Fortunate Son

Before there was Terry, there was Roger T. Davis...

“Good to see you again, brother.”  The sound of the rotors spinning over the UH-1 “Huey” was slowly fading, allowing the two men to finally hear each other.

              “Yeah, man,” said the man dressed in the camouflage uniform.  He stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the regular grunts assigned to the 25^th Infantry Division.  Everyone else was in olive drab, or OD, fatigues.  Only specific units wore the tiger-striped uniforms like his.  Special Forces, Rangers, SEALs, and Long Range Reconnaissance units were known to wear the custom made uniforms that tended to blend well with the Vietnamese jungle. 

              “What brings you to our little slice of hell?” asked Lieutenant Roger T. Davis.  The men walked side by side away from the helipad.  Davis held an M16A1 in his right hand as they walked.  He never went anywhere without his rifle.  When he arrived at his platoon, discipline was a significant problem.  Threats of soldiers ‘fragging’ him shortly followed once he started cracking down.

              “We need a platoon on standby for this next operation,” George said.  He slung his CAR-15 and lit a Lucky Strike.  The carbine was a shorter version of the M16A1 carried by Roger and something rarely seen outside of the specialized units that wore camouflage.  “When I saw you guys were in the area, I knew which platoon I wanted to back us up.”

              “Must be nice to have that kind of pull,” Roger said.  He lit his own cigarette, then slipped his Zippo back into his pocket.  George shrugged at him and grinned.  “What’s the operation?  How long we have to sit around and wait until you need us?”

              “It’s just my team going in.  Six of us,” George said.  He rolled the Lucky between his fingers, pinching off the hot coal which he stomped out with the sole of his green and black jungle boot.  The butt of the cigarette went into his breast pocket.  It was a patrol habit.  His small team relied heavily on not being found, so they left no trace while they were moving through the jungle.  That included cigarette butts.  “Shouldn’t be more than four days.”

              “You want us to sit here for four fucking days?” Roger asked.  “I know the boys won’t complain, but my boss is gonna.”  His Chicago accent was deep.  Roger Davis had grown up on the southside of the city in a working-class neighborhood full of Irish and Eastern European families.  If you weren’t a Mick, you were a Pollock, Bohunk, or Slav of some flavor.

              “Hey man,” George said.  “If you don’t want it, I can find another platoon.  I know you guys have been in the shit for the last few months and I thought you could use a break.”  Roger waved away the offer.  George nodded and continued.  “We are going out to try to find this radio relay the VC are using.  It’s up on a mountain.  Pretty remote.  They want us to get eyes on it and then call in an airstrike.  Pretty simple.”

              “Simple enough you need a whole platoon on standby, just in case?” Roger asked.  George smiled at him.  “Better you than me, man.  When you convinced me to go to OCS and then to Ranger School, I thought you were crazy.  I’m glad I didn’t follow you into the LRRPs.”  He pronounced it ‘Lurps’. 

              The two men met in basic training and became instant friends.  With Roger’s street smarts and George’s practical nature, they figured out how to survive their Drill Sergeants quickly.  They became inseparable.  Near the end of basic training and before Infantry training, a group of seven trainees were pulled aside because they had tested high enough to qualify to attend Officer Candidate School.  The Army was in need of Lieutenants in Vietnam and George and Roger met the qualifications.  Roger was reluctant until George showed him how much officers got paid.  They both volunteered and spent the next few months learning how to be platoon leaders.

              As new Infantry Lieutenants with outstanding scores on their physical fitness tests, they were offered the only two slots for their OCS class to attend US Army Ranger School.  George accepted for them both before Roger had the opportunity to decline.  Really, Roger just wanted to finish the enlistment on his draft contract and go back to Chicago, but George had other ideas.  He was in it for the adventure.

              When the pair of Second Lieutenants got off the plane at Tan Son Nhut in fresh fatigues with the black and gold Ranger Tab sewn on their shoulders, a Captain approached them and offered an opportunity to change their orders and move them to a specialized unit.  Finally, Roger Davis broke away from his friend’s influence and declined, opting to follow his assignment to the 25^th Infantry Division.  George didn’t blink and agreed.  He walked away, following the Captain in the tiger-strip uniform, and the men hadn’t seen each other since. 

              “This is just the beginning, brother,” George said.  “We only have four months left.  I’ve got plans after this.  And you’re coming with me.”  He shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled. 

              “Not me,” Roger replied.  “I’ve got plans, too.  I’m going back to Chicago.  Getting married.  Starting a family.  That does NOT include whatever you have in mind.”

