by Dennis Foley
Watching the stream of wounded soldiers being wheeled into the MARS tent made home seem millions of miles away. Since he had just seen it, it was a bigger tug on his heart than it had been before.
“Hollister?” He heard his name called. He was up.
Inside, the tent was filled with the sounds of soldiers yelling over poor connections to the States. Conversations were complicated by the fact that only one party could talk at a time—like on a radio. So, each time a sentence or phrase was finished, the soldier had to say “over,” so the person on the other end could transmit. That tended to take the romance and the spontaneity out of the conversations.
After several tries, Hollister got a connection to the MARS station, at Fort Hamilton in New York. He strained to hear the phone in Susan’s apartment ring over the static and strange atmospheric interference.
Hollister didn’t have to say anything when he returned to the orderly room. It was obvious to Easy that something had not gone well for him at the MARS station.
“Couldn’t find her, Top. I must have missed her at home. I tried where she works, and they said that she was somewhere in Manhattan at a conference. I better wave off on this. Who’s next up for R and R?”
“Sir, you can still go to Bangkok and find some terrific substitute companionship. If you know what I mean.”
Hollister gave Easy a slightly disapproving look. “I just don’t think that would cut it for me right now, Top.”
“Okay, I understand. Well, the next up is second platoon—Theodore, I believe. Let me check.” He handed Hollister the typed paperwork for his signature and stepped toward the mess hall.
Hollister proofed the pages and signed the copies of the accident report while Easy located Sergeant Davis.
Easy came back from the mess hall with two cups of coffee in hand. He put one down on the field desk in front of Hollister.
“Thanks, Top. Find Davis?” Hollister asked.
“He’s still in the mess hall feeding his face. Not doin’ too good at it. Y’know he’s got a broken tooth? Anyway, Theodore is next up.”
“Perfect. That’ll be it, then. Can you make the arrangements to put him on my allocation?”
“Sure can.” Easy turned to Bernard. “Bernard, get on over to second platoon and round up Theodore. Tell him I want a large piece of his hide—and right now.”
Bernard smiled and ran out the door.
Hollister gathered up the supply forms to inventory Lieutenant Virgil’s effects. He then found the essential data on him—service number, full name, all of the information that was required on the form.
Theodore exploded through the door and skidded into the orderly room. He snatched off his floppy LRP hat as he came to a stop in front of the first sergeant’s desk. “You wanted to see me, First Sergeant?”
“Of course I wanted to see you, dickhead! Why would I send young Mr. Bernard out in the hot sun after you if I didn’t want to see you?”
“Well, I, ah … I, ah …” Theodore stammered.
“You are, Mr. Theodore, the worst fucking excuse I have ever seen for an Airborne soldier, much less a LRP. Look at yourself!
“Your boots look like you shined them with a Hershey bar, your shirt pocket is unbuttoned, and your gig line is off.”
Theodore looked down. He had misbuttoned his fatigue shirt, the bottom edge of the skirt was staggered, and the entire shirt looked twisted.
“Ah … First Sergeant, I, ah …”
“Shut up! I got all the stripes—I’m doin’ the talking here.”
Theodore stood more rigidly at attention. His eyes were riveted on the wall behind and above the seated first sergeant.
Hollister, seated behind Theodore, tried to suppress his laughter.
“Would a week in Bangkok help you get your head out of your ass, young soldier?” Easy asked, getting to his feet and leaning over the desk to get his face closer to Theodore’s.
Theodore was nonplussed. He let the question sink in for a minute before breaking out in a huge grin. “Yessir! I mean, yes, First Sergeant! I think that will make me a candidate for soldier of the month.”
Easy stuffed the R&R allocation paperwork into Theodore’s hand and told him he had forty-five minutes to get his shit together and get packed.
Theodore sailed out of the orderly room.
Easy and Hollister shared a smile at the semispastic Theodore’s reaction to the news.
CHAPTER 20
HOLLISTER TACKED ONE OF Virgil’s name tapes on the hooch wall under the one that had belonged to Lucas. He sat back and looked at it for the longest time. Would Rogers return from his fifth, tenth, or twenty-fifth patrol and nail Hollister’s up below the others? An uneasy feeling started to come over him again. It was kind of a cross between being tired and being worried. He felt heavy and tense.
He picked up the almost empty bottle, drank what was left in it, and went to his locker to see if there was another.
He stripped the metal seal, twisted the cork out of the bottle, and smiled. Lucas used to pull the cork out of a bottle, throw it across the room, and announce that some serious drinking was about to begin by saying, “We won’t need that anymore.”
Hollister poured himself a conservative shot and then thought about what might lay ahead. There was only one team out—but it was in Rogers’s platoon, and Captain Michaelson was available if they made contact. Lieutenant Perry—the Intelligence officer—was Duty Officer and would be there if things needed tending, to gear up an extraction.
So, Hollister rationalized, he had nothing really pressing until the following morning, when he would go along on the insert of two more teams. He poured half again what he had already poured into the cup and then took a long drink.
The scotch burned just as much as the short sip he had taken from the dead soldier. He took still another.
