Excerpt: Part I-The Price of War

Chapter 1

All the Way, Sir

Phong Dien, Republic of Vietnam, near the DMZ
Thursday 8 May 1969

"Hey Six, wait up!"

1Lt. Stan Castleberry, Alpha Company Executive Officer, had spotted his company commander walking at a brisk pace several hundred feet ahead as he and SFC Alan Grainger, the Field First Sergeant, turned the corner of the orderly room hooch.

"Alpha Five, Top! Where the hell have you two been?" asked Captain Kip Glynn, in a slightly agitated voice. "I've been looking all over for you."

"We were down in 1st platoon, inspecting weapons - I thought you knew? Keller came down in a big shitty - said we were in deep shit with 'the ole man'."

"Keller's going to be in deep shit when I get my hands on his young ass," answered the Captain, his agitation now ebbing a bit. "If he weren't the best damn clerk in Battalion - not to mention the best typist - I'd ship his ass to the field in a skinny minute."

"What's up, boss?" asked Stan.

"We've got a briefing at Battalion. We're going on a big operation in the A Shau Valley, and the operation order is scheduled in about three minutes. XO, you get with S-4 and coordinate logistics. Top, you get with S-3 Air and work out the airlifts and air support - then with the artillery boys to go over the fire-support plan."

"No problem, Sir," came their practiced response, almost in unison.

"Sir, I thought the jar-heads cleaned out that place back in January. What the hell are we going in again for?" asked Stan.

"From what the S-3 told me about 20 minutes ago, the NVA rebuilt a base camp there - at least battalion size. This is going to be a big operation - probably the whole brigade," answered Kip.

"Holy shit!" said Stan. "This could be the big one - what do you think, Top."

Grainger gave him a broad grin. "I'm ready to go after those slimy little bastards. We'll kick their ass all the way back to Hanoi!"

They arrived at the Battalion TOC (Tactical Operations Center) just as the room came to attention for the Battalion Commander.

"Be seated gentlemen. Three, what'da you have for us?" asked LTC Mike Gravel, Commander of the 2nd Bn, 506th Inf, 101st Airborne Division.

The S-3 started his briefing. Stan whispered to Kip, "Just in time - the ole man didn't notice we came in at the bell."

"Pipe down," answered Kip, with an agitated wave of his hand.

"Colonel Gravel, gentlemen, we received orders from Brigade last night to conduct a search and destroy operation in the A Shau Valley - to clean out Enemy Base Area 611. This is the same area that elements of the 3rd Marine Division cleaned out back in January and February. It looks like the NVA are back in force. Gentlemen, this will be a Brigade operation, with our Battalion as the spearhead. We kick off with an air assault into LZ (Landing Zone) Purple as indicated on this map - coordinates Oscar Zulu 445417."

"The enemy situation is as follows. During the past two months, Corps intelligence has detected considerable enemy activity in the vicinity of Ap Bia Hill (Hill 937) just east of the Laotian border. The Ho Chi Minh trail through Laos has been as busy as a freeway during rush hour. We believe at least one battalion is entrenched on 937, another - maybe a battalion minus - just south of the hill, in this heavily vegetated area, with smaller units located here, here, and here. These locations are marked on your overlays."

After a brief pause, the S-3 continued, "Our mission is to conduct an air assault beginning at 0600 hours, 9 May 1969, into LZ Purple, secure the LZ as a logistics base for the Battalion, then conduct forced marches to LZ's located here - Red; and here - Blue - both less than a klick from Purple. Brigade doesn't want to chance three battalions landing on hot LZ's at the same time. Upon successful completion of this mission, the battalion will reform at assembly point Bravo-3, just north of LZ Blue at coordinates Oscar Zulu 442389. From here, we'll conduct search and destroy operations into Area x-ray, just south of 937. When Red and Blue are secured, the 1st Battalion will land at LZ Red; the 3rd at LZ Blue. Until they land, this is entirely our show. Any questions?"

Hearing none, the S-3 continued in a slightly higher pitch, "Alpha Company!"

"Airborne!" answered Kip, matching the S-3's pitch with a firm commanding voice.

"Alpha-six, you'll lead the battalion's assault on LZ Purple. Kip, this is likely to be a hot one - we need your best effort."

"All the way, Sir," replied Kip.

"Good! As soon as Purple is secure, Bravo Company will land and make their way to Red, followed by Charlie, who will secure Blue. Delta Company will relieve Alpha, secure purple as the Battalion Base, and remain in reserve. Now, gentlemen, take a look at the order being passed out. I believe we've included all the details you need. We got the Brigade order late yesterday, and we've been working all night to put this together. Let me know if you see any holes." He paused several seconds, then added, "Gentlemen, take about 15 or 20 minutes to study the order. Then, company commanders will meet with the Colonel and me - company representatives will meet with the 4, the S-3 Air, and the fire support coordinator. Any questions."

"Damn!" exclaimed Stan amid the buzz of conversation, "Looks like we get the short end of the stick again."

"Not a problem," answered Kip. "Somebody's got to do the heavy lifting, and the ole man knows our boys can handle this shit better than anyone else in Battalion."

"Airborne!" answered Grainger.

"Top, you make damn sure we have enough slicks for the whole company to be in the air at one time. I want to bring in the first and second platoons, the HQ (Headquarters), and the artillery FO (Forward Observer) in the first wave. That LZ doesn't look big enough to handle more than half the company at one time. But I want the entire company in the air at once. . . , I want at least two platoons, plus you, me, the FO, and the Kilo's in the first wave. . . , and I want the rest of the company right behind us in the second wave. Got it?"

"All the way, Sir!"

"Stan, I want you to start lining up resupply as soon as we secure the LZ. I want those birds in the air, no more than 45 minutes behind us. You know what to bring - all the usual shit."

"Sure thing, Sir."

"And Stan, you'd better have some dustoff's standing by. This may be bad - we may need them. OK?"

"OK, Sir. I've got you covered."

Chapter 2

Alpha Six is Down

Kip Glynn was the most respected officer in Battalion, maybe even Division. He had served as company commander longer than anyone in the 101st. Normally, commanders are rotated to staff positions after six months, but Kip was an exception. His company was by far the best disciplined and most proficient in the Division, and everyone from the Battalion staff to the Division Commander recognized his extraordinary leadership. He was now on his second tour in Vietnam, within three weeks of rotating back to the states. Most men would have been reticent about leading a dangerous mission so close to rotation, but Captain Glynn never considered the danger.

Following the Battalion briefing, Kip, Castleberry, and Grainger spent the rest of the morning huddled in the orderly room with platoon leaders and platoon sergeants, refining plans for the assault. Except for two fairly new platoon leaders, the entire company leadership had at least one hot LZ under their belts. Sergeant Grainger had secured the aircraft his CO wanted. Following Kip's orders, he insisted on enough aircraft to carry the entire company in one lift. Battalion had initially planned to have the same aircraft make a return trip for the second half of the company, but using Captain Glynn's vast reservoir of credibility with the S-3, Grainger persuaded him to ask Brigade to divert aircraft from other battalions, since they would not be used until all LZs were secure.

The company was well trained in air assault operations, and rehearsals were not needed, but preparations were thorough in every detail. By noon, platoon leaders were released to work with their men. The CO, XO, and Field First spent the afternoon and much of the evening checking equipment, answering questions, and helping soldiers get themselves mentally prepared. Kip was the last to go to bed - just before midnight. He had no trouble sleeping for those few precious hours, until he was awakened at 0300 by the company clerk.

"Thanks, Keller. I guess it's going to be a long day, huh?" asked Kip as he sat on the side of his bunk, lacing his boots. It did not take long to get ready. He slept in his clothes, and Keller had laid everything out for him the night before.

"Where's my map case?"

"Right behind you, Sir."

"Oh, OK. . . . Oh, Keller, be sure to wake up the Kilos. Tell them to check the radios - new batteries - I don't want any dead batteries in the middle of an ass-kicking contest. And make sure they have us running on the battalion net as well as the Air Force, the artillery, and the 101st Aviation net. I want to be able to talk to the Air Force guys and the ships taking us in without having to switch frequencies."

"Will do, Captain."

