Chapter 1
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
April 5, 1968
Sergeant Michael “Mikey” Roberts stood at attention, proudly wearing his Green Beret for the first time at his Special Forces Graduation. The other twenty-nine men of the original two hundred who’d made it through the program stood alongside him. They kept their gazes straight ahead, standing perfectly still while their commanding officer gave the commencement address. The drop-on-request rate or DOR for this class – 85%.
Over a year of instruction culminated in today’s ceremony. At the end of his twelve-month tour as a medic at the 95th Evac Hospital in Vietnam, he rotated home with orders to attend the Special Forces Qualification Course or Q Course, where everyone was a volunteer. He lost count of the number of weeks spent in classes—Unconventional Warfare, Airborne Operations, Language - he learned French, MOS training, Small Unit Tactics, and SERE - Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape.
That was the hardest, learning how not to get captured and what to do if it happened. That’s where the Code of Conduct came into play. Never give information to the enemy. He would die instead of being a traitor to his country. Getting captured and interred in a POW camp was something he planned to avoid at all costs after reading the horror stories of the men who survived Bataan and Corregidor.
Now he wasn’t just a medic, a hospital orderly who changed bedsheets, pushed wheelchairs, and handed out bedpans. Instead, he was an 18D, a Special Forces medic, specializing in trauma management, infectious diseases, cardiac life support, and surgical procedures.
Part of his training was a working knowledge of dentistry, veterinary care, public sanitation, water quality, and optometry. If the unit K-9 got a thorn in its foot, it became his job to remove it. His job was to save the lives of his fellow detachment members, other soldiers, allied and indigenous personnel. According to his instructors, they were the finest medical technicians in the world. And he was the Honor Man of the combat medic course.
Somewhere in the mass of people in the bleachers sat his parents. He couldn’t see them with the sun in a cloudless blue sky nearly overhead, blinding him. But he knew they were there. They promised him. After the ceremony, they were taking him for an expensive steak dinner in Fayetteville, NC, to celebrate. His father’s version of a wetting down. Then he was headed back to their Kansas wheat farm with them for fifteen days of leave before rotating back to Vietnam.
His new assignment was ODA-312, C Company, 2nd Battalion, 5th Special Forces Group. Scuttlebutt from the instructors here at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare School said his CO, Captain Russell, was a good soldier.
But the company commander, Major MacKenzie, had an even more outstanding reputation as a soldier’s soldier. He earned his battle stars in the Korean War as an enlisted man then went to West Point. MacKenzie’s casualty rate was a tenth of any other field commander in Vietnam. His men always came back alive.
That gave Mikey hope he would survive another year in Southeast Asia. This time he would be on the line, in the thick of battle, not inside a hospital, protected by the grunts outside. Now he was one of them.
Next to him, Sergeant Holland, a communications sergeant, an 18E, elbowed Mikey in the ribs. “Hey, pay attention, Roberts.”
Mikey looked up at Colonel Bartholomew on the raised platform in front of him.
“Class dismissed,” the colonel yelled.
Everyone around Mikey relaxed. Family members left the bleachers to join the men on the ground.
Mikey elbowed his way through the crowd, looking for his parents. He found them next to the bleachers. His father, Glen Roberts, was leaning against the supports wearing his brown felt fedora tipped over his eyes with his arms crossed. Beside him, his mother, Denise Roberts, was tucking her camera back into her purse. Her pictures awed the congregation of the Garden City Protestant Church. They graced the cover of every newsletter and even made the local paper several times a year. He was sure she used up several rolls of film for the ceremony.
“Congratulations, son.” His father straightened and patted him on the back.
“Hey, Dad—”
His mother had a completely different plan. She bulldozed past his father and enveloped Mikey in a bear hug, embracing him so tight he could hardly breathe. She might not ever let go. He allowed her to smother him as long as she wanted. To protest was to invite her wrath, and he wanted no part of that. She could make even his tough-as-nails instructors cower in fear. Eventually, she released him and stepped back.
“Hi, Mom.” Mikey straightened his class A green jacket and adjusted his brand new Green Beret from over his eyes.
“You’re too skinny. I’ll take care of that when we get home. Don’t they feed you?”
“Mom, I’ve gained twenty pounds since basic training and grown two inches. Yes, they feed us. Didn’t you notice I’m not five-seven anymore? I’m the same height as Dad now.”
His mother shook her head. “Yes, I did, but you’re still too thin.”
“If you say so, Mom.” He wasn’t going to correct her or roll his eyes and get chastised in front of a battalion of Green Berets. That would be embarrassing.
“I do.” His mother kissed his cheek. Now that was embarrassing.
Mikey smiled. His mother never thought he ate enough. He was looking forward to scratch-made biscuits and gravy with fresh eggs and his mother’s specialty, shepherd’s pie—pan sautéed ground beef in butter, carrots, onions, green beans, and corn covered with mashed potatoes. Thinking about it made his mouth water. Added with her pumpkin pie, he’d be in absolute heaven. By the end of the second week, he’d need to go on a diet and running a lot more than five miles.
“So, you’re jump qualified now?” his father asked, brushing his hand across the jump wings next to the combat medic badge on Mikey’s chest.
