Last Patrol

By Stephen John Walker

They stood on the verandah on the windward side of the hotel. John Pavlak lit a cigarette, leaned on the bamboo railing, and stared out to sea. It was several minutes before he started to speak.

“I first met Barry at Bragg—Fort Bragg. That’s in North Carolina.”  

“Yes, I remember him writing about it,” said Roger, Barry’s older brother.

“After our Special Forces training, we got assigned to the 7th Group for six weeks of pre-mission training: morning Vietnamese language classes and afternoon country orientation briefings. But he and some other guys got a change of orders and were sent down here to Panama. Didn’t see ’im again ’til he arrived at the camp. Special Forces is a small world.”

“We were at A-249, Polei Pranang, up in the Central Highlands west of Kontum.  It was a typical Special Forces camp, triangle-shaped, on a hill and surrounded by many rows of barbed wire and pungi stakes. We lived in underground bunkers, but the team house, latrines, and some other buildings were above ground. The troops were all C. I. D.G. That’s short for Civilian Irregular Defense Group, a C. I. A. funded mercenary army made up of local natives. Some camps had Cambodes or Nungs, indigenous Chinese, but ours were all Montagnards or ‘Yards’ as we called ’em. They’re like the American Indians of Vietnam and they hated the Vietnamese.”

He paused to take a drink and flicked his cigarette butt into the sea. It hissed when it stuck the water. He lit another.

“Barry was real smart, but he had a bad habit of flying off the handle over little shit,” he paused. “And that’s what got him killed.”  

*

So far so good, Pavlak thought. His luck was holding. He had been in Vietnam for two years, had received a couple of small wounds, but nothing serious. He felt he had done enough—for now.  This was his last patrol. Two more nights in the bush and they would be back at camp. He had no intention of extending his tour again. In a couple of weeks, he would out-process through 5th Group headquarters in Nha Trang and be on his way back to the States: a month in Key West and then on to the Canal Zone. Panama should be good duty, he thought. It has jungle and beaches and warm weather and sail boats. He’d be happy. He wondered what the women are like. Pretty dark, I’ll bet, he thought. Barry was down there. He’d ask him. He’ll know all about the women.  Pavlak shook his head and chuckled to himself.  

“One-zero, One-one.” Barry’s voice in the mike. “What’s up?”

“Don’t know. Recon’s checkin’ something out.” Pavlak looked up the trail. A slight bend to the left prevented him from seeing the head of the column.

“Comin’ up.”

“Roger that.”  Pavlak handed the microphone back to his Montagnard radio operator.  He sat down on the uphill side of the trail and shifted his position, so the weight of his rucksack was lifted off his shoulders by the rise. It was hot in the valley and hadn’t rained for two days. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his face with the OD green cloth sling that he used for a bandana. He looked down. Leeches, three of them, were sliding up the sides of his jungle boots. “Damn! Where do they come from? We’ve only been here five minutes. What do they do when there is no one here for months?” He watched the leeches inch their way up until they came close to the dark stain that circled the top of his boots. The leeches stood on their tails—do they have tails? Pavlak thought—and seemed to be looking from side to side, trying to find a way past the repellent grease smeared around the boot tops. This shit works pretty damn good, he thought. Wonder if they have leeches in Panama?

Pavlak looked to his right, back down the trail, and watched Barry—Sergeant Barry Feldman—and his radioman work their way through the strike force company of Civilian Irregular Defense Group Montagnards. When the company-size patrol of four thirty-man platoons traveled along a trail, Pavlak, the senior American, was behind the first platoon with his Vietnamese Special Forces counterpart, a Nung corporal named Kim. Barry was back between the third and fourth platoons. If the patrol stopped for any length of time Barry would come forward stopping along the column to share a joke or a handshake or pass out cigarettes to the tribesmen. His love and respect for these mountain warriors was returned with face-splitting smiles and whispered “Num-ba fuckin’ one, Trung-si.”

Barry sat down next to Pavlak. “What we got?”

“Don’t know. Recon’s not back yet.”

“Want me to go take a look?”

“No. We wait.”

“Gettin’ cautious, short timer?”

“Don’t be a dickhead, all right?”

“Just bored. Like to have some fun.”

“Look, buddy. Eight days crisscrossin’ the valley from one end to the other with no contact, no base camps, no new sign, no nothin’. That’s good. The VC ain’t around. Watch the Yards. They know. You can feel it. Give me a cigarette.”

