Charlie Mike (1985), page 2
Rock patted Ben’s stomach. “Ben is our M-60 machine-gunner and our team watch. He always knows when it’s chow time!”
The second member introduced himself as Sox, the radioman. He was of average build and had longer-than-normal thick, brown hair. He seemed shy and wore a Peace medal around his neck. The third soldier, a small Puerto Rican, was surprisingly handsome, with almost delicate features. His handshake was strong and his deep-set, large brown eyes sparkled when he introduced himself as Juan Ortega Isaacs Ramon Rodriguez, from Brooklyn.
Rock thumped the Puerto Rican’s chest. “We just call him Pancho.”
Meeks laughed comfortably. These men were all so young and easygoing that they didn’t fit their reputations as hardened killers. That any of them could kill other men seemed impossible, but deep inside Meeks knew that the stories about them were true. He stole quick looks at each member. There were no clues, no visible characteristics that revealed what made these men different.
Rock looked at his watch. “Come on, big ’un, I gotta get you to Major Colven’s briefing.”
Minutes later Meeks sat in the hot briefing room with eight other new men. He had heard about “the Ol’ Man” from others, and he eagerly awaited the appearance of the famous Ranger commander, Major John Colven.
Sergeant Childs walked in and barked “Ah-tench-hut!” and Major Colven strode in.
He was of medium height and stocky; his camouflage fatigue shirt strained to hold his huge chest and arms. Sweat rolled down his forehead as he removed his black beret, carefully rolled it and put it into his fatigue leg pocket. With his green eyes he looked over the assembled group. “Take your seats,” he ordered. He then sat down as a young lieutenant began an intelligence briefing. Meeks studied the major from out of the corner of his eye. Colven had a large, pink, diagonal scar that ran from the top of his forehead down across his nose to the lower side of his face. That he’d gotten it from shrapnel in Korea in 1951, and that his stomach and legs also bore testimony to the jagged, tearing metal was common knowledge. He’d received a Distinguished Service Cross for continuing his charge up a nameless frozen hill despite those wounds. He had been a nineteen-year-old staff sergeant then and had subsequently risen to the rank of first sergeant.
Years later, when the Vietnam War expanded, the Army needed experienced officers, so Colven was offered a direct commission. This was his third tour. He wasn’t handsome, but the scar was a badge that spoke for itself. He looked good with it. Meeks couldn’t explain why, but he envied it.
After the lieutenant finished, Major Colven stood to begin his talk.
“Welcome to the Rangers. I try to brief my new men so that we’re all on the same sheet of music. You are volunteers, as are all my men. Some come from field units; others, like you, volunteer at the replacement detachment when they get in country.” He turned toward the map. “First thing you gotta know is AO. AO is nothing more than an area of operation, or the area we operate in. You see it there on the map, marked off with black grease pencil.
“The AO is broken down into smaller sectors for each platoon, then further broken down for each team. Think of it as a small town in which each team is given a specific block to work with. We are the Ranger company for the corps—the eyes and ears of the corps commander. If he wants an area checked to see if the dinks are building up or using it as a supply route, he calls on us. Vietnam is big. Most people don’t understand how much land it covers. The U.S. and South Vietnamese army (ARVN) protect only a very small portion of the country. The rest is Indian Territory. Enemy units of any size must subsist largely off the land or near their supply routes. They stay where there is camouflage, food, and water. Our job is to find ’em.”
The major walked to the blackboard. “It’s not easy. Our mission is tough, dangerous work. We gather all the intelligence we can about an assigned area—prisoner and deserter reports, captured documents, diaries, the usual stuff—then we send a lieutenant up in the backseat of a spotter plane to fly over and determine the most likely spots in which to find the bad guys. He can’t fly over the area but a couple of times, or the bad guys would figure out we’re interested in that particular piece of real estate, but he takes as many pictures as he can and marks his map.
