Another meaningless formation….
Sgt. Shields commands us to attention, about faces and a few moments latter Capt. Sharp comes out of the command tent. He half struts, half lumbers into position. His mouth is slightly crooked and forms a smirk. “Bravo Company, Report,” he commands.
“All present and accounted for,” Sgt. Shields replies.
Captain Sharp begins one of his long lectures. “There have been reports of missing ID cards, and of theft.” There is a shuffle as everyone checks their wallet.
“No one is to leave base without a partner, all personnel must take their liberty in groups or in pairs.” Then more slowly, like he is talking to children, “Do not return without your partner.” Next, he informs us we will be supplying a riffle platoon for the upcoming operation then something about a rash of stolen riffles.
“Never take your eyes off your weapon. Do not set it down while you shit or piss. Keep your weapon on you at all times and watch for anything suspicious.” Sarcasm drips from every syllable. Finally, he commands us to attention, salutes and marches back inside the duty tent. A few seconds later Sgt. Shields bellows, “Fallout!”
I have a few hours before LZ duty, so I head for the soup tent to hide out and read. Yesterday I busted my butt cleaning tent stoves and I’m determined to avoid getting stuck on another work detail. I don’t get very far before I hear Staff Sergeant Colbert call my name. I pretend not to hear. He shouts louder, “Lance Corporal Caldwell!”
I turn and report. “Yes, Staff Sergeant?”
“Get a detail and meet back here in ten minutes. I got a job for you.”
We have two staff sergeants Colbert and Walker. Colbert is lazy and incompetent, I pray never go to war with the bastard. Walker is a guy who knows his stuff and I would follow anywhere. I’m able to round up three troops Sykes, Gibbs and Richards. We wait in front of the NCO tent, a few minutes later Staff Sgt. Colbert shuffles out, he doesn’t look so good, like he’s been up all night. “What do you want us to do Staff Sergeant?” I ask.
He gestures toward the NCO tent, “Roll up the sides, haul the contents out, sweep and mop the plywood decking and return everything in proper order.” He explains.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I study him for a moment, his eyes are shifty and mean, his slack jaw ridiculously set. Unable to take him seriously I voice my incredulity. “You want us to do what?”
Shocked by my outburst he steps back then rallies, “You heard me, sweep and mop the decking that’s an order!”
Just then 2nd Lieutenant Bronson walks over. “TEN HUT!” I bellow. My detail snaps to attention. The lieutenant gives me a look of annoyance. “What’s going on?” he asks.
“Staff Sergeant Colbert is ordering us to clean the NCO’s tent Sir.” At first, he doesn’t see the problem. So, I continue. “That’s personal servitude. They can clean up after themselves Sir.”
2nd Lt. Bronson is not very decisive he always takes time to think before making a decision it’s what I like about him. He’s not slow, just deliberate and patient like a chess player. I remain at attention hoping he makes the right decision. After a moment he does. “Dismiss your detail.” He commands.
My detail and I double time around the corner. “What a fucking moron.” Sykes says.
“Belay that.” I retort.
The whole incident upsets me. Colbert gave an unlawful order, my refusal to follow it showed a breakdown of authority. Respecting the chain of command is fundamental to morale and Colbert’s incompetence is a serious problem. Sykes looks real pissed. Seeing his anger somehow calms me down. All I can think to say is, “Thank goodness the Lieutenant stepped in.”
Later that afternoon Staff Sgt. Colbert sought me out and personally informed me I was on mess duty. “But I’m on LZ duty this week.” I countered.
“I switched you, report to Sergeant Billings for mess duty 0500 tomorrow morning.” He smiles. I knew something like this was coming. Colbert was in charge of the duty roster and got his revenge. Mess duty was 0500 to 2000 hours. The worst duty there is.
