More Southern Rules (Book 2)

By Mitch Bouchette

The same irreverent, improbable heroes of The Goat Squad we met in Southern Rules (Book 1) are back and are learning fast that Vietnam really is more than a name on a map and that racial equality only happens when you make it happen. But the toughest lesson to come is the lengths they will go to for the rescue of a mentor and a friend being held by a terror group. If you remember Vietnam, Black September, and all the craziness of the 60s and 70s, this book is written for you! The characters are starting to mature and the stakes they play for are getting a lot higher. If you lived through this era you are going to identify with the issues they deal with and the realities of the times in which the action takes place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mitch Bouchette
• Release date: Sep 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463833285

Mitch Bouchette

Mitch Bouchette bring s wealth of background knowledge and experience from his travels throughout Europe, Africa, Latin America and South West Asia. He is a linguist and has an insatiable curiosity; so it is not surprising that he has made a lifetime study of people, places and cultures and he weaves his observations into the fabric of his writing. He is self-described "closet academic" with a track record of serious publications in the international relations arena (under another name - we don't want to bore you with those academic papers).His current works of fiction capitalize on this background to present stories of people connected by events past and present. "Thanks for sharing your time with me and I hope you enjoy the stories!"

Book preview

More Southern Rules - Book 2

(Second Edition)

Smashwords Version

By

Mitch Bouchette

This is a work of fiction dedicated to Lisette, my bride of 35+ years; who inspires me, motivates me, and challenges me; she gives my life real meaning.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

The characters in this book are creations of my own mind and while some of the incidents depicted here might have actually occurred, the names and characteristics of those who might have been involved have indeed been altered so as not to be recognizable.

So, relax and enjoy the story in the knowledge that your family and friends are not going to figure out it was YOU!

On the other hand the historical context of Vietnam and the Civil Rights Movement are as accurate as I could make them. I sincerely hope and pray that we, as a nation, never have to go through either of these events again!

Copyright © 2020 Mitch Bouchette

All rights reserved.

This Book (or eBook) is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you would like to share this book please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your favorite Book retailer (or eBook retailer) to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved.

About The Author

Mitch Bouchette brings a wealth of background knowledge and experience from his travels throughout Europe, Africa, Latin America and South West Asia. He is a linguist and has an insatiable curiosity; so it is not surprising that he has made a lifetime study of people and places and weaves his observations into the fabric of his writing.

Action Titles From The Author:

The Sword Of Rule: Newen's Sword

Gaelin’s Raid: The Sword Of Rule Viking Series Book 2

Southern Rules (Book 1)

More Southern Rules (Book 2)

Tango Section Operative # 5 (Book 1): Rescue From Iran

Tango Section: Survival! (Book 2)

Romance Titles From The Author

The Smell Of Rain: Romance As It Should Be

Feel The Rain: Romance Rekindled As It Should Be

After The Rain: Love In The Time Of COVID

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Prologue and Introduction

. . . yep, it don’t matter how much you know, you still have to start somewhere . . .

In fact it was New Year’s Day 1970 and I was still here, in the armpit of Southeast Asia, trying to stay alive until I could get back home to Ronnie. Oh, for those of you who read the first book, we survived that air assault and the rescue operation that followed. That was back a couple of months ago. Sgt. Brown and I spent that day, that very long day, from first light until mid-morning, setting up the det-cord and the explosives to clear the LZ. Uh, LZ means landing zone for you non-military, pantywaist, pansies who might be hearing this term for the first time.

Oh, I’m sorry, do I sound overly aggressive? Oops! I guess my Redneck Hispanic Cajun heritage is showing and, you know what, I don’t care a bit! This place sucks and I was lied to. Oh, back a couple of months ago we had a great big fireworks show all right. We blew everything to hell and back just to clear the LZ. And them choppers came in like a really pissed off swarm of hornets; and those fresh clean uniforms coming out of the birds looked pretty good for a few days, but then it all went back to just the way it was before.

