BAT-21 (9 page)

Or there was a remote possibility that the lad
might be from a friendly village that might even bring help?

He dismissed that idea. The victorious tide of
battle was heading south. Even friendly villages were occupied by
enemy troops. He had seen them. If the kid reported him to anyone,
his fat was in the fire. Christ on a crutch!

Finally he mustered the strength to rise on his
elbows. It might prove helpful if he could see which way the kid had
gone. He craned his neck, peering over the underbrush until he could
see the nearest village.

The boy and the dog were heading across the rice
paddies toward the village. As he approached the inside perimeter of
the Maginot Line, the boy stopped. He picked up a stick and hurled it
as far as he could across the mined strip toward the village. The dog
took out after the stick, with the kid following precisely in his
path a safe distance behind.
The kid was using his dog to blaze a
trail through the mine field!

Hambleton shook his head, unbelieving. For a
moment a touch of sadness leavened his fear. What the hell was this
crazy war doing? Everything in Vietnam seemed to be expendable.
Everything and everybody. Including a kid's dog. Had terror and the
need to survive undone every virtue—pity, decency, loyalty, love?

His musings were interrupted by the actions of the
lad and the dog who had by then miraculously negotiated the mined
area. They were heading directly for the nearest hooch at the edge of
the village. Hambleton's heart sank. He watched the child run up to a
woman hanging clothes in the yard and start chattering a mile a
minute. Hambleton could make out much gesticulating, which finally
culminated in a hand pointing in his direction. Terminating the
conversation, the boy and the woman hurried into the hooch.

His skin crawled. What the hell should he do?
Should he make a break for it and run toward his hole, risking
exposure, or...

His worst fears were confirmed. Several Vietnamese
soldiers

bearing rifles came boiling out of the hooch, led
by the boy. The dog accompanied them, barking up a storm. They ran in
Hambleton's direction, pulling up just short of the mined area.
Hambleton could hear the shrill, excited voices of the soldiers as
the lad pointed at the exact spot where he was hiding.

He broke out into a cold sweat. He had to make a
break for it. Get back to his hole where he could cover himself up.
Get his gun. Could he do it without being seen? They would be
watching for any movement, knowing exactly where he was hiding. He
had to pull himself together and get the hell out of there!

But his limbs would not obey his commands. He
could only stoop there, transfixed, watching as the soldiers sent the
boy and the dog back to the hooch and then started picking their way
through the mine field.

Closer... closer the soldiers came. Thank God the
kid hadn't shown them the dog trick. It was obvious they didn't know
how the kid had made it through the mine field. They were not
relishing their duty. Studying the ground beneath them before each
footfall ... treading softly, gingerly... stopping, pausing before
each step. In spite of his fear, Hambleton felt a touch of admiration
for those poor ground-pounders. God Almighty, they must want him bad
to try and negotiate that mine field.

He wiped away sweat puddling on his forehead and
dripping down his face. He had to do something. The first of the
three soldiers seemed to be part way through the mine field. One or
all of them could get lucky and make it. His hands shaking, he
fumbled with his pocket zipper and pulled out his radio. He clicked
it on.

"Birddog! Birddog!" He kept his voice
low, fighting to keep it from trembling. "This is Bat
Twenty-one. Come in!"

"Roger, Bat. Birddog here."

"Gomers. Playing Tiny Tim. Coming this way. A
quarter click east of my position."

"Roger, Bat. Understand. Birddog out."

Thank God! Help would soon be on the way. But if
they didn't make it in time, he'd better be prepared. He got into a
crouching position and unsheathed his knife.

The first of the three soldiers was now reaching
the inner boundary of the mine field. Hambleton searched the sky.
Where in hell were his defenders? Where were the Sandys and the
Phantoms

and the F-105's? Another ten yards and the nearest
soldier might be clear of the mine field heading his way.

Come on, you mothers!

Finally he heard it. The noise of an inbound
plane. It wasn't loud, but was coming fast. Hot damn! Now all hell
would break loose. The fighters would roar in spewing their lethal
bombardment. ...

And then he spotted the incoming plane. His jaw
flopped open. It was no flight of Phantoms. No gaggle of F-105's. Not
even Sandys. It was a lone plane. It was Birddog!