There were advantages to being in the same job for eleven months. His standards were high, and his day to day performance so predictable that every member of the company knew what to expect from him. They worked together like a precision drill team. His radio-telephone operators (RTO's), which he called Kilo's because their call sign was "Alpha-Six-Kilo," could anticipate his commands, simply by watching his facial expressions. His company/battalion net operator, a PFC named "Red" Campbell, was extremely precise in issuing orders to platoon leaders. In fact, platoon leaders never thought twice about getting their ass chewed by Six-Kilo because they knew it was the CO talking, not some red-headed, freckle-faced kid from Indiana.

By 0445 hours, the entire company was dressed, fed, checked, and sitting on the flight line in two waves - each wave consisting of ten groups of eight to ten soldiers. They sat quietly, awaiting the arrival of twenty Hueys that would deliver them to LZ Purple, a 45-minute flight from their base at Phong Dien. They were scheduled to lift off at precisely 0515. At 0500 Kip looked at his watch, then to the skies. He listened - he could hear the familiar "whop, whop, whop" sound of the Hueys as they approached the landing strip and their eager passengers.

"Red," said Kip as he motioned to his RTO, "Raise the lead ship - tell the pilot I'm going in with him."

"Roger that," replied Red. "Iron Eagle 29er, this is Avenger Alpha Six-Kilo. Over."

"Six-Kilo, this is 29er. Over."

"29er, this is Six-Kilo. My Six wanted you to know that he will be aboard your ship and that he expects to have better cabin service than we had on your last flight. Over."

"Six-Kilo, this is 29er, tell Alpha Six to kiss my ass. Out."

"Sir, 29er said he'd be happy to have you aboard," said Red in a calm, serious tone - never betraying his banter with the lead helicopter pilot.

As Kip turned to hear Red, he saw Grainger coming toward them, trooping the line, making one final check of the flight manifests. He reached the CO just as the first wave of helicopters was landing. Shouting over the din of the Hueys, Kip gave the Field First one last instruction. "Top, get on the horn with Alpha Five. . . , tell him when we lift off. Tell him to get the second wave loaded and off, and to get those resupply ships loaded and ready to go, as planned."

"Roger, Sir."

When the first ten ships landed, Grainger signaled the first wave to mount up. After the flight line was cleared, Grainger joined the CO in the lead chopper, where Kip had already donned a headset and was talking to the pilot, CW4 JC Mitchell. "Chief, this is likely to be a hot one. The whole damn NVA is probably waitin' on us."

"Let the little bastards wait. They take one pot-shot at my ass, and I'll blow them to hell."

The Chief turned to look at Kip as he gave a thumbs up. "Say, Chief, who's your new cell mate. Looks like you've got a new flying buddy."

"This is CW1 - green ass - Agular. He's about as virgin as they come - just got in-country last week - been flying the milk runs - but I'm sure he'll get his cherry popped before the day's over - right Amigo?"

"Damn right," answered the CW1.

"Hey, Chief, I'm Kip Glynn - CO of this outfit. Glad to have you with us. Whatever you do, don't pay any attention to all the bullshit. I've been flying with Iron Eagle 29er for over eight months, and he talks a bad game. But when the chips are down, he's the best - you couldn't learn under a better man."

"Thanks, Captain."

Kip was seated with his back to the co-pilot. He had been facing the front, talking to Mitchell and Agular since take-off, and when he turned back to the rear, he could see everyone was asleep. The FO and his RTO sat facing him in the center, with two soldiers from the first platoon flanking them. Red, Grainger, and Grainger's RTO sat on the jump seats with their backs to the cockpit, while two other RTO's sat on the floor, sandwiched between the two rows facing one another. As soon as he settled comfortably into his snug little corner, Kip, too, was sound asleep.

It was a pleasant thirty minutes - so peaceful, despite the deafening sound of the Huey as it cut through the dark gloom of the early morning. Kip's worries melted away, and the minutes passed slowly as his unconscious mind took control. He could see himself, boarding a spanking new 707. The fatigue of a long year in Vietnam evaporated as he sat reclining in the great white freedom bird, at last on his way home to his beloved wife, Amanda, and their two boys.

In one miraculous moment, the freedom bird swept halfway around the world and touched down at the Air Base in Oakland. He could see his family just beyond the tarmac near the passenger gate, waiting patiently as he cleared customs. He drew near them and reached out, but they faded away. He entered the passenger terminal, a vast labyrinth with glass enclosures separating the incoming troops from those departing. The long line of departing troops had a pale, ghostly look on their faces. Kip shuddered as he quickly turned away.

He then saw his family in the next hallway - just beyond the glass. He turned the corner and reached out, but another glass wall appeared- separating them once more. He could see their happy, smiling faces, and they waved to him, but he could not touch them - he could not hear what they were saying. He passed through a portal, expecting to be reunited, but they disappeared again, only to reappear behind still another glass wall. The harder he tried to find his way, the more elusive they became. He panicked, wondering if he would ever reach his beloved family.

"Captain! Captain! Wake up. We're almost there. The Chief wants to speak to you before we go in."

As Kip shook himself into consciousness, he could see Grainger looking at him in puzzlement. "The Chief's trying to talk to you, Sir. Your headset must've slipped off."

"Right - thanks. Yes, Chief, what've you got?"

"Captain, we're about 15 minutes out. Since we're going for surprise instead of pulverizing the place with an artillery prep, we might just get lucky. At any rate, I'm going to swing around in a big-ass circle and come in from the south. We'll fly low, behind that group of hills off to the left, and with the dense jungle, it might dampen our noise level enough to really surprise them. What'da you say?"

"I say you're the driver, Chief. I'll put my money on your horse, anytime."

"Roger that, Alpha Six - hang on!"

Kip signaled Grainger to get the troops awake and ready. Within minutes, every man in the ship was alert, checking equipment, preparing mentally as well as physically. Red had already taken the cue and was alerting the platoon leaders in the other craft to prepare for landing.

The sun was just peaking over the steaming jungle when they approached the LZ. "We may hit it lucky," thought Kip to himself. From the distance, everything looked serene. Just as the ship began to hover about twenty feet above the dense grass, his spirits soared. "I think we're going to make it."

The words had no sooner formed in his mind than an explosion of volcanic proportions erupted. The ship shuddered in mid air, rotating ninety degrees clockwise and shaking wildly as an ear-piercing blast racked the aft section of the aircraft. Kip could not understand the fine fragments of metal that were being blown through the passenger section, or the fine mist of raindrops splattering his face. Then, to his horror, he could see that the raindrops were splatters of blood - he could see the involuntary jerking of his comrades as their bodies erupted into a bleeding mass of flesh. The fine metal fragments were bits of the aircraft, blown away by the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire, coming from the tree line on the right side of the LZ. Everyone sitting near the cockpit had been spared, except for Grainger's RTO. The soldiers in the floor had absorbed most of the shock. The FO and those seated facing them had been sliced to pieces by the blistering fire.

"Set this son-of-a-bitch down, Chief," shouted Kip, unable even to hear his own words, wondering if he was, in fact, speaking. He strained toward the cockpit, as if moving in slow motion, to gain Mitchell's attention. But Mitchell could not hear him. He was slumped in the seat, blood dripping from around his helmet.

Agular was struggling to keep the craft in the air. "Get us the hell down, Man," he shouted to Agular, but the CW1 could not have heard him, even without the steady rattle of machine gun fire ripping through the chopper. His mind was numb with fear - his reactions were visceral. After agonizing seconds, Agular found the magic formula, and the chopper began to lift off above the tree level, away from the deadly space that had, at this point, ripped the life from everyone but Agular, Kip, Grainger, Red, and the door gunner on the far side of the craft.

An endless stream of blood came oozing from jagged orifices in the shattered bodies. The bullets had ripped through the center of the Huey; the stray that hit Mitchell in the temple had traveled a solitary path between Grainger and Kip. The two RTO's sitting in the floor were mangled beyond recognition. The FO's body sat slumped against his RTO - his head back, his eyes open in horror, his lower jaw blown away. For an instant, Kip imagined he was in a dream-world - this mangled mass of humanity nothing more than a wax display in a museum of horror. His eyes met Grainger's. This was no dream!

2Lt. Jim Wrenn, the 1^st platoon leader, observed the carnage first hand from the second chopper. His craft had not been hit, nor had any of the others in the first wave. The door gunners on the right side of the other nine aircraft opened fire on the tree line, soon suppressing the fire that had all but annihilated the CO's helicopter. Lt. Wrenn's door gunner spotted a machine gun mounted in a tree almost as soon as it began to fire. Unfortunately, he could not silence it until it had racked through the lead ship several times.

