The Ville (Vietnam Ground Zero Military Thrillers Book 9)

  THE VILLE

  Vietnam: Ground Zero Series

  Book Nine

  Eric Helm

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  ALSO BY ERIC HELM

  GLOSSARY

  BROMHEAD WONDERED WHY HE FOUND HER ATTRACTIVE.

  Her whole attitude had been formed in a dreamworld, one that didn’t exist, but it was impossible to convince her of that. “Your kind always turn to personal insults when they have no argument.”

  “My kind?” She looked puzzled.

  “You pinko university liberals.”

  Now she smiled. “You see? True to form. Even down to the clichés used by the military.”

  “Then why aren’t the university types in the streets over the North Vietnamese atrocities? They propose holiday cease-fires, then break them at will. The Communists violate the neutrality of Laos and Cambodia and no one cares. Hell, there are even advisers from Red China in South Vietnam and no one cares.”

  “That’s different,” said Jane Lucas.

  “How in hell is it different?”

  She paused before speaking again. “I knew it would do no good coming here. I thought I could reason with you, but I was wrong. I hope you don’t get too many of these people killed.” She moved rapidly to the door.

  Bromhead called after her. “I hope you don’t get them all killed.”

  PROLOGUE

  FRENCH INDOCHINA, 1954

  A short, coded radio message had come in the middle of the night. The brief transmission had been tinged with panic: a single, almost frantic order to pull out and take everything of French manufacture or design that was stored in the village.

  As soon as he had received the message, Jacques Zouave switched off his radio and left the hut. It was a dilapidated thatched structure that kept out the monsoon rains but not the humidity of the jungle. A notched log, which served as stairs, led from the door to the muddy ground three feet below. The hootch was set up on stubby stilts to keep out the water and to discourage the night creatures.

  Now, Zouave dropped silently to the ground, then glanced toward the edge of the jungle that loomed in the dark like the gates to a mystical forest. He knew that a guard was supposed to be watching the trails that led to the village. Zouave turned to his left and worked his way uphill, his feet slipping on the wet ground. Once, he had to put out a hand to steady himself, his fingers brushing the mud, which he wiped on the ragged black cotton shirt he wore.

  He approached the hootch where his commander slept. It was a carbon copy of his own. Thatched roof and walls that rose from a platform of logs lashed together to make a rough, splinter-studded floor. Zouave stopped by the door, an opening in the thatch with no covering, and whispered at the interior, “Sir, I have a message.”

  A moment later Michel Sahraoui appeared in the doorway, his face pale against the darkness of the interior. “What is it?” he asked.

  “We are ordered to leave here. Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest.”

  Sahraoui got up from his sleeping pallet of woven bamboo and nimbly made his way down the notched log to stand barefoot in the mud. “Let me see the message.”

  “I destroyed it as soon as I decoded it.”

  “Ah. And were we given a reason for this sudden order?”

  “No, sir. Just that we are to collect all our equipment, move to the landing strip and wait for evacuation by noon tomorrow. We are to leave with as little fanfare as possible, making certain that nothing French remains behind.”

  Sahraoui pushed a hand through his disheveled dark hair and stared into the night. “You are sure of the message?”

  “Yes, sir. It was repeated twice and I copied it down twice and checked both versions.”

  “All right, then. Let’s wake the others, check the weapons inventory and the equipment hootches. Let’s do it as quickly and quietly as possible.”

  Zouave turned and disappeared into the darkness, heading back toward his hut and his radio. Sahraoui placed one foot on the notched log, careful not to slip, and crouched as he stepped through the low doorway. Then he dropped on all fours so that he could crawl to his sleeping mat. He reached out and touched the bare shoulder of the woman who had not stirred when Zouave delivered the message.

  Sahraoui sat and crossed his legs, staring at the darker outline of the figure in the gloom. She belonged to the Meo tribe, a light-skinned race found throughout Indochina. Her long black hair reflected the starlight that invaded the hootch. She was an attractive woman whose features indicated that she might have had French in her ancestry. She spoke French fluently and had begun as their interpreter, evolving into something more, at least to Sahraoui.

  “Are you awake?” he asked.

  She rolled to her back and then turned her head so that she could look at him. “Yes.” There was a glistening on her cheek, just under her eyes.

  “Then you have heard?”

  “Yes.”

  Sahraoui sat for a moment watching her, waiting for her to give him a clue to her reaction, but she didn’t move or speak. He glanced away from her, at the uniform that was folded and sitting on the crude wooden chair. He had constructed it from teak and bamboo because he occasionally felt the need to sit in one. There were other things, a cabinet that held a cooking pot and eating utensils, clay pots and even a small mirror, on the other side of the hootch. Next to it were Sahraoui’s rifle and ammunition, his rucksack and a box of grenades stenciled U.S. Army.

  When he looked at the woman again, she had sat up facing him. Her bare breasts were visible in the dim light. He reached out as if to touch her and then drew his hand back.

  “What will happen to you?” he asked.

  “I will live here and someday a warrior who wants children will come into my house.”

