Race the Devil
RACE THE DEVIL
Book One
The Vietnam Trilogy
By
Martin E. Silenus
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Martin E. Silenus
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Contents
Chapter 1: Daria
Chapter 2: Firebase Foxtrot
Chapter 3: Preparation
Chapter 4: The Stalk
Chapter 5: The Hunt
Chapter 6: Firebase
Chapter 1: Daria
I’m a mess, a dysfunctional mess. I’m sweating like a pig, my hands are shaking, there is a lump in my throat and my heart rate is redlining. The world around me is hyper and jangled. What the hell is the matter with me? I’m a Marine Sniper, a feared warrior; I feed on fear, pain and shit bullets. How can I be brought to my knees by the prospect of offering an engagement ring to Daria?
Its Sunday, four days until I ship out to Nam, we are at the Kiwanis park by the river, stretched out on the lush grass in the shade of the blue green pine trees. Daria’s soft perfume floats against the smells of pine and mowed grass. I’m trying to act normal, but Daria is watching me closely. She knows I am wound up ready to explode. Damn, I am dying; I have to do this now!
Reaching into my pocket I take out the little blue velvet box containing the diamond ring. “Daria..,” christ, it is not even my voice. “Daria...will you marry me?”
The world stops, there is not a sound, smell, or action. She slowly looks at the ring, then raises her head and looks at me with her wondrous deep blue eyes. Shit, I can’t tell, I can’t read what is there. Tears well up in her eyes, and spill down her cheeks, oh jesus christ, the answer is no. Just shoot me now and put me out of my misery!
“Yes, yes Hud I’ll marry you,” Daria whispers as she wraps her arms around me. God this girl has a grip for a petite woman. The world restarts and I hear a choir sing, I want to scream, jump, run, and holler, yes goddamn it, yes!! But there is such a pain in my heart and a lump in my throat I can’t move or even croak. And try as I might to resist, the tears form in my eyes and dribble down my cheeks. God, I love this woman so much!
Chapter 2: Firebase Foxtrot
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, whap, whap, whap, whap, whap. Aw shit, choppers!
The warm comforting, safe image of Daria fades to nothing and I am ripped back into the reality of danger and the stink of fear.
I’m laying face down on my cot, and open a blood shot eye. Shit, I’m still at the firebase! Christ, I feel like death. I hate feeling like this, but the damn Jack Daniels and weed is hard to pass up after surviving another jungle mission. Besides, it stops the voices and all the questions in my head. Matter of fact the only time I don’t feel like death and shit is when I have JD and weed. Jesus, it is hot already, the rain overnight shoves the humidity up and as soon as the sun comes out in the morning it is a fucking sauna.
I sit up, eyes squinting against the glaring sunlight, head pounding, fumble around for my boots and turn them upside down and slap then against the floor to dislodge any snakes. Goddamn snakes, nine flavors over here and all poisonous, Jesus! Wearing underwear and boots I push open the tent flap and slog through the mud in the direction of the latrines. Don’t need my eyes as the smell will lead me in the right direction. God the stench is disgusting, I consider vomiting, nah, takes too much damned effort.
My name is PFC Hudson (Hud) Reynolds, 24 years old, Marine sniper, ho-yah, 15 confirmed gook kills, hung over, feeling like shit. Four weeks and five days to go before rotation back home. Four fucking weeks, might as well be a damn lifetime. Over here everyone and everything seems to work against you to ensure you do not survive the duration of the tour and get out alive.
I’m scared shitless of dying and the hell of it is I am scared shitless of what I have become and trying to go home. The devil is right beside me with his hand on my shoulder.
Firebase Foxtrot, Vietnam, fifty clicks from Pleiku, on the edge of the La Drang Valley, real close to Cambodia. Less than two acres on top of a high hill stripped of vegetation, all red mud, with a collection of dirty bunkers and ratty sandbags surrounded by coiled razor wire and minefields. Only two ways in and out unless you have a chopper. Some dipshit military tactical genius has figured out they should have Marine squads placed real close to the Cambodian border as that is where the Viet Cong are going to retreat to when the rest of the American war machine pushes them away from the coast and back up against the mountains, where we are. Precious, just bloody precious. So far the “pushing” has not gone real well for the war machine. As a result we have had some action but not non-stop firefights, which is just fine with me.