“Low level, HALO, and everything in between, Dad. You have to be to join the Special Forces. Along with becoming familiar with most of the combat arms in the world. You know that.”
“Yeah, you told me in your letters. But it’s different seeing it for real. I was just a grunt in Korea. All I knew was how to dig foxholes, shoot an M1, and stab people with a bayonet. When did you get the Army Commendation Medal?”
“A couple of weeks ago for saving two men in a Cong bombing outside the hospital while under fire from a sniper when I was still in-country.”
“Good for you, son. Are you ready for the steak dinner I promised you?”
“Yes, sir.” Mikey pointed at the barracks in the distance. “Let me grab my duffle bag from my bunk first.” He winked at his mother. “I’m starving.” And ready to go home.
April 21, 1968
Garden City, Kansas Regional Airport
Mikey set his duffle bag on the tarmac next to the airstairs. He hated leaving his parents, hometown, and friends to head off to war again, but his leave time was up. His class A green uniform was hot and uncomfortable for Kansas’ typically warm, humid air in springtime. He looked up at the Convair 580 two-engine turboprop painted in the blue, white, and gold livery of Frontier Airlines, tail number N73127. It would take him to Dallas, TX.
From there, he would board an American Airlines Boeing 707 for Los Angeles. Once there, he would catch a Pam Am long-haul flight, probably another 707, with stops in Hawaii and Japan, then eventually, he’d end up in Vietnam. He didn’t look forward to hours upon hours of boredom sitting on his ass, listening to the roar of jet engines and the never-ending babbling of drunk rich tourists.
His parents gathered around him. Dad was wearing blue jeans, a white button-up short-sleeve shirt, and his regular fedora, and his mom had on a pink floral print summer dress with her brown hair in a bun. She smelled of her favorite Avon perfume, Topaze. His father, Old Spice. Together, a wonderful memory aroma of growing up on their wheat farm. One that he would forever cherish.
Tears streamed down his mother’s face. She dabbed at them with her white frilled linen handkerchief.
Dad’s face seemed more stoic, but it didn’t take much to see he was trying to hold in his emotions. His lips were pressed in a thin line, his brow furrowed, and his eyes glistened in the late morning sun. He crossed his arms as if to keep himself together.
Mikey encircled his mother with his arms then pulled her head to his chest. “Mom, everything will be okay.” Not that he really believed that. He’d seen the wounded coming in from the field at the 95th Evac Hospital. Arms and legs blown off. Gunshot wounds. Stabbings. Some eviscerated by booby traps with their intestines hanging out, exposed to the bacteria in the air, causing rapid and sometimes deadly infections.
But he had to keep the faith he would return home whole, not in a body bag after the casualty assistance officer visited the house. It would kill his mother. She could live with hanging a blue star in her window, but not a gold one. He was her only child, her baby. Due to problems with his birth, she couldn’t have any more children.
Mom looked up at him, her face shiny with tears. “Promise. You always keep your promises.”
Mikey smiled. “Yeah, Mom. I promise.” He would do everything in his power to keep that promise too. He released his mother, turned to his father, and held out his hand.
Instead of taking it, his father enveloped him in a tight hug. His dad didn’t show affection often, especially in public. Today was an exception, with Mikey heading back to that hellhole of Vietnam.
Mikey stood there in shock as his father held him. Eventually, his father stepped back, wiped his face with his hand, then did something else unexpected. He removed Mikey’s Green Beret, ruffled his crew cut dark brown hair then replaced the beret.
“You be careful, son. Watch your six and stay frosty. Keep that damn big head of yours on a swivel. I’ve been there,” Dad said with his eyes filled with moisture.
“I will, Dad. Promise.” During the Korean War, his father was in the 45th Infantry Division, earning a Bronze Star with a bronze valor V, a Purple Heart at Heartbreak Ridge, and the Army Commendation Medal, also with a bronze V at Old Baldy. He had two battle stars on his Korean War campaign ribbon and a Good Conduct ribbon. His father served with honor and distinction in a battle zone. He would too.
The flight attendant in her blue dress approached them. Before she headed up the airstairs, she placed a hand on Mikey’s shoulder. “Time to board, Sergeant. Sit anywhere you want. We need to leave in ten minutes to stay on schedule.”
Mikey nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you want me to have the ground crew load your duffle bag into the cargo area, so you don’t have to carry it?”
“That would be terrific. Thank you.”
The attendant waved over a man dressed in white overalls. He picked up the duffle bag then handed Mikey a claim check with a number on it.
Mikey tucked the card into his jacket pocket and turned to his parents. He couldn’t extend his departure any further to spend time with them. “Mom, Dad. I gotta go.” He grabbed his mom and dad’s hands and gripped them tight.
“We know, son. Just be careful. Call if you can while waiting for your next flight and when you get to Vietnam. Let us know you got there safe,” Dad said.
“I will, sir. Take care of Mom. I’ll write as often as I can. I love you both.” Mikey let go of their hands then wiped a tear from his eye. He ascended the airstairs to keep from crying outright on the tarmac. When he turned around, they were still there waving goodbye. He missed them already. With one last look at them, he smiled, waved, then went into the airplane and grabbed the seat nearest the front bulkhead. For this part of the flight to a war zone, he was the only person on the plane.
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