‘The citizenry may be actively laying mines and preparing punji stake traps. Worse still, they may also be acting as local guides for the Communist main force units, allowing them to penetrate throughout our field of operation. Some will be armed.’
Major Worsnop paused. He ratcheted his briefing up a notch.
‘I spoke earlier of the professional Communist forces in the area. I repeat, gentlemen, that on this score there are also more of them than there are of us, and they have great cover — at least three quarters of Phuoc Tuy is jungle. Our intelligence tells us that the Communists have two provincial force battalions in the area made up of locally raised soldiers with modern — I repeat, modern — infantry weapons. Don’t believe the movies which portray them as some kind of peasant army. They are highly trained, remarkably adaptable to the terrain and extremely mobile.
‘As well as these two — D440 and D445 — the Communists have three regular-force CVC regiments in the area. These are the most dangerous of all the Communist forces in Phuoc Tuy. They are primarily professionals, like us: trained soldiers mainly from North Vietnam. They are well equipped and well supported by a rocket battalion. They have air backup from Hanoi. Never forget that we are outnumbered. The Communists are a formidable enemy and it would be a mistake to under-estimate them.
‘So why are we here, and what can we do against superior numbers? We are here to try to maintain the upper hand. Our strategy is to stay on the defensive but, primarily, to go on planned offensive operations. To maintain unrelenting operations so as to prevent the enemy from even thinking of mounting any major operation against us. How? By blocking their supply routes, their access to Dat Do and Baria. By ambushing them as they move. By mounting major operations against their bases. By ensuring they can’t gain even as much as a toehold in this province. Are there any questions?’
There was a silence. Sam put up his hand.
‘Sir, the men want to know when they can expect their first operation.’
‘It will come soon enough.’
Victor Company’s activities escalated to perimeter duty, maintenance of the barbed wire defences and intense patrolling of the immediate vicinity of Nui Dat. Very soon, Second Platoon, under Lieutenant Haapu, also found itself undertaking operational reconnaissance of Phuoc Tuy, maintaining a regular pattern of drive-throughs to establish the Allied presence in villages and towns, and keep the enemy back.
But it wasn’t all work. Nui Dat was well set up for sport and recreation and there was an outdoor theatre that Sam thought was surely an open invitation to some Vietcong gunner, if he got close enough, to aim his mortar at the screen. One evening, they even watched A Yank in Vietnam. Sam couldn’t believe it. It was nuts. There on screen was a helicopter attack, Hollywood style. And there, just beyond the base, a firefight was underway. And he was sitting there with a Coke in his hand and laughing out loud. What he didn’t know was that his laughter caught the attention of the blond American chopper pilot. As Harper looked through the crowd, a US Gunship ‘Spooky’ C47 roared overhead. Its fuselage was mounted with banks of electric powered miniguns that buzzed and poured out lines of tracer across the night sky. Harper saw a dark young guy, trying to stop from laughing so much. By some trick of perspective the tracers illuminated Sam’s profile with a halo of fireflies. Something about him touched Harper, so that long after the gunship had swung low and away Sam’s image remained on his retina.
One morning, Sam was brought face to face with the complex nature of the war and the terror of the local population trapped between opposing armies in a perpetual war zone.
‘Get the boys ready,’ Leiutenant Haapu said. ‘The ARVN Vietnam Army have a search-and-destroy mission taking place at a village on the coast. They’ve radioed for back-up.’
On the way out to the trucks, Sam saw a shimmering green insect flailing in the dust, desperately trying to escape from attacking scorpions.
Even before the convoy arrived, Sam could smell the violence. At the run, weapon cocked, Sam led the men through the village square. Two of the houses were on fire and some of the villagers were screaming. Sam saw an ARVN soldier lift the butt of his rifle and club an old man with it. The old man fell.
Sam took up a position next to an Aussie veteran.
‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘The ARVN are rockin’ and rollin’ with the slopes.’
