Solemn Duty (1997)

by Leonard B Scott

  "You need any more confirmation, sir? That's Lieutenant Tram's voice."

  The colonel visibly tightened and he barked loudly, "Everybody out! Clear the TOC! Not you, Anderson. You stay.

  Everybody else out, now!"

  The radio operator lifted the handset as if confused. "Sir, what do I tell Lieutenant Tram?'

  'Turn the radio off and follow my orders. Get out!" Stroud hollered.

  Oh God, God, please don't let this happen, Anderson said to himself as the officers and sergeants hurried to the door. He had known since first meeting the colonel half a year ago that high command could not have picked anyone more ill-suited for the position. Not Special Forces or even airborne qualified, Stroud was a Military Intelligence officer who had never commanded troops at any level, nor had he ever served in a line unit. He'd been the regional commanding general's intelligence staff officer and yes-man. Though extremely intelligent, Stroud had no idea what was going on in the field and made no effort to find out. Not once in the six months since his arrival had he visited a field site or camp. Behind his back everybody called him Dugout Dicky.

  Stroud pushed his glasses farther up on his nose in a quick motion and snarled, "Anderson, that display of hostility toward me in front of my subordinates is going to cost you. Don't bet on a promotion anytime soon."

  Anderson looked his superior in the eyes and spoke, trying to keep himself under control 'The birds, sir, I don't give a shit about promotion, I care only about getting the bids and those fast movers. I promised the people of 147 I'd be that. I made that promise because it was a part of your script. My word and the word of our nation is at stake here, to say nothing of the lives of those people. You have to get me those buds, sir.

  I beg you."

  Stroud glanced at the wall map and slowly shook his head.

  "It's impossible. I couldn't get you slicks even if I wanted. The political situation won't allow it The administrator's new policy of turning everything over to the South Vietnamese government and getting our boys home has escalated into something none of us was prepared for. Orders have been sent to all regional field commands instructing that no further tactical operations by U. S. forces will be conducted the place American servicemen's lives at risk."

  Anderson's knees suddenly felt like rubber and his munch seemed to have descended down to his testicles, but be wasn't about to give up. "These have to be exceptions, sir. This situation certainly warrants one."

  Stroud took off his glasses and walked to his desk. Sitting down, he looked up at die visibly shaken officer. "You're act listening, Anderson. It's over. We're pulling out of this Godforsaken country. We're turning over operations to the South Vietnamese. It's their war now."

  "What about the Cambodians? Jesus Christ, sir, we armed and trained them; we promised them our support! We can't back out and let diem die!"

  "A bit theatrical aren't you, Captain? If Lieutenant Tom is as experienced as you say, then 147 has a good chance of beating off the attack."

  Anderson's jaw muscles rippled as he stepped closer to the desk. "They can't hold without air support. You have to authorize at least two dozen sorties of fast movers to give Tram and the villagers a fighting chance."

  The colonel sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Afraid not The Air Force won't fly missions unless they're protecting U. S. forces. One forty-seven is on it's own."

  "Do you realize what you're saying? You're condemning those people to die. They think we're coming, they're going to fight in the belief we'll stand by our word!"

  "Anderson, our past president promised the American people we would win the war, and now we've got over fifty thousand dead servicemen and we're no closer to winning than when we started. The South Vietnamese government promised their people they would win the war, and they've lost well over half a million lives. In war, promises are made with the best of intentions but things change, promises get broken. Look, I know it's tough to swallow, but as I said before, it's over. Stand down your team and pack your gear.

  Tomorrow I want you and your team on the first bird to Nha Trang. Your job here is finished."

  Anderson stared at the colonel accusingly. "You knew this was going to happen, didn't you? You knew and yet you didn't say a word to me. Why? Tell me, Colonel! Why didn't you tell me and the other team leaders? Was it because you knew we would have never agreed to train and arm the people. Was that it?'

  Stroud put his glasses back on but avoided Anderson's stare.

