shit! I thought. I could see a gook's ass
no more than ten feet from me, and I hadn't heard
him at all. I froze. He was looking long and hard into
the bush, turning his head slowly until he was looking
in my direction. I didn't take my eyes off him, but I
was aware that the other one was going on past. I
dared not move. It was only seconds later that their
footsteps faded away and I relaxed. They were head-
ing back toward the camp.

Right before sunup, around 0530,1 decided to scout
ahead. We hadn't had much sleep, and my eyes felt
scratchy every time I blinked. I moved back off to my
left and back toward the Ho Chi Minh Trail and cov-
ered a hundred yards or so. Not seeing anybody I
headed back toward the men. Bob spotted me and
whistled softly. I went over to him-

"Anything?" he asked.

"No," I said. "How about you?"

"Not since that bunch that came through earlier. I
think we ought to get our asses out of here, though.''

I agreed, and signaled the men to regroup.

"How's the baby?" I asked Vo.

"He good," Vo said, grinning. "He good baby!"
He prodded Tho, kneeling in front of him, with his
rifle barrel.

300 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

"We're going to move on toward the LZ. Tony,
you and Bob take the flanks. Casbum and Magoun
cover the rear. I'll take the point. Keep each other in
sight."

I headed out in front. We didn't have a lot of ground
to cover to get to the rendezvous with Thompson and
Hu, but it would be slow going. We had until 2200
to meet them, and I damned sure didn't want to miss
our date.

The sun was all the way up, and even though the
bush shaded us, it was still hot and humid. Our bodies
were weak and wet with sweat but we kept pushing
on. Every now and then the hot sweat would run down
my forehead and into my eyes, causing them to blur
and bum. My muscles were tight and sore from ten-
sion, and my right heel was bothering where it was
bruised. But I knew better than to think about it. We
had learned how to live with pain. It came with 'Nam,
and I guess with any war.

We encountered the next patrol shortly after 1300,
near the Song Dai Giang, south of Lang Mo. We had
another two miles to go to the Ho Chi Minh Trail,
and had to cross the river first. I had just stopped and
was looking around for Bob and Tony when I heard
a sound. I didn't know at first what it was, but it was
definitely not natural. I was looking back to the right
toward Tony at the time, and it seemed to come from
in front of us. I began to curse my bad hearing in that
left ear, and tried to keep my right ear turned in the
right direction, but I couldn't do that and look for
Tony. I finally spotted him, far out on the right and
considerably behind me. I signed for him to hold up
and halt the others. Then I turned to the left, to listen
with my good ear and look for Bob at the same time.

COVERT ACTIONS          301

I spotted Quinn, and signaled him to halt and pass
the signal on. Then I squatted down to listen.

I didn't have long to listen before I heard it again,
plainly, now that I had my good ear turned toward it:

the frying sound of a radio receiver followed by the
garbled murmur of someone talking. "Ambush!" was
my first thought, but I could see no one. I even got
out the binoculars, but they didn't help. I kept looking
back at Tony and Quinn, but they signaled that they
couldn't see anything either. We didn't dare move
until we could figure out where they were, though I
was sweating from worry that we'd been spotted and
a patrol was on its way.

We waited until 1400, trying to spot them through
the leaves and moving v-e-r-y slowly to improve our
angle of vision, all without success. Then the radio
crackled and someone spoke again, and four NVA got
up from a tangle of undergrowth about thirty feet in
front of me and sauntered off to the right, apparently
unaware of us.

We let them'go, but now I had a new worry. The
listening post had been called in. Why? Had Thomp-
son and Hu been caught?

We lucked out by not having to give our position
away. I knew we were close to the Trail and that it
would be patrolled heavily. I waited until 1900 before
attempting the river crossing. We couldn't afford to
wait until it was pitch dark, but I wanted it as dark
as could be. First we patrolled up and down both
riverbanks to see if they were clear, and repeatedly
checked the other bank with binoculars. Then we
crossed, one at a time. Bob carried Tho across, with
five of us on the east bank and four on the west,
covering him.

302 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

It was 2000 when we mustered on the east bank
and headed for our rendezvous with Thompson and
Hu at the Trail. We had two miles to go, and two
hours to do it in, in the dark. We were going to be
cutting it close.

We didn't run into any more patrols before we got
to the Trail, but when we got there the area didn't
look familiar. We worked back to the left first, then
to the right, trying to locate our crossing. Time was
getting tight, and I hoped they would give us a few
extra minutes before they pulled out. Then Bob lo-
cated a mark he'd made with fluorescent paint, and
we knew we were close. I took a chance and broke
squelch on my handset: two short pops, two longs,
two shorts. A question mark. To my relief, there was
a reply: one long. A "T." It was followed by a pause
and then two short blips. All clear.

I called him up, then, and asked how it looked.

"The traffic is intermittent, either heavy or none at
all, and it seems to be clear now," he said.

"Do you know why the chickens cross the road?"
I asked him.

"To get to the other side, I guess," he replied. "I
hope the chickens look both ways."

Damn, it was good to hear him. Bob and I went
over to him when we got everyone across.

"How did it go?" he asked.

"We got him. How did it go with you?" Bob
wanted to know.

"They moved their damned ambush," he told us.
We were all sitting with our faces inches apart, talk-
ing in low tones. "We waited—we didn't want to hit
them too soon—and the fuckers moved to a spot about
a half mile from the Trail and right across our route

COVERT ACTIONS          303

again. They set up their ambush again there, but
they're still spread wide apart. We took out three,
including the radioman. We set the claymores to cover
the sides of the gap, then beat it back over here. We
got here twenty minutes before you did."

"Been any increase in activity this morning?" I
asked.

"Shit, they know you've got him, and they're look-
ing down this way. They've had a chopper fly over
the area and set down not far from here, and there's
been some traffic on the Trail. Trucks in the daylight,
full of troops, jeep patrols, that kind. I'd say they've
dropped off troops farther south and are working their
way back north looking for us."

"No shit! You should be squad leader, bud," I said
jokingly. Bob gave me a dirty look and Thompson
grinned. I went on, "What do you think is the best
course of action?"

"Let's get the fuck out of here," he said.

"I'll buy that," Bob said.

"Collect your claymores," I told him.

We moved out cautiously and approached the am-
bush very carefully. Hu had done his job well with
the crossbow. The other gooks hadn't noticed the dead
ones were missing. We passed easily through the gap,
and once we were on the other side, we picked up the
pace. We'd gone half a mile beyond the ambush when
we heard one of Thompson's claymores go off. Some
gook had gone to check on his buddy. After that, we
moved faster- We didn't run, but damned near it. The
pace was so fast for so long that Colonel Tho began
to have problems breathing through his snotty nose,
and we had to slow down to let him get his breath. I
didn't really feel sorry for the bastard, it was just that

304 James R. Reeves and James C. Taytor

if he passed out, someone would have to carry his
ass.

At about 0430, we were nearly to the LZ, and I
called in for a pickup. We stayed about thirty-five to
forty yards back, and I sent six of the men out to
check and make sure that Charlie wasn't lurking
somewhere nearby. When I heard the helicopter com-
ing, I called them back in. By 0500 we were loading
onto a big green and black chopper that was hovering
right above the grass.

There were a couple of agents on that helicopter,
in paramilitary uniforms without any identifying de-
vices, They flashed badges at us and took over Tho,
They put leg irons on him that were attached to the
tie-downs of the chopper, and they left his hands
cuffed and his mouth taped.

It was a forty-five-minute flight back to Quang Tri.

When we got there they took him away, and we
were debriefed. I sat there in the debriefing and
thought, "Not one casualty. Not one fucking cas-
ualty." I felt pretty damned proud of myself, and of
them. But my feet hurt.

CHAPTER 16

After the business with Minh Tho, Captain Gartley
thought we needed some R-and-R, and no one was
going to argue with him. The last few weeks had been
hard ones, and we had a break coming. We talked it
over among ourselves and decided we wanted to go to
Australia. Of course, the Navy arranged for us to go
to Hong Kong, but we told them we didn't want to
see any more Orientals, or strip joints, or brothels,
that all we were interested in was round-eyed women
and sunny beaches. Gartley fussed a little about the
inconvenience of having to change the arrangements,
but several of us said we'd as soon not go, and the
next day, we were on our way to Sydney.

Sydney was everything I expected it to be. I had
heard other GIs talk about how beautiful the beaches
305

306 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

were, and that the women outnumbered the men five
to one. When i saw it, I got butterflies in my stomach.
How would the people who lived there react to us?
Would they accept us? Here we were, saying, "We
want to relax and enjoy your beaches and flirt with
your women, and be accepted by you ordinary people
who've never killed anybody in your lives. Just forget
we're a band of killers and kidnappers and treat us
like normal young men, like kids on a holiday." It
had to be something like going home. I suddenly felt
I needed another bath, that the stench of death and
jungle rot still clung to me.

We arrived at the airport at about 0730 and were soon
on our way to the motel on the beach. It seemed strange
to be around so many round-eyed people. Bob, Tony,
Quinn, and I shared a cab, and the other guys split a
second. We all stayed at the same motel, but the rooms
were on different floors. I wanted to be by myself, so
Bob and Tony shared a room. We stopped on the way
and got some beer and I bought a cheap little Styrofoam
cooler to ice it down. Bob said, "Get me one, too, would
ye, Tyier?" so I picked up a second one and held them
out to him to choose which one he wanted. He picked
the one in my right hand, goddamn it.

We got to our rooms about 0830. I had my gear and
the cooler in my hands, so I set the gear down to unlock
the door. 1 propped the door open with my foot and
picked up the cooler with one hand to set it inside the
door, but before I could set it down, the damned handle
pulled out and the side cracked about a fourth of the way
down, spilling beer and ice on the floor.

"You son of a bitch!" I said, thinking a run of bad
luck was beginning. I got the rest of my gear out of
the hall and grabbed a beer off the floor before I started

COVERT ACTIONS          307

to unpack. Of course, it spewed all over my pants
when I opened it.

It was a beachfront room, with a little balcony, and
the view was beautiful. I contented myself with open-
ing the curtain and looking down at the ladies lying
out on the beach. They were wearing tiny bikinis of
the sort that would start a riot in the Midwest.

Bob and Tony came down the hall laughing and
joking. I guessed they had already changed and were
heading for the beach. As they walked by. Bob
knocked on the door and hollered, "Let's go, asshole!
Time's a-wastin'!" Their footsteps continued on, so I
didn't bother to answer.

I took time to shower, just because it felt good, and
because I wanted to scrub the rest of the Vietnamese
dirt and rot out of my pores with clean, non-Vietnam-
ese water. It was great to have all the hot water I
wanted and to be in an uncramped shower stall.

Afterwand, I took my beer out on the balcony and
looked down at the beach to see if I could spot the guys.
I saw Bob and Tony talking to a couple of giris that
were lying out. The others were sitting nearby drinking
beer. It looked like everybody was doing okay without
my help, so I went over and lay down on the bed, with-
out even throwing back the spread. It was soft and felt
really good, and of course it wasn't long before I dozed
off.

I dreamed a little about home, and a lot about 'Nam
and the guys I'd lost. The green kid I'd allowed to walk
point who just disappeared without a trace. Billy, who
had it all going for him and who should have gone home
to enjoy it, but didn't because I tried to save his ass and
send him for help. Yancey and "Chinese" Lee—I hardly
even got to know them before one of them hit a trip-

308 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

wire on an underwater mission. That's when my hearing
was damaged. Olfson, in the booby trap on Hill 484.
Lusk, who died on the way down. "John" and "Due,"
the spooks—I really didn't feel as responsible for them,
but they were there along with the others. In the dream,
there was some kind of sinister plot behind all their
deaths, but I couldn't figure out exactly who was behind
it. They all seemed to think I was.

When I woke up I went to get a beer and found the
damned cooler had finished cracking the rest of the
way down the side. I dug some green duct tape out of
my bag and taped it together.

It was about 1330, so I called room service and
ordered a hamburger. I asked the guy who brought it
up if he wanted to buy a good Styrofoam cooler, but
he wasn't interested.

You'd think with all the servicemen staying here
they would have learned to make a good hamburger.
They hadn't. It filled my need for solid food, though.

After I finished the burger, I grabbed another beer
and went down to the beach. My mind was still on
'Nam and the casualties. When the first water sloshed
over my feet, I wasn't prepared for it to be so cool,
A chill climbed my legs and ran up my spine like a
big spider, but it felt good. It washed away the
thoughts of Vietnam and the war. Somehow, "cool"
and "Vietnam" were two concepts I couldn't keep in
my mind at the same time, and the cool waves kept
slapping at my feet and ankles.

I must have walked about half a mile when I spotted
Tony and Bob walking down the beach toward me. I
didn't want to listen to their bullshit, so I thought I'd
go back up the beach, but I didn't make it. Tony saw
me and waved me over.

COVERT ACTIONS          309

Bob had his arm around some chick and was really
laying it on to her. Whatever he was saying, they were
all laughing, except one, a brown-haired giri in a white
bikini. She had a half grin on her face, as if she was
just being tolerant.

