The Last of the Dogteam

by William W. Johnstone

  Jill had the brassy taste of fear in her mouth, but to her amazement, Terry was smiling, calm, almost as if he were looking forward to any move the punks might make.

  When the thugs made their move toward them, Jill did not see the hands that struck so quickly; the feet that kicked as high as a ballet dancer; and the eyes that held no emotion, that were as cold as snake's eyes.

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  It was over so quickly—as violence usually is. Two of the punks lay on the sidewalk, one with blood pouring from his nose, mouth, and eyes. One eye was gone. The second thug had no lower chin intact, for Terry had kicked it several inches to the right. The third punk was on his knees, holding his groin area, vomiting in the gutter.

  Taking her elbow, Terry walked Jill away from the scene. His face had not changed expression.

  Later, in bed, she asked, "Terry? If I had not been with you tonight: what would you have done with those . , . animals?"

  "I would have killed them."

  "Was that karate you used?"

  "Only part of it, a form of karate." He spoke softly, for the incident was forgotten in his mind. "But it's a form you'll never see taught in any civilian defense school."

  "Why?"

  "Because the judges in this country don't want the law-abiding citizen to be able to protect himself. The law is on the side of the animals in the streets."

  "Some might call you an animal for what you did tonight?"

  "That's what I mean, honey."

  She dropped the subject.

  Jill was not experienced in bed, but she was curious and sometimes demanding as they moved from position to position, testing and exploring, wanting each second to last an

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  hour, the hour finally exploding in tangled sheets and pounding hearts.

  On the tenth day, Terry asked her to marry him.

  "Yes," she said, with no hesitation.

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  THIRTEEN

  Butler, Illinois looked very much like a picture post card with its cover of snow, steepled churches, homes that somehow all looked alike, and small-town main street. Butler depressed Terry.

  "They've resigned themselves to it, I suppose," Jill said, her hand resting lightly on Terry's leg. They drove through the snowy streets to Jill's home. "Mother cried a lot and for the first time in my life I heard my father say a really vulgar word." She smiled. "I hope you brought the blood test report."

  "It's in my gear. Jesus, you should have heard my commanding officer cuss when I told him I was getting married. My Colonel really let the hammer down on me. He likes his personnel free of entanglements."

  "I never heard of such a thing," Jill said indignantly. "A grown man having to ask permission to get married."

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  Terry grinned. "That's the Army for you. Rules and regulations."

  "Stupidl" Jill looked out the window. "Turn here. It's the third house on the right. The one with that silly-looking pink flamingo in the front yard."

  "I didn't feel this queasy when I made my first jump," Terry pulled into the drive. "My Cod, look at all the cars and trucks. Your entire family must be here."

  "Oh, shit!" Jill cursed, and Terry laughed at her.

  There was a solid wall of hostility against him. Terry could sense it and see it in the eyes of the Slane family. They resented him and made little effort to hide that resentment. There wasn't an ashtray in sight when Terry lit a cigarette. He knew it, and took pleasure in it. When no one got up to get him an ashtray, he placed his coffee cup on the arm table and used his saucer.

  "No one smokes in this family," Mr. Slane said smugly.

  "I do," Terry replied.

  Jill got up from the couch, fighting to hide a grin, and got Terry an ashtray. She sat down on the arm of his chair and put her hand on his shoulder.

  "How long have you been in the Army, Sergeant?" Jill's older brother asked. Larry Slane, a farmer, one of several pillars of the

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  community, an every-time-the-doors-open church goer, and, Terry suspected, a one hundred percent hypocrite.

  "Oh 'bout eight years, counting Guard time."

  "Make good money?"

  Terry started to tell him it wasn't any of his goddamned business, but held his tongue. "A living."

  Larry Slane grunted. "Guess you and Jill will be traveling around a lot, mixing in with all those foreigners?"

  Terry allowed the slur on his Mother Country to slide. "Not really. My permanent base is Fort Bragg." He met Larry's stare with a hard grin. "That's in North Carolina—America."

  Larry flushed and kept his mouth shut.

