This story is rated R for violence and language.

TOUR OF DUTY: BUDDY SYSTEM PART 1

61% of the men killed in Vietnam were 21 or younger.

TAP TAP TAP...ZZZZZZZZZZZIP...THWAP....SNAP....

"Damn!"

Lieutenant Myron Goldman was sitting at the bulky field desk with a cigarette dangling from his teeth, getting more and more frustrated by the minute, when the interruption came at the door of his hootch. "What?" he snapped, annoyed at the intrusion.

"Sorry to disturb you, Sir, but you sent for me?" Sergeant Zeke Anderson entered the dim tent, wincing at the cloud of smoke hanging in the air.

Goldman turned briefly from his task to acknowledge the sergeant's presence, returned his focus on the typewriter, grabbed the nearly blank sheet of paper from the machine, crumpled it and fastballed the wad into the already sizable pile accumulating at his feet. "Do you type, Sergeant?" he grumbled through clenched teeth.

It didn't take Anderson's considerable skill for quick observation to note that his platoon leader was in a surly mood. "Nossir," he said to the back of the lieutenant's head, straining to see what the man was working on.

Without warning, the irritated officer jumped to his feet, his arm sweeping the typewriter off the desk. The force of the blow sent the machine flying to the other side of the tent where it stopped mere inches from the staff sergeant's feet. Without flinching, Anderson ventured to guess, "Problems, Sir?" Unable to suppress his grin, the big man looked from the discarded troublemaker to the seething lieutenant and back again, waiting for the inevitable outburst.

"Stupid FNG mistakes!" Goldman hissed, instantly wiping the smile from Anderson's face. "Goddammit, Anderson! How am I supposed to tell some poor, stupid bastard's mother that her baby boy is coming home in a body bag because he wanted to play hero?"

The officer plopped down onto the wooden chair with an audible thunk. Yanking the cigarette from his mouth, Goldman tossed it into the half-empty glass of whisky that was sitting next to the gouges in the shelf where the typewriter had been moments before. With a loud sigh, the weary man dropped his shoulders and leaned heavily on the desk in front of him. "God, Zeke. They didn't teach me this. No one told me how I'm supposed to do this..." Lieutenant Goldman dropped his head into his hand and watched the ember as it fizzled and smoked before finally being extinguished in the fiery liquid.

"LT," Anderson cajoled, "You just write what you feel. What would you want them to tell your momma?" Anderson caught Goldman's recoil, but, not knowing of the suicide of the new lieutenant's mother five years earlier, the NCO regarded the movement as a sign of fatigue. "They're only words." The good-natured sergeant paused before suggesting with a wry spark in his eye, "But you might wanna leave out the 'Stupid FNG' part."

Goldman lifted his head off his hand and turned to the man he hoped would become his friend as well as his partner. Good ol' Zeke Anderson. He always knows how to lighten the mood. "Right," Myron agreed with a smirk.

Anderson glanced down at the piece of metal at his feet and carefully sidestepped the lieutenant's battered machine. "Glad that wasn't your rifle, Sir," he quipped. "But you'll wish it were when S3 finds out you fragged their typewriter." The sergeant chuckled as he crossed the room to get away from the dampness of the night air seeping through the cracks in the doorway. "Anyway, LT, I don't figure you ordered me here to ask about my typing skills. What's up?"

Goldman thought about it for a moment, wondering if that wasn't exactly the reason why he had sent for the staff sergeant at such a late hour. Rubbing his eyes, the platoon leader instead settled on ordering the next day's unexpected mission. "Sergeant, I want third squad assembled at Zero-600 sharp." Without further regard to his statement, the platoon leader began ransacking the compartments of the field desk, looking for something with which to write. The normally tidy shelves became chaotic jumbles of paper and supplies as the desk failed to yield the object of the lieutenant's search. Myron Goldman's already short fuse was burning shorter.

"Sir?" Anderson squared his shoulders, not understanding the sudden change in orders. "LT, the men have tomorrow off. They're out now getting drunker 'n' a hillbilly with a tubfull of moonshine. You're not serious about taking away their first time off in over two weeks, are you?"

"Would you like to make it Zero-500, Sergeant?" the lieutenant snapped, absently reaching for his drink and raising it to his lips. It was obvious he had no intention of giving any further explanation to Anderson tonight.

"Nossir," replied the sergeant with a rare, curt salute to his platoon leader, who countered with a quick snap of his own elbow. Anderson was out of the hootch before Goldman retched on the cigarette butt still floating in the bottom of the glass.

