Page 19 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)
Command and Control North
Da Nang, South Vietnam
TOM GLANCED DOWN AT his cards. Things were not looking good.
So much for secrecy, Tom thought.
Flanking the flagship photo were pictures of Miss Collins at various outposts in Vietnam, including the Special Forces camp at Nu Ba Den.
Everything from Hueys to buses had been renamed Playboy Special and adorned with the Playboy logo in honor of her visit.
Tom remembered the story well, as it had made headlines across the conflict zone.
By the time Miss December touched down in Vietnam the entire country knew the story.
It felt like the war had come to a stop with every unit hoping to catch a glimpse of the striking model who embodied everything they yearned for on the home front.
Every GI in theater owed Second Lieutenant Jack Price of Company B, 2nd Battalion, 503rd Infantry, 173rd Airborne Brigade, a beer.
He had scrounged together the $150 for a lifetime Playboy magazine subscription on behalf of his company and sent Hugh Hefner a letter reminding him that the first issue of a lifetime subscription was to be delivered by a Playmate in person.
The letter specifically requested that the bunny be Miss Collins.
Playboy came through, and Jo Collins delivered Price the magazine in person, in his hospital bed at Bien Hoa where he was recovering from wounds sustained in battle.
By the time she left Vietnam, she wasn’t known just for her striking beauty, but also for her bravery and heart, representing all that was good about America and bringing the promise of home to units far afield at great personal risk.
Plaques commemorating Leaping Lena, Hatchet Force, White Star, and Snakebite Teams were arranged on the walls of the club amongst captured AKs and SKSs, an RPD, a Montagnard crossbow, and an NVA flag.
A jukebox blasted through forty-fives with tunes from The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, Jefferson Airplane, The Animals, Edwin Starr, The Byrds, Jimi Hendrix, Cream, Janis Joplin, and Creedence Clearwater Revival.
Even with the plush interior, they could not completely hide the fact that they were in Vietnam; the cigarette and cigar smoke had a hard time competing with the odor of urine emanating from the piss tubes behind the building.
One section of wall was adorned with a mural of the Special Forces Crest—a Second World War stiletto facing up over two crossed arrows along with the words De Oppresso Liber at the base of an encircling black scroll. Latin for To Free the Oppressed. Next to it was another mural that read:
THE SPECIAL FORCES SOLDIER
AS SEEN BY:
(MACV-HQ) A DRUNKEN, brAWLING, JEEP STEALING, WOMEN CORRUPTING LIAR WITH A STAR SAPPHIRE RING, SEIKO WATCH, AND A DEMO KNIFE.
(HIMSELF) A TALL, HANDSOME, HIGHLY TRAINED PROFESSIONAL KILLER, FEMALE IDOL, SAPPHIRE RING WEARING, DEMO KNIFE CARRYING GENTLEMAN WHO IS ALWAYS ON TIME DUE TO THE RELIABILITY OF HIS SEIKO WATCH.
(HIS WIFE) A STRIKING MEMBER OF THE FAMILY WHO COMES THROUGH FORT brAGG ONCE A MONTH WITH A RUCKSACK FULL OF DIRTY CLOTHES AND A HARD ON.
(COMMANDER) A FINE SPECIMEN OF A DRUNKEN, brAWLING, JEEP STEALING, WOMAN CORRUPTING LIAR WITH A STAR SAPPHIRE RING, SEIKO WATCH, AND A DEMO KNIFE.
(DEPT OF THE ARMY) AN OVERPAID, OVERRANKED TAX BURDEN THAT IS INDISPENSABLE BECAUSE HE HAS VOLUNTEERED TO GO ANYWHERE, DO ANYTHING, AS LONG AS HE CAN BOOZE IT UP, brAWL, STEAL JEEPS, CORRUPT WOMEN, LIE, WEAR A STAR SAPPHIRE RING, SEIKO WATCH, AND CARRY A DEMO KNIFE.
In the center of the room was a poker table, and just as Quinn had said, the men of Project Delta were more than willing to take Tom’s Navy pay.
Quinn had introduced Tom to his SF brothers James Jarrett, Gary Stedman, Moose Monroe, Ken Edens, Mike Norris, “Doc” Simpson, Jay Graves, and David Lee as they walked in the door.
Soon they were all trading stories and reminiscing about past missions and hijinks and the influence of leaders like Charging Charlie Beckwith, who had commanded the unit in 1965.
“You just missed Martha Raye again, Quinn,” said Jarrett.
“I always miss her. When did she leave?”
“Just this morning,” Stedman said. “Off to visit the boys at Kontum.”
“I think I’m the only Green Beret who has never met Colonel Maggie,” Quinn said, referring to the actress and entertainer who had been given an Honorary Green Beret and rank of lieutenant colonel in 1964 for her work supporting the troops.
