Charlie Mike (1985) Read online

  “I wrote Charlie Mike for the men and women who served and those who waited and supported at home—they all fought the war.

  Some fought on the battlefield while others fought the anguish of worry and loneliness on the homefront. They were all touched by the war. Their sacrifice in youth, tears, pain, and blood will not be forgotten.”

  Leonard B. Scott

  “A moving and important portrait of a group of heroic young men who fought hard, and of survivors who came home to get on with the business of living.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “An exceptionally fine addition to the literature on the Vietnam War. Scott combines romance, humor, tragedy, stupidity … to make this a first-class reading experience. ENTHRALLING FROM FIRST PAGE TO LAST.”

  Military Review

  Also by Leonard B. Scott

  Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

  THE LAST RUN

  THE HILL

  A Presidio Press Book

  Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

  Copyright © 1985 by Leonard B. Scott

  Map copyright © 1983 by Random House, Inc.

  Map by Alex Jay/Studio Jay

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States of America by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Presidio Press is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of the characters to real persons is unintended and coincidental.

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 84-91669

  eISBN: 978-0-307-80131-9

  v3.1

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Heartfelt thanks and gratitude to the veteran Rangers, pilots, nurses, Red Cross workers, and Vietnamese who shared their stories with me.

  A special thanks to Betsy Badgett, who took an infantryman’s scribbles and turned them into readable prose.

  Thanks to the believers who supported and helped: Ann, Kathy, Wanda, George, Jim, Dan, Ernie, Owen, Rick, Judy, Debbie, Charles, and Pamela.

  Charlie Mike

  is dedicated

  To the families and friends of the 58,008 fallen Americans whose names on a black marble wall represent the ultimate sacrifice paid to our country.

  To an old World War II bomber pilot who gave his years to his country. He lay paralyzed in a veterans hospital when I read him my story. They said he couldn’t understand. His eyes told me they were wrong. The old pilot passed away Easter Sunday, 1983. I’ll miss you, Dad.

  To my wife, Jammye, and children, Scotty, Stefne, and Robby, who have patiently stood by through the years.

  To the American soldier, whose indomitable spirit will always prevail!

  Contents

  Cover

  Epigraph

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue

  Part One Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part Two Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part Three Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Glossary

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  The rain forest was still and silent. Its muggy air stank with rot. The midday sun attacked the green canopy above, but the intertwined latticework of foliage allowed only the narrowest shafts of light to dapple the jungle floor.

  Sergeant David Grady lay hidden with five other rangers among the fiddlehead ferns. They all wore camouflage fatigues, and their faces were painted green. Grady pressed himself closer to the dank earth, squinting to hide the whites of his eyes as seven North Vietnamese regulars approached.

  The North Vietnamese, burdened with heavy packs, walked single file along a trail that twisted among tall, stately trunks of teak and mahogany. Everywhere, woody vines hung like thick cables. The men’s uniforms were darkened by perspiration, and their rifles were slung over their shoulders. Had only two of them held their weapons ready, Grady would have let them pass, but their carelessness would cost them.

  He tapped the man lying next to him, Specialist Fourth Class Greg Bartlett. Bartlett gently pushed back the safety clip of his detonator. Twenty feet away, hidden next to the trail, were deadly Claymore mines.

  Beads of sweat trickled down Grady’s brow and stung his eyes. He couldn’t help but think how young the approaching soldiers were, probably no more than eighteen. Bartlett pressed the detonator. The earth erupted in a roaring, shattering explosion of dirt, decayed leaves, jagged plastic and hundreds of steel ball bearings. The seven small Vietnamese were violently flung through the air. Their stunned bodies were ripped and torn as if made of paper. Leaves and branches fell like rain into the billowing debris as the green-faced men rose and fired.

  Grady tapped Bartlett, then yelled to the others, “Security!”

  Bartlett pulled his pistol and followed his sergeant as he cautiously approached the mangled bodies.

  Grady hesitated. The smell—he would never get used to it. It was the odor of plastic explosive mixed with soil and blood, the overwhelming smell of death. He could feel it and taste it.

  A gritty mist lingered over the scene as Grady passed the first blood-splattered corpse and knelt by the second. The dead man lay on his stomach, his legs sprawled at odd angles. He reeked with the smell of musty smoke absorbed from countless cooking fires.

  Grady thought about how many men like this one he had seen shattered, ashen-faced, lying in their own blood. For ten months he had been killing them … ten months of setting up ambushes and waiting. At first he’d counted those he’d killed, but after a while it didn’t matter anymore. He stopped counting at twenty-two. That was eight months ago.

  He pulled off the soldier’s pack and dumped the contents on the ground. He knew what he’d find. They all carried the same things: wadded clothes, a few tins of fish, a bag of rice, a hammock, and always a book wrapped in yellow plastic—not a real book but a cardboard-covered note pad used as a daily log or diary. Stuck between the thin rice-paper pages would be letters and pictures, but in this, each book was unique. Some men wrote poetry, others sketched, some even collected stamps. Each one wrote of his war experiences.

