The Angel of Holloway

By M.R. Williamson

A normal life was all that soldier Johnny Tremain ever wanted. But laying wounded in the elephant grass deep in the jungles of eastern Vietnam, he saw a vision of a girl from his past, one whom he once loved.

“Get up, Johnny,” she urged. “You’re not hurt,” she said.

Quickly realizing this was no vision, Johnny struggled to his feet and followed her, hopefully toward Camp Holloway. Losing his strength, he passed out only to be brought back by the same, haunting voice.

Those at Camp Holloway accredited Johnny’s survival to something angelic. But visions sometimes follow soldiers home, all the way back to the States. And the only way to escape back to normality is to confront them... But how?

Pro Se Productions proudly presents The Angel of Holloway by M. R. Williamson, the first in a series of digest novels set against the backdrop of the Vietnam War, tales of love, loss, of war and the supernatural.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Aug 17, 2015

Book preview

THE ANGEL OF HOLLOWAY

by M. R. Williamson

Published by Pro Se Press

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

Copyright © 2015 M. R. Williamson

All rights reserved.

Contents

Part One

A Flash from the Past

Part Two

Die Another Time

Part Three

As Long As I Can See The Light

Part Four

All or Nothing

About the Author

Part One

A Flash from the Past

—

August is burning this time of evening, thought Johnny Tremain as he and his squad lay hidden in the four-foot elephant grass watching the little fishing village of Wan Tu.

But, then again, he knew Vietnam was always hot in one way or another. He led his squad into the short grass close to the village. To him, the short grass was anything under four feet. Twenty paces or so behind his squad, the grass was well over ten feet tall. Johnny watched helplessly, trying to figure out just what to do now. The VC had beaten his squad to the village, and there was no hope for rescuing the villagers right now. The Cong had sent four patrol boats down the river. Given the numbers of the Cong now, Johnny’s men were outnumbered by at least eight to one. The only light they had to shoot by was coming from the villagers’ huts—the burning ones. Even with that, it was difficult to distinguish the North Vietnamese from the fishermen and their families. It looked as if everyone was wearing black pajamas….

Can you see ’em? whispered Mike Whitt.

The young staff sergeant from Alabama looked back over his left shoulder at Mike. Slick-sleeved and fresh from Alabama also, the young soldier was holding his radio like he thought it was a weapon but just couldn’t find the safety.

Settle down a little, Mike, whispered Johnny. We’re not charging into that mess.

Let’s get out of here. We can’t do nothin’ with that, whispered Billy Grube. The tall and lanky boy from Texas pushed the grass back to better see the sergeant’s expression.

I know. I know, grumbled Johnny. But this place is bunches better than north of here. That Agent Orange crap is all over everything up there. Considering how fast it kills everything green, it’s a wonder we’re still here at all.

Screw that orange crap, whispered Marv Willis. The way those huts are going up and the amount of snapping pops I heard from those AK 47s, there couldn’t be anyone in that village left alive.

The Memphis boy’s slow Southern drawl always amused Johnny, but he could find nothing to laugh about now.

Your Mamma San was from here, wasn’t she? asked Marv, throwing a quick glance toward Johnny.

Watching the flames, Johnny offered a slight nod. Mi has been working for me ever since I got to Holloway. He had grown increasingly fond of her, and her family, but had not ventured any farther into the relationship.

Where is she now? came another question from Marv.

Mi is in my room, replied Raymond House, a young, sandy-haired corporal from Georgia. Her parents and relatives are… were from here, I’m afraid.

Call a strike on this place, suggested Marv. Let the ROCs show ’em how to burn things. Do it now while their boats are still at the banks.

The lanky Eufaula, Alabama corporal pointed toward a clearing halfway between the gunboats and the village. Look at that, he said, almost standing up.

Several VCs were herding a dozen or so villagers toward the boats. Amid the shouting, cursing, and shooting, Johnny could hear children crying.

"I don’t believe it. Johnny rolled over and looked at Mike. The Alabama boy turned the radio on and quickly put it to his ear. With raised eyebrows he awaited the order.

Get ’em on the line, ordered Johnny.