As Alpha Six's craft struggled to gain altitude above the tree line, Lt. Wrenn's platoon dismounted and made for cover. He watched as the CO's craft disappeared far beyond the clearing, trailing black smoke from the engine. He was not sure, but at one point he thought he heard the sound of the helicopter crashing into the dense jungle.

The other craft off-loaded their combatants with precision smoothness. Once in the tree line, Lt. Wrenn got on the battalion net in an attempt to alert higher headquarters of Captain Glynn's fate.

"Avenger Six, Avenger Six, this is Alpha Lima Six, come in, please! We have a hot one down here. Over."

"Alpha Lima Six, this is Avenger Three. Roger. I'm right above you - I'm tracking the whole thing. What's your situation? Over"

"Avenger Three, this is Lima Six. Alpha Six has been hit. Over."

"Lima Six, this is Three. I know about Alpha Six. I saw the whole thing. Alpha Six is down. What's your situation? Over."

"This is Lima Six. Roger. Situation under control. No enemy fire. Lima and Mike are deployed along the woodline. It should be OK to send in the second wave. Wait - out." Lt. Wrenn paused to collect his thoughts. Then he continued. "Avenger Three, request permission to organize a search party to look for Alpha Six. Over."

"Lima Six, this is Three. Negative. You stay put for now, and secure the LZ. I'll organize a rescue with other assets. It'll take hours to hack through the jungle to get to Alpha Six's location. Do you copy? Over."

"Avenger Three, this is Lima Six. Roger, I copy. Out." Lt. Wrenn slammed his helmet to the ground. "Dammit to hell!" he said, "Dammit to hell."

The Battalion Commander had lifted off with Bravo Company and was monitoring radio traffic between his S-3 and Wrenn. "Avenger Three, this is Six. I'm en route to your location. Can we land a rescue helicopter near the crash site? Over."

"Avenger Six, this is Three. Negative. Every time I get near the site, I take on ground fire. The canopy is so thick I can't even see the downed craft. I can see smoke - that's about it. Recommend we organize a ground rescue. I've already called in air strikes on the areas where we're drawing fire, but I can't get near Alpha Six's location. Over."

"Three, this is Six. Roger. I'm going to bring in Bravo to relieve Alpha. Tell Lima Six to stand by. I'll get Alpha Five out here to take command. Over."

"Six, this is Three. Roger. Out."

No sooner had the S-3 signed off than Lt. Castleberry came up on the battalion net. "Avenger Six, this is Alpha Five. Over."

"Alpha Five, this is Avenger Six. Over."

"Avenger Six, I've been monitoring your transmissions, and I'm standing by with a resupply helo. What are your orders, Sir? Over."

"Alpha Five, this is Avenger Six. Meet me at Purple. Over."

"Avenger Six, this is Alpha Five. Wilco. Out."

Turning to the pilot of the resupply Huey, Castleberry said, with unrestrained urgency in his voice, "Get me the hell to Purple!"

Chapter 3

Azimuth 280°

It was early afternoon before Castleberry and Alpha Company had hacked their way to the crash site. The Battalion Commander and the S-3 maintained a constant vigil in the air, and a platoon of assault helicopters was on call to respond to any ground threat. Using smoke grenades to mark the forward element of his column, Castleberry was guided to the downed craft by the S-3.

As they neared the crash site, Castleberry observed numerous trails crisscrossing the landscape. "Avenger Six, this is Alpha Five. You won't believe this, but it looks like Alpha Six's aircraft came down in the middle of an NVA base camp. Over."

"Alpha Five, this is Avenger Six. Any sign it's been used recently? Over."

"Avenger Six, this is Alpha Five. Affirmative. They may still be in there, but my guess is they scattered shortly after the helo hit. Over."

"This is Six. Don't take any chances. Cordon off the area, and sweep it clean. Keep your eye out for claymores and booby traps. Over."

"Avenger Six, this is Alpha Five. Wilco. Out."

Just as Castleberry ended his conversation with LTC Gravel, Lt. Wrenn came up on the company net. "Alpha Five, this is Lima Six. We've found Alpha Six-Kilo. He's alive. Over."

"Lima Six. This is Alpha Five. Stay put. I'm on my way to your location. Out."

After approximately an hour at the site, Alpha Company had secured the area and had located the downed chopper. The bodies of all four crewmen, and seven of the ten passengers, were found on or near the helicopter. All were apparently dead when the craft went down, except the left door gunner, who was killed when it struck a large tree branch at precisely where he was seated. Agular had been hit by the machine-gun fire and either died or lost consciousness just before the chopper went down. According to Red, he, Grainger, and Captain Glynn survived the crash and managed to find cover behind a fallen tree before the NVA soldiers reached the scene. The trees had broken the fall, and although they were shaken considerably, they survived uninjured.

"What happened next, Campbell?" asked Castleberry.

"All hell broke loose, Sir. We landed on the edge of this base camp. We got into a big-ass fire fight with the gooks. We must've killed ten or twenty of 'em, but we were running low on ammo. The Captain ordered Sergeant Grainger and me to make a run for it back this way." Red paused as he pointed to the rear of their position in some heavy undergrowth. Turning in the opposite direction, he again pointed. "The gooks were coming from that direction. But we were giving 'em hell. We'da beat the damn bastards if we had more ammo."

"Why didn't you radio your position?" asked Castleberry.

"They blew a big-ass hole in the damn thing. That damn radio saved my ass," answered Red. "There are four or five machine-gun holes in it. I could feel 'em hit. It's a weird feeling, Lieutenant - getting hit by a goddamn machine-gun and not be dead." For the first time, Red began to choke up.

Castleberry gave the young man a reassuring, fatherly pat on the shoulder. "It's OK, Red, whenever you're ready. What happened next?"

"Sergeant Grainger and me lit out to the rear while the Captain covered us. After twenty meters, Grainger stopped. We listened. The firing had slowed down. Then Grainger said, 'Goddamn it. I ain't leaving the ole man.' He turned and started back, and I said, 'I ain't leaving neither.' Then Grainger said to me, 'Goddamn it Red, you get your ass outta here. Hide out in the thick bush and wait for us. Somebody'll be along later.' So I ran about four or five hundred meters and hid out - where Lt. Wrenn found me."

Grainger's body was behind the log where the three of them had made their stand. He had been hit several times in the head and chest. Everyone was accounted for except Alpha Six. His helmet, creased by a bullet on the right side, was found nearby. There was no blood on the helmet - apparently Captain Glynn had been knocked unconscious by the blow to the head, but there was no sign he had been killed. Weapons and equipment had been stripped from the dead.

"Lt. Castleberry, over here," came an excited shout from Lt. Wrenn.

"What've you got, Jim?"

"Look at these tracks. I bet they dragged the Captain off in this direction. He must be alive. They'd never carry off a dead body. They've got him prisoner."

"Dammit to hell," said Castleberry. "They're dragging him off to Laos. We couldn't be more than a klick from the damn border."

"What are you going to do, Stan?" asked Wrenn.

"I'm going the hell after him. You stay here. Give me two of your squads, and I'll go after him. You take charge here."

"Sir, with all due respect, I think we'd be better off if I took my platoon after the Captain and you secured the base." Wrenn's voice was strong, convincing.

Castleberry considered the plan. "OK, you go, but if you get into any trouble, give me a holler, and I'll be right behind you. Now get going."

As Wrenn's platoon moved out toward Laos, Castleberry shifted his perimeter to fill the hole. He organized a detail to collect the bodies and to hack a small clearing to accommodate a single helicopter.

"Alpha Five, this is Avenger Six. What's your status? Over."

"Avenger Six, this is Alpha Five. Area secure. We have 12 KIA's, 1 MIA, and one survivor. We found a good spot to hack out an LZ just south of my location. We need several sorties to haul out the KIA's. Over."

"This is Six. Roger. Just pop a red smoke when you're ready. Break. Who is MIA?"

"Avenger Six, this is Alpha Five. It's Alpha Six. Over."

"This is Six. I copy. Out."

Pausing to consider if he should tell the Battalion Commander of his decision to pursue the trail into Laos, Castleberry opted on the side of prudence. "Avenger Six, this is Alpha Five. We discovered a trail. I believe they dragged Alpha Six away. I've dispatched Lima to investigate. Over."

"This is Six. Which direction? Over."

"This is Alpha Five. Azimuth 280. Over."