“Thought you quit?”

“Next week.” Pavlak took the cigarette and lit it with a match. He kept paper C-ration matches in a waterproof, plastic cigarette case in his left breast pocket. He looked at the book of matches before returning them to the case. Wonder what happened to him? Lieutenant Beauregard, or was it Culpepper? —one of those famous southern names. During winter survival training in Colorado, he shared a tent with a baby-faced, 2nd lieutenant from South Carolina. When it came time to light the gas stove to melt snow for cooking water, the officer asked Pavlak for a match. “You don’t have any?”

“I don’t smoke,” said the lieutenant. Pavlak wondered if he was still in Special Forces.

“Trung-si! Trung-si!” The reconnaissance squad leader and the first platoon leader joined the two Americans, the Vietnamese SF NCO and the Montagnard company commander.  The recon NCO briefed the other leaders on what he had found, and Bong, the half-Cambodian, half-Vietnamese interpreter, translated for the Americans. There was a fresh trail running off perpendicular to the main trail into the second growth forest that bordered the river. They had followed it for about 300 hundred meters to a clearing. Around the edge of the clearing in a circle were beaucoup new bunkers. Another wider and well-used trail led away from the clearing toward the southwest. The ashes in a fire pit in the center of the clearing were still warm. And there was a grave. Pavlak sensed a change in the C.I.D.G. strikers: cigarettes were snubbed out, carbine bolts were quietly pulled back to make sure there was a round in the chamber, the distance between men increased and they seemed to melt into the ground, all looking outward from the trail, and no one spoke.

The patrol followed the recon leader along the new trail to the clearing in the center of the bunker complex. Pavlak and Feldman deployed the C.I.D.G. in the bunkers. Good place to stop for lunch, Pavlak thought. He positioned one M60 machine gun crew in a bunker facing down the trail that led off to the southwest. He left the recon squad and the other M60 back on the main trail. The recon squad in their NVA uniforms and AK-47’s would give the company some early warning if any bad guys came from that direction. Pavlak dropped his rucksack next to a tree about ten meters from the grave site and fire pit. Barry walked the perimeter again to check the bunkers and the positioning of the Claymore mines. The Montagnard radiomen dropped their rucks with the PRC-25 radios next to Pavlak’s, and then they cut a long pole and, using trip-flare wire, fastened a smoke grenade to each end. They had done this many times and when finished they leaned the pole up against the tree next to the rucks. Pavlak then told them to dig up the fire pit. They took folding entrenching tools from their rucks and started digging.

“Vivid Camels. Vivid Camels Alpha. Over.” Pavlak checked in with the A team.

“Alpha, this is Camels. Your nickel.” Hendricks on radio watch—asshole, Pavlak thought. I’ll have to make sure he repeats everything I send.

“Got a bunker complex, thirty-plus in a circle. New stuff: fresh dirt, green camo, fire pit still warm. And a grave. Anyone upstairs who can give me a fix?”

“Roger that, Alpha. Wait.” Pavlak imagined Hendricks scurrying around trying to find the team commander.

“Alpha, this is Headhunter Three-Niner. Just left your place. Whatcha got?”

“Well, Good morning, Three-Niner. Glad to have you in the AO. We’re, ah, south on the west side of the river. Here’s the grid. I’ll pop smoke when you’re ready.” He radioed the map coordinates to the pilot of the Army L-19 Reconnaissance aircraft.

There was a special place in his heart for these L-19 pilots. They flew out of Kontum, east of Polei Pranag everyday—weather permitting. One guy in a single engine airplane with no armament except four 2.75-inch spotter rockets mounted under their wings. They usually flew alone over the Central Highlands but often landed at a Special Forces camp to pick up a team member to ride back seat. They were a friend in the air, and they could talk to the Air Force fast movers upstairs.

“Alpha, this is Camels Six. What’s up?” Pavlak recognized the voice of Captain Patterson, the Special Forces A-Team Commander.

“Six. Alpha. Bunker complex. Thirty-five at last count. Charlie just left. All new shit.  Headhunter Three-Niner is inbound to give us a fix.”                              

“Roger, Alpha. Good Job. Standing by.”

“Fuck. It’s hot!” Barry joined Pavlak at the center of the clearing, dropped his rucksack, and took a drink from his canteen. “Think we should make a water run?”