*********************

"Good mornin' Ladies! Up 'n' Attem, boys and girls!" Sergeant Anderson was the only person in Vietnam who could show so much exuberance so early in the morning. "Come on, Taylor! That beauty sleep ain't workin'! Everybody up! Let's go!" He made his way down the line, slapping the hungover men on the rump or throwing their legs over the sides of their cots to get them moving.

Private Marcus Taylor lifted his head high enough to allow his hand to grab the flat pillow under his neck, and with what little energy his hangover allowed, pelted it at the platoon sergeant. "Go away, man. We got the day off," the groggy PFC complained.

"Not today, boys," Anderson corrected. "We got new orders. C'mon! LT wants everyone outside. Now!"

With a great deal of moaning and groaning and holding of aching heads and protesting stomachs, the men of Bravo company forced themselves awake and hoisted their bodies out of the relative comfort of their cots. "Man, this is bullshit!" Taylor spat as he searched the dirt floor for the shirt he had discarded only a few hours before. "More of Goldman's powertrip!" The other soldiers mumbled to themselves but, accustomed to being used and abused, obeyed the orders as quickly as their objecting bodies would permit.

Marvin Johnson stumbled out of the hootch, followed closely by Danny Percell, Alberto Ruiz, Scott Baker and finally Marcus Taylor. Roger Horn and Doc Randy Matsuda were already outside with the sergeant, though none of the others remembered seeing them leave the tent. "We're one short," Danny observed soberly, reminding everyone of the casualty the squad had experienced the previous day.

Taylor allowed anger to replace the remorse he'd tried to drown in a twelve-pack of 33 the night before. "Greene was a damn FNG disaster just waiting to happen. Let it go, Percell. It don't mean nothin'."

"Come on, ladies! Let's Go!" Anderson prompted. He was smiling, but the men respected their sergeant enough to take the order seriously and they picked up the pace. Falling into formation, they did their best to straighten out their rumpled shirts and tuck their fatigues properly into still-untied boots. Taylor looked down and noticed he had missed a buttonhole and proceeded to remedy the situation as quickly as he could before the new, stiff-collared platoon leader made his appearance.

Marcus Taylor was the most resistant to the shake'n'bake lieutenant's strict command. He didn't like Goldman and he wasn't afraid to let the rest of the squad know it. But because he respected Sergeant Anderson, he was willing to play the game. For awhile. He shifted his rifle over his shoulder, brushed his shirt as smooth as possible and lifted his head expectantly, waiting for the platoon leader's arrival.

"Look alive, you guys!" the staff sergeant ordered, taking in the sight of his pathetic squad. He felt bad disrupting their "morning after" the way he had, but orders were orders. He eyed the troops to ascertain whether or not they were with him and saw Baker standing there with empty hands. "Baker, where's your weapon, Son?"

The big private looked around to the other soldiers to see if everyone else had his rifle. Seeing that each of them did, he sheepishly responded, "Gosh, Sarge. I didn't know we needed 'em."

"This is The Nam, Private. Of course you need your weapon." Anderson did his best not to laugh. "Go get it! MoveItMoveItMoveIt!"

Baker tripped on a small mound of red clay that had accrued just outside the opening of the tent, as he jogged back to retrieve his M-16. Barely maintaining his balance but managing to stay on his feet, the big private smiled back at Sergeant Anderson, and bounced inside the hootch to gather the weapon. "Ouch!" Baker exclaimed a moment later when the same patch of dirt grabbed him on the way out of the tent, sending his legs fumbling out from under him and his substantial body sprawling in the dirt.

"Damned, Baker," Taylor jabbed, "You are one, big, dumb pile of California goo!" Private Baker looked at his buddies and shyly grinned.

Sergeant Anderson raised his hand to stop the fits of laughter coming from the men. "That's enough. Get over here, Baker," he ordered, scarcely able to contain his own amusement. Eventually there was silence in the ranks and the burly private joined the rest of the squad. The sergeant took his usual place in the back of the formation and third squad commenced their wait for Lieutenant Goldman.

By Zero-630, the men were getting restless. "Sarge, where's LT?" inquired Johnson, who was standing just in front of Anderson. "Are you sure we were supposed to be here today? We're supposed to have the day off." This sparked various comments and complaints from the other men who went from their "at-ease" stance to being completely relaxed. The staff sergeant turned to his men and shrugged before moving forward to look down the street for any sign of their leader.

