Call to Duty

by Richard Herman

  During the second chukker, Mountbatten’s team scored early on. The Mountbatten made a fantastic under-the-neck shot to Bertram, who charged the goal, driving the ball in front of him. Zack thundered after Bertram. In polo, the ball creates its own right-of-way when it is hit and the player who hit it is entitled to hit it again unless another player drives his pony’s shoulder in front of the horse’s shoulder of the first player. Zack’s pony instinctively responded and rode Bertram’s mount off the ball, giving Zack a shot. He fed it back upfield to James, who made an easy goal.

  Zack was surprised at the applause and admitted to himself that it was more the doing of his pony than a result of his own skill. Mountbatten granted him a “Well done” when he rode past. When they lined up for the bowl-in, James, his team captain, said that he had heard Churchill asking about him. Now Zack, encouraged by his pony, pressed Roger hard and broke up a series of plays, keeping the other team scoreless through the rest of the period and all of the third chukker. Finally, they were into the last period and Zack was delighted to discover that his last pony still had lots of steam left.

  “Good boy,” he told his mount, patting the side of the horse’s neck. “Time for a little razzle-dazzle.” He charged after Roger when he saw Mountbatten setting up a pass and intercepted the ball, swinging his mallet and tapping the ball to pass behind Roger. They both swung around together and charged the ball, riding shoulder to shoulder and bumping into each other. It was a classic ride-off, each pony bumping into the other as the men fought for the ball, mallets raised and then swinging. Zack muffed a shot and the ball dribbled to Roger’s off side. But they had overridden the ball and they cut back together, the ball now between them. Roger had a clear shot and cocked his mallet back. But Zack inadvertently hooked the head of Roger’s mallet with his own. Instinctively, he jerked and much to his surprise, almost pulled Roger out of the saddle. His shoulder crashed against Roger’s chest as they caromed off each other. He had a vague impression of Roger fighting for his balance, barely able to stay mounted as he charged after the ball. Now Zack had a clear shot and swung, feeling the satisfying “thunk” as he smashed the ball through the goal posts for his team’s second goal just as the bell sounded, ending the match.

  He turned and trotted up field, surprised to see Roger lying on the ground. Willi was running toward the inert figure. He urged his pony forward and reached them moments after Willi had fallen to her knees beside the unconscious man. She looked up at Zack, fury written across her face. “He was wounded, you know,” she spat at him. “You Americans don’t care who you hurt as long as you win.”

  Zack wanted to protest that his team had lost. Instead, he snapped, “He shouldn’t have been playing if he wasn’t up to it.”

  “Bastards. You’re all bastards.”

  He wheeled his pony and cantered off the field.

  The following Tuesday morning Zack’s orders arrived posting him back to his old unit, 25 Squadron at Church Fenton. He spent his last day in the stables, helping the old coachman who was showing signs of his age. The duke sent word that he would like Zack to join him for tea that afternoon and Zack dutifully presented himself at exactly four o’clock. But this time, rainy weather had driven them all inside and he was escorted into the library where the old duke waved him to a couch.

  “Sorry about Sunday,” the duke said. His wife’s right eyebrow shot up. In all the years they had been married, she had only heard the crusty old man apologize once before. “Didn’t happen as I had planned. The girl is stubborn, like her mother.”

  Zack sipped at his tea. “She does seem to have a built-in aversion to Yanks,” he observed. “Don’t know what I did to make her so hostile.”

  “She works with Americans,” the duchess said. “It’s some very hush-hush job, intelligence I think. She claims that Americans are all a pack of Bolsheviks at heart, very rude and have no breeding. Wilhelmina doesn’t like them at all.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Zack replied, recalling James’s comments at the polo match. “But she does seem to like Roger.”

  “She likes the company Bertram keeps,” the duke grumbled, his chin on his chest.

  “Roger,” the duchess explained, “served under Mountbatten on destroyers. Quite valiant.”

  “Until they were sunk,” the duke groused.