“Yeah. In a bit. Pterodactyl is inbound to give us a fix. Get the smoke ready.”

“Hey. Captain Bachman. He’s a good guy. Another Jew, you know. God, this is a great war—two German American Jews and a Polack fightin’ the Commies. Glad he’s upstairs today.”  Barry grabbed the pole with the smoke grenades. “Pterodactyl is one great name for his bird.”

“Always wondered why he called it that.”

“’Cause it looks like a goofy flying dinosaur. Here he is.” Barry held the pole in his left hand, his right index finger in the grenade ring.

“Three-Niner. Alpha. Any time.”

“Alpha. Three-Niner. Pop smoke.”

“Three-Niner. Alpha. Poppin’ smoke.” Pavlak nodded to Barry, who pulled the ring on the grenade and lifted the pole vertically through trees. A yellow cloud spread over the top of the trees and some of it drifted down into the clearing and around the bunkers. Pavlak looked around at the Montagnards. Most were looking up at the smoke and the engine noise of the L-19 as it passed over their position. Now, everyone knows where we are. But we’re here to find Charlie, not hide from him.

“Alpha. Three-Niner. I identify yellow smoke.”

“That’s a Roger, Three-Niner.”

“Alpha. Three-Niner. Gotcha. Be back up in a minute.”

“Roger. Alpha standing by. Camels, you monitor?”

“Alpha. Camels. Lima Charlie.”

“You dinky-daus findin’ anything in there?” Barry said to the two Montagnard radiomen digging up the fire pit. The Viet-Cong often stashed weapons under fire pits or in graves.

“No dinky-dau, Trung-si. You Num-ba Ten!” The Yards laughed as they threw dirt in all directions. “No VC pow here, Trung-si.”

“What about the grave?” Barry said.

“After lunch.” Pavlak laid the hand mike down on top of the PRC-25 and reached for his rucksack. Using the P-38 can opener he kept on the dog-tag chain around his neck, he opened a can of C-ration fruit cocktail. He slipped a plastic spoon out of his left breast pocket. After finishing the fruit cocktail, he used the flat handle of the spoon to spread the C-ration peanut butter on his “John Wayne” crackers. He licked the spoon clean and stuck it back in his pocket.

“You know, amigo. I don’t know if I like the cheddar or the peanut butter better.”

“Stick with the peanut butter. The oil burns and you can use it to heat up stuff if you run out of heat tabs or C-4. Speaking of amigos, what are the women like in Panama?”  

Both Americans looked up at the treetops. They heard the L-19 flying over the river valley and knew the pilot was taking sighting from the mountains to give them an exact map location for the bunker complex. Maps of the Highlands were inaccurate and even though the SF patrols usually knew which 1000-meter square grid they were in, it was always reassuring to get an exact fix from a Headhunter or an Air Force Forward Air Controller.

“Hot and black,” Barry said, “No. That’s not the whole story. And I do know about the

fuckin’ oil in the fuckin’ peanut butter, asshole. I’ve been in the Army more than all day, all right?”

“Sorry, buddy. Sometimes I get uptight knowing Hendricks is on the radio. Let’s go

look at this grave.” Pavlak stood up and reached for his CAR-15. The handmake hissed at him.

“Alpha. Headhunter Three-Niner. Over.”

“Three-Niner. Alpha. Go.” Captain Bachman gave him the grid coordinates of the

bunker complex.

“Three-Niner, Alpha. Good copy. Camels, you copy?”

“Alpha. Camels. Good Copy.”

“Roger that, Camels. Thanks beaucoup, Three-Niner.”

“We aim to please. I’ll be around for a while. Call if you need me. Three-Niner Out.”

Pavlak walked toward the grave. A five-pointed bamboo star tied to a pole was stuck in one end of the mound of dirt. He turned to tell the Montagnard radiomen to stop messing with the fire pit and start to work on the grave when a burst of machine gun fire and two explosions sent him diving to the ground. Son of a bitch! He had left his CAR-15 by his rucksack. Fuck!  The perimeter exploded with carbine and machine gun fire. Pavlak low-crawled back to his rucksack, grabbed his rifle with one hand and the mike with the other.

“Vivid Camels. Vivid Camels. This is Alpha. We’re in contact!”