  "Well, as far as I'm concerned," Jill's father said, "you two should get to know each other a little bit better. Two weeks is not much time on which to build any land of lasting relationship."

  Terry surprised the father by agreeing, then angered him by saying: "But if we make a mistake, there's always the divorce courts . . . right?"

  Jill laughed at her father's expression. "Believe me, Dad, we know each other well

  enough."

  "I imagine that is quite true in one respect," her father replied, blunt and unfeeling accusation in his tone. "However, that is not what I meant."

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  Jill flushed in anger, then blushed as her mother began to weep.

  "Let's get the hell out of here!" Terry stood up.

  "Are you calling the wedding off?" Jill's uncle asked.

  "Hell, no," Terry said. "We're going to find a judge."

  An hour later, Terry and wife were heading for Bishop, Georgia.

  Their reception at the Kovak house was, as Terry knew it would be, very different from that at the Slane home. The newlyweds were fed, pampered, petted, and congratulated. Terry and Jill spent two days in Bishop, then, with time running out, left for Fort Bragg.

  There is a camaraderie among career military personnel seldom found in civilian life, prevailing among the women as well as the men. Within minutes of the van full of new furniture pulling into the drive of their new quarters at Fort Bragg, a dozen Sergeants and wives were standing by to help the newlyweds settle in. Two dozen hands were eager to put up curtains, drapes, move furniture, sort out and carefully put away dishes. By six o'clock that evening, their quarters were ready to be lived in, and dinner was prepared for them and on the table. It was then that Terry and Jill looked around and realized they were alone: their neighbors had quietly

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  slipped away, leaving them alone.

  "It isn't this way on the outside," Jill observed, already picking up the Army jargon.

  "No," Terry swallowed a mouthful of roast beef, "it isn't. A military unit is like a close knit family—we hang together."

  She touched the back of his hand with gentle fingertips. "We're going to make it, aren't we, Terry?"

  "If we try," he said soberly. "And if we have the time."

  Jill found a job teaching school in a nearby town—substituting at first, then becoming a regular—and their lives rocked along well for several months, while Terry trained with a Special Forces group. Things were heating up in Southeast Asia, with that part of the world coming up often in discussions.

  This Saturday afternoon was a shower for Sergeant Topper's wife, Alice, and after the presents were opened and admired, the ladies sat sipping coffee and talking. Army wives often know as much, and sometimes more, than do their husbands concerning military affairs.

  "Al's going to Vietnam next month," Alice said softly. "Several *A* Teams are shipping out. It's all supposed to be hush-hush, but I know all the signs. Al's out looking for quarters off base, now."

  Al Topper was a Master Sergeant with Special Forces, a demolition expert cross-trained in light weapons. Al was team

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  Sergeant of his detachment: a quiet, studious man whom Jill had gotten to know well through her friendship with Alice. It had surprised Jill to learn that Al was just a few hours away from having a degree in History, but had chosen to serve hi
s country rather than pursue a teaching career. This was to be their third child.

  Alice studied Jill over the rim of her cup. After fifteen years as a military wife, she could spot with but a glance all the signs that Terry was keeping the news of his departure from his wife.

  "Terry hasn't told you yet, has he?" she asked, and all eyes in the room shifted.

  Jill experienced a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. "I know he's been training with an *A' Team. Is he shipping out too, Alice?"

  "Yes," Alice leveled with her. "He's with Al this afternoon, looking for quarters off base."

  Every woman present was the wife of a Ranger or SF man. Jill looked at each of them for several seconds. "They're all going, aren't they?"

  "Sixty of them," the Sergeant Major's wife said. "That's still highly classified, honey, so sit on it, will you." She smiled reassuringly at

  jiii.

  "For . . . how long?" Jill's words came out numb.

  "A year," an SF wife said.

  Jill's hand trembled as she raised the cup to her lips, drops of coffee spilling into the

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  saucer. She gave it up and carefully placed the cup into the saucer. "What are we supposed to do while they're gone?"

