Charlie Mike (1985), page 20
A buxom redhead walked toward him, suggestively shutting her eyes and puckering her lips. “I am, I am.”
The nurses laughed again at the red-faced lieutenant. Finally the time came, and he led them in a countdown: “Five … four … three … two … one … chowtime!”
Some tore right into the mush; others only nibbled. Jean found hers to be quite good. But whatever any of them thought of the food, Bud was certainly a hit. Jean watched him as several of the girls made moves on him. He was obviously loving it.
“Your lieutenant is some dreamboat.”
Jean turned toward the familiar voice, shaking her head. “Susie, he’s not my lieutenant.”
Sue looked at her, genuinely surprised. “You’re kiddin’ me. He’s glanced over here at you at least ten times. Everybody here has noticed it. Even Sylvia has backed off—says she can’t compete.”
Jean dropped her gaze to the floor, embarrassed. “It’s your imagination, Sue. He’s not interested in me.”
The cute blond shook her head. “I swear, girl.” She glanced over at the lieutenant. “Probably just as well. His kind will break your heart.”
Jean shot her head up. “Why did you say that?”
“Look at him. He’s your sincere kind. They’re the worst. He’s a one-woman man, but he also loves his profession, and they never mix, you know?”
Jean smiled. Her friend was trying to protect her.
“Don’t worry, Sue. He’s just a patient.”
The petite blond patted Jean’s arm. “Sure, Jean. Just a patient.”
Bud prepared another meal and crutched his way over to Jean. “Pretty Captain, would you escort this cripple over to a hungry trooper?”
She looked at him quizzically. He held out the packet. “I gotta take care of the troops. It’s for Val.”
Jean grinned. He didn’t forget his friends—another point in his favor. Taking the food, she began leading him to the door. Several of the nurses catcalled about their leaving early. It wasn’t fair for Jean to hog the guest, they said.
Bud yelled back, “I shall return. Keep the beer cold!”
When they delivered the Lurp packet to Val, she was so surprised at his considerateness that she gave him a big kiss—much to his embarrassment.
Then Val took a large spoonful of the food and gulped it down. She chewed for several seconds before suddenly falling back, grabbing her breasts, and pulling out her fatigue shirt.
“My God! I’m growing hair on my chest!”
He leaned over to see for himself, but Jean pulled him back.
When they set out again for the nurses’ compound, Jean walked beside him in silence. They passed the MP booth and back into the party room. It was empty.
“What a bunch of party poopers,” he said aloud, looking for a beer in a forgotten cooler. There was none.
Jean shrugged her shoulders. “Come on down to my room. I’ve got a few beers left in my small fridge.”
“Well, all right! Can’t turn down an offer of a beer in a woman’s room.” He winked at her.
She blushed but led the way.
The room was homey, he thought, as he stood in the center of the tiny place. The two beds both had matching blankets and sheets from stateside. A small refrigerator sat against the far wall, and judging from the assorted bottles, pictures, and other items on its top, served as a table. Next to the door was a bookcase that held paperbacks, tapes, a Panasonic reel-to-reel, and an amplifier. The cement floor was covered with a large, expensive Oriental rug. There wasn’t a military thing in view except each girl’s extra pair of boots under her bed.
Jean opened the refrigerator and pulled out two Pabsts. “The opener should be behind you, next to the tapes.”
Bud saw it immediately. It was a fancy Coors opener with a large plastic handle. She handed him his can.
On the near wall were colored posters taped to the unpainted Sheetrock walls. One of the posters was of a couple holding hands and walking through a waist-deep field of yellow flowers. It said “Togetherness is happiness.” The other poster was an American Airlines travel poster depicting a Colorado mountain snow scene.
“You from Colorado, Captain?” Bud asked.
“It’s Jean. Please call me Jean, will you?”
He smiled and took her beer can. “Okay, Jean, but you gotta call me Bud.” He held out the opened can to her. She took it and raised it as if to toast.
“To Bud and Jean—regular people.”
