Night Work: A Novel of Vietnam (The Jim Hollister Trilogy Book 2)

by Dennis Foley

  Sangean looked at Hollister, and they both replied together, “You bet!”

  After his excitement over the good news started to wane, Hollister sat down and drafted another letter to Major Fowler about his request for additional support. He still hadn’t seen anything that looked like artillery, air force, or communications support—or evidence that something was ongoing. He finished the letter and let Kurzikowski read it.

  “You’re just gonna piss him off with this, Captain. Seems to me I remember something about officers needing tact,” he said, attaching a smile to his words.

  “A little too pointed, huh?”

  “Pointed? Naw, it’s not pointed for a real soldier. But for a REMF it’s a stick in the eye.”

  Kurzikowski was growing on Hollister. He was an old-hand Airborne NCO who had seen his share of special operations and unconventional units. He wore a tiny Bronze Star on his Master Parachutist wings for the combat blast he had made in the 187th Regimental Combat Team in Korea. His right-shoulder patch gave away a combat assignment with Special Forces on an earlier tour in Vietnam.

  Kurzikowski didn’t remember him, but Hollister remembered Kurzikowski as a tough and no-nonsense instructor at the Airborne School at Fort Benning when he was a student. Since there were over three hundred in Hollister’s class, he didn’t take offense at Kurzikowski’s not remembering him.

  The Fowler letter behind them, they went over training schedules. Kurzikowski discussed his ideas about training the teams after training the individuals. As he spoke Hollister realized how much of his life had taken place in the company of, under the scrutiny of, and being protected by NCOs like Kurzikowski. He made a mental note to try to get a letter off to First Sergeant Easy before he crapped out that night. He had tried to do it three nights in a row without success.

  Kurzikowski came up with a variation that Hollister didn’t particularly like, but he decided not to make an issue out of it. He had learned as a young sergeant himself that it was worse to win every argument than to lose a few privately. It kept things on a professional plane and reduced the likelihood of things becoming personal due to continued wins and losses going to the same parties. When that happened it always seemed to ruin the relationship and become bitter. He didn’t want that to happen between him and Kurzikowski. He needed him, he trusted him, and he wanted his respect.

  Hollister allowed himself two beers before he fell into his bunk. He had moved into another building that was across the company street from Operations and next to the Orderly Room. It had been a dispensary of sorts in its first life and was partitioned by plywood walls that had been fitted with several shallow shelves that must have once held medical supplies.

  Hollister used the few hours he had free to clean out the rat-infested shack and patch the tear in the tin roof with a panel off a nearby shack that had burned in some long-forgotten fire. His end of the hooch was ten feet by twelve and had a single lightbulb hanging in the center. The other half of the shack would be claimed by the XO, who was already in-country and due at Cu Chi within the week. Hollister had taped a map of the area west of Cu Chi, which included the first ten kilometers inside the farthest part of the Cambodian border, on the wall just above his bunk.

  He was finishing his beer while reading the Intelligence Summary that came to them every three days from IIFFV. The INTSUM gave a recap of all reports of enemy activities, sightings, intelligence-gathering efforts, and PW (prisoner of war) interrogations. As far as Hollister was concerned, much of it was pure crap. He was quickly able to determine the level of accuracy in the details by reading the entry that summarized the short patrol he had been on with Sergeant Harrold’s team. It read: AT 0200 HRS, JANUARY 25, 1968, A IIFFV LRP TEAM ENCOUNTERED ENEMY ELEMENTS AT XT516798 ESTIMATED SIZE 10 VC. ARMY GUNSHIP FIRED IN SUPPORT OF THE GROUND ELEMENT. RESULTS: ESTIMATED 4 ENEMY KIA, 4 WIA. NO FRIENDLY CASUALTIES.

  Three years into the U.S. ground war, numbers had become the standard. Body count was everything. No progress or success could be claimed or announced without comparative estimates of friendly versus enemy body counts. And as fast as the system was instituted, it became inflated and suspect.

