Friendly Fire

EARLY BIRD BOOKS

FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY

BE THE FIRST TO KNOW—

NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!

Friendly Fire

C. D. B. Bryan

To

Michael Eugene Mullen,

his family

and the men of Charlie Company
,

1st Battalion, 6th Infantry
,

198th Infantry Brigade, Americal Division
,

Who were with Michael on the night that he died

Author's Note

All the material in this book not derived from my own firsthand observation of the events is taken from historical texts, public or official records, original correspondence, journals kept by a participant or extended interviews with those persons directly involved. All interviews with the major participants were tape recorded. Transcripts of these interviews were then submitted to those individuals to provide them an opportunity to make corrections. In those few instances of disparate recollections or failing memory, I have had to rely upon the majority opinion and my own judgment in determining what actually took place.

In reconstructing those conversations which I was not present at, I have assumed that if an individual recalled what was said and this recollection was confirmed by a second individual and there was no obvious advantage to be gained from a depiction of the conversation as recalled, then a reconstruction using the dialogue as remembered might be accepted as true. In most instances with the Mullens it was possible to reconstruct their conversations through corroboration by a third party, notes taken by Peg Mullen at the time of the event and the consistency of details as recalled.

The reconstructed “Mission” chapter at the end of the book was achieved through separate interviews with Lieutenant Colonel H. Norman Schwarzkopf, Captain Tom Owen Cameron, Abraham Aikins, Martin L. Culpepper, Gary Samuels and Willard Polk, each of whom had either taken part in the planning of the operation or been present on the hilltop when Michael Mullen died. Each man received a transcript of his interview and subsequent reconstructed version of the mission for review and correction. Although Willard Polk's court-martial transcript was valuable for details of subsequent events, I naturally had to rely on the men's memories of that night. I am most grateful to them for their cooperation and the dedication with which they assisted me in getting the story right.

This is also as good a place as any to express my gratitude to certain other individuals who have been instrumental in this book: Carl D. Brandt, Harvey Ginsberg, William Shawn, Martin J. Baron and Sam.

I have taken the liberty of changing the names of some of the minor participants in this book.

I suppose one can never be satisfied that one has asked all the questions one might have asked, double-checked all the details one might have double-checked, seen all the people one might have seen. But because all the major people in this story have read the finished manuscript and have expressed their agreement with the incidents as described, I am confident that what I have written is true and that the events, scenes and conversations took place as depicted.

C. D. B. B.

Chapter One

September 3, 1969, his last night of leave, Michael Eugene Mullen worked until ten o'clock on his family's 120-acre farm five miles west of La Porte City in Black Hawk County, Iowa. He remained down in the lower 80 acres upon his father's old plum-red Farmall H-series tractor ripping out brush and dead trees, bulldozing the trash into the dry streambed of Miller's Creek, clearing and filling in the land so it could be used as pasture again.

By midnight, when his father, Gene Mullen, had returned from working the late shift at the huge John Deere tractor plant in Waterloo, Michael had completed his packing and was still awake talking to his younger brother, John, behind the closed door of the bedroom they shared. Peg Mullen, Michael's mother, and Mary and Patricia, his two younger sisters, were asleep, so Gene made himself a cup of instant coffee and sat alone at the kitchen table. From where he sat Gene could see Michael's Vietnam orders resting on the same little corner table in the living room where they had stayed during his older son's entire twenty-three-day advance leave. One morning, when Michael had picked up the thick sheaf of duplicate orders and riffled through them absently, Gene had said, “Mikey?”

Michael put the orders down. “Yes, Dad?”

“Mikey, what are you going to
do?
”

Michael met his father's look with a thin, uneasy smile. “I guess, Dad,” he said, “I guess I'm going to do what they taught me to do.”

Gene started to ask, “How?” Michael, as a boy, could not bear to be present when livestock were slaughtered. Gene wondered how the Army had been able to teach Michael to kill. He had started to tell his son that he believed the force that makes people kill is the greatest evil on earth. But Gene hadn't said anything, and Michael did not speak either.

And so that last night of Michael's leave, Gene sat cradling the mug of coffee in his hands, listening to the muted voices of his sons. Then he stood up and knocked on their bedroom door. Michael opened it. Gene could see beyond his son the closed barracks bags, the Army uniform and shined black shoes set out for the morning.

