Solemn Duty (1997) (2 page)

"I don't have time to bullshit with the colonel," Anderson snapped. "The birds will be here any second."

"Sir, you'd better talk to him-I don't think the lift birds are coming. I heard that he canceled them."

"What?"

Tall, sandy-haired, and wearing glasses, Lieutenant Colonel Richard Stroud stood studying a wall map in the tactical operations center when Anderson stormed in and confronted him.

"Sir, what the hell is going on? Where are the slicks?"

Stroud slowly cocked up an eyebrow. "Captain, surely I don't have to remind you who's in operational command here.

You do not have the authority to mount an operation without my say so. And you most certainly don't have the authority to authorize the use of aviation assets or the calling out of the strike battalion. You were out of line, Captain."

"Out of liner Anderson repeated incredulously. "One forty-seven is going to be attacked! As duty officer I ordered what was necessary so we could respond as quickly as possible."

"Captain, I'm well-aware you were responsible for the training of the indigenous population of 147, but one sighting report from an inexperienced Cambodian officer does not justify mounting an operation. May I remind you I have six other camps under my operational control, and each is just as important as 147. Confirmation of the report is necessary; there are procedures that must be followed and priorities that must be considered."

Anderson closed his eyes for a moment to try and control his seething anger. He took in a breath, let it out slowly and spoke, trying not to sound condescending. "Sir, Lieutenant Torn is anything but 'inexperienced.' He has been in the program for four years. He was a college professor and taught English at Phnom Penh University before he enlisted in our program. He rose through the ranks, sir, and has been in more action than all our teams have seen put together. He's been wounded three times and he's been awarded more medals for bravery than Audie Murphy. When he says the NVA are approaching and that he needs support, I believe him. Tune is critical, as We must have the fighter bombers hit the lead NVA units before they have time to deploy and organize for the assault."

Stroud smugly held out a handwritten report from the radio operator. "Look for yourself, Captain. lieutenant Tram reported his scouts saw a single battalion of North Vietnamese regulars. One forty-seven has over three hundred drialdaS. A single battalion of NVA is almost the same strength ... hardly a threat to an entrenched force I should think."

Shaking with frustration, Anderson ignored the report and pointed at the map. "That's right, sir, he reported a battalion.

Their lead battalion. The terrain restricts the enemy's movement until they reach the valley. If the NVA are moving in battalion-size strength, you can bet more battalions are following the first. This is it, sir. This is what we've been waiting for. We've got the enemy in strength, and in the open. We can annihilate them."

The other operations staff officers and NCOs had stopped wort and were watching, holding their breath. Stroud felt their eyes on him. He raised his chin and motioned Anderson toward the planning room. "1 think we should discuss this matter in private."

"Discuss what?" Anderson blurted. "There's nothing to discuss! Every second we delay reduces the chances of getting the strike force there in time, and the Air Force's chances of hitting them before they deploy. I need those slicks, sir. I need them now!"

Stroud began to respond but was stopped by an excited voice coming over the nearest radio speaker box. "Papa Zulu Three, this is Camp One-four-seven. We are being hit by mortar and rockets. Where is the air support? Over."

"You need any more confirmation, sir? That's Lieutenant Tram's voice."

The colonel visibly tightened and he barked loudly, "Everybody out! Clear the TOC! Not you, Anderson. You stay.

Everybody else out, now!"

The radio operator lifted the handset as if confused. "Sir, what do I tell Lieutenant Tram?'

'Turn the radio off and follow my orders. Get out!" Stroud hollered.

Oh God, God, please don't let this happen, Anderson said to himself as the officers and sergeants hurried to the door. He had known since first meeting the colonel half a year ago that high command could not have picked anyone more ill-suited for the position. Not Special Forces or even airborne qualified, Stroud was a Military Intelligence officer who had never commanded troops at any level, nor had he ever served in a line unit. He'd been the regional commanding general's intelligence staff officer and yes-man. Though extremely intelligent, Stroud had no idea what was going on in the field and made no effort to find out. Not once in the six months since his arrival had he visited a field site or camp. Behind his back everybody called him Dugout Dicky.