Sam was stunned at the ferocity of the ARVN search. But, after all, they came to war with a history that Sam could not comprehend. They had been fighting the Communists since World War Two. Maybe their fathers had been killed, their brothers and sisters had been killed, perhaps their children had been killed in the bitter battle with the North. Screaming obscenities, they were herding the villagers into the square.
‘This village,’ the Aussie continued, ‘has been resistant to the ARVN for some time now. Ever since their headman was killed’ — he looked over at one of the ARVN commanders. ‘By that bastard over there, actually. The ARVN doesn’t like resistance, even though they may have been the cause of it, so they keep coming back to give these villagers special treatment. This is the third time I’ve been here and I’m bloody sick of it. I came to Vietnam to protect the locals against the Communists. I didn’t think I’d have to watch them being done over by their own.’
Four hours later, the villagers were still confined in the square. The sun was beating down, slashing their faces with heat. The ARVN commander refused them water and food and kept up a constant barrage of physical and verbal harassment. Every now and then, one of the villagers was led off into the surrounding trees. A rifle cracked.
‘Scare tactics,’ the Aussie veteran said. ‘Take somebody away, pretend to shoot them and hope that one of the villagers will break down and admit they’re operating a Communist cell. But these people aren’t scared by us. Look at their eyes —’
Sam tried to see what the Aussie was seeing. The villagers weren’t in fact looking at the ARVN or the cordon of soldiers surrounding them. They were watching the hills. There Sam saw their real fear.
‘You catch on quick. The villagers get fucked by us, they get fucked by the Vietcong, they get fucked by anybody who passes through. There they are, trying to get on with their lives, working the paddy fields or looking after their livestock. Next minute we come in, flying our little flags, pretending to be their saviours but roughing them up in the process. If it’s not us it’s the Americans. We round them up, cordon off their village, search their houses, upset their lives and interrogate them. Our mates, the ARVN over there, kill their cattle or water buffalo to make them talk. Sometimes we imprison them and shoot them if we suspect they’re holding out on information. Or some peasant who has a vendetta against another peasant will whisper to the ARVN that his neighbour is a collaborator with the Vietcong. Next minute, bang, and Mr Innocent Neighbour is shot in the head and falls down dead.’
The Aussie veteran pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He offered one to Sam. ‘The name’s Jim.’
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Sam and, thanks, but I don’t smoke.’
‘We’re supposed to be fighting for them,’ Jim continued, ‘but you know what really sucks? We’re shit scared of them at the same time. We embark on these search-and-destroy missions, looking for evidence of the enemy, and all the while the villagers are waiting for us to do our job and get out. And who are left in the villages? The policeman is gone. The school teacher is gone. The local priest is gone. All probably executed in the early days by one side or the other for suspected collaboration. Only the old and the very young are left. But we’re still scared of them — and you know why? Because it’s so difficult to see the difference between a Vietnamese and a Vietcong. Our suspicions feed our fears. Before you know it we start thinking they’re shit, they’re dogs and we’re treating them like that — so don’t think it’s just the ARVN. Maybe we’ve just come back from a mission and some of our buddies have been killed. Maybe we’ve picked up the pieces after they’ve trodden on a mine. Pushed somebody’s brains back into his skull before putting what’s left of him into a body bag. So we’re all juiced up, hopped up with some kind of rage and need to have revenge. We start thinking, “This boy may be only five years old, but he could kill me.” Or, “This old lady looks like a nice friendly grandmother but, who knows, she may have a grenade up her sleeve.” So we knock them around and, just to make sure, kick them again. Then somebody gets trigger happy. Some American high on dope happens to let loose with his M16, all because a villager is reaching for something that looks like a grenade. Or some grunt ups his flame-thrower and fries some bystander to hell. Or we see somebody running into his house to protect his family when we arrive and we think, “They must all be enemy,” and we’re firing a 40mm grenade in through the window whether they are or not. Before you know it, the whole platoon is shooting up a village, setting it on fire, killing whoever happens to be in the way.’