13th Valley (80 page)

Half a dozen troops had approached to a respectful distance. They squeezed closer. The GreenMan played to his audience. Major Hellman bent over slowly. He slit the cardboard with his knife and peeled back the lid. The GreenMan stepped forward. His eyes twinkled like a boy playing ringmaster beneath the big top. He reached into the box and pulled out five shiny chrome Zippo lighters and he tossed them to the infantrymen standing, staring, acting no different from the Vietnamese peasant children when they themselves tossed cigarettes or gum to the kids in a ville.

“Oh wow, Man! Look at this,” the children-soldiers squealed. The lighters were engraved on one side with a map of Vietnam and on the other:

BOONIERAT

A/7/402

101ST AIRBORNE

AUGUST '70

WAS A BITCH.

“There's one for every man here,” the GreenMan beamed.

“Let's keep this orderly,” Brooks said as a second half dozen soldiers clustered forward. “El Paso. Call the platoons. Have them send up one man from each squad for the lighters and cigarettes.” Brooks bent and grabbed a lighter and smiled. The Zippo had a nice feel, a nice heft. “Thank you Sir,” he said to the GreenMan and the GreenMan beamed brighter. In minutes every Alpha troop was smoking a firm dry cigarette lit with his new Zippo.

Then the smiles stopped. At one end of the LZ Old Zarno cussed out Jax for the hair pic stuck in his growing fuzzy ‘fro. Hellman indiscreetly jumped on a sleepy FO for the sloppy example the forward observer was setting. FO was naked, “… in full view of enlisted troops.” The GreenMan shook his head and hustled Brooks away from everyone with a ‘Let's-have-a-look-around' gesture.

“Tell me about Delta,” the GreenMan said when they were alone. “How were they set up? What were they doing when you were there? How did they act? Were they quiet?”

Brooks told him what he and the others had observed. The GreenMan seemed concerned, sincerely concerned and hurt. “How am I supposed to help these men?” the GreenMan whispered. “Lieutenant, if no one informs me about how badly one of my units is performing, I cannot correct it. That was a massacre, Lieutenant. And I've half a mind to have you court-martialed for not reporting O'Hare's incompetence to me.” The GreenMan did not speak in anger. Not yet. He seemed very saddened by the event at Delta two nights previous. Then he burst out, “What the fuck was the motherfucker doing?” The GreenMan cussed like a trooper. “That sadass got his fucking self and five others killed. Seventeen wounded. If he hadn't got himself killed, I'd of killed him myself.” He paused to take several deep breaths. Brooks had never seen the GreenMan upset. “Lieutenant, a lot of people in America are screaming about our ground forces still pursuing the enemy.” The GreenMan's voice became bitter. “They're asking why we don't stay in our bases and let them come to us. Those people do not understand the first thing about war. If we sit in fixed defensive installations they'd murder us all in three months. We must constantly be searching for the enemy, finding him, hitting him before he can hit us. The moment we set up, the NVA moves. If we do not pursue he can resupply at will, advance at will. He can choose the time, the place, the method of attack. That's why we're out here. If you set up some hideous semi-permanent base here, like O'Hare, I promise you, the enemy will know and he will maul you. Get these men moving. Keep them moving. All my companies will be moving.

“That Delta thing, that was strictly a leadership failure,” the Green-Man continued. “Lieutenant, O'Hare failed his men. Perhaps I failed O'Hare. I'm not going to fail you. You,” the GreenMan called to a troop they were passing as they walked, “come here.” Cherry approached the colonel. He was not sure if he should salute or not. “Why hasn't this man shaved?” the GreenMan growled at Brooks. “Look at his rucksack. It's filthy. A mess like that makes enough noise to let the entire valley know where you are. Get that man squared away. Lieutenant, follow me. I want to inspect every one of your troops.”

Cherry sighed soundlessly watching the GreenMan stomp off.

“This entire battalion's too fat, too lazy.” the GreenMan was now ranting with anger. “This is the 101st. This is SKYHAWKS, Seventh of the Four-oh-Deuce. I've stripped every possible man from the rear. You got Molino, that worthless candyass. Running a goddamned club when there's nobody in the rear except clerks and jerks. I've sent nine men to Delta, three to Bravo. All the cooks are on Barnett. We're going to leanout this unit, Lieutenant. Every able-bodied man in the bush. You have two men in the rear on charges, don't you?”

“No Sir. That's another company.”

