Curiosity, brains, and the itch for adventure were a large part of why Kevin wasn’t back home herding beef cattle from one sun-baked hill to the other. If he’d been the average kid in Ellensburg, Washington, he’d never have wanted to go to college. And if he hadn’t wanted to go to college, he’d never have signed up with the ROTC to pay for it. And now his service obligations to the U.S. Army had landed him smack dab in the middle of this camp just south of the DMZ.
Part of him was still pissed off. South Korea hadn’t been what he’d bargained for, and his orders to report there had come as both a shock and a disappointment. But another part of him was excited. This posting was sure to be a lot more interesting than the godforsaken spots in Texas, Tennessee, and Georgia that most of his classmates had been shipped off to.
After what seemed like an eternity, Donaldson pushed his chair back and came around the desk with his hand held out. “At ease, Lieutenant. I ain’t going to bite your head off.”
He shook Kevin’s hand, waved him into a chair, and then perched himself on the corner of his desk.
Kevin thought he should explain why he was late. “Sir, I’m sorry I didn’t get here on schedule, but you see, my plane was — ”
Donaldson interrupted. “Don’t worry about it, Lieutenant. We don’t expect our officers to control the weather, or even the airlines. Eighth Army phoned this morning to let us know what happened to you.” He paused for a moment. “But don’t get the idea you can be late from now on. I’m going to expect your platoon to be ready to move when I say ‘move’ and to jump when I give the word. Clear?”
Kevin nodded.
“Good. That’s settled then.” Donaldson pulled a file off his desk and started leafing through it. There didn’t seem to be much in it.
“Now, I see from your service record that you’ve had some language training. That was in Korean, I hope.”
Kevin couldn’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. “No, sir. I took four years of German in college — I never expected to …” He decided it might not be a good idea to finish the sentence.
Donaldson looked over at him, amusement clearly showing in his eyes. “You never expected to get sent to Korea, Lieutenant?”
“Well, sir, no. No, I didn’t. I applied for an Army Intelligence posting in West Germany.”
Donaldson shook his head. “Let me get this straight. You took years of German, probably studied their politics and culture and all that stuff real hard, and then you expected the Army to send you to Germany?”
The major tossed the personnel file back on the desk. “Welcome to the real U.S. Army, Mr. Little. Let me clue you in on a well-known secret. The Army moves in mysterious ways. It doesn’t send you where you want to go, or even where you’re best suited to go. It sends you where you’re needed.”
Donaldson stood suddenly, walked over to a map of South Korea, and jabbed it with a finger. “And that’s right here, Lieutenant. It just so happens that we’re short a platoon leader in this battalion. That’s going to be your job for the next twelve months. You read me, Lieutenant?”
Kevin remembered the Eighth Army captain’s laughter at his cadet salute, so he simply nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”
Donaldson smiled again. “Good. I know you will. Now let me bring you up to speed on your assignment.”
He walked back over to his desk. “I’m giving you the Second Platoon in A Company. That’s Captain Matuchek’s mob. Matuchek’s a damned good officer, so you live up to his standards and you’ll go far. You’ll also stay clear of trouble and off my shit list — which is exactly where you want to stay.”
The major handed him a thick folder. “Here are the personnel records for your troops. Get to know them. Get to know which ones you can depend on and which you’ve got to watch. But remember, those records are just paper. They don’t tell the whole story. You get to know the real men — the ones behind the paper — and you’ll do all right.”
Kevin didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded again — feeling a bit like one of those little bouncing dogs some people stick on their car’s dashboard.
He looked up as Donaldson asked, “Now tell me, who’s the one man you can rely on to set you straight, spoon-feed you the info you need, and generally make sure you look and act like a proper young lieutenant?”
This sounded like some kind of test, but it seemed straightforward enough. “Captain Matuchek, sir.”
“No. No, Lieutenant, it ain’t Captain Matuchek. He’s got a lot better things to do than try to keep you in line. No, the man you’d better rely on pretty damn heavily is your platoon sergeant. He’s the one with the experience and the motivation to keep you from screwing up too badly.”
