Delta Tango: A Viet Nam War Novel by David Allin

Author:David Allin
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2019-08-29T23:00:00+00:00

*****

Lieutenant Shelton sat on the bench inside the track, holding the porkchop microphone in his hand as he caught his breath. Across from him sat Sergeant Dooley, the squad leader, and a master sergeant named Eisen. When Dooley had guided the track across the runway, he had brought with him five more soldiers in addition to his fifty gunner and driver. Those men were from various units, and none were combat infantrymen, but at least they had weapons. They included a couple cooks, one of whom was still in his cook’s white uniform: he had been sent to man the bunker, where the white would not be so obvious. Two others were truck drivers. The E-8, Eisen, a slightly rotund older man going bald, ran the Finance office on base, but told Shelton he had been in the infantry originally. Above them the gunner pounded away with the fifty, while the driver stood up in his compartment firing his M-16. Shelton had guided the track to a position at the berm, on the right side of the bunker, and then climbed inside through the rear personnel hatch. Above his head the radio crackled with messages, the net filled with urgent voices making reports and requesting assistance. Shelton needed to report in, whenever there was a break in the traffic, but he wasn’t exactly sure what to report.

“How many casualties, so far?” he asked Dooley, a sandy-haired young man with a Maine accent.

Dooley looked up as he mentally counted them off on his fingers. Finally he shook his head and said, “Shit, sir, I’m not sure. I know of at least five killed, and a whole shit load wounded.”

Shelton nodded. “I don’t know, either. And I should know.”

“Hell, the way things have been going, no one could keep track of it all,” Dooley reassured him. “We’ll figure it out later.”

“I’ll try to get a count for you, sir,” Eisen offered, and pulled a small spiral notebook from his shirt pocket.

Shelton shifted on the metal bench and winced as the wounds on his butt reminded him of his previous failures.

“Ae you hit, sir?” Dooley asked anxiously, leaning forward to offer help.

“Not lately,” Shelton told him. He held the mike up to his mouth, pressed the button, and then let if off again. “What’s our call sign?”

“Uh, you’d be Five-four Delta Five, I think.”

The radio blared and he heard the unmistakable voice of Major Crafford, who identified himself as Two-two-two X-Ray Oscar, clearly not his official call sign. Shelton decided that if Crafford was making up his own call sign, he would do the same, and avoid confusion. The enemy already knew who and where they were and what they were doing, so using the code book call signs was kind of pointless. Shelton waited for a break in the calls.

“X-ray Oscar, this is Sierra Five, over.”

There was no immediate answer, so Shelton repeated the call. He guessed that Crafford was taking a minute to figure out who was calling him, having forgotten that Shelton was the battalion S-5 officer.

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