by Dennis Foley
Theodore saluted and stepped out the door. As he did, Hollister could hear the lift in his voice as he forcefully said, “Airborne, sir!”
Hollister smiled at Theodore and went back to systematically checking the other twenty-nine magazines. He found that he had only one with a sign of corrosion and one with a spring that dragged. He replaced them, took eight magazines and started to put them into the two ammo pouches on his pistol belt. The others he’d load into the rucksack when he repacked it.
When he got to the second ammo pouch, he realized that he had replaced it on his last patrol and still had to cut down the upper corners, as he’d been taught by Davis. He pulled out his demo knife and opened it. Lifting the top on the new pouch, he cut the forward corners down about three-quarters of an inch to relieve the tight grip that the well-sewn edge had on the magazines. He then reloaded the pouch and checked the ease of removal of the magazines.
Then Hollister lifted his shoulder harness and pistol belt and turned it around to face him. It was all just about ready to be replaced, except for the new ammo pouch, which was dark green against the faded and stained colors of the other items.
The smaller straps on the bottom of the harness were threadbare and would certainly not make two more patrols. He started at the top—jumpmaster style. On the left side of his harness was a first aid packet that held his compass. The compass was attached to the harness by a length of parachute suspension line—a dummy cord.
The term came from Ranger School, where students were so semiconscious most of the time that they often left things behind when patrols moved out. So, an enterprising instructor who was tired of having to double back to look for lost equipment made it SOP that all students would tie a full bootlace on important items, such as weapons, and the other end to themselves, so they wouldn’t get misplaced.
The line on Hollister’s compass was long enough for him to hold it at waist level, but not so long that he could sit on it if it were hanging by the line.
He pulled out the compass, opened the cover, and pulled the sight away from the dial. He let the compass lie flat in the palm of his hand. The dial spun rapidly at first, overshot north, then reversed itself and sought out magnetic north again.
The spin was free and the face was clear and unbroken. He grabbed the bezel ring and turned it. It was good. He checked the knot on the cord, folded the compass, loosely wrapped the length of parachute suspension line around it, and dropped it back into the first aid pouch.
An L-shaped flashlight was hooked into the small squared metal ring attached to the right side of the shoulder harness. Hollister took the flashlight off the harness and untied the harness end of the dummy cord. Free from the web gear, he flicked the flashlight on and off twice. It worked. He then pressed the small button above the on-off switch to see if it would work as a quick signal without making noise. It did. He quickly unscrewed the base of the flashlight and dumped the batteries out into the palm of his hand. He rolled them around for a second to see if there was any leakage or corrosion. Satisfied, he replaced the batteries and replaced the end. He untied the cord from around the harness and tossed the flashlight onto the pile of other items that would go into the rucksack.
He decided that the flashlight was too likely to come loose while he was rappeling, and get fouled in the gate of his snap link on the ride down from the chopper. He couldn’t take the chance. Anyway, he was sure that he wouldn’t be needing the flashlight on the trip down.
He passed up the ammo pouch in the left side of his pistol belt since he had checked it out when he put the magazines in it. Next to it was a first aid pouch that held a combat dressing. He pulled it out and inspected it for damage or moisture.
Next to that was a one-quart canteen cover. It was empty. The canteens were all in a pile on the floor. He would fill them later. He flipped the belt over and checked the attaching clips on the back of the canteen cover. Because they took so much abuse from the frame of the rucksack bumping and rubbing up against them, they tended to go first. One was good and the other had come open. He bent the clip and slid it into a locked position.
Hollister ran his hands around the open part of the belt and checked the four hooks that held the harness to the pistol belt. It was the harness that held up the pistol belt, not the tension around the waist. They were okay.
The canteen cover on the right-hand side had a large hole worn in the bottom, but the back clips were okay.
Next to the second canteen cover was a square nylon survival packet that was closed with a large patch of Velcro. He had scrounged it off a Special Forces lieutenant he had met earlier in his tour. It was full of aspirin, iodine, fishing line, and water purification tablets, and very difficult to repack once opened.
The next item was the C rations that Theodore had brought over. The case had been opened on the bottom, and all but Hollister’s rations had been taken out by the others.
Picking rations from the bottom was a custom in infantry units. Rations were pulled out of the case with the markings down so that everyone had a fair chance at the good and the bad rations.
Left in the case were ten boxes. Ten complete meals. He would never eat that much. He always lost his appetite in the bush, and would rather hump the weight in water.
He flipped the boxes over. From the selection, he pulled the beans with franks; the beefsteak, potatoes and gravy; and the beans with meatballs. He cannibalized all ten of the boxes to get the pound cake, peaches, fruit cocktail, crackers, peanut butter, and cheese cans.
He pulled open three of the sundry packets for the tiny salt packets he would use to brush his teeth, and the chewing gum, to keep his mouth moist.
He grabbed two pairs of rolled-up woolen boot socks from the top tray of his footlocker and busted the first one open. He put a main meal can and a couple of fruit or cracker cans in each of three socks and tied the socks onto the frame of his rucksack.