When I got close enough that he didn't have to yell,
Bob said, "Welcome to the land of the living, Tyier.
Want a beer?" He was carrying his cooler in one hand,
and I noticed his wasn't broken. It made me about
half mad: Bob always had all the luck, the bastard.
The girl he was wrapped around was good-looking,
even if she was squealing like a little pig.

They were all pretty tight and seemed to be having
a good time. Tony pressed a cold beer into my hand
and introduced me to everyone, even Bob, and told
them I was his team leader. There were seven women.
They all lived about a hundred miles from Sydney and
had come down for the week. The girl with the long
brown hair and white bikini was named Rhonda. The
others were plenty good-looking, but she caught my
eye. I seemed to have caught hers, because she was
looking me over too.

Bob had been running off at the mouth as usual, but
I wasn't paying any attention. He tapped me on the
leg with his cooler and said, "Thought you wanted to
be alone, asshole. What arc you doing down here on
the beach?"

I looked down at the damned cooler and was tempted
to kick the shit out of it, but didn't. He had a half-assed
grin on his face that looked to me like a smirk.

"I do," I answered him, "but I thought ye was
good for a beer if I stopped here to listen to ye brag
about something ye haven't got." His girlfriend

310 James R. Reeves and James C. Tayior

laughed shrilly. I walked off down the beach as the
smirk turned into a snarl.

I turned and glanced back at them after I'd gone a
few yards, mostly to get another look at Rhonda. They
were going on down the beach, but she was looking
over her shoulder at me. She smiled and framed the
word "bye" with her lips. I smiled and waved with a
little flip of my hand, and kept on walking, but I was
thinking about her.

I thought about how she'd shaped her lips to say
"bye," and how enticing they were. About the
warmth of her big brown eyes. About the rhythmic
bob of her breasts as she'd walked toward me. About
her lithe body, a dark golden tan, looking as smooth
as silk and soft as cotton.

I guess she fit the mental image I'd formed of Billy's
wife, because thinking about her led me to thinking about
Billy again, and 'Nam. It's not easy to live with the idea
that you fucked up and got someone killed. Especially
someone you liked and wanted to look out for. I fucked
up on Hill 484, too, by not taking the radio up the hill,
and by not aborting the mission when Olfson was killed.
I should have anticipated there would be booby traps,
too. Perhaps, if I'd warned him, he would have been
looking out for a trap, and could have seen that one.
When he got killed, I should have aborted the mission
right there. Even when we spotted the camp, it wouldn't
have been too late. If we'd just come back down the hill
instead of hitting it, Lusk might still be alive. Coming
back from Hanoi, if I'd waited at the clearing where
there weren't any gooks until that smart-ass radio oper-
ator went off duty, we might have gotten out without
losing John and Due.

That was at least six fuck-ups. It might be better if I

COVERT ACTIONS  i      311

Just insisted they put somebody else in my place. Why
they gave the patrol leader job to me I didn't know, but
I had it and all the responsibility that came with it. What
was so goddamned special about me? I guess I got to be
patrol leader because I had the drive to survive. I didn't
want to be the victim of anybody else's fuck-ups. For
the same reason, I always walked point.

So why did I come back for another tour, and take
up the pain and responsibility again?

I don't know.

"I'm thirsty," said a voice. It was mine, and, by
God, it was right. It was time for another brew.

I turned and stood looking at the sea for a while,
my hands in my pockets, so it would look as if I'd
gone as far as I intended to go all along, and then
drifted back down the beach toward the room.

I ran across Bob and his beach party before I got back
to the motel. They were lying on the beach drinking
beer. Bob was out splashing around in the water. I no-
ticed his fucking cooler, all in one piece and fill! of beer,
and thought about that piece of shit back in my room. I
went over and dug a can out of the ice.

As I brushed the ice off the top of the can, I glanced
around and there was Rhonda. She was a little off to
one side, away from the others, lying on her belly
with her legs crossed and her face pillowed in her
hands. The pose accentuated her small waist and
rounded ass and long, shapely legs. She had unfas-
tened her top and pulled her long hair to one side, so
the sun could tan her entire back and neck, and I could
see the sides of her breasts. She was about five-foot-
six and I guess she might have weighed 110, give or
take five pounds. Quite a package.

The damned woman knew I was going to come

312     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

back. There was no way she could have seen me, with
her hands in her face that way, yet she knew it was
me getting the beer. "Bob said you were from Arkan-
sas. Is it pretty there?" she asked.

It startled me a little that she knew it was me, but I
recovered fast. "Yeah, kind of. Lots of oak woods
and rolling hills, with a few mountains. I like it. It's
home," I replied. I popped the top on the can and
took a long drink, studying her body. She'd turned
her head to the side and laid it on her crossed fore-
arms, and was looking over at me now, but I was
wearing my flight glasses, so she couldn't see my eyes
hungrily scanning her body. "Did Bob tell you I was
a backwards hillbilly?"

"Yes, it was something like that," she said with a
smile. "I don't believe everything he says, though."
"You've got him figured out, then."
"You seem to have a strange friendship."
"He's a strange friend."

The conversation was interrupted when Old Motor
Mouth himself and his girl came out of the water to
get a beer- I turned toward them and knocked over
Bob's cooler. I hoped it would break like mine, but
the damned top didn't even come off. I set the damned
thing upright again just as Bob walked up.

"Hand me a beer outa there, Tyier. That's a damned
good little cooler, ain't it?"

I looked up and tossed him one, and said, "Yeah,
boy!" Then I tossed another to his girl. She was about
three sheets to the wind, but not too far gone to catch
a beer can.

"You like my little cooler, baby?" Bob asked her,
and she giggled like he'd said something nasty. That was
probably the first sentence he'd spoken to her that didn't

COVERT ACTIONS ^       313

have "shit," "piss," or "fuck" in it. He just kept
bullshitting her, his loud voice drowning out everyone
else's, except hers when she squealed at some vulgarity.
I glanced back at Rhonda and caught her studying me,
but every time I opened my mouth to say something,
Bob was talking or his giri was squealing.

Finally, I'd had about all I could take, and I got up
and started back to the room. When I stood up. Bob
looked up at me with a question in his eyes and shut
up long enough so I could say, "Thanks for the beer.
See you guys later."

There was a question in Rhonda's eyes too, as I
walked past her toward the motel. She looked a little
hurt, I thought. I wanted to stay and talk to her, and
I thought she wanted me to, but I just couldn't handle
being around Bob right then. I was a little afraid I'd
have a flashback or something with Rhonda around. I
felt a little awkward and shy around her. She wasn't
some slope bargiri, after all.

It was about 1700 when I got back to the room, opened
the door, and saw that damned cooler. The tape had
come loose and dumped all my ice in the sink. The beer
was lying on the ice. There were fourteen or fifteen left
of the case I'd bought when we first got there. Bob
must've finished a case himself by now. I retaped the
damned cooler, going all the way around it this time,
and put the ice and beer back into it—except for the
coldest can, which I sat down on the bed to drink.

It was 1730 or so, and beginning to get dark out,
when someone knocked on the door. I hadn't closed
it all the way, so I said, "Come in." When I looked
up, Rhonda had pushed the door open and was stand-
ing in the doorway, a silhouette backlighted by the
lights in the hall. I hadn't turned the lights on when I

314    James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

came in because there was plenty of light with the
curtain open then. Now the room had gotten daric, and
I'm sure she wondered why I was sitting there in the
shadows. "She probably thinks I'm brooding about
something," I thought.

"Tony wanted to know if you needed any beer or
anything. They're going to the liquor store to pick
something up for tonight," she told me.

"Good old Tony," I said, disappointed she hadn't
come up just to see me. I gave her some money and
asked her to bring me back a couple of six-packs. Then
I stood in the door and watched her walk down the hall
and around the comer. When she was out of sight, I
wandered over onto the balcony and looked down, think-
ing she might walk back down to the beach, but they
weren't anywhere in sight. I guess she met them in the
lobby. After a while, I gave up and went back inside. I
turned on the television set, but the programs all seemed
to be local talk shows except one feature on the Paris
peace talks, and I didn't want to hear that.

When Rhonda came back she knocked again, even
though the door was open.

"Come on in," I told her, "and turn on the light."
It occurred to me then that she might not know what
to expect when she did. I might be setting there barc-
ass naked or something. But she flipped the light on
and set the beer on the vanity. She put my change
there beside it and looked at me for a minute. I was
standing near the glass slider.

"Well," she said, and paused for a moment. "If
you feel like it, you can come down. We'll be out on
the beach."

"Okay, thanks," I said. She stood there a second
or two and then turned toward the door to leave. "You

COVERT ACTIONS         315

can stay, if you ... if you want to," I blurted out,
before she could get to the door.

She stopped and looked back at me. She didn't
smile, she just looked very seriously at me with those
big brown eyes. I was sure she was going to say,
"Why would I want to? You haven't been especially
friendly," but she didn't. Instead she said, "I would
like that," with a wisp of a smile. She helped herself
to a beer, tilting the cooler to look at the tape I'd put
around it and the water leaking from the crack in the
side, and then walked around the bed to sit on the
edge. I sat beside her.

Neither of us spoke for a minute or two. I lit a
cigarette to cover the embarrassing silence, and of-
fered one to her, but she lifted the can of beer to
indicate that was all she wanted.

"Are you angry at them?" she finally asked.

"Who, the guys? Naw, I just needed to be away
from them awhile."

"Perhaps you'd rather I went . . ."

"No ... no. It's just that I'm around them all the
time. I eat with 'em, sleep with 'em, bathe with 'em,
and go to the bathroom with 'em. I like to be away
from them some, that's all."

"Have you known them a long time?"

I reached over and took the beer from her hand and
took a drink from it, then took a drag on my cigarette
as I handed it back. "Bob and Tony I've known ever
since BUDS," I told her. "That's what you'd call
diver training, I guess. And Fitchew, Casburn, and
Quinn. We all trained together. Bob and I made the
bars together in San Diego, and we served together
our first tour."

"How long is a tour?"

316     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

"That's a year, or it's supposed to be. I didn't make
a full year. Just ten months. I was wounded."

She looked at me inquiringly. "Was it bad?"

What was she thinking? That I'd lost some useful
parts? Or my mind maybe?

"No, not really bad, I guess," I replied. "I only
lost part of the eardrum in my left ear. If you were
sitting on my left side, I might not hear what you said
sometimes. But two of the guys with me died."

"I'm sorry. Were they friends too?"

"They weren't enemies," I said, then decided that
sounded a little harsh, so I explained, "I didn't know
them all that well. They'd only been in my outfit a
few weeks. But they were my responsibility."

"Bob is an unusual person," she said, steering the
conversation off the war.

"Bob is an unusual person," I agreed.

She tipped up her beer and tossed the can at the waste-
basket. I got up to get her another, and got one for me.
I crammed another six into the ice while I was there.

"Did he tell you about himself?" I asked while I
worked the beers into the ice.

"Oh, incessantly!" she replied, with a merry chortle.

I was serious when I handed her the beer. "I can
depend on Bob," I told her. "I can depend on him to
be vulgar, and rude, and filthy, but if I get my titty in
a wringer, I can depend on him to be there to help."
I stopped, realizing the indelicacy of what I'd just said,
but I guess after what she'd heard from Bob all day,
it sounded mild. Instead of being offended, she knitted
her eyebrows and made a small *'0" with her mouth,
and moved one hand to her own breast as if she felt
the pain. Then she giggled. I guess it was the first
time she'd heard the expression.

COVERT ACTIONS          317

"I think I understand," she said. "What about the
others?"

I sat down beside her again. "They're good men, and
most of 'em are easier to get along with, but I just can't
depend on them like I can Bob. I know how Bob thinks—
a lot like I do when it comes to a tight situation. Don't
get me wrong; I learned my first tour if I was going to
survive I had to count on nobody but myself. So I check
and double-check everything Bob does, and double-check
mat he knows what I want him to do. But I know he'll
hold up his end, or die trying."

I probably would have gone on some more, now
that I had somebody to listen to me, but just then there
was a loud pop. She jumped and looked around. I
knew right away what it was.

"What was that?" she asked.

"My damn cooler. It was my damn cooler again."

I told her about me cooler and the bad luck I'd had
with it, how I'd been trying so hard to save it, and how
Bob had the same kind and had no problems with it. By
the time I was through, we were both laughing like hell,
lying back on the bed side by side. God! I hadn't laughed
like that in a long time. I didn't want to stop.

After we ran out of things to laugh about, I looked
over toward her. She was looking at me too, and smil-
ing, and I thought I'd just about drown in those big
brown eyes. I had the impulse to kiss her. If I'd
stopped to think, I wouldn't have tried it, but impulse
won out over caution. As I moved closer to her she
moved her hand, and I thought for an instant she was
going to hold me away, but her hand went to the back
of my neck and pulled me nearer.

It wasn't a hot, passionate kiss, but it had a lot of
feeling behind it. It was a very delicate kiss. Her lips

318     James R. Reeves and James C. Fay/or

were moist and softer than I had imagined, and her
skin was like silk.

She pushed me back gently and sat up. I stood up and
went to the door that led out on the balcony, to look out
toward the beach and hide the erection that was making
an embarrassing bulge in my pants. After a few seconds
she joined me. We sat on the rail of the balcony and
looked out at the sea and talked. We talked about every-
thing under the sun. We talked about her home town,
and mine. About raising pigs, and raising sheep. About
her job, and about Vietnam. About everything but my
wife. I couldn't bring that up.

