The Hundred Year War: La Corida De El Jodido

By Leon Mondragon

The Hundred Year War by Leon Mondragon – takes you from the nineteen sixties to the sixteen hundreds – you rush through WWII Tangier - before leaving for Spain to meet a mysterious woman. Specialist Juan Cruise is left with the mystery of an ancient manuscript and his faith.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543902471

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End

 THE HUNDRED YEAR WAR

CHAPTER 1

THE INVESTIGATION

He pulled on the drawstrings to the poncho’s hood tightening it around his face blocking the rain from getting under it. The M-16 under his poncho was strapped over his right shoulder, its muzzle pointing down keeping any rain from entering the barrel. Making sure the fatigue cap keeping his head warm did not interfere with his lateral vision he quickly glanced outside the doorway both to the right and left, seeing no one he stepped out of Señora Marcos’ one room house. He began walking at a brisk pace as he tied the drawstrings daylight was disappearing fast. Remembering to let his eyes purple vision distinguish shapes he didn’t focus directly on one object but remained alert to any movement or sound. Hispaniola the coral island his boots sank into was located five hundred miles southeast off the coast of Florida. The monsoons were hitting hard this year. The rain’s assault on his poncho played a staccato driven by an angry wind. It was the last week of May ‘65 he had been in country for two months now just a few more till October and his obligation to Uncle Sam would be over. Uneasy at spending any more time in a combat zone he wondered why no one had ever told him these Godamn feelings would rag him the last few months left in the service to his county.

Fuck that! Why, the hell had he done it in the first place?

On the contrary Cruise knew too well he had been sold on it. Both he and his brother had heard it most of their formative years. Their old man along with uncles on both sides of his family most of them having served in WWII had drummed You have an obligation to your country! into them.

Stay alive, the words echoed through his head bringing back the strong intention of remaining alive and returning to California. He continued walking making his way back to Headquarters Company. Unconsciously he began moving his left hand under his poncho snatching the muzzle guard removing the M-16 off his right shoulder. Instinctively his right hand caught and formed itself around the handgrip his right forefinger inserted itself inside the trigger guard as his thumb released the safety. Sgt. Syke’s voice repeated again in his head, You got a fucking gallon of oil to clean this weapon with Cruise. Keep the motherfucker out and ready, after it protects you then you can clean and protect it. That’s if you live through this. That was it, he smiled I’m not scared shitless; just surviving by following what I’ve been trained to do.

President Johnson had sent twenty thousand United States troops into the Dominican Republic to put an end to this armed revolt. It had been started by Officers of the Dominican military still loyal and determined to return deposed president Juan Bosch to power. Johnson had informed the nation his purpose in sending troops was to protect US citizens; however during their briefing the team had been informed the underlined cause was preventing an alleged communist takeover by Cuban insurgents. There was no doubt that Johnson was afraid of another communist government like Cuba’s coming into existence on this hemisphere. Johnson’s intervention would be called Operation Power Pack the Sixth Marines Expeditionary Brigade and the 3d Brigade, 82nd Airborne Division would provide the Power and the 504th Airborne Operations Recognizance Team would go in covert as the (Wolf) Pack that would be dropped into the mountains.

The rain’s onslaught pelted his face bringing him back, the rain was unrelenting it had started and continued in torrents and drizzles for the last three days. As a result any exposed earth had been turned into sticky black mud. The white coral road to his right offered a hard path free of any complication or mess; he continued to walk to one side not wanting to be silhouetted.

His head tuned immediately upon hearing a faint sound of voices in the jungle to his left. He stopped instantly taking a kneeling firing position in the middle of some thick bushes, hoping the white coral path he had been walking beside had not silhouetted him. Too dark now to see any shapes within the jungle he focused his eyes trying to catch any movement in that direction.

He remembered what he had been taught and forced himself to breathe through his nose. He concentrated on slowing down his heart the throb of it pulsating in his ears. It slowly subsided the only sound now was the wind driven rain beating against his poncho in irregular waves, gradually the barrel of his M-16 protruded from under his poncho. Overhead the storm clouds rolled north off the East Indian Ocean. They moved inland rapidly obscuring the moon turning the Dominican night pitch-black. Cursing himself for taking the risk tonight, quickly he glanced back down the path. Dark as it was the path still shown an eerie white easily silhouetting anyone or anything that might be traveling on it. Had he been seen? No, he wouldn’t have had a chance to hide. He heard the sounds again. Someone, no there was more than one person walking through the dense jungle to his left. Hoping the bushes he was knelling behind were thick enough to conceal him in this darkness he concentrated on listening for any sound of movement.

Fucking idiot, he admonished himself; as if by just acknowledging his stupidity for having taken the risk tonight would somehow separate him from his circumstance. Pushing everything out of his mind he listened to every sound being brought to him as the rain broke against his poncho sending spurs of water over his brow. Slowly he brought his left hand the three inches from the muzzle of his weapon to his face leaving his right hand on the handgrip and trigger of the M-16. He wiped his face and eyes with the palm of his left hand straining to focus his eyes on any movement within the jungle to his left.

The rain persisted wetting his brow and running down his cheeks. The sounds of the over growth being brushed aside reached him. Uncovering the M -16 sights he laid his right check on the stock focusing the sites on the over growth of jungle foliage extending out to the path. His mind began racing he knew the Cuban backed rebels had been pushed back and boxed in by the 3d Brigade, 82nd Airborne Division, preventing armed rebels from leaving their stronghold in Ciudad Nueva and also preventing Loyalists from venturing into it. The rebels now occupied only a few blocks of Santo Domingo the capital city. But were all the rebels in fact boxed in?

