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

by Dennis Foley

  “We could use a lot more time to get all this training done,” said Hollister.

  “We ain’t gonna get it,” said Kurzikowski, finishing a can of soda and crushing the can with the heels of his hands.

  “You know something?” Hollister said, reacting to a suggestion in Kurzikowski’s voice.

  “Well, the NCO net has it that we’re going to be getting a warning order tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Where’d you hear that?”

  “I was jawin’ with Sergeant Allen at Two Field. He allowed as how we ought to be lookin’ in our mailbox for it.”

  Hollister sat back and rubbed his eyes. “I guess I might have booted that up on the schedule by screwing with Fowler.”

  “Naw, wouldn’t make any difference.”

  “What’s that mean?” Hollister asked.

  “If I can speak frankly, sir?”

  Hollister laughed. “Sergeant Ski, where’d you get that shit? An old John Wayne frontier soldier movie?”

  “Well, I just don’t want to be bad-mouthing no field grader, sir, but …”

  “But what?”

  “I think that Fowler, ah, Major Fowler, would like to see us fall on our faces.”

  Hollister looked at Kurzikowski. “Well? How do we prove him wrong?”

  Kurzikowski tapped the training schedule on the field desk. “By getting as much of this done as we can before we get back operational.”

  The field phone rang, and Kurzikowski answered it. He handed the phone to Hollister. “First Sergeant for you.”

  “Sir, I need to talk to you about a new body,” the first sergeant said, using his official voice for someone in his office.

  “First Sergeant, the only job I would imagine you would want to check out with me is my replacement,” Hollister replied.

  “Well, sir, I’ll remember that when the time comes. But right now I got a young PFC named Cathcart standing in front of me. He tells me you were instrumental in getting him here.”

  “Well, you ask Mister Cathcart what he wants to do. I’m sure you can fit his wishes into your needs,” Hollister said, kidding the first sergeant about the relative unimportance of the conversation. It was an experienced first sergeant’s way of keeping from stepping on toes that just might be sensitive.

  “Fine, sir. I’ll do just that. Airborne.”

  Kurzikowski gave Hollister a questioning look.

  “A kid from Two Field that I helped get reassigned here. First sergeant wants some input.”

  “Another warm body. Good.”

  “Yeah, I ought to thank the G-l sergeant major. He made it happen.” The phone was still in Hollister’s hand. “I better do it now, or I’ll never get around to it.”

  He cranked the ringer on the field phone and got the company switchboard. “Hey, Coots, Captain Hollister. Can you get through to Two Field for me? I need to talk to the G-l sergeant major—Carey.”

  Coots told him it might take a while, end-of-the-day traffic being some of the busiest.

  “I’ll be in Operations,” Hollister said, and hung up.

  One of the radio operators came back into Operations from the mess hall with a stainless steel pitcher of coffee. Without asking, he topped off Hollister’s and Kurzikowski’s coffee and took the rest to the radio table. “Oh, Captain,” he said. “I almost forgot—this came in for you.” He put the pitcher down and pulled two letters out of his trouser pocket.

  They were from Susan. Hollister looked at the postmarks—nine days old. Not too bad. He wanted to stop and read them, but had to finish the work with Kurzikowski, and it was a matter of setting the example and setting priorities. He had always disliked officers who dropped what they were doing for some personal item just because they could.

  He stuffed the letters into his pocket. He looked forward to reading them later.

  After considering several more plans to accomplish the training, Hollister and Kurzikowski decided that round-the-clock was the only way to do a decent job of covering the teaching points they felt were essential before running any more actual combat patrols.

  They started that night. In the unused part of the abandoned area assigned to them, they established patrol RON positions. After establishing the RONs, the team leaders would call a mock E&E, as if the team had made contact, and move them to a simulated pickup zone. En route they practiced immediate-action drills against imaginary enemy forces.

