by Patrick Dent
“Today, we will be embarking on your first real test. Today, we begin your first bivouac. We will be spending four days in the woods, traveling an average of twenty-five klicks each day over variable terrain.
“You will do this in full gear, totaling seventy pounds in each rucksack. Each night you will make camp, and each morning you will leave no trace of your presence. You will be issued C-Rations, which I suggest you consume sparingly. Since today is PX day, our first stop will be there. Afterwards, we hump over to supply, and that will be your last contact with civilization for ninety-six hours. Drake, front and center. You'll be calling cadence.”
“Yes Sergeant!” responded John as he snapped to attention and double-timed to his spot next to Sergeant Peters. He croaked in a hoarse voice, “Platoon, a-ten-hut! Right face! Column right – march! Left, right, left, right.” The platoon began to echo John's words, “Two old ladies lying in the bed. One rolled over to the other and said, 'I wanna be an Airborne Ranger. I wanna live a life of danger.' ”
The teenagers moved like some giant camouflage centipede. Cadence was not used merely to synchronize the steps of the platoon; it also passed the time and developed the lungs. Peters had made John platoon leader in the second week. Shortly afterwards, John had appointed Isabue Gibson first squad leader. Gibson, or Gip, as he preferred, was doing a five-year tour of duty with Uncle Sam for drug charges. John had taken a liking to him because they were both in for 'special processing'.
When they reached the PX, John had the squads enter one at a time, beginning with Gip's squad. Faces were pink from the exertion of the two-mile march, and it wasn't even six a.m. John took position next to the cash register because he was charged with the task of limiting each recruit's purchases to regulation. Gip was first in line. John took mental inventory of Gip's basket and noticed something strange. He spoke to Gip in a low voice.
“Gip, every week you buy the maximum allowance of cigarettes, but I've never seen you smoke one. How come?”
“Man, you never cease to amaze me.”
“Me?”
“Whites. You white boys invented this capitalism shit, and after hundreds of years, you still don't understand it. You know what I'm saying? In fact, I'm here for that exact reason. Here I am, just a brother trying to make a living, but since my shit ain't taxable, I'm a criminal. Meanwhile corporations are ripping off the public, and fat cats are getting rich. Do you see any of them here? No way, Man, they're still out there gettin' paid.”
“I guess you've got a point,” John responded, gaining respect for his new compatriot. He reached into the nearby shelf and picked up a carton of Marlboros.
“Now you're catching on!” Gip jibed. “Okay, listen up. One smoke goes for a quarter on guard duty and bivouac. A pack goes for fifteen bucks. I can't have you undercutting me in the market, can I?”
“Fifteen dollars for a pack of cigarettes?” John asked.
“Supply and demand, Man. Never forget that.”
John didn't.
After everyone had stocked up on boot polish and bug repellent, they reformed and marched to the supply depot where they were issued unloaded M-16's. For the three-mile march to the rendezvous point, they carried their weapons at port arms – a forty-five degree angle across the chest. Sergeant Peters marched silently behind John.
Once the unit reached the edge of the woods, John called them to attention and relinquished command to Peters. It took enormous self-control for John not to scratch and rub at his face. The Georgia heat was already inflaming his razor burns - dousing his face and neck with sweat. Sergeant Peters addressed his platoon.
“Okay, listen up! I'm giving Private Drake a map covering the pertinent area surrounding the Chattahoochee River. This is your one and only map. If you lose it, it will not be replaced. Keep that in mind. There are three rendezvous points, corresponding to the three days of this exercise. You will not bed down until you have reached the rendezvous point for each day. You are expected to reach the final rendezvous point by 1800 hours three days from now. For every hour you are late, you will be penalized one meal.
“Each of you has half of a standard issue tent. You'll need to pair up to shelter yourselves from Mother Nature's little surprises. Too bad there isn't an even number of you. Each night, one man will be sleeping under the stars with the mosquitoes.
“One last thing. I will be an observer during this exercise. I will not help anyone in any way. This exercise has begun. Platoon dismissed.”
