Bamboo Terror Read online

  Hazzard smiled and thought of their resemblance to a gang of Oriental pirates that could only have been created in a Milton Caniff comic strip.

  Chang finished talking and turned to Hazzard. "These are the men who will go with you. Each one is an experienced jungle fighter. You can rely on them to do their job thoroughly and quickly."

  Hazzard only nodded and moved off toward the line of men. As he approached, one of them called attention, and they stiffly, and somewhat comically, came to the various poses that each one thought was the most efficient military stance. Hazzard no longer smiled. He knew that these men, as comical as they appeared, were more deadly than a pool full of blood-crazed sharks. Slowly he moved down the line looking into each one's face and glancing over the fighting equipment that they carried. The clothes were dirty, the faces unshaven, the bandoliers of cartridges crusted with jungle rot, the bodies reaking of sweat, the rifles rusted and pitted, but the look in the eyes was purposeful and deadly.

  Glancing at one badly rusted German Mauser that probably had not seen a drop of oil since 1945, he thought of the stern military commanders who would have had ulcers at the sight of such a weapon, and of the unmerciful punishment they would have dealt out to the hapless soldier. He also remembered a time in Korea when he had been visiting an American military advisory group at one of the ROK division headquarters. A truck load of captured Russian-made weapons had just been brought in from the forward companies and were laying in disordered piles in front of the tents. The weapons had been crudely manufactured and now lay rusted and mud caked, many held together by bits of wire and nails. One young, fresh from school American second lieutenant looked at the piles of weapons in disgust. "Well, the Russians sure aren't doing them any favors giving them this kind of junk to fight with," he remarked out loud.

  The senior KMAG officer, an experienced American infantry major, had cut him off with the humorless reply, "Maybe not, but this junk can still kill a hell of a lot of people."

  Hazzard felt the same way now. In spite of their rough, shoddy appearance, he could not have picked a better group himself. He was pleased with Chang's choice until he came to the last man, and suddenly found himself looking down into the upturned, grinning face of a young teen-age boy.

  "Chang," he called. "Come here."

  The boy grinned and bowed slightly as Chang stopped beside the tall American leader who wore the wonderful hat.

  "What's this kid doing here?" asked Hazzard. "I can't take him out with me."

  "This is Lin. He will be your guide."

  "Now look, Chang, let's not get ridiculous about this . . ."

  Chang held up a hand to stop him. "He is quite experienced at this sort of thing, even though he is only fifteen. The men trust him, and so do I. Besides, he speaks a few words of English, and none of the others do. You have no choice. It has already been decided."

  Hazzard was about to protest again but he saw by the look in Chang's eyes that it would be useless. He looked back at Lin and found he couldn't stop the smile that came to his own lips as he gazed at the boy's infectious grin. Shaking his head in resignation to the unfathomable Oriental mind, he decided to accept the inevitable.

  "Do these other boys know what we're supposed to do?" Hazzard asked.

  "They have all been briefed on what has to be done. Lin, here, knows where they were last seen. In fact, he is the one who originally discovered them," replied the matter-of-fact Chang.

  This caused Hazzard to look with new interest at the eternally grinning boy who stood before him. Chang dug into his pocket and handed Hazzard a small packet wrapped in oilcloth.

  "In case you should get separated from the others, here is a map and compass. It is best to make your way to the sea and follow the coast line if you become lost," he told Hazzard.

  "Okay," said Hazzard as he took the packet and stuffed it in his back pocket. Then turning to the young boy, "Wed Lin, you're the one who knows the way, so let's get this show on the road."

  Lin's smile faded and his brow puckered up into little wrinkles. "Show?" he queried.

  "It means, it is time to go," said Hazzard, and he patted the boy on the head.

  The grin immediately returned as Lin understood. "Yes, yes. We go now."

  The rest of them fell in behind Hazzard without a word as Lin led the column across the clearing and away from the village.

  The outward attitude of the men seemed to change as they stepped into the jungle. They tensed, but yet they moved with the agility and silence of jungle cats. Hazzard felt guilty and self-conscious everytime he made a noise or stepped on a crackling dead branch, but the men appeared not to notice. Slowly, by constantly watching the others, he began to learn, and the more he learned, the quieter his movements became.

  They kept up a slow, methodical pace until they halted on the side of a hid six hours later. Lin carried on a long animated conversation with the men, using a stick to draw lines on the ground that Hazzard assumed was a crude map. Dried food and water were then passed among the men, and they ate in silence. When the journey began again, Hazzard saw that the order of march had changed, and now, two of the men walked wed ahead, out of sight, but leaving silent markers in the jungle for the others to follow.

  The pace continued without a halt. It was not fast, but the constant push through the jungle was something that Hazzard was not accustomed to, and he began to tire rapidly. They halted for the second time just before dusk, and Hazzard let himself collapse and sprawl unashamedly on the thick leaf bedding of the jungle door. He had no idea of where they were, nor how far they had traveled, and at this particular moment, he could not have cared less.