"Ok, you guys, stay put. I'll go see what the hold-up is." Anderson was trying very hard to like young Lieutenant Goldman, but it was things like this that were really trying his patience. What's the kid trying to prove, anyway? he mumbled under his breath. This is the thing mutinies are made of. Spoiled little sonofageneral.

*********************

Lieutenant Goldman was still sitting at the same desk where Anderson had left him the night before, cigarette in one hand, pen in the other. He was unshaven, sweating and reeked of whiskey. Still, only the small light on the desk was lit and, with the sun not quite ready to rise over the horizon, the tent lingered in virtual darkness. The glass Goldman had been using the previous night was shattered on the floor next to a soggy cigarette butt, and the typewriter laid in a demolished heap, closer to the door than where Anderson remembered it being. A considerable puddle of liquid had collected at Goldman's feet.

Sergeant Anderson noted the glow of the lamp through the near-empty whiskey bottle as it cast an eerie reflection onto the long, formal military envelope on which the officer was writing. Lieutenant Goldman scratched at the stubble on his cheek, picked up the envelope and licked it shut. "Crap!" he cursed as he shot his paper-cut tongue back into his mouth.

"Sir?" Anderson was standing in the doorway, uncertain whether it was safe to enter. "Lieutenant Goldman? The men are waiting."

"Huh?" Goldman was startled by the sudden interruption to his world. He dropped the envelope on the desk and snapped his neck around sending a sharp pain into the stiffened muscles. Seeing Anderson in the doorway was a surprise, since he had no recollection of the previous night's order.

"Sorry to interrupt, Sir. I tried to knock, but you didn't answer. Everything OK?"

"Uh, yeah, Sergeant." Goldman lied, lifting himself out of the uncomfortable position in which he had been sitting for the past few hours. He rubbed at his neck with one hand and his back with the other, cigarette still firmly in place. "Everything's just hunky-dory, " he continued sarcastically. "What's up?"

"Lieutenant, you ordered the men up at Zero-600. It's almost Zero-700 now and they haven't had chow." He allowed Goldman to draw his own conclusion from there. Anderson surveyed the man's disheveled appearance and realized the lieutenant hadn't been to sleep. "Myron, what's going on? You been up all night writing that letter?"

Goldman was slowly becoming coherent, remembering the order but not terribly sure why he had issued it. "Damn," he murmered, ignoring Anderson's question as he chanced a look in the mirror that hung on a post near his desk. The officer frowned deeply, not liking the looks of the man staring back at him. "All right, Zeke. I'll be there in a minute. Let me just change my shirt and I'll be right out."

The officer started unbuttoning the smelly, green shirt he was wearing and grabbed a clean brother to it from out of a pile stacked on his footlocker. He hadn't been doing much hootch-cleaning lately, and thought cynically how that would have hacked the old General off. The liquor puddle splattered under his boots as he stepped back over to the desk and picked up the envelope he had just recently sealed. "Here, Sergeant. See to it this gets mailed."

"Handwritten, Sir?" Anderson remarked. "Nice touch."

Myron smiled thinly. "And see if you can requisition me another one of those," he ordered, looking down at the mangled typewriter.

"I hear that, Sir." Anderson left the Lieutenant alone to get dressed.

************************

Sergeant Anderson handed Goldman's letter off to a private headed over to the chow tent. "Here son, get this in today's mail, before you go poison yourself with that stuff."

"Yes, Sergeant," the interrupted soldier consented and redirected himself to the tactical operation center to send off the letter.

Anderson wandered across the compound back to his men who had stopped grumbling about being awakened so early on their day off and replaced it with grumbling about missing breakfast. "Hey, Sarge!" Taylor saw his approach first. "What's going on, man? This G.I. needs some food."

"Sorry, Taylor," Anderson returned, "all we got around here is what's in the chow hall." He stepped in front of the now fully awake squad and ordered them back in line and at-ease. "LT'll be here in a minute. Let's look sharp, ladies." The sergeant stepped to the rear of the squad and resumed his own at-ease stance in time to see Goldman lift the flap of his tent and quickly stride over to the waiting men. To Anderson's surprise, the lieutenant looked remarkably shined up and awake. It appeared that he had even gotten in a shave. How does that boy do it? the staff sergeant mused.

"All right, people," Goldman began as he approached the squad. Anderson saw no good humor in the man's eyes and began thinking that this was not going to be pretty. The temperamental Myron Goldman was without sleep and the men were hungover. The officer must have spent the few minutes it took to get cleaned up to also put himself on the offensive. Sergeant Anderson prepared himself to become mediator in the certain conflict.