  The duchess shot him a withering look. “Later on,” she continued, “Roger was given command of his own destroyer and was badly wounded in the raid on Dieppe. He almost died. Now he’s on Mountbatten’s staff at Combined Operations.” She held her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I shouldn’t have said that. All very secret you know.”

  “The secret is safe with me,” Zack said, smiling at the old lady. He changed the subject. “I take it you’ve heard that I’ve been posted back to my old squadron. I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.”

  “Ah,” the duke said. “The call to duty.”

  Zack smiled. “It’s either that or going to jail.”

  The duke bit off his reply. So like the Americans, he thought. Always hiding their idealism behind a flippant answer. “Confounded machines you fly,” he groused. “Sorry to see you go.” Again, his wife’s eyebrows raised. It was obvious her husband had become very attached to the young American.

  “Twenty-five Squadron is flying a new aircraft called the Mosquito,” Zack told them. “Very fast and maneuverable.”

  “Be careful,” the old man said. “Come see us when you can.”

  Zack said his good-byes that evening and packed. When he came down the stairs early the next morning, the two cooks and the old coachmen were waiting for him. “Had to say good-bye, proper like,” the old man said, shaking his hand. The cooks had packed him a lunch large enough to feed four people and had tears in their eyes when he kissed them on the cheek. They walked with him to the door and stood back. Outside, drawn up in fine array, was a four-in-hand coach. Sitting on the box was the old duke, wearing a top hat and greatcoat. A polished boot rested on the brake and he looked very pleased with himself. “I’ll drive you to the station, lad,” he shouted.

  “Bloody great fool,” the coachman grumbled. “He can’t handle four horses.”

  Zack threw his bag on top and pulled the door open. “Come on then,” he said to the two cooks and coachman, motioning them inside. The three climbed on board with a great deal of embarrassment and Zack followed them as the duke looked on, saying nothing. Then he cracked the whip and drove smartly down the drive.

  The train to York was crowded and dirty and Zack shared a compartment with a group of young British soldiers headed for an antiaircraft unit in the Orkney Islands. He broke open the large lunch the cooks had given him and passed it around. “Wherever did you get this?” the sergeant in charge of the group asked. “Black market?”

  Zack laughed. “A going-away gift from the cooks in the hospital. Knowing those two old gals, it might be.” They all laughed and made short work of the lunch. Later on, the sergeant told him that was the best food they had had in months. “Things getting pretty tight?” Zack asked.

  The sergeant nodded. “We’ve had almost four years of this bloody war and there’s no end in sight. Maybe now that you Yanks are in, things will change.” He was looking at a village they were passing through. “This could be my village,” he said, “seedy, run-down.” Then he straightened up and changed the subject. “Why the RAF uniform?”

  “It’s the way I started,” Zack told him. “Back in the States I thought this was our war. But in 1941, it looked like we were going to stay out of it. I didn’t like that so I joined the RAF and got involved. The Japanese changed all that at Pearl Harbor but by then I was in the RAF. I could transfer to the U.S. Army now, but why change horses in midstream?”

  The answer seemed to sit well with the sergeant. “I suppose it’s best to meet problems head-on and not hide from them, hoping they will go away—like we did with Hitler in 1936 when he marched into the Rhineland. We should have had done with him then and avoided all this. O
nly Churchill saw him for what he was. But we didn’t listen to him. Stupid bloody fools, all of us. We can’t let this happen again.”

  The compartment fell silent as the men settled in for the night. He’s right, Zack thought, we can’t let this happen again. But why did Churchill see it when no one else did?

  It was a question he wanted answered.

  Early the next day, he reached the gate at Church Fenton. The guard told him to wait while he called for a car to pick him up and take him to his squadron. Three Mosquitoes captured his attention as they took off and climbed into the darkening sky. The speed of the machines surprised him and he was still watching them when a car drove up. “It’s about time you quit playing silly buggers and came back to work,” a familiar voice said. It was his navigator Andrew Ruffum.

