Transmission # 2-2-5-6 - Addendum
11.480025, 106.046548
The air is thick with the acrid smell of powder and smoke, charred balsa and a toxic tinge of burning rubber. The air is polluted, thick, threatening to choke a man as if he were hung by a noose. Corporal Michel Barbier - a "man" of no more than twenty-summers - has already sweat through his uniform, and ditched his webbing with the extra mags long before the firefight began. He pulls his final clip from torn pockets in the lizard fatigues, and slams it hard into the receiver of the MAT-49; its steel feels heavy and familiar in his hands, all while chaos rang around him. Barking out in a loud voice, he orders his men to stay alert, be mindful of the artillery strikes which had been pounding the area moments before; sometimes antsy captains would fire an extra shell or two to keep the enemy honest.
A lot of friendly fire casualties happened because of that.
Not that upper staff truly cared.
Men rush into positioning, a diverse mix of soldiers from all over France's colonial possessions - Senegalese, Algerians, and a local ARVN detachment. Each were a testament to the colonial tapestry of the French military presence here. As they advanced, Barbier covers them by firing into the open entryway of a thatched hut, bullets of his submachine gun tearing through the flimsy walls with a deafening crack. Inside, he could hear shouts and screams for help, but he pushes aside his hesitation. Don't think - just advance, his body tells him.
Whether insurgents were holed up within didn't matter he'd grown heart of looking over his shoulder and listening to these wild stories of a lurking monster in the jungles - a tale that had begun to feel all too real.
"Avance!," he shouted, his voice cutting through as he ordered his men to push into the Dinh, the large stone communal house that served as the heart of the village. The urgency in his voice propelled them forward, each soldier moving with a mix of fear and determination. Determination to finally to be done with this, finish the day, and get out of here alive while they still can. Barbier ducked and weavedm, using the chaos to his advantage as he hoped from cover to cover, finally finding refuge against a sturdy brick pillar that overlooked the Dinh's dirt courtyard.
By now the boom of artilleryy had recede beyond the hovels, explosions now vibrating the ground from far iff int eh enemy's rear. Babrier couldn't help but pray that it would send as many of those bastards straight to hell. If hell would even take them; he imagined the Viet Cong simply digging tunnels through the very underworld, to claw their way back to the surface - relentless, like the nightmares that haunted him at night.
He reaches for a grenade, feeling the cool metal as he pulls the pin, and shouts for everyone to clear out. Barbier tosses it into the courtyard, and there sounding explosion erupts with a satisfying thud, sending debris flying and monetarily silencing enemy fire. Miraculously, Barbier's squad had taken ew casualties, in a. stroke of luck he wasn't willing to question. With the courtyard cleared, Babrier motioned for his men to follow him inside.
The interior was dimly lit the walls adorned with faded murals depicting ancient tales of valor and protection. Much good they did now. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay, a remind of what supposedly transpired within these walls. Moving cautiously through the corridors, the sound of their boots are muffled by the thick layer of dust which had settled over everything. Barberi's heart, however, raced as they reached the back room, the door ajar. Pushing it open, they are met with a grim sight: General Nguyen Khanh, bound and bloodied, is slumped against the wall. His clothes were torn and stained, but he looks up at them with a mixture of relief and confusion.
"Général," Barbier exclaimed, rushing forward to untie him.
Khanh had been the reason this wild goose chase through the highlands was undertaken in the first place. For him, barber didn't give two shits whether this man was alive or dead, yet the mission preferred him alive. He was the leading commander of the ARVN in the Mekong, with "President" calling for recapture a priority of the highest interest. Learning of his whereabouts felt dubious, sloppy even, and Barbier had his doubts; but he was a good soldier, and followed his orders.
Amazingly, this time apparently the info turned out correct.
Khanh blinks thought he blood and grime, his expression weary but resolute. "You... came," he rasped, gratitude mingling with the pain in his voice.
Barbier nodded, telling his men to untie the general and to clear out. As they hook their arms under the general's armpits, they move him from his. Time was of the essence, and they needed to move quickly. If not for talks about this "monster" being true, but the counter-attack could hit them hard, and wanted no business being out here past sundown. Neither did Khanh. Seeing the man's state was proof enough the enemy was growing bolder in tenacity and barbarism. Barbier could only imagine what they might do to one of his own, if they were willing to carve up one of their countryman like this.
It sank his heart to a deeper abyss, devoid of prayer. You don't pray here, Barbier thinks, prayers are wasted. Warriors don't have time wasting breath on God, for he's left this place a long time ago. The Corporal's shoulders slump, not caring if help was coming or not any longer. He just wanted to go home, as he guids his men out of the village, back towards the convoy awaiting their exfil. Alls he wanted was to get out of here, and he questions the sanity of any who'd willingly switch with his position.
Indochina is gone, he thinks sliding into the seat of his armored car, she is beyond his countryman now. This land, these people - they hate him. And he hates them, too. Michel removes the helmet from his sunburnt brow, pouring whatever was left into his upturned canteen. Placing the M1 back on his head, it falls about but brings no relief; even the water here feels like molasses on his skin, and does little to wipe away the dirt, sweat, and small droplets of blood.
"Putain de chaleur... Putain d'herbe... Putain de pays."
Whatever promises this "joint force" hoped to fulfill, Barbier sure hoped they had the stomach to live up them. Lest, they'd bleed just as terribly as he, and all the rest buried in their sad little cemeteries filled with his countrymen.