The Secret War: A Melungeon Brothers Thriller

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

FOREWORD

Prologue

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

FIFTY-FIVE

FIFTY-SIX

FIFTY-SEVEN

FIFTY-EIGHT

FIFTY-NINE

SIXTY

SIXTY-ONE

SIXTY-TWO

SIXTY-THREE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ALSO BY J. H. DIXON

Military Planning and Operations: The Joint Perspective

National Security Policy Formulation: Institutions, Processes, and Issues

The Secret War

A Melungeon Brothers THRILLER

J. H. DIXON

To the brave souls who lost their lives in the Secret War.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Family and friends who helped me finish this book: Carol, my wife, soul mate, source of inspiration, and support, read and critiqued numerous drafts. Alan and Caroline Ellison, Major General Hans VanWinkle (USA, Ret.), Lieutenant Colonel David Super (USA, Ret.), Rosemary McDermott, Cathy Beverage, and Laura Harrington read early drafts and made valuable suggestions. Dorrie O’Brien and Neva Bryan provided excellent coaching and editing support.

Dr. Michael E. Williams; Mrs. Kimberly F. Leake, RN; and an outstanding University of Virginia Cancer Center team treated my acute myeloid leukemia (AML), enabling me to finish this book and hopefully several more.

Members of Warrant Officer Rotary Wing Aviator Class 64-2W: Thanks for allowing me to be your class president.

Thanks also to the following:

Air America and Army helicopter pilots who flew combat missions in Laos and Vietnam

Special Forces who served with Hmong in Laos

Hmong who supported America in the Secret War

Melungeon brothers and sisters in southwest Virginia and east Tennessee

FOREWORD

It is a sad fact that even democratic nations espousing the highest of moral values sometimes become involved in dirty little wars, conflicts limited in geographic scope and political objectives and generally—no, preferably—conducted without the knowledge of an otherwise well-informed public.

As lofty crusades sometimes emerge from a constellation of limited and highly pragmatic measures, so too can a culture of cynical deception be generated by a few—seemingly innocent—clandestine operations. The need to protect information about those operations severely limits the number of individuals and entities cognizant of them, and that often pushes decision-making authority to a very low level indeed. Secret cultures tend to be both self-perpetuating and self-conscious, leading to their members’ becoming convinced that, as they and they alone understand the problem, they and they alone are entitled to address it. Thus, an individual neither politically accountable nor informed of the big picture may become endowed with powers far in excess of those appertaining to his or her rank, education, or experience … and have few qualms about exercising those powers.

American operations in Laos prior to the ramping up of US involvement in Vietnam were fodder for much rumor and speculation during my time in the service, and one occasionally met a fellow soldier who could hint at their essence without divulging any details. It must be heady stuff for a junior officer or an NCO to be running a private little war somewhere, inflicting damage on the nation’s enemies without interference from politics or hierarchy, challenging the foe on his own turf and terms. The opportunity to innovate and the possibility of making a significant contribution to our nation’s security carry much more appeal for the bright and ambitious soldier than the usual alternative: participating in set-piece mock battles on the training ground under close critical scrutiny. Thus, special operations forces attract people of considerable martial talent. Until fairly recently, that appeal made the conventional military command structure both envious (they siphon off too much talent for any good they’re doing) and unfavorably disposed toward soldiers too closely associated with special operations (doesn’t know his real trade and can’t cut it in the ‘real Army’). As recently as 1980, an officer who ultimately wore four stars as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff told this writer that he doubted he’d make colonel because he’d had more than one tour in Special Forces!

Given the foregoing, it is not hard to believe that a situation like that so vividly described by Jim (J. H.) Dixon in this novel was plausible, even likely, in the early 1960s (especially in light of what we have come to know of the activities of the CIA—show-runners in Laos—during that period). I have known Dr. Dixon as a cherished friend and valued colleague for some thirty years, and if anyone is better qualified to give us a grunt’s-eye view of US operations in Laos in the early ‘60s, that person remains unknown to me. Jim is the only soldier I’ve ever known who has served his nation as an enlisted man, NCO, warrant officer, and commissioned officer, in the process progressing from high school graduate to doctor of philosophy and compiling a most enviable record as a combat infantryman, pilot, and military scholar. I have no reason to doubt that the essentials of his story reflect, perhaps in combination, real people and real events.

