The Crouching Beast by Frank Boccia

Author:Frank Boccia
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: McFarland
Published: 2013-06-03T16:00:00+00:00

22

Rescued by the Gnome

YD 365065; 28 April 1969

Late that afternoon we received word that Atcheson’s platoon—Alpha Three Six—was on the final slope leading to our location, and would be entering the perimeter within 30 or 40 minutes. The rest of the battalion was still strung out a couple of kilometers behind him. Since his lead element was expected to reach us by 1700 or so, Harkins and Black Jack decided that there would be enough time to get the last of the column in before darkness fell.

I knew Gordon Atcheson by reputation. He was considered to be absolutely fearless and almost insanely aggressive. In less than six months, operating in an area where contact had been—until now—sparse, he had already earned a Silver Star and a recommendation for the DSC.

I made the rounds of the perimeter, warning the troops to look for his approach from the southwest. No one said anything, but the almost inaudible sighs and imperceptible relaxation of tense shoulder muscles indicated that the troops had been fully aware of the seriousness of our position.

At 1722 precisely, (yes: I did check my watch) a tall stringy black soldier, branches and leafy twigs covering his helmet, pack and M16, ambled through the perimeter, entering at a point just south of that position where the claymore had been “turned around.” Two or three men followed him; all were puffing slightly and their uniforms were dark with sweat. Gordie had pushed hard over the last 200 or 300 meters. He himself was the fourth man in, short, stocky, fair-haired, with a broad, flat, bulldog face glistening with sweat under his branch-festooned steel pot. He clumped his way up the hill, looked about, saw Harkins standing at his CP, dropped his pack and gear and swaggered over to join us.

He greeted Harkins first, then nodded to McGreevy, Bresnahan and me. From a distance he gave the impression of being stolid and phlegmatic. Seen up close, tiny lines around his mouth and eyes betrayed a lively sense of humor. Above all, though, one sensed the tremendous self-confidence and determination in him.

“Rough trip, Gordie?” Harkins asked. Atcheson was a lieutenant, of course, but Harkins no doubt consoled himself with the thought that Atcheson would be a captain, and therefore eligible for membership in the human race, within three or four months. He was undoubtedly one of the very few platoon leaders for whom Harkins felt a genuine respect.

Atcheson shook his head; beads of sweat flew off. Even that gesture reminded me of a bulldog. “No, not that bad. Slow, mainly. Some half-ass sniping going on, but nothing serious. They’d just fire off a couple of rounds and split. Never let us get too close.”

“How far back does the rest of the column go, do you know?”

“No. I never bothered about that shit. Keeping up with us was their job. I had enough to do to get up here on time.”

Bresnahan snorted. “We notice you took your sweet time getting up here. Hell, it’s too late now; we chased the NVA off a long time ago.

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