[IC] Operation Tropic Thunder

[Pepschep]

October 14th, 1961
Fort Campbell, Kentucky.

A morning like any other. Midway through October, the temperatures were dropping but still not to a cold that makes one want to curl up and go back to sleep. Especially not in the army. And especially not for the First Sergant. However, the tales of mischief from the recruits waking you up every night at 3AM makes you capable of going with progressively less sleep. However, tonight was not one of those nights. The Good Lord Above blessed Francis with a 5AM wake-up call, which he took. On the other end of the line was a platoon XO, who reported that one of the rookies decided it was a good idea to head into town after lights out, get drunk, and sneak in before lights out. This was not something Francis was charmed by, and he thus dressed up in his green field uniform, grabbed a bottle of sunscreen and marched out to the suck ground, where a Lieutenant, he must've been a greenhorn, was holding a young corporal up right as the entire base came out for morning routine. In view of everybody, including Bobby D., the LT was angrily informing the Corporal he broke discipline, but his attempts at exercising authority were marred by his youth and inexperience. Enter Francis. Marching up to the Corporal, he stoof before him pushed a pottle of sunscreen in his hands. WE DO NOT WANT THE PARADE GROUND TO GET SUNBURNS IN A SWELTERING HEAT LIKE THIS. YOU ARE GOING TO APPLY TANNING LOTION TO IT AND REPORT BACK TO YOUR PLATOON COMMANDER WHEN YOU'RE DONE OR THE BOTTLE IS EMPTY. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!

SIR YES SIR!, the Corporal replied.

DO I LOOK LIKE AN OFFICER TO Y'ALL?!

NO FIRST SERGEANT!

THEN I DO NOT SEE THE CONFUSION. GET TO YOUR PLATOON!

The corporal ran, and Francis returned to his office. As he saw just about everyone go there, he asked a Lieutenant what was going on. "We're going on an exercise in Florida, sir. Haven't heard many more details yet, but we're shipping."

"Oh, good. It was getting boring here. When are we going?"

"At seven, sir".

"Alright, I'll go finish up some paperwork and pack." 'Some' was not the best description for the amount of paperwork Francis still had left, but it mostly had to do with some fucknuts and other issues the men of the 101st had. Francis wasn't an office worker, he wasn't a clerk, and he sometimes resented having to be one, but it was for a good cause: the welfare of the men under his command. Besides, the pay wasn't bad and neither was the scared look of those greenhorns trying to prove themselves. But now the time for fun had come: toting a gun as section or platoon commander. Maybe he'd meet someone friendly while out in Florida.

[Byrd Man]

"Man, I heard them Miami girls give the best head. Like a gator they snatch it up like--"

Bobby mimed an alligator chomp with his mouth and hands, causing the barracks to break out into laughter. Bobby's face broke out into a wide grin as he packed his gear. Florida! Shit, it wasn't much better than being around here but it meant leaving Kentucky. It was alright living on base, even the redneck assholes had gotten used to negroes being in the army. But that was on base. Outside the walls, it was fucking Kentucky and Bobby was good enough to fight and die for them peckerwood sons of bitches, but he wasn't good enough to eat at the same lunch counter.

He imagined Florida would be little better. Shit, it was probably even worse with the Cubans. He'd heard stories about them from Mathis who was from outside of Miami. They'd been run out of their country by the Beard and acted liked they owned every goddamn thing. The Cubans came in and shouldered their way onto the second rung of the racial hierarchy. They White people hated them and cussed them, they turned around and they hated the negroes and cussed them. God Bless America.

"I hope we end up around Daytona," Mathis said with a grin. "They do some fucking car racing out on that beach, boy. Y'all would fucking love it."

"That would require the army to let us have fun," said Jacobs, one of the sergeants. "Since when is that going to happen."

"Shit," said Bobby. "We'd sooner see that bald motherfucking Russian be elected president before we see that shit."

[Pepschep]

Francis did his quick paperwork and recollected what he had to pack for the big trip. But before any of that could happen, he had to address everyone who lined up to listen - all combat personnel at Fort Campbell - and inform them on the upcoming field trip. He was chosen, rather than a senior officer, because he looked and sounded more authoritative. He walked up on the podium turning towards everyone neatly lined up, facing them and enjoying the sight of discipline - and the Corporal applying sunscreen to the pavement. "TEN-HUT!", Francis shouted, and everyone stood attention. "At ease", he said in a calm voice. As everyone stood at ease, he began his address.