Rather than a dry academic treatise, however, Jim has chosen to tell the story from the perspective of a key but low-level player. In doing so, he limns the vagaries of life—in a special unit, under special circumstances, in a special place, at a special time—with a vigor and sense of immediacy that erases the intervening fifty years and vividly imparts the sense of being young and in danger and determined to prevail. And he shows us the consequences of too much power, too liberally applied.

Step Tyner

Lieutenant Colonel, USA (Ret.)

Author, Fire Birds, starring Nicholas Cage, Tommy Lee Jones, Sean Young, and Bryan Kestner

Prologue

June 5, 1944

Near Omaha Beach

As he slams to the ground, a shock of pain shoots through William Booth’s body. The nylon chute descends like an eerie bat, blocking out the moonlight. The bark of a machine gun warns Booth that he has to move. He punches the quick-release on his parachute harness and discards the nylon material.

Another rattle of machine gun fire erupts from the tree line. The shouts of pain from PFC Clark echo in Booth’s ears. More wounded cry out from behind, and Booth whirls around to see First Sergeant Jacobs rolling in the mud, wrapped in a bloody chute. Christ, he thinks, I have to take out the machine guns fast or the entire platoon will end up like Jacobs and Clark.

Without a second thought, he raises his M1 rifle and charges the muzzle flashes erupting from the tree line. Bullets tear at the ground. They blast clouds of dirt skyward, digging a snaking trail of plumes toward Booth. He zigs left and zags right, giving no thought to the horror that awaits him should the gunner find the right pattern.

He stumbles over the loose turf, tumbles once, but manages to roll back into his charge. Forty yards and then thirty flash by. The machine gun keeps spitting death. Twenty yards … ten yards … Booth spies a pile of sandbags nestled just inside the tree line. In the middle of the bags sits the MG42 heavy machine gun and her crew.

The gun again spits its shower of 7.92 mm bullets. Booth dives to the ground, letting the deadly hail of fire pass just overhead. He crawls through the dirt. Six yards … five … he lets go of the M1 and pulls a pineapple grenade from his belt. He yanks the pin, counts to three, and then stands up. He knows that this action could lead to his death, but the nest has to go.

He tosses the grenade. The machine gun replies in an angry voice. A bullet grazes his left arm, drawing a burning line along his tricep. He falls to the ground, less in pain than in an effort to avoid the rest of the fusillade that heads his way. The machine gun growls for another few seconds, and then an explosion sends a spray of deadly shrapnel ripping through its crew.

Booth gives the silence only a second to set in and then leaps to his feet. He scrambles the remaining few yards and then climbs over the bags. Most of the crew lies in bloody heaps at the bottom. Strips of flesh have been torn from their bodies. A single Kraut lies moaning on the ground. Freckles dot his soot-covered face, and Booth figures that he couldn’t be more than nineteen. The Kraut turns a pleading eye toward Booth. He raises one bloody hand, and Booth sees that it is missing two of the middle fingers. "Nicht schiessen," the Kraut says. Don’t shoot. Booth has learned a few phrases in German in case he needs them.

Booth spits and covers the Kraut with his carbine. "Machen Sie keine Geschichten," he says, warning the Kraut not to try anything.

The Kraut nods but otherwise remains frozen.

Shoot him, a voice comes from behind Booth. It sounds like Jacobs. Booth glances over his shoulder. Jacobs stands there, fully shrouded in his chute. Shoot him, Jacobs repeats. The gossamer material ruffles as he speaks.

Booth can’t believe what he is hearing. The kid has surrendered. Has Jacobs gone mad? He turns to face Jacobs, temporarily forgetting about the wounded Kraut, but Jacobs isn’t there.

Shoot him! Jacobs’s voice growls in his ear. Damn it, Corporal. I gave you an order. Now do it!

Booth turns to the Kraut. The Kraut’s eyes grow wide and he waves his bloody hand. "Nein, Nein."

Booth pulls the trigger, and the .30 bullet explodes through the Kraut’s brain. The spray of blood painting the sandbags behind him forms into the wings of an angel.

Booth turns around, but Jacobs has disappeared. Sarge? he calls out. A dark figure approaches the nest.

Booth, is that you? PFC Richards asks.

Yeah, Booth says. It’s me. Did you see Jacobs?

