the Hill (1995)

by Scott, Leonard B

  Candidate Jason Johnson looked at the lensitic compass that lay on his map, then glanced up at the terrain around him. Nothing matched. He was hopelessly lost. He’d been on the land navigation course for three hours and found four of the five stakes, but he had become lost trying to find the last point. He’d thought he knew where the last stake was and hadn’t used his compass until it was too late.

  He picked up the compass, feeling as empty and lost on the inside as he was on the military reservation. The instructor had warned them to always use DDT when navigating: distance, direction, and terrain. He had left out direction by not plotting an azimuth and using his compass. He would fail the land navigation test because of the stupid mistake. He lowered his head, knowing the critical test was a must for graduating from OCS.

  A limb snapped behind him and he quickly got to his feet, hoping it was one of the other candidates thrashing through the Georgia pines, trying to find the small stakes. If it was a classmate, he could ask for help. Jason ran toward the sound, feeling hope, but he swore when he saw the sweat-soaked soldier coming out of a thicket. Damn, of all people, it had to be him.

  Captain Willis looked up from his compass, surprised to find one of his men staring at him. Shit, if he had been a dink, it woulda’ been over. He was losing his touch.

  Jason lowered his head, knowing he couldn’t ask for help from his tac officer. The little bastard had been participating in all the training and taking great pride in leading the way. It was as if he were competing with them, against their youth, and he was winning. Weird Willis wouldn’t help his own mother on a test such as this. He preached honor above everything else.

  Willis hid a smile at the lost look on his candidate’s face. “Candidate Johnson,” he snapped, “do you have any idea where you are?”

  Jason thought about saying “Yes, sir,” and walking away, but he knew Willis would ask him to point out his location on the map. “Ah … Sir … I … I’m temporarily disoriented.”

  Willis marched toward him. “That answer is only used by qualified Rangers. You, Candidate Johnson, are LBS, correct?”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir?

  “LBS is ‘Lost Bigger than Shit.’ ”

  Jason lowered his eyes. “Yes, sir. The only thing I know right now is I’m in Georgia.”

  “Johnson, you have given up. WRONG! Pull out your map sheet and show me that last stake you were at.… Okay, which direction did you take from there?”

  “I thought I knew where it was and didn’t use my compass. I thought it was due north but …”

  “Think, Candidate. Did you go down hill, up hill, what?”

  “I went down a slope and hit a creek at about five hundred meters.”

  Willis studied the map and Jason’s last known location for several moments and pointed. “Look at this. You must have gone west. It’s the only low ground and matches with the creek. Think what you did and what terrain you walked over, and point it out on the map.”

  Jason reconstructed his meandering, realizing he wasn’t quite as lost as he had thought. He narrowed his location down to a thousand-meter grid square. “Sir, I gotta be somewhere in this area.”

  Willis cocked an eyebrow up. “Look around you, Candidate. What kind of terrain feature are we on?”

  “Sir, we’re on a ridge.”

  “And what direction is this ridge running, Candidate?”

  “To the southeast, sir.”

  “Orient your map to north and you’ll see there are four ridges that fit this description, but they all have one thing in common: if you were to go down them, they would all take you to Hewel Creek. If you were to go down this ridge and hit the creek and turn right, you’d eventually come to this bridge. If you stood on the bridge, you would know exactly where you are and you could plot your last stake … correct?”

  Jason looked up from the map in awe. Willis had made it seem so simple. Of course, he was correct. “Thank you, sir, I mean really, thank you!”

  Willis snarled coldly, “You gave up, Candidate. Don’t you ever give up again. Leaders can’t afford to panic and feel desperation, or their men will.” He glanced at his watch and began walking away. “Candidate, you have only forty-five minutes to finish this course. According to the test instructions, you must make it on time or you fail, regardless of how many points you’ve found. I don’t think you can do it; you’ve wasted too much time feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “I’ll make it!” Jason yelled to the officer’s back and spun around to align his compass. He set the azimuth toward the creek and broke into a dead run.

