Читать книгу Through the Valley - William Reeder - Страница 16
ОглавлениеI came to a short distance from the wreckage. I floated in and out of consciousness several times in the minutes, or maybe hours, that passed. I remember the heat from the burning Cobra. I heard and felt the explosions from the fuel and ammunition on board. Then I would fall back into oblivion. When I was finally aware of the world around me again, all was quiet at the aircraft. I could hear the battle raging in Ben Het, a few hundred yards away.
I was dazed. I knew I was hurt badly. I had no idea where I was or what had happened. At first I thought I’d just been shot down in a Mohawk and survived an ejection seat ride. I was back in 1969. I worried about my observer.
I was also paralyzed, numb from head to toe. I could feel back pain through the numbness, but I could not move my arms or legs. I couldn’t budge at all.
Hurt bad. Need to be in a hospital.
My mind was stuck in a time three years earlier, skipping through confusing illusions for some time while I tried to will my body to move. Eventually, my arms began to respond. I worked my hands to the radio pocket on my survival vest. I groped the pocket for a long time before I finally got the radio out. I was about to transmit, but I couldn’t think of my call sign. I tried to form the words. I hit a blank. I tried again. I blurted out, “Panther three-six.”
In that instant, I remembered I was not flying Mohawks. I was a Cobra pilot in the 361st Pink Panthers. I had been shot down at Ben Het. I didn’t have a right-seat observer to worry about. I had a front-seat copilot/gunner.
Tim. Got to find Tim! I keyed the emergency radio, trying to formulate a coherent distress call, but the radio was dead. I kicked myself for not taking the few seconds to check the battery before we launched that morning. I had never had a problem with a battery before. Now I did. The Air Force always carried spare batteries. In the Army we felt lucky to have a radio at all. There were no spare batteries.
Rescue was going to be tough.
Got to find Tim. I struggled to move. My arms worked better, and I fought to get my legs in motion. I rocked onto my belly and got my knees under me. A piece of jagged metal was sticking through the side of my right boot into my ankle. I pulled it out with one swift motion, like pulling off a Band-Aid. Then I pushed up onto my hands and knees and tried crawling. It worked!
I slowly, painfully crawled around the wreckage looking for Tim. No luck. I heard a Huey nearby and rolled reluctantly onto my back, giving up all the progress I’d made to that point. I fumbled with my survival vest to find the signal mirror and flashed some mirror flashes toward the Huey. Nothing. I got back onto my hands and knees and crawled around the wreck some more. Couldn’t find Tim. I hoped he’d be OK. He had a radio. I had no doubt that his battery was fine. He was probably talking to aircraft already.
I crawled farther from the wreck and collapsed under a bush, exhausted. It rained and I got soaked. I lay there and shivered.
Late in the day, I heard the enemy moving and shooting around me. Air strikes increased in frequency and came closer. I heard the Spectre AC-130 gunship ripping the jungle to pieces not far away. If I stayed where I was, I’d be killed or captured. I had to do something. I rolled onto my front again, got in my crawling stance, tried pushing up onto my feet, and was surprised to find I could stand stooped over. I took a few small steps in terrible pain.
I shuffled around, tried to come up with a plan. To get into Ben Het, to the command bunker and safety, I’d have to move through hundreds of attacking North Vietnamese soldiers and tanks, go through multiple rings of concertina wire and mine fields, not get killed by the enemy, and hope that the friendlies would not mistake me for an NVA soldier and shoot me before I got to them.
The Montagnard hamlet of Plei Mrong, forty miles away, lay a bit southwest of Kontum City. That would be a good shot. I could walk there in a couple of weeks, even in my current state. The pain in my back was intense. It was broken. The fire had burned the back of my neck, and I had lesser burns on my face. My hair was singed. I had pulled a shell fragment out of my ankle. Superficial lacerations covered my face and forehead, bleeding badly. I was a mess, but I was motivated. I wanted to get away. I staggered from the crash site and headed southeast, toward Kontum, as it was getting dark.
