Black Market (5 page)

“From where?”

“Hamtramck, Michigan.”

“Where are you from, Sanchez?” Woods spoke to the Mexican. He noticed that the man had a pachuco cross tattooed in the crook
of his left hand, between his thumb and forefinger, with a half-dozen marks tattooed above the cross.

“Everywhere, man … We are migrant workers.” The soldier hefted his duffel bag easily on his shoulder and started walking down
the company street in the direction Woods had been facing. “We pick cherries in Michigan during the summer and work our way
south to Florida for the winter.”

“And you?” Woods nodded at the smallest of the three.

“Warner … Sergeant … you can call me Warner and I live in a place called Bloomfield Hills—”

“Bloomfield Hills!” Koski dropped the large nylon bag he was carrying in the red dust. “Carry your own fucking stuff!” The
big Pole hurried to catch up to Sanchez.

Woods shook his head from side to side and smiled. It wasn’t working out very well so far. “What was that all about?” He picked
up the dropped luggage and noticed that the pair walking in front of them were about to pass the turnoff to the bunker. “Turn
right and go down to the bunker on the perimeter! The big fighting bunker,” he shouted.

Warner pressed his lips together and shook his head. “I should have kept my fucking mouth shut. As soon as he said he was
from Hamtramck, I should have known!”

“You’ve lost me … clue me in.” Woods walked next to the small soldier, who struggled with the duffel bag.

“Bloomfield Hills and Hamtramck are both a part of the Detroit metropolitan area…”

“So? That should make the two of you friends and not cause a scene like that back there.”

“The
opposite
ends of the socioeconomic metro area, if you know what I mean.”

“You mean
he’s
from the
rich
side of town?” Woods grinned.

“Yeah!” Warner was beginning to like the sergeant. “If that was true, it would be a lot easier. Look, Sarge … I would really
appreciate it if we could keep this our little secret. I really mean it.”

“Sure. I think I can handle that.” Woods glanced over at the small soldier, checking to make sure he wasn’t being toyed with.
“I’ll talk to them too. Who knows, they might end up liking you.” Woods half-closed his eyes and smiled. “So you’re really
rich?”

Warner nodded and adjusted the load on his shoulder.

“How rich?”

“Very.”

“Your dad’s a millionaire?”

Warner nodded.

“Does he own his own company?”

“Fifty-three of them and probably the controlling hunk of a hundred more … but our family’s real wealth is in stocks, automotive
company stocks.”

“General Motors?” Woods could only think of the major car builder on the spur of the moment.

Warner smiled. “And Chrysler, and Ford, and some of Rockwell International, and—”

“Shit! You are
rich
!”

“My mother prefers the word
wealthy
.”

“What in the fuck are you doing
here
?” Woods saw that Koski and Sanchez had reached the bunker, had dropped their gear by the entrance, and were waiting for them.

“What are
you
doing here?” Warner said, his face becoming red. “I might come from a wealthy family, but I’m still an
American
… In fact, I have more to fight for than they do.” Warner nodded his head toward his waiting teammates.

“You got a point there…”

Warner stopped walking and turned to face Woods. “
Please!
Don’t tell them what we’ve just talked about. Koski has a little idea, but Sanchez doesn’t, and I want to keep it that way.”

“Fair enough.” Woods nodded and pointed with his free hand at the bunker. “… That’s going to be your home when you’re not
in the field.”

“Why a bunker? I thought those cabins back there were for the Recon Company.”

“First off, before you get your ass teased to death, those are
hooches
, not
cabins
or cottages…” Woods’s thoughts were centered on a little rich kid trying to show his rich peers how democratic he was. “Secondly,
our team lives in a perimeter fighting bunker because Sergeant Arnason doesn’t believe recon men should screw up their God-given
senses by living civilized one day and like animals out in the field the next … Besides, it’s
safer
in a bunker on the perimeter. You know where your enemies are most of the time and can defend yourself.” Woods was not only
referring to the NVA, but to all of the fraggings and racial crap that went on inside of the base camp. The bunker isolated
the team from most of it.

