Joint Task Force #3: France

by David E. Meadows

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” said Master Chief Collins, his voice loud enough to carry over the noise of the vehicle.

  Tucker sat in the back of the topless Marine Corps green Humvee, his eyes squinting to keep the dust that rolled under the sunglasses from caking them too much.

  “Great plan, great plan, great plan!” Klein shouted back. “Just keep thinking and saying that over and over, Master Chief. We haven’t done something like this since—”

  “John Wayne in The Fighting Seabees. I hope the skipper remembers that was a movie, sir!”

  The master chief jerked the steering wheel to the left to avoid a deep hole in the middle of the road. Tucker and Klein fell to the right, bouncing off the side of the vehicle. Klein grabbed his hat, holding it on his head.

  “You did that on purpose!”

  Collins turned the wheel to the right, jerking the Humvee back into the center of the road.

  “Yes, sir, I did. I thought if we die right here, we won’t look as foolish as we’re gonna.”

  Tucker’s admiration for the Seabee officer had grown since their first meeting. He had respect for an officer such as Klein who was adamantly opposed to the orders, but in front of everyone—including Tucker—accepted and embraced them. It was also obvious that between the commanding officer of the Seabees and his command master chief there was a bond of fidelity and respect where each was at ease to air his concerns and differences while sharing opposite opinions. Klein was lucky to have a command master chief like Collins. A commanding officer never commanded alone. He or she might have the ultimate responsibility, but without an executive officer to loyally execute day-to-day operations along with a command master chief who wasn’t afraid to tell you what you didn’t want to hear, a commanding officer seldom enjoyed a successful tour.

  Ahead and to the right of the road, the top of a dilapidated airfield control tower appeared above the tree line of the jungle. Ten minutes later, they rolled to a dusty stop beside it. Two huge tents were set up on dirt plain next to a cracked and weed-ridden parking apron adjacent to the tower. A third tent was directly ahead of them, and, from the activity beneath it, this tent had to be the Seabees command post. The rolled sides of the three tents allowed the minute breeze to circulate through the late-afternoon African sun. Several Seabees sat on folding chairs inside one of the tents while other Seabees, their cammie sleeves rolled down, off-loaded supplies and gear from a truck.

  Master Chief Collins turned the engine off and was first out of the vehicle. “That’s water and food mostly, Skipper,” he said, pointing at the working party off-loading the truck. “With this heat, we need to make sure the troops drink plenty of liquids, and I don’t mean beer.”

  “What’s wrong with the ones lounging around under the tents? Why aren’t they helping?” Tucker asked as they walked toward the group.

  “There’s nothing wrong with them, Commander. What they’re doing is helping. With the heat and humidity so high, we have two working parties switching off at thirty-minute intervals.” He pointed to the sailors beneath the nearest tent. “That bunch will relieve those in the sun shortly, and those in the sun will take a short break to chug water and grab a bite to eat, if they’re hungry. They can even sneak in a power nap, if they want—if they can.” Collins pointed at the ground. “Watch the hole,” he said.

  They stepped over the hole in the concrete. Tucker glanced down into it, but couldn’t see anything.

  “I think it’ll take a week for our people to adjust to the climate, then we can work their balls off.” Master Chief Collins paused. “Well, those that have them,” he added softly.

  The three reached the end of the tower wall. Smaller tents appeared to the right. A Seabee working party was setting up more tents.

  “You’re going to sleep out here?” Tucker asked, slightly bewildered. The Mesa Verde was only thirty minutes from here. The Seabees could commute.

  “Probably not all of us, but eventually the Mesa Verde is going to get underway and then we’ll have little choice. Besides, we’ll build some barracks in the next couple of weeks.”

  Tucker ducked slightly as they stepped under the edge of and into the command tent. The temperature dipped as they stepped out of the sun. Tucker removed his hat and wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It’s amazing how much a shade will drop the heat, and with the right amount of breeze, it’s almost like walking into an air conditioned room as your sweat cooled on your skin. He thought, Well, maybe not air conditioned, but there was a difference.