  "Every North Vietnamese soldier that the defenders of 147 kill or wound is one less soldier for the South Vietnamese government to contend with. Sacrifices must be made, Captain Anderson. Yes, I knew some time ago these changes would occur, but neither my mission nor the general's mission changed. General Gradd and I discussed the matter in some detail and we both felt--although it was a very difficult decision for both of us--that you and the other team commanders should not be informed. As you alluded to, we both knew how attached your teams became to your indigenous villagers. To be quite frank, we did consider that you and the others might dissuade your people from becoming our early warning trip wires."

  Anderson nodded as if understanding. "I see," he said quietly, then he exploded. Lunging across the desk, he grabbed the colonel by his fatigue shirt lapels, yanked him out of the chair and slammed him on the desktop. Leaning over, he hissed in Stroud's face, "You're going to murder the people of my village, you sonofabitch! You used me and you used them. Early warning trip wires'? No sir, they are people, decent, hardworking, loving people who believed in us. You remember that when you look in the mirror for the rest of your miserable life. God damn you to hell!"

  Releasing his grip, Anderson backed away and marched out the door into the darkness. He only made it four steps before he sank to his knees in anguished pain. Closing his tear-filled eyes, he saw the faces of the people he had grown to love. Forgive me, please forgive me!

  Frenchy sat on the ground beside his wounded grandfather, who lay looking up at the eerie swaying yellow light high above in the smoke-filled sky. Around them the ground shook with teeth-rattling explosions and the air seemed alive with green and red tracers that zipped overhead, singing their songs of death. The parachute flare finally faded and fizzled out, leaving the camp defenders blinded in darkness. The machine gun's chattering and the screams of the wounded and dying seemed louder in the dark, the frightened boy thought as he squeezed his grandfather's hand for reassurance. Then he heard be familiar popping noise, and high above, another. Bare burst into life, once again bathing the fort in golden fight. Leaning OWE, the boy checked the old man's wounds and saw to his horror be despite his best efforts to stop it, the strange, black frothy blood was still oozing from the thumb-size hole in his grandfather's breast. The old man's eyes rolled slowly to his grandson and he spoke thickly. "Go . . . go to your grandmother in the bunker, little one. See to her and the others. They will be afraid"

  His hand trembling, the old man fit his cleat for the gold chain, found it and tried to bring it to his mouth but was too weak. The boy reached out, lifted his grandfather's battered ivory Buddha and gently placed it between the old man's trembling gray lips. Immediately the fear in his grandfather's eyes was gone and he began mumbling his prayers. The boy watched with hope, but the light of life in his grandfather's eyes dulled, and like the flare, dimmed and slowly extinguished.

  Knowing he was safely in Buddha's arms, Frenchy patted his grandfather's hand one last time, picked up the rifle the old man had carried, and stood. Bright, rapid flashes of blue orange light from the portals of the remaining bunkers told him they were not yet defeated. He felt pride knowing they were still holding on after so many hours of constant battle, but he knew all too well that time was running out. Once again he looked up, as he had countless times before in the past hours, praying to the enlightened one to see or hear approaching helicopters. But the hissing flares danced alone in the night sky.

  Where are you Captain Robert? Where are you?
/>   A bullet zinged so close by his ear that he felt the hot wind of its passing. Lifting his chain, he placed his Buddha in his mouth and started walking toward the lower bunker, where the women and children were taking refuge. A rocket swished past, leaving a spiraling trail of white smoke, but he didn't notice because his eyes were searching the ground so he would not step on the dead. The light of the flares had given everything the same earthly golden hue and cast strange, ghostly dark shadows.

  The dead, some with torn or shattered limbs and others with even more ghastly killing wounds, lay like golden monuments, silent and still, serene in death. Gripping the heavy rifle tighter, the boy continued on, stepping over the moaning wounded and past those still alive, who fired their weapons, reloaded and fired again. Walking down the smoking bullet-plowed slope, he had to jump several trenches, and he could see at the base of the hill yet more golden bodies hanging limp in the wire, their eyes and mouths blackened like demons. Then the light began fading from gold to orange-brown then death-blade He stood frozen in place, afraid to move in the darkness. Only his eyes moved, left then right at each muzzle flash of a weapon being fired. Gun smoke mixed with the until of turned earth and the coppery sweet odor of blood filled his nostrils, making him feel dizzy.