Richards approaches. His face goes from a grin to a frown. Shame that. The Krauts really tore him up.

Tore him up? How could that be? Booth had just talked to him. The world seems to float by in an odd fashion. An orange glow threatens to invade the purple that holds onto the horizon.

Richards glances around the nest and then turns to Booth. He clasps Booth on the shoulder. Shit, man. I can’t believe you did that. I thought we were dead for sure.

Booth nods, not really caring what Richards has to say. Where’s the rest of the team? Booth asks.

They’re rounding up the Krauts. Bastards couldn’t surrender fast enough once the heavy flak was KO’d. Richards kicks at the fallen MG42. We’re supposed to grab any prisoners we can and regroup at the LZ.

Booth nods. He kneels down and grabs the Kraut he shot. He finds his hand slipping on the bloody wrist, so he bends down and grabs the arm around the shoulder with both of his hands.

Richards grabs his arms and pulls them away. No. Just prisoners. Let the Krauts bury their dead.

Booth reluctantly lets go of the boy. Like a zombie, he walks stiffly back to the LZ. Jacobs’s bloody chute still lies on the ground, covering a body. Booth stares at the form beneath. What the hell was going on? A circle of Krauts kneels off to the left. Some of the men keep their carbines trained on them.

Captain Wainwright calls to Booth. Corporal, I need you here.

Booth tears his eyes from the circle and wanders over to the captain. Yes, sir.

We still need to take the bridge, Wainwright says.

Booth nods. That is the objective.

Wainwright waits, obviously expecting Booth to say something. We have prisoners, he says.

Booth nods again, not really following what the captain wants.

Wainwright sighs. What should we do with them?

Booth stands there, trying to make sense of it all.

A voice rises from Jacobs’s bloody chute. Kill them.

Booth turns to look at the chute. It sits there, ruffling ever so slightly in the breeze. He casts a sideways glance at the captain. The captain’s attention remains fixed on the prisoners. He doesn’t seem to notice.

Booth takes a half step toward the chute. It bolts upright, sliding down Jacobs’s mauled body. Through bloody lips, Jacobs manages to croak, Kill them.

Booth jumps back, bumping into the captain.

The captain reaches out a hand and steadies him. Are you all right, Sergeant?

It’s Corporal, Booth mutters. He doesn’t really care. He responded by reflex.

Not anymore. I need a new sergeant, and you’ve shown that you have what it takes. Now, about those prisoners …

Booth glances over at the prisoners and then back at Jacobs. Kill them, Jacobs says. The words seem to bubble up on his bloody lips.

Booth unslings his M1 and walks over to the circle. The captain calls after him, but Booth can’t hear what he’s saying. The two guards at the circle take a step back when they see Booth approach. He smiles at them. They hesitate and then smile back.

Booth whirls toward the prisoners, raises his gun, and pulls the trigger. Somewhere he can hear laughter as the Krauts fall in droves. It is either his laughter or Jacobs’s, he can’t tell which. Hell, it might be both.

Moments later, something heavy slams into his body and drives it into the ground. Another weight joins the first, and then a third piles on. There are shouts of chaos all around him, but they seem to lie far off.

"The Battle Hymn of the Republic," hummed out of tune, fills his ears, muffling all other sounds.

ONE

Fayetteville, North Carolina

Friday, June 15, 1962

Jake Campbell gazes out his smoke-stained window while the Greyhound bus speeds down state highway 24-N toward Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Acres of longleaf pine trees merge with the horizon. Occasionally, his eyes are drawn to the heat mirage hovering over open fields. He exhales, wilting into his seat, dog-tired from Ranger School. Brutish instructors and relentless aggressors took a heavy physical toll on him during this phase. Two weeks on patrol in cypress dome swamps added to his misery. No sleep, little food, swarming mosquitoes, aggressive cottonmouth moccasins, and hissing alligators. He had wanted to quit. For some reason, he could not. He slogged along—hour after hour, day after day, putting one leaden foot in front of the other. Then, at last, as the sun was carving a sliver of orange on the eastern horizon, he and his weary patrol stumbled into the Army Ranger Camp at Hurlburt Field. The ordeal was over, and he made it.