  Lin squatted down beside him and began to explain in his limited English, and with the help of a map drawn in the dirt with sticks, the position they were now at, and that they would probably make contact with the communist patrol sometime during the afternoon of the fodowing day. All of Lin's calculations were based upon the original position where he had seen the enemy, together with their speed and direction of march, compared to the speed and direction that Hazzard's little band had come through the jungle. The plan was to set up an ambush and wait until the Red soldiers walked into it. It all sounded so simple. To Lin and the others it was just an odd job that had to be done. Hazzard was not convinced that it would be as easy as Lin made it appear, but he kept silent and only nodded his understanding of what Lin said.

  Glancing about, Hazzard found himself looking at these men with new-found admiration. So far they had gone about their business with an efficiency that would be hard to find in the best-disciplined troops of any Western army. There was no grumbling, no arguing, in fact, there was very little conversation at ad. Each one seemed to know exactly what was expected of him, and the whole group moved with a teamwork and silence that was as cold and deadly as it was efficient. Hazzard could not help thinking that he was glad that they were on his side, but he also wondered if the enemy patrol that they would meet tomorrow might not be just as efficient. If they were, then this could turn out to be an Oriental "Custer's Last Stand" for both sides.

  He turned to look at the strange young dark-eyed boy who squatted beside him. Lin was gazing at him with his constantly smiling face. Hazzard returned the grin and wondered what it was that sent this boy out to war when he should have been in school somewhere, or at least sitting in his family's hut helping with the chores.

  "Lin," he said slowly so the boy would understand. "You are very young to be doing this kind of work. Aren't you afraid?"

  The grin vanished, and he sat up straight with pride and anger. "No. No afraid," he said hotly.

  "Oh, don't get angry now. I didn't mean to insult you," and Hazzard's mind gave him a mental kick. God, these Orientals. You had to be on your toes every second. "I just wanted to know why you were doing this—guiding patrols through the jungle."

  The boy looked at him for a long moment while he digested Hazzard's last words. Then his body relaxed and the smile returned. "I w
ill be leader someday," he said slowly as he carefully picked his words. "People follow because I brave. Now I young, I learn what is to be leader."

  "I understand," said Hazzard and a long period of silence followed. Hazzard could not think of anything to say to continue the conversation along these lines, and he was reluctant to change the subject for fear of upsetting the boy again.

  Lin took a deep breath, and looking up at Hazzard, he began to speak again. "Someday when I leader . . ." He paused to think of words and pointed to the bush hat on Hazzard's head. "I wear same same hat. People look. People know I leader." He stopped and let the air gush out of his lungs in a long sigh from the effort of, what was to Lin, a long speech.

  This line of thinking amazed Hazzard, who could not for the life of him imagine what a hat had to do with the making of a leader of men. Was it Oriental logic beating again at his Western-trained mind, or was it just the thoughts and dreams of a young boy?

  "So, you want to wear a hat like this, eh?" he asked as he removed the bush hat from his head. He looked at the hat in his hands for a few seconds, and then he decided. He reached out and put it on the boy's head.

  The boy stiffened momentarily, then his eyes widened in surprise and his hands shot up to caress the hat. Then just as quickly his mood changed, and he looked at Hazzard with disbelief. "I—I wear hat?" he asked in a hushed voice.

  "Yep, you wear it for a while and see how you like it," replied Hazzard.

  The moon had now come up and Hazzard glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. "All right now, let's get some sleep. We've got a rough day tomorrow."

  Lin had taken the hat off and was absorbed in admiring it when Hazzard spoke. He only clearly heard and understood the word 'sleep,' and nodded his head. Hazzard wrapped his head in the light jacket he had remembered to bring with him and was soon asleep. The moon rose high in the dark clear tropical sky, the sounds of the jungle at night, of unseen insects and animals, rose and fell softly, and Lin stayed awake, deaf and blind to all that was around him except the wonderful hat which he held in his hands.

  Captain Chen had received an urgent message from Hanoi telling him that his patrol had been spotted and that a group of men were on their way to intercept him. This had caused him to keep the men moving during the night without rest. He knew now that the spy they had so carefully planted in Tu-Hao-Tuc was still alive and active, but after the nest of traitors was exterminated, the spy would be of no further use. Having previously made up his mind to execute the spy if they found him alive, he could now find no logical reason for changing his decision and mentally shrugged off the informer as an expendable item of war.

  They paused for a short rest just before dawn, and at the first touch of grayness in the eastern sky, they started out again. The day was a repetition of the one before. The silent, steady pace, the sun, the heat, and the constant monotony of the jungle.

  At noon they had come to a small cleared space that cut through the jungle like a firebreak, and they stopped again. Captain Chen stretched out beneath a large tree to consult a map of the area, and to enjoy one of the few remaining American cigarettes that he had found on the dead body of one of the prisoners. The pleasant aroma seeped through his nostrils, and he remembered the last time he had been fortunate enough to taste this fragrant tobacco. It had been the day he had successfully ambushed a company of green South Vietnamese soldiers that a foolish American sergeant had taken into the jungle on a training mission. He smiled at the recollection. It had been ridiculously easy. The South Vietnamese soldiers had been thrown into confusion; the GI had been cut almost in two by a machine-gun burst as he had stood shouting the unheeded orders to his men. Luckily the bullets had spared the package of cigarettes in the sergeant's pocket.