I had not gone far when I heard helicopters approaching. Cobras came in low, shooting. They set up the familiar racetrack above the trees right over me. I heard a Loach screaming in at a low level, like a hummingbird possessed. I grabbed my strobe light and slipped the blue tinted cover in place over the bulb to make the bright flashing light appear blue, rather than white, so it wouldn’t be mistaken for muzzle flashes. I held the light over my head, pointed toward the aircraft. It flashed a few times. The gunner in the lead Cobra opened up on me with his minigun. A stream of tracers came right at me.
God damn!
I dropped the light and rolled away from the bullets. They missed by a few feet. The stupid strobe light, attached to my survival vest by a cord, was lying there still flashing into the dirt. I fumbled with the switch and got the damned thing shut off before it got me killed. I was badly shaken. I hurt like hell, but I was elated, too. I had heard the Loach hover down to the ground and sit there for a moment. Then it climbed back up and left the area.
They got Tim out. Thank God.
I got back onto my feet in pain and gave thanks. I had not just been killed by friendly fire.
In survival school, they taught us to stay off trails, travel at night, and avoid people. That’s what I did. I pushed my way through the jungle southeast by my compass. Every step was agonizing. When I had to bend or squat to get under a branch, the pain was excruciating. I had to be quiet, but at times I would groan, “Ahgg!”
I don’t think I went far that night. I was still dazed and I tired quickly. The pain was disabling. Fighting my way cross-country through the jungle was taking its toll. This off-trail, at night, in the jungle, is shit. This is impossible!
Rain began to fall, and I shook uncontrollably with cold and fatigue. I found a bush up against a small tree and worked myself under its cover. I collapsed on the ground and fell asleep instantly.
An AC-130 Spectre gunship had been shooting for much of the time I’d been traveling, along with frequent strikes by jet fighter aircraft. Spectre departed and the fighter air strikes slowed. I slept soundly for the first moments.
Armageddon wrenched me awake. I raised just my head. I felt the first distant rumble of bombs. Oh shit! B-52 strike!! Terror gripped me. The thundering came toward me, louder and louder. The ground trembled. The earth shook. Hundreds of bombs fell almost on top of me. Then it stopped. Silence.
Pieces of debris crashed close by. Floating residue of the earth-churning explosions drifted down around me. My nostrils filled with the acrid smell of explosive. I trembled again. How many times that day? I laid my head back down on the dirt and fell back asleep thinking, Whatever is going to happen will happen. May live. May die. No sense in worrying about it.
Other B-52 strikes intruded into my uneasy dream state as the night went on, none as close as that first. I rested fitfully. At dawn, a flight of jets struck a target close enough to instantly snap me from slumber. I jerked awake, but lay still. I thought through the sequence of events that had brought me to this place and point in time. I was a mess. My face was covered with crusted blood. I could feel some pretty good lacerations, particularly one on my hairline above my right eye. I hurt all over, especially my back. I was stiff and had trouble getting my arms and legs moving again. After some effort, I rolled onto my front. I struggled onto my hands and knees, then back up on my feet. My back screamed as I stood. I was bent over like a very old man. On my left forearm, a squiggling worm-like thing was standing on its head, a leech. I grabbed it and tore it away. I discovered another on my arm, one on my neck. I ripped them off.
I thought about finding a better place nearby and hunkering down for the day. One tenet of my evasion training was to travel only at night. I decided to accept whatever increased risk there might be traveling during the day. It would be too hard to do what I’d done the night before. I checked my compass and headed southeast, continuing toward Kontum or Plei Mrong, forty miles away.
Before long, I came to a stream. I dropped slowly and carefully to my knees, cupped my hands, and raised water to my lips. I was really thirsty. I’d had nothing but a cup of coffee since the night before I’d been shot down. I guzzled the water. The taste of cordite didn’t deter me from quenching my thirst. Afterward, I wondered if it was poisonous. I came upon the B-52 strike. I dragged myself through and around craters and shattered trees for half a mile before I was back in the jungle again.