"Good morning ladies. Hope we didn't wake y'all too early! We've got a field trip coming up! Except this time the school buses will be C-130 Hercules transport aircraft, and instead of the local museum or Civil War monument, we'll be going to Tampa, Florida. The purpose of this is our participation in Exercise Tropic Thunder, which simulates our deployment to Florida and an invasion of Cuba. This has become a necessity since the Big Cigar took the Big Seat in Havana. Anyway, we'll be shipping in within four hours and fly to Daytona airport. There, we will receive briefing on what we're supposed to do, and we'll see what we'll do then.

Now, before y'all go off to pack your bags and candy or whatever, I would like to remind you that it is your duty to uphold the honour of the Screaming Eagles. With us are some other prime units: The 82nd Airborne, the Marines, and the 1st Armoured. We are to - and we will - outshine them in front of the public and in the reports. You see, if the President and the Brass read about the first version of this exercise, I want them to know that the 101st performed above and beyond what was expected of us, and left the other participants red in shame after looking at us. Anything less than that would break my Dixie heart!

Now if we do that, I'm not gonna let that go unrewarded. I will buy each and every one of y'all a cold beer, maybe two if I'm impressed, if we give the Marines and the 82nd a kicking. And believe you me, I can afford that. I've joined the army before Pontius, haven't paid rent, electricity, heating or water since then, and the pay's only been getting better! You've my word on that one. Anyway, I must remind y'all that we're heavily disrupting air traffic around Florida because we're hogging Tampa airport and grounding traffic for the sake of realism. Not my idea, but I'm not here to give ideas. So please, do behave and be friendly to the civilian population.

Alright ladies, you'll need time to pack up. Dismissed"

As everyone went to their barracks to pack, Francis did the same and packed everything, and when he was done he finished the office jobs. He sat down when he was certain he had everything, and lit a Cuban cigar. He looked at the picture on his desk, of his wife Dorothy and their five children. He smoked the cigar up and called her.

"Hey sweetie pie...I know it's eight o' clock on a Saturday, but I needed to call you...did I wake you up? Sorry, sweetheart. Listen, this just arrived. I'm going to Tampa in half an hour. Military exercise, maybe you'll read about it in the news. You take care...Wyatt got in a fight? Did he win?...That's my boy! Well, you go get some shuteye. I'll call as soon as I can. Bye now, sugar." He made kissing noises and hung up. In the door, a Sergeant was waiting with a smile on his face. "We're boarding, sir."

"Alright, Donovan. I'll be there."

[Byrd Man]

Bobby kept mostly quiet on the flight to Florida. He saw in between Briggs and Dixon on the bumpy flight over the south. He kept his mouth shut because Sergeant Jackson was just four seats away from him. He sure as hell didn't want to hear his mouth. Bobby wasn't afraid of Jackson. It was more like respect that edged close towards fear. Jackson fought in the War, not just the "Korean Conflict" like a few of the men here, but in the big one. While he was fighting Krauts and Japs and whoever the hell else, Bobby was literally sucking on his momma's titty. Jackson managed to make it through the war without dying, something Bobby's old man had never accomplished.

From Texas, Jackson was dickhead with a peckerwood accent. He treated Bobby like shit, but he also treated Dixon like shit and Dixon was whiter than snow. That counted for something. Still, a colorblind asshole is still an asshole. Bobby rummaged through his pack to find his smokes. Not finding them, he nudged Dixon awake. The tall, gangly looking guy blinked slowly as he woke up.

"What, man?"

"Let me bum a cigarette."

Dixon groggily pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and passed them to Bobby. He struck a match and lit up a cigarette, inhaling the smoke into his lungs before exhaling a long cloud above his head.