"I'm not thrilled about what happened out there yesterday," Goldman continued, his voice dry and low, "and I intend to see to it that it doesn't happen again." The image of Private Greene's broken body seeped into his conscious and the lieutenant paused a moment to fight it back into the recesses of his memory. "We're going to get our shit together and you men are going to start taking this war seriously."

The voices of the seven men in front of Anderson erupted in one collective protest. What do you mean,"Take it serious?" What the hell are you talking about? You're out of your mind, Lieutenant! Who does he think he is, Sarge? Goddamn officers, thinkin' they know everything! That's crap, Sir! Damned Butter Bar!

Myron Goldman was quite practiced with hiding his emotions behind the rigid posture demanded by his father. This eruption from the men under his command was intolerable and he would get the respect he felt he deserved. "You better get at attention!" he bellowed loudly enough to immediately draw the attention of the stunned soldiers in front of him. "Right fucking now!" Ambushed by Goldman's hostility, the squad instantly snapped their shoulders back, their heads up and their legs together, rifles resting on their right shoulders.

"You will learn to respect your superior officers," Goldman barked. "You will address me as Sir. You will not interrupt me with your belly-aching and you will salute me!" He hesitated to take a breath, feeling his heart racing with adrenaline. "And if I ever see this kind of disrespect to any officer again," he added, "you will be court martialed so fast you'll be in Long Bihn Jail before you can wipe that pathetic look off your sorry faces!" Goldman took a threatening step toward the men assembled before him. "Do I make myself clear?" he roared.

"Yes, Sir!" the men responded in unison.

Shocked expressions gathered on the faces of every man on the dirty red street of Firebase Ladybird. Passersby stopped their progress to whatever destination they were headed as they listened to the lieutenant's outburst. Sergeant Anderson's squad was taken aback and each man raised his chin in silent defiance at this unexpected admonishment.

"With all respect, Sir," the staff sergeant tried the voice of reason, "I think you're off the mark here." Sergeant Anderson briefly eyed the men to signal for them to keep their mouths shut as he left formation and paced forward to address the lieutenant. Seeing that none of the soldiers was moving to interject his own comments, Anderson focused on the angry officer. "Sir, what happened out there yesterday was an accident. You said it yourself. A stupid FNG mistake. Chewing out these men ain't gonna bring him back, Sir." Anderson was unhappy about Goldman's tactics with his men, but hoped that by addressing the situation calmly, he could diffuse the bomb before it exploded in the inexperienced lieutenant's face.

"Sergeant, are you questioning me in front of my men?" Goldman narrowed his eyes and glared at the sergeant, challenging him to continue this debate. Anderson declined to reply, but held his position in front of the seething officer. Goldman, refusing to back down, raised an eyebrow and cocked his head to one side, indicating that he expected a response.

"No, Sir."

"Good. Get back in formation." Goldman's order fizzled with arrogance.

"Sir?" the stunned NCO attempted to continue.

"Now, Sergeant."

Without another word, Anderson stepped back a pace, stopping at the end of the first of the two rows of soldiers, and waited for the lieutenant to continue. "Now, as I was saying..." Goldman shot a look at the staff sergeant and fought to control the angry tremor in his voice before turning his attention back to the other rigid men in front of him. "I'm not going to allow another stupid accident to happen out there. Getting shot by VC or NVA is one thing, stupidity is another. Since these cherries are straight out of AIT without an ounce of self-preservation in their brains, we're going to try something new and keep them alive past their first week." He paused his speech, daring an argument from the agitated staff sergeant.

After a long moment, Anderson risked an interruption to the silence. "Sir?" he prompted, his voice seething with contempt towards the officer.

Lieutenant Goldman stopped pacing and stood tall. "We're going back to a concept you all learned in basic, but for some reason have decided to ignore. From now on, when we get a new recruit, he's going to be assigned to one of you men as a "buddy." No one said anything, but tensions were rising quickly. Taylor's jaw twitched as he avoided Johnson's puzzled look. Anderson again broke the silence.

"Sir? You can't be serious!" The sergeant was clearly bothered by the thought of his men being saddled with the responsibility of keeping a new man alive. He was aware of the idealism that privates straight out of basic should team up with a more practiced soldier, but the concept had proved to be impractical in the field. "Lieutenant, no disrespect, Sir, but these guys have enough to do out there without baby-sitting some fuckin' new guy fresh from The World." He waited for another public reprimand from the hot-tempered young officer.