              “We’ll see,” George said.  Roger led him into a canvas tent set up as a command post.  Since the entire unit was on the firebase, the radios were quiet and there wasn’t much activity.  It took a second for their eyes to adjust to the relative darkness inside the tent.  Roger headed over to the map mounted on a corkboard hanging on the back wall of the tent, George following close behind.

              The men stood there, George laying out his operation for Roger.  He pointed out their primary and alternate landing zones for the infiltration, the suspected area for the radio relay station, their routes in and out, and their helicopter pickup zones.  Roger listened intently, taking mental notes of what he would need to do to prepare his unit to support George and his guys if they got the call.  He was about to start asking specific questions when they were interrupted by Roger’s boss.

              “What kind of bullshit is this?” Captain Barrett asked aloud.  His Alabama accent was thick around the chaw of Beechnut tobacco in his cheek.  “Davis, you know you ain’t allowed in here.”  He looked at George.  “Who the fuck are you?”

              “Lieutenant George Franklin, A Company Rangers,” George replied, sounding as military as he could.  “I’m taking a long-range patrol out to destroy a Viet Cong radio relay station.  Davis’s platoon has been designated as our Quick Reaction Force for the operation, Sir.”

              “I didn’t authorize that shit,” Barrett responded.  He was West Point and didn’t appreciate a Lieutenant telling a Captain what was going on, let alone an OCS Lieutenant.  “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are…”

              George cut him off by handing him a stack of papers from the cargo pocket in his pants.  They were orders authorizing him to pick his team, his mission timeline, and his QRF.  Someone decided the VC radio relay station was pretty important.  Barrett was reading through the orders when George spoke up.

              “Those are orders, Sir,” George said. There was sarcasm in his voice, barely hidden by his non-descript midwestern accent.  “It’s already been authorized.”  Barrett looked up at him, then turned and walked away still holding the orders in his hands.  Roger knew he was going to call their higher headquarters to verify the orders.

              “Thanks asshole,” Roger said once his boss was out of earshot.  “I still have to work for that guy after this operation is over, you know.”

              “You’ll be fine, Roger,” George said.  “You’re the best, straight line officer I’ve seen over here.  And you were the best in our OCS class.  That guy will rotate home and carry on with his career.  You’ll head back to your boring fucking life in Chicago.  Who gives a shit what he thinks.”

              “It matters to me and my guys,” Roger said.  “That is a vindictive sonofabitch.  He will put us on every shit-burning detail possible.  Put us on point for every operation.  Guard duty when we are back on the firebase.  All of it.  Our lives will be fucking miserable.”

              “Four months, man,” George said.  “Four months or less.  You can do fourth months, no problem.”

              “You don’t get it,” Roger replied.  “Some of my guys are going to get wounded, or even killed, because of the shit he is going to make us do.  My guys man.  It’s not about time, it’s about people.”

              “Yeah, I know,” George replied.  “That’s why I need you on that helipad.  It’s my guys out there.  Just the six of us.  If we get in some shit, I need you and your platoon on the other end of that radio.  This is about my people, too.  And it’s me out there.”  It was a gut-shot Roger wasn’t expecting.  It was the first time his concerns had extended outside of his platoon. 

              He had spent the last eight months fixing the mess he had been handed.  It was an undisciplined unit.  Uniforms were ragged and in disrepair.  Half the guys didn’t wear helmets.  Marijuana was rampant.  The Sergeants were weak and scared.  The platoon had been without a lieutenant for almost two months when Davis arrived.  He was a shock to the system.

              Captain Barrett had been abusing the platoon in the absence of a platoon leader.  It was exactly like the situation Roger described to George.  They were on every shit detail and the platoon felt the pain.  When Roger took over, he started to enforce discipline and as much as the platoon hated being abused by Barrett, they didn’t like their lives being turned upside down by the new lieutenant either.  Eventually, Roger won out and built the platoon into a solid fighting unit.  Once they proved their worth, Barrett turned his attention, and his abuse, to another platoon. 

              Life was better for everyone, and Roger had earned the respect of his men.  His focus for his entire time as a platoon leader, all eight months, was inward on his platoon.  He wasn’t concerned about Barrett and the rest of the company, let alone any other units.  Until now.  Now, he knew he had to focus on supporting George and his team, even if it meant putting his men at risk.