  "Wait!" the Sergeant Major's wife said bluntly. "I waited for Oren during World War Two. I waited for him during Korea when he was with UNPIK, so I guess I can wait for him during this one, too. Guess, hell! I have to—we all have to." She laughed aloud. "One thing about it, though: Oren's almost fifty, he won't be chasing so much poon this time around. When he gets in from days of stomping around the jungle, it'll take a block and tackle to get it up."

  The older wives laughed; the younger ones shook their heads and smiled; all of them knowing Mrs. Masterson was just putting up a brave front for the other wives. It was expected of her; part of her role as the wife of a Command Sergeant Major. Part of her many duties.

  "A year," Jill said. "One whole year."

  "Six months," Mrs. Masterson corrected. "There's a good chance they'll get R & R in Japan. We can fly MATS over to them for a few days." She stood up and walked across the room to sit by Jill. She patted the young wife on the arm. "Hang in there, babe, you're Army now. It's tough to be an Army wife. And it gets tougher when the bed seems to get bigger and emptier and you're worrying about your man stopping one in some Godforsaken part of the world.

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  "Honey, 'our men don't get near the credit due them, and it's a shame, 'cause without the men who fight the lonely wars, we wouldn't have a country." She looked at the other wives. "When our men ship out, well all try to get together a couple of times a week, compare letters, try to read between the lines." She grinned. "You can censor out the mushy parts. And we've got to keep the young studs away from the young gals. I hate to be crude, ladies, but you girls are going to have to keep your legs crossed for six months at a whack, so get lots of lovin' before your men leave."

  Jill would share a house in Rockingham with Marianne Price and her young son. There, they would wait for their men to return—if they returned.

  The couple clung together in the bed, the last night before Terry shipped out. Jill's brave front had crumpled and she was crying in his arms. Terry suspected fifty-nine other wives—for most Special Forces men were married—were doing the same thing in beds in and around Fort Bragg, including Mrs. Masterson.

  The airfield at Bragg. 0500 on a June morning, just breaking light in the East. Sixty Forcemen and Rangers and their wives. One more touch; one more kiss; one more comfort-

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  ing word. Look after the kids, honey, and 111 write to you once a week, I promise. But if you don't hear from me, please don't panic, 'cause the mail service is gonna be lousy, and we may be 'way to hell and gone back in the boonies. I won't need more than a few bucks a week where we'll be, so you ought to be able to make it okay. If you get in any kind of jam, baby, call the folks—they'd want you to do that. Just remember one thing, honey: I'll be back.

  I love you.

  I love you, too.

  The women watched the transport roar down the runway and slide into the air, carrying hopes and dreams and a cargo of limp peckers from the night before.

  Terry watched the ground disappear into the clouds and his thoughts were of Jill and Colonel Ferret; confusing thoughts of both people. Jill, because she loved him and he loved her, and Terry did not understand the emotion. Ferret, because he had not refused Terry's request to transfer to SF.

  "I don't blame you, Terry," Ferret said. "Special Forces is the Glamor Boy Outfit. Don't misunderstand my words, I'm sure as hell not knocking them—not at all. They're triple A number one soldiers, every one of them. But Congress and those chairborne blockheads in the Pentagon will never really turn SF loose to perform to their full maximum. You'll discover that yourself. God, just

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  once I'd like to see a war run from the battlefield instead of from Washington."

  "You really believe we'll get into this war full steam, Colonel?"

  "Hell, yes. And we'll lose it, too, unless we're allowed to fight just as dirty and savage as Uncle Ho's boys. Unless you guys can perform just as rough and mean as you're trained to do—and I hope to the Gods of War you men do just that." He held out his hand. "Good luck, Sergeant."

  Terry had not seen Ferret since.

  "It's not fair, Terry," Jill had cried onto his shoulder. "I've never even heard of Vietnam. What do I care what happens over there?"

  Terry considered giving her a lecture on world politics, but decided against it. He believed in freedom, hated Communism, and was a soldier doing his duty. And that was that.

  He said, "I'll come out of it, honey. A year is not that long."

