Chapter 15 

(© 1996 Michael J. Horton. All rights reserved.)

The luster of my new position wore off quickly as the passing days transformed what novelty there had been into yet another routine. I was only reminded of my changed status from time to time when an officer walking by me in the compound would point his finger at me and say, "Don't screw up my pay." This was certainly a form of attention I could have done without. The days in August were long and unbearably hot, which caused us to be irritable much of the time. A few new personnel arrived in the battalion about the 10th of August, and two of these people had the potential to influence my life for good or ill.

First, there was Leonard Walls, an elderly man who was a chief warrant officer with the rank of CW-4, the highest grade possible for a warrant officer. He was to be the assistant adjutant for the battalion and also Captain Simpson's replacement as personnel officer. We were excited when we learned that Walls was an experienced personnel man, and we hoped he would fill the leadership void we had labored under till now with Captain Simpson. We also received Greenley's replacement in the person of one Sergeant Garvey, a short, fat E-7, who was visually jinxed because his eyes didn't roll together as they should, though as far as I knew he could see just fine. When he faced me at a distance, I couldn't tell whether he was looking at me or someone else beside me because his eyes looked in different directions. Physically, he and Greenley were as opposite as night and day. Garvey was also quiet and didn't project Greenley's confidence, traits I would probably get accustomed to in time.

The third new face belonged to a sergeant E-5 about 27 years old who worked in supply and whose name was Wilkens. We could tell from Wilkens' pay file that he had been in the army for eight years, and he was technically, therefore, a lifer. Unlike most career men, however, he was very unassuming, and he kept to himself. In fact, since moving into our barracks, Wilkens had hardly spoken with anyone, and he spent his free time reading on his cot. For some reason, his reticence seemed to annoy others in the barracks, particularly Altman and some of the commo people that Altman had fallen in with. The rocketman seemed to bristle whenever he came near Wilkens, which fortunately didn't happen often because the two men were at opposite ends of our quarters.

Sergeant Garvey worked at a desk next to Greenley, and I felt self-conscious knowing I was being watched by two sergeants at the same time. True, we also had two personnel officers, but Captain Simpson wasn't around much now that Chief Walls was on the job. It was peculiar the way the two men treated one another. Walls assumed total control of the section immediately, as if Simpson had never been there, while Simpson, though clearly relieved to have no responsibility now, was reluctant to relinquish his authority to Walls. Simpson would come into the office from time to time and question Walls at length about pending matters, a practice which visibly irritated Walls. I had no idea how long we could survive this dual command structure, for it was getting emotionally crowded in the office, at least it was for me.

Late one night in the bunker, shortly after these new arrivals, some of us were drinking and talking about Garvey and Walls. The new personnel officer was universally liked, but most of the others present showed disdain for Garvey because he wasn't as macho as Greenley. Altman made some derogatory comments also about Garvey's wife, who we knew was oriental because Garvey kept a small picture of her on his desk. Suddenly, Benson, the 1st Cav reject, interjected himself into the conversation. "Hey, you'd better be careful what you say about Orientals," he said. "I'm married to a Japanese woman myself." When no one had anything to say about this revelation, Benson became emboldened. "Yes, sir," he said, "anybody who bad-mouths my wife had better watch out. One time a guy called her a name, and I beat the hell out of him." Incredibly, I got this weird feeling in my bones that I knew what was coming next.

"Is that a fact," Steiger said.

"Yes, it is," Benson replied, unwittingly.

"Well, what did he call her?" Steiger asked. "I'll call her the same thing." Saying this, Steiger stepped up to Benson, chest to chest, taunting him. I knew that Steiger had been spoiling for a fight with Benson from the day the infantryman had arrived, and now it appeared he had his chance.

"Never mind," Benson said, "it's not important." Benson may have been a dim bulb, but clearly he was no fool.

"Come on," Steiger insisted, "what did he call her?" Steiger put a finger on Benson's chest and pushed him backward. "Well, what was the name?" Benson still didn't take the bait.

"Okay, Steiger," Alvarez said, "why don't you lighten up. You're bumming us all out here." Not wanting to antagonize Alvarez, Steiger backed away, but he turned his head and spit on the ground contemptuously as he did so. That meant we weren't to have a fight after all, and that was just fine with me. Fighting was stupid and never proved anything anyway.

The hostility arising from this confrontation hung in the air like some foul vapor and made it impossible to generate any further conviviality, so we all turned in for the night. I went to sleep immediately.

