the Last Run (1987) (4 page)

"Well?"

"General Binh Ty Due was called the 41kll One' by Ho Chi Minh in 1967 after the battle at Dak To."

The major's eyes opened wide. "My god! Do you realize what this could mean?"

The captain smiled. "Yes, sir."

The major quickly gathered the rest of the report together and strode toward the door. "I'm sending this out right now to Corps Headquarters. Colonel Ellis will shit when he sees it."

Phan Thiet Twenty-third Evac Hospital

Sergeant Matt Wade leaned back against the emergency room wall and stared out a window into the darkness. 1\vo hours before, an orderly had cleaned his wounds and explained that the small hospital was understaffed and had only one doctor. A patient had hemorrhaged earlier and the doctor would see him as soon as he could.

The emergency room door opened only a bit. Wade forgot the pain in his shoulder and broke into a smile when he saw a familiar face peer around the door.

"Come on in, Thump. There ain't nobody here but me."

Thumper took one more glance around and strode in. "Damn, Matt, these medical types are really assholes. They won't let anyone in until you're on the ward. I've been here for hours trying to see you."

Wade grinned. "I know. I heard you and Carl arguing with the orderly from in here. . . . Hell, the whole hospital could hear ya!"

Thumper shrugged his shoulders and sat down beside his friend. "Yeah, well, Russian didn't understand why we couldn't see you and got pretty upset. I don't know if that orderly understood Czech cuss words, but he looked awfully scared. A staff sergeant came out and ordered Russian outta the hospital and called Gino."

Wade eyed the big soldier suspiciously. "And what about you? I thought I heard somebody say 'no visitors until tomorrow.' "

Thumper lowered his head. "Aw, hell, Matt, I had to check you out or Russian would have bugged me all night long. You know how he is."

Wade nodded. Carl was his mother hen, but he knew Thumper was concerned, too, and wouldn't have slept either. In fact, he, Wade, would have done the same thing.

"Haven't they given you anything for the pain yet?" asked Thumper as he stood and looked over the open wounds.

"Naw, but they will as soon as the doc comes. How's the team?"

"They're fine. We'll sleep in tomorrow and rest up. Then we'll see what Dickey is going to screw up next." Thumper's eyes shifted from Wade's wounds to his eyes. "Matt, you ought to take it easy when you get out of the hospital, go on R&R and relax awhile. I hear Bangkok is nice."

Wade narrowed his eyes. "What are you trying to say? Is Dickey gunning for me?"

"No, nothing like that. It's just Russian and me think you deserve a break. You were lucky today. You've been running patrols for seven months straight and your luck has about run out. Today was a good lesson for us all. It's time you took it easy."

Wade leaned up. "Come on, Thump. I know you too well for you to bullshit me. Spit it out."

Thumper lowered his gaze. He was silent for several seconds as he tried to find the right words. "Matt, you scared me today ... I mean really scared me. When I ran over and saw you layin' there, I thought... I thought we'd lost you. Matt, you've been pushin' hard for seven months. You've been going all out. And lately you've been actin' like this war is something personal. You've been going on missions when you didn't have to, and taking chances you normally wouldn't. You can't keep this up. You gotta slow down or one day you won't make it. Please. Take it easy and relax awhile. For me, huh?"

Wade suddenly felt weak inside, but forced a smile. "Sure, Thump, I hear what you're sayin'. Now get out of here and get some sleep."

Thumper patted his sergeant's leg, but avoided looking into his eyes. He could tell by Matt's voice that his advice hadn't been taken well. Thumper strode to the door without looking back. He didn't want to see a friend die. And Matt Wade was going to die . . . unless he changed.

Sergeant Wade closed his eyes to stop the tears as Thumper walked out the door. His friend's words had hit like shrapnel. Thumper had told him the truth that he hadn't wanted to admit to himself. He had blamed bad luck and Lieutenant Dickey for too long, but now the blame had to be placed where it really belonged-on himself, Sergeant Matt Wade.

