Hernandez and three other men of the I st Platoon were completing their four-hour tour of guard duty. This did not mean, however, that they were finished for the day. On the contrary. Since they had escaped being annihilated with the rest of the battalion at Rafsanjan, Duncarrand his men had been operating exclusively at night.
By day the platoon went to ground, concealed in the nooks and crannies of the wadis and draws that cut through the Iranian wilderness like unhealed scars. It was only at night, hiding under the cloak of darkness, that they came out like the other desert predators. Their sole purpose in life since the twenty-eighth of June had been survival.
They moved south in the forlorn hope of eventually finding friendly forces. Making it back was only a hope-a dim, flickering light at the end of along, dark and dangerous tunnel. The more immediate tasks of escaping detection and finding sufficient food were the reality of the day, two problems that constantly loomed before each of the men with Duncan.
Simply put, these two tasks were in direct conflict with each other. On one hand, in order to live the men had to avoid being detected by the Soviet patrols searching for such ragtag collections of men. Besides the Russians, Iranian bands also roamed the desert looking for unwary infidels, Americans and Russians alike. On the other hand, Duncan and his men had to hit either the Soviets or the Iranians to secure food, water, weapons and medicine. The trick was to find isolated groups or small convoys moving around at night, sneak up on them and hit them hard, fast and without mercy. They could not afford to take prisoners, who would only compound Duncan's problems. By being selective about whom they hit and backing off from questionable confrontations, Duncan and his men had managed to survive two weeks and put many miles between themselves and their start point.
As Duncan passed from sleep to consciousness, his first reaction was to tighten his grip on the Kalashnikov assault rifle that lay at his side.
He had picked the Russian rifle up one night to replace his own M-16 when the platoon became short of 5.56mm. ammo. Hernandez watched this and calmed his platoon leader's fears. 'Nothin' happening, Sarge. Just sunset.'
Duncan raised his head and turned slowly. Around him he could see the rest of the platoon being rousted out of their cubbyholes by Specialist Four Thorton, one of Hernandez's men. Duncan turned back to Hernandez.
'What's for supper?'
Faking an Oriental accent, Hernandez said, smiling, 'Oh, no problem, GI. fix you right up, chop chop.' He reached into a wide fatigue-pants pocket, pulled out a clump of foil and offered it to Duncan. 'I got just the ticket for you, GI. Number one. Fresh five months ago.'
Duncan sat up and accepted the clump of foil. He looked it over before unwrapping it. When he began to peel away the foil, he did so with great care, not wanting to lose a single crumb. The prize in the center was a chunk of black bread. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have tossed it away. These, however, were not ordinary circumstances. Duncan knew that the chunk of bread, captured four days ago in the ambush of alone Soviet truck broken down on the side of the road, represented his entire evening meal.
As he inspected it, he decided that the fuzzy green mold growing on it had to go, starvation or not. He reached into one of his ammo pouches and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. As he carefully cut away the offending mold, he talked to Hernandez, the second man in the platoon's chain of command.
'Everyone else get something to eat?'
Using his normal conversational voice, Hernandez replied, 'Roger that, Boss. Thorton's passing out the last of the rations as he goes along.'
Finishing his carving, Duncan held the bread up before his face at arm's length and inspected his dinner one more time. 'I hope they fared better than I did.' With that he stuck it into his mouth, tore a chunk off with effort and began to chew, talking as he ate. 'Well, looks like it's time to go grocery shopping. What do you feel like tonight? More Russian, or should we try the local cuisine again?'
Hernandez made a face. 'Fuck that Iranian shit. I've seen maggots turn down better food than what the Iranians eat. It's no wonder these people are so pissed at the whole world. If I had to eat their food all the time, I'd have a grudge, too.'
'Beggars can't be choosers. If we can't find a good target on the road by midnight, we go into the nearest village and grab what we can. We don't have the time to sit around and wait for the Soviets to send us a mess truck.'
Hernandez shook his head from side to side. 'I don't like going into those villages, Sarge. The last time we did that it took two days to shake those rag heads We're asking for trouble screwing with 'em, if you ask me.'
Duncan turned serious. 'I didn't ask you. And in case you haven't caught on, every time we hit a Russian convoy, we get visits from a pair of attack helicopters for the next twenty-four hours. Either way you split it, we're up shit's creek. We go for what we can deal with and run like hell. One way or the other I'm going to get this platoon back.' The two men looked at each other for a few moments before Duncan continued. 'You know the drill. Lineup and inspection in ten minutes. Get on it, Sergeant.'
Hernandez left without saying a word. What could he say? Duncan was right.
Duncan was always right.
As Duncan finished his bread, he dug a plastic bag from one of his pockets with his free hand. He took off the elastic band wrapped around it and pulled out a small dog-eared green army note pad and a pencil. Setting the pad on his leg, he began to write. Since their escape into the desert, he had been keeping a log of the platoon's activities. Each evening Duncan recorded the situation, his plans for the night and his observations on the morale and conduct of the men under his command. Every morning he would summarize the activities of the platoon and describe the land they had traversed, what they had seen and the status of men, weapons, ammunition and food. His comments were terse, often incomplete and at times nothing more than random thoughts scribbled by a hand being driven by a tired and frustrated mind.
What the log did provide was a history of the platoon and its wanderings.
Duncan held few illusions about their ultimate fate. They had started with eighteen men on 28 June. On this day there were only thirteen men left with him. Two were dead-one killed outright in an ambush by Iranians and the second during a strafing run by a Soviet attack helicopter. Two men had been severely wounded. Though Duncan had tried to bring them along, the effort slowed the platoon and exposed the wounded men to death from infection and lack of medical care. Both had been left near the road in the hope that they would be found by the Russians and treated humanely as prisoners of war. The fifth man Duncan had lost was missing, unaccounted for. One morning the platoon had settled into hiding with all men present, but that evening Hernandez woke Duncan to report that Private Slatter was missing.
Sometime during the day Slatter had up and wandered off on his own. The platoon stayed in place that night in the hope that he would return.
He didn't. Nor did he return the next day. With great reluctance, Duncan left the area where they had lost Slatter, never knowing what had happened or why.
This disturbed Duncan-not knowing. This concern for knowing and giving others the chance to know was what motivated him to record what they did.
If fate dealt them a bad hand and the platoon was wiped out, the story of their wanderings would be preserved. Duncan hoped that someone would find the log and see it for what it was. Perhaps the Russians would even turn the green notebook over to someone in the International Red Cross. For all the propaganda, Duncan knew that the Russians were, in reality, people. The Iranians, on the other hand, were fanatics.
Religious fanatics, yes. But a fanatic is still a fanatic and as such is totally insensible to anything or anyone not conforming to his narrow way of thinking. If the green book fell into the hands of the Iranians and was destroyed, it would mean that the platoon lost more than their lives-they would lose their souls. This Duncan feared more than death.
Watching his men, Duncan gathered his thoughts before he started to write.
When he was ready, he jotted down the night's entry.
13 July. Nothing to report. Day was quiet. No Soviet patrols or Iranians spotted. Last of the food gone. Tonight we move down to the road and hit the Russians. Need to pick up more Russian weapons and ammo. Only three men have M-16s left and each of them are down to 60 rounds of 5.56. Targets have to be soft tonight, only have one LAW and 2 RPG rounds. If we do not find a good target by midnight, we will go into town and take whatever we need from the locals. Don't want to do this. The bastards chased us the last time we hit them and