  A young baby-faced lieutenant straightened up from where she was leaning over a table at the far end of the tent.

  “Captain,” she called, referring to Klein.

  Klein turned to Tucker as he waved in acknowledgment. “That’s Lieutenant Wilson-Flan; Carol Wilson-Flan. She’s my XO,” he said softly. “She’ll be our main problem.”

  “How’s that?”

  “She truly believes a Seabee is worth more than any other sailor in the Navy.”

  “Well, she’s right about that at least,” Master Chief Collins interjected, as he beat his cammies with his hat, dismayed over the dust clouds rising from his uniform.

  “Sir,” she said when they reached where Wilson-Flan, two chief petty officers, and a construction mechanic first class from Alpha Company stood. “We’re working up the game plan for getting this construction back on track.” Before Klein could reply, she started rattling off the challenges facing them from water to sewage to weather to building material. After a few minutes, she paused.

  “That’s good, XO,” Klein said. He looked at the others standing around the table. “You men continue with this. I need to talk with the XO for a moment.”

  Ten minutes later, she had been brought up to speed on what they had to do. Unlike Klein and the master chief, Tucker saw the sparkle of excitement in her eyes. Klein was right. This one was going to go, if she had any say in it. Luckily she didn’t.

  Tucker caught movement out of the corner of his left eye. He turned. A few hundred yards away, toward the cracked concrete and bush-covered runway, four Seabees walked toward them. The one in front was gigantic. Even from this distance he towered over the two walking alongside. One of the sailors broke away from the group and ran toward the command tent. Tucker couldn’t make out what the big man was carrying. Must be a sack or something from the way it was thrown over his right shoulder.

  The Seabee running toward the tent was shouting and waving his hand. Tucker couldn’t make out what he was saying, but the urgency in the tenor of the voice was unmistakable. Four sailors hurriedly rose and dashed to a nearby Humvee. With a couple of quick flicks, they freed a stretcher. Two grabbed the ends, and, with the other two on each side of the stretcher, the four ran toward the group, skirting the edge of the tent and barely avoiding the lines running the surrounding stakes.

  “What’s going on?” Klein asked.

  The sailor was fifty feet away, breathing hard, when he stopped and put both hands on his knees. “It’s Palma, sir! He’s been snake bit!”

  Klein turned to the construction mechanic. “Get over to the medical tent and tell Doc what’s happened.” Klein dashed from under the tent at the same time the chief petty officer dashed out the other side. Klein caught up with the stretcher-bearers and passed them as he ran toward the injured sailor.

  Tucker realized that the huge man was carrying this Palma. As they approached, he could tell the sailor lying over the man’s shoulder wasn’t small. The man must weigh in excess of a hundred-eighty, Tucker told himself. He was mesmerized by how the big sailor walked as if the weight thrown across his shoulder was nothing more than a minor inconvenience: each step steady and smooth—the left arm swinging freely. The sun glistened off the sweat coursing down the man’s face, but other than this small indication, there was no expression to indicate strain from the exertion. Tucker shielded his eyes and glanced at the African sun, low in the sky, burning down on the naked head of the giant. So
mewhere, the man had lost his hat.

  The man placed one foot in front of the other as if out on a leisurely stroll. Why should Tucker expect him to be running with this load? It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t fun, and it sapped the strength of those who had to do it; but you did it because someone someday may have to do it for you.

  Tucker thought about going out there, but knew he’d only be in the way. He looked around for the XO, but she was gone. He searched the tent for a moment and finally saw her near one of the parked Humvees with a couple of sailors. She was motioning the driver, who was turning the Humvee around, so they could load the sailor on it for the race back to the ship. They work well together, these Seabees, Tucker realized; and at that moment, he knew he was seeing something that few did in the Navy. Everyone knew about fighter pilots, surface warriors, and SEALs, but few saw what he was seeing or realized what he was realizing. Seabees were warriors. Behind the scenes of the glory elements of the Navy, the Seabees forged their own ethos—their own way of surviving against the elements and in any kind of environment. Environments few encountered and even fewer lived through. As if having an epiphany, at that moment—that very moment—Tucker knew that they were going to succeed in this mission from hell, and they were going to succeed with sailors from a much-unheralded group: the United States Mobile Construction Battalion—the Seabees.

