Our Next Great War

by Martin Archer

  Colonel Chernenko was pleased; what had been shaping up to be a slaughter of his men caught out in the open had turned into a minor victory and a pell-mell Chinese retreat.

  “Thank you, my friends, thank you,” he said to me and Vern as he saluted and reached out to shake our hands. And then he said something that surprised me.

  “Are you wounded, Captain?” And then he barked something in Russian and a couple of the Russian medics left off tending the wounded Chinese and ran over to us.

  I must have looked surprised because Vern explained, “Your nose, Boss. You’re all bloody. Looks like it’s broken. Don’t you feel it?” I put my hand up to my nose and it comes away bloody. Shit. That’s tender. I must have landed on it when I tripped and fell.

  I waved off the medics and shooed them back towards the Chinese. “It’s nothing. I’m good.”

  But I did accept a Russian wound dressing of white cloth and tried to use it to clean my face. It didn’t work; it hurt. A few minutes later I wet the dressing with water from a canteen offered by one of my Russian kids and blotted off as much of the dirt and blood as I could. Now the damn thing really hurts.

  While I was blotting away at my face Chernenko did something I thought was really smart.

  Right there in the field, with the rest of his troops still arriving, he lined up our eight surviving Russian kids and said something in Russian that obviously pleased them immensely. Then he saluted and walked down the line shaking each man’s hand and kissing him on both cheeks.

  The men beamed proudly while the gathering crowd of other Russians watched enviously. Then he came over and saluted and shook our hands again.

  A few minutes later whistles blew, officers and sergeants shouted, and we once again began walking slowly through the trees to find the Chinese. This time was very different and everyone was super cautious—there were no helicopters in the air ahead of us; or behind us for that matter.

  It seems the commanders of the Russian helicopter companies were well and truly spooked by the loss of their two birds. It would be hours before they were willing to let their medevac choppers land to pick up the Russian wounded.

  I heard about the argument between the Russian air commanders from Ivan as Vern and I walked along behind Chernenko. We were once again moving slowly through the woods. Some of the Russians, including me and Vern, were going with the Colonel in pursuit of the fleeing Chinese; others of them peeled off to try to find the two choppers the Chinese shot down.

  Chernenko has been on the radio for quite a while and was quite obviously extremely pissed about something. Just from the tone of his voice I could tell it was serious.

  “What’s up,” I asked Ivan.

  “Colonel is angry helicopters no come for wounded. Tell big general pilots are cowards. Tell big general shoot coward pilots.”

  ****** Lieutenant Bao.

  I picked up my pack and ran like the devil himself was after me, and angled off to the left to get away from the Russians coming in on our right. “Fall back,” I screamed at my men. “Fall back.”

  Sounds of small arms fire began coming closer as I ran. I could see my men desperately scrambling through the trees on either side of me; and I could see other men off to the right in the distance, Russians for sure, coming through the trees towards us.

  “Go to the rally point”… “Go to the rally point.” I shouted it over and over again as I ran.

  It seemed like ages but it was less than a minute later that the sound of firing began to fall off behind me. I could see a couple of my fleeing men running ahead of me as I stopped for a second to try to get some idea of what was happening. I could hear the sounds of running but the only person I could clearly see was Corporal Su Chou. He was laboring through the trees behind me carrying our last remaining ground to air missile. Good man.

  I waved Chou past me with a thumbs up gesture of approval and motioned for him to keep going. Then I waited while the firing died away and the forest again became deathly silent. It took longer than I expected before figures began to appear among the trees in front of me. The Russians were coming slowly, but they were coming.

  It’s time to slow them down even more. So I raised my assault rifle and waited for one of the Russians to step between the trees and into my sights.

  ******

  Vern and I were moving with Chernenko just behind the slowly advancing Russian line when there is the familiar double tap sound of an assault rifle being fired twice by an expert—and the little Russian teenager walking in the line in front of us throws up his hands and tumbles over on his back as if he had walked to the end of a rope and been jerked over backwards.

  We instantly dove to the ground; and I banged my nose again.

  “Well we found them,” Vern said laconically from the mud puddle in which he landed with a splash.

  “I am getting seriously tired of this shit,” I said.

  “Maybe it would be easier if you didn’t keep diving on your nose.”

  “Beats getting your Dick wet without enjoying it.”

  Vern start laughing. And I couldn’t help it; I started laughing too. The Russians on the ground around us were shocked. Even Chernenko looked back incredulously as he lay flat on the ground trying to reach for the Jack his radio man was pushing towards him. Then he looks back and saw, and realized what we said—and he started laughing too. He really does speak English.

  A minute later Chernenko, shook his head in disgust and tossed the radio mic back to his radio man. Then he began shouting orders. To my surprise, and relief, the Russians on either side of us began slowly crawling backward.

  Vern and I waited while one of the Russians slithered on his belly over towards the kid who’d been shot in front of us. He stopped when he got about five yards away, shook his head, shouted something, and began backing up.

  “Shit, we can’t leave him,” I said to no one in particular. So I crawled over to the kid on my belly, grabbed him by his shirt collar, and began pulling him backwards along the ground. Vern took over after a while and then some of the Russian kids.