There was a slight pause, then the radio crackled with the voice of the Battalion Commander. "Alpha Five, this is Six. Negative! I repeat. Negative! Call off search. Do not cross into Laos. Repeat, do not cross into Laos. Do you copy? Over."

A tense silence ensued. "Alpha Five, this is Six. Did you copy my last transmission. Over."

"This is Five. Affirmative. Out."

Later that evening, Campbell, Castleberry, and Wrenn recounted their stories to the Battalion Commander and his staff.

At one point, after everyone had told his part, an eerie silence fell over the group. Lt. Wrenn broke the silence. "Sir, with all due respect, I should have been allowed to go . . ."

"No, Jim," interrupted Castleberry.

"It's OK, Lt. Castleberry. I know what he wants to say. . . , I can't blame him. He was there - so close, and I wouldn't let him cross over. I know how he feels." LTC Gravel paused. No one else dared speak.

"I feel the same way. There's nothing more I'd rather have done than go into Laos and clean out that rat's nest. Maybe we would've found Kip - maybe not, but it's hard to live with not trying." He paused, fiddling with his unlit pipe. "Gentlemen, it's not within our prerogative to cross the border. We can't simply obey the orders we like - we've got to obey them all, and none of us has the right to assume the authority of the President of the United States."

Again, there was a long silence. "This is one of the hardest losses I'll ever have to live with - even if he's a POW somewhere in Laos. . . . I've known Kip's family for more than fifteen years. I served with his father in Korea in 1953 - our paths have crossed several times - with him and his lovely wife. I can't think of a more painful duty than to tell him his son is missing."

LTC Gravel paused - his emotions were now beyond concealment. Then he continued. "Thank God someone else will have to do that. I don't think I could stand to."

Chapter 4

Rudyard Kipling Glynn, Jr.

Columbia, South Carolina
Sunday, 11 May 1969

"Where the hell's the damn newspaper?" It was a rhetorical question, but he roared it loud enough to bring an instant reaction from an equally perturbed but less profane woman as she emerged from the kitchen - with flour decorating her hands and apron. "Rudder Glynn, you know I don't tolerate such language in my house!"

"I'm sorry Honey, do you know where the paper is?" There was no rancor in his voice - he had violated one of his wife's cardinal rules, and his apology was sincere. This same conversation must have gone on at least once a week for the past thirty years.

"The paper's on the back porch, sweety," answered Millie in a much calmer voice.

"What the he..., heck is it doing out there? It's hot as all . . . heck outside." Somehow, the word "heck" was not as satisfying as "hell."

"It wasn't hot this morning when I got up. In fact, it was nice outside. You should try it sometime."

"Who in the world wants to get up at five o'clock on Sunday morning?" he asked. "Would you get the paper for me. . . , please?"

Millie Glynn had been waiting on this sometimes brusque, but always lovable man since they were married thirty years ago. It was the fate of southern women when she grew up, and although the world was dramatically different in 1969, Millicent Graham Glynn was of the old school; she was happy with her life and would never consider changing it. Quickly rolling out the last biscuit and placing it on the pan, she wiped her hands on a dishtowel as she made her way to the back porch.

Although Rudder took such personal services for granted, he was always courteous. "Thanks, Sugar. I love you."

She pecked him on the forehead and started for the kitchen. Before she was out of the room, he added. "Sugar, could you bring me a cup of coffee, please." He knew the magic words - they always worked with Millie.

Rudder and Millie Glynn had lived in Columbia, South Carolina, most of their lives. She was a native of Columbia; he moved there during his junior year in high school when his father was assigned to Fort Jackson. They attended Dreher High School, and fell for each other the first time they met. They were a natural pair. Rudder was just under six feet tall, strong and muscular, with the physique of an Adonis. Millie was about three inches shorter - quite tall for a woman in those days - easily the prettiest girl in the school.

The years had treated Millie more kindly than her husband. She stood tall and proud, accenting her height, and she still retained her girlish shape - she could even wear the clothes she had worn in high school. Millie was a fitness nut long before fitness was fashionable. The years added an additional fifty pounds to Rudder's generous frame, and while he did not appear grossly overweight, it was increasingly difficult for him to restrain his bulging mid-section.

Millie still had golden-blond hair - natural, of course - warm blue eyes, and a disarming smile. Rudder's hair was grey, and his hairline was receding, but in his younger days, it was thick and dark. He too had a pleasing smile, but the sparkling white teeth of his youth had not retained their luster. The lines in his face betrayed a strain not accounted for by his fifty-three years, and not present in his beautiful wife, yet he was always in good spirits around friends and relatives, and always quick with his winning smile and subtle wit.

Millie and Rudder dated during their last year of high school and throughout college. He attended Clemson; she, the University of South Carolina, but they were together most every weekend. The only time they were not together was during the Carolina-Clemson game, played every year on Thanksgiving Day. Carolina and Clemson were bitter rivals in everything, and it was usually a day or two after the big game before they would see each other again.

Rudder was commissioned Second Lieutenant of Artillery in 1938, whereupon he entered the Army and was assigned to the Officers Basic School at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. They married the day after Millie graduated from U.S.C. and boarded the evening train for a week-long honeymoon excursion to Fort Sill. Passenger trains in 1938 were more frequent, and the accommodations more luxurious than they were in 1969. A large sleeper compartment served as an intimate honeymoon suite, and Rudder and Millie occupied themselves in marital bliss for hours on end as they traversed the country-side. They emerged for meals and to explore local attractions when the train had an extended lay-over or when they made connections, but otherwise they kept to themselves. It was the most pleasurable week of her life, soon repeated on the return trip following his graduation from Officers Basic, and again to his next assignment at Fort Lewis, Washington.

Throughout his twenty year Army career, they were separated about one-third of the time. Millie lived in Columbia during his unaccompanied assignments overseas, and she dutifully relocated for stateside tours. When Rudder managed to get stationed at Fort Jackson for his final tour, Millie was ecstatic. Although Rudder betrayed no hint of his disappointment, Fort Jackson was not considered a plum of an assignment by the military elite. The rising stars in the officer ranks considered Fort Jackson the kiss of death.

With the realization that his military career was at an end, he gradually came to consider Columbia as home, and Millie loved it more than any place on earth. As he neared retirement, he looked forward to civilian life. They continued, however, to sit on the opposite sides of the field during the Carolina-Clemson game.

Rudder settled back into his favorite easy chair and began to peruse the State. "That stupid son-of-a-bitch," came a low mumble from behind section A of the paper. "That goddamn bastard is almost as stupid as LBJ!"

Millie could hear Rudder swearing under his breath. She always heard him swear, but part of the unwritten law of the house was that if no one else heard, and if it were something she shouldn't have heard in the first place, then she pretended not to hear.

"What an ignorant, stupid ass . . .!"

In the middle of his low decibel diatribe, the doorbell rang.

"Rudder, will you get that, please?"

"Yes, dear." He roused himself from the easy chair and crossed through the living room to the front door. As he opened the door, he was greeted by the smiling face of Brad Daniel, a second lieutenant at Fort Jackson and his next door neighbor.

"Ah, mon pote, Jean-Pierre, bienvenu chez moi par ce si beau temps ensoleillé. Comment tu vas, diantre?"

"Rudder, why the hell do you always call me Jean-Pierre, and why do you always speak French when you answer the damn door?" The exchange was a familiar ritual; the question was rhetorical, and no answer was ever given.

Hearing the offending "hell" and "damn," Rudder gave Brad a cautionary wave of the hand and looked toward the kitchen to see if Millie had picked up his transgressions.

Hearing no response, he turned to Brad and with a broad grin on his face said, "Boy, are you ever lucky. If Millie hears you talk like that, she'll throw your young (in a low whisper) ass outta here."

Rudder paused a moment, then added, again in a whisper, "What the hell are you doing with that damn cigar in your mouth? You know Millie don't allow smoking in her house."

"Hell, Rudder, the damn thing ain't lit!" answered Brad, mimicking Rudder's low whisper.

"So what the hell are you trying to prove - that you're some kind of bad ass?"

They both laughed as Rudder escorted his young friend into the den. Millie called from the kitchen, "Who is it, dear? What's all the whispering about?"

"It's just Brad, Honey. Who else do you expect to come to the front door?"

