Army Blue

by Lucian K. Truscott

  “Captain Gardner, one last question. What did Lieutenant Blue say to you the next morning, when you and Lieutenant Colonel Halleck flew to Firebase Zulu-Foxtrot?”

  “I'm not sure what you mean.”

  “I mean, when you asked him why he refused to execute the fire mission.”

  “He said, ‘Can't get no satisfaction,’ I believe.”

  “What?”

  “'Can't get no satisfaction.’ That's all he said. It's a—”

  “That is all, Captain. Thank you.”

  Morriss jumped to his feet before the judge could say, “Your witness.”

  “What were you just trying to say, Captain Gardner, when Captain Dupuy so rudely cut you off?”

  “I was trying to say that ‘Can't get no satisfaction’ is a rock-and-roll lyric by the Rolling Stones, I believe.”

  “And in your estimation was Lieutenant Blue being sarcastic?”

  “It was a running joke in the company, sir. The words refer to the fact that in life in general but in war in particular, and in this war even more particularly, it is very difficult to get any satisfaction from your daily life. It was an assessment of the way life is, sir. A very bleak, very black reading of the moment.”

  “And the other time you were cut off, Captain?”

  “I was trying to say that we were not taking very heavy fire. It was typical VC harassing fire. Small arms and a 60-millimeter mortar. We were very well dug in. We had no casualties as a result of that fire or any other enemy harassment fire on that night or any other night.”

  “Thank you for elaborating further on your answer to the prosecution's question, Captain. Now. I'd like to take you back to the events of October 13. When you called Lieutenant Blue on the radio with your fire mission, from whom did you get your intended target?”

  “From Lieutenant Colonel Halleck.”

  “And in what form was the target specified?”

  “It was a set of grid coordinates from a map.”

  “And from these grid coordinates, Lieutenant Blue could pinpoint the target and calculate the direction and elevation for his weapons and place accurate fire on the target. Is that the way it works, Captain Gardner?”

  “Generally. Some targets are preset. Others have to be acquired by specification of grid coordinates from the map and then adjustment of fire from observation on the ground.”

  “Adjustment?”

  “You observe the explosions of the rounds, and if they're off target you adjust them accordingly, like ‘left fifty, add fifty’ would change azimuth left fifty meters and raise elevation fifty meters, and those instructions would result in a new sighting of the weapon and new rounds would be fired, and they too would be adjusted if they were not yet on target. Mortar fire, or artillery fire in general, is a kind of trial-and-error thing.”

  “So mortar fire is not always accurate.”

  “Not immediately, no.”

  “Would you direct fire close to your own position?”

  “I don't know what you mean by ‘close.’ “

  “Fifty meters.”

  “No.”

  “A hundred meters.”

  “No.”

  “How close would you come with mortar fire?”

  “Not less than two hundred meters. Inside two hundred you're taking chances you shouldn't be taking.”

  “So if fire was to be called in within two hundred meters of friendly forces, and Lieutenant Blue were to notice that this was the case, it would be incumbent upon him to notify you of this fact and of the danger to the friendly forces.”

  “Yes. The weapons platoon leader has a map, and all friendly positions are marked on the map and those positions define zones within which mortar fire cannot be called.”

  “Did Lieutenant Blue make such a notification to you on the night of October 13?”

  “He did.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said we were calling in fire on his ambush patrol.”

  “Were you aware of this fact before he pointed it out to you?”

  “No, I was not.”

  “Did you have the location of his ambush patrol marked on your map?”

  “Yes, I did. Lieutenant Blue had called in their position earlier in the evening, immediately after they were established.”

  “What were those grid coordinates, Captain?”

  Captain Gardner pulled a notebook from his pocket.

  “I wrote them down that night in this notebook. The coordinates of the ambush patrol were 72548869.”

  “If you had the coordinates of the ambush patrol, why did you not take notice of the fact that you were ordering fire on a friendly position?”

  Captain Gardner shifted nervously in the witness chair.

  “Because we were using different maps.”

  “Different maps? That's kind of like an orchestra trying to play together from different scores of music, isn't it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But far more dangerous, Captain Gardner. How did this come about, that you and your weapons platoon leader were using different maps?”

  “To this day, I am not entirely sure.”

  “But it was clear to you at the time that this was indeed the case. You were indeed using different maps.”

  “Yes. That was clear to me.”

  “Explain to us the effect this had.”

  “When I called in the target grid coordinates, I called them in from one map. But when Lieutenant Blue had called in the grid coordinates of his ambush patrol, he had called them off another map. I plotted them on our map, which was different from his, so the grid coordinates of the target and the grid coordinates of his ambush patrol were different. The effect was, it didn't look like we were calling in fire on his patrol.”

  “But, in fact, you were directing fire on top of him and his men, were you not, Captain?”

  “That is what Lieutenant Blue said.”

  “And did you believe him?”

  “At the time, I didn't know what to believe. I couldn't understand then, and I can't understand now, how we ever had a mix-up of maps in the first place. What he said sounded right, but I could not establish absolutely that he was right, that the location of his patrol and the location of our target were in fact the same place on the ground.”

