Rotters: Bravo Company (2 page)

2:44 p.m. Zulu

Village of Umjebec

Ethiopia, Africa

“I fucking hate Africa and I hate Africans!” PFC Harde grumbled as he struggled to load another fifty-pound bag of rice onto the light cargo truck.

“That’s okay,” I laughed. “I’m pretty sure Africa hates you back.”

“Fuck you, Parsons,” Harde replied wearily.

“He doesn’t mean anything personal by that, Gordo,” I added in apology to our interpreter. Gordo was assigned to our squad; he was a college grad who could speak about a dozen of the local dialects. Technically, he was a civilian contractor assigned to our company. Ironically, his family had immigrated to the United States to get away from Africa, but once he opted to work for the Army they sent him right back. He was sharp as hell, but he wasn’t quite as crude as the rest of the grunts. Gordo was a good guy. He didn’t just talk; he worked hard and pulled his weight.

“It’s alright,” Gordo grunted as he threw a bag into the truck. “Africa is not for white men,” he laughed.

“Fuck
in A right,” Harde agreed. “It’s too damn hot all the damn time.”

I had to agree with
Harde, or as we called him, Hard-on, on that one. I was originally from Detroit, and hadn’t stopped sweating since I had stepped off the plane. Our company had been deployed from Afghanistan to help with humanitarian aid and emergency food distribution after a bad drought in Africa. We had bounced from one Third World shit-hole to another one.

All we had done in Ethiopia was load fucking rice onto trucks by the mother
fucking ton. Either that or stand guard and sweat while the other guys in the company loaded rice.

Personally, I hated rice. Worst invention ever. Our CO, Major Dorset, had joked that one billion Chinese couldn’t be wrong. Fuck that; they were wrong. Rice sucked dick and so did Major Dorset.

Of course, the major hadn’t loaded any motherfucking rice, or done anything else work related that I had ever noticed. He left that for me, Hard-on, Gordo, and the rest of Bravo Company.

The company currently consisted of two combat platoons of ten men each, a transportation unit, and for this mi
ssion, a medical corp. Normally, we fielded roughly fifty enlisted men and officers, give or take a few. Our squad leader, Specialist Tucker was away on leave, so we were currently one man short. Bravo was a combat infantry company, so we pretty much got all the shit jobs. If there was a shitty job in a shit-hole town, in a backward-assed part of the world that needed doing, you could bet that Bravo Company would end up there doing it.

Our real job was combat, but since there wasn’t always fighting to be done we ended up doing shit jobs like loading rice into trucks; a lot.

Don’t get me wrong; Ethiopia was a pretty dangerous place. Gunner and Jonesy, the other two members of our fire squad, stood guard while we worked, and Master Sergeant McAllister supervised. They had to. The local gangs liked to hijack the food deliveries. In this part of the world, food was power. Civilians couldn’t work under these conditions, so the infantry had to do it. We all understood that, but it didn’t keep us from bitching about it. Bitching about what you were doing was as natural as breathing in the Army. As soon as we finished loading the truck, another empty one pulled up to take its place. The hot sun beat down on us out of the bright blue, Ethiopian sky.

“Are we doing this again tomorrow,
Sarge?” Hard-on groaned.

McAllister looked up from his clipboard. “You never know what tomorrow will bring, that’s the best thing about being in the Army. You losers load this last truck and we’ll call it a day.”

We didn’t know it at the time, but we had all loaded our last bag of rice.

OPS ORD 9-22

US ARMY MAJ. DORSET, CHARLES, M. AIRFIELD GRANDSTAND

EXECUTE IMMEDIATE REDEPLOYMENT OF BRAVO COMPANY TO VILLAGE OF LAT, DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF THE CONGO.

EXTRICATE MEDICAL UNIT THAT LOCATION.

DETAILS OF UNIT PERSONNEL AND MISSION TO FOLLOW.

