the Last Run (1987) (7 page)

Six months-an eternity-ago, he had wanted to see action, but when he'd gotten it, it sure wasn't what he'd expected. He'd been trained well at Fort Benning, but they hadn't prepared him for real war. Instead of the forty-man platoon with which he'd been trained, he'd had twenty-six. There had been no gruff platoon sergeant like in the movies, no John Wayne or Aldo Ray to take him under his wing and show him the ropes. He'd had instead a twenty-year-old staff sergeant who had only been in the Army three years. War wasn't leading charges and killing. War was responsibility-the overwhelming, day-in, day-out responsibility to ensure that the young men in his platoon lived to see another day. War was misery, heartache, and sore, tired muscles; covering the dead with ponchos, med-evacing the wounded, and praying he wouldn't have to do it all again. War was making decisions that could send men to their deaths. It was constant moving, trying to find an elusive, dedicated enemy before he found you. Killing was easy; he had nine notches on his weapon's stock, but there was no high, no glory, no gratification in killing. Killing was easy, but humping was hard, losing his men even harder, and telling his platoon "good-bye" an hour before the hardest of all.

Gibson let out a sigh and began walking up the steep road. He put all thoughts out of his mind, except making it up the hill to the main base. Thoughts of the past and future were meaningless; thoughts were only dreams, and dreams didn't count in war. "It don't mean nuthin'," he mumbled to himself as he brought his rifle to the crook of his arm and leaned into the hill.

Between two plywood barracks, a group of sweaty men, stripped to the waist, stood cheering in the middle of a dirt basketball court. They hollered again as a tall, lanky black man threw out his fist and knocked a small blond soldier to the ground.

"You stay down, muthafucker! Don't be foulin' me again!"

The blond shook his head and spit out a glob of blood. He stood up shakily and held up his fists. The lanky soldier grinned cruelly and moved in to finish him off. Suddenly, something hit the ground in front of him and someone screamed, "Gre- nadeV The players ran like scattered quail and hit the ground rolling.

The blond hadn't moved. He had noticed that the grenade's pin hadn't been pulled. He looked up and saw a helmeted soldier on a rise by the road. One glance at the faded fatigues without rank and the scuffed white boots told him it was a grunt just out of the field. The soldier was lean and of medium height; his rolled-up sleeves exposed the burned, brown skin and ropy muscles of his forearms.

The seething black man got to his feet and strode menacingly toward the helmeted soldier on the rise. "You better pray, muthaf..."

The soldier's hand came up in one motion, holding the M-16. The bolt slammed forward, chambering a round with a metallic "clank."

The tall man froze as he stared into the impassive pale blue eyes of the soldier-eyes that somehow he knew wouldn't blink when the trigger was pulled and his brains were blown out. The black man backed up a step. 44You crazy, man?"

The soldier spoke dryly. 44Back up and move out. The fight is over."

One of the other players snickered. 44He ain't gonna shoot, Jack, he's bluffin'." Jack's eyes shifted from the icy blue pools to the name tag above the shirt pocket. Immediately, his eyes widened in recognition and he spun around.

Another of the players pleaded, 44Jack, he's bluffin', man!"

Jack snarled, 44Shut up, fool! He ain't bluffin'! That's Gibson!"

Every player's head turned to the soldier in disbelief. Just an hour before, they'd had to stand in an awards ceremony rehearsal. The battalion commander himself had announced the ceremony would be for a Lieutenant Gibson who'd be coming in from the field. He'd explained that Gibson would be receiving a Silver Star for singlehandedly crawling into a NVA bunker and killing two soldiers inside. Four more NVA had attacked him while he was in their trench system; he shot three and killed the other with the butt of his weapon.

The players all turned to leave-all except the blond, who picked up the grenade and tossed it to the lieutenant. 4'Thanks, sir. He probably would've whipped my ass."

Gibson turned and began to walk back to the road.

Uh, sir? Were you? Were you bluffin'?"

The lieutenant's only answer was silence. His steps kicked up miniature clouds of dust.

