the Last Run (1987)

by Leonard B Scott

  Thumper had caught the hint of sarcasm in the officer's last words and knew he was trying to manipulate him. The lieuten^ ant's lack of genuineness solidified Thumper's first opinion of the man: He was an asshole.

  Dickey leaned forward in his chair, looking for a reaction, as he spoke again. "Yes, Meeks, you have quite a record, much too good to be just an assistant team leader. So today I'm making you leader of your own team. This means a promotion, of course, and starts you off on a new career."

  Dickey let the good news sink in for effect and casually picked up a pad of paper. "There is one little thing to clear up, and then we can get down to the business of assigning you some people. I need a small statement about what Sergeant Wade said to me yesterday. Just a few paragraphs would be fine.'' Dickey extended the pad toward the stone-faced soldier.

  Thumper kept his eyes on the forehead of the officer and spoke dryly. "I will not accept the position of team leader, sir."

  Dickey dropped the pad as if it were hot. "What do you mean, you won't accept?"

  Thumper didn't change expression. "I mean, sir, I don't want to be a team leader. I'm happy with what I'm doing now."

  Dickey's hand shot up and he pointed his finger at Meeks's face. "You'll do what I say or I'll move you to another team anyway."

  Thumper controlled his anger and kept his stoic expression. "Sir, I respectfully request to call Major Shane."

  "I'm the platoon leader, soldier! You'll follow my orders!"

  "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but you're new and don't know that Major Shane personally assigned me and Specialist Flowers to Sergeant Wade's team. It is his policy to have at least one experienced team per platoon."

  Dickey sat back in his chair to think. He didn't know his commander that well, having only seen him a few days before being assigned to Phan Thiet. But in that brief contact, it was obvious that the major was much too close to his men and relied too heavily on his NCOs. Meeks was probably right about the major personally assigning him, but all was not lost.

  Dickey forced a smile. "All right Meeks, I won't make you take a promotion if you really don't want it. But you should really think it over, and if you change your mind, the job is open to you. You're dismissed. . . . Oh, before you go, I need the statement. You can sit here, and perhaps I can help you."

  Thumper decided to drag it out. He was having fun. "What statement was that, sir?"

  "The statement concerning the events yesterday . . when Sergeant Wade was insubordinate, of course."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but I didn't hear the conversation yesterday ... at least I didn't hear any insubordinate remarks."

  Dickey's face flushed in seething anger. "You're playing games, Meeks! Don't mess with me. Write the damn statement!"

  "Is that an order, sir? I mean, write that I didn't hear anything?"

  "Get out! Get out and send Rostov and Flowers to me immediately!"

  Thumper shot to his feet and executed his best hand salute. Dickey ignored the salute and screamed. "Out!"

  Thumper held his salute, knowing the officer had to render one in return, according to regulation. He found great pleasure in seeing the system really work, sometimes-especially in this case.

  Dickey threw a quick salute in defeat, then quickly turned his back to Thumper.

  Thumper marched smiling from the room. He could hardly wait to warn Russian and Rose. The lieutenant was definitely in for a bad day with team 3-1.

  Phan Thiet Twenty-third Evac Hospital

  Sergeant Matt Wade sat on the side of his bed, laughing as Thumper recounted his story about Lieutenant Dickey. "Rose told him he was hard of hearing and didn't hear a thing. Then Russian walks in and tells him he doesn't understand English very well, even had Dickey explain what insubordination was, then says he didn't hear anything either. I guess we'll all be on shit details for a month!"

  Wade fell back against his pillow, laughing harder. He could see Dickey trying to talk Carl into writing up charges. The lieutenant was lucky the Czech hadn't broken his neck.

  Rose strutted over to the bed and began eating Wade's food from the hospital tray.

  Wade shook his head. "Damn, Rose. Now I know why you came to visit."

  Rose looked up with his mouth full. "We goin' out tonight. I need strength for the ladies."

