The Five Fingers Read online

  I came in from that one raging with fever, my nerves in tatters. I got a month's leave and hopped a ride on a MAC medic ship to Osaka. I knew a Korean nurse in Osaka, Sai Pei, a gorgeous dame. I intended to stay with her. It did not work out that way. I ran into a couple of guys I knew at the airport.

  The Coliseum was what we called the hotel that was Mark Anthony's headquarters. Mark Anthony was the New Zealand adjutant in Japan. God knows what his real name was. He was a very friendly, very efficient guy. He was there to get the last couple of months out

  of us. To keep us or, often enough, to get us out of trouble. To keep track of us. SAS operatives were not expendable people outside combat. We were an expensive war item. We were supposed to keep Mark Anthony informed where we were at all times. I often went up to the mountains. I would just tell him what resort hotel I would be staying in. But when I was really done in, I would push off and say stuff it. This was one area where we were undisciplined, but it was harmless enough.

  This time I went to a geisha house with these two guys. We started drinking hot rice wine, and I got drunker than I had ever been in my life. These three sisters took us to a house a hundred miles north of Osaka. I do not know how they got us on the train. Or why. We were in no shape to sleep with them. They were just doing a decent thing. I did not come around until three days later, when the U. S. MPs arrested us and dragged us back to Osaka.

  There had been a big panic on. Mark Anthony had gotten orders to return me to Saigon, and he could not find me anywhere. So he told the U.S. authorities the three of us were AWOL. The girls learned they were looking for us and turned us over to the MPs, but not before they thought we were in shape to go back. Mark Anthony bailed me out of the stockade. He told me I was returning to Saigon in two days. An American officer interviewed me at the Coliseum to see if I had gotten into any trouble, but there was little I could tell him. He was cleaning up behind me.

  I picked up my gear at the Coliseum and took it to Sai Pei's flat. I always carried with me my prime weapon, a pistol, and my machete. This was one of the privileges of being what we were. The Japanese never looked in our kit bags. We were sensible; we did not flash the stuff around in public. But these were all weapons I had adapted to suit me. I would not have left them behind in Saigon. Sai Pei and I had two days together. I cleaned my gear when she was at the hospital.

  Tuesday morning, I went back to Saigon the way I had come, on a MAC flight. I reported to my commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Ian Stacey, at the Hotel Enfilade, which is what we called the U.S. headquarters. Stacey was an old Vietnam hand; he had been there since before New Zealand had an official presence. He told me to attend a briefing at 0700 hours the next day, then report to him. I went back to quarters and made my gear ready.

  But the briefing the next morning was not for combat. It was a highly detailed political backgrounder delivered by an American colonel for New Zealand and Australian officers and NCOs. The hard-liners and soft-liners in Hanoi, he said, were locked in a power-struggle that was being brought to a head by two related movements. First was the growing strength of the doves in America; the American public was getting fed up with a no-victory war. Political pressure at home could force the Americans to leave Vietnam, as the French had, if they were to suffer a major battlefield defeat. Or following a negotiated peace, which Washington could use as an excuse to go. Secondly, there were rumors of detente feelers between Peking and Washington. A genuine detente would leave the North Vietnamese out on a limb. The pressure was on the North Vietnamese hard-liners to make a decisive move. The colonel's remarks, I noted, were as appropriate for the Americans as the North Vietnamese.

  While the doves were talking detente, he went on, there had been a general upsurge in communist activity all over the world, but particularly in Africa and the Middle East where pro-Peking and pro-Moscow factions vied to outdo one another. Things were getting a bit naughty everywhere, and strong reactions were called for. There was a humming question that Britain might get involved in Vietnam.

  The colonel's speech was interrupted by films and graphs that documented the patterns of movement on all sides. The briefing was a synthesis of the fantastic amount of data American intelligence had been gather-

  ing for six months. We saw some very interesting films that must have been shot by the Lockheed SR-71 over Peking and Hanoi; it carries cameras that can pick up a car registration number at 10,000 feet. The films were mostly of rallies and public celebrations. The shots would start at a sharp angle, then roll slowly over a group of people standing on a balcony or going up a flight of stairs. The frame woud freeze and the colonel would explain who the people were and when and where they had met in recent months. He could not spell out the specific purpose of these meetings, though he implied they appertained to events of immense importance in the immediate future.

  I reported back to Stacey, and he questioned me closely about the briefing, though he had been there as well. I took a great interest in our political briefings, because I was in Vietnam to fight communists, and these briefings increased my sense of purpose.

  "We've got a special one on for you, Rivers," Stacey said, handing me my orders. "You're on a flight to Bien Hoa at 1100 hours tomorrow. We'll see you when you get back."

  Bien Hoa was a familiar sight to me when I landed the next morning. There were a lot of tactical support missions out of there, fighters and gunships. We often used airborne infantry from Bien Hoa on RFI missions. I was not due to report in until 1600 hours, so I spent the afternoon wandering among the aircraft. I had lunch with some chopper pilots who had flown me and knew what I was.

