the Hill (1995)

by Scott, Leonard B

  Willis looked at his platoon leader with a smile as he kept walking. “Limitations, Candidate Johnson, we’re finding the limitations in ourselves. Leaders must know their limitations.”

  Jason struggled to keep up again. “Sir, what … what happened to … taking care of … of your men?”

  Willis quickened his stride. “These aren’t ordinary men. They’re future leaders!”

  Ty looked up at the blazing sun, hating its existence. The huge star was trying to kill him, along with Drill Sergeant McCoy. Ty stood in the back of the extended platoon formation holding an M-14 rifle that also was quickly becoming an enemy. The platoon was practicing the manual of arms, but no matter how he performed the drills, McCoy found fault with him. He’d completed his fourth set of ten push-ups and was waiting on the sergeant’s next command.

  McCoy stood on a platform overlooking the platoon and spoke loudly. “By the numbers. RIGHT, SHOULDER … ARMS! READY, ONE … READY, TWO. GET DOWN, PRIVATE NANCE! YOU MESSIN’ UP MY CLASS. READY, THREE.”

  Ty got down in the front-leaning rest position and placed the heavy weapon on the back of his hands before beginning the ten push-ups. He felt as if his chest muscles had turned to soft rubber as he got to the fifth repetition cycle and tried to push himself back up. It was useless, and he fell to the hot gravel, giving up. The past two weeks were the most miserable in his life. He’d already lost ten pounds and felt so weak he could hardly lift his fork during chow. He had not slept more than three hours a night, and the runs and PT in the mornings had made him so sore he could hardly move. He’d thought he was in good shape, but it wasn’t good enough to withstand the torture McCoy was putting them through. The platoon had already lost eight men, and two more went on sick call that morning.

  McCoy smiled to himself at seeing his “attitude problem” give up. He barked, “AT EASE. Shake it out and take a ten-minute break in place.” He hopped down from the platform and strode toward his attitude case for personal one-on-one training.

  “Attitude Problem, get up and get at attention … now, what seems to be your problem?”

  Ty got up and stared directly into McCoy’s eyes. “You’re the problem, Drill Sergeant.”

  McCoy smiled proudly. “Good answer, you’re right. I’m going to get rid of you, Mister Attitude Problem. You haven’t learned a thing in two weeks. You’re still thinking you can beat me, aren’t you? You think you can get over on Sergeant McCoy and not give him one hundred percent. Well, I got news, Mister Attitude Problem, NO FUCKIN’ BODY gets over on Sergeant McCoy. He gets your mind, heart, and soul and makes soldiers.”

  Ty rolled his eyes, not impressed. “You put me on KP every night, and I don’t get any sleep. How am I supposed to learn anything?”

  McCoy smiled cruelly and stepped closer. “You don’t, that’s how I’m going to get rid of you. You haven’t got what it takes, Mister Attitude Problem. Your kind never do.… WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?” McCoy pointed at the dog tag chain that had slipped out of Ty’s shirt during push-ups. He fingered the silver wings Ty had placed on the chain with the ID tags.

  “Those are my dad’s wings, Sergeant,” Ty said plaintively.

  McCoy grabbed the wings and yanked the chain from his neck. “You can’t wear unauthorized awards, shithead! Your daddy must not be much of a man, having the likes of you. The best part of you ran down your mama’s leg!”

  Ty’s eyes narrowed in rage and he began to shake, wanting to tear McCoy’s smile from his face.

  McCoy backed up a step, watching him in fascination. “Well, I’ll be damned. You scratch hard enough, I guess you finally get to the real man. You mad at me? You want to hit Sergeant McCoy? COME ON, ATTITUDE PROBLEM, TAKE A SHOT! You ain’t got nothing to lose.”

  Ty began to jerk his rifle butt up when a loud voice behind him barked, “McCOY, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”

  The sergeant came to attention and faced his approaching irate company commander. “Sir, the private and I were having a talk, and he acted as if he wanted to strike me.”