Unperturbed, Goldman adjusted his tone to one of reason, deciding he would need the support of the more experienced sergeant to enforce the order. "We're getting Greene's replacement this morning at Zero-800," the officer explained. "We have a mission at Zero-900. This kid isn't even going to have time to brush his teeth before he's out there fighting Charlie." Goldman's moodiness often caught Anderson off-guard, and this sudden shift in temperament was no different. The sergeant decided not to disrupt the silence when Goldman paused.

Again, the officer was haunted with the vision of Private Greene's bloody body, spiked to a tree with bamboo spears piercing through from front to back. He choked back the bile that wanted to form in his throat and continued outlining his plan, now addressing the entire squad. "We'll team the new kid up with, say, Horn..." Horn blinked in surprise. Is he crazy? Doesn't he know the RTO is the biggest target in the bush? "...for a few weeks until he gets the feel for things. By the time he's on his own, he'll have learned enough to stay alive and hopefully I won't be writing another 'Dear Mrs. Greene' letter any time soon."

Sergeant Anderson considered suggesting a different buddy for the new guy, knowing that, second only to the lieutenant, the radio telephone operator was the target of every enemy soldier in 'Nam. However, recalling Goldman's earlier reprimand, Anderson resolved to continue holding his silence. That issue can be addressed later, he told himself.

Instead, the NCO studied the officer's troubled eyes, the truth of what was going on here slowly making itself clear. Anderson looked at Goldman thoughtfully, realizing the other man was genuinely trying to do the right thing. By penetrating Goldman's armor, the sergeant could see the inexperienced kid that the lieutenant was, just trying to keep his men from winding up on the jungle floor with a bullet in their heads. Hell, Anderson reasoned silently, he's little more than an FNG himself. He's not hacked off....he's scared to death.

Goldman caught Anderson's gaze and, misinterpreting it as a calm before the storm, waited for an argument. "Do you have something to say, Sergeant?"

"Nossir," Anderson calmly returned.

Feeling a bit self-conscious when no altercation came, the lieutenant decided to finalize his plan by making it an order and get himself the hell out of his men's sights. "Go get something to eat, pack your gear for a one-day mission and be back here at Zero-900. Horn, I want you at the bird when the kid arrives. Zero-800. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir," Horn quickly obeyed.

Goldman hesitated a moment before dismissing the men. "That'll be all."

The eight men in front of him all flashed a salute in unison and Goldman tried to hide his look of satisfaction as he returned the gesture and turned to head away.

*********************

"Lieutenant Goldman!" It was Sergeant Anderson, jogging up to catch the officer before he could reach the TOC. Anderson wanted to speak to the platoon leader in private and knew he would have no other opportunity before the mission. Goldman stopped and turned to acknowledge the NCO and subconsciously prepared himself for another round of debate. He squinted into the rising sun and waited for his sergeant to catch up. "Sir," Anderson continued, "I don't know what the hell that was all about back there, but we need to talk and we need to talk now."

"I don't think so, Sergeant," Goldman snapped, not wanting to deal with the sergeant's sensibilities yet. "I have an OP order to get to. It'll have to wait." He turned to continue his journey to the meeting with Captain Wallace when he felt Anderson's considerable hand grab his own arm and hold him back. Goldman looked from the hand to the sergeant's eyes, knowing instantly and without question that Zeke Anderson was going to get his audience, whether Myron Goldman wanted to give it to him or not.

"No, Sir. It won't wait," Anderson assured his lieutenant. When Sergeant Anderson made up his mind about something, he was unflappable, and Goldman knew it. Resigning himself to the confrontation that was about to hit him head-on, the weary lieutenant sighed, nodded and changed direction to head toward his tent, expecting the sergeant to follow. "Uh, Sir, if you don't mind, maybe we can find somewhere else to talk," Anderson suggested, believing the latrine would be a less depressing place to have a conversation. "No disrespect, Lieutenant, but you need a maid."

Goldman relaxed and allowed a small grin to invade his pursed lips. Good ol' Zeke Anderson.

"Fine, Sergeant. Wherever you want. Let's just get this over with."

The two men walked silently across the compound and stopped at a fairly isolated spot near the perimeter, behind a wall of sandbags. Goldman leaned against the pile, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and flicked the fire alive from his lighter. He took a long, deep drag and felt the comforting lull of the burning in his lungs. Plopping the lighter back into the pocket from where it had come, the tired officer wrapped the cigarette between thumb and forefinger and pulled it from his mouth to let his nose discharge the spent smoke. Lieutenant Goldman closed his eyes for a long moment before turning his attention back to Anderson. Moments like this should not be interrupted with the war, he thought warily to himself.