  ******

  There was a shout and we waited with our Russians until Chernenko and his radio man crawled back to us. “What’s up?” I asked as Chernenko looked at the dead boy and shook his head in disgust.

  “We are ordered to wait for air support and all American observers are to go back to base on the next available helicopter. That is the good news. The bad news is there will be no air support or helicopters—because we have no smoke to mark our positions and there will be no helicopters because helicopter colonel is a coward.”

  “Oh well,” I said. “The sun is coming out. Maybe we can have a picnic while we wait.” There is no response. Vern just shook his head. What. Now no one appreciates my humor?

  “Oh yes,” says Chernenko as he backs past us on his stomach, “and your General Evans says you are to leave your weapons behind when you go back.”

  Hours later, with a new and even bigger bandage over my nose and several fewer buttons on my ripped and filthy field jacket from constantly crawling around on my stomach, helicopters finally began coming in to evacuate the wounded and we were able to get a ride back to base. The big boss himself was sitting in a Russian Jeep waiting for us when we landed.

  He took one look at the bandage and asked both Vern and me if I needed to go to the hospital. After I assured him that it had been taken care of, he said, “ I hear you both did real good. Have a real sense of humor too, according to Colonel Numenko.” Uh oh.

  “Sorry Sir.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. The Russian commander said it helped steady the men when you laughed and made fun of each other while everyone around you was panicking. He also said he was going to get medals for both of you for going forward under fire and turning the Chinese flank. Killed a bunch of the Chinese, he said. That true?”

  “The Russian grunts did a lot of it, Sir. Good kids.”

  Then we climbed in the back of his Russian Je
ep and began telling him what happened as he drove us back to the American headquarters huts.

  God I’m starved and thirsty. And why is an American general driving himself around a Russian military base without a protection detail?

  ******

  Colonel Bowie walked in while we were eating in the boss’s hut. Between mouthfuls, Vern and I told the story all over again. The colonel was visibly upset about Williams and Kramer and questioned us very closely about how we found them and what happened after that.

  We were surprised not to see General Safford, so while we were still eating I asked the big boss where he was so we could report to him.

  “Oh yeah,” was the answer. “General Safford is at Arkhara visiting Chief Matthews and his swimmers. The plan was for you two to work for me until he gets back; but that’s just been changed.”

  “It seems we have a problem,” General Evans explained. “Apparently there was a leak in Moscow. As a result of the casualty reports, the media has somehow picked up a story about Americans being involved in fighting with the Chinese. A CBS television new team somehow got to Arkhara and is trying to find Americans. The last thing we want them to do is come here and find you two.

  “The bottom line is,” the big boss said with a wry smile, “The President has ordered us out and you two have got to get out of here and back to Riems, right now, without waiting to for General Safford to get back.

  "There’s a MATS flight coming in from Kadena that should be landing in about thirty minutes. It’ll be turning around and heading right back to Okinawa to pick up another cargo as soon as it unloads. I want you two on it and heading back to Reims. Report to my senior aide, Colonel Jack Peterson, at my office in Brussels. He’ll arrange transportation for you back to The Detachment.”

  ****** Vern Hurlburt

  It was such a bumpy flight from Arkhara to Kadena that Jerry and I couldn’t sleep even though we were absolutely exhausted. Worse for him, though; his heavily bandaged nose was really sore. In any event, the Kadena transit lounge was a welcome relief even though it only had a little stand selling cokes, stale sandwiches, and shit like that. But that’s all we need so what the hell.

  Both of us bought a couple of sandwiches and the walked next door to the transit desk to sign up for the next flight heading towards the States or Europe. Then we walked back to the terminal waiting room and instantly sacked out on the floor. We were scruffy, dirty, and in ripped up and unmarked Russian fatigues. And Jerry was still wearing the bloody white bandage the Russian medic stuck on his twice-broken nose.

  I was sound asleep and dreaming about something when someone kicked me in the ribs. Hard. I opened my eyes in time to see a foot winding up to kick me again. So I instinctively pushed my hand forward and grab the kicker’s leg and jerked it, hard, as I opened my eyes. What the fuck.

  It was like watching a movie in slow motion as a big MP with a shiny helmet went over backwards and hits his head of linoleum floor. Jerry woke up and came off the floor like big cat as another MP stepped forward and at the same time began reaching for his pistol. It never cleared the holster; Jerry lurched up off the floor, grabbed him by the back of his head, and smashed him face down on to one of the chrome arm rests on the line of connected airport chairs next to where we’d been sleeping.

  Then we look at each other and, almost in unison, both of us said “what the fuck” as the second MP slid off the chair and hit the floor. When he landed his pistol slid out of his holster and went under one of the chairs.

  “Well hell, Boss,” I suggested a few seconds later as I slowly sat down in one of the chairs and surveyed the scene. “Maybe we should pick up that guy’s teeth, he may need them.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Jerry agreed as he sat down next to me and groggily rubbed his eyes. “You okay? What the hell was that all about?”

  “Damned if I know. One moment I’m sleeping and then that fucker is kicking me.” I say as I pointed to the MP who was still flat on his back.