  The captain marched past Ty and angrily motioned to McCoy to follow him. They walked five paces and the captain spun around, red-faced. “McCoy, I will not tolerate any further abuse of my soldiers. I saw you pull that chain from the private’s neck. You will return the chain immediately. You have the highest attrition rate in the company, and battalion is asking why. You had the worst graduation rate last cycle, and you’ve already lost more men than last time. Get your act together and start training my men properly, or you’ll be up to your ass in rice paddies in two months. You read me, Sergeant?”

  McCoy was fuming. Shit, he’d been a drill sergeant for two years. He could just look at a trainee and know if the kid was going to make it. The captain was new and didn’t understand that fuck-ups ruined a platoon and that it was best to get rid of them early. Screw the attrition rate. He was training soldiers, not playing numbers games.

  “Sir, you don’t understand how the system works. We …”

  The captain raised his hand, “No, Sergeant McCoy, YOU don’t understand. This conversation is over. You have been given your last warning. You’re dismissed.”

  Ty had secretly smiled and jumped up and down inside. He’d heard every wonderful word and hoped McCoy would say something else. The way the captain looked, he was ready to axe the sergeant right there and then. Instead, McCoy raised his right hand in a perfect salute and spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. “Yes, sir.”

  The captain returned the salute quickly and stomped back toward his office.

  McCoy strolled toward Ty with a swagger and smiled. “Don’t worry, Attitude Problem, this doesn’t change anything.” He threw the chain at Ty’s feet. “Next week we begin bayonet training, and I’m gonna use you as a demonstrator. I’m gonna get rid of you nice and legal. You’re gone, Attitude Problem. You’re gone.”

  Ty sat in the darkness on the back steps of the barracks looking at the distant airport. A lone plane was just taking off and rose into the night. Logan Heights basic training area was situated on a high plateau overlooking the outskirts of El Paso. The view constantly reminded him that there was still a normal world just a mile away. The view was known as ‘AWOL Lookout,’ because many a trainee had been overcome with homesickness and took off in the night to try and catch one of the sleek jets home.

  Ty broke his gaze from the plane and continued shining his boots. The stars overhead reminded him of the hill.

  “You thinking about taking off, Nance?” Warren Glinski asked, walking down the back steps and sitting down beside Ty.

  “Naw, Ski, this coon dog ain’t beat yet.”

  Glinski stared at the airport as if in a trance. “I am … McCoy put me on KP again. I can’t take it anymore. He says he’s going to get me one way or another, and he means it.”

  Ty frowned and put down his polishing rag. “He told me the same thing. Matter a fact, he’s told half the platoon the same thing. Just keep doin’ the best ya can.”

  “My girl understands,” Glinski said slowly. “She told me she did. She said the war was wrong. She understands.”

  “Don’t do it, Ski. Your girl might understand, but in a few days, you won’t. You won’t be able to look in a mirror again. Just hang in a little longer … it’s gonna get better.”

  Glinski slowly rose and put his hand on Ty’s shoulder. “He’s gonna get you, Nance. Everybody knows it. Come with me.”

  Ty looked up at his eyes and knew McCoy had taken Glinski’s spirit. There was nothing he could say to change his mind. Picking up his rag, he said dejectedly, “Take care, Ski.”

  Glinski patted his shoulder one last time and walked up the stairs in silence.

  * * *

  Ty stood in a circle of twenty-nine men watching two others in the center beat themselves senseless with pugil sticks. The platoon had finished bayonet training the day before, and the pugil-stick training was supposed to be like the real thing, except that the fighters wore helmets and chest and groin pads. I
nstead of real bayonets they were given sticks that looked like huge cue sticks with padded ends.

  McCoy stood back from the flailers and held a whistle to signal when a “fatal” blow was delivered. The larger of the two had gone in hollering and bragging and had attacked with furious blows, but he was tiring now. It was just a matter of time before he was “killed.” The smaller man feinted left and threw the butt up, catching his opponent with his arms down and knocking him off his feet. The finishing blow to the chest caused the ring of men to scream out in pleasure, like Romans cheering for the winning gladiator.

  McCoy blew his whistle and raised up the smaller man’s hand, proclaiming him the winner to even louder hoots and hollers. He glanced at Ty with a quick smirk and paced around the circle. “Has everybody fought?”

