“As you can see, I’m in charge of a platoon of clerk typists,” he said. “You will be my assistant platoon leader. May I ask how you managed to get this temporary-duty assignment?”
“I know this sergeant who helped arrange the TDY,” Kevin replied.
Enright’s loud guffaw brought work in the bullpen to a momentary halt. “Of course. I should have guessed. And here I was worried that you were some general’s illegitimate son.”
“Not hardly,” Kevin said.
“Good.” Enright clapped his hands. “Let’s get down to business.”
He explained that the generals in their infinite wisdom wanted to create the best, most combat-ready, most highly trained, best-equipped, and best-led ARVN division ever in the entire Republic of Vietnam Army. It was to be fully supported by air, artillery, and armored units so it could operate with the same strike-and-response capacity of a US division.
His voice dripping with sarcasm, he went on to say that once the new division was fully operational it would become the template used to transform every other ARVN division, causing them to become equally effective and thus win the war.
“You sound slightly dubious.”
Enright shrugged. “Even if it were possible, which it isn’t, we’ll run out of time long before it can happen.”
Kevin said nothing.
Enright waited for a long minute before continuing. “Perfect, you’re a realist. Let’s get you settled in and down to work.”
“And what is my job?”
“I’ve already told you, glorified office boy, and I wasn’t kidding.”
***
That first night in his billet, Kevin wrote home to tell his folks he was in-country but safe and secure in one of the most heavily guarded and fortified buildings in South Vietnam. He was doing administrative work—nothing dangerous—and they were not to worry. On impulse, he also wrote to Isabel telling her pretty much the same thing, and asked her to write back.
Enright put him in charge of shift and work assignment duty until his security clearance came through. From that point on, he was Enright’s runner, taking sealed packets of confidential and secret documents from the secure communications center behind the locked security door to ranking officers throughout the command who were overseeing the development of the new division. Frequently he was out of the building with a briefcase cuffed to his wrist in a staff car, on his way to deliver sensitive documents to diplomats and generals, both American and South Vietnamese.
When he wasn’t scurrying around the enormous military command compound, or in a staff car on the way to an embassy or government building, Enright had him writing up commendations for the clerk typists who were rotating home. He wanted every soldier to leave with a least one shiny medal in addition to the Good Conduct and National Defense decorations. With the brass hats upstairs passing out medals to one another left and right, Kevin understood Enright’s reasoning, and he took to the task with enthusiasm. Twenty percent of the time, he was able to have the Army Commendation Medal awarded. Mostly he had to settle on getting the South Vietnamese to authorize one of their medals. He had good luck with the Republic of Vietnam Campaign Medal, the Technical Service Medal, and the Armed Forces Honor Medal, which was awarded for actively contributing to the formation and organization of the Vietnamese military. All requests for decorations had to go through normal channels, but when it came to run-of-the-mill Vietnamese awards, nobody upstairs gave a damn.
The morning Enright officially became a short-timer with less than sixty days left in-country, Kevin called the troops together and presented him with the Republic of Vietnam Armed Forces Honor Medal. It cracked him up. That night he got drunk with Kevin to celebrate his prestigious and most personally gratifying decoration.
When Enright had thirty days and a wake-up left before returning to the world, Kevin asked him to find a way to send him into the field.
“Worried my replacement will be some tight-ass butt kisser?” Enright inquired.
“Damn straight,” Kevin replied.
“I don’t blame you. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“I’m sure.”
“Now that you’ve proudly served in a war zone, I could have personnel cancel your TDY status and return you to Schofield Barracks. Wouldn’t that be better?”
Kevin shook his head.
Enright tapped a finger to his lip. “Okay, let me give it some thought.”
A week before Enright was due to leave with his very own Army Commendation Medal pinned to his chest and a promotion to captain, he had one of his last official conversations with 2nd Lt. Kevin Kerney.
