“Do they get blindfolded or something?” Gary asked.
“Naw,” said the lieutenant. “They’re just kids.”
One of the boys sat in the web seat and the other sat on the floor with his legs dangling out—like the grunts did—and Gary and I strapped back in.
Coming back into the Golf Course, we went out of the pattern and circled around the division to reenter traffic on the downwind leg. The boys were all eyes. The one on the floor punched the other and pointed at something. They both laughed.
Gary told the tower we were going to the pen, and they cleared us to fly down row three and beyond. We crossed the northern perimeter, the troopers’ garrison, the tube emplacements, the antimortar radar installation, the sky-crane pad, and the long rows of Hueys. Beyond the heliport we flew over the tent cities to a field.
Two clerks on guard duty came over to corral the prisoners. The boys jumped off smiling and went where they were pointed. Five or six prisoners crab-walked around under the three-foot-high barbed-wire ceiling of the cage. One of them waved to the boys. They called a greeting. It did not look like a good place to spend time, but as we were told, no one stayed there very long anyway.
“After we question them, we either send them back home or turn them over to the ARVNs. These two little fucks will probably be sent back home,” said the sergeant in charge.
Back in the air, I had the feeling that we had just been tricked. They had just done an aerial survey of the entire First Cav compound, and they didn’t even have an airplane.
The perimeter of tangled concertina, land mines, antiper sonnel mines, trip wires, and observation towers was constantly infiltrated by the haphazard return of nature; that is, weeds. With the mines in place, no one could go out to trim the weeds. Weeds were not only messy; they could conceal the approach of the enemy. The solution was to have men spray defoliant chemicals out the doors of a hovering Huey. There was no way to get out of the minefield if the engine failed. To someone as nervous around explosives as myself, the chance that just the air pressure under our hovering ship might trigger a mine seemed possible. And what about the sticks and stuff that blew around in our rotor wash? The imagined dangers were endless. I never thought for one moment about the defoliant itself.
For two or three days, Resler and I drew the job. As with most noncombat chores with the Huey, it became a game.
“Whatever you do, don’t catch the concertina with the skids,” said Resler.
“What do you think? I bought my license at Sears?”
We flew slowly along the rows of concertina just missing the short iron posts that anchored it. A man used a long nozzle to spray a mist of chemicals that swirled into the wire and around the ship. At the end of a three-hundred-yard pass, we rose slightly, turned, and went back, paralleling the same route ten feet farther over. One of the men in the back of the chopper waved to the man in the observation tower. He waved back, and with his finger traced a circular path beside his head for good measure. Guard duty is shit, but at least I’m not stupid.
For three hours Gary and I painstakingly covered every square inch of our assigned section of the perimeter with weed killer. The stuff swirled into the cockpit, but was odorless and tasteless. The men of the spray crew were protected only by buttoned-up collars and pulled-down baseball caps in their never-ending job.
One morning we drew the assignment of flying to la Drang as a courier ship. We carried the courier, who carried a pouch containing important messages being sent to various field commanders. It was the kind of job I loved best. No formations, no hot LZs, no screaming grunts, and no red tracers.
After crossing the Mang Yang pass, we flew to a small LZ somewhere south of Pleiku. The courier hopped out and asked us to shut down. We did, then wandered over to a group of brass who were interrogating an NVA. The man’s arms were bound behind him. He shook his head quickly when the interpreter shouted sharp questions. A heavy-set colonel reacted angrily and asked again. A major stood behind the prisoner with a .45 drawn but held by his side.
“Tell him to talk or we will kill him,” the colonel said. The ARVN translator grinned. “Tell him!” The interpreter switched his face to stern severity and wheeled around and yelled piercing Vietnamese accented with gestures. The prisoner flinched at the words but resolutely shook his head.
“Did you tell him we’d kill him?”
“Yes. I say you talk now. If no talk now we kill now. Boom.” He smashed his fist into his hand.
“Good. Tell him again.”
He did, but the prisoner stubbornly refused to talk.
“Goddamn it!” the colonel shouted. “Major, put your automatic to the back of his head,” he said quietly, so as to not tip his hand. “When Nguyen here asks him again, push the barrel against his head.”
“Yes, sir.” The major raised the weapon.
The interpreter pounced upon the man, unleashing a torrent of threats, and the major prodded the back of his skull with the muzzle of the gun. The man flinched at the gun stabs and closed his eyes, waiting for the explosion. When the interpreter stopped screaming, he shook his head. No.
The colonel brushed the interpreter aside and put his face in front of the prisoner’s. “Listen, you slimy little gook. You talk. Now.” He glared. “I’ll blow your slimy brains all over this goddamn jungle.” He moved his face closer to the prisoner’s. “Cock that gun, Major!”
“Huh?”
“Cock the goddamn gun and let him hear it. I don’t think he believes we’ll kill his ass.”
“But we can‘t, sir.”
The colonel wheeled to the major. “I know that and you know that, but he doesn’t. Cock it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The major sheepishly pulled the slide back and let it snap. The loud click-clack made the prisoner flinch. He seemed to brace himself for death. He lowered his head. The major kept the gun at the base of his skull. Before the interpreter even asked the question, he began to shake his head slowly. No.
“Okay, okay. Let’s take a break,” said the colonel. “God damn gooks!” He looked around to see the courier and Gary and me. “What do you want?”
“Dispatches from division, sir.” The courier handed the colonel a fat envelope and saluted.
“Right.” The colonel nodded. “The fucking paperwork can find you no matter where you are.”
“Yes, sir,” said the courier.
The colonel looked up from the papers. “Well?”
“I have to get a signature on the cover sheet, sir.”
“You’ll get it. You’ll get it.” While he patted his fatigues for a pen, he noticed the prisoner staring at him.
“Major, I want you to blindfold that slope. And I want you to tell him that I’ve decided to execute him.”
“Sir?”
“That’s right. Tell him. Tell him.” The colonel shook his head wearily. “Jesus, Major, this is basic stuff. I’m going away for a while, and I want the interpreter to talk nice and friendly to the gook and tell him that maybe he can save his miserable skin. Like if he decides to talk. Get it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here’s your cover sheet.” The colonel handed the paper to the courier. “Nice day for flying.” The colonel looked at me.
“Yes, sir, it is,” I said.
He nodded over and over as if agreeing to several things, then stopped suddenly and looked at me sternly.
“Well?”
“Yes, sir,” I said quickly, “we’re going.”
I spit out blood. I had quit smoking and was taking it out on the inside of my cheeks. I sat behind a table in the mess tent trying to figure out how to make sense of a tall pile of papers that made up an accident report. My job, since I had caught a bad cold, was to be the scribe on the accident board. The company was out working the local area, but the word was in that we were going to go to the Turkey Farm in a few days.