Ninety Days

Copyright © 2013 Sonny Gratzer

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-8617-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8619-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8618-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013907044

iUniverse rev. date: 5/13/2013

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

Acknowledgments

Darla Austin—gifted teacher, counselor and literally my life saver—is the main nudger who prompted me to publish this novella. Without her gentle pushes and suggestions, I would not have finished this project. Her help in drafting this whimsical story, especially with her expansive military knowledge and technical skills, saved my clumsy efforts to complete this adventure.

Printer Bowler—a teacher, published author, trusted friend, college roomie and fellow ROTC trooper—had a hand in reading the manuscript for me. I thank him for always covering my six during the past five decades, going back to our early military and roommate days. Printer served as a PsyOps officer in Germany and Vietnam and his knowledge of and about writing was especially useful. For more than half a century, the trusted friend part is most important to me.

Neither of these extraordinary people is accountable for flaws in Ninety Days.

Novellas seem to have disappeared in the marketplace, so let me add to the slush pile.

CHAPTER

1

T he trail was barely discernible in the moonlight. Clad in green and black, the men moved nimbly, although the awkward lumbering of the tall man hindered their speed. He tried to move with the grace of the smaller men, knowing that, if he fell again, the rope would tighten. A leash of braided leather wrapped securely around his neck allowed them to lead him. They had bound his hands and arms with the same material with his forearms overlapped in front. In the two nights of moving cross-country, he fell dozens of times without being able to use his arms to break his fall. His elbows were blood covered, his fatigue jacket ripped, and his face was scarred with multiple scratches from the vines and branches he had been unable to duck. The rope burned his neck. He could not see clearly in the darkness. Thick growth covering the path hid them from the air. The smaller men fit easily beneath the vegetation, padding softly on the impacted soil of the well-used trail.

They traveled only at night to avoid detection, and they used only trails such as this one, hidden, well trampled, and formed by men much shorter in stature than the man with the leather rope around his neck. The American stumbled again, expecting the sharp bite of the leash. Branches tore at his body, and the impact as his elbows hit the ground stunned him each time he fell. Voices whispered loudly to him, urging him to get up, while one man pulled harshly on the rope. The man behind nudged him with his foot, telling him to move.

The hatless prisoner rolled to a kneeling position. His captors had stripped him of all equipment except for the clothes he wore. Even the fatigue jacket he wore was not his own. It had bloodstains around the bullet holes in it, testifying to the fact its previous owner had probably died. Members of this enemy group wore his webbed gear and personal items. They had not injured him during his capture, but his pride and dignity had suffered enough to make up for any physical excuses he could make for his seizure.

Exhausted and in the manner of a browbeaten child who suddenly decides to stand up for himself, he declared No! loudly.

He refused to go on. He needed a rest, and he insisted on one now. Hungry and sore, he realized they would not kill him. They intended to take him somewhere and he wondered where. He decided to test his captors.

No! I need a rest and something to eat and drink. He was unaware that they understood him.

He cursed, mad for being pushed and choked, he jumped to his feet and kicked at the man who had pushed him. Surprised, the man jumped back and pointed his AK-47.

The American stopped and checked his angry inclinations. The rope was still tight around his neck.

The entire group halted. Within seconds, the Vietnamese leader stood by the prisoner. The leader spoke to the others, and the American felt the leather rope slacken on his neck. The man with the gun melted into the darkness off his side of the trail. All the soldiers moved off the trail then. Some lit cigarettes; others leaned against trees. They remained alert even though they knew they were out of danger, sure that American forces were not this far west.

The leader looked at the American officer in the eye. He was so close that the prisoner could smell him. He smelled lousy, and the Caucasian knew it was from nuoc mam, fish sauce the Vietnamese used on everything they ate, like catsup.

Rest now, Colonel Marion, the small, stocky Oriental said to him.

Lieutenant Colonel Steven B. Marion, astonished at hearing English from one of his guards for the first time, said nothing. He remained standing.