              “I never seen a lieutenant with this much pull,” Barrett said as he walked back to the map.  “But it’s all verified.  Davis, you’re the QRF for this operation.  Git your shit together.  I’ll coordinate for the helicopters.”  Barrett’s change of heart wasn’t altruistic.  He knew George’s operation had visibility to Generals way above anything he had been involved in before.  If it went off well, it could mean big things for him.  If it went off poorly, he could expect a shit assignment when he rotated home.  He was helping because he was looking out for himself and not George or Roger and their guys.

              The two lieutenants walked back into the sunlight.  Roger could hear the beat of a Huey off in the distance.  He lit another cigarette.  George knew that was his ride coming to pick him up.  He looked at Roger.

              “Thanks for this, brother,” he said.  “I know if anything happens, I can count on you.”  He stuck out his hand.  Roger shook it.

              “I’ll be there if you need me,” Roger said.  “Let’s hope it doesn’t.”  He paused.  “What are these big plans of yours anyway?”

              “I’m heading back to Nebraska,” George replied with a smile.  “Going to work at the gas station for a while.  But, I have a plan for something else.  That’s coming later.  I’ll be sure to let you know.”  Roger nodded.

              “Call me if you need me, Georgie,” Roger said.  George nodded and trotted off to the landing helicopter.  Roger stood and watched his friend until the skids of the Huey lifted off, then returned to his platoon tent.

              Lieutenant Roger Davis spent the next two hours briefing the rest of the platoon on their upcoming operation.  After only a few minutes of listening to George and taking mental notes, Davis had prepared an entire operations order in his head and then successfully presented it to the platoon leadership.  There was only one question when he was finished.

              “Sir,” one of the squad leaders said, raising his hand like he was in the third grade.  “What the fuck are we supposed to do for four days if they never call?”  Roger paused.  He hadn’t thought of that.  He knew they couldn’t sit and do nothing, but they also couldn’t do anything that would take away from their ability to respond if the call came.

              “I tell you what, Sergeant,” Roger started.  “Every day we will have weapon and equipment inspections.  We will rehearse loading and unloading the helicopters.  We will eat next to the helipad.”  The NCOs of the platoon stared at him.  “We will keep our rucksacks packed and ready.  Radios will be checked.”  There was a collective exhale from the audience.  Roger could hear one of the sergeants say “fuck me” under his breath. 

“You will keep your men sober and shaved and ready to go,” he continued.  They waited for the next directive.  “That’s it.  That’s my guidance.  Any time not filled with those activities is on you.  Train.  Rest.  Whatever you want.  I’m trusting you to lead your men.”  He could feel the uplift in the platoon leadership.  Everyone smiled.  “But, if I find a single man drunk or high, you’re all fucked.  Everyone understand?”  The smiles were still there.

“Yes, Sir,” they replied.  The meeting broke up.  Roger watched as his sergeants moved back to their men and relayed the details of their upcoming mission.  For the next two days, he continued to watch.  His sergeants did what he expected.  Squads packed their gear and cleaned weapons.  They rehearsed.  Radio checks were made.  He was proud of his platoon.  They were ready.

At last light on the second day, Davis posted himself in the company command post.  George’s team was scheduled to land just as the sun set and walk for a few hours before bedding down.  It was the riskiest part of the operation.  Once the helicopter landed and took off again, the enemy would know someone could be in the area and would start looking. 

Roger listened as George’s team reported their landing, their movement checkpoints, and finally the location of their small patrol base.  He marked the locations on the corkboard map, tracking the movement of his friend and the team of six.  Once they were settled in the patrol base, Roger gave guidance to the radio operator to wake him up if anything happened. 

The night air was cool outside the tent.  He lit his last cigarette of the day and looked at the night sky.  The stars always amazed him, the kid that grew up in Chicago.  He had only seen stars like this on boy scout camping trips as a kid.  Even then, the sky never seemed as dark as it did in Vietnam.  Roger was torn between wanting to get his unit into the field after all their preparation, and not wanting his friend George to need his help. 

The first night was uneventful, but Roger barely slept.  He was running contingency plans through his head.  He read over the small paper pamphlets he had been given in OCS using his red lens flashlight.  He reviewed how to call for a MEDEVAC in case someone was wounded.  He practiced calling for artillery and close air support in a whisper.  He wanted to make sure if anything happened, he wasn’t fumbling for the answer at a critical time. 

He spent the day observing his squads and stealing catnaps in an attempt to catch up on the sleep he missed the night before.  Davis was standing as the last man in the chow line when the radio operator from the company command post came running to find him.  There would be no meatloaf and rice covered in brown gravy tonight.  He called out to the sergeants.

