More than courage

by Harold Coyle

  Anxious to skip the sales pitch and get down to actually seeing if the theories the colonel and his NCO were describing translated into a useful system, DeWitt nodded politely. "Yes, sir, I see, I see." Then he turned to Benoit who was in the process of making the final connections. "Now, Sergeant, how does all this neat stuff work?"

  Benoit, who had been leaning over, stood up, looked DeWitt in the eye, and smiled. "Quite effectively, sir."

  The quip served to lighten the mood a tad. "Okay, Sergeant,"

  DeWitt moaned. "Target, cease fire. Now, back on your head."

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  For the next few minutes Benoit explained how to power up the system, switch from the thermal sight to the full-color sight and use the built-in combat identification system. "This item," he explained, "is not at all unlike the identify-friend-or-foe that the Air Force has been using for years. As squads become more dispersed thanks to the Land Warrior, the opportunity for fratricide increases. By building a combat identification system into the sight it is hoped that we can reduce friendly-fire incidents to nil."

  "Hoped?" DeWitt asked. "I thought hope wasn't an option?"

  Kaplan sighed. "Despite quantum leaps and bounds in technology, decisions on the battlefield at all levels will still be made by human beings."

  Taking care while doing so, for fear of messing something up, DeWitt turned to his assembled platoon leaders. "Okay, you people, you heard him. Despite what you may have heard, the colonel confirms some of your speculations. I am human."

  This brought on a ripple of nervous laughter and more than a few anxious sidelong glances. Emmett DeWitt had replaced a very popular commanding officer under very difficult circumstances.

  Even if he had been afforded the luxury of time, which Colonel Shaddock pointed out he did not have, DeWitt was not the sort of officer who believed that a commanding officer could be both a good buddy to his subordinates and an effective leader. Though he endeavored to be fair and just in all his dealings with the men he commanded, he always made it a point to be strict and uncompromising when it came to pursuing the profession of arms.

  Both Kaplan and Benoit sensed that there was something more going on here than they knew. So they waited until their prime subject finished with his officers. When he was sure that he had made his point, DeWitt faced the training NCO once more.

  "Okay, where were we, Sergeant?"

  Without skipping a beat Benoit picked up where he had left off. "I was just getting ready to show you how to use your sights to achieve first-shot kills at ranges of three hundred meters without exposing anything but your weapon and your sight."

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  Not knowing what sort of officer Kaplan was and conscious that he could not afford to compromise himself in any way in front of his platoon leaders, DeWitt chose not to make light of Benoit's choice of words. It was not that he was a prude or that he wasn't tempted to. Even after years of forced socialization and sensitivity training, the American military was still far from being gender neutral. The soldiers who were charged with the duty of doing the fighting and dying were human beings, people blessed with all their wonderful strengths and attributes as well as all their earthly shortcomings and habits. Still, until he knew how far he could go in the presence of this particular officer, DeWitt opted to fly straight and keep his colorful comments in check.

  The special orientation Kaplan was holding for DeWitt and his officers was just wrapping up when Delmont and Shaddock entered the maintenance bay. From somewhere among the heaps of discarded packing materials and small clusters of soldiers and trainers, someone shouted, "Aaaaattention!"

  To a man every soul in the room ceased what he was doing and came to a position of attention. In response Shaddock acknowledged this display of military courtesy with a brisk, "As you were,"

  that was heard throughout the bay. On cue the group of officers whom Master Sergeant Benoit had been working with arranged themselves in order of rank. With Emmett DeWitt to his left, Neil Kaplan stepped to the fore. Benoit tookup a post behind and to the right of his colonel. Farther back stood the executive officer of Alpha Company with the platoon leaders trailing off to his left.

  Shaddock stepped right up to Kaplan. "I hope you are receiving the full cooperation of my people, Colonel."

  "They have been outstanding, Colonel Shaddock. Each of them live up to the reputation of being the best of the best."

  If it pleased him to hear this the commanding officer of the 3rd of the 75th didn't show it. Rather, he looked over at DeWitt.

  "I expect nothing less."

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  Knowing this comment was intended to reinforce the initial lecture Shaddock had given him when he had assumed command of Alpha, DeWitt responded with a crisp "Airborne, sir," that bordered on being a tad too loud.

  Pleased, Shaddock looked at the XO. "If you gentlemen would excuse us," he stated in a voice that left no doubt that this was an order.

  Kaplan, sensing that the commander of the Ranger battalion was about to discuss something that was meant for selective ears only, glanced over his shoulder at Benoit. With a slight shifting of his eyes, he cued him in to the fact that he was also to make himself scarce. When the gathering was down to just the three lieutenant colonels and the one first lieutenant, Shaddock turned to Kaplan. "How much time are you going to need?"