The Vietnamese raised his eyebrows and laughed softly. You are surprised. It is better for you to rest now. I agree. We are facing a great distance yet. Will you smoke?

The Vietnamese offered Steve one of his own filter tips, which the captors had taken when they seized the lieutenant colonel. He placed a cigarette in the American officer’s mouth, struck a match, and cupped it to hide the light. The glow of the cigarette told the Vietnamese it had been sucked alive.

It is better if we sit, the Viet Cong said.

Steve squatted in the middle of the trail. Where are you taking me?

It does not need to concern you, Colonel. We are taking you. That is all.

Why haven’t you killed me?

Colonel, a man of your position should know that. You are a great prize. For that reason, we did not kill you. However, if you prove to be an unworthy prize will destroy you as we do with all invaders. We shall see.

Steve’s lip began burning from the shortened cigarette, and he spit it on the ground, not attempting to extinguish the ash with his feet. The Vietnamese put his hand to his lips, sucked his cheeks, and pinched saliva from his mouth. He smothered the glowing ash with his wet fingers.

The small man got to his feet and spoke softly in Vietnamese, and the others immediately rose, ready to start. A harsh tug on the braided rope reminded Steve that he to get up as well, and he complied. The guerrilla leader disappeared to the front of the column, and the group began to move.

CHAPTER

2

J ohn, this should not have happened. What the hell are they teaching these younger men these days? Hell, man! Marion should have known better than to be sucked in like that. I thought he was one of our better commanders. Let’s get the word out and reaffirm our procedures. Two whole companies! Goddamn!"

Major General Kent McHaynes, division commander, was livid with his chief of staff, Colonel John Obligato. Brigadier Generals Mort Flanders and Sam DeMers, assistant division commanders maneuver and support, respectively, were also in the small room, as was Colonel Abe Richardson, the division G-3. All knew the command had erred.

Lieutenant Colonel Steven B. Marion, subordinate infantry battalion commander, had walked his unit into a perfectly established enemy ambush. All of the men waited for their boss to finish speaking, knowing he would call on each of them in turn to give his views.

Mort, the bony general asked, what the hell happened? We have to come up with some answers, or we might all be looking for new assignments. What are your theories?

Brigadier General Mort Flanders, comfortably settled in the seaweed-green vinyl armchair, thought for a moment before answering. I am in no danger of losing my job, and if the others feel they are on dangerous ground, they probably have good reason to feel that way. I was not involved in the operation.

He had just returned from a briefing at Saigon, representing General McHaynes, but nonetheless, he found himself wishing he had been there to help when the enemy decimated the battalion.

No, I am not directly involved. Let McHaynes and DeMers cover their collective asses without my help. He stroked his chin.

General, I don’t know what happened, but I think we will find that Marion made a drastic mistake. Perhaps you are right. We should review our procedures for preventing ambushes, he said noncommittally.

That is not much of an answer, Mort, the commanding general remarked.

General, I think Colonel Richardson’s theories are more interesting than mine are, Flanders said casually. He had talked with the operations officer at length about the division’s loss.

What about it, Abe? asked General McHaynes.

Sir, as you know, we had a mix-up in the air strikes and the use of artillery in support of Marion’s battalion once it was pinned down, the handsome black man said. I think we should have continued artillery fires. The colonel used the plural we to give his remarks less significance so as not to offend the man who had made the decision. Shifting rather than lifting them. We might have helped in doing so. The delay in air support gave the Viet Cong ten minutes to accomplish their ambush. Ten minutes without artillery, I think, caused such a large loss.

General McHaynes’ face puckered. He knew the loss of artillery during the delay of air support caused more casualties than necessary, but he was not ready to admit it had been his decision to terminate the fires.

Abe … McHaynes’ eyes narrowed into angry slits. Are you saying that this headquarters caused that battalion commander to kill himself and slay and wound nearly one hundred men? Are you saying that we led Marion into that ambush? Are you? His voice came from between clenched teeth, a signal of his famed anger.