I wake to single digit temperature get dressed and stumble through darkness and despair. Twelve hours later, I’m wide awake strung out on coffee. I decide to take a detour by the LZ, sometimes the guys have a few beers late at night. I’m to wound up to sleep, so I pull up my collar and step it out. I notice a helicopter flying in for a landing. It hovers over the LZ but does not land just keeps hovering. There is a light on in the duty tent, but no one is directing the landing. The helicopter is now hovering over the duty tent blasting it with its down wash. I spring into action and race into the tent. I hear the pilot on the radio, “Bravo Charlie this is delta two, request permission to land over.” Two guys are passed out drunk. I jam on a flight helmet flip the power switch and key the mic. “Delta two this is Bravo Charlie permission granted… Stand by for landing.” I respond. Snatching the radio and wands off the floor I run outside and take my position. “Clear for landing, Delta two.” I say, executing the signals for a safe landing. Immediately after touchdown I hurry back into the duty tent and stow the contraband. Two, empty bottles of Soju, no wonder they’re passed out! Suddenly a call from command comes in.
“Bravo Charlie what’s going on up there?”
Shit, it’s the captain! “Everything is under control…we…ah…have a sick Marine on duty, over.”
“Who is this?” he demands.
“This is Echo three Charlie, over.” I reply. We never say names over the radio but Echo Three, is my rank and Charlie represents the first initial in my last name.
“Report to H.Q. a.s.a.p.” he commands.
I pour a canteen of water over one guy’s face before he finally comes to. I make him some coffee and leave him to it. I exit the tent and almost bump into a tall guy who looks like Ichabod Crane wearing a flight suit. I can just make out silver oak leaves as he steps by me and enters the tent. I have a strong urge to run but instead follow him in. He looks around doesn’t say a word and heads back out. A few seconds later I follow him out. He is waiting for me. “Take me to see Captain Sharp.” He commands.
Aye, Aye Sir, right this way. I respond. After a while he asks, “What is your name and what unit are you with?”
“Lance Corporal Caldwell, sir. I’m with Bravo Company, Landing Support Battalion.”
“What were you doing at the LZ?” He demands.
“I was returning from Mess duty and thought I would check on the LZ, sir.”
“Why does a guy on Mess duty need check on the LZ?” He inquires.
I take a moment and reflect on my situation. I want to tell him about how I came to be on mess duty but know it would not be wise. I have a feeling this guy knows exactly why I went there. Instead, I say,
“I was wound up from coffee and had a mind to walk it off before hitting the rack. I saw your copter and took action, sir.” He seems satisfied. Just before we reach the command tent, he stops me. In a low conspiratorial voice he says,
“How do you like Bravo Company, Marine?”
What do you mean, Sir? I ask.
“Off the record do you know of any morale problems?” Who the hell is this guy? I am loyal to my Company and protective of my Captain. We have some problems with SSgt. Colbert but that’s none of his business.
“Coronel, on or off the record, Bravo Company is gung-ho. You won’t find a more highly motivated and dedicated Company.” With that I step up and hold the tent flap for him.
Sgt. Shields is at the duty desk, I quietly let him know what really happened. Joe Shields is my best friend we have been working together for almost a year and developed a strong bond. He starts telling me about a helicopter support team going out tomorrow when suddenly Captain Sharp shouts,
“Caldwell!”
My response is immediate “Sir, yes, Sir!”
“We have a helicopter support team going out tomorrow and I want you on it.”
“I’m on mess duty sir.” I say smiling at Sgt. Shields.
“Who the hell put you on mess duty?”
Smiling wider, “Staff Sgt. Colbert sir,” I answer.
“You’re requisitioned to Staff Sgt. Walker’s helicopter support team, report for mission briefing 0700 hours.”
“Aye, Aye, Sir.”
The Land of Morning Calm slowly devolves into frightening noise, an invisible force approaches, vortices of thick fog begin to swirl downward, I brace against the coming chaos, waiting for it to appear. Suddenly, the CH53 Sea Stallion descends through electric mist, blue static dances along its belly. It is the largest and heaviest helicopter in the U.S. Military with seven rotor blades, three turbo shaft engines and 36,000 lbs. externally slung heavy lift capacity. It is the eye of the storm that lands gently but with thunderous force. Soon the back hatch lowers and the crew chief appears. Staff Sgt. Walker is all business as he meets with him, after a moment, he signals us.
