by Dennis Foley
Hollister recognized the voice and broke into a broad smile. He stood and turned toward the voice. Lieutenant Colonel Grady Michaelson had been Hollister’s Long Range Patrol detachment commander on his first tour in Vietnam. They didn’t come much better than Grady Michaelson. “Goddamn it. If you aren’t a sight for sore eyes, sir.”
They shook hands and grabbed each other’s upper arms—glad to see each other.
“I had no idea you were here,” Hollister said.
“Been in country about two weeks. Just left the War College, and they decided I had to pull a staff tour or turn in my suit,” Michaelson said, making a face at his assignment.
“What’s the job?”
“Operations.”
“Hell, at least it’s an operations job, sir. I’ve met folks on the way over assigned to civic actions and worse. So what you have up your sleeve, sir?”
Michaelson slapped Hollister on the shoulder and looked at his watch. “Listen, I’ve made arrangements to get you up to Nha Trang this afternoon, but wondered if you had a little time to help me out with a problem.”
“Sure. If you’re buyin’ the coffee, I’ve got the time.”
They crossed the small open area in front of the headquarters building. Hollister realized just how good it was to see Michaelson again. He had taught him plenty about combat and more about himself and soldiers. It was a small reassurance to Hollister that all of the stories of doom and gloom about Vietnam going to hell were not completely true. They couldn’t be, with Michaelson making some of the decisions.
The officers club was deserted that time of the day. Michaelson waved one of the waitresses over and ordered coffee.
Hollister selected a table near the window partially covered by rows of sandbags. He liked being able to look out at the hot Vietnamese morning while enjoying the noisy air-conditioning inside the club.
“It’s not the same place out there,” Michaelson said, dropping his cap on the empty chair next to him and pulling out his cigarettes.
“I’ve heard. But just how bad is it?”
“Start with the understanding no man wants to be the last one to die here. They all know we’re going home, and they all want to be around to see the lights turned out. On top of that, we’re up to our asses in press criticism, racial troubles, drug problems, Viet corruption, discipline problems, and worst of all—we have run out of leaders.”
“How so?”
“Remember the platoon sergeants and lieutenants we had in sixty-five and sixty-six?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They were good at what they did, and all of them had some experience. Some had even served in World War Two and Korea. We brought most of them back for a second tour, burned them out or ran them off.
“Now we’re getting NCOs who have been in the army less than two years, and the lieutenants have been in less than a year. They have no skills, no experience, and they get no respect. Soldiers are fragging leaders who do their jobs, and leaders are trying to court-martial problem children. They just have no persuasive tricks other than throwing the book at the troublemakers. Lieutenants are afraid of being fragged and try to become buddies with their troops. It’s bad soldiering.”
“Whew. I heard it was bad, but never imagined all of this,” Hollister said.
“The bottom line is that units have pulled back to handle all of their problems. They run fewer operations in a month than they used to in a week.”
“And that means—”
“The bad guys have filled in the void. We need to get out of the base camps and mix it up with the VC.”
Hollister took a sip of the coffee and then lit a cigarette. He waited for Michaelson to continue.
“It’s bad, but not hopeless. We’ve got to get this shitty attitude out of the troop units and get them back on their feet. They need successes out there to breed successes.”
“How can I help?” Hollister asked.
“You’ve got a history with Juliet Company.”
“I’ve been trying to follow them back in the World.” He dropped his head. “I was sure sorry to hear about Captain Vance getting killed.”
“They were doing a damn good job when Vance was CO, but after his death, the job somehow passed to a pissant major named Simonson. He took J Company and drove it into the ground like a tent stake.”
“Worked them too hard?” Hollister asked.
“No,” Michaelson said, sipping his coffee. “The fucker has no idea what he’s doing. He’s never been a troop commander, never spent a day in the field over here, but somehow sweet-talked himself into command of Juliet Company. He went down there and turned them into a bunch of prima donnas who hardly ever go to the field. They gobble up rotor time and never seem to find a single zip in the bushes. They got their cranks in a few squeezes and field force had to divert resources to bail them out more than once. He got a few folks dead doing stupid stuff and wouldn’t listen to anyone.