VIRAL OUTBREAK THAT AREA, DETAILS TO FOLLOW.

IMPLEMENT SAFETY PROTOCOLS 34-7 AND 34-20.

TRANSPORT EN ROUTE YOUR LOCATION

ORDERS END

08:33 p.m. Zulu

Air Field Grandstand

Ethiopia, Africa

The East African sun slowly sank below the horizon of the forward airbase’s flight line. An incoming C-130 transport plane kicked up a swirling dust cloud that danced in the dying red light. We had a clear line of sight from our tents to the landing field. Hard-on looked up from his card hand and shaded his eyes. A second and a third C-130 followed the first plane in. The muted roar of their engines came dimly to us across the tarmac.

“That’s weird,” he muttered as he pushed his discards across the empty shipping crate we were using as a card table.

“Not really,” I replied. I threw in my cards and took a pull on my warm beer.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Hard-on shot back. “I’m sure that’s just our monthly shipment of strippers and crack comin’ in.”

Hard-on was from New Jersey and a real smart ass. He was a big guy and very muscular; he worked out with weights whenever our unit had any downtime. He considered himself a real ladies man. His real last name,
Harde, had been changed to Hard-on the day he had joined the platoon. Everyone ended up with a nickname eventually. Some of them stuck, some didn’t. Hard-on liked his.

“Would you two just shut up and play the game?”
Jonesy complained. He pulled in the discards and shuffled the cards before dealing us all another hand. Jonesy was from Birmingham, Alabama. He had grown up in the city, and was streetwise and sharp. He was of medium build, but was very strong and fast. He had run track and wrestled in high school. Jonesy had a smooth deep voice with a strong southern drawl. If you got him drunk enough he would sing old blues songs.

We were playing poker and drinking warm beer. Just another Wednesday night in exotic Ethiopia. My squad played a lot of cards. Whenever we had some down time we played Poker and Spades. Occasionally we played for money, but Sgt. McAllister frowned on that. It caused hard feelings, so we mostly played for points, or candy and smokes.

Gunner sat on the ground nearby, idly flipping through a porno magazine. Gunner’s real name was Hernandez. He was from Miami, and was mean as a snake. He had been assigned the SAW, or Squad Assault Weapon, the unit’s heavy machine gun; hence his nickname, Gunner. He was short and squat, heavily tattooed, and claimed to have belonged to a gang before he joined the Army. I believed him.

“Come on, Gunner, if you get your fat ass in here we can play Euchre,”
Jonesy suggested.

“I hate Euchre,” Gunner replied flatly.

“You ungrateful, selfish bastard,” Jonesy cursed. “It doesn’t matter if you like Euchre or not,
you
should play so that
we
can play. Euchre is a four person game, asshole.”

Euchre was my favorite card game, but I had figured out that it was a
Midwestern game; not everyone played it, or liked it for that matter. A lot of people had never heard of it. I had tried to teach it to my squad several times. Jonesy liked to play it occasionally.

“I’d rather beat my dick with a hammer than play Euchre,” Gunner retorted.

“It’s no wonder you’re always in such a bad mood if you’re masturbating with a hammer,” I laughed. “You should have Hard-on show you how to do it; he’s a master of self-flagellation.”

Hard-on glared at me. “You should talk, Parsons, your dick looks like a pistol grip.”

“If you don’t like how my dick looks, stop staring at it,” I suggested.

Hard-on stood up. “How’d you like a nice ass-
kickin’, Parsons?” he slurred. I realized we were a little too drunk for our usual game of
insult your buddy
. I had the advantage of being fairly well read and a high school diploma over my squad mates. They considered me a smart ass, and more than once I had talked myself into trouble. I had tangled with Hard-on and Gunner before. At least Jonesy had a sense of humor.

Of course, I couldn’t back down, unless I did it cleverly. I slowly stood up and bowed to Hard-on.