Stroud pushed his glasses farther up on his nose in a quick motion and snarled, "Anderson, that display of hostility toward me in front of my subordinates is going to cost you. Don't bet on a promotion anytime soon."

Anderson looked his superior in the eyes and spoke, trying to keep himself under control 'The birds, sir, I don't give a shit about promotion, I care only about getting the bids and those fast movers. I promised the people of 147 I'd be that. I made that promise because it was a part of your script. My word and the word of our nation is at stake here, to say nothing of the lives of those people. You have to get me those buds, sir.

I beg you."

Stroud glanced at the wall map and slowly shook his head.

"It's impossible. I couldn't get you slicks even if I wanted. The political situation won't allow it The administrator's new policy of turning everything over to the South Vietnamese government and getting our boys home has escalated into something none of us was prepared for. Orders have been sent to all regional field commands instructing that no further tactical operations by U. S. forces will be conducted the place American servicemen's lives at risk."

Anderson's knees suddenly felt like rubber and his munch seemed to have descended down to his testicles, but be wasn't about to give up. "These have to be exceptions, sir. This situation certainly warrants one."

Stroud took off his glasses and walked to his desk. Sitting down, he looked up at die visibly shaken officer. "You're act listening, Anderson. It's over. We're pulling out of this Godforsaken country. We're turning over operations to the South Vietnamese. It's their war now."

"What about the Cambodians? Jesus Christ, sir, we armed and trained them; we promised them our support! We can't back out and let diem die!"

"A bit theatrical aren't you, Captain? If Lieutenant Tom is as experienced as you say, then 147 has a good chance of beating off the attack."

Anderson's jaw muscles rippled as he stepped closer to the desk. "They can't hold without air support. You have to authorize at least two dozen sorties of fast movers to give Tram and the villagers a fighting chance."

The colonel sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Afraid not The Air Force won't fly missions unless they're protecting U. S. forces. One forty-seven is on it's own."

"Do you realize what you're saying? You're condemning those people to die. They think we're coming, they're going to fight in the belief we'll stand by our word!"

"Anderson, our past president promised the American people we would win the war, and now we've got over fifty thousand dead servicemen and we're no closer to winning than when we started. The South Vietnamese government promised their people they would win the war, and they've lost well over half a million lives. In war, promises are made with the best of intentions but things change, promises get broken. Look, I know it's tough to swallow, but as I said before, it's over. Stand down your team and pack your gear.

Tomorrow I want you and your team on the first bird to Nha Trang. Your job here is finished."

Anderson stared at the colonel accusingly. "You knew this was going to happen, didn't you? You knew and yet you didn't say a word to me. Why? Tell me, Colonel! Why didn't you tell me and the other team leaders? Was it because you knew we would have never agreed to train and arm the people. Was that it?'

Stroud put his glasses back on but avoided Anderson's stare.

"Every North Vietnamese soldier that the defenders of 147 kill or wound is one less soldier for the South Vietnamese government to contend with. Sacrifices must be made, Captain Anderson. Yes, I knew some time ago these changes would occur, but neither my mission nor the general's mission changed. General Gradd and I discussed the matter in some detail and we both felt--although it was a very difficult decision for both of us--that you and the other team commanders should not be informed. As you alluded to, we both knew how attached your teams became to your indigenous villagers. To be quite frank, we did consider that you and the others might dissuade your people from becoming our early warning trip wires."

Anderson nodded as if understanding. "I see," he said quietly, then he exploded. Lunging across the desk, he grabbed the colonel by his fatigue shirt lapels, yanked him out of the chair and slammed him on the desktop. Leaning over, he hissed in Stroud's face, "You're going to murder the people of my village, you sonofabitch! You used me and you used them. Early warning trip wires'? No sir, they are people, decent, hardworking, loving people who believed in us. You remember that when you look in the mirror for the rest of your miserable life. God damn you to hell!"

