Follow His Lead

By Richard LaMotte

In late 1969, Chuck rushes home from college when his father falls ill and passes away. Bitterness over his loss is compounded by the frustration of being unable to afford a return to school. Rashly enlisting in the Army, Chuck decides to train as a scout dog handler, and in Vietnam, Chuck's deep resentme

• Language: English
• Publisher: Koehler Books
• Release date: Oct 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888241158

Richard LaMotte

Richard LaMotte grew up in Portsmouth, Virginia, the son of an Episcopal minister, and is currently a marketing executive. When not photographing waterfowl, eagles, and sunsets, he is often beachcombing and writing. His first book, Pure Sea Glass, earned first place in Writer's Digest's thirteenth annual Self-Publishing Book Awards and was featured in Parade magazine, Coastal Living, Martha Stewart Living, Smithsonian Magazine, The Washington Post, The New York Times, The Boston Globe, as well as many local publications. Guest appearances on the Martha Stewart Show and NPR station WYPR inspired his sequel, The Lure of Sea Glass. After college he settled in Chestertown on Maryland's Eastern Shore, where he lives with his wife, Stephanie, a talented musician, composer, and writer.To learn more about this book and the author visit www.rlamotte.com

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CHAPTER 1

THE BELL

Any trace of morning light has been obscured by a dense, pre-dawn fog. The haze blankets every inch of the lush, moisture-laden foliage below the jungle canopy. The surrounding silence is both friend and foe. Deep into a marshy hollow, a soldier walks cautiously to mute the inevitable crunch of brittle reeds underfoot. He uses the impenetrable mist as cover, while four troops follow his every step, just a few paces behind.

A frail breeze drifts past, revealing only the head and upper torso of the lead soldier. Meanwhile, at the edge of the marsh, a stealth watchman notices his approach. He leans up against a slender tree and aims at the tall soldier, unaware of the others following behind.

An almost inaudible click precedes a single, deafening shot from the rifle. The soldiers unleash their fury in the direction of the flash, emptying their clips in seconds and shattering the morning calm. No more shots come from behind the tree. The soldiers drop into the mist and reload with shaking hands. They assume one of their own has been hit by that first shot but remain silent.

In the distance, a young voice screams, Ba! Ba! followed by sounds of crying.

A soldier whispers, That means father in Vietnamese. The shooter must be down. He points in two directions; two soldiers nod, then split off to approach the presumed location of the downed sniper from different directions. Meanwhile, the soldier who witnessed the impact of the first shot begins yelling expletives, followed by, We need a medevac! Sarge, we’ve gotta go . . . NOW!

As some of the soldiers rush their wounded victim out of the marsh, the other two investigate the kill zone. They find a dead villager with a rifle and a despondent boy clinging to him, yelling at the shooters but not reaching for his father’s gun. One soldier grabs the gun and slams the barrel against the tree to render it useless. The other silences the boy with a gag to make sure he doesn’t alert others who may have heard the shooting. They snap up the boy by his arms and start heading for an extraction site on the other side of the marsh; their goal is to prevent him from running back and foiling their escape. They don’t realize the gunfire on the outskirts of a nearby village was close enough to be heard by a few others.

By the time the two soldiers with the boy spot their fellow troops in the distance, a welcome breeze has cleared the fog. The tallest soldier yells again, How long till that damn chopper gets here?

The radio transmission operator responds, Should only be five more minutes, PB! Someone get a smoke grenade ready, and wait till we hear the chopper.

As the two troops arrive with the gagged boy, the extraction site lights up with a green smoke grenade. The approaching chopper begins its descent as chaos and confusion breaks out among the troops. Some are yelling to let the kid go, while another says, Look! His hand got shredded by a bullet and needs attention. It’s bleeding like crazy!

Rather than a quick, on-site patch job to his hand, the chopper quickly lifts off carrying the sniper victim and the boy among a litany of loud screams and accusations.

At the same time, a couple of miles away, another mission had already begun.

