Timeless Moments

Chapter One

Vietnam

July 1972

The smell of fuel, jungle, and death surrounded the seven soldiers as they walked across the mist-covered tarmac and climbed aboard the Huey helicopter.

Their orders were exact, their mission top secret.

Low-hanging fog cloaked the landing zone as the helicopter lifted off, but a few moments later the craft broke into the clear.Vietnam, even in war, was scenic with its green jungle, thickly forested mountains, andslashes of silver rivers crisscrossing the terrain.

About four miles from X-ray, their assault landing zone, the pilot, Bryan Randall, gave the signal, and the helicopter dropped down to treetop level to fly nap-of-the-earth on the final approach. It wasn’t even daylight and already, 105mm artillery pounded the area below them. Startled birds took flight as the Huey roared along at 110 miles per hour.

Lieutenant Dalton "Mac" McNamara’s stomach tensed as he anticipated the drop. The choppers had to get in, get out, and get gone—otherwise they were an easy target. If everything didn’t go precisely as planned, the enemy would be waiting when the Hueys came in.

The small, tightly knit band of men was a reconnaissance group, part of the Fifth Special Forces Group out of Nha Trang, South Vietnam. At great risk, these men managed to bring in critical information that saved the lives of many American soldiers—yet often at the expense of their own. The area they were to enter was crawling with Viet Cong. The trick was to find them, close in, track their position, strengths, capabilities, and hopefully their intentions, then get out.

Randall gave the signal as they touched down, and in a split second, following Mac’s lead, the men jumped out of the Huey and ran for cover. No one moved and no one breathed as the whump whump whump of the chopper roared away from them, then drifted further away.

Straining, they listened as an eerie stillness settled in. In the distance, several explosions shattered the silence. Smoke and gunpowder hung in the moist, tropical air.

Mac glanced at each of his men then gave the signal to move out. Staying low, hidden by elephant grass, the seven men crept toward an island of trees a hundred yards away where they stopped and waited again. Then, when Mac felt it was safe, he nodded his head and they walked toward the mountains.

The early morning sun, hot and blazing, turned the moist jungle terrain into a steaming sauna. Sweat trickled down Mac’s forehead and cheek, trailing a path down his neck and between his shoulder blades. They hoped to reach the appointed spot before nightfall.

Sinking low in the brush, they inched their way to the edge of the clearing and looked out. The hair on the back of Mac’s neck stood up. Chambers, the recon platoon radio operator, nodded toward the clearing, but Mac shook his head. He couldn’t explain it, but something told him to wait.

Just then, a rustle in the bushes across from them caught their attention. A young Vietnamese boy no more than sixteen years old stepped into the clearing wielding an AK-47.

Mac held his breath and watched, unsure if the boy was Viet Cong or not, since not all of them wore uniforms. Just as he suspected, several other soldiers no older than the first followed, heading straight at them.

Chambers eyed Mac, who remained motionless. Willing the enemy to turn and head west, Mac felt his heart pound in his chest. He didn’t want to fire, but if the VCs got much closer, he’d have to.

Brady, the man to Mac’s left, shifted his weight. A twig cracked, the noise magnified by the tension in the air. The VCs halted, drawing their weapons as they scanned the bush.

Mac’s heart stopped.

Peering directly at their hiding spot as if they could see through the trees, the three young soldiers trained their gun barrels directly at Mac and his men, who remained frozen in their positions.

The men beside him flinched, their muscles taut and ready, their nerves sparking with the instinct to fire. Still they waited.

Just then, someone shouted from across the clearing where several other VC soldiers motioned for the three young men to join them. Mac expelled air from lungs that were ready to burst.

Two of the soldiers immediately retreated, but one narrowed his gaze and studied the bush. Suddenly, he exclaimed something in Vietnamese and raised his AK-47.

Mac’s split-second decision to fire was one he’d regret for the rest of his life.

At the signal, Chambers quickly fired and shot the soldier. Just as Mac had feared, a dozen more VC emerged from the trees and pelted them with bullets. Two of Mac’s men went down while the rest of them continued firing at the advancing troops.