Donaldson looked down at him. “And that’s where you’re a lucky man, Lieutenant. Your platoon sergeant, Sergeant Pierce, is a fine soldier — one of the best. He’s a combat vet. Did two tours in Nam. So you listen up real close when Sergeant Pierce ‘suggests’ something. It just may save your platoon in a shooting situation. May even save your life, too.”
The major stood. “Okay, Lieutenant. I’ve jawed at you enough.” He looked at his watch. “It’s eleven twenty- five hours now. Your troops won’t get back from the firing range till fifteen hundred. So get some lunch, study those records, and then go over and get acquainted with your men. Any questions?”
Kevin did, but this didn’t seem like the right time to ask about transfer application procedures. He shook his head, stuffed the platoon personnel files under his arm, and saluted.
Donaldson returned his salute lazily and turned to some of the paperwork piled up on his desk. But as Kevin headed for the door, Donaldson’s voice stopped him. “One more thing, Lieutenant. Forget most of the crap they drummed into you in ROTC.” He pronounced it “Rot-see.” “It ain’t going to help you worth a damn in dealing with real soldiers.”
Excluding the commanding officer, a full-strength U.S. “leg” infantry rifle platoon contained forty-five men, and all forty-five of them were lined up and waiting for Kevin Little when he came in the door of the whitewashed building housing the 2nd Platoon, A Company, 1st Battalion, 39th Infantry Regiment.
“Attention!” A loud, bull-like roar brought the troops up straight and nearly gave Kevin a case of premature cardiac arrest. He’d hoped to come in quietly and talk to the platoon sergeant before officially assuming command. Scratch Plan A. Too bad he didn’t have any Plan B.
A big man wearing sergeant’s stripes stepped out of the ranks and saluted him. “Welcome to Second Platoon, sir. I’m Sergeant Harry Pierce.” Pierce was even taller than Kevin and probably outweighed him by at least fifty pounds — all of it in muscle. He wore his graying hair in a crew cut so short it was almost invisible.
Kevin knew he couldn’t just stand there gaping like some kind of idiot. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Sergeant. Ah …” Cripes, now what was he supposed to do, make a speech or something?”
Pierce cut in. “Would you care to inspect the platoon, sir?” His tone made it clear that this was one of those “suggestions” that Donaldson had talked about, and Kevin felt grateful. The sergeant seemed to be doing his best to keep him from looking too stupid.
Kevin nodded, trying to act as if taking over a platoon was just an everyday occurrence for him. “Yes, Sergeant. I certainly would.” Jeez, that sounded pretty pompous. Well, he’d just have to drive on.
Pierce led him along the row of soldiers lined up by their bunks. Names and faces flashed by Kevin so fast that he knew he’d never remember more than a tenth of them. PFC Donnelly, 1st Squad Leader Corporal Kostowitz, PFC Simpson, his radioman, Corporal Jones, Weapons Squad Leader Corporal Ramos, and on and on.
The equipment he saw looked in pretty good shape, although Kevin knew he’d have had trouble telling the difference between a really well-cared for weapon and one that had just been “prettied-up” for inspection. But Sergeant Pierce obviously knew his business, and he hadn’t taken any names — so everything must have been A- okay.
There was just one thing left out of the inspection, and when they reached the end of the line, Kevin turned to Pierce. “I’d like to take a look at the APCs, too, Sergeant. I assume they’re parked over at the motor pool?”
Kevin heard a muffled chuckle, or maybe it was just a cough, from somewhere in his new platoon. He reddened. Now what?
Pierce flashed a warning glance into the ranks and kept his voice low. “We don’t have any armored personnel carriers, Lieutenant. The battalions in the Second and Third Brigades here in Korea are pure foot soldiers. We’ve got trucks to get us up to the Z and back again. But anywhere else we want to go, we walk — just like the old days.”
