It wasn’t until some of the incoming wounded — not those on Disney Hill, but from the accompanying or western left flank attacked by Wei’s troops — were brought in by the Medevac helos to the MUST that the extent of the wounds among USVUN troops became known.
In the heat of the battle, few but the medics had noticed that enemy bullets, not shrapnel, had been splitting open the Kevlar bulletproof vests. By the time the wounded were on the operating table, the vests had been taken off, revealing horrific chest and head wounds caused by just one bullet. It was almost impossible to stop the bleeding, and there were hundreds of minute, razor-sharp pieces.
The doctors at first assumed the wounds had been caused by mortar shrapnel. But it wasn’t a surgeon or medic who would eventually solve the problem, it was Freeman, who had flown in via chopper from his HQ at Phu Lang Thuong after hearing about the new kinds of wounds. He’d also heard that the PLA had been firing on the Medevac choppers, using the Red Cross insignia on the nose and side as aiming points.
“That’s nothing new,” he said, thinking aloud. “We’ll have to have a fighter escort for the most serious cases, after they’ve been patched up and sent on to our hospital ship in the gulf.” He turned to Cline just as they were landing. “Bob, while I look at the sitreps, you get me X rays of some of our boys with those wounds everyone’s talking about.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Bob, bring me actual fragments.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Freeman exited the chopper in its dust storm, he instinctively ducked and returned a salute to a colonel of artillery whose expression told him something else had gone wrong.
“What is it, Colonel?”
“Sir, we’re losing more men on the hill.”
“Why? There shouldn’t be any of our men left on the hill. I gave an order to withdraw.”
“I know, sir, but some of the guys stayed with the wounded. They’re getting cut to pieces by PLA mortars, and I don’t want to send arty in on them — kill our own men.”
“Colonel,” Freeman said, “if we don’t move those damned Chinese off the base of that hill, we’ll have to withdraw farther back into those goddamned paddies, and once we get stuck in them, we’ll never get out. You listen to your FAC, use H.E. and fire for effect.” He meant for the colonel to listen to his forward air controller, who was up ahead in a Bird Dog 1 or Cessna, flying around at ninety miles per hour within range of PLA small-arms and triple A fire. If the colonel fired for effect, laying the high explosive down where the FAC told him, then hopefully the American arty of 105mm and 155mm would hit pockets of Chinese rather than U.S. and other USVUN troops.
Even so, both men knew some fellow Americans would get hit. But they also knew that if U.S. artillery wasn’t used on the position, then the Chinese swarming down the hill would kill even more Americans in the paddies. Now the artillery colonel became the next son of a bitch that day as Americans died on the Loc Binh front, no matter that the FAC-directed arty, given the battle conditions, was as accurate as anyone could have hoped for. Freeman took full responsibility for the order, and earned the unenviable reputation of being the first American commander since World War II to call down artillery fire on his own men. Only the Chinese did that.
In just over seventeen minutes of vicious close-in fighting, when attackers and attacked both ran out of ammunition and the fighting became hand-to-hand, as it had earlier farther up the hill, the momentum of the PLA attack faltered. In those seventeen minutes, which seemed like seventeen hours to two dozen or so American and USVUN troops, Freeman’s artillery stopped the Chinese advance, giving his men at the paddies’ edge time to get behind the long dike and set up defensive positions as slicks, Huey helos, flew in and dropped off ammo, Baby Ruth bars, and water supply.
It began to rain then, but not before the quiet, confident tone of the forward air controller came on. “Armored column heading south approx two miles — I say again two miles — from Pingxiang.”
“How many tanks?”
“Can’t say. Saw five before mist closed in.”
“Type?”
“T-72s.”
That meant Soviet main battle tanks — top of the line — sold to the PLA after the breakup of the Soviet Union.
Freeman ordered in strikes from the carrier Enterprise. “This,” he said, “is where we show them what American technology can do. Right, Bob?”
“Yes, sir;” Cline said unenthusiastically. “If you say so.”
Freeman turned on him. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Can’t take the heat?”
There was silence between the two men, despite the usual mind-numbing noise of artillery screaming overhead and the ceaseless babble, some of it frantic, from the remaining men trapped on Disney.