He glances at the black and gold Ranger tab on the left shoulder of his tropical worsted shirt, sewn above three gold chevrons, and the familiar chant comes back: Only the brave and the bold wear the black and the gold. He grins, closes his heavy eyelids, and succumbs to the rhythms of the road, the metrical swaying of the bus, and the droning of rubber tires on black asphalt. His mind soon floats in a pool of fatigue.

Jake has come a long way from the sharecropper’s house on Amos Branch, near Nickelsville, Virginia. Yes, indeed. Only three years before, he and a friend thumbed a ride to Kingsport, Tennessee, and joined the Army under the buddy system. The recruiter promised they would stay together. They lunged at the bait like the hungry smallmouth bass in Copper Creek. When they finished basic training, of course, the Army sent them in different directions: Jake to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, his buddy to Germany. Damn recruiter lied like a dog, he had thought at the time.

The bus drones past the Fayetteville city limits; passes a row of bars, tattoo parlors, and strip joints; and stops at a traffic light. He is jostled into awareness. He looks through narrow slits as the light turns green and the bus turns left onto NC-24W.

Minutes later, the bus driver, a beefy, pale man with thin white hair and red eyes, shouts, Fort Bragg next stop. He rolls to a stop at the intersection of NC-24W and Gruber Road, shifts to neutral, sets the parking brake, and jerks the door lever. The door springs open. He pulls himself up from his seat, using the steering wheel, looks sideways, nods at Jake, and then skips down the steps and off the bus.

Jake rubs his eyes, buttons his shirt collar, and cinches his black tie. He fits an Army-green overseas cap over a blond crew cut and puts on aviator sunglasses. He slides out of his seat, walks to the open door, and bounds down the steps. The driver is waiting, a duffel bag in one hand, the other hand extended, palm up. Jake fishes a wrinkled dollar bill out of his wallet and presses it into the open hand. Thank you, sir.

No, thank you. The man’s eyes focus on silver jump wings pinned over Jake’s left breast pocket. Airborne Ranger, huh?

That’s right, sir, he replies, a smile curling his lips, showing shallow dimples.

I was a paratrooper, the man says, his pale face flushing. He looks at the ground, pawing the dirt with a scuffed brown penny loafer. A long time ago, in WWII.

The man’s eyes have a sad twinkle made even sadder by deep-cut lines branching out from the corners, lines that tell the story of a hardscrabble life. Jake knows the hardscrabble story too well. When he was a small boy, he saw it etched in the faces of Scott County farmers who brought wheat and corn to Bush Mill for grinding services.

The man asks, How many jumps you got?

Just ten, Jake replies, smiling awkwardly. Five in jump school, five in Korea.

Any night jumps?

Jake bobs his head. Yeah, a couple.

A grin crawls across the driver’s thin, colorless lips. That’s good, real good, Sergeant Campbell. He nods approval, turns quickly, and climbs on board the bus. In an instant, the engine growls and the bus lurches forward, belching black smoke.

Jake shoulders his duffel bag, thinking, I’ll be training soon. He looks down Gruber Road in the direction of Special Forces Training Group (SFTG). Heat waves shimmer over the blacktop like airwaves from invisible hummingbird wings. Longleaf pines along the road are twisted and bent over, seeming to pray for rain. The earth is parched and cracked with scattered patches of wiregrass and sage. He sighs and walks along the shoulder, kicking up puffs of dust, head down, mind empty. No traffic. No chance to hitch a ride.

He plods along until he hears boots scuffing gravel up ahead. He looks up. A lanky, olive-skinned corporal is racing toward him, duffel bag bouncing on his shoulder. The soldier is wearing sweaty khakis, dusty black jump boots, and an overseas cap with a Glider patch. A Special Forces patch is sewn onto the left shoulder of his long-sleeve khaki shirt.

When the corporal is within earshot, Jake says, Hold on. Where’s the fire, soldier?

The corporal’s brow curls. He looks straight ahead. No fire, Sarge. I’m just getting away from Bravo Company as fast as I can. I’ve taken all the shit I’m going to take from Booth.

The corporal streaks past him.

He turns about. Hey, what about Booth? What’d he do? I’m reporting to Bravo Company today.

The corporal tosses words over his shoulder. You’ll find out soon enough, Sarge.