  Suddenly, a flare popped overhead and he was bathed once again in the golden yellow light. Clutching the rifle, he again began walking down the slope until he heard men shouting to his right. As he crouched, yelling, running men came through huge gaps in the wire. Red tracers from the bunkers' machine guns cut some of them down but many kept coming up the slope. One of them threw something inside the portal of a machine gun position. A moment later the earth seemed to erupt beneath his feet. He fell, and an instant later a white-hot wind pasted over in a rush, then clods of dirt rained down around him, followed by a choking cloud of dust.

  Forcing himself back to his feet, Frenchy coughed and gagged as he staggered down the slope and finally broke out of the suffocating cloud. The bunker where his grandmother and the rest of the village families had sought refuge was just ahead. He thanked Buddha, but seeing two mew running toward the same bunker, from in honor. He raised the heavy rifle and pulled the trigger just as the American sergeant had taught him. One of die running men grunted Mid pitched backward. The boy swung the barrel but the remaining man had jumped into the trench leading to the bunker's entrance.

  Screaming, Frenchy ran to the lip of the entrenchment with his rifle ready. He stopped in horror, seeing that the bunker door had already been opened by the attacker and that he was tossing something inside. He heard the women and children cry out as he pulled the trigger again and again. The golden man's head snapped back, hair, brain tissue, and skull fragments splattered against the sandbags. Although Frenchy saw the man fall, he kept pulling the trigger, thinking that if he kept killing him, the frantic, chilling screams coming from the bunker would end. And they did--suddenly the bunker disappeared in a brilliant flash of searing light. Frenchy's scream of honor and pain was frozen in his throat as he was thrown skyward by the thunderous blast.

  Chapter 2.

  May 20, Central Highlands, Republic of South Vietnam.

  The sun was just rising over the mountains as Sergeant First Class Carl Hanson lifted his canteen cup to his lips. Shutting his eyes, he savored the bitter taste of the C-ration instant coffee and told himself he was now ready to face the day. He opened his eyes and growled, "Pockets, get me Tanner. He's checkin' the perimeter for me."

  Whining, the radio operator slowly got to his feet. "Aw, Pappy, it ain't light 'nough yet to go out there. Damn cherries will blow me away sure as shit."

  "Move your ass or I'll blow you away right here," the grizzled sergeant replied with a menacing glare.

  Minutes later the RTO returned with a short, broad shouldered, twenty-year-old staff sergeant badly in need of a bath and shave.

  Hanson motioned to the ground beside him. "Take a load off and let's talk."

  Sergeant Eli Tanner took off his battered helmet, set it on the ground, and sat on top of it. Hanson handed the squad leader his canteen cup with a grin. "Ranger, I'm leavin' today on the resupply bird. I done beat the odds and made it da fuck outta Nam. My time's up."

  Eli Tanner took a sip of coffee and lowered the metal cup with a smile. "Congratulations, Pappy. I'm gonna miss ya."

  "You're the only fuckin one gonna miss me. Look at em, will ya? Ya ever seen a collection of so many shitbirds in one platoon? Christ a'mighty, none of 'em could hold a candle to the men I had last tour. This bunch of pot-smokin', beadwearin' hippies ain't worth spit"

  Eli shrugged and ran his hand through his short brown hair.

  "Not their fault Pappy. The war's windin' down, and they know it. None of them warms be the last trooper killed in da Nam. Cut 'em some slack, they've done everything you asked."

  "Yeah, and fuckin' bitched every fuckin' second doin' it, too. Well, it ain't my problem anymore. It's yours. I'm recommendin' to the L-tee he make ya the platoon sergeant."

  Eli took another sip of coffee and shook his head. "You'll be wastin' your time. The L-tee will never let it happen."