“If you get any, they can wait for their trials out here.”

“Yes Sir.”

“I need leaders, Lieutenant. Any officer who can't do the job is … is not going to be transferred. He's going to become a rifleman. I'll make sergeants acting platoon leaders before I'll let a piss-poor lieutenant kill any of my men. If you have problems with your leaders, let me know. Right now. We'll shuffle them around this afternoon. I've got the authority to do that. What do you need?”

The GreenMan's rage had taken Brooks by surprise. “Nothing, Sir,” he said without thinking.

As they passed through the 3d Plt CP set-up the GreenMan switched back to his sales manager voice. “Rufus,” he said, “I'm impressed with your moves so far. I think Alpha is doing a fantastic job. Truly fantastic. I know you've been plagued by the weather but the intelligence information alone that you have amassed has been enough to sufficiently alter the balance of force in this valley. The Old Fox said that to me himself. The NVA will never again be able to run through here unmolested.”

The two commanders completed their circuit of the perimeter and were now back beside the LZ. The GreenMan again showed disappointment. He had taken in tremendous detail. As they stood the GreenMan listed every improperly discarded tin can, every unconcealed soldier, every weapon lying on the ground and not ready in the hands of a boonierat. Then they stood in the shade of vine-choked trees and peered into the valley and discussed intelligence reports and tactics. Brooks retold him of Leech Row and of the enemy roads and the thickets and fog. “You go back down there and finish the job, Lieutenant,” the GreenMan said. “You can do it. It won't take much longer. There's two less enemy there now than there was this morning. My pilot and I got two on our way over here.”

“Yes Sir. I heard,” Brooks smiled. He paused then said, “Sir, about my request to DEROS …”

“You go back there, Lieutenant. Finish the job and you can go home knowing you left this country safer. You should be able to clean this place up in two or three days. Go back down there, Lieutenant. Become a guerrilla behind the guerrilla lines. Can you do that?”

“Yes Sir,” Brooks said. The GreenMan seemed to be expecting him to say more so he added, “I can hide down there, Sir. In the thickets. Among them. We can pick them apart, piece by piece.”

“Good,” the GreenMan smiled. He was satisfied. “Follow me,” he beamed loudly marching to the unopened crate he had brought to the LZ with the cigarettes and lighters. “Break that one open, Major. Lieutenant, bring up all your thumpermen.”

Major Hellman broke open the crate and lifted from it the first new XM-203. The XM-203 was a replacement for the M-79. It was an over/under, an M-16 rifle on top mated to an M-79 grenade launcher on the bottom, all on an M-16 stock. Hellman handed one to Old Zarno then reached in and lifted another. “Look at these beauties,” he said smiling. And indeed the men who received them considered them beauties.

“You'll be a one man army with that,” the GreenMan said to one smiling troop. “What's your name?”

“Willis, Sir,” Numbnuts said smartly snapping the new weapon to his shoulder.

“That's the first one of its kind in all I Corps,” the GreenMan said to Numbnuts. “You've got the first, Alpha's got the first nine.” The sound of the C & C bird could be heard as it approached Alpha's location. “Good luck with those,” the GreenMan beamed to all of the company's thumpermen. “And good hunting.” The C & C bird hovered, set down. The GreenMan saluted Brooks. “Find em. Fix em. Fight em. Finish em. For the glory of the Infantry, Lieutenant.”

Brooks returned the salute. “SKYHAWKS, Sir,” he said sharply.

The third bird in brought mail, clothes, two members of the 7/402 battalion kitchen staff and mermite cans of Kool-Aid and chipped beef.

“What the fuck is this?” Molino moaned to Mohnsen when the kitchen orderly slopped a ladleful of the brownred mush atop a soggy piece of toast and handed it to him on a paper plate.

“What the fuck do you care?” the orderly laughed.

“It aint Cs,” Mohnsen smiled.

“Shit-on-a-shingle,” Molino shook his head. “Christ, last time we had this was when Zarno threw that correspondent out of the mess hall.”

“What correspondent?” De Barti asked from behind Molino.

“Didn't you guys hear?” Molino asked.

“Naw,” said Calhoun. “We never hear nothin.”

