time for his boss to talk to him.
Gooden
served on the Senate Armed Forces Committee and usually used aides to pass
along direction. Gooden always kept his distance from Whitaker, but he hadn’t
today.
Whitaker
had known when he accepted the job that he was the fall man in case the whole
unit and its various operations were ever exposed. This was Senator Gooden’s
project, and Whitaker was merely one of several men to lead it. Most likely,
Whitaker wouldn’t be the last. Not as long as the crusty, old Texas Senator was
kicking.
Whitaker’s
troops watched as he ambled to the front of the table. They knew that Whitaker
ambling was not normal. Definitely a bad thing. Whitaker practically sprinted
places, never walked. And definitely never ambled.
They
were all concerned about what he was about to say though likely some would deny
it. He was likely to tell them to double their efforts or some other impossible
task like that.
They
had all heard stories about his service in Vietnam. How he had arrived as a
brand new lieutenant and had nearly been fragged within three days. A record by
all accounts. He volunteered his men for everything. Patrols. Ambushes. Guard
duty.
When
they were not behind their rifles, he volunteered them for work assignments.
They burned shit. Filled sand bags. Cleaned machine guns on the line. All
because he said they lacked discipline, and America had a war to win; and
apparently, Whitaker had decided he’d win it himself.
They
had hated him. Before his first contact, he had told the men and squad leaders
that any man who didn’t pull his share of the load during a firefight would
find himself on every dangerous assignment Whitaker could find. He had said
that if they were not naturally brave, he would make them brave.
Those
who showed an attitude or acted insubordinately were put on point during
patrols by Whitaker. The one that hated him the most and had thrown the frag, a
guy named Jones, had paid dearly for his hatred of Whitaker.
Jones
had been leading the platoon across an open field one day, mentally and
physically exhausted. Whitaker had kept Jones on point for six straight hours.
If Whitaker’s superiors had known that, they would have likely court-martialed
him. But they didn’t and never would because no one dared to cross Whitaker.
So,
Private First Class Bill Jones, a wily veteran with just thirty-two days left
in ’Nam, stepped on a mine that even a green replacement would have seen. But,
Jones didn’t because he wasn’t paying attention. Not that any man could have
been after six hours on point.
Even
worse, Jones was dizzy with exhaustion from being put on the ambush squad the
night before by Whitaker. Jones had also worked double duty the day before
that, filling sandbags while the platoon was in the rear at a firebase,
supposed to be resting.
Jones
was practically a heat casualty when the event happened. So trudging along,
fighting the urge to turn and gun down a boot lieutenant, Jones had stepped on
a mine pitifully hidden by a nine-year-old Vietnamese boy.
Some
in the platoon swore Whitaker smiled when the blast spewed blood and bone into
the air like a geyser. Whitaker had simply called a medevac helo and then had
the audacity to tell Jones as he lay on a poncho stretcher, “Son, your country
appreciates your service.”
The
story went that Whitaker had smiled like a madman when he said it.
Strangely though, the platoon members eventually
grew to respect Whitaker, despite his maniacal reign. They became better than
the other platoons. Even tighter, because they had to endure more.
He
actually became a good leader, finally learning to take care of his men and not
to volunteer them all the time. None dared to smoke dope, and they began to buy
into Whitaker’s philosophy: a badass platoon that fought daily would take fewer
casualties in a firefight than a shitty one that made one bad contact with the
enemy.
Whitaker’s
platoon was lethal in combat. They would
Gooden
served on the Senate Armed Forces Committee and usually used aides to pass
along direction. Gooden always kept his distance from Whitaker, but he hadn’t
today.
Whitaker
had known when he accepted the job that he was the fall man in case the whole
unit and its various operations were ever exposed. This was Senator Gooden’s
project, and Whitaker was merely one of several men to lead it. Most likely,
Whitaker wouldn’t be the last. Not as long as the crusty, old Texas Senator was
kicking.
Whitaker’s
troops watched as he ambled to the front of the table. They knew that Whitaker
ambling was not normal. Definitely a bad thing. Whitaker practically sprinted
places, never walked. And definitely never ambled.
They
were all concerned about what he was about to say though likely some would deny
it. He was likely to tell them to double their efforts or some other impossible
task like that.
They
had all heard stories about his service in Vietnam. How he had arrived as a
brand new lieutenant and had nearly been fragged within three days. A record by
all accounts. He volunteered his men for everything. Patrols. Ambushes. Guard
duty.
When
they were not behind their rifles, he volunteered them for work assignments.
They burned shit. Filled sand bags. Cleaned machine guns on the line. All
because he said they lacked discipline, and America had a war to win; and
apparently, Whitaker had decided he’d win it himself.
They
had hated him. Before his first contact, he had told the men and squad leaders
that any man who didn’t pull his share of the load during a firefight would
find himself on every dangerous assignment Whitaker could find. He had said
that if they were not naturally brave, he would make them brave.
Those
who showed an attitude or acted insubordinately were put on point during
patrols by Whitaker. The one that hated him the most and had thrown the frag, a
guy named Jones, had paid dearly for his hatred of Whitaker.
Jones
had been leading the platoon across an open field one day, mentally and
physically exhausted. Whitaker had kept Jones on point for six straight hours.
If Whitaker’s superiors had known that, they would have likely court-martialed
him. But they didn’t and never would because no one dared to cross Whitaker.
So,
Private First Class Bill Jones, a wily veteran with just thirty-two days left
in ’Nam, stepped on a mine that even a green replacement would have seen. But,
Jones didn’t because he wasn’t paying attention. Not that any man could have
been after six hours on point.
Even
worse, Jones was dizzy with exhaustion from being put on the ambush squad the
night before by Whitaker. Jones had also worked double duty the day before
that, filling sandbags while the platoon was in the rear at a firebase,
supposed to be resting.
Jones
was practically a heat casualty when the event happened. So trudging along,
fighting the urge to turn and gun down a boot lieutenant, Jones had stepped on
a mine pitifully hidden by a nine-year-old Vietnamese boy.
Some
in the platoon swore Whitaker smiled when the blast spewed blood and bone into
the air like a geyser. Whitaker had simply called a medevac helo and then had
the audacity to tell Jones as he lay on a poncho stretcher, “Son, your country
appreciates your service.”
The
story went that Whitaker had smiled like a madman when he said it.
Strangely though, the platoon members eventually
grew to respect Whitaker, despite his maniacal reign. They became better than
the other platoons. Even tighter, because they had to endure more.
He
actually became a good leader, finally learning to take care of his men and not
to volunteer them all the time. None dared to smoke dope, and they began to buy
into Whitaker’s philosophy: a badass platoon that fought daily would take fewer
casualties in a firefight than a shitty one that made one bad contact with the
enemy.
Whitaker’s
platoon was lethal in combat. They would
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