Rotters (Book 2): Bravo Company

by Carl R. Cart

  We were playing poker and drinking warm beer. Just another Wednesday night in exotic Ethiopia. My squad played a lot of cards. Whenever we had some down time we played Poker and Spades. Occasionally we played for money, but Sgt. McAllister frowned on that. It caused hard feelings, so we mostly played for points, or candy and smokes.

  Gunner sat on the ground nearby, idly flipping through a porno magazine. Gunner’s real name was Hernandez. He was from Miami, and was mean as a snake. He had been assigned the SAW, or Squad Assault Weapon, the unit’s heavy machine gun; hence his nickname, Gunner. He was short and squat, heavily tattooed, and claimed to have belonged to a gang before he joined the Army. I believed him.

  “Come on, Gunner, if you get your fat ass in here we can play Euchre,” Jonesy suggested.

  “I hate Euchre,” Gunner replied flatly.

  “You ungrateful, selfish bastard,” Jonesy cursed. “It doesn’t matter if you like Euchre or not, you should play so that we can play. Euchre is a four person game, asshole.”

  Euchre was my favorite card game, but I had figured out that it was a Midwestern game; not everyone played it, or liked it for that matter. A lot of people had never heard of it. I had tried to teach it to my squad several times. Jonesy liked to play it occasionally.

  “I’d rather beat my dick with a hammer than play Euchre,” Gunner retorted.

  “It’s no wonder you’re always in such a bad mood if you’re masturbating with a hammer,” I laughed. “You should have Hard-on show you how to do it; he’s a master of self-flagellation.”

  Hard-on glared at me. “You should talk, Parsons, your dick looks like a pistol grip.”

  “If you don’t like how my dick looks, stop staring at it,” I suggested.

  Hard-on stood up. “How’d you like a nice ass-kickin’, Parsons?” he slurred. I realized we were a little too drunk for our usual game of insult your buddy. I had the advantage of being fairly well read and a high school diploma over my squad mates. They considered me a smart ass, and more than once I had talked myself into trouble. I had tangled with Hard-on and Gunner before. At least Jonesy had a sense of humor.

  Of course, I couldn’t back down, unless I did it cleverly. I slowly stood up and bowed to Hard-on.

  “I apologize, Hard-on,” I said seriously. “Allow me to offer a complete retraction of any slander I may have uttered about you eyeballing my junk. I’m sure you only looked in passing and it was only a harmless curiosity, perhaps gone a titch too far.” I held up my finger and thumb, about an inch apart.

  Hard-on was too perplexed to respond. The other two fell out laughing at the look on his face. I laughed, and finally Hard-on laughed, too. He sat back down and opened another beer.

  “You’re an asshole, Parsons,” he muttered.

  We had just settled back down to another round of poker and beers when Master Sgt. McAllister burst into our bivouac.

  “Wrap this shit up, ladies,” he ordered. “We are pulling out as soon as we can load up our shit.”

  Hard-on threw his cards in. “Damn it, Sarge! I was just starting to get drunk. I knew those planes meant trouble,” he growled.

  McAllister grabbed a beer, opened it, and drained it. He crushed the can and threw it at Hard-on’s head. “Fun times over. Get your kits together and hump it over to the HQ. The LT is gonna brief everyone. The old man will be there so act straight. Got it?” he asked.

  The sergeant was a good guy. He was always ripping somebody’s ass, but he looked out for us. He had seen action in Iraq and Afghanistan; he knew his shit.

  “Let’s go!”

  We cleaned ourselves up and threw on our uniform shirts and hats. It didn’t take us long to pull our gear together, we were only here temporarily, and had never really completely unpacked or settled in.

  The sergeant hurried us along. We walked across the base to the headquarters tent. Usually only the officers and senior NCOs were allowed in the tent, now everyone was crowded inside. The tent’s walls were rolled up; everyone pushed in as close as they comfortably could.