It didn’t matter now only the fact that the jungle palms and bushes were moving. A hand appeared, a thin arm appeared next attached to the hand. The safety was off the M-16 his right thumb assured him of it. Now there came the sounds of voices, laughter, and Children’s squeals.

The arm was attached to a small Dominican girl no more than six or seven years old, behind her appeared a boy that looked a little older, and then came another girl older than the first. Subsequently they all walked out almost tumbling out of the jungle eight of them all very cold and wet shivering in the rain. The entire bunch started yelling at a necked urchin still running to catch up, his distended belly making his little child’s body look grotesque. Cruise remained motionless part of him reached out to the children but for the last two years he had been assigned to recon yielding to emotions had proven fatal inside combat zones.

The children soon made their way down the path and across to the opposite side disappearing into the jungle trail leading to the mud huts and clap board houses Cruise had just left. He sat resting not wanting to move or make any unnecessary sound just yet. He wanted his mind clear before making his way back to the battalion perimeter. Rebels don’t just stay put he reasoned. Under the cover of darkness anyone could go anywhere. He was 82nd Airborne Recon what was to say some crazy fucking machete wheeling rebel wasn’t out here on recon as well. His fatigues were damp from perspiration; rain had not penetrated the poncho. The poncho kept him warm and dry the only discomfort came from it touching his neck, it always felt wet but he knew it was only the cold material of the poncho touching his skin. He mulled over why he was out here investigating on his own. He would research the facts, the facts reviewed; questions would be asked and answered directly. Just punishment would be strived for and doled out with unfeeling objectivity. All with an air of finality that would leave him again perplexed with his role in it. Not that he gave a damn for the unfortunate son-of-a-bitch that lost his self-control and threw his life away. If some trooper couldn’t understand that the government owned their ass now, moreover that he would need to control as much of his life as possible until Sam gave it back, then there was not much you could do for him. Honesty was nobody’s best suit not when they were in trouble unless they were innocent bystanders and he had found out that too few were.

He stayed kneeling as the jungle foliage swayed and dipped under the onslaught of the monsoon. The smells of the wet earth entered his nostrils, he breathed deeply he loved the smell. The aroma of wet earth would make a child want to eat a little dirt at times. He remembered having done that. Reflecting on where he was now in the middle of the Dominican Republic taking this risk involved in the investigation of violent crimes for 2nd Battalion Headquarters, a far cry from the three year old that had been captivated by the smell of wet earth so much he had tasted a chunk of black Texas dirt.

It still baffled him that Spanish-speaking Special Forces troops had been sent to Vietnam and for some reason had not been deployed to the Dominican Republic. Units that had Spanish-speaking troops from Puerto Rico or elsewhere kept them hidden to make sure they were not transferred to headquarters, wanting to keep them for their own operations.

For Cruise as well as the others on his team being recalled from the expedition in Cambodia and deploying into the Dominican Republic had been a disappointing surprise. Everybody expected to return to Ft. Bragg. The only team members upset at leaving the Asian jungle had been Sgt. Syke and Colonel Holbrook.

Cruise had welcomed the team’s removal. Getting out without being captured or killed in a firefight during the five days the reconnaissance team was in country had been in great part attributed to Sgt. Syke’s experience and expertise in keeping them out of sight and undetected.  Had they had the misfortune of losing any of their skirmishes and surviving they would have all been shot as spies? Well maybe not, Special Forces Logistics had briefed them thoroughly that March of ’65 before jump off.

Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge had taken to the jungle two years ago back in ’63. Prince Sihanouk had sought to maintain his country’s distance from the war in Vietnam through a policy of neutralism. He refused to act against Vietnamese supply lines along the Ho Chi Minh trail, which ran through eastern Cambodia. At the same time Sihanouk kept silent about US military actions against North Vietnamese forces operating on Cambodian soil. Sihanouk’s army had been instructed to bring in any Khmer Rouge heads as proof for collecting a bounty. Speechless heads carried by the locks of their hair may well have been their fate. But possibly not, not until they had been given some kind of unreasonable trial and paraded in front of the world media as pawns used for proving America’s act of war against Cambodia a peaceful country said not to be involved in the Viet Nam conflict. It had all been proven otherwise however with the exact location and coordinates of the Parrot’s Beak, as it was later to be called. The region of where supplies were entering South Viet Nam together with the roads and trails used to re - supply the Viet Cong in South Viet Nam, all of it had been detected by aerial photographs months before the six men team repelled off the helicopter in their rush to disappear into the Cambodian jungle.  The proof the team had gathered and obtained confirming the use of the eastern Cambodian border roads was now in U.S. Government hands. Sgt. Syke had brought them safely through that. But Sgt. Syke was not here now; Cruise was alone facing what ever there was out there in the Dominican jungle.

He felt confident he would be able to respond to anything quickly, decisively, and return to 2nd Battalion Headquarters. An adrenaline rush from the children’s jungle exit was still there dominating any apprehension. Battalion Headquarters was billeted at the Dominican Orphanage just a few clicks down the road. Keeping to the edge of the jungle he could cover those few hundred yards in less than twenty minutes. Having gone through the children’s surprise intrusion into his state of combat vigilance Cruise understood what would be waiting for him upon reaching the Battalion perimeter. His ability to understand and speak Spanish fluently wouldn’t help him; he’d be dealing with scared trigger-happy troops. Hoping Sgt. Ardis would be waiting for him at the perimeter he rose silently and started a cautious pace back to Battalion his mustache dripping rain on to the front of his poncho. Holding the M-16 at port- arms approaching the perimeter of Headquarters Company he concentrated on remembering the password and the alternate.