The little unarmed mosquito had exploded up behind
a hill, the sun glinting off its camouflage paint, its props whining
like a harpy's cry.

Hambleton stared in open-mouthed amazement at the
little 0-2 buzzing in at full throttle. What the hell good was that
little FAC plane going to be at a time like this? He glanced down at
the soldiers. They had heard it too and had stopped in their tracks,
turning to look up. Sweeping in at treetop level, the 0-2 came boring
on like a hopped-up wasp. There was a flash and then a wisp of smoke
from under the wing. As the pilot pulled up a few scant feet above
the ground, two white phosphorous marking rockets exploded near the
advancing soldiers. The Vietnamese barely had time to squeeze off a
round at the attacking plane before they were enveloped in the
choking white smoke.

The soldiers panicked. Completely forgetting the
mines, they raced back toward the village. It was a mistake. One
somehow got back out of the mine field unscathed. A second one almost
made it, but he tripped near the outside edge of the mined perimeter.
There was a muffled whomp beneath his sprawled body. He did not get
up. Then the leader ran afoul of one of the hideous instruments.
There was a loud percussion and he flopped to the ground screaming.

Hambleton's limbs came to life. Taking advantage
of the diversion, he crouched low and sprinted through the
underbrush. Minutes later he was back in his hole, frantically
covering himself with brush. Hidden, he lay there, panting from the
terror and the exertion.

Son of a bitch! As he waited for his pulse to stop
pounding, he thought of that wild man upstairs who had pressed an
attack armed only with target-marking rockets. Right out of Dawn
Patrol. Hambleton had never seen anything like it.

It was ten minutes before he had regained enough
control to call Birddog. Then he checked in.

"Sorry about the grandstand play there, Bat,"
said the Birddog pilot. "Saw you had a problem. Wasn't time to
round up the zoomies, so I came in myself."

"You're crazy, Birddog."

"In this war it's an asset."

"I owe you."

"I'll collect. Meantime, good news. Back at
the ranch the planners got their priorities lined up. Jolly Greens
coming in manana. God willin' and the creek don't rise. Weather
guessers predict good weather. Can you hang in one more night?"

"I'll hang in."

"Outstanding. Few minutes the Sandys will be
coming in with another load of gravel. Gonna fertilize your tulip
field."

"I'm beholden."

"One more thing to brighten your day. Chances
are the gooks won't try shelling your position. They want you alive."

"That's comforting. Makes two of us."

"Keep in touch. Birddog listening out."

Hambleton clicked off his radio, lay back in his
hole, and closed his eyes as a wave of utter fatigue washed over him.

The doorbell rang. Gwen Hambleton clicked off the
television set in the family room and went to the door. It was her
closest friend, Marge Wilson.

"Happened to be in the neighborhood, Gwen,"
lied Marge. "Thought I'd pop by for just a minute. See if you
need anything."

"Thanks, Marge. Come in for a cup of coffee."

Marge planted herself on a stool at the kitchen
counter while Gwen busied herself with the coffeepot. "Anything
new?"

Gwen motioned to a telegram lying on the bar.
"That just came. Read it."

Marge removed the telegram from its envelope and
read:

MRS. GWENDOLYN HAMBLETON DELIVER DO NOT PHONE
REPORT DELIVERY

REFERENCE MY PREVIOUS COMMUNICATION CONCERNING THE
MISSING STATUS OP YOUR HUSBAND, LT COLONEL ICEAL E. HAMBLETON.

I REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT ALL SEARCH AND RESCUE
EFFORTS THUS FAR HAVE BEEN FRUITLESS. VOICE CONTACT IS BEING
MAINTAINED, HOWEVER EFFORTS TO RESCUE HIM HAVE BEEN NEGATIVE. THE
SEARCH HAS BEEN HAMPERED BY POOR WEATHER AND HEAVY HOSTILE ACTIVITY
IN THE SEARCH AREA. EXTENSIVE SEARCH OPERATIONS ARE BEING CONTINUED
AND WHEN ANY INFORMATION IS RECEIVED YOU WILL BE NOTIFIED
IMMEDIATELY. MAY I AGAIN EXTEND MY SINCERE SYMPATHY DURING THIS
PERIOD OF ANXIETY.