  Kaplan took a moment to ponder the question. He didn't need to ask for any clarification, for he knew what all of this was about and what was at stake. When he had an answer that was as definitive as he dared venture, he drew himself up and looked into Shaddock's eyes. "If we push Lieutenant DeWitt's people without physically exhausting them or overwhelming their ability to absorb what we are teaching them, they will achieve a minimum, and I emphasize the word 'minimum,' level of individual proficiency with the system within two days. Once we are there they will need an additional two, maybe three days of platoon- and company-level tactical training. I would like to have an additional two days to evaluate the company and hone their skills a bit, but--"

  Shaddock cut Kaplan off. "If we have the time, fine." Looking over at DeWitt he began to issue his orders. "Coordinate your training schedule and activities directly with Colonel Kaplan using the schedule he just laid out. When it comes time for the tactical training divide the day into three parts. Tailor your predawn training to fit those tasks assigned to your company during phase one of the operation, i.e., the securing of the airfield. In the afternoon you will conduct mounted training for a new phase of the operation which you haven't been briefed on yet."

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  If Emmett DeWitt was taken aback by the revelation that there was a new wrinkle to Alpha's role in Fanfare he didn't let on.

  "The third portion of your tactical training day will focus on clearing a building."

  This time the commanding _ officer of Alpha could not keep himself from expressing his surprise. "What sort of building and where?"

  For the first time Delmont joined the discussion. "The post commander here has graciously agreed to let your battalion 'borrow'

  one of his buildings."

  Shaddock gave Delmont a knowing look. "I would not have used the word 'gracious' to describe the post commander's position on the matter but that's neitherfhere nor there. Coordinate with the S-3 at least twelve hours in advance for your needs and keep him posted on your activities. You and your company have priority on everything, from training ammo to facilities. If you run into any problems with anyone see me or the XO."

  For the briefest of moments, Shaddock saw a twinkle in DeWitt's eyes. "Lieutenant, I have a long memory. Don't abuse the privilege."

  Realizing he had been caught contemplating how best to use his special status, DeWitt did his best to assure his colonel that he wouldn't think of doing so.

  Shaddock chuckled. "Lieutenant DeWitt, you
have a lot to learn about me and this battalion. One of those lessons is never try to bullshit a bullshitter. Clear?" ,

  Grinning, DeWitt nodded. "Clear, sir."

  "Good! Now, if you have no further questions for me I would advise you and Colonel Kaplan to get back to work. Time, Lieutenant, is not our friend."

  Following the obligatory exchange of salutes, Shaddock and Delmont moved off to a spot from which they could watch the activities throughout the bay without having anyone overhear their conversation. "Just how much time do we have?" Shaddock asked as the pair of colonels looked on.

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  "Christ, I wish I could give you a definitive answer." The frustration Delmont felt was evident in his tone.

  "A good guess would be nice."

  Taking a moment to ponder this, Delmont weighed issues and concerns over which neither he nor any member of the uniformed services had any control. In frustration he looked up as if he were searching for the answer. "We're not driving this train anymore," he admitted. "Those people in Damascus are. We could be told to execute in as little as twenty-four hours or ..."

  When the Department of the Army special ops plans officer didn't finish his thought, Shaddock did. "Or never."

  Sensing that Shaddock was still unconvinced about his battalion's new role, Delmont did his best to convey the sense of urgency that Palmer had passed on to him. "Oh, we're going.

  Come hell or high water we're going. It's simply a question of when."

  "Well," Shaddock mused as he eyed one of his soldiers slewing a weapon about as he learned to coordinate his motions with that of his weapon while using the video sight, "at least we have a few days' grace. Not even this president would be stupid enough to send us in while the Reverend Brown is over there."

  The mention of Brown's name caused Delmont to wince. "I never thought the day would come when I found myself in debt to that blowhard."

  Shaddock agreed. "Yes, God does move in mysterious ways, doesn't He?"

  "True, true," Delmont agreed. "All praise be to Allah."

  Straightening up, Shaddock came about and looked at the DA staff officer. "It may not be original, Colonel, but I daresay this is one occasion when the old saying, 'Praise the Lord and pass the ammo' is both applicable and apropos. Now, let's leave the kids alone to finish their play."

  Without fanfare the two colonels slipped out a side door and into the early evening coolness. It had already been a long day, r

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  one that would not be finished until after midnight for the soldiers of Alpha Company. Halfway around the world, where it was already the next day, others were already busy doing their best to change the equation yet again.

  Damascus, Syria

  10:20 LOCAL (06:20 ZULU)

  The shuffle of boots, the turning of a key, and the sliding of the bolt securing the door brought Specialist Four Dee Dee Davis to his feet. As the Syrian guards on the other side pushed it open the grinding of its metal hinges sent shivers,through the American.

  He was tired of being afraid, tired of living in dread of every sound that he heard. But there wasn't a damned thing he could do to stop it. Nothing he did seemed to make any difference. Just the sight of him seemed to provoke the anger of the guards.

  When they were not physically abusing him Davis was convinced that they went out of their way to mess with his mind or do things that were aimed at causing him additional anguish and grief. The torment to which he was subjected even during his daily feedings was just one example.