“I go over the pictures and select the platoon area. We have four platoons, with six teams in each platoon. That’s on paper. Actually, we normally only have four teams per platoon at any given time, due to rotation, R&R, and sickness. And two of our platoons are in Phan Thiet right now with Task Force South.” This was the first Meeks had heard about the company being split up. And from the look on Colven’s face when he mentioned it, he wasn’t too happy about the situation. “A team recons the area or sets up an ambush, depending on the mission.
“Four days is usually the max time we’ll keep a team out. That’s about all the time the nerves can stand without causing mistakes, and in our business, mistakes are forever. Now, how do we get our teams in undetected? The process is called an ‘infill,’ infiltration or insertion, and we do it by Huey helicopter—a Slick. The pilot can’t see anything but the tree limbs, so he is directed by our command-and-control—C&C—spotter plane flying three thousand feet above.
“The LT gives the helicopter pilot a countdown, like, two kilometers out, one klick out, five hundred meters and so on. He is, in effect, the eyes of the helicopter. The chopper lands and you guys un-ass. That’s all there is to it. In case of trouble, the guns will come in to cover. Guns are either Huey Charlie models or the new Cobra; we call ’em Snakes.
“Now, how do we communicate with the teams, since they’re so far out? We use an X-ray. The X-ray is our communications site, and it’s the most important element in our operation. We pick out the highest elevation close to the area of operations. We then helicopter in a commo—communications team—to the site with all their special radio gear.”
Colven paused and stared into the faces of the assembled soldiers.
“That’s a brief overview of how we operate. Your team sergeants will be giving you more detailed information. Men, we’re not your everyday men off the block. We’re Rangers, and we’re special because we’re damned good. Ranger is more than just a name: It’s a way of life. You must live, eat, and breathe your profession. A Ranger can have no doubts about himself or his team members. He must give one hundred and ten percent of his body, mind, and soul to become the best he can possibly be, because he knows his life and the lives of his fellow team members depend on it.
“We are a proud unit, with a tradition of excellence and professionalism. It is up to you to keep up that tradition. It is an honor and a privilege to serve with you. Good luck to you all.”
Childs snapped, “Ah-tench-hut!”
Meeks, who was closest to the door, sprang to his feet as the major strode down the aisle. He saw the major stop at the doorway and heard him whisper to Childs, “The third shitbird on the left, second row, slept through my pitch. Have him out by nightfall.”
Childs responded immediately. “It’s done, sir!”
Meeks walked back to the barracks thinking about the major’s words ‘… Your life and your fellow team members’ lives depend on it.’ Heavy, he thought. Very heavy.
He pulled open the barracks door. Rock was sitting on the closest bunk, cleaning his M-16. Across the aisle, Rodriguez was doing the same. Ben and Sox sat against the wall, taping fragmentation grenades. Each man looked up with a smile or nod as Meeks entered. Rock waved him over to his bed.
“Well, big ’un, did the old man give you his Ranger rah-rah?”
Meeks smiled. “He’s impressive.”
Rock set down his oily rag. “The Ol’ Man watches out for us. He can be a real bastard at times, but he knows the business.”
Just then the front door opened, and a broad-shouldered, muscular sergeant walked in. He was about twenty-one and stood five ten. His short, sandy hair contrasted with his black beret, which was pulled low over his right eye. He looked over his men; then his eyes locked on Meeks.
Rock quickly stood. “Grade, meet our newest member, Kenneth Meeks. He’s from—”
“I’ve read his file,” said the sergeant without taking his eyes off the new soldier.
Meeks was spellbound by the sergeant’s strange gray eyes. They seemed totally expressionless, and his voice was likewise cold, detached.
Grady’s gaze turned to Rock and softened. “Has he got his equipment yet?”
“No, Grade, he just got the Ol’ Man’s briefing.”
Grady’s eyes shifted back to Meeks and immediately turned cold again. “Get him his equipment, take him to the range, and get him qualified on all our weapons. Then drill him on the lingo. I’ll talk to him after chow.”
Rock looked at his sergeant as if confused, then stiffened and quietly said, “Sure, Grade.”
The other men stared at the sergeant in disbelief as he pointed at Meeks.