Phan Thiet Third Platoon Base Camp

Thumper wiped his grenade launcher with an oily rag and looked up at the approaching soldier.

Rose, you better stay out of sight. If Russian sees you, you're gonna be mincemeat!"

Man, that dude is a walkin' bummer. Last night, he wouldn't let us do shit! I had to do somethin' so I could be with Chee. Shit, man, that chick wanted me, bad)."

Yeah, but sendin' that broad over and sneakin' out pissed him off. We spent two hours lookin' for you, and it took everything I had to hold him off you when you showed up."

Rose smiled slyly. 4 That chick I sent over was hot, wasn't she?"

Thumper tossed down the rag. "That was the ugliest woman I ever saw!"

"Shit, man, Russian ain't no Hollywood star his own self! The chick was hot to trot!"

"Yeah, well, she had her hands in my pants more than I have in a month. She grabbed Russian's dong and nearly ruined him when he jumped up from the table."

Rose fell to his knees with laughter. "Man, I was only trying to help the old bastard. He'll understand, man. No sweat!" He looked around the camp, still chortling. "Where is he anyway?"

Thumper motioned toward the TOC. "The platoon got orders to move to An Khe today. Gino has got him loading some radio equipment on air pallets. He'll be back soon enough, and he'll be lookin' for you."

"Man, Russian will forget everything by the time Gino gets finished with him,'' said Rose none too convincingly as he glanced over his shoulder toward the operations center.

"Yeah, well don't be so sure. You'd better start packin' your gear. We're going out on the first C-130 that comes in."

Sergeant Gino, carrying a folding chair, stomped out of the TOC so mad he couldn't speak. He'd stayed up most of the night because of the late call from Childs telling him about the move to An Khe. Childs had told him that two C-130s would be arriving at 1300 hours to move them out. He, Gino, had stayed up and written a complete, detailed loading plan to include time schedules for packing, moving equipment, and loading. The plan was a masterpiece of organization and textbook scheduling. He'd called in his sergeants and team leaders at 0800 and briefed them about the entire loading sequence and gave them a copy of the schedule so they could coordinate and systematically move men and equipment without confusion. The load-out was going to move like clockwork.

Then, 1000 hours, just five minutes ago, the Air Force Operations at Vung Tau had called and blown up his entire plan and all his late-night hard work. The two C-130s that were supposed to come in at 1300 weren't coming-mechanical problems. But good news, said the airmen. They had two other birds for support. They'd be in even earlier. One would be in at 1100 hours and the other at 1200 hours.

Gino set his chair down and sat ten paces in front of the operations center so he could see the base camp and airfield. Murphy's Law must have had the Air Force in mind, he thought.

There was no time to rewrite the plan now. He had to do what all good NCOs did at times like this: holler, kick ass, and get the impossible done.

A Ranger strolled out of his tent one hundred meters away. Gino stood up and bellowed. "You! Come here!9'

The soldier changed his direction and began walking over. Gino put his hands on his hips. "Move your ass!

Gino recognized the soldier, who had one of those 'what have I done now' looks on his face, to be one of the newer men.

Gino pointed to the tents behind the soldier. "Hawkins, I want you to run into every tent in this base camp. You will tell every team leader, assistant team leader, and every man over the rank rf Spec-4 to report to me in five fucking minutesl Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Move it!

LZ English Headquarters, 173rd Airborne Brigade

Lieutenant J. D. Gibson entered the deputy brigade commander's office wearing new jungle fatigues and a Silver Star medal pinned to his left pocket flap. He came to a halt and saluted smartly. "Sir, Lieutenant Gibson reports as ordered."

A gray-haired colonel wearing glasses low on his nose stood and reached across the desk.4 'It's a pleasure to meet you, Gibson. I'm sorry I didn't attend the awards ceremony, but I can hardly get away from this desk any more."

Gibson quickly dropped his salute and shook the colonel's surprisingly strong hand.

"Sit down, son. First, I want to say you did a helluva job as a platoon leader with Bravo Company. Your platoon alone had more kills than six of our rifle companies last month. Most important of all, you did it with very few casualties. That's a sign you're a helluva trainer as well as leader. Congratulations on your Silver Star."

