by Dennis Foley
The two trainees dropped out of the formation and moved back to Scotty and Fitch. Fitch’s color was slowly coming back into his face.
Others in the rear of the platoon looked around to see what was happening and without prompting from Scotty three fell back. As the first two trainees each took one of Fitch’s arms around their shoulders to support him while he ran the other trainee rushed to Scotty and relieved him of the burden of all of Fitch’s gear, splitting it up between them all three of them.
In less than ten more strides all were caught up and back in their places in the formation. Scotty picked up his pace and ran around the platoon back to his place in front. Once back in his place and in step, Scotty looked over to Russell, running along side the formation.
Scotty was disappointed Russell didn’t seem to show any sign of approval. Approval of the fact the platoon was intact and working together while the other platoons were losing stragglers and looking more ragged. But just as Scotty was about to look back to the front it seemed as if Russell gave Scotty the slightest nod of his head. Or was he just imagining it?
And hour later, Russell’s command voice echoed the command of the Field First Sergeant, “Platoon… Halt!” The words every man in the company wanted to hear.
Scotty stopped with the others and looked back over his shoulder quickly making a head count of his platoon. They made it. They all made it. His was the only platoon to not suffer any permanent drop outs or quitters on the run. Exhausted, sore, nauseous and hot, they had made it to the bivouac area. Scotty felt a sense of pride he’d never felt before. Not at football or track in school. This was different. He wasn’t on winning team; he had lead a winning team.
“Hayes…”
“Yes, Sergeant. I’m on it,” Scotty replied. He turned around to the platoon. “Okay, everyone on your ass. Now! Get those boots off. Feet. I want to see ’em.”
Russell walked up behind Scotty. “That’s right. Feet.” He pointed off toward a truck arriving with the cooks and large thermal containers cans filled with supper. “Then get ’em in the chow line. Then I want to see you with a headcount and a list of injuries. All before you eat. Got it?”
The night overtook them and soon Scotty found himself squeezing into the small opening of his pup tent he would share with another trainee. He was more tired than he had ever been and he hurt in several places. The skin on his feet burned and the bones ached. His hipbones were rubbed raw from the constant motion of his pistol belt during the day’s march and his shoulders were bruised from the burden of his combat harness. Still he felt better than ever before.
He looked forward to getting some much needed sleep. His platoon was all bedded down in the bivouac area, tents all scattered randomly in a simulated protective pattern so as not to make them easily identifiable from the air which would make them an easy target for enemy artillery or mortars. And Scotty had done it. He got them there, got them fed, cared for them, set them up for the night and sacked out. In the morning they’d all begin the long hours on the firing ranges where each man, including Scotty, would qualify with a rifle—an absolute requirement for graduation.
Three days later Scotty jumped out of the back of the deuce and a half truck. He had hitched a ride in to the company area. He’d been told Russell wanted to see him back at the barracks where he had been taking care of some platoon business but wasn’t given a reason why.
He entered the platoon barracks and found it strange. He’d never been in the two story building when the others weren’t there. It was silent. Empty and hollow. He walked down the center of the platoon bay between the rows of double bunks, their bedding stripped and stowed in lockers, their mattresses rolled on top of the springs at the foot of each bunk.
In each platoon barracks there was a single nine by twelve room set off from the open bay, windowless on the interior, windowed to the outside. He’d never been inside Russell’s cadre room. It was in this room the senior cadreman in charge the a platoon’s training stayed unless he was married and lived in quarters with his family. Russell’s room was marked with an eye-height nameplate reading SFC ASA T. RUSSELL in block letters centered on the door bearing many coats of gray-green enamel.
Scotty raised his hand to knock and checked himself. He tucked the uneven blousing of his fatigue shirt into his trousers and smoothed out the wrinkles by running his thumbs around the inside of the waistband from his navel to his kidneys. He straightened his gig line—the line made up of the running edge of his shirtfront, the end of is brass belt buckle and the hemmed edge of the fly on his trousers. These items in vertical alignment were an important indicator of attention to detail. Misaligned they were a sign of a sloppy soldier.
