by Dennis Foley
Hollister looked around the room. All twelve members of Deming’s heavy team had laid out their combat loads for inspection. He singled out Private First Class Keith, a new man, who was one of the radio operators for the team. “You and I haven’t had a chance to talk much, Keith.”
Keith was kneeling over his rucksack, arranging the contents in front of it.
“How many patrols you have with Juliet Company now?”
The soldier looked up and thought for a moment. “Four, sorta—I mean one of them was only an insert, followed by a pickup about five minutes later. Can’t really call that a patrol.”
“Anytime you go into bad guy territory and come out, you’ve been somewhere worth talking about,” Hollister said. “What’s your call sign?”
“We’re Team Georgia this time, sir.”
“Lemme see that radio,” Hollister said.
Hollister hoisted the PRC-77 and rested it on his hip. He turned the dials to the preset stops and read the number. “What’s your primary frequency?”
Keith spit out the numbers from memory.
Hollister spun the dials to the other stops. “Your alternate?”
Keith had the correct numbers that time too.
“How long have you had this radio?”
“A month, sir,” Keith said.
“It work?”
“Gets a little staticky in the rain, but most of the time it’s pretty good.”
“You willing to bet your life on it?”
“I’d rather go with this one I know than a new one, sir.”
“Good.” Hollister handed the radio back and picked up Keith’s two-quart canteen. He unscrewed the plastic top and smelled the water. “Fresh?”
“This morning, sir.”
“Water purification tablets?” Hollister asked.
Keith picked up another one-quart canteen and showed Hollister the small brown bottle taped to the canteen.
Hollister swapped canteens and unscrewed the tiny top to the halazone tablets. He turned the bottle upside down, and nothing came out.
“Shit,” Keith mumbled.
“If you don’t keep these dry, they turn into a rock in the bottom of the bottle. You ever picked up one of the bugs in the local water?”
“No, sir.”
“If you had, we’d never need to discuss this.” He handed the canteen back to Keith.
“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.”
Hollister looked down at Keith’s feet. “Which boot?” he asked.
“Sir?”
“Dog tag,” Hollister said.
Keith raised his left foot off the ground. “This one, sir.”
Hollister could make out the outline of the single dog tag threaded through the laces of Keith’s boot and tucked behind the canvas upper. It was a grim reminder that it was necessary to split the pair up—one dog tag on the neck chain and the other in a boot. In case a Ranger was decapitated and the chain got lost.
Hollister dismissed the solemn subject from his mind. “Okay, Ranger, have a good trip.”
“Thank you, sir. Hope I do,” Keith said.
Hollister continued to spot-check equipment and ask questions of the Rangers in Deming’s patrol. He was impressed with the attention to detail. Deming had put plenty of time into preparing Team Georgia. Hollister finished with another Ranger and turned to Deming. “Let’s walk outside. I want to have a word with you.”
Hollister pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered Deming one.
“No, sir. I’m trying to quit,” Deming said.
Hollister lit one and looked back toward the building. “I don’t want to put pressure on you, but I want you to know this is not a normal patrol. Every decision you make will not only affect the eleven other members of your team but the moves and the safety of twenty-four other Rangers and thirteen chopper crews.”
Deming looked down at his jungle boot and kicked at a shoot of a weed trying to stretch toward the sun. “I’ve been thinking about that, sir. It’s pretty heavy.”
“It doesn’t have to be. I mean, you don’t have to do it alone. Just don’t try to be a hero or an iron butt out there. You have a problem or are unsure about something—let me know. Either me, or Brownie, or Thomas will be a radio squawk away—twenty-four hours a day.”
“I appreciate that, sir. You can count on me not to spook or do something crazy out there.”
Hollister looked at his watch. “You’ll be on the ground in thirty-six hours. What can we help you prepare between now and then?”
“I’d like to spend some more time loading and unloading the choppers. We’ve never gone in with boats before.”
“You got it I’ll set it up.”
Deming nodded, and Hollister gave him a supportive slap on the shoulder.
“I don’t give a fuck about Colonel Valentine,” Hollister said, slamming his fist down on the desktop, upsetting a half-empty soda can.
“Sir, he keeps complaining about our chopper support,” Captain Thomas said, reading from cryptic notes in his pocket notebook.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“His story is that his Viets keep seeing chopper after chopper coming and going from our compound, and they can’t seem to get their hands on the same kind of chopper support. Two of his regimental commanders here in Tay Ninh are saying it is causing them to lose face.
“He went through channels with his complaint, and it came back down to General Quinn’s office. I got the call from the ops sergeant major that Quinn called Valentine directly, and they got in a minor pissing match. So I guess you better stand by for shit to roll downhill, sir.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do—not use choppers? Or maybe we should walk into fucking Cambodia?”
Sergeant Caulter came through the orderly room door. “Cap’n … chopper’s coming with General Quinn on board. Be here in zero three.”
“Shit!” Hollister said. He grabbed his black beret and squared it up on his head. “Let’s go see what the hell he wants.”
