Free 15 Months in SOG by Thom Nicholson Page A

Latino cavalier, and a ladies’ man from the top of his jet-black hair to the tips of his toes. He was husky and dark, with a devil-may-care buoyancy about him that made everyone he met like him instantly, especially women. When he smiled, which was often, his pearly-white teeth would almost blind you.
    Jose bragged that he had slipped across the Rio Grande from Mexico and joined the army before the INS was able to catch and deport him. Once he was in the service, it was too late to ship him back. He’d been assigned to Special Forces ever since, spending a good deal of time stationed in South America, where his Spanish increased his value to the army. The rest of his enlistment time, he alternated between Fort Bragg, North Carolina, where Special Forces HQ was located, and Fort Bliss, Texas, where he could visit his relatives south of the border.
    He had been in Vietnam about a year when I took over B Company, and had just extended for an additional six months. He had command of recon team Cobra, where he was famous for his ability to take his team in and out of tight spots without ever taking casualties.
    Early in February, after a hard night of drinking with the regulars at the NCO Club, where the troops had spent time complaining about the lack of revenge against the offending village across the water, O’Connor decided to take action on his own. Originally, everyone had demanded we burn the place to the ground for harboring the VC who’d attacked us. Everyone agreed. Something was called for, something big.
    I was officer of the day that night—how about that for a contradiction in terms? Thus, I had a front seat to the whole saga.
    About two o’clock in the morning, Jose and a truckload of drunken troopers pulled up to the front gate. I stopped them and climbed up on the running board so I could see the driver up close and smell his breath. He was sober, although he was a minority of one. He grinned sheepishly at me, and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “What can I do?”
    “Where you taking these bums?” I asked. The driver was the junior member of O’Connor’s recon team, so new to CCN that he was still pissing Stateside water. Of course he was eager to be one of the guys. Jose was sitting next to him in the cab, so sloshed that I doubt he could have staggered across the road without falling flat on his face. The men in back were singing at the top of their voices one of the favorite songs of the airborne trooper, “Blood on the Risers.”
    “Special mission, Cap’n Nick,” Jose slurred. “Don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control.”
    “Hell, O’Connor,” I replied, “every man in this truck, except maybe Spivy here, is so piss-potted that he doesn’t even know what his name is. Where the hell are you going?”
    “It’s secret, honest, Captain. We’ll be back in a minute. Jus’ going down the road a ways to pick up somethin’ we need to pay back the dinks over in the vil’ there.” He jerked his thumb toward the offensive Xom Son Tui.
    “All right,” I answered. “Just stay away from the MP checkpoint at the bridge. And Spivy,” I admonished the young driver, “don’t let anyone else drive this truck. You understand?” Spivy nodded. I noticed the buzz cut of his hair was so short I couldn’t tell if he was blond or dark-haired. Then he noisily shifted gears, and the truck lurched out of the gate and turned east toward Da Nang. Shaking my head at the spectacle and hoping I hadn’t turned a whirlwind of destruction loose on the world, I watched the truck disappear in the darkness. I could hear the singing voices long after the noise of the vehicle was gone.
    About an hour later, the truck came back, with Spivy its only occupant. “Jesus Christ, Spivy,” I screamed at him.“Didn’t I tell you not to lose those drunken bastards? Where the hell did you lose them?”
    “Sir,” the young sergeant answered, trying hard not to grin. “Sergeant O’Connor respectfully