Running, running, running through an overgrown, palm-laden path. The blades scrape and claw his face and arms as the early morning dew douses his head and shirt. Pausing, he bends over to place both hands on his knees to catch three quick breaths before starting again. Running even faster until he reaches the edge of a small clearing, he freezes, then squats into a low crouch. His heart races as his dark eyes scan the opening in his path to confirm no one is in sight. After looking both ways, he leaps onto his hands and knees as he slides beneath the backside of a large bamboo hut, crowned with a thatch roof. The first mission is complete—arrival undetected.

Crawling forward beneath the hut on his elbows and knees, he starts the vile trek across moist, acrid dirt through darkness, as annoying strings of endless cobwebs cling to his face and arms. He spits away the sticky snares meant for smaller prey.

In the distance, he spots his target—a small opening where light filters in from the other side of the hut. With cat-like silence, he inches toward the coveted light. His breathing slows as he attempts to hide in the shadow on the fringe of the light. Now it is time to watch and wait in silence—far enough from the early morning light to avoid exposure.

Impatient, he lowers his head to peer into the blinding light flowing between a set of rustic planks that serve as steps to the hut entry. He remains frozen, squinting to adjust his eyes to the piercing light so he can study the outside surroundings. Not far away, he spots a large black bell mounted on a broad, white-washed post. Attached is a tattered rope placed high enough on a nail to avoid the reach of mischievous children. At least a dozen or more youngsters in vibrant white shirts race back and forth near the bell pole, seemingly using it as a home base for chase tag.

A new breeze swirls through the palm trees, as their crisp fronds struggle for attention from the sun. This sudden wind alters what began as a calm and foggy morning, its force building to such a formidable foe that even the old black bell acknowledges its arrival by swaying to a point that the clapper strikes a delicate ring.

The concealed stalker beneath the hut returns his focus to his own silence, and on remaining undetected. Soon the slender legs of a schoolteacher descend onto the fragile, groaning steps above him. Once grounded, she moves with great purpose toward the bell pole. Several children run up to her begging for permission to ring the bell but are soon turned away, dejected. When she reaches the bell, a name is called out as she scans the courtyard, shielding her eyes from the bright, morning sun. An overjoyed boy sprints to her side, jumping, reaching in anticipation of an epic, lunging tug he will soon bestow on the bell’s drawstring. She turns her head, and with a fierce glare lets the boy know he could soon lose this special opportunity. He is quick to freeze, standing erect and placing both hands behind his back and locking his body in place with a large grin. The remaining students migrate toward the steps and up into the hut as the teacher hands down the rope to the boy who begins leaping and sinking with each ring. Being chosen for this privilege must have come as a reward or, perhaps, a birthday. Once the teacher herds all the other students up and inside the bamboo-clad hut, the hidden spectator in the darkness beneath the hut begins his move closer to the steps.

Enjoying his moment of glory a bit too long, the bell ringer continues his leaps and squats in earnest until the teacher claps her hands and barks at him to stop. He releases the fatigued rope and falls to the ground in dramatic fashion. Standing back up, his shoulders and head slump in defeat as he meanders toward the steps leading to the schoolhouse. Just as his foot presses down on the creaky, middle step, two hands dart out from below and grab the boy’s ankle with a fierce grip. The stalker holds on tight as the frightened boy screams and tries to break free. Inside the hut, his classmates join in, forming a chorus of high-pitched panic. Thumping footsteps race across the wooden floor as the teacher sprints toward her student. She can see the fear in his face as he attempts to break free, so she grabs him around the waist to yank him from the grip of the unknown assailant. At the same moment, the boy is released and the duo tumbles to the floor of the porch and begin to scramble on their backs into the doorway. Soon a head peeks above the edge of the porch with a devious smile. The stalker’s smiling face, devoid of one front tooth, comes into view next to the steps and breaks into hysterics. He knows his grand prank has worked to perfection.