“The cherry is not a team member till I say he’s a team member.” He turned to Rock. “I’ve got a mission brief tomorrow. We’ll be going out in three days. If this cherry isn’t ready in that time, he’s out!” The sergeant pivoted on his heel and walked out the door.
Ben exchanged glances with Sox and Rodriguez. Rock shook his head and patted Meeks’s shoulder. “Sorry, big ’un. Grady been actin’ kinda funny since we lost Bartlett. Don’t think nothin’ of it. Ol’ Ben’ll make sure you makes it.”
Sox tossed his ruck on the floor. “Dig it, dudes: Grade said to get him qualified on the guns. It’s fourteen-thirty; we ain’t got much time.”
Rock pointed to Rodriguez. “Pancho, get the weapons from the connex. Me and Ben will get his gear. Sox, you write down the lingo.”
Rock smiled at Meeks. “Well, big ’un, looks like we got work to do.”
Meeks’s marksmanship with the team weapons earned him a nickname. When he fired the M-79 grenade launcher, he hit the target on every shot, and Ben made a big thing of it.
“You sure can thump them rounds out,” he said.
Rock immediately picked up on the comment and called him Thumper. By the time he got to the mess hall an hour later, everyone was calling him by that name.
“Okay, Thump,” Rock said over a cup of coffee. “This is just the start. You hang tough when you talk to Grady. Don’t let him get you down. We’ll get you ready in three days.”
Rodriguez waved his fork at Meeks. “Sí, man, no problema. I teach you everything.”
Ben shook his massive hand at the Puerto Rican. “Pancho, you can’t even talk English. How you gonna teach anybody?”
The Puerto Rican immediately tensed and waved his fork at Ben’s black, grinning face. “Man, who say I no speak good English?”
Ben leaned back. “I rest my case.”
“Oh, yeah, man?” Pancho replied. “You test the Thumper and you see how good I teach him to talk.” He pushed a piece of paper across the table.
Sox looked it over. It was a list of words, a compendium of the special vocabulary used by Rangers when they were out in the bush.
“Okay, what’s a blue line?” Sox asked.
Meeks answered immediately. “A river or stream.”
“Yeah. Now, what’s a daisy chain?”
“Two or more Claymore mines rigged with detonation cord so they’ll blow simultaneously.”
Sox grinned at Ben. “I think Thump has got the lingo down, man.”
Pancho nonchalantly looked over his fingernails. “I told you, man.”
Sergeant David Grady sat in his room, absently paging through a two-week-old edition of Stars & Stripes, when Rock knocked on the open door. “Come in, Rock. You never have to knock. You know that.”
Rock entered, letting out a deep breath. “Shit! Grade, after this afternoon I wasn’t sure.”
Grady shook his head apologetically. “I guess I did come on strong, but you guys gotta be more careful. You’d take in a damn cobra and try to make a pet out of it.”
“We ain’t talkin’ about pets, Grade. Thumper is gonna be a real—”
Grady’s face flushed. “You laid a nickname on him? Damn, Rock, what the hell you doin’? He’s not a team member. He’s a dumbass cherry who doesn’t know his butt from a hole in the ground. He’s got it or he doesn’t.”
Rock shook his head. “Grade, when I came to this team, you accepted me without all this stuff you’re havin’ him to do. You didn’t have any of the team do it.”
Grady looked at Rock and spoke softly. “You’re right, I didn’t. And three weeks ago I sent Greg home in a body bag. I’m not losing any more of you, Rock. I … I couldn’t take it. Now, is that all you came for, to talk about the cherry? Because if it is, the conversation is over.”
The thin soldier nodded sadly and walked out without another word.
Grady tried to take stock of his feelings. Why had he acted like such an ass to the cherry and the team? He remembered when he had first seen Meeks, he’d become inexplicably angry. He couldn’t help it. The sight of him, the replacement for Greg … Just thinking the word replacement had made him mad. It wasn’t Meeks. It was the idea of him taking such a good friend’s place, a friend who had been killed by a man whom he, Grady, had passed by.
I should have searched the first man. I would have followed procedure and pulled his hand with the pistol free. Greg would be alive and … Damn, Greg, I’m sorry … so sorry.
