kind of feeble moonlight. Only one difference. Instead of a
farmer with a pepper-loaded shotgun, there was antiaircraft fire
coming out of the center of the nearby village. That battery had been
largely responsible for the choppers turning back. And those guns
weren't loaded with pepper.
He called the FAC. The pilot responded
immediately. "Come in, Bat Twenty-one."
"Don't you ever sleep?"
"Sleep is bad for my insomnia. What can I do
for you?"
"Hungry. Little garden nearby. Going
shopping."
There was a pause as this information was
considered. When he came back there was a note of concern in his
voice. "Roger, Bat. I'll alert the Sandys. We'll fly top cap.
Any trouble, click your transmitter at three-second intervals."
"Wilco."
"And Bat, be careful. Make like Tiny Tim.
Check in when you return."
"Wilco. Bat Twenty-one out." Hambleton
thought for a moment. Make like Tiny Tim? And then he
understood. Have to tiptoe through the tulips. The mine field.
He could feel his heart hammering as he crawled
out of his hole. He was willing to leave his sanctuary, his safe
haven. Still, although it was a dark night, with scudding clouds that
mostly blocked out the wisp of a moon, he would be exposed. He began
to have second thoughts. And then another low growl from his midriff
confirmed his decision.
He removed his heavy survival vest. He shouldn't
need it and it would only weigh him down. He took his knife and his
radio, placed his other belongings in his hole, and carefully covered
them with branches.
Compass in hand, he crawled to the edge of his
cover. Then, crouching low, he started stalking his objective. Since
he not only had to reach the garden but find the hole upon his
return, he started counting his steps. One... two... three... Compass
heading exactly one hundred and fifty-eight degrees.
Nervous sweat plastered his flying suit to his
skin. The garden plot should be just inside the land-mined strip, but
it was marginal at best, and there was no telling where some of the
mines had rolled to upon impact. His eyes stinging with perspiration,
he stared intently at the dark ground before each footfall...
checking his compass...counting his steps. He pulled up short,
spotting what might be a land mine—couldn't really tell in the
dark—but giving it a wide berth.
He paused from time to time, listening,
reconnoitering the area. To the southwest, over a little rise, was
another small village. Straight west beyond the rice paddies was a
group of three or four gray buildings he had not seen before. There
was a large stone gate entry to the area, probably a place of
worship. From the rise he could get a different view of the main
arterial road. He could distinguish the outlines of several
camouflaged tanks parked under a tree, and he made a mental note of
their position. Birddog would be interested.
Skirting along the ditch he came across a berry
patch. Quickly he frisked one of the larger bushes, and his hands
yielded several red berries. Remembering the rule of survival school,
he squeezed the juice in the palm of his hand and touched it with his
tongue. He didn't recognize the taste, but it was sweet, meaning it
should be edible. Delighted, he stripped the nearest bushes,
gathering several handfuls of the fruit, which he stuffed into his
pockets.
After another thirty yards he found himself at the
edge of the garden and made a dash for the spindly cornfield at its
far corner. Ducking into the protection of the stalks he squatted,
caught his breath, and listened. No gooks! No mines! So far so good.
Only the comforting drone of the aircraft overhead permeated the
predawn stillness.
Quietly he moved from one stalk to another,
snapping the largest ear from each stalk. Three ears, he told
himself. That's all. From different stalks so as not to indicate he'd
been there. With his limit stuffed into the pockets of his flight
suit, he started creeping back toward the corner of the garden, the
point of his directional bearing.
As
farmer with a pepper-loaded shotgun, there was antiaircraft fire
coming out of the center of the nearby village. That battery had been
largely responsible for the choppers turning back. And those guns
weren't loaded with pepper.
He called the FAC. The pilot responded
immediately. "Come in, Bat Twenty-one."
"Don't you ever sleep?"
"Sleep is bad for my insomnia. What can I do
for you?"
"Hungry. Little garden nearby. Going
shopping."
There was a pause as this information was
considered. When he came back there was a note of concern in his
voice. "Roger, Bat. I'll alert the Sandys. We'll fly top cap.
Any trouble, click your transmitter at three-second intervals."
"Wilco."
"And Bat, be careful. Make like Tiny Tim.
Check in when you return."
"Wilco. Bat Twenty-one out." Hambleton
thought for a moment. Make like Tiny Tim? And then he
understood. Have to tiptoe through the tulips. The mine field.
He could feel his heart hammering as he crawled
out of his hole. He was willing to leave his sanctuary, his safe
haven. Still, although it was a dark night, with scudding clouds that
mostly blocked out the wisp of a moon, he would be exposed. He began
to have second thoughts. And then another low growl from his midriff
confirmed his decision.
He removed his heavy survival vest. He shouldn't
need it and it would only weigh him down. He took his knife and his
radio, placed his other belongings in his hole, and carefully covered
them with branches.
Compass in hand, he crawled to the edge of his
cover. Then, crouching low, he started stalking his objective. Since
he not only had to reach the garden but find the hole upon his
return, he started counting his steps. One... two... three... Compass
heading exactly one hundred and fifty-eight degrees.
Nervous sweat plastered his flying suit to his
skin. The garden plot should be just inside the land-mined strip, but
it was marginal at best, and there was no telling where some of the
mines had rolled to upon impact. His eyes stinging with perspiration,
he stared intently at the dark ground before each footfall...
checking his compass...counting his steps. He pulled up short,
spotting what might be a land mine—couldn't really tell in the
dark—but giving it a wide berth.
He paused from time to time, listening,
reconnoitering the area. To the southwest, over a little rise, was
another small village. Straight west beyond the rice paddies was a
group of three or four gray buildings he had not seen before. There
was a large stone gate entry to the area, probably a place of
worship. From the rise he could get a different view of the main
arterial road. He could distinguish the outlines of several
camouflaged tanks parked under a tree, and he made a mental note of
their position. Birddog would be interested.
Skirting along the ditch he came across a berry
patch. Quickly he frisked one of the larger bushes, and his hands
yielded several red berries. Remembering the rule of survival school,
he squeezed the juice in the palm of his hand and touched it with his
tongue. He didn't recognize the taste, but it was sweet, meaning it
should be edible. Delighted, he stripped the nearest bushes,
gathering several handfuls of the fruit, which he stuffed into his
pockets.
After another thirty yards he found himself at the
edge of the garden and made a dash for the spindly cornfield at its
far corner. Ducking into the protection of the stalks he squatted,
caught his breath, and listened. No gooks! No mines! So far so good.
Only the comforting drone of the aircraft overhead permeated the
predawn stillness.
Quietly he moved from one stalk to another,
snapping the largest ear from each stalk. Three ears, he told
himself. That's all. From different stalks so as not to indicate he'd
been there. With his limit stuffed into the pockets of his flight
suit, he started creeping back toward the corner of the garden, the
point of his directional bearing.
As
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