The teacher barks out, Quan! You get up here right now! Before he begins his reluctant ascent, she grabs his ear and tugs, which elevates the boy up the steps with accompanying cries of, Ow! Ow! By now, the screams have turned to giggles as the students begin to head back toward their seats. The teacher berates Quan after seeing his mud-caked knees, shorts and his filthy white shirt. She provides a small towel to wipe off some of the mud and growls, You! Stay outside on this porch, and don’t you dare enter until you are clean!

As the commotion dies down, the other boys notice something else unusual about this morning—there is another seat vacant in the class. It is the seat closest to the doorway, assigned to a student named Trung. As the boys conduct their whispered assessment to find out who knows where he might be, the teacher’s ire rises once again. She blasts them with another stern Hush, then returns to writing a lesson on the blackboard, until she hears more whispers a few seconds later—this time from a young girl. When the teacher spins around to look, she sees the girl has her hand stretched up high and stiff in a confident manner.

The skeptical teacher acquiesces by crossing her arms and asks, What is it, Linh?

Linh stands and announces, I see that Trung is not here, and my father said he heard shooting in the woods behind Trung’s house in the fog early this morning!

Sudden gasps lead to more whispers that transition to a noisy clamor. Before the teacher can reestablish order, a loud, rhythmic thumping can be heard outside. It is the familiar sound of a military helicopter thrashing the air as it flies over the school so low even the teacher is startled. As some children take cover under their desks, she blocks the doorway so no students can attempt to rush out for a peek. While the teacher disdains the relentless disruptions that have taken away control of her class, she recognizes that she alone cannot protect them all from the ravages of the war just beyond her classroom door.

Hoping to deflect further scorn, Quan says, Teacher, since Trung is not in class, and Linh said there were shots in the woods behind his house this morning, can I go check on him? The teacher instructs the children to sit back at their desks and motions Linh to come to the doorway. Away from the other students, she asks Linh what she had heard.

My father said he heard one shot, and then a lot more shots rang out in those woods way back behind the Vu house.

The teacher asks, When was this?

Just at dawn, Linh replies, but it was very foggy. I’m guessing seven or earlier.

The teacher asks Linh to sit at her desk. She peers out from the doorway of the schoolhouse porch. With no residents in sight to enlist, she pauses and turns to stare down Quan.

Since you have already disrupted my class enough today and need to change your clothes, I want you to first run home to change. Then, find an adult to go with you to Trung’s house to learn why he is not at school today, but return here in no more than one hour.

As Quan sprints out of his desk, she adds, Wait! You will also need to stay late, young man, to catch up on all the work you will miss today. Now go! Run!

The teacher knew Quan was not only a friend of Trung but was also one of the fastest boys in the school. After hearing Linh’s description, she was quite worried since she had heard some of the villagers say US soldiers were approaching the village in the area near the Dong Lai River, not far from Trung’s house.

She says a short prayer for Trung as she watches Quan gallop down the path. She takes a deep breath, bites her lip, and wonders if she is making a mistake sending the boy toward danger. She lifts her head up and turns back into the doorway with a loud clap and smile that gets the students’ attention.

Now it is time to refocus all your attention on math! On the corner of the board where a box is drawn that says LATE, she writes Trung.

Quan sprints to his house to change his shorts and shirt before heading to Trung’s house which, even at his very brisk pace, is fifteen minutes away. When he arrives at Trung’s house, he sees several villagers. He can also see Trung’s mother crying and inconsolable. Quan tells a village elder that he was sent by the teacher at Trung’s school.

The old man simply whispers, We don’t know where he is, but his father has been shot and killed. Leave now and go back to school. It is not safe here!

Quan glances back at Trung’s despondent mother, but the old man points again and yells Go! Quan feels dejected that he only has part of the story to tell his teacher.