Thumper was right-the War had become too personal. Within the chaos and pain of Vietnam, Wade had found the success, respect, and admiration he'd always strived for.

Up to the time he'd been drafted, his life had been a series of failures that seemed to leave him no future but the farm. All his hard work in school, all his trying to make something of himself, seemed never enough, but the Army was different. Within its rigid system, grade point averages and college test scores meant nothing. His physical strength, natural leadership ability, and overwhelming desire were exactly the attributes the Army rewarded. He excelled in basic training and was selected for accelerated schooling to become a noncommissioned officer. Later, when he volunteered for the Airborne and Ranger Schools at Fort Benning, he discovered a different kind of Army. At these schools, designed to push students to their physical and emotional limits, and then a step beyond, he'd found another man inside himself, a man who loved the stress and physical rigors that others seemed to hate. Students weakened and failed around him while he grew stronger and asked for more.

He had arrived in Vietnam, confident and ready to lead, only to find he wasn't prepared. Ranger school had given him the basics, but there was no substitute for the real thing, where people really died. With time and Carl Rostov's help, he gained the experience he needed and soon became a combat leader, a success again.

Team leaders Zubeck, Selando, Griffin, and himself were the last of the veteran team sergeants, but he was the standout, the best, and that meant continually proving it. That was exactly what he'd been doing for the past months. He'd been pushing himself to be a somebody. He'd been using the men he loved to gain his own self-respect. Now, Thumper's visit had made him realize the truth: He was a success, but only because of his men, and he suddenly felt a need to be with them. He didn't need a break or rest, as Thumper had suggested. He just needed to lead and to keep his men from harm. Success from now on would mean getting them all home safely.

The doctor pushed open the emergency room door. An orderly followed him. The doctor's face showed the strain of long hours without sleep as he tiredly examined Wade's wounds. Without speaking, as if saving energy, he pointed to a nearby stainless steel cabinet and held out his hand. In a few seconds, the orderly handed him a prepared needle and syringe.

Wade shut his eyes as the needle pierced his skin, and he felt the tingling surge of the injected fluid. The doctor withdrew the needle and spoke wearily. "Okay, Sarge, that will put you out for awhile. One of the fragments is deep, and I'll need to go in.

The other is sitting just under the skin and won't require much work."

Wade glanced at the punctures. The lump under the blue, discolored skin looked like a round, jagged splinter.

"You lie back, and when you wake up it'll all be over. I'll be back when you're out."

Wade lay back on the padded table and shut his eyes as the doctor and orderly walked out of the room. He remembered how his granddad had pulled a large splinter from his leg years ago. The vision of the old man tugged at his insides and stirred emotions he hadn't felt in some time. He missed his grandfather.

Joshua Wade was a farmer, like his father before him. Both had tilled the same soil and cursed the same unpredictable Oklahoma weather. Wheat and cotton were their crops, and 360 acres of rich bottomland was their life. The Wade home was built by Amos Wade in 1917 on a bluff overlooking the South Canadian River and, upon his death, had been given to his son, Joshua. Josh and his wife, Elma Wade, reared a son and a daughter. The son married young and later went to Korea and was killed, leaving a pregnant wife.

Josh and Elma brought their son's wife to their house to live, but loneliness overcame her. She ran off with an oil-crew roughneck, leaving a baby boy.

The Wades raised the boy as their own, and he grew strong working the fields, but he had problems in school.

He was kept back a grade, and then another, before it was discovered that he was dyslexic-he read words backward. Elma read the texts to the boy night after night, and through their combined hard work, he passed junior high school.

Elma died in 1963, and they buried her on Black Jack Hill alongside two generations of Wades. The old man and the boy passed the hill every day on their way to the fields, knowing Elma was watching over them.

The boy grew into a strapping man who learned to love the land, but hated its demands when he also learned to love football. His grandfather didn't approve of the game. He said there wasn't time for sports when the land needed working.

Matt made the time; he'd come home tired from practice but always did his chores so the old man wouldn't give him that look. His grandfather didn't say much-didn't have to; that look said everything.