“I apologize, Hard-on,” I said seriously. “Allow me to offer a complete retraction of any slander I may have uttered about you eyeballing my junk. I’m sure you only looked in passing and it was only a harmless curiosity, perhaps gone a titch too far.” I held up my finger and thumb, about an inch apart. 

Hard-on was too perplexed to respond. The other two fell out laughing at the look on his face. I laughed, and finally Hard-on laughed, too. He sat back down and opened another beer.

“You’re an asshole, Parsons,” he muttered. 

We had just settled back down to another round of poker and beers when Master Sgt. McAllister burst into our bivouac.

“Wrap this shit up, ladies,” he ordered. “We are pulling out as soon as we can load up our shit.”

Hard-on threw his cards in. “Damn it, Sarge! I was just starting to get drunk. I knew those planes meant trouble,” he growled.

McAllister grabbed a beer, opened it, and drained it. He crushed the can and threw it at Hard-on’s head. “Fun times over. Get your kits together and hump it over to the HQ. The LT is
gonna brief everyone. The old man will be there so act straight. Got it?” he asked.

The sergeant was a good guy. He was always ripping somebody’s ass, but he looked out for us. He had seen action in Iraq and Afghanistan; he knew his shit.

“Let’s go!”

We cleaned ourselves up and threw on our uniform shirts and hats. It didn’t take us long to pull our gear together, we were only here temporarily, and had never really completely unpacked or settled in.

The sergeant hurried us along. We walked across the base to the headquarters tent. Usually only the officers and senior NCOs were allowed in the tent, now everyone was crowded inside. The tent’s walls were rolled up; everyone pushed in as close as they comfortably could.

The company commander, Maj. Dorset, stood near the map board, with a pointer in hand. We called him
the old man
behind his back. Major Dorset did not engender love or loyalty in the men under his command. He was old school; like eighteenth century British old school. He was a total prick, aloof and cold. His face was set in a constant sneer of contempt,
and he rarely smiled. The major reminded me of another Army officer I had read about in my history books, General George Armstrong Custer.

He may have been fit at one time, but the major had gone soft now, and his uniforms rode a bit snug. Regardless of how the men under his command were getting on, the commander never missed a meal. He considered comfort an officer’s privilege.

The old man had one golden rule: he was always correct, and the reality of the situation be damned.

Standing beside him were the two combat platoon commanders, Lieutenants Reid and Beckham, the transportation NCO, Sgt. Price, and the Medical CO, Col. Warren.

Reid was competent and professional. He attempted to look after the men under his command despite the major’s drawbacks. Luckily, he was our squad’s commanding officer. He was tall and thin; everyone in the platoon
called him the LT.

Beckham was a kiss-ass and an idiot, to boot. He was book smart, but had no experience or common sense. He just did whatever the major told him to do, and his men suffered for it. He was short, lazy and very fat. His men had nicknamed him Fat Ass.

Everyone loved Sgt. Price. He was a big, goofy, good natured son of a bitch. He would always help you out if he could. He smoked and drank beer and bourbon, and always made damn sure that the company was supplied with all three.

Col. Warren was a fine surgeon, and a good man to have around if you were going into a firefight. He was generally pretty friendly, but he had a serious nature. I didn’t really know him, but it seemed to me that seeing men under his care die had made him melancholy. He always seemed sad and far away.

Sgt. McAllister called everyone to attention. The old man stepped forward and snapped the pointer into
his palm.

“At ease!” the major shouted. Everyone stood down and relaxed a little.

The major seemed excited. Unless we were being deployed to Tahiti, an unlikely situation at best, it probably meant more work for us.

He tried to smile and failed,
and then he jumped into his speech. “Men, a situation has developed in the Democratic Republic of Congo.” He moved to the map board and pointed out the DRC.  “This is the village of Lat. A US Army medical unit that was dispatched there to help counter a viral outbreak has come under attack by rebel forces within the DRC. Contact has been lost with the unit. We are the closest combat company within Africa proper. We have been ordered to move to the assistance of the medical unit and to extract that unit’s personnel immediately.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt, sir, but why are we going? Wouldn’t they usually send in the Special Forces or the Rangers for a rescue mission?” Sgt. Price piped up.