  The lack of vegetation to hide them made little difference. Each man got used to moving in the dark as part of a unit, got the feel for distance between team members, and got a better perspective on how the team worked during movement and under contact.

  After checking on the training, Hollister went back to his hooch to clean his rifle and get himself cleaned up. He had not stopped since landing earlier that morning. His head hurt, and his stomach was sour from taking too many aspirins and drinking too much coffee.

  As he broke down his M16 to clean it, he remembered that he had the letters from Susan in his pocket. He decided he could probably do both at the same time. Putting the disassembled M16 on an old towel across his bunk, he opened his locker and pulled out his bottle of Scotch. He poured himself a strong drink—a mess-hall cup’s worth—and placed it on his footlocker. Then he opened the first letter from Susan.

  She began by telling him how much she missed him, and after a little discussion of her day, she ended with the same notion. Hollister shared her feelings more than he had since he had been back in Vietnam. After being back in the field and coming close to death again, he realized how long the months ahead were and how much risk there was. For a moment he was angry and confused about why he had even bothered to come back to Vietnam. He wanted to be with her. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to be home.

  He took a pull of the Scotch and promised himself that it would be his last tour. He would start writing to colleges next week for some hope of acceptance, even though he had nothing to offer but the GI Bill.

  The second letter contained more information and less emotion. Susan seemed to have been in a hurry to get the letter in the mail and filled it up with encouraging news of her job, her family, and a plant she had managed to nurse back to health after it took ill on her apartment windowsill.

  Hollister felt the effects of the booze and began to unwind a bit. His head stopped hurting, but he suddenly felt exhausted. More Scotch and a check of his watch, and he almost gave in to the urge just to go to bed. Instead, he finished cleaning and oiling his rifle and made one last walk to the end of the compound to watch the night training. It was important that the troops know the officers didn’t send them to training to keep them busy.

  When he turned the corner at the end of the empty tropical huts to look at the teams in the clearing off the chopper pad, he spotted Major Sangean already there. “Evening, sir,” he said, saluting, even though Sangean had his back to him.

  Sangean returned the salute. “Thought you were crapped out.”

  “No, sir. Wanted to make one more check on training.”

  “I thought it would be pretty much of a joke. But I have to admit they are doing a serious job. But then they always get serious after someone has been shot at in the bush.”

  “It’s the best I could do with the time we think we have.”

  “We haven’t got much. I just got off the phone with Colonel Downing. We have a warning order coming in tomorrow.” Major Sangean looked down at the gravel and absentmindedly kicked it around with the toe of his boot, as officers have been doing in training areas for centuries. “You go on, get some rest,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye on things here.”

  “But what about the warning order?”

  Sangean shrugged. “Don’t know much. Wasn’t a secure line. Guess we’ll see what it is when it gets here. So, go on—get some sleep.”

  By first light all the medics were training at Sergeant Rose’s Aid Station. Sergeant Kurzikowski had all the team leaders together for training on Operations and radio procedures. The p
latoon sergeants had all the other team members down at the firing range conducting circuit training. The large group was broken up into thirds. One third was firing and zeroing weapons, one third was practicing emplacing and retrieving claymores, and the third group was taking training in recognizing mines and booby traps.

  All the officers, the Cobra pilots, and the Operations and Intelligence NCOs were assembled in one of the abandoned barracks, which they had turned into a classroom.

  Hollister had removed a loosened piece of plywood flooring and propped it up against the wall to use as a blackboard. With a piece of crumbling limestone for chalk, he was able to draw diagrams and write numbers and call signs. He spent the first hour going over insert formations, extraction formations, communications networks, call signs, and required reports. Then he gave them a break.

  He was followed by Sangean, who talked about mission capabilities. He was sure they were going to be committed to patrols along the border between the Angel’s Wing and the Parrot’s Beak.

  “We are going to have to out-G the guerrillas out there. The conventional NVA units we can handle. They are a lot like the American units—big, loud, clumsy, and undisciplined.”