Susan! He had to write her about the R&R. Or maybe not. After all, he hadn’t been able to reach her. She would never know what she was missing. So why should he upset her with a missed opportunity? He’d have to tell her something, but at that moment he wasn’t sure what or how much.
He pulled the three new letters from her out of his pocket. He hadn’t had a chance to read them yet, and it had been days since he had received her last—but not as long as it had been since he had sent her one.
He was angry for promising himself to write her and not following through; for having things he wanted to share with her, yet not being able to; for loving her so much, and being so afraid to let her into the world that surrounded him.
He had some more scotch and opened her first letter. She had just received his note about Benning. He prepared himself for what she had to say. They had never really talked about the future, not in any detail. The scotch was starting to taste bearable.
She was actually excited about Fort Benning. She started to ramble on about how much time she had spent in the East and that she wanted to see the rest of the country and meet new people.
Hollister laughed. New people—wait till she got her first glimpse of the hundreds of characters like Easy at Fort Benning. They were wonderful people, but they weren’t her people. They weren’t educated the way she was, and they didn’t have her sense of the world, of politics and culture. They weren’t soft like she was. They didn’t smell like she did. They were nothing like her. God, how he missed her.
He was getting drunk. But he just didn’t care. He wanted whatever was hurting to stop just for that night. Just for a little while. Just a minute of relief. That was all he wanted. Just a minute.
Hollister’s head pounded as he swung his feet over and onto the floor. He sat still for several moments while he rested his face in his hands. The taste of cigarettes and scotch had soured his mouth in the few hours of sleep he got. The sounds of a misfiring generator near Operations wasn’t much help.
He flipped open the lid of his footlocker and rummaged around in the top tray for a small bottle of GI APCs. He found a paperback copy of Stranger
in a Strange Land that he hadn’t had the chance to crack open. Another pleasure postponed.
He found the bottle and tried to shake two out. Nothing happened—they were all stuck together and crumbly from moisture. The broken aspirin wasn’t a surprise. Army-issue aspirins always started disintegrating as soon as the army bought them. By the time they were in a pill container and were shipped somewhere, the inside of the container became coated with a white powder that was once the sharp edges of the pills.
With the tip of his ballpoint pen he fished around inside the bottle and pulled out enough bits of aspirin to equal two tablets.
His web gear hung on the hook on the wall and held a canteen. Unsnapping the canvas cover, he pulled the green plastic canteen out of the carrier and shook it, checking for water.
He popped the aspirin into his mouth and hurried to wash it down with the water before the taste made him gag.
Hollister’s attempt to avoid the unpleasantness failed. One of the chunks of aspirin dissolved into a small puddle of paste on the back of his tongue. He tried to suppress his gag reflex, which only made his head pound worse.
While he rinsed the bitter taste from his mouth, he looked at his watch. He had about half an hour before he had to report to Operations. He could go to breakfast or take a shower, but not both.
The thought of Kendrick’s breakfast convinced Hollister that a shower would probably help him get by the hangover better than eggs would.
Hollister knew that the water would be incredibly cold. He reached for the spigot and slowly turned the water on while he tried to arch his body out and away from the flow. He missed most of it, but some of the water ran to his wrist, down his arm to his armpit and right side—sending an icy shock through his body.
There was just no option, he had to get used to it or go without a shower. He cupped his hands under the stream and splashed the water onto himself until he was over the initial shock. The smell of the soap was the first positive thing that he had experienced that morning. It smelled clean. It smelled like America. It smelled like Susan.
As he lathered up his close-cropped hair, Hollister looked over toward the chopper pad. Two teams had lined up their rucksacks and gear in straight rows with their rifles resting, muzzle up, against the tops of the rucksacks.
Hollister knew what they were thinking of while they all sat in the mess hall having some breakfast, looking out the window at their gear and the waiting choppers. It was a gut-gripping sensation. If they were like he was, they would be thinking about the insert—not the bacon.
LRPs were rarely concerned about the patrol or their actions at the objective or immediate actions in the event of contact. They had all that under control. They had rehearsed and rehearsed and knew that they could handle contact on the ground. It made no difference that they had a high casualty rate—ground operations didn’t bother them as much as the thought of being inserted.
It was during those moments of loss of control that they were most frightened. They didn’t talk much about it. Rather, they told jokes about choppers and aviators and door gunners when what they really meant was that they hated the exposure, the vulnerability and the risk.
It was about not being able to meet the enemy on a level playing field. The fact that the enemy was always hidden on the ground while they were sitting in the slow-moving and vulnerable chopper was their worry. That filled their thoughts while they ate a breakfast they would not even remember.
Hollister collected all of the last minute data he needed for the insert. He read over the duty log from the night before and saw that the team on the ground had nothing to report, was still at the same coordinates, would be laying up that day and moving to another ambush site after dark.
The weather was iffy, even though he had just walked in from a hot and humid sunrise. He made a quick check of the forecast and then a short inventory of what he had collected … frequencies, call signs, maps, Signal Operating Instructions, and fire support changes. He folded the scraps of paper and stuffed them into his pocket as he left Operations.
