105 and Rising

By L. S. Whiteley

April 1975. The Fall of Saigon. Chaos and confusion. Desperation and despair. Panic and death. As the North Vietnamese Army closes in, a team of five former American servicemen reenter Saigon. Their mission: to “liberate” the gold reserves of South Vietnam. Things begin to go wrong from the start, and rapidly proceed to get worse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781546272984

L. S. Whiteley

L. S. Whiteley was born in Orlando, Florida and attended Memphis State University and New York University. He has lived in London and Mexico City, as well as spending three years in Southeast Asia in the late 1970’s. Currently, he lives in Sarasota, Florida. This is his third novel; he is at work on a fourth.

Book preview

23 April 1975

Highway 4, South Vietnam

A thick red cloud of dust swirls in upon itself. Slowly the cloud begins to part. A Chinook helicopter with a sling of supplies suspended underneath it descends toward a cleared stretch of highway some 30 miles south of Saigon. The supplies bang down hard. Many of the crates and boxes shatter; rifles, grenades and mortar rounds spill out.

The cable connecting the supplies to the Chinook falls free. The chopper edges down onto the highway. Only its rear wheels touch the pavement. The front of the chopper rocks and sways in mid-air. Like a giant frightened bird, the machine is ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

Straw hats, items of clothing are scattered in the violent wind. Bicycles collapse in a pile. A legless man in a wheelchair is knocked over. South Vietnamese soldiers, huddled in ditches alongside the road, glance at the supplies, then en masse, with officers leading, rise and run toward the Chinook’s rear loading ramp. Most of the soldiers do not carry weapons; many are wounded, trailinq bloody bandages. They fight to get aboard the chopper.

Seeing the soldiers attempting to flee, women and children (camp followers) emerge from the surrounding fields and race toward the chopper. They too join the fracas.

A fat man with a large canvas bag clasped tightly to his chest runs to the front of the helicopter. He reaches into the bag and pulls out a fistful of piasters. He waves the money at the pilot in the bobbing cockpit. The pilot looks at the man, then looks away.

Suddenly the force of the prop wash rips the fat man’s bag apart. Money floats over the people fighting at the rear of the chopper. Most of the people ignore the money, but a few can’t resist—they stop fighting for space aboard the chopper and start fighting for the money. The fat man is among them.

The rear of the chopper now begins to rise. Several desperate souls leap onto the loading ramp. One of these is an old woman. A soldier inside the chopper steps forward. The old woman, believing that the young man is going to pull her to safety, smiles up at him. Instead, the soldier kicks the old woman in the face. The old woman’s body sags; her grip loosens. She falls to the ground. And there she lies, on her back, crying silently, with her small hands reaching up toward the steadily rising helicopter.

23 April 1975

Sarasota, Florida

Waves of pale green roll in, break white and tumble on toward shore. A flock of sea gulls, squawking loudly, tears at an abandoned bag of potato chips lying in the sand. Out in the Gulf, motorboats and sailboats maneuver about with a common disregard for path or purpose. Directly in front of me, groups of bikini-clad young girls, already well-bronzed, stroll by, pretending indifference.

I reach into the ice chest at my side and discover that I only have one beer left. This is a mild disappointment. Stoically I resolve not to allow this shortfall to flatten my day. I pop the top, take a slow sip and return the beer to the ice chest. Settling back in my lounge chair, I close my eyes and let the sun bake my untroubled brain into a fine condition of dull blankness.

It’s a splendid day to be breathing.

Suddenly a shadow passes over my parade. I open one eye slightly and glimpse an intruding figure stationed between the sun and me.

Hey, man, I say, like you’re blocking my rays.

Hey, numb nuts, like too fucking bad, a voice replies—a voice that I immediately recognize, a voice that I had thought I’d left half a world away.

I sit up quickly to confirm what I already know.

Captain Harrison Stuart Valentine III, 101st Airborne, last seen some five years before cursing in the rice paddies of Quang Tri Province as I boarded a helicopter and rotated out.

Not my goddamn radioman! Captain Valentine screamed at a somewhat surprised chopper pilot. You know how goddamn long it takes to train one of those fuckers not to get killed? Listen, I’ll trade you two assholes from Arkansas if you’ll give me my man back! Just kick him out! You can say you never found him, you can say—

Sorry, Captain! I interjected. Love to stay, but orders is orders! Airborne!

Airborne, my ass! You get the fuck back here, you whore-bastard!

That’s a negative, Captain! I shouted as the chopper tipped forward, then began to rise. Duty calls!

I waved. He flipped me the bird, thrust the radio at a stunned new guy, then turned back toward his men and his mission—which, to him, were always one and the same.

And now here he is again, in the flesh, out of the blue—Captain Valentine, standing with his hands resting lightly on his hips, casting a long steady shadow.

I don’t know what you want, I say, but the answer’s no. How’d you find me?

It’s not what I want, Captain Valentine counters. It’s what you want.

And what do I want?

To be saved, to be saved from a life of unending deathlike repetition and boredom.

You took a round in the head, is that it? And this is part of your therapy?

You know what I’ve always liked about you, Graham? Nothing, absolutely nothing.

My feelings reciprocated one hundred percent. Now how’d you find me?

Army records, a telephone book, a girl at your house. Easy as finding a drunk sailor on Saturday night.