“I can handle that.” Warner led the way into the bunker. He was pleasantly surprised how clean and well organized the sandbag
structure was. Wooden flaps that could be opened or closed had been attached to the weapon slits, so they could burn Coleman
lanterns at night inside the bunker. The cots were built across the back of the bunker and attached to the walls. Mosquito
netting had been tacked around the two-by-four frames and four-by-four posts to keep out not only mosquitoes but any stray
scorpions and kraits that might have gotten in between the sandbags.

“Sanchez, you can take that empty bunk over there.” Woods pointed to the bottom bunk on the right-hand side of the bunker.
He looked at Spence’s old bunk, skipped over it, and pointed to the empty double bunks near the entrance. “Koski, you and
Warner can use those bunks. Let Warner have the top one ’cause he’s smaller and can get up there easier.”

The replacements dropped their gear on the cots and placed their M-16s in the handmade weapons racks next to their beds.

“I’ve got to make it to an NCO meeting with the new commander. Make yourselves at home until Arnason and I get back.” Woods
left the bunker and looked at his watch. It was ten minutes until seven and he started jogging toward the orderly room, holding
his CAR-15 against his side as he ran.

Arnason was standing up against the back wall, where a soft breeze was blowing through the screened windows into the large
open office area. He saw Woods enter and called for him to join him.

“Sorry about acting like an ass earlier…” Woods spoke as he leaned back against the plywood and two-by-four frame.

“No problem.” Arnason had been scanning the faces of the assembled noncommissioned officers. The turnover of personnel in
Vietnam was high. He recognized only a couple of faces that had been there as long as he had, and one of them was due to rotate
back to the States in the morning. Arnason stared at the only other man in the room who had been in the Recon Company as long
as he had: Sergeant First Class Frank Shaw, the supply sergeant, or better said, the
senior
supply sergeant of the four assigned to that position.

Woods nudged Arnason and whispered in his ear. “You’re frowning and he’s staring at you!” Woods nodded his head toward the
new captain, who had just stepped out of his office in front of the assembled cadre.

Arnason blinked and returned his attention back to the occupants in the office. “Thanks … I was daydreaming about something
that pissed me off!”

The captain smiled when he saw the sergeant’s eyes focus. “Now that we’re
all
here”—he smiled wider at Arnason and continued talking—“I’m Captain Youngbloode, your new commander. I’m going to make this
introductory meeting very short for a number of reasons. I wanted to get all of you together at least once during my six months
of command…” He smiled again, but this time to himself over the “six months command” statement. He knew that the personnel
policy for officers in Vietnam was six months of command and six months of staff assignments. Everyone wanted to get their
combat hero badges and have a
combat
command in their permanent files. What the very short commands did was destroy the morale of the combat units. The privates
humped the field for the whole year, and a lot of them didn’t even get their five-day R and Rs, while the captains and lieutenant
colonels who commanded the companies and battalions rarely had time to learn their jobs before they were replaced with other
inexperienced officers who pushed the men hard to make names for themselves. Only the second lieutenants served complete twelve-month
tours in the field, and to the man they were OCS and ROTC graduates. There were
no
West Point second lieutenants serving as platoon leaders, the most dangerous assignment for an officer in Vietnam. Youngbloode
didn’t like his last thoughts and frowned. He knew that West Point officers had been protected from serving in combat as second
lieutenants since the Korean War. “I lost my train of thought there for a second.” Youngbloode smiled again at Arnason and
continued. “All of you should know that I had to pull a lot of strings to get the command of a reconnaissance company; regular
line units or airborne commands seem to be the commands most of my peers seek. I bring this up only to let all of you know
that I
want
to be here and I’m going to take my job very seriously.” Youngbloode looked over at his first sergeant. “I’ll be visiting
each section in the company, starting with the First Sergeant this evening and working my way out to the recon teams tomorrow.
Please have all of your men available and standing by.” Youngbloode turned to walk back into his office. “Thank you for taking
the time to come up here. I’d like the company officers to join me in my office.”

Woods walked next to Arnason on the way back to their bunker. “What do you think of him?”