Hollister and Captain Thomas stood by the large H sunk into the hard-packed dirt. Quinn’s chopper settled onto the pad. Its new paint job and large Field Force emblem on the nose set it off from the working choppers tied down on either side of the runway.
Quinn pushed open the door, slipped free of his seat belts, and jumped out of the chopper. He walked toward Hollister.
“Good afternoon, General,” Hollister yelled over the chopper’s turbine whine.
“Hollister. Thomas. How are you two?” the general asked, a large smile on his face.
“Good, sir. Is there something we can show you?”
“I came to chat, and then I have to get back to Saigon for a meeting this evening.”
The only place they could talk and not have their conversation overheard was in the tiny officers club. Hollister braced himself for what he would find inside. He hoped it looked presentable enough not to be embarrassing.
They stepped through the door into the much darker room and found it completely empty, although smelling of beer and stale cigarettes. Hollister pointed at one of the two plywood tables circled by empty ammo boxes that served as seats; Thomas went to the window and opened the metal shutters to let some air and light in.
“Something to drink, General?” Thomas asked.
General Quinn jabbed his thumb at the wall that blocked his view of his own chopper. “I’ve got more flying to do so it better be a soft drink.”
Hollister nodded to Thomas, letting him know he’d have the same.
“I have to start by telling you I have had every intention of coming out to see what kind of operation you folks have, but my time has been eaten up by all the shitty little details. I’m the junior BG in the loop—I get all the crap.”
Hollister and Thomas smiled at the candid comment; they were not used to a general officer being so informal.
“And with your upcoming operations, this wouldn’t be the time to ask you to show me around and brief me on how
you folks do what you do.
“I haven’t been a general officer so long I don’t remember how much work and training gets done when a visiting fireman shows up—none.”
“Thank you, sir. Right now we can use every minute we get.”
“I don’t have to tell you I’ve been taking some static from the province senior adviser about your folks and your operations.”
“I heard, sir, and I’m sorry if we are—”
“I can’t think you got this job because something like that would get in your way. You know your own priorities. I also have confidence you can sidestep some of this shit without it blowing up into skunks peeing on one another.
“Now, I’m going to make some noises about all this, and I want you to keep on doing what you’re doing. You let me handle Colonel—promotable—Valentine. You got that?” Quinn said.
“Yes, sir.” Hollister broke into a smile. He knew there was something about Quinn he liked the first time he saw him.
“I’d like to walk through the compound and say hello to a few of your Rangers while they’re warming my chopper back up if you don’t mind,” General Quinn said.
“No, sir.” Hollister stood up. “That’d be no problem at all. As a matter of fact, we’re running our teams through some training down at the strip now. Would you like to check it out?”
As Hollister followed General Quinn down the pathway to the airstrip, Rangers passed, recognized the general, and offered snappy salutes.
“They look good, Hollister. I understand you had somewhat of a problem when you took command.”
“All they needed was a chance to do a good job.”
Before the general could answer, a chopper approached and landed. Several feet off the ground Hollister recognized the passenger as Colonel Valentine.
The chopper settled and Valentine got out. He appeared to be surprised to see General Quinn, but quickly put on a bright smile and saluted the general.
The general turned to Hollister. “Excuse me, Hollister. I’d like to speak with Colonel Valentine.”
Without waiting for an answer, the general walked over to meet with Valentine. Hollister couldn’t hear the conversation. But it was clear that Quinn was taking the wind out of Valentine’s sails.
Valentine continued to nod his head and listen to the general. Occasionally, he would smile and look like whatever the general said was either interesting or enlightened.
The conversation ended with Valentine and Quinn walking back to their respective choppers. Quinn threw Hollister a cramped salute from his cockpit, while Valentine gave Hollister a look that promised more trouble.
On his way back to operations, Hollister heard the unique sounds of an approaching light observation helicopter—known as a loach for its acronym. He held his hand over his brow to cut the glare.
The pilot of the light observation helicopter came in hot, flared abruptly, and put the skids of the small chopper down as easily as if he was pitching pennies into a hat. His total control was evident in the bold moves he made and his decisive flying style.
Hollister didn’t recognize the warrant officer at the controls and decided not to waste any more time. He just assumed the chopper was there for some aviation business. After all, he had amassed over a dozen choppers at his launch site, and more of their business was taking place forward than at their base in Bien Hoa.
Inside operations, Sergeant Young had assembled team leaders DeSantis, Chastain, and Deming for a weather update. Hollister came in on the moon-phase information.
Loomis had added backup radios next to and on top of the original ones.
“Nixon could run the White House out of here,” Hollister said.
Loomis poked his head up from behind the bench where he was connecting antenna cables. “We aren’t gonna get caught with our commo pants down. You need to talk to one of those teams or aircraft, I’ll have the tools for you to do it.”
Hollister looked at the array of radios and telephones. “Where the hell did all this come from?”
Loomis shot a look at Captain Browning, who had just stepped through the door.
Hollister didn’t miss the look. He turned to Browning. “You know anything about all this new commo equipment?”
Browning looked down. “Well, sir, it seems there might be some problems in supply routing. Some of this stuff was scheduled to be given to the Viets—part of Vietnamization—but it ended up here by mistake.”