He began walking slower not wanting to move into the guards view too quickly. Lieutenant Larson had already been shot at and had come away shaken unwilling to leave the perimeter again, leaving Cruise to take the risk un-partnered and unable to report Lt. Larson’s dereliction of duty to upper echelon. Sure, Cruise thought to himself, make a fucking enemy of some West Pointer that’s what you need Cruise; West Point brass within the compound after your ass. Naw, he answered himself I’ll fight Cuban rebels, maybe I can collect a favor from Lt. Larson later, if Hell doesn’t freeze over first.

Halt, who goes there? the demand stopped Cruise in his tracks; he knew he had stepped into full view of the post guard. A flash of lighting illuminated his face allowing the guard to identify him.

Spec. 4 Cruise, he heard himself shout.

Overland! the challenge was yelled over the constant downpour of the monsoon.

Stage! Cruise yelled back.

Step forward and be recognized! the voice belonged to private first class Jerrold Johnson one of the black enlisted men in B-Company. Cruise didn’t sweat showing himself. He walked out of the bush M-16 at port.

Hey! Cruise, they know you out man? Johnson lowered his weapon’s muzzle to about chest level still pointing it at Cruise. Cruise wondered where Sgt. Ardis was; he now had a decent guess at why some officers might be shot at, rifle company troops did not impress him much with their mind-blowing intellect.

Yeah, what you think Jay-Jay? If I was out tail chasing I wouldn’t be walking in the front gate, would I? Cruise walked forward disregarding the weapon pointed at him, knowing Johnson had been scared confronting anyone approaching his post. Ardis had forgotten to brief Johnson on what to expect tonight and had not shown up to assure Cruise a safe entry. He patted Johnson on the shoulder as he walked by; showing he was pleased with Johnson’s performance in holding the perimeter.

All business, eh Cruise? Johnson chuckled self-assured the hood of his poncho covering his helmet. Helmets were required equipment during monsoon season if troops were posted on perimeter watch along with eight full magazines of live ammunition Johnson fortunately had not used. Cruise walked past disregarding the urge to find and confront Sgt. Ardis on forgetting to brief his sentries. He continued walking over to the veranda of the Orphanage. Stepping over to where the rain cascaded off the roof keeping the M-16 under his poncho, he stepped under it letting the water wash over his poncho and boots taking the mud and grass along with it.

Finished showering his boots and poncho he stepped away from the downpour of rainwater and over to the steps leading to the shelter beneath the veranda’s roof. He walked up the steps pulling off the poncho dragging it into the small room he’d been assigned, it served as office and sleeping quarters. Placing the M-16 on his bedroll he turned and opened the top draw of his field desk grabbed one of the wooden matches and lit the Coleman lantern.

On the south cost of the Dominican Republic fifteen miles west of the Dominican Capital City of Santo Domingo under tall palm trees sits the Sangre de Christo Orphanage. Built by Spanish Jesuits with funds donated by the Dominican elite it was an equitable undertaking Christian and practical. The red brick school buildings and white Spanish stucco dorms are surrounded on all sides by large green lawns with even larger well-kept playing fields. Fields that welcomed little children streaming out of the six dorm buildings on sunny days now long past. Now the playing fields lay drenched under the constant pounding of tropical rains.  Now it was the orphans of the 3rd Brigade 82nd Airborne sitting in the humid dorms dressed in wilted fatigues. Perspiration rolled down faces dripping off the end of noses only to be caught by forearms momentarily before continuing to run down hands and ending up soaking cigarettes and damping poker hands.

The orphans of the 504th 82nd Airborne Headquarters Company sat depressed, miserable, and ignorant of what the next hour might bring. They had been the spearhead in the house to house fire fight that had pushed the rebels back allowing the rebels only a few blocks of the city securing Santo Domingo in Operation Round-Up two months earlier. Under the guise of R&R (Rest and Recuperation) the battalion was deployed out of the city after the operation was a success. The troops had been primed for combat but now were having a terrible time trying to stand down. They knew only and were resigned to the constant waves of cold tropical rain, a continual reminder of where and what they were.

Sitting at the field desk Cruise pulled a yellow note pad and pencil out of the bottom right draw. Unbuttoning the top two buttons of his fatigue shirt he pulled out the tablet he had jotted on while at senora Marco’s house. Looking down at the yellow pad that had his notes before beginning to type his report he turned to look over at the copy of the Army Regulation – 15-6. It lay on top of his bedroll. Closing his eyes he imagined himself picking it up, opening the cover and turning past the Table of Contents until he got to the first page. Keeping his eyes closed, he visualized:

1. PURPOSE: a. This guide is intended to assist investigating officers, who have been appointed under the provisions of Army Regulation (AR) 15-6, in conducting timely, thorough, and legally sufficient investigations. It is designed specifically for informal investigations, but some provisions are applicable to formal investigations. Legal advisors responsible for advising investigating officers may also use it. A brief checklist is included at the end of the guide as an enclosure. The checklist is designed as a quick reference to be consulted during each stage of the investigation. The questions in the checklist will ensure that the investigating officer has covered all the basic elements necessary for a sound investigation.

His mind could not bring up anymore of the AR-15-6 first page; it made him realize again he was only memorizing the first page not really seeing the whole first page in his mind’s eye.

Taking a deep breath he exhaled, opened his eyes, and started typing names identifying everyone who had taken part in the confrontation and assault. Cruise had interviewed all the Spanish speakers and recorded their statements; he made a mental note to buy a small cassette tape recorder as soon as possible.

He started by recording verbatim private first class Tyrone Clemens statement. He typed Clemens explanations for the criminal acts he had committed. Clemens had recorded his statements as to why he did them in his own handwriting on two sheets of paper witnessed and signed by both Clemens and Lt. Harrison. Cruise typed using the jargon Clemens had used to justify his actions. He worked persistently recording all the statements of all parties concerned; when he finally started to record his own involvement in the incident he typed his name last. He kept it short, concise, and permitted no emotion to spill on to the page. He would not have to worry about signatures Lt. Harrison would get those after rewriting the report himself.