During the night I dreamed that a bear had crawled into my bed and was trying to push me out. Suddenly, the bear was shaking my arm and calling my name. "Horton...Horton, wake up." Gradually, my mind cleared and I realized someone other than a bear was attempting to wake me. In the dark, I could make out Lew's face. "Horton, get up," he said.

"Why?" I asked. "Are we being attacked?"

"No," he said, slightly exasperated. "You've got to come to the office right away. Now, come on."

"Why?"

"Never mind," he said, "just get going." When he saw my feet hit the floor, he left. I looked at my watch. God, it was 3:10 A.M. The first thing I did was open a warm beer and take a few generous slugs, hoping this would sharpen my mental acuity as I dressed. I would have preferred coffee, had there been any. As I walked through the crisp night air, I could see that the lights were on in the personnel office. Outside the door stood a 2-1/2 ton truck, in the back of which were about a dozen men with their duffel bags. As far as I could tell, most of them were PFC's. Inside, Garvey, Steiger, Lew, Barnett, and Alvarez were all sitting down, looking at file folders. "Here," Garvey said, handing me some files, "look at these 201's." Though I was fully awake now, I had no idea what was going on.

"What are we doing?" I asked.

"Looking for personnel clerks," he said. "We have 13 men outside who just came in country, and we're going to skim off the cream before we send them to the line companies. We need four candidates to replace Steiger, Lew, Alvarez, and Barnett, so get busy and read the test scores in these 201's." Suddenly, I understood. Since we had first crack at all the men coming into the battalion, we could take our pick when we needed someone to fill a personnel job. What a brilliant idea. The scheme was all the more exciting because we were doing it under cover of night. I sat down and began to review the files, searching for high test scores in math, English, and clerical skills.

"Hey, this guy Bradley is pretty smart," Alvarez said. "He's got two years of college too."

"Well, put him here on the desk," Garvey said. "We'll make a pile of the best and then winnow it down." After an hour of pouring over the folders, we came up with four likely nominees for the positions, whose names were Bradley, Wagner, Stone, and Penney. Acting on a thought that had crossed my mind earlier, I decided to put my own interests forward.

"I think the pay section should get Bradley and Wagner," I said.

"Wait, wait," Garvey said, raising his hand. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. First, we should find out if these four want to be personnel clerks. There's no point in recruiting someone who doesn't want the job."

"Good point," Steiger said.

"Why wouldn't they want the jobs?" Lew asked.

"Because," Alvarez said, "some people hate paper work."

"Maybe so," Lew said, "but it beats slogging around in the mud."

Barnett ushered the four men in, and we were all amazed by the outsized physique of one of them, who turned out to be Bradley, the only one of the group who had gone to college. Sergeant Garvey explained to the men our need to locate replacements for the personnel staff who would be leaving soon, and he painted the rosiest picture possible of the attributes of clerical life. The four men listened attentively, as they tried to comprehend the nature of the choice being offered them. "Well, what do you think?" Garvey asked the men. "Do you want to work in personnel?" Looking slightly bewildered, the men glanced at one another, then at us, then back again at each other. Finally, one of them appeared to make a decision.

"Sure, why not," Bradley said, smiling. The others nodded agreement. "After all," Bradley continued, "it's Wednesday."

"No, it's Thursday, the 17th of August," said another of the four, after looking at the dial of his watch.

"That'll do just as well," Bradley said. Oh, God, I thought to myself, the guy is a wise ass. Just what I needed.

Garvey took me aside momentarily and spoke to me in a hushed voice. "I'm going to let you have Bradley and Wagner for the pay section," he said, "because they're the smartest of the group."

"Thanks, Sarge, I appreciate that."

"Don't thank me," he said. "I'm not doing you any favor here. It's just that you're going to need all the help you can get." His tone of voice startled me.

"What do you mean?" I asked. He seemed surprised that I didn't know what he was talking about.

"Between September 15th and the 28th, we have to out-process 250 men and in-process their replacements. What remains of the original battalion is rotating home over a period of only two weeks. I thought you understood that," he said. He patted me on the shoulder. "As head of the pay section, you'll have your work cut out for you." Speechless, I could only stare at him. He turned and walked back to where the others were talking among themselves.