“The NCOs tried to tell him he was making a mistake, but he just got rid of the NCOs who spoke up. He’s a disaster of a field commander.”
“I hate to hear it. J Company was a good company, and we came a long way that first year I was with it.”
Michaelson crushed out his cigarette in the cheap ashtray on the table. “Why don’t we take a run over there and look around?”
Hollister looked at his watch. “Do I have time before my ride to Nha Trang?”
“Sure,” Michaelson said. “Anyway, if you miss that flight, I’ll set you up with another. I have some pull around here now.”
Hollister caught a glimpse of a rare smile on Michaelson’s face. The roadway linking the Bien Hoa Army and Air Force Base complex to Long Binh’s field force headquarters was built up with paper-thin shopfronts and more vendors. When Hollister had last driven down the road, it was devoid of any merchants or stores. “Jesus, things have changed around here. Everything looks so worn-out, dirty, run-down, and overcrowded.”
Michaelson drove and pointed out some other changes. “Look up there at the ARVN watchtower.”
The raised platform was surrounded with sandbags, holding a machine gun, two ARVN soldiers, and a large spotlight. It was their job to keep a watch over the broad fields, which stood empty behind the thin ribbon of roadside stands. Both of the soldiers were asleep in hammocks strung across the uprights supporting the tin roof.
“They’re like this night and day. We tell the ARVNs their troops are flat on their asses, and they tell us they need more equipment and money. And Nixon tells everyone the Viets are ready to take over the war.”
CHAPTER 8
MICHAELSON PULLED OVER ACROSS the road from the Juliet Company compound. “How’s it look?”
Hollister immediately felt the tug in his gut. He remembered the days when he served with the former Juliet Company (Long Range Patrol), 51st Infantry, (Airborne). Since he had left, the company had been redesignated as a Ranger company, dropping the LRP designation. The job was the same, the risk was as great, and he had hoped the soldiers would be the same.
“Looks a little worse for wear,” Hollister said. The fading black and red paint on the huge Ranger scroll arced over the entrance to the compound was peeling and cracking.
But he was most surprised at the troops. He saw sad-looking excuses for Airborne-Rangers casually crossing the compound. Their uniforms were dirty and uncared for. They needed haircuts and sported mustaches and long sideburns. What weapons they carried were carried with little regard for safety.
He could tell from across the compound something was wrong. They had no life in their step. He remembered that all of the LRPs he had ever worked with in Vietnam took every moment back in the rear to recharge their batteries and enjoy the precious moments of relative security. The men he watched were down.
And there were other signs of sagging morale. The compound was dirty—unpoliced. Scraps of paper, tufts of weeds, and piles of garbage were everywhere. Then there were the choppers. He was shocked to see the c
hoppers tied down and buttoned up in the middle of the day. No one was standing by to crank if a team made contact. “Don’t they have teams on the ground?” Hollister asked.
“Yeah, a couple out in War Zone D,” Michaelson said. “See what I mean?”
Hollister nodded. “This is really sad.”
“Gonna get sadder.”
“How’s that?” Hollister asked.
“The general wants to shut down J Company, unless …”
“Unless what?”
“Unless we can come up with a plan to shape their asses up,” Michaelson said.
Hollister smiled at Michaelson. “So this is what this trip is all about?”
Michaelson smiled back. “I really need you, Jim. This is a good company gone to shit. If I can’t talk you into it—it’s gone. So, did you bring a black beret with you?”
Hollister took off his green beret and looked at it. “I was kinda looking forward to a tour with SF.”
“It’ll be there long after we turn the lights out here.”
“So what about the guy who’s commanding Juliet Company right now?”