The Glynn house was situated on the corner of Tanglewood and Meredith, facing Tanglewood, but with a Meredith Street address. The "main" entrance was at the back of the house on the Meredith Street side. Most people used the back entrance, except Brad, who lived on the opposite side of the Glynn house and always came to the front door.

As Millie emerged from the kitchen, Brad stuffed the offending cigar into his pocket. "Hi Brad, how's Janie? How's her mother? Was it a stroke, or do they know yet?"

"She's fine. Her mother's doing OK, but they're still running tests. If everything's OK, Janie'll probably be home sometime next week."

"Well, that's good news. And I know you'll be happy when she gets home. Too much bachelor life for you, I bet?"

"Yes ma'am," answered Brad. "Oh, by the way," he added, "Happy Mother's Day."

"Well, bless your heart! You sweet boy." Millie couldn't resist hugging him and giving him a motherly peck on the cheek. "Since my children couldn't be with me on my special day, I guess I'll have to adopt you."

Brad smiled sheepishly.

"Will you have some breakfast with us, Brad?" asked Millie.

"No ma'am, I. . . ,"

"Bullshit," spouted Rudder, and without catching his breath, "I'm sorry, Honey." Turning to Brad and locking an arm around the young man's neck, he roared, "Do you think I don't know why you come over here this time of the morning? Get your . . . butt in here, son, and help me eat some of Millie's dee-licious southern fried breakfast."

"Yes Sir, Colonel," answered Brad, his boyish pleasure evident as he was being manhandled by this gruff, but lovable man who was as much a father figure as a friend.

"Did you hear Nixon's speech last night?" asked Brad, in a roguish attempt to get a reaction out of Rudder.

"Now Rudder," cautioned Millie, knowing full well that if Rudder got started, he would release a string of expletives she would be obliged to object to.

"Heck yes, I heard last night on the news, and I read about it in the paper this morning. We should never have gotten ourselves involved in this G.D. war - that's gosh darn, sweety." The three of them exchanged knowing glances; Millie shaking her head, Rudder looking innocent, and Brad enjoying the hell out of it.

"Could we please not talk about the war during breakfast?" asked Millie.

"Yes, dear," answered Rudder. Brad looked embarrassed.

Brad often tried to get Rudder to talk about the war, simply because he could never quite understand Rudder's point of view. On the one hand, Rudder was as gung-ho as any red-blooded American, but at the same time, he was incensed that we were even involved in the war - almost an anti-war attitude, although he knew what Rudder thought of "those anti-war hippie bastards." But on this Sunday morning, there would be no talk of war - Millie usually had the final say on such matters in her house.

Even though he had lived next to the Glynns for only six months, he and Rudder had become the best of friends. Normally, a lieutenant and a Colonel do not become fast friends, but Rudder had been retired for more than a decade, and in his civilian position as Director for Highway Safety for South Carolina, he had quickly learned the more informal ways of civilian life. Also, Brad was one of those irresistible guys everyone liked, and he bore a striking resemblance to a close friend from Rudder's early years in the military. Normally, a second lieutenant could not afford a ritzy neighborhood just off Trenholm Road, but the house belonged to a close friend of his family, and when they got orders for Germany, they were more than pleased to have Brad and Janie live in their house and take care of it for them.

Brad was a lot like Rudder. Both were extremely likable - both could put a complete stranger at ease in minutes. Both were good listeners. When you talked to either one of them, you knew you had their undivided attention. With Rudder, the rough language was a more intimate form of communication. He only used it among friends, after he knew them well enough to know they would not be offended. He could turn it on or off, at will.

With Millie, his swearing was a game - he would let something slip - she would fuss at him - he would apologize - and they would kiss and make up. Millie accused him of getting a boyish pleasure out of shocking people with his "sailor talk." She also accused him of corrupting Brad, who had taken to mimicking some of Rudder's bad habits. Despite the sometimes rough exterior, Rudder Glynn was a sensitive and caring man, traits also visible in his young protégé.

Brad's wife Janie was also a great hit with the Glynns. Millie took Janie under her wing and taught her the protocols of being an Army wife. In her "retired" status, Millie attended all the wives functions on Post, and she and Janie always went together. They were on the same committees, worked on the same community projects, and went to the same church. Janie and Brad were Rudder and Millie, preserved from the weathering of thirty years.

The Glynns had two children: a son, Rudyard Kipling Glynn, III (Kip), and a younger daughter, Linda. At age 27, Linda was unmarried - a source of constant worry for her mother. Nothing was more dreaded than having an old maid in the family.

Kip was a Captain in the US Army, serving his second tour in Vietnam. He was scheduled to come home in about three weeks - already a reason for great excitement in the Glynn household. Kip's wife, Amanda, lived with her folks in Columbus, Georgia. She and Kip were married soon after Kip finished Officers Basic at Fort Benning. They had two young sons, Rudy - the IV, of course - and Ryan.

"Brad, do you want to go to church with us?" asked Millie.

"Sure," answered the young man.

"We'll meet you out back in about forty-five minutes, OK?"

"Sure thing," answered Brad. Millie was finishing the dishes, and as she turned to leave the room, Brad called after her. "And thanks for the breakfast, Millie. It was great, as usual. I won't have to eat for the rest of the day."

"You're welcome, Honey," answered Millie as she disappeared into the den.

"Oh sure!" said Rudder in an undertone. "And I bet you'll have a helluva time working up an appetite between now and lunch."

Brad gave him the sheepish grin. "Hey Rudder, you want to play a few rounds of golf this afternoon?"

"Boy, what the hell's the matter with you? It's hot as hell out there. Are you out of your damn mind? You'll get heat stroke." The language was OK now - Millie was out of the room.

"Why you old fart, you're afraid I'll whip your ass again."

"Son, you have never whipped my ass, and I don't see the day coming when you can."

"Tell you what," answered Brad. "Why don't we go out about five. We can have a couple of beers and get in a few holes before dark. What'da you say?"

"You're on, kid."

Chapter 5

Casualty of War

Rudder Glynn was an anomaly among retired military officers. Almost to the man, they supported the war, and in South Carolina, the anti-war movement was relegated to the lunatic fringe. The war was especially troubling to Rudder since he was probably more knowledgeable about Indochina than any officer then serving in the US Army, and all but a few retired officers. There were some in the intelligence community who may have known as much as he did, but their numbers were small.

Rudder Glynn was as flag-waving, red-blooded, and patriotic as you can get. He was yet, even at age 53, to hear the Star Spangled Banner without having huge tears run down his cheeks. His son, Kip, had served one tour in Vietnam and was there for a second. Rudder could never conceive of his son resisting service. He thought the anti-war movement was made up of cowards and draft-dodgers who feared facing death, rather than men of conscience who were morally indignant at the thought of taking a human life.

Brad could not agree more with Rudder's sentiment. He was as gung-ho about the war as anyone else, and he knew sooner or later he would get his turn, but having been married only eight months, he was in no hurry to volunteer. Eventually, his name would come down on a levy.

Brad was fascinated with Rudder's dislike of the war. Rudder was always circumspect with his comments, but he had grown so close to Brad that he felt he could tell him things he had not told his own son, or even Millie. He had never said anything to Kip, for he did not want to discourage him or cause him to do anything to harm his career, and Millie was not the least bit interested in war, politics, or anything associated with Vietnam. She supported the war because she had a son there, and she took Rudder's dislike of politicians, from Truman to Nixon, as nothing unusual.

"Tell me, Rudder - I can't figure you out. I know you're not anti-war, but why do you hate this war so much? I mean, I agree with you. I don't like LBJ, and I didn't like Kennedy - and I don't know about Truman, but if you don't like him, then neither do I - and I don't think Nixon knows what the hell he's doing either, but we're in a war now, and we ought to win the damn thing."

"You're right, Brad, we're in it, and we should win it - and I don't want anybody to think I would ever have anything to do with this asshole bunch of anti-war bastards, but. . . ," Rudder's words trailed off.

"But what, damn it? Rudder, you do this shit to me all the time - every time we talk about the goddamn war."

"Damn it, young man, will you shut up that foul-ass language. I'm going to tell Millie what a foul mouth you have. She thinks I'm the only one with a foul mouth - she even accuses me of corrupting your sorry ass."

"Bullshit," said Brad, with a wide grin on his face.

Grabbing Brad by the shoulder, Rudder added, "Come on, kid, it's tee time. I'm ready to beat your ass."

"You want to put your money where your mouth is, you old fart?"

