CHAPTER FOURTEEN
1972HE STOOD IN OUDONG, in his filthy stinking Caucasian skin, in his rotting fatigues, in his disgust, attempting, why he didn’t know, to control his exasperation and the volume of his voice. “Talk to the refugees,” he said. “We still don’t know what really happened. Talk to them.”
“Oh yes, Captain! We know.” The FANK liaison officer smiled broadly. “It is very good that you aren’t killed.”
“Damn it!” Sullivan could no longer control it. “There’s a proper system for this. There’s a way to get results. You can’t continue to fall headlong into these things without knowing what you’re hitting.” With Sullivan were a small group of frightened civilians, as filthy and emaciated as he from their months of hiding, trudging through backwater swamps, not knowing the front had ev