  Russian closely inspected his sergeant's bandage. "You be back soon, yes?"

  "Sure. The doc says it's fine-a couple of stitches is all. He's sending me to Bien Hoa Air Base tomorrow to get some X rays.''

  "Why X rays?" asked Russian worriedly.

  Wade leaned back on the elevated bed. "He wants to see if there are any small fragments left in there. He won't dig 'em out, but he says he wants it in my records. The damned X ray machine here is broken, so I gotta go to the Air Force hospital. Stevens flew out an hour ago.''

  Thumper sat down beside Wade. "How was Stevens?"

  "He won't be back. He's going home. Lucky kid just got here, and he gets a million-dollar wound."

  Thumper looked carefully at Wade's shoulder. "Very painful?"

  The sergeant shook his head reassuredly. "Nothing a few beers wouldn't take away. How's about you guys sneaking some in?"

  Thumper exchanged grins with Rose and lifted a Claymore bag from the floor. "We always take care of our team sergeant, now don't we?"

  Wade laughed as Rose looked around the open ward. "Hey, Sarge. You got any nurses in here, man? I wanna see a round eye and a round ass."

  Wade pointed to the door. "Thump, get lover-boy outta here and get him the clap, will ya?"

  Rose shook his head as if hurt. "That was cruel, man, real cruel. The Rose done seen them movies. I got me some A-numba- one, reinforced rubbers from stateside." He broke into a wide grin. "This Ranger is ready for action!"

  Thumper patted Wade's leg. "I'll see you when you get back. Take care and don't mess around with any of them Air Force nurses."

  Wade frowned. "Don't worry, I Ve seen the VD movies, too."

  Rose strutted for the door, followed by Thumper, but Russian remained before his sergeant and good friend, holding out his hand. "Take care, my Sergeant."

  Wade shook hands and patted Russian's arm. "You watch them tonight, Carl. Don't let 'em drink too much and make sure they get back before curfew, all right?"

  Russian brightened visibly at having this responsibility placed on him. "Yes, my Sergeant."

  Wade smiled to himself as the bullish man had gone. Russian never called him by his given name. It was as if his upbringing or his regimented military training wouldn't allow any simple word of familiarity. Wade had once tried to make him assistant team leader, but Russian led by slaps and harsh verbal attacks, which young Americans couldn't understand. Russian was well aware of his dictatorial ways and gave up the position voluntarily, but he remained devoted to Wade and would follow him to hell, if ordered. The thought of Russian taking care of the others, as asked, caused Wade to smile again. The Czech would take the request as an order and follow it to the letter, constandy hounding them to drink less, for to Russian no matter the consequences, an order was always accomplished.

  Wade felt no less affection for Thumper and Rose. To him, they were all like brothers, and he knew they all felt the same.

  Oh, they argued, complained, and fought each other at times, but only to a point. It was as if they all understood that what they had was special. Carl and Rose fought like cats but woe unto the man who said anything bad about one of them in the presence of the other. Thumper and Rose had come from other teams that had been just as close. Rose's friends had all been killed; Thumper's had been wounded or rotated home, yet they never mentioned their old friends. Wade knew they thought of them, but the unspoken rule was never to mention the past. The past didn't matter.

  Wade felt incredibly strong. He had been given strength by three men-his men. Their lives were in his hands and the responsibility weighed heavily on him, but he wouldn't have wanted it any other way, because they really were his brothers.


  Da Lot

  Temporary Ranger Headquarters

  Sergeant First Class Jerry Childs viciously snubbed out the remaining one inch of his cigarette to get even with its foul taste. He'd smoked a pack waiting for his major. He cussed himself for starting again after quitting for almost a year. The cigarettes were winning. He was losing the batde for self-control.

  Major Shane had called him that afternoon from Nha Trang after the meeting with Colonel Ellis and the G-3. The news was what he had hoped for. He waited up to hear the details. Childs looked at his watch-9:10. He was about to stand when he heard a jeep pull up outside. Seconds later, Shane walked in, followed by Pete, his driver.