Finished he pushed his folding chair back from the field desk unbuttoned his left fatigue shirt pocket and pulled out a flip top hard pack of Marlboro cigarettes. Shaking one out he returned the pack lit the cigarette took a long drag then folding his arms he edited the work one last time. He thought about Clemens and what might be in Clemens’ future. Cruise had noted in the report Clemens having been intoxicated. No matter how low the alcohol content was in the beer the troops were consuming more than six cans of beer is going to fuck up the choices you make. Clemens was a tall, skinny, eighteen year old black kid; if he had not been in the Army he’d be quickly becoming a prison statistic. Cruise had met scores of them growing up back in ‘55 on the streets of Los Angeles, Watts and South-Central.

He reflected back to last Sunday night when the assault had happened; a weekend of sports and clean up details was coming to an end. Headquarters had announced there would be two trailers full of beer packed in ice made available to the troops two hours after evening chow.

Headquarters Company had its own bar, Cruise being Battalion draftsman had been ordered to paint and hang over the bar a voluptuous female clothed in only an 82nd Airborne fatigue shirt. It hadn’t been a bad rendering but for the fact that some of the brothers from the rifle companies asked why the chick was white, he had thrown a couple of illustration boards together and put up a voluptuous black female opposite the first.

On Saturday and Sundays the troops were allowed to relax and enjoy a few beers. A trailer full of ice and cans of beer sporting every label one could think of Budweiser, Miller, Flagstaff, Pabts Blue Ribbon even Presidente a brew indigenous to the Dominican Republic containing a potent amount of alcohol was supplied to the troops in the mess area.

The bar being too small to accommodate all the men in the rifle companies comprising the 504th Battalion; Headquarters Maintenance Platoon had been directed to construct a few wooden structures nothing real elaborate rooms basically large enough so two persons could meet in some privacy. Cruise was aware that Clemens actions would bring these constructions under contention along with their use for meetings with young Dominican females. Prejudice and stupidity could not be controlled if there was a complete lack of good sense or any spark of moral consciousness, Cruise thought; it was still a good plan for controlling venereal disease.

Taking another drag from the cigarette, he wondered about Estella Marcos remembering how young and distressed she appeared at their meeting earlier that evening. Estella supposedly was an eighteen-year-old Dominican woman. She was representative of the females that showed up at the make shift red light construction site. They would come to compete for the almighty American dollars the troops were more than willing to give up for a few minutes of lust and simulated affection. Most of these young girls normally would never be placed under the category of prostitute; it was generally thought their family’s poverty was what brought them there.

––- + ––-

Sitting at the table Cruise took in the variety of different sizes and shapes of furniture in the tin roofed house he had been directed to by Estella the night of the assault and by the Dominicans he had encountered on the path while making his way to the small barrio in which senora Marcos house was located. The smell of burning wood circulated with each draft of wind that gained entry through cracks in the frame and walls of the poorly constructed house. The earthen floor was dry and covered by linoleum in those areas occupied by bureaus or beds. A fire burned in an area near the rear of the one room structure; its flame seated in a two-foot hole that had been dug into the earthen floor. A make shift grill straddled it holding up a ten gallon metal tub full of hot soapy water and cloths. The warmth of the fire and water helped in keeping the house comfortable.

The smell of the wood burning was pleasant while the staccato of rain beating against the tin roof annoyed until ignored. There were no leaks visible in the roof only those over the tub where the corrugated tin sheets had been parted to allow the smoke to drift out.

The girls who came to the constructions that Headquarters Maintenance platoon had erected, while taking advantage of the possibility for financial gain were generally old enough to understand the risk. Estella however looked to be no more than fourteen years old consequently Cruise had asked to see a birth certificate. Senora Marcos did not understand why Cruise needed proof of birth or pretended not to know; nonetheless no birth certificate was shown. Estella’s groom turned out to be a pimp named Mario Castillo. What else could you call a grown man with no moral fiber who talked an immature female juvenile into selling herself? Cruise had come to meet with both of them at Senora Marco’s house. The house to his surprise was not much bigger than the constructions Maintenance Platoon had erected. Cruise turned down a cold drink offered to him but not wanting to offend he explained he had just eaten at the Headquarters Company mess, although this was true Cruise did not want to accept anything that might be thought of as a bribe or might have been spiked with anything.

Both Mario and Estella sat sharing an old faded couch facing him while he asked them questions in their native Spanish. He continued making detailed notes in English recording their answers, their demeanor, body language, and manner in which they spoke. Mario said he was twenty-two and explained that he and Estella were going to get married.

Cruise decided not to react to this young man’s childlike vision of himself. After all Mario had not come to Estella’s protection at her moment of need. Cruise along with Sgt. Fortner had disarmed Private Clemens doing some damage to Clemens body for what he had done and was about to do to Estella. Ultimately Clemens had chased Estella into the wooded area adjacent to the constructed rooms Maintenance Platoon had so diligently built. Clemens being armed with a straight razor attempted to cut and scar Estella for refusing to lay him although she was willingly laying any of the Caucasian soldiers and accepting their money. Clemens succeeded in catching her by the hair and cutting off a good portion of it so much of it that she had to shorten her hairstyle. Cruise noticed the change but did not comment on it until Estella mentioned it herself during her telling of what had happened to her at the hands of Clemens. Cruise assured her that she looked just as good if not better with the pageboy haircut.

Mario it came to light had talked Estella into offering herself to the American soldiers for money. Money that Mario wanted for himself although he insisted he wanted it for them and their wedding plans. Mario did not thank him nor did Mario acknowledge the fact Cruise was one of Estella’s rescuers. Estella seemed to have lost that detail also. Mario declared he was thinking of getting a lawyer because so many friends had told him to. He should so he could get more money for what had happened to his fiancé.