“Would you like anything from the kitchen, Michael? A beer?”

Michael finished locking up his metal tackle box. It held his arrowhead collection, special letters, snapshots, the corporal stripes he'd earned at Fort Benning, addresses, insurance papers.

“No, no thanks, Dad,” Michael said. He carefully taped the key to the lid and slid the tackle box onto the top shelf of his closet.

Gene, still standing in the doorway, could not look away from Michael's uniform hanging on the back of the open closet door.

“Mikey?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful?”

Michael smiled at his father. “I will, Dad. I will.”

The next morning was warm and sunny. John got up early and caught the bus to school. Michael was all packed and in his uniform. Breakfast was over, the dishes done. Gene kept looking at the electric clock over the oven. “What time did you say your plane left?” he asked.

“Ten,” Michael said. “I have to check in by nine thirty.”

Michael looked at his watch, and Gene glanced again at the electric clock over the wall oven door.

Peg was moving back and forth across the kitchen, dabbing at counters with a sponge. “Would anyone like some more coffee?”

“No thanks,” Gene said.

“You, Michael?”

“No thanks, Mom.”

“What time is it?” Patricia asked him.

And before Michael could tell her, he had to look at his wristwatch once more.

Gene stood up, tucked in his shirt and walked over to the kitchen window. He bumped into Peg turning around and apologized.

The Mullens decided to leave for the Waterloo Airport early. Gene drove with Michael sitting up front next to him. Peg, Patricia and Mary sat in the back. The family hardly spoke.

The center of Waterloo is about fifteen miles northwest of the Mullens' farm, and the airport is another few miles beyond that on the other side of town. They drove past the big new shopping center on Route 218 with the Hy-Vee Market, the Sears and J.C. Penney stores. Gene said something about how fast all that area was changing, and Michael agreed.

They passed the Robo-Wash and Burger King, Donutland and the Cadillac Bowling Lanes, and soon they were caught up in Waterloo traffic. They cleared the city, and beyond were the flatlands and railroad tracks they had to cross before reaching the airport.

Michael wouldn't let his father help him with the barracks bags, insisting it would be easier for him to carry them both himself. The Mullens entered the terminal building a little after nine. They took seats in the small, near-empty waiting room and stared out the large window at the vacant airfield.

Michael kept wiping his palms on his knees.

“Do you need a magazine?” Peg asked. “Something to read?”

Michael stood up abruptly. “Maybe I can check in anyway,” he said.

“It's still early yet,” his father said.

“I know. But maybe I can check in.”

“I'll go with you,” Mary said.

“No, don't.” Michael smiled at her. “I'll be right back.”

Peg worriedly followed her son with her eyes.

“He looks scared,” Patricia said.

“He's fine!” Gene said gruffly.

A few minutes later Michael returned waving his tickets. He sat back down next to his mother. “I'm all checked in.”

“Did you get a magazine?” she asked.

“I'll read something on the plane.”

“Do you have everything?”

“I'm fine, Mom.
Really.
”

Peg looked away from her son and out the window.

When Michael's plane landed, he stood up and his family rose with him.

“Look,” Michael told them, “don't stick around for the plane to leave. You don't have to wait.”

“We'll wait,” his mother announced firmly.

“No, please,” Michael insisted, “I'll be all right.” He went to Mary and Patricia and told them goodbye, that they shouldn't wait around, that they should tell John there'd be a lot more work now that he was going. And Patricia and Mary each had a moment to themselves with Michael, a chance to tell him to take care of himself, to be careful, that they would pray for him, miss him, that they loved him and would write letters all the time and would send him things, anything, all he had to do was tell them what he needed. Michael kissed them each, and they moved away because it was their parents' turn.

Gene fingered a small bronze medallion the size of a twenty-five-cent piece that hung from a chain around his neck. The medal, depicting the Virgin Mary, had been struck in commemoration of the first Catholic missionaries who went into China. The inscription around it was in Chinese. The medallion had been given Gene thirty-five years earlier by a Chinese student he had befriended when they were undergraduates together at Marquette University in Milwaukee. Gene had worn it ever since. He lifted its chain from around his neck and handed it to his son, saying, “Mikey, I've tried to give you everything.…” Gene's voice broke, and he took a deep breath and began again: “Tried to do everything that a father could do.…”