Walter Reed Army Medical Center—and Sergeant First Class Amos T. Tyler, a Green Beret medic in Vietnam, had a hell of a lot of experience in that area. Dr. Williams was made to understand that, unless asked for his assistance by Sergeant Tyler, he would confine his services to keeping Detachment 17 as free as possible from tropical diseases and parasites.
The enlisted strength of Detachment 17 consisted of the original fourteen Green Berets, the twelve ASA communications technicians, and the nine aircraft mechanics and avionics technicians.
Major Lunsford did not—surprising nobody at all—show up first thing the next morning to inform the members of Detachment 17 when they could expect to leave the comforts of Camp Mackall.
But just as Detachment 17 was sitting down for the noon meal, when the Huey fluttered down onto the rather primitive landing strip near the tarpaper-covered frame shack that was the mess hall, the first passenger to get off was Major George Washington Lunsford. He was wearing camouflage fatigues.
“And there’s General Hanrahan,” someone said.
“And two other guys . . . officers,” someone else said.
“What is that, beer?”
“That’s what it is, and I’ll be goddamned if that little guy carrying two cases isn’t a full fucking bird colonel!”
A moment later, Major Lunsford, a case of beer under each arm, kicked the mess hall door open and bellowed, “At-ten-hut!”
Two seconds later, before anyone could fully rise from the plank benches, General Hanrahan, in fatigues and carrying one case of beer, marched in and ordered, “As you were.”
He followed Major Lunsford to the serving line area of the mess, and when Lunsford had put his two cases of beer on the counter, set his beside it.
“Everybody here, Thomas?” General Hanrahan inquired.
“Everybody is presented or accounted for, sir,” Master Sergeant Thomas replied.
“That’s not what I asked, Thomas,” General Hanrahan said.
“I sent Peters into Fayetteville, General,” Major Lunsford offered. “He needed some stuff from Radio Shack.”
Peters was Specialist Seven William D. Peters, the senior of the ASA communications experts.
“I said I wanted everybody here,” Hanrahan said, a tone of annoyance in his voice. “Colonel Felter wanted to see him.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know,” Lunsford said.
Hanrahan let it ride; there wasn’t much else he could do. But he really wished that Spec7 Peters were here.
The other two officers—Colonel Sanford T. Felter and Lieutenant Colonel Craig W. Lowell, both in Class A uniforms, both cradling two cases of beer in their arms, went to the serving line and laid the beer on the floor.
General Hanrahan faced the officers and men of Special Forces Detachment 17.
“The officers with me today have been in this business since the beginning,” he said. “We served together in Greece, and in other places. The taller is Lieutenant Colonel Craig W. Lowell. The other is Colonel Sanford T. Felter, General Staff Corps, Counselor to the President of the United States, and Action Officer, Operation Earnest.”
Felter stepped onto one of the two-high stacks of beer cases. Even so, his head was lower than General Hanrahan’s.
He put his hands on his hips and let his eyes slowly sweep the faces of Detachment 17, looking each man in the eye for a long moment.
He was formidable. His uniform was heavily laden with ribbons and qualification badges and patches. Topping the five rows of ribbons was one representing the Distinguished Service Cross, the nation’s second-highest award for valor. Above that were the star and crest wings of a Master Parachutist, and above that the Combat Infantry Badge, with a star indicating the second award of the badge. There were clusters on his Silver Star, Bronze Star, and Purple Heart medals, indicating more than one award of each. He wore a Ranger tab on his sleeve, and his other breast pocket carried the insignia of the General Staff Corps and an array of parachutist’s wings issued by half a dozen foreign governments.
By the time he had finished his visual sweep of the men of Detachment 17, the mess hall was absolutely quiet.
“By the power vested in me by God, the Commander-in-Chief, and General Hanrahan,” Felter began sternly, “and largely because General Hanrahan tells me that you’re all mentally retarded and deserve a little pity, I herewith declare a pardon for all of you, effective immediately.”
It took a good fifteen seconds before the troops came to comprehension of what the little colonel with all those fucking medals and wings had just said. There were first a few nervous chuckles, and these grew to guffaws. They were now hanging on his every word.