  Then the guy Jerry pointed at staggered to his feet and said something like “arggh” as he touched his bloody mouth and staggered backwards looking at the blood on his hand. He was obviously disoriented and seemed to be trying to find his pistol. They’re MPs. We’re in deep shit.

  Jerry made sort of a shooing wave to send him away and we just sit there until a bunch of MPs showed up and arrested us.

  ******

  Colonel Lindauer and Charlie Safford and I were looking at the big wall map with Danovsky and Turpin when an aide came in, handed Danovsky a message, and said a few words.

  “Um, Richard Ivanovich,” Danovsky said through Lindauer as he handed the message to me. “One of the men of your plane’s crewmen just brought this for you. There apparently was an incident yesterday afternoon in Japan at the Okinawa airfield. It seems to involve those two men of yours who did so much to help Colonel Chernenko.”

  Charlie and I look at each other. “What?”

  It didn’t take Charlie and I long to say goodbye to Danovsky and get to the plane. We were leaving anyway except now we’d go through Okinawa instead of direct to Brussels. Lindauer will stay with Danovsky and so will Mr. Hanson and three of his signals team. Only those four and a handful of Jack Flanigan’s instructors will be in Russia for the media to try to find. The American air crews bringing in supplies won’t be found because they aren’t allowed to get off their planes while they’re being unloaded and refueled.

  ******

  After a flight that was bumpy all the way we landed at Kadena in driving rain. I’d been on the satellite phone getting information about Carpenter and Hurlburt—and something didn’t seem right. I’d had Major Martin call in with the usual signal that there is an O-10 general on board and request no honors—but I wanted the base commander and the base’s senior Military Police officer to be on hand when I land along with Captain Carpenter and Master Sergeant Hurlburt who were, or so it would seem, in a cell at the base police station.

  There was quite a crowd of uniforms waiting under umbrellas as we taxied up to the terminal. Through the cabin window I could see Carpenter and Hurlburt in handcuffs waiting under the overhang by the terminal door.

  Major Martin and Charlie Safford surprised me by zipping out the door and saluting as I stomped past them and hurried down the steps in the pouring rain. They trotted along behind me as I hustled into the terminal as some air force colonel tried to run alongside me with a big umbrella.

  The umbrella crowd followed me in. I had’t had a chance to change so I was still in my unmarked Russian fatigues. Charlie was in his American uniform with his rank showing and I knew exactly what he was doing—sending a message to the officers down waiting down below that they better not be fooled by my unmarked Russian battledress.

  “You two,” I say as I crooked my finger to Carpenter and Hurlburt who were standing at attention as I walked past them and into the terminal. “Come.”

  I led them into a waiting area and then hold up my hand to stop the crowd following us through the door from approaching.

  “Okay. What happened?”

  The story I got was quite different from the various charges of disorderly conduct, assault, willful disobedience, improper uniform, drunkenness, resisting arrest, and improper travel orders.

  “Okay.” I say rather loudly, “Where’s the arresting officer and air police commander?” A worried looking air force colonel and air police major came forward and saluted.

  An equally worried looking Air Force brigadier started forward with them. “No,” I say pointing at him, “You wait over there while I talk to these officers.

  “Okay. Now you tell me what happened. You first major. Are you the arresting officer?”

  “Uh. Well no. One of them is off duty and the other is in the base hospital. I’m the commander of the Air Police. But the story I heard.”

  “The story you heard? I emphasized ‘story.’

  “Sorry Sir, all I have to go by is the charge sheet.” I made a �
�gimme’ motion with my hand and he took a piece of paper out of a file folder and handed it to me.

  I read it. And then I read it again. It says two drunken men wearing improper uniforms and claiming to be military personnel had refused to identify themselves and assaulted AP Airman Arnold Johnson and AP Airman Jason Pierre, causing them serious injuries.

  Then I an idea struck me. I walked over to the two Japanese ladies working at the transit lounge’s snack counter on the other side of the room and politely asked them if they had been on duty yesterday and seen the incident. They had and they told me what they saw. Then I returned to the two anxious officers.

  “The Japanese ladies over there saw everything and are quite clear about what happened,” I told them rather loudly and angrily.

  “They say your APs saw the two men sleeping on the floor and walked over and kicked one of them in the chest, really hard, without saying a word. Then there was a very brief fight; and then the two men sat on the bench and waited for the police.”

  I motioned for the Air Force brigadier, the base commander it seems, to come over and icily repeated what the ladies had just told me. I pointed out that the ladies’ story was exactly what Captain Carpenter and Sergeant Hurlburt said, and very different from what is on the charge sheet.

  “What happened here,” I said with a great deal of menace in my voice, “is that a couple of your APs walked in here and saw those two men sleeping on the floor, and kicked one of them because he didn’t like how they looked.”

  “It’s lucky for them, and for you assholes too,” I hissed as I tore up the charge sheet and threw it at them, “that your asshole AP didn’t kick the wounded officer or I’d have you three join your two stooges in front of the court martial they deserve and had better get.”

  I don’t know why but I was so furious I was almost trembling. So I leaned forward and put my face about three inches from the shocked brigadier’s and gave him hell.