[Pepschep]

When the plane touched down, Francis was the first one out, taking note of everyone who was on board. As he said in Fort Campbell, Tampa Airport was out of order for the exercise. The chiefs valued realism, so this was to be expected. Jesus, Joseph and Mary, it was bright! Sunshine in October, like home! Kentucky really needed to borrow some of this. When the last one of the grunts left the plane, Francis threw his kit bag over his shoulder and walked to the main building. As First Sergeant, he had administrative duties (and his service record gave him the authority) that required him to be present at the briefings for this sort of stuff. The mama birds of the Screaming Eagles were gathered in one of the departure halls, and the commander there broke the news. "We're live, men. At 4 in the morning, we'll land in Cuba. Non-exercise. Boring details followed.

Francis' service record was pretty impressive. His baptism by fire was Drop Zone Able, in the early hours of June 6th, 1944. He'd seen and enjoyed Paris (he was 70% certain he had a kid in France), fought at Hell's Highway in Market Garden, fought in Bastogne, crossed into Germany and met the Red Army who brought alcohol. (He was 70% sure he had at least one child in Russia, too.) He camped out in Austria (Of progeny in Austria he is certain), and was sent stateside where he married and spawned some offspring the world could know about. In the 1950s, he had fought the Red Chinese and Koreans in Korea, barely surviving one bayonet encounter. Back with the Screaming Eagles, he was present during the Little Rock Crisis but uneventful base life was the norm. Now, he again got what he desired: Battle. He wanted to break with the usual boring semi-civilian life, but the prospect of battle still scared him. After all, he only had to be unlucky once. Again, he was asked to break the news. Time to use that motivational tone.

..."at ease. Gentlemen, there has been a chance of plans. Exercise Tropic Thunder has become Operation Tropic Thunder. We're NONEX, we're live, we're invading Cuba. It would appear that this morning, some flyboys took a lot of pictures of Soviet missiles on Cuba. When these missiles are activated, they could reduce every major city in the contiguous United States, save Seattle, to ashes within minutes. That is, as you may well imagine, unacceptable. It is an unprecedented provocation, and Chief Kennedy and I agree on one thing: They won't activate those missiles. We'll save them the effort. Tonight, we will jump around a town called Mariel, west of Havana. There we will secure the beaches for the 1st Armoured Division to land.

When what I have said sinks in, there will be two types of men among y'all. There will be those who accept the tension, the sensation, and that they're frightened of first combat. There will also be those who are lying to themselves. You're going into a shooting war, you're supposed to be scared. You'll pump this thing called adrenaline around, gets your senses going. It's not something to be ashamed about."

He paused, thinking of what he would say. He continued in a more solemn, confidential, and paternal way.

"You know, I've been doing some thinking. A lot of you guys are between the ages of 18 and 21. When you were sucking on your momma's tit, learning to walk or to talk, and how to eat with cutlery, I was doing my first combat jump. Drop Zone Able, as part of a trip called Operation Overlord back on D-day. You may have heard of it. And I was scared, too. I have to tell y'all, the jump was a mess. We were blown everywhere, but when we assembled we capture a few villages and looked for the Germans all night. With the eyes God gave me, I had to differentiate crawling Germans from the dark. That scared me. I was scared in Holland, during Market Garden. I was scared and frozen to my bones in Bastogne. I was scared in Korea, and I was even scared in Little Rock, Arkansas, when a violent crowd could contain someone special enough to pull a gun out on me. Boys, be scared. I'm scared too, with my service record being longer than the menu of a Chinese restaurant. The trick is to not let it rule you: rule your fear. Use it to stay sharp, stay alert, and stay alive. And don't be conscious about it, it'll come naturally. We're warriors.

I'd like to end this in a more uplifting note, so I'll get this out of the way. I'll be sending my wedding ring back home. I suggest that y'all send personal items and valuable items back to your parents or your better halves. Better than to have a Cuban, or worse, Mortuary Affairs, pick them off you.

Despite that, remember what you're a part of. We're Americans. We're soldiers. But more than that, we're screaming eagles. We're the finest fighting men of the United States. We've liberated Europe and Asia, and we'll liberate Cuba too. Because despite of what I said earlier about being sharp, I do not plan on having some upstart with a cigar in his mouth and Russian junk in his hand shoot me if the Nazis didn't! And none of y'all should! I respect the Cubans for having the brass balls to point all-killing weapons at us. But I don't respect them enough to not be a patriot, and forego grabbing them by the throat and grinding them into flour! THAT is what we'll do to them! And out of that commie flour, we're gonna bake a big, delicious, and free American Apple Pie!

