The Captains (17 page)

“Are you by any chance an officer?” Lieutenant Stevens demanded.

“Yes, I am,” the nigger replied, amused. “Who are you?”

“I'm Lieutenant Stevens,” Stevens said.

The half-naked black man with the can of beer stopped smiling. He looked Stevens up and down, and then looked beyond him at the other officers.

“Is that a West Point ring I see on your hand, Lieutenant Stevens?”

“As a matter of fact, it is,” Stevens said. “But I asked who the hell you are.”

“I find it difficult to believe,” the half-naked nigger said, in his Harvard accent, every syllable precisely pronounced, “that an officer exposed to all the opportunities afforded by the United States Military Academy at West Point is unaware of the protocol involved in reporting to a new command. I presume, therefore, there is some excuse for your lack of military courtesy.”

“I believe I'm in command here, Lieutenant Parker,” Lieutenant Stevens said.

“Oh?” Parker said, his tone of voice suggesting idle interest. “I haven't been informed of my relief.”

“I'm informing you now,” Stevens said.

“I see,” Parker said. “And where am I supposed to go? Regiment? Did you happen to bring me a copy of my orders?”

“You'll stay here, so far as I know,” Stevens said. “What I'm saying, Lieutenant, is that I'm senior to you.”

“I was promoted captain today,” Parker said. “Were you promoted captain before that?”

Stevens felt his stomach contract into a knot.

“There's apparently been some sort of mix-up,” he said.

“Sir,” Parker said.

“Sir,” Stevens said.

“Well, now that the air is cleared,” Parker said, “have these officers sit down, lieutenant, and remove their foot gear. There's a sign outside that you should have read.”

Stevens and the others just looked at him.

The sergeant who had been behind the typewriter came into the room without knocking.

“Here's your shirt, Captain,” he said.

“One of the beer cans was frozen,” Parker said, conversationally. “It exploded.” He turned his back on the others and tucked his shirt in his trousers. “And when you have removed your shoes, gentlemen,” he went on, “you can go back out and try reporting to your new commanding officer as the customs of the service dictate.”

Stevens heard the nigger warrant officer chuckle. His face flushed, he sat down on the woven straw tatami and took off his boots. Deeply humiliated, carrying his boots in his hands, he went back down the corridor past the
SHOE LINE
sign, dropped off his boots, and then made his way back to Parker's office.

When the four officers and the warrant officer were shoeless, Stevens marched them into Parker's office.

“Sir,” he said, saluting. “Lieutenant Stevens and other replacement officers reporting for duty.”

Parker casually returned the salute.

“Stand at ease, gentlemen,” he said. “Welcome to Tank Company, 24th Infantry.” He met the eyes of each man. “As we have just established, I am Captain Philip Sheridan Parker IV, the commanding officer. There are some things I think you should know. First of all, about me. I am not only regular army, but I am a fourth generation army brat. For the past two months, I have been the only officer physically present for duty. I am still alive, and in command, and that should impress you as de facto proof that I am qualified to command this unit.

“Secondly, Tank Company has the distinction of being the only unit in the regiment which has not, at least since I've been in command, run in the face of the enemy. Through a process of attrition, our strength, until Eighth Army saw fit to send us replacements today, was down to one officer, sixteen noncoms and 102 enlisted men. Each of these men, and especially the noncoms, has been tried in battle and found worthy. The first sergeant pointed out to me this morning that none of our platoon sergeants or tank commanders held a rank higher than corporal when we entered combat. The majority, in fact, were privates first class.

“I have no way to judge the quality of the replacements, officer or enlisted. I have full confidence in the men I had before you and the enlisted replacements arrived. Having seen here what the effects of poor leadership are, I have no intention of seeing either the combat effectiveness of this unit destroyed, or equally important, losing the lives of any of my men by placing in a position of command any officer until I am satisfied that he is, indeed, qualified to take command.

“I am, therefore, going to turn each of you over to a platoon sergeant. You, Lieutenant Stevens, will be turned over to First Sergeant Woodrow. Until such time as they, in their exclusive judgment, decide that you are qualified, you will, with the insignia of rank removed, function as a tank crewman, and perform such other duties as you may be assigned.”