Later that morning, I came to a trail that was running southeast. Another principle of my evasion training was stay off trails. Exhausted and in pain, I took the trail anyway, rationalizing that I would remain alert and take cover if I heard or sensed anything. Besides, I’ve got a lot of distance between Ben Het and me by now. Shouldn’t be any NVA this far out.
The trail was easier going. I felt optimistic. Keep moving southeast. Get around or over Rocket Ridge. Get near Kontum and find friendlies. Plei Mrong is good. That’ll work. This is gonna be OK.
A large grassy area opened to my right. The trail was still in the trees, but I could look out onto the open field. I heard the sound of a light airplane. I stepped into the field and looked up. A VNAF O-1 Bird Dog spotter plane was approaching the field. Thank God. I pulled out my pen flares. I mounted one onto the launcher as quickly as I could. The plane was heading past the edge of the field. I pulled back the spring-loaded firing mechanism and let it go. The flare shot into the air and burst into a bright red cluster. I held my breath, hoped, waited. Nothing. The plane kept flying. No wing-rocking, nothing. He hadn’t seen it. I turned back to the trail, my head not as high as before.
Small arms fire erupted from across the field. Voices shouted in Vietnamese as eight or ten uniformed NVA soldiers came running across the field. The Bird Dog had not seen my flare, but they had. They rushed, hot after me. My hands patted my hips and survival vest. Oh, crap. For the first time since being shot down, I realized I had no weapon.
I had been issued a .38-caliber revolver, the same weapon I’d had on my first tour. When I was shot down then, I’d drawn my pistol, looked at the stream of rifle and machine-gun fire coming from my pursuers, and reholstered it immediately. I would not die hopelessly in another Custer’s Last Stand. Instead, my wingman covered my forty-five-minute run through the jungle to a helicopter rescue, a dash that earned me the nickname of Lightfoot. A .38 wasn’t worth a shit. I had wangled a CAR-15 automatic carbine from one of my special ops friends, which I carried instead. The CAR-15, with my two bandoliers of ammunition, was still behind my seat in the Cobra. I hadn’t thought about it as I’d struggled to get out of the burning aircraft. There hadn’t been time to get it even if I had.
I shuffled down the trail as quickly as I could. After a curve, I dropped and rolled under a patch of thick bushes to my left and lay there as quietly as I could. I was breathing heavily. I was sure I’d soon be dead or captured.
The enemy soldiers came down the trail at a fast run, yelling among themselves, probably shouting commands to me as well. I knew about five words of Vietnamese, so I had no idea what they said. I held my breath when they ran past me. The noise died down, I took several deep breaths. They ran on down the trail. I had made it. There was still hope.
I was cocksure. If anyone could survive this, it was me. I had been a Boy Scout. Though I was one of the troublemakers in my troop, I’d learned a lot. I’d backpacked sixty-five miles through the mountains in five days and practiced survival skills.
My troubled youth got me suspended from school a number of times, but it also taught me lessons. I learned to street fight, take care of myself. I had boxed, played football, and run track. I majored in forestry, worked cattle ranches, rode broncs in small rodeos, fought forest fires, worked construction, and was an electrical lineman for Southern California Edison.
Survival, escape, and evasion training were part of officer candidate school as well as flight school. Navy jungle survival school in the Philippines gave me additional training. Being shot down and evading capture on my first tour made me about as ready as anyone could be for what I now faced. I only needed some luck and, I damn well knew, a little help from something beyond myself.
I remembered a little ditty my mother had taught me. “The Lord helps those who help themselves.” I knew I could depend on its absolute truth to help get me through this. The Lord helps those who help themselves. God, I’ll do that. Do all I can. Muster every bit of what’s inside me. I’ll do my part. I’ll do all I can to help myself. So please, please do yours. I need your help! I said it to myself again, drawing comfort and strength. The Lord helps those who help themselves. I would repeat it often, as I set my mind to doing all I must to survive.