“It would take at least forty-eight hours to dispatch a Special Forces unit,” the major replied, “As I just explained, we are the closest combat asset.” 

The major looked around the tent, scowling at the men in his command. “This is a rare opportunity for all of us. Fate has given us this chance to shine, to show the world what Bravo Company can do. You will carry out this mission without fail. We will rescue the medical unit. You will make me proud. Do you understand?” the Commander shouted.

“Yes, sir!” the men shouted back. 

“Good,” Maj. Dorset replied
. “The lieutenant will brief you as to particulars, we prepare to leave immediately.”

The sergeant called the men to attention again. With that the major left the tent. 

Lt. Reid stepped forward. “At ease,” he said.

There was a low buzz of conversation, mostly bitching about being redeployed so quickly. The atmosphere was much more informal with the CO gone. Reid gave it a moment, then spoke. “Listen up. I know you guys aren’t happy about this. I know we just pulled three weeks of food distribution, that you guys have been busting your asses, but this mission is important. There is an American medical unit out there that needs our assistance.” He paused to let that sink in. Everyone was listening now.

Hard-on piped up, “How many nurses are with that unit, sir?”

“I’m not privy to that information,” Reid replied, shaking his head.

Someone shouted from the rear, “Hey LT, did the major say something about a virus?”

“I’m glad someone was listening,” the lieutenant joked. “Yes, there is a virus. We will operate in full MOPP-4 protective gear until Col. Warren clears us.”

A chorus of groans broke out.

“I need you guys to hustle up. We need to have everything loaded on those C-130s and ready to go within two hours!” Reid yelled.

More groans erupted.

The LT held up his hands. “Just do it without all the belly aching for once,” he pleaded.

Sgt. McAllister stepped up and yelled, “You heard the man. Get to work! Dismissed!”

Everyone dispersed and went to work. Despite the verbal abuse, Bravo was a well-trained and efficient combat unit. Every man pitched in to help load the cargo planes.

Within two hours our camp tents had been broken down and stowed on the transports, along with food, weapons, Humvees and a light cargo truck, all our miscellaneous combat equipment and the medical corps’ gear. Sgt. McAllister and Lt. Reid hustled back and forth between the camp and the flight line until everything was aboard.

The C-130s revved their engines as McAllister walked between them, yelling to the loaders, clipboard in hand. We stood to the side, checking and rechecking our gear. Finally the old man boarded the lead plane. I was just glad we weren’t flying with the bastard. The officers and staff flew separate from the grunts. I considered that a small blessing.

Gordo joined
us; he was assigned to our squad, as we were usually on point, and had the most contact with the locals. He didn’t look too happy.

“What’s this I hear about wearing biological gear and gas masks?” he asked pensively. “Don’t you guys know how hot it will be in the Congo? What do you know about this virus? Have you guys done this before?”

“It’s standard operating procedure. Don’t worry about it,” I replied. “It just means that we have to wear the chem gear until the Doc checks things out. I know it sucks, but it usually doesn’t take too long. The gear is hot as hell, but you kinda get used to it after a while. Don’t worry about the virus.”

“Damn,” Gordo replied.

I lowered my voice, “It’s cool. We’ll take care of you. There’s ways to get around wearing the shit all the time.” I winked at him.

Everything was finally loaded and strapped down. Sgt. McAllister ordered us aboard. We all trudged up the boarding ramp and took our seats on the plane. Everyone strapped in and secured their weapons and gear. The loader closed the cargo ramp door. The C-130’s taxied out and took off, one by one. Our plane lifted off into the night sky and we left Ethiopia behind. We didn’t have far to go.