“Heave to!” Sgt. Shields bellows. We hoist our gear aboard the helicopter secure it to the deck and take seats along the bulkhead. I put on my flight helmet, buckle up and settle in. My helmet quiets the deafening helicopter noise into a dull hum. I look around at my fellow teammates wondering how they will perform their duties. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep. Over the past year I learned to sleep during transport. The back of a truck is the hardest while a helicopter could lull me into deep slumber.
As it turns out, this is not a training exercise but the real thing. A communications unit is stranded on a mountain. The bridge is out so everything has to be transported by helicopter. It’s supposed to be a secret, but I overheard the captain talking something about the NSA.
I awake with sinus and ear pressure. I flex my jaw and I’m rewarded with a crackling sensation behind my nose as I take a look around. Mountains still shrouded in morning fog are visible through the side hatch. The hell hole is also open in the deck to my left. The penal hook is attached to the ceiling and hangs out the hole. The crew chief becomes more active, in a few minutes we land. The rear hatch opens, and we disembark.
It’s a large LZ yet the Sea Stallion covers the whole back half. As we lay out our gear, a lieutenant arrives from the communication unit and begins ordering SSgt. Walker about. Walker wants to get the vehicles down off the mountain first while the lieutenant disagrees. It seems obvious to me that vehicles and drivers go first. Walker suddenly commands us to pack it up. Just then a Colonel comes out from a com. Van. He is the same Coronel from last night. “What’s going on?” He barks.
“The Lieutenant won’t let us do our job, sir.” Walker replies.
“Get the hell out of their way lieutenant! I want you on the first trip down with the vehicles.” He turns to me and nods. “Carry on.”
As soon as he leaves, I hop into the jeep. The crew chief directs me as I drive slowly up the ramp and into the helicopter. The small jeep just barely fits. Sgt. Shields and I quickly secure it to the deck. The crew chief approves of our work, we are made to wait at the far end of the LZ. The copter slowly lifts off and away. When it returns, a half dozen people dressed in civilian clothes come out from the communication van and file into the helicopter. Many wearing ball caps, all keep their faces turned away. No sooner is the hatch closed it takes off.
A five, ton truck is too large to ride inside the helicopter, so we stage it in the center of the LZ and rig it for external lift. Nylon slings connect to four lift points and lead to a large donut shape ring. We drive a grounding rod into the turf next to the truck and attach a long, insulated wire that leads to an insulated grounding wand. Sgt. Shields is on radio and confirms they are on their way back. Sykes climbs on the truck and pass him the grounding wand. Richards takes a distant position and will direct the helicopter with hand and arm signals. I climb on the truck just as the sea stallion rises overhead, grab the donut and check the connections while Richards directs the helicopter directly over us. Slowly it lowers. Sykes is all business as he eyes the hook, raises the grounding wand and before it even touches, a large blue arc of static electricity shoots through the rod. Sykes quickly climbs off the truck while I hoist the donut and slam it into the wavering hook. The helicopter keeps lowering and the landing gear has me ducking for cover. I roll off the side of the truck and jog to safety. The Sea Stallion nearly touches before it begins to rise smoothly lifting the truck up and away.
After air lifting two communication vans, we complete our mission and return to base camp. I will have more run-ins with the mysterious coronel I call Ichabod Crane, a foreboding intelligence officer that eventually gets me to work for him. I don’t know why, but Captain Sharpe likes me, always pitting me against NCOs, praising me as an example in front of others of higher rank. I thought it showed poor leadership and did not understand his deference toward me.
The following week we are involved in the war game as a reactionary rifle platoon.
Joseph Caldwell
Ferndale Mi.
01/05/22