MACV would begin its 9th year of operations on the 8th of February 1970 as Capt. Manelli and I talked about our time at The Cid. And we talked about the Cong and the Congress and of course about MACV, and any damn thing else we could think of to bitch about, just to blow off some steam. But in the end, we didn’t fight any grand and glorious battles. We just squatted there in the mud and kept sniping at the bad guys outside the wire; and from outside the wire they would snipe back at us. And then we would bitch about how nobody ever seemed to gain an inch either way. Huh, I wonder if Charlie had their bitch sessions the same time we had our bitch sessions?

****

Oh! And, the endless reports kept going in to HQ rear and every time we sent one report they would ask us for three more. Man, I tell ya’ Mr. Fred and Sam were right about the REMFs. What was that? You don’t know what a REMF is? Well it is an acronym like everything else in the US Army and it stands for Rear Echelon Mother . . . well you can probably figure out the rest of it, can’t you, huh?

So once I figured out that my two old friends, Mr. Fred and Sam, from the brickyard where I worked back home were right, I did what they had suggested I do so long ago. Plain and simple, I quit answering HQ. And, you know what? Somebody back at HQ in a clean uniform made something up that was a total fiction to put on the Colonel’s morning briefing slide. Then the Colonel back at HQ, also in a clean uniform, made something up to put on the general’s slide at his morning brief.

Now, you may ask, why would they do that? Well that should be friggin’ obvious, ain’t it? If they report no input from us out here in the bush, then somebody at the HQ might just start asking questions and send one or more of them out to the bush to check-in on us, and they ain’t gonna’ do that, now are they? I mean, if I personally had seen one more of those starched uniforms coming off a helo I might have just grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down here in the mud with the rest of us grunts. And, who knows, maybe one of us would have gotten to go back in his place to the HQ in the rear and wear clean uniforms. They might be REMFs back at HQ, but they ain’t stupid REMFs!

So, we ignored the reports and they make up something to keep everybody happy. Great system huh? But that was somebody else’s problem; my problem was just stayin’ alive long enough to get home and see my wife, Ronnie. Oh, that is short for Veronica in case you didn’t know.

****

So here I am sweaty, dirty and angry waiting for Capt. Manelli’s evening bitch session, which was a lot like the morning bitch session and served the same purpose. That was when a rat or a mouse, I don’t know for sure, ran out of the corner of the command post and headed straight across the middle of the floor. Oh, wait a minute, I do know! It must have been a rat because a mouse would have been smaller and this sucker was huge. Anyhow, just as he made it about two thirds across the floor the flap lifted and Manelli started in just as I pulled the shiv out of my boot and pegged the rat to the floor with the knife. It’s a Cajun thing; we are generally good with knives.

Shit! Capt. Manelli exclaimed, I wish you would warn me before you start flinging knives around here! There’s enough people out there trying to kill me without you doing the job for them inside the CP." Oh, and in case you didn’t know, ‘CP’ is the abbreviation for command post.

Well, Captain, I said, I didn’t know you were coming in right then but I did know that rat was in plain sight right then and fair game. Kind of weird he just came out in the open like that.

Manelli cut me off, You got a hunting license for rats, do you?

And that’s when the shit started! One of the tripwires set off a claymore with a deafening explosion. Well, I yelled as we started moving, Now we know why the rat came out! He was running from Charlie who was disturbing his rat holes!

Ya think so? Manelli yelled as another claymore went off and those little round balls of shrapnel went flying out shredding the flesh of the son-of-a-bitch who hit the tripwire. That was all it took and the camp came alive with the white phosphorous flares, we called them flares WP which phonetically is pronounced Willie Pete for short. Anyhow it don’t matter what we called them flares, the Willie Pete and tracer rounds lit up the evening sky. The combination of Willie Pete and the tracer rounds sliced through the evening dusk turning it into some kind of a nightmare from hell. And, right behind Charlie number one came Charlie number two following in his buddy’s footsteps, and that guy became dead Charlie number two as he hit another tripwire. And, right behind them came another suicide soldier heading for the next trip wire.

I dove into a hole behind some sandbags. Sgt. Brown was off on my right and I heard him let go a string of cussin’ that would have made a Cajun proud. See, us Cajuns pride ourselves on the ability to insult, eviscerate and generally verbally abuse anyone anytime, anywhere and on any subject without repeating ourselves or resorting to common vulgarities. Oh, there’s plenty of vulgarities just not the common kind, you see. So we are always in awe of someone who can produce such a rant and Sgt. Brown had just produced one fine example of the art form.