  The description raised a chuckle in the room. But it was nervousness. And they were waiting for him to explain his anxieties about the VC.

  Sangean pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lit it He took a couple of puffs to get the end burning, and then he balanced it on the edge of the half wall that ended where the torn window screens started.

  “The VC will be our undoing. If we can’t tell the difference between the villagers and the VC, we are screwed. We can’t keep people out of the area, but we can sure as hell worry that they are either full-time VC, part-time VC, or sympathizers. And there are some who just don’t want to be part of anyone’s war. We can’t kill ’em all now and sort ’em out later. We’ve got to try something different.”

  “Something different than we’re doing now?” Captain Stanton asked, toying with his aviator’s sunglasses.

  Sangean nodded. “Scouts.”

  “Scouts?” three voices asked together.

  Sangean nodded again. “The program is called ‘Kit Carson Scouts.’ It’s a spin-off of the Chieu Hoi Program—ralliers. Seems that some units are having good results using some of the Hoi Chanhs who have turned themselves in. And some of them were captured and then volunteered to work for us. Having them with U.S. units is giving some outfits the edge on the VC.”

  “Like the interpreters?” Hollister asked.

  “No, the interpreter program is a washout. Seems that most of the Vietnamese that are interpreters got the jobs because their families had money or position, and it was a way to get their sons in uniform, but mostly out of combat.”

  A pilot made a face as if he didn’t understand the problem. Sangean filled it in for him. “They were mostly educated and from the cities. Some were even educated overseas. They spoke English and French, and some even spoke German. But most of them wouldn’t know a VC if he wore a sign.

  “But the Chieu Hois are VC. They know VC. They know how it all works. And some of them would rather come to work for the Americans than spend the rest of the war locked up. They might sound shaky, but in Special Forces we had to put our trust in less reliable people than these sometimes. The program seems to be working.”

  “So we get a couple?” Hollister asked.

  “We get one for each team.”

  The room went silent. No one needed to tell Sangean that the idea frightened every man who had ever been out on a five or six-man patrol. He took a couple of drags off his cigar to stoke the fire on its end and then leaned his weight on his hands on a tabletop.

  “Don’t worry. They will be good, and they will be reliable or they won’t go with a team.”

  “How do we do that, sir?” Kurzikowski asked.

  “We train them like we do the team members. Then we let them go out on a low-risk mission. When they return, each man on the team gets a vote. If one man blackballs him—he’s gone.”

  Everyone started talking at once. The opinions varied widely, but no one was without one.

  “How do we start?” Hollister asked.

  “You and I are going to Long Binh tomorrow. We’re going to have a showdown with Fowler, and then we’ll go check out the prison.”

  “Okay with me,” Hollister said.

  “But for now, you take over here and continue. I have a few things to do. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Sangean put his cigar in his mouth and pulled his floppy hat out of his pocket. He started for the door, and everyone came to attention. He stopped, turned to the standing room, and barked, “Carry on,” then took another step and turned back again.

  He looked at Captain Stanton. “Stanton, I hate Nomex flight suits. You guys are gonna fly LRPs, you’re gonna be LRPs. Get your people over to the supply room and draw cammies!”

  Sangean left without allowing Stanton to reply.

  The response from the others in the room was positive. They wanted the Cobras to be part of the team as much as the pilots wanted to be welcomed.

  By late morning Hollister was bushed. He broke the training for coffee, then went to Operations to check in. He was quickly met with an air of anticipation. One of the NCOs jerked his thumb in the direction of Major Sangean.

  Sangean looked up from the documents spread out on the field table in front of him. The cover sheet read: TOP SECRET—NOFORN.

  “Op order?” Hollister asked.

  “Warning order,” Sangean said, not giving much away in his expression.

  “How does it look?” Hollister asked.

  “Looks like we are in the LRP business—full-time now.”

  “Good missions?”