  Willis stood behind the small field desk where the students had to report upon completion of the land navigation test. He glanced at his watch, then at the meadow in front of him. The students had to cross the open field to finish, and there were only thirty seconds left before time was up. In the distance, he saw a soldier emerge from the woodline in a slow run. It was obvious, even in the fading light, that the soldier was exhausted and barely able to move. Willis recognized the soldier and shook his head. I’ll be damned, he did it. Johnson had to have covered two kilometers through the worst terrain on the course. The vegetation along the creek bed was thick with vines and laurel.

  Willis glanced at his watch again. Shit, he was so close but … “MOVE IT, JOHNSON! FIFTEEN SECONDS! COME ON, RUN!”

  Jason leaned forward with the last of his energy and tried to make his legs move faster, but they felt like rubber. He couldn’t seem to bring air into his lungs, and everything was a blur. The familiar voice gave him a direction, and he lowered his head, pushing himself through the pain.

  Willis stepped back, feeling guilty, and watched as the big soldier passed by him and slapped his map on the desk with barely a second to spare. Johnson’s uniform was ripped, and his hands and face were bloody. He could envision the young soldier running and fighting his way through brambles and vines, trying desperately to stay on course and make it back on time. He, as tactical officer, was responsible for his pain and wounds. And why? For a test the soldier could have taken over in a few days? An officer’s commission that might get him killed or maimed?

  Jason held onto the desk as if it were a life buoy, and he tried to catch his breath while he waited for his score. The sergeant sitting behind the desk quickly checked the stake numbers and stamped his card with “PASS.”

  Jason turned around with a weary smile and walked to where the captain stood staring into the approaching darkness.

  “Sir, I made it.”

  Willis studied the smiling face, and suddenly he had his answer. The candidate’s smile was like those of the young soldiers he had led in Vietnam last year. He wasn’t pushing the candidates for themselves; he was pushing them for the soldiers they would lead. Those young men who gave so much deserved the best their country could provide … and, by God, he’d make sure they got what they deserved!

  Willis put guilt and sympathy out of his mind as he said with detachment, “Never quit on me again, Candidate Johnson. Inform the platoon they will not be taking the buses back as was planned. We will be force marching. We move out in ten minutes.”

  Jason’s smile dissolved into a look of despair. It was twelve miles back to the barracks. He straightened his sore back and brought his hand up in a salute. “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  Private Nance stood in the ranks of Alpha Company, Second Battalion, Third Brigade, as they practiced their graduation ceremony on York Field. He’d finally made it through basic training and would be shipping out for Fort Benning in two days to begin AIT. Tomorrow morning would be the real graduation, and he’d finally leave Fort Bliss. He’d recovered from his ankle injury and been sent to Alpha Company, where he found the environment totally different. His drill sergeant had ridden him hard at first, because he was a recycle, but had finally eased up, seeing he wasn’t a shitbird. He had even made him acting squad leader. He’d found the training to be much easier the second time around, because he was physically and
mentally prepared. It was against the rules for a recycle to be listed as an honor student, or he would have been standing in front of his company receiving the training award and marksmanship trophy.

  Ty lowered his eyes, feeling pride in himself, but he knew one more task had to be accomplished before he left for Benning. Tonight they would be released for a four-hour pass, and he’d have his opportunity then.

  Sergeant McCoy left the NCO club feeling no pain; he’d drunk two six-packs during happy hour. He dug in his pockets for his car keys but couldn’t remember where he’d parked. He swayed, then staggered into the darkness. Trying to keep his balance, he braced himself against a car, when suddenly he fell to the pavement in excruciating pain. His jaw felt like he’d been hit by a baseball bat. He looked up at a dark figure looming over him, unable to see his face.

  “You got three seconds to get up! One … two … three. Freeze!”

  The attacker put his foot on McCoy’s chest, pushing him back to the pavement. “You fucked up, McCoy. Don’t ever mess with an attitude problem.”

  “You!” said McCoy, feeling scared for the first time. “I … I didn’t mean to bump you.… It was an accident … I swear it was, I swear.”

