reassigned to my staff as an adviser and liaison officer.'
Weir paused for a moment and let that sink in before he continued. 'One of the primary reasons I want you on my staff is the fact that one of the regiments in the armored brigade is the 7th Royal Tank Regiment.'
Jones, calm and businesslike until then, was startled by that bit of information. He belonged to the 7th RTR. His father had belonged to that regiment and had fought with it during World War II. To him, as to most British officers, the regiment was a home, a family, a tradition. The thought that his regiment was going to go to war without him was staggering.
Weir continued. 'Though it will be some time before we, and the 7th RTR, actually make it to Iran, I want you 79 to start working with the rest of my staff and provide them with everything we need to know so that we can integrate the brigade into the corps. I am particularly concerned about logistical support of that unit. Your assistance there will be critical.'
For a moment, there was an awkward silence. Although Jones had been looking at the General, it was obvious that he had not been listening to what Weir said. Jones blinked and then spoke, hesitantly at first.
'I am terribly sorry, General, I was just absorbing the news you have given me. It's all rather sudden. Expected, yes, but still it's quite a surprise. You do understand, don't you?'
Weir leaned back in his chair and nodded. 'Yes, I am still having difficulty believing we are actually going.'
Again hesitantly, Jones continued. 'With all due respect, General, and fully understanding your needs, I must insist on being relieved from my current posting, to rejoin my regiment. This will be the first action the regiment will see since 1945.'
'I appreciate your desire to rejoin your unit. I expected as much. And I know that your father belonged to the regiment and what that means to you.
You are, of course, free to request reassignment. But I must warn you, I will recommend against it. You, and your knowledge of how we, the U.S_
Army, operate, coupled with your intimate knowledge of the armored brigade being attached, are far too important to me to lose. You will be a valuable member of my staff.'
Jones stood up, faced the General and stood at attention. 'I do understand your needs, but I shall nevertheless request reassignment.
Is there anything else?'
Weir looked at Jones. The major was visibly disturbed by the news he had given him. 'No, Major, I have nothing else. You will report to the corps G-3 tomorrow and begin work with the planning staff. Good night.'
Jones saluted, turned and left. Weir stood, walked over to his window and resumed watching the traffic below. He thought, How easy it would be if we could all just grab our rifles and run out to war. So simple, so direct.
But instead, I and the major have the 'paper wars' to fight. As Weir turned and went back to his desk, still cluttered with the plan, an old Japanese saying came to mind: 'Duty is heavy, but death is lighter than a feather.'
He decided that he finally understood what it meant.
Chapter 5
Minds are like parachutes. They only function when they are open.
The gentle sway of the C-130 transport and the steady drone of its engines had managed to lull many of the sixty-five men of A Company, 2nd Battalion of the 517th Airborne, to sleep. The excitement and fear that had gripped them at Ras Banas as they made final preparations and during the early part of the flight had given way to sleep. Word that they were finally going to leave had been greeted with great excitement by some of the men, who, after eight days in the Egyptian desert, were glad to be going somewhere else and gave little thought to the fact that they were going to another desert. The idea that they were going into combat was treated with a similar cavalier attitude. Most believed the rumors that the Iranians would not resist them once the Americans had landed. After all, the Americans were coming over there to fight the Russians. It would be stupid to try to fight both the U.S. and the USSR. Any American could understand that.
Captain Evans drifted back and forth between consciousness and sleep. Their eight days at Ras Banas had been demanding ones but profitable. The men had learned a great deal while they were there and had had an opportunity to get used to the desert. He shuddered to think what would have happened if they had been dropped straight into Iran. As it was, he was concerned that his men were still not prepared for the task ahead.
Too many had the idea that the Iranians would welcome them with open arms, as liberators. The President's message, read before their departure from
Egypt, had not helped. Phrases like 'going forth in the name of freedom and justice' and 'seeking out and punishing aggression wherever it rears its head' obscured the cold hard fact that they were being sent into a country populated by a hostile race in order to fight someone else. Evans leaned over and looked down the line of men as they slumped in the nylon seats, overburdened with equipment and overwhelmed by exhaustion. For a moment he wondered how many of them would be alive that night.
A buzz drew his attention to the transport's crew chief, who was seated next to him. The crew chief reached up and grabbed a phone handset.
Before he put the handset back, Evans knew what the message had been.
It was time.
The crew chief leaned over and told Evans they were ten minutes out.
Both he and Evans unsnapped their seat belts and stood up. The men also sensed what was going on and began to stir, waking those who were still in a deep sleep. At the top of his lungs, Evans called out, 'Ten minutes.'
As if on cue, the ramp behind Evans began to open, letting in the cold night air, known to the paratroopers as 'the Hawk.' The blast of air and the buildup of adrenaline one experiences before a jump washed away the cobwebs in the minds of the men who had just woken. They needed that. It was critical that everyone have a clear mind. They began to psych themselves up for the coming ordeal. For some, the awful reality of what was about to happen hit home. They were going, they were really going. As they looked down the line of men toward the gaping hole at the rear of the aircraft, some wondered whether they could really do it.
On signal from the pilot, Evans, extending his arms in an exaggerated raising motion, yelled, 'Outboard personnel, stand up.'
The men along the side of the aircraft struggled to stand, fighting the weight and confinement of their equipment and the swaying of the transport.
Instinctively, they reached up and grabbed the thin wire cable that ran the length of the transport above the aisle between the seats. Once up, they turned and faced to the rear.
Evans repeated his motions and yelled, 'Inboard personnel, stand up.'
The men in the seats arranged down the center of the transport stood up, taking their places between the men already standing. There were now two lines, called 'sticks,' facing to the rear.
Next Evans raised his hands above his head, formed them into hooks and moved them up and down while he yelled, 'Hook up.' Each man grabbed the metal static line hook attached to the reserve parachute hanging on the front of his web gear and fastened it to the cable he was holding on to.
Once on the cable, he snapped the small gate shut and gave the static line a tug to ensure that it was hooked up.
When the men were settled, Evans brought one hand up, formed an O with his hand and moved the hand away from him as he ordered, 'Check static line.'