  “Could be better—or worse. We’ll be okay. But it won’t be a walk in the sun. We’ve got to be good, or they will hand us our asses.”

  “How much time do we have before the first team is on the ground?”

  “A week. Can you use it?”

  “You bet!” Hollister said.

  “You got it. We need to be ready to go. When we run out of time, it becomes OJT.”

  “Even though we’re still short of manpower and assets?”

  “What work we can’t do—we won’t do.”

  “Where do you want me to start?”

  “Get us a chopper. We’re going to see Downing and Fowler.”

  Chapter 16

  “GOOD MORNIN’, SIR. AIRBORNE!”

  The words came from the doorway to one of the team hooches. Hollister turned to see PFC Cathcart standing on the step, beaming in his newly issued camouflage fatigues and floppy LRP hat.

  “Well, how you getting along? You happy that you busted out of Long Binh or not?” Hollister asked.

  “Yessir. This is where I want to be. I just wanted to thank you for helping me escape.”

  “Well, you may change your mind before it’s over. You still have Recondo School ahead of you.”

  “I’m ready, sir.”

  Hollister remembered Nha Trang fondly. He had spent little time there on his first tour, but never forgot its beauty. He reached into his pocket, pulled out ten dollars in MPC, and handed it to Cathcart.

  “Listen,” he said, “if you get time while you’re in Nha Trang—go get yourself a steak at The Nautique, on the beach road.”

  Cathcart was surprised by the gesture. “But I can’t take your money.”

  “I owe you more than that for all the help you were to me at Long Binh. Just take it, and tell me how terrific the steak was. Okay?”

  Cathcart smiled. “If’n that’s an order—consider it done.”

  First Sergeant Morrison stuck his head out of the Orderly Room door and caught Hollister’s eye. “Could I have a minute?”

  Hollister waved back at Morrison, then stuck his hand out to Cathcart. “Welcome aboard. Just do a good job, and don’t try to win the war by yourself.”

  “Sir, I got some good ne
ws for you. The new XO’s in Long Binh—at Ninetieth Replacement Battalion. I just got the word from Sergeant Major Carey’s office.”

  “Did you get through to him?”

  “No, sir … just a message in the pouch that came in this morning.”

  “Let’s try to get someone on the phone and tell them that the Old Man and I will be there today and we can pick up, ah … what’s his name?”

  Dewey had the message in his hand. He hurriedly looked through it and found the name. “Captain, ah, Vance. Captain Vance—that’s him.”

  “Peter Vance?”

  “Yessir, Peter A. Vance, Captain (P),” Dewey said.

  Morrison made a face. “That bad?”

  “No,” Hollister said, breaking into a smile. “Peter A. Vance is good news. He was my Tactical officer in OCS, and I worked with him at the Ranger Department. If we had ten Peter Vances over here, we could wind up this war in no time.”

  Morrison rolled his eyes. “A snake-eating captain on the major’s list? I was kinda hoping for someone with more of an administrative bent. I think we have plenty of warriors around here.”

  Hollister laughed. “Don’t worry, Top. If there’s anything Peter Vance can’t do, I don’t know what it is.”

  “If you say so, sir. What kind of trouble are we in with the new XO?”

  “The one thing I’ll never forget from OCS is that Peter Vance can outrun any man alive. He used to take our platoon on runs that never seemed to end. You two will enjoy the morning runs together.”

  The portly first sergeant patted his large gut and rolled his eyes again. “Just what I need—a Lamaze coach.”

  Sangean and Hollister sat on the leather couch in Colonel Downing’s office while the colonel talked at length about the plans to deploy teams along the Cambodian border. Hollister took notes, and being the senior, Sangean did the talking for both of them.

  “How many teams will you have ready by the time this operation starts?” asked the colonel.

  “Twelve max,” Sangean replied. “And I’ve got thirty new bodies going through Recondo School, or otherwise not deployable right now.”

  Downing made a face. “That seems awful short to me. I thought you had another thirty people?”