Cruise approved, Yes you should, he told Mario, It may very well be that you will need him. Mario of course did not catch the double meaning. Mario went on speaking of all the things he was going to do with the money Estella was making for him and of what he expected to get from the United States Army for what had happened.

He turned his attention to Estella; he asked her why Clemens had become so mad at her? Estella didn’t know she had just said no to his advances.

So now Cruise understood what might have happened. Clemens being totally fucking drunk and having been rejected could not turn and walk away especially after seeing that she did not refuse the white guys in his own rifle company. Estella said he accused her of not wanting to go with blacks.

Why didn’t you? Cruise asked. Well she couldn’t Estella said but she could not get Clemens to understand, Mario had expressly given her orders not to go with blacks because if she became pregnant he would not accept the responsibility of raising the baby. Cruise glanced at Mario, being sure not to show any sign of disgust, he asked Mario if what Estella had just told him were true. Mario did not hesitate to confirm it. There was no one in his family with pelo malo he said. Cruise nodded his head as he made the entry into his notes. Cruise kept recording questions and answers only, not wanting to address his feelings for Mario’s excuse or his prejudice to say nothing of talking a fourteen year old into prostituting herself.

At the end of the meeting with Estella and Mario, Cruise reviewed quickly the questions he had asked them, editing what he had jotted down then correcting any misconception.

Mario asked Cruise in a flattering manner about what he should do to get what was coming to him. Cruise responded by saying he was not in a position to give advice however he was going to put in his report that he had talked to them both about thinking things through and being totally honest with themselves. Yes, it would be good to retain a lawyer he told them the lawyer would be able to give them sound advice but most important of all would be to have complete identification and proof of age and Dominican citizenship. They both looked confused at having to prove who they were. Cruise informed them that should they pursue action against anyone not just the U.S. Army they must have everything in order so that there would be no chance for Dominican law enforcement to come at them with questions they did not have answers to or for the authorities to find holes in their story that might lead law enforcement to charge them with a crime.

Now besides looking confused Mario looked worried as well. Cruise thanked them for their cooperation and thanked Senora Marcos for her hospitality. He rose from his chair took a deep breath, taking the M-16 that had been cradled across his lap and strapped it over his right shoulder muzzle down. He allowed himself to smile as he shook their hands and turned to leave noticing that it was dusk already it would be getting dark soon. He walked over to the corner of the room where his wet poncho lay and quickly stashed the pad under his shirt throwing the poncho on over his head.

––- + ––-

Cruise took one last drag and smashed the butt out in the shallow C-ration can he was using for an ashtray. He put the written report into a large manila envelope and turned to pick up the wet poncho, he thought better of it; it was a short sprint he’d run across the quadrangle. He placed the manila envelope under his fatigue shirt. Stepping over to the Coleman lantern he shut the valve off, it died slowly elongating the shadows and darkening the room. He walked outside closing the door behind him and went over to the edge of the veranda. The damp cold night breeze refreshed him as it rushed past, light pulsed on and off at a distance in the eastern night sky, the other side of the island would be seeing some lighting.

A bright jagged edge of light split the night sky and the rumble of distant thunder brought him back. He jumped off the veranda taking the three-foot jump down onto the grass taking his first stride as he started his sprint across the quadrangle. The rain caught him immediately speckling his fatigues and carrying the smell of cool tropical air into his nose. He felt alone as he ran tucking his chin down into his chest allowing the bill of his fatigue cap to shade the rain from his eyes, he approached the building Transportation Platoon was billeted in. Two feet from the building he leaped on to the building’s veranda slipping through a door that opened into a corridor. He stopped and wiped the rain off his face with his fatigue cap and then placed it back on his head. Taking a cigarette from the pack in his front left pocket he struck a match to it.

Drawing the smoke into his lungs he wondered what array of genetic and environmental circumstances produced Lt. Harrison. Lt. Roger Harrison was not the average o’fey dude not the naïve little white boy some of the young officers presented themselves as. Harrison had chosen to go to Officers Candidate School after finishing Law School at Philadelphia University and passing the Law exam. Why had he done that? Cruise gave the idea some consideration. Why not just go into practice get rich and disregard Uncle Sam altogether? Harrison had explained later that he wanted to get his obligation over with before pursuing a career in Law. Obviously Harrison had been indoctrinated with the same obligation issue. Cruise could relate, he had joined to get it over with as well but had not had the good fortune of finishing college. He figured Lt. Harrison had something to prove but to whom?

Harrison was entirely different in his conduct towards his men then most of the other officers Cruise had met. Harrison carried his own equipment never asking his men to carry anything for him. In the field Harrison slept, marched and fought alongside the men in his platoon. All the enlisted men in Transportation Company respected Harrison; he asked nothing of them he would not do himself. He led his men and earned their respect while at the same time proving to be equal if not superior in the performance of his duties. Cruise flipped the butt of the cigarette out into the rain.

He had become aware of Lt. Harrison being unlike the other officers that were coming out of West Point and OCS during Harrison’s first exercise. Cruise had stood very much as he was now ambivalent at the end of a rainy day.

CHAPTER 2

THE GAME WITHIN THE GAME

Fort Bragg is the site of the largest military installation in the world. The base and its companion base, Pope Air Force Base has an overwhelming economic impact on Fayetteville and Cumberland County. Fort Bragg brings 175,000 employees and dependents and an economic impact of nearly $4 billion annually. Fort Bragg is similar to a city because it has its own mall, schools, hospitals, homes, utility works and entertainment facilities.

