A Requiem for Crows: A Novel of Vietnam

by Dennis Foley

  Leggett’s generosity was widely known. Many of his peers, as well as cadets, sought him out for advice. Pascoe too knew he could come to Leggett and had done so more than once over the years. But never before had he come to Leggett in trouble. Their usual discussions centered on Pascoe’s choices and aspirations—career strategy and career development, void of any real problems.

  In all the times Pascoe had asked for Leggett’s advice, they had never gotten beyond a business level of conversation. They had never shared as much as a beer together. And, on every occasion, the topic had always been Pascoe or his career. Pascoe had never asked about Leggett’s family or even if he had a pick in the Army-Navy game.

  Pascoe didn’t recognize Leggett could set his personal feelings aside while he tried to offer his best advice to a subordinate even if they were not good friends. Pascoe mistook this as sincere involvement in his future and he was encouraged to return over the years. He spoke carefully, guarding against inflammatory words or a level of volume, which might give away his near panicked state over his sinking career.

  “I’m tempted to challenge the report because Colonel Harris hasn’t counseled me on anything I’ve done wrong. He should have at least given me a chance to fix whatever he took objection to before the report was due. Shouldn’t he?”

  Leggett, had been listening while watching the river of gray-clad cadets pass under his office window hurrying to and from morning classes. He turned back to the room, took his pipe from his mouth and pointed the shaft at Pascoe. “It might garner some sympathy with the Records Review Board if he had pounded your ass, El. But, he gave you a superior rating. Numerically, he gave you a 108 out of a possible 110. You might have gotten some traction out of a 30 but not a 108.”

  “It’s still the kiss of death. There’s no way I can have a chance at early promotion to lieutenant colonel with a less than outstanding report to go along with the others I’ve received. I’m screwed!”

  “Look at this from the Army’s perspective. They want officers with proven track records to put their money on. They don’t want to promote people with iffy reports or put them in positions of higher responsibility. They want to work good horses to death.”

  “So, where does that leave me?”

  “What you have to do is look like a thoroughbred on paper. In the long view.”

  “But what about the report Harris just wrote?”

  “Pattern, Eldon. Pattern. It’s just one report.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Get off trying to challenge Harris. It’s not going to accomplish anything for you except pissing people off. Harris is good and has been teaching here long enough to leave a positive lasting impression on every cadet and every other faculty member he has met.

  “Hell, there’s even a rumor the Superintendent is considering making him the Dean of Students. He’s solid here. Pete Harris was one of the first Rangers to climb the cliffs at Point du Hoc at Normandy on D-Day. He’s a legend around here among the cadets.

  “And if isn’t enough, he’s commanded a rifle company in the Wolfhounds in Korea and was wounded twice in battle. He’s a decorated, well-respected soldier who just happens to head the History Department here. You aren’t going to discredit him on qualifications or his method of observation. Anything you do to bring him down will only come back to bite you in the ass.”

  Pascoe dropped his head into his hand. “Okay. So what’s left?”

  “You have to make one less-than-perfect report look like a complete fluke. Like there was some personality mismatch. Like it doesn’t belong with the others. Isolate it. Surround it with more outstandings. More max reports. Let it get lost in the pile of good reports.”

  “How?”

  “First, get away from Harris before he can do it to you again. Six more months and he’s obligated to give you another report. You don’t want to give him a chance to repeat this. You could get caught with a second bad report. But, if you can get out of here in less than six months, you’ll be able to dodge a second report from him.

  “Then, you have to spend the next several years working your way into the toughest jobs you can find. Much tougher than the one you’ve got. Good soldiering kind of jobs in ass-busting combat units. And while you are in them you must get good reports in each of them.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following you.”

  “Like I said, think of the Army’s perspective on this. In a few years, when you come up for consideration for lieutenant colonel they’ll ship your file over to the promotion board at the Pentagon for review. Half a dozen colonels and a brigadier general or two will go over your personnel jacket for the jobs you’ve had and the job you’ve done in each.