  It started when he was with the Airborne Brigade. Hollister remembered being involved in a firefight in the Highlands and knew firsthand that they had only killed fifteen VC. But a week later the Stars and Stripes had a headline that read: AIRBORNE TROOPS CLASH WITH VC IN HIGHLAND BASE CAMP—50 ENEMY SOLDIERS LOSE LIVES.

  He was confident that he had never exaggerated any body counts, but he could never seem to control what happened to the information that started on his end of a radio handset. It always grew in numbers as it went higher and higher up the chain of command.

  But the numbers and the slight inaccuracies in the INTSUM were not as important to Hollister as the trends and the bigger picture. He knew that most of the information had come from individual reports by RF/PF outposts, patrols, pilots, infantrymen, and a long list of other sources that didn’t coordinate their input. So most of the reports were worth reading and comparing to the map.

  As he made the ground-report relationship, Hollister was able to see that there had been a steady flow of very small groups of VC moving from Cambodia toward Saigon prior to the Tet Offensive. He wondered if he could see it in the reports, why couldn’t the people who specialized in analysis see it?

  Still, that was nothing he could do anything about. He shook off the pre-Tet reports and looked at the reports since the offensive. He was careful not to try to find a solid pattern in activities that were only a few days old. He would watch for trends and changes and patterns. his early assessment was that there was a considerable amount of movement at night coming across the border heading toward the small villages and hamlets close to it. To him the reason was obvious. The distance from the safety of Cambodia to major American and South Vietnamese bases was too far for infiltrators to make in one night. They had to hole up somewhere, and blending in with the villagers in the daytime was the best way to do that.

  He started to make little marks on the map for activities—no special distinctions, which would take too much time to do and clutter the map up too much—just marks. He had a hunch that if he kept putting a mark on the map each time he read a report, he would find a pattern and a flow in his AO. He knew that if he could make an educated guess as to where they were moving at night, he could place teams in their path and do some damage.

  He placed over two-dozen marks on the map and then gave up. His eyes burned, and he wasn’t able to make much sense out of some of the interrogation reports that were extracted from poor translations. Even he knew that a paragraph that read 2 VC WERE

  REPORTED BY AGENT TO HAVE CARRIED 600 KILOS OF RICE TO SUSPECTED TUNNELS LOCATED AT XT 620102 was just not credible. He knew there were many “super-soldier” claims attributed to the VC, but carrying three hundred kilos of rice was one for the books.

  After a cold shower and another cigarette, Hollister walked to Operations for one final check before he called it a night. Lieutenant Seeley was the duty officer. Since all the teams were in and the company was not on alert for anything but a full ground assault of the base camp, there was little to worry about. The radios hummed with the cross talk from other units out on operations trying to track down the few remaining NVA units left after the militarily unsuccessful Tet Offensive.

  “Evening, sir,” Seeley said, looking up from what looked like a letter to someone at home.

  “How’s it going? Anything shaking?” Hollister asked.

  “No, sir. There’s an ARVN unit north of the Sugar Mill that seems to think the entire North Vietnamese Army is getting ready to attack it, but the gunships prowling the area for them can’t find anything but dark out there.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Hollister said. “You going with me tomorrow?”

  “On the practice inserts?”

  “Yep.”

  “Yessir. I’m ready,” Seeley said, obviously trying to sound gung-ho. />
  “Well, try and get some sleep. We don’t need a platoon leader falling asleep in the door of a chopper.”

  Seeley smiled and nodded. Hollister waved and stepped back out the door.

  As he walked across the company street to his hooch, he remembered the nights he had pulled the duty officer’s watch only to get up and head out into the operations of the day. It seemed so long ago, and he seemed to have had more staying power then. At his age he should feel stronger—he promised to make the run in the morning with the troops.

  He entered his hooch, turned on the light, and looked at his watch. “Oh shit!” he mumbled to himself. It was just after one A.M. He didn’t even bother to take off his fatigue trousers. He just flopped on his bunk and fell off the edge of the war.