Finally, Scotty rubbed the dust off the toes of his combat boots on the backs of each opposite trouser leg, took his helmet off, tucked it under his left arm and knocked.
“Come!” Russell boomed from inside the small room.
Scotty turned the highly polished brass knob and opened the door, unsure what he’d find inside.
Russell sat at a small Army field desk next to the door, intent on the paperwork before him.
“I was told you wanted to see me, Sergeant.” Scotty stood in the open doorway sure he was not to step on the highly polished tile without Russell’s permission.
Russell poked the Army ballpoint pen over his shoulder in the direction of his bunk. “Sit. On the footlocker.”
Scotty moved to the Sergeant’s personal footlocker with one stride and sat without trying to mark the linoleum tiles as he turned on them.
“You know why you’re here?” Russell spoke without tuning to look at Scotty, his pen still marking up the document before him.
“No, Sergeant. I don’t.” Scotty stole a look around the room. He wanted to take as much of it in as he could out of sheer curiosity. The inside of the room was covered in many coats of paint but was clean everywhere he looked. The unfinished stud walls had shelving and equipment hooks placed in convenient and efficient spots.
The room was all Russell. A private yet professional enclave almost never seen by a trainee but no less prepared for inspection at any time.
The room had its own special smells unlike the large platoon bay just outside the door. Scotty could make out the distinctive smells of waxes—car wax, floor wax and a furniture polish Russell must have used on the single four-drawer Quartermaster dresser which stood in the far corner of the small room. These smells were mixed with the light oil Russell used on his pistol and Brasso, the polish every soldier used to clean and shine all his brass insignia and belt buckles.
Though it was nearly ten at night, the bunk, identical to Scotty’s, was perfectly made, tight and precisely positioned two inches from the wall at the top and far side. Over the bunk a small shelf held Russell’s headgear. A steel combat helmet sat squarely on its half of the shelf. Its olive drab paint was even and free of chips; the canvas chin strap was pulled behind the back lip of the helmet and fastened securely. Next to it sat Russell’s cadre helmet in striking contrast. Unlike its combat counterpart, it was a glossy black lacquered garrison helmet adorned with full color decals over each ear—each a replica of the First Army patch worn on the left shoulder of each cadreman assigned in the Training Regiment. Centered over the front lip of the helmet were sergeant’s chevrons—three inverted gold V-stripes up and two rockers below. The helmet gleamed under the harsh light of the single overhead bulb—buffed to a high shine by hand with a fine car polish.
While Russell’s back was still turned Scotty’s eyes darted to the few photographs on the walls. One was Russell in full paratroop gear, parachute on his back as he stood ready inside a huge cargo plane.
Another photo showed Russell standing at a rigid position of attention in front of a formation of other Green Berets. A senior officer was pinning a medal on Russell’s crisply starched and ironed khaki shirt. Russell’s eyes clear and fixed under the brim of his beret on an imaginary point straight out in front of him—through the
officer.
Scotty realized in the seven weeks he had known Russell he had never seen him in Class A uniform, one on which ribbons were normally worn. In Basic Training the uniform of the day was fatigues. In the picture Russell had several rows of combat ribbons and special skill badges Scotty was unaware of, all indicating Russell’s broad experience as a combat soldier and leader.
Russell dropped his pencil on the papers on his desk. “Looks like you fired Expert on the rifle range and you’ve qualified in the gas chamber and the infiltration course—everything you need to graduate. How you doing as a trainee leader?”
Scotty looked down at his helmet he fiddled with between his knees. “I’m not very good at this.”
“What? You think leaders are born? You think it’s some God-given talent? Leaders are trained. They are molded and pounded into shape. That’s what we do in the Army, Hayes. Especially here at Benning. This is where combat leaders are made.”
Again, Hayes wasn’t sure how to respond.
“You up for it?”
“It?”
