From the Back Cover
If war may be said to bring out the worst in governments, it frequently brings out the best in people. This is a novel about some of the very best. Some led. Some followed. Some died. Meet Sergeant David Grady, Sarah Boyce, Major John Colven, Lieutenant Le Be Son...in the great Vietnam war novel, CHARLIE MIKE.
About the Author
Leonard B. Scott (Col. USA ret.) is the author of the acclaimed novels Charlie Mike, The Last Run, The Hill, The Expendables, The Iron Men, and Forged in Honor. Scott retired in 1994 as a full colonel after a 27-year career in the United States Army, with assignments throughout the world. A veteran of Vietnam, he earned the Silver Star and Purple Heart.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1
The screen door of the headquarters building flew open, and out stepped a thin, gnarled-looking sergeant wearing a black beret and pressed camouflage jungle fatigues. He took one look at the four replacements who were slapping red dust from their uniforms, and he barked “Ah-tench-hut!”
The new men immediately snapped into the rigid position. The sergeant circled the men, then halted and placed his hands on his hips. “I’m Sergeant First Class Childs, your actin’ first sergeant. You people have all been to An Khe and went through our two-week Ranger course, right?”
Three of the four men responded loudly, “Yes, Sergeant!”
The fourth soldier raised his hand and stepped forward timidly. “Nnn … uh, no, Sergeant, I came from Eighteenth Replacement and—”
“Who told you to move, shitbird!” yelled Childs, stepping closer to the small, bespectacled private, eyeing him from head to foot. Suddenly the sergeant’s eyes narrowed and his face reddened. He spun toward the door and hollered, “Dove, get out here!”
A tanned, curly-headed blond who wore a dirty green T-shirt came to the door.
“Yeah, Top?”
Childs pointed the private’s chest where parachute wings should have been sewn.
“Dove, they sent me a puny-assed leg! Jesus H. Christ! Don’t them replacement pukes know this is an Airborne Ranger company?”
Dove nonchalantly walked out, looked over the private and read his name tape.
“Top, this is Peteroski, the clerk-typist from Eighteenth Replacement. We had to trade a lotta shit and pull strings to get him, remember?”
Childs stared at the private. “But a leg! Damn, I didn’t know it was gonna be a straight-ass leg!”
Dove rolled his eyes at the young private, then tapped his arm, motioning him to follow inside.
Childs resumed his position in front of the other three men and bellowed, “Anybody else a leg?”
“No, Sergeant!” the men yelled in unison.
Satisfied that there were no other surprises, Childs put his hands on his hips and began rocking, heel to toe.
“Welcome to Sierra Company, Seventy-fifth Infantry Airborne Rangers. Now, loosen up, this is the first and last time I will tell you the rules of this company. Should you violate, stretch, or disregard my rules, your ass will be on a plane to a leg-ass outfit in a heartbeat!
“First: Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open, and remember what they taught you at the mini-Ranger course. It might save your life until your team leader squares your ass away.
“Second: No smokin’ dope, screwin’ local broads, writin’ letters to congressmen, or sendin’ pictures of dead gooks to girl friends.
“Third: No fightin’, fraggin’, or gassin’ LEGs, REMFs, or local friendlies.
“Fourth: No stealin’ or lyin’ to fellow Rangers.
“Fifth and last: You are here to kill! You can bet your sweet ass them bastards out there will do you in if given half a chance, so you must kill them first. No doubts, no hesitation. If for any reason—whether it be religious, lack of guts, or you’re just not sure you can pull the trigger—quit now!”
Childs paused for effect and stared into each pair of eyes.
“People, that’s the rules. Now, this afternoon you gonna meet the Ol’ Man, Major Colven. He is the best there is. I’ve been in the Army twenty years, and I know. Don’t be askin’ him no dumb-ass questions. I’ll answer your questions after his briefing; just nod and keep your mouths shut.
“People, your performance records and files arrived yesterday, and your assignments to teams have already been made. When I dismiss you, report to Pfc. Dove and he’ll show you where to go. People, remember my rules and don’t fuck up!”
Childs raised his hand and pointed to the door:
“Do it!”
A cloud of dust billowed as the three men ran for the door.
Sfc. Childs shook his head and spun around to walk to the mess hall.
Pfc. Dove sat behind a desk, drinking a Coke, when the three men ran into the orderly room and stood at attention.
The blond smiled and said quietly, “Relax. Ol’ Childs always does that. He’s got the disposition of a rattler. Just stay out of his way and do what he says.”
The three men took deep breaths and exchanged glances as Dove walked to the door and pointed across the road. “Jenkins, you’re going to team One-Three and Donnelly, you’re on One-Four. They’re both in the first barracks, there. Get your duffel bags and go on over. Be back for the Ol’ Man’s briefing at Fourteen hundred hours. Good luck.”
Dove walked back to his desk, motioning the third man to take a seat, and he picked up the appropriate file and silently read the name on it: Kenneth Meeks.
Dove eyed the big soldier. He’d seen the report on Meeks and was curious. The name sure didn’t fit. Meeks was six two, broad- shouldered and narrow-hipped. His square jaw and deep, piercing brown eyes made him seem older than his twenty years. At the mini-Ranger course he’d become a celebrity when he had walked the “Death Valley” course without being “killed.” Death Valley was a thick-treed stream bed next to the huge base camp of An Khe. The instructors always set up a series of ambushes and booby traps there to humble new students. No one had ever finished the course without being “killed” at least twice—until Meeks.