“Hear, hear.”
Jean sat down on the thick rug and motioned for him to come sit on the closest bed. “I’m from Golden, Colorado, Bud. Home of Castle Rock and Coors beer.”
“You like it there?”
“I love it. It’s not that far from Denver. Have you ever been there?”
“Drove through it, I think, my sophomore year. We got a busload of us to go skiing. Isn’t Loveland Pass the ski resort up that way?”
“Sure is. Best skiing in the country.”
“It was pretty. Froze my ass off, though. I spent more time on my rear than on the skis.”
Jean laughed as she got up and walked to the bookcase to turn on the reel-to-reel. “Aquarius” immediately filled the small room. Jean turned the volume down and browsed through her collection of tapes.
“I bet this bed is yours and that one is Val’s,” he said.
She glanced up surprised. “How did you know?”
He grinned as he put his hands on his hips. “ ’Cause, honey, your feet ain’t that big.” He motioned with his head toward the huge fluffy slippers under the other bed.
Jean resumed her previous position on the rug.
“Amazing, Mr. Holmes. Pray, tell what else you have deduced.”
Bud thought a few seconds. “Well, my dear Watson, the rug came from Hong Kong, purchased on a recent R&R. It obviously belongs to the nurse called O’Neal. It’s classy, like the lady. The reel-to-reel is also hers and was purchased through the Pacific Exchange Catalogue, as were the amp and speakers. The popcorn popper belongs to the other woman, and the black gentleman in the picture on the refrigerator is either the other woman’s gentleman friend or her very young father.”
Jean sipped her beer. “Not bad, although I didn’t go to Hong Kong. Another nurse bought it for me there. And that’s Val’s boyfriend.” She brushed back her hair. “Please continue.”
Bud looked around the room until his gaze fell on Jean. Her light brown eyes were wide and searching. The slightly dimpled chin, which gave away her every emotion, seemed to be quivering. She was a strong-willed woman, he knew, yet she was sensitive too. Very sensitive, he thought as he spoke.
“I have deduced that Captain Jean O’Neal likes her profession, but it bothers her to work on a ward where so many young men lie broken. Also, the captain has a secret. She wears a special face when she works. She also uses a special tone of voice—authoritative and short; a special way of laughing—forced; and a special way of making conversation—light, meaningless small talk. The real Captain O’Neal takes off her secret face when she leaves the ward.”
Jean stared at him without expression. “Am I that bad, Bud?”
“No, you’re really good, Jean, but it’s obvious you don’t like to get to know the patients. Maybe it’s the training you all get, huh?”
Jean lowered her head. “No, it’s not in the training. It’s … it’s coping, I guess. I don’t want to know any of you too well.” She looked up at him. “It hurts too bad when you leave or when your wounds turn bad. I just can’t take that too many times, you know?”
Bud nodded. He really did understand. He’d lost enough friends in the war to know exactly what she was talking about.
“How do you cope, Bud? How do you do the things you do and keep your sanity?”
Bud shifted his eyes to the hypnotizing revolving disks on the tape player. He spoke quietly while watching their slow rotation. For some reason an image of the blood on the floor of the airplane came back to him, but he instantly blocked it out. “I don’t think about the death and the hurting. I think about the challenge of it. The excitement that comes from it is so … It’s a release of such … Hell, I never could explain it.” He broke his fixation and turned toward her. “I guess I joke a lot to … to cope. Laughing is better than crying, I suppose.”
She hesitated, then said “Bud, does it ever bother you that you like it?”
He studied his empty beer can, opened his mouth to answer, then paused and looked questioningly into her eyes.
“Yes.” His answer was a whisper. “I guess it makes me wonder what kind of a person I am.” His eyes shifted back to the can.
Suddenly she rose and sat on the bed beside him. His eyes never acknowledged her. Only his hand betrayed him as it reached out and took hers. Jean leaned back, resting her head on his chest.