And before I forget, back in 1944, when we were preparing to drop into Normandy, we all got mohawk haircuts. It intimidated the Germans, and it created a sort of brotherhood. The barbers are doing that again, and I highly encourage you all to get your hair cut while you can.

Finally, anyone who has the guts to sing 'Blood on the Risers' on board of the plane will be the first one out and will take point of his unit until we've won.

Be ready at midnight. Dismissed."

[Byrd Man]

Bobby sat in the plane as it headed south towards Cuba. Cuba. Fucking Cuba. Land of the motherfucking Beard himself. A pocket of turbulence sent the men in the plane bouncing in their seats. Bobby clung tightly to the Pig as the plane smoothed out and the flight went back to being steady. Besides the Pig, he had a full array of gear and a parachute. Sixty extra pounds of shit without even counting in the weight of the pig. He was ready for it. Shit, wasn't that why they always ran twenty miles in full gear all the time?

Dixon, his assistant that watched his back and fed him ammo, had it even worse. He carried the ammo belts and cannisters that Bobby would need to support the fire team. Dixon sat beside Bobby with knocking knees, his pale face turning a particular shade of green. Give the Sarge credit, his speech let them all embrace the fear without hiding behind braggadocio behavior. Bobby smoked a cigarette and looked through the dark cargo area to where the Sarge himself was sitting, right beside the door that would lead them out. He looked calm as a cucumber, but as he said he'd done this way too many times.

"Fuck Castro," Dixon said softly but rhythmically. "Fuck Castro. Fuck Castro."

"Fuck Castro," Bobby added, chanting louder and louder.

Within a minute, every paratrooper save the Sarge was chanting and shouting "Fuck Castro" at the top of their lungs. And then the Sarge got up and they prepared to jump, still yelling "Fuck Castro" over and over again.

[Pepschep]

The crew chief opened the back hatch of the C-130 as everybody stood. Francis joined in the chanting but made a time-out signal, which made everyone stop. All attention was on the incredible turbulence that kept on going, and the Sarge.

"Do you feel those shocks? That ain't an amazingly big pocket of turbulence, that is anti-aircraft fire! When this here light goes green, y'all will jump into it! I will give each and every one of you two seconds, TWO FUCKING SECONDS, to jump out before I will push you! And that would break my fucking heart! Do you fine gentlemen understand that?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"Sorry, the Ack-Ack is too loud!"

"SIR, YES, SIR!"

Francis pressed the button that lowered the hatch. The guys heard the awful roar of the engines get louder, the gunnery getting louder, and felt their bowel movements intensify. Those who stood close to the back, including Bobby, saw a beautiful orchestra of bombing explosions, AAA guns, fires, and airplane lights breaking the darkness of the night. To the left of bobby, the Crew Chief stood with an 8mm camera, filming the paratroopers before their jump.

"TEN SECONDS!", Francis shouted. The paratroopers repeated him in unison. And then the light went green.

"GO, GO, GO!"

And out they went. Francis gave everyone a forceful, encouraging pat on the back or shoulder before they jumped away. There were a few guys who stopped thinking and jumped. And then there were those, like Dixon, who hesitated. He stood right in front of Bobby, who saw Sarge Jackson grab the back of Dixon's jacket and tossed him out of the back like a bouncer would throw a troublemaker out of a club. Then it was Bobby's turn. "Jumping is much better than being jumped!", Francis said as he looked him in the eye and gave him a double pat on his shoulder. And then, when the last paratrooper was out, Francis shook the hand of the crew chief and went himself, shouting 'Geronimo!'

The cold air cut his breath, and he looked down in awe at the battlefield. The AA batteries at the Cuban encampments at the bases, which were hastily erected and just as hastily bombed by the American Super Sabres and Thunderchiefs. Pot shots were taken at the paratroopers in fall, but most of them went very, very wide as the AA lost track of them. But he had little time to admire the pretty picture, as they jumped from around 1000 and they'd be on the ground within a minute. The Sarge pulled the cord and felt the shock, and enjoyed the bliss and floaty feeling for as long as he could before he hit Terra Ferma again. He ditched his chute, readied his M14, and looked around for the rest of his stick, calling out for his section to rally. When they gathered, he pointed to the collection of shacks about a football field to the north. "That, boys, is a farm! Secure it and prepare to move to the beach, it's less than a mile! Off your asses, on your feet!"