He stands there smiling down at me—tall, still youthful, handsome, physically fit; the kind of man who would die before he disintegrated, the kind of man tapped from birth for a life of full living, the kind of man most other men would follow without question.

I reach down and pick my beer out of the ice chest.

Sorry, I say, bringing the can to my mouth. Last one.

No problem. Captain Valentine strips the beer from my grasp, takes a long gulp, smiles and hands the can back.

Even in civilian clothes, even on the beach, Captain Valentine still looks painfully military—the tan slacks creased to a knife-edge, the white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up in precise turns to the biceps, the black wingtips sporting a glossy shine.

How long you been out? I ask. You are out?

Out, in, black or white, mostly gray. I’ve crossed and recrossed that line so often I forget myself. Captain Valentine looks off toward the Gulf; he seems momentarily saddened.

Sounds rather secretive to me.

You see conspiracy where there’s only confusion, he assures me with a wan smile.

Is that right?

That’s right.

So what’re you doing on my beach then? I ask.

Like I said, I’ve come to save you, to save you from yourself.

Save me? Look at me. I begin pointing. Beer. Babes. The beach. Do I look like I need saving?

You don’t have to put up a brave front with me. It’s all right. I understand.

Jesus, they let you out too soon. The treatments weren’t over yet. What’s the number? I’ll call them. They can come and get you. They’ll take good care of you.

Graham, you’re just wasting our time. The clock’s running on this project. We’ve got a long way to go and a lot of things to do before we get there, so pack it up or leave it. I don’t care.

Captain Valentine turns and begins walking toward the parking lot. We can swing by your place on the way. The plane doesn’t leave Tampa till eight.

I leap to my feet. My place? I fall in behind. The plane? Tampa?

First-class all the way, Captain Valentine adds cheerfully.

I pull up beside him; he continues to walk.

If you think I’m going anyplace with you, first-class, third-class or camel, then you’re crazier than my fucking Aunt Sally! If you think for one goddamn minute—

Captain Valentine stops, turns and looks me in the eyes. Let me just say one word to you, Graham: gold.

He begins walking again.

I catch up quickly. Gold?

Hurry. It’s going to rain soon.

I stop and look back at my beautiful day. In a matter of mere moments, the entire horizon has turned black—thunder and lightning flashes to the north; churning clouds; palms spinning; sand swirling; beach umbrellas uprooted, somersaulting; people shouting, gathering up children, possessions, making for cars.

Captain Valentine is almost to the parking lot now. I run to catch up again.

Wait a minute! I shout. Just wait one fucking minute! You can’t say gold and then just walk away! What d’you mean gold?

I said rain. Let’s go.

Captain Valentine stops next to a white Dodge. He unlocks the passenger door and walks around to the other side.

No! You said gold! I heard you, goddammit! You said gold!

Rain. Gold. What’s the difference?

Captain Valentine unlocks the door on the driver’s side and climbs in.

It begins to rain—hard.

I open the other door and slip into the front seat.

You said gold, you son of a bitch!

Shut the door. The car’s getting wet. This is a rental.

Captain Valentine starts the engine.

Wait! I’m listening! Explain it to me!

Captain Valentine turns on the wipers and puts the car in gear.

Shut the door.

Wait, for God’s sake! Just wait!

Slowly the car begins to move through the rain, threading the crowd.

Shut the door before you fall out.

But wait! I scream. I slam the door. Just fucking wait!

24 April 1975

Highway 13, South Vietnam

The road is clogged with refugees. The ragged column stretches away as far as the eye can see. Soldiers and civilians are mixed together. They plod along at a weary pace. Their faces are etched with fear and uncertainty. A metal sign ventilated with bullet holes informs those who care that Saigon lies another 42 kilometers (26 miles) to the south.

Somewhere in the midst of this mob, a young mother leads a small child by the hand. As they walk the mother speaks softly to the child. They are tired, a bit battered, but not broken—they still have each other.

A high-pitched whistle suddenly pierces the quiet of the countryside; an artillery shell explodes next to the highway. Those nearest the explosion are killed or wounded. The wounded bleed and beg for help. Panic replaces fear. The refugees rush forward blindly.

In the crush of the crowd, this small child is stripped away from his mother. The mother turns back and screams for the child. The child cries out in response. The mother fights against the surging wall of pressing flesh, but the sheer mass of people propels the now hysterical woman farther along. The child vanishes in an undertow of clawing fingers and trampling feet.

24 April 1975

New Orleans, Louisiana

The smoke is thick; the music loud; the dancers disproportionately top-heavy. The morning crowd in the Bourbon Street strip-joint seems to know that they should be somewhere else, anywhere else. Even the bartenders and bouncers go about their work with eyes averted.

I order a Chivas, decline a table dance from a rudely insistent redhead and wait patiently for Captain Valentine’s return. He has departed for a meeting (his second in twelve hours) with persons unknown—unknown to me, at least.

Thus far, I’ve been able to pry only a few fragments of information from the captain: gold, easy to get, location to be disclosed later. What little I know about gold is, that if anything, it is never easy to get. This, however, does not bother me particularly. Upon reflection I am forced to agree with Captain Valentine’s assessment that, to an extent, the last several years of my life have been relatively risk-free, and that perhaps it’s time for a bit of a challenge. Not that I’m mercenarily inclined or even of a singularly adventurous nature, but still there does seem to be something stirring within, some sense of matters left incomplete, unresolved.

So I drink and wait.

After a couple