“You want to lead or follow, Hayes?” Russell didn’t wait for Scotty to reply. He turned back to his desk and picked up a sheaf of papers stacked neatly on the corner. He jabbed them at Scotty. “I want you to fill these out. You’re applying to NCO Candidate School.”
Scotty wasn’t sure what he was hearing. “Pardon.”
“They’re running new a test program here at Benning. Candidates come from companies like this. It’ll be ten times as tough and three times as long as basic. But in six months, if you can hack it, you’ll graduate as a sergeant and be sent to a combat infantry unit as a squad or fire team leader.”
Scotty took the papers and made eye contact with Russell for the first time since he’d entered the room.
“You’ll have to suck it up. You’ll have to do a little more growing up, but I think you can do it.
“Now, go fill out these applications and give them to me before you head back out to the bivouac area.” He looked at his watch. “And you’d better get it in gear if you’re going to get back out to the field and put your platoon to bed.”
Scotty found himself propelled to his feet, half in surprise and half in disbelief of what he’d just heard. He stood to take the folder of papers from Russell.
Russell stood and put out his hand to shake Scotty’s. “And if you flunk out I’m going to kick your ass, Hayes.”
Chapter 7
AFTER FIVE DAYS OF WAITING for a final assignment in Camp Alpha, a tent city for the newly arrived, Pascoe’s orders came through. He’d gone to Vietnam with orders to report to the major U.S. Headquarters, Military Assistance Command, Vietnam—known largely by its acronym, MACV.
Even before breakfast he was summoned to MACV headquarters in northwest Saigon and told he would be assigned to an advisory job and paired up with a Vietnamese staff officer.
“But I was hoping for something else,” Pascoe told the personnel officer who didn’t look up from the paperwork on his desk. He stole a glance at the colonel’s hand, searching for the single item which could give him some cachet. He needed a connection with the colonel which just might allow him to negotiate a better assignment before the decision was final. But Pascoe was disappointed to find no West Point ring on the colonel’s finger.
The overweight assignments officer appeared to be nursing a hangover. “Yeah, Major, and I was hopin’ to be a brigadier general by now too.” He pointed at the floor. “But I ended up here. And I can tell you this is no general’s job. Life’s tough everywhere. Get used to it, because Vietnam’s gonna’ jerk a knot in your ass for sure if you don’t relax.”
“I was kind of hoping to advise a Vietnamese regimental commander,” Pascoe said.
The colonel laughed, took a drag off a mostly smoked cigar and blew the smoke from the corner of his mouth toward the ceiling. “Yeah. And I’d like to be assigned to Hawaii for the last two years I got in the Army. Now, you got your choice, Major. You can have this job with the Viets and get your ass out of Saigon and out into the field or I got one other job screaming to get filled. It’s in Graves Registration here in the city.”
Working at the mortuary was the very last thing Pascoe wanted. He let it go.
The colonel leaned over the arm of his chair to see beyond Pascoe into the outer office. “Parsons? Is Colonel Minh here yet?”
Pascoe was completely unprepared for the cartoon vision who walked into the office. Though a small man, Lieutenant Colonel Minh made a grand entrance wearing a tight, tailor-made flight suit with a lavender scarf at its open neck. He wore huge reflector aviator sunglasses which dwarfed his face.
“I am here, Colonel,” Minh announced as he first saluted the colonel and then turned to stick out a welcoming hand to Pascoe. “You must be my new American. No? I’m so very happy to meet you, Major. Welcome to Vietnam.”
Pascoe tried to peel his gaze from the Vietnamese officer’s long pomaded black hair to take the hand of the man easily seven inches shorter than he was.
In his very best Vietnamese Pascoe replied. “Yes. Yes sir. I’m Eldon Pascoe, sir.” He was sure to smile and had prepared himself for the limp handshake he got. He’d been warned of this too. He’d heard all the horror stories about advisors not getting along with Vietnamese counterparts and being fired over causing them to lose face. It was the last thing Pascoe wanted to add another negative report to his personnel file back at the Pentagon. No matter what, if he hoped to redeem himself in the Army’s eyes, he’d have to get along with Minh.