“I heard she worked the med tent during the battle of Soc Trang,” Tom said. “Is that true?”
“Sure did. Didn’t take a break for over thirty hours,” Stedman said. “She’s a legend.”
“You’ll catch her next time, buddy,” Jarrett said.
“You SEALs have anybody like Maggie?” Graves asked.
“No, but maybe we should. No one writes books about us, though.”
“Here we go. That Robin Moore book again,” Jarrett said.
“Catchy title,” Tom joked. “The Green Berets. Heard there’s a John Wayne movie coming out based on it in a few months.”
“If you want visits from Miss December, you need someone to write a book about what you are doing over here. Something like The Navy SEALs,” Graves offered.
“You kidding? No SEAL would ever write a book,” Tom replied.
“Have to learn how to write first,” Graves noted.
“That’s a good point.”
Before long Tom and Quinn were at the poker table with the Delta operators. As they played the early hands, Tom found out that Lee had been given the call sign Gambler.
As the night wore on the numbers dwindled. Jarrett, Stedman, Moose, Edens, Norris, Doc, and Graves folded and moved to the bar to continue debriefing the latest lessons learned in the A Shau, leaving Tom, Quinn, and Lee at the table.
Tom extinguished his cigarette and looked down at his cards, disguising his concern.
In theory, it wasn’t a bad hand. More than that, it was a respectable hand that in an average game of poker should have decent odds of winning the pot.
The trouble was that this game played as loosely with the rules of poker as special operators in ’Nam did with just about everything else.
Quinn had warned Tom about Delta Rules ahead of time, cautioning him that rules could change at the whim of the dealer and by the hand, but experiencing it was another thing entirely.
It probably didn’t help that each hand was accompanied by another generous glass of Old Grand-Dad bourbon.
“You know, Lee, I wish I had been aware of your nickname before we started playing,” Tom said.
“Wish in one hand, shit in the other. See which fills up first,” the Gambler replied.
“Good tip.”
“Tiger, another round, please,” Lee said to the pretty barmaid behind the counter.
The game was five-card draw, and the dealer, Sergeant David Lee, was making the rules.
Tom gauged him to be in his early twenties, though it was hard to tell with the dark thick stubble from a few days in the field.
He announced that treys—or a pair of threes—were wild but only when paired with at least one face card and not matched with any aces.
This extra rule superseded the standard rules of five-card draw, making hands with such pairs more favorable.
And, as Lee was a southern gentleman by birth, additional hands such as a blaze—any combination of five face cards, which can beat two pair but loses to three of a kind—were also in play.
“One card,” said Tom, running through the new rules in his mind.
His father had told him that you do not go into a game feeling the cards or believing in the will of the cards but rather believing in yourself and your skills as a player.
The elder Reece was a voracious card player who said luck was made.
On this night, that theory had been punched through with more holes than a Kingbee helicopter on exfil.
The deck was not in the young SEAL’s favor.
Of the last three hands, Tom had folded once and lost to another hand he had never heard of: wild deuces—pairs of twos—that were only of additional value when in suits of the same color.
Lee had almost sardonically explained this rule to the SEAL visitor again after Tom was sure he had won with a full house, only to be beaten by a pair of eights with two wild cards making four of a kind under Delta Rules.
Not for the first time that night, Tom wondered if the rules changed to keep things interesting, or to scalp visitors of their savings.
Stay focused, Tom. Don’t dwell on the last hands. Every hand is a new opportunity. Skill over luck.
Lee plucked Tom’s one new card from the top of the well-worn deck, passing it face down across the table into the SEAL’s grasp.
Glancing at it briefly and seeing the one heart he needed to complete his flush, Tom smiled to himself.
Still in the fight. It was expected that these games were to the death, with only one man left standing.
“It’s your bet,” said Lee, looking eagerly at Quinn.
Quinn studied his hand.
“I fold,” he said, discarding his cards face down and giving up any claim on the growing pot.
“Losing your edge up there in Phu Bai,” Lee said.
Quinn leaned toward Tom. “How’s your wallet looking?”
“It’s pretty light.”
“I thought you said you were good at this.”
“The creativity around these Delta Rules took a minute, but I think I’m getting the hang of it,” Tom said.
“Here,” Quinn said, passing his teammate what amounted to $92.80 in bills and coins. “Some Marshall Aid between branches. See if you can win some of my money back.”
Keeping flush with cash meant little in units with such a high mortality rate.
“Investing in the Navy? Oh Quinn, how the mighty have fallen,” Lee said as Tiger refreshed their drinks.
Tom glanced again at his cards and tapped his middle finger on the table, something he had done all night with lesser hands.
“Any more bets?” Tom asked.
“Sure thing, Frogman. Let’s get some serious cash on the table. I bet $100.”