  Ty leaned over and saw the fear in the pathetic man’s face and backed up. He’d planned to kick his teeth in, but this was better. He took the keys from the ground and threw them across the parking lot. Leaning down, he spoke evenly. “You just learned a lesson. Always keep your guard up, or some attitude problem is gonna pay you back. I got your spirit, McCoy.”

  Ty turned around and walked into the darkness, ignoring the sergeant, who was trying to get up. “You … you got what? What did you steal from me? You can’t steal from Drill Sergeant McCoy. Goddamn you, come and fight like a …”

  Ty sat in a large classroom, fidgeting in his seat and longing to get outside and march to the graduation ceremony. The company commander was giving a safety briefing before graduation to save time. As soon as the company graduated, they would return and immediately begin outprocessing.

  The captain finished his briefing and motioned for the first sergeant, who stood and spoke in a deep, gravelly voice. “Anybody here want to volunteer for Airborne school, stay in the classroom for a short briefing. The rest of you move outside.”

  Ty stayed in his seat and pulled out his dog tags from under his shirt. Attached to the chain was the jump wings from his grandfather’s treasure box. Touching the silver badge, he could hear two men calling out to him.

  A tall sergeant, wearing glistening jump boots and an overseas cap with glider patch sewn to its front, walked down the aisle as if he were a king. He faced the small group and put his hands on his hips. “I am Sergeant Rolando, the Airborne recruiter. I need twenty men. Your legs don’t look like much, but we’ll square you away once you graduate from AIT. If you think you’re good enough to be a paratrooper, see me when you outprocess this afternoon. I’ll have a table at the end of the line. Have all your records in hand and a willing attitude.

  “I can promise you fifty-five dollars extra a month and the best ride in town under a T-10 canopy of silk. The rest of your life will be pure hell. You’ll be pushed harder than you were here at basic, and your reward will be a free, all-expense-paid one-year tour of the Republic of South Vietnam. You all will be going anyway, no matter what you do, so think about going over and joining the Army’s most elite units, the 101st Screaming Eagles and 173rd Sky Soldiers. Both units need men now. Don’t even talk to me unless you’re sure in your heart you want to be a paratrooper. Think about it, legs. Jumpin’ out of a perfectly good aircraft while in flight is most definitely not for everybody. You have a chance to volunteer and become a somebody. Legs, join and fight with the best, or be a nasty leg for the rest of your nasty leg life … the decision is yours.”

  Ty left the classroom, having already made up his mind the day he joined the Army. His father had worn the wings, and so would he. He was going to join the ranks of the Red Hill Paratroopers.

  Ty hefted his duffle bag to his shoulder and walked toward the mailbox. Graduation and outprocessing were now nothing but memories. He’d received his paperwork and was to report to the transit billets for the night and catch the bus for Fort Benning tomorrow. Rolando had signed him up without even looking at his records and told him he’d be receiving orders at Benning.

  He stopped at the mailbox and tossed the bag to the ground. Like all the trainees, he had found that going through the outprocessing pay line was an exercise in paying back the Army. Finance had taken out twenty dollars for a previous advance pay to buy required items for inspections. The executive officer had all of the company “volunteer” to buy a savings bond, because they had to beat Charlie Company in the Freedom Award contest. First Sergeant then collected ten bucks for the Army Emergency Relief Organization, five for a membership in the Association of the United States Army, and two for the company cup and flower fund. At the end of the official line were the merchants. He had been required to have a picture taken the fifth week of training, and now it was pay-up time. The cheapest pack of pictures was ten dollars. The catch was that if you wanted to send the pictures home, there was a mailer available for an additional dollar-fifty. Out of the original $79.20 he had gotten from Uncle Sam, he now had only $11.95 left to live on for the month.

  Feeling guilty, he dropped an envelope into the slot. He’d send the pictures to his mother. He hadn’t written her during the past few weeks because of his hectic schedule, but he had thought of her every night. He hoped she would understand.

  He picked up his heavy bag and continued the long walk toward the transit billets.

  Jason sat in the large classroom with two books and a map laid open on the desk before him. The acronyms seemed endless, as did the different rules and considerations used in planning combat operations. There was planning for route selection, planning for organization of the unit, communications planning, fire support planning, and planning for planning. But the only acronym that had really stuck and applied to all situations was the six P’s rule: prior planning prevents piss-poor performance.