  “Suppose you have a fat file made up of a string of good reports from increasingly tougher and tougher jobs and only one report in the middle of the pile out of step with the others. Wouldn’t you guess the single atypical report from a job teaching history, a job with no command responsibility, no risk, no serious professional challenge, might be discounted or dismissed in favor of the trend indicated by all your other reports?”

  Pascoe let it sink in for a moment and then looked up at Leggett who was emptying out the bowl of his pipe into the large metal trashcan next to his desk.

  Leggett continued. “You got to get going on this, Eldon. You’ve got to get out of here right away and find those hard jobs. You’ve got to make a solid career plan and work it. No screw ups, no compromises and no shortfalls. Nothing else will do this. You’ve got to pick the tightest spots in the toughest fights and win them all. You’re in charge of the pattern you set from this day forward and the pattern will show up on paper. And it’s paper that’ll get you promoted early or get you an invitation to leave the Army.

  “It’s in your lap, Pascoe.”

  “Christ, where the hell do I do all this?”

  “You’ve got to volunteer to go to Vietnam.”

  Chapter 4

  RAIN CAME AND WENT IN WAVES—normal for Georgia. That morning a short cloudburst contributed to the constant state of wetness experienced by trainees every year at that time. They were wet from rain, or sweat or the heavy night’s dew. Either way, they stayed wet and uncomfortable.

  Scotty tried to force his discomfort out of his mind as he sat in the middle of the bleachers, with the others, but this time he was locked onto Russell’s words.

  Sergeant Russell stood close to the lower row, centered on the bleachers. That day, serving as instructor, he wore a steel helmet rather than the more ornamental and less protective shiny black lacquered helmet liners worn by the cadre. He spoke forcefully, reaching for clarity and understanding, determined to get his message to every man in the platoon. He was able to make eye contact with each soldier over and over again as he paused for important points and searched for signs of recognition in those soldiers’ eyes. He knew from experience that failure to instruct his charges could be fatal.

  He held a small egg-shaped, olive drab object up above his head. “This, gentlemen, is the Army’s standard fragmentation grenade. It is the M-26 hand grenade.” Nomenclature was always delivered in a laundry list of characteristics and capabilities. Nothing omitted, precise and complete to the smallest details.

  He continued. “After the rifle and the bayonet it is the basic fighting tool of the Infantryman. It weighs twenty-one ounces, has a four second delay and is filled with flaked or granular TNT. The body of this grenade is made of thin sheet metal and when detonated it produces thousands of fragments which come from the serrated wire coiled inside the body.

  As he spoke, he held the grenade up in front of his face and pointed out its components. “Function is simple. The thrower pulls the pin and throws the grenade. Once the grenade leaves the hand of the thrower the safety spoon held down by the thrower’s fingers springs free—arming the grenade. Four seconds later the grenade explodes.

  “Fitch.”

  A solider in the top row of the bleachers stood quickly. “Yes,
Sergeant.”

  “How far away from me are you?”

  Fitch looked at the six rows of bleachers below him then the short span of gravel between the bleachers and Russell. “My guess is thirty, maybe thirty-five feet, Sergeant.”

  “Sit. I want all of you to look over your shoulder at the yellow stake in the ground behind the bleachers.”

  They all craned their necks and looked between the legs of the soldiers above and behind them at the worn wooden stake, three feet high, otherwise unmarked, that had been driven into the ground in the training area.

  “Gentlemen,” Russell paused again for emphasis. “This grenade will kill everyone within fifteen meters and wound as far away as eighty feet. That stake is exactly fifteen meters from where I am standing.

  “Accordingly, these distances require the thrower to be outside these distances to avoid becoming a casualty of his own grenade. So forget all the John Wayne shit you’ve seen in the movies about pullin’ the pin with your teeth, lobbing a grenade into a room and flattening yourself against the outside wall of a shack until it goes off. You try that and your ass is an instant fucking casualty.”

  He paused to allow the image to sink in.

  Scotty’s gaze wandered from the stake, to Russell, to the grenade range behind Russell and then to the others around him. They were all wide awake, all paying attention and all worried about the training day ahead of them.