Gibson only nodded. The office seemed uncomfortably stuffy to him after having lived outside for six months.

"One more thing." The colonel smiled. 4'Lieutenant Gibson, because of your outstanding performance, I'm sending you to Nha Trang, where you will be replacing my liaison officer to Corps Headquarters. This will both enhance your career and benefit this brigade."

Gibson knew he should say something but he didn't know what the hell a liaison officer was. He stammered for a moment and finally offered, "Thank you, sir." Then he allowed his stone- faced stare to fix on the colonel's forehead.

The deputy commander got up and held out his hand again.

"Lieutenant, I expect good things from you down there. You talk to my S-l across the street and he'll explain your duties. I understand you'll be leaving this afternoon, so good luck to you."

Gibson shook the colonel's hand again and was about to turn away when the colonel asked, "Did your hair turn in the field or is it natural?"

"The field, sir," Gibson replied, impatiendy. He wanted out of the stuffy office.

"Well, Lieutenant, don't worry about it. I've had gray hair for twenty years myself."

Gibson forced a smile and exited the office quickly. The battalion commander had mentioned his prematurely gray hair, too, and so had everybody else who knew him before he went to the field. He looked thirty rather than twenty-three years old.

He walked out of headquarters building and pulled off the medal. He felt naked without his ruck or weapon, and the new fatigues felt uncomfortable. "Don't mean nothin'," he said to himself as he crossed the street to find out what the hell a liaison officer was.

Nha Trang Corps Headquarters

Colonel Bob Ellis nodded as he walked past the G-l's Vietnamese secretary, then turned into Colonel Rite's office. The rotund Corps personnel officer looked up from his desk in surprise and rose to his feet. "What are the intelligence spooks doing in my part of the world? Is one of my secretaries suspected of spying?"

Ellis forced a thin smile and sat down without being asked.

Rite bristled beneath his hospitable exterior. Ellis was a junior colonel and knew better. He'd been assigned to Corps only three weeks before, but he was already one of the general's fair-haired boys, and he was flaunting the relationship.

Ellis drummed the arm of the padded chair with his fingers as he got down to business. "Charles, we have a problem. It's been brought to our attention that our replacement policy for the Corps Ranger Company isn't working well. In fact, it's in shambles. As far as I can tell from written past policy, the company is supposed to draw a few new men from in-country arrivals, but the majority are to come from veterans in the 173rd Airborne Brigade.

"Major Shane, the company commander of Sierra Rangers, tells me they haven't received veterans from the 173rd in over four months. The situation could be construed as almost criminal, especially based on the recent casualty rates of the company."

Rite's face flushed in anger. This son of a bitch Ellis was telling him he wasn't doing his job! The damn West Point junior colonel had said our policy when he damn well meant his, the G-l's, policy!

Ellis stopped his drumming and casually looked past the G-l toward the window. "Charles, I know this was probably just an oversight on our part, but we need to get the Rangers back to full strength immediately."

Ellis's eyes shifted from the window to Rite and locked on. 4 4We need to call the 173rd today and ask for one hundred men. They should be volunteers with at least four months experience. They'll report to An Khe in two days."

Rite smiled smugly and shook his head. 4'That's impossible. I could get a few men in a couple of weeks, maybe, but not a hundred. It's out of the question. I know this Ranger Company works for you, but there are a lot of other priorities. As personnel officer for this Corps, I have to allocate resources to everyone as best I can."

Ellis sighed wearily and pulled a folded piece of paper from his fatigue shirt pocket. He unfolded it slowly for effect and momentarily glanced over the contents before looking up at Rite. "Charles, I called the 173rd G-l an hour ago and explained our situation. He's an old friend, by the way. He was one of my company commanders in '67. He tells me he can put a message out to his units and have a hundred volunteers with no problem. As you know, the 173rd is in a pacification role, so all he needs is a call from you and a backup message later. He says he can have the men in An Khe in two days with no problem.