  He looked about, and mentally counted the men scattered about under the trees and bushes. Eleven including himself, and the two forward guards made up thirteen. He had carefully chosen these men, and he smiled at his own wisdom, for no one had ever told him that the number 13 was unlucky, and in not knowing about a superstition, one should be safe from it; or so it would seem.

  The efficiency of his men was well displayed as one of the advance guards came running back to report the presence of an armed band of eleven men headed in their direction. This could only be the patrol that he had been warned about. His first thought was to annihilate them swiftly and continue with his mission of scouting the defenses of the coastal village, but the message had mentioned that they were led by a foreigner, and a new idea began to germinate in Chen's brain. He would capture this foreign bandit alive, and then there would be no further reason to go closer to the village. The natives would be eliminated as it would be impossible to get them to talk, but the foreigner—yes, he would talk. He smiled as he thought of the methods he would use, and of his triumphal return. He would have ad of the information that he desired, and also, if the foreigner was not a weak one, he would have a strange prize to show off and help elevate his status.

  He questioned the forward scout and formed his plans. The men of the light machine-gun crew were given their instructions, and then he personally instructed each of the others as he deployed them through the jungle. When he was finished, he was proud of his work. Yes, Colonel Wu had chosen him well, he thought. He was the master of any situation. The jungle was silent around him as he slipped in among the tangled undergrowth and lay-full length beside the machine gunners. The signal to attack would be the firing of the gun by his side, and now, he settled down to wait, content with the knowledge of what was to come, motionless as a spider that knows the fly will soon be enveloped in the web.

  Hazzard's group had been up and moving since dawn. They had traveled steadily without pausing. Hazzard's muscles, stiff from sleeping on the jungle door, and still aching from the previous day's march, responded slowly to his will so that he found himself once more making the jungle ring to the noise of his clumsy feet.

  Suddenly, Lin raised his hand and every man in the column behind him froze instantly, except Hazzard, who had not expected the signal and was taken by surprise. They had come to a clearing in the jungle and the scouts were crouching low, peering through the heavy foliage at the jungle on the far side of the open space. They remained in this position for almost five minutes, then quickly one of them darted out and ran swiftly and silently across the clearing. Nothing happened, and after another long wait, the second man left as quickly and as quietly as the first. The men behind Hazzard remained motionless, but he could see their eyes darting back and forth as they searched the jungle around them for some hidden clue to a possible enemy.

  Soon, one of the scouts reappeared from the jungle on the other side and silently signaled with his arm. Lin stood up from the squatting position he had assumed when they had halted, and the column started moving forward again.

  As Hazzard stepped from the jungle, he looked around on both sides and thought how the cleared space resembled the firebreaks he had once seen cut through the forests in the mountains of Oregon.

  Lin was almost halfway across the clearing when Hazzard looked up at a noise above his head and saw a comical looking parrot fly mockingly by. He was about to wink humorously at the crazy bird when his feet became entangled in a vine and he started to fall. He heard both the machine gun and Lin's hoarse cry as he hit the ground.

  Soon, the air was filled with the popping sound of rifles and the slick cutting hiss of bullets as they sliced through the thick grass and leaves.

  Hazzard cautiously raised his head. A thin veil of smoke hung about the jungle in front of him, but whoever was doing the firing was smart enough to remain well back from the edge of the clearing so that the jungle foliage would hide the muzzle flashes. He lowered his head and began to crawl forward. Somewhere ahead of him was Lin, and he knew the boy had been hit. He had heard that cry before. In France, in Germany, in Korea, and other places long forgotten; the sound that comes involuntarily to a man's throat as a bullet tears through the body, expanding, and sm
ashing him to the ground.

  He found Lin lying on his side, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, the bush hat clenched tightly in his fist, and wheezing from the hole that the bullet had bored through his chest and lung.

  Hazzard tore a strip of cloth from the tad of his shirt and tied the boy's wrists together. Rolling Lin carefully on his back, Hazzard stuck his head through the boy's bound arms, and began the long crawl back to the safety of the jungle, dragging the boy along beneath him.

  Hazzard had lost ad thought of the other members of his group since the firing had started. Now, as he crawled slowly along, he realized that the firing was only coming from the other side, and he suddenly remembered that he had not heard any return fire from his own men since they had been attacked. He now began to have misgivings about these men whom he had thought were so tough and deadly. He remembered stories of other ambushes in the jungle, of how the men fled from the scene at the first sign of danger. He did not want to believe this about these men he had admired, but where were they now? Why had they not returned the fire?

  Lin's head struck the ground as Hazzard's hand slipped. He looked down and the boy grinned back. 'Christ, only fifteen, and what a way to die,' thought Hazzard. He smiled back at the boy and continued crawling through the deep grass toward the jungle, cursing the men who had so quickly disappeared.