Page 142 of Cry Havoc

The trackers would already think he was making a dash for the downed helo. Tom needed to confirm that bias. The rains would help. If he could survive long enough for the afternoon monsoon to cleanse the earth, he could make them think the dogs had lost the scent. To do that, he needed to find a tributary.

He heard shouting in Vietnamese to his right. They must have pushed down the Trail quickly, hoping to flank him. Then came the bullets, ripping through the jungle behind him.

They must be hearing you. They can’t see you.

He slowed his pace.

Don’t give away your exact position by firing.

Not yet.

Tom was traveling slightly downhill. The Ho Chi Minh Trail was to his right. He could hear the NVA moving down toward him. Tom stopped and looked for targets.

Wonder if these things work?he thought, removing the two stick grenades from his bag.

He heard movement. It was closer now. The NVA were coming quickly.

Here it goes.

Tom yanked the wax string pull cord to arm the grenade and then hurled it through the jungle toward the approaching soldiers.

Is it going to blow up?

Tom had his answer a second later, hearing the detonation and feeling the concussive effect against his back as he ran another 20 yards deeper into the jungle.

He stopped, armed the last grenade, and threw it toward the enemy’s left flank.

Another explosion echoed through the trees.

He kept running.

Glad I cut back on the cigarettes.

Tom’s plan required that he put some distance between him and his pursuers. He sprinted through the bare patches of jungle that the Montagnards avoided—fearing them haunted by spirits—only to disappear back under the triple canopy held back by the wait-a-minute vines and attacked by thorns that tore his clothing and exposed skin. He felt the high elephant grass slice into his hands as he pushed past the vines that thwarted his advance.

He heard the rumbling of thunder followed by rain.

Keep running.

His feet trampled ferns that could have hidden venomous serpents.

Snakes. One bite from the wrong reptile and all this ends in just a few steps.

Run, Tom!

His legs burned from the exertion, and his ribs reminded him they were broken with every breath and step. The pain also told him he was still alive. As long as there was pain, he was still in the fight.

How long can you go?

As far and as long as it takes.

There it was, up ahead. A stream. No time to look back at his map.

He charged through the water, up the opposite bank, and continued about 60 yards farther. He stopped, dropped a shredded glove, pulled off his hat, and hurled it ahead. He then walked backward, returning to the stream. It wouldn’t fool an experienced tracker, but the smell would fool the dogs, and the rain would wash away the sign.

That rain was coming down harder now.

Standing midstream with the water rushing halfway up his calves, he looked at his path leading into the creek and then up the other side. He wondered how much time it would buy him? He needed more rain.