the Last Run (1987) Page 14

  The lieutenant stiffened. "Nothing, sir, except..."

  "Well?"

  "Sir, I feel I should be with the replacements. They're from the 173rd and so am 1.1 think I should take the same training they are so that I'll have credibility. I'll take off my rank if I need to."

  Shane eyed the lieutenant, then looked at Childs, who winked approvingly.

  Shane's eyes shifted back to the L-tee. "It's not fair to the ragbags if the replacements have an officer."

  Gibson elbowed the shaven-headed officer beside him. "Sir, Fm sure Lieutenant Avant will accept the position of ragbag leader. He is a North Georgia graduate and all."

  Avant swallowed a piece of cake. "Sir, it would be a profound honor indeed to show this Aggie what a real leader is."

  Shane hid his pleasure with a frown and leaned back in his chair. There was the officer training program to consider. He knew he could train them after Childs's two-week program, but. . .

  Childs spoke up. "Sir, I think it's a good idea to have some internal leadership to keep the armies under control. It could get out of hand."

  Shane pointed his finger at Gibson. "You are now a maggot."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Shane then pointed at Avant. "And you're a ragbag."

  "An honor, sir," said Avant. "I shall uphold the name with dignity and pursue the ... "

  "Get outta here!" interrupted Shane, unable to contain his smile any longer.

  First Sergeant Demand rocked back on his heels as the men kept filing into the mess hall. He suddenly came to attention and marched direcdy toward three blacks who had just walked in.

  First Sergeant's eyes had narrowed to slits as he approached the first, who was tall and wore his shirt partially unbuttoned, exposing a long, black shoestring necklace with a black plastic closed fist on its end.

  Demand stopped four paces from the tall soldier, who stared at him defiandy.

  "Boy, what yo think this is-a black panther headquarters?"

  "I ain't no boy," said the tall soldier, glancing at his two smiling friends.

  "You sure ain't a man, and you ain't dressed like a soldier. I guess you're right-you ain't a boy. You a wimp I A weak, incompetent, malingering pus-say. Now, wimp, you got ten seconds to get that unmilitary paraphernalia off your ftinky body, or the first sergeant's gonna introduce you to his black power fist upside your wimp head, cleart"

  The tall soldier squared himself to the glaring sergeant and smirked.

  The first sergeant took a step closer, speaking softly. "You got your hands full fighting dinks. I don't think you wanna complicate your life and try out the first sergeant." The broad-shouldered sergeant's stare was cold and cutting. He whispered almost in- audibly, "Five seconds, wimp."

  The soldier's eyes nervously shifted back and forth. He turned slightiy, glancing at his friends, who wouldn't return his look. The men around them backed up quickly. He looked back at the small, muscular man before him, who, no doubt, meant exactly what he said. His hands shot up for the necklace.

  'Now, button up your shirt, boy. They gonna think yo queer.''

  The first sergeant's eyes shifted slowly to the other two black men, both of whom quickly took off their necklaces and began buttoning their shirts.

  "Moooove out, troop-ars! You holdin' up my line!"

  Rose sat across from Russian staring at his food and feeling sick. Russian looked up after eating his meat loaf. "What is wrong, Rose?"

  Rose shut his eyes wearily. "Man, I ain't run in months and my stomach is saying 'fuck you.' "

  The Czech took Rose's food tray and smashed the meat loaf into mush with his fork, then mixed the meat with the mashed potatoes. He pushed the tray back. "You must eat small bites and drink water or you will become weak."

  Rose shook his head and leaned back in his chair. "I can't, man. Don't feel like eatin' nothin'."

  Russian stood and walked around the table and sat down beside the black soldier. He picked up a spoon and held it toward Rose. "You will eat or you not leave. You must have strength for tomorrow. Eat!"

  Rose sighed and took the spoon. "Man, you're worse than my mama."

  Seated behind Russian in the corner of the mess hall were the Ranger cadre team sergeants who were the experienced junior leaders of the company. Thumper had been asked to join them to represent Wade.

  Sergeant Zubeck, an athletically built six-footer who was team leader of 2-1, sat at the head of the table and leaned back in his chair. "Childs is in complete charge of the training program and wanted me to tell you he has total confidence in our ability to train the men. He's giving us the authority to kick out any man who shows he's weak or gives us any back talk. He said if we say a man goes, he goes."

  Sergeant Selando, a half-Mexican and team leader of 1-3, snickered. "Then you can kiss a third of them good-bye. We had a bunch that barely made the run today. Wait till tomorrow when they're sore and tired."

  Thumper leaned forward. "What about the guys from the 173rd? How much should we expect them to know since they've come from regular line units?"

  Sergeant Zubeck rolled his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. "Thump, we gotta assume they don't know much. They've come from just about every unit in the 'Herd' and all have different levels of experience. Most of the young line dogs only do as they're told. They're not used to thinking on their own. Most can't read maps or talk on the radio with the right procedures to call for helicopter or artillery support. What they do have, though, is time in the bush. They know how to move, shoot, eat, sleep, and live in the field. That alone makes them better than cherries who are scared to death the first couple of times out.