He spread a map out on the small conference table and said, “The new division we’re creating for our Vietnamese brothers-in-arms will be headquartered at Miêu Giang, currently under our command. We inherited it from the marines, who didn’t want to play there anymore. It’s near a river valley seven clicks from the DMZ.”
He traced the location on the map with his finger. “According to Intelligence, there’s no heavy lifting going on in terms of serious enemy engagement along this part of the demilitarized zone. Orders are being cut for you to go to the Miêu Giang Combat Base and prepare an initial report on its readiness to be transferred to ARVN control sometime in the still-unknown future. As we speak, various forms are being created for you to use in this endeavor. The brass wants it spit-shined and standing tall when the time comes to troop the colors.”
“I thought only the Brits did stuff like that.”
“Don’t be so damn picky.” He folded the map and handed it to Kevin. “You’ll have thirty days to conduct your review, fill out myriad forms, and file your report. Which I’m certain will be only the first of many to be conducted by a legion of officers with sequentially higher and higher rank. I’m sure your report will soon be forgotten. And gathering dust. I doubt it will qualify you for a combat infantry badge, but you never know.”
Kevin grinned. “Thanks.”
Enright waved it off. “The downside is you leave in two days and will therefore miss the drunken brawl of my bon-voyage party.”
“How about I get you drunk tonight?” Kevin suggested.
Enright grinned. “Now you’re starting to behave and think like an officer with some serious career potential. I’ll have your efficiency report done before you leave.”
The day before Kevin was to leave for Miêu Giang Combat Base, Enright got even with him by pinning the Vietnamese Armed Forces Honor Medal on his chest. Finished, he gave the shiny decoration a pat and said he was astonished by the willingness of the Republic of Vietnam to so quickly bestow such a very great honor on such a lowly yet richly deserving second lieutenant.
It took every ounce of Enright’s self-control to keep a straight face, but when Kevin started laughing, he lost it, as did the assembled men in the bullpen, who hooted and hollered their approval.
In the morning, Kevin flew out on a chopper with fond memories of Alan Enright, certain he’d not meet his kind again during the rest of his time in the service. He was already missing his companionship. Before leaving he’d thought to write his parents to say he was going into the field, but decided against it. He was only preparing a report, not going into combat, so there was no need to worry them.
With the thudding eggbeater sound of the rotors vibrating through the thin skin of the helicopter, he suddenly thought about Isabel. She’d never responded. So be it. For the first time he felt she was truly and completely in the past.
***
Master Sergeant Diego “El Mano” Ruiz scowled as he watched the lieutenant hurry across the LZ lugging a duffel bag and briefcase. He was expecting four way-overdue rifle platoon leader replacements, fully armed and equipped, not some junior pencil pusher from Saigon.
At five-six, Diego “The Hand” Ruiz was the toughest man in the brigade. Born and raised in Alb
uquerque, New Mexico, drafted early in the Korean War, he’d found a home in the army and had won the all-army boxing championship in his weight class three times in a row before retiring from the ring undefeated. Combat wounded twice in Korea and once in Nam, Ruiz owned virtually every award for valor except the Medal of Honor.
The young lieutenant slowed to a stop in front of Diego, who didn’t bother to salute. He noted with interest the crossed rifles on the kid’s fatigue shirt before glancing at his name patch over his right pocket.
“How can I help you, Lieutenant Kerney?” he asked.
Kevin pulled his TDY orders from his shirt pocket. “I’m here for a look around.”
Ruiz plucked the papers out of Kerney’s hand. At least the kid didn’t spout a bunch of official-sounding garbage at him. He gave the orders a quick look. The base was to be evaluated for eventual handover to an ARVN division. Interesting. Ruiz returned the paperwork and pointed at a fortified bunker. “Wait in there, Lieutenant.”
The young man nodded and double-timed to the bunker.
Ruiz went to the communications room and made a call to a friend at Military Assistance Command before seeking out brigade commander Col. Timothy Ingwersen, who, along with his deputy commander, was inspecting a newly reinforced section of the perimeter wire that the VC had blown up the night before.