When the meaning of his words sank into my brain, I felt as though I had been run over by a truck, a very large truck. The insidiousness of the conspiracy against me was now painfully obvious. `Greenley thinks you're very capable,' Johnson had said. `The other men involved don't mind at all. Trust me.' What an idiot I had been. They had made me head of the pay section because Steiger and Lew didn't want the headache of handling such a huge rotation of men. Of course they had been amenable to my being put in charge. I felt betrayed.

Garvey, Barnett, and I stayed at the office to in-process the 13 men in the truck, while the others went back to bed. As I did each man's travel voucher, I had an opportunity to make small talk and to elicit some information, and I was particularly interested in the backgrounds of the four we had chosen to be in personnel. Bob Wagner was from Wisconsin, and his older brother had been a major league baseball pitcher for several years, a subject about which I was completely ignorant. Naturally, it was with some embarrassment that I admitted to Wagner that I had never seen his brother play baseball on television back home. Apparently, everyone else in the office that night had seen him perform on the mound.

Jason Stone was from Colorado, where his father owned a 50,000 acre cattle ranch, a circumstance that made me wonder why the son of such an affluent family hadn't procured a deferment from the military, like all the other rich kids. Since Stone was somewhat shy, I didn't feel it was my place to ask, so I didn't. Philip Penney, who was to be Alvarez' replacement, was from Rahway, New Jersey, and had enlisted in the army two months after his high school graduation. Like many others who volunteered for service because they thought they could make a difference, Penney seemed genuinely enthusiastic about the war.

Paul Bradley, at 6 feet, 3 inches in height and 220 pounds in weight, had been a football player at Kalamazoo College in Michigan. Though definitely not a patriot, he had dropped out of school and enlisted because he felt guilty to be deferred from the draft when so many of his friends were going to Vietnam and fighting. While I understood this sentiment intellectually, I couldn't get my arms around it emotionally, since the last thing I had wanted was to be drafted into the army. Of course, I was 26 and Bradley was only 20 years old, a difference of practically generational proportions when it came to the stuff of war. Actually, Bradley was rather cynical about our involvement in Vietnam, a common attitude among the EM. I liked Bradley right away because he was bright and had a sense of humor, qualities he would need to survive as a pay clerk. We found cots for Bradley and Wagner in our barracks, but Stone and Penney had to go to the one next door because we lacked room for all four.

Over the next several days, I did my best to teach the new clerks the basics of pay, and I made them type real vouchers, stopping to ask me questions when necessary to their understanding. At first, this educational process seemed daunting, but I was surprised by the speed with which Bradley and Wagner learned, especially Bradley. In keeping with his thinly veiled disdain for authority, Bradley constantly referred to me as "boss." When I asked him not to do this, he responded by saying, "Sure, boss." It was odd, but for such a big man, he displayed an easy grace in the way he carried himself, almost like a ballet dancer. I attributed this fluidity of movement to his athleticism. Altman, to his regret, interpreted the same quality to be a lack of aggressiveness on Bradley's part.

From the first day Bradley took up quarters in our barracks, Altman had been nagging him about his size, referring to him as "the big man" and throwing around the old saw that "the bigger they come, the harder they fall." One night Bradley was lying down, completely prone on his back, when Altman strolled to the foot of his cot and made some snide comment. In an instant, Bradley pulled his legs up in the air and then flipped himself off the cot, landing upright on his feet in front of Altman. Without pausing at all, Bradley threw all his weight into his right arm and punched Altman squarely in the face. The surprised look that came over Altmen when he saw the blow coming was comic, but unable to react, he was sent flying through the air. He crashed on the cot across the aisle, and his momentum carried his body over the cot and onto the floor. I immediately glanced away from Altman to Bradley to see if Bradley intended to step forward and hit Altman again. But, no, he sat down on his cot, sensing he had made his point.

Altman picked himself up, and, still stunned, put his hand to his mouth, where he discovered a river of blood gushing down his chin. To my surprise, he started crying and calling Bradley a bully, which made me laugh. I could tell that everyone who witnessed the event was unsympathetic toward Altman and considered him to have reaped what he had sown. The next day, Bradley confided to me that he frequently was tested in new social settings by people like Altman, and he had learned that the best approach was to accept these uninvited challenges early in order to put to rest the issue of his willingness to fight. After he did this, he said, most people left him alone.

Several evenings later, I was again requested to visit First Sergeant Johnson in his hooch, where I was offered, and accepted, the customary glass of Cherry Herring. I had already overcome my feelings of resentment at being tricked by Johnson and Greenley into taking charge of the pay section, so I said nothing about it. Johnson seemed to be in a serious mood. "Did Sergeant Greenley talk to you about the rotation in September?" he asked.

