Texas Nights - Book 13 of the Damned of the 2/19th

Class Five

Charlie Company Area
15th Forward Support Battalion
Fort Hood, Texas
United States of America
24 September, 1991
1150 Hours

The chowhall was full of people, the buzz of conversation, and the small noises of cutlery on trays and plates as I stared at the paperwork in front of me. I was eating with one hand and jotting down notes with the other. Being left-handed helped. Grammy had taught me to eat with my right hand so I didn't stand out or embarass the hostess of any formal dinners. The information the Colonel had given me was eye opening to say the least.

Charlie sat at around fifty people, and according to Battalion TO&E we were at 80% strength. However, Blackjack Brigade, and the data I'd gotten from First Cav HQ by sending Donovan over with a hand written notice that I needed to double-check the data, all pointed at the fact we were supposed to be around 80 people, which put us at 60% strength.

I knew what was going on. Keeping your numbers up looked good, and since right now the biggest mission that Charlie had was inventorying ambulances for the 12th time, the numbers really didn't matter.

But if we got deployed, according to our METL, we'd be in serious trouble. We were supposed to set up a FMS (Forward Medical Site), with Treatment stabalizing casualties and ambulance running them to the nearest hospital. Additionally, we were supposed to be able to run them from a makeshift helipad to the treatment tent, and vice-versa.

I knew that people would state "Oh, that's old Cold War planning, it doesn't count any more" and ignore the fact that the flexibility, rapid response, and ease of movement made that plan even more vital during a sharp limited conflict.

It was how the unit had performed during Desert Storm. Rapidly shifting, setting up treatment areas for casualties, evacing them out, then shifting position as the front moved. Charlie had moved eight times in four days, each time right behind the lines. Treating everything from wounded EPOWs to vehicle accident casualties, to casualties from enemy fire.

I thought it was interesting that the company had received a Presidential Unit Citation that nobody wore on their Class-A's and was listed in the inbriefing packet. That was critical, because any Class-A inspection by any high ranking officer who knew about the citation would result in a massive ass chewing.

I circled the fact that the citation needed to be included in the inprocessing packet, and made a note to myself to stop by Brigade Supply and pick up some to hand out.

Speaking of Class-A's, I needed to go get mine from the cleaners. Both usable sets, and my Dress Blues. I had a third set of Class-A's that needed to be picked up, but that would go in my wall locker, since they weren't something I'd be wearing.

They were the set I'd worn to Warrant Officer School, with my Sergeant rank on the sleeves and all my citation.

The medals on that uniform held a certain pride. The uniform itself showed some wear for being six years old, and needed replaced anyway, so I'd just left it as is.

That made me write down and circle "Do Not Live in Past" to myself.

The beginnings of a plan was starting to form in my head for next week. Take the company to the range. Not for any qualification, but for weapon familiarization and testing. I was waiting for one of the guy's from Alpha to come by, because it wasn't exactly fair to yank them out to the range without even a "hey, hi" when they'd be putting in work.

And speak of the devil.

"Mind if I sit, Chief?" The man asked. I stood up, holding out my hand, and he looked surprised as he took it. His handshake was firm, his eyes steady. My height, probably about 165, with the name Jacks and Sergeant rank on his collar.