Grady fought back tears and took several deep breaths. He’d gotten too damned close to his men. He should have known better, but it had just happened. He’d never done it before. It was just … just here in Vietnam that … Shit!
The sergeant spun around and rotated his shoulders back. Meeks wouldn’t be on the team, by God, unless he pulled his own weight. Grady knew he was right in demanding it. Still, he’d been wrong in snapping at his team. They were his men and needed his friendship.…
A loud knock at his door broke Grady from his thoughts. It was Meeks, there as ordered. Grady sat down and snapped, “Enter.”
Meeks walked in and stood in front of his sergeant, who leaned forward in his chair and looked up.
“Meeks, your record at the An Khe Ranger school is impressive, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. I’ve seen too many cherries who could perform in school, but who couldn’t cut it when real bullets started flying. The next couple of days will determine if you go with us on the upcoming mission. I’m going to push your ass and see what you got inside.” Grady stood up. “Those men out there would accept you now because they think they could make up for your mistakes. They probably could, in many cases, but I won’t take that chance … for their sakes.
“You’re going out tonight and fire again. Ben will take you. Once you’ve completed your night-firing, Pancho will march you around the perimeter. It’s five miles. You’ll carry your rucksack with all your equipment, plus a twenty-five-pound bag of sand. That’s all; move out and pack your gear.”
Meeks stood steadfast, feeling an odd sensation he hadn’t felt in a long time but was like an old friend. He tingled with an electriclike energy that flowed through his body, charging every nerve and fiber: The sergeant was challenging him.
“Sergeant Grady, permission to speak.”
Grady raised his eyebrows. “Speak.”
“Sergeant Grady, I don’t want any team member to have to watch out for me or cover my mistakes. I agree with you. I have to prove myself. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
Grady stared at the big soldier for several seconds, then motioned toward the door. “Move out,” he said.
Private Wes Peteroski lay on his bunk, holding a new black beret.
“Dove, I’m not Airborne like you guys. Do I have to wear this?”
“ ’Course you got to wear it! You’re in this unit, and it’s part of our uniform,” said Dove taking off his boots.
“But I’m only a clerk. Couldn’t I just wear a regular hat?”
Dove tossed a boot to the floor. “Look, Pete, you’re not just a clerk. You’re important! You’re my replacement when I’m driving the Ol’ Man.”
Pete shook his head doggedly. “I’m out of place here. Couldn’t you-all find an Airborne-qualified clerk?”
Dove lay back on his bed. “No, we-all can’t. Look, the Dove will take care of you. Just wear that beret and be proud of it. If anybody hassles you, let me know.”
Pete lay back, too, and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Then he shut his eyes.
“Dove?” He said.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now shut up. I’ve got to wake up Sergeant Grady early tomorrow.”
It was still dark when Grady felt a nudge and opened one eye. A smiling Dove stood over him. The sergeant shut his eye and rolled over.
“Dove, you’d better be a bad dream, ’cause you gonna die otherwise.”
“Come on, Grade, the Ol’ Man moved up the briefing.”
Grady sprung from his bed, grabbing Dove. “You gonna die!”
The two arm-wrestled a moment, laughing and hitting each other with exaggerated blows. Grady finally pushed Dove onto the bed and looked at his watch. “Damn, it’s only oh-six-hundred. When’s the brief?”
“Ten minutes. Corps’s got some good intelligence and wants it checked.”
Grady yawned and bent over for his trousers. Dove took the opportunity to push him over and ran for the door. He just made it to the hall when a boot hit him squarely in the back.
Grady laughed loudly and retrieved his boot. Dove had been on his team when he first took over and was a good friend. “Dove, wait a minute and I’ll walk over with you.”
Dove nodded with a grin and walked down the barracks aisle to wait while Grady dressed. Rodriguez pulled himself out of bed and walked toward the door to visit the latrine.
“What’s a matter, Pancho? You sure movin’ slow.”
The Puerto Rican pointed to Grady’s room. “Man, Grade, he say march the cherry, but the cherry, he march me!”