Aboard the helicopter that bellowed over the school moments earlier, there is a more chaotic sense of panic. Roy, a tall and husky lieutenant called PB, screams at a decibel level that competes for attention with the loud rotors pounding the air a few feet above his head. The chopper pilot is annoyed but somehow permissive of his zealous treatment and expletive-laced demands to speed up his aircraft. They’ve been flying at full power, but it feels sluggish due to a strong, twenty knot headwind and extra passengers. To PB, the steel bird feels like a crawling beast. The pilot noses it down to gain more speed while PB continues his attempts to assist a medic who keeps shaking his head, muttering, This is not looking good. PB keeps putting pressure on his friend’s chest wound as he shouts expletives in desperate desire for the pilot to reach the base medical center.

C’mon, you bastards, find some clean air and get this rusty piece of crap there NOW! How much longer? We’re running out of time, dammit! As the victim’s eyes keep fluttering, he appears to be losing consciousness, so PB turns his head to fight back tears, screaming at the chopper rotors as if they can somehow hear his pleas for more speed. He finally looks back at the victim and yells, C’mon, buddy, I need you to hang in there! Hell, we all need you, so keep fighting!

This time, he turns his chin far to the right, grabbing a piece of his uniform in his teeth. He closes his eyes and declares with a muffled voice, God, you can’t let this happen! You’d better not, dammit!

He opens his eyes and glances into the corner of the chopper. The frightened, young Vietnamese boy sits cowering in fear. The boy peeks only for a moment through his crisscrossed arms while trying to hold down a blood-soaked bandage on his hand. His legs and arms tremble.

PB turns his face back toward the pilot and yells again, How much more time, dammit?

CHAPTER 2

ARRIVAL DAY, MARCH 1970

North of Saigon, the Bien Hoa air base is a buzzing, complex maze of incoming and outgoing aircraft shuttling personnel across a sweltering tarmac. A private meets a group of arriving soldiers then directs them on their way through the deafening noise. Several soldiers have arrived with precious cargo in hand—trained scout dogs, now a bit groggy after their long journey from the States. They all get shuttled through a processing station then sent off to be loaded into a dusty transport vehicle.

Three of the young men head north to a base camp an hour from Bien Hoa. Upon arrival, one is told to head straight for the medical center while the others are led to their barracks to unpack. Dog handlers were advised to expect a routine arrival checkup at the medical center for their canine friends. With his large rucksack and German shepherd in tow, the fresh-faced handler lumbers toward the medical center. The other two handlers will get their dogs’ medical exams after dropping off their gear in their assigned hooch. The purpose of these checkups is to measure the condition of their dogs upon arrival in-country, versus their condition after spending days sniffing out enemy in the field. The dogs will lose several pounds each day under the strain, and keeping them hydrated is vital. All the dogs need to be checked out before they can be kenneled with the others. Most are quarantined for several days to avoid contamination.

Newbies, those unindoctrinated rookies from the States, are glancing around at their new surroundings, gawking like pathetic tourists. Each has a crisp, new green uniform in stark contrast to the washed-out fatigues worn by those with equally exhausted faces from being in-country for many months.

The soldier heading for the medical facility carefully sidesteps the myriads of puddles and flooded tire tracks as he tries to find his way. Keeping clean was a recent habit formed during training when routine inspections required spit-polished boots, cleanliness, and discipline. That same level of discipline is no longer enforced.

The dog is just off his left side and unphased by the messy terrain. Once struggling to awaken from his long flight, the K-9 now looks around, measuring countless new smells at a frantic pace, yet paying no attention to where his paws touch down. For the moment, handler and dog are overwhelmed by the clinging, moisture-laden air. Any effort to stay clean seems futile. The soldier notices others are doing nothing to avoid the mud. Only the new guys look clean, green and short-haired, he thinks. He finally steps into a puddle with no remorse and the dog glances up at him as if to say, "What took you so long?"

Soon, the buzz-cut newbie is pointed in the direction of the medical center. Each building is encased in a three-foot wall of sandbags for protection against mortar rounds the Viet Cong lob as gifts during the night. American mountaintop sentries respond with a barrage of tracer rounds toward their launch sites, some of which are unmanned; the crafty devils set up rockets on timers, allowing them to disappear, long gone before any retaliative fire can be effective. The VC’s annoying habits of remarkable stealth have made them an elusive, ominous foe due to their ability to vanish into underground tunnels and spider holes.

