"So you're Rick Ranger, my new G-2," the stranger announced with a Texas twang. "I'm Jack Fox. Some call me 'The Gray Fox,' but I don't have the foggiest idea why." He took off his cap and slid it under his web belt. "Flew in from the Saul Severe as soon as we got in chopper range of Okinawa. Can't stand ships because I get seasick from the instant I step aboard until the minute I leave. I'm your G-3."
Ranger gazed up at the older man. His black hair was in a stiff crew cut on top and close on the sides. He had a craggy nose humped over a closely trimmed, black mustache. His short sleeved khaki shirt sagged over a bony chest from the weight of three rows of ribbons-all personal decorations. God only knew how many other rows of "I've been there" ribbons he didn't bother to wear.
The decorations kept Ranger's attention. The top row began with the white and indigo stripes of the Navy Cross, second only to the Medal of Honor. Next to it was the red, white and blue ribbon for a Silver Star Medal with two little shiny metal stars attached showing second and third awards. The last ribbon in that row was light purple in color, with a line of white on each end, and-Ranger stared until he realized the Purple Heart ribbon had enough metal stars affixed to announce that Jack Fox had been wounded in combat
six times.
"I'm your G-2?" Ranger had almost called the older man "sir." "I thought the G-2 and the G-3 worked for the chief of staff."
Fox pushed past Ranger into the room, turned, and trained icy blue eyes on him. "Don't get worried, Rick, I know the chain of command. But, hey, I've been an intelligence officer and I've been an ops officer in every kind of combat you can imagine. I know how it goes. The CG tells us what he wants done. The chief of staff coordinates. The G-3 makes it happen. That's
me. The G-2 tells me everything I need to know about the enemy, the terrain, and the weather. That's
you."
Fox eyed a jumble of uniforms and other gear left on Ranger's bed after he'd dumped out his footlockers and clothing roll and repacked the clothing roll to go to sea. Fox spied Ranger's FMFM intelligence manual in an open pocket of the clothing roll, seized it, and thumped it like a preacher pounding a Bible. "Course you gotta know everything in this book. But you also gotta be with me all the time. Those other guys-admin, logistics, comm-they gotta get out there too sometimes, but
you gotta see the enemy,
you gotta check the weather,
you gotta get over the ground."
Ranger breathed deeply, nostrils contracting against the pungent odor of human fertilizer drifting in from the rice field. Jack Fox had just reduced the complicated tasks of an entire general staff to six people. And he had simplified everything Ranger had been studying in that intelligence manual ever since he'd left the chief of staff's office. But why the big deal about combat?
Fox tossed the manual aside, pulled a panatela cigar from his shirt pocket, unwrapped it, admired it, and clamped it between his teeth. He peered down into Ranger's face like he was inspecting a pint-sized second lieutenant who needed a shave. Ranger wanted to say, "Okay, I'm not as tall as you, but I just maxed the physical fitness test; and I don't even have to take it at my age." But if he spoke, he figured the old rascal-as frail as he looked-would invite him outside to re-take the test on the spot, and might even best him-without even removing the cigar from his mouth.
Maybe Ranger's twelve-month tour was nearing an end. He checked his Seiko wristwatch. No, the damned thing still showed Tuesday, December 20. Unless it was broken, he had 361 days to go. It was only four days since he'd left California, got a job, repacked his bags to go to sea, and now met this mustached guy with a Texas drawl who was overactive and underfed.
Samisen notes wafted through the doorway as Fox threw a glance into Ranger's eyes like twin bolts of blue lightning. Ranger stared back until Fox's crow's feet begin to turn upward and his mouth formed a slight smile around the cigar. "The chief has already briefed me about you and shown me your record. Ex-enlisted man like me, 40 years old, been a Marine over 20 years. Infantry, recon, a lot of time out here in WestPac, not a professional intelligence weenie but willing to learn." Suddenly he stuck out his hand. "You want to work with me?"
"Sure." He clasped Fox's calloused hand before he realized he had made a pact.
"Okay, we're pardners." Fox turned to leave. At the door he looked back, framed by the rice field beyond, and lit his cigar. "If you've got any questions, I'm at Room 2 in the next building."
Before Ranger could think twice, he asked, "If you get seasick why are you on an amphibious staff?"
"I've been selected for colonel, and this is the only game in town for that rank at this stage."
"Game?"
"War."
"War?"