“That dude, Caribski,” Molino laughed. “Lamonte brought him down to battalion mess. You shoulda seen Zarno. He turned red as a beet. Begins screamin at this guy. Ya know, this dude's got muttonchop sideburns and hair about this long.” Molino motioned with his hand just above his shoulder. “‘Get outa here,' Zarno screams. ‘We don't want no bums in our mess hall. Get out.' I mean Zarno's screamin at him. PIO is there tryin ta calm Zarno down. ‘Sergeant Major,' he says, ‘this man is a civilian news correspondent.' ‘I don't give a shit,' Zarno yells. ‘Get that long-haired hippie bum outa my mess hall.' I thought Zarno was goina hit him. Instead he shoves Lamonte. You shoulda seen it.”

“Well, what happened?” Mohnsen asked. Five of them had worked their way through the chow line and now sat clustered in the sun on the LZ.

“The guy got up and left,” Molino laughed. “He got up and walked out and everybody got up and gave him a standing ovation. Man, you shoulda seen Zarno. His whole face turned purple. I thought he'd blow a blood vessel right there on the spot.”

“Man, I wish I was there,” Calhoun said.

“What for?” De Barti laughed. “This food's worse than Cs.” They all laughed.

“You know what they do at division?” Molino said. He was enjoying being the center of attention.

“Tell us, Man,” Mohnsen said. Mohnsen had clung to Molino ever since the ex-bartender had been assigned to him. Molino somehow filled the vacancies in Mohnsen's mind, the vacancies of the dead and wounded from his squad.

“Man, you wouldn't believe it,” Molino said. “But I shit you not, this is the God's honest truth.”

“Come on,” De Barti prodded him.

“You know,” Molino said, “like at the general's mess. He has, like, thirty people to dinner every night.”

“Bet they don't eat this shit,” Hayes laughed.

“Man, like they eat steak or lobster tail every night. Every night, Man. They get a choice of three entrees. And, they get served immediately. Steak, lobster tails and one other every night. Rabbit or chicken or duck. That's the third. You know how they do it?”

“Oh wow. I wish I could eat there just one night a month,” Calhoun said.

“How?” De Barti asked.

“You know how they can serve everybody immediately?”

“How?”

“They cook up three times as many entrees as people they got comin. Then if everybody orders lobster they got thirty lobsters cooked up. They dump the rest of it.”

“Naw. No way.”

“I shit you not. Dudes on KP got it set up so they always throw the leftover entrees inta one garbage can. Then at night the dudes from the headquarters companies, they sneak down and eat the general's garbage.”

“Mail for Choo-lee-nee,” El Paso called out as he came toward 1st Plt. “Sorry, Bro,” he whispered to Egan. “Nother letter for Choo-lee-nee. Nother letter for Choo-lee-nee. Oooo! This one smells nice. Postcard for Choo-lee-nee.”

Cherry blushed. A postcard and three letters. Half the mail for 1st Plt and all for him. El Paso read the card aloud. “‘Dear Jimmy, We always think of you and I pray for you every night. Uncle Tony said CYA—you'd understand. Much love, Aunt Millie.' Aaww, aint that sweet! Oooo-ooo! Smell this one.” El Paso handed the letter to Doc McCarthy who sniffed it and passed it to Cherry.

Cherry got up all smiles. He moved a short distance away and opened the letter from Linda. As he began reading he heard El Paso say, “Anyone want Leon's
Newsweek?
Here's some good shit. Listen, ‘… five years of warfare against the US have so badly depleted Viet Cong ranks that today an estimated 75% of the communist troops in main-force units are North Vietnamese … barred by a lack of popular support from reverting entirely to guerrilla warfare, the communists are limited in what they can accomplish …'”

“Hey, El Paso,” Thomaston chuckled. “Who the fuck are the other twenty-five percent?”

Cherry shuffled the pages of Linda's letter, looked at them for a moment without reading as if the shape or color might tell him what she would say. Then he read.

Hi Jim!

Guess what? I got a new job in downtown Norwalk. I'm a secretary to two men who sold their business about eight years ago and bought a whole bunch of properties which they manage. It's a real small office—the two owners, a bookkeeper, an accountant and me. I'm the only girl. I know I couldn't have stood working in a big office with all the catty women so I found something more me. I bet you thought by now I'd be off somewhere carousing, huh? Well, I was a little confused as to what I wanted but things are a little better now. Not that I'm settling in, I'm just content for now.

My sister got engaged about a week ago and is getting married in October. She hardly knows the guy. He isn't exactly welcomed into the family either but if she wants to marry a darkie (he's not black, just dark) that's her business.