  At the far end of the tent, Master Chief Collins was talking with the man they called Brute, the one who had carried the injured Seabee back from the end of the runway, and a slender, tall African-American sailor who kept poking himself in his chest as they talked.

  Master Chief Collins rubbed his face and then lowered his hand to point at the giant sailor. The African-American sailor leaped forward and pushed Collins’s hand down. The master chief nodded at him and continued asking questions. Tucker thought, Wonder what that was about?

  Tucker was finishing his water bottle when the Humvee departed in a shower of gravel and dust, racing to the ship. Klein and Wilson-Flan, outside the tent, watched until the Humvee disappeared down the road and the dust from its departure enveloped them. Then they turned to join him under the protection of the large open tent.

  “He’ll be all right,” Klein said to Tucker. He reached into the ice chest and pulled a couple of waters out, handing one to Wilson-Flan. “The doc,” he continued, referring to the first class corpsman assigned to his battalion, “gave Palma an anti-venom injection that should keep him until they get him to the ship.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, they have a hundred species of snakes here in Liberia and ninety-nine of them are poisonous. The other one swallows you whole.”

  “I’ve heard of that one.”

  Klein shrugged his shoulders. “Just stepped on the wrong thing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Good thing Brute was with them. I don’t think the other three could have hauled his ass back here in time. Palma must weigh two hundred pounds.”

  Master Chief Collins joined them.

  “Commander,” Collins said, addressing Tucker. “I’ve got your three volunteers for this mission.”

  “Master Chief, we haven’t discussed this,” Klein objected.

  Collins held up his walkie-talkie. “They just called from the ship and Captain Bennett wants the team back ASAP. Couldn’t tell me what was going on, but I’ve been around the Navy long enough to know it means something’s changed.”

  “And who are these three, Master Chief?” Klein asked, his head tilting to the side. “I think I should have final say on who goes and who doesn’t.”

  “Yes, sir, you should; but I have this itch that tells me you think you’re going to be one of those going. That means that we’d have to argue for an hour while I convince you that the commanding officer can’t do this and why I, who wears the Seabee Combat Warfare Breast Insignia, should.”

  “Oh, I see,” Klein said, his voice tight. “You can go, but I can’t.”

  “Sir, of course you can go, but then the XO would be in charge and she’d want to go. This way, if I go, you two with Chief Brown and Chief Dickens can get the job started here. Besides, it’s not as if we’re going to be gone long. An overnight hop in, do what our great nation wants us to do, and then a quick hop out. It can’t be easier, right, Commander Raleigh?”

  Tucker chuckled. “Of course, Master Chief. Every well-planned mission goes according to the plan.”

  “This is not what I would call a well-planned mission,” Klein said. “It hasn’t even been diagrammed on a chart.”

  “Diagrammed on a chart?” Master Chief Collins asked.

  “Of course. Every well-planned mission has a chart.”

  Tucker grinned at the master chief, who tilted his head to the side. “He’s got you there, Master Chief. It’s a well-known fact that good missions have a chart.”

  “Sir, I’m a Master Chief. I don’t need any damn chart to be able to ride a helicopter to point A, walk to point B, snatch whatever is there they want snatched, and hightail it out of the country. I’d say this makes your argument another good reason why I have to go instead of you.” He nodded curtly as he crossed his arms across his chest. Collins’s eyes moved from Klein to Wilson-Flan to Tucker. When no one said anything, he uncrossed his arms. “There, sir. I’m glad we agree on this. Since officers need a chart, I have a road map of Liberia we can take with us.”

  “But, we’re going into Ivory Coast,” Tucker offered.

  “Yes, sir, but I have this feeling that if we don’t make that helicopter, we aren’t going to need a map of Ivory Coast.”

