Long Range Patrol: A Novel of Vietnam (The Jim Hollister Trilogy Book 1)

by Dennis Foley

  Hollister was amazed that the clerk made it through the entire briefing without ever looking at him. As he reached the end of the briefing book, the phone rang and the clerk matter-of-factly got involved in a dispute over a number relating to a body that had been shipped earlier in the week.

  Hollister stuffed all the paperwork in the larger of the envelopes that came with the packet, shook his head, and quietly left the building.

  The inside of the BOQ was something out of an infantryman’s dreams. Small, efficient, and clean, it had a Hollywood bed with real sheets, a tightly tucked-in army blanket, and a full feather pillow. In the corner of the room there was a sink with a mirror, and terry-cloth towels hanging on metal bars on either side of the mirrored medicine cabinet.

  The furniture was quartermaster-issue, dark red-purple-looking mahogany, and was spotted against the two-toned, white over light green walls. The floor lamp and the table lamp on the nightstand completed the room. It was warm, clean, and private—even if government sterile.

  A check of his watch told him that he had time to get a shower and a short nap in to make up for the sleep he had lost in the past several days.

  Outside the BOQ, Hollister noticed that it was already getting dark. He remembered that he was getting hungry and that he only had to walk across the street to find the small Officers Club. He could certainly get something to eat there.

  Inside the club, Hollister had to walk around the fish pond built in the lobby. Dozens of orange and white Japanese coi played in the warm pool. He suddenly felt a world away from the crash site that had filled his mind only scant hours before.

  The club officer, in civilian clothes, stopped Hollister at the door. “Evening, Lieutenant. Your first time here?”

  “Yes … I’m TDY from Vietnam—escort duty.”

  The officer made a face in response to the unpleasant duty and gestured Hollister to the inner doorway. “The bar is this way, and the dining area will be serving in about a half hour … Hope you enjoy your stay. Sorry about the duty.”

  Hollister walked into the bar, grabbed one of the tall stools and sat down. Behind the bar an array of bottled liquor was displayed on mirrored levels lit by invisible lights.

  The bartender was a Japanese civilian wearing a crisp white shirt and a bow tie. He dropped a cocktail napkin in front of Hollister and raised his eyebrows.

  No longer feeling any of the ill effects of the carrier-landing drinking ceremony, he ordered without fear. “Johnnie Walker—black, over ice.”

  The bartender spun on his heel, snatched a glass from a stack on the back bar, scooped up ice with the glass and poured the drink in one smooth motion.

  Placing his cigarettes on the bar, Hollister centered his lighter on the pack. He picked up his drink and felt the sweat forming on the glass. Pressing the rim to his lips, he took a tentative sip of the scotch, fully intending to savor the creature comforts of glass, clear ice, and a real polished bar, when he felt a slap on his back.

  “Hollister, you snake-eatin’, low-life motherfucker!”

  The voice was unmistakable—Kerry French, Hollister’s roommate at Officer Candidate School. He pulled a bar stool back and jumped up onto it.

  “What the fuck are you doing here, H-man?”

  “Kerry, king of sick call! What are you doing here? I thought you were holed up somewhere at Fort Gordon.”

  “Oh, man. That came to a screeching halt after I got orders for Vietnam. Hell, I really thought that they would forget about me and I’d be able to slide.”

  “Well, I told you that you wouldn’t be able to get out of this like you did all that field training at Benning.”

  Kerry blushed a little and gestured to the bartender to refill Hollister’s drink and give him one of the same. “I had a great time while it lasted though, man.”

  “So where you going?”

  “The Cav.”

  Hollister flinched. “The Cav? Shit, man, you’re in a world of hurt.”

  Kerry took a sip, made a face, and then raised his index finger to make a point. “Oh, no. I got it all figured out. While I was at Fort Gordon I was an instructor on antitank weapons. I checked around and a couple’a guys I talked to, just back from the Cav, tell me that they hardly ever use their 106-recoilless rifles—anywhere.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I did some more checking. Found out that the biggest problem that they have at the An Khe base camp is getting rocketed and mortared. Well, there’s a tit of a mountain right in the center of the base camp. I guess there must be at least a couple’a dozen serviceable 106s in the division. And, if I talk them into putting all of those useless 106s up on top of the mountain in a circle, they could be effective countermortar fire.

