Chapter 14

King Rat, aka SSG Juan D Rodriguez, my first platoon sergeant was a large swarthy Puerto Rican, very loud spoken, and as I learned, prone to many different moods. He was your best buddy one moment, and the devil incarnate the next. He ruled over the 2nd platoon for almost the entire time I was in B 2/9 Cav, until the day his vices caught up with him. For some things he did, we loved him, but for others, we hated him. He was what my father would call, a character.

One thing that caused me to dislike him was later to be the start of his demise, he played favorites, he had his pet soldiers who could do no wrong, and no one dared complain without fear of reprisal. To mess with one of his cronies was to invite extra duty. One of his most favored was a private from New York named Ross, who had grown up in the same area of New York City as the Rat, and thus had Homeboy status. Ross was an obnoxious little bastard, and reveled in his status as King Rat's pet. He taunted and provoked anyone he could, and with the full knowledge that he was protected.

We suffered through Ross's antics, his taunts and threats, occasionally someone would challenge him, or on occasion punch him out, but the wrath of King Rat that followed kept those incidents at a minimum. He strutted around like a bantam rooster in the hen yard, bowing up and crowing about how tough he was. In the field however, it was a different story, he'd grown up on the streets of New York and had zero experience with being in the woods, and a great fear of the dark. This coupled with a very superstitious character worked to our advantage, and we sought our revenge on him on every field problem we went on. The field was about the only place that Ross lost his protection.

There is no such thing a spare room on a tank, each crewman has his assigned duties, and space and every other space on the tank is dedicated to equipment or ammunition. Ross being a cavalry scout, was assigned to one of the personnel carriers, and thus spent the majority of his time in the field away from Rodriguez. At first, the Rat had tried to assign him to the platoon leader's vehicle with me, but after one brief day, the lieutenant had sent him packing, so he ended up on the M113 in the second section, which was under the control of the platoon leader, the platoon sergeant controlling the first section. Ross was isolated from his protector, and revenge was always in the making. That we would suffer upon our return to garrison there was no doubt, but that was in the future.

On one of the first field exercises Ross attended, we were doing a recon ahead of the Troop and our route went through several swampy areas, all of which had to be cleared of any obstacles, attackers, but most importantly, had to be tested to see if the tanks could make it through them. Areas that a 113 might go, a tank with its extreme weight, would sink, so we were often required to dismount and inspect on foot. This entails great difficulty as you are walking through mud, brambles, vines and anything else that a swamp can toss at you. Close encounters with thorns, snakes, hornets nest and the occasional alligator were to be expected, no one in their right mind wanted to do it, but that's life in the Cav. Drivers were not exempt from this, because none of us wanted to sink our vehicle, much less a tank, so we frequently dismounted ourselves.

The first time Ross was told to dismount; he climbed out of the hatch and moved forward on the deck of the vehicle to peer over the side. "Oh Fuck That, I not going in that shit." He announced, and jumped back down into the vehicle. There was a moment of stunned silence from Sgt Meehan, and then the fireworks began. "THE FUCK DID YOU SAY PRIVATE?" "I said I not going into that shit sarge."

From my hatch on the lieutenants' vehicle I watched the exchange; this was going to be interesting. Meehan was known for his temper, which would explode like a mortar round, striking anything and anyone in its path. His face was getting redder by the minute, and he looked around with an incredulous look on his face.

"Is my hearing going or something?" he asked, "I could have sworn I just heard Ross refuse a direct order."

"Ya heard right sarge, I am not going in that shit, that's final" replied Ross. He leaned back against the hatch cover and lit a smoke. "You know as well as me that SSG Rodriguez won't make me go either." The lieutenant, who'd been looking over his map during this exchange, looked up suddenly and spoke.

"Sgt. Meehan, is there a problem here?"

Meehan climbed out of his hatch and stretched, then as he moved towards the rear hatch of the vehicle said over his shoulder to the lieutenant, "No problems here sir."

As he spoke he grabbed Ross by his shoulder and his equipment belt and with a quick turn he tossed him off the front of the vehicle. There was a yell of surprise, quickly followed by crashing and thumping as Ross flew off into the brush, ending up on his back among the thorns and a large ant bed. He scrambled to his feet brushing ants off his arms and started towards the vehicle, his face twisted with either anger or fear, it was hard to tell. Meehan stood at the front of the vehicle with his hands on his hips, as Ross reached the front of the vehicle and reached out to climb, Meehan kicked him in the helmet, knocking him back down.

"Driver, move out." He said to the private in the drivers hatch, "run over anything in the way." He climbed back into his hatch and picked up his map, Ross seeing that the choices were either move forward or be run over, began to move out of the way. He found several wet spots, at least two wasps nest, and many thorns before the obstacle was cleared and he was allowed to mount back up. He was almost in tears by the time he got back onto the truck, but no one seemed inclined to care.

I wondered why the lieutenant didn't get involved, but later that evening, he explained. "A smart officer, he said, knows when to get involved, and when to let a NCO handle things Duke." My respect for Lt. Newbill increased tenfold that day. Had he gotten involved, it would have required disciplining both Ross and Meehan, but by his inaction, he allowed the situation to handle itself. If only more officers were like that, perhaps the Army would run a lot smoother.

During another field problem, I drew the short straw and ended up on an observation post with Ross and another private. We were sent out dismounted at the edge of a swamp and had to march about a mile to our assigned position. Night was falling, and as the shadows lengthened, Ross got closer and closer to us, until he was almost walking on our heels. At every new noise, he would startle and ask, "What the fuck was that?" "A bird, or a frog" would be the answer, and we moved on.

We got into our position, settled into a foxhole left by someone on some other field maneuver. We set up our machine gun, drew our range card, checked in with the platoon, and settled down for the night. I was the senior private, having been promoted to PFC earlier in the month, so I assigned a watch rotation, and we prepared to spend the night. Ross of course had bitched about his watch, threatened to have King Rat deal with us when we returned, but as we paid no attention to him, he soon quieted down. Night settled, and darkness rolled in on us, and it was dark, a moonless night, and soon we couldn't see much further than our noses. Even with night vision goggles, it was hard to see, visibility was about 100 feet.

The other private, who himself was from Alabama, sat quietly smoking, hiding the glow of his cigarette in his hand. He had been quiet the entire march out, saying nothing that wasn't necessary. I leaned back against the side of the foxhole, looking up at the stars and occasionally swatting a mosquito that found his way past the insect repellant I'd bathed in. Ross sat close by us, talking to himself under his breath, no doubt plotting some revenge.