by Dennis Foley
“Sure,” Hollister said as he reached out to take the sergeant’s hand to thank him for picking him up after an all-nighter on duty. “I’ll be okay. I guess that I can find a place to work for a year here. If they haven’t got something for me to do, then none of us belongs here.”
Finding a clear spot on the floor next to the sergeant major’s desk, Hollister dropped his bags and reached for a cigarette. It wasn’t even seven in the morning, and already he was sweating through his undershirt and his shirt. He lit a cigarette and blew out the match with the smoke.
“Oh, good mornin’, Captain. You must be Hollister, James A.—that right?”
The voice came from a form standing in the doorway marked DEPUTY CHIEF OF STAFF FOR PERSONNEL G-l. It was the G-l sergeant major—Norman Carey. He was a medium-height man of fifty with a stack of papers in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. He put the cup and the papers on his desk, then turned back around to close the door behind him.
“That’s me, Sergeant Major. Hollister, James A.”
The sergeant major stuck out his hand. “Welcome to Two Field.”
His hand was frail and without substance, and his grip was weak. Hollister looked down and noticed the scar that ran from the sergeant major’s wrist toward the inside of his elbow. It was ragged, deep, and ugly.
The sergeant major was used to people reacting to his scar. “Oh. World’s most embarrassing Purple Heart,” he explained. “Sniper popped a few over our heads, and my jeep driver turned us over in the ditch. I came to a stop with a piece of the side mirror up my sleeve.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Hollister said.
The sergeant major’s face split into a big grin. “Naw, it gives me a good excuse to talk women into holding my pecker for me while I take a piss. I tell ’em I’ve lost my grip and go for the sympathy thing.”
“Does that line ever work?” Hollister asked.
“Never, but it breaks the ice and gets them off of worrying about how I got the scar.”
He could tell by his face that the man had spent many days in the field, which probably accounted for some of his weathering. Hollister also knew that he liked him, but he didn’t like his headquarters.
Then, a sobering thought went through his mind. What if he was being assigned to a desk job on the IIFFV Headquarters staff? Is that why he was here? That would really be worse than an advisory job.
“Have a seat, Captain,” the sergeant major said, pointing to a folding chair near his desk. “Let me tell the colonel you’re here.”
He assumed that the sergeant major was talking about the G-l, who was behind the closed door. He took the chair and reached for the ashtray on the desk to dump the ash that was dangling dangerously from his cigarette.
The sergeant major grabbed some papers that Hollister assumed had something to do with him and stepped back to the door. He rapped once in an obligatory manner, with no intention of waiting for the voice behind the door to tell him to come in.
He opened the door and stood in the doorway. “Colonel, Captain Hollister is here.”
“Great. But I won’t have time to talk to him,” Hollister heard him say. “Please apologize for me—the general is on my ass about six other things—no time at all. Just send him on over to Colonel Downing’s shop.”
The sergeant major nodded and mumbled something acknowledging the colonel’s instructions, then closed the door and turned back to Hollister.
He bent at the knees and waist, squinted out the small window over Hollister’s shoulder, and pointed. “Sir, you need to go to that wing over there and report to Colonel Downing in the Ops Section.”
Getting up from his chair, bent over, Hollister looked at the extension of the building the sergeant major was talking about. “Can you tell me what I’m doing here, Sergeant Major?”
“Sir?” the sergeant major said with a puzzled look.
“I’m supposed to be on orders to the Americal Division up in I Corps, and you’re sending me over there to see someone else.”
The sergeant major laughed to himself. “Sir, stateside orders don’t mean squat in-country anymore. By the time they fill a requirement from stateside, we’ve already filled it with a local resource and we have a newer requirement to fill. We have to change orders all the time.”
“So?” Hollister asked.
“All I can tell you is that you ain’t goin’ to the Americal Division, Captain. I’d tell you more if I could, but I’m only a sergeant major.”
“That’s a bigger line than the one about the scar,” Hollister said, kidding him. “So is it that you don’t know or you can’t say?”
The sergeant major leaned closer to Hollister and lowered his voice. “I got a pretty good idea. I just put in a RFO to have you reassigned to the Field Force Headquarters—”
Hollister’s heart sank. He made a face of disapproval.
The sergeant major stuck his hand back out to shake Hollister’s hand good-bye, then finished what he was saying. “But you aren’t staying here in the head shed. They’re gonna work you hard. You need some help, you come find me, Cap’n. You remember that. Okay?”
Not sure what the sergeant major was saying, Hollister trusted the sincerity of his offer and thanked him. He still didn’t know that much, but he felt as if he had just made a friend.
There was something completely different about the bearlike sergeant major who sat behind his desk in the Operations Section of the headquarters. Hollister could read most of his credentials from across the room; he wore a CIB with a star and a 25th Infantry Division combat patch on his right shoulder. It meant he had spent time as an infantryman in Korea or in Vietnam with the 25th, but the star on his CIB meant that he had seen infantry combat time in both wars.
“Good morning, sir,” the sergeant major said, getting to his feet and immediately reaching out to shake hands with Hollister.