Pope AFB provides the global reach and global power of the United States Air Force - capable of deploying a self-sustaining war fighting package anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice, to form our nation’s premier forced-entry capability with the U.S. Army. The 43rd Wing can rapidly deploy a highly trained composite force, and successfully plan and execute air operations in any theater, region, or contingency area as part of any joint or allied force, in support of national and military objectives. The 43rd Airlift Wing operates two squadrons of C-130 Hercules.

First Lieutenant Roger Harrison stopped reading and lowered the brochure after hearing the sound of the air brakes being applied feeling the jerk of the sharp left turn. Looking out the window of the military bus carrying him and the other junior officers through the front gate and onto Fort Bragg, a taste of apprehension filled his mouth. Trying to relax the tension he took a deep breath swallowing the sweet metallic flavor. He’d be going to the 2nd Battalion 504th Devils in Baggy Pants. The name had been given to the 504th during their campaign in WWII. The brochure stated the 504th had been given the name by German soldiers who had been captured and came away saying the 504th had fought like devils in baggy pants. There were even a few articles on Sgt. Fox one of the survivors still alive and serving in the 504th.

Breathing deeply, controlling his anxiety concentrating on the instructions directing him to the 2nd Battalion. He’d have plenty of time to read about his assigned post once he was in his living quarters he’d have more time for reading.

Being new to the battalion having arrived along with the new group of officers many of them from West Point, Harrison stood detached from the West Point officers. Picking up his gear he walked alone into the Headquarters dorm building. Most West Point officers came from a long line of inner breed military brats, knowing very little about humanity, that which they were trying to save, and a great deal about military history that which they were trying to live. The Jr. Officers whether they were from West Point or Officer Candidate School hardly had a chance to settle into their respective companies before being thrown into Operation Arrow Head the 82nd Airborne’s next military exercise.

Operation Arrow Head had the 82nd Airborne opposed to the 5th Mechanized Army and started with the 504th being dropped into a cornfield in the state of Georgia. Lt. Harrison had been assigned to Headquarters Company Transportation Platoon he was part of the two sticks jumping with the Battalion Commander Colonel Robert Haig out of a C124 holding its position in a V of V’s formation. Cruise having just been transferred out of Recon Platoon and assigned as Battalion Draftsman was also assigned to jump with the Colonel. Cruise would be jumping a PE bag this exercise. He had stored and was responsible for the Colonel’s radio communication equipment, his weapons, his and the Colonel’s packs plus the overlay equipment needed for making maps to coordinate assault maneuvers. The PE bag weighed a total of 80 to 95 pounds Cruise standing not quite five feet eight inches and weighing one hundred and thirty pounds presented something of a curiosity to Harrison who had never seen a paratrooper using this kind of apparatus.

Cruise’s attention was on his equipment while the rest of the troops marched single file up the rear ramp into the belly of the C124. The loud drone of the airplane engines became deafening as troops sat across from each other lost in their own thoughts not bothering to talk over the constant roar coming from the increased throttle of the engines. Eventually the vibration increased to a crazed high pitch announcing the C124 had started taxing down the tarmac.

Cruise stayed busy making sure all the belts and cinches of his equipment had been buckled down and were sound, perspiration beaded his face from the effort. He forced himself into believing he was not worried about exiting the plane. If any problem occurred he was trained to handle it. The smells were always the same linseed oil from recently cleaned weapons, detergent from freshly scrubbed spotless canvas webbed harness equipment; he was thankful no one had become airsick. He noticed a Lieutenant looking at what he was doing. From what he could tell it was one of the new Louie’s that had just transferred in.

Harrison observed the trooper across from him, he didn’t look very large, he was constantly checking a bulky rectangular canvas bag about two feet wide and about waist high. Harrison heard of these types of bags they were for carrying extra equipment into the field. He became curious as to how the harness and snaps on the bag would be attached from canvas carrier to the trooper.

The bag looked extremely heavy he wondered if the soldier was worried about having to jump with it, he looked to be apprehensive. He noticed the perspiration beading on the trooper’s forehead. The trooper was also packing a canvas weapon’s carrier with an M-79 Grenade Launcher plus the Colonel’s M-16. Maybe he should say something to encourage him make him feel positive about the drop Harrison reflected, embolden he got ready to say something to the trooper and offer some encouragement then thought better of it. After one more look at him, he conclude that the soldier was experienced and did not look worried about the jump just doing his job in a professional manner. He decided the trooper would probably take offense at the idea that he might be worried or worst think that Harrison himself was scared and wanted to appear confident by making the trooper look weak. Harrison remained interested in what the trooper was doing in view of the fact of all the extra equipment but remained silent. He had no idea how the jump would be accomplished with all that equipment attached to one man.

Cruise was craving a cigarette no chance of lighting up now with the battalion going in on a heavy drop that alone made him concentrate on his equipment. The six hundred foot low altitude they’d be dropped at would greatly shorten the time from exiting the plane to hitting the DZ. It would greatly increase the speed he’d make contact with the ground, to say nothing of being dragged down even faster by 90 pounds of dead weight. Drops were usually at twelve hundred feet. Being dropped at half the altitude meant they would come in fast and hard probably a good strategy to get the organics in and out of the way before the heavy drop that followed. At least that’s what Cruise had learned at Air Transportability School. The real life experience of a few Low Level Drops had educated him even further. He knew what to do and what would be expected of him in order to survive. He concentrated on rehearsing mentally what steps he would take up to the point that his boots hit the Drop Zone.