  The company commander, Maj. Dorset, stood near the map board, with a pointer in hand. We called him the old man behind his back. Major Dorset did not engender love or loyalty in the men under his command. He was old school; like eighteenth century British old school. He was a total prick, aloof and cold. His face was set in a constant sneer of contempt, and he rarely smiled. The major reminded me of another Army officer I had read about in my history books, General George Armstrong Custer.

  He may have been fit at one time, but the major had gone soft now, and his uniforms rode a bit snug. Regardless of how the men under his command were getting on, the commander never missed a meal. He considered comfort an officer’s privilege.

  The old man had one golden rule: he was always correct, and the reality of the situation be damned.

  Standing beside him were the two combat platoon commanders, Lieutenants Reid and Beckham, the transportation NCO, Sgt. Price, and the Medical CO, Col. Warren.

  Reid was competent and professional. He attempted to look after the men under his command despite the major’s drawbacks. Luckily, he was our squad’s commanding officer. He was tall and thin; everyone in the platoon called him the LT.

  Beckham was a kiss-ass and an idiot, to boot. He was book smart, but had no experience or common sense. He just did whatever the major told him to do, and his men suffered for it. He was short, lazy and very fat. His men had nicknamed him Fat Ass.

  Everyone loved Sgt. Price. He was a big, goofy, good natured son of a bitch. He would always help you out if he could. He smoked and drank beer and bourbon, and always made damn sure that the company was supplied with all three.

  Col. Warren was a fine surgeon, and a good man to have around if you were going into a firefight. He was generally pretty friendly, but he had a serious nature. I didn’t really know him, but it seemed to me that seeing men under his care die had made him melancholy. He always seemed sad and far away.

  Sgt. McAllister called everyone to attention. The old man stepped forward and snapped the pointer into his palm.

  “At ease!” the major shouted. Everyone stood down and relaxed a little.

  The major seemed excited. Unless we were being deployed to Tahiti, an unlikely situation at best, it probably meant more work for us.

  He tried to smile and failed, and then he jumped into his speech. “Men, a situation has developed in the Democratic Republic of Congo.” He moved to the map board and pointed out the DRC. “This is the village of Lat. A US Army medical unit that was dispatched there to help counter a viral outbreak has come under attack by rebel forces within the DRC. Contact has been lost with the unit. We are the closest combat company within Africa proper. We have been ordered to move to the assistance of the medical unit and to extract that unit’s personnel immediately.”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt, sir, but why are we going? Wouldn’t they usually send in the Special Forces or the Rangers for a rescue mission?” Sgt. Price piped up.

  “It would take at least forty-eight hours to dispatch a Special Forces unit,” the major replied, “As I just explained, we are the closest combat asset.”

  The major looked around the tent, scowling at the men in his command. “This is a rare opportunity for all of us. Fate has given us this chance to shine, to show the world what Bravo Company can do. You will carry out this mission without fail. We will rescue the medical unit. You will make me proud. Do you understand?” the Commander shouted.

  “Yes, sir!” the men shouted back.

  “Good,” Maj. Dorset replied. “The lieutenant will brief you as to particulars, we prepare to leave immediately.”

  The sergeant called the men to attention again. With that the major left the tent.

  Lt. Reid stepped forward. “At ease,” he said.

  There was a low buzz of conversation, mostly bitching about being redeployed so quickly. The atmosphere was much more informal with the CO gone. Reid gave it a moment, then spoke.
“Listen up. I know you guys aren’t happy about this. I know we just pulled three weeks of food distribution, that you guys have been busting your asses, but this mission is important. There is an American medical unit out there that needs our assistance.” He paused to let that sink in. Everyone was listening now.

  Hard-on piped up, “How many nurses are with that unit, sir?”

  “I’m not privy to that information,” Reid replied, shaking his head.

  Someone shouted from the rear, “Hey LT, did the major say something about a virus?”

  “I’m glad someone was listening,” the lieutenant joked. “Yes, there is a virus. We will operate in full MOPP-4 protective gear until Col. Warren clears us.”

  A chorus of groans broke out.