Bud sighed deeply, absorbing her fragrance and closeness. It was just too good to be true, he thought, as he leaned his head back on the wall, trying to comprehend the strange feelings that were overwhelming him.
The couple remained motionless, afraid to move and break the spell. The tape came to the end of its reel and automatically stopped with a metallic clunk.
Bud opened his eyes and began to rise. Jean moaned and held his hand tighter.
“I better get goin’, Jean. It’s late.”
Jean moaned again as she snuggled closer, obviously not wanting him to go, but after a moment she released him, and he stood awkwardly on one leg. When she stood, he slipped a strong arm around her and pulled her close to him. They stood inches apart, looking into each other’s eyes, searching. Bud leaned forward and gently kissed her. Her lips were soft and willing, and her body trembled as she hugged him closer.
Oh, Jesus, Bud, he thought, fighting back his desire. “Captain O’Neal, thank you again for a wonderful evening, and if ever again you need a Ranger to help fix a Lurp, well, you know where to find him.” He bent over and retrieved his crutches, then turned and moved toward the door.
“Bud,” she said suddenly.
He turned around.
“Thank you for everything.”
He smiled. “My pleasure, ma’am. Anytime.”
The night slowly gave way to dawn, revealing the faint silhouettes of waiting men who squatted around their standing lieutenant.
Le Be Son adjusted the green mourning band on his forehead before putting on his jungle hat with its new scarlet patch. It was time. “We go,” he said.
Son began walking down the worn path. He felt strong. The coolness of the mountain morning was refreshing and a good sign. His pack was light. The commander had instructed him and his men to travel light. They would be returning in several days, victorious, to claim the rest of their meager belongings. The light of dawn gradually revealed the long column of men as they wound down the steep, tree-covered trail. Son smiled. Revenge was near.
The old woman stroked the sleeping girl’s hair, receiving strength from her strong spirits. The girl slept with the woman to give her the needed power to fight the black spirit that closed one’s eyes forever.
The valley people were gone. She’d heard them preparing and finally departing, leaving the Mnong to their mountain again. The girl would be heavy-hearted when she learned of their leaving. She had found a strong spirit in the tall valley soldier.
The old woman’s wrinkled brown hand patted the child’s forehead. She brushed a lone tear from her ancient eye. The young were hurt so easily. They did not understand. He would return, only to leave again. He was a valley dweller. The child would learn the bitter truth and become less of a child. She was Mnong. Only the mountains stayed forever … only the mountains.
Captain Ed Shane pushed open his screen door and stepped out. He’d gotten up early to read the recent after-action reports before talking to his new boss, Major Colven. Last night’s meeting had lasted only a few minutes. Colven had wanted to be briefed by his executive officer, Captain Treadwell, and the first sergeant before assembling all the officers for their scheduled meeting.
Shane took a deep breath of the morning air as he gazed down the gently descending hill to the hills on the other side of the small valley. He could just make out the large perimeter fence and huge observation towers that silhouetted the tops of the brown, barren landscape. He shook his head, remembering his last tour. He hadn’t had the opportunity to enjoy many mornings such as this one.
He was turning for the shower building when Captain Treadwell stepped out of his room and yelled to him. “Hey, Ed, wait up and I’ll give you the nickel tour.” He jogged up to Shane and clapped him on the back. “We’ll shave; then I’ll show you around.”
They walked a few paces before Shane turned and looked at the long white cinder-block building. It reminded him of a cheap motel.
Treadwell stopped. “The officers sleep on that end.” He pointed to the near end of the seventy-five-meter-long structure. “The old man’s hootch is on the end. The senior NCOs sleep from door six, there, all the rest of the way down.”
“Where’s the latrine?”
“It’s behind the shower point. You can’t see it from here. It’s another fifteen meters down. You going to it?”
“Sure. A morning sit-down is good for the soul, you know.”
“Well, you’d best be careful. It’s the first sergeant’s latrine.” Treadwell smiled. “You’ll see what I mean when you get there. The first sergeant doesn’t like flies. You haven’t met Top yet, but when you do, you’ll understand.”