“You’re the guy commanding J Company. We relieved Simonson last night. He left on the milk run this morning for a desk job in Da Nang while you were coming into Tan Son Nhut.”
Hollister looked at Michaelson, puzzled. “What if I hadn’t taken the job?”
“We’d be making arrangements to break up the company and send the troops to other assignments.” He made a stern face. “I’m not shitting you when I tell you the general wants this company back in shape fast, or we’re both going to be looking for jobs.”
Hollister took a big, deep breath and let it out. “Okay, sir. I’ll do it. But some folks aren’t going to be very happy about it.”
Michaelson only nodded, stepped on the starter, and fired the jeep up.
The rest of the day was filled with briefings at the field force headquarters, in-processing, some quick shopping at the PX, dinner with Michaelson, and meeting his boss, Colonel T. P. Terry—the G-3.
They ate at the officers club at Long Binh and then lingered over coffee. Terry was a no-nonsense veteran of two tours with battalion and brigade command experience.
“It’s changed since you left here, Jim,” Colonel Terry said, stirring his coffee with the handle end of his greasy dinner knife.
“That’s what I’ve been hearing,” Hollister said, as he shot a glance at Michaelson, who leaned back and lit a cheap cigar—his trademark.
“Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with these kids that leadership and a little ass kicking won’t fix. They’re the same kids this army has been fielding ever since we were fighting redcoats.”
“What’s the difference now, sir?” Hollister asked.
“Oh, there’s no problem here. It’s home. It’s back on the streets in the World.”
Hollister absentmindedly unclasped the catch on his Rolex and rubbed the skin underneath. “How’s that?”
“They’ve had their head filled full of shit about how wrong the war is, what fools they are for coming over here, how rich white kids aren’t doing their share, and how we’re just going to pull the plug anyway—so why should they bust their humps?”
“Hard to blame them if they believe what they hear,” Hollister said.
Michaelson blew smoke toward the ceiling fan and leaned back in his chair. “Let them wallow in that, and they’ll be convinced all the horseshit is absolutely true. Then, take the shabby treatment they’ve gotten since they were drafted, and you can see why every problem we have is of our own doing.”
Terry picked it up. “So while the country is self-destructing, we have to make these folks as effective as we can while they’re here.” He raised his hand, anticipating Hollister’s comment. “I know … no we don’t have to do anything superhuman—just smart enough to get as many Americans home as we can. It means the more the U.S. forces pull back into firebases and base camps while the fucking peace talks are jerking around, the more they need Ranger patrols out there keeping an eye on Charles.”
“You don’t have to sell me. We’re on the same side here,” Hollister said.
The colonel smiled. “We didn’t say this for you. We said it for us. We need to hear it now and then.”
They all laughed, and the colonel leaned back in his chair. “Let’s get a beer and then check into the office and see if peace has broken out.”
“What’s first?” Hollister asked.
Michaelson slapped Hollister on the shoulder. “Well, young promotable captain—it’s about time you really find out about a field-grader’s life. We start with the paperwork.”
It was well after midnight when Hollister looked at the equal stacks of after-action reports and operations summaries flanking the center of a field desk.
“I’m calling it a night. I’m just a sorry-ass staff officer, and unlike you, I don’t have the burden of command,” Michaelson said, jabbing Hollister playfully.
Hollister tapped one of the stacks. “This is fucking criminal. I know how puffed up these reports are. So when they still read as bad as they do, things must be pitiful in J company.”
“That’s right. You surprised?”
“No sir. Just heartbroken over how far down they are.” He picked up one document and then another. “Stupid accidents. Poor coordination. A lack of training. Leadership problems down at patrol level. Equipment failures and commo problems. Hell, it’s like everyone in that company just got off the goddamn boat.”
“Yep. You got your work cut out for you. And if you don’t do it—they’re gonna shut you down. How’s that for a little pressure?”
“Thanks,” Hollister said.
“Hey, I never promised you anything but hard work.”