  “But did you believe Lieutenant Blue at the time?”

  “I had no choice but to believe him, sir. It is his job to be scrupulous about pinpointing friendly forces and avoiding them when firing his weapons. There is nothing worse in this business, in my opinion, than hitting your own men with friendly fire, than taking casualties from friendly fire. Nothing worse. Because it's such a waste.”

  “Objection. The witness is editorializing, sir,” Dupuy said.

  “Sustained. Confine your answers to the facts, Captain,” Colonel Kelly ordered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What happened when you reported to Lieutenant Colonel Halleck what Lieutenant Blue had said?”

  “About the ambush patrol being in the location of our target?”

  “Yes.”

  “He became enraged.”

  “And what else?”

  “He ordered me over to the command bunker.”

  “And you went.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you attempt to explain further what Lieutenant Blue had said about his ambush patrol?”

  “Yes, I did, but I was not successful.”

  “Why was that?”

  “For one, because I didn't completely understand the problem myself. And second, because I did not have the map Lieutenant Blue had, so I could point out, on the map, specifically what he was saying over the radio.”

  “You believed Lieutenant Blue, however.”

  “Yes, as I said, I had to.”

  “Had Lieutenant Blue ever steered you wrong about such a grave matter previously?”

  “Never.”

  “He was, as you said, scrupulous in his pinpointing of friendly forces on his ma
p?”

  “Lieutenant Blue is the best map reader I have ever seen. On occasion, I would lose track of exactly where we were on an operation, and I could always call him and get accurate grid coordinates, because he always had us on the map to within a foot of where we were on the ground.”

  “You trusted his expertise in these matters.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “However, Lieutenant Colonel Halleck did not.”

  “I couldn't say, sir.”

  “Never mind. Would you say, however, that Lieutenant Colonel Halleck disagreed with what Lieutenant Blue said about the position of his ambush patrol?”

  “That would be putting it mildly.”

  “In your opinion as a company commander—as the commander immediately over the weapons platoon leader—was Lieutenant Blue justified in his actions?”

  “Objection,” said Captain Dupuy. “Calls for expert opinion the witness is not qualified to give.”

  “Your Honor, I am not asking for a legal analysis from Captain Gardner. I am asking him, as a company commander, as the man responsible for the weapons platoon as well as for the lives of a hundred and sixty other soldiers, and based on his understanding of the facts surrounding the incident, was Lieutenant Blue justified? Certainly his position gives him the qualifications to make such a judgment, or the Army may as well not put company commanders in charge of units such as weapons platoons.”

  “Overruled. Answer the question.”

  “In my opinion, yes, he was justified.”

  “Thank you. That is all.”

  Morriss sat down and folded his hands on the table in front of himself. Dupuy shuffled through the papers on his desk.

  “Anything in rebuttal, counselor?” asked the judge.

  “No, Your Honor,” said Captain Dupuy, not looking up at the judge.

  “Call your next witness.”

  “Your Honor, the prosecution requests a brief recess at this time.”

  The judge looked at his watch.

  “It's late. The court will be in recess until ten hundred hours tomorrow.”

  He banged the gavel, and everyone rose to his feet, and the judge and the court filed out the back door.

  “What do you think, Dad?” the Lieutenant asked. He was wearing a tan suit and a blue shirt and a dark tie and loafers. He squinted at the backs of the court as they went out the door.

  “I've been watching the men on the court. I think they bought Colonel Halleck, lock, stock, and barrel. I think they take Captain Gardner for a typical HHQ commander, not up to par, not strac enough to command a line company. It didn't help that he had a hard time understanding the map stuff. I don't know. You guys have a ways to go if you're going to turn that bunch around to your way of thinking.”

  “How about it, General?” Captain Morriss asked.

  “They came in here ready to ship your ass out of here in goddamned chains, and nothing they've heard has changed that attitude. You can forget the goddamned Constitution and the presumption of innocence when you start dealing with courts of law in the military, and you can sure as hell throw the goddamned Constitution out the window in a courtroom in a combat zone in a war. Don't count on their goddamned love of country and justice and all that crap. They love their own asses first and every ass above them second, and you're going to have to get them to forget their love of their own asses and their superiors’ asses if you're going to walk out of this goddamned courtroom with your life and your honor intact. You have got to get their goddamned emotions going your way. Forget their heads. Go for their goddamned guts. Put them in your goddamned position and see how they like it. Put them where you were that night and make them see it your way and make them want to have acted the way you acted. That's your ticket out the front door.”

  “Your grandfather is as right as rain, son,” said the Colonel. “He knows more about the men on this court than they know about themselves. You've got to move them, physically move them to that armored personnel carrier you were sitting in. Move them out in the dark to the spot in the woods where your patrol sat, knowing nothing of the situation back at Battalion. Get them the hell out of this courtroom and out in the boonies and they'll go along with you because they won't have any choice. They'll be too scared to do anything else.”

  “That's what we're going to do, Dad.”

