conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a plot for a book about Crouching, Beast, War entitled The Crouching Beast?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Crouching Beast: In 1915 during the First World War, a British secret agent is killed while stealing secret Turkish plans for the Gallipoli Campaign but manages to pass his information to an American journalist.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Crouching Beast
  General would turn, frowning, to Colonel, who would speak in glacial tones to Lieutenant Colonel, who would call over the captain, who would immediately scurry off looking for the platoon leader responsible, whose first act would be to demand an explanation from his platoon sergeant, who would grab the nearest trooper unlucky enough to be around and curse him expertly while he removed the offending item. Had things ended there, it might not have been so bad, but they rarely did. Like sharks who've tasted blood, they went on a mindless feeding frenzy for the next half hour or so, ranting and raving while the rest of the firebase was subjected to a minute and probing search for discarded cigarette butts or other acts of high treason.
  Eventually, general and colonels would mount their shiny air busses, amidst a swirl of dust and wind (which, on one memorable occasion, blew half the contents of the trash dump across the bunker line) and return to their air conditioned quarters at Division or Corps or MACV, there to write scathing reports and plan their next descent into the lower regions. Left in their wake would be a battalion commander whose temper had been ratcheted up to hot-eyed incandescence. It would take him a week to calm down, and since these inspections occurred almost on a daily basis, the resulting state of Black Jack's disposition can be imagined. Or perhaps not, if you've never seen him in action.
  I tried to be fair about the whole thing, telling myself that these senior officers had a job to do, as did I, and that we were all God's children, but there were times when I wanted to echo the words of Phil Nelson, spoken softly and barely audibly to a retreating general's back: "Good God Almighty, General: Ain't you got nothin' better to do than look for coke cans, for chrissakes?"
  The week passed. Sunny, in the main, which was good, as we'd long since become accustomed to the heat, while nothing could ever inure us to the damp and cold of the monsoon. Rumors were swirling, as was the dust from a dozen Chinooks, bringing in equipment, food, water, ammunition and, oh, sandbags, in case we ran out. There was a new firebase being built, out in the valleys west of our AO. The name was Blaze, and it was supposed to be huge. Why it was placed there, and when we'd see it, formed the core of most of the rumors.
  One afternoon, Jerry sent word that he wanted to see me in his CP bunker. The last time I'd gone to his bunker at his request he'd cajoled me into helping him blow down some trees on the west slope, and what happened next took ten years off my life. After mulling over the idea of sending back word that I'd died and was unavailable, I decided that I had to face the music sooner or later.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It wasn't long before the first casualties began arriving. The first two or three were ambulatory, running down the path with that curiously desperate air, like men being pursued by a dread beast, that the lightly wounded often have. I recognized a youngster named Meecham; his left arm was a montage of blood-brown and faded green: Shrapnel, from an RPG or claymore. Another appeared to have taken an AK round through his hand; he was holding it awkwardly in front of him, in his other hand, face twisted in pain. The third limped down, rapidly, despite a large splash of dark red on his upper thigh. All of them were helmetless and weaponless, a hallmark of defeat.
  Then the first impromptu stretcher came down; four of Dickerson's men, one holding each corner, struggled down the path. The body on the poncho seemed absurdly small; blood, almost black in the dim afternoon light, covered his chest. The man's eyes were closed and his head swung purposeless to the swaying of the poncho. Morphine, possibly, or simply passed out from the pain.
  It went on that way for several minutes, while the rifles and machine guns continued their steady hammering. Then the first body was brought back. It too was stretched out on a poncho, but only the legs identified the red-black mass as a soldier. Oh, and the head. Curiously, Rosenstreich's head and face were intact; his eyes too were closed, but everything between his groin and his neck was an obscenity, not even recognizable as meat.
  Another body was brought back; this one I didn't recognize. I found out later it was McCarrell. But I did see Larson, Denholm's RTO. His body was intact, complete, with no sign of war's heavy hand. His eyes were open, and for a moment, I stood there puzzled, wondering what was wrong; everything seemed normal. Any moment now he'd blink and sit up... and then I realized he had three eyes, not two. The third was faintly red-black, exactly between the other two, and just above the slope of his nose.