“A moment, Colonel,” Ruiz asked.
Ingwersen nodded. “What have you got for me, Top?”
Ruiz reported the arrival of Lt. Kevin Kerney, an infantry officer who had been sent up to inspect the camp for eventual transfer to an ARVN division. “I made a call and did a little snooping about him, Colonel. Distinguished ROTC graduate, in the top third of his Infantry Officer Class, recently received an excellent performance rating from his departing OIC, and awarded the ARVN Armed Forces Honor Medal, whatever that is. He’s been in-country for four months at Military Assistance Command.”
Ingwersen smiled. He was hurting badly for well-trained junior officers, and he was tired of waiting for the rifle platoon leaders promised to him weeks ago. It was as if the gods had dropped him an unexpected gift—a partial one, but a gift nonetheless. “What’s the lieutenant’s name?”
“Kevin Kerney. He’s from my home state, but he doesn’t know that yet.”
“Get his TDY orders cancelled ASAP, have new orders cut permanently assigning him to my command, and put him in charge of 2nd Platoon, Bravo Company. Have it done by the end of the day.”
“Roger that, Colonel,” Ruiz said as he turned on his heel, wondering what 2nd Lt. Kevin Kerney would say when told his world was about to turn upside down.
That evening, before Kevin and his platoon turned out to stand watch, he scribbled a note to his folks.
Dear Mom & Dad:
I’ve been reassigned to a combat outfit as a rifle platoon leader and am just about to pull my first watch with a squad from my platoon. Don’t worry about me. I’m at a very large and secure base with men who are seasoned veterans and officers above me who are all experienced field leaders. The top sergeant Diego Ruiz is from Albuquerque, so it already feels right for me to be here. He says our CO is in line for his first star so there will likely be a ceremony in his honor when his promotion comes through.
Anyway, that’s it for now. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.
Love,
Kevin
Two hours later, Kevin and a squad from his platoon repelled a VC attack at the northern wire perimeter. Lots of green tracers lit up the night. No one got hurt. Kevin’s hands didn’t stop shaking until he was off duty and alone in his bunk.
40
After sixty days as a Bravo Company platoon leader, Kevin still remained anxious and scared, whether he was inside the wire or out, on patrol or in his bunk, whether it was night or day, or whether the enemy was shooting at him or not. At first, he thought he was a complete pussy until he realized everybody was in the same boat—they just had different ways of dealing with it.
The rules about fear were straightforward and simple. You could joke about it, laugh about it, act indifferent about it, tease about it, but never, ever honestly admit to it. Kevin avoided the subject entirely. As a result, he found himself talking less, listening more, and saving his words for more important matters like giving and receiving orders.
The good news was he hadn’t gotten killed or wounded, and neither had any of the men under his command so far. He had handled himself in combat without losing it, didn’t take unnecessary risks, and was no longer considered just another boneheaded second lieutenant. His platoon sergeant had stopped constantly giving him advice, although Kevin continued to welcome it when it was offered. It was only after the men in his platoon decided he was okay that he learned he’d replaced an officer so terrified at the prospect of being killed he had to be relieved of duty and sent home early, a broken and depressed man.
The bad news was that he’d lost both his company commander and XO because of the Pentagon’s stupid rule limiting officers to six months’ service in a combat unit during their one-year rotation in-country. Their replacements were eager-beaver greenhorns looking for honors and promotions.
Things got worse when Colonel Ingwersen got his star and moved on, replaced by an officer out of the Pentagon who was more interested in getting his CIB ticket punched than he was in looking after his men. Word had it that he was one of those up-and-coming, field-grade types favored by the Joint Chiefs now flooding into Nam before the final pullout of combat troops so they could score some important war-zone time and maybe get a commendation or two to prove they were stud warriors. A Purple Heart for a minor wound was the best possible scenario.