  "We'll teach them the Ranger basics and build on expertise later. The ones you're looking for are those that can think on their feet and catch on quick. Don't waste your time on weakies and dummies. There isn't time to train 'em. If you see one with a weakness, correct him immediately. If he improves, watch him a little longer. If he doesn't improve, toss his ass out right and concentrate on the others."

  As Thumper thought about Robbins's torn body, he knew he would give no mercy to any student, and the doubts he had about his abilities as a trainer dissolved. He had the experience to do the job and he would do it. He vowed to himself that no student of his would die like Robbins.

  Sergeant Zubeck rose from his chair. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm hittin' the sack. Tomorrow is gonna be kick- ass, and I wanna be the one who's kickin'."

  Thumper left the mess hall and walked down the road toward his barracks, but suddenly changed direction. He had to satisfy his curiosity. As he opened the door to the replacement maggot barracks, he was met by blaring music from a cassette player.

  "Give me a ticket for an airr plane ..."

  Sitting on the closest bunk beside the cassette player was the reason Thumper came. The man's eyes were closed, and he was singing along with the music.

  Thumper had been watching Woodpecker all afternoon, convinced that the surly redhead would have quit before the run. He had constandy complained and given smirking, indignant looks to all the Ranger cadre. It was obvious to Thumper that Woodpecker had an attitude problem and wouldn't make it... at least it had been obvious until Woodpecker had raced the Indian.

  When Stecker opened his eyes, he showed no surprise at seeing the big, bereted soldier staring at him, and he kept singing.

  Thumper bent over and pressed the4 'stop" button.4 'How come you raced the ragbag?"

  Stecker picked up the cassette player and pushed the rewind button. "'Cause nobody beats Woody Stecker, especially no cherry."

  "He beat you," said Thumper with a half-smile.

  Stecker looked up with a scowl. "This time he did. Next time he won't."

  Thumper saw his opening and attacked. 4 4You mean you're gonna stick around for a next time?"

  Stecker tossed the cassette to his pillow. 44Yeah. I'm gonna whip his ass, and then I'll . . . uh . . . "

  "Quit?" said Thumper, already seeing the an
swer in the soldier's eyes. 4 4I thought you probably would. I just wanted to check to see if my hunch was right."

  Thumper turned to leave, feeling a twinge of sadness. 4'No sense you hangin' around to run. The first time you give another Ranger instructor one of your 'give a shit' looks, you'll be out on your ass ... if not knocked on it." Thumper began to walk for the door and motioned to the soldier's equipment.4'Might as well pack your bags. You'll be gone by noon tomorrow."

  "Fuck you," growled Stecker.

  Thumper spun around. "Pack 'em now! You're out!"

  Stecker jumped to his feet in rage. "Fine! You assholes in your berets make me sick anyway! You all walkin' around like you're somethin' special, and you ain't shit! I got more experience than most of ya, and you treat me like a fuckin' cherry!"

  Thumper glared. "So that's it? You thought you'd just come here and get handed a beret? You expected to volunteer for the Rangers and that'd automatically make you one? Well, I got news. It's a helluva lot more than that."

  "Says you! I got plenty of experience in the bush. I'm the best 60 gunner around and could go out on a patrol right now. But no. You assholes wanna play stupid-ass games and go on runs that don't mean nothin'."

  Thumper turned his back and walked for the door. He wasn't going to waste his time any longer. He began to push the door open but stopped himself. He remembered when he'd first arrived at Penn State to play football. He'd been the most sought after high school fullback in the state and had thought the team would accept him with open arms. They hadn't. In fact, it seemed the coaches and older players wanted to get rid of him by the way they rode him. He'd thought he was good and would easily make the team, but he was almost cut the second day out. The head coach had told him, "Meeks, you have an attitude problem. You think you're good. You were, in high school, but this isn't high school. You're either going to play our way and change your attitude or you're gone."

  Thumper knew Stecker had something strong inside of him that made him compete against the Indian. It was that something that separated some men from others-something that was worth saving.

  Thumper turned around to try. "Do you know how to use 'resection' when you're trying to find your location on a map? How about the bursting radius of a Mark-82? Okay, an easy one. What is a salute report message?"

  Stecker mumbled a "Screw you" and sat down on his bunk.

  Thumper stepped closer, pointing his finger at the redhead's face. "No, Mister Experience, I'm not letting you off so easy. Answer the questions. Do you know any of them?"

  Stecker shook his head with disgust. "Games, man. You're playin' games and it don't mean nothin'."

  "It isn't games! You can't answer simple questions that any Ranger could. You can't navigate in the jungle without reading a map, and resection is used to pinpoint your exact location by using a compass. You can't call in air support if you don't know where you are, and you sure as hell can't drop bombs, Mark-82s, unless you know their bursting radius, or they'll splatter you or the team. You spot some dinks but you can't tell higher headquarters over the radio because you don't know how to use the salute report format. S-a-l-u-t-e-size, activity, location, unit, time, and equipment.