[Byrd Man]

Bobby felt his heart pounding in his throat and his pulse roaring in his ears. The jump had his adrenaline flowing and his hands and arms were shaking. He barely heard the Sarge issuing the orders through the pounding pulse in his ears. He moved when the rest of the stick started moving, humping it across an open field towards the farm with the Pig clutched tightly in his arms. Training dictated that moving across open space like this made them prime artillery targets. But the Bear didn't have the same type of artillery capability as the Reds. They couldn't lollygag, but the chances of a shell coming down on their heads was slim.

A few minutes later they were at the collection of farm houses. Bobby got down on one knee, setting the Pig up near the perimeter of the shacks. He and Dixon would provide cover while the rest of the squad did a shanty by shanty search of the dwellings. Dixon passed him an ammo belt that he fed into the Pig and loaded it into place.

"Ready to rock and roll," he said to the squad. "Bobby D. has got your backs."

[Pepschep]

Sarge took point as the MG crew started covering their run to the shacks to check it for enemy activity. Though it was more to take up position to gather the sticks, as any commies in the shacks would've opened up by now. Hopefully not even civvies were in there, but this looked like something subsistence. And his gut was right. As they kicked in the doors and piled in with their guns drawn, there was not a weapon in sight. Nobody uniformed. Just an old father of the house, his wife, their sons and daughters, and two crying babies. Every room, every corner of the house was checked, but nothing of a threat was found. "CLEAR", Francis shouted at the top of his Texan lungs, and soon after every other party sounded off - doing much to frighten the locals who didn't have a clue what was going on.

Now to the second problem at hand: There was supposed to be a battalion of three hundred effectives dropped. At the current position, Jackson's section of forty-two and the rest of the company, totaling 126 guys, only made up about half of the paper strength. There were supposed to be two heavy weapons sections and another company at the farm, too. In short: They couldn't move out until they had a pot to piss in and a window to throw it out of. Francis took a moment to grab the pack of cigarettes from his helmet and lit one up with his zippo, scanning the perimeter. The bombardment by the Thunderchiefs and Stratojets, and not an enemy bird in the sky. Just the frantic fire of anti-air guns, lighting the sky up with their tracers. It was beautiful.

If Francis had more time to admire it, he would. Sadly, he had a programme with a few important signatures on it, and he had to stick to it. So he grabbed the lad carrying the radio and started inquiring as to where the hell those greenhorns and their sticks were. As Bobby came in to the Sarge's building for a better firing position for future ops, together with the rest of the guys, Sarge looked at him entering. And right as he stepped through the door, Sarge erupted into rage with no regard for the frightened civvies in the corner. Fortunately for Bobby, he was on the radio.

"ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT YOU'VE BEEN TO WEST FUCKING POINT AND YOU'RE INCAPABLE OF MARCHING HALF A COMPANY, INCLUDING MY HEAVY WEAPONS SECTION, OVER HALF A CLICK FROM TWO PLACES? YOU'D HAVE A POINT IF THE COMMS WERE DOWN, YOU YELLOW-BELLY MONTANA---"

And before he could state that expletive, the section came under small arms fire. There didn't seem to be automatic weapons -at least not many- and as all directions were being scanned, a small explosion which was more like a rifle grenade than anything landed about ten feet away.

"WHERE IS THAT FIRE COMING FROM?!", Sarge shouted as he grabbed his flare gun and shot it into the sky to illuminate the fields. It was full of Cuban troops, advancing on the farm. With the stock of his M14, he knocked the lights out and shouted that everyone should kill all sources of light. Subsequently he spat his cigarette on the floor and grabbed the radio again. "SECTION THREE, UNDER ENEMY FIRE - DRAG YOUR ASSES HERE IMMEDIATELY!"

Enough talking. Time for shooting. The Cubans were 'special' enough to open up from more than 150 yards with no cover, merely concealment -granted there was a lot of it-, and now they had to pay for it.