Trafford Publishing: Quest for Glory

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Quest for Glory

by Gil Parker

215 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-1256; ISBN 1-55395-541-2; US$20.50, C$26.00, EUR16.90, £11.80

A tale of clashing Egos, Arrogance, Power and blind Devotion to Duty during the Vietnam conflict.

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About the book About the author Sample excerpts Catalogue info

About the Book

The scene for Quest for Glory is set in Southeast Asia - the Vietnam War, but it could be in numerous 'hot spots' around the world where professional-type soldiers are engaged in Special Operations. Quest for Glory offers only a faint glimmer of some of the duties and hardships endured by this special breed of men who ran and conducted long-range reconnaissance patrols during the late 1960s.
Sergeants Paul Garrett, and David Ryker, two veteran non-commissioned officers, are assigned to the US ninth Rangers for this express purpose, and wholeheartedly accept the challenge. Warrant officer Nguyen van Thanh, a veteran North Vietnamese officer of infantry troops, is responsible for training and deploying Anti-commando Unit teams to track down and eliminate all American ground reconnaissance patrols operating within the infamous A Shau valley.
After suffering numerous losses inflicted by ACU teams, Paul Garrett persuades an over-zealous commander to obtain permission from a three-star general officer to invade the ACU sanctuary located inside Laos, long recognized by everyone except the North Vietnamese. This act of committing an illegal military operation could cause untold damage to men and careers if exposed to proper authorities or news media persons.
This is minor concern to the Ninth Rangers when they finally get their chance to clash with the notorious ACU teams led by Warrant Officer Van Thanh, located inside Laos. Hundreds of men from both sides will needlessly perish because of other men's arrogance, egos, pride, and blind devotion to duty.
Quest for Glory is an action-packed novel with vivid descriptions of battlefield deaths and wounds ‹ not for the squeamish reader, nor will the reader witness favoritism shown by the Author toward any particular characters. All are treated as professionals. But the reader will experience identical feelings shown by these warriors from opposing sides when they fight ‹ just to live to fight another day. All are a 'Special Breed'.

About the Author

Gil Parker is a veteran of elite US Army units, and other US governmental agencies. He is the Author of The Jump, The Execution, and Falcons Three. A graduate of Campbell University, he resides in North Carolins.

Sample Excerpts

CHAPTER ONE

Few airline travelers, if any, noticed the rugged looking be-medaled US army sergeant making his way through the crowded tiled corridor, as he tried to remember the location of a certain liquor lounge. An airline stewardess hurriedly moved past, and the sergeant swore softly while eyeing her fine profile, and in a fleeting moment imagined sharing a weekend with her in a secluded resort. His fantasy subsided when the lounge he was searching for came into view, and once more bourbon and water became foremost on Paul Garrett's mind. Once inside he positioned himself on an overstuffed vinyl bar stool. Fourteen months earlier Paul had sat on this same stool for several hours before gladly leaving the bar and city of San Francisco. Not that he did not enjoy the environment, but the country he was destined for presented a much different challenge. That particular time he was leaving for his second combat tour in Vietnam, and barely two months after completion, thanks to an assignment specialist inside the Pentagon, he was now enroute to Vietnam for a third tour of duty. Paul knew when he returned from his second tour he had brought back excess baggage he now found difficult to deal with; mainly excessive drinking. Towards the end of his second tour Garrett's nerves were on the brink of shattering. Combat fatigue during those final weeks in Vietnam had obligated his commanding officer to relieve Garrett from participating in long range reconnaissance patrols. For Garrett to be relieved from what he considered essential duty only worsened the problem. Awakening each morning he would instinctively reach for a can of beer, not caring if the beer was cold or miserably warm. By late afternoon, he would enter a small non-commissioned officers club where the eighteen- year veteran would sit and watch brilliant rays of a setting sun clash with greenery Vietnam is abundantly endowed with. Garrett felt secure knowing the officers would not mention, however subtle, remarks pertaining to his heavy drinking. The commanding officer, a grizzled lieutenant colonel who possessed more intestinal fortitude than tact could relate to his top-notch NCO, for his career was similar to Garrett's. Lieutenant Colonel Robert Camp's professional opinion of Garrett was being one of the army's best in conducting special-type operations, and he did not want to lose Garrett to mental stress, and decided the soldier needed a well deserved rest from combat duties. The majority concurred with Colonel Camp's decision, and sympathized rather than criticized for they too were cognizant of the high casualty rate special operations men endured. Nevertheless, a few officers and NCOs took displeasure when witnessing Garrett's drunken behavior and arrogant attitude. Garrett's physical stature was neither unique nor overly common; standing a fraction over six-feet he carried his one hundred-eighty pound frame quite well. Most of Paul's weight was above his waist, and the slightest movement of his upper torso reflected muscles long conditioned to physically demanding tasks every professional soldier encounters. The face being neither handsome nor unattractive, merely reflected a square jawed, deeply tanned man with noticeable wrinkles only nature can produce on someone who endures years of deprivation and survival on some of the earth's harshest environments. His close cropped chestnut colored hair often turned a dirty blond, especially in warm climates, along with steel-grey eyes seemingly never fixed on any particular object often gave an impression of neuroticism, but medical officers knew this appearance developed after years of arduous training and combat. Each time Garrett looked into a mirror and saw the thin scar below his left ear lobe, extending to a fraction of an inch from his adam's apple, reinforced his belief that proper training, strict obedience, and a love for soldiering were key essentials required for survival. This particular scar on his neck occurred in early January 1951, when his ranger company fell victim to hordes of chinese soldiers over-running the rangers' night defensive positions. The ripped throat sustained that freezing night from a chinese bayonet served as a reminder throughout his career to never underestimate your enemy. Garrett sometimes reflected on the true meaning of war, and why men relish in destroying other men, but these reflections were always short lived.