  “Ruffy!” Zack shouted. “What…how…” Suddenly, he was at a complete loss for words.

  “Had the devil of a time getting out of the Beau,” Ruffy deadpanned, lighting his big pipe. “Half-drowned you know. Chaps from the Dutch underground found me when I waded ashore. They were kind enough to provide temporary accommodations until a rendezvous with a submarine was arranged. Quite routine.”

  “Right,” Zack deadpanned back.

  SIX

  Chiang Mai, Thailand

  The young and lean American ambled across the lush grass of the hotel until he reached the path that led to the pool of Thailand’s best and newest mecca for tourists at Chiang Mai. He was at ease in the posh surroundings yet seemed out of place among the wealthy Japanese and Europeans. He and his friends were the only Americans staying there, much younger than the other guests, and tight jeans and loose shirts could not hide their well-conditioned and muscular bodies. The older men among the rich and pampered hotel guests had tried to ignore the young Americans with their quasi-military haircuts and drooping mustaches, but it was difficult because the women were definitely attracted to the Americans. And since the Americans all seemed dedicated to their favorite game of “getting drawers,” many fruitful relationships had been established. The female players of the game would have been horrified, thrilled, or perhaps a mixture of both, if they knew their young and energetic partners in the game were dedicated and remarkably proficient commandos.

  When he reached the pool, he threaded his way among the glistening and well-oiled bodies until he found his friend. He sat down on a sun lounge and pulled a Skoal can out of his hip pocket for a quick dip. “Where’s Joey?”

  “In his room.”

  “Alone?”

  “No way.”

  “Who this time? The German blonde?”

  “And her sister.”

  “You’d better go get him before he screws himself silly. It’s a good thing Kamigami isn’t here.”

  “Is it that time?”

  “Yeah. I’ll get the others. Meet in twenty minutes.” He picked himself up and returned the smile of a well-preserved forty-six-year-old Frenchwoman who had demonstrated her favorite perversion to him the night before. “Shit, my tongue still hurts,” he mumbled to himself, wondering if there was an exercise that developed tongue muscles.

  Within twenty minutes, the fourteen Americans had all gathered in a truck garage on the outskirts of town. The casual way they had slouched through the door in twos or threes disappeared once they were inside. The German who spent most of his time working as an anthropologist was also there. He came right to the point. “No change in the status of your target. She is still in the same location with the same three men. No change in their routine.” That was all to the good, but there was more. He produced a map. “There are four trucks from Chiang’s Burma compound moving down this road.” He traced the route that led to the village that was also their objective. “We’ve lost contact with the trucks but estimate their time of arrival around ten this evening.” He left the map and disappeared out the door.

  “There’s been a change in plans,” the group’s leader said. “We go in at nineteen forty-three tonight, rendezvous at twenty hundred with the helicopter at the primary LZ, and get the hell out of Dodge City quickest. The backup team repositions here.” He pointed to a spot on the road three miles north of the village. “Those trucks have to come down this road. Set up a roadblock to stop them if they show up before we go in.” Like any competent leader, the American tailored his words to the personalities of the men who would carry out his orders. “You’re a road watch team. Don’t go shooting the shit out of anyone. Your job is to stop those trucks and give us a heads-up if they’re a factor. We don’t want to go causing some international incident and get our asses in a crack.”

  Joey studied the map. “Why don’t we blow this bridge? It’s perfect.”

  “Except it’s too close to the village.”

  Joey looked disappointed. “Give me a break. A few well-placed charges…blow the shit out of the bridge…with them included. God, I love demo.” Like most demolition men, Joey enjoyed his work and had a world of confidence in what he could do with C4 explosive. There was no doubt in his mind that he could solve the problem of any hostile trucks foolish enough to drive down that road.

  The leader smiled and shook his head. “Forget the bridge. Block the road and report. Withdraw into the jungle at the first sign of trouble. Simple enough, okay?”

