A FLIGHT OF RAVENS
by Andrew Bacevich
An early-chapter excerpt from Andrew Bacevich’s novel, Ravens on a Wire, the story of Vietnam’s dark legacy, as faced on the West Germany border.
Quickdraw 6 is annoyed. More than annoyed — he is flat-out pissed.
A carefully scripted visit meant to impress General Aloysius “Big Al” Paterson, Chief of Staff of the whole U.S. Army, is falling apart, and there is nothing he can do about it.
As 60th Colonel of the 16th Armored Cavalry Regiment, ever since the Civil War proudly known as the Ravens — cavalry units take their heritage seriously — Barton Caldwell ought to be a near shoe-in for promotion to brigadier general, the goal he has worked toward ever since pinning on the bars of a second lieutenant, some twenty years before. This visit was supposed to seal the deal. The fact that they are headed to a border encampment where a young Black captain is in charge offers a nice extra touch. After the eruptions of racial animosity that swept through the Army’s ranks beginning in the 1960s, equal opportunity has become a top priority. Caldwell wants Big Al to know that his regiment has gotten the message. Here, then, is one corner of the Army committed to eradicating the afflictions induced by Vietnam.
Now, a goddamn jeep accident near the Czech border has fucked everything up. The initial reports coming into the ROC from Blackbird 47, an aero-scout dispatched to the scene and hovering above the accident site, are not good. A jeep flipped over at the bottom of a ravine. Soldiers seriously hurt, perhaps worse. No direct contact with anyone on the ground.
Eavesdropping on the regimental command frequency, Caldwell had pieced together a picture of the scene from its fragments of information. So, too, had his guest, sitting opposite and wearing an identical headset. The picture was not a pretty one. Recovering troops and equipment was now becoming the priority, but the glacial weather and difficult terrain meant that recovery would pose additional risks. The bad situation was likely to get worse before it got better.
Since assuming command as Lord of the Ravens, Caldwell, a youthful forty-one, had conducted dozens of these heliborne show-and-tell border tours, all of them uneventful. Exuding confidence, combined with Southern folksiness that he could turn on like a light switch, while flashing the Rolex on his wrist, he had a knack for this sort of performance. Members of Congress, journalists, and minor celebrities — even Miss America — had all enjoyed the regiment’s hospitality. Each guest headed home with a souvenir Ravens coffee mug and a favorable impression of the regiment’s trim, crewcut commander.
From the chopper that served as his aerial command post, its seat cushions embroidered with the regimental crest and motto — Duty, with Honor — Caldwell had become adept at pointing out landmarks along his stretch of the Iron Curtain. In point of fact, visitors from the U.S. tended to find the densely wooded and minimally fortified “trace” less interesting than the quaint villages and farms of the Bavarian countryside visible below. Dressed up as educational — here is your Army defending the frontiers of freedom — the tours were actually sightseeing trips at taxpayers’ expense. But the PR was good for the regiment, and it was good for its commander. Normally, it was a duty he enjoyed performing.
February in Bavaria has its own special kind of cold. The interior of a drafty Huey at 3000 feet is colder still. Today, the countryside below looked gray, forlorn, and lifeless. Any farmer with a lick of sense was home warming himself in front of his fireplace, with the family dog dozing at his feet.
In no mood for sightseeing, Big Al broke the silence.
“Bart.”
The voice, though not unkind, contained hints of exasperation. Paterson had just about had it with ambitious colonels trying to make a good impression.
“Sir?”
“I’m thinking that we should scrub the visit to Rotz.”
“The troops will be disappointed, sir. They’ve been looking forward to having you stop by.”
“Perhaps, although I doubt it. Besides, I’ve been to border outposts, to include this one, often enough. Christ, I used to own this whole sector.”
“Yessir, of course.”
“Besides, our young captain down there has enough on his hands without some four-star dropping in to offer sage advice. And, yes, I know my son-in-law Lieutenant Colonel Fitzhugh Massey, III commands your 3rd Squadron and is on the ground eagerly waiting to greet us.” He recited the name with something less than affection.
Caldwell hesitated to respond. The consequences of aborting the visit were difficult to calculate. But if Big Al wanted to pull the plug, Quickdraw really had no choice.
“Understood, General. Will do.”
The command pilot up front had monitored the exchange on the intercom. Without being ordered, he was already wheeling back toward the regimental headquarters in Nurnberg.
Caldwell cursed silently then switched his handset to transmit.
“Raven X-ray, this is Quickdraw.”
For the ops crew on duty back at regimental headquarters, instantly responding to any call from the RCO was a point of pride. Any failure on that score counted as a sign of slackness, and too many such lapses would tarnish the regiment’s carefully cultivated image as a crack outfit.
“This is X-ray, Quickdraw.”
A boom mic pressed against his lips, Caldwell notified the ROC that he was returning to base.
“Pass the word to Rotz. And tell Major Hicks to have our visitor’s aircraft cranked and ready to return to Heidelberg as soon as we touch down.”
“Wilco, Quickdraw.”
In the American military tradition, reaching at least as far back as Baron von Steuben’s tenure at Valley Forge, striking a balance between doing what worked and presenting a smart appearance formed a perennial imperative. Now, in the immediate aftermath of Vietnam, where nothing had seemed to work, appearances counted more than ever. The commander of the 16th ACR did not dissent from this priority. He embraced it wholeheartedly. And Paterson’s decision to call off his visit to the nearby border encampment just didn’t look good.
The monotonous whop-whop of the main rotor blade discouraged further conversation. Big Al himself was not known for idle chatter. Meanwhile, somewhere between mortified and enraged, Caldwell could think of nothing further to say.
That morning, confident that the Rotz visit would be successful, Caldwell had toyed with the idea of adding a personal touch to conclude the day’s itinerary. Offering Massey a lift to 3rd Squadron headquarters at Pond Barracks, halfway back to Nurnberg, would allow Big Al to visit with his daughter and young granddaughters. Caldwell had felt sure the gesture would meet with warm approval. Now, it would look like a transparent effort to curry favor. For the Lord of the Ravens, this was the last straw. The entire day had been a fiasco. One thing he knew for sure: Someone was going to pay for it.
Mr. Bacevich is a former soldier, professor emeritus at Boston University, and author of over a dozen books, such as ‘America’s War for the Greater Middle East: A Military History’ and ‘After the Apocalypse: America’s Role in a World Transformed.’ Ravens on a Wire is his first novel, and Murder in Manila is his second.