  Ty had known it was coming when he hadn’t been paired up. McCoy had set it up perfectly. They had an even number of men, but McCoy had sent one back to “secure” the barracks. It was time for him to carry out his threat.

  Ty silently stepped into the circle. McCoy shook his head theatrically. “Damn, Private Nance, we don’t have a partner for you.… I wouldn’t want you to miss this training, so I guess I’ll have to go a round.”

  The men looked at Ty in sympathy. McCoy had been riding Nance twice as hard as everyone else. It was clear the sergeant was going to make a lesson of him for their benefit.

  Two men helped Ty put on his equipment and stepped back among the silent platoon members as McCoy held up his stick and yelled, “ON GUARD!”

  Ty crouched and raised his stick, moving to his opponent’s left. He’d been watching McCoy’s demonstrations closely. He thought he had a chance.

  McCoy played the cat-and-mouse game for only twenty seconds and lost patience. He wanted to finish the Indian off and get it over with. He screamed and attacked by lunging at Ty’s head. Ty ducked and swung the stick at McCoy’s feet, catching him just above his boot tops. The sergeant went down before he knew what had happened, but quickly recovered and rolled as Ty viciously swung again, just missing his head.

  McCoy jumped to his feet and dropped into a low crouch. The kid was quick but not strong enough. He attacked again with a deep-throated scream, throwing himself at the smaller soldier’s body.

  Ty sidestepped him at the last instant and came around behind, swinging with all his might at the back of his helmet. The blow knocked McCoy forward, and he sunk to his knees. He shook his head and rolled right, but Ty was waiting for him and slammed the front of his faceguard with a horizontal butt stroke. McCoy reeled with the blow, falling to his back, and he felt the end of the padded stick strike his chest in the final deathblow.

  The platoon erupted into pandemonium as Ty lifted his arms in victory. Seething, McCoy got to his feet and swung the stick at Ty’s back, hitting him in the head. The powerful blow knocked him to the ground, knocking him out.

  McCoy moved toward Ty’s still form, lifting his stick, when the winner of the last bout stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Drill Sergeant, we’re late for company formation.”

  Two more men quickly joined him, then two more.

  McCoy backed up, seeing the entire platoon push closer to form a wall of bodies to protect their gladiator. He knew he’d gone too far the second he felt his pugil stick hit Nance’s head. If the captain had seen him or one of these scumbags said something, he’d be on the street with his bags. He’d have to let them get away with their little game for now, but they’d pay. The scumbags were gonna pay for their insubordination.

  He quickly composed himself and held up his pugil stick. “You have just witnessed a lesson. Never let your guard down. The enemy might be playing dead and get up and stick his bayonet up your ass. I hope you all learned something. Now, GET FORMED UP!… Two a you help Attitude Problem to the barracks.”

  17

  Candidate Jason Johnson confidently walked out of the woodline and motioned the members of his platoon to move into their positions. Today would end the four-day field exercise that would culminate in an airmobile extraction. Thirty minutes before, under the watchful eye of Captain Willis, Jason had briefed the men on his plan for loading the choppers when they came in to pick up the platoon.

  Jason looked south, waiting for the six Hueys to appear, and spoke to the radio telephone operator beside him. “Has flight lead reported in yet?”

  The RTO lowered the radio handset. “This damn thing hasn’t worked all morning. I’ve changed handsets and batteries and still get nothing but static.”

  Jason kept his eyes on the horizon. “It doesn’t matter now. The last transmission said they’d be here on time.”

  Captain Willis came up behind Jason. “Candidate Johnson, are you sure you covered everything in your briefing that you wanted to?”

  Jason nodded. “Yes, sir, I covered everything and double-checked with the squad leaders. We’re broken down in chalks of seven men each, and every man knows what bird he gets on.”

  Willis backed up a step. “And what is the formation the flight of birds is going to use?”

  “Sir, they’ll come in just like we rehearsed, in trail formation, one right behind the other, like six ducks in a column.”

  Willis nodded his head in exaggeration. “I see.”

  Jason suddenly raised his hand. “I hear ’em.” He turned and yelled toward the small groups of men spread out on line next to the trees. “GET READY, BIRDS INBOUND. REMEMBER WE HAVE TO BE ON IN TWENTY SECONDS!”