  Grady glanced up. Bartlett was grinning at him boyishly.

  Grady winked at his assistant team leader, then suddenly tightened, realizing his friend was about to turn a body over. Bartlett hadn’t followed search procedure. He didn’t have his pistol at the soldier’s head, and he had not pulled the hands free to ensure that the Vietnamese held no weapon.

  Greg Bartlett still held his grin as a single shot echoed through the silent forest before being answered by a succession of loud rifle cracks and Grady’s anguished scream: “No!”

  PART ONE

  1

  The screen door of the headquarters building flew open, and out stepped a thin, gnarled-looking sergeant wearing a black beret and pressed camouflage jungle fatigues. He took one look at the four replacements who were slapping red dust from their uniforms, and he barked “Ah-tench-hut!” r />
  The new men immediately snapped into the rigid position. The sergeant circled the men, then halted and placed his hands on his hips. “I’m Sergeant First Class Childs, your actin’ first sergeant. You people have all been to An Khe and went through our two-week Ranger course, right?”

  Three of the four men responded loudly, “Yes, Sergeant!”

  The fourth soldier raised his hand and stepped forward timidly. “Nnn … uh, no, Sergeant, I came from Eighteenth Replacement and—”

  “Who told you to move, shitbird!” yelled Childs, stepping closer to the small, bespectacled private, eyeing him from head to foot. Suddenly the sergeant’s eyes narrowed and his face reddened. He spun toward the door and hollered, “Dove, get out here!”

  A tanned, curly-headed blond who wore a dirty green T-shirt came to the door.

  “Yeah, Top?”

  Childs pointed the private’s chest where parachute wings should have been sewn.

  “Dove, they sent me a puny-assed leg! Jesus H. Christ! Don’t them replacement pukes know this is an Airborne Ranger company?”

  Dove nonchalantly walked out, looked over the private and read his name tape.

  “Top, this is Peteroski, the clerk-typist from Eighteenth Replacement. We had to trade a lotta shit and pull strings to get him, remember?”

  Childs stared at the private. “But a leg! Damn, I didn’t know it was gonna be a straight-ass leg!”

  Dove rolled his eyes at the young private, then tapped his arm, motioning him to follow inside.

  Childs resumed his position in front of the other three men and bellowed, “Anybody else a leg?”

  “No, Sergeant!” the men yelled in unison.

  Satisfied that there were no other surprises, Childs put his hands on his hips and began rocking, heel to toe.

  “Welcome to Sierra Company, Seventy-fifth Infantry Airborne Rangers. Now, loosen up, this is the first and last time I will tell you the rules of this company. Should you violate, stretch, or disregard my rules, your ass will be on a plane to a leg-ass outfit in a heartbeat!

  “First: Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open, and remember what they taught you at the mini-Ranger course. It might save your life until your team leader squares your ass away.

  “Second: No smokin’ dope, screwin’ local broads, writin’ letters to congressmen, or sendin’ pictures of dead gooks to girl friends.

  “Third: No fightin’, fraggin’, or gassin’ LEGs, REMFs, or local friendlies.

  “Fourth: No stealin’ or lyin’ to fellow Rangers.

  “Fifth and last: You are here to kill! You can bet your sweet ass them bastards out there will do you in if given half a chance, so you must kill them first. No doubts, no hesitation. If for any reason—whether it be religious, lack of guts, or you’re just not sure you can pull the trigger—quit now!”

  Childs paused for effect and stared into each pair of eyes.

  “People, that’s the rules. Now, this afternoon you gonna meet the Ol’ Man, Major Colven. He is the best there is. I’ve been in the Army twenty years, and I know. Don’t be askin’ him no dumb-ass questions. I’ll answer your questions after his briefing; just nod and keep your mouths shut.

  “People, your performance records and files arrived yesterday, and your assignments to teams have already been made. When I dismiss you, report to Pfc. Dove and he’ll show you where to go. People, remember my rules and don’t fuck up!”

  Childs raised his hand and pointed to the door:

  “Do it!”

  A cloud of dust billowed as the three men ran for the door.

  Sfc. Childs shook his head and spun around to walk to the mess hall.

  Pfc. Dove sat behind a desk, drinking a Coke, when the three men ran into the orderly room and stood at attention.

  The blond smiled and said quietly, “Relax. Ol’ Childs always does that. He’s got the disposition of a rattler. Just stay out of his way and do what he says.”

  The three men took deep breaths and exchanged glances as Dove walked to the door and pointed across the road. “Jenkins, you’re going to team One-Three and Donnelly, you’re on One-Four. They’re both in the first barracks, there. Get your duffel bags and go on over. Be back for the Ol’ Man’s briefing at Fourteen hundred hours. Good luck.”