"No, he didn't," I said. Johnson acted surprised.

"That's funny," he said. "He told me he would." The concerned look on his face told me he was perplexed about having to give me the bad news personally. Feeling sympathetic for his predicament, I let him off the hook.

"It's okay," I said, "I'm aware of it. We have about 250 men leaving the battalion over a two week period, and about that many coming in."

"That's right," he said, clearly relieved that I knew the situation. "That's what I wanted to discuss with you. Have you given any thought to how you're going to handle this project?"

"No, not really." Having said this, I realized I had been too angry about the matter to give it any attention, though I should have.

"Well," he said, "I want you to think about it and come back in a couple of days and let me know what I can do to help you."

"Okay, I'll do that," I said. As I stood up to leave, he stopped me.

"Another thing," he said. "If you haven't taken your R&R yet, you might consider going soon, before this thing starts. It might help to have some rest between now and the time this crunch occurs. If you decide to go, bring your R&R request to me, and I'll get it put through right away."

As I walked back to the barracks, I contemplated the chore that lay ahead of me, and I chided myself for failing to formulate any plan of attack for handling the rotation. Johnson was right, of course. This mass exodus and influx of men would need some organizing in advance, if there was to be any hope of pulling it off without a mess. God, it boggled my mind: 250 men in two weeks was 21 men per day coming in, and 21 per day going out, not counting Sundays. The out-processing would be hard, but the in-processing was sure to be a nightmare because it was so time consuming. Clearly, I had to bend my mind to the task that lay ahead.

Over the next few days, I thought long and hard about the obstacles I would have to hurdle to accomplish the rotation in September. Nothing much occurred to distract me from this contemplation, except the blow-up between Chief Walls and Captain Simpson. Walls, having gotten a gut full of the Captain's meddling, called Simpson outside the office. Some of us ran to the wall, where we ducked down out of sight. Through the screen, we could hear Walls speaking in an angry voice. "Captain," he said, "you don't seem to realize that, as a grade four warrant officer, I outrank you. I have been loathe to pull rank on you, but you leave me no choice." We heard Simpson mumble something in reply. Whatever it was he said, it sent Walls into a rage. "Captain," he said, "you will come to the position of attention when I'm talking to you!"

"Oh, wow," Alvarez whispered, "he's locking his Goddamn heels. This is great." All we heard from that point on was Walls berating the Captain about his lack of cooperation and his apparent desire to interfere in the smooth operation of the personnel section. Before long, the dressing-down was over, and we had to scurry back to our places to avoid getting caught when Walls returned, which he did. Simpson left, probably too embarrassed to come back inside. Had I been he, I would have retreated also, knowing the smirks I would have to endure from the enlisted men. In truth, it was all we could do to hide our glee from Chief Walls, even though he, like the gentleman he was, tried not to notice.

Having thought the rotation problems through, I took my R&R request to Sergeant Johnson that evening. The key to organizing the in and out processing, I had discovered, lay in the realization that the two phases had different time parameters. There could be no delays for the men going out, since they had established times when they had to be at the 22d Replacement Battalion for transportation home. Therefore, their paperwork required clocklike precision. There were, on the other hand, no time constraints on the incoming men because we had them for a year, and we could do their paperwork, catch as catch can, around the other tasks, which included preparing the monthly payroll.

"I think I have this planned out in my mind," I told the first sergeant.

"Good," he said, "how does it work?"

"Two shifts per day for the outgoing men," I said. "We interview 10 men from 8 to 10 A.M. to see whether they want partial payments or advanced travel pay. We prepare their paperwork from 10 A.M. till noon, and Altman takes it to 92d Finance at 1 P.M. We interview 10 more men from 1 to 3 P.M. and do their documents from 3 to 5 P.M. Altman drives that paperwork to 92d Finance at 8 A.M. the next morning, when he takes the first 10 men to pick up their money, which should be ready because 92d has had 18 hours to process those papers. Altman then drops the first 10 men at the 22d Replacement Battalion and comes back to pick up another batch of documents and the second 10 men at 1 P.M. to take them to the 92d for their money and then onto the 22d for transportation." Johnson's face was intent as I went through the explanation, and toward the end, I could see a look of satisfaction come over him.