Lt. Harrison glanced up and down the stick he was in. All the men were part of Headquarters Company some he would probably lead. He studied them trying to discern any characteristics that might help him know them better. It prevented him from getting nervous and made him appear as if he was interested in the well-being of his men. He knew however that this was just the calming effect he needed and these men expected of an officer. Most of them did not have the sharp creased fatigues that he had noticed on the trooper jumping the PE bag. But then the trooper was in the presence of officers most of the time. Harrison decided he wouldn’t ever insist on starched creased fatigues. The men he would be leading would be in Transportation Platoon they were a combination of cattle truck driver, communications, carpenter and combat paratroop infantry. It would be impossible for them to be immaculate in their appearance and perform at the peak level of their performance. Almost all of the men in his stick were from Transportation Platoon. He had been living among them for the last month and a half occupying a room down the hall from their bay on the third floor of the Headquarters Company building. He had observed them at chow hall from the vantage point of the officer’s tables at the west end of the mess since the day he’d reported in. He knew their names but he didn’t know them, their families, or their plans for the future. He knew he couldn’t make it easy for them but he could find ways of making it tolerable. He would make it a point to listen and if a grievance couldn’t be reasoned away he’d make sure they understood the consequences of not performing. First he’d work on being sure they felt confident in coming to him with anything they needed to talk about. How could you help them he reasoned or even learn they had some problem if they were too scared to confide in you?

Cruise turned his attention to the heavy equipment already rigged and anchored to the floor of the C124. The jeeps, three quarter ton trucks and steel pallets of supplies stacked and strapped sat in the middle of the C-124’s floor between the two sticks of organics sitting facing each other. Cruise could see the new officer the heavy drop equipment did not obscure his view.  It was gratifying to see the officer wasn’t looking at him anymore. For a minute there Cruise felt like the officer was about to tell him he was doing something wrong.

The C124 would have to circle the DZ after dropping the organics it would come back at a higher altitude and release the small parachutes attached to each heavy load, once the wind caught the small chute it would pull the unanchored pallet out. By this time the paratroopers would be off the Drop Zone and well out of the way.

The order to, Stand Up! was given Cruise stood up ignoring the perspiration rolling down his face the trooper to his left help him snap the PE bag on, the canvas weapon carrier was snapped on by Col. Haig who had been sitting to his right, he was ready. The order to, Check Equipment, was given then, Check Static Lines’ everyone checked to make sure the static line hooks were snapped to the steel cable running over head the length of the C124. Sound off, was ordered each trooper sounded off with his number within the stick. Cruise heard each in secession as the count moved up the stick to him. One Ok! Two Ok! Three Ok! He felt the Col. tap his right shoulder as the Col. sounded off, Fourteen Ok! Fifteen Ok! Cruise shouted over the drone of the plane and the other sticks count. The red light shown bright Cruise’s eyes were on the dull green bulb beside it. At the instant the green light switched on the order, Stand in the Door was given the trooper in front of Cruise helped him carry and drag the PE bag to the door. Cruise did not stand with his boots sticking out of the door as the other paratroopers had with both hands griping the edges of the frame so they could push themselves out. Instead he stood about three feet back. Col. Haig and the C124 jumpmaster grabbed each side of the PE bag and swung it back and forth counting to three loud enough so Cruise could hear them. At the count of three they threw the PE bag out the door Cruise’s hundred and thirty pound frame followed it.

Lt. Harrison had a good vantage point he could see the door at the opposite side of the C124. The stick on that side did not hesitate in their exit of the plane everything seemed timed and well executed. He was able to see Col. Haig and the jumpmaster help the trooper exit the plane, his curiosity satisfied he concentrated on his own exit, jumping a second behind the paratrooper in front of him.

Cruise was ready when the count of three came he went behind the PE bag unable to bring his knees up into a fetus position. He was still able to wrap his arms and hands around his reserve parachute. If he did not feel the jerk of the static line opening his chute he would take a quick glance up to see if it had deployed. If it hadn’t or God forbid it become entangled in a cigarette roll he would have to pull the rip cord on his reserve, catch it in his arms and hands, then throw it out in front of him far enough away so it would deploy without getting entangled with the main chute’s cigarette roll. He felt the tug of the main chute deploying looking up he saw it capturing the air and unfurling until it was fully extended. He pulled the release holding the PE bag. It fell still attached to him by the fifteen-foot chinch that would give him enough room to land away from it and not break a leg. He noticed he was not oscillating much as he descended rapidly. The DZ was rising swiftly to meet him; he got ready for it and rolled in the direction the chute was taking him.

Knowing he was going to hit the DZ harder and faster he relaxed fighting the instinct to stiffen his body, distributing the shock of meeting the ground on his calves, thighs and buttocks he rolled on to his back still holding on to his risers. He finished getting out of his harness just as Col. Haig walked up and grabbed the side of the PE bag; together they dragged it to cover under some birch trees at the edge of the drop zone and out of the way of the heavy drop.  Cruise unpacked the radio turned it on and began to raise communication with the rest of the Battalion. Col. Haig took over and monitored the radio assessing company headcounts and deployment.

A week into the exercise found the 82nd Airborne 504th Battalion camped among some maple trees in the middle of the State of Georgia. A field expedient Headquarters CP had been erected using the back of a three quarter ton truck and a CP tent. A make shift table was placed on the bed of the truck and four radios for communicating with Command and the other Companies were mounted on a make shift shelf by the trucks rear window.

Lt. Harrison and Lt. Larson now occupied the benches that troops otherwise would have occupied when the truck was in use; Larson had been given first watch. They sat facing each other over a chest set that Lt. Larson had brought to the field exercise. The officers were engaged in a war game within a war game. They had been at the meeting with all the Company Commanders earlier. Operation plans having been drawn, evaluated, and finalized Cruise was busy now mapping out plans and preparing to make overlays to be distributed to all company commanders before deployment next morning.