“Where was this supposed to go?”
“To province headquarters.”
“You mean this stuff was for Valentine’s units?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hollister shook his head. “Great. This guy is going to be a pain in my butt for the rest of my life. Does he know?”
Browning was unable to hold back a sliver of a smile. “I don’t know. I’ve been meaning to send a message back through channels telling the signal folks some equipment has ended up here by mistake and ask for instructions.”
Hollister picked up on the maneuver. “Well, make sure you get the address right before you send it and make sure you identify all of the equipment by nomenclature and serial number. We don’t want to screw up the supply system with incomplete messages.”
“Yes, sir,” Browning said. “I sure hope Colonel Valentine’s folks can get along for a few weeks without this stuff. It may take that long to get it and the complete information to the right destination.”
“It just might.”
“Anyone in here tell me where I can find Captain Thomas?”
Hollister turned around and found a chief warrant officer standing in the doorway, his rumpled Nomex flight suit poorly fitting his small frame. The boy couldn’t have been a day over twenty. He wore aviator’s sunglasses, sported a large handlebar mustache, wore a black leather pistol belt that held up a .38 police special revolver, and had a huge 1st Cavalry Division combat patch on his right shoulder.
“He’s not here right now. What can I do for you, Chief?” Hollister said.
The young pilot took off his sunglasses. He quickly recognized Hollister’s rank and other insignia and snatched the faded baseball cap from his head. “Sir. My name’s Adams. I was told to report to Captain Thomas with a loach ready to do some flying. I’m looking for where to dump my gear and where to park my crew chief. I guess I’m supposed to be here for a week or so.”
Hollister stuck his hand out “Welcome aboard, Chief. Have you eaten?”
The warrant officer’s eyes quickly scanned the room, not missing combat markings on the uniforms of the team leaders and officers in the room. “No, sir. I was kinda hoping we’d get lucky. That food back at battalion will ground the average pilot. Thought you folks bein’ who you are and doin’ what you do would get some priority for better chow.”
Browning and Loomis laughed at the notion.
“Well, we have had plenty of complaints about our chow. But folks keep coming back meal after meal. So my guess is the bitching is just bitching. Why don’t you round up your crew chief and head on over to the mess hall.” Hollister pointed. “Two buildings down. Have Sergeant Kelly give you two something to eat. I’ll have someone round up Captain Tennant—the air mission commander—to get you racks and a place to drop your gear.”
“Good deal, sir,” the pilot said. He turned to exit, and Hollister stopped him.
“Where’d you come from?”
“I was a scout pilot in the Cav, and they started deploying back to the States.”
“You got lots of time in a loach?”
“About half and half. Half of it in a loach and half in a Cobra. I started out as a Cobra front sealer in a hunter-killer team,” Adams said.
“What’s your favorite?” Hollister asked.
“It’s real hard to say which I like better. I gotta be honest. The Cobra’s a real kick in the ass. But I’m about the best loach pilot the Cav ever saw. I can fly that little sucker through the eye of a needle and not ding anything up.”
“Well, I�
��m glad to hear that. We can use all the shit-hot pilots we can get. Now, get on over to that mess hall, and we’ll get you an orientation briefing after you’re fed and checked in.”
Hollister could see a few lights still on in the team hootches. He remembered how tense those nights before missions had been for him. He could only guess it was the same for the teams going in within a few hours.
Inside one end of an old engineer barracks Team 1-4 had set up housekeeping. They had separated themselves from Team 1-2 with a chin-high wall of empty artillery crating.
Hollister stuck his head in the back door and found one Ranger still awake. “You ’bout ready to go tomorrow, Greenwood?”
“Yes, sir. I’m about as ready as I can be.” Greenwood smiled. “Thanks for asking, sir.”
“I’m glad you hung in there back at Benning. And I’m happy to have you back again.”
“Let’s hope I get luckier this time out. I can’t spend another month on my back in some lame-assed hospital.”
“Yer sure everything’s working?”
“Sir, I’m right as rain. Ready to go.” He reached up and touched the jagged line on his jaw. “Anyway, the scars are good for picking up women in bars.”
The room smelled of cleaning solvents and lubrication for the weapons. Hollister didn’t have to be there to know each man spent a considerable amount of time that evening checking and rechecking the action on his weapons.
Private First Class Parsons slept on his back and half-snorted as he rolled over.
“How’s he doing?” Hollister asked.
Greenwood simply gave Hollister a nod. Then he added, “Glad I got him. He’ll be okay. I’ll keep him straight.”
“Good. Get some rack time. You’ve got several long days ahead of you.”
CHAPTER 25
SERGEANT DINH SPAT THE rice gruel from his mouth toward the corner of the earthen room. “You cook like you work. Is there nothing your kind can do correctly?”
Rat looked up from his spot on the floor where he tried to finish his own meager bowl of rice. “I’m not a cook. I told you so. Cooking is woman’s work.”
“You are not a cook,” Dinh said. “You are also not a soldier, not a worker, not a brother in the struggle, and not a man. What are you mountain monkeys good for?”