Paul noted the physical appearance of the lounge had not changed. Only the bartender and waitress, he surmised, had been replaced. Garrett ordered bourbon and water from the bartender displaying a plastic smile, aware the man had to extend that annoying grin to all patrons. "Hell, he ought to have my job, then he could smile with ease," he said softly. Garrett consumed his drink and ordered another, while noticing a strikingly beautiful woman, in her mid-twenties, enter and sit with a man dressed in business attire. He estimated the man to be in his late forties, somewhat out of physical shape, but obviously attractive to the young woman. Neither gave the appearance of entering or departing San Francisco, and both wore non-matching wedding bands. Sergeant First Class Paul Devane Garrett recognized the game being played, for he too had participated in similar escapades throughout his adult life. "What the hell," he mused, "so they're both screwin' off on their mates, spending money on cheap motels and little secret meeting places, like this lousy lounge...but go ahead and do it, just don't look back." This was Garrett's method of confronting problems: be quick, firm, demanding and never regret. His live today-die tomorrow attitude was commonly rejected by all except his peers, and the US Army wanted professional soldiering from him...nothing else. Garrett gazed at a clock with roman numeral hours, thinking, "Maybe, just maybe this could be my last three hours in the good or USA. No, I don't believe that nonsense, and when I start thinking like some guys I've known, it may well be." Paul had known numerous men under combat conditions who felt - or at least let it be known amongst their comrades, premonitions of getting killed. Three years of grueling combat taught him being killed, and premonitions of death on the battlefield is a fact to reckon with. Death was the simplest and least painful experience a man on this earth would endure. Survival was the real challenge, and it remained the true challenge within himself. A challenge he had sworn to conquer, But Garrett knew all too well the challenge to survive became more difficult with each passing season. The muscles in his legs, fine tuned from endless hours carrying over- weighted rucksacks across blistery cold mountains, steamy jungles, and deserts so hot a man's mind could force fatal hallucinations. These same old tired legs must now cany him through a fourth year of killing enemy soldiers. "Jesus Christ!" he said loudly, "I could get greased a helluva lot quicker here in California." Aware the bartender and other lounge patrons were staring, Paul ordered another bourbon and water. "Better stop this off-the-wall thinking, and concentrate on number uno...me. I got a brand new war to fight, so set your mind straight. in two hours and forty minutes, I'm gonna be on Pan Am flight 702 heading directly into Bien Hoa, South Vietnam, so to hell with everything else!" Garrett did not realize his voice was getting louder with each spoken word until he felt the stares of other bar patrons. Not feeling embarrassed, Paul brought his steel-gray eyes to rest on his drink, and ignored everything else...except his bourbon and water.