Minh had gone ahead while Pascoe collected his belongings. Since his days as a cadet Pascoe had not had to carry his own bags. In route to Vietnam he quickly discovered if he wanted to get anything of his anywhere he had better do it himself. There were no sky caps, cab drivers or baggage handlers once he left San Francisco.
The two Vietnamese soldiers standing guard outside the helipad entrance to the headquarters hardly looked up when Pascoe struggled through the doorway with his three overstuffed bags. One listened to squawking sounds coming from a tiny transistor radio pressed to his ear. The other seemed to be fantasizing over a vision across the busy street. A beautiful young Vietnamese woman in her traditional ao dai silk top and pants bent over a motorbike, tying a parcel to the seat.
Rather than set them down, Pascoe dropped his bags hoping to get some attention from the two enlisted soldiers but got no response. He looked out across the chopper ramp for Minh only to find eleven choppers—some with crews, some without. The airfield was already crowded beyond its capacity. A pillow of curry colored dust hugged the strip, ramps and nearby roadways; a cloud that stayed in place all day, every day for nine more years.
“Colonel Minh?” he asked.
The soldier with the radio didn’t miss a note of the Vietnamese ballad which sounded more like pain than a love song. He nodded at a nearby chopper parked on a helipad marked V.I.P. and then spat a stream of muddy betel nut juice across the top of the sandbagged security post never once making eye contact with the American major.
Pascoe knew the soldier had walked a fine line between simply voiding his mouth of pooled saliva and showing his disdain for yet another foreigner arriving in Saigon.
Raising his hand to shield his eyes, Pascoe squinted against the brilliant morning sun beginning to climb bringing with it the day’s oppressive heat. He could already feel his fatigue shirt beginning to stick to his back.
Through the plexiglass of the chopper’s windscreen Pascoe made out Minh’s outline in the command pilot’s seat of the helicopter. It was not where he’d expected to find the colonel. He gathered his bags and limped clumsily toward Minh’s aircraft, one outsized bag awkwardly banging against his leg with each step.
As he approached the aircraft his concern about Minh being at the controls was compounded by the appearance of the airframe. It was plain to see very little maintenance had been performed. The aging chopper had dents and tears in the paper thin hull. The large sliding do
ors were missing, as were the seats normally found in the cargo. Navigation lights were broken, the rotor blades were excessively worn and there was no sign of a crew chief normally standing by with a fire extinguisher should there be a problem on start-up.
Any other flight Pascoe would have refused. He couldn’t challenge Minh’s preflight inspection and had no other options. Still, he knew it was unlikely the chopper’s outward appearance didn’t mirror the care given to the engine, transmission, rotor assembly and flight controls.
Hoping he was wrong about the chopper’s readiness to fly, he threw his bags in the back. He opened the door and climbed up into the right seat—the co-pilot’s station trying not to show his concern.
The blinding sun bounced off the geometric rice paddies as Pascoe looked down from the helicopter. The tiny farm plots speeding by beneath the chopper were separated by thousand year old roads and trails, caramel in color and hard packed by centuries worth of travelers taking their produce to market each day. Here and there, on the portions of each farmer’s land least likely to produce good crops, families built their homes and penned up their livestock leaving the best of their small acreage for crop cultivation.
The soil was rich where Asia’s Mekong River became a delta before spilling into the South China Sea. Each year several million tons of topsoil arrived with the monsoon floods and left behind invisible magic adding fertilizing properties to the province. Everywhere, what wasn’t brown water, dirt or thatched houses was rich vibrant green—rice, cabbages and manioc. In the fields little boys rode the backs of huge water buffaloes like shepherds on the other side of the globe.
Pascoe looked west over the raised dual clusters of instruments arrayed for each pilot to use. For as far as he could see the terrain was flat and wet and it was not yet the rainy season. Dotted with small hamlets, the countryside below teemed with busy villagers, travelers and livestock. But only a few miles short of the border there was no sign of civilization, only a huge grassy marsh absent any signs of human life—an unmistakable indication of the danger to be found there.