"And the incoming men?" he asked.

"We work them as they arrive," I said, "fitting their processing in around the other tasks and working nights if necessary." Johnson's face now registered complete approval.

"I like it," he said. "It's a good plan."

"There's only one problem," I said.

"Oh, what's that?" he asked, frowning.

"The whole plan depends on having everybody where they're supposed to be, when they're supposed to be there," I said. "Without that, it falls apart. The problem is, I'm just an E-4, and many of the men rotating are E-5's, E-6's, and E-7's. They're not going to listen to me or take orders from me, so I'll have no control over them." When I said this, Johnson smiled.

"Don't worry," he said. "You post on the bulletin board the names and the times you want these men at personnel, and they'll be there. I guarantee it."

"That's an important part of getting this done," I said.

"Hey, I'm the first sergeant of headquarters company," he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. "I can have these men anywhere, anytime I want. If not, they answer to me. I do have some experience at kicking ass, you know." Lord, I felt intimidated just by the way he said it.

"I'll bet you do," I said, nervously.

"Look," he said, "you do your part, and I'll do mine, and between the two of us, we'll pull this thing off like champs." He reached out toward me.

"Okay," I said, shaking his hand.

As I returned to the barracks, I felt very positive, and I truly believed I had Johnson's complete support. Knowing that made all the difference in the world because it meant the weight of the coming assignment was not on my shoulders alone. With the proper help, my plan had some chance of success. Suddenly, it occurred to me how crazy this was. I was only an E-4, and two months ago I had been a crummy PFC. Why should I bear such responsibilities? It didn't make any sense at all. On the other hand, nothing did. Barnett did all the orders and Alvarez all our communications. In the end, we all had our jobs to do, and we were expected to do them well because others depended on us. Still, back in the real world, duties such as these would be given to older heads. In war things were different.

My R&R orders came through in a week, thanks to the first sergeant's efforts. I changed into khakis to catch my flight in Cam Ranh, and I felt bizarre being out of my fatigues. The plane this time was a real jet, a 707, and when I boarded it, I couldn't believe I was actually leaving Vietnam, if only for a week. The flight, though long, went quickly because of the raw energy that surged through the plane. Everyone on board was bound for R&R in Hawaii, many of us to reunite with wives. The exhilaration I experienced was beyond words. After landing, I immediately took a cab to my hotel, where my wife was waiting. When I saw her, it was as though I had returned to the only true friend I had in the world.

There were only about seven hotels in Waikiki, and we had reservations at an older one right on the beach called the Reef Hotel. It was made of wood and somewhat run-down but comfortable nevertheless. Nearby was an outlandish pink hotel that everyone called the "pink palace," and it too was older. Walking on the beach, my wife and I could see the patrons of this establishment, all of whom looked well to do. I told my wife the people there weren't affiliated with the military, an opinion I considered a fairly safe bet.

The first two days of my R&R went splendidly--lounging in the sun during the day, walking on the beach in the evening after dinner. Too soon, however, my thoughts were pulled back to DBT, and I realized, painfully, how much like a two edged sword this vacation had become. Try as I might to have fun and relax, the prospect of returning to Vietnam haunted me. I began to drink, just to get drunk, so I wouldn't think about going back. My drinking upset my wife, who wanted every moment we had to be perfect. I understood her logic, but she wasn't the one headed back to a wretched existence. Naturally, we argued off and on. Still, I tried to have fun just to please her, though I knew I couldn't. Time began to speed by, faster and faster, as my remaining days dwindled, until at the end, I was glad it was over. Only by going back could I escape the agony of having to go back.

My wife was in tears at the airport, and I knew she was crying because she was afraid I would get killed in Vietnam. I also knew there was nothing I could say to console her, or to reassure her that I would come home, safely. I had no control over that. I was sorry to see her grieving so, as I walked to the plane.

On board, the mood was somber. The last man to come onto the aircraft was in a wheelchair, accompanied by army medics, who helped him into his seat on the aisle. Obviously in pain, the man's arms and legs were bandaged in gauze to cover the burn he had taken from the sun. His face was fire engine red, as was his scalp beneath short blond hair. Poor bastard. I felt even more sorry for him than I did for myself.

It was with a sense of relief that I dropped my bag in the barracks and changed into my fatigues. I could now get on with my business, which was the business of staying alive for another seven months until I could leave this country for good and never return. If anyone were to ask my advice, I might tell him not to go on R&R.