David Ryker lay motionless upon a queen size bed in the hotel room, mentally trying to put a sequence of events during the past eighteen hours into proper prospective. He sensed traffic noise coming through an open window and surmised he must be somewhere in downtown Baltimore. At the same moment he became acutely aware of a naked woman lying beside him. With eyes half open, Ryker felt he must set his body functions and senses in motion, and quickly, if he was to catch his scheduled flight from Friendship airport to San Francisco International this afternoon. He ran his fingers slowly through his short blond hair, wondering how long before it turned gray if he continued the lifestyle pursued these past twenty-nine days. "Might not be too bad, hear tell a lot of broads like gray-haired studs," he muttered. '"You say something, Honey?" The voice came from the naked lady.

"Mind if I ask you a question? Dave replied. The woman let out a soft laugh. "You've already forgotten my name, haven't you?"

"Yes, that plus a few other minor things. I'11 start by asking where the hell are we?

"Converse hotel, room six-thirteen, and as far as management is concerned, we're a happily married couple visiting from Florida," she answered.

"Great," he smiled. "I now have a reference point, just don't fool yourself into thinking the hotel clerk seriously believes we are married. The guy at the desk probably sees dozens of couples like us every night. I reckon management don't give a damn as long as the bill gets paid in advance...it is paid, right? Dave asked.

"Yes, with my help. You were not in the best physical condition when we arrived. At first, I thought it would be a dull evening, but you really surprised me. You're a much better man than I imagined. It's a damn shame you don't remember," she giggled. Ryker took a serious look at the woman and was impressed. First, by observing her long jet-black hair; secondly, the face possessed a child-like innocence offset by sparkling emerald green eyes. Dark eyelashes lay snugly against an unblemished skin with full lips that faintly parted when she spoke. Thirdly, her breasts appeared so firm it left little doubt in Ryker's mind this lady had never lacked for male companionship. "Okay, what's your name?" he asked almost apologetically.

"Susan. Nothing else, just Susan," she answered. Dave propped himself up while gazing at this intriguing woman. Instinctively,he reached to caress her. "Not now...first item on your agenda is to take a shower and get rid of that god-awful whisky odor. You must have liquor seeping through your pores. Once you take care of that problem, we'll play some more if you still want me," she teased. Ryker was taken slightly by her frankness, but knew she spoke truthfully. He had engaged in heavy drinking since noon yesterday, and calculated his body must be near a saturation point in alcohol. "Okay, sweetheart, anything for the lady," he said, and with movements that would make a leopard envious slid from underneath the bed sheet and moved into a shower stall. Stepping into a cold shower he contemplated the forthcoming next hour. Returning with a towel wrapped around his waist he sat on the bed next to Susan, then lit a cigarette. Neither spoke for nearly a full minute. It was Susan who broke the silence. "Dave, you don't think of me as tramp, do you?

"Of course not...why should I?

"Well, to begin with, it was I who picked you up at the Chesapeake Bar. I saw you enter, and well, I liked what I saw, so I went after you," she paused, "decent women would not do things like that, would they?"

"Susan, decent women are a dime a dozen. What this world needs is less puritans, and more women like yourself," he answered, displaying a sly grin.

"You didn't answer my question, and you're a cynic with a twisted sense of humor. What other disgusting traits you possess?" she laughed.

"Whoa, take it easy. My intentions are not to upset you, and I really don't care to discuss moral values this early." Dave said. Susan gave no reply, only maintaining her gaze upon Dave's masculine shoulders. Ryker turned slightly, looking into green eyes that seemed to grow darker each passing moment, and fully aware her mood was changing. In which direction, he wasn't quite sure. For a split second he wanted to believe the housewife tale, and it was obvious this lady was no run-of-the-mill whore. Ryker saw class written all over seething with confidence not all women possess. Finally, a morality debate with a beautiful woman in a Baltimore hotel was beyond his character. "I apologize if I said something distasteful. You're certainly not a tramp in my book. Besides, it's none of my business," Dave said, choosing his words carefully.

"Really, I am a housewife, but without children," she answered softly.

Dave inhaled deeply, "Guess you gonna catch hell for staying out all night, huh?

A grin creased the corner of her mouth, "No, my husband is down south. New Orleans, I believe, or that's what he told me when he left two days ago. Another business convention, and I am quite sure his secretary is with him. He never goes on trips without taking that blue-eyed bitch."

"So what's good for the goose is good for the gander. Is that the message I'm receiving? Dave asked.

"I'm not trying to send any damn message...believe what you may," she answered. Ryker hesitated to venture into the next question by asking if this was her first session at adultery, the answer invariably would be yes, but Ryker knew his weaknesses, and beautiful women were tops on the list, and sometimes threatened his very existence. Mentally, Dave could visualize a jealous husband ranting and raving outside the hotel room, holding a loaded weapon, and felt slight ripples of panic stir throughout his body.