  She had looked at him, eyes serious and not really comprehending. She had been suddenly thrust into a world of blood, sweat, and solid, uncomprising, unyielding patriotism, and she did not understand what motivated these men; these fighting men. The men she had known who had served in the military were not like these men. ,

  She said, "I'll wait for you, Terry. I promise you. I'll be here when you need me."

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  FOURTEEN

  Terry did not trust his Vietnamese counterpart—Sergeant Dang—and he told Captain Parley of his distrust. "The son-of-a-bitch is a shirker, sir. He's a coward to boot. He doesn't know his ass from a can of C ration."

  "His father was an in-tight buddy of Big Minh, Sergeant. Dang was too stupid to get through the Vietnamese version of OCS, so they made him a Sergeant."

  "Reminds me of home," Terry said dryly.

  Sergeant Major Masterson was only slightly less diplomatic. "The little bastard is in cahoots with some of these lazy VC sympathizers we're always running off from here. Personally, I'd like to shoot him."

  Captain Parley poured them all a drink of sour mash. "Ours is not to reason why," he pinned, tossing off the whiskey neat. It was his last drink. Hours later, on a night patrol, he was shot in the head. Parley left a wife and

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  two children back in Virginia.

  "You'd better be careful, Jill," Marianne cautioned her friend. "Mrs. Masterson is getting kind of grim-looking about your accepting rides home from school with that teacher. Jill," she touched her arm, "it doesn't look very good."

  Jill sluffed off the criticism. The over-protectiveness of the other wives was beginning to rub her wrong. "He's just a friend, Marianne, he's never made any land of off-color remark to me."

  "It doesn't look right, Jill, and you know it. Terry's got his butt in the grass for his country and you're playing footsie with an English teacher."

  "We're not playing footsiel" Jill retorted, becoming angry. "Can't a woman have a male friend around here? Lee is a nice guy, easy to talk with. With my car in the shop, what am I supposed to do? Walk ten miles?"

  "I'll be happy to give you a ride to and from school," Marianne offered.

  Jill did not reply and would not look at her friend. She kn
ew that she was doing was wrong—sort of—but she felt she couldn't help herself; didn't want to help herself. She was lonely, and Terry was eight thousand miles away, fighting in a stinking little war Lee said was wrong; immoral, and he talked openly against it. And although Lee had never served

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  anywhere, Jill believed him.

  Of the sixty men in Terry's group that were sent to Asia, eight had been killed in action and a dozen more were sent back Stateside because of their wounds. Their replacements brought news from Bragg. The Sergeant Major went to the Captain with some of that news.

  "Cot some wives fucking around back home," Masterson said. "Lieutenant Black's old lady, Captain Hunt's wife, and Sergeants Kovak and Burgos' wives. This is gonna tear morale all to hell and gone."

  "If we let it, Oren," the Captain said. "Oren, do you believe in the double standard system?"

  "What do you mean, sir?"

  "That it's okay for the man to dick around," but not the wife."

  "All those guys aren't chasin' pussy, Captain. I know that for a fact."

  "Black and Burgos are. Not Hunt or Kovak, though."

  Masterson took a drag from his cigarette. "Sir, you know what Kovak was before he joined us in Bragg. He'll loll that damned school teacher."

  "Rumors, Oren, just rumors about that mythical death squad. What are they called: Dog Teams? No, just rumors."

  The young Captain and the much older Sergeant Major locked eyes. The Captain backed down. He sighed. "You were with Wild Bill during the Second World War,

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  weren't you, Oren?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Is it rumor, Oren?"

  "Just between you and me? No."

  "Well, then we keep Terry from finding out about his wife. That's all we can do."

  "Good luck to both of us, sir."

  "We'll get R & R in a couple of months—maybe. Terry can square things with his wife then."

  "Yes, sir." But his tone held no conviction.

  "I shouldn't be seen with you, Lee," Jill said. "Much less holding hands in public."

  "No one knows us here in Charlotte," Lee smiled. "Besides, I think it's reasonable to assume that Terry hasn't been living the life of a Monk in Vietnam. Those Army people are such savages—they have to be, honey. Why would they enjoy combat if they weren't."