America 1982-Chapter 623 - 140 May God bless you

South Lebanese city, Nakoura, United Nations headquarters for the forces in Lebanon.

United States Army Major Robert Mikus sat on the hood of a military off-road vehicle, unconsciously folding his army cap into various shapes, his eyes sizing up the army elite from Warwick City, Kent County in Rhode Island:

"Lieutenant Dennis Herbs, I don’t know how many times you sold your ass to inflate your connections like you’d had a fucking enema, extending them from America to this godforsaken place in Lebanon! But I must admit, your approach is highly effective in the military, since I promised that higher-up who used to screw me in every position back in West Germany that I’d look after you just like he did for me."

Upon hearing the commitment to look after him, Dennis’s expression relaxed, and he whimsically whistled to express his mood. Tommy’s and SSD’s connections in the military system were as developed as the roads in Lebanon; no matter how much Israel bombed them, the Lebanese always found ways to move ammunition and terrorists along those paths.

"Shut your backup asshole. Before I finish talking, I don’t want to hear any sounds from your ass, neither the one on top nor the one below!" Robert banged his fist on the hood of the car with a loud sound to signal Dennis to shut it as he reacted to the whistle.

"Yes, Sir!" Dennis pulled himself together from his previously frivolous and lax posture, standing up straight and declaring loudly.

Robert gazed into the distance at a landscape filled with ruins: "The United States Military has three teams here in Nakoura. One is the damned United States Marine Corps skiving off in the United Nations Peacekeeping Forces behind me, manning checkpoints near the city, using frisks as an excuse to outright grope the breasts of female refugees!"

"Another team is the mollycoddled progeny of the United States Navy, supposedly protecting Lebanon’s coastline and monitoring the Lebanese Navy’s activities under the guise of supporting the establishment of a naval department for the United Nations Peacekeeping Forces, preventing the Lebanese Navy’s armaments from falling into the hands of terrorists, as well as conveniently carrying out some smuggling on the side to make a profit."

"Then there’s us—the glorious United States Army, always fearlessly appearing in the most dangerous places on Earth. You’re in luck to be assigned here; the job is quite easy. Officially, we’re United Nations personnel, but in reality, we’re gathering intelligence on both sides in this region, sending the collected data back to the Pentagon for those armchair generals to review, deciding if it’s worth selling to Israel or Lebanon for a profit, or keeping it to accumulate precious experience for future wars."

"Your file says you apprehended a Soviet spy in Turkey and received an award. In Beirut, you destroyed an enemy secret base, earning another commendation and with these two honors, you managed to secure a promotion to lieutenant—ahead of many of your 1988 West Point classmates. And now, you’ve voluntarily asked to be sent to the front line. I like elites. When I first laid eyes on you, I knew you were the real deal. Lieutenant Colonel Marshall didn’t stint on his praise for you either, a subordinate he held in such high regard as you is rare."

Dennis, upon hearing himself referred to as an elite, felt the need to correct this mistaken impression and hurriedly began to explain:

"Sir, may I have a moment to clarify? There might be a minor discrepancy in my file, particularly regarding the definition of ’voluntary application.’ I was actually coerced by Lieutenant Colonel Marshall..."

"That’s not important, Lieutenant!" Robert interrupted, hitting the hood once more, then softened his tone:

"The important thing is, you’re here. For an elite like you, the best care I can think of is giving you an early opportunity to earn your stripes. While your peers from West Point are still licking their superiors’ vehicles clean, you’ll be in the Pentagon. That’s why I’ve decided to give you command of Tough Guy Platoon, because your file says you’ve yet to truly command a small unit. Now, your file has been updated, and a new Chapter in your military career begins."

"Tough Guy Platoon?" Dennis blinked, "What’s that?"

"A small unit that’s a headache for everyone. Lieutenant Marvin, bring our new Lieutenant Dennis Herbs and..." Robert gestured to his driver and adjutant, flipping through the transfer file beside him: "Lieutenant Glen Davis to meet their subordinates. Damn, the file shows that Lieutenant Glen Davis is only one commendation away from a promotion. You two are really doing well."

Technically, majors aren’t supposed to be assigned adjutants, but who in the army cares about that? Dennis himself always had his loyal black adjutant Glen with him everywhere.

"Come with me, Lieutenant," said Robert’s adjutant Marvin, motioning to Dennis.

Dennis looked at Robert, who waved him off: "Meet your subordinates today; we’ll talk about the specifics tomorrow."

"Sir, I have a question. Where did the previous commander of Tough Guy Platoon go?" Dennis asked cautiously.

At the mention of the former commander of Tough Guy Platoon, Robert paused with a hint of sorrow and then said wistfully, "Lieutenant Harry committed suicide out of shame. He was a paragon of an American soldier."