The Last Ranch (44 page)

Kevin Kerney presented his orders to a three-striper sitting alone at a desk in the quiet, almost empty reception room of the Infantry Officers School Headquarters. The sergeant's name tag read
GOLDSTEIN
, and he wore the Combat Infantry Badge and airborne jump wings patches over the left breast pocket of his fatigue shirt.

Sgt. Abraham Goldstein, who was three years older than the lieutenant, studied the orders and eyed the officer. “Someone screwed up, Lieutenant,” he announced in a heavy Brooklyn accent. “You're three days early. I suggest you get a billet at the BOQ until we start in-processing.”

“Isn't there some temporary duty I can pull until then?”

Goldstein raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. Gung-ho new lieutenants wanting to charge ahead and impress the cadre were a dime a dozen. At their best laughable, at their worst embarrassing. “Look, Lieutenant, right now this post is bursting at the seams with junior and field-grade officers waiting for their permanent change-of-duty-station orders. We probably could take over and
command a couple of banana republic armies with the idle infantry officers we got sitting on their thumbs around here.”

Kevin didn't correct him.

He handed Kevin back his orders. “The army in its infinite wisdom has given you three days off, gratis. Don't look a gift horse in the eye, sir.”

Again, Kevin didn't correct him.

“Grab a BOQ billet and enjoy yourself. A week from now you'll be glad you did.”

Kevin smiled. “Thanks for the advice, Sergeant.”

“One more thing, Lieutenant,” Goldstein said. “Change into civvies, otherwise you won't enjoy yourself as much.”

“Why is that?”

“Better to be a tourist on base than a freshly minted second Louie in uniform.”

“You are a wise man, Sergeant Goldstein.”

“I know,” Goldstein replied with a grin. “All sergeants are.”

With directions to the BOQ in hand, Kevin found his way, got a room, dumped his gear on the twin bed, and changed into his civvies. He'd arrived with no car, so over the next three days he poked around the base and surrounding area on foot. The huge military reservation spread out like an octopus along the Chattahoochee River. He hoofed through the neighboring city of Columbus, Georgia, that almost butted up against the main gate to the post, and strolled downtown Phenix City, the once-infamous gambling and fleshpot center just across the state line in Alabama.

Fort Benning was a city unto itself, with all you needed right at hand on the post, including stores, schools, recreation facilities, churches, a hospital, and a library. There were residential neighborhoods reserved for field-grade officers and above, with lovely
tree-lined streets and tidy two-story homes. More modern, smaller, single-story homes in newer neighborhoods served married enlisted personnel and company-grade officers with families.

The land was different from New Mexico. There were large grassy fields, neat lawns in front of the houses, thick stands of trees on rolling, hilly terrain, and a river that gushed with water unlike the prone-to-drought Rio Grande. And unlike dry New Mexico, the weather was uncomfortably hot in a sticky, sweaty way, and it never seemed to cool down at night.

Columbus seemed to exist solely because of Fort Benning, and not in a good way. Everything that a soldier could possibly need—wedding rings, televisions, bedroom suites, pawnshops, payday loans, and divorce lawyers—was readily available. Retail stores stayed open late. Billboards saluted “Our Boys in Uniform” and offered great deals on just about everything. Tattoo parlors flourished. There were sleazy bars, cheap motels, acres of used-car lots, and American flags in profusion. It appeared that the army and Columbus capitalism had come together to form a more perfect union.

Allegedly reformed, Phenix City still offered all the illicit sex, drugs, and gambling a soldier would ever need, just in a more subtle way. The streetwalkers were gone, but a phone call would get you a woman to share your motel room for an hour or a night. In Columbus you could easily find the lonely wife of a soldier who'd deployed overseas to play house with for the duration. They were waiting to be picked up in every GI bar or hangout.

By the time Kevin processed into his Infantry Officer School class, he was eager to get started. He'd arrived thinking he was pretty well prepared for what the infantry would throw at him. He'd placed in the top ten percent during his month at ROTC Advanced Camp summer training. He didn't start out smug, but
he soon learned he was wrong. The competition was stiff. Within twenty-four hours, his three days loitering around Fort Benning and Columbus were only a dim memory.

