Jack Higgins - Midnight Runner

As the helicopter approached, the VC looked up in alarm and some of them raised their rifles and fired. Jackson returned fire with his heavy machine gun.

‘Christ, no!’ Quinn told him. ‘You’ll get the civilians, too.’

The pilot called over his shoulder, ‘We’d better get out of here,’ and banked away as a round or two hit them. ‘That’s Bo Din. Lots of VC activity in this area.’

It was at that moment that Quinn saw the mission on the edge of the village, the tiny church, the small group of people in the courtyard, Vietcong moving up the street.

‘It’s a nun with a dozen kids,’ Jackson said.

Quinn grabbed the pilot by the shoulder. ‘We’ll have to put down and get them.’

‘We’d be lucky to get off again,’ the pilot shouted. ‘Look down the road.’

There were Vietcong everywhere, at least fifty, swarming between the houses, hurrying to the mission.

‘Courtyard’s too small. I’d have to land in the street. It won’t work.’

‘Okay, just drop me off, then get the hell out of here and bring in the heavy brigade.’

‘You’re nuts.’

Quinn looked down at the nun in her white tropical habit. ‘We can’t leave that woman or those kids. Just do it.’

He stuffed the pockets of his camouflage jacket with flares and grenades, slung pouches of magazines around his neck, and found his M16. Jackson fired a long burst down the street that scattered the Vietcong and knocked several down. The helicopter hovered just above the ground and Quinn jumped.

‘I guess I’m nuts, too,’ and Jackson followed him, clutching an M16, a belt of magazines around his neck, a medical bag over his shoulder. There was a storm of firing as the Vietcong started up the street again, and the two Americans ran to the entrance of the courtyard where the nun was coming forward with the children.

‘Back, Sister,’ Quinn called. ‘Get back.’ He pulled his grenades out and tossed one to Jackson. ‘Together.’

They pulled the pins, counted to three, stepped out and lobbed. The explosions were deafening. A number of Vietcong went down, the rest retreated for the moment. Quinn turned to the nun. She was in her early twenties, with a pale and pretty face. When she spoke, it became clear she was English.

‘Thank God you came. I’m Sister Sarah Palmer. Father da Silva is dead.’

‘Sorry, Sister, there’s only the two of us. The helicopter’s gone for help, but God knows how long it will take.’

Jackson fired a burst down the road and called, ‘What the hell do we do? We can’t hold this place. They’ll be all over us.’

The wall at the rear had crumbled over the years. Beyond, great banks of reeds at least ten feet tall faded into the downpour.

Quinn said to Jackson, ‘Take them into the swamp, do it now.’

‘And you?’

‘I’ll hold things here as long as I can.’

Jackson didn’t even argue. ‘Let’s move it, Sister,’ and she didn’t argue either.

Quinn watched them go, the children greatly upset, some crying. They scrambled across the crumbling wall, and he took a grenade from his pocket and pulled the pin. He heard the sound of an engine and when he peered round the wall, a battered jeep was coming up the street, two Vietcong standing up at a machine gun behind the driver. God knows where they’d got it from, but more Vietcong sheltered behind. They started to fire, and Quinn tossed the grenade at the last possible moment. It dropped neatly into the jeep and there was a hell of an explosion, bits of the vehicle and broken men tossed in the air, flames everywhere.

The rest of the Vietcong ran for their lives. A silence descended, with only the rush of the rain. Time to go. Daniel Quinn turned, ran to the crumbling wall, scrambled across, and made for the reeds. A moment later, he jumped into those reeds, pausing only to fit his bayonet to the M16, then he plunged forward.

Sister Sarah Palmer led the way, holding the hand of one child and carrying the smallest, the others following. She spoke softly to them in Vietnamese, telling them to be quiet. Jackson followed at the rear, M16 ready.

They came out into a dark pool and she stood there, thigh deep, her habit hitched up to her belt. The rain thundered down, and there was a kind of white mist. She looked over her shoulder at Jackson.

‘If I’ve got my bearings, there should be a road over to the right.’

‘And what good will that do, Sister? They’ll run us down, and to be honest, I’m more concerned about Quinn. There hasn’t been a shot fired since that explosion.’

‘Do you think he’s dead?’

‘I sure as hell hope not.’

Suddenly, a young Vietcong stepped out of the reeds behind him, a bayonet on the end of his AK, and stabbed Jackson in the back under the left shoulder blade, missing his heart by inches. He cried out and went down on his knees. On the other side of the pool, three more VC emerged, all very young, one of them a girl, clutching AKs.

Jackson tried to get up, using his M16 as a crutch. In silence, the Vietcong watched gravely, then there was a sudden savage cry and Quinn burst out of the reeds, firing from the hip, ravaging all three in a kind of slow motion. The fourth, the one behind, surged forward, too late, as Quinn turned and bayoneted him.

Quinn put an arm around Jackson. ‘How bad is it?’

‘Hurts like hell. But I’m still here. There are some battle packs in my bag, but I think we’d better get out of here first.’

‘Right.’ Quinn turned to Palmer. ‘Move out, Sister.’

She did as she was told, following with the children. They came to a shallower spot, a knoll sticking out of the water. There was room for all of them. Jackson sat there and Quinn ripped at the jagged rent left by the bayonet, exposing the wound.

‘Battle packs in the bag?’

Sister Sarah Palmer reached for it. ‘I’ll handle it, Sergeant.’

‘Are you sure, Sister?’

She smiled for the first time. ‘I’m a doctor. The Little Sisters of Pity is a nursing order.’

Behind in the reeds, they heard many voices, like foxes crying. ‘They’re coming, Sarge,’ Jackson said, clutching his rifle and leaning over as she went to work on him.

‘Yes, they are. I’ll have to put them off.’

‘How can you do that?’ Sister Sarah asked.

‘Kill a few at random.’ Quinn took a couple of flares from his pocket and gave them to Jackson. ‘If the cavalry make it and I’m not back, get the hell out of here.’

‘Oh, no, Sergeant,’ Sister Sarah said.

‘Oh, yes, Sister,’ and he turned and plunged into the reeds.

He could have used his bayonet, a silent killing, but that wouldn’t have caused the panic he needed. His first target was providential, two VC standing so that they could survey the marsh, their heads and shoulders above the reeds. He shot both in the head at a hundred yards.

Birds lifted in the heavy rain, voices called to each other in anger from various areas. He selected one and moved in, shooting another man he found wading along a ditch. He got out fast, easing across the reeds, crouched by another pool and waited. Special Forces had developed a useful trick for such situations. You learned a few Vietnamese phrases as fluently as possible. He tried one now and fired a shot.

‘Over here, comrades, I’ve got him.’

He waited patiently, then called again. A few moments later, three more men appeared, wading through the reeds cautiously.

‘Where are you, comrade?’ one of them called.

Quinn took out his last grenade and pulled the pin. ‘Here I am, you bastards,’ he cried in English and lobbed the grenade. There were cries as they tried to scramble away and the grenade exploded.

By now there were shouts everywhere, as the panic he had sought for set in. As he moved on, he saw a road, Vietcong scrambling onto it. He eased back into the reeds to get his bearings and became aware of engines throbbing close by, but by then the late afternoon light was fading and it combined with the tropical rain to reduce everything to minimum visibility. A flare shot into the air, disappearing into the murk, a Huey Cobra gunship descended three hundred yards away and he heard others whirling above, but the Huey was too far away, and he plunged forward desperately, already too late.