About 2000 I finally thought about dinner and asked
if she wanted me to call for room service- She said
no, the others were going to have a picnic on the
beach, and they should have plenty left over for us, if
I didn't mind. joining them. It sounded like a good
idea to me now, so we went down and walked along
the beach until we found them.

It was beautiful. The moon was almost full, and
gleamed off the whitecaps out in the bay. Every star
in the heavens was out. I looked up at the moon and
silently thanked it for being on my side this time. The
sand was cool to our bare feet, and the salty tang of
the sea breeze was a sharp contrast to the smells of
'Nam. The sound of the waves was soothing, and you
could just make out the pleasant tones of people talk-
ing and laughing together, and the murmur of traffic
in the background.

"How different from 'Nam," I thought. When you
heard the roar of the tide over there, you knew you
were close to land and hell was just a short time com-
ing. When you looked at the stars, you were usually
trying to determine direction. The only sounds of civ-

COVERT ACTIONS         319

ilization you heard were the roar of a boat engine or
a jet going over, or the whop-whop-whop of a helicop-
ter rotor. The voices you heard were usually hurt or
frightened, listing casualties, or calling for help, for
artillery support or a dustoff, or both.

Rhonda slipped her arm around my waist as we
walked, and I thought no more about 'Nam.

All of the team was there with Rhonda's girlfriends,
sitting around a little fire, drinking beer, shooting the
shit, and taking an occasional dip in the water—all
except Bob and his girlfriend. Ginger. They were
making out like kids at a drive-in movie, fondling each
other all over and making all kinds of weird noises.
Everyone was watching them and laughing and egging
them on, but it didn't disturb them-

Rhonda and I prowled through the picnic supplies,
but there was hardly anything left.

"Bob was hungry," Tony explained.

"He must be pregnant!" the girl with Tony joked.
"He's eatin' for two!"

"We didn't eat dinner," I explained to Tony. "We
thought we'd mooch off you."

"Ow, wow!" his giri said loudly to the others, with
a wink and a leer. "They didn't have time for dinner!"

Tony jumped to his feet and pulled the giri up by the
hand. "I've been wanting a hot dog! Anybody want a
hot dog?" he asked. There were several takers, includ-
ing Bob, who raised one hand and went right on
smooching Ginger. We finally decided to get a dozen
and give any left over to Bob. He would surely eat them.
I stood up to go with Tony, but he pushed me back.
"You and Rhonda stay here and watch the floor show,"
he said. "I've got all the help I need," he added, nod-

320 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

ding toward the giri. When I tried to give him some
money he pushed that away too.

He came back with the food in just a few minutes,
and the show was still going on. "Hey, Bob, here's
your hot dog!" he said, but Bob never answered, so
Tony finally shrugged and laid a couple of them down
beside the couple on the blanket.

"All he's going to do tonight is sit on the edge of
the bed and tell Ginger how good he's going to be
tomorrow when he sobers up," I told Rhonda and the
world in general. "The only thing about him that's
going to be hard tonight is his toenails."

"Ginger won't remember," Rhonda told me. "I've
never seen her this drunk before."

"He has a way of doing that to people," Tony told
her,

"Oh, my God! You can see his crack!" wailed To-
ny's girl, and Rhonda fell against me laughing. It was
true. Bob's trunks had pulled down in the back, ex-
posing about half his ass.

"It's a little dandy, ain't it!" I said. Tony grabbed
his camera and checked for film, but he'd already used
it all.

Bob's hot dogs lay undisturbed on the blanket be-
hind him.

"He ain't eating his hot dogs," I pointed out.
"Maybe he needs some beer to go with 'em." I moved
his damned cooler closer to him, so he'd roll over on
it when he got up.

I got another beer and sat back down by Rhonda. A
few minutes later it happened. I had just taken a drink
when one of them farted—probably Bob, but I wasn't
too sure. I laughed and spewed beer everywhere, and
everyone else just roared and rolled on the sand.

COVERT ACTIONS         321

The loud laughter finally got through to them, and
they unlocked to see what was so damned funny. Bob
rolled over onto his hot dogs and knocked his cooler
over. He got up cussing, with mustard and sand and
little pieces of potato chips all over his back. One of
the wieners was stuck in the top of his swimming
trunks, and a bun was flattened onto one of his cheeks
where the trunks had pulled down. He started rum-
bling with the cooler, setting it upright. It wasn't bro-
ken. He picked up some of the beers that had fallen
out and saw they were coated with sand, so he gath-
ered up the lot and headed for the water to wash them
off. When he turned around the wiener fell out of his
trunks and left a smear of mustard right at the top of
his crack. He stopped and looked at me. "What the
hell are you laughing at?" he growled.

"Just your yellow ass. Bob."

"Piss on all of you, you sons of bitches!" he said,
his legs wobbling around- He turned and staggered on
down to the water to rinse the sand off his beer cans.

There was a burst of clapping. One of the giris yelled,
"Looking good there. Ginger! Looking good!" She had
raised up and was shaking the sand out of her hair, and
one of her tits was hanging out. She saw it and started
to put it back in, then stopped. She stuck two fingers
into the other cup, and sand cascaded out, so she just
took the whole damned top off and started dumping the
sand. We just rolled on the ground and laughed. Ginger
was too drunk to be embarrassed. She got up and wob-
bled down to the water to wash off, then she helped Bob
wash the food off his back. When they came back, she
had her top on.

After a while, when the fire had burned down to
coals, and the beer was low, couples started wander-

322     James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

ing off up and down the beach. Bob and Ginger were
lying in one another's arms looking at the moon.
Rhonda looked up at me and said, "Let's go home."

The next couple of days went about the same way.
We drank a lot of beer, and lay around the beach. We
took the guis out to dinner and dancing and raised some
hell in town, but Rhonda and I spent a lot of me time
alone together. She was sensitive and compassionate,
and she taught me how good it can feel to have someone
who cares for you, and someone to care for. When I
was with her I forgot 'Nam, and home, and my mind
was at peace. I began to have some thoughts about com-
ing back to Australia after I mustered out of the Navy,
but I knew it would never work out.             /

We never could fix that damned cooler. Like a lot
of other things, once rucked up, it couldn't be put
back together.

Then the time came for us to leave. I kissed Rhonda
goodbye at the airport and walked away, telling the
guys, "Okay, let's get moving. Hell's a-waitin', let's
don't miss our plane!"

I waved at her from the window as long as I could.
I knew I would never see her again.

Intermission was over, and it was time to get back
to the main feature.

CHAPTER 17

When we got back from our R-and-R, things had
changed significantly. The Navy had pulled back from
their base at Quang Tri and turned it over to the South
Vietnamese. NISO was running all their operations
out of Saigon. A lot to have taken place in three days,
but that wasn't all.

Minh Tho had been under interrogation, and he
hadn't held much back. Whatever he'd told the Intel-
ligence people had them all in a tizzy. Of course, they
wouldn't tell us what it was, but they were obviously
excited. And worried.

They sent us up to a camp in Quang Tri Province
and we operated out of there for about six weeks,
running rccon missions. We usually took the LDNNs
with us, or some of the other Vietnamese Special
323

324 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

Forces, to get them experience in our way of doing
things. To keep the units small, there were usually
only two or three Americans and two or three South
Viets. Sometimes we had four patrols in the field at
one time.

We were on one of those recon missions when we
got an urgent message to return to camp for airiift to
Saigon. We weren't in a good mood- We needed a
good blowout, especially Bob: he was always in heat
and thirsty. We had been out in the bush for four
days, and we were pretty tired and sore. But that
wasn't all that was bothering us. There had been some
shitty missions lately, and a couple of guys had caught
a few rounds. On top of that, every time we asked
for air support it had been denied. We weren't happy
with the way things had been going. When the call
came down urgent, I figured we were going to get the
shaft again.

When we got to camp, Tacron was waiting to fly
us back down to Saigon right away.

It was hot, and I sat close to the door so I could
feel the breeze. My eyelids felt heavy, and it ap-
peared everyone else felt the same way: their heads
were nodding. It wasn't long until they dozed off. It
was a long way to Saigon, and I thought I might as
well catch some Z's too, so I propped my head up
against the bulkhead to go to sleep, but as always,
I'd taken Dexedrine for the mission, and now I
couldn't lose consciousness.

I lit a smoke and sat up a little straighter. The pilot
glanced back at me, but didn't say anything. I took a
deep drag off my Mariboro and blew it out as I looked
over at the men.

They were a great bunch of guys, and we had come

COVERT ACTIONS         325

a long way together. They were good about doing
whatever I asked, no matter what it was. We bull-
shitted a lot and joked around, but when it came down
to business, no one was more dead serious than they
were. They all knew what they were doing. There
weren't any fuck-ups or goof-offs among them, and
that took some of the pressure off me in tight spots,
but it still wasn't easy having the responsibility of
seeing that they made it back safely. The last thing I
wanted to do was let them down. I didn't want to be
responsible for someone's death, any more than I
wanted to be killed myself. I worried about that a lot.
When we would lose a man they would look at me
with what I thought was doubt. Many a night I would
tie in my rack and think about it.

I must have been really deep into my thoughts, be-
cause I said out loud without thinking, "God, will I
ever get the taste of blood out of my mouth?"

That woke Fitchew up. "What did you say, Ty-
ler?"

"Nothing, bud. Just thinking out loud." I must
have been talking really loud for him to hear me over
the noise of the engine and props.

It wasn't long until the pilot said, "Welcome to
Saigon, boys. You made it back where you started."
What he didn't know was that we would only be here
for a short stay. Right before we got off the chopper
he went on to say, "Hey, you want to know where
you can get a good screwing?"

I looked at him and said, "No, thanks. We've been
getting one for several weeks now, and we've prob-
ably got another one already waiting for us."

He looked at me as if he wanted to say, "You
smartass!" and shook his head.

326 James R. Reeves and James C. Tayior

When we started toward the field house, an officer
dressed in khakis came out to meet us-

Bob said, "What in the hell is that?"

"A set of khakis. Bob," I told him. It seemed like
a long time since we had seen anyone in anything
except greens or black pajamas.

He was a skinny little shit with flight glasses, and
he had the bill of his cap pushed forward so it was
touching the rims. He lifted his arm straight from the
shoulder, pointed his finger at us, and said, "You the
SEALs from up north?"

"Yessir!" Bob said loudly.

"Sir?" Was this really Bob talking? I looked over
at him and he told me in low tones, "I just couldn't
help it. Jay: them khakis made me do it!"    /

"Shit!" I said with a grin.

The officer waved us toward three jeeps with offi-
cers in them. I began to feel apprehensive right away.
If they were sending officers to pick us up in jeeps,
instead of one officer and some enlisted drivers, some
kind of deep shit was going down. We started toward
them, and I asked the officer who met us, "What's
going down?''

He only replied, "You'll be briefed later. Right
now, let's get you a place to bunk."

We threw our gear in the jeeps and got in. Bob and
I got in the same one.

Bob asked the dude driving where he could get laid,
but the guy just shook his head, grinned, and drove
on.

"Is there any place we could get a couple of six-
packs?" I asked.                           *

"There's an EM club where you're going," he
said.

COVERT ACTIONS          327

"How far is it?"

"Just a little ways down the beach."

"Any women?" Bob asked.

Again the guy just smiled and shook his head. He
wasn't one to talk much. All he seemed to want to
do was smile and shake his head.

I tapped him on the shoulder and told him, "What
the man means is a human being with long hair, big
breasts, a round butt, and a small hole between its
legs. You ever seen anything like that walking
around? Sir." Again he did the same little bullshit:

shake and grin.

All the way to the barracks we tried to get him to
talk to us, but he wouldn't talk.

We arrived at the barrack where he was to drop us
off, and we got out and unloaded our gear.

"You're a couple of crazy sons of bitches," he
said. Then he did his little shake and grin again.

There were two guards at me door, and a big dude
with a high-pitched voice who was in charge of the
barracks. When he spoke, I just about burst out laugh-
ing.

"Follow me, and I'll show you where you can
bunk."

As we started down the hall I said to Bob in a low
voice, "Looks like you might get that piece of ass
after all."

"Piss on you, Tyier."

Fitchew was right behind us. "Bob, you could pre-
tend he was female—he could talk to you while you
were doing it," he said-

"Blow it out your ass. Fitchew."

The big guy looked over his shoulder and gave us
a hard look. I just smiled at him and kept on walking.

328 James R. Reeves and James C. T&ylor

Every one of us was in a shitty mood, and no one
gave a damn if he wanted to start trouble.

He showed us where to bunk and told us someone
would be by later to get us. As he started back down
the hall I stopped him.

"Hey, man, you know where we can get a cold
one?"

"Club's right across the street in the back of that
building," he said.

The other men in the barrack were mostly com-
munications personnel. I knew something big was
coming up, or they would have put us in with other
combat troops instead of hiding us. I had a sick feel-
ing that this was going to be something like the Minh
Tho mission, only worse. I had no idea, though/ that
it was going to be the kind of James Bond bullshit
that it turned out to be.