Arnason reached up and pulled his cap down lower over his eyes. “I don’t know. It’s too early to make any kind of clear judgment
as to his intentions, but he looks like he’s going to be the type that will support us when we’re in the field … Hell! he
might even
join
us on a mission!”

Woods looked down at the ground. “I hope he’s not going to play all of the racial shit with us. The last thing I need is a
captain who’s trying to prove his equality to me!”

“I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about that particular aspect with him. I’ve served under a lot of officers and
he strikes me as being pretty damn self-confident!” Arnason pointed over at their bunker. “Look at that shit!”

Sanchez and Koski were working out behind the bunker doing complex karate patterns against each other, and Warner sat on top
of the fighting bunker watching.

“Those are our new replacements. I didn’t know they were karate types.” Woods was pleasantly surprised.

“That’s going to be to our benefit.” Arnason increased his pace. “Come on and introduce me.”

Woods noticed as they approached the bunker that Koski had a very strong build. Sanchez and the Pole were sweating from their
workout and stopped when the two sergeants approached the bunker. Woods made the introductions and Arnason shook hands with
each of the men.

“I think you’ll like our team. We’re all here except Kirkpatrick, who’s on R and R and should be back soon.” Arnason looked
over at Woods. “Show them where the showers are and let them clean up before it gets dark. I’ve got some important business
to attend to.” Arnason slipped through the dark doorway into the bunker.

“Where’s he going?” Warner asked.

Woods smiled. “Poker game. The officers and NCOs have a game just about every night in the supply tent.”

Arnason came back outside wearing his lucky cap: a Marine Corps fatigue hat that had been dyed black, with a half-dollar-size
pure silver skull and crossbones attached in front. He patted his side pocket that bulged out slightly from the wad of ten-dollar
MPC notes stuffed in it. “Set up the guard detail for tonight and you can send the First Sergeant’s clerk back to him.”

Woods nodded and watched his team sergeant walk rapidly away toward the row of hooches.

“Are the stakes high in those games?” Sanchez used an olive drab towel to wipe the sweat off his face.

“For me at least. It’s not uncommon for a pot to hit a couple thousand dollars…”

Sanchez whistled between his teeth. “
Mucho dinero!
”

Woods glanced at Warner, who shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “Yeah, that is a lot of money. Come on and I’ll show you guys
where the showers are. Warner, you stay here on guard duty and I’ll take you over when they come back.”

“Guard?” Insecurity was reflected in his voice.

“Yeah!” Koski chuckled. “Guard duty! The
real
thing, boy!” He pointed toward the barbed wire. “Thatta way!”

Woods saw the confused look on Warner’s face as to what he should do and bailed him out of the uncomfortable situation. “Relax.
There are guys in every bunker around the perimeter. It’s not like we’re going to be attacked during the ten minutes I’m gone.”

Warner nodded and picked up his M-16 rifle. He turned his back on the trio and looked out over the wire at the darkening jungle.
They still had a good hour of light left.

Arnason slipped through the door of the GP-Large supply tent that had been secured over a two-by-four frame on a plywood platform.
The tent was blacked out so no light would shine through the cracks. Shaw had placed the supplies in the back of the tent
around the edges of the enclosed area, and a makeshift poker table with a real felt top occupied the center. During the day
a plywood cover was on the table and it was used as a desk.

“About time you got your ass here! We were going to start without you!” Shaw pointed with his unlit cigar at the open seat.
There were six men already waiting, including a new captain from the Headquarters Company, who had arrived from the replacement
depot at the same time as Captain Youngbloode. “You know everyone except Captain Gouch. He’s the new battalion supply officer.”

Arnason nodded at the captain and slipped into his seat. “What are we playing tonight?”

“Five-card stud … first and last card down.” Shaw dealt out the first card as he spoke. “Ante up! Fifty dollars.”

“Shit! Since when has the ante been fifty bucks!” One of the older NCOs raised the bitch.

“Since I’m the dealer, asshole!” Shaw twisted the cigar around in his mouth. “Ante up or shut up!”