by Dennis Foley
General Devlen took the cue and stood. “General Pham,” he turned to Wills and Pascoe, “Gentlemen, I have some exceptionally good news for all of you.” He nodded to his aide, a thin and pasty looking lieutenant who had somehow slipped from the chopper to the General’s Mess without Pascoe noticing.
The lieutenant pulled a manila folder from his briefcase and walked over to Pascoe’s place, careful not to draw attention to himself. He placed the folder next to Pascoe’s elbow and returned to his post near the door.
The General continued. “I’m thrilled to announce General Pham has been nominated by the Chief of Staff of his army to assume command of Vietnamese III Corps.
Pascoe had barely exchanged pleasantries with the Vietnamese General in the weeks he had been there and now the man was leaving. His immediate thought was who would replace him? Pham had been aloof enough not to make Pascoe’s life miserable. Could he be that lucky again with Pham’s replacement?
The door opened and Colonel Minh entered dripping water all over the floor. He wore a raincoat draped over his shoulders and carried his cap in his hand.
General Devlen waved his hand toward Minh. “What perfect timing. I was just about to announce the second part of my good news. Gentlemen, Colonel Minh has been promoted to general and will be assuming command of the 6th Division from General Pham.”
He extended his arm to Minh, “Please, General. Join us for tea in your new General’s Mess.”
As Minh worked his way around the end of the table to join his boss and General Devlen, Devlen applauded the general. The others followed suit in a gesture of congratulations.
The news hit Pascoe like a rifle shot. He had just found what seemed to him a comfortable working relationship with Minh and now he would be just as likely to get a replacement Operations Officer for Minh who would be difficult to work with and might be a real obstacle to his goal of repairing his faltering career.
General Devlen continued. “My final announcement gives me particular pleasure because it involves someone in my advisory team.” He looked at Pascoe and pointed at the folder on the table in front of him. “Open it, Major.”
Pascoe opened the folder to find a formal order. His eyes quickly darted down the page and he found his name, Pascoe, Eldon H. The only name on the orders.
General Devlen continued. “I’m please to announce Major Pascoe will be moving from his current job as advisor to Colonel Minh in Operations to Division Senior Advisor to again advise General Minh.”
Pascoe read the words next to his name: be promoted to the rank of temporary Lieutenant Colonel.
Devlen continued, “And he will be pinning on the new silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel.”
Pascoe was confused. There was no lieutenant colonel’s promotion board meeting at the Pentagon. He was sure of the schedule. He would have known if he were being considered for promotion.
While he pretended to be focused on Devlen his eyes slipped back up the page as the General’s words became just noise in his head. The orders! They were not Department of the Army orders. They were MACV orders. His eyes searched the page again looking for more clarity. Temporary! He was only being promoted to temporary Lieutenant Colonel.
It was an acting lieutenant colonel’s job. He was being frocked, an old Army custom invoked by field commanders to give authority to someone greater than his current rank but without permanence and without the pay normally expected of the rank. It was related only to the job and only while in the job.
“Come on up here, Eldon.” Devlen reached around and took two oak leaves from his aide who had quietly moved into position to offer them. “I want to ask General Minh to do the honors and pin on your new insignia.” He handed the silver insignia to Minh.
Pascoe tried not to show his shock and outrage. He wasn’t being promoted for merit. He was being temporarily promoted to give him a rank more appropriate for a general’s advisor—so Minh could have a lieutenant colonel. It was to save face. It was political. Pascoe was furious.
As he stepped up to the head table the three generals stood. While Minh pinned the insignia on Pascoe’s collar, Devlen spoke to all but looked Pascoe in the eyes make his point. “I’m sure Colonel Pascoe realizes the importance and the intent of the message we are sending him from MACV Headquarters when we put our faith in his abilities by assigning him to General Minh as his Senior Advisor replacing the departing Colonel Wills.”