A bullet whizzed passed Mac’s head, but he continued firing. He heard a hollow thud as another one of his men went down.

Jackson’s hit!" Chambers yelled. Mac glanced down to see Jackson’s helmet in front of him with a bullet hole in it. Mac kicked it out of the way, reeling from the gruesome sight.

Another man went down—Beckett, the youngest man on their team. The boy had already lost a brother in the war. No family deserved to lose two.

Even though they were getting pummeled, the men in Mac’s group who were still standing held off the NVA troops, and one by one, the enemy dropped.

The rat-tat-tat-tat of an enemy machine gun mowed down the foliage in front of them, taking Chambers, who screamed in pain as he writhed on the ground. Mac looked at Chambers, whose shoulder had been hit. Bullet fragments had also shredded the side of his face.

Raging anger filled Mac, and he fired, taking out two of the advancing troops, leaving only four or five standing. "Hang in there, Chambers, we’ve almost got ’em!" he yelled.

Mac heard a shot and glanced over to see Brody Thorpe fall backward without a whimper.

"I’m out of ammo," Sinclair hollered, throwing his M-60 on the ground and grabbing another one. He immediately began firing, taking out another NVA soldier.

Then, out of nowhere, Mac felt a hot stinging in his head. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he knew he’d been hit. Still, he continued shooting, wondering why he wasn’t feeling any pain.

"Lieutenant Mac," Sinclair yelled. "You okay? There’s blood—"

"I’m fine," Mac yelled. But he spoke too soon. Right as the words left his mouth, a stick grenade passed through the trees and exploded at his feet. Mac reached down to his right leg and touched grenade fragments, suddenly feeling like he’d just touched a red-hot poker, sizzling his hand. He collapsed back as agonizing pain worse than anything he’d felt in his entire life consumed him.

Mac heard Vietnamese voices coming toward him. The three NVAs charged through the trees and began kicking at the American soldiers on the ground. Lying still, Mac prayed the North Vietnamese soldiers would just take what they wanted and leave them for dead.

Mac watched as they searched Beckett, then kicked him hard in the ribs. Beckett’s body jackknifed with the blow, then stilled.

Certain the young boy was dead, Mac fought the urge to scream. Then he stopped. One of Beckett’s eyelashes fluttered, and the boy made eye contact with him.

A prayer of gratitude flashed through Mac’s mind, as well as a plea for the rest of his men.

But the NVA soldiers had other plans. After they’d taken what they wanted, they made sure all of the Americans were dead by shooting a few extra rounds into their bodies. Mac’s heart sank. All of his men were gone, and most likely he was next. If only he hadn’t given the signal to fire, maybe that young Viet Cong soldier would have moved on. Maybe he wouldn’t have discovered them hidden in the bushes.

His muscles tensed, waiting for the final bullet that would take his life. Mac’s only thoughts were of his buddies. They’d fought together, and now, they would die together.

Yet the bullet didn’t come. Mac waited, then saw the NVA soldiers leaving.

Confused, Mac wondered why they hadn’t put a bullet through him. Was his injury so bad that they took him for dead?

He watched them leave, and just when he thought it was safe, one of the NVA soldiers unexpectedly turned. Mac closed his eyes, but not before they saw one another. Mac tensed. He was certain that it was over. His moment had come.

But he wasn’t that lucky.

The soldier shouted an order to the other two men who were with him. They stopped, turned, and approached Mac with murder in their eyes. Fear claimed him.

Take me, God, he begged. Death is better than prison.

Just as the prayer escaped his lips, the men grabbed his arms and legs and jerked him off the ground, causing a horrific pain in his leg.

NO! Mac wanted to scream. He knew what happened in North Vietnamese prisoner of war camps, and he knew he’d rather die now than spend years rotting away in a camp, inhumanely tortured and stripped of all dignity.

Realizing he wasn’t wearing his helmet, he squirmed to find it and received the butt of a rifle in his ribs, several of them cracking with the blow.

Mac cried out in pain, wondering how much more he could bear. Leaving his buddies and helmet behind, God’s grace finally fell upon him as he passed out.