“Sergeant Major,” Hollister said as he took his hand and returned his firm shake. “Hollister—I was sent over here to report to Colonel Downing.”
“Goddamn it, Hollister! Where the hell you been?” the tall, balding officer said as he stood and came around from behind his desk to confront Hollister.
Unsure of the colonel, except for the fact that he was clearly angry with him, Hollister snapped to attention and saluted smartly. “Captain Hollister reporting, sir.”
He held his salute and stared straight ahead at a rigid position of attention as the colonel kept coming. Within a second the colonel’s face jutted into Hollister’s, chin forward. “You think we have the whole damn year to wait on you, mister?” the colonel challenged as he quickly dispatched Hollister’s salute by returning it with an air of disdain.
Dropping his salute, Hollister looked at the colonel and tried to size up the cause of the challenge. “Sir, I didn’t even know I was supposed to be here, much less when.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Captain. We’ve been waiting for you for a long time,” the colonel said as he turned and walked back behind his desk. He picked something up off it and started to read: “Captain, Infantry, Airborne-Ranger, CIB, Silver Star, Purple Heart, one tour under your belt with a LRP outfit, a six-month stint as an Airborne rifle platoon leader, Ranger instructor …” The colonel paused and looked up at Hollister. “Son, we need you a whole lot here,” he said as he broke into a wide grin. He stuck his hand out to shake with Hollister, then he laughed. “You just don’t know how much we need you here. Welcome aboard.”
“Sorry, but I’m not sure just what I am aboard, Colonel,” Hollister said.
The colonel looked at him for a second and realized that in the rush of events someone had actually forgotten to pass the word. He motioned for Hollister to take a seat in the out-of-place leather couch that sat against the wall facing the desk.
He didn’t wait for Hollister to sit. Instead, he raised his chin in the direction of the door and asked, “Coffee? Something cold?”
“Coffee’ll be fine, sir.”
“Ser
geant Major! Will you have one of those folks out there round up some coffee?”
The colonel didn’t wait for one, and the sergeant major didn’t give an answer. He just assumed he was heard and could go on with what he had to tell Hollister.
“L-R-P—that’s where we want you, and that’s where we need you, young man.”
The letters were a relief, an excitement, and a disappointment all at the same time. Hollister knew that if he did decide to stay in the army it was important that he make an effort to get a crack at commanding a rifle company in combat. He had set his mind to it, and the thought of finishing his second tour in Vietnam without getting that ticket punched on his Form 66 would make the future more difficult and reduce some of his options. Of course, he was relieved to find out that he wasn’t going to some advisory job or a staff job at the headquarters. And, ultimately, the sound of Long Range Patrol made his heart race a little faster.
“We have figured out that the divisions and a couple of the separate brigades have been getting excellent results from their long-range patrol detachments, and the Field Force commander wants to put one together to see if we can have the same luck. A couple of weeks ago, we put out the word throughout Two and Three Corps that we wanted volunteers, and they’re just arriving now. We’ve put a major in as the company commander, and we have temporarily activated the colors from an infantry company—deactivated since World War II—and given the LRPs that designation. It’s Juliet Company … J Company, Fifty-first Infantry.”
It was customary for Hollister to show some enthusiasm for his new assignment, even though he wasn’t sure what it was—completely. “That’s great, sir.”
“We’ve stolen a Special Forces major who is already onboard at Juliet Company, but there isn’t much more there yet. So I can only offer you lots of work. This is the project around here right now. We are trying to get your company up and working soon—but not so soon we get them in over their heads.”
“Have you got a mission for the company yet, sir?”
“Hell, we don’t have a decent place to put them up yet. You just get on down there, and roll up your sleeves. They need training, organization, and good leadership. You up for that?” the colonel asked.
Hollister didn’t think he had to answer the question, so he just nodded.
An awkward, baby-faced PFC tried to move into the office unobtrusively with a wooden in-box filled with coffee mugs, sugar, and a glass with a couple of spoons in it.
“Don’t be shy, son. Git yer butt in here, drop off the coffee, and get on with yer business.”
The PFC looked at the colonel to see if he had made him angry. The colonel smiled to let him know there was no reason to tiptoe around him.
“You new here?”
The soldier straightened up and spoke mechanically. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, you’re stuck here. And you’re gonna have to stand tall and step out if you don’t want to get crushed under the weight of this damned headquarters. So you get used to moving with a purpose around here, and don’t worry about whose feathers you ruffle if you got a job to do. You got that?”
The PFC nodded and awkwardly exited.
Hollister put down his coffee and reached into his pocket for a small notepad and pen. He had a feeling there was going to be an avalanche of information coming his way, and he didn’t want to miss any of it.
The colonel waited for Hollister to get some notes down, then continued. He picked up his cup, motioning for Hollister to do the same.
“Now, where was I?—oh, okay—the problem is that we’re not well suited for the job here in the flat land. We’ve got four infantry divisions, an armored Cav regiment, and a couple of separate brigades—all of which sound like freight trains moving through the damn bush. The only units that have been doing any good finding VC are the small long-range patrol detachments that they have.
“Well, our conclusion is that we ought to be able to develop better contacts with a top-notch LRP outfit and then pile on with regular units when we find ’em.”
