The Lone Ranger?

A Chapter by Chris McGrath

Chapter 1 THE LONE RANGER?

The F4C had barely touched down when a jeep tried to pull alongside of it. There were two figures in the vehicle. As the jet fighter began to apply its brakes and flaps, the jeep began to pick up ground.

Looking out of the canopy, A1/C Carroll Shaw felt like he was taking part in some bizarre drag race. Maybe they’re trying to make me feel at home, he thought, facetiously; it looked like a scene from Ben Hur filmed on Massachusetts Route 128.

The jeep came to a stop ahead of the plane, and, for a moment, Shaw thought the plane was going to crash into it. Short mission. But the pilot brought the F4 to a stop just a few feet away. The canopy slid back and Shaw climbed out and jumped down. He was about to take off his flight helmet when he found himself staring up into the square face of a marine Lt. Colonel.

Shaw had the impression he was talking to just a chin and teeth. He could not see the Colonel’s eyes because of the long shadows cast by the plane. Perhaps the Colonel didn’t need eyes… or a nose… or ears… just a mouth to give orders and an angular jaw to enforce them.

“We’ve been expecting you, son”, the Colonel shouted over the idling whine of the jet’s engine. Shaw stood at attention, saluting. The Colonel didn’t seem to notice him.

“We appreciate your volunteering for this mission.”

“I have orders, sir,” Shaw corrected him.

“Goddamn gooks have been strengthening their positions just North of the DMZ. Can’t have that, son.” He put his arm around Shaw’s shoulder, and Shaw finally pulled his own still-saluting hand down from his visor. The Colonel began leading Shaw toward the jeep.

“You’ve had Maroon Beret, Air Force Ranger Training.”

It didn’t sound anything like a question, but Shaw answered: “No, sir.”

“You Zoomies are the best! Those Green Berets suck goat s**t.”

Shaw didn’t have a suitable response.

“Where’s your maroon beret?”

“I’m not a ranger, sir.”

Shaw looked back at the plane. It was turning around in a slow arc. It occurred to him that he might have boarded the wrong plane back in Da Nang.

“What were your orders?”

“To report to Lt Colonel Harrison for TDY, sir.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You speak Vietnamese?”

“A little… I’m fluent in Mandarin Chinese.”

The Colonel’s reply was lost in the boom of the F4 trying to punch a hole in the sky from the ground. It roared down the runway, and soon was piercing the red-orange Southern Pacific sunset. Shaw watched it go with more than a little chagrin.

The Colonel was still talking as Shaw got into the Jeep. Shaw had noticed in the glare of the headlights that the Colonel’s nametag read “Harrison”; he’d felt some reassurance then, or was it distress?

“My boys are up there now pursuing a column of NVRs.”

“North of the DMZ??? Uh.. sir?”

“We must pursue them. It’s of primary importance to the Field Intelligence Sector to prove the Chinese are in Vietnam in strength. We can then destroy the fictional myth of the historical conflict between the two nations, and prove to the world that we are fighting against all the Commies here, not just a bunch of poor bare-assed rice farmers.”

The Colonel climbed in beside the motionless driver, a Marine sergeant. “So, we’ll need you up there with my boys.”

“But we’re not allowed North of the DMZ.”

“We’ll deliver you in a C47. We’ll come in low from the South, at about 1500 feet or so, and drop you about a hundred yards behind their line of pursuit.”

“DROP me?!”

The Jeep rolled off toward a dark shape at the end of the runway and offset to the South. It turned out to be a Quonset Hut, nestled in some low trees that looked kind of like palms.

Shaw repeated his question: “How are you going to drop me?”

“You’ll stay here tonight. Get some sleep. The mission begins at oh-six-hundred hours tomorrow. Good to have you aboard, son.”

Shaw found himself standing in front of the hut, watching the jeep shrink out of view in the direction of the now purple horizon with even more anxiety than he’d felt when the plane left. Absent-mindedly he ran his fingers through his hair forgetting that he still hadn’t removed his helmet. The door to the hut was open and covered with mosquito netting. Pushing it aside, Shaw found the interior poorly lit by a single yellow bulb above the center of the structure. It was filled with empty cots, except for the one nearest the door. A man in a plain chambray shirt and jeans was sitting on that one, oiling an M16; a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

“Hello,” Shaw said.

The man didn’t look up.

“Where are we?”

“Here,” the man said. He still didn’t look up, nor did he remove the cigarette.

“Where the Hell is here?”

“388^th Sea Bee Detachment.”

Shaw hauled his gear toward the back of the hut, as far from the bulb and the man as he could. He flopped onto a cot and lay on his back, staring at the ribbed metal ceiling. It was hot and humid, and his face was already covered with sweat.

After a while, Shaw heard the man go out of the door. He did not come back. Then it began to rain �" a steady drumming on the tin arc around him…

He thinks back… to his arrival in the Far East three weeks ago. It is night when he disembarks from the 707 at Kadena AFB on Okinawa. He’d been in the air for sixteen hours, but he is too nervous to feel his fatigue. His first instinct, coming out of the hatch, is to look up. He has been hit by a wall of humidity. Above him is a starry evening sky. He scans for constellations out of habit. Shouldering his duffle bag, putting on his flight cap, he tries to stir old romantic images of the Orient. By the time he reaches the bottom of the steps, he is drenched. Looking up, he receives a face-full of tepid rain water.