  He leaned back in his chair and thought back over the past months of training. He’d learned everything, from how to address the commander’s wife to what the dimensions of a slit latrine should be. He’d learned what fork to use at a dinner party and how to blow men to smithereens with plastic explosives. The day began at 4:30 with PT and a run, and ended at 10:30 at night with study hall or preparation for an inspection. The demanding training schedule and Weird Willis had cut the platoon by a quarter. Most had quit or failed a critical subject. The company, which had started with 220 candidates, was now down to 164 men.

  Weird Willis was a human buzz saw who seemed to have endless stamina and boundless energy. He led all runs and participated in all training, constantly hounding his platoon to give a hundred percent and find their limitations. He was the most dedicated soldier Jason had ever seen.

  Jason broke from his reverie, hearing the instructor call his name.

  “Candidate Johnson, stand up and tell us what is the first step in troop-leading procedures.”

  Jason stood and faced the class. “Sir, the first step is to receive the mission and begin planning.”

  “Excellent. Now, Candidate McKenzie, tell us the second step.”

  Jason bought a Coke and stood in the huge hallway as the class smoked and joked during a ten-minute break. He took a sip and immediately snapped to attention as Willis stepped in front of him, holding a folder. “Candidate Johnson, you didn’t volunteer for Airborne or Ranger school. Why not?”

  Jason stared straight ahead. “Sir, I’m not making the Army a career. I didn’t see any use in going to any more schools after graduation.”

  Willis shook his head in exasperation. “Wrong, Candidate. YOU WILL VOLUNTEER! Airborne or Ranger school is not for you, it’s insurance for the men you might lead one day. Soldiers need an experienced leader. Experience comes from screwing up, and yo
u’ll have plenty of opportunities to screw up in Ranger school. You will volunteer and give your men the experienced leader they deserve.”

  Jason stared at him and saw the familiar challenging glint in his eyes. Willis had not approached the other candidates and forced them to volunteer. Jason knew he was being honored that the captain thought him worthy of attending the courses. Both Airborne and Ranger schools were difficult to obtain quotas for, and few candidates would have the opportunity. The platoon tactical officers made up an order-of-merit list, and Willis would put him at the top of the list, ensuring he got to both schools.

  Jason sighed. “Yes, sir, I’ll volunteer.”

  Willis hid his pleasure with a scowl as he opened the folder. “I thought you probably would. I have the necessary paperwork right here. Sign each copy, and I’ll submit them to battalion for consideration.”

  Jason took a pen from his pocket and quickly signed both papers. “Sir, are you going to help me get ready? I hear Ranger school is a bitch.”

  Closing the folder, Willis looked as if he knew an inside joke. “Candidate Johnson, Ranger school is not a bitch—it’s your worst nightmare come true. You fall out thirty minutes early for PT from now on, and we’ll begin your training.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me, Candidate. You’ll hate me every day you’re in Ranger school. Believe me.”

  19

  Outside the OCS theater, a cold wind blew down the deserted sidewalks and across the yellowed parade field. The sun had tried to warm the frozen ground for two hours but was failing against the chilling wind. Inside the theater, 139 graduating candidates and their guests sat listening to the assistant commandant of the Infantry School explain the significance of commissioning officers into the infantry. Many a mother and father wiped a tear with pride.

  Captain John Willis nodded off to sleep, as did most of the candidates. They had all learned, after twenty-four weeks of training and listening to countless instructors, that words spoken from a podium had to be filtered through the brain only for relevance to future tests or usage in Vietnam. If the words were not in either category, they were considered irrelevant, and the brain blocked absorption. The company of candidates had received their orders last month. All would be reporting to Vietnam upon completion of their additional schooling and leave. They would now be tested in combat on what they had learned in school. There would be no rehearsals like they had performed for the graduation. There would be no breaking-in time to learn the ropes in a stateside assignment. They were going to play in the Rose Bowl of war without the benefit of previous games. They didn’t care. They would not have wanted it any other way. In their minds, they were ready.