Pascoe painted a convincing enough smile on his face while he accepted handshakes all around and Devlen went on to say his official goodbye’s to Colonel Wills who would be leaving within the week.
When he finished speaking, Devlen and the others sat down while Wills made some remarks about hating to leave and how pleasant he had found the working relationship with General Pham and how welcomed he had felt for the year he had been there.
Pascoe felt Devlen looking at him while Wills spoke. He could see Devlen searching for some sign of recognition in Pascoe’s eyes indicating he clearly understood just exactly what had taken place. Only Pascoe and Devlen knew the promotion was not real.
When Wills finished General Devlen invited everyone in the room to come forward to congratulate Generals Pham and Minh and Pascoe on their promotions.
In the glad-handing, Pascoe found himself face-to-face with General Devlen. A man he knew not at all.
Devlen spoke loud enough for everyone within earshot to hear him congratulate Pascoe. But then he leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice. “Major, I think you understand the reason for this temporary promotion. I don’t want you to think it is the by-product of your performance to date. Because, I have to say, you haven’t really set the world on fire from what I’ve been able to see in Saigon. I have every confidence things will change. Right?”
Pascoe was almost speechless. He had never seen the man in the 6th Division’s headquarters or out in the division’s area of operations. Now, he gives him a temporary promotion with one hand and tells him he’s doing a shitty job—all while smiling for everyone in the room.
He knew Devlen was talking about at recent attack on a South Vietnamese barracks in Saigon. One of the Viet Cong captured in the attack had admitted his unit had infiltrated through the Sugar Mill area several weeks back. Caruthers had been right. “Ah… You can count on me, General,” was all Pascoe could think to say. There was no use arguing with the man.
Still, to everyone in the Division, Pascoe was a lieutenant colonel. And the issue was never discussed after that day.
Pascoe sat at the field desk in is room in the Team House, his head in his hands. He looked at the orders again. He wanted to be sure what he was reading actually meant what he thought it did.
On the bottom of the orders he found a paragraph headed Special Instructions which read: This promotion remains in effect within the Republic of Vietnam and while the named officer is assigned to the Military Assistance Command. At the time of his reassignment this order is rescinded and the officer will revert to the permanent rank of major on the effective date of reassignment instructions.
Pascoe pushed the orders aside and pulled a glass he had taken from the mess hall from under a handkerchief covering it, keeping the dust off of it. He poured himself a half tumbler full of Johnny Walker Black scotch from the bottle he had been nursing for days and drank it quickly. He then poured another.
His mind was crowded with disturbing thoughts. Time was slipping through his fingers. The months were ticking by. And he had done nothing remarkable since arriving in Vietnam. And if he didn’t do something quickly he could easily find himself either on the way home or reassigned somewhere where he would have even less of an opportunity to make a name for himself. He took the glass of scotch with him, stood and walked to the tactical map of his province he had tacked on the wall in his room.
He sat down on his footlocker and looked at the map. He thought about the patrols and enemy contacts the division had made since he had been there. They all confirmed Minh’s ar
rival orientation—the enemy continued to infiltrate into Vietnam from a point inside Cambodia almost thirty miles north northwest of the Sugar Mill.
He had read report after report of enemy forces who continued to move down the Ho Chi Minh trail network into Cambodia in spite of the repeated air strikes designed to interdict the traffic along the trail.
He knew if they could only go into the enemy assembly areas on the other side of the border they would be likely to inflict larger numbers of casualties, find large weapons and equipment caches and, for him, make a mark sure to be noticed. But they weren’t allowed across the border unless they were returning fire on enemy positions firing on South Vietnamese patrols or aircraft. And, even then, they were not allowed to expand any contact deeper into Cambodia.
He drank more scotch and examined the map trying to develop some plan, something to produce more impressive results than he had enjoyed to date. Results which would be seen by higher headquarters as positive in his unit. Results he could claim credit for.
Somehow, he had to take advantage of his new job advising a division commander instead of its operations officer to compensate for the time he had spent in country without adding anything remarkable to his record. Having General Minh’s ear surely had to hold some promise.