Of the 186 members of his class, there were OCS graduates with combat experience who'd come up through the ranks—some were ten-year veterans with two tours or more in-country. There were graduates of West Point, the Virginia Military Institute, the Citadel, and Texas A&M. There were guys who'd played first-string collegiate football, competed in track and field, and excelled at wrestling or some other sport like gymnastics. They were all hard chargers.

At the bottom rung of the ladder, where Kevin started out, were ROTC and National Guard commissioned officers. While none of the cadre verbally expressed it, Kevin and his ilk were obviously not very highly regarded as potential superior infantry officer material.

During in-processing, Kevin stood out because he was the only one who'd put down rodeoing as his sport. When it also became known that he was the youngest member of the class, everybody including the cadre started calling him Kid Kerney. He put up with it because there were worse labels draped on some of his classmates, including “Tweety Bird” for a skinny, undersize National Guard lieutenant, who washed out quickly along with twenty-eight others during the training cycle.

During the three-month course, Kevin moved up in the class rankings. He did well in land navigation, marksmanship, tactical planning, and written assignments. He improved in physical fitness and endurance exercises, and outscored some of the military-school graduates in the platoon-leader performance evaluation. Because of his academic marks and overall ratings, by the last week of training he was informed that he'd graduate in the top
third of his class. Not high enough to be allowed to select his permanent-duty assignment, but good enough to have his preferences for a posting given some weight.

When he approached the officer assigned the task of recommending duty-station assignments and requested Vietnam, he was curtly told those postings would most likely go to West Point ring knockers and other career officers who needed a combat tour under their belts in order to move up through the ranks. Lieutenant Kerney, on the other hand, would probably get orders for an overseas tour in South Korea, an excellent infantry assignment.

Outside of headquarters a few days before graduation, he approached Sergeant Goldstein. Recently promoted to staff sergeant, Goldstein was a reliable source of straight-up information about all things infantry. As a last attempt to secure orders to a unit in Nam, Kevin decided to see if the age-old saying that sergeants ran the army held any water.

Goldstein threw him a snappy hand salute. “Lieutenant.”

“A moment of your time, if you please, Staff Sergeant Goldstein.”

Abe Goldstein smiled. “I do like the sound of that, sir.”

“And it suits you well,” Kerney replied. “I wonder if you know of an outfit looking for replacement lieutenants to send in-country.”

Goldstein thought it over. He liked the lieutenant, who didn't seem to be in the army for the glory, had exhibited a real concern for those around him, and had a good grasp of what it took to lead. “It's now mostly an advisory role for the infantry,” he mused. “I've got a buddy in personnel. I'll see what he says.”

“Thanks, Staff Sergeant.”

Abe Goldstein smiled and threw another salute. “No problem, LT.”

He watched Kerney walk away. He'd read the lieutenant's background information forwarded from his ROTC college institution. His great-grandfather, his grandfather, his uncle, and his father had all seen combat from the Civil War through WWII. Whether the lieutenant knew it or not, he suffered from that strange and burdensome need to continue the family tradition.

Goldstein knew the compulsion well. His forefathers had fought on Flanders Fields in France, on the Italian beaches at Anzio, and on Pork Chop Hill in Korea. Silently he wished Lieutenant Kerney luck. The Nam had maimed and destroyed many good men. Goldstein was glad to be back in the world in one piece.

***

K
evin received orders to Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, with a posting to the 25th Infantry Division, and he had ten days to get there. Before he left, Sergeant Goldstein told him it might be his best shot to get in-country, and he'd let a buddy of his know the lieutenant was coming. Kevin thanked the sergeant for his help, hopped a plane to El Paso, rented a car, and drove to the ranch unannounced. His sudden appearance, along with the happy news that he wasn't going to Vietnam, was cause for celebration. Al and Brenda Jennings added their good news that Dale would soon be transferring from Okinawa to Holloman Air Force Base outside Alamogordo, where he'd serve out the remainder of his active-duty enlistment. For the first time in his life, Kevin got roaring drunk in the company of his parents and Al and Brenda, who were all equally wobbly by the time he hit the sack.