“If I hadn’t called in arty,” Freeman thundered, “the Chinese would be here now. We would’ve been pushed so far back from that hill we’d be in retreat all the way to Hanoi.”
Bob Cline nodded.
“Damn it, Major — if you’re not up to it, get out of the kitchen!”
It was Freeman’s unapologetic tone that shocked Cline out of his uncertainty. “Yes, sir — I’ll be fine.”
“You bet your ass you’ll be fine — a hell of a lot finer than those boys on the hill.”
“Boys?” It was Marte Price, the press pool’s designated hitter for the day. “Aren’t there some women combat pilots, General, aboard the helos and the carriers—”
“See the front door of that tent?” Freeman snapped.
“Yes.”
“Well, that gender shit stops there. I haven’t time for it. You understand?”
“Yes, General.” She’d never seen him so angry before, and he almost never swore in front of women.
“If you want a story,” he shouted over the noise, “look at these.” In his hands were tiny shards of steel that Cline had brought him earlier.
“What are they?”
“Fragments from what’s called an APBR — armor-piercing Black Rhino round — made in Alabama out of carbon-based plastic. Has what they call a polymer tip. Explodes into splinters inside the body. Wounds are huge — six inches in diameter. If it hits a bulletproof vest, goes right through. Wounds are even bigger. It’s banned in the States.”
“Then where do the PLA get them?”
“Hong Kong probably. That’s the usual source, so the CIA tell us. Who, exactly, we don’t know, but we’re sure as hell trying to find out.”
“Is it that serious?” Marte asked naively.
“Serious? Hell, PLA using that ammunition is equivalent to them having an extra regiment to throw at us. And never mind the effect on morale. It’s like a wildfire among the troops. Makes everyone hold back, and on top of this withdrawal—” Freeman stopped. “Withdrawal” and “retreat” weren’t part of his normal vocabulary. They stuck in his throat. In that moment Marte Price discovered something about Freeman that reminded her of what she’d heard about Patton. Here was a general, a warrior whose ferocity and élan in battle were legendary, whose code of honor drew a line against this advance in technology, the use of the armor-piercing Black Rhino bullets.
“In a wound caused by a Black Rhino round,” he added, “it’s almost impossible to staunch the bleeding. It’s horrendous.”
“You’re an anachronism, General,” Marte said admiringly. “I thought all soldiers would use anything—”
“No,” he interrupted. “Otherwise we’d be using nerve gas, another monstrosity. Besides, the need for extra blood on hand is doubled once they start using Black Rhino — tears flesh to pieces. Each fragment is like a razor, a separate wound.”
“General,” Marte responded. “I have pretty good contacts in Hong Kong. If you like—”
“I thought,” Freeman cut in, “that you’re to report on the military, not help us.”
“It’d be a good story,” she said.
“One good turn deserves another,” Freeman responded, and they both realized they had compromised their professional integrity and that neither felt guilty.
“General.” It was Major Cline, and he clearly had more than the impact of Second Army’s retreat on his mind. “Could I have a word in private, sir?”
Blushing, Marte Price quickly left the HQ tent.
“What’s up, Major?” Freeman asked him.
“Sir, word’s got out about our Special Forces group near Dien Bien Phu, and there’s hell to pay in Washington — and the rest of the country. Larry King’s asked the head of the Joint Chiefs to appear on his show.”
“Shit!”
“That’s only half of it, sir. The New York Times is on to it. They’re going to run an editorial on it tomorrow. They’re comparing you to Nixon when he ordered the secret bombing of Cambodia and Laos during ‘Nam.”
“Well, they’ve got that right,” Freeman said, unabashed. “I mightn’t have agreed with everything he did, but by God he was right to hit those Commie staging areas. Bastards would slip across into ‘Nam, shoot up our boys, then run back over the border.”
“Trouble is, General, in Washington the Democrats and some Republicans are charging that seeing there’s no big enemy troop movements out of Cambodia or Laos so far in this war—”
“That I shouldn’t have sent in any Special Forces — until we were attacked. Right?”
“That’s more or less it, sir. They’re saying that democratic nations have an obligation not to indulge in preemptive strikes.”