"War. You know, pardner. Vietnam. That's where the ship's coming from, and that's where she'll return right after Christmas. As soon as we get to the Gulf of Tonkin, you and I are going in-country to be sure we know how to evacuate the good guys if we have to. While we're there we're gonna get ourselves some buffies."
"What's a buffie?"
"Before I left the States, everybody in Washington who hadn't already gotten buffies from Vietnam wanted a pair. I mean, pardner, those things are the hottest items since sliced bread!"
"Jack, what's a buffie?"
"What?"
"Just what the hell is a buffie?"
Fox peered at Ranger like he'd failed to place in an IQ contest. "You don't know what a buffie is?"
"No."
"They're ceramic. They're beautiful. They're ugly. They're Big Ugly Friggin' Elephants, pardner. Surely you sent home a pair during your first tour over here."
"Nope."
"Well, come with me, I'll show you one." He led Ranger to Room 2. It looked just like Ranger's except next to the wash basin stood a 2-foot high, glazed, black, ceramic elephant. Molded into the sides of the figurine was a pure white, ceramic blanket and atop its head a white cap, each decorated ornately with inscrutable black markings.
"So you use them for ashtray holders," said Ranger, pointing to a green marble ashtray, filled with short cigar butts, that rested on the flat top of the figurine.
"That's not an ashtray holder on top, pardner. That's a howdah. Howdah's Asian for 'saddle.'" Jack moved the ashtray off the howdah and slid his fingers lightly over the elephant's ear. "Asian elephants, Rick, not African . . . small ears . . . lie flat on their heads . . . smooth, ceramic artwork."
Ranger found himself sliding his hand over the other ear. It was smooth. It was ceramic.
Fox backed up to the doorway and spread his arms toward the walls. "Just imagine this whole room filled with buffies. A buffie barn!"
Return to Top
Back in his room, Ranger eyed the vacant stall next to his wash basin. Sure as hell a buffie would brighten up the place. It would add a bit of spice. It would even give him a howdah for his tooth brush and paste.
He clasped his hands behind his head to study the spot and imagine the best color for a buffie, but his thumbs rubbed against stubble. He hadn't used his hair clippers since he'd left the States. His daily schedule had gone to hell-actually to Okinawa. He pulled his new international, dual-cycle clippers from the clothing roll, and plugged the cord into the socket over the vacant buffie space beside the wash basin. He ran the clippers tightly over his head until the tips of his fingers told him the rest of his pate was as slick as his bald spot.
He flicked off the clippers but kept staring at the mirror while thoughts hammered back and forth like the clipper blades. Jack surely was exaggerating about war. It was over.
President Nixon had long ago come up with a stroke of genius by simply unilaterally withdrawing American troops and leaving the war to the South Vietnamese. Sure, the Air Force had continued support during 1972, and planes had even made strikes on fuel depots in the Hanoi?Haiphong area in North Vietnam. And the Navy had mined Haiphong harbor and imposed a naval blockade of the North. But the war was nearing an end and the public must have liked the plan, because they had just re-elected Nixon by a huge majority.
Because of Vietnamization, almost no Americans were left in South Vietnam. The war was over. So what the hell was Jack Fox talking about?
He repacked his clippers and pulled out the shirt-pocket sized AM-FM radio he'd brought from home. He fiddled with the little notched wheels until he found the Armed Forces Radio Station.
"My God," he whispered as the announcer's voice crackled through the speaker.
"Since December 18, when President Nixon ordered massive bombing in Vietnam north of the 20th parallel, B-52s have been raining bombs on Hanoi and Haiphong. They continued their attacks today. We have reports that Russian-made surface-to-air missiles have downed several more B-52s, and North Vietnamese ground troops have captured American pilots that reached the ground alive. If the bombing continues, it is likely that more bombs will be dropped by Christmas than during the entire 1969 to 1971 period."
Ranger checked his Seiko. December 18 was the day he'd arrived. Just last month he had contacted an agent for an extra $30,000 in life insurance to cover a new mortgage.
"You're not going to Vietnam or any place like that, are you?" asked the agent.
"Not a chance."
"Then this new policy will do just fine with your other policy. It covers everything except war and insurrection."
His insurance agent would kill him!
He shook his head like a trout throwing off a hook. Every tour out here was unreal. Why should this be any different?
He cast another look at the washbasin. By golly, he could fit a buffie on each side. Green ones would give the place oomph.