  “I need you guys to hustle up. We need to have everything loaded on those C-130s and ready to go within two hours!” Reid yelled.

  More groans erupted.

  The LT held up his hands. “Just do it without all the belly aching for once,” he pleaded.

  Sgt. McAllister stepped up and yelled, “You heard the man. Get to work! Dismissed!”

  Everyone dispersed and went to work. Despite the verbal abuse, Bravo was a well-trained and efficient combat unit. Every man pitched in to help load the cargo planes.

  Within two hours our camp tents had been broken down and stowed on the transports, along with food, weapons, Humvees and a light cargo truck, all our miscellaneous combat equipment and the medical corps’ gear. Sgt. McAllister and Lt. Reid hustled back and forth between the camp and the flight line until everything was aboard.

  The C-130s revved their engines as McAllister walked between them, yelling to the loaders, clipboard in hand. We stood to the side, checking and rechecking our gear. Finally the old man boarded the lead plane. I was just glad we weren’t flying with the bastard. The officers and staff flew separate from the grunts. I considered that a small blessing.

  Gordo joined us; he was assigned to our squad, as we were usually on point, and had the most contact with the locals. He didn’t look too happy.

  “What’s this I hear about wearing biological gear and gas masks?” he asked pensively. “Don’t you guys know how hot it will be in the Congo? What do you know about this virus? Have you guys done this before?”

  “It’s standard operating procedure. Don’t worry about it,” I replied. “It just means that we have to wear the chem gear until the Doc checks things out. I know it sucks, but it usually doesn’t take too long. The gear is hot as hell, but you kinda get used to it after a while. Don’t worry about the virus.”

  “Damn,” Gordo replied.

  I lowered my voice, “It’s cool. We’ll take care of you. There’s ways to get around wearing the shit all the time.” I winked at him.

  Everything was finally loaded and strapped down. Sgt. McAllister ordered us aboard. We all trudged up the boarding ramp and took our seats on the plane. Everyone strapped in and secured their weapons and gear. The loader closed the cargo ramp door. The C-130’s taxied out and took off, one by one. Our plane lifted off into the night sky and we left Ethiopia behind. We didn’t have far to go.

  OPS ORD 9-23

  RECENT ACTIVITY BY REBEL FORCES REPORTED IN VICINITY OF LAT, DRC.

  EXERCISE EXTREME CAUTION.

  ORDERS END

  Chapter 4

  02:13 a.m. Zulu

  Abandoned Airstrip

  Democratic Republic of the Congo

  Our airship sat down first on the rough grass landing strip. The pilot did his best to keep the landing smooth, but failed miserably. My body was violently rattled around against the canvas seat harness, and I clenched my teeth to keep from biting my tongue. Finally the big plane settled down onto the poor excuse for a runway and came to a stop.

  Sgt. McAllister was already up and shouting orders before the cargo door was fully open. I released the seat’s safety harness and stood upright. I brought my M-4 rifle up and checked the magazine, then lowered my night vision goggles and turned them on. The plane’s cargo bay turned from dim black to a bright green. I fell into line as the sergeant led us out into the tall grass.

  My squad deployed along the western edge of the runway, our sister squad fanned out across the eastern side. I knelt in the tall grass and scanned the countryside around me through the NVGs. I didn’t really like using the goggles if I was in a shooting situation. They limited your vision to about forty degrees directly in front of you, and you lost all of your peripheral vision. There was also no real sense of depth perception; everything looked two dimensional and flat. For scouting work at night they worked fine, and luckily for us there was nothing to see here.

  The second and third C-130s rolled in for their landings. As the planes shut down they were quickly unloaded. The vehicles were pulled out and moved to one side of the field under guard. A command tent was set up, and a supply depot established.

  Once everyone was offloaded, my squad was reassembled. We moved quickly around the field, setting trip wire rigged to flares in a roughly square perimeter around our assembly area.