  Jason looked back to the south and saw five Hueys streaking toward him just above the treetops. “Five? Shit, they said …”

  “You want to throw a smoke,” said the RTO, seeing that the birds were too far to the west and hadn’t seen the landing zone.

  Jason had forgotten the smoke and barked, “Throw it, quick!” He turned. “SIXTH CHALK BREAK OFF AND SPREAD OUT ON THE OTHER CHALKS … HURRY!”

  The helicopters turned on seeing the smoke and came in for a landing from the north. Jason threw up his hands in exasperation. “They’re coming in the wrong way! What the … what kind of formation is that! That’s not a trail formation, that’s a diamond!”

  The helicopters landed in a screaming whine, kicking up dead grass and dust. The chalks of men were totally confused. They’d practiced getting the first chalk on the first bird in from the south, but the chalks were now gathered on the wrong end of the open field. The second chalk was supposed to get on the second bird in line, but the choppers were in diamond formation, and no one knew which one was the second bird. The third and fourth chalks had the same problem.

  Jason watched in horror as the chalks crisscrossed and backtracked in mass confusion. Men were yelling commands, obscenities, and accusations, all unheard over the noise of the screaming turbine engines and whopping blades. Running back and forth from bird to bird, trying to find an empty chopper, the chalk leaders lost control. Soon it was every man for himself, scrambling in pursuit of a ride out of the mess.

  Jason’s shoulders sagged. He thought the disaster was a nightmare come true and couldn’t get more screwed up until the excited RTO grabbed his shoulder and pointed. “FIRE!”

  Jason turned and almost cried. The smoke grenade had started a fire in the dry grass.

  Willis calmly walked up to Jason and spoke loudly in his ear to be heard over the turbine noise. “Are you still sure, Candidate?” Not waiting for a response, Willis shook his head and strode toward the lead helicopter, motioning for the flight leader to shut down.

  Fifteen minutes later the platoon had put out the fire and sat under a tree with blackened faces, uniforms, and dispositions. Willis took off his helmet and put it under his arm. He began pacing in front of the platoon and suddenly halted, speaking in a surprisingly even tone.

  “Candidates, I was truly awed, no, mesmerized by your unbelievable performance. Never have I witnessed such a spectacle. That was undoubtedly the best, most classic example of a Chinese goat rope that I have ever seen. You did absolutely nothing right. Con
gratulations are in order. This platoon will go down in the OCS history books. You have managed to completely, totally, and unequivocally write a new chapter on how not to conduct an airmobile operation.”

  Willis let his words sink in for effect and shifted his eyes to Jason, who was sitting in the front row. “Your leader did NOT have a bump plan in case there were fewer birds than expected. He did NOT check the wind and know birds ALWAYS land INTO the wind. He did NOT have communications with flight lead, although his platoon sergeant had a radio that was working fine. He did NOT have a contingency plan for a different formation. He did NOT use arm and hand signals, but instead tried yelling commands. He did NOT have a hole dug for a smoke grenade, although it hasn’t rained in two weeks.”

  Willis had taken a step closer to Jason on each “not” and ended his last sentence standing directly in front of the humbled platoon leader. Willis shook his head in disgust. He spoke with the same even inflection. “The lesson in all this, is that the best plan in the world doesn’t mean a thing come time for execution. Conditions change, candidates. The enemy, weather, wind, chopper pilots, terrain don’t know your plan. They don’t care about your plan. They try and screw up your plan. You have to plan for the unexpected. You have to plan for Murphy’s Law and think about everything that could go wrong, because it probably will.”

  He paused, feeling a familiar tingling in his insides. He had to stop a moment and savor the feeling. He had them. He had their undivided attention, and they were actually learning. The blank stares were gone, and they were absorbing his every word.

  Throwing his shoulders back, he continued. “Candidates, this is a school. We are supposed to make mistakes, but we make them here. In combat, there is no room for mistakes. There you pay with blood. Today was a fantastic learning experience. We screwed up, but hell, look at what we learned.”

  He suddenly broke into a smile and motioned Jason to his feet. “Candidate Johnson, we learned a lot today. How about you trying it again. You’ve got thirty minutes to get organized, remembering all your mistakes.”