  “This grenade produces casualties by high velocity projection of fragmentation and by blast. Now, if you’ll direct your attention to my assistant instructor in the grenade pit, he’ll demonstrate.”

  The young sergeant assisting Russell stood on the near side of a shoulder-high wall of the grenade pit beyond Russell. It was a three-sided concrete stall with the open end toward the bleachers and the target area beyond the wall on the opposite end.

  From Scotty’s vantage point he could see over the wall to the chewed up dirt impact area pockmarked by tens of thousands of grenade explosions over the years. Nothing grew there. Nothing dared.

  The assistant instructor raised his elbows to shoulder level holding a grenade tightly to his chest. He slowly slipped the index finger of his downrange hand into the grenade pin ring and held the body of the grenade firmly with the other.

  “Pull pin!” Russell yelled.

  The assistant instructor pulled the pin on the grenade and assumed a quarterback’s passing stance, the grenade near his ear, his free hand pointing over the wall and down range.

  Scotty’s heart started to pound, anxious to have the armed, now lethal grenade, on its way over the wall and away from them. He glanced down at the ground and estimated the distance between his platoon in the bleachers and the grenade thrower to be less than seventy-five feet—still within the effective casualty-producing range of the grenade.

  “Throw grenade!” Russell yelled.

  The thrower lofted the grenade over the wall and watched it wobble through the air. Once out of his hand the safety spoon he had been holding down with his palm flew off and started the fuse’s short delay. The grenade landed nearly a hundred feet away from the thrower. Once it landed the sergeant dropped to the ground on the nearside of the wall and waited.

  Scotty listened to the unspoken count in his head, two-three-four and the grenade exploded, throwing red Georgia clay in a plume in all directions. The crack of the grenade was sharp and precise, unlike movie explosions. Dirt fell back to the ground in clumps and Scotty felt himself begin to breathe again.

  If the regular routine of demonstrations followed by practical exercise held true, Scotty knew it would just be a matter of time before the trainees would each be ushered into the grenade pit, one at a time, to throw a grenade.

  As the assistant instructor got to his feet and Russell returned to the front of the bleachers Scotty was surprised to hear his name slip from Russell’s lips. “Hayes. Get your ass down here.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Scotty said, leaping to his feet. He quickly threaded through the others and found his way to the ground in front of the bleachers. This time careful not to get tripped up and determined not to get rattled—despite knowing Russell’s summoning had something to do with the grenade range.

  Russell walked over to a wooden box in the corner of the grenade pit and snatched a fiber canister from the box. Opening it, he dumped a live grenade out into the palm of his upturned hand. His back to Scotty, who stood at the base of the bleachers unsure if he should have followed Russell into the pit, Russell spoke. “Everyone stay where you are. Everyone except Hayes. Hayes, get into the pit.” He turned and stepped into the center of the concrete enclosure through the open end.

  At Benning, Scotty had learned to move everywhere at double-time. He ran to the pit, getting there the same time Russell did.

  Russell pointed down at a four-inch diameter opening in the low spot of the bowl shaped bottom of the grenade pit. “You know what that is, Hayes?”

  Scotty looked at the hole, which appeared to him to be the opening of a pipe of some sort sunk into the concrete slab. “A hole?”

  “No shit! It’s a goddamn grenade sump, Hayes.” He looked toward the bleachers and raised his voice again. “Listen up,” he said to the platoon. He pointed to the pipe. This sump is buried under nine inches of concrete and is thirty-six inches long. It’s designed to contain most of the fragmentation of a loose grenade. All the rest is directed out the open end. Should one of you numb nuts drop a live grenade today I want you to do three things: Yell ‘Live grenade!’ kick it into the grenade sump, jump away from the sump and hug the ground until the grenade goes off.

  “It won’t do you any good if you can’t get the grenade into the hole. You got it?”

  They all yelled in unison, “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Clear, Hayes?”

  “Clear, Sergeant!”