“OPCOM briefing at 0800 hours!” PFC Neefs squawks at me as he runs by.
I grunt acknowledgement. Neefs is a runner, an annoying, scrawny, little weasel prick with the OPS unit. They are supposed to have intelligence info and know what the fuck Charlie is doing. In reality they haven’t a goddamn clue what Charlie is doing, or where he is, or jack shit. They couldn’t find their asses with both hands.
I climb into my fatigues, and murmur, “I love you” to the picture of Daria inside my jungle hat, then jam it on to keep the sun from baking my brains and wander over to my spotter’s tent and announce, “Yo, P-man, you alive bro, quit cuffing yer carrot and get yer ass out here, OPCOM clusterfuck in 30 minutes.”
Snipers work in teams of two, a spotter and a shooter. I shoot a tick better, so P-man spots. PFC Phoenix (P-man) Wall is a good lad, a Canadian volunteer. What the hell was he thinking of when he enlisted I wonder? Of course, what the hell was I thinking of when I volunteered? How could I have known what the military would mold me into? Whatever, P-man is a big, solid, dark haired kid, good sense of humor, doesn’t panic easy, is a great shot, has good eyes, and has the patience needed to be a perfect spotter or sniper. We share duties for the most part. I hear a groan and a grunt from him signifying life.
Some of the other grunts are alive as well, or movement suggests they are alive. Roseler is polishing his rifle. He is very meticulous. Shaker is sitting on some sandbags by his tent with his canteen of bourbon, looking murderous.
“Christ, Shaker, you drinking that piss at this time of day?” I ask with a grimace.
“Hair of the dog, Hud,” he rasps, “You should try it sometime, really puts ya in a vicious killing mood.”
“Uhuh, nice,” I say. And head for the mess tent to grab a couple of cups of coffee.
P-man joins me in the Operations briefing tent and we find a couple of chairs where we can get a bit of fresh air as it blows through. He looks a hell of a lot better than I feel. Wonder how he does that, maybe he doesn’t have voices in his head.
I’m very good at what I do, killing people! But what does it make me, what kind of wretched beast have I become, the devil’s legionnaire?
Captain Farris, the huge black dude who should be playing football, is assigning the day’s missions to the squads, and the sniper teams to the squads. He doesn’t call our names for assignment. The briefing is over; the men get up bitching and moaning as usual and go their separate ways. Farris comes up to us and fixes us with a thoughtful stare which goes right through us. Around the cigar in his mouth he says,
“I’ve got a special assignment for you two pieces of work.”
Aw shit, I think, I just knew today was not going to be good.
He goes on, “As action is not too hot right now I want you two prides of the Marine Sniper Corp to kill 6 o’clock Charlie. I am way beyond being pissed off with yonder damn gook firing on my command post. He has taken four of our boys and that I will not tolerate. You shut this little piece of shit down once and fo
r all, Chop, Chop, you understand?”
“Yessir, Captain, we’ll get him” I say.
“Make goddamn sure you do!” growls Farris. “The last boys I sent out to snuff Charlie we had to find by smell!” He gives us one last long stare, rolls his cigar across his mouth, grunts and stomps off in the mud.
6 o’clock Charlie is a damned determined Viet Cong sniper you could set your watch by. Every day, particularly the last couple of weeks, the crazy bugger will start firing on the command post at 6:00pm, 1800 hours military time. No one can ever see him, scouts, patrols coming and going, guys with binoculars; nobody can ever spot this guy. He is a goddamned ghost. Charlie is smart as he knows to kill officers. Two weeks ago he head-shot a brash, fresh Lieutenant who figured he was bullet proof. One second he was talking, the next his head exploded and there was blood and brains everywhere, Christ! Last Thursday Charlie gut-shot a Sergeant and the poor bugger bled out screaming for his momma before we could get a Medivac chopper in to extract him. Bad shit, just very bad shit! Fucking Charlie has got to go alright, but the last sniper team died trying. Shit, this is not going to be a good day!