“You can't do that!” Stevens protested.

“Any officer who fails to measure up will be relieved. There is a pool of officers who have been relieved in Pusan. I understand they are engaged in unloading ships, as stevedores,” Parker went on.

“What about me, Captain?” the warrant officer asked.

“Were you a company clerk before you got your warrant?”

“I was a battalion personnel sergeant,” he said.

“OK. You can relieve Sergeant Foster,” Parker said. “If you can find a typist in the replacements, you can have him. All of our morning reports for the past two months have to be redone. Foster can help you do that. When he's finished, I promised him a tank.”

He looked at each of them again, one at a time, slowly.

“With the exception of Lieutenant Stevens, you are dismissed,” he said. “Tell Sergeant Foster I said to turn you over to Sergeant Woodrow.”

Confused, shaken, angry, they saluted awkwardly in sort of a contagious reaction, and filed out of the office. Stevens remained.

“I presume, Lieutenant,” Parker said, “that in addition to being regular army, you are a career soldier?”

“Yes, sir,” Stevens said.

“You won't have much of a career if I relieve you, Lieutenant,” Parker said. “Oh, eventually, I'm sure the West Point Protective Association would take care of you. They would have the records changed. But you and I know, Lieutenant, don't we, that you would forever be identified as the guy who was relieved in the nigger tank company? Officers who are relieved while serving with a nigger tank company very seldom make general, Lieutenant.” Parker let that sink in a moment, and then he went on.

“If you cross me, you'll be lucky to make light bird in twenty years. I know the rules of this game, and I know them better than you do.” Parker paused. “I don't expect a reply, Lieutenant, and you are dismissed.”

(One)
Company “B” 73rd Medium Tank Battalion (Separate)
Pusan, South Korea
2 September 1950

The Old Man, also known as “the Duke,” and sometimes as “Deadeye”—none of these appellations ever to his face although he was fully aware of and rather pleased by what the troops called him—walked down the trench to the command post. He had a cigar jammed into the corner of his mouth, and he carried an M1 Garand rifle in the crook of his arm, for all the world like a hunter out for an afternoon's sport.

Forty-five minutes before, a six-by-six had deposited replacements—one lieutenant and four troops, two sergeants and two privates first class—at the CP, and they were nervously waiting to meet their new commanding officer.

Baker Company was in the hills, north and west of Pusan, its M4A3s dug into the shale of the mountains, surrounded by sandbag revetments. Where possible, a roof of logs and sandbags was built over them. They were, for all practical purposes, pillboxes. Their function was to protect the line with direct fire from their 75 mm cannons and their machine guns.

The M4A3s seldom moved from their positions. The engines were regularly run, and they received regular maintenance, and the tanks were moved a few feet once or twice a day to keep the tracks lubed; but the troops had been fighting more as infantrymen than as tankers, the distinction between them being primarily that the infantrymen were periodically relieved, if only for a brief period, while the tankers had yet to leave the lines. The heat was brutal, and there was little ice.

S/Sgt William H. Emmons, Jr.:

We had ice. God knows where the Duke got it, but he got it; and we had enough to cool, if not chill, our drinking water, and the strawberry preserve soda, and the daily booze ration. It was so fucking hot that sometimes the beer cans exploded before we could get them cooled. The food was C and 10-in-1 rations, high protein, left over from World War II and generally inedible. When the Duke took over, the company was suffering from dysentery, heat rash, heat exhaustion, and low morale, primarily because we were under intermittent fire twenty-four hours a day (not continually, just enough to keep our nerves taut, or to drive us over the edge) and the only thing we had to look forward to was more of the same
.

When the Duke walked in the CP bunker, the first sergeant called “Atten-hut!” and the replacements stood straight and tall
.

“Rest,” the Duke said, and then: “What have we here? Visitors?”

“Sir,” the lieutenant said, saluting, “Lieutenant Monahan reporting for duty with a detail of four.”

The Duke returned the salute
.

“What about that, First Sergeant?” the Duke said. “The lieutenant has manners.”