By the time they teed off, the temperature had dropped considerably. The humidity was still high, but otherwise it was a pleasant time for a leisurely game of golf. They completed the front nine, and as they stopped at the clubhouse before starting the back nine, Brad broached the subject of Vietnam once again. Expecting the same response he always got, he was surprised that Rudder spoke with deadly seriousness.

"Do you know what I did during the war, Brad?"

The question surprised the young man. "I didn't know you were in the war - I thought you retired before it started?"

"Not Vietnam, dumbass - not this war. I'm talking about the big one - you know, the big one - WW II."

"Oh yeah, I'm sorry. I knew you were in World War II - you were in Korea too, weren't you?"

"Yeah, I was in both of them, but I'm talking about the big one."

"What does that have to do with Vietnam?" asked Brad.

"Will you shut up and listen. I was in the Vietnam War - the first one - when this damned thing started. Only then, we called it Indochina. I was in the OSS - that's Office of Strategic Services. I was a Lieutenant Colonel in the OSS, working with the Viet Minh in the Northern part of Vietnam - we called it Tonkin then."

"OSS? That's spy shit, ain't it? . . . . Damn! Are you bullshitting me?" asked the incredulous young lieutenant.

"No son, I'm not bullshitting. I wish the hell I was bullshitting. I shouldn't even be talking about this. I've never talked about this with anyone, but you keep bugging me about it. . . , and you're a good kid. . . , I like you Brad, but you've got to promise you won't breathe a word of this to anyone."

Brad was stunned at Rudder's seriousness. "You can depend on me, Rudder. Never a word to anyone." Brad was moved that this man, whom he idolized, was about to tell him things he had not told anyone else, even his own family.

"Not even Janie?" asked Rudder.

"Not even Janie."

"Do you remember earlier when you said something to the effect that we are in the war now, and we ought to win it?" asked Rudder.

"Sure, I remember."

"Well, son, I hate to tell you, but we should never have been in it in the first place, and we'll never win it - not as long as we have these stupid-ass politicians running it, and not as long as we have these goddamn anti-war bastards burning the American flag."

"Rudder, you can't be serious. . . , can you?"

"I'm dead serious, kid. I was in Indochina for a little over a year during World War II. I know more about Vietnam and the Vietnamese people than any thousand of these politician bastards who are running the war, and most of our Generals. The only way we could win it would be to kill every man, woman and child in the North - completely obliterate North Vietnam from the face of the earth, but we won't do that. We can't do that, and I'm damned sure I don't want us to do that. Brad, the problem is that we don't have the will to win - the North Vietnamese have nothing but will on their side. We can't beat them."

Rudder sat silently for several minutes. Brad had never seen him like this. He didn't know what to say next. "Do you want another beer, Rudder?"

"No Brad, I don't feel worth a shit."

"Are you OK, Rudder?"

"Yeah, I'm OK. I guess maybe this damn humidity's gettin' to me."

"You don't look OK. Do you want me to call Millie?"

"No kid, let's go home, OK? One of these days, I'll let you read the diaries I kept during the war. Shit, I'm not sure I can. Some of that stuff may still be classified."

"You have diaries?"

"I sure do, and you wouldn't believe the shit I have in those diaries. Hey, but Brad, don't - do not - breathe a word of this to anyone - OK."

"Absolutely, Rudder, absolutely. You ready to go home?"

"Sure, kid, let's go."

Just as they reached the door, Mickie, the bartender, called to them. "Colonel Glynn, someone just called from your house. They said you should get home as quick as you can."

"What was it, Mickie?"

"Don't know, Sir. They said for me to tell you to get home as soon as possible."

"OK, thanks, Mickie. Brad, you drive."

By the time they reached the car, Rudder was sweating profusely. His skin was ashen, and he was gasping for breath. By the time they turned onto Tanglewood from Trenholm Road, Rudder was leaning forward to the air conditioning vent, struggling desperately to breathe the cool air as it blasted into his face. When they turned onto Meredith toward the side entrance, Brad saw a Fort Jackson sedan parked near the garage. "What the hell?" he asked.

"Oh, shit," said Rudder. His voice was weak, his tone desperate. "Oh, God, no!"

When they pulled next to the sedan, a Sergeant in Army green uniform stepped out of the rear door and came to meet them.

As Rudder got out of the car, his otherwise sculpted face was transformed into clay, his otherwise booming voice, was reduced to a pitiful whisper. He searched the Sergeant's face and asked, "What is it? . . . My God, don't tell me!"

"Come inside, Sir. Major Hillyer's with your wife. She needs you."

As soon as Millie saw Rudder, she leapt from her chair. Tears were pouring down her cheeks - her eyes were swollen nearly shut, and she could hardly speak. She was weeping uncontrollably.

Major Hillyer was standing next to them as they embraced. It was all he could do to hold back the tears. Brad, standing near the door with the Sergeant, was stunned at what he saw. "Their son?" he asked.

The Sergeant nodded yes.

Rudder was now wavering on his feet. He reached out to catch the Major's arm, but as he did, he lost balance, falling to one knee before the Major could react - dragging Millie with him. Struggling to regain his balance, he grasped his chest - unable to breathe. A panicked look came over his face, and before anyone could move, he had fallen hard onto the floor, striking his head on an end table.

"My God," cried Brad, now near panic himself. "Call an ambulance, Sergeant! Call a goddamn ambulance!"

The Major was struggling to get Millie into a chair, while Brad turned Rudder onto his back. He was not breathing. Brad began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, thinking all the time how lucky he was to have recently completed CPR training. The Sergeant came over to take care of Millie, while the Major and Brad traded off on mouth-to-mouth.

After an eternity, the ambulance came. "Where are you taking him?" asked Brad.

"To Providence," answered the attendant. "They have the best cardiac unit in town."

"Major, would you go with them?" asked Brad. "I'll take care of Mrs. Glynn. We'll be along as soon as we can."

"Sure thing," answered the Major.

Several neighbors and Fran Hamilton, Millie's best friend who lived on the other side of Brad, were now in the house. As they helped Millie get ready, Brad waited impatiently. They brought her out, and Fran and another lady sat with her in the back seat of Rudder's car. A third lady got into the front, and Brad jumped behind the wheel. He backed into the street and roared off toward Providence Hospital.

Rudder was still in the emergency room when they arrived. The Major met them at the door and escorted the party past the treatment room to a waiting area down the hall. Brad saw several nurses and doctors working feverishly over Rudder, just before a nurse closed the door. With Millie surrounded by three of her best friends, Brad walked back toward the treatment room, pausing briefly in front of the door. He saw the Major standing near the entrance. He waited a few minutes next to the door, then walked down to where the Major and the Sergeant were standing. He introduced himself. "Sir, what happened?"

"Their son, Captain Glynn, is missing in action. His company had the mission to secure an LZ in the A Shau Valley. When his helicopter came in, it was hit by ground fire. The pilot tried to pull out and head for home - it was last seen going down in thick jungle about five klicks away. It took hours before they reached the crash site - a lot of fire was coming from the ground - and they didn't want to call air strikes too close to the helicopter. When they finally hacked their way in, everyone was dead except two people; Captain Glynn was missing, but his RTO survived."

"They were killed in the crash?" asked Brad.

"Either the crash or the ambush - everyone was killed in the crash except the private, the Field First, and Captain Glynn. They landed in the middle of an NVA base camp and got into a big firefight. Captain Glynn provided covering fire and ordered the Sergeant and the private to run for it. According to the private, who was later found, the last he saw of his CO, he was still firing. The Sergeant decided to go back and help Captain Glynn, but he was killed a few minutes later - the private hid in some underbrush. After the area was cleared, everyone was accounted for except Captain Glynn. They were less than a mile from the Laotian border, so the NVA probably carried him off. They searched the area as best they could, but they couldn't cross the border - and this thing was heating up into a major battle - it was impossible to make a complete search."

"My God," said Brad in disbelief. Then the Major's words dawned on him. "That means he could still be alive. He could be alive, couldn't he?"

"He's officially listed as missing," answered the Major.

Brad's spirits soared - it was not as bad as he thought - there was still a chance Kip could be alive. Just as suddenly, his exhilaration was truncated by harsh reality. "My God," he said, partly to himself, partly to the Major. "Colonel Glynn didn't know that, did he, Major?"

"No, I didn't have a chance to tell him."