His rant ended with, I seen this before L.T. He pronounced each letter of my rank separately and distinctly, "Cong take a village and then they force the young’uns to run behind each other into a mine field. Otherwise they kill the kids’ families so the kids do it; and they keep on till they run out of kids or until they get through the minefield.

Shit! I yelled back to him in reply.

Yep, that’s what we in for tonight! This ain’t gonna’ stop till they run out of villagers or they get in. So, you best git ready to do some fighting, L.T. You and your college buddy, Capt. Manelli, are about to earn them officer paychecks you been getting!

With that, there was another explosion and a scream off to the left, which told me that Charlie was trying to open up another flank so I moved in that direction to back up Manelli. I had my rifle, my pistol and a knife clipped to the side of my boot. I ran toward Manelli, firing as I went until my rifle jammed, so I pulled my pistol and kept shooting until it was empty. I remember this RVN jumped up out of nowhere and I jerked the boot knife up slashing his midsection as I did so and then horizontally across his throat. I remember the look of surprise in his eyes as the realization sank in that he was already a dead man; and then everything went black.

Chapter 1 – Orientation

On 21 Feb 1970 a Presidential Commission recommended an all-volunteer Army and elimination of the draft. On 1 Mar Bien Thuy Air Base was transferred to the South Vietnamese Air Force. Then on 19 March 1970, in a coup d’etat in Cambodia, General Lon Nol overthrew Prince Sihanouk creating a pro-American government in Phnom Penh. Within a month, the Vietnamese Air Force began operations over Cambodia flying an average of 55 attack sorties per day. (By the way, I'm not trying to make this into a history lesson or anything like that, but I thought maybe these opening comments on current events at the start of some chapters might make it easier to keep things in context. Ya'll let me know if that worked; you know, if it helped or not, OK? Just hang with me and we’ll get through the tellin’ of this thing together, you hear?)

Waking Up . . . But Where Was I?

It was like I was watching a movie or something. Ya’ll remember what I told you in the first book, right? About Charleston? In August? Well just to refresh everybody’s memory; see, August in Charleston, South Carolina can be an unforgiving time of year. In fact it is fit mainly for, some would say only fit for, lazy days at Folly Beach, watching girls in bikinis and sipping cold beer in the shade. And when I say unforgiving, I mean unforgiving like farting real loud in front of your grandmother at the Sunday dinner table when the Priest is visiting – that kind of unforgiving, you know what I mean? It is hot and sweaty and very oppressive and every deep breath catches in your throat. It is a feeling a little like breathing underwater. In the hot moist misery of a Deep South summer, your shirt gets pitted out as soon as you put it on and you usually spend the rest of the day being uncomfortable. Yeah, you know the feeling, don’t ya?

Well, so there I was at The Citadel, or maybe more accurately, here in the movie in my head, I was in Charleston and unfortunately, this was not Folly Beach and there were no girls in bikinis and there was no beer. No, this was definitely not Folly Beach; this was something quite different. What this was, was insanity and I was a part of it and I was not real sure how that had happened right then as I stood in a strange posture they told us was something they called parade rest. But, you know what, I can guarantee you it was not very restful and there wasn’t a parade in sight anywhere!

I remember my hands were clasped behind the small of my back and a trickle of sweat ran between my shoulder blades and all the way down my spine. If the temperature wasn’t a hundred degrees it was not far from it and I shifted just a little and looked up at the tower in the center of the fort-like structure in front of me. Oh shit, I thought to myself but murmured out loud, he saw me. And, he was a part of the they who had put us at parade rest in the first place.

This had just become one of those times when you pray for an earthquake or a lightning strike or a quick exit, but of course none of that ever happened. But then something did happen and everything hurt.

I sat up on a white bed in a white room not knowing were the hell I was.

****

What the fu. . . I never got the words out because there at the end of the bed was my beautiful Ronnie. This had to be some kind of a dream. My head hurt like a son-of-a-gun and my mouth was dry and there were tubes everywhere, and they were all connected to me!

Ronnie came over to the bed and was standing over me now, pushing me back against the bed, Just lie there and try to rest, honey, OK?