“Tell Israel that,” Freeman said. “Goddamn it. If the Israelis had waited to be attacked en masse before they took action, there wouldn’t be an Israel by now.”
“We’re going to have to respond, General.”
“Goddamn it. It’s bad enough I’ve had to pull Melbaine’s boys back to the damn paddy fields. Now I have to fight our own press.”
Cline knew all about that, but his job wasn’t to agree with the general, it was to hit him “in the teeth,” as Freeman had once put it, “with the bad news as well as the good.” “We’re going to have to respond, General,” he repeated, his tone as demanding as his rank would allow.
“I know,” Freeman said thoughtfully, if hastily, looking at the huge map. His steel-blue eyes followed the winding course of the Laotian-Vietnamese border around the splotch of green that marked the eleven-mile-long valley running north and south of Dien Bien Phu and Ban Cong Deng.
“Call a press conference in an hour. We won’t restrict it — let in every son of a bitch in Hanoi who wants to come. I’ll straighten it out.”
Cline shook his head. “It’s going to be tough, General. We’ve got every longhaired weirdo yapping on this one. We’ve even got the environmentalists’ lobby charging that you’re going to use some chemical like Agent Orange to defoliate the border areas ‘round Dien Bien Phu and Ban Cong Deng. They’re afraid of hurting the trees.”
Freeman gave him a crooked grin. “Maybe I should let Marte Price take a photo of me hugging a goddamn bush!”
“She’d be the last one I’d give anything to.”
Freeman looked puzzled. “Why not?”
“Well, we can’t prove it, but our G-2 section suspects her of leaking our Laos Special Forces op. Not directly, but via that French shit, LaSalle. Scratching one another’s back. Rumor mill has it that he’s screwing her.”
Freeman’s facial muscles knotted. “Damn it, I gave her info about the Rhino rounds. She could roast us on an open spit with that one.”
“How?” Cline asked.
“I told her it affected morale. She could say—”
“Our boys are backing off,” Cline cut in.
“Exactly. Damn—”
“Sir?” It was a call from the operations table. Melbaine’s men, those that were off, were now all in the rice paddy, coming under mortar fire. The field was turning into a churning sea of muddy water as the PLA’s 82mm mortar rounds exploded, throwing up geysers of rust-colored water, green rice stalks, and shrapnel from the mortar shells. Meanwhile, various small-arms fire, mostly AK-47s, peppered the turbulent paddy. Several bodies, two Americans and a Vietnamese, were floating bumpily in the wash.
Freeman called for arty to straddle the narrow margin of ground between the rice paddy and Disney’s apron of high ground, now swarming with more PLA reinforcements coming from the tunnels. The general’s request was answered in less than forty seconds with a creeping barrage of H.E. that soon covered Disney’s southern slope in a dust storm of dirt and pebbles that, swept southward by the wind, fell like hail on the embattled USVUN forces on the edge of the paddy.
Anticipating the “blind pause” this would create for both sides, unless they wanted to waste ammunition by firing at nothing in particular, Freeman ordered in a brigade, three thousand men of the Third Airborne Cavalry Division, which had landed in Hanoi only a few hours before.
It was a sight that impressed even the old battle-hardened vets of both sides in ‘Nam, 157 slicks dotting the gray metallic sky in an aerial armada carrying the three battalions.
“Three thousand won’t be enough to stop them, General,” Melbaine shouted into his cellular field phone.
“I agree,” Freeman growled back, “it isn’t going to stop them, it’s going to push the sons of bitches back into China where they belong. You hang on, Colonel. I’m about to give you a lesson in logistics!”
“Arrogant son of a bitch,” Melbaine said, collapsing the phone, slipping it into his pocket. “How the hell’s he going to push ‘em back? We’re already running out of ammo, and the Airborne can only bring in enough for themselves, never mind us.”
“He’s got Hanoi fever!” a Vietnamese major nearby suggested.
“He’s nuts,” Melbaine’s second in command said. “Crazier’n a two-bit watch.”
All that Freeman had meant by a “lesson in logistics” was that the three battalions, under his express orders, were also equipped with Vietnamese 82mm mortars.