He was amazed the jellyrolls had withstood the impact to the PE bag after hitting the ground so hard.  On other low altitude drops jellyrolls had disintegrated it had been fortunate for him both the main and alternate gelatin rolls had survived the drop. Setting two of the field footlockers together would gave him enough space to lay the jellyroll out and prepare it for the process of duplicating overlays. He would have to use what water he had left in his canteen in preparing the gelatin that would act as his duplicating machine. The Battalion had moved so swiftly in order to out maneuver the Fifth Mechanized Army they had out distanced their own supply line. The word had gone down for everyone to conserve what water they had; it was not known when supplies would catch up to them. Without exception this was an exercise the army took seriously troops could not just walk off and try to re-supply at the next 7-11. He was careful with the water he had so he used a rag he had purposely packed for just such an emergency. Soaking the rag he laid it on the jellyroll allowing the gelatin to soak up the water.

Recalling having been crouched down by Col. Haig and seeing the heavy drop stream in destroying itself along with bottles and containers of water. Haig had not become excited he hadn’t even cursed taking what was happening in front of his eyes as something he must overcome. His radio operator had cursed a quick, God damn! under his breath. More than a quarter of the heavy drop came in on cigarette rolled chutes sounding much like the report of a howitzer as they buried themselves in the soft sandy Georgia earth emitting a spurt of earth that quickly blossomed into a cloud of dust. It did not escape the radio operator’s scrutiny that top Army brass could easily have a chute rigged not to deploy fully and present a problem for the commanding officers out on the field exercise. The operator attributed his presumption to the undisturbed look on Haig’s face, however the willful disregard for men and equipment he attributed to top brass.

Haig’s driver who had found them soon after they had hit the DZ together with Cruise relocated to some maple trees. Hefting fielded packs the radio, and weapons they walked with Col. Haig moving out to the DZ to organize and account for what was salvageable. Haig’s vehicle had been one of the losses, he commandeered another, ordered his driver to take the wheel after it was cleared of all rigging, motioned to his radio operator on to the back seat and started ordering company commanders in the direction he wanted them to deploy. The jeep speed off the DZ at full throttle loaded with necessary equipment for Headquarters Operations, Specialist Forth Class Justin Daryl the Battalion Commander’s driver, Col Robert Haig and Specialist Fourth Class, ex Recon now Battalion Draftsman, Radio Operator Spec. 4 Mendoza aka Cruise.

Cruise broke his reverie and returned to concentrating on the coordinates of the operations map, position of each company, designated route of advance, position of HQ Company and its advance to the objective all had to be accurately place on the map without obscuring any important terrain objectives or obstacle. He was aware that the two new lieutenants one a graduate of West Point and the other from OCS were busy engaged in a game of chess while still monitoring the radios. He did not hear the intrusion into his concentration of some significant detail of utmost importance, if he was to finish the overlays and get any sleep tonight he thought to himself he would need to make no mistakes.

At first he felt the shout was to bring his attention to a matter of some urgency he could not think of anything else that would cause that kind of outburst otherwise. Lt. Bret Larson was yelling; he gathered from the tone and pitch it must be of some importance. He walked immediately over to the two Louie’s. Thinking they must have received word by radio of some disaster happening out in the field. He had heard earlier that Fifth Mechanized had captured Bartee a trooper from Recon he had soldiered with along with Sgt. Ardis and that the butt of an M-15 had ruptured Bartee’s spleen when he gave Fifth Mechanized troops a hard time. Either they need to use me as a runner and inform the Col. that someone has been hurt out in the field again or something worst has happened he presumed as he stood looking up at them almost at a ridged attention.

Yes, sir? looking from one officer to the other not really certain which had called his name. Cruise, make me some tea. Lt. Larson said looking down at the chess game.

"Excuse me, sir? Cruise was surprise by the order officers never requested that he make tea.

I said make me some tea. Lt. Larson said again.

Tea sir, sure sir, do you have some water sir? Cruise replied. He took in the moment and read as much about the situation as he could while he waited for the answer to his question; it bought him some time. Larson was under the same orders as everyone else. He may very well be a West Point military officer but to show it or think that requesting such a blatant selfish act to say nothing of disrupting Cruise in completing his detail would somehow go unnoticed by everyone was utterly arrogant.

Cruise remembered that earlier Larson had been munching on some Ritz crackers he had been dipping into a small container of sour cream he had poured some Lipton Onion Soup mix into along with some baby clams. Apparently Larson was not in a war exercise, he was not training or envisioning himself in a combat situation, Lt. Larson was camping out!

No, I don’t have any don’t you have some?

Sorry sir I don’t have any water for you, sir.

You’re telling me you don’t have any water? Larson stared angrily down.

Cruise looked directly into Lt. Larson’s eyes and did not drop his gaze.

Lt. Larson turned to the chess game, Go ask the Headquarters company clerks to give you some water so you can make me some tea.

Cruise knew he could not refuse the order. He’d been around officers long enough to know not to complain or try to talk one into reason. He had served with commanders of strong character and those who showed idiosyncrasies or weaknesses this was one of those times; he could handle both.

Yes, sir, he made sure not to show any sign of displeasure at receiving the order, he acted outwardly as if it was the most normal of things to do, he smiled as he put his materials away, gathered his gear and put his helmet on. Reaching into his left breast pocket he pulled out a Marlboro and stepped out of the make shift Headquarters CP. There was a light drizzle it had been coming down all day. Striking a match to the cigarette he started walking in the direction of the Headquarters support tent most of the clerks would have been copping zees for about four hours now. He had taken his gear with him, walking he felt for his canteen on his utility belt it rested snuggly in its cover the OD green plastic bottle almost full with its contents designated for helping him duplicate overlays plus enough reserve to get him through any forced march should that event happen.

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Lt. Bret Larson was what most men would call chubby; standing at six two and weighing two hundred and sixty pounds he was having trouble keeping the weight off. What the hell it was intelligence and military strategy that moved you into the upper rank