Baby, I will do anything you say anytime. What are you doing here? and then as if my brain finally woke up, And, where is here?

Then in a moment of sudden panic, I sat straight up again and looked under the sheet to see if my legs were there; and they were. Then I inspected both hands and reached up to feel the bandages on my head.

Shhh, She stopped me, you are in one piece, thanks to your Guardian Angel and the grace of God, but there was nothing they could do about the head injuries. Then smiling, You are still just as dumb as you always were. Then she hugged me in the hospital bed for a long minute and everything hurt, but I didn’t care. It felt so good to be in her arms.

****

The nurse entered and harrumphed her disapproval as only an Army nurse can. I just looked at her and grinned but Ronnie looked a little more guilty than I did as she let go of me and settled for holding my hand. So, L.T., the nurse started, Do you know what is going on?

Yeah, I said, I was in my own personal hell and now I wake up in my own personal heaven and if this is a dream I don’t want it to end! By the way, I asked, Just how exactly did I wind up here?

All in good time, L.T., all in good time. But for now I need to ask you some questions. OK?

Sure, I said, But if I had known there was a test I would have studied. It was a lame attempt at humor but she gave me a polite chuckle anyway.

What is your name? she started.

My name is Mitchell Gray and I am a Lieutenant in the U.S. Army.

And, who is this lady in the room with you?

That, is my wife and the love of my life and her name is Veronica, Ronnie for short; and it is her head you should be examining for ever agreeing to marry me!

That got another chuckle but with a smile this time. We have her scheduled already for some counseling later today. The nurse answered back. Now for the hard questions, do you know what happened?

Not exactly, I went into the bush to clear an LZ and then a few days later we were attacked and the next thing I knew I was here. Ronnie squeezed my hand.

Is Captain Manelli OK? I asked with real concern.

Uh, yes, he is going to live. She answered evasively and looked away just momentarily.

What do you mean ‘going to live’? I asked somewhat on edge.

L.T., based on what Sgt. Brown said, you are the reason Captain Manelli is alive.

It did not fully register with me but I was thinking fast enough to ask, And, Brown, is he OK?

No, L.T., Brown did not make it. We kept him alive for a few days but his injuries were too severe.

I cut her off abruptly, Days? A few days! How long have I been here?

Well, they brought you in back on the first of February and this is the end of March, so a little while. Now, back to the events, do you have any memories of the attack?

No, I replied, It’s just a blur in the fog. Suddenly I felt very tired and I guess it showed because they let me just lay there a second and everything sort of drifted away.

****

I woke a few minutes later but things looked different and strange. Ronnie was still there but wearing a sweat suit instead of the dress she had on previously just a few minutes ago, or so it seemed. And the nurse was gone, but a doctor was there instead. I might be the product of a southern education and a questionable attitude, but even I could figure out it had been a lot more than a few minutes. And, I could figure out I might pass out again so I wanted as much information as I could get as fast as I could get it.

Doc, I said, How long have I been out, and how long have I been here?

L.T., if you can put those questions together then I am a whole lot less worried about you now than I was before. You have been here several weeks and the last time you lost consciousness was a couple of days ago. The doctor smiled as he came to the end of the statement.

Can you keep me conscious for a while, doc? I asked.

Yes, we can give you a mild stimulant but only a small dose. If you start to go under, don’t fight it. We will be here when you come back, OK?

Fair enough, doc. Can I kiss my wife now? Ronnie literally ran to my bed. Somehow, everything was OK and everything was going to be all right with the world.

Chapter 2 – In The Bush

From the 29th of April until the 29th of Jun 1970, USMC advisors and South Vietnamese units entered the Cambodian fishhook area to attack the Viet Cong Command HQ and Logistics Base across the border. On 1 May 1970 they were followed by 30,000 US troops in the first open incursion into Cambodia under Operation ROCK CRUSHER. The President authorized use of B-52s against enemy forces operating in specific areas within eastern Cambodia to take the battle to Viet Cong safe havens. The domestic opposition erupted in antiwar protests especially on college campuses. On 4 May at Kent State University and Jackson State College, six students were killed in angry confrontations with National Guardsmen and police. By the 9th of May 100,000 people participated in protests against the invasion into Cambodia and the Kent State shootings. Everything began to change and by 19 April 1971, one year later, the US public would watch as young veterans threw medals over the Capitol fence in a protest against the war.