  They continued to come, some on their own, some supported by one or two other soldiers, and some swaying and bumping in the ponchos, leaving trails of blood behind. They were all brought down to the lower slope, where the open spaces were. But then Eward, de facto in charge of the PZ, made a disquieting discovery: It was too difficult to bring in a Huey; the land there sloped just enough to make it impossible for a medevac to hover or land anywhere close to the ridge; the radius of the blades dictated that they would have to remain at least 40 or 50 meters from the ridge and trail, and Eward simply didn't have enough people to secure the ridge and the open slope alongside of it. There was too much high ground nearby, and too much open area.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Watson, Hill, reminded.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It wasn't long before the first casualties began arriving. The first two or three were ambulatory, running down the path with that curiously desperate air, like men being pursued by a dread beast, that the lightly wounded often have. I recognized a youngster named Meecham; his left arm was a montage of blood-brown and faded green: Shrapnel, from an RPG or claymore. Another appeared to have taken an AK round through his hand; he was holding it awkwardly in front of him, in his other hand, face twisted in pain. The third limped down, rapidly, despite a large splash of dark red on his upper thigh. All of them were helmetless and weaponless, a hallmark of defeat. 
  Then the first impromptu stretcher came down; four of Dickerson's men, one holding each corner, struggled down the path. The body on the poncho seemed absurdly small; blood, almost black in the dim afternoon light, covered his chest. The man's eyes were closed and his head swung purposeless to the swaying of the poncho. Morphine, possibly, or simply passed out from the pain. 
  It went on that way for several minutes, while the rifles and machine guns continued their steady hammering. Then the first body was brought back. It too was stretched out on a poncho, but only the legs identified the red-black mass as a soldier. Oh, and the head. Curiously, Rosenstreich's head and face were intact; his eyes too were closed, but everything between his groin and his neck was an obscenity, not even recognizable as meat. It reminded me of Watson, the pilot, on Hill 1485. 
  Another body was brought back; this one I didn't recognize. I found out later it was McCarrell. But I did see Larson, Denholm's RTO. His body was intact, complete, with no sign of war's heavy hand. His eyes were open, and for a moment, I stood there puzzled, wondering what was wrong; everything seemed normal. Any moment now he'd blink and sit up... and then I realized he had three eyes, not two. The third was faintly red-black, exactly between the other two, and just above the slope of his nose. 
  They continued to come, some on their own, some supported by one or two other soldiers, and some swaying and bumping in the ponchos, leaving trails of blood behind. They were all brought down to the lower slope, where the open spaces were. But then Eward, de facto in charge of the PZ, made a disquieting discovery: It was too difficult to bring in a Huey; the land there sloped just enough to make it impossible for a medevac to hover or land anywhere close to the ridge; the radius of the blades dictated that they would have to remain at least 40 or 50 meters from the ridge and trail, and Eward simply didn't have enough people to secure the ridge and the open slope alongside of it. There was too much high ground nearby, and too much open area.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last four paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: After retiring, I drove up to Hermansville, Michigan, a small town near Iron City, where I visited with Tom St. Onge's parents; the town has built a small museum in Tom's honor. His nephew has provided me with several photographs Tom had sent home.
  I never made it to Thief River Falls, the home of Myles Westman, but I have been in touch with his relatives. I told them how much we thought of Myles.
  At the last reunion, in May 2012, Charles Littnan attended. We spent many hours discussing what took place on Dong Ap Bia. He was my CO for only a little over three weeks, but he was a thorough professional and I admired him greatly. Despite his wounds—it took him years to fully recover—he remained in the army but is now retired, living in Arizona.
  Finally, I have spent some time with General Honeycutt (now long since retired, of course). He hasn't changed much. He did let me in on a secret: The fact that First Platoon got the tough assignments—Dong Ngai, rescuing Charlie Company—was no accident. I never heard a word of praise from the man, but he trusted me. Well, as I said, he wasn't paid to be my buddy. And he still swells with pride at the job his Rakkasans did, in those ten days in May.