  'Bout damn time, sir. I been losin' my beauty sleep. Pete, get me and the old man a couple of beers."

  Shane tossed his map case to the desk and sat down tiredly. "We're movin' back to An Khe starting tomorrow. We got lucky 'cause there were C-130s in Vung Tau. lvo birds will be in Phan Thiet tomorrow at 1300 to pick up the Third Platoon, and at 1400 weVe got three birds to pick us all up. You'd better call First Sergeant Demand and tell him the good news."

  Childs took the beers from Pete and handed one to Shane. 4 'Sir, I already called An Khe and told Top. He'll have everything ready for us like he always does. Damn, he was so excited I thought I could hear him pissin' his pants."

  Shane took a long drink and lowered his can. "Jerry, you were right about Colonel Ellis-he's going to look out for us. He's going to get replacements for us from the 173rd, so it looks like we've finally got everyting we Ve asked for. Now all we gotta do is figure out a training program."

  Childs took a quick sip of his beer and sat down the can. "Sir, I've been sittin' up 'cause I wanted to talk to you about that. As you know, we've done this before; just before the Cambodian operation, we got the whole company together and had a small training program. But this is gonna be a helluva lot different. We don't have the experienced men we had before. It's gonna take a lot of planning and hardass training to get the new men and line troops from the 173rd made into a Ranger unit that's worth a shit. We're gonna have to get the lieutenants to the airfield and fly every day to get them experienced in the back of a bird dog. Right now, they're okay but not good enough. Our radio operators are terrible and so are the majority of our teams, and we got a bunch of shitbirds we need to get rid of."

  Shane looked into his sergeant's eyes and began to smile. "You waited up to tell me something I already know?"

  Childs was surprised Shane had seen through him so quickly.

  Shane picked up his beer, knowing what Childs really wanted, and decided not to make him wait any longer.

  "Jerry, I know we're not even close to where we should be. I could handle the training, myself. I've been to all the schools and know what's to be done . . . but I'm not. You are."

  Childs's head lifted immediately. His lips wouldn't smile but his eyes did. The major was giving him what he wanted, what he knew he could do like nobody else could-train Rangers.

  "Sir, I hoped you'd say that, but you know, I gotta do it my way. Once you give me the mission that's it. I make Rangers . . . or I break them."

  Shane held the gaze of his sergeant and raised his beer as if in a toast. "Make me some damn good ones."

  Chapter 4

  September

  0900 Hours LZ English

  The morning air kicked up into a red dust cloud as the helicopter landed. A single passenger, Lieutenant J. D. Gibson, hopped to the ground and slung his sixty-pound rucksack up to his shoulder. He walked down a row of parked HUEYs toward a road he knew led to the main base, also known as LZ English, home of the 173rd Airborne Brigade. He reached the road and stopped.

  Six months ago, he'd walked down the same dusty road and gotten on a bird that took him to his platoon and the war. He'd weighed 175 pounds then, and wore new olive drab jungle fatigues. He now weighed 155 and his uniform was bleached almost white from the sun and relendess monsoons. Six months ago his ruck had seemed to weigh a hundred pounds as it tore unmercifully into his back and shoulders. Now it was a part of him, like his helmet and M-16; they were constant companions, old friends.