  Dove walked back to his desk, motioning the third man to take a seat, and he picked up the appropriate file and silently read the name on it: Kenneth Meeks.

  Dove eyed the big soldier. He’d seen the report on Meeks and was curious. The name sure didn’t fit. Meeks was six two, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped. His square jaw and deep, piercing brown eyes made him seem older than his twenty years. At the mini-Ranger course he’d become a celebrity when he had walked the “Death Valley” course without being “killed.” Death Valley was a thick-treed stream bed next to the huge base camp of An Khe. The instructors always set up a series of ambushes and booby traps there to humble new students. No one had ever finished the course without being “killed” at least twice—until Meeks.

  Dove glanced back at the file. “Meeks,” he said, trying to keep the enthusiasm out of his voice, “your file says you have some college. By any chance, did you take courses in business or marketing?”

  Meeks shook his head. “No. I was a poli-sci major.”

  Dove’s face showed disappointment, then suddenly brightened. “How about animals? Do you know anything about pigs or chickens?”

  Meeks stared at the young blond, as if wondering whether the strange questions should be taken seriously.

  Dove saw the confused look and smiled. “Hey, I ain’t hasslin’. I just have a little business on the side, and I’m lookin’ for a qualified consultant. You know what I mean?”

  Meeks returned the smile. He had suddenly realized who Dove was. At the Ranger school they had talked about a wheeler-dealer who raised pigs for roasting at unit luaus, and chickens for cutting and bleeding onto NVA flags he made and sold as war souvenirs.

  Meeks stood and held out his hand. “Dove, it’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re famous at An Khe.”

  Dove grinned at the compliment and sheepishly shrugged his shoulders. “They talked about me, huh?”

  “Sure did,” laughed Meeks. “You, Sergeant Evans, and Sergeant Grady were the big names.”

  Dove headed for the door. “Speakin’ of Evans and Grady, I gotta get you to your new team.”

  Meeks tossed his duffel bag over his shoulder and asked, “What team am I going to?”

  Dove went to the door and pointed to the last barracks. “You’re gonna be on my old team. You’re replacing a man they lost three weeks ago. His name was Bartlett. He was the first man Grady lost as team sergeant.”

  Meeks slowed. “Grady? Grady of team Two-Two? The one the instructors talked so much about?”

  Dove smiled. “Yeah, you’re gonna be a proud member of team Two-Two, the Double-Deuce. Come on, now, we’re runnin’ late. Peteroski, you come too.”

  Rock Steady, seated in the shade of the barracks, set down his partially disassembled M-16. People were walking down the road toward him, but the rising midday heat waves distorted their images into shimmering blurs. Suddenly, as if by magic, the images came into focus. Rock smiled and stood up.

  “Hey, Dove, what’s happenin’, man?”

  Dove threw his thumb in Meeks’s direction. “I brought you a cherry.”

  Rock quickly stepped forward and thrust out his hand. “I’m Rock Steady, assistant team leader. Sure good to see you.”

  Kenneth Meeks forced a smile, hoping the disappointment he felt didn’t show. Rock Steady was not what he had expected. He’d heard stories about team 2-2 and had imagined its members to be strong, athletic types, but the man with whom he shook hands couldn’t have been over nineteen, and he looked like a prisoner from a Nazi death camp. At about five feet nine, the soldier could not have weighed more than 140 pounds. He had sparse brown hair and a hawk nose that reminded Meeks of Ichabod Crane.

  Rock backed up and
suddenly froze. He pointed to Peteroski. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Dove frowned and put his arm around the clerk’s shoulder. “Yeah, he’s a leg, but don’t you say nothin’. This is my turtle! I’m gettin’ short, and we need a typist.”

  Rock grinned. “Has Childs seen him yet?”

  Dove narrowed his eyes and kicked at Rock, who backed away laughing, then stepped forward and put out his hand. “Pete, I’m Rock; good to have you aboard.”

  Meeks’s opinion of Rock vanished the second Rock shook hands with the typist. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he suddenly found himself taking to the thin soldier who had made the timid clerk smile.

  Dove patted Peteroski’s back. “We’ve gotta get back. Rock, introduce the team to Meeks; then get him back to the briefing room by fourteen hundred hours. The Ol’ Man is gonna brief all the cherries that came in this week.”

  Rock slapped Meeks on the back and pointed him toward the barracks. “Come on, big ’un, I’ll square you away.” Meeks waved at Dove and Peteroski and followed Rock into the building.

  At one end of the empty barracks was a small room. Rock pushed open the door and blurted, “Hey, guys, meet our new team member.”

  Three men were sitting on the floor, looking over large pictures done with crayon. Rock made the introductions as each man stood. The first to shake hands with Meeks was a huge black soldier named Benjamin Murray. He looked like a bear—a black, gentle bear with rounded shoulders and a round coffee-colored face. He held a constant grin as he pointed to the pictures. “My sister sends me them drawings.”