“Yes, sir,” the first sergeant said. “I noticed that.”

“But you don't,” the Duke said. “You haven't offered these gentlemen a libation, have you? Shame on you, First Sergeant.”

“I beg the captain's pardon, sir,” the first sergeant said, as if he was all shook up by the criticism. Then he turns to the replacements: “May I offer you gentlemen a small libation?”

I admit, I didn't know what a fucking libation was until I
met the Duke, but the buggy look they gave the soldier was because you don't expect first sergeants to pass out booze anywhere, much less in a bunker about fifty yards from the fucking front line
.

“Sir?” the replacement lieutenant asked, baffled
.

“We have martinis, scotch, bourbon, and some really dreadful rum,” the Duke said
.

“Not for me, thank you, sir,” the replacement lieutenant said. He was not about to make a fool of himself. The troops shook their heads and mumbled, “No, thank you, sir.”

“I think I'll have a martini, First Sergeant, if you please,” the Duke said
.

“I just happen to have some made, sir,” the first sergeant said. “And with the captain's permission, I will have one myself.”

“Of course,” the Duke said
.

Then he asked the replacements for their orders, and by that time the first sergeant had taken a blood flask from a Medical Corps insulated cooler. He also took two martini glasses from the cooler. The blood flask, which had a rubber gasket sealer, was filled with a transparent fluid. which the first sergeant carefully poured into the martini glasses
.

The replacements watched this wide-eyed
.

“I regret, sir,” the first sergeant said, like an English butler, “that we seem to be out of both olives and onions.”

“The exigencies of the service, First Sergeant,” the Duke said
.

They raised their glasses to each other
.

“To Baker Company, 73rd Medium Tank,” the Duke said
.

“You play ball with Baker Company,” the first sergeant replied
.

“Or you get the bat stuck up your ass,” the Duke finished. They sipped their martinis
.

The Duke turned to the replacements
.

“We give you an option around here, gentlemen,” he said. “You get two drinks, or two beers, a day. You may take less, but no more. Would you like to know what happens to anyone, but especially noncoms and officers, who take more than their daily sauce ration?”

“Yes, sir,” the replacement lieutenant said, after he realized he was expected to reply
.

“Pray tell the lieutenant, First Sergeant,” the Duke said
.

“You get the bat stuck up your ass,” the first sergeant said. And then it was too much, and the Duke broke up and laughed, and the first sergeant laughed, and that made it all right for the rest of us to laugh
.

“Welcome to Baker Company,” the Duke said. “I'm the Generalissimo of this ragtag rolling circus. My name is Lowell. You may call me ‘sir.'”

The goddamned Duke had class, there was no question about that. That regular business of giving the replacements a drink (some took it and some didn't know what the fuck was going on and didn't) did a couple of things. It made them feel at home; it made them feel they were in sort of a special outfit; and it got the Duke's point across, that nobody could afford to get sauced
.

That fucking M1 he carried was one more proof. The .30 caliber M1 Garand was the standard weapon of the infantry soldier. It was looked down upon by tankers, both as a tool of the infantry dogfaces and as a heavy unwieldy weapon which kicked like a fucking mule. Very few noncoms, and even fewer officers, even in the infantry, carried one
.

They were practically fucking
unknown
in a tank company, for Christ's sake, except for such shits and feather merchants as the cooks and the truck drivers. The basic weapon for tank crews was the .45 caliber M3 submachine gun, called the grease gun because that's what it looked like. Tank crewmen were also armed with the Colt Model 1911 A1 automatic pistol. If they could get one, the tankers, officers, noncoms, and troopers armed themselves with the Thompson .45 caliber ACP submachine gun, “the Thompson” or “tommy gun,” which was sometimes available for purchase at a going rate of $100; or with a carbine, either the M1, which was a semiautomatic shoulder weapon firing what was really a pretty hot pistol cartridge, or the M2 carbine, which had a lever permitting full automatic fire. Both versions were generally equipped with two curved, 30-round “Banana” clips, taped together upside down, so that as soon as you blew away thirty rounds, all you had to do was pull the empty magazine out, turn it over, and slam the other, loaded magazine back in
.

