Page 7 of Cry Havoc
Sau was only nineteen years old. And now he was bleeding out onTom’s back. At least their “little people” were, for the most part, just that; little—shorter and thinner than most of their American teammates—which allowed the larger SEAL to make good time even with the extra weight on his shoulders.
Tom heard the explosion as the stay-behind claymore’s time fuse reached its terminus. He kept moving.
Always keep moving.
They would have to stop to treat Sau before long or Tom would be carrying a dead man to extract.
The SEAL almost tripped over Hoahn, the tail gunner of Quinn’s squad.
Quinn had called a hasty perimeter. Tom threw Sau to the ground and immediately started stuffing the stomach wound with gauze as Quinn quickly evaluated the wounded soldier while raising Covey on the radio.
They were moving into the wind, which was bad for tracking purposes, especially if the NVA had more dogs, but it was good for CS or smoke to mark locations as it would push that smoke back on the enemy.
“Covey, what’s the status on CAS?”
“Two F-4s inbound. Two mikes out.”
“Ordnance?”
“Napalm.”
Quinn prepped a smoke and threw it behind them.
“Marking,” he said into his handset.
“I identify white smoke,”came the reply from Covey.
“Have them put everything they have north of the smoke. How does our route look to extract?”
“Hard to tell through the clouds. Appears clear.”
“Good copy, Covey. We’re moving.”
Quinn looked at Tom, who had finished stuffing Sau’s stomach. There was nothing more they could do at the moment.
“Havoc, recommend you cross the stream,”came the composed voice over the radio.“Nothing moving on the other side, then di di mau south for half a klick. Then another klick to the clearing. I’ll guide you in.”
“You got him?” Quinn asked his One-One.
Quinn was shorter than Tom’s six feet but was thicker by a good margin. Three days of black stubble protruded through his camo face paint and blended with his Fu Manchu mustache that was well out of regulations.
Tom nodded.
“Hiep, tell them,” Quinn instructed their interpreter.
Hiep made his way around the inside of the small perimeter, whispering in the dialect of his tribe, one that was the primary language of Havoc’s Montagnards.
“Fuckers knew we were coming,” Tom said to his One-Zero.
Quinn nodded.
“Later. Right now, we move to extract.”
They heard the high-pitched howl of the F-4 Phantom’s twin engines when the main element was halfway across the stream. Even though it impacted over 200 meters away, they felt the heat of the napalm wash over them as the sheets of fire torched the NVA below. Napalm was one of the most feared and devastating weapons in the American arsenal. Conceived and developed at Harvard University during the Second World War, the burning gelatin was brutal and horrific if one were on the receiving end. As the second F-4 turned onto its glide path, Havoc heard the weapons of the NVA turn to the skies in a futile effort to bring one of their tormentors down.
Havoc worked their way into the jungle on the opposite side of the stream and heard the jets make another pass, this time on gun runs tearing up the NVA column with their 20mm cannons.
“Havoc, I don’t have eyes on your location. Keep moving toward extract. F-4s are Winchester. Spads inbound,”he said, referring to the A-1Skyraider.“Ten mikes out. NVA has split into two elements and are still moving your direction.”