  "Bullshit. He's dumber than a box of rocks but he ain't stupid. You're the only Ranger-qualified staff sergeant he's got, and you've got the most experience. He'll make the right decision . . . I'll talk to him and make sure it happens."

  "Pappy, the L,-tee doesn't like me, pure and simple. Since the day I told him he ought to tape his grenade pins, he's treated me like an ugly stepchild. Anyway, Collins has me in time of grade."

  "Yeah, and Collins still can't find his ass with both hands.

  Christ a'mighty that shitbird still can't read a map, and he's the biggest pothead in the platoon. Ain't no way the L-tee gonna let that shitbird take over for me. Now look, Ranger, loosen up and listen to Pappy. The word is this operation is the last. They only sent the company up here to make sure these mountains ain't crawling with regulars before the ARVNs take over our base camp. Once this walk in the sun is over, the battalion is gonna stand down. Lookee here, what I'm tellin' ya is this: Do it by the book. Keep your security well out and keep the shitbirds on their toes. There's clink regulars up here-Fouk says so and we've both seen the signs. I figure they know we're puffin' out so they're kicked back, just waitin' for us to leave... but they ain't gonna pass up a sure thing. If the platoon lollygags and forgets everything I taught 'em, them regulars gonna kick their ass. You gotta keep the scouts out for early warnin' and keep the boys ready to rock and roll. The gooks ain't gonna mess with a unit that's got its shit together."

  Tanner motioned across the perimeter, where the lieutenant was pouring water from his canteen into his helmet to shave.

  "You best explain all that to him. I've tried tellin' him we've been followed since we landed up here. He thinks I' m paranoid or somethin'."

  Hanson rolled his eyes and shook his head. "What'd'ya expect, he was the battalion fuckin S-one weenie-pushed paper, for Christ's sake! I heard the colonel felt he owed him and sent him to the company to get his career ticket punched as a rifle platoon leader. That dumb sonofabitch can't lead shit.

  Tryin' to talk sense inta him is like tryin' to push a wet noodle up a wildcat's ass. Watch him, Tanner, he's dangerous 'cause he thinks he knows what he's doin'. As platoon sergeant, you do what I said and get these shitbirds back to base camp all in one piece."

  "Hell, Pappy, the way you're talkin', a person might think you cared about us shitbirds after all."

  The old sergeant mumbled and pulled his canteen cup from Tanner's hand. "Get out of here, Tanner. You're as bad as the rest of 'em. Go check on the shitbirds and make sure they're securing the area for the resupply bird. I'm goin' back to the world, Tan. I'm goin' and ain't gonna lose no sleep worryin' about the likes of your lousy ass."

  Tanner knew better. He stood and put on his helmet. He gave Pappy Hanson a light pat on the shoulder and smiled as he walked away. "Yep, sure gonna' miss your little pep talks, Pappy."

&nbs
p; The yellow smoke swirled crazily as the resupply helicopter landed in the small clearing surrounded by massive sayo and teak trees. Sergeant First Class Hanson lowered his head, letting his helmet buffer the strong rotor wash as the second squad ran toward the shaking bird to unload boxes of C-rations and other supplies.

  Lieutenant Duane Billings stepped up beside the old sergeant and offered his hand. "Sergeant, I know we've had our differences, but I wish you a safe journey back to the States."

  Hanson hesitated a moment before taking the officer's hand, but knew he had to try one more time. "Sir, you gotta reconsider your decision. Make Sergeant Tanner your platoon sergeant he's young, but in all my years I ain't seen no better leader."

  "Like I told you before, I'll take it under advisement, Sergeant. You'd better get on, the bird's almost unloaded."

  Hanson knew his words had been wasted again. He hefted his rucksack to his shoulder and glanced to his right, where Eli was standing, his rifle at the ready, watching the tree line. I was wrong, the hardheaded asshole is dumb and stupid As if he heard the unspoken words, Eli turned just as his platoon sergeant climbed up into the Huey. Eli smiled and lifted his hand with a thumbs-up.