Brad's mind was racing. He looked down the long hall at Millie. He had never seen a more pitiful sight in his short life. He turned to the Major. "I've got to tell Rudder. He's got to know Kip's still alive."

Just as he had made up his mind to tell Rudder the good news, a doctor came out of the treatment room, looking up and down the hall. Brad watched as the doctor caught a passing nurse and spoke to her briefly. The nurse pointed in the direction of Millie, and the doctor moved immediately toward her. Brad trotted down the hall after him. He reached the waiting area right behind the doctor - just as the doctor said, "Mrs. Glynn, I'm sorry. Your husband is dead."

Chapter 6

Full Military Honors

The telephone was ringing incessantly as Brad reached the front door. It was past midnight; he had been with Millie from the moment she heard those menacing words. When he answered, he recognized the frantic voice at the other end.

"Brad, where have you been? You've had me worried sick. I've been calling since early this afternoon."

"Janie . . ." His voice trailed off. He could hardly speak.

"Brad, what is it?"

"Janie, . . . Rudder's dead. . . ." His voice cracked as tears choked back the words.

"Oh, please God. . . , no! Please God, no! Oh, Brad. . . , how did it happen?" She could hear sobbing at the other end. "It's OK, sweetheart. I'm here whenever you're ready."

Both clung silently to the telephone for several minutes. Finally, he regained his composure. "He died of a heart attack this afternoon. I've been with Millie until a few minutes ago. Mrs. LaRue and Fran are staying with her tonight - the doctor gave her something to knock her out."

"My God, that poor woman. How will she ever live without him? I've never seen any two people as close as they are." She listened for a few seconds, then asked, "Brad, are you OK?"

She could hear him take a deep breath. "I'm afraid that's not all," said Brad.

"Not all! What do you mean?"

"Kip is missing in action." For a second time, his voice cracked. Janie waited in stunned silence.

Finally, she asked, "When did they find out?"

"Earl this evening - just before he had the heart attack." He paused for several seconds, then continued, "It killed him, Janie. As soon as we turned onto Meredith, both of us knew - it killed him. There was an Army sedan in the driveway. We both thought Kip was dead - Rudder had a massive heart attack before he could be told Kip was MIA. As soon as he saw Millie, he knew Kip was dead, and he passed out before the Major could tell him any different."

Slowly, over the next hour or so, Brad pieced together the events of the day. "It's my fault, Janie. . . I should never have taken him out to play golf on a day like this."

"Brad, that's not true! It's simply not true. You and Rudder play golf all the time. The man was a picture of health. How could you know?" Both fell silent for several minutes.

"Brad, he couldn't stand the shock of thinking his son was dead. Kip was his whole world." Janie was having difficulty speaking through the tears. Finally, she could only repeat herself. "He couldn't stand the shock."

They sat riveted to the telephone for several minutes. Brad was the first to speak. "There's more to it than that."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't talk about it now. When can you come home?" His voice was desperate, pleading.

"I'll get a flight out tomorrow morning. I should be home by noon. . . . Sweetheart, please try to get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow. . . . OK? . . . I love you."

"I love you, too."

He never told her what he meant by, "There's more to it than that." Fortunately, she never asked.

Brad had a gut feeling Rudder's torment was based on knowledge so significant that no one else could even imagine. For the most part, he had been amused at Rudder's reaction when he mentioned the war, but in retrospect - after their conversation in the clubhouse - he knew something about the war was eating away at Rudder from the inside.

"Oh, God. . . , I feel like a goddamn heel," he thought to himself. "I'm a stupid son-of-a-bitch for bringing it up - over and over - just to get a stir out of him. What a dumbass son-of-a-bitch I am!"

Guilt hung over him like a menacing storm cloud, absorbing the air - causing him to breathe laboriously. There was no escaping the quandary his friend had inadvertently passed to him - no one to talk with - no one to ease the pain. "What about Rudder's diaries?" he thought. Then, as if to chastise himself for being self-absorbed, he spoke aloud, "Hell, I can't ask Millie about that shit. What the hell am I thinking?"

He tried to purge the thought from his mind. "My God, that woman's been through enough hell today to last a lifetime!" Then he fell silent, praying to God that somehow all of this would look differently tomorrow. He lay restless in bed as he wrestled with his tortured thoughts - his sorrow - his guilt. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, sleep came - if only for a precious few minutes.

Almost everyone in Columbia knew Rudder Glynn - the stream of visitors was endless. Everyone who came brought food. There was enough food to feed an army. Janie stayed with Millie from early morning until late at night. Brad mowed grass, clipped hedges - everything Rudder would have done. The physical exertion was therapeutic - at least he was able to occupy his mind with some of the lighter moments he had shared with his friend. And it gave him a chance to escape the anguish that surrounded Millie and the rest of Rudder's family - he could not bear to watch them suffer such agonizing pain.

In addition to Rudder's death, there was the uncertainty about Kip. It soon became apparent the battle in which Kip was lost was more than a minor incident. The media was filled with reports of a great battle in which six battalions of the 101st were engaged. A large NVA force was entrenched on Ap Bia Hill - what was to become known as "Hamburger Hill" - and casualties soared before it was overrun. In all, fifty-six Americans were killed. The news media and liberal politicians were having a field day, calling it a waste of precious American lives. At that moment, anyone who knew the Glynns was inclined to agree.

Even though Brad and Janie had only known them for six months, it was the worst week of their lives. How, he wondered, did Rudder's father at 74, and his mother at 72, bear up under this strain? And poor Millie - they watched her age ten years in two agonizing days. Millie refused to dwell on the uncertainty of Kip's situation - her faith that he was alive and well somewhere in North Vietnam made it easier for her to deal with Rudder's death. She could never have survived the loss of both of them.

There were to be two funerals - a memorial service at Eastminster Presbyterian Church, on Trenholm, just a few blocks down the street from the Glynn house, and another service at Arlington National Cemetery, with full military honors. The Columbia service was scheduled for Wednesday afternoon, after which the body would be loaded on the evening train for the long ride to Arlington. Millie insisted on riding the train. She had wanted to go alone but finally agreed that Linda could go with her - everyone else would drive up. The Arlington service and interment were scheduled for Friday afternoon.

Brad had visions of a black shrouded funeral train - President Roosevelt's death train was the image he expected. He was surprised to see the bright, shiny passenger train that came into view as he slowed to a stop at the Main Street traffic light, directly in front of the South Carolina Capitol building. There, beyond Assembly Street and at the bottom of a slight incline, sat Seaboard Coast Line's finest passenger train, the Silver Meteor. The train sat astride the main thoroughfare, Gervais Street, blocking traffic as it took on passengers and freight.

It was almost 8:00 PM, and the brilliant western sunset was intensified as it reflected off the top of the Meteor. Brad turned into the Seaboard Station parking lot. He could see Rudder's coffin, along with other inanimate objects, being loaded unceremoniously onto the baggage car - near the front of the train. Dunbar's black hearse was oddly out of place among the other delivery trucks lined up to off-load their wares. Rudder's military escort, dressed smartly in Army greens, was oddly out of place among the scruffy dock workers.

"Linda, do you think you and your Mom will be OK? We'll go with you if you want us to." Brad knew the answer, but he was unable to think of anything else to say.

"We'll be fine. If you can meet us at the Fort Myer Officers Club for breakfast on Friday - we can make it 'til then. If you get there before too late in the evening, stop by my room at the Army/Navy BOQ. We have rooms reserved for you and the others."

"OK, we'll drop by if we get there before 9:30 or 10:00." Looking soulfully at the pitiful figure standing next to Linda, Brad continued, "See you for breakfast on Friday, Millie?"

"That's right, Sugar," answered Millie blankly. She took Brad and Janie in her arms. "I don't know what I would've done without the two of you. I couldn't have made it." The tears flowed freely as Janie pulled Linda into their tight embrace.

Brad was to drive the new Lincoln, with Rudder's parents and Kip's older son, Rudy. Janie, Kip's wife, Amanda, and son, Ryan, would follow in Millie's car, also a Lincoln. Janie and Brad made the seating arrangements so Janie could be close to Amanda, who was going through her own personal hell because of the uncertainty over Kip. Everyone was set to leave early the next morning, and with luck, they would arrive late Thursday. Millie and Linda would join them for the trip home after the funeral.