I check the photo of Daria in my hat and think, “Forgive me for what is going to happen!”
The devil is grinning and rubbing his hands with delight and anticipation!
Chapter 3: Preparation
We retrieve our gear, get supplies and sit down to run equipment checks and plot our strategy. P-man loves strategy and chess.
“Charlie always fires on us from the same direction, out of the SW, now it just so happens that is about the time the sun is setting and we cannot see shit looking into the sun,” says P-man.
“True enough,” I say. “But even when it is not 6:00pm we can’t see any position in the SW Charlie could use to fire on us. Our strategy has to be to get out from the firebase in a West or South direction to be able to see Charlie’s line of fire without having the sun in our eyes.”
“Let’s just outflank him,” says P-man, “and watch for his muzzle flash. He is using a .30 caliber bullet so we know he’s likely within 1000 yards of the firebase.”
“Yeah, that will have to work,” I say. “Let’s go with the elevation of the South hills so we can get a better view.”
The strategy session is settled; we will saddle up and hump out the back of the firebase and circle around up onto the South hills, find a good position and wait for 6:00pm and see if Charlie shows up.
The equipment check goes quickly enough as we keep our gear in top shape. I’m using the M24 Military sniper rifle, a Remington Model 700 heavy barreled, bolt action in .308 cal. fitted with a 10 power scope. The ammo is the very accurate Lake City Arsenal stuff in 173 grain. P-man is carrying 10 x 50 binoculars, and an M1 Garrard in 30-06 fitted with a 2.5 power scope. We both have .45 cal sidearms but unless the enemy is within 70 yards they are useless. We put camouflage paint on our faces and the special camouflage ghillie tunics we have constructed. Extra canteens, rations, ammo, grenades, compass, maps and a radio complete the kit. We pack it all up and we are set.
Millar, the laid back Texan is on guard duty at the back gate.
“Well don’t y’all look like a pair of walking house plants, you poor, dumb, stupid, peckerheads!” he says as we stomp by. “We gonna be looking for your dead, bloated, sorry asses in about three days!”
“Thanks for the support, Millar, you asshole!” says P-man on the way by.
I just give Millar the one finger salute. My head is too damn sore to talk.
Chapter 4: The Stalk
If it wasn’t every damn thing out here was trying its very best to kill you, this place would be excellent as it is beautifully lush. There is not a cloud in the emerald blue sky, the jungle is rich vibrant green and it smells fresh after last night’s rain like a rich warm forest does back home. We hump along in silence following a South compass heading we took before dropping down into the elephant grass. Even the damn grass is trying to hack us apart. It will slice up a tunic in one afternoon. My mind is losing focus and allows the night time terrors to seep in.
I am an instrument of the devil and I am trapped, I am so fucked and I am going to die! The Devil laughs and claps his hands!
I force myself to re-focus. The damn grass is starting to thin out some as we approach the swell of low hills running south from the firebase. We stop for a breather.
“Whadya you think, P-man,” I ask, “You figure maybe we should stay in the edge of the elephant grass while we work our way along these hills, or maybe go up the hill some to make it easier?”
“Not a chance, Dude,” he says. “We have to stay in the long grass. If we can’t see shit then a Cong patrol can’t see shit or us either.”
“Fair by me,” I say. “Let’s get this done.”
Damn, it is well beyond hot. We are leaking sweat like we have bullets holes in us. Thirty more minutes of humping along and we stop and check the compass and our maps.
“Far as I can see we should be about here,” I poke a finger at the map. “And we should follow natural cover up this hillside to the top and then begin the stalk back toward the firebase to get into position!”
“Suits me,” says P-man as he wipes his face.