Releasing his grip, Anderson backed away and marched out the door into the darkness. He only made it four steps before he sank to his knees in anguished pain. Closing his tear-filled eyes, he saw the faces of the people he had grown to love. Forgive me, please forgive me!

Frenchy sat on the ground beside his wounded grandfather, who lay looking up at the eerie swaying yellow light high above in the smoke-filled sky. Around them the ground shook with teeth-rattling explosions and the air seemed alive with green and red tracers that zipped overhead, singing their songs of death. The parachute flare finally faded and fizzled out, leaving the camp defenders blinded in darkness. The machine gun's chattering and the screams of the wounded and dying seemed louder in the dark, the frightened boy thought as he squeezed his grandfather's hand for reassurance. Then he heard be familiar popping noise, and high above, another. Bare burst into life, once again bathing the fort in golden fight. Leaning OWE, the boy checked the old man's wounds and saw to his horror be despite his best efforts to stop it, the strange, black frothy blood was still oozing from the thumb-size hole in his grandfather's breast. The old man's eyes rolled slowly to his grandson and he spoke thickly. "Go . . . go to your grandmother in the bunker, little one. See to her and the others. They will be afraid"

His hand trembling, the old man fit his cleat for the gold chain, found it and tried to bring it to his mouth but was too weak. The boy reached out, lifted his grandfather's battered ivory Buddha and gently placed it between the old man's trembling gray lips. Immediately the fear in his grandfather's eyes was gone and he began mumbling his prayers. The boy watched with hope, but the light of life in his grandfather's eyes dulled, and like the flare, dimmed and slowly extinguished.

Knowing he was safely in Buddha's arms, Frenchy patted his grandfather's hand one last time, picked up the rifle the old man had carried, and stood. Bright, rapid flashes of blue orange light from the portals of the remaining bunkers told him they were not yet defeated. He felt pride knowing they were still holding on after so many hours of constant battle, but he knew all too well that time was running out. Once again he looked up, as he had countless times before in the past hours, praying to the enlightened one to see or hear approaching helicopters. But the hissing flares danced alone in the night sky.

Where are you Captain Robert? Where are you?

A bullet zinged so close by his ear that he felt the hot wind of its passing. Lifting his chain, he placed his Buddha in his mouth and started walking toward the lower bunker, where the women and children were taking refuge. A rocket swished past, leaving a spiraling trail of white smoke, but he didn't notice because his eyes were searching the ground so he would not step on the dead. The light of the flares had given everything the same earthly golden hue and cast strange, ghostly dark shadows.

The dead, some with torn or shattered limbs and others with even more ghastly killing wounds, lay like golden monuments, silent and still, serene in death. Gripping the heavy rifle tighter, the boy continued on, stepping over the moaning wounded and past those still alive, who fired their weapons, reloaded and fired again. Walking down the smoking bullet-plowed slope, he had to jump several trenches, and he could see at the base of the hill yet more golden bodies hanging limp in the wire, their eyes and mouths blackened like demons. Then the light began fading from gold to orange-brown then death-blade He stood frozen in place, afraid to move in the darkness. Only his eyes moved, left then right at each muzzle flash of a weapon being fired. Gun smoke mixed with the until of turned earth and the coppery sweet odor of blood filled his nostrils, making him feel dizzy.

Suddenly, a flare popped overhead and he was bathed once again in the golden yellow light. Clutching the rifle, he again began walking down the slope until he heard men shouting to his right. As he crouched, yelling, running men came through huge gaps in the wire. Red tracers from the bunkers' machine guns cut some of them down but many kept coming up the slope. One of them threw something inside the portal of a machine gun position. A moment later the earth seemed to erupt beneath his feet. He fell, and an instant later a white-hot wind pasted over in a rush, then clods of dirt rained down around him, followed by a choking cloud of dust.