  I reported to the south side, a broken string of low buildings inside a heavily guarded barbed-wire enclosure. The south side was a self-contained headquarters unit for special missions, with its own administration, armory, film unit, mess, and living quarters. It was inside the southern perimeter of Bien Hoa, near the fuel and ammunition dumps. As the occasional mortar fell on Bien Hoa, unauthorized personnel stayed well away. Though the south side primarily ran Green Beret teams, it was staffed by

  regular officers. I reported to an American captain, who did a double-take when he saw my assignment number. He gave me'confirmation of orders, assigned me quarters outside the perimeter, and ordered me to report for a briefing at 0600 hours the following morning.

  I put my gear away, and as I left the barracks for the PX to get a hamburger, I ran into Barry Wiley coming in. He was assigned the room next to mine. He dumped his gear and came with me for a beer.

  Barry and I talked about everything but what we were doing at Bien Hoa. Stacey told me my orders were top secret. When that happens, you do not even talk to people you know are secure.

  "How long are you here for?" Barry asked me.

  "I'm going out tomorrow," was all I said, which normally would have been the case; a briefing in the morning and upcountry by that afternoon.

  "I'm going out tomorrow as well," Barry replied. Nothing more was said about our assignments.

  Barry was a typical young Australian: tall, lean, slightly brash. There was no mystique about the man; he was an obvious person, easy to anticipate. Barry was intelligent but slightly immature. He had a keen, if somewhat heavy, sense of humor and was very likable.

  What disturbed me about Barry was that he had retained his human reactions. He was not so hard that things did not scare him anymore. From one moment to the next, he could find himself operating right out of his depth.

  Barry was an excellent soldier. He was an expert with explosives, and for a man who wore glasses, a remarkable shot with a rifle. Barry was superb when he could do things automatically. But when he had time to kill somebody ... if he could see a man's eyes . . . he had this dangerous pause. He would do the job, but sometimes afterward he would go moody, as if in delayed shock. Then he felt he had to prove himself

  anew, which was ridiculous. His SAS badge was proof enough of his courage for any man. Heroes were unpopular in the speci
al forces; they tended to endanger themselves and the men with them.

  Sooner or later, Barry would have to talk about his fear. This was why he and I were not really close. I was totally insensitive to this. SAS men seldom talk about combat, because once it is over, it is no longer important except insofar as it can keep a man alive the next time. You locked that lesson into your memory, but you did not discuss it.

  When we operated together, Barry's faults never caused me to lose sight of the fact that he was a very good soldier. I just kept my eyes on him for mistakes. He was that odd combination of a very human guy and an expert special forces operative. He was not terribly ambitious as far as the Army was concerned; he saw a termination to his involvement in Vietnam, which most of us did not. In camp, he was more interested in ball games and clay pigeon shooting than soldiering. He shared my passion for guns. We got on well together, though neither understood the other very well.

  "What time is your briefing?" Barry asked me as we walked back from breakfast the following morning.

  "0600 hours."

  "Room 40B," he said.

  "Shit," I said, "I'm lumbered with you again."

  There followed a sequence of events that were not quite usual. When we reported to the OD and asked for room 40B, he called a second lieutenant who led us to an anteroom and asked us to wait. The lieutenant placed a guard on the door, then left. In five minutes he came back in and tried to jolly us up.

  When you are put on alert for a mission, you go through an upsurge in readiness, a sequence of detaching yourself from everything but the mission itself. An up-graded office boy running around trying

  to kid you is one of the hardest things to take. I was more subdued than Barry, who began to get very agitated.

  "Lieutenant," I said, "we're not going anywhere. You can leave us alone." He started to speak, then nodded abruptly and left the room. He sat outside in a chair where he could see us through the open door.

  "Hey, Kiwi," Barry said, "did you notice how many civilians there are around the place today?"

  "And rank."

  "Did you see the choppers on the outside?"

  "What about them?" Bien Hoa was like Heathrow, choppers coming in constantly, jets taking off.

  "Command ships. Big Chinooks. CH-54s. Not the Iroquois."

  Another second lieutenant came to the door. "Please follow me, gentlemen," he said.

  The lieutenant led us to room 40B.

  CHAPTER 2

  The major came in, greeted us amiably, and had a chat around. At first, we carried the residue of tension we had all felt in the briefing room. Slowly we broke off into groups, in the natural order of things.

  Jackson and Morrosco and Wiley talked about non-mission-oriented matters: women, cars, leave towns. Prather questioned me about Vietnam, with Tan sitting in as a silent partner. The major moved among us all, but he gave Prather and me most of his attention. We already had our delegation of thinking, which was how it was meant to be; a leadership party of four men, and then the followers. People pair off even in small units, not because some are inferior to others, but because of just how much they want to get involved.

  Morrosco, Wiley, and Jackson were there to do a job. The reasons why, they left to others; they were not interested in interpreting orders. Which was great, because it made them uncomplicated people. I wanted to know everything about everything, and I always

  seemed to exercise a leadership role. The trio were quite willing to let the rest of us do the leading.