After a five-day homecoming, Kevin left for Hawaii, his parents watching him depart from the airport observation deck. The
plane banked west, revealing the Tularosa and distant outline of Sierra Blanca towering over the Mescalero Reservation, and he felt a twinge of regret about Isabel. He still deserved an explanation.

At Schofield Barracks, Kevin cooled his heels in a replacement detachment for a week before a sergeant first class named Aldo Abruzzo found him lounging in a dayroom and handed him orders.

“You're going TYD to Nam, ASAP, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Abruzzo said gruffly. Stocky and about thirty years old, Abruzzo had a permanent five-o'clock shadow. Along with jump wings and a combat infantry badge, he wore a ranger tab on the upper-left sleeve of his fatigue shirt. “And Abe Goldstein sends his regards.”

Kevin glanced at his orders and cracked a grin. He was to be detached to a military assistance group tasked with advising ARVN units. “I'll be” was all he could manage.

Wondering why Goldstein had bothered to pull strings for the young lieutenant, Abruzzo looked him over and decided it didn't matter. He was just some more fresh meat to throw into the grinder of an unwinnable war, thanks to the stupidity of the Washington politicians.

***

2
n
d Lt. Kevin Kerney stepped onto the tarmac at Tan Son Nhut Air Base outside Saigon into a hot, wind-lashed monsoon downpour, wondering if he'd made a big mistake. The humid weather at Fort Benning had been barely tolerable, but this was ten times worse. Lugging his gear, he hurried into reception, where he presented his paperwork and was told to wait. He found an empty chair and watched a stream of happy-looking GIs scurrying
through the sheet of rain to a civilian passenger jet about to take them home.

An hour later, when the monsoon had turned into an everyday storm, a first lieutenant tapped him on the shoulder. He wore a Signal Corps insignia on his collar. “Kerney?”

Kevin stood. “That's me.”

“I'm Alan Enright. Grab your gear and let's go.”

At six-six, Enright towered over Kerney. He had gray eyes and the look of a very tired man.

“Where are we going?” Kevin asked.

Outside, Enright directed him to a staff car. “To your new home. You're to be a glorified office boy. We're helping our South Vietnamese allies organize a new division. Knowing the capabilities of our friends, it will probably take a year to get it up and running. Fortunately, I'll be back home by then.”

Disappointed, Kevin clamped his mouth shut.

Enright glanced at him from behind the steering wheel. “Don't despair—you're lucky to be among the many thousands of American soldiers in this shithole not required to fight, especially since we're going to be vacating the premises fairly soon.”

“You make it sound like it's no fun to be here,” Kevin complained, straight-faced.

Enright cracked up. “I can tell we're gonna get along, Kerney.”

As Enright dodged through traffic around the airbase, he breezily told Kevin that the enemies of the Republic of Vietnam were everywhere. The Viet Cong were constantly skirmishing with the South Vietnamese ARVN troops at the outskirts of the city, assassinating political targets in broad daylight on the streets of Saigon, and blowing up airplanes at Tan Son Nhut. About one in four ARVN soldiers was either a spy, traitor, or a VC pretending to be loyal to the regime. Most of the ARVN generals were sitting on
fortunes made by selling US equipment and supplies on the black market.

“It's like being a bit player in a parlor game that has dire consequences,” he said as he pulled to a stop in front of a heavily fortified modern office building on the airbase. “We're home,” he said. “This is the US Military Assistance Command. Come in and meet your fellow advisers.”

Enright took him through a side door into a large bullpen area, where soldiers were busy at desks typing, filing, and talking on telephones. On a large wall were memos, diagrams, manpower requirements, tables of organization, and various equipment manifests. A sign on a secure communications door at the rear of the room noted that special authorization was required to enter. After quick introductions to the personnel on duty, Enright sat with Kevin at a small conference table away from the neat rows of army-issue gray steel desks.

“As you can see, I'm in charge of a platoon of clerk typists,” he said. “You will be my assistant platoon leader. May I ask how you managed to get this temporary-duty assignment?”