The corner of my eye catches a small area of elephant grass wiggling! Shit, Cong patrol! I drop the map, draw my side arm and point so P-man can get the angle. He steps two steps to his left, crouches, rifle raised, clicks off the safety!
My heart rate hammers like it’s going to burst out of my chest! The rustling gets closer as a huge Python snake slithers into our tiny clearing. My heart stops! The snake pauses and looks at both of us, flickering it’s tongue, then moves on by.
“Aw Christ,” I hiss, my heart convulses and re-starts.
“Look at the size of that mo-fo!” mutters P-man.
“Fuckin snakes, Jesus I can’t stand snakes,” I whisper, shaking like a leaf. I check my hat, Daria smiles calmly at me.
The Devils is howling in laughter!
P-man is good, real good, and real careful about moving slowly and carefully and staying in the bushes and trees to cover our climb up the side of the hill. The hill is not high, maybe 300 feet over the valley, but it will give us the angle we need to see down into some of the dents and depressions out there where Charlie probably is. Just below the crest of the hill P-man pauses, checks his compass and turns right to move back towards the firebase keeping below the horizon of the hill. We will not move over the hill until we have to so we are not silhouetted against the sky. We hump along pausing every hundred yards to listen and look for enemy patrol activity; there is nothing but the jungle critter sounds and the sound of the breeze through the bushes and trees.
“We should be damn close to 1000 to 1200 yards out from the firebase here,” says P-man.
“Roger,” I say, “Let’s have a bit of a peek see over the hill and check what we have for cover and position.”
We belly crawl up onto the crest and immediately move into a patch of long grass to cover us while we look around.
“Check right over there in the lump of bushes, it’s big enough we can both work our way inside, be invisible, and it has a clear line of sight of the valley,” hisses P-man.
“Jesus, P-man, y’all keep this up and one of these days you are gonna be a sniper,” I whisper.
In the bushes, rifles cradled over packs, ammunition set out and ready, P-man is glassing the valley and checking the wind.
“I figure we have a ten to fifteen mph breeze blowing from right to left down the valley” says P-man. I check the scrub grass, the bushes and trees through my scope and look for amount of deflection due to the wind.
“Figure that’s right,” I reply. “See any sign of Charlie?” I ask.
“Negative, sweet bugger all right now,” replies P-man. “But it’s just past 17:00 hours.”
“Aw shit, he may not show for another hour anyway,” I mutter.
I slip my hat off and check the picture of Daria for th
e 5th time today. God, she is so beautiful. A brunette, smart and wise with a smile which melts me into mush. Her laughter is the essence of life itself. Images float over me from the Sunday we got engaged and the night before I shipped out, the evening at her place, and the intimate hours of passion throughout the night. The love and promises we exchanged. The snuggling... My heart tenses like it is going to quit, the longing chokes me, and I have trouble breathing. Then the fear and doubt washes over me.
Bastard, I know I am going to get snuffed in this fucking jungle, I can sense it. Maybe it’s just better for all, as Daria will never recognize me anyway as the man that left her. I have become an instrument of death, the devil’s legionnaire, and there is no place for such back home. I have allowed the military to mold me into a creature which has no place in the world except where I am, in the jungle stalking Cong like a deadly predator. How much longer can I retain my sanity, hold it together? Maybe I should just let go. Four fucking weeks and five days to go, shit, a lifetime. Christ, what a fucking mess!
“Yo, Hud, you ok, fuck man, you’re muttering and shaking and putting my nerves on edge,” whispers P-man.
“I’m ok, bud.” I snap out of it. “I just...I just think too fucking much sometimes,” I reply. “Anything going on out there?”
“Bugger all on toast,” says P-man glassing the floor of the valley with his binoculars.
“P-man, this one could get very bad, you know?” I whisper. “I trained with Kasper and Williams, they were good snipers, and fucking Charlie smoked them both!”
“Yeah, I’ve been trying not to think too much about it!” replies P-man softly.
“Charlie is better than us in the jungle!” I confide.
“Two shots, Hud, that’s all you get, then we have to move.” says P-man.