  Instead of simply opening the small slot near the floor built into the door for that purpose and sliding the bowl of slop that passed for soup through it, the guards took advantage of the occasion to'harass Davis. Three or four would enter the cell ahead of the one with the soup. While that Syrian stood in the middle of the room with the bowl precariously balanced on the tips of his fingers at the end of his outstretched arm, his companions would arrange themselves about Davis in a circle. When they were ready those in the circle would shove Davis back and forth between them trying to see how close they could push the American to the one holding the soup. Consumed by a hunger unlike anything

  , that he had ever experienced Davis would become frenzied as he 284

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  did everything he could to keep from bumping into the Syrian with the soup. Inevitably some of the bowl's content would spill5 causing Davis to become more frantic and agitated. Only when

  the Syrians tired of this game would they finally relent and yield up to him whatever was left in the bowl.

  Without taking his eyes off of the doorway, Davis slowly backed into one of the corners farthest from the door. While this maneuver offered him no protection, no real safety, it did give him a few precious seconds of time to assess the mood of the Syrian guards and brace himself for whatever mischief they had in mind.

  On this occasion something very odd occurred. Instead of entering the cell one of the guards stood just beyond the threshold.

  Looking straight at Davis, the Syrian pointed at him. "You, come."

  At first Davis didn't know what to do. As far as he could recall this was the first time that one of the guards had spoken to him in English. In the past they had shouted all their orders in Arabic, a language that Davis was all but ignorant of.

  Without making any effort to enter the cell the Syrian in the doorway repeated his summons. "Come, now."

  Like a beaten dog, Davis found himself unable to respond to the guard even if he had wanted to. The fear that the Syrians had instilled in him dominated his every action. Whatever it was the guards had in mind, he was in no hurry to find out or make it easier for them. So Davis opted to remain in the corner where he was as long as he could.

  When it became clear to the Syrian standing in the doorway that the American wasn't going to budge, he barked an order to two of his companions before entering the cell. Already pressed against the walls as far he could, there was nothing left for Davis to do but watch him approach.

  When he was but a foot away the Syrian who had been standing in the doorway stopped and stared at Davis. "You come now.

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  For several seconds neither Davis nor the Syrian guard before him moved. Both men were perplexed by this strange standoff.

  Davis found himself confused when the guards did not simply grab him and drag him away as they had done every time before.

  This failure served to magnify his growing sense of panic. For his part, the Syrian found himself wondering why the American was not responding to his orders. Sensing that he might have gotten his English words mixed up, the guard reached out and took Davis by the arm. "Come, now," he repeated as he gave the American a gentle tug.

  The grasp upon Davis's arm was not tight. Nor did the Syrian put much effort into dislodging Davis. None of that mattered.

  The physical contact alone was enough to sent shivers throughout the American and sapped his ability to resist. Finally, like a quivering child being led away to some unimaginable fate, Davis allowed himself to be coaxed out of the corner and from his cell.

  The calm, almost timid behavior of the guards was only the beginning. Without explanation the Syrians shepherded Davis out of his cell without stopping to shackle his hands or legs. The experience of being out of his cell while unrestrained was strange, almost frightening. Sandwiched between four Syrians Davis was totally bewildered by all of this. Not understanding the rules of this new game, he found himself trying hard not to look around '

  for fear of violating some sort of unwritten commandment and thus incurring his captors' wrath. With measured steps gauged to match the pace being set by the Syrians, Davis was content to follow along as he was taken to a room with open showers and sinks.

  Once there the Syrian who had been giving him orders in broken English directed him over to a simple wooden bench against one of the walls. Upon
it were arrayed an assortment of toiletries including a razor, shaving cream, soap, towels and bottles that looked as if they might be shampoo. Neatly folded on the end of the bench was a bright yellow jumpsuit. With a sweeping motion 286

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  the Syrian made a show of offering the items on the bench to Davis. "Wash, change clothes."

  In a flash it dawned upon Davis what was afoot. He was going home! That had to be it, he concluded as he stepped over to the bench in order to inspect the collection of toiletries. They wanted him to clean himself up so that the people from the International Red Cross were not tipped off to the appalling conditions in which he had been forced to exist. Mechanically Davis raised his hands and looked down at his wrists. That's why they hadn't placed handcuffs on him. While the wounds from earlier episodes were far from healed, the Syrians were making sure that those injuries were not reopened at this point. All of this, from the sudden change in the manner with which they treated him to this opportunity to shower and shave was an effort designed to erase every possible vestige of their savage treatment that time and a little soap would permit.

  Slowly Davis let his hands fall away to his side as he looked back at the guards who stood watching his every move. For the briefest of moments his resentment over the manner with which they had treated and manipulated him ignited a sudden spark of resistance. What if he refused to clean up? What if he simply stayed the way he was, wearing the same uniform he was wearing the day he was captured, a uniform in which he had had no choice but to defecate and urinate in when he had been left bound and gagged? What could they possibly do?

  Davis had no sooner posed these questions to himself than he answered them. They could make him disappear, just as they were about to do to Sergeant Hashmi. They had all the cards. They set the rules, made things happen according to their schedule, their goals. So long as he was a prisoner he had no control over anything, not even how he died. All he had left was what little pride the Syrians had not yet managed to strip away. That was not much, Davis concluded, but it was something, something that was uniquely his and his alone.