Every once in a while someone would walk by and
look into our room. I began to feel like a rare animal
that no one had ever seen before. We had our black
berets on, so everyone knew we were SEALs, and
they were all wondering what the hell we were doing
there.

It wasn't long before a kid knocked on our door.

"Which one of you is Tyier?"

I turned to look at him. "I am."

"They'll pick you up in an hour out front. Not
much time, but you can grab a beer over at the EM
club."

"Do you know where we're going?" I asked him.

He shook his head. "They don't tell me shit, ex-
cept what to do," he said.                  ,

Bob stretched and arched his back. "Let's go get a
beer. I'm thirsty."

COVERT ACTIONS          329

It wasn't a bad little club, small, with a jukebox
and a dozen tables. There were only four people at
the bar and half a dozen at the tables. The bartender
was talking to a dude in the middle of the bar when
we walked in.

"Beer?" the bartender said. He gave everybody a
round, and we pulled two tables together and sat
down. I downed about half of mine, then lit up a
Marlboro. Damn, it felt good going down my throat,
and the smoke felt good filling my lungs. It had been
a long time since I'd sat down, smoked a cigarette,
and relaxed over a beer. From the looks on the other
guys' faces, they'd relaxed too. It wasn't long until
we were ready for another round, and then another.

Then a Marine sergeant showed up and told us it
was time to go.

"Where arc we headed, Sarge?" I asked.

"To NISO headquarters. Vice Admiral Jameson
sent for you."

"You drive for the Admiral?"

"Hell, I drive for all the big shits. Wherever they
want to go, I take 'em. Even bring their women to
them. Sometimes I get what's left over. Sometimes I
knock off a little before I get 'em there—those pricks
don't know the difference."

Bob leaned forward. "Women? What did you say
about women?"

"I said, the officers buy the good stuff. Not the
three-dollar darlin's you're used to."

"You couldn't fix us up with some of it, could
you?" Bob asked.

"You bet ... if we had time." The sergeant was
cool, not like that asshole driver we had before. We
talked until we arrived at the NISO headquarters.

330 James R. Reeves and James C. Taytor

There were two Marine guards dressed in greens
posted outside the door. They looked real nice stand-
ing there at parade rest. The sergeant led us into the
building and down the corridor until we came to a
cross-corridor where we turned left. There was a door
at the end with two more Marine guards posted on
either side. The sergeant knocked on the door and a
Navy lieutenant, j.g., opened it.

"Yeah?" he grunted.

"The SEALS from Quang Tri arc here, sir."

"Send them on in."

When we walked into the room. Vice Admiral
Jameson, Captain Gartley, and several other officers
sitting at a table all turned to look at us.

"Welcome, gentlemen," the Admiral said as he
rose to his feet. He walked toward us with his right
hand out, and spoke to Bob and me. "It's good to
see you two again."

"You're looking good. Admiral," I answered.

"You're full of shit, Tyier. Look at this beer gut!"
He patted his belly, which was bulging a little. His
smile was genuine as he shook my hand, then Bob's.
"Brewster, are you doing all right?"

"Never done nothin' right in my life, sir. You know
that," Bob replied.

The Admiral chuckled and turned to the other offi-
cers. "I had the honor of pinning Silver Stars on these
two young fellows."

He didn't tell them he also had the honor of bailing
our asses out of trouble for slugging a Navy officer.

He shook hands with the other guys, and when he
finished, he turned to the officers and introduced 4hem
to us. "Gentlemen, this is General Ames with
MACV, and Captain Trueblood and Captain Knapp,

COVERT ACTIONS          331

both with NISO." We didn't shake hands with them
but just nodded- Then we sat down.

"What we have is a high risk mission," the Admi-
ral said. "We think you men are the best team to take
it on, but it is very high risk- It is a type of mission
that we very seldom undertake, and then very reluc-
tantly. I regret that you men have to be involved in
it, but I have the highest confidence in your ability to
carry it out, and I know that there is not a security
risk among you."

I looked at him closely. He really did look as if he
regretted involving us. In fact, he looked like an old
maid schoolteacher that had just stepped in a pile of
dog droppings.

The Admiral looked at us one by one. "We can
end this briefing right now, along with your involve-
ment in the mission, if you are reluctant to take it
on."

I had to speak up. "Just how high is the risk. Ad-
miral? You make it sound like a suicide mission."

"There is a very high risk of failure, Mr. Tyier,
but the nature of the mission is such that you're likely
to survive even if the mission fails. The type of risk
that's involved is not the sort that is usual for your
assignments. There is a danger that you might be shot
if seen, and since you will not be armed, you couldn't
defend yourselves, and if you are captured while car-
rying out the mission, a lot of people besides your-
selves could be in deep shit. Very likely, failure would
mean you men would spend some time in the stock-
ade at Long Binh, and the officers in this room might
just be in there with you."

I raised an eyebrow and glanced over at Bob. His
forehead was creased between his eyebrows, and he

332 James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

was frowning. Just what sort of a crazy mission was
this, anyway?

"If the press finds out about your mission, there'll
be hell to pay for sure. Ripples could spread so far,
they might even reach the President."

Now I had both eyebrows raised and was grinning
at Bob. I couldn't help myself, the grin was a nervous
reaction. Bob had folded his arms across his chest and
slumped down in his chair. He looked as if he didn't
believe all this bullshit but was resigned to having to
listen to it anyway.

"Do you wish to hear any more, gentlemen? Now
is the time to speak up, if you want to refuse the
mission. This is all I can tell you without some com-
mitment on your part. You'll have opportunities to
back out later, after you've learned more details, but
if you do so then, you'll be held incommunicado until
someone does complete the mission."

"What do you mean, incommunicado?" someone
asked. Tony, I think.

"You would be kept under guard in Long Binh."

No one said anything. He had my curiosity aroused,
and what the hell, I sure wouldn't mind sitting out a
few days or even weeks of the war to find out what
this crazy mission was. I had visions of kidnapping
Hanoi's negotiating team in Paris, or something
equally crazy.

The Admiral smiled and went on, "I didn't think
you'd let me down. Captain Gartley, you may begin
the briefing."

Captain Gartley stood up. He nodded to the Admi-
ral and began. He didn't call us gentlemen. /

"If you undertake this mission and are caught or
killed, the United States Navy will deny any involve-

COVERT ACTIONS         333

ment. Our official position will be that you are acting
on your own, probably for criminal purposes. You
may face court-martial and internment." He paused
and looked around.

No one was impressed. We'd heard worse before.
I just waved my hand: cut the crap and get on with
it.

"The mission involves entering and locating a sub-
ject in a closely guarded intelligence facility and ter-
minating his command, either by extracting him or by
eliminating him in such a manner that it appears he
died accidentally or of natural causes. Successful
completion of this mission could have adverse effects
on your emotional and mental states and your mo-
rale."

Now it was beginning to get interesting. Out of the
corner of my eye I saw Bob sit upright in his chair.
Tony leaned forward and rested his elbow on his knee,
his fingers over his mouth as if he was afraid he'd
say something he shouldn't. My mind was racing al-
ready, wondering why it would affect our morale, and
trying to figure out why they wanted it to look acci-
dental. Another pan of my mind said, "be patient:

they'll tell you if you need to know, and if they don't,
you can make a better guess when you know more
about the guy."

"We have reason to believe that this individual has
been passing sensitive military information to the
North Vietnamese. We want the flow of information
halted. If you accept this mission, the choice of meth-
ods for completing it will be yours. Our preference is
that he be extracted for interrogation. If this is im-
possible, we want him eliminated. However, his
elimination must be handled in such a way that it

334 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

appears that he died of natural causes or by acci-
dent."

"If you want to question him, why don't you just
send the MPs around to pick him up?" Quinn asked.
It sounded logical to me, too.

"We don't want to tip off his contacts and accom-
plices. We're sure the facility is watched, just as a
matter of course, to pick up any information about
our activities they can get that way. If he were
escorted off by MPs, the Viet Cong and the North
Vietnamese intelligence structure would know in min-
utes."

"So why don't you pick him up when he's off
duty?"

"For the same reasons, actually, and some others
that will be apparent later."

He paused again, nervously sorting through the pa-
pers on the table in front of him as if uncertain how
to continue. I figured he must be talking about some
South Vietnamese officer from an influential family.
He had to be from an influential family or he would
simply have disappeared into the tiger cages on Con
Son Island. To grab a South Vietnamese and accuse
him of treason would really strain relations between
the two governments, unless there was an ironclad
case against him. The only other alternative would be
to assassinate him, and then it would be a political
football unless, as the Captain had emphasized, it ap-
peared natural or accidental. Or unless the VC could
be blamed.

Captain Gartley seemed to have found what he was
looking for: a manila envelope. He took a photograph
out of it and pushed it across the table.

I picked it up and glanced at it. It was a picture of

COVERT ACTIONS         335

an American Army officer, a colonel, in his late thir-
ties or early forties, to judge by the graying temples.

"Who is this?" I asked, thinking he must be some
sort of contact or finger man.

"That is the subject," Captain Gartley replied.

I dropped the photograph as if it were a hot potato.

"Jesus! He's an American!"

"Yes, I regret to inform you that he is an Ameri-
can, a colonel in Army intelligence. Evidence has
been accumulating over the past several months that
he has gone sour on us. Then our 'friend' Minh Tho
talked, and he indicated that North Vietnamese intel-
ligence had a source of information on our staff. We
aren't one hundred percent certain yet that this is the
man, but we have enough evidence to make us willing
to eliminate him, if necessary, to stop the flow of
information. We also think he may not act alone, and
we need to get to him without his accomplices know-
ing he's in our hands, so they'll continue their activ-
ities. That's where you come in."

I thought it was my turn to speak up, so I put in
my two cents' worth. "Let me get this straight," I
said. "You want us to go in and get this guy and
bring him out alive for questioning. But if we say it
can't be done, you want us to assassinate him in-
stead?"

"That's about the size of it,"

"Since this guy is an American, the intelligence
facility you're talking about must be an American fa-
cility."

"That's right."

"So there are going to be American soldiers
around."

"There will be American servicemen around, and

336 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

they must not be harmed- I repeat: they must not be
harmed. That's why it may be impossible to get him
out alive. It will have to be done entirely by stealth."

"Just what kind of a goddamned facility is this any-
way?" I had visions of MACV headquarters.

"It's the flagship, the USS Eldorado," Captain
Gartley said. For some reason, that shook me up. It
really wasn't all that unusual for an Army officer to
be attached TDY to a Navy unit, or vice versa. That
wasn't what surprised me. The Eldorado was Admi-
ral Jameson's flagship, my headquarters, so to speak,
and they wanted me to go kidnap some officer from
on board. Anyway, the goddamned thing was guarded
like Fort Knox.                             /

"Why don't you just grab the son of a bitch when
he comes ashore?" someone asked.

"We only have two days before the ship sails, and
he might not go ashore again. Anyway, with the sen-
sitive job that he has, he would be under tight security
when he went ashore, as a precaution against his get-
ting taken or assassinated by the Viet Cong."

It was quiet again while we thought that over.

Finally, I asked the Admiral, "I'd like to know
why you pulled us out of the bush for this mission
when you had personnel in the area who could do the
job just as well or even better than we could." Were
they setting us up for something again?      /

"There are no such personnel," he replied. "The
Tacforce was organized for just this sort of operation,
and you're experienced. You've snatched people from
heavily guarded facilities in hostile territory."

"But not our own people. Admiral' Hellfire, you're
talking about Agent 007 bullshit!" I said. After a mo-

COVERT ACTIONS          337

ment, I asked, "How many people in his command
structure know about this?"

"I can't answer that," Captain Gartley answered
curtly.

"If we take this on, what are our chances of getting
out?" Tony asked.

"I would say your odds are about fifty-fifty," Gart-
ley replied.

"COMPHIBPAC is not going to jeopardize the lives
of six men, whom the Navy has spent many thou-
sands of dollars to train, for no good reason. This
situation has ramifications far beyond the here and
now," Admiral Jameson said, with a deadly serious
look. It was an odd way to say it, for he was COM-
PHIBPAC, but I understood what he meant: he was
speaking for the command, not just for himself per-
sonally. He'd consulted with his aides before making
the decision. I trusted him. He was a hard old dude,
but I knew him to be fair. He had kept me and Bob
from being court-martialed for hitting an officer, and
transferred the incompetent son of a bitch out of his
command. Of course, he sent us back to active duty,
which I thought was about the same as a death sen-
tence.

I looked around at the guys and said, "What do
you boys think?"

"What if you get him, and you were wrong about
him?" Fitchew asked.

"If we're wrong, he'll be cautioned against ever
revealing what happened, and he'll return to his du-
ties," Captain Gartley answered.

"And if not?" I prompted.

"Then he'll be court-martialed."

338 James R. Reeves and James C. Tayior

"What if there isn't enough evidence to convict
him, but too much to let him go?"

"If he beats the court-martial, he'll be transferred
to a less sensitive job."

"Well, what if we had to kill him, and it turns out
he was innocent?" Tony asked.

"We'll cover you, in that case. The incident will
be blamed on the Viet Cong."

"Unless we're captured," I pointed out.

"Unless you're captured," the Admiral agreed.