Rations down—he looked around at clothing. He would wear his tiger fatigues in and carry a second set of trousers. The shirts usually made it in the field, but the trousers got torn up the back. He rolled a spare pair of beaten-up trousers very tightly and placed it back on the cot.
He made sure that he had his floppy bonnie hat, a medical cravat, a spare pair of bootlaces, an olive-drab towel that had been cut in half lengthwise, and a poncho liner.
Hollister set the items aside and started on the odds and ends.
He reinventoried and reinspected his sealed film can of matches and a small signal mirror with a bootlace tied to it so he could slip it around his neck and drop it inside his shirt.
That done, he surveyed the pile and found the three metal tubes of camouflage stick—black, loam, and green. In his locker he found another plastic bottle of insect repellent and threw that on the pile.
The field phone rang.
“Lieutenant Hollister. This is Marrietta. We just got some new met data in.”
“Not any bad news, is it?”
“No sir. Not unless you’re a dink.”
“Thanks. I’ll be over.”
Hollister hung up and tried to remember where he had left off. The survival packet. He moved on to the next item, a lumpy canteen cover that held four fragmentation grenades. He pulled out each grenade, checked that the pins were folded over, and then looked closely at the condition of the spoons, searching for any cracks.
The next was a first aid packet that contained a pencil flare gun and six small flares. He dumped them out into his palm and looked them over. They were a little chipped, but everything else looked okay.
He dumped the flare gun and flares back into the pouch, snapped the flap and moved on to his knife.
A field knife was every LRP’s essential tool. It was usually some type of civilian hunting knife—larger than a folding knife and more useful than the useless GI bayonet.
He unsnapped the leather retaining strap that secured his Marine Corps K-bar knife. He ran his thumb across the blade to feel for sharpness. It needed a little work
.
The sheath had a small sharpening stone attached to it, in a pouch that Hollister had had a shoe shop stitch onto it back at Fort Benning.
He spit on the stone and ran the blade across it a few times. He thumbed it a second time and was satisfied. He put it back and swung the harness over the back of the chair next to the bunk.
Hollister looked around the room. Canteens! He had to fill his canteens. He picked up the four one-quart canteens and the single two-quart canteen off the floor and started out the door.
Hollister held the water trailer nozzle open to fill his canteen. Looking at the top of the canteen, he could tell that the small bottle of water purification tablets taped to the canteen was filled with water. That meant the tablets were bad. He’d have to get some more before he left, or risk any number of bugs in the water out in the AO—not to mention what was already growing in the water trailer.
CHAPTER 23
HOLLISTER RETURNED TO HIS hooch only to discover that he had not yet checked out the Claymore mine that Theodore had brought him. Few things could be as useless as humping a Claymore that had something missing. Or more dangerous than leaving one in the bush because it was incomplete or inoperable.
Even an inoperable Claymore was a useful item for the VC. It could be disassembled and rebuilt into small booby traps, and contained the makings for command-detonated mines and fragmentation that could even be used in a homemade shotgun. If he was going to take a Claymore to the bush, it was going to be in working shape.
He dropped his canteens on the floor next to his rucksack and grabbed the Claymore bag. Flipping open the flap, he squatted and spilled the contents onto the floor. The Claymore in the bag had been taken out on a patrol at least once before. The firing wire had been rewound around the body of the mine itself.
It was a convenient way to wrap up the wire, but it made it very difficult to unwind the wire without getting it fouled in the folded scissor legs on the bottom of the mine. It was sloppy fieldwork.
As he unwound the wire, he checked it out for breaks or cuts. He next inspected the body of the mine itself. The Claymore was designed to be placed on the ground, facing out from a perimeter or near the edge of an ambush killing zone. Once detonated, the mine would hurl seven hundred ball bearings out into a sixty-degree fan less than six feet high. It was lethal out to as much as fifty meters. In addition to the knockdown power of the Claymore, there was a shock effect that could be relied upon to stun those caught close to the killing area of the mine.
The arched body of the mine, which looked like a book with a curve in it, was none the worse for wear from having been humped to the bush and back. The shipping plug was missing, and the well for the blasting cap that attached to the end of the firing cord had a little dirt and debris in it. Hollister blew it out and flipped the mine over. The two pairs of folding legs on the bottom were dirty where they had been stabbed into the ground, but were otherwise undamaged.
Hollister put the mine down and picked up the firing device. It was a simple handheld pulse generator that provided enough electrical current down the firing wire to detonate the blasting cap and ultimately detonate the directional mine.
When the firing device was unconnected, he turned it over in the palm of his hand a couple of times and then gripped it for firing. Squeezing the handle, he felt the resistance that was part of the mechanism. If the device had no resistance or wouldn’t move at all, he would replace it.
Last item—the electric blasting cap. There was little Hollister could check except the condition of the metal body of the cap and the connector to the firing wire.
Satisfied that the entire Claymore was intact and likely to work properly, he put all of the items back into the carrying bag except the wire, then looked around the hooch for something to wrap the wire around to keep it from getting tangled. The cardboard box that had held the C rations was just what he needed. Tearing off a piece and folding it to make a core, Hollister wrapped the wire around the cardboard and then put it into the bag.