  The men broke up into two groups and the team of six who would set up the roadblock left first. They had six hours to move into position. “I don’t like these last-minute changes,” Joey’s leader said.

  “Hey,” Joey replied, “flexibility, man, flexibility. Got to be like Gumby.”

  The team of eight shooters who would do the actual rescue left fifteen minutes later.

  Udorn, Thailand

  Gillespie settled into the right seat of the MH-53 Pave Low helicopter. His hands flew over the switches and controls as he ran the Before Starting Engines checklist. Then he wound and set the correct time on the eight-day clock and waited. He glanced over at his copilot and then back into the cargo compartment. In the rear, he could see the looming bulk of Kamigami strap in with the team that would secure the landing zone. “Loading the sergeant major creates a definite weight and balance problem.” He grinned at the copilot, trying to ease the snowballing tension. He got a grunt for an answer. Gillespie stared out the windscreen and took a deep breath. The waiting was the hardest part and the tension was becoming an avalanche as the time for engine start neared. Gillespie’s mind roamed back in time and he could visualize an F-4 crew sitting on the same ramp a generation earlier waiting for an engine start that would launch them over North Vietnam and into one of the most heavily defended pieces of airspace ever recorded in history. Has it always been this way? he wondered.

  The minute hand on the clock moved with maddening slowness, dragging its way around the clock’s face. Now the second hand started its last sweep. “Starting two,” Gillespie said as it finally touched the twelve.

  The tension was broken.

  “Hammer,” the Have Quick radio squawked, “Rascal Two returning to base at this time.” The strain in the backup helicopter pilot’s voice was unmistakable over the Have Quick radio as he told the two colonels on the MC-130 that he was aborting. Because the Have Quick relied on rapid frequency hopping to defeat any monitoring or jamming of its transmissions, the men could speak freely without fear of monitoring or jamming. It was also remarkably clear and free of noise and static.

  “Rascal Two, this is Hammer, say problem,” Mallard replied from aboard the MC-130.

  “Hydraulics,” came the answer.

  Damn! Gillespie raged to himself after hearing the exchange. “The goat” strikes again. Like all helicopters, the MH-53 was a flying contradiction of ten thousand parts all trying to go in separate directions. He glanced at his flight engineer sitting between him and the copilot, just aft of the center console. The sergeant scanned the engine instruments and gave him a thumbs-up signal.

  “Hammer,” Gillespie radioed. “Rascal One is healthy. Entering holding at this
time.” The pilot turned onto a racetrack pattern to lose eight minutes so he would be inbound to the landing zone when the ground team went in to rescue Nikki Anderson. They did not want the early arrival of the big helicopter to send any warning signals to her captors.

  “Roger,” Mallard replied. “Rascal Two,” he continued, “return to base. Repeat, RTB. Rascal One, I’m scrambling Rascal Three now.” While still in contact with Gillespie on the Have Quick, Mallard keyed the SatCom radio to relay the situation to General Mado in the command post at Udorn. The general demanded to know all the details before he would scramble the backup helicopter. When he was satisfied that Mallard had made the right decision allowing Rascal Two to RTB, he ordered Rascal Three to scramble. But the MH-53 still on the ground could not bring a generator on line and that was all the general needed to abort the mission. He ordered Hammer to send the abort message terminating Dragon Noire.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Trimler told Mallard. “We’re only using the helicopters for rapid extraction. There’s no current threat on the ground and we can leave the same way we went in. We’re trained and ready to do that. No big deal.”

  “Mado won’t buy that unless we give him a damn good reason,” Mallard said.

  Trimler gave it to him. “General Mado,” he radioed. “Be advised that the ground teams have already reached their initial positions. Given the situation on the ground, there is a good chance of discovery if they withdraw at this time. That would put the hostage at risk. I recommend we continue with option three of the plan.”

  “Stand by,” Mado replied.

  Trimler looked at his watch. “If I know Mado,” he told Mallard, “he’s looking at the plan right now to see what option three is. By the time he figures it out, we’ll be going in.”