General Ames finally awoke and spoke up. "We
understand your concern, but what we're dealing with
here goes all the way back to Stateside. We aren't
sure just how many altogether are involved in it, or
who is involved, but our resources are pretty damned
reliable, and that's what we have to go on," he said.
Watching him as he talked, I decided he looked kind
of cocky.

Bob was relaxed, and looking a little bored. I knew
what he'd say. The others were thinking hard on it. I
studied Captain Gartley's face, then General Ames's
and those of the other officers, wondering how much
to believe them and if we could trust them. Were they
leveling with us? Were they giving us all the facts,
or just selected ones to get us to take the mission?
Would they really try this guy if he was guilty, or
just eliminate him? And if he was innocent, did they
really think they could just slap the guy on the shoul-
der and say, "Sony about that. No hard feelings,
okay?" and send him back to his job, after he has
been kidnapped, probably drugged, accused of being
an enemy agent, and roughly interrogated for days at
a time?

I knew what I would do in his shoes: I'd blow the

COVERT ACTIONS         339

whistle on the whole fucking mess. Of course, prov-
ing it wouldn't be easy. They'd just say he'd been on
a classified assignment, and those records couldn't be
released. They'd see that there were no scars or marks
on him, no drugs in his bloodstream, before they let
him go back. If he took it to the press, could he con-
vince them he was telling the truth? There'd always
be some who wanted to believe him. They might be
able to find someone who'd talk, no matter how little
they knew—and from that, put pressure on someone
else, until they got enough together to raise a stink
about it, maybe even get a congressional investiga-
tion. They'd holler about civil rights and all that. As
I thought it through, I could see the Admiral and the
others were taking just as big a risk as we were.

If we had to kill him, we'd always wonder if he
was innocent. It would always be there, in the backs
of our minds, nagging at our consciences: did we kill
an innocent man?

If we didn't take it on, someone else would, and
they might fuck it up. For some reason, I thought
about that green Army lieutenant getting his platoon
shot up by four or five Viet Cong. He was an extreme
case of incompetence, but incompetence was the norm
in the military. And even a very competent team might
screw this kind of problem up. The target might es-
cape, or they might get caught. Then, if they talked,
the Admiral's nuts would be in a vise despite all the
denials he would make. Some congressman would get
his chance to make a name for himself by ruining the
Admiral's career. He'd saved my ass and Bob's . . .
we owed him this much, that we'd take it on so some-
one else didn't screw it up.

340 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

I heard my own voice as though it were someone
else speaking. "I say let's do it."

The others agreed, some by nodding, some by
shrugging.

Suddenly I realized—or maybe I'd known all
along—that as sure as shit runs downhill, when they
had called us in, we were already in this thing. They
had it headed our way, and they knew how to put it
to us so that we wouldn't refuse it-

"Whatever equipment or assistance you need, I'll
see that you get it," the Admiral said.

"Where is the ship?" I asked the Admiral.

"It's tied up to Pier Twelve."

"How long do we have?" I asked.          ;

"We'll be in port only two days," the Admiral
said. "I know that isn't much time- Do the best you
can."

"We'll need deck plans for the ship, and we'll need
to know how many men there are on watch. And
where they are. And we'll need to know where this
guy's stateroom is," I said.

Captain Gartley picked up a manila envelope from
the table and walked over and handed it to me. Inside
was the photo of the officer and a layout of the ship.
Marked on the layout were the sentry posts. A state-
room on the second deck had been circled in red.

The Eldorado was well guarded, being a flagship
and a communications and control center. It wasn't
going to be easy to get on board, get the guy, and get
him off without being seen- At least, the sentries
weren't crewmen from the ship. When the ship was
at sea or anchored in the harbor, the crew had the
responsibility for guarding it, but when it tied up to
the dock, the Marines took over that responsibility.

COVERT ACTIONS          341

General Ames's men. The Marine sentries wouldn't
be as familiar with the layout of the ship. But there
was one thing . . .

"Do they have dogs?" I asked.

Captain Gartley answered. "There is an occasional
sentry dog patrol along the dock," he said, "but they
don't bring the dogs aboard ship."

"What about the sentries—what if they turn out to
be trouble?" I needed to know. We weren't supposed
to harm them.

"Knock them out. If they see you, you'll have to
bring them with you. We'll take care of them after
that," Captain Gartley said.

"I don't want any of my men killed," General
Ames said, "any more than the Admiral wants any-
thing to happen to you."

Bob had been studying the photograph. "What's
this cocksucker's name, anyway?"

"You don't need to know," Captain Gartley told
him. "You have his picture and the location of his
stateroom. That's all you need."

I put the deck plans and photo back in the envelope.
"We'll have to study these and go down to look the
situation over. We'll work out a plan and let you know
in the morning what we'll need in the way of equip-
ment and support," I said, speaking as much to the
Admiral as to Captain Gartley.

"Good luck," the Admiral called after us as we
filed out the door.

"We're damned sure going to need it," I thought.

CHAPTER 18

It was a quiet ride back to the barracks, probably be-
cause all of us were thinking about the mission. Bob
and I were. He turned to me once and said, "Do you
believe 'em. Jay?"

I thought about it awhile, then had to shrug. "Partly.
Mostly, I guess."

He picked his nose with his finger and then wiped
it on his pants. "You think it's all that big a deal?
That big a security leak, I mean?"

"I guess it depends on his job."

"What do you think they'll do to him?"

"Do you give a fuck?"

"Naw."

"Then don't worry about it. We'll never know."

"Yeah. Ain't no skin off my ass, anyway."
342

COVERT ACTIONS         343

He brought it up again, though, after a couple of
minutes. "D'ye think they'll have a court-martial, and
publicity, and all that shit? The way I figger it, they
can't afford to. It'd come out that we grabbed him off
the ship so they could interrogate him, and their asses
would be in trouble even if he was guilty."

I hadn't thought about it that way, but he was right.
Therc'd sure as hell be a stink if the press ever got
hold of the fact that the guy had been snatched off the
Eldorado and secretly held and questioned, even if he
was as guilty as sin, and to have a court-martial would
guarantee that it would come out. I didn't say anything
because I was pondering the situation, but Bob had
already thought it out.

"Ye know how they'll do it, don't ye?" he asked-
"He'lljist disappear, and his family'll get a telegram
saying he's missing in action. There won't be no court-
martial. If they think he's guilty, he's gone."

"Well, hell, maybe that's for the best. His family
wouldn't suffer no embarrassment that way."

"But, Jay, what if the son of a bitch is innocent?"

"You heard 'em: they're ninety percent sure he's
guilty right now. I don't think they'd risk having us
grab 'im if they weren't."

"He's as good as dead, ain't he. Jay?"

"Yeah."

"Then I don't guess it matters much if we have to
kill 'im."

"No. It's Just that they want to question him about
his contacts and accomplices."

After a while, he said, "You know. Jay, it's going
to be a bad sichyation."

"How's that. Bob?"

"Them guards is going to have guns, and we won't."

344     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

"Oh. Well, I'll tell you Bob, I figger to cany my
thirty-^ight anyway."

"Yeah. Me too."

There was a room with a table in it at one end of
the barracks, and we commandeered that for a confer-
ence room. The big dude with the squeaky voice
helped me get an um of coffee and had some chow
sent over for us. We sat around and shot the bull and
went to the head while we waited for the food; we
didn't want the deck plans spread out or the photo
visible when they brought it in. When it got there
everybody really dug in. It was the best damn meal
we'd had in days. There was roast beef and mashed
potatoes and gravy and cold whole milk—not pow-
dered. We all drank several glasses of it. It had .been
a long time since any of us had had real milk.

As I ate, I couldn't help but feel like a Death Row
inmate having his last meal.

After we finished we stacked the trays outside the
door and closed it. Then we got the plans out and sat
around drinking coffee and studying them. No one
talked very much. Occasionally someone would point
out something he thought the others might have over-
looked- Every now and then someone would suggest
a course of action, and the others would pick it apart.
We all knew it had to be done at night, and it had to
be done tomorrow night. Beyond that, there was little
agreement. Our subject was on the second deck above
the main deck, so we had to go up two levels. The
only companionway that gave access to that second
deck was forward. We couldn't agree on a plan to get
on board, get up the companionway, and get to the
stateroom, much less get off with the subject.

Finally, I stood up and began putting the plans back

COVERT ACTIONS          345

in the envelope. "Let's go take a look at that damned
ship," I told the others.

"Good idea!" someone agreed.

We called the Admiral's office to get a couple of jeeps
sent around. We had the drivers drop us off about a
quarter mile from Pier 12 and walked the rest of the
way.

The Eldorado was moored at the end of the dock,
tied up, with her port side landward, by big mooring
lines fore and aft- A smaller vessel was moored in the
slip just in front of it, and the slips on the other side
were empty. There was a lot of traffic going on and
off the ship, and it was well guarded. The traffic would
die out by late evening or early morning; the guards
would still be there, though. It would be impossible
just to walk aboard. The pier was well lighted by large
floodlights, but the stem wasn't as well lighted as the
bow. Of course, there would be more sentries there to
compensate.

To me, it was obvious we'd have to go aboard by
climbing the mooring line at the stem, work our way
forward to the companionway, then up to the second
deck, get the guy, and return along the same path.

The mooring line. Bob pointed out, had a huge rat
guard. It looked like it had been made especially to
keep big rats about our size off the ship, he said. It
was a formidable obstacle, too big to climb over or
reach around, but if you could attach a line just this
side of it, you could swing up and grab the mooring
line on the other side.

"It's too steep an angle. You'd never be able to
swing high enough," Bob said.

"When the tide's out." Tony pointed out, "the line
won't hang at such a steep angle."

546 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

"So how're you going to attach a line so it doesn't
slip?" Bob asked. "Tie a knot?"

"We'll figure out some kind of a clamp."

We went back to the barracks to work the bugs out
of the plan, and a pot of coffee later we had a scheme
we all agreed on- The only problem was the clamp we
needed to get around the rat guard.

The next morning we went down to NISO headquar-
ters and told them we wanted to talk to the Admiral.
They said he was busy, so we told them we'd like to
talk to Captain Gartley. When Gartley heard we had a
plan worked out, he said everybody involved would want
to be briefed on it, and it would take until 1100 to get
everyone together. So we drank coffee and wentiover
our plans again for a couple of hours, and bullsmtted,
and played grab-ass until all the big shits got there.

General Ames was the last one to arrive. He came
in and sat down with a brief apology to the Admiral.
An LTJG poured him a cup of coffee and then left the
room. Captain Gartley told us to begin.

I was the squad leader, so I was the spokesman, and
I stood up and spread out the deck plan on the table
where everyone could all look at them.

"We've worked out a plan to get your man off the
Eldorado alive," I began, "provided you can supply
us with the necessary equipment and backup."

First, I explained the layout of the ship and dock to
them. The Admiral already knew it, but the General
and some of the others might not. Then I got to the
important part.

"We'll go aboard the stem and take advantage of the
shadows on the water between the ship and the dock.
We'll have to board by climbing up the mooring line.
That's no big problem, except for the rat guard. It's too

COVERT ACTIONS          347

big for us to get around without some special equipment.
We'll have to have a clamp fabricated that is the right
size to fit onto the mooring line, and it must have a way
to attach a smaller line to it.

"Once aboard, it'll be a matter of waiting until the
guards pass or turn their backs. We'll work our way
forward to the companionway—that's a stairway,
General—located here, and go up to the second deck.
We'll enter the area of the officers' wardrooms here,
and move along this central corridor to the subject's
billet. Once we have him, we will retrace our steps
and exit the stem.

"In order to board the ship without being observed,
we'll have to have a diversion to attract the sentries'
attention. There's some activity on the dock even at
night, so it'll have to be a real ruckus in order for it
to work, but not enough of one to send the ship to
General Quarters.

"There's an empty slip across the dock from the
ship. Maybe a patrol boat could pull in there because
of 'engine trouble.' That's common enough. They can
have prisoners aboard, too, and call for someone to
come pick them up while they work on their engines.
That way, the prisoners can cause a little commotion.
The disturbance should be enough to get the guards'
attention so we can get aboard.

"After the prisoners are taken away or quieted
down, the crewmen working on the engines can revv
them up and kill them and start over, as if they're
having trouble getting the problem straightened out.
That will make enough noise to cover any sound we
might make carrying the subject back to the stem,
especially if we have to take out a sentry.

"We'll reach the dock by swimming underwater. A

348 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

patrol boat will drop us off near mid-channel, without
stopping, and continue on upriver. River patrols move
through the area all the time and wouldn't be noticed.
We'll have to drop off the boat far enough out that we
aren't observed by anyone onshore. By approaching
the dock underwater, we can avoid the harbor patrols
and we won't be seen by the sentries on the Eldorado.
We'll wait under the end of the dock until the diver-
sion begins. We'll cache our tanks and masks under
the dock while we're on the ship, and take an extra
set for the subject so we can extract him in the same
manner: we'll swim out into the river with him, un-
derwater, and surface well beyond the lighted area to
rendezvous with the patrol boat as it makes a return
run through the harbor.