  Sahraoui stood and moved to his uniform. It had been a while since he had needed to wear it. Training and advising the Meos had dictated he wear the same as they. He had grown used to the loosely wrapped loincloth. As he struggled into the uniform, he found it constricting, unpleasant to wear. It was almost impossible to pull on the boots. His feet had changed during the months of barefoot activity.

  As he finished dressing, he turned to see her studying him. He knelt and took one of her hands. “You could come with us. You speak their language and ours and that is a valuable asset.” He tried to ignore the tears that were now obvious on her face, pretending they weren’t there.

  “No, I think not. My people are here.”

  A whisper from outside called him. He dropped her hand and picked up his weapon. “I have work to do. I shall come back before we depart.”

  She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward her, brushing his lips lightly with her own. “Do not forget me.”

  He sighed. “I could never do that.” He tasted the salt of her tears and found he could ignore that, too.

  By eight, they had stripped the arms locker of all the weapons, moving not only the rifles and pistols, but also the machine guns, mortars and recoilless rifles. They had stacked the crates of ammunition near the weapons, and then toured the perimeter of the village, collecting the arms they had emplaced in the bunkers.

  Now that all the weapons had been accounted for, they began picking up the radio equipment, the entrenching tools, rucksacks and the knives.
They required the men to turn in their boots, uniforms and even their underwear. Everything that looked like it was of French manufacture was taken and piled at the grass-covered airstrip.

  All morning Sahraoui had been turning away his friends. They had come to trust him and the other French paratroopers, but were now to be stripped of all means of protecting themselves. He refused each request for a rifle or pistol or grenade. He told each of them that he was sorry, but he had his orders and they all knew what that meant. Each time he gave the speech, he felt that he was betraying a friend. To make it worse, none of them protested or argued the refusal.

  At ten, Sahraoui stood among the crates and equipment, counting softly to himself, feeling miserable. His uniform was soaked with sweat and it was like wearing a wet towel in a steam bath. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the trees near the airstrip, making it so hot that nearly everyone refused to walk out to the airfield where there was no protection from the sun.

  After he finished counting, Sahraoui sat on one of the wooden crates, pulled a cloth from his pocket and mopped his face. As his gaze found the village a hundred yards away near the crest of a hill, he saw a column of smoke mushroom toward the sky. A moment later there was a flat bang that set the monkeys scurrying and the birds flying.

  Sahraoui leaped off the crate and snatched his rifle. Behind him, his men were spreading out, their weapons ready as firing erupted in the village. Over the staccato reports of gunfire, there were shouts and screams of pain and anguish. The people fled the village, running into the jungle or toward the landing strip.

  The timing of the Viet Minh assault was perfect. With no weapons left in the village, the residents couldn’t retaliate. The discipline they had learned from the French disintegrated under the onslaught. Without their weapons, they felt vulnerable, and ran in panic.

  There were more explosions as the Viet Minh grenaded the hootches, shooting as they found human targets. Crouched behind the protection of their crates, their weapons held at the ready, the Frenchmen saw the villagers appear, running at them. The firing at the edge of the village increased then. Sahraoui saw a man lifted off his feet, his chest blossoming crimson as he fell among the trees. A bullet hit a woman in the middle of the back, snapping her spine and exiting between her breasts. She collapsed in a loose-boned heap, dead before she hit the ground. Two men were cut down by machine gun fire that ripped through their stomachs.

  Sahraoui recognized his Meo wife running through the jungle, her bare breasts bouncing. He raised a hand to wave, as if beckoning her. Her face was a mask of fear, her eyes wide, her mouth open but no sound coming from it. Once, she glanced over her shoulder and stumbled, by stayed on her feet.

  A bullet struck her in the shoulder then, slamming her to the ground. She started to rise, her face and chest a mass of scratches, blood and mud. She uttered a cry of agony as the pain from the wound coursed through her. The sound propelled Sahraoui into action, and he was up and running as she fell back to the soft wet earth, disappearing in the short grass.

  And then the Viet Minh were shooting at him, their bullets buzzing the air near him like angry bees. He dived for cover, his hands over his head as the odor of the hot, damp earth overwhelmed him.

  Sahraoui’s men opened fire, first with their rifles, then with one of the machine guns, halting the Viet Minh advance at the edge of the village. The enemy leaped for cover as the hammering of the .30 caliber slammed into the trees and bushes and ground around them.

  The villagers were nowhere in sight. Sahraoui guessed that they were either dead or wounded in the village, or running through the jungle searching for places to hide.

  The Viet Minh lost interest in them, turning their attention to the French soldiers. Suddenly the enemy attacked, materializing out of the jungle, firing and shouting as they came. But they ran into a fierce barrage of return fire from the paratroopers that stopped them immediately.

  When there was a lull in the firing, Sahraoui crawled to his men who were still crouched among the boxes and crates. He rose to his knees and aimed at the trees, but saw no targets.

  “Michel, we have to get out of here,” said Zouave.

  Sahraoui noted the position of the sun above the airfield, then looked at his watch. It would be more than an hour before the plane arrived, if it ever did. Above the trees he could see a dense cloud of black smoke that showed where the village was burning fiercely.