  “I sure as hell hope so, boy,” said the General, “because if you don't, you're going on a long goddamned trip that'll end up at the end of a goddamned rope about two hundred feet from that set of quarters where you picked up Wendy Williams for your first date.”

  “How'd you know about that, Grandpa? Jesus, that was years ago.”

  “Never mind how I know what the hell I'm talking about. You don't want to know. Just dig a hole this afternoon and pull every goddamned one of those sons of bitches down in it with you, boy. Dig it for me. Dig it for your mom. Dig it for your dad. Dig it for your brother and your sister. Dig it for the memory of your grandmother. Dig that goddamned hole like your life depended on it, boy. Because it does.”

  SEVEN

  * * *

  * * *

  Maybe Never Again

  Firebase Zulu-Foxtrot Day Seven

  * * *

  * * *

  The sun was rising over the tree east of the perimeter when he heard them coming.

  Thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap . . . one chopper.

  Farther off in the distance . . .

  Thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap . . . another.

  Behind the second . . .

  Thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap ... a third.

  “You see ‘em yet, Eltee?” Repatch was standing on the ramp of the Lieutenant's track, shading his eyes against the sun. The Lieutenant was sitting on top of the track, his feet dangling through the commander's cupola.

  His track.

  His commander's cupola.

  His .50-caliber machine gun.

  His platoon, the weapons platoon.

  “I got ‘em now, Eltee, over yo’ shoulder, comin’ outta the sun.” Dirtball pointed a grimy finger.

  Thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap . . . they came out of the sun, a chorus of angry rotors pounding the chill from the morning air, beating back the mist, grinding through the air above the jungle treetops, three of them . . .

  Thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap . . .

  Pushing back the night with the dirty sound of Americans at war.

  The lead chopper put down inside the west edge of the platoon perimeter, the second and third choppers settling into the dust behind.

  They kept their engines on, three sets of rotors twirling lazily, whipping dust across the weapons platoon, ruffling the treeline . . .

  Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh . . .

  Waiting.

  Two figures emerged from the first chopper, bent over at the waist, left hands on their heads, holding caps against the wind.

  “You see who it is, Dirtball?” called Repatch.

  “Halleck and Testor is what I see, man.”

  “Both of ‘em. They're serious, Eltee,” said Repatch. He looked up. The Lieutenant was still sitting there. He was looking the other way, to the east, where the rest of the weapons platoon had pulled itself into a ragged line, standing at attention. One of the men— who was it?—he couldn't make out the man's face through the dust—one of them had dug up the weapons platoon guidon and hung the frayed flag from a PRC-25 antenna. The guidon whipped stiffly in the wind from the choppers.

  The second and third choppers each emptied a squad of MPs, fatigue-clad, wearing shiny black helmet liners and the distinctive black MP armbands.

  “Get down from there, Lieutenant.”

  It was Lieutenant Colonel Halleck. He called to the Lieutenant on the run.

  The Lieutenant slid into the commander's cupola and crept out the back of the track. He was standing next to Repatch and Dirtball when Halleck and Testor reached the track.

  “Lieutenant Matthew Nelson Blue the fourth, it is my duty to place you under arrest,” said Lieutenan
t Colonel Halleck. He was standing about ten feet from the back of the track. Next to him stood Colonel Testor, the brigade commander.

  The Lieutenant stared at him for a moment. He didn't move a muscle. He didn't say anything. He just stood there staring.

  “The charge is desertion in the face of the enemy, Lieutenant,” said Colonel Testor.

  “The Eltee, he didn't desert nothin’,” said Dirtball.

  “Why is this man out of uniform?” said Lieutenant Colonel Halleck, pointing at Dirtball, who stood on the ramp of the track in a pair of OD drawers and an OD T-shirt.

  “Get that man in uniform,” said Lieutenant Colonel Halleck, his finger trembling.

  Testor took a step forward. He looked around. The ragged line of troops had broken and re-formed around the Lieutenant's track. Four men stood between Colonel Testor and the Lieutenant. Each of the men carried his weapon.

  Moonface had his ‘60 resting across his shoulders.

  The butt of Mallick's M-79 grenade launcher was rested on his hip, its muzzle pointing directly at the two colonels.

  Lucky Lemon had another ‘60 standing on the ground between his legs.

  Whoopie Cushion Ridgely danced nervously to one side, snapping the slide on his M-16, hollow metallic chops breaking the silence.

  “Get your helmet, Lieutenant,” said Colonel Testor. “Let's go.”

  Testor had taken over from Halleck, who hung back a step. Testor signaled the MPs, and seven of them moved forward, their right hands on their holstered .45s.

  The Lieutenant didn't move.

  “All right. Let's go,” said Colonel Testor. He took another step.

  Whoopie Cushion yelped. Moonface growled.

  “Get these men back,” said Testor.

  The Lieutenant looked to his left and his right. All of them were on line now, facing Halleck and Testor and the two squads of MPs.

  “Back to your holes, men,” said the Lieutenant. “I don't want any trouble.”