  Six months-an eternity-ago, he had wanted to see action, but when he'd gotten it, it sure wasn't what he'd expected. He'd been trained well at Fort Benning, but they hadn't prepared him for real war. Instead of the forty-man platoon with which he'd been trained, he'd had twenty-six. There had been no gruff platoon sergeant like in the movies, no John Wayne or Aldo Ray to take him under his wing and show him the ropes. He'd had instead a twenty-year-old staff sergeant who had only been in the Army three years. War wasn't leading charges and killing. War was responsibility-the overwhelming, day-in, day-out responsibility to ensure that the young men in his platoon lived to see another day. War was misery, heartache, and sore, tired muscles; covering the dead with ponchos, med-evacing the wounded, and praying he wouldn't have to do it all again. War was making decisions that could send men to their deaths. It was constant moving, trying to find an elusive, dedicated enemy before he found you. Killing was easy; he had nine notches on his weapon's stock, but there was no high, no glory, no gratification in killing. Killing was easy, but humping was hard, losing his men even harder, and telling his platoon "good-bye" an hour before the hardest of all.

  Gibson let out a sigh and began walking up the steep road. He put all thoughts out of his mind, except making it up the hill to the main base. Thoughts of the past and future were meaningless; thoughts were only dreams, and dreams didn't count in war. "It don't mean nuthin'," he mumbled to himself as he brought his rifle to the crook of his arm and leaned into the hill.

  Between two plywood barracks, a group of sweaty men, stripped to the waist, stood cheering in the middle of a dirt basketball court. They hollered again as a tall, lanky black man threw out his fist and knocked a small blond soldier to the ground.

  "You stay down, muthafucker! Don't be foulin' me again!"

  The blond shook his head and spit out a glob of blood. He stood up shakily and held up his fists. The lanky soldier grinned cruelly and moved in to finish him off. Suddenly, something hit the ground in front of him and someone screamed, "Gre- nadeV The players ran like scattered quail and hit the ground rolling.

  The blond hadn't moved. He had noticed that the grenade's pin hadn't been pulled. He looked up and saw a helmeted soldier on a rise by the road. One glance at the faded fatigues without rank and the scuffed white boots told him it was a grunt just out of the field. The soldier was lean and of medium height; his rolled-up sleeves exposed the burned, brown skin and ropy muscles of his forearms.

  The seething black man got to his feet and strode menacingly toward the helmeted soldier on the rise. "You better pray, muthaf..."

  The soldier's hand came up in one motion, holding the M-16. The bolt slammed forward, chambering a round with a metallic "clank."

  The tall man froze as he stared into the impassive pale blue eyes of the soldier-eyes that somehow he knew wouldn't blink when the trigger was pulled and his brains were blown out. The black man backed up a step. 44You crazy, man?"

  The soldier spoke dryly. 44Back up and move out. The fight is over."

  One of the other players snickered. 44He ain't gonna shoot, Jack, he's bluffin'." Jack's eyes shifted from the icy blue pools to the name tag above the shirt pocket. Immediately, his eyes widened in recognition and he spun around.

  Another of the players pleaded, 44Jack, he's bluffin', man!"

  Jack snarled, 44Shut up, fool! He ain't bluffin'! That's Gibson!"

  Every player's head turned to the soldier in disbelief. Just an hour before, they'd had to stand in an awards ceremony rehearsal. The battalion commander himself had announced the ceremony would be for a Lieutenant Gibson who'd be coming in from the field. He'd explained that Gibson would be receiving a Silver Star for singlehandedly crawling into a NVA bunker and killing two soldiers inside. Four more NVA had attacked him while he was in their trench system; he shot three and killed the other w
ith the butt of his weapon.

  The players all turned to leave-all except the blond, who picked up the grenade and tossed it to the lieutenant. 4'Thanks, sir. He probably would've whipped my ass."

  Gibson turned and began to walk back to the road.

  Uh, sir? Were you? Were you bluffin'?"

  The lieutenant's only answer was silence. His steps kicked up miniature clouds of dust.

  Phan Thiet Third Platoon Base Camp

  Thumper wiped his grenade launcher with an oily rag and looked up at the approaching soldier.

  Rose, you better stay out of sight. If Russian sees you, you're gonna be mincemeat!"

  Man, that dude is a walkin' bummer. Last night, he wouldn't let us do shit! I had to do somethin' so I could be with Chee. Shit, man, that chick wanted me, bad)."