  Prather, the -Englishman, and I had a long chat that first night. He was an easy man to settle in with: quiet, a gentleman, a man of intelligence and breeding. I had seen his combat ribbons at the briefing— Malaya, Aden, Borneo, even Korea. I saw at once that he was in many ways a traditional soldier. Everything i about him was understated, disciplined, orderly. He was a man of habit, down to his one bowl of pipe tobacco and one glass of port at night. He was a handsome man with well-defined features; the graying i temples beneath his stiff brown hair did not age the : man but drew attention to his distinguished bearing. He was of average height and weighed about 150 pounds. Everything about Lew Prather was tidy in an i understated English way, even his conversation.

  Despite the favorable impression he made on me, I Prather remained the other possibility in the unit, because he was an unknown quantity. Two points bothered me about him. How much jungle combat had i he seen? Most of the British SAS jobs in recent years had been in the sand. That was a different kind of warfare. And to what extent was he an observer? Was he going to be a genuine observer, baggage none of us wanted along, or "observer" in name alone, so that if he got killed, he would be less an embarrassment for his government?

  Prather had relatives in New Zealand, and he tried j to question me about our involvement in Vietnam. He did not get any mileage out of me there; New Zealand I was as far away to me as England was to him. My involvement in Vietnam was purely personal.

  The talk turned to weapons. He had brought from Rngland a self-loading rifle and a Sterling light machine gun. Toliver and I both frowned on hearing this.

  "What's wrong with them?" he asked.

  'The SLR is a good weapon," Toliver said, "but not for here. Too much velocity. We're fighting at about a fifth the distance you're used to in the desert. Half *

  of what you're used to in Borneo. The bullets just don't stay in a man. And the barrel's too long. You'll get it hung up. And they're so goddamn noisy."

  "The Sterling is all right for close work," I said, "but they're too prone to jamming. Take a look at what Wiley uses. He's as good as there is with an M-3. It's a lot like a Sterling. It's a little heavier, but it's more accurate and has better spread. And half again the firing rate."

  "What do you use?" he asked me.

  "Shotgun."

  "Shotgun!"

  "A twelve-bore pump with a shortened barrel. Number six shot with a spherical ball on top."

  "You must have no range at all," he said.

  "I like to work close."

  "This isn't Malaya, Lew," Toliver told him. "That's jungle, but compared to here, it's almost civilized warfare. This is just pure shit. You have no comprehension of the lengths people will go to, to kill each other. It's absolutely amazing. Things are being used out here that haven't even entered the minds of the people back home training guys to stay alive. So we do what we can the best we know how."

  Prather was shocked. He was used to operating within the fixed confines of British warfare. The British SAS did not have the leeway for individual tastes that the rest of us had. That very discipline held the British Army together better than any other army in the world in mass combat. But it might mean a lack of adaptability in a special unit, where a combination of individuals with special ways of doing things could make a very powerful collective group.

  "Well," said Prather, "I suppose I should try a grease gun."

  Toliver briefed us informally at breakfast the next morning prior to our second scheduled briefing. He was working hard to integrate himself and make an imprint on us as unit leader, which normally was not done prior to combat. Even in the special forces, unit

  leaders "did not fraternize much with their troops; the more aloof they remained, the less they encouraged contempt. We were all getting to like Toliver. He was definitely in command, even when he told us to call him Vic. And he was a perfectionist, as the rest of us were. There is nothing that brings a party of perfectionists closer than to have a perfectionist in command.

  "This mission," he told us, "is going to be observed by the very highest authority. Outside Vietnam."

  Prather cut his eyes at me in question. The highest authority was the White House. I did not overlook the fact that Toliver had said "observed by," not "initiated" or "conducted by." It sounded like somebody ready to take credit if it worked, but not the blame if it went wrong.

  "Briefing and mission readiness will take us several weeks, perhaps three weeks," he continued. This took me by s
urprise. We did not need training for anything.

  "What sort of situation are we getting into, Major? We've been under guard since we got here. And nobody tells us nothing. Now you're talking about several weeks. If we're being locked up, I think we deserve to know why," Jackson said.

  "All I can say," he replied, "is that the nature of the mission will require that much preparation. Let me add that there are people coming in from the outside to brief us. And they have schedules like anybody else. They can't drop everything to brief us." That deflated me considerably. If we were being locked up until somebody had time for us, then we were not as important as I had imagined.

  Toliver hammered at us, feeding us bits and pieces of information, fending off our questions with vague answers that would nevertheless preclude our raising them in the formal briefing.

  Among the average foot soldier, speculation runs rampant. It is a form of verbal panic. People run off at the mouth and come up with completely misdirected

  ideas, which is extremely dangerous. But in a group like ours, people would come up with very accurate assumptions about what was going on. Briefers did not want any of that. They wanted to feed out the information at their own pace, in the most psychologically suitable sequence. This would be governed by security, unit buildup, and target date. They would have a briefing program worked out so that our curiosity would reach a peak just prior to the final briefing, then subside as we went on to physical preparation. Toliver was telling us enough to disarm us, so that we would not hit the briefers with the wrong questions.