"What's your story, Dave? You didn't say much about yourself last night. How do you earn your living? Are you a traveling salesman? You know, like the many jokes you hear at parties," she smiled.

"You could say I'm a salesman of sort. I deal in special products pretty women such as yourself might find difficult to understand, and it would bore you to tears if we got started on that dreary subject," he answered. "You skirted around my question again. I still haven't the foggiest idea whom I'm lying in bed with?

"You, my dear lady, happen to be in bed with a very passionate, hungover man. So come closer and help solve my small problem." Susan felt deep physical admiration for this near stranger even though a thick shroud of secrecy enveloped his whole being. "Maybe its best this way," she thought, "In a short while we part company, and chances are...never meet again." For twenty-seven years, her entire lifespan, she'd never encountered a person of this charisma or vitality. Her husband was certainly not of this breed, and Susan felt she was intelligent enough to recognize these attractions were purely physical, and not to be confused with lasting relationships. She decided to enjoy this moment in her life, and went to Dave Ryker's embrace willingly.

Shortly after leaving the Converse hotel, Ryker located a restaurant specializing in steaks and consumed a twelve-ounce ribeye with determination of a starving man. Now seated in a taxi he was quickly approaching Friendship airport. Temporarily, he'd forgotten the blissful hours spent with Susan. Instead, his concentration now shifted to South Vietnam, and the age old sport of human survival. Staff Sergeant David Lee Ryker looked forward to this familiar challenge, as he had previously. His thoughts were back in South Vietnam when the taxi came to a halt in front of the main terminal building. Ryker was paying the fare when the driver attempted to make small talk. "Guess you'll be coming' back tomorrow, since you ain't got much luggage, huh?"

"No, I won't be coming back tomorrow, and always remember one thing, my good man...there ain't no tomorrow!"

Van Thanh felt trembles in his quivering voice while saying goodbye to his parents. Even six years service in the North Vietnamese Army, and a recent promotion to Warrant Officer, could deter his inner most feelings deeply held for his mother and father. Aware of his reputation being fearless within his past regiment, he was, and would forever remain a small boy in the eyes of his mother. Yet, Van Thanh and his parents knew this could be a final farewell. Prior to 1966, the family consisted of parents, three boys, and one girl. Van Thanh's brothers were conscripted into the NVA in early 1966, and news of their deaths, barely six weeks apart from each other, arrived in November, 1966. Shortly after losing her brothers, the sister traveled to Hanoi in search of giving aid wherever needed to war victims. She was killed in 1967, barely two months after arriving in Hanoi. Now Van Thanh found himself a sole surviving offspring. His father, fifty-five year old Nguyen Thanh was born in Xuan Loc Province in the southern portion of Vietnam, and had fought bravely with Viet Minh irregulars against the French. In 1955, he chose to settle his family thirty-five kilometers west of Hanoi. Five months later, after opening a small bicycle shop he managed to save enough money to resettle the family from Xuan Loc Province to Phu Dien. The family worked feverishly six days weekly, enduring many harsh times simply to gain food and other items necessary to sustain life, but the Thanh family were not members of the Communist party. This was a privilege reserved for others. A majority of his peers and other family members, if eligible, were permitted to join the communist party apparatus only after an exhaustive background investigation into each applicant's life. Van Thanh, nor his father, held no desires to subject parents or children to such a rigorous investigation. Besides, Van Thanh's only desire was to serve his country as a soldier, and it was this driving force that catapulted him through the ranks to warrant officer in six years. For Van Thanh, this became his major accomplishment, although it did not arrive without major disappointments, frustrations, and near death. In 1967, Van Thanh's infantry battalion traveled south to engage the enemy, only to be decimated near the grassy plains of Khe Sanh. Battalion officers made an uncompromising error of under-estimating american air power. Senior officers who survived those air attacks had the unfortunate task of explaining their blunders to a Military Court of lnquiry. It was there Van Thanh became deeply ingrained with required principles which guided soldiers, and if these principles were ever violated through negligence, soldiers could reasonably expect chastisement, demotion, imprisonment, or all. He coveted these principles, but always retained reservations about life expectancy in a ground war dominated by enemy air power. Now fourteen-months later, the massive american air power had not diminished, contrary to what battalion political commissars emphasized.

