strapped to his hip.
His boots showed spots where the black had been worn off. Major Dixon walked along the line of body bags slowly, looking. He stopped at each and bent down to peer at the name tag tied to the end of the bag. Not finding the one he wanted, he would go to the next, then the next, then the next, then the next.
The men of the graves-registrations detail paid him no heed. They had much to do and not much time. Bodies, already left in the sun for several days, were putrefying in the heat. As two men on the detail brought a body to the rear of their truck, they would stop while the sergeant in charge checked the name tag, looked on his list and made a check mark. The two men then went to the rear of the truck, where one counted as they swung the body bag back and forth until three was called off. In unison, the two men would swing the body onto the bed of the truck, where it made a loud thump as it hit.
When Dixon found the one he was looking for, he stopped. The tag had 'NESBITT, JACK R. 176-35-8766' written on it. For a moment he looked at the bag, not knowing what to do now that he had found the body he was looking for. Leaning over, he began to pull down the zipper.
As soon as he did, Dixon was sorry. The stench that rose from the bag made him gag. He stopped, covered his mouth with one hand, then continued until the zipper was halfway down. He stopped again, then looked at the body.
What he saw bore no resemblance to the man he had shared so many times with, good and bad. Dixon knew all there was worth knowing about the man in the bag. He knew his wife, his children, his dreams, his fears, his joys, his plans. Nesbitt had become a part of Dixon. He was more than a good sergeant, he was a friend. Now he was gone.
Slowly, carefully, Dixon closed the bag, then sat next to his friend.
Unable to restrain himself, he began to cry. He buried his head in his dirty hands and cried without shame or restraint. So many men about him needed to be cried for, to be remembered. Good men, every one. So many.
The thumping drew his attention to the detail. Dixon raised his head and looked to see what was causing the thumping. He wiped his eyes of tears and watched for a moment. Suddenly, what the men of the graves- registrations detail were doing hit Dixon. He felt himself go cold and numb inside.
Slowly, the numbness was replaced by a rage that began to build, a rage that overcame all restraint and logic. He rose mechanically and walked over to the truck, drawing his pistol as he went, his face frozen in a mask of hatred. Tears blurred his vision as he walked 404 up to the sergeant, who paid no heed until he heard the click of the pistol's hammer being cocked.
Turning, the sergeant looked into the muzzle of a .45 caliber pistol being pointed into his face by a dirty major with tears in his eyes.
'Jesus! Are you fucking crazy?'
In a low, emotionless voice, Dixon said, 'These are my men. The next body thrown into the truck will be followed by yours.'
All eyes turned to watch. The sergeant, visibly shaken, tried to reason with Dixon. 'Sir, these guys, they're dead. I mean, they're dead, they can't feel nothing.'
Dixon neither moved nor changed his tone. 'These are my men, Sergeant. You will treat them with respect, or yours will be the next body on the truck.'
The sergeant looked into Dixon's eyes. There was hate in those eyes.
Hate that knew no bounds. 'Yes, sir, we will be more careful, my men and I. Now please, sir, put down the gun?'
With the gun still pointed at the sergeant's head, Dixon slowly eased the hammer forward. Then he put the gun back into its holster and walked a few meters away, stopped, turned and stood there. For a moment, no one moved.
Then, seeing that the major was not going anywhere, the sergeant ordered his men to continue loading. This time, they were careful to lay each body out on the bed of the truck. The major stayed throughout the afternoon watching until they were done. It was not until the last truck left that
Dixon turned and walked away.
The two men and their assistants entered the room from doors at opposite sides. Each of them took his place at the table facing his counterpart. The Soviet ambassador opened his briefcase, pulled out a folder and arranged his notes. The American ambassador was handed a folder by one of his assistants.
The Russian began by reading a prepared statement. It declared that the Soviet Union protested the use of aggression by the United States to interfere with an internal matter that concerned the Soviet Union and the legitimate government of the People's Republic of Iran. For twenty-five minutes the Soviet ambassador enumerated, in chronological order starting with 6 June, what he described as the acts of aggression on the part of the United States, as well as several alleged war crimes committed by U.S. forces in Iran and in international waters, all in violation of international accords and treaties. The Russian ended with a demand that all U.S. forces withdraw immediately and that the United States pay, through the United Nations, all war damages caused by 'this imperialist war of aggression.'
As the Soviet ambassador spoke, the American ambassador had fought back his anger. Throughout the entire harangue, he had sat there stony-faced, listening and waiting. Now, opening his folder, he read from a single sheet of paper: ' 'The United States and her allies demand the immediate and unconditional withdrawal of all Soviet forces in Iran within thirty days. Upon completion of those withdrawals, a provisional government will be reestablished in Tehran under the supervision of the United Nations. Within six months a convention, again under UN supervision, composed of members elected by the Iranian people, will meet and draft a constitution for the establishment of a permanent Iranian government.'
With that, the American closed the folder and looked at the Russian.
The Russian, pounding his fist on the table, began to spout righteous indignation, accusing the American ambassador of unreasonable demands and not negotiating in good faith. He was about to read off another prepared speech when the American ambassador startled everyone in the room by rising, picking up his folder and turning to walk away.
Flabbergasted, the Soviet ambassador asked why he was leaving. The American told him it was obvious that the Soviet Union was not interested in serious negotiations; the United States, therefore, intended 'to seek resolution of the conflict through other means.'
Convinced that the American was bluffing, the Russian let him walk out.
He did not intend to show weakness by crawling to the Americans in order to negotiate. His orders had been to negotiate from a position of strength and to maintain the upper hand at all times. The Americans would be back. It was, after all, their way.
The Soviet ambassador's resolve gave out that evening when the staff at the consulate informed him that the American had left his hotel en route to the airport. In a hastily arranged meeting at the airport, the Soviet ambassador and the American ambassador worked out an agenda, drafted a cease-fire proposal and began serious negotiations.
Epilogue
Nothing but a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won.
The BRDM armored car moved slowly as it entered the demilitarized zone.
Major Vorishnov hated to enter the DMZ at any time, but especially at night.
Lanes had been cleared through the mine fields, but that did not mean they stayed cleared. The Iranians had the habit of slipping into the DMZ at night and moving mines about. A week did not go by without a soldier dying in