Matt was older than his classmates because of his difficulties in school, but he was good on the ball field. He knew his grandfather didn't understand the way it felt when Matt read about himself in the papers, or when the townspeople made a fuss over him; it didn't matter. He didn't even mind when the old man never went to a game. But the "look," that look, always tore him up inside.

When Matt graduated high school he received a partial football scholarship to Southwestern State College. He studied hard, but with working nights to pay the rest of his way through school he fell behind in his grades. Nothing had ever been easy for him; he'd had to fight and struggle his whole life. Again he'd done his best only to fail, to earn a grade point average that told him he had no fiiture.

He went back to the farm and to his granddad, who never did understand why he wanted to be more than just a farmer anyway. Matt tried to explain why he had to make it on his own, to earn self-respect before he could accept the Wade heritage.

The draft notice came six months later. The old man said nothing. He just got on his tractor and plowed all day. In fact, he never mentioned the notice until the day he drove his grandson to the bus station.

The door to the Greyhound opened and the old man cried. Matt hadn't seen him cry since Elma died. His grandfather hugged him and wouldn't let him go. The bus driver had to honk the horn twice before the old man finally dropped his arms in acceptance and defeat. Those tears and his grandfather's parting words tore through Matt's heart: "I'll miss you, son."

Matt wrote home often but never received any mail until finally, just before he shipped out to Vietnam, a short letter arrived. The scribbled lines from his grandfather's arthritic hands were hard to read, but they spoke of love and pride-love of his precious land, and pride in his grandson. He wrote, too, of Matt's father, who'd been killed in Korea, and how his dad was, like Matt, "hardheaded, but good." He ended with, "Come back to me, Matt. Come back to me and Elma. We love you."

The doctor walked back into the emergency room, followed by the orderly. "Is he out?"

The orderly opened Wade's eyelid with his thumb. "Yes, sir. But it looks like he's been crying."

The doctor merely glanced at the tears on the young sergeant's face as he pulled on his surgical gloves. "Get me a probe ready.''

Chapter 3

3 September

An Lou Mountains Fifteen kilometers north of LZ English

The hidden NVA machine gun chattered and spit out a deadly tongue of blue flame as it made another sweeping burst.

Lieutenant John Dalton Gibson lay waiting to die on a jungle trail fifteen feet from the gun. He pressed himself closer to the ground, trying to will his body to dissolve into the protective earth. His rigid frame jerked involuntarily at the sound of each burst, anticipating the impact of the bullets. He knew it was just a matter of time before the gunner raked him to make , sure he was dead.

A small rivulet of blood trickled down the incline of the trail and backed up against his cheek. The riddled body of Harris, the point man, lay sprawled on the path only four feet in front of him. The blood was his.

Gibson opened his eyes when he felt the warm stickiness on his face and shuddered in revulsion. He wanted to scream and vomit, but he did neither. His survival instinct prevailed. He remained motionless.

His platoon had been ordered earlier that morning to secure a jungle-covered hilltop. They'd walked along a small trail up a ridge toward their objective. Gibson had halted his men only two minutes before and had motioned Harris to check out the crest of a hill twenty-five meters ahead. Harris, a lanky Texan, had taken only ten steps, then froze. Gibson had crept forward cautiously to see what die problem was when the hidden machine gun opened up. Harris was hit in the chest and was knocked backward violently. He died before hitting the hard clay of the trail. Gibson had seen the blue-orange flame in the split second he'd thrown himself to the ground. The gun was in a bunker just off the trail ahead of Harris.

Gibson couldn't stand the smell of the blood any longer and chanced shifting his head. He lifted up only slightly and immediately felt a surge of hope. He saw that he was in a slight depression, a dead space the gunner couldn't see. Gibson looked behind him to spot his men just as the gunner fired another burst. The bullets cracked only inches over his head and made impact with splintering thuds into the felled tree behind which his first squad lay huddled. The rest of his men were hidden behind trees and rocks farther back along the trail. They were all pinned down.