Every member of the US armed forces and their allies knew the war was lost. Victor Charlie knew, the North Vietnam Army knew, as did all the politicians on both sides, plus the American public. Members of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam showed their shrewd understanding of the situation by deserting and abandoning their posts in droves. That didn’t stop the VC or the North Vietnamese regulars from trying to kill all of the South Vietnamese troops that stumbled in front of their guns, many of them not-so-distant cousins. Kevin was convinced that in the recorded annals of armed conflict, blood feuds and tribal warfare had to be the worst of the lot.
Fortunately for the brigade, the new commander, Col. Bradley Douglas Rutherford, let Master Sergeant Diego “El Mano” Ruiz run the day-to-day operations while he and his senior staff entertained visiting congressmen, touring generals, news reporters, South Vietnamese dignitaries, and high-ranking ARVN officers—all interested in seeing where the new Republic of Vietnam division would be housed once it came online.
Kevin didn’t give a shit. His immediate concern centered on bringing up to combat readiness the jittery, raw soldiers he received almost weekly as replacements for the seasoned troops in the platoon who rotated out back to the world because of the brainless Pentagon one-year-in-country policy.
The new soldiers, known as FNGs—fucking new guys—by the men, had to be slotted into a platoon of combat veterans who wanted nothing to do with them, didn’t want to be near them, talk to them, know their names, or watch them get blown up or shot dead. Kevin sympathized and understood.
He despised land mines, booby traps, rocket attacks, and mortar rounds because they killed so indiscriminately and frequently without warning. If he had to face death, he favored it accomplished by a man he could see killing him with a gun. He smiled at his macabre thinking. Maybe he had a bit too much of the cowboy in him, courtesy of his hardscrabble Kerney ancestors.
Death was the other taboo subject. It was only tolerated in bull sessions if it came layered with sarcasm, bravado, or unusually inventive sidesplitting, sick humor. Again, Kevin held his tongue, but he’d come to believe that the experience of war was personal and different for each man. As much as they tried to find some common ground about dying, it was really a private matter im
possible to be openly discussed. In the end, everyone died alone no matter who was around.
The base was nicknamed “The Rock Pile” after a nearby mountain that looked exactly like a pile of rocks tumbling skyward out of a valley floor. On high ground, it was a strange combination of fortified bunkers, tents, sandbagged defensive positions, prefabricated buildings, a large LZ, and observation posts completely surrounded by wire and a buffer zone devoid of vegetation. For Kevin the bleak, monochromatic, hunkered-down base was always a welcome sight when he was returning from patrol with his men.
He hated the jungle with a passion. It overwhelmed his senses with alien sounds, foreign vegetation, strange animals, putrid smells, and a forest canopy that turned daytime into darkness. It was most dangerous when there was silence. At times a shaft of light would dance across the undergrowth, freezing him into place, or a swarm of insects descended around his head, taking every ounce of his self-control not to swat them. He sweated buckets when it didn’t rain, shivered soaking wet when it did, and dreamt of bloodred eyes staring at him through the black jungle.
He was dirty and didn’t care; smelly and didn’t care; had grown immune to picking off the leeches except for the fat, juicy one that tried to crawl into his ear and freaked him out. He froze up at the snakes that swam in the flooded rice paddies, the rodents that sniffed his nose in the darkness of the jungle, and the large insects that sounded like crinkling paper as they crawled across the backs of his legs.
He felt no kinship to his soldiers, no camaraderie with his fellow officers. He faked it to get along, but he survived by living within himself—his only safe place. Perhaps he now understood Isabel better, understood that the only way to withstand all things discordant, destructive, and repugnant to your nature was to detach and embrace the loneliness that ensued.
The one sound he looked forward to hearing was the engine of the fixed-wing army observation planes that flew along the highway every now and then searching for any signs of enemy movement. It reminded him of the days back on the Tularosa when they used to fly over the ranch. He sure missed that place.
The Last Ranch Page 44