Dinner finished at the end of a long training day, Scotty went back to his room after a beer with Caruthers who elected to stay in the small club they had set up in a small storage room in the Sugar Mill.
Scotty carefully hopped through the compound trying to dodge the deep puddles of water from still another day of nearly constant rain. Inside his room he shucked his shirt and cap, throwing them on his bunk. He sat down on the chair by his desk and turned on this cheap Vietnamese desk lamp before untying his boots.
The light poured onto a small pile of mail someone had left in is room for him. He fanned the envelopes to see two were from Eileen, one was from Kitty and one envelope was covered with lined out and forwarding addresses. He looked at the return address. All it said was Fitch, A Company, 4th Training Regiment, Fort Benning. The postmark was unreadable because it had been stamped and re-stamped with each time it had been forwarded. Scotty could see it had been sent to him at Airborne School, forwarded to NCO training, Ranger School and then on to his APO address in Vietnam.
He slipped his finger under the flap and opened the letter, not because it was more important than Kitty’s or Eileen’s, but because he was puzzled what Fitch would be writing to him for. He had not heard from Fitch since they graduated from Basic Training.
The date inside the letter was seven months old. Fitch started his letter with the usual pleasantries hoping it found Scotty well and somewhere he enjoyed. But he quickly got to the heart of his letter. He was stationed at Fort Benning at the time of the writing and had received some bad news he thought the others in their platoon would like to know. He was trying to write to all of them and asked Scotty to let him know if Scotty had any addresses on old platoon chums.
The news was bad. Fitch found out Sergeant Russell had been captured by the North Vietnamese while on a patrol inside Laos with Special Forces. There was no other information, but Fitch promised he’d update Scotty if he heard anything. He asked Scotty to return the favor.
It explained why he hadn’t received any replies to the few letters he had sent Russell. Scotty just assumed that Russell was on some classified mission and couldn’t write—and would when he got the chance.
Scotty put the letter down and began to think the worst. Russell could be dead or suffering unspeakable torture he had heard was commonplace in the prison camps. He looked at the other three letters and decided he didn’t want to read them just yet. A spot in the center of his chest felt leaden as sadness and anger seemed to well up inside him. In his life, no man had meant as much to him as Asa Russell. No man had shown as much interest in him or had as much faith in him. Thinking he might be dead or in pain greatly darkened Scotty’s mood. He put on his shirt, grabbed his cap and headed back to the club to have another beer with Caruthers.
The monsoon season continued to strengthen and influence everything. Pascoe moved into his new job with ease, taking full advantage of the added prestige and influence it brought with it. Now everything done within the advisory team would be of his design. He had not yet found an American major to replace him. But he was satisfied to see Minh’s Operations job had been filled by a Vietnamese lieutenant colonel who had been plucked from some obscure and bureaucratic Saigon staff job by Minh. Word was he was related to the Army Chief of Staff and Minh’s arm had been twisted. But he seemed reluctant to do anything Minh didn’t wholeheartedly support and seemed to curry favor with Minh whenever he could. For Pascoe that meant there would be little opposition to his advice to Minh from the Operations section.
For the time being, Pascoe had to wear two hats and keep his hand in his old job. This had its advantages—giving him even more influence over the division’s operations.
For Scotty it was training and more training. He and Caruthers took turns preparing and presenting classes on map reading, tactics, first aid and fire direction. The days when they could take the Vietnamese soldiers out into the training fields surrounding the Sugar Mill were few due to the hostile weather. On the bad days they were all crammed inside the small makeshift classrooms. They all suffered from the smothering humidity and tried to hear the instruction over the rain pelting and pounding the tin roofs at the Sugar Mill.
Pascoe got impatient with the weather and gathered the team. “I want to take advantage of the weather and turn it our way for a change,” Pascoe said.