  “My guess is that they’d see the brilliance of my idea and make me the officer in charge. I could spend the whole year on that hilltop and I’d never have to leave the base camp. Great idea! Huh?”

  “Man, there are people over there that have got your number. You’ll be humpin’ the hills so fast you won’t even get a chance to say the word ‘recoilless,’” Hollister said, laughing at his friend.

  Kerry saw the bartender opening a new bottle of bar scotch and wrapping it in aluminum foil. “All right. Let me show you I haven’t lost my touch.”

  French tapped his glass on the bar. “Hey, Mr. Barkeep. How ’bout giving my friend and me some free scotch out of the mystery bottle?”

  “Whoa! I was drinking Jack-black!” Hollister said.

  Kerry motioned for the bartender to pour anyway. “Listen, Mr. Hollister. This is free, F-R-E-E booze. We get to drink all we want to drink here for free.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Pal, I’ve been here for three days waiting for a flight to Saigon. They keep a sporting man’s bottle of scotch, bourbon, and vodka on the bar—all wrapped in tin foil so you can’t see what’s in them. You can order as many drinks as you want and they are all free—unless.”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you get the last shot in the bottle. Then you pay for the whole bottle and they open another bottle and wrap it up.”

  “So, how do you suggest we keep from paying for the bottle?”

  “If we stay here long enough and keep count of all the freebies that are given out, we can estimate when we are approaching the danger point.”

  French made two marks on a cocktail napkin. “Now, all we have to do is wait until the count gets close to twenty and we’ll know to let someone else finish off the bottle.”

  Hollister raised his glass to salute enterprise. “You haven’t changed a bit, Kerry. I’ve missed your shit, you rascal.”

  French took a long sip of his drink and finally got serious. “So … how bad is it, Jim? Bad as we guessed it might be?”

  Hollister’s smile faded. “It’s a lot worse … a whole lot worse.”

  Kerry killed his drink and then pushed the glass toward the bartender for a refill from the tin-foiled bottle. “Aren’t you scared?”

  “I’m petrified every day that I’m there.”

  “So how can you face it?”

  “I don’t know, Ker. All I know is that if I don’t let myself think about it too much, I get so busy getting ready for the next patrol that I’m getting out of a helicopter before I know it. Hell, then I’m there,” Hollister said, finishing his drink. “But let’s talk about something else. Is the World still back there?”

  “I don’t know anymore. I did my damnedest to soak up the best parts before I left. But my plane landed here and my connecting flight was canceled. So … I have to continue my pre-Vietnam party here for however long I have. Wanna join me?”

  “No, I’ve got to get back to the States with my friend’s body. … I’m escort officer for a lieutenant from my unit.” He looked at the expression of surprise and anxiety on Kerry’s face. “No, it’s nobody you know.”

  French and Hollister caught up on some old friends and some not-so-happy stori
es about others who’d been unlucky in Vietnam. They kept drinking, kept counting, and the bartender kept pouring.

  The after-work crowd arrived, filled the bar, and ordered from the tin-foil-wrapped bottles. When the count got dangerously close to the maximum, Kerry suggested that they wait out the deadly last shot.

  An Air Force captain sitting near French and Hollister asked what the deal was with the wrapped bottles that everyone was ordering from. Kerry explained, encouraging the captain to get his free drinks. He ordered—and made it. Kerry made another mark on the napkin.

  A warrant officer on the other side of the bar ordered a drink from the wrapped bottle and made it. Then the confident Air Force captain thought he could do it again. He ordered another refill from the bottle and got the fatal last shot.

  Cheering, whooping, and hollering filled the bar as the captain paid for all the shots in the bottle at the going bar price.

  Kerry leaned back and grinned at Hollister while he balled up his fist and playfully tapped him on the shoulder. By then Hollister was starting to feel the scotches. “Hey, where do we get something to eat around here?”