I crawled out from the bushes and left the trail, back into the tangled jungle toward high ground to the south. There I turned to my southeasterly course again. I would get up out of the valley and work across the hills. Never again would I risk using a trail.
Thirst took hold of me. Every painful step toward the hills made me thirstier. You’d think there would be an abundance of water in the jungle. Not so. I hadn’t crossed another stream since that morning. My mouth was dry as dust. I tried to cup rain in my hands during a shower. That rendered only a few drops. I came upon some plants with large, horizontally lying leaves with small amounts of rainwater puddled on each. I drank eagerly, moving from leaf to leaf. I got no more than a couple spoonfuls of water for my effort.
I found myself in an astonishing place. I stood under high, dense jungle canopy as in a large, dimly lit room, quiet, serene save for the sounds of the jungle. The air was filled with bird songs. Another strange yodel-pitched sound was almost like some creature singing out, “Fuck you. Fuck you.” It was the exotic call of a Tokay lizard.
The tops of the largest trees formed layers of canopy like a protective ceiling, a hundred or even two hundred feet above. Smaller trees and a variety of bushes and other shrubs spread across the decomposing duff of the forest floor. Thick vines hung from the dome.
I felt a sense of security here. I used this almost spiritual place to collect my wits and gather my strength for whatever lay ahead.
I knew I had to eat. I hadn’t eaten for two days. Another wilderness survival technique helped me find edible plants. I identified a plant that I’d seen in abundance. I took a piece of leaf, rolled it into a pea-sized ball, and ate it. There were no ill effects after several minutes, so I ate a larger piece. Still no ill effects after a short while, so I figured that plant was fine. I ate a bunch of the leaves.
While I was chomping on leaves, I spied a large ant mound nearby. I walked over and placed my hand on the mound. When my hand was covered with ants, I raised it, looked at them for a second, and then started licking ants off the back of my hand. Pretty acrid taste. I could feel their tiny pinchers trying to bite as I chewed. It was a source of protein, though. If I could find water and eat plants and ants, that would sustain me for the two to three weeks it would take me to get to Kontum.
Moist warmth ran along the inside of my thighs. I looked down. I noticed my whole crotch was more soaked than the rest of my rain-sodden flight suit. I was pissing myself. I reached behind me and felt a gooey mess in the back of my pants. I had lost control of my bowels as well. Must have something to do with my back injury, I thought. Well I’m a hell of a mess.
I left my sanctuary and headed for the hills, my goal for the day. It was getting dark. I drank my fill at another stream and found a spot above the bank to lie down and sleep. Off in the distance, bombing continued through the day. Sporadic strikes came much closer, some not far ahead of me.
I fell asleep, exhausted. Occasional rumbles and rain showers kept waking me. Morning came just as I was finally comfortably sleeping. Sunlight and animal sounds woke me. I struggled up, shivering, got a drink from the stream, which now had a definite cordite taste, and continued my journey.
I moved diagonally upward, to the left, along the first hillside. The jungle thinned and I was on a slope covered in grass taller than me. Two-thirds of the way up the hill, I came to a large bombed-out area with no live vegetation, only big craters and churned-up earth dotted with boulders, tree stumps, and shattered trunks and limbs. It was a long way around either side. I kept going straight across.
Somewhere near the middle of the devastation, I heard an airplane. A small U.S. Air Force O-2 forward air control airplane was droning across the sky a couple thousand feet up. I stopped, took off the top of my two-piece Nomex flight suit, and began waving the shirt over my head. The aircraft continued to fly by. My head and my heart fell again. Then the droning sound of the engine changed. I looked up. The plane began a left turn right over me and circled twice as I waved my shirt more energetically. Then he left. I was excited, sure he’d be back shortly with a rescue helicopter. Thoughts of a hot shower and beer at the officers’ club filled my head. My heart pounded.
I heard the O-2 returning. He stayed off to one side. I looked for the helicopter. Instead I heard the wailing screech of a jet fighter in a steep dive. I squinted. An F-4 fighter-bomber was diving right at me. I fell into a crater and stood in the bottom, fixated on the plane as it plunged toward me.