“Finish eating quickly.  Get everyone geared up, then standby.”  He jogged over to the command post.

“Team three three, come in,” the radio operator was transmitting when Roger came into the tent.  He paused and looked at the map, noting the newest pushpin.

“Is this where they are?” he asked.  “Or their last reported position?”

“Same thing, Sir,” one of the soldiers in the command post called out.  “They stopped for a break.  They have enemy close by.”

“What do you mean?” Davis asked.  There was already frustration in his voice.  He had trained his platoon radio operators to be clear and concise.  He made a mental note to put a couple of his own soldiers in the command post as he moved closer to the speaker to listen to the radio.

“Team three three, this is Cold Steel Command Post, over,” the radio operator said into the handset.  There was a pause and then a whispered response.

“This is three three.”  Roger could tell is was George, even over the radio in a whisper.  “We have eyes on approximately one-zero-zero victor charlie.  Estimated three-zero-zero meters from our position.  We are going to hold.”

A hundred Viet Cong approximately three football fields away from George’s six-man team.  He knew that hiding was their best chance for surviving.  The risk of being seen if they moved was much higher than someone stumbling on them as they were lying in a tight circle on the jungle floor.

“Do you want us to launch the QRF?” the radio operator transmitted.  Roger’s level of frustration peaked.  He ripped the handset out of the young man’s hand.

“Three three, this is Red Six,” he said in a low tone, knowing George would realize it is him.  “We are standing by.  Flight time to your location is…” he looked at the map over his shoulder and make some quick calculations.  “…two-five mikes from alert to skids down.  We are standing by.” 

“I acknowledge two-five mikes.  Stand by for launch codeword,” George responded.  Davis smiled.  George avoided using the word ‘roger’ because it was both the standard radio acknowledgment and his best friend’s name.  Davis was convinced his friend knew he was the voice on the radio.  Terry looked around the command post.  There was a corporal in the corner.

“You,” he called out.  “The code word for QRF launch is Juanita.  I am going out to the helicopters.  If you hear that word, you come let me know.  Only you, Corporal.”  Roger walked out of the tent realizing the sun was rapidly going down.  He quietly wondered where Captain Barrett was.

The sergeants in the platoon were all gathered near the lead helicopter with their gear on, waiting for their platoon leader to return.  It took everything Roger had not to smile.  Eight months ago, that would never have happened.  He was immediately proud.  He grabbed his canvas load carrying belt with canteens, ammunition, and other assorted gear and threw it over his shoulders as he began to speak.

“They are about halfway up the mountain,” he started.  “There are about a hundred Viet Cong three hundred meters from their position.  They are going to sit tight.  We are just waiting on the word to launch.”

“That’s a lot of dinks,” one of the sergeants said.  Roger stared at him.  It pissed him off when the men referred to the enemy as dinks or slopes or any of the other derogatory terms that were common in country.  He felt it degraded a worthy enemy and made his men underestimate them.  “Sorry, Sir,” the man apologized.

“Which LZ are we flying into?” another sergeant asked. 

“Right now, it is number four unless they move,” Davis replied.  He had chosen nine different landing zones along the route George’s team planned to take.  The fourth one was the largest of the nine, allowing four helicopters at once.  The platoon would be able to get all eight helicopters on the ground in just two serials of four.

“Juanita!!!” Roger heard from behind him.  It was the corporal from the command post.  “They just called Juanita, Sir.”  He was already out of breath as he reached the platoon.  “They haven’t moved but the enemy is about a hundred meters away.”

Davis turned and looked at the leaders in his platoon.  He didn’t say a word.  The group broke up with the sergeants running to their respective helicopters.  Terry looked at the pilot of the lead aircraft, sitting in his seat.  He threw up one finger and spun it in circles.  The pilot immediately started the process to fire up the engines.  Davis stared at the man and indicated landing zone number four by holding one hand flat, palm up and the other holding up four fingers.  The pilot nodded.

Roger stepped back away from the line of helicopters so he could see everyone moving.  Helmet in one hand and rifle in the other, he watched until all the rotors were turning, and all the soldiers were loaded.  He looked at his watch.  Less than seven minutes.  Not bad.  He climbed in the side door of the Huey.  The sky was getting darker as they flew toward LZ number four.

As they approached, Roger could see a pair of AH-1 Cobra gunships already firing on the Viet Cong formation.  There were sparks on the ground; a mix of the rockets and cannon fire from the gunships impacting the ground and AK-47s firing back at them.  He looked between the pilots and through the windshield to see if he could spot the landing zone. 