Charlie Company to Big Daddy. Charlie Company to Big Daddy, said Mike.

Johnny turned to Hank and Ray. Are you two up to a little swimming? The Gooks are taking the prisoners to the boats, but most of ’em are still looting and raping in the village.

What do you have in mind? asked Hank.

You bring your two wasps and Ray his cobalts. Turning back to Mike, he ordered, Send for the Hellcats.

Geeze, said Hank. We’d better get hoppin’. Those firebirds will be here in fifteen minutes.

Be quick, said Grube, still looking toward the gunboats. They put ’em on the nearest one and left two guards with ’em.

Let’s do this, said Johnny.

With the river not more than twenty paces from them, Johnny, Ray, and Hank were in the water in less than a minute. Swimming quietly, they eased out into the river and came up on the stern of the nearest gunboat. The first burst from Johnny’s AK 47 put the two guards tumbling over the front edge of the bow. Not alarmed by the familiar sound of one of their own guns, the Cong in the village remained unaware of what was going on.

Ray pulled himself up to the railing of the port side. "Nhung ban. Nhung ban," he said softly.

Wide-eyed with fright, the word friend was like an answer to a prayer, or perhaps many prayers, to those now cowering on the deck of the gunboat.

"Vav trong nuoc," ordered Ray.

Given that the villagers were not used to taking orders from strangers, Get in the water seemed to be the logical thing to do. Without a second’s hesitation, they all rushed to the railing where the mysterious American was waiting and hastily climbed over the side. Seven women, four men, and five children later, they were all in the water by the boat.

Take ’em to the others, said Johnny. "Hank and I will hold the boats until the Hellcats get here.

Geeze, grumbled Hank. Being your cousin doesn’t have any advantages, does it?

I trust you, cuz. Stick with me and we might get out of this mess.

Hold the boats? echoed Ray in a whisper.

Just go, ordered Johnny.

Ray nodded while looking back at the scared faces in the water. Placing a finger across his lips, he whispered, "Dat den voi ching ta."

We will come with you, echoed a woman from the midst of the others.

Ray stopped, dead in the water. Mi? Mi, is that you? What the hell are you doing here?

A petite girl of not more than eighteen slowly pushed from the others. Her wet black hair glistened in the flames of the village. I wanted to make sure that my mother and father and sister are safe, Ray. They would not kill us. They were hoping to use me to get information from them.

You could’ve been—

Get out of here, snapped Johnny. We don’t have time for that.

Take these, said Ray. He hooked the straps of the rocket-propelled WASPs with his thumb, jerked them from his right shoulder, and then handed the needle-fragmentation rockets to Johnny. Hurry up now, whispered Ray, glancing at Mi. Pushing through the chest-high water and away from the gunboats, he led the men, women, and children toward the short grass.

We got comp’ny, Johnny, whispered Hank.

Johnny handed Hank one of the WASPs. As they ducked down and eased up to the two-foot high grass at the bank, Johnny watched those approaching. Four Cong were already past the clearing and trotting toward the boats. But even before they got there, one slowed dramatically and pointed toward the first boat.

We’ve been made. They don’t see the prisoners, said Johnny. He then cut loose with his AK 47.

Hank held his fire with his M16, watching the three writhe on the ground.

Didn’t fool ’em this time, complained Hank. The others have seen our pigeons.

Afraid so, agreed Johnny. He watched a dozen or more run from the village and toward the clearing.

Just mine for now, said Johnny. Raising his WASP to his shoulder, he added, We’ll save yours for insurance.

Seeing even more Congs running from the village, Johnny set his rocket to twenty-five yards, put it back to his shoulder, and then pulled the trigger.

Fire streaked from the back of the short pipe of a weapon, sending the foot-and-a-half-long missile streaking out toward the VCs. Within fifteen yards of them, it exploded in a loud, popping puff of white smoke and fire. Thousands of small, needlelike projectiles were flung almost invisibly toward the Communists. Screaming and yelling, three-quarters of them dropped their weapons and fell to the ground. The rest limped to find a tree, a rock, or anything that would give them shelter if should horrible weapon