"LT," the sergeant hesitated a moment to see if Goldman would rebuke him for the familiarity. When the officer lifted his cigarette to his mouth to take another hit, Anderson decided it was safe to continue. "I'm not sure you understand how much this plan of yours will not work. These boys have enough on their minds looking out for gooks, landmines and booby traps. There is no way they can watch some cherry's butt on top of it. It's not only impractical, it's downright dangerous." Goldman didn't respond. He simply looked at his cigarette as if he had never seen one before and began lacing it from one finger through the next like a new toy. "Myron, are you hearing me?"

After a moment, Goldman lifted his body away from the sandbags and studied the older man in front of him. Deep down, he supposed the sergeant was right, but the lieutenant was unwilling to admit defeat just yet. The experience of writing his first "We Regret To Inform You" letter had left a bitter taste in his mouth that even his bad habit could not camouflage. He tossed the cigarette to the ground and crushed it unceremoniously into the dirt.

"Okay, Sergeant. You've said your piece. Noted. I'm not changing my mind, though. We're going to give this a try." Anderson rolled his eyes and tossed his head to one side in disbelief. "No, hear me out," Goldman continued before the sergeant had a chance to interrupt. "We'll try it with this new kid, Miller, for this mission, and see how the men respond." He began walking back toward the tactical operation center. "I want you to monitor the situation--objectively--and give me your feedback after the mission. If Miller gets killed, we'll scrap the whole thing right then and there. If he gets through the mission, we'll evaluate why and make a decision." Goldman stopped walking and turned his head to discover that the sergeant had not moved from his spot near the sandbags. "Zeke, are you hearing me? " the officer echoed Anderson's earlier question.

The burly sergeant prissily put his hands on his hips and finally began moving to where the officer was standing. The two men locked eyes and Sergeant Anderson unexpectedly started to chuckle. "All right, LT. We'll give it a try," he smirked, "If only so I can tell you 'I told you so' at the After Action Review."

"Deal." Goldman was plainly relieved to end the discussion. "I've got a meeting."

*******************

"Glad you could join me, Son," Sergeant Anderson called to Private Horn who was trotting up to the helicopter landing pad. "What exactly does Zero-800 mean to you?" As usual, the sergeant was making his point without making an issue. It was just one of the many reasons he garnered so much admiration from his men.

"Sorry, Sarge," offered the apologetic soldier as he came up alongside his sergeant. "Couldn't find my harmonica." Roger Horn was carrying his rucksack in one hand and a bulky PRC-77 field radio in the other. A small cloud of dust burst off the ground as he dropped the heavy gear in the dirt so that he could reach into band of his helmet and prove to the sergeant that he had indeed located his instrument. Being a harmonica enthusiast himself, Anderson flashed Horn a knowing grin and the private popped the small piece of metal back into its designated spot on the side of his head. Together, the two men looked over to the horizon at the approaching Huey.

"There's our boy," Anderson observed, squinting up into the sun.

Horn glanced at the bird a moment before addressing the sergeant. "Um, Sarge?" the private began carefully. Anderson dropped his eyes from the helicopter and shifted his gaze to study the private standing beside him. "Sarge, I was wondering..." Horn hesitated, remembering the morning's reprimand. "Never mind," he reconsidered, deciding it would not be wise to question Lieutenant Goldman's orders.

"What is it, Horn,?" Anderson urged, having a pretty good idea of what was on the private's mind. "If you're wondering why the LT decided to hand you this baggage, I reckon I know why he picked you."

"Oh, yeah?" the private blurted, feeling considerably more brave. "Is he thinking that it's a good idea to frag the RTO along with the cherry?" Horn did not want the assignment. It was bad enough to have to carry the radio, a major enemy target, and to have to follow the LT--another priority target--around like a puppy dog, but the idea of being chained to the new guy was unfathomable. "Why can't Baker have him?"

Anderson understood Horn's objections, but having had time to consider the situation, he was not completely against Goldman's decision, either. "The way I see it, Horn, our FNG is probably gonna save your hide," the sergeant called, raising his voice over the sound of the fast-approaching helicopter. "You won't fight. You have a thing for leaving your weapon on the chopper. Maybe you're not gonna be this kid's buddy. Maybe he's gonna be yours." The sergeant offered Horn a lopsided grin and slapped the young man on the back. "Besides, Private," he added, pointing at the burdensome radio, "maybe you can let the kid carry that thing for awhile."