Davis could feel the helicopter descend.  The helicopters were masked by the tail of his Huey since they were lined up for landing.  He could only hope everyone was still in formation.  The Viet Cong were getting pounded by the Cobras as they got closer to the ground.  Roger could see it out the left door of the Huey.  The explosions of the 2.75 inch rockets could be felt in his chest as the skids hit the ground.

They piled out in an orderly fashion, hitting the ground and lying there while the helicopter took off.  Roger could hear the door gunner firing his M-60 machine gun at the Viet Cong, adding to what the Cobras were dumping on them.  Roger felt secure they would be able to move to George and his guys after the beating the enemy was taking.  He grabbed the radio handset from his rucksack. 

“Three three, this is Red Six, over,” he called into the microphone.  The first flight of helicopters was clear with the second four inbound as Roger and his men moved toward the tree line.  He had the rucksack over both shoulders now with his M16A1 in his hands.  George called him back.

“Red Six, this is three three,” came the Nebraska non-accent accent.  Roger anticipated a joke and probably some grid coordinates for an easy link up.  That’s not what came next.  “I have two wounded.  One KIA.  Enemy is danger close.”  Roger could hear gunfire in the background.  They were down to five fighters, best case.  Worst case was three and maybe less if someone was actively treating one or more of the wounded. 

“Send me your location and we will move to you,” Roger transmitted.  It was almost dark now.  Roger knew he needed to wait for the second flight to unload so he had a full platoon.  The initial report of one hundred Viet Cong was a report with no real confirmation.  There could be a lot more out there and Roger didn’t want to go walking in the dark short-handed if there were.  The soldiers that flew in on the other three aircraft linked up with Roger and were on a knee as the next four Hueys offloaded their cargo.

“Red six, this is three three.  What is your ETA, over?” George called over the radio.  “I now have four WIA and one KIA.”  Shit.

It didn’t take a math genius to figure out there was only one member of George’s team that hadn’t been wounded.  Roger watched as the second flight of helicopters took off.  His whole platoon was on the ground now.  He looked briefly at his map.

“We are one-five mikes from your location,” he replied to George. 

“Bullshit, man,” George replied.  He could hear the fear in his friend’s voice.  “You need to get here, now or we are all going to fucking die.”  Proper radio procedure was out the window.  Roger looked around.

“You three, come with me,” he said as he pointed to three soldiers kneeling next to him.  “Sergeant, bring up the rest of the platoon once they link up.  We are leaving now.”  Roger turned and ran into the jungle.  He looked briefly to ensure he had three members of the platoon in tow.  They were with him.  He would have smiled but he was too concerned about George.  He felt the terrain begin to slope upward.  It was going to be a rough climb, but there was no time to waste and no time for caution.

Pausing only occasionally to check their location, Rogers led his men on a steady run through the jungle.  The canopy made it extremely dark, with only occasional light poking through holes in the treetops.  Rogers was thankful it was a very bright, full moon or they would never be able to move with any speed.  There was gunfire to his front. 

He could see muzzle flashes.  Putting those together with the sounds he recognized as AK-47s, he pinpointed the enemy position.  He slowed down to a walk.  Roger wanted to get inside hand grenade range before they started firing.  He could only identify two rifles firing back at the Viet Cong.  Once Davis was inside about thirty yards of the enemy, he stopped the three soldiers moving with him.  They took a knee and huddled close enough to hear him.

“Frags first,” he said quietly.  “Then I dump a mag.  Then you, then you, then you.”  He pointed at each man in turn.  “Reload while the others are firing.  Once we all fire a mag, we close on the enemy.  The LRRPs are up there,” he turned and pointed up the mountain.  “Keep your fire oriented that way.”  He pointed toward where he had seen the flashes from the AK-47s.  “You guys ready?”  Three heads nodded.  “Spread out.  Wait for me.  Once I throw, you throw.  Then I fire.  Then one, two, three.”  He reiterated the instructions.  “OK.  Go.”

The three men spread out in the darkness. Roger pulled a fragmentation grenade from the pouch on his belt.  He pushed the safety lever off the spoon and pulled the pin, then waited.  A muzzle flash from an AK-47.  He threw the grenade.  You could hear the ‘plink’ of the spoon coming off the grenade in the silence.  Then the explosion.  Then another.  Then two more.

Roger stood and flipped the selector lever on his M16A1 to ‘AUTO’ and pulled the trigger.  Twenty rounds fired from his rifle, only stopping when the magazine was empty.  The second man fired.  Roger was loading another magazine while the third man was firing.  The fourth man dumped his magazine toward the enemy position. 