BRIG GENERAL K.L. TALLMAN COMMANDER AIR FORCE
MILITARY PERSONNEL CENTER

She replaced the telegram in its envelope. "I'll
say this," she said softly, "the Air Force certainly does
its best to keep you informed."

Gwen nodded. "The casualty officer at
Davis-Monthan even brought me the telephone number of the casualty
branch at San Antonio with instructions to call it any time I want.
And the phone rings constantly. Air Force friends have called from
all over the country. Don Buchholz called this evening from the
Pentagon." "Yes. Ham had a lot of friends." "Has
a lot of friends."

Marge groaned inwardly. "Of course. Has a lot
of friends. And he'll be seeing them soon." "Yes. Soon."

As Gwen placed a coffee cup in front of her guest,
Marge took her hand. "Would you like me to stay with you again
tonight?"

"No thanks. Not tonight, Marge. I just kind
of want to be alone."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. You're my dearest friend, Marge, you
know that. But tonight I really would prefer it."

"OK. But call me if you need anything? You
know you're taking this thing like a real trooper, Gwen. Ham will be
proud." "Got to. I'm an Air Force wife. You know the
procedure."

"Yes, I know it." Marge was doing her
best not to let on to Gwen that she'd noticed how much the hands
holding the coffeepot were shaking.

It was dusk, and Hambleton could faintly hear the
people in the villages going about their evening chores. Painfully,
he crawled out of his hole and peered through the bushes. Funny.
Almost like an evening at home in Tucson. People coming home from
work. He and Gwen would be having a Manhattan about this time,
unwinding, maybe starting the coals for an outdoor barbecue. But
then the odor of Vietnamese cooking wafted toward him and his nose
wrinkled. He was a long way from Tucson.

Interesting how the villagers could go about their
business smack in the middle of a war. They all looked so peaceful.
Last week, before they had been engulfed by the North Vietnamese
offensive, he would have been able to walk through that village
completely unmolested. He would have been approached by the kids,
smiled at by the women, bowed to by the old men. But not now. Now
they were engulfed by the other side, and their reorientation
had already begun.

The poor damned Vietnamese. Like children—curious,
friendly, vulnerable. Few of the villagers had much will to fight.
Simple survival was their ideology, their honor, and their politics.
The political party most popular in an area was generally the one
most generous with rice and fish heads. What stake could they have in
this filthy war?

Yet strangely, the villagers loved to watch the
war! During every attack, every troop movement, the natives would run
out onto the road, line up, and watch—oblivious, even after all
these many years, to the fact they were very much in danger.
Especially since the North Vietnamese, knowing the Air Force
reluctance to bomb the villages, would dig in their heavy artillery
and ack-ack guns in the center of their little hamlets.

So far these particular villages had been
spared—thanks to the sharpshooting accuracy of the FAC's
phosphorous rocket markers that had pointed out strictly military
targets for attack. But if the Air Force had to go after the
antiaircraft batteries in the villages... he shuddered. He wanted to
see no more death. Particularly of civilians. The sight of the
strafed soldiers on the highway had sickened him. And he couldn't
shake the vision of the three men who had entered the mine field to
search for him. They had looked not much older than boys. They had
displayed a lot of guts walking into the mined area. And now one had
spilled his to a land mine, and another would go through life with
one leg. He felt his stomach churning. Think of something else.

The sun was going down in a blaze of glory,
splashing psychedelic colors across the horizon. An Arizona sunset
transplanted. He almost exclaimed aloud as the hues lit up the
surrounding hills. It would make a beautiful painting to hang in
his den. That was a good idea. He would close his eyes and capture
those colors, then when he got home he would paint them from memory.
He had often thought of taking up painting. Now that he would soon be
retiring he would have the time. Let's see, there are golds, yellows,
brilliant oranges...

"That's a beautiful painting, Gene."

He looked up. He was only mildly surprised to see
Gwen bending over him, right next to his easel. She was wearing her
red pantsuit, a favorite of his. "Needs work. Haven't got the
colors quite right."

"I like it. The reds and the yellows. We'll
hang it in the living room. It will go well with the colors in there.
We'll get a nice frame. It will be attractive."

She moved toward him...

He snapped his eyelids open. Good God! His palms
were moist. Had he been dreaming or hallucinating? It was all so
real! Gwen was actually there, real as life. He had even come to with
his lips pursed, ready to give her a kiss.