Chaos ensued as the youngsters scrambled to pair up, no one wanting to be the unlucky soldier left without a tent. During the scuffle, John and Gip formed their first official partnership by sharing a tent.
Not surprisingly, Mastagee was the odd man out. No one, including John, knew whether Mastagee's weakness and ineptitude were genuine or an elaborate sham. Either way, the truth would eventually come out. Such was the structure and purpose of basic training. Besides, as Sergeant Peters quipped, even a pussy can take a bullet for his country. Mastagee's contribution to the war effort may be to deplete the enemy's arsenal by one bullet. One thing was certain; he would not be washed out. The Army's criterion for acceptance was joked to be, 'If you can walk, with assistance, you are selected'.
Once the tents had been set up, John called formation. “Men, we're going to keep a fire-guard posted through the night.” There was a huge, collective moan. Everyone had assumed fire-guard duty would be suspended on bivouac. “More specifically, we'll keep two fire-guards posted on opposite sides of the perimeter. That means thirty-six men – nine from each squad. Squad leaders, pick your nine men and give me a written list. I'll do the roster. Platoon, a-ten-hut. Fallout.”
John thought he had done the right thing by instituting the fire-guard. It would free up tents to allow Mastagee indoor accommodations, but Sergeant Peters' menacing look conveyed a different message. John suspected the tent shortage was designed with Mastagee in mind, to toughen him up.
That evening, as the others slept somewhat uncomfortably in their tents, Mastagee jogged circles around the encampment with one hand holding his crotch and the other holding his M-16 over his head. He proclaimed at the top of his lungs, “This is my weapon. This is my gun. This is for fighting. This is for fun.”
Mastagee had the misfortune of referring to his M-16 as a 'gun' within earshot of Sergeant Peters. The M-16 assault rifle, Peters had informed him, is a weapon, just as a shovel is an entrenching tool and a jeep is a truck. You have to talk the talk.
“Man, this is bullshit!” Gip told John as they lay inside their tent. The heat was oppressive, but zipping the tent shut was the only way to keep the mosquitoes out. They were both cranky and exhausted. “You piss off the entire platoon just to give the little guy a break, and Peters pushes him right back down!”
“No question it's bullshit, but what are we supposed to do about it?” John responded.
“I say we teach the Sarge a lesson,” Gip replied. John saw the fury in his eyes. John knew Gip could relate to discrimination. Gip told him once that a gang of white bullies had beaten him with a section of water hose when he was thirteen for being in the wrong neighborhood. Now, Peters was telling Mastagee he was in the wrong neighborhood – that he was not welcome. John had a soft spot for Mastagee, even though the sad sack brought Peters' wrath upon on the entire platoon.
“What?” John asked. He sat straight up in the tent.
“Look, we're out here all alone with Sergeant Peters. If he gets his ass kicked by a bunch of recruits, you think he's gonna report it?” Gip said.
“Gip, you're a smart business man, right?”
“I do okay. So what?”
“So, what profit is there in taking out Sergeant Peters? What do we gain? Assuming he doesn't disable both of us in ten seconds, how would we be helping Mastagee? Huh?”
“This ain't about profit. I know his kind and I can't sit here and listen to this shit! There's just one way to deal with a bully – kick his ass.” Gip removed a tooth
pick from his lower lip and threw it to the foot of the tent.
“Everything is about profit if you look deep enough. Gip, don't you see what's going on? Mastagee's gonna stay in the game until the last week. Then, he'll either wash out and restart basic, or he'll go to Vietnam. There is no option 'C', where he returns to his civilian life and becomes a librarian or whatever the hell his timid heart desires.
“Now, you know I do everything I can to help him, but getting us court-martialed doesn't improve anyone's situation.”
“That's the problem with you white boys, you always think playing the game is the answer.”
“Gip, you ever hear of changing the system from within?”
“I've heard of being an Uncle Tom, if that's what you mean.”
“Don't even try to hand me that shit. What exactly is an 'Uncle Tom', by the way?”