The soldier makes his way to the medical center and steps inside the waiting room. A veterinary tech will perform the short physical for his dog. It’s rather dark inside the deep green canvas tent emitting a mildew odor. The rough, slat flooring flexes and creaks; a trickle of light is drifting in through the small windows on the tin swinging doors leading into the well-lit surgical stations in the OR. Clearly, this is a medical station for soldiers that vets use as needed.

Placing his rucksack down next to one of the four folding chairs in the waiting room, he orders the dog to sit first and then takes the seat next to him. They wait patiently for quite a while, the soldier petting the panting dog from time to time. Hearing some short bursts of radio chatter from the other room, the handler decides to peek inside the swinging doors. As he leaves his chair, he gives the dog a raised fist signal and whispers, Zeke, sit! Stay! The dog freezes in place; his tongue retracts and eyes focus on his handler. The soldier sees one medic prepping some utensils on a cart while another is bent over the radio with an open hand supporting his forehead. The soldier knocks softly on the door. No answer, so he opens one door just enough to say, Excuse me. I was told to come here for an arrival checkup.

The medic arranging the surgical tools looks up. You one of the new handlers?

Yes. My name is Anderson. I was told to come here with my dog.

Well, take a seat, soldier. A hot bird is coming in any second with a shooting victim. I’ll need to see just how ugly this may be before we can get started on any checkups.

Anderson offers, Should I just leave and come back later? He was eager to drop off his gear at the hooch, rejoin his fellow handlers at the kennels, and avoid watching the incoming mess.

No, I suggest you stay. But hey, if you can catch anyone’s attention outside the tent, ask them to get Li over here as soon as this next bird lands.

He walks over to Zeke, picks up his lead and attaches it to his rucksack. He tells the dog to stay and heads outside the tent. Soon he spots a soldier nearby and says, Hey, the medic inside said he needs Li to come right away when this next chopper lands.

The guy acknowledges, Uh oh! That’s not a good thing.

Pondering that dismal response, Anderson presumes this guy Li must be a trauma surgeon or someone important. As he returns to the medical center doorway, he hears a chopper in the distance and glances toward the noise to see it descend onto the landing pad. He knows this must be the one headed his way with the victim. As soon as it touches down, a massive soldier bounds out with bloodied hands and tries to immediately grab one end of a stretcher while screaming either orders or expletives at the others onboard. Anderson does not want to see what is coming, so he turns away, heads back inside the medical tent, and plops into his chair. Zeke looks up at him, clearly sensing that his partner is worried about something. The dog nuzzles up and presses against his leg.

Rather than appear like a curious spectator or expose Zeke to more stress, he begins petting Zeke and reassuring him. Meanwhile, he anticipates the upcoming tempest from the chopper that will enter the once-tranquil tent. He has not yet been exposed to the sights and sounds of war, so he bows his head and continues to look intently at Zeke, providing an advance apology for the incoming hell. He strokes his neck, leans down toward him and whispers, Hey pal, I’m sorry you have to witness this on our first day.

Seconds later, the hulk and a medic pounce through the waiting room doorway shouting, Incoming! over and over. Looking down, Anderson tries to keep Zeke calm, thinking, Damn! Here it is my first day in Nam, and I’m getting bumped for a casualty! Zeke raises his head, nostrils flaring, to quickly survey the air. He becomes agitated, almost standing up on his hind legs. Anderson presses him down, repeating, Easy boy . . . I said sit and stay. They barge past and through the OR doors screaming, We need help now! We’ve got to save him! A short argument ensues in the OR as a military police officer and another soldier drag the hulk out, yelling, PB, you’ve got to stay out here—no exceptions!

Back in the tent with only Anderson and Zeke, PB goes into a rage of screams, trying to argue his case for being there with his friend in the OR, and outraged that he can’t be on hand to help. He kicks over a metal