As he listened to the colonel, Hollister could feel the pit of his stomach starting to become more relaxed. He was getting into something he understood, and the large unknown about his assignment was finally filling in.
The colonel continued. “We don’t really know how to put this outfit together, what it ought to have, how big a territory we should give it, or how complicated a mission to lay on it. I’m guessing that raids, ambushes, prisoner snatches, and any number of other things are going to be your standard missions. But you and your boss are going to have to tell me if that’s how we ought to use you.”
He got up and stepped to the large wall map that represented the III and IV Corps Tactical Zones.
“We own every piece of dirt and all the mud south of a line from the Lao-Cambode-Viet border in the northwest to the South China Sea.” He poked his index finger at Hollister. “And you are going to find, fix, and kill VC for me with that LRP company.”
With a nod, Hollister replied, “When do I start?”
“You’re already on the clock. You go forward today, and we’ll talk again in a week and work out some operations that’ll let the little people know you aim to kick ass and take names.”
“That sounds good to me, sir.” Hollister beamed.
The colonel changed his tone. He sounded less gung-ho and more confidential. “I really am glad to have you. This is a really tricky business, and I just don’t need anybody OJTing out there with those teams. They’re too light in the ass to take up your slack if you are just feeling your way around.
“You’re going to have a big job ahead of you, son. So why don’t you go on forward and meet Major Sangean.”
Standing, anticipating a good-bye, Hollister waited for the colonel to wrap it up.
“We are very pleased to have found you, Hollister. I know that doing your kind of stuff in this part of the country will be different, but it will nonetheless be important.”
He stuck out his hand and shook Hollister’s, then looked beyond him toward the outer office. “Sergeant Allen? How about fixing the captain here up with whatever he needs.”
Changed into jungle fatigues and trying to digest a heavy meal from the headquarters mess hall, Hollister struck out for his new unit.
The tiny speaker of a transistor radio was scratching out the lyrics to “Hang on Sloopy” as it swayed on the end of a piece of commo wire attached to the jeep’s windshield.
“The music bother you, sir?” the PFC from the colonel’s office asked as he stopped the jeep at the guard gate.
“No, leave it on if you want to,” Hollister answered, detecting the unsteadiness of the soldier’s voice.
The two MPs at the gate saluted Hollister and raised the steel pole that crossed the roadway in front of the jeep’s bumper.
As Hollister returned the salute, he noticed that one of the MPs gave the driver the approving pump of a closed fist and a smile.
“Friends of yours?”
Startled, the PFC bungled the clutch and pulled ahead with a jerk. “Yessir. I used to be an MP. We were in the same company.”
“So how’d you end up in Operations?”
The driver paused at the highway crossing in front of the IIFFV Headquarters compound and looked both ways. “Ya see that? Over there?” he asked as he pointed off in the distance to an isolated group of buildings set off in a large clearing, surrounded by barbed-wire-topped fences with guard towers at the corners.
“Yeah—what is it?”
“It’s the POW Compound and Interrogation Center. I was assigned over there, but I got in some trouble and they decided to reclassify me as clerk-typist,” the driver said, his voice trailing off in some embarrassment.
“What kind of trouble?”
“My section sergeant said I didn’t have enough presence or authority to be an MP. He was always on my back and finally got pissed off enough at me to get me reassigned out of his section. I ended up here.”
&
nbsp; There was no doubt that the boy was hurt by the rejection. “Was he right?” Hollister asked.
The driver looked at Hollister, surprised. “Sir, you’re the first one who ever asked me.”
“Well?”
“I guess so. I just get a little flustered. Seems like everybody in this damn army is so confident and so sure of what they’re doing. Hell, sir. All I seem to do is try to find ways of not being noticed so I can just get over and avoid catching hell.”
“What do you want to do about it? Anything?”
“Sure, I’d like to be big and bad like so many of the other guys. But the NCOs and the officers—no offense sir—really give me a hard time.”
“What scares you about them?”
The soldier cleared his throat, the conversation obviously uncomfortable for him. “Sir, you try being me and have to walk into an office with someone like the colonel and a captain like you being in there. It’d make you feel a little inadequate, too.”
“Don’t you think I was ever a PFC?”
“No shit? I mean, really?”
“Sure. I remember how intimidated I was as a new Spec 4 going through the Seventh Army NCO Academy in Bad Töolz, Germany. Let me tell you, the Tactical NCOs there were gods. They stood taller, looked sharper, and knew more than any NCOs I have ever met. They prided themselves on looking the part and being completely proficient. They busted our humps on leadership, map reading, military instruction, drill and ceremonies, and PT. I thought I’d never make it through that place. But I owe those NCOs so much, looking back on it.”
“I don’t know, sir. I’m just not sure I can hack it all.”
“Tell you what—when you get ready to try, you find me, and I’ll see what I can do to help you. Deal?”
The soldier looked across at Hollister and smiled for the first time. “Deal!”
As they entered the main gate going back into the Bien Hoa complex, the driver turned away from the airfield toward what was known as Bien Hoa Army. Hollister was immediately surprised to find it was not just a base camp but a small city.