“An Uncle Tom is a brother who denies his heritage, a brother who tries to learn and obey the rules of the white man's game.”
“Gip, don't you think the real 'Uncle Toms' are the few bad apples who give all blacks a bad reputation? They are the ones holding you down, not the white man.”
Gip grabbed John by the collar and shoved him hard. The tent collapsed, ripping most of the snaps open. Gip and John rolled for about five feet and came to a stop with John on top. John released Gip's shirt and stood over him.
“You finished?” John asked, breathing heavily.
Gip leapt up with the speed and agility of one who grew up on the streets. As he stood, he hooked his right fist into John's unsuspecting jaw, nearly dislodging one of John's molars. John fell flat on his back, stunned. He sat up and shook his head to dispel the vertigo. Then he did the last thing Gip expected. He spread his lips to reveal blood-covered teeth. He was smiling widely.
John remembered the last time someone laid a sucker punch on him. It was in ninth grade. The guy's name was Baby Huey. Huey was in eleventh grade and saw his mission in life to be disciplining those smaller than he was. At a party in Fat Jack's front yard, John had turned his back on Huey in the middle of one of Huey's boastful anecdotes. He couldn't listen to another word of Huey's insecure drivel. Huey punched John in the back of the head. Luckily, Huey was not a good biology student, so his blow landed on the crown of John's skull, rather than the delicate brainstem. John had bent forward and shot back into Huey, throwing him off balance at the waist. Huey grabbed John's shirttail to avoid falling over backwards. He yanked John straight up and wrapped his thick forearms around John's neck from behind.
John stood, lifting Huey entirely off the ground. John took two laborious steps backward and then fell back into freefall. His fall was interrupted when the tailgate of Fat Jack's pickup connected with the base of Huey's skull. Huey suffered a bruised brain. He missed school the next two days.
That was the closest John had ever come to getting his ass kicked. John did not like the feeling of helplessness accompanying Huey's attack from the rear. For a few seconds, he had been completely in that fat pig's control. Even during the worst times with his father, John had never been so helpless. With The John, because he controlled his own mind, he controlled the situation. He never once gave that bastard the satisfaction of seeing him flinch in pain.
The night of the Huey fight, he vowed never to be caught off guard again. More and more, he saw each day as a battle, each encounter as a confrontation. He remained compulsively ready for battle. While his classmates were thinking about whom they would sit with at lunch, John was calculating a tactical response to every movement around him. This was his way of dealing with negative feelings; he converted them into combat tactics.
John's paranoia had its coming-out the evening of the Huey fight. His father had nurtured it through the first few laps, but that day in ninth grade, John had taken the baton.
Now, despite his experience, he had dropped his guard for Gibson. Why? Because Gibson was not a schoolyard bully – he was a warrior. He fought for a purpose. John had found his first kindred spirit in this world. Tammy was his soul mate, of course, but to meet a fellow warrior was a distinct pleasure. His bloody grin erupted into explosive laughter.
Gip, poised in a boxer's stance, waited to see what this crazy person would do next. He did not let his guard down. He had seen more creative tricks than that. “Man, you're crazy!” he exclaimed.
“You're Okay, Gip. And I'm sorry about the Uncle Tom bit. Your people. Your problem. Your business,” John said, as he extended his right hand, a symbolic gesture allowing a face-saving out for both of them. After a brief hesitation, Gip reached out and helped John to his feet. The two made eye contact, and like wild animals, came to an understanding of mutual respect without the use of words. Mastagee was still chanting in the background.
Sergeant Peters, who had been following their little scuffle, unceremoniously chimed in. “Gibson! Drake! Secure that shit! Save it for the gooks.”
“Yes Sergeant!” John and Gip responded at full volume, their eyes never unlocking.
“Man, I'll never understand white folks,” Gip said.
“Hey, I was just busting your balls,” John responded, “That was a great shot, by the way. I'll take you by my side in a pinch anytime, and that's more than I can say for the rest of these punks.”