"This is fubar, you know, Sarge," Horn sulked.

"You got that right, Private."

*******************

The helicopter landed a few meters away from where the two soldiers waited. Sergeant Anderson and Private Horn involuntarily ducked below the spinning blades and jogged up to greet the new arrival.

Bill Miller was nothing they imagined Greene's replacement would be. Fresh from Advanced Individual Training, the staff sergeant expected the new E2 to be clean and polished and ready to go. Instead Anderson was greeted by a very childlike young man looking completely out of place in his rumpled army fatigues. His bright red hair stood out against the dreary backdrop of the helicopter and Anderson could see the explosion of freckles on the boy's face even from where he stood a few meters away. Private Miller's green eyes contrasted brightly against his fair skin and rosy cheeks, and made the boy appear much too youthful to be a soldier. Studying his baby-face, Sergeant Anderson vaguely wondered if the private's extra pounds might become a problem once the kid was out in the field.

With his heavy duffelbag and gear, Miller had trouble exiting the Huey. He lowered himself into a sitting position, scooted through the open hatchway and gingerly dropped himself to the ground. Approaching the staff sergeant, the boy raised his arm in a salute and addressed the man before him. "Private William Miller reporting for duty," he hesitated to inspect Anderson's insignia, "Sergeant." The boy snapped to parade rest and nervously regarded Private Horn before again speaking to the staff sergeant. "I expected to be met by the platoon leader, Sir."

Anderson let out a chuckle. "Did you now? Well, I expect I'll have to go find out what's keeping him for you," the NCO retorted good-naturedly. "Relax, Private. I ain't no drill sergeant. No need to be so stiff out here."

"Yes, Sir," Miller replied, immediately dropping to an at-ease stance.

Horn rolled his eyes.

"Son, I'm a sergeant," Anderson corrected, ignoring Horn. "You don't call me 'Sir.' Save that for the officers." Anderson thought of his strict, by-the-book platoon leader and contemplated how the lieutenant might react to these kinds of slips by the unversed private. Deciding that it was a problem Horn would have to deal with later, the staff sergeant moved to continue the orientation. "Now, then, Private, you won't mind if me and Private Horn here show you around the place, do you?"

"That'll be fine, Sergeant," Miller agreed, struggling to keep his duffelbag from slipping down his shoulder. Sergeant Anderson knew the FNG was going to be a handful. The staff sergeant had seen dozens of new guys come and go during his first two tours in Vietnam. An E2 this raw could be a danger to the platoon. When they come in this green, Anderson recognized, they tend to want to go out there and try to prove something. Either that, or they come completely unglued at the first sign of trouble.

The fresh, new private had managed to sling his heavy bag across his back and was walking toward the tents, not bothering to wait for his escorts. Horn shot a look at the perplexed sergeant who had reconsidered his participation in the FNG's tour and was already headed in the opposite direction. "Sarge?" the private pleaded.

"He's your buddy, Horn. Go after him." Without turning back, Anderson added, "Mission at Zero-900. Have PFC Percell give him a pre-combat inspection--tell him to be thorough--and get to rehearsal."

"Fubar," the private mumbled and hurried after the FNG.

**************************

Lieutenant Goldman entered the large tactical operations center tent and offered a sharp salute to the Captain who was leaning over, resting his fists on the long table between them. Rusty Wallace glanced up, returned the salute and resumed concentrating on the large map unfolded on the table. "Lieutenant Goldman," the captain remarked without looking up again. "You been to sleep, Son?"

Myron hadn't thought about his appearance since he had stopped in front of the mirror in his tent an hour earlier. I must look like shit, he thought to himself, if the captain can tell I haven't slept after seeing me for all of two seconds. "Sir, I'm fine," the exhausted lieutenant lied aloud. "Just a little tired, Sir." With his senior officer looking down at the map, Goldman had little to focus on, so he kept his eyes fixed to the top of the captain's head and waited for his orders.

"At ease, Goldman," Wallace allowed after a minute. The commanding officer raised his eyes and lifted a hand to motion the lieutenant forward. "We got a short but critical mission for you today, Myron. In and out." The captain picked up the five-page, type-written OP order from the table and, without ceremony, began to read. "Situation: Friendly: Alpha Company East, Charlie Company West. Rear HHC. First Platoon leader and RTO North. Enemy: Members of 276th NVA are believed to be operating in the vicinity of CP Lima Delta 0023. They are well trained and are believed to be at 85% strength. Morale is high."