Hollister smiled at his old friend. He remembered what a prick Michaelson had been as a Ranger School instructor when Hollister was his student. He was right. He never promised him anything but what he was looking at at that very moment.
“Thanks. Is there anything else, sir?”
“Yeah. Try not to make my life more miserable than it already is.”
“I’ll also need the leeway to chuck some of the deadwood. That means I need your support and some help getting replacements.”
“I understand. Do what you have to do. I’m already working on some replacements I know you’ll be needing.”
Hollister took his notes back to the thinned-out crowd at the officers club and looked them over while he nursed a cup of coffee and a tumbler of straight bourbon. His mind was running at top speed while he tried to figure out where to start.
It occurred to him he had never been in a unit in real trouble before. He had lived some kind of charmed life, where the troops were terrific, and the units enjoyed a better than average reputation. He had only seen the symptoms of problems—like the druggies back at Fort Benning that he was charged with sobering up.
He ordered another bourbon and more coffee, made more notes, and tried to put together a plan. He knew he’d have to hit the street running and that he would certainly be one unpopular son of a bitch in J Company. But that’s what it would take.
It was almost two-thirty when he finally sat down on the cot in the transient BOQ room at Long Binh. But sleep didn’t come. He tossed and turned and worried about the task ahead of him. Around four, he decided that he was wasting his time. A courier was happy to have him hitch a ride over to the Bien Hoa where the Ranger company was billeted.
He reached the door leading into what had been the small officers club end of the BOQ and found the door open and half off its hinges. He quietly stepped inside the large room, painted by the blue-pink wash that would soon give way to another hot Vietnam dawn.
In the hallway flanked by officers’ rooms he heard someone giggling—a woman. He stopped, and one of the doors opened. A tiny Vietnamese woman, wearing only an olive drab towel wrapped around her, stepped through the door and walked away from him—toward the other exit that led
out to the latrines.
Hollister continued down the short hallway and looked into the other rooms. Half had the doors open, and there was no one in them. He wondered if the officers assigned to the empty rooms were already up and over at the mess hall.
From one of the rooms with the door closed, a light painted the outline of the door frame as its occupant turned on a light. Hollister decided to avoid the surprise and continued down and out the hallway by the same door that the woman had used.
Just outside the BOQ, Hollister ran into the woman coming back from the latrine. She smiled and giggled at Hollister and tried to adjust the towel to cover her tiny body. It was obvious to Hollister that she was not just a day laborer that one of the officers had convinced to stay the night. She was a bar girl or hooker.
The color changed in the compound, and Hollister could see what he hadn’t seen from the jeep the day before with Michaelson. The grounds were a mess. He realized it was Vietnam and that the place should be more tactical than decorative, but the signs of sloppiness bothered him. The water trailer was half covered with a slimy moss. The latrine was surrounded by rich green weeds for five feet in each direction—a clear sign that it was not cleaned often enough to keep the waste from seeping into the ground. He didn’t need to get near it to know how it smelled. He also knew, if it looked like that on the outside, that the inside would be equally repugnant.
He continued down the company street to the hootches. Roofing was missing, steps broken and worn. Screens were torn, and piles of trash were everywhere. He stopped at one stack of cardboard boxes and picked one up. It was a C-ration box with all of the unpopular rations, like ham and lima beans, thrown away along with the fruitcake. Also in the box was a handful of corroded M-16 rounds. He dropped the box back on the pile.
He changed direction and walked toward the sandbagged bunker where all of the business of running the tactical operations took place. It was like the others, trashy, dirty, and falling apart. The sandbags were split from the sun, sand spilling out onto the ground—weakening the whole wall of bags and making it a serious safety hazard.
There didn’t appear to be any life in the bunker either. Hollister just didn’t have the stomach to go inside to see what shape it was in. He knew, if it was as shabby as everything else, the lives of the patrol members in the field were seriously jeopardized each time they were out.