"We'll need a way to knock the subject out quickly,
so that he doesn't make noise and wake the other of-
ficers and alert the sentries. A drug of some kind.
Something we can give him against his will, like stick-
ing him with a needle or holding a cloth over his nose
and mouth. Something that we could use on the sen-
tries, too, if we have to.

"The patrol boat can take us any place we can turn
the subject over to you without being seen.

"That's the plan. So, again, what we need from you
is a boat for transportation in and out of the harbor
area, a clamp for the mooring line, a diversion, and
some way of knocking the subject unconscious. We
believe we can take care of the rest."

Captain Gartley and the other two captains had been
taking notes as I talked. Admiral Jameson and General
Ames seemed satisfied with the plan, but the junior
officers had to show off how much they knew and try
to pick holes in it. Captain Trueblood started off.

COVERT ACTIONS           349

"Underwater breathing apparatus must have devel-
oped remarkably in the last few years, Mr. Tyier," he
said. "When I last had anything to do with it, you
had to breathe through a mouthpiece. If you tried to
breathe through your nose, you breathed water. How
are you going to get an unconscious man to breathe
through his mouth instead of his nose?"

"Put a clothespin on it," Bob growled. Trueblood
shot him a dirty look. The Admiral smiled.

"Clamp it," I told him. "Like Bob said. We can use
one of those little rubber gizmos that swimmers use when
they race. Or we can stuff wax in it, or Just mash it
down and tape the shit out of it. If he can't breathe
through it, he'll breathe through his mouth naturally."

The Admiral interrupted at this point. "Captain, we
selected these men for this operation because they are
experienced in this type of thing, and fully competent to
handle the technical details. Leave those worries to
them."

"Yes, sir."

"The clamp you need can be made up this after-
noon," the Admiral went on. "We have artificers that
make up special equipment for special operations, and
they know not to ask too many questions about where
or how it's going to be used. Captain Gartley will take
you to see them, and see that the job is done top prior-
ity." It was an order to the Captain, and to us, too.

"I have an idea for the diversion, sir," Captain
Knapp spoke up.

"Go ahead. Captain."

"I've been working with the LDNNs for the past
several months, and there are several extremely tough
characters in that outfit that could create quite a fuss
as 'prisoners.' They'd do it knowing they would take

350 James R. Reeves and James C. Tayior

a beating for it, and do it without asking why," the
Captain said. "I could supply the boat and crew as
well. Men who wouldn't know the LDNNs. We could
give them some false reason for the row with the 'pri-
soners' . . . tell them the men are agents and we're
trying to give them some credibility with the Viet
Cong. Tell them the VC are watching the dock be-
cause the flagship is tied up there, and we want them
to see these men resisting their captors because we're
going to let them escape later."

Admiral Johnson nodded and looked at General Ames.
"Sounds all right to me. What about you, George?"

The General, his dead cigar clenched between his
teeth, nodded assent.

The Admiral didn't even look at Captain Trueblood
or Captain Gartley. Since both ranking officers had
approved the idea, neither of the captains was going
to object to it anyway. He asked us if we had any
objections, though.

I looked around at Bob and Darren and Tony and
the others. They all shook their heads. "No, sir- It
sounds fine to us," I told him.

"Then that just leaves the drug, or some other means
of knocking out the subject," the Admiral went on.

"I've taken care of that. Admiral," Captain True-
blood said. "It was evident when we first considered
our options in this situation that, should we decide to
apprehend the subject in a surreptitious manner, some
quick and quiet means of rendering him unconscious
would be most advantageous. An injection of this"—
he held up a syringe of colorless liquid—"will do the
job in a matter of seconds. If injected in the neck, five
seconds or less. It isn't lethal except in extremely large
doses, and has no potentially fatal side effects. Fur-

COVERT ACTIONS          351

thennore, it won't interfere with later use of scopola-
mine, and all traces of the drug disappear from the
bloodstream in a matter of hours."

"How much can you supply?" I asked.

He squinted slightly when he looked at me, as if
suspicious of the reasons for my question.

"You need no more than two doses—two syringes
full—even if you're delayed getting him off the ship
and it starts to wear off."

"I want a syringe for every man on the mission,"
I told him. He started to object, so I went on, "If
there's any trouble getting on board, one or two may
be lost. Or broken. Second, we have no way of know-
ing which of us will actually go into his room and get
him. That will depend on how things develop when
we get there. I'll try to be one of them, but I might
get involved with a sentry or something. I might drown
going in. Third, if it works that fast, it's better than
the butt end of a pistol for taking out a sentry. There's
too much chance we might hit the sentry too hard and
kill him. And any man in the group may have to take
out a sentry."

Trueblood looked helplessly at the Admiral, who
nodded to him. We would get one syringe per man.

"For God's sake, don't drop one on the ship,"
Captain Gartley said.

"And if you have to inject it in a sentry, bring him
off the ship with you," Trueblood added. "The drug
stays in the bloodstream long enough that they might
detect it."

I nodded.

The Admiral stood up. "I think that takes care of
it, then. You all know what to do. If there is nothing
else . . ."He paused and looked around. No one said

352 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

anything. "... I think the General and I had better
get back to work- Thank you, gentlemen. You've done
a fine job of getting this thing rolling. Good luck."
And he left, the General right behind him.

We gathered up the deck plans and followed Cap-
tain Gartley. He took us to a building down near the
docks and introduced us to the artificer, a petty officer
in his mid-thirties with thick glasses and a splotchy
red face. There was some kind of white cream rubbed
on the splotches, and after a minute I realized they
were bum scars-
After we described what we needed, he said, "So
you want something like a rope-climbing clamp?'/

"I guess. How does that work?" We didn't climb
ropes with clamps in training—we climbed them bare-
handed.

"It fits around the rope, and it has a couple of cams
inside attached to the frame with pins up near the top
side. When you slide it up the rope, the cams swing
out of the way." He demonstrated with the knuckles
of his forefingers. "But when you pull down, friction
against the rope pulls the cams upward, and the way
they're mounted makes them pivot inward so they
clamp down tight on the rope." He pressed his knuc-
kles together.

"And it don't slip?"

"It'll slip a little. Half an inch, maybe, before it
gets tight. Is this line hemp, or nylon or some other
synthetic fiber?" he asked.

"Synthetic, I imagine. It's pretty small, and it has
to be pretty strong. Why?"

"Well, the synthetics arc slicker. The cam has to
be textured to hold right. You know . . . roughed up.
How big is this line?"

COVERT ACTIONS          353

"Well, let's see ... maybe this big." I held up my
hand, making a circle with my forefinger and thumb
about four inches in diameter.

"He's asking about the line, not your asshole," Bob
said. He held up his hand and made a circle about an
inch in diameter. "It's more like this," he said.

"Bullshit, Bob," Darren spoke up. "It's more like
this." He held up one finger curled into a circle so
tight there was hardly any airspace in the middle.

"What, the line? Or his asshole?" Bob asked in-
credulously.

"Oh, I thought you was braggin' about your pecker."

"Hell, that's his IQ, * Tony said, holding his finger
in a circle.

"Shut the fuck up," Bob growled.

I looked at the artificer and shrugged. "Hell, we
don't know for sure. Two, three, four inches in di-
ameter. We ain't been that close, to measure it. Can
you make one that'll fit anything that size, up to about
four inches?"

He scratched one of the red splotches beside his
nose and then held up one finger in a "wait one min-
ute" gesture.

"You said you needed an eye on the bottom for
another line?"

"Yeah."

"Is there going to be much weight on that line?"

"We're going to swing from it, one at a time. So a
hundred and seventy-five pounds, for the lightest, to,
oh, two-twenty for the heaviest of us."

"Okay, that'll help. I'll put the eye on the cam so
your weight pulls it in harder against the line. And I'll
hinge it at the top so it'll slip over anything up to about
four inches in diameter. That way, it'll fit almost any

354     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

size line. And I'll put one cam in it that pulls up
against the heavy line when you pull down on the
smaller one. That'll make up for the different diame-
ters. Does it need to be made of anything special?
Aluminum, to save weight, maybe? Or is steel okay?"
He was sketching on a piece of graph paper while he
talked.

"Steel's okay."

"Good. It's easier to work with. I can have this
ready to go by, say, 1600 this afternoon."

"Good enough. We'll be by to pick it up then."

After leaving the artificer we went down to the di-
vers' shed and told the diver in charge there what kirfd
of tanks and breathing gear we'd need, and how many.
He said he'd have it ready about 2200 for us to pick
it up. We didn't want to take it back to the barracks
because we didn't want anyone there to know what
kind of an operation we were going on, in case some-
one started investigating later.

Then we went back to the barracks to kill the after-
noon. Some of the guys went over to the bar. I didn't;

I wanted my head clear. Bob Brewster lay down and
went to sleep. The barracks was quiet enough in the
middle of the day, and with the door closed, the air-
conditioning made enough noise to muffle any sounds
of people moving around or talking or singing, like
they do in a barracks. Good old nerveless Bob. I sat
on the edge of my bed and smoked cigarette after cig-
arette while I went over our plan in my mind, trying
to turn all the "what ifs" that kept popping into my
head into "ain't likelies."

What if a guard spotted us, and we couldn't get to
him to knock him out? We weren't supposed to kill or
even hurt any of those guards, and anyway, who'd want

COVERT ACTIONS          355

to shoot an American? There wouldn't be any choice
except surrender or go over the side and hope we could
get back to the dock to get the breathing gear.

What if somebody was up going to the head or tak-
ing a smoke, and caught us in the corridor? He wasn't
going to get close enough to let us grab him. There
was enough light from those red bulbs they use on
board so that he'd know something was wrong long
before he got within arm's reach. We could take a
chance on pulling a .38 on him and telling him not to
make any noise, but what if he yelled anyway? Put
down our guns and surrender? Make a run for it? Take
him hostage and bluff our way out? Everything seemed
like a losing proposition. If we got caught with the
body over our shoulders, we'd just make a run for it
and go over the side. If he drowned, too bad. At least
we had a chance that way. But if we were surprised
before we got to his room? Run for it. Try to keep
from getting shot and go over the side.

What if someone saw us just as we went in the
room? We'd leave a man or two outside, and if they
couldn't get to him to shut him up, we'd be up shit
creek. Once we went into that room, the son of a bitch
would be warned. We couldn't leave the ship then
without nailing his ass. And it would take thirty sec-
onds at least, maybe a minute or more, to knock him
out and secure him. By that time the guards would be
on their way. There'd be no way to control the situa-
tion except shoot the goddamned guards.

It would be better, if the alarm went up after we
went in the door, to shoot the son of a bitch in his
bed and get the hell off the ship.

What if we were spotted swimming in to the dock,
or back out again? If they thought we were North

356 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

Vietnamese or Viet Cong divers going in to blow up
the flagship, the harbor patrols would go on alert and
all hell would break loose. We'd be in deep shit then,
too. They'd be out there looking for us, with depth
charges and the Lord only knows what else. If they
spotted us under the dock, at least we might have a
chance to surrender.

What if ... what if ...           \

Bob's snoring began to get to me, so I left the room
and went down to the little room down at the end of
the barracks where they had the coffee. The coffee was
old and full of grounds so I threw it out and brewed
a fresh pot, then got me a cup and sat down at the
table they had in there and smoked and drank coffee
and thought about every step of our movements from
the time we entered the water until they pulled us back
out again.

After a while, I looked at my watch. It was 1610.
Not time to start getting ready yet. It had sure been a
long day.

Then I realized it was time to go get our clamp from
the artificer. I hoped the fool wouldn't leave before I
could get there, and close up for the night. Or maybe
I hoped he would-

No such luck. He was working late that evening
anyway, and he had the clamp all ready to go. It
seemed to be just what we wanted. He even had some
four-hundred-pound test nylon line threaded through
the eye and lashed tight to itself. When I decided how
long I wanted it, he cut it for me and heat-sealed the
end so it wouldn't ravel. We were all set, as far as his
contribution to the mission was concerned.

I stopped by NISO headquarters to check in with
Captain Gartley to make sure the diversion was all set

COVERT ACTIONS          357

and our boat was arranged for. Everything was "go,"
so I went back to the barracks and stopped back by
the bar to round up the guys. It was time to pour some
coffee down them.

It was a long evening. There were no weapons to
check except our .38s and knives. Each of us was
issued a syringe and instructed on how to use it. It
had a glass cap over the needle. The glass was scored
at the base so you could snap it with your fingers or
tap it against the wall to break it off. Then you jabbed
it in him and pushed the plunger. For fastest action,
you wanted to inject the drug as near the brain as you
could, so the muscles in the side of the neck were the
ideal location. You wanted to avoid the arteries, be-
cause you might cause a bubble in his bloodstream
and kill him. The syringes had a cord attached to loop
around our necks. They told us again. Don't drop them
or leave them behind.

We put on our camo paint, and I went to each guy
and reminded turn, "No shoes. It's a steel deck, so
no shoes, and no rubber stockings. They squeak. Bare
feet only."

It was a nervous group of guys that went down to
the divers' dock from the NISO office. We drew our
tanks from the divers' shed and checked them over
good. I got a small grappling hook and bent it on the
end of the little rope on our clamp, lashing it tight
with a small line. Then we got on the boat they had
down there for us and headed off downriver.