  "Woodpecker, you may be good in the field, but you aren't a Ranger. You gotta know everything I just told you and a helluva lot more. Tracking, advanced first aid, artillery, and gunship fire adjustment, enemy weapons and uniforms, radio codes, ambush techniques . . . shit, I could go on, but I think you get the idea,"

  Stecker's intense gaze met Thumper's. "And runnin'? What the hell does that teach?"

  "It tells us who really wants to be here and who doesn't. It tells us who's weak and who'd flake out of a mission. You saw the ones that fell out today. Would you want them on your team?"

  Stecker lowered his head. "No. But why you-all gotta be such assholes? There's other ways to get your point across."

  "Charlie is an even bigger asshole, and he gets his point across with an AK-47. We don't have time to be nice guys and convince you this training is necessary. You either accept it or you don't."

  Stecker sat silent for a moment, pondering Thumper's words. At last he said, "You reckon you could at least call me Stecker instead of Woodpecker? My buddies in my old unit called me 'Woody.'"

  "Sure, maggot, I could, but I won't. Woodpecker is to remind you you're in this unit.... Now, what's it gonna be? You wanna be 'Woody' in a leg unit or 'Woodpecker' with us?"

  Stecker stood up and sighed. "I guess Woodpecker ain't that bad." He held out his hand. "Thanks."

  Thumper ignored the gesture and walked for the door. "Don't thank me. You haven't made it yet. . . maggot."

  Woodpecker snickered. "I will . . . and I'm beatin' that ragbag, too."

  Unseen by the redhead was Thumper's smile as he said to himself, "Thanks, coach," and headed for his hootch.

  Highway 1

  Matt Wade sat outside, leaning against the bamboo frame of the hootch and holding the .38 on his lap. The old couple and the boy were sleeping behind the rest station store in their thatch- covered hut.

  Wade took in a deep breath of the cool night air and quiedy got to his feet. He walked into the hut, knelt by the sleeping woman, and nudged her gendy. She didn't stir. Wade poked her harder and put his hand over her mouth, whispering, "Be quiet and get up."

  Her eyes opened wide and she sprang up.

  "Shhh! Get your stuff and follow me."

  "Why?" she whispered.

  "We're moving to another place to sleep in case the dinks come sneakin' around."

  She quickly balled up her poncho liner and followed him. Wade walked for several hundred meters to a slight rise and spread out his poncho.

  "We'll sleep here and go back when it gets light."

  Wade laid down and put the .38 by his head. The woman laid down beside him and spread the poncho over them both. Wade looked up at the stars for a moment, then shut his eyes.

  "Wade?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Eh . . . I. . . well, I just wanted to thank you for taking care of me. I know I seemed bitchy at times, but I just didn't know what to do. ... I know you acted mean to make me angry so I'd forget what happened but . . . but, well, you got me through it and I appreciate it. If I can do something . . . Wade? . . . Wade? . . . VadeT'

  "Huh . . . what?"

  "Did you hear anything I just said?"

  "Huh?"

  "Go back to sleep. I just said 'thank you.' "

  The sergeant turned his back to her and sighed tiredly. "No sweat."

  For several minutes she lay in silence, listening to his breathing and trying to understand why he bothered her so. It had to be the way he looked at her. His eyes never seemed to see her as a woman, only as a burden. The first time she looked into those eyes in the mess hall, they seemed to be absorbing rather than seeing her. It was like he was reading her life's history in a book. Later, when he sat down, she'd caught him staring again, but then his look was strange and distant. From that moment on, he'd never looked at her in any other way.

  Virginia snuggled closer to him, putting her arm over his waist. "No sweat" was all he'd given her in return for her gratitude, but she needed more-even if she couldn't understand why. Well, tomorrow was another day.

  Chapter 8

  7 September

  Thanh Van Vuong stirred the embers of the small fire and pushed the blackened pot closer to the coals.

  Pham Do Kinh rose from his hammock and squatted down by the fire. "Do we have enough to buy the ducks?"

  Vuong glanced at the two large stacks of cinnamon next to his hammock. "One more tree should give us a full load and more than enough money."

  Kinh smiled and leaned over to check the simmering rice. "Your grandfather was right. There are many cinnamon trees in the valley. We will have to give him some duck eggs for his wisdom-once we buy the ducks."

  Before Vuong could reply, he heard a noise and looked up. He dropped his chopsticks and froze as three North Vietnamese soldiers approach
ed with their weapons pointed at him and Kinh.

  Sergeant Van looked about the camp and stepped in front of Vuong. "Why are you here?"

  The squatting men exchanged nervous glances. Vuong looked at the rifle barrel pointing at his head, then up to the sergeant, and stammered. "We ... we are collecting cinnamon. The valley has many trees and we are collecting some to sell and buy ducks for our farms."

  The seigeant raised his brow, unconvinced. "What village did you come from?" he snapped. "How long have you been in the valley?"

  Vuong gulped several times to control his shaking. 4 4We came from Hien Thien, twelve kilometers to the east. My grandfather told us of this valley and the cinnamon trees he had seen here many years ago when he was a boy. We walked here. . . . Have we done something wrong? We are ... "