Shane and the executive officer parted company and Shane walked around the shower building. What the hell was Treadwell talking about? he wondered as he approached the rear of the small gray outhouse. It looked like the rest of the standard Engineer-built rear-area latrines: wood three-quarters of the way up, screening around the top quarter, and a flat tin roof. There was gravel spread around the building, and the telltale hinges on the back meant it was the usual burn-type latrine. The rear was designed to swing up and allow access to two fifty-gallon cans, cut in half, and positioned under the wooden toilet bench above. The barrels were periodically withdrawn, partially filled with diesel fuel, and set on fire. The pungent smell of burning body waste was all too familiar to any soldier who had been in country for any length of time.
Shane strode around to the front of the building, and there he stopped in awe. The door was a common screen door, but nailed to it were eight sections of inner-tube. My God, he thought as he grabbed the door handle and pulled. Nothing happened. Using both hands, he pulled harder. The door gave only a fraction. Shane put his foot on the wall to bring his leg muscles to bear. The door opened slowly. Now what? he wondered. He gingerly slid his body through the opening, keeping his back braced against the doorframe while holding the steel trap open with straining arms. Once in, he released his hold. The door shut with a loud clap, shaking the entire building.
Damn! He wiped the sweat from his forehead. The inside was spotless and freshly painted. So this is the “first sergeant’s latrine.”
Captain Treadwell had shaved half his face when Shane walked in and took the sink next to him.
“I know you warned me, but damn!”
Shane chuckled as he swirled the razor in the sink of water.
Colven walked out from behind a partition with a towel wrapped around his waist. “So you’ve been introduced to the first sergeant’s latrine, have you?
Shane smiled. “Yes, sir, I sure have.”
“You’ll like Top. He is unquestionably the best I’ve ever seen.”
Shane watched the major from the corner of his eye as he dressed. He couldn’t help but notice the deep white scar on the major’s stomach. Unlike the pink one on his face, the stomach scar was ugly and disfiguring. Damn, he must have really been hit bad, he thought as he picked up his razor.
Colven put on his pants and turned toward Shane. “Ed, I read your file. You were with the Herd your first tour, huh?”
“Yes, sir. I was with Bravo Company, 503rd, in ’68.”
“Were you with them at Dak To?”
“Yes, sir. I was the company commander.”
“That where you were hit?”
Shane lowered his eyes. “Yes, sir. I was wounded the third day of the attack.”
Colven nodded while putting on his shirt. He knew all about Dak To. Some of the worst fighting of the war had occurred there. The 503rd had lost almost forty percent in casualties during the battle.
He glanced up at the captain again. His record was impressive. Shane would be promoted within the year and probably take over the company when Colven left.
The captain was not quite six feet tall and looked older than his twenty-eight years. His body was thin but raw-boned. Only his confident eyes revealed his strength. Colven smiled to himself. They were the eyes of a leader.
Shane and Treadwell walked back to the white building and stored their shaving gear, then strolled down the red clay-packed road to the main camp.
“The base is built on three plateau steps. We’re on the second step. You see behind the BOQ?” Treadwell turned and pointed behind the white building to where the grassy slope continued up for fifty meters past the building. “Up there is the first step. We call it the Golf Course. You can’t see it from here, but on top is the largest helicopter landing field in the world. It’s flatter than a pancake and stretches for almost a mile.”
“Do they land planes up there?” asked Shane.
“Nope. The airfield where you came in last night is a good three miles away, at the southern end of the base.”
“Damn, how big is this base?”
“Big! It takes an hour just to drive around the perimeter road. They keep the Rangers away from everybody else. The main camp is where the Fourth Division and most of the support units are located. We’re on the most northern end.”
The two men continued walking, kicking up a light dust cloud. The slope leveled as they walked. Treadwell pointed out the operations center and the low, rectangular wood-and-tin buildings that were the barracks. Typical of most troop housing, they had been built with plywood panels and were screened halfway up.