  “Good.” He turned back to Scotty and looked him directly in the eyes. “Look at me and do only what I tell you to do. You got it, Hayes?”

  Scotty could feel sweat forming under his arms. And his sense of things closed in on him. He was suddenly not conscious of anyone or anything but Russell and the grenade he held. “Yes, Sergeant.” His words came out in a near whisper, his chest and throat tightened. Inside he kept trying to convince himself he could calm down and stay focused. He suddenly thought of the fat woman who gave him a ride on his way to Fort Benning. How many others had done what he was about to do?

  Russell grabbed Scotty’s upper arm and turned him slightly so his left shoulder pointed at the front wall of the grenade pit. He then grabbed Hayes’ right hand and forcefully stuffed the grenade into his palm and closed Scotty’s fingers around the body of the grenade. “Do not drop this.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” again slipped from Scotty’s lips as he held his eye contact with Russell.

  “Don’t do anything, yet. I’m going to tell you to pull the pin. That’s when I want you to pull the pin and cock your arm like you’re Johnny Unitas of the Colts. Then, at my command, I want you to throw the grenade over the wall, watch it land and then hit the concrete here in the pit. Don’t get up until I tell you it is clear. You understand?”

  Scotty nodded. He felt cotton mouthed.

  “Goddamnit, Hayes, don’t nod your head. Speak, boy. Speak!”

  “Yes, Sergeant. I understand.”

  “Good,” Russell said, then he stepped back a few inches to give Scotty more room to throw. He next looked around the range and over the wall to make sure the target area was clear. Without looking, he reached out and wrapped his hand around Scotty’s.

  Scotty’s hand trembled as he held the grenade tightly and rested the index finger of his opposite hand inside the pull ring attached to the arming pin.

  “Steady, son. You’ll be okay,” Russell whispered. He let go and stepped back, watching Scotty’s eyes and not his hands. “Pull pin!”

  Scotty yanked the pin and took up a throwing stance, knowing all the while the only thing between him and death would be me
asured in seconds should he drop the grenade or open his hand. His breathing became rapid and shallow. Sweat flowed down the bridge of his nose and fell to the ground in droplets.

  “Throw!”

  Scotty arced the grenade up and over the concrete wall into the target area. As it flew the spring-loaded spoon ejected firing the fuse with a small pop. The grenade’s flight ended with one clumsy bounce and then stopped rolling a foot and a half from the initial point of impact.

  Scotty watched the grenade until Russell’s hand slapped him on the back of his neck to remind him. “Down!”

  They both flattened out on the concrete just as the grenade went off with the distinctive crump only a grenade emits.

  Scotty suddenly had a unaccustomed feeling of accomplishment, of having done something almost perfectly.

  “Clear! On your feet, Hayes,” Russell stood and dusted off the front of his fatigue shirt. He then turned and pulled another grenade canister from the case and unpacked it. “Swithins!” he yelled over his shoulder to another soldier in the bleachers. “Get down here. You’re next.”

  Scotty turned to leave the grenade pit and give room for the next trainee.

  “Whoa! Where you going?”

  Surprised and a bit confused, Scotty looked at Russell to see if there was something else he should be doing or something he’d forgotten.

  Russell thrust the next grenade into Scotty’s hands. “Take this and teach Swithins how to do it.”

  “What?” Scotty wasn’t sure he heard what he heard.

  “This is how it goes in the Army, Hayes. This is how it always goes. You learn something, you do something and then you teach that something to other soldiers. Now, you’ve learned it and you’ve done it—show Swithins how to do it. I’ll be over by the bleachers having a smoke.”

  As the training day ended the rain returned.

  Because it took so long to get everyone through the grenade training they slept in the training area, eleven miles from their Sand Hill barracks. Several hundred yards behind the grenade pits G Company had set up two-man pup tents the Army called shelter halfs, neatly aligned in precise rows and tightly staked to the ground so no wrinkles remained in the tent walls. Each of the tents was encircled by a two-inch deep trench dug around its base to allow water running off the tents to flow away from the tents instead of into them and under their occupants.