No, General, I am not, came the nervous reply. If I wanted to blame somebody, I can lay the fault on the forward observers who were on the ground or even the forward air control. I am only saying that, if we are going to prevent surprises like this, we had better review our use of air support and artillery support procedures, just as you recommended, sir. I am not looking to blame anybody, he finished lamely, realizing he had entered a minefield.

Flanders watched Richardson as intently as McHaynes, noting silently that Richardson had put things in a different perspective earlier in the day during their conversation.

Gentlemen … The commanding general raised his voice. Let us get one thing understood here, and do not forget what I have to say. Under no circumstances are any of you to talk to the press about the ambush and our losses. If approached, tell them to go through our public information officer or to come directly to me. Make a note, John, the commanding general spoke to his chief of staff, "to have a little chat with our PIO after the meeting. Now, I have one other thing I would like to discuss. I want you all to understand the implications of what errors in common sense mean to us.

Marion obviously made an error in judgment in chasing the Viet Cong into the ambush site. Our intelligence has been in error about the strength of the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese regulars in our area of operations. The air force made an error in its time schedules for bombing support to relieve Marion’s battalion. We may have made an error in terminating fire support as we did. But we will never know that for certain because we were not on the ground, and we don’t know how soon all the casualties occurred.

Mort shifted in his chair for the first time. Why had no one asked the survivors? I will do some interrogating of my own as soon as possible. He listened to the emphatic words from his superior.

We do know that it happened quickly and expertly, and with the amount of firepower Marion’s outfit received, it is doubtful in my mind whether more friendly artillery would have helped them anymore than it already had. Most of the fighting ended by the time we terminated the fires, the commanding general rationalized. I say again, we do not know all the answers, but we must ensure that the press does not inaccurately report that we were in error. Christ knows how much distortion there is now. Do I make myself clear?

The general’s sweaty armpits created half-moons in his freshly starched fatigue armpits. His glance took in everybody in the room, but one pair of eyes did not falter when they met the commanding general’s.

General, may I say something? Mort continued before McHaynes answered. If we can, we should determine whether Marion’s body was actually found. As you know, General, the body brought in as Marion’s was terribly mutilated and distorted. Most of his head was blown off, he was shirtless, and his fatigue jacket lay on his body. His dog tags were in his pocket, but I am not sure we should say prayers for him yet. Perhaps they left another man for dead in Marion’s place. Shouldn’t we consider that he was taken prisoner?

Mort, I do not believe that. The commanding general got to his feet and left his desk. That kind of reasoning will give us more headaches than we need. Of course that was Marion’s body. The shirt could have been blown off him, couldn’t it? McHaynes discredited Mort’s remarks. Well, gentlemen, that will be all. If there are no other questions, I have to fly to Third Brigade. That is all.

The others, dismissed, left quickly, grateful for the sudden relief.

Mort, stick around for a minute. When the room cleared, the general asked, What the hell are you trying to do?

I am just exploring all the possibilities, General, the one-star general officer replied.

Mort, we will just have to accept the fact that Marion is dead. Who in hell’s name would undress a dead man in the middle of a pitched battle? Who? No one would do a thing like that, would he? It is totally implausible. McHaynes was mostly convincing himself.

It is unlikely, General, but think of the propaganda value the Viet Cong could get out of a prisoner of Marion’s rank. Didn’t we have a problem like that in Korea? Mort was intense, but his face and voice remained impassive. Suppose Marion was alive to be exploited. All the dissenters in the States would be given another reason to chant their mindless reasons for withdrawing from Vietnam. I am only raising the subject, General, because I happened to have had Marion in my command when he was a budding staff officer a few years ago, and I hate to think of him—or his memory if that is the case—as having screwed up his mission yesterday. I also hate to think that he may still be alive and we are not doing anything about it. You see, General, I made it a point to view the body when it was retrieved. When I looked at it, I felt it did not belong to Lieutenant Colonel Steven B. Marion.

Did you check every body that was brought back, General? asked the commanding general officiously.

The meaning was not lost on Mort. "No, General, I did not. I will if you want that. I do not mean to be insubordinate, but believe