  Someone banged on the door to Hollister’s hooch. “Cap’n Hollister? You asked me to tell you when it’s zero four hundred. Well, it’s zero four hundred, sir.” Then there was a pause and the soldier added, “Ah … Airborne!”

  Hollister’s head hurt from the tension he had been carrying. It was the first thing he felt when he raised it to get up. He reached for a cigarette, coughed up the night’s congestion, and lit up. The smoke burned all the way down, and he remembered that he had every intention of making the PT run. He considered putting out the cigarette and then figured, what the hell, he’d already had the first drag.

  He had been too lazy to shave the night before. He regretted the decision after splashing cold canteen water on his face, lathering up with a can of Foamy, and dragging the razor down from his sideburn. The shave was painful and short of Airborne School standards.

  Hollister stumbled out into the darkness. He knew where the troops were, even without looking. He could hear the drone of the mumbling that always took place while everyone was waiting for the formation to be called to attention and the coughing that punctuated the drone.

  He bumped into Lieutenant Osborne, who was heading in the same direction. “Good morning, sir,” Osborne said cheerfully.

  “Matter of opinion. You in charge of this mob this morning?” Hollister asked.

  “Yessir, unless you’d like to lead the run.”

  “Nope. I’m real sure you’ll do a good job and bring almost as many of us home as you take out. How far you going this morning?”

  “Well, I thought I’d …,” Osborne began.

  “No. Never mind. I’ll find out when it happens. Don’t tell me.”

  “Company! Attench-hut!” a voice hollered in the dark.

  Hollister got closer and realized it was First Sergeant Morrison standing in front of the formation of fewer than a hundred soldiers, divided up into two platoons and a headquarters section. Morrison did an awkward about-face and waited for Lieutenant Osborne to step in front of him.

  “Sir, the company is formed,” Morrison said, rendering a fairly snappy salute for a fat man.

  Osborne returned the salute and in a more moderate tone replied, “Thank you, First Sergeant. Take your post.”

  Morrison did another about-face and marched to the end of the formation, where Hollister had positioned himself. Recognizing Hollister, he whispered, “Good morning, sir.”

  “How come I’m the only one that isn’t sure about that, Top?”

  Morrison stifled a laugh, then followed Osborne’s instructions to the company to face right, forward-march, and double-time.

  As they passed the last building in the area belonging to the LRPs, another figure came out of the dark and fell in on the other side of the first sergeant. It was Major Sangean, who simply said, “Morning,” and fell into step.

  As they left the company street and turned onto a laterite road that headed toward the 25th Division commanding general’s quarters, Osborne started singing Jody cadence—loud, arrogant, and very Airborne.

  Hollister couldn’t help but be impressed with the first sergeant. With all his bulk, and already breathing heavily, he was keeping up and making no excuses. After a couple of weeks together, Hollister was changing his attitude about Morrison. He was turning out to be a terrific senior NCO and adapted to the ways and the needs of the LRP company as if he had spent years in one.

  It bothered Hollister that he had misjudged Morrison based on his looks. But he was happy to find out that the man was worth keeping. He had never mentioned his weight to Morrison, although he had the feeling that Sangean had.

  The column of fours snaked its way through the streets and roadways that crisscrossed the Tropic Lightning base camp. About a mile into the run, Lieutenant Osborne turned the column toward the flagpole that marked the 25th Division Headquarters complex and the nearby division commander’s quarters.

  Recognizing the direction of the running company, Hollister took a quick look at his watch. It was only five A.M. and the glow of the dawn was turning a peach color on the horizon. He was sure the general was still tucked into the clean sheets of his rack, sleeping to the hum of the air conditioner that made his house trailer the envy of every man in the base camp.

  As they approached the general’s trailer, Osborne raised the volume of his voice and sang out the Jody cadence challenges. The troops quickly caught on and raised their voices in the responses. The small company could be heard at least a thousand yards away yelling, AIRBORNE, RANGER and LONG RANGE PATROL. There could be no doubt in anyone’s mind that the LRPs were up, doing their PT, and cutting themselves no slack. It was the kind of stuff they lived for—to be LRPs and to rub it in to those who weren’t.