The AK-47s started firing back.  That’s what Roger wanted.  He wanted the enemy to focus on them and not George’s team.  He fired at the muzzle flashes.  Someone cried out in the night.  The other three members of the platoon started to selectively engage the enemy.  They weren’t firing on full auto.  The men were picking out muzzle flashes and firing at them in two to four rounds.  They fired and moved forward, closing the distance. 

Roger paused long enough to see where the other three men were, then threw another grenade.  One of the men followed his lead.  Then the other two.  Roger was on one knee, listening and looking for any movement in front of them.  Nothing.  He grabbed the radio handset on his shoulder.

“Three three, this is Red Six, over,” he transmitted.  No answer.  He called again.  Still no answer.  Another call came.

“Red Six, this is Red Four.”  It was one of the squad leaders.  “We are engaged in about twenty victor charlie.  They are breaking contact.  Standing by, over.”

“Red Four, just hold what you got,” Roger replied.  “Secure the LZ.  We are going to link up with Three three.  Have one squad ready to help evac the wounded.  I will call once we make contact with them.”

“Red Four, roger.”

Roger waved his three soldiers toward his position.  There was no more enemy fire in front of them.  They closed in tight, waiting for more instruction from their platoon leader.

“There are at least four wounded and one killed up there,” he told the men.  “They are going to be scared shitless.  We need to approach cautiously so they don’t shoot us.”  He pointed to one of the men. “You keep your eyes behind us so none of these fuckers sneaks up on us.”  He threw a thumb over his shoulder toward the last known Viet Cong position.  “Once we get up there, we will call for help to get those guys out.  Let’s go.”

The four men moved cautiously in the dark with Roger in the lead.  They were almost wandering, hoping to find George and his team in the dark while hiding in the leafy undergrowth.  Davis took a risk.  He pulled the red lens flashlight off his suspender and turned it on, facing the light toward where he thought George and his guys might be.  He panned the light back and forth for almost thirty seconds.  Suddenly a red light appeared in the underbrush.  It was about thirty feet in front of Roger.

“Georgie?” he said a little louder than a whisper.  He waited.

“Over here,” came an American voice, but it wasn’t Georgie.  Roger closed on the red light in front of him.  He waved his three teammates over.  Under the red glow of the flashlight, he could see piles of spent brass casings scattered everywhere.  There were two men sitting up while four more were laying on the ground. 

“Where is Lieutenant Franklin?” Roger asked the men sitting up.  They pointed to one of the men lying on the ground.  Roger assumed his friend was dead.  His heart sank.  His brain flashed to George’s parents in Nebraska.  He had seen photos of them and the family gas station.  Roger touched him.  “Georgie?” he said quietly.  He could feel the man breathing. 

“Sir,” one of the platoon members said.  “Two of these guys are dead.  One is wounded pretty bad.  The other two can walk.  We need to get the rest of the platoon up here.”  Roger dropped his rucksack with the radio and handed it to the young soldier, then turned his attention back to his friend.

Roger shined the light in his eyes.  They were open but staring off into space.  Davis checked him for wounds and found nothing.  George seemed to be physically fine, but he was curled up in a ball and not responding.  He used the flashlight to look around, searching for George’s rifle.  Instead, he found two dead Vietnamese men in the telltale black pajamas the Viet Cong were known to wear.  One of them was bleeding but still alive, for now.  The other had his head bashed in. 

“He beat that fucker to death with his rifle,” one of the LRRPs said.  “Stabbed the other one with his bayonet.  He saved us.”

Fifteen minutes later, a squad from the platoon showed up.  After using a poncho as a litter for the wounded man, and putting the two dead soldiers into body bags, they moved toward the landing zone.  Roger finally got George on his feet and carried him down the mountain.  He could hear the Hueys in the distance as they got to the tree line. 

Red platoon loaded the LRRPs onto the helicopters and flew back to the firebase where they transloaded them onto waiting MEDEVAC helicopters.  Roger stood and watched as George sat, catatonic in the Huey.  He was completely unresponsive.  He knew his dear friend was not only headed to a hospital, but likely headed home. 

Lieutenant Roger T. Davis stood watching the helicopters fly away into the night sky. He lit another cigarette and put the Zippo back in his pocket.  He still had four months left in Vietnam.  He vowed that night to go see George and his parents once he got back to the States. 

It was a promise to himself he wouldn’t keep.