The last items he checked were his snap link, gloves, and sling rope. He opened the gate on the snap link to separate his worn rappeling gloves from the metal mountain climber’s connector and ran his fingers over the surface of the solid aluminum oval, looking for any burrs in the metal that might cause the rappeling rope to snag or tear. He had been using the same snap link since arriving in Vietnam, and it was discolored from the weather but still smooth. He thought for a moment about replacing it, but gave in to a sentimental hunch that it was his lucky snap link.
He snapped the gate several times to check the action. It was essential that the spring hold the gate closed while he was hooked onto the rappeling rope. If the spring failed, it could be fatal.
His sling rope, a ten-foot length of nylon climbing rope, was new. Hollister had replaced it when he discovered the insect repellent bottle leak. Some of it had soaked a section of his old sling rope, and he didn’t want to take the chance that it would weaken the nylon.
The rope was so new that it was still a shiny dark green color. He stretched it out and looked at it for kinks or loosening of the twisted coils. Satisfied, he held a lighter to the cut ends of the rope, then checked the condition of the melted nylon stubs. Once melted, the ends wouldn’t unravel into the hundreds of small nylon threads that made up the rope. He ran his finger over one melted end and then did the same to the other end.
He folded the rope twice and placed it next to his rifle. There was no need to coil it since he would have to fashion it into a Swiss seat before he got into the chopper. The Swiss seat would be the hasty field harness that he would tie around his hips to hold him onto the rappeling rope by the snap link.
Hollister completed the inspection of the rappeling apparatus by checking out his own sling rope. He had examined the tie-down ring in the chopper, the rappeling ropes, his snap link, and his sling rope. It wouldn’t be the last time he would inspect it all.
He looked at his watch, considered going to the mess hall for some lunch but decided against it. He still had too much to do. Anyway, he could live without a heavy lunch.
He finished packing his gear into his rucksack, stuffing the canteens into their carriers, and found a new bottle of water purification tablets.
Hollister put on his web gear and slipped the rucksack over his shoulders. The load was heavy. He jumped up and down several times to check for clanking, banging, or rattling. He discovered that the handle of his knife was making a noise against his rucksack frame. With a tightening of the shoulder strap, the rucksack frame rode higher and stopped the noise.
He dropped his ruck and harness back onto his cot and stood in the center of his hooch trying to decide what to do next. Maps, SOIs, notes? All that was in one pile on his desk.
Trying to write just before a patrol was almost impossible. Davis came by the hooch with some last minute coordination. After five minutes Theodore came back with some changes in the radio frequencies, then Bernard called to ask about an item on Virgil’s inventory.
Hollister gritted his teeth and promised himself that he wasn’t going to give up. He had made up his mind to get the letters written and he was going to do it.
Three more interruptions followed the others, but he still got two short letters written. He addressed them and made one final check to see that he had the letters in the right envelopes. He closed the self-sealing flaps, flipped the envelopes back over, wrote FREE in the corner where stamps usually went, and smiled. He could only imagine what a mess postage stamps would be in the humidity of Vietnam. Free postage was one of the very few good deals that the troops got in country.
Michaelson, Hollister, Davis, Allard, and Camacho from the LRFs, and pilots Iron Mike Taylor and Shelton, sat together while they ate supper. The other patrol members and the aircraft crews clustered at another table. Because of their schedule, Sergeant Kendrick had prepared their meal early and they had the mess hall to themselves.
At Hollister’s table they did som
e eating, some kidding around, and some final coordination for the insert. At the other table the conversation was mostly centered on women.
There wasn’t much anxiety about making enemy contact on the insert, but they were all a little more skittish about going in on ropes.
Hollister ate some of the gluelike mashed potatoes and flipped the page on his notebook with his free hand. The infiltration of two chopper loads of LRPs by rope required a higher degree of coordination, timing and luck than the more routine inserts. He wanted to make sure that he hadn’t forgotten something.
He looked up from his notes to Davis and Allard. “You go over the emergency commands with the chopper crews?”
Davis put down his coffee. “Yessir. We’re gonna go over it one more time with the crews and the teams chopperside—after the inspection.”
“Without the choppers cranking?”
Captain Shelton raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, we’ll keep ’em shut down till y’all are ready. Whew, what prima donnas,” he added.
Captain Michaelson cleared his throat and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at his watch and then over toward Hollister and Shelton. “Well, as much as I hate to eat and fly—we got to go sink the VC navy.”
The talking stopped. Hollister felt his gut tighten. He tried to convince himself it was a natural response that would keep him sharp. It was better than admitting how anxious he was. Unconnected scenes flashed through his mind. He thought of Lucas’s family at graveside. He thought of Susan.
“You coming, Lieutenant?” someone said.
Hollister looked around, realizing that he was the only one still seated.
“Yeah, sure. Wouldn’t miss it.”
Standing in front of Theodore, Hollister started the inspection at his head and worked down. No one was wearing head gear for fear that it would be blown off during the insert. Theodore’s camouflage job left a quarter-inch line of white skin above the dark, mottled grease and below his hairline. Hollister pointed out the white ribbon on Theodore’s face to Sergeant Davis, who was standing next to Hollister.