“So, I punch you in the face, and you want me to believe you're not even mad?” Gip asked.
“You think that's the first punch I've ever taken? My fifty-two year old father hits harder than that.”
Gip began to giggle. “You know, you're right about one thing. Most of these guys are punks.” They laughed together.
In the background, they heard another recruit jibe at Mastagiacomo, “Hey Mastagee, one piece of advice. Don't ever try to crucify yourself. You'll never get the last nail in!”
The entire platoon erupted into laughter from their tents. John quietly put his hand on Gip's bicep, reminding him this was neither the time nor the place to make a stand. They both fell asleep a few moments later.
John awoke to a bright light in his eyes. He was disoriented, but realized someone was holding a flashlight inches from his face. “Get that shit out of my face!” he exclaimed. The light extinguished, leaving John completely blind. He heard Sergeant Peters' voice.
“Use that tone of voice with me again and I'll snap your neck like kindling. Now's the time for you to listen, not speak. I'll acknowledge that instituting a fire-guard schedule keeping a tent slot open was clever, but your brain is still put in backwards. You don't distribute the burden of the weak over the entire platoon. That's a good way to get sixty men killed.
“You cannot carry Mastagee through basic. It's not your job, and I'll bet he can pull you down more easily than you can pull him up. To be a leader, you have to be a nut cutter. Do you think the gooks are going to cut him any slack? Would you trust him with your life while he's on point or guard duty? Make him or break him, and I mean soon. Got it?”
“Yes Sergeant,” John said.
“Good. Now, get some shuteye.” Peters zipped the pup tent after exiting. John pondered what Peters had said for the few minutes he remained awake.
Chapter Ten
Langley, Virginia
Fulton was getting antsy. His appointment with the DCI was for 10:00am, and it was nearly 10:30. He forced himself not to look at his watch every couple of minutes. Not that he should have been surprised. The DCI was a notorious control freak that got a kick out of exerting his authority over others. Making Fulton wait was just his way of letting Fulton know who was boss.
“Special Agent Fulton, the DCI will see you now,” the receptionist said.
“Thank you,” he said as he entered his boss' office.
The DCI was an imposing man. His six foot three frame completely filled his luxurious leather chair. Just above his balding head, President Nixon stared intensely from a custom oil painting. The DCI did not stand when Fulton entered. He wasted no time with pleasantries.
“Have a seat, Agent Fulton. I understand Project Cross
fire is proceeding according to plan.”
“Yes Sir. We're nine percent over budget, but right on schedule.”
“There's something we need to discuss. I want you to be crystal clear on this.” He leaned forward on his elbows for emphasis. “I want this project completely sanitized.”
Fulton didn't fully grasp what the DCI was saying. He hated the buzzwords of his trade. Why didn't the man just say what he meant in plain English? His quizzical look must have made this obvious, because the DCI elaborated. “What do you suppose would happen if one of these men talked to the press, or talked to a girlfriend who talked to the press?”
“Sir, that would be a disaster. That's why they won't be told the true purpose of their mission.”
“Do you suppose they won't read the newspaper the day after? Do you also suppose not one of those men will realize he's sitting on a gold mine of information the US government would do or pay anything to conceal?”
“Sir, I see your point. I hadn't considered that angle.” Fulton felt a little queasy at the thought of 'sanitizing' American soldiers, but the DCI had a point. If word got out, the US could potentially be ejected from the United Nations.
“These men,” the DCI continued, “will be heroes. Men die for this country every day. They will be casualties of war. Are we perfectly clear on this?”
Fulton didn't speak. The DCI filled the void, “Agent Fulton, to be a leader, you have to be a nut cutter. You must come to terms with a fundamental truth of combat. Evil can only be vanquished by a greater evil. Now don't get me wrong. We're the good guys, but what makes us the good guys is not what we do, it's why we do it. Always remember the why. Are we clear now?”
“Yes Sir,” Fulton responded without hesitation.
“Very well. Keep me posted,” the DCI said, his tone indicating the end of the meeting.