  Kerry’s eyes brightened. “Have I got a surprise for you, man. I know this place in town that you will just love.”

  Hollister looked suspiciously at the expression on Kerry French’s face. “What are you getting me into, man?”

  “Hey, just trust yer old buddy Ker. I won’t let you down.”

  The cab let them out in front of a one-story building that looked much like the rest of the homes on the narrow Japanese street. Hardly any traffic passed, save a few bicycle riders coming home from work.

  Inside the fenced-in yard, a beautiful rock garden flanked the stone path leading to the front door. Kerry and Hollister entered and stopped in the Asian version of a foyer, a ground-level room that allowed the visitor to take off his shoes before he entered the real front door.

  The sliding shoji doors opened. Kerry and Hollister were greeted by two very pretty Japanese women dressed in ornate kimonos. Kerry turned to his friend for some sign of appreciation. “Huh? What’d I tell you? Stick with me. It gets lots better.”

  CHAPTER 12

  IT WASN’T MUCH CONSOLATION that Hollister was going to be making the trip across the Pacific in a C-141, the closest thing that the Air Force had to a commercial passenger jet.

  He stood on the ramp of the airfield with the other three escorts—a sergeant and two captains. Shoulders hunched against the damp winter cold, they all squinted as the Japanese wind cut across their faces, killing time by talking about the usual topics—Vietnam, women, and home. As they waited, the door to a huge hangar rattled open, revealing a large stack of metal caskets. The conversation came to an abrupt halt.

  Under the watchful eye of an Air Force sergeant, twenty of the caskets were loaded onto baggage carts and moved to the gaping rear ramp of the C-141 by Japanese civilian ground handlers.

  The inside of the C-141 was a government solution to moving passengers as well as cargo. Both went into the huge compartment. As a concession to the living cargo, the jet was temporarily fitted with passenger seats. Still, what comfort they provided was offset by the fact that the seats faced to the rear, facing the cargo, the baggage, and the caskets.

  The caskets were arranged in stacks, three high and end to end. Even soldiers who were going home had difficulty showing their joy while seated only a few feet from the containers.

  Hollister woke with a start. After a few seconds his head cleared and he realized where he was. The shrill pitch of the jet engines was getting monotonous, and his head was still a little foggy from the long night with Kerry French and his pretty Japanese friends.

  Unsure how long he had been asleep, Hollister looked around the jet. He was the only one of the eleven passengers who was awake. Unbuckling his seat belt, he walked back to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. It would be hours before they landed in Anchorage to refuel. He walked back through the passenger area to the cargo area near the tail ramp.

  Passing the first stack of caskets, Hollister checked out the cards attached to each metal container. He found Lucas’s on the top of the second stack. Finding a small jump seat next to Lucas’s casket, he sat down. It would probably be the last chance he would have to be alone with his friend.

  For a long while Hollister could only look at the box. Visions of the last time he saw Lucas tried to creep into Hollister’s mind, but he forced them out. He wanted only to remember the good times. He remembered how much help Lucas had been to him when he was new in the LRP detachment. Lucas was a good officer and a good friend, and Hollister knew he would not soon forget him.

  He reached out, touched the casket, and whispered, “I’m really going to miss you, buddy.” As he did, he felt his throat choke up. He took a sip of the coffee to try to force himself to swallow. Leaning back in the jump seat, he decided to ride the rest of the way with his dead friend.

  Red Cross volunteers met the plane and served coffee and doughnuts to the jet passengers while they refueled in Alaska. Hollister understood the safety reasons for having all the passengers debark the jet during refueling, but that didn’t help him with the weather. He rubbed his hands up and down his arms to try to get some blood pumping. Even stamping his feet didn’t help ward off the cold.

  It occurred to him that his body had been exposed to a temperature differential of over 120 degrees in the past seventy-two hours. He laughed to himself at how much he missed the same heat that he hated in Vietnam.

  Someone spoke to him over the scream of the 141’s engines, but he couldn’t make out who or what. He turned and found a hand thrust out toward him. One of the Red Cross volunteers was holding out a paper cup filled with steaming coffee. He smiled and nodded at the woman. She smiled back and patted him on the shoulder in an appreciative, motherly way.