  It was noticeably warmer here than it had been on the coast. The African night was as dark as a well digger’s asshole; I couldn’t see shit without the NVGs. It was also a lot noisier. The damn bugs and nocturnal animals were having a screaming contest. The insects found me almost immediately, and proceeded to make me miserable. I had only been in the Congo for five minutes and I already hated it here.

  Once our perimeter was secured we moved back to the assembly area. Sgt. Price and his crew were busy loading supplies into the cargo truck, and readying the Humvees.

  McAllister told us to relax; we had a couple of hours before we pulled out at first light.

  I found a flat piece of ground next to the vehicles and sat down. I secured my NVGs and wrapped a spare shirt around my head. I could still hear the insects, but at least it kept them out of my ears. I tried to sleep but it was just too hot and miserable.

  Finally, I got back up. I walked over to the depot tent and found some coffee. A few of the guys were grabbing some breakfast and standing around talking to the pilots. My platoon would leave at dawn, but a security team would stand by here at the airfield to protect the planes and secure the area for our return. I envied them; at least they wouldn’t have to wear the chem gear.

  I returned to my squad. Eventually my exhausted body won the fight against the uncomfortable elements, and I dozed off for a couple of hours. Hard-on kicked me awake.

  The sun was just coming up on the far horizon, but I could see the forest at the perimeter of the airstrip all around us. I had never seen trees that big before.

  It was very warm; I was sweating already.

  “The LT says to get into your suit, dick weed,” Hard-on laughed evilly.

  I groaned, stood up and stretched. I pulled my MOPP-4 suit and gas mask out of my rucksack. The suit was just a pair of rubberized coveralls with tight elastic at the wrists and ankles. It had a hood that pulled over the back of the mask. I cursed through my teeth and pulled the suit over my uniform. Sweat poured from my skin. I pulled on my gas mask and adjusted the head straps. The eye lenses began to fog up immediately. Finally, I secured the hood over the mask, and drew it tight. A pair of rubber gloves completed the ensemble.

  How in the world anyone expected a man to operate in Africa wearing this hot-ass clown suit was beyond me. At least we weren’t marching.

  The LT walked by and ordered us into the Humvee.

  I clambered inside behind the others and collapsed into a jump seat. I tried not to move. It was pretty much all I could do just to breathe. The Humvee’s air conditioning was a joke, but it might have been just a few precious degrees cooler inside.

  The convoy pulled away from the airfield and entered the rain forest. Each squad rode in a separate Humvee, two vehicles in the front, two in the rear. The officers and medical staff were spread out among them. The cargo truck with our spare gear and supplies was in between. The point Humvee ran a s
hort distance ahead of the convoy, just in case we hit a mine or IED. My squad followed just close enough to keep them in sight.

  We were driving down a rutted dirt track through the forest. It was a very bumpy ride. Everyone was pretty tense now that we were actually in the DRC. We all knew the place was a Third World hellhole. You could run into pretty much anything out here.

  Sgt. McAllister pulled his hood and mask off. His dark hair was plastered to his head with sweat. “Masks off at your own discretion,” he ordered.

  Everyone pulled their masks off with sighs of relief.

  “I don’t know how much more of that I could take,” Gordo complained.

  “Wait until you’re out in direct sunlight,” Jonesy suggested grimly.

  We were only about twenty miles from the village, but the Humvees could only drive at about thirty miles an hour on the bad roads. Any faster speed would knock the teeth out of your head, and risk a mechanical breakdown.

  We continued down the dirt track for a good fifteen miles with no problems. I was just beginning to think we might make it to the village when suddenly our driver stood on the brakes. We slid to a shuddering stop on the track.

  “Masks on!” McAllister shouted.

  Everyone scrambled to pull on their masks and hoods.

  The lead Humvee had stopped in the road. Its’ doors opened and the crew bailed out. They took cover to either side and assumed a firing stance.

  “Ah shit,” McAllister cursed. “Let’s get up there.”

  My squad scrambled out and moved up the road in pairs, two men moving forward while two covered. Sgt. McAllister and Gordo followed behind us. We stayed in the tree line to either side of the road. I reached the lead Humvee and looked around it.