Millie wanted to ride the train because railroad travel had been one of her most pleasurable experiences. With the loss of her life-long companion and lover, Millie had nothing left but fading memories of their idyllic life together. The last few days had been so hectic, the crush of friends and relatives so stifling, that she needed the solitude of an overnight train to escape the horrible reality. Millie had agreed to let Linda come with her, but only if she stayed in an adjoining cabin.

The clattering of the train had a tranquillizing effect as it cut through the lush South Carolina country-side. Although she was exhausted when they left the Seaboard Station, Millie settled into restful state of semi-consciousness, refusing to abandon herself to sleep - refusing to relinquish control over memories too fragile to be left in the hands of restless slumber. Throwing off her shoes, she propped her feet on the adjacent seat and covered herself with a warm blanket. It was Rudder's Clemson blanket.

Millie's early experiences as an Army wife were some of her most pleasant memories. She was disappointed with Fort Sill, but after the long honeymoon excursion, she had enough reserve enthusiasm to deal with any disappointment. She had expected Army life to be an adventure, and to that extent, it was more than she expected. Their first dilemma came when Rudder reported for duty - there was no place for her to stay. Among the plethora of odd abbreviations and codes on his orders, they soon learned that TDY meant temporary duty. Officers Basic was an unaccompanied tour - wives, not welcome!

Even though she was not authorized at Officers Basic, they were not alone in their predicament, and suitable accommodations were available. A number of efficiency apartments had been built by enterprising developers along Fort Sill Boulevard in nearby Lawton, about five miles south of the post. While the officers were required to stay in barracks at night, they could usually visit their wives in the evening, except for nights spent in the field, and of course, they had most weekends together.

There were four other wives in the same complex, and most of their social life centered around these new-found friends and the Fort Sill Officers Club. Even though they were not "officially" present, the wives permanently assigned to Fort Sill made a point to search them out and make them feel welcome. Being an Army wife was a career in itself, and she and her new-found friends were undergoing a kind of basic training themselves. By the time they left Fort Sill, Millie was a seasoned veteran.

Their first permanent assignment was with the 3rd Infantry Division, Fort Lewis, Washington. Since this was a "permanent change of station" (PCS), she was now "authorized" - unfortunately, so were other young wives. Once again they were forced to find off-post housing, which conveniently enough was in a neighborhood filled with Army families. The difference this time was that Rudder could stay home at night, except when he was on maneuvers, and he could draw a housing allowance to help pay the rent.

Those precious years at Fort Lewis were the happiest of her life. Their passions never ebbed - Millie may have been a prude about off-color language, but she was no prude about sex, within limits of course. Their lives revolved around each other, that is until 1 April 1939, when son Kip was born. Millie relished being pregnant - she even enjoyed childbirth. She was the center of attention, and she loved being waited on. Most of all, she loved pleasing Rudder by giving him a healthy son.

As 1939 drifted into 1940, and 1940 into 1941, the mood around Fort Lewis began to change. While the 3rd Infantry Division was far from combat-ready, training was becoming more realistic, more intense. While many units still practiced fire drills with wooden artillery pieces, using megaphones rather than radios, the physical training and forced marches were slowly working the nascent American Army into top physical condition.

"Rudder, someone told me the Division will be sent to Europe as soon as we get into the war." Millie paused for a moment then asked. "Rudder. . . , did you hear me?"

"Yes, Babe, I heard you. It's a rumor - I have no idea who started it."

"Do you think it's true?"

"Honey, I don't know - you know how rumors spread on an Army post."

"But there's a good chance we'll get into the war, won't we? And the Division will be one of the first to go, won't it?"

"Millie, with the mood of the country the way it is, I don't think Roosevelt could get us into the war, even if he wanted to. But sooner or later, we'll probably get in it."

"Rudder, I couldn't stand to lose you." Her tears were flowing freely. "It could happen, couldn't it? I don't know what I. . . ," Her words trailed off.

He held her tightly for several minutes - until he felt her relax. "Millie, we may go to war, and if we do, the Division will be one of the first to go. And I'll have to go with them - even if I were not in the Army, I'd still have to go." He paused briefly. "Honey, there's always a possibility I may not come back . . ." She tensed in his arms.

Rudder continued to hold her tightly. "Honey, a lot of men may not come back, but we can't dwell on that." His calm demeanor reassured her. "Honey, there's absolutely nothing you or I can do about it, and all the worrying in the world won't help. OK?"

She smiled, and with a nervous laugh, nodded OK. She kissed him and hugged him even more tightly. He ran his hands through her hair and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Sugar, if we go to war, the most important thing you can do is to take care of Kip and yourself - I won't have time to worry about you. I'll have lots of things to worry about, but I don't want to worry about you and the baby. As long as the two of you are safe, I'll have every reason to come back. . . , OK?"

"OK," she answered. "But, Honey. . ." She paused, unsure if she should say what had been on her mind for several weeks.

"What is it, Babe?"

"Rudder, I want another baby before you go. I want to keep as much of you with me as I can."

His emotional calm wavered. "Honey, let's wait until the baby's asleep. I'll call the Duty Officer and tell him I need to take leave tomorrow - family emergency. . . , OK?"

Millie beamed as she wiped away the tears and nodded her approval. She turned, faced the kitchen counter, and busied herself with cooking. Rudder embraced her as she worked, his hands cupping her warm, smooth breasts, his body wedging her against the counter top. "What the hell," he finally said. "What can they do, fire me? Kick me out of the war? I think I'll take leave for the rest of the week. This family emergency is more serious than I thought."

They giggled like school children. "Who's to say this isn't a serious emergency?" she asked coquettishly. "Just tell them you have a nymphomaniac wife, and it takes all you've got to satisfy her!"

Rudder was stunned at his wife's boldness, but not to be outdone, he added, "That sounds like a good idea. . . I'll call the Duty Officer and tell him exactly what you said!"

She turned to look at him, smiling but also waving an intimidating butcher knife. "Just kidding, Sweetie. Just kidding. . . But can you imagine the CO's reaction if the Duty Officer relayed that message?"

Millie gave him a wicked grin as she slowly rotated her hips against his groin. "Honey, you finish supper, and I'll put the kid to bed."

After he had gotten young Kip to sleep, Rudder changed into an old sweat suit and returned to the kitchen where he found Millie still standing at the counter, still slicing vegetables. She had changed into a light house coat, and as he locked his arms around her, he noticed she had removed her bra. He also detected the faint aroma of his favorite perfume. A wave of excitement rushed through his body. He slid his right hand beneath the thin material and gently caressed her warm, inviting breasts. With his left hand, he released the loosely-tied belt, and as he slowly moved his hands down her warm body, he found she had also removed her panties. "Oh, damn," he whispered softly.

"Rudder, my goodness, . . . such language." Even her protests were alluring. She turned, and as she raised her arms to embrace him, her dressing gown fell open. She melted in his embrace and pressed her body tightly against him. Their lips met, and he began massaging her soft, rounded buttocks. Without breaking their embrace, he lifted her onto the counter top in one effortless motion, carelessly pushing aside the raw vegetables.

She wrapped her legs around him - surrendering herself. Supper would have to wait - he loosened the tie on his sweat pants, flicked off the light switch, and there in their kitchen - under the soft light from the neighbor's window, they made love. Supper came much later, followed by a long hot shower, followed by a long night of more serious love-making.

On 7 January 1942, exactly one month after Pearl Harbor, daughter Linda was born. The birth of a second child would not have generated the same excitement as the first, but with the threat of war lingering in the background, an awkward celebration ensued, exaggerated by the undercurrents of harsh reality - an apprehension that it might be their last opportunity to be together in such joy for a long time to come.

As the train rambled toward its destination, Linda waited patiently in her compartment, aching to know how her mother had made it through the night. As the early morning sun peeked over the horizon, Linda knocked lightly on her mother's door.

"Is that you, Linda?" Her mother's voice was strong. The strain of the past few days was hardly noticeable.

"Yes, Mother, do you want some breakfast? Can I come in?"

"Just a minute, dear. The door's locked. . . I'm still dressing. Just a minute."

Linda waited anxiously as Millie finished dressing. Her mother's voice was reassuring. She waited patiently, hoping with all her heart that her ears had not deceived her. She prayed to herself, "Please, God, give her some peace."

When the door opened, Millie looked as relaxed as she had been since her nightmare began less than a week ago. "Mother, you look so good. How do you feel? Thank God, you look wonderful. . . Did you have a good night's rest?"

"Yes, dear, I rested well last night. . . . It's OK - I'm ready to let go."