  His fingers felt the warmth of the coffee in the paper cup emblazoned with a simple red cross, but the fluid had cooled by the time it hit his lips. The same woman then handed him a doughnut.

  A ground vehicle behind him swung around, throwing its headlights on her face, which was surrounded by a circle of fur attached to her jacket hood. In her forties, her smile was genuine, and Hollister couldn’t argue with her dedication. After all, it was three in the morning—Alaskan time—and cold.

  Almost inaudibly, she screamed, exaggerating her words. “You going home?”

  Reading her lips and body language, Hollister took his free hand out of his pocket and pointed at the caskets that were visible through the open tailgate of the C-141. He tried to make himself understood. “No, I’m escorting a friend’s body home.”

  The Red Cross worker sighed. “I’m sorry, hon. We meet boys like you every flight, and it really makes us start to wonder.”

  Another passenger interrupted the Red Cross woman as he reached for one of her doughnuts. She and Hollister never finished their conversation. But he’d heard her message of heartfelt sorrow. He had never been pitied before.

  With the side of his hand Hollister wiped the condensation from the window to see Fort Dix, New Jersey. It had not changed much since he was an infantry trainee there.

  He pulled the collar to his field jacket closed, more out of the memory of Fort Dix in the winter than the reality. Even so, the bus taking him to the Transportation Office was cold and the plastic seats were stiff. No matter. He didn’t care. He was back in the World, away from the shooting and the helicopters and the constant nagging fear that gripped his gut.

  He decided to act as if the change were permanent. As the rows of double-roofed World War II vintage barracks slipped by with their interior lights off and their single fire lights on, he made a deal with himself. He promised himself not to worry about Vietnam until the night before he had to return. Then, as he rethought the promise, Hollister let out a little laugh. Forget about Vietnam—that was easy to say.

  He wiped the fogged window again and peered out onto the manicured grounds of the sprawling tra
ining post. Through the spitting snow he saw the huge parade field where his first physical training classes had been taught by NCOs whose faces and names were blurred in his memory.

  Still, Hollister clearly recalled the hours of pain and soreness that they inflicted on him and his classmates. Those mornings always started out in the dark with a formation run from the company area to the parade field. There, the field first sergeant screamed instructions from a five-foot-high PT platform in the cold black morning air. As he yelled, two hundred trainees moved from a column of fours to a huge square at double-arm interval to begin the grueling and repetitious Army Daily Dozen exercises. He didn’t know then that physical training would be a necessary part of soldiering that he wouldn’t ever learn to enjoy.

  Keys, logbook, map, and trip ticket in hand, Hollister crossed the motor pool to the vehicle assigned to him.

  Closing the door to keep out the cold, Hollister sat in the front seat of the olive-drab sedan. He stuck the keys in the ignition and started the car.

  He quickly surveyed his paperwork. The pile contained orders, transportation vouchers, payroll paperwork, and endless addresses and phone numbers. On the back of one of the manila envelopes, he had started a list of things to do.

  One item had been on his list since just after arriving in Japan: Call Susan. He had tried twice from Japan, only to get a busy signal once and no answer the second time. He quickly made some additions to the list and crossed out others.

  He checked the time. It was only four. It was too early to call Susan, who would still be at work. He didn’t want to bother her there. Stuffing all the paperwork into a large envelope, he decided to get on the road. His hope was to get the jump on as much of the rush hour traffic as he could. He threw the aging sedan into gear and headed out of the huge motor pool.

  Gas. Hollister looked up from the instrument panel of the vintage Dodge sedan. The last thing he wanted was to run out of gas on the road a long way between gas stations.

  As he topped the next gentle rise his eyes found a gas station on the New Jersey Turnpike. He was tired of sitting in the broken-down seat. And he was hungry. He had lost track of how many hours he had been in transit, how much sleep he had missed, and how little he had eaten. But whatever he was suffering from jet lag was overcompensated for by his excitement to see Susan. Still, he needed gas, cigarettes, and a phone. He tried the turn indicator, which didn’t work, and pulled in.