Disappointed, Jake turns and starts walking again. By the time he crests a small rise, he is dripping sweat. He stops and drops the duffel in the dust. On his left, longleaf pines and rows of World War II buildings are set at right angles to Gruber Road—offices and classrooms. On his right are mess halls, two-story barracks, orderly rooms, and supply and arms rooms. All are wooden-framed buildings, sided with yellow poplar shiplap and painted off-white with green window and door trim. This is it, he thinks. Smoke Bomb Hill. The Special Forces Training Group.

He shoulders his bag and trudges on. Soon he is standing near the flagpole of SFTG Headquarters, wiping his brow with a handkerchief and looking around. There are no military vehicles and no signs of life: No Special Forces cadre, no instructors, and no student soldiers. The flag over his head dangles from a long metal pole set in a concrete pillar. A wooden signpost across Gruber Road points to Bravo Company’s Orderly Room.

He crosses the road, walks past the signpost, and tramps down the graveled company street. The mess hall is on his left, a long one-story building with a crawl space covered by wooden lattice. Behind the mess hall are the grease-pit, coal bin, and mop and broom rack. Food scraps are piled high in three 55-gallon galvanized cans, cooking in the hot sun, a sumptuous feast for swarming green flies the size of june bugs.

He marches past the swarm and steps onto the sidewalk. His pace quickens. He walks past three two-story barracks and Bravo Company’s bulletin board, a plywood and glass structure set on a brick foundation. The company guidon—a dark blue flag overlaid with golden crossed rifles—juts out of a polished brass stanchion by the orderly room door. The front yard is barren. No grass, no shrubs, and no plants. Just lifeless black sand raked in inch-deep furrows. He spots a sign: STAY OFF THE GRASS.

He chuckles, stops at the door, drops his duffel bag, removes his glasses, shoves them into his front pocket, and knocks three times. No answer. He knocks again. No answer. He hammers the screen door with the heel of his hand, rattling the door against its stop. Chunks of whitewash fall at his feet.

Who in the hell is it? an angry voice growls.

His ears tune to the voice like high-powered receivers.

Sergeant Jake Campbell, sir.

The voice booms. Sound off like you got a pair of balls. And don’t sir me.

He draws an audible breath and then shouts, Sergeant Jake Campbell, Sergeant.

There’s a pregnant moment of silence. Then the voice says, That’s better. More silence, then the voice says, "From now on, when you’ve got something to say to me, you will start and end it with ‘First Sergeant.’ Izzat clear?"

He bellows, First Sergeant, that’s clear, First Sergeant!

Good. Now, post your ass in here.

Jake opens the screen door and slips inside, easing the door shut.

The room is dark and cramped. There are two gray gunmetal desks with worn swivel chairs. A well-beaten Underwood typewriter sits on one desk with the nameplate: PFC Bradley Goldstein. Chain-of-command photos adorn the center wall. A full-length mirror hangs below the pictures.

The company commander’s office door is on the left side of the room. CAPTAIN MARTIN W. TAGGERT, III, COMMANDER, the sign reads. First Sergeant William J. Booth’s office is on the right.

Jake checks his crumpled uniform in the mirror. Salt rings under his armpits. Tarnished brass. Melted spit-shine on his boots and a thick layer of briny dust. For an instant, he thinks about leaving, making himself presentable, and coming back. But it is too late. He announces his arrival. He sucks in his stomach, shoves his shirt into his pants, straightens his gig line, adjusts his tie, and faces Booth’s door.

A narrow white stripe is painted on the brown linoleum floor between the doorjambs. A black handprint is painted on the wall by the door, about shoulder-high. A black-lettered sign above the handprint reads TOE THE LINE AND KNOCK THREE TIMES.

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

The voice screams, You idiot! You did not follow my instructions.

Confused, he looks at the sign again and around the room. Shit. He’s standing on the white stripe. He jumps back and clicks his heels together.

The voice growls, Start over. Toe the goddamn line and slap that hand three times.

Jake plants his toes behind the line and pounds the handprint with his palm. The blow, amplified by the plywood wall, thunders through the room and shoots a numbing pain through his arm to his elbow.

The voice is not satisfied. That’s a wimpy damn knock if I ever heard one. Now, post your ass in here.

Jake shoves open the door and marches inside. He stands at attention in front of a gray desk. An in-box tray full of official mail and papers is on the right corner. An empty out-box tray is on the left. A round brown ashtray full of