Van Thanh looked deeply into his mother's tear stained eyes. Here was a woman overflowing with compassion and love for her only living child. A child she believed had been conceived, born, loved, and cared for. Now once again, he must go forth to battle an enemy she knew little about. To her, losing a son to gain land in the south was unthinkable. Van Thanh was still part of her body, and killing surely must be a sin against Buddha. But her entire life had been affected by war and man's laws, rather than Buddha's. At this moment she secretly wished Van Thanh had been born female, then this terrible departure might not be happening. The deep love shown for her remaining child could not be held back by simple pride as she dropped to the hard crusty ground on both knees, and started to wail as if life itself were being drawn from her frail body. Van Thanh's natural reaction was to reach down and pick her up. His body was leaning forward when he felt the stern grip of his father's hand. "Don't, my son. Go forward to fulfill your duty," Nguyen Thanh's voice was sad but firm. " I'll care for your mother." As if under a semi-hypnotic spell, Van Thanh picked up a chinese rucksack, adjusted the equipment to fit his shoulders, turned and started a five kilometer trek to battalion headquarters. For fear of crying publicly, he forced himself not to look back. Instead, he concentrated on joining his new assignment, and carrying the war to the americans. Van Thanh arrived at his Infantry Battalion in less than an hour. During the quick pace he regained lost composure. Now all thoughts turned to future battles, and many hours of loneliness that lay ahead. As he approached a gated entrance of the 144 th compound area, a sentry immediately recognized the approaching officer's presence. "Good afternoon, sir!" the sentry spoke smartly. Van Thanh returned his salute and greeting, then requested directions to the Adjutant's office. The sentry gave accurate directions, and with military precision guided Van Thanh to his requested destination. "Remarkable," Van Thanh thought, "If soldiers could react this efficient under combat stress my job would be a lot simpler and easier." Then a thin smile emerged on his face, knowing soldiers were not always that efficient in combat situations. "To the contrary," he thought, "When men start dying on a field of battle, a majority seems to forget, at least temporarily, and relies on instincts for survival, which sometimes they too, proved fatal." Turning a corner at the far end of the corridor, Van Thanh saw an ADJUTANT sign above a door. Peering into a small office was an infantry Major wearing black horn- rimmed glasses seated at a desk constructed entirely of bamboo. In his hands he held several papers. "Come inside," the officer ordered. Van Thanh quickly entered and stood at a rigid position of attention.

"At this moment, Van Thanh, there aren't any requirements for strict formalities. Sit down, please." Van Thanh sat on a metal folding chair, waiting for his senior to speak. "Warrant Officer Van Thanh, you were wounded in action slightly more than a year ago. Am I correct in making this statement?" Momentarily caught off guard by this particular question, Van Thanh wanted desperately to believe mistakes made at Khe Sanh in 1967 had earlier been corrected. Obviously, this was not completely true since a senior officer holding his service records would not initiate an interview inquiring about his wounds. "Yes sir, but..." The major interrupted, "I am not here to question tactics or decisions made by other officers you were unfortunately assigned with in the illfated 153 rd battalion. If we are to win this war of liberation, Van Thanh...and we will win, then mistakes made by the 153 rd will serve as a reminder to everyone who has to continue fighting this war until the people of the south are reunited with their kin here in the north."

"Yes sir," Van Thanh replied crisply, not knowing where this interview was heading.

"I need to confirm the approximate geographical location you were wounded. Was it near Khe Sanh?" ''Yes sir, it was in that general area." the warrant officer replied. Van Thanh now realized he had not formally introduced himself to this major, yet this officer knew him on sight. He waited tensely for the Adjutant to speak, for his military discipline included knowledge that junior officers speak only when requested, and remained silent while the Adjutant scrutinized his records, then looked at Van Thanh, smiling. "Warrant Officer Van Thanh, you have nothing to fear insofar as your previous military experiences are concerned. However, it is my duty to inform you this battalion will move south without your presence. You are to be transferred from this unit immediately." Van Thanh was stunned, but remained silent, waiting for the senior officer to continue. "Instead of moving south with this battalion, you have been selected for a special combat assignment on order by Group Army Headquarters. You should feel extremely proud, Van Thanh. This battalion is honored that Group Headquarters selected one of our own." At this particular moment Van Thanh did not feel honored. Often he had heard rumors of special combat assignments, and surmised the North Vietnamese army must have an acute shortage of special combat assignment survivors.

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