  “Can’t leave all this equipment,” he said.

  “Then burn it. Use the white phosphorus grenades to set it on fire. Then we get out.”

  “No,” said Sahraoui, shaking his head. “We stay.”

  Then, to the left, more firing broke out. Rifle and machine gun bullets raked their position, kicking up clouds of dirt and splintering the wood of the boxes. Sahraoui dived out of the way and came up firing, emptying his weapon at the enemy who were hidden by the thick green vegetation.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s get out. Zouave, Grauwin and Mordal, grab the grenades and set them. Pull the pins and place them under the boxes so that they won’t arm themselves until the boxes are moved. The rest of you each grab two of the grenades.”

  The three men worked feverishly to place the booby traps under the crates and weapons. When they finished they grabbed their rifles but kept their heads down as the Viet Minh continued to snipe.

  “Fall back,” ordered Sahraoui. “Fall back.”

  Some of the men ran from their cover near the boxes, heading for the jungle and better protection. The others turned their weapons on the Viet Minh positions, firing as fast as they could, forcing the enemy to keep their heads down.

  Sahraoui kept glancing at the spot where he had seen his wife struck down. There had been no sign of her since; he was now convinced that she was dead.

  Suddenly, rounds slamming into the crate near his head diverted his attention. Muzzle-flashes winked in the dense vegetation where the sun couldn’t wash it out. He aimed at the center of it, triggered his weapon twice and waited. Whoever was shooting at him didn’t return fire.

  By this time his men had reached the edge of the jungle on the other side of the airfield and opened fire to protect the rest of the units. Almost as one, although Sahraoui gave no command, the men were up and running.

  One of Sahraoui’s men grunted with pain and fell. His head hung down and his weapon was near his hand. Sahraoui slid to a stop and turned. He came back and reached out as a second round hit the man with a loud wet slap. As he fell forward, he looked up at Sahraoui but said nothing. His eyes seemed to roll up in his head and he dropped forward into a spreading pool of red.

  Sahraoui spun and ran for the jungle. Even the short sprint sucked the breath from his lungs and covered his face with sweat. He felt an adrenaline rush, which created a nervous tension. He could almost imagine the impact of a slug slamming into the base of his spine. At the tree line, he dived over a log, rolled, and came up on a knee in a puddle of muck that quickly soaked through his uniform. The trees and bushes around him shuddered as Viet Minh bullets whistled through them. Shredded leaves, bits of bark, and splinters rained down around him.

  Over his shoulder, he spotted a lone Viet Minh soldier. The man wore an OD uniform and carried an old rifle, poking the barrel into the bushes. Sahraoui leaned to the right, supporting himself on his elbow. He let the sights search for the enemy and when the man stepped into the sight picture, Sahraoui squeezed the trigger. The soldier jerked once, reached up to where the blood was pouring from his throat and began to fall. He reached out with one hand as if to break the fall, then disappeared.

  As soon as Sahraoui was clear, the men began throwing their grenades. The gray, tin-can-like bombs arced toward the crates of rifles, ammunition and supplies, and detonated into glowing clouds of burning white. The flaming debris rained down, setting everything near them on fire. Smoke from the damp green vegetation billowed upward, obscuring the landing strip and the jungle beyond it.

  When it was obvious that
the equipment was burning ferociously, Sahraoui ordered, “Let’s get out of here. It’s time to get out.”

  “What about the airplane?”

  “They’ll never land when they see all the smoke. They’ll divert and try to raise us on the radio.”

  “Where will we be?”

  Sahraoui pointed. “Escaping through the jungle.”

  The men turned, with Mordal running ahead to take the point. As he disappeared into the jungle, Sahraoui took a final look behind him. He could not see the village, although black smoke still marked its location. There were no villagers about. He figured that the survivors were scattered through the jungle. All he could see were the flames from the burning equipment. Then the ammo began to cook off. The detonating rounds, some of them tracers, flashed randomly into the jungle or skyward with streaks of red. Sahraoui decided that it was time to escape.

  Four weeks later, the remnants of his unit were picked up by a patrol boat scouting the Mekong River in Cambodia, and taken to Saigon. They were put on a plane for France. None would return to Vietnam or Laos, even after the United States entered the war. Sahraoui never did find out what happened to his Meo wife, although he would think of her often. But for him, the war in Indochina was over.

  CHAPTER 1

  MACV HEADQUARTERS, SAIGON, RVN

  Army Captain Jonathan Bromhead, a tall, freckle-faced kid who had completed one tour in Vietnam and was well into a second, sat in the air-conditioned conference room, sipping Coke from a can and waiting for the briefing to start. The room was small, just big enough for the mahogany table that was surrounded by eight low-backed, cloth-covered chairs. Stuck in one corner, crowding the table, was a screen and opposite it, near the door was a small table holding a Kodak carousel slide projector. On the walls, which had been paneled with pressed wood that imitated teak, were a number of framed prints showing the U.S. Army in battle.