Stephen Hunter - Time to Hunt

He sat in the anteroom in Henderson Hall, with the tall, thin young man with hair so short it hardly existed and movements so crisp they seemed freshly dry-cleaned.

“We got it this morning from Naval Records Storage Facility, Annandale. Sergeant Major used lots of smoke. He served with the CO’s chief petty officer on the old Iowa City.”

“You’ll tell him I appreciate it.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sniper-rated, by the way. Great school, out at Quantico. They still talk about you. Understand you fought a hell of a fight at Kham Duc.”

“Long time ago, son. I can hardly remember it.”

“I heard of it a hundred times,” said the young sergeant. “I won’t ever forget it.”

“Well, son, that’s kind of you.”

“I’ll be in my office next door. You let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thank you, son.”

The jacket was thick, all that remained of FENN, DONNY J.’s almost, but not quite four years in the Marine Corps. It was full of various orders, records of his first tour in the Nam with a line unit, his Bronze Star citation, his Silver Star nomination for Kham Duc, travel vouchers, shot records, medical reports, evaluations going back to Parris Island in the far-off land of 1968 when he enlisted, GCT results, the paper trail any military career, good, bad or indifferent, inevitably accumulates over the passage of time. There was even a copy of the Death in Battle report, filled out by the long-dead Captain Feamster, who only survived Donny a few weeks until the sappers took out Dodge City. But this one sheet, now faded and fragile, was the one that mattered; this was the one that sent him to the Nam.

HEADQUARTERS, USMC, 1C-MLT: 111

1320.1

15 MAY 1971

SPECIAL ORDER: TRANSFER

NUMBER 1640-71

REF: (A) CMC LTR DFB1/1 13 MAY 70

(B) MCO 1050.8F

1. IN ACCORDANCE WITH REFERENCE (A), EFFECTIVE 22 AUGUST 70, THE PERSONNEL LISTED ON THE REVERSE HEREOF ARE TRANSFERRED FROM THIS COMMAND TO WES PAC (III MAF) FOR DUTIES SPECIFIED BY CO WES PAC (III MAF).

2. PRIOR TO TRANSFER, THE COMMANDING OFFICER WILL ASSIGN AS PRIMARY THE MOS SHOWN FOR EACH INDIVIDUAL IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE AUTHORITY CONTAINED IN EXISTING REGULATIONS.

3. TRAVEL VIA GOVERNMENT PROCURED TRANSPORTATION IS DIRECTED FOR ALL TRAVEL PERFORMED BETWEEN THIS COMMAND AND WES PAC (III MAF) IN ACCORDANCE WITH PARAGRAPH 4100, JOINT TRAVEL REGULATIONS.

4. EACH INDIVIDUAL LISTED ON THE REVERSE HEREOF IS DIRECTED TO REPORT TO THE DISBURSING OFFICER WITHIN THREE WORKING DAYS AFTER COMPLETION OF TRAVEL INVOLVED IN THE EXECUTION OF THESE ORDERS FOR AN AUDIT OF REFUNDS.

It was signed OF Peatross, Major General, U.S. Marine Corps, Commanding, and below that bore the simple designation DIST: ‘N’ (and WNY, TEMPO C, RM 4598).

Bob had received just such a document three times, and three times he’d come back from it, at least breathing. Not Donny: it got him a name inscription on a long black wall with bunches of other boys who’d much rather have been working in factories or playing golf than inscribed on a long black wall.

Bob turned it over, not to find the usual computerized list of lucky names but only one: FENN, DONNY, J., L/CPL 264 38 85 037 36 68 01 0311, COMPANY B, MARINE BARRACKS WASHINGTON DC MOS 0311.

The rest of the copy was junk, citations of applicable regulations, travel information, a list of required items all neatly checked off (SRB, HEALTH RECORD, DENTAL RECORD, ORIG ORDERS, ID CARD and so on), and the last, melancholy list of destinations on the travel sub-voucher, from Norton AFB in California to Kadena AFB on Okinawa to Camp Hansen on Okinawa and on to Camp Schwab before final deployment to WES PAC (III MAF), meaning Western Pacific, III Marine Amphibious Force. Donny’s own penmanship, known so well to Bob from their months together, seemed to scream of familiarity as he looked at it.

Now what? he thought. What’s this supposed to mean?

He tried to remember his own documents and scanned this one for deviations. But his memory had faded over the years and nothing seemed at all different or strange. It was just orders to the Land of Bad Things; thousands and thousands of Marines had gotten them between 1965 and 1972.

There seemed to be nothing: no taint of scandal, no hint of punitive action, nothing at all. In Donny’s evals, particularly those filed in his company at the Marine Barracks, there were no indications of difficulty. In fact, those recordings were uniformly brilliant in content, suggesting an exemplary young man. A SSGT Ray Case had observed, as late as March 1971, “Cpl. Fenn shows outstanding professional dedication to his duties and is well-respected by personnel both above and below him in the ranks. He performs his duties with thoroughness, enthusiasm and great enterprise. It is hoped that the Corporal will consider making the Marine Corps a career; he is outstanding officer material.”

Bob knew the secret language of these things: where praise is the standard vocabulary, Case’s belief in Donny clearly went beyond that into the eloquent.

Even Donny’s loss of rating order, which demoted him from corporal to lance corporal, dated 12 May 71, was empty of information. It carried no meaning whatsoever: it simply stated the fact that a reduction in rank had occurred. It was signed by his commanding officer, M. C. Dogwood, Captain, USMC.

No Article 15s, no Captain’s Masts, nothing in the record suggesting any disciplinary problems.

Whatever had happened to him, it had left no records at all.

He stood up and went to the door of the sergeant major’s aide.

“Is there a personnel specialist around? I’d like to run something by him.”

“I can get Mr. Ross. He worked personnel for six years before coming to headquarters.”

“That’d be great.”

In time the warrant officer arrived, and he too knew of Bob and treated him like a movie star. But he scanned the documents and could find nothing at all unusual except—

“Now this is strange, Gunny.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Can’t say I ever saw it before.”

“And what is that, Mr. Ross?”

“Well, sir, on this last order, the one that sent Fenn to Vietnam. See here” — he pointed — “it says ‘DIST: “N.”’ That means, distribution to normal sources, i.e. the duty jacket, the new duty station, Pentagon personnel, MDW personnel and so forth, the usual grinding wheels of our great bureaucracy in action.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But what I see here is odd. In parentheses ‘(and WNY TEMPO C, RM 4598).’”

“What would that mean?”

“Well, I’d guess Washington Naval Yard, Temporary Building C, Room 4598.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know. I was twelve in 1971.”

“Any idea how I could find out?”

“Well, the only sure way is to go to the Pentagon, get an authorization, and try and dig up a Washington Naval Personnel logbook or phone book or at least an MDW phone book from the year 1971. They might have one over there. Then you’d just have to go through it entry by entry — it would take hours — until you came across that designation.”

“Oh, brother,” said Bob.

The next night, Bob drove his rented car out to a pleasant suburban house in the suburbs of America and there had dinner with his old pal the Command Sergeant Major of the United States Marine Corps, his wife and three of his four sons.

The sergeant major grilled steaks out on the patio while the two younger boys swam in the pool and the sergeant major’s wife, Marge, threw together a salad, some South Carolina recipe for baked beans and stewed tomatoes. She was an old campaigner herself and Bob had met her twice before, at a reception after he had been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for Kham Duc-1976, four years after the incident itself, a year after he finally left the physical therapy program and the year he decided he could no longer cut it as a Marine — and the next year, when he did retire.