Back In The War

Roger JB Bergman poured another cup of coffee for Don XL Jesberg as the two lieutenants sat in an improvised Command Post, commonly referred to as a CP.

Thanks, XL said as he picked up the cup and blew across the surface to cool it. The cup looked like a child’s tea set in his hands. XL was six feet four inches of muscle and attitude and he tipped the scales at just under 300 pounds. This is the first thing hot I have had in three days. And while I can see that you ain’t much of a chef, I must admit this tastes pretty damn good, JB. With that he set the cup down and took another spoonful of the stew in front of him.

Everybody called Bergman by his nickname, JB, even though very, very few knew it stood for Jew boy and nobody knew how he happened to get the nickname. That was a little over four years ago back at The Citadel, The Military College of South Carolina, where they had all first met. JB and XL were both members of a group that called itself the goat squad. The group jelled around Mitch Budreau Gray and JD Wilson, both of whom had an irreverent streak that ran deep and wide. They were the kind of guys who were instantly your friends or they were instantly your enemies; with very little middle ground.

****

Back at The Citadel the goat squad, as cadet plebes, had gathered for coffee at least once a day at the only coffee shop on campus back then in the canteen in Mark Clark Hall. It was a precious time of day during their four years at The Cid. It was especially precious that first year because this was the place where, by tradition and mutual assent, there were no upperclassmen to harass the group. Here the freshmen could actually talk and joke with each other like normal people. Normal was a real treat as they went through the same aberrant, shared, institutional, screwed-up social system that defined The Cid and the Corps of Cadets in the 1960s. It was an institutional thing, and all institutions have their own social codes and mores. To be clear we are talking about prisons, asylums, military organizations and The Citadel. And, I am not being critical, OK? It is neither right nor wrong, it just is!

My grandfather was fond of saying that if you could actually change something then it was a problem to be resolved. But, if you could not change something then it was not a problem at all, it was merely a state of being, so get used to it! We had come to a consensus that The Cid was, and is a state of being – it just is! It may have morphed over the decades of its existence but the rate of change was glacial. You could talk to the old guys who always showed up for the regular Friday afternoon parades and they would tell you how they had complained about most of the same things fifty years ago that we were bitching about now. Like I said, it was a state of being, in fact it likely still is a state of being. The Cid does not change in any normal evolutionary way; it will always be different in an institutional way from the rest of society.

****

A part of this shared institutional experience was the weather. Now I know that a lot of people might think weather is just a backdrop or a setting but that simply is not the case. Weather is a part of this unique state of being. In fact it is one of the integral parts of this state of being. Maybe that is because everything you can see is grey; the uniforms, the buildings, the professors, everything! And unless it is a really sunny day it just looks like it’s going to be a bad day. So it’s not so different from what we found in Vietnam; which was all gray and green and wet. Huh! Maybe that was all part of The Cid preparing us for this hellhole in Vietnam.

Ya’ll hang with me a few more minutes, because now that I have started down this rabbit trail I feel compelled to finish it. This group, the goat squad, was made up of Cro-man, Sammy-J, XL, JB, JD and Budreau. The nicknames had emerged in the first few days during weeks one and two in school in those dark days when the cadre literally tried to drive us out before the academic year started.

Sammy-J was Sam Jones and he came from the coalmine district of Pennsylvania. He was built square like maybe he could walk through a door and block out the light. I am still not sure he had a neck because his head seemed to swivel on top of his huge shoulders. Sam introduced himself in a deep baritone voice with what can only be described as a manly man handshake and told us he was going to try out for the wrestling team. On the spot JD stood up, walked over to him and shook his hand and dubbed him Sammy-J. Sam corrected JD as to his name and that, of course meant the more diminutive Sammy-J would stick throughout his school career and well into his adult years.

XL was even bigger than Sammy-J. Don Jesberg was a second-generation immigrant from Eastern Europe and easily six feet four inches. He was also the most solidly packed 300 pounds any of us had ever seen. XL was the only name that fit, and again JD did the honors. That brings us to JB which stood for Jew Boy and would have been an insult if anyone besides JD had said it.

Roger