  “And Liberia? We need a road map of Liberia?”

  “Sir, I don’t need a chart or a road map; but if it makes you feel better, then at least we’ll have something.”

  “Okay, you win, Master Chief,” Klein said. “I presume Brute is one of those you’re recommending. Who’s the other?”

  Collins jerked his thumb over his shoulder a couple of times. Brute was standing on the far side of the tent beside the tall African-American Tucker saw earlier with the master chief. The tall sailor smiled, uncurled his folded arms, and waved at them.

  “You’re going to take Ricard?”

  “Yes, sir, Skipper. Petty Officer Ricard is a washout from Explosive Ordnance training, but he’s earned his Seabee Combat Warfare Breast Insignia.”

  “A washout?” Tucker said.

  Master Chief Collins turned to Tucker. “Sir, a washout is better than never attending. At least he’s had some combat training. That’s on top of the defense combat techniques and tactics we have to learn, even if his was nearly two years ago. He jogs well, also. Plus, he’s qualified on the heavy machine gun—the .50 caliber—and I figured you might want a heavy gunner along with us. But, most important, Commander, is that Ricard is our explosives expert. If we can’t grab that technology they want off the aircraft, then at least we can blow it up.”

  The walkie-talkie on the side of the master chief’s belt squawked. “Hey Forward One, this is Mother. You guys left yet? The old man is chomping at the bit. So, Master Chief, you gotta get those zeros moving before this skipper picks me up and throws me overboard.” “Zeros” was a slang term for officers that was derived from the pay scales promulgated by the military. Officers were identified by O- 1, O-2, etc., while enlisted men, sometimes referred to as Es, were identified by E-1, E-2, etc.

  Collins unhooked the walkie-talkie from his belt and pushed the speak-to-talk button as he brought it up to his mouth. “Wallens, he ain’t going to throw you overboard; and if he does, you don’t have to worry. They don’t have sharks inside the harbor.”

  A second passed before the radio squawked again. “Thanks, Master Chief. You may know that, but you’re miles inshore where they can’t get to you.”

  Collins shook his head. “Wallens, tell the old man we’re on our way.” He paused, then pressed the button again. “Wallens, I don’t need to be there to know there’s no sharks. Sharks don’t swim in shit, and that harbor’s full of it.�
��

  Two clicks came across the airways as Wallens roger’ed up the master chief’s transmission.

  “Looks as if we’d better get on our way, Skipper,” Collins said to Klein.

  Tucker knew that the senior enlisted man for the entire NMCB-133 battalion was giving his commanding officer a last chance to nix his plan. This was the give and take of command, but the final decision always lies with the commanding officer, and if Teddy Klein wanted, he could change the master chief’s recommendations. Additionally, Tucker knew that if that happened, the master chief wouldn’t be happy, but he’d march away and fully execute his orders as if he himself had made the decision. Tucker relaxed when Klein nodded in agreement. He had already developed a degree of confidence in the master chief; a confidence that later would be fully justified.

  CHAPTER 7

  TUCKER SHIVERED SLIGHTLY AS HE STEPPED FROM THE passageway into the captain’s in-port cabin. The sudden drop in temperature brought by the air conditioning of the ship rippled across wet clothes and a body covered in sweat from the high temperature and higher humidity of the African summer. He paused long enough to use his handkerchief to wipe the stinging sweat away from his eyes while the other hand shut the door.

  On the other side of the short conference table that doubled as Captain Bennett’s private dining table, the intelligence officer was busy laying out photographs and papers. Master Chief Collins stood quietly near the porthole behind the Intel officer with his hands clasped behind his back. Tucker was glad Klein had elected to stay with his battalion instead of coming with him, the master chief, Brute—he still wasn’t convinced that big was better—and Ricard—why did he washout of EOD?—who was going along as the explosive expert. Washing out of a Navy school was considered a mark against you. That wasn’t something he and other Navy officers discussed, but in the back of Tucker’s mind was the unwritten Navy belief that it was better to never have tried than to have tried and failed.