His head hadn’t cleared much as he approached the left side of the C&C. Captain Michaelson was already standing there, facing the ship, his web gear stretched out on the floor of the cargo compartment.
“Am I late?” Hollister asked, yelling over the noise of the turning rotor blades.
Michaelson turned around and cupped his hand to his mouth. “Anytime a lieutenant shows up after a captain—he’s late. Even if the captain’s early.”
Hollister looked at Michaelson to see if he was serious. Michaelson put the stub of an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth and smiled at Hollister. He was kidding.
Hollister laughed, placed his rifle on the bench seat, and got ready to crawl in.
Michaelson looked at him and shook his head from side to side in an exaggerated motion. “Nope. You ride the jump seat today.”
Hollister looked at him, to make sure that he understood. Realizing that Michaelson was not kidding, Hollister stepped up on the cargo deck and sat in the jump seat, putting on the helmet that had been resting on it.
Michaelson took the bench seat and put his flight helmet on.
“I don’t understand, sir,” Hollister said over the intercom.
“You are honchoing these inserts today, young Ranger.”
“Me?” Hollister said in surprise.
“Yep. I just can’t wait around for a slow movin’ boy from Kansas to catch on. We just gotta get your feet good and wet—firsthand, right away and right now.”
Hollister let it sink in for a moment and then nodded. “Okay, you’re the boss.”
“Wrong!” Shelton said from the left pilot’s seat. “Today you’re the boss. Don’t fuck it up.” He smiled.
“I’ll do my best.” Hollister looked across at the first of two lift ships that held one team, and back behind it at the second ship with the second team. He then gave and received a thumbs-up from the team leaders.
“Cap’n Shelton, I think we’re ready when you are,” Hollister said.
“Roger that. Comin’ up.”
Hollister had a little talk with himself while the choppers were crossing the wire marking the base camp perimeter. He was trying to run down the list of things that he had to do and in what order. He was also very angry with himself for being so out of sorts because of his hangover.
The flight to the AO was smooth and too short for Hollister. He wished he had more time to calm down inside, clear the cobwebs out of his head and get comfortable with the complicated tasks before him.
He pushed the transmit button on his mike. “Quarterback, this is Quarterback Two-six. Over.”
“Quarterback. Over,” Sergeant Marrietta replied.
“This is Two-six. I’ll be honchoing the inserts today. Over.”
“Roger that. We’ll be here. Piece of cake. Over.”
“Thanks. Out,” Hollister said, appreciating the vote of confidence in Marrietta’s cryptic transmission.
Hollister switched the radio to monitor and turned to Michaelson. “Anything special, sir?”
“What d’ya mean?”
“Any special instructions?”
“Yes—follow the plan.”
In his head he knew what was expected of him—take charge—that was his task.
As they flew, the LRPs in the two slicks out Hollister’s left door looked over and surveyed the C&C. It only took them a few minutes to realize that Hollister was at the controls. Sergeant Burke, team leader of 2-2, gave Hollister an encouraging clenched fist and a smile, while Sergeant Jackson, team leader of 1-1, in the second slick, gave Hollister a simple wave.
He felt confidence and pressure. He wanted not to focus on the fact that their lives could well rest in one of the many decisions he was about to make. Still, he didn’t want to forget it.
He quietly said a little prayer—nothing personal. It wasn’t for him; it was for them. He didn’t use the word God in his thoughts. He just asked for help. The words
in his head were simple: Please don’t let me screw this up. Please.
“About the plan …” Hollister said to Captain Michaelson. “I’d like to do two instead of one false insert first. That goin’ to be a problem, sir?”
Michaelson raised his hand and pointed at Captain Shelton’s seat—he was okaying the idea provided that Shelton didn’t have any problems.
“What do you think up front?”
“Can do easy, GI,” Shelton said.
“Okay, we’ll do it, then,” Hollister announced over the intercom just before he switched on the radio to tell the other choppers and the teams where and when.
After the fake inserts, the first real one went off without a flaw. The timing was perfect, the LZ was cold, and all of the communications worked perfectly.
Hollister reported Team 2-2 “down and in—cold” to Marrietta, and directed the flight to move on to the second insert area.
“Wooly Bully” came over the intercom as Captain Shelton tuned the ADF to American Forces radio for the chopper crew.
Sam the Sham was just the right thing. Hollister appreciated the break in the tension. He knew that it was just Shelton’s way of telling him that he did a good job on the first one, without having to say so in so many words.
Hollister looked around the chopper at Shelton, Michaelson, de Shazo—the door gunner—and Chief Warrant Officer Patterson, the peter pilot. He wondered how many other junior officers ever got a chance to do such dangerous stuff with the help of guys like them. He felt pretty lucky. No less nervous, but lucky.
He looked across the open space to the insert ship filled with Team 1-1—barely a hundred feet away. He felt a little guilty that he wasn’t going in with them. He knew what was ahead of them. They would either spend three miserable nights of boredom and hair-trigger readiness, and four days of worrying about being discovered, or come out early because of some moment of stark terror that would feel like an eternity.