* * *

Mac woke up in excruciating pain. Where was he?

Disoriented, he took several shallow breaths to get a grip on the pain and a bearing on his surroundings. The last thing he remembered was being dragged by North Vietnamese soldiers away from his company, who all lay dead amidst the trees, but here he was, in the middle of a field somewhere with the sound of artillery flying all around him.

His mind processed the situation slowly. Maybe the NVA had been attacked or ambushed, and in their effort to combat the enemy, had left him for dead. Either way, he knew he was one lucky soldier. Maybe. He was in the middle of enemy territory. He was as good as dead. He didn’t know how serious his other injuries were, but the chance of using his leg was slim. But he wasn’t going to lie there to be used for target practice. If he was going to die, he was going to die trying to survive.

He reached to his side and discovered that he still had two or three frag grenades, a smoke grenade, and two or three hundred rounds of ammo, but his M-16 was gone. He felt around his waist and located his canteen and a small mirror.

As his mind cleared, he realized that the first thing he needed to do was get out of the open. His chances of survival were better in the trees.

Crawling army style, he dragged himself slowly, elbow by elbow, through the grass. Any movement could bring artillery and mortar his direction, so he held his breath and proceeded cautiously toward a clump of bushes where he waited, until the siege of battle moved away from his position, and then, using a dead branch for support, he slowly, painfully, got to his feet.

Wincing as he put weight on his injured leg and hobbled his way through the grass, noticing that each step actually seemed to become less painful.

He headed for the mountains and soon came to a stream. There he waded upstream for a hundred yards to conceal his route, stumbling on the slippery rocks, filling his canteen along the way.

He knew as night closed in he needed to find a place to hide.

A constant prayer ran through his mind, a plea for guidance, help, wisdom, strength, and protection. He was on his own. There was no one to help him. No one but God.

He’d been in battle enough to know deep down just how much courage he had. He’d experienced feelings of sheer terror, and of bravery beyond belief. In any given situation, he knew that he would sacrifice his life for any of his men. He’d prepared himself to die, and he was at peace with death.

But that was not how it had happened. Each and every one of his men had been slaughtered right before his eyes. He’d heard their cries, seen them gasp for their last breath, all because of one decision he’d made.

And here he stood, living and breathing. It seemed cruel and unfair.

Not that he wanted to die. But he didn’t know how would he ever live with the memory of those last moments with his friends . . . his buddies . . . his brothers.

An ache filled his heart, rending it in two, until the sound of artillery started closing in on the mountain. He exited the stream and scrambled between two large trees and crouched low, scanning the surrounding area for a place to hide.

Locating an area near another tree where thick grass grew, Mac hobbled over and settled in for the night. But sleep was long in coming. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the image of his men . . . bleeding . . . dying.

* * *

Daybreak greeted Mac with a shower of artillery that sprayed all around the slope where he hid. When it quieted down, he began moving in the direction of a U.S. landing zone. It took most of the morning to cross a wide, shallow creek and traverse the rocky terrain until finally, he approached the perimeter of the landing zone where he knew he would be recognized as an American soldier.

When he broke into the clearing, the landing zone was empty. In shock, Mac realized that the Americans had pulled out and abandoned the site.

An empty despair replaced his earlier hope and with shoulders slumped and a weariness born of lack of food and sleep.

Closing his eyes, he balanced on his left foot to take weight off his injured leg. It had begun to stink, and he knew the wound was infected. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on it—there was nothing he could do until he found help—but he feared the damage was severe.

A rustle in the brush behind him sent a bolt of fear through Mac’s body. He froze, straining to hear any further sound, praying it was nothing. But the furious beating of his heart and the dread that filled him left no room for hope.

Slowly he turned his shoulder, then his head . . . and looked straight into the barrel of a Vietnamese patrol soldier’s gun. Behind that soldier were five others with their sights set on Mac.

He’d almost made it. But the eyes staring back at him had no mercy, no compassion. Just hatred. And he knew that he was just about to discover what purgatory really was.