Comes the Duke, comes Deadeye, right out of the National Fucking Guard, and just about as soon as he had the mess sergeant's fucking tent torn down to make sunshades for the tanks, he takes a Garand away from one of the assholes in the kitchen, and gives him his Grease Gun for it
.

And then he
zeroes
the sonofabitch, just like he was on some fucking basic training rifle range back in the land of the big PX, getting down on his goddamned belly, doing everything but wrapping the strap around his arm, and
zeroes
the sonfabitch, shooting holes in a fired 75 mm casing he set up by pacing off two hundred yards right behind the line
.

There's the company, tearing down tents, and ripping them up, and filling in latrines and foxholes that had been dug someplace he don't like, and here's the mess sergeant boiling a thirty-gallon pot of water and stirring strawberry preserves around in it, and here's practically everybody else working on the tanks (and the fucking gooks are going to hit us for sure, just as soon as it gets dark) and here's the Duke on his belly like some basic trainee, going through that up-two-clicks, right-three-clicks, zero bullshit with a fucking Garand
.

For reasons of their own, the gooks didn't hit us that first night the Duke took over. They hit us the next night
.

The way it worked, back then, was that they would wait until it got dark, or as dark as it was going to get, and then they'd throw mortars at us, and some artillery—not much, they weren't in much better shape, supply-wise, than we were, and I guess maybe they knew they were pissing in the wind, since we had the bunkers and the tanks
.

So they'd lay in a barrage, and then they'd lift it, and then they'd start down to the edge of the river from their positions on the other side. Some of them had boats and floats, but you could practically walk across the Naktong River where we were
.

Once they lifted the mortars, they wouldn't shoot their small arms until they were across the river. I guess they knew it wouldn't do them any good. And we didn't shoot back, either, until they were across the river and actually starting to come up the slope to our positions
.

We were in pretty shitty shape as far as ammo went. We needed what they called “canister,” which is sort of a super shotgun shell. Sonofabitch is filled with ball bearings; and when it goes off, it really blows troops away. Naturally, since we needed canister, what the bastards sent us was HEAT, which means High Explosive, Anti-Tank, and which is great if you're shooting at tanks but is next to fucking worthless if you're shooting at people. I mean, using HEAT against troops is like shooting fucking flies with a .45, you get my meaning?

So what we did was call in artillery, and sometimes we got it and sometimes we didn't, so what we usually wound up doing was firing the light weapons on the tanks. Thirty and fifty caliber machine guns. Now, the machine guns on a tank are air-cooled, which means that when you start firing one of them steady, the barrel heats up—I've seen them glow like coals—and pretty soon you have to change the sonofabitch, which is a pain in the ass when it's cold, not to mention glowing red goddamned hot, and when people are coming up the hill shooting at you
.

So the way it worked was we waited until they were across the river and then opened fire. If we got artillery, fine. And if we didn't, we did pretty well just with the machine guns and with what canister rounds we did have
.

Like I said, the first night that the Old Man had the company, the gooks didn't hit us. So we knew they would the second night
.

So right after dark, the Old Man shows up in the positions. He's puffing on this big black cigar, he's got this fucking Garand in his arms, with a couple of extra clips to the strap, and, so help me, Christ, he's got a hand grenade in each pocket of his fatigue jacket. And he's dragging Lieutenant Whatsisname? The little fucker who got blown away two, three days later. The one who had been acting CO, after Captain Dale got it, until the Duke showed up.
Sully
was his name. Thomas J. Sully
.

Anyway, the Duke's got Sully with him, and Sully explains what usually happens, and the Duke listens, and asks a couple of questions, and then Sully says that maybe it would be a good idea if they went back to the company CP, so they could be there when the gooks start coming
.

The Duke looks at me—we were standing by my tank, you see—and he says, “The radios in that rusty tub work, Sergeant?” and I tell him. “Yes, sir, most of the time,” and he asks me can I come up with enough wire to run an extension between the commander's cupola commo panel and the platoon bunker, and I tell him sure
.