“Alpha. This is Camels Six. Roger that. Whatcha got?’ Captain Paterson was still on the radio. Thank God for that, Pavlak thought.

“This is Alpha. I’ll get back to ya. Three-Niner. You monitor?”

“Alpha. Three-Niner. Roger. Comin’ back.”

“It came from the other trail,” Barry said. He was lying on his stomach and pointing toward the southwest. “I’ll go check it out.” Barry got to his feet and with Bong, the interpreter, and the Vietnamese Special Forces NCO headed across the clearing toward the M60 machine gun position. A burst of AK-47 rifle fire sent them all down on the bellies again. Bullets zipped over their heads and a shower of green confetti fell from the trees. The M60 fired long bursts and other C.I.D.G. in the bunkers on the south side of the perimeter joined in. Pavlak heard a shout from over by the fire pit and turned and saw Barry’s radioman, Phem, lying on his back holding his throat. Blood spurted out between his fingers. His body thrashed from side-to-side, and his feet kicked the air and then he lay still. Pavlak’s radioman crawled over to his side, then turned to look at Pavlak and shook his head.

“Alpha. Three-Niner. Comin’ up on your position. Give me some smoke.”

“Roger, Three-Niner.” Pavlak pulled down the pole with the spent smoke grenade, turned it around and pulled the ring on the other grenade and stuck the pole back up through the trees. Barry and the other two indig got to their feet and ran toward the M60 bunker.

“Poppin’ smoke, Three-Niner.” Pavlak’s CAR-15 was slung across his chest, the pole in his left hand and the hand mike in his right. The firing stopped again.

“Alpha. Three-Niner. I identify purple smoke. Whatcha got?”

“Roger purple smoke. They’re off to the south side. Don’t know strength.”

“Roger, Alpha. I’ll take a look.” Pavlak heard and then saw the L-19 pass over the clearing.

“Alpha. Camels. Situation report!”

“Camels. Alpha. Contact broken. Stand by.”

“Standing by. Camels Out.”

The purple smoke settled down through the foliage and into the clearing as Pavlak dug into the radioman’s rucksack for another grenade. On the south side of the perimeter, he saw the Vietnamese NCO and the C.I.D.G. commander going from bunker to bunker. Barry and Bong walked back into the clearing.

“We got at least four of them. Walked right up to the M60. Never knew what hit them.  One guy must have had some grenades on his web gear—all blown to hell. What’s goin’ on?  Heard Three-Niner go over.” Pavlak held up a hand.

“Alpha. Three-Niner.”

“Alpha. Go.”

“They’re moving away from you, heading south. Maybe a platoon, could be more. I’m bringing in a fast mover from upstairs to keep them honest. Stay inside your perimeter for a while. Over.”  

“Roger that, Three-Niner. Thanks much. Alpha Out.”

“All number one, boss. No casualties.” Barry said.

“Alpha. Camels. Situation report.”

“Roger, Camels. Four enemy KIA, one C.I.D.G. KIA. Request Dust-off when we find a LZ.” Barry looked at Pavlak with a puzzled expression on his face. “Camels, did you monitor Three-Niner’s last?”

“Roger that, Alpha. Camels standing by.”

“Who?” Barry said.

“Phem”

“No fuckin’ way! No fuckin’ way!” Barry ran over to the body of his radioman, stood there for a minute, then walked over to the grave marker.

“Barry! No!”

*

“That’s why they wouldn’t open the coffin at the funeral,” Roger said. “My mother wanted to see Barry’s face one last time, but they wouldn’t allow it. Army regulations they said.”

“It wouldn’t have been a pretty sight. Most of his head was blown off when he kicked the grave marker. The VC booby trapped graves all the time. And Barry knew that.” He flicked his cigarette over the railing and lit another. “We couldn’t find a good LZ, so we had to carry them back to camp. They let me leave country early to escort Barry home.”

Pavlak straightened up and turned to Roger. “That’s the first time I’ve talked about that since I left ’Nam. Let’s get another drink.”

****

Stephen John Walker served over thirty years in the U.S. Marines and the U.S. Army. During his career he completed five overseas tours: Vietnam, two tours in Panama, and two tours in Germany. In Vietnam, he was on a Special Forces A-Team in the Central Highlands. His last tour in Germany was in Berlin where he served as the Command Sergeant Major of the 5th Battalion, 502nd Infantry, Berlin Brigade. He lives in Salem, Oregon.