Time slowed. The plane plummeted straight at me, releasing two bombs. The plane pulled up. The bombs continued, gliding along a line that had been invisibly drawn to my head. They grew bigger and closer. I fell to my knees, covered my head, and waited. Kaboom! The earth shuddered. I was alive. The bombs struck a nearby crater, not mine. A second F-4 dove. Its bombs fell farther away. The planes left, and I sat there, badly shaken. After a while, I crawled out of the hole, finished crossing the bombed area, and continued on up the hill.
Near the top, the jungle gave way to an expanse of grassland that covered the gently sloping ridge. My southeasterly course would take me right across the middle. The route around was long and thickly jungled. I was physically and mentally drained. I decided to chance the open field. With much care, I slowly stepped out onto the grass. I scanned the tree line, stopping frequently to listen. I hadn’t covered more than thirty yards when I heard voices across the field. I saw movement in the trees just beyond.
Oh, shit, I muttered to myself. If they see me out here, they’ll shoot and I’m dead. Blood pounded in my head. Why in the fuck had I thought I could get away with such a dumb-shit move? I found myself repeating, The Lord helps those who help themselves. Then I made a pact. God, get me out of this one, and I owe you. Anything. You name it. I’ll become a rancher and raise cattle. No more Army. No more war. OK?
I turned left, away from the voices, stealing back toward the cover of the jungle at the edge of the field. With each step, I expected to feel a bullet rip into me. Surely they’d seen me out there. I thought I heard a couple of distant shots, but it was more likely my imagination. I got back to the tree line, stepped in, and breathed a sigh. I hadn’t been seen. Thank you, Lord.
Pushing my way through the thick jungle, I continued away from the field. My course would keep me well clear of the soldiers there. The hill dropped away on the back side. I stumbled slowly downward. I heard air strikes, but they were far away. Hope returned.
I came upon a small cultivated field with banana trees along one edge. No sign of habitation or recent human activity. The bananas were little green things. They didn’t look ripe. I peeled one and ate it anyway. Not real good, but it was food. I ate another and stuffed several into my pockets. I continued down the hill and back into the jungle.
I reached the bottom, worked my way up the side of another hill, and then went back down again. The going was difficult. The jungle was so thick I almost couldn’t see my hand if I held it straight out in front of me. I was not going back onto any more trails, though. I was done with any more idiotic meanderings in large open fields. I was doing everything right with one exception. I was traveling during the day instead of at night. Night was too tough.
I felt confident. I had several bananas. For the next few days, they would supplement my leaf diet until I found more bananas, ants, or something else. I was good to go. My wobbly steps took on a little more bounce. I continued pushing through the jungle, down the hillside.
Then, out of nowhere, I heard excited voices.
“Cái gì vây?”
“Tôi nghe cái gì çó.”
“Có phäi çó là con thú?”
“Không, tôi không ngh ĩ nh vãy! Chúng ta hy đi!”
Shit. People! I crouched down and kept absolutely silent. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, hear it in my ears. Maybe they’ll think it was an animal and go back to whatever they were doing.
What if they didn’t? What if they found me? Could be Montagnards. That would be great. I’d be saved. I couldn’t tell if the language was Vietnamese or a tribal dialect. I could only hope. I breathed as shallowly as I could. I felt for my weapon that I knew wasn’t there. I brought my hand back onto my knee.
A lot of crashing around came from the direction of the voices. I looked up and saw uniformed NVA soldiers pointing AK-47 rifles at my head. They shrieked something and motioned for me to stand up. I did. I was captured. I felt indescribably sick in the pit of my stomach as my world fell away. I’d been struggling for three days to stay alive. I was in miserable shape, but I’d been free and I had options. No more. My soul was awash with anguish. I was no longer a free man. In that instant, I had become a captive of the communist North Vietnamese Army, a prisoner of war, another American POW in the long Vietnam conflict. I had no idea how long they might let me live, or if I was about to die.