Lieutenant Goldman examined the map lying on the table as Captain Wallace turned to the second page of the order, which would outline the lieutenant's assignment. "Mission:," the captain resumed, "196th Second Platoon is to recon CP 0023 to find First Platoon Leader and RTO; last known location was Grid, HD354078, as of 23:46. Second Platoon will be sent to recover Alpha-One-One and One-One-Alpha."

Goldman's eyes shot away from the map to study the captain incredulously. Wallace appreciated Goldman's reaction. When an officer faced the possibility that a counterpart was missing in action, it often forced a long cold look into the face of his own mortality. Choosing not to address the junior officer's reaction, Wallace continued with the order. "Execution: Second Platoon will insert at Zero-900 and will do a zone recon, moving along route Dog, checking CP 0034, 0022 and 0024. Move to an area recon at HD354078 and recover One-One. Movement must be quick and silent. Break all enemy contact if possible." The captain stopped reading. "Questions, Lieutenant?"

Goldman had many questions for his commanding officer, but since they had nothing to do with the execution of the mission, he decided to wait until Wallace was finished reading the order. "No, Sir," he replied.

"Good," the captain continued. "Service and Support: Inserted by the E troop 1-7th Cavalry. Company mortar will be on call for fire missions as needed. E 1-7 Cavalry also on call for extraction. Command and Signal: Will be per SOP, CEOI changes at 13-hundred." The captain stopped reading and, making eye contact with the platoon leader, again solicited Goldman for inquiries.

It took Myron Goldman a moment to find his voice. The order was clear, yet the meaning behind it surreal. Goldman was dismayed that two men, one of them an officer, could have been left behind to survive the night in the jungle with the enemy known to be in the area. "Sir," the lieutenant queried, "what happened to Lieutenant Peters and his RTO that we have to go in after them. Why weren't they extracted with the rest of his platoon?"

Captain Wallace studied his subordinate for a moment before answering Goldman's question. The stress in the lieutenant's voice seemed to be something more than fatigue and the CO was concerned. "Peters and his RTO didn't make it to the pickup zone with the rest of the platoon. We think they picked up a sniper. We know the RTO is KIA but we don't know the status of Lieutenant Peters. We lost radio contact around 23-hundred last night."

"Sir," Goldman's voice was becoming agitated, "why didn't we expedite this mission last night? The chances of Peters surviving the night can't be good. We would have had a better chance going in immediately." Remembering his own miserable night, the lieutenant believed he would have much preferred even the most difficult search and rescue over writing to Private Greene's mother.

"We couldn't risk it, Lieutenant. We're not sure if Peters is wounded or KIA at this point, but it was already after dark when we lost him. With Charlie in the area, we couldn't get the birds in close enough, and a hot hoist is hard enough during the day. We couldn't chance it at night." Anticipating Goldman's next question, Wallace added, "The choppers are committed until Zero-900 this morning. That's the earliest we can get your squad inserted."

The captain allowed the other man to absorb the information for only a minute before reiterating the order. "We're going to drop your squad in here," he pointed to a location on the map. "If Peters wasn't taken prisoner, he should be within a few klicks of the LZ. Find him and his RTO, radio in your position and set up a perimeter to protect the dustoff. We'll get medevac there within twenty mikes and your guys will be home before evening chow."

Goldman considered the information he had been given, and, not liking the odds of a single squad being sent out on a recon mission, ventured an explanation from his CO. "Sir, with all due respect, why are we sending in only a squad? If there are VC in the area..."

Captain Wallace interrupted. "Sorry, Lieutenant. Peters' platoon was pretty banged up when they came out of there. Their last mission lasted twenty-three days and I can't send them out again. Half the guys are wounded or KIA, the other half are suffering heat exhaustion and dehydration. There's no way they're ready to go back in. And, with the bulk of the company already out in the field, I'll need the rest of your platoon to stay here and protect the base."

Rusty Wallace began gathering the maps and papers together that would accompany Lieutenant Goldman on his mission, signaling to the frustrated junior officer that this OP order was about to be adjourned. "We don't think this mission should be high-risk," Wallace said, moving to close the meeting. "Before we lost radio contact, Peters advised us that he was pretty sure it was a single sniper keeping him locked down. Your squad should be enough to bring them out."

Without further inquiry, Goldman accepted the smaller version of the captain's map that was handed to him, snapped to attention and produced a crisp salute for his commanding officer. "Yes, Sir." Lieutenant Goldman concluded the meeting and turned to commence the mission.

************** Continued Part 2****************