  Hollister was sure that Sangean recognized the potential for an ass-chewing coming down to him through channels. But if he cared, he didn’t show it, and he certainly didn’t try to stop Osborne from spurring on the troops.

  They went through it on the ground first. Hollister had the slick pilots park two Hueys in trail, and the gunship pilots stood out to the flanks representing the gunships they would be flying. Hollister felt it was more dangerous than useful to park loaded gunships in a field where fifty-odd LRPs were walking through the choreography of a LRP insert. He also knew that the Cobras were such a novelty that the troops would be tempted to investigate them and risk injury should one of the rockets malfunction and launch or detonate.

  But even though the men were restricted to the practice area, the Cobras would distract much of their attention while Hollister was trying to perfect the routine of loading, getting out on a landing zone, and moving to a rally point. He wanted all the distractions eliminated so the pilots would see what the troops would be doing and the troops would see where the gunships would be flying by using the pilots to simulate their own Cobras.

  The morning went by quickly. Hollister made every man in the company pose as a LRP team member and go through the loading, landing, unloading routine more than once. Even the headquarters personnel.

  He then did the same for all of the pilots. He insisted they pose as LRPs to see what problems LRPs faced as they went into potentially hot landing zones knowing they would be getting off in the crosshairs of every VC within effective range of his weapon.

  At first the pilots balked at the idea, and then they started to taunt each other into going through the drill. By noon the resistance had turned into competitive practice teams pitting the gunship pilots against the slick pilots. All wanted to get out fast and get to the designated rally point without tripping or falling. It was hard work for everyone, but they quickly got into the spirit of it when it turned completely competitive within the LRP teams.

  Chapter 12

  THE LETTER FROM SUSAN was the first in a pile of six that had arrived at once. It had taken almost three weeks for the mail to be forwarded from his old unit—the one he was originally assigned to but never saw. He had received three letters written after the packet of six that had come directly to Juliet Company once Susan had received his new address.

  He didn’t care that they were out of order or that he was reading about things she had planned after he had already read how the plans came out. Her words, her handwriti
ng, and the feel of the paper she had handled gave him a feeling of belonging to something permanent, something hopeful, and something safe. There was nothing that fit that description in Vietnam—nothing but Susan’s letters.

  It was late, he was tired, his head ached, and he had a sour knot in his stomach. Still, he was going to read each letter at least once before he slept.

  He poured himself a couple of fingers of Scotch from a bottle he had brought back from the Long Binh Class VI Store. The liquid burned his throat and made him feel flushed as quickly as it hit bottom.

  Her words were at once warming and a little disturbing. She had always had a problem with him being in the army. Her upbringing in an all-civilian family, her education at Amherst College, and working as a journalist for five years couldn’t help but leave her that way.

  Even though they had lived at Fort Benning between tours, it had done little to take some of the edge off her opposition to the war. She was becoming more and more uncomfortable with the American involvement in Vietnam. Her letters told Hollister about the news slant, the nightly body counts, the antiwar demonstrations, the division within Congress, and the sinking feeling that the war would drag on and on until tens of thousands of American boys died in Southeast Asia.

  He understood her concerns, but was bothered by the fact that while he was in Vietnam she was doubly distressed by having a husband in Vietnam and by her growing doubts about the purpose and the wisdom of the involvement in the first place.

  She told him she was going to continue her involvement in the antiwar movement as a journalist, but was also feeling a need to do something about convincing the administration that the war must be brought to a quick and decisive end.

  Her words didn’t bother him as much as he knew she thought they would. He didn’t want the war to continue. He wasn’t one of the stereotypical military men who the newspapers and TV commentators suggested were thrilled to have their lovely little war. He was sure there were people like that. He was equally sure the description didn’t apply to him or anyone he had served with. He couldn’t understand how anyone who had ever been under fire could want to put himself or others in that situation again.