Scotty sat next to Caruthers in the sweltering briefing room taking notes on the notebook balanced on his knee.
“Everyone here knows while we can often track infiltrators into South Vietnam in the muddy marshland between here and the Cambode border. And they can know when we are in the area using the same techniques.
“From intelligence reports I’m reading out of Saigon I’m convinced more infiltration is going on when we are not out searching the Area of Operations. They may be poorly equipped. But the VC aren’t stupid.
“I’ve been able to convince General Minh we need to run a reconnaissance in force closer to the international border to find out exactly where they are crossing.” He turned and tapped his knuckle on the acetate cover over the black line indicating the border on the tactical map beneath it. “Knowing this will narrow down the area we have to monitor to interdict this movement.
“Right now we’re catching the ones we catch when they are many miles into Vietnam and have split up into one, two and three-man teams. If we could get them at the point they cross the border we’re bound to increase our body count. And we can also prove to higher headquarters they’re actually staging at specific coordinates inside Cambodia—something Cambodia continues to deny.”
All the Americans and the Vietnamese in the room who understood English laughed at the denial. Once they quieted down Pascoe continued. “The concept is simple. Captain Nguyen will take twenty-two soldiers from his reconnaissance company, Hayes and Caruthers and move under the cover of darkness to this point.”
Pascoe tapped a small point marked on the overlay with grease pencil near an abandoned hamlet named Doi Bao Voi less than five hundred meters from the dark black border.
“Here we’ll conceal the members of the patrol in the abandoned hootches of hamlet and monitor the movement. I hope we can document enemy movement by taking photos of the enemy activity. If we can be persuasive enough we hope to later mount an effective regimental sized operation with the okay of Saigon.
“I don’t need to tell any of you we have to have something big to go after to justify such a large operation so close to the border.”
A hand went up next to Scotty. Captain Nguyen, normally quiet in briefings then stood up. “Helicopt?” Nguyen asked in the clipped English sounding more like French most Vietnamese used to refer to choppers.
Pascoe shook his
head. “No.” He turned back to the map and with a pointer from the map tray traced blue veins on the map indicating the streams which fed all the flooded marshy flatland. “We will go in using small boats. This will make our presence in the area less likely to be discovered by the enemy.”
Scotty couldn’t help but notice Pascoe included himself in the operation by again using the word we. He turned his head slightly and caught Caruthers’ eye. They exchanged a knowing glance—both recognizing Pascoe’s choice of words and the ease with which he decided to place them in harm’s way.
“We will depart this location for the objective area in seven days. In the meantime, we’ll be getting some small boats prepared and I want you all to train your troops in using them.”
He stopped and deferred to Nguyen. “Of course, if this meets with your approval, Dai Uy,” he said, using the Vietnamese term for captain.
The night before the patrol Scotty wanted to make sure he finished a letter to Eileen so there would be one on the way to her while he was out on the patrol. Between swatting moths away from the paper and stopping to think just what it was he wanted to tell her Scotty felt at a loss for words.
Writing had not been one of Scotty’s skills in high school. Since joining the Army he had only added writing military messages and operations orders to his writing experience. Writing to Eileen was the first time he had ever felt self-conscious about writing at all. Her letters to him were so personal and he felt so close to her when he read them. She was able to write like it was just the two of them and she made him long for her when she talked about them being together again and how she missed him and missed his touch.
That alone gave him an ache stirring up images of her face and eyes and how much he wanted to have sex with her. Something that just didn’t happen in the short time they had before he left. He knew one thing about her, he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, but saying so was hard for him to do in a letter.
Scotty crumpled up another attempt and threw the balled-up notepaper into the cardboard box next to his desk serving as a trash can. He took a sip of the not-quite-cold beer he had brought to his room from the team club and decided just to say it outright, to tell her he wanted to be with her and tell her he felt awkward with his writing and hoped she would understand he just wasn’t much good at it. But she shouldn’t think he wasn’t filled with thoughts of her almost every hour of the day.