CHAPTER 19

We timed our arrival to 0130. The PBR chugged
through the harbor at low throttle, so when we
dropped off we were close together and it didn't take
long to form up. We were half a mile or so out in the
river, in the shadows just a little upstream from Pier
12 and the Eldorado. We swam in until there was
enough light that I began to worry that we might be
visible. By then the current had carried us a little
downstream of the dock, so I estimated how much
farther we had to go and took a compass bearing on
the Eldorado'^ stem. Then we submerged and swam
on in. In that dark and murky water, I trailed a cord
behind me and they all held on to it, so that we ar-
rived together.

As we got near the shore, I listened for the slap of
358

COVERT ACTIONS          359

waves on the pilings. That would be my clue that we
were close. There was so much other noise, though,
that I couldn't make it out. Just before I thought we
should be there, somebody gave three hard jerks on
the cord. That was the signal to stop, so I let myself
drift slowly toward the surface. The water got lighter
as I drifted upward, and I knew I would surface in a
lighted area. Light penetrated such a little way into
that brown sewer that I wasn't ready when my head
broke the surface. I was between the pier and the
Eldorado\ Quickly I submerged again and swam for
the pier, my back muscles tense as I waited for a
bullet from one of the sentries.

The water was noticeably darker in the shadows
under the pier, so I knew when I got there. I held on
to a spike driven into one of the pilings as the others
swam in to join me, and thanked the Lord the sentries
weren't alert.

We mustered and stashed the diving gear so no one
would find it. Then we waited for the PBR to show
up. We'd brought a radio with us, and we listened in
on the radio traffic for the boat captain to report en-
gine trouble.

We only had to wait about ten minutes. We heard
the boat captain make his call and report that he was
coming upriver with two Victor Chariie suspects he'd
taken off a sampan, and that he was having engine
trouble. We could hear them coming upriver long be-
fore they came into sight. We knew it was them be-
cause the engine was running ragged and backfiring.
As they got closer to the Eldorado, he reported that his
engine was getting worse, and that he was going to pull
in to dock until they could fix it. They pulled into the

360 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

slip opposite the Eldorado and sat there for a few min-
utes with one engine idling and farting and missing.

Then their headquarters called them and asked what
their status was. "She's still cutting out on us," the
boat captain told them. "We have two Victor Char-
lies here, and we have to repair this engine. Vfow
about sending us some assistance? Send somebody to
take 'em off our hands, or we'll have to kill 'em.*'

"Hold one," they told him. Probably went some-
where to ask an officer. When they came back, they
told him, "Help is on the way. We've sent four men
down in a jeep to pick them up."

"You need to get another boat back up in that
area," the boat captain came back. "That area needs
to be patrolled heavy. It looks like Charlie is moving
some shit in there by sampan. It may take us an hour
or two to get this engine fixed up."

"You can't stay that long," HQ told him. "We're
already getting shit from the harbormaster. They're
afraid they might have some incoming traffic that
needs that slip. They don't want any small craft tied
up there. If you can't get it going in thirty minutes,
we'll send you a tow."

"Well, you need to get the prisoners," the boat
captain said. "One of them is so goddamned fucked
up he doesn't know where he's at. We don't want
any more trouble out of him. We'll get them off the
boat and out on the pier, so they'll be ready for you."

That was our signal. It was time to start. We shin-
nied up the pilings of the pier to reach the mooring
line. There were barnacles and slime all over the
posts, and they were slicker than snot grease. You
had to get your feet around the post and lock them.
If you slipped, the barnacles cut. God, did they cut.

COVERT ACTIONS         361

Fortunately, there were cross braces between the pil-
ings, and the tide was partly in, so there wasn't too
far to climb.

Darrcn Fitchew was to stay behind under the pier
and keep watch- He pulled himself up to the edge and
peered over, keeping his head in the shadows of the
piling. Thompson and Magoun stayed in the water
with the extra mask and tanks. They would delay fif-
teen minutes after we went on board, then swim over
to the starboard side of the ship and tread water in the
shadows by the rudder, hidden by the overhang of the
hull, to catch the body and put the mask and tanks on
him before he could drown.

We didn't move until we heard the commotion. First
there was some yelling and cursing, both in English and
Vietnamese, and what sounded like a scuffle on the boat.

"They're takin' 'em up on the pier," Fitchew
whispered. We heard them yank the prisoners out of
the boat and throw them down on the pier. "One of
*em is thrashin' around ... his hands and feet are
tied . . - they're kicking the shit out of him." The
yelling and cursing started again.

I was sitting on a cross brace facing away from the
ship, and had to lean out and look over my shoulder up
toward the fantail of the ship. There was movement in
the shadows, the flash of a face turned toward the light.
The sentries were taking the bait. I started counting to
sixty before I moved, but by the time I reached thirty I
decided that anyone that hadn't already gone to see what
the fuss was about was either deaf, asleep, or the
damned most dedicated guard I'd ever seen.

I leaned out from the cross brace I was sitting on
and reached for the mooring line. It was belayed to a
piling right at the level of the pier, and was just within

362     James R. Reeves and James C. Tayhr

reach. There was no slack sagging down toward the
water, because the tide was in, and the ship was sit-
ting high above the pier. I got a good grip and let
myself slip off the cross brace. The line moved and
sagged noticeably when my weight came onto it. My
feet swung away from the pier as they slipped off the'
brace, and when they swung back I pulled up and
hooked my heels on the line. Then I started climbing.

I felt as if I were sticking out like a goddamned fire
engine out there, as if I had lights and sirens all over
me. If one of those sentries looked my way he couldn't
fail to see me. Going up mat damned line wasn't easy
either. It was naturally slick, and my hands and legs
were covered with slime. I was breathing hard, and my
arms were tired when I finally got to the rat guard.

I had to cling there with one hand while I got the
clamp out and fixed it to the mooring line. Then I un-
coiled the lope and let it dangle. The grappling hook on
the end gave just enough weight so that I could start it
swinging like a pendulum, and swing it higher each
time, but I had to make sure it didn't foul the line be-
hind me before I could work it high enough to catch on
the other side of the rat guard. Fortunately, it caught on
the first try. I checked it to make sure it was secure,
then swung on the smaller rope down under the rat
guard, and climbed up on the other side.

I looked around again for sentries. There was one not
twenty feet away, but he was looking forward toward
the ruckus on the pier. Then another came out, and the
one near me turned. I saw him start to move, and
thought, "I'll just let go and get the hell out of here,"
but he turned away from me and out toward the river.
If he had raced me, he would have seen me.

If I'd dropped into the river—if any one of us went

COVERT ACTIONS          363

into the water, even if he slipped and fell—the others
would have to come too, and the mission would be
scrubbed because the splash would alert the sentries.

When he turned away, I went up through the hawse-
hole and ducked down behind the cleat. I was damned
tired from the exertion of the climb, and it was a fight
to keep my breathing quiet and even. The two guards
stood there talking a few feet away. Finally, the one
who'd come out from inside took off on his rounds. He
went across the fantail and stopped and hollered back at
the first guy, then went on. The first guy stood there
and looked forward again.

I went over to the stem anchor chain locker and
slipped down behind it. Bob was right behind me. He
had been hanging on the mooring line- Tony was the
third man. He had to hang on down by me rat guard
until we could move on. Finally, the other two made
it up, and we all crouched there in the shadows and
whispered about how it had been a near thing.

The noise from the pier had died down a little when
we moved on. Fitchew said later that the guy doing
the yelling had quieted down when the other prisoner
got loose. The sailors had them tied but not cuffed,
and one of them got his hands free. He untied his feet
and stood up, and a couple of sailors jumped on him
to wrestle him back down. That started a scuffle, with
the Vietnamese and the sailors cursing and grunting
and wrestling around on the pier. He never broke
loose, and the two sailors stayed close to him so the
sentries wouldn't shoot him.

We left Casbum on the fantail to watch, and the rest
of us worked our way forward- We had to slip past the
sentries there and down a short companionway to the
main deck, then a third of the way forward to where

364 James R. Reeves and James C. Fay/or

the deck stepped up a full level. After going up a long
companionway, we had to work our way forward again
to somewhere just forward of midships, where an out-
side companionway led up to the second deck and on
up to the bridge. Fortunately, there was a lot of clutter
and shadows on the deck to keep us hidden. Not mess^
just tangles of pipes, electrical conduits, a bunch of ra-
dio and radar antennas, and the usual ventilator stand-
pipes, cleats, stanchions, and winches. We stayed in the
shadows and moved as quietly as we could. Usually it
was just a matter of hiding and waiting until a senuy
went past on his rounds. All of them made it a point to
go across the deck and see what was going on on the
pier, so that made it considerably safer for us to move
around on the other side.

Bob led the way up the first long companionway.
At the top, he waited until I moved past him. The
sentry there had a long, reasonably clear path to walk
along the rail, underneath a sunshade awning. It cast
a good shadow, but there was nothing to block the
sentry's view along the rail in either direction. Thirty
feet or so forward of the companionway was a hatch
leading to a corridor; I ducked in through the hatch.
It was lit inside by the red watch lights, but there was
enough bulkhead around it so that I could hide if the
sentry came back. There was no one in the corridor,
so I waved to Bob to move on up. Tony took his place
at the top of the companionway as Bob moved out.
Quinn was posted in the shadows under the compan-
ionway, to wait until we came back with the body.

Bob had gone only halfway to the next companion-
way when a sentry opened a hatch in front of him and
stepped out. The hatch opened inward, and that gave
Bob enough warning so that he could drop over the rail.

COVERT ACTIONS         365

He clung to one of the rail posts while the sentry made
his round back to the companionway where Tony was
crouching. If he had looked down for any reason, he
would surely have seen Bob's hands, but he looked out
toward the next dock, and whistled softly to himself,
and scratched his ass. He had his rifle slung over his
shoulder barrel up. If we had to take him out, he
wouldn't be able to get a shot off in warning.

He came on toward the stem, past the open hatch
where I was hiding, toward the aft companionway.
Tony moved back down the companionway and into
the shadows underneath. I pressed myself against the
bulkhead next to the hatch and hoped he wouldn't
come inside, or even glance inside as he went by.

He didn't. When he reached the break in the deck
line he stopped for a while, and then surreptitiously
lit a cigarette. He cupped it in his hands to keep the
glow from being seen, but the smoke hung heavy
around him in the still night air, and drifted over my
way. I suddenly began to crave a smoke myself.

He shifted around, glancing furtively up and down
the deck. He was keeping an eye out for the officer
of the watch so he wouldn't be caught smoking. I
quickly moved to the opposite bulkhead so he
wouldn't catch a glimpse of me through the hatch.

His cigarette smoke began to tease my nostrils with
the urge to sneeze. I clamped my lips shut and stifled
three sneezes before the urge passed.

Bob's hands must have been about to give way-
Any minute now, I would surely hear the splash as
he dropped into the water. The sentry would hear it
too, of course, and run to the rail to look over. When
he did, I was going to knock the son of a bitch un-

366 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

conscious and make sure he had the lit cigarette on
him before I went over the rail myself.

It seemed like hours before he tossed the butt over
the rail and moved off toward the port side of the ship.

Bob came over the rail and massaged his arms and
hands for a moment. Then he crept on forward to the
next companionway. It went up two nights, one to
each deck level, with a landing in between. He went
up to the landing, checked to make sure the next deck
was clear, and waved us forward.

At the top and a few feet forward was the hatch or
door to the officers' wardrooms. There was a sentry
on that deck, but he was apparently on the port side
watching the scuffle on the pier. We didn't know if
there would be a guard inside or not. It was just a
chance we'd have to take.

The door opened easily and quietly. I opened it only
a fraction of an inch at first, then slowly swung it wider
until I could look through. There was no one in sight
down the length of the corridor. It ran all the way across
me width of the ship and opened to a deck and compan-
ionway on the port side. The door there was also closed.
I posted Tony to watch both doors, and Bob and I went
down the corridor to find the subject's room.

And, I suppose, that's how I came to be in this
situation.

Once we got the door open, stopping it when it was
about halfway open so that it wouldn't slam against the
bulkhead, I was relieved to find there was enough light
from the watch light over his door so that I could see
his head was turned toward the stem of the ship. That
made it easier. I didn't have to worry about grabbing
the wrong end of him. He was lying partly on his back

COVERT ACTIONS          367

and partly on his right side, with his knees bent. I was
across the room in three quick steps, clamping a hand
over his mouth and pushing his head toward the wall so
that the left side of his neck was exposed. His eyes
popped open wide and white and I could feel him tense
as he awoke. Bob was there an instant later, jamming
the syringe into the neck muscles as if he was trying to
stick it right through, and I worried that he might miss
and hit the carotid artery,

Bob left the syringe in the man's neck and grabbed
his feet just in time, just as he began to react. The
guy grabbed at my wrists and tried to pull my hand
off his mouth so he could yell for help, but I had the
advantage of using my weight against his efforts. Next
he tried to kick me, or the bulkhead to wake his
neighbors, but Bob had him pinned there, too. He
thrashed around for a bit, but his struggles lessened
as the drug took effect, and very quickly he went limp.
We hung on for a few seconds longer, to make sure
he wasn't playing possum.