Dove glanced back at the file. “Meeks,” he said, trying to keep the enthusiasm out of his voice, “your file says you have some college. By any chance, did you take courses in business or marketing?”
Meeks shook his head. “No. I was a poli-sci major.”
Dove’s face showed disappointment, then suddenly brightened. “How about animals? Do you know anything about pigs or chickens?”
Meeks stared at the young blond, as if wondering whether the strange questions should be taken seriously.
Dove saw the confused look and smiled. “Hey, I ain’t hasslin’. I just have a little business on the side, and I’m lookin’ for a qualified consultant. You know what I mean?”
Meeks returned the smile. He had suddenly realized who Dove was. At the Ranger school they had talked about a wheeler-dealer who raised pigs for roasting at unit luaus, and chickens for cutting and bleeding onto NVA flags he made and sold as war souvenirs.
Meeks stood and held out his hand. “Dove, it’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re famous at An Khe.”
Dove grinned at the compliment and sheepishly shrugged his shoulders. “They talked about me, huh?”
“Sure did,” laughed Meeks. “You, Sergeant Evans, and Sergeant Grady were the big names.”
Dove headed for the door. “Speakin’ of Evans and Grady, I gotta get you to your new team.”
Meeks tossed his duffel bag over his shoulder and asked, “What team am I going to?”
Dove went to the door and pointed to the last barracks. “You’re gonna be on my old team. You’re replacing a man they lost three weeks ago. His name was Bartlett. He was the first man Grady lost as team sergeant.”
Meeks slowed. “Grady? Grady of team Two-Two? The one the instructors talked so much about?”
Dove smiled. “Yeah, you’re gonna be a proud member of team Two-Two, the Double-Deuce. Come on, now, we’re runnin’ late. Peteroski, you come too.”
Rock Steady, seated in the shade of the barracks, set down his partially disassembled M-16. People were walking down the road toward him, but the rising midday heat waves distorted their images into shimmering blurs. Suddenly, as if by magic, the images came into focus. Rock smiled and stood up.
“Hey, Dove, what’s happenin’, man?”
Dove threw his thumb in Meeks’s direction. “I brought you a cherry.”
Rock quickly stepped forward and thrust out his hand. “I’m Rock Steady, assistant team leader. Sure good to see you.”
Kenneth Meeks forced a smile, hoping the disappointment he felt didn’t show. Rock Steady was not what he had expected. He’d heard stories about team 2-2 and had imagined its members to be strong, athletic types, but the man with whom he shook hands couldn’t have been over nineteen, and he looked like a prisoner from a Nazi death camp. At about five feet nine, the soldier could not have weighed more than 140 pounds. He had sparse brown hair and a hawk nose that reminded Meeks of Ichabod Crane.
Rock backed up and suddenly froze. He pointed to Peteroski. “Is that what I think it is?”
Dove frowned and put his arm around the clerk’s shoulder. “Yeah, he’s a leg, but don’t you say nothin’. This is my turtle! I’m gettin’ short, and we need a typist.”
Rock grinned. “Has Childs seen him yet?”
Dove narrowed his eyes and kicked at Rock, who backed away laughing, then stepped forward and put out his hand. “Pete, I’m Rock; good to have you aboard.”
Meeks’s opinion of Rock vanished the second Rock shook hands with the typist. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he suddenly found himself taking to the thin soldier who had made the timid clerk smile.
Dove patted Peteroski’s back. “We’ve gotta get back. Rock, introduce the team to Meeks; then get him back to the briefing room by fourteen hundred hours. The Ol’ Man is gonna brief all the cherries that came in this week.”
Rock slapped Meeks on the back and pointed him toward the barracks. “Come on, big ’un, I’ll square you away.” Meeks waved at Dove and Peteroski and followed Rock into the building.
At one end of the empty barracks was a small room. Rock pushed open the door and blurted, “Hey, guys, meet our new team member.”
Three men were sitting on the floor, looking over large pictures done with crayon. Rock made the introductions as each man stood. The first to shake hands with Meeks was a huge black soldier named Benjamin Murray. He looked like a bear—a black, gentle bear with rounded shoulders and a round coffee-colored face. He held a constant grin as he pointed to the pictures. “My sister sends me them drawings.”
Rock patted Ben’s stomach. “Ben is our M-60 machine-gunner and our team watch. He always knows when it’s chow time!”
The second member introduced himself as Sox, the radioman. He was of average build and had longer-than-normal thick, brown hair. He seemed shy and wore a Peace medal around his neck. The third soldier, a small Puerto Rican, was surprisingly handsome, with almost delicate features. His handshake was strong and his deep-set, large brown eyes sparkled when he introduced himself as Juan Ortega Isaacs Ramon Rodriguez, from Brooklyn.
Rock thumped the Puerto Rican’s chest. “We just call him Pancho.”
Meeks laughed comfortably. These men were all so young and easygoing that they didn’t fit their reputations as hardened killers. That any of them could kill other men seemed impossible, but deep inside Meeks knew that the stories about them were true. He stole quick looks at each member. There were no clues, no visible characteristics that revealed what made these men different.
Rock looked at his watch. “Come on, big ’un, I gotta get you to Major Colven’s briefing.”
Minutes later Meeks sat in the hot briefing room with eight other new men. He had heard about “the Ol’ Man” from others, and he eagerly awaited the appearance of the famous Ranger commander, Major John Colven.
Sergeant Childs walked in and barked “Ah-tench-hut!” and Major Colven strode in.