The needle fell out of the guy's neck while he was
struggling and fell to the floor. It made a weak but
audible click.

When we were sure he was out, I took a roll of plastic
tape and taped his hands and feet together. Just to be
on the safe side, I taped his mouth, too, and used an-
other strip for a blindfold instead of Bob's olive drab
scarf. We didn't have time to be tying knots.

While 1 was taping him. Bob quietly closed the door.

Then we got him out of his bunk and onto the floor,
and made up his bunk.

He had been sleeping in his underwear, without a
T-shirt. His uniform was hanging over the back of a
chair. We took his uniform and shoes and stuffed them

368 James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

inside our wetsuits. We wanted our hands free- We
even got him a clean T-shirt. We got the change and
his billfold off his nightstand and stuffed that in, too.
He had a little alarm clock there, and we made sure
the alarm was off. I even made sure we took his tie,
and I pushed his chair back under his desk. When I
did, I saw the needle on the floor and picked it up.

Then Bob picked the guy up and threw him over
his shoulder, and I went to the door. I opened it just
a crack and peered down the corridor, then opened it
wider and checked the other way. The coast was clear,
and we went out with him. I had to pull hard to get
the door closed.

Tony was down by the hatch. The hatch only
opened inward, and that was a problem because it
made it tough to watch the sentry, and unless you
could see him, you couldn't know which direction
he'd walked when he passed on his rounds. As we
came down the corridor, I motioned for Tony to open
the hatch, but he hesitated. I didn't know what he
was waiting for, but I was worried that someone
would come in the hatch on the opposite end of the
corridor, or get up and go to the head or something.
I signaled to him again, more forcibly, and went back
to the comer to look down the other corridor and make
sure no one had been disturbed back near our sub-
ject's room.

Tony opened the hatch just a crack so that it let in a
little light, and we waited. There was just enough light
from the street and buildings along the shoreline to be
a little brighter than the watch lights inside. Tony would
be able to see the sentry's shadow block out the light
when he went by, and from that and the sound of his
footfalls, judge which way he was going on his rounds.

COVERT ACTIONS          369

He and Bob waited just inside the hatch, listening for
the sentry's footsteps. I stayed down by the comer,
watching the corridors and the hatch on the port side,
expecting at any minute for someone to come in that
way. I could hear the sentry's footsteps myself, very
faintly, but well enough that I could tell he was getting
closer to the hatch. The louder his footfalls got, the
harder it got for me to breathe.

Finally, they began to recede. I motioned for Tony
to go on. He shook his head and pointed. The sentry
had passed going toward the stem. We had to crouch
there in that lighted corridor while he completed his
circuit toward the stern and went back forward.

Tony went out first, and he ran back aft to the corn-
panionway to see if anyone was there, and to check
on the position of the sentries on the deck below. I
went over to the hatch and watched the sentry that
had just gone by. He was about fifty feet forward of
us, looking over toward the pier. I could hear a little
noise down that way, and I looked past him and saw
jeeps- They'd come for the prisoners.

I looked back toward the companionway and saw
Tony come up and signal for us to come on. I mo-
tioned for Bob to go, and he started off at a fast walk
after he got through the hatch. He had to maneuver
the guy's body out the hatch and along the deck so
his head or feet didn't hit a bulkhead. When he went,
I followed, backing along the deck and keeping watch
on the sentry.

Tony was on the landing of the companionway
when we got to it, and he motioned us to come on
down. It was just in time, too, because the sentry I
was watching started back. He wavered, taking a step
or two toward us but looking back toward the pier,

370     James R. Reeves and James C. Fay/or

and stopped for a second. Just as I ducked below the
level of the deck he turned and came back toward us.

I almost bumped into Bob. He'd stopped on the
landing. Tony was coming up from the foot of the
companionway and motioning us back up. Of course,
we couldn't go up, because the sentry up there wAs
heading toward us. I squeezed past Bob and Tony put
his lips to my ear.

"Sentry coming!" he whispered, pointing toward
the foot of the companionway.

I jerked a thumb over my shoulder and whispered,
"Up there, too!" with my lips only half an inch from
his ear.

I could hear the footfalls getting closer on the deck
below, but I couldn't hear the sentry on the deck
above yet. We crouched there, as much in the shad-
ows as we could get, and waited while they ap-
proached us from above and below. I hoped neither
of them would decide to change decks. They had us
nicely sandwiched between them.

There was just enough of a gap in their timing that
if the guy below spotted us, we might be able to make
it over the rail on the upper deck before the sentry up
there could shoot. If the guy below went by, but the
one above spotted us, we could go over the rail on
the lower deck, because the sentry down there would
have his back turned. I whispered instructions to To-
ny and Bob for both circumstances. Then we waited.

The sentry on the lower deck wandered on by at a
casual, strolling pace. The one above came on at a
brisker, more purposeful walk. I hurried the first guy
with my thoughts, without success. "Get out of
here," I thought. "Get on down the deck so we can
get off this landing before the other guy gets to the

COVERT ACTIONS         371

companionway." He continued to stroll along, but
the guy on the deck above turned around when he got
almost to the companionway, and hurried back for-
ward to watch the scene on the pier.

When the guy on the lower deck had strolled far
enough forward. Tony went down and watched him
from the foot of the companionway, and Bob went on
aft with the body. I followed him. Tony came after us,
backing up and watching the sentry. Quinn joined us
when we went down the companionway to the main
deck.

When we got back to the fantail, the PBR crew had
the engines running, and they were ftissing with them.
They'd rev them up and let them slow back down, and
they'd pop and backfire- The sentry stationed on the
fantail would stay on his post for a few minutes, staring
out toward the river, then go over to see what was hap-
pening on the pier. When he was gone, we slipped up
onto the fantail and hid behind a cargo hatch cover. He
was chewing tobacco, and he would walk over to the
rail occasionally and spit. I was a little bit afraid that
one of those times he might see Phil Casbum peering
over the edge of the dock, or the guys in the water, but
I don't think he really looked. I think he was daydream-
ing. After we got into position behind the hatch cover,
I was just waiting for the opportunity to throw the body
over the side and go over with it. I wanted to time it so
that the roar of the PBR's engines would drown out the
splash. But the sentry started back to the starboard side
again.

Casbum was crouched in the shadow of a winch
and was nearer the sentry than we were. I signaled
him with a thumb drawn across my neck to silence
the sentry if he came any nearer. Just then, however,

372 James R. Reeves and James C. Taytor

the starboard-side sentry came back onto the fantail,
and that first guy turned and gave him a little nod.

"Did they ever get those damn slopes quiet?" he
called over to the other guy.

"Yeah. They took them off in a coupte of jeeps. If it
had been me I would have just killed the sons^ of
bitches."

"What are they doing now?*'

"Fucking around with their engines."

"Damned river rats. They fuck around more than any-
body I've ever seen. Running up and down the damned
river all the time like a bunch of kids on a lake."

"Yeah. Hey, can you spare a chew? I'm all out."

"Sure, I got a fresh plug."

The other guy came across the deck then, to bite
off a chew.

"Well, thanks. I reckon I'd better get back forward
before they come looking for me." He started back
toward the port side.

"Catch you later," the first guy said. He went on
over to (he starboard rail and spit a couple of times,
then decided he'd been over on our side too long and
walked over to port.

The PBR was revving up its engine about then, and
I signaled Bob to go. He carried the dude over to the
rail at damned near the center of the fantail and just
heaved him over. I ran over there to help but he didn't
give me a chance. I thought we'd hold him over away
from the hull and drop him feet first. Bob stuck his feet
over the rail and dumped him like he was a sack of
fertilizer. At least, he pushed him a little out from the
hull, or he would've hit the rudder on the way down.

The body hadn't even hit the water before Tony
and Casbum were over the rail and on their way

COVERT ACTIONS         373

down^Bob and I went over together, and Quinn came
right behind us. As I went over I saw that the PBR
was pulling away from the dock and backing out into
the nver. They had stalled as long as they thought
they could. I saw Fitchew kick off from the piling he
was on and go into the water. Then I hit.

Thompson and Magoun got to the guy right away.
They dived after him and brought him to the surface in
the shadow of the hull. Then they ripped the tape off
his mouth and stuck the mouthpiece in. They jammed
me nose pincher over his nose, stuck their own mouth-
pieces in, and went under with him. I looked quickly
up at the rail. There was no one looking down, so the
noise of the PBR had been sufficient to cover the
splashes as we hit. We'd gotten off just in time.

We swam underwater to the shadows under the pier.
Fitchew was waiting for us there with our tanks and
gear. We quickly slipped them on and dived.

It took us about fifteen minutes to get out to the
pickup site because we had to tow the guy. We took
turns towing him, one on each side. That way we
moved a little faster. We didn't stay submerged all
the way. We broke surface out where the light was
really dim and towed the guy on his back with his
face above the water, just in case water was getting
in around his mouthpiece or through the nose pincher.

The PBR came slowly down the river and picked
us up. It was a slow pickup because we couldn't hold
the guy's dead weight and roll into the raft for a fast
pickup. Two of us grabbed the raft and handed him
to two sailors who were waiting there. They dragged
him on board and then handed him up to two more
guys in the PBR. Then the rest of us caught on to the
raft and rolled aboard.

374

James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

We untaped the guy, except for his hands and eyes.
He was stilt out of it.

"How about this shit, guys!" Fitchew said. "We
did it. We mckin' did it."

"You didn't do it, asshole," Bob told him. "You
just watched."                            /

"We all did it. Bob," I told him. "We all had a
part in it. Right or wrong."

The boat captain had some brandy, and we passed
the bottle around and tried to relax. Our nerves were
still taut. I sat down by the rail and lit a Marlboro in
cupped hands—something I wouldn't do on patrol,
because the glow might be seen by VC on shore, but
I needed to relieve some of the tension. Just how
tense I had been I hadn't realized: I could hardly light
the cigarette I had the shakes so bad.

About twenty miles downriver we rendezvoused
with another boat and handed the subject over to them.
They headed back upriver toward Saigon. No one ever
said shit about it.

We messed around downriver until about dawn, and
then headed back up to Saigon. The Eldorado was
getting steam up and getting ready to sail. We pulled
into the diver's dock and turned in our diving gear
just like it was a normal mission. Then they took us
back up to the barracks. The other guys in the bar-
racks still looked at us a little uncertainly, and the
dude with the high-pitched voice was still pissed at
us for laughing at him. We felt like we had guilt
written all over our faces, but no one acted any dif-
ferent toward us.

Except the brass. They sure as hell didn't come
around and thank us for the great job we did, getting
him off without anybody the wiser and without any-

COVERT ACTIONS         375

one getting hurt. They just got us out of town, that
same afternoon.

I lay down in the barracks and tried to sleep, but it
wasn't easy. I kept wondering if we'd done the right
thing. In my mind I went through every argument I
could think of to justify it. I hadn't fucked up. I'd
made sound decisions and nobody had gotten hurt.
But some doubt remained. Maybe I'd rucked up in a
different way. Maybe I should never have accepted
the mission at all. I could only hope that the guy we
snatched wasn't innocent. Or even if he wasn't, that
they'd treat him as fairly as any other American. I
didn't want another American life on my conscience.

They flew us out to Cam Ranh late that afternoon.
Normally we would have sailed on the Eldorado, but
they didn't want us near the ship when the officer was
discovered to be missing. They put us up in a bar-
racks ship at Cam Ranh.

By the end of the week I'd developed an infection in
my injured ear, probably from swimming in filthy water,
the docs said. "What other kind is there in 'Nam?" I
asked. The infection got pretty bad before they got it
under control, and I got a fever and a cough from it.
They decided it would probably recur if I stayed in
'Nam, and that was the end of my second tour.

Bob came back at the end of his tour, went back to
'Nam for a third, and survived that one. Tony died
in a booby trap, and Fitchew and Quinn disappeared
on an underwater insertion. Casbum made it back to
his girl in Texas, Magoun and Thompson to Norfolk.

I served out the rest of my tour in San Diego. I di-
vorced my wife as soon as I got back, and out of spite
she threw out all my photos of 'Nam and even the med-
als I got over there. At the time, I didn't give a shit.

376     James R. Reeves and James C. Taylor

The medals were being handed out like candy at a chil-
dren's party, and I didn't need any pictures of that
damned place. I earned enough pictures in my mind.

I had a few problems adjusting to the States, just
as I'd had before. I'd only postponed the adjustment.
It wasn't any easier. In training they break your per-
sonality down and rebuild it the way they want it to
be. Then the war goes to work on what they've built,
and starts tearing that down. After the war, you have
to pick up the pieces yourself and start over. It takes
a long time.

It was ten years before I heard anything more about
the Army colonel. There was no court-martial and no
publicity. But one night I was watching TV, and they
had a story on about the MIAs, about how their fam-
ilies were trying to get the government to do more
about getting information on them, or finding their
bodies. Showed some pictures of them. They had a
woman on there crying her head off, and her kids
were blubbering—you know how reporters like to
stick their camera right up in somebody's face at a
time like that. Then they showed a picture of her hus-
band, an Army officer. They'll never find out about
him, not from the government. And they don't want
to know, neither. I'm sure as hell sorry I know.

Like I said, picking up the pieces takes a long time.
A very long time.