Notice

Crashing into the chair, the disheveled President of The Russian Federation turns toward the speaker-phone centered on the small table before his wobbly body.

“Yes, Mr. President, one missile.” Defense Minister Grachev’s voice calls out from the phone.

“Why would they only launch one missile?” a slowly speaking, half-asleep or drunk President Yeltsin asks out-loud.

Is he expecting an answer?

I don’t know enough to answer that, yet.

I hope General Grachev can.

“It may be a first strike, Mr. President.” Grachev’s voice returns to the room.

Looking over President Yeltsin’s rounded shoulder, I can see the black nuclear-command suitcase, it’s lethal to millions or more contents open on the desk.

I didn’t get to say goodbye to Katerina or the kids this morning.

“What do you recommend, General?” The President asks the Defense Minister.

A commanding silence fills the room.

Could we go to nuclear war now?

Stalin didn’t attack when we developed the bomb.

We made it through the 60’s with Cuba and Turkey without ending the world.

We survived the 80’s with Reagan’s insanity before the ABM, Nuclear Test Ban and START treaties brought him around.

Now that we’re at our weakest, could NATO be attacking us with one missile?

. . .

Why would anyone attack with one missile?

“We need to prepare a second strike right away, Mr. President” General Grachev replies.

A second strike?

If we launch a second strike it will be Armageddon. For one missile?

“We have two minutes, Mr. President” Grachev offers, as if issuing an order.

“Could it be a test, Sir?” I almost shout, not even realizing I was thinking such a thing.

President Yeltsin turns around slowly, holding the desk for support.

Behind me I can feel the others backing away.

I didn’t step forward, but I’m standing alone now.

A test, what kind of test could it be?

A nuclear missile test?

An anti-satellite test?

A test of our defenses?

I’m going to have to give him some kind of explanation.

His bloodshot eyes now staring directly at me, President Yeltsin is awaiting my explanation.

Grachev, on-the-speaker phone, jumps in before I can say anything.

“It could be a test, Mr. President.”

“Yes”, I say, “It could be a test of a rocket, a satellite launch, a weather probe. It could be any of those things, Mr. President.”

“IS THIS A TEST?” he demands.

“We don’t know, Sir.” I retort without thinking.

I don’t know.

“It does not match any of our launch scenarios” Grachev chimes in from the phone “But, that does not mean it’s not an attack we have not yet considered.”

May it not be an attack.

May it be a test.

How could we know if it’s a test or an attack?

Banishov, from the Defense Ministry chimes in “If it were a test, they would have told us beforehand. Our Early Warning Radar Operators had no forewarning of a test.”

President Yeltsin turns to him, but ask the room in general “No one told us they were going to test?”

“One minute-thirty seconds, Mr. President” Grachev announces.

“Tell me, anyone, were we told someone would launch a rocket?” Yeltsin demands.

Would anyone here announce they received an advisory, now?

In the face of nuclear annihilation, would anyone be brave enough to say they received notice, but didn’t tell anyone else?

Would I admit my mistake?

Some shuffling is taking place between Foreign Minister Kozyrev and some of his deputies. One of them runs out of the room.

President Yeltsin turns torward Kozyrev, “Do you have something you wish to share?”

Please have something.

Please tell us you received notice of a test.

“I’ve asked my deputies to look into all of the notices we’ve received” Kozyrev responds.

“One minute, Mr. President” Grachev chimes in. “We need to prepare the Second Strike option, NOW, Mr. President.”

President Yeltsin, his tired eyes darting back to the phone faster than his shaky head can turn, almost topples in his chair.

“Yes, yes, be ready with a strike, but do not issue any orders yet. The last thing we need right now is for more confusion.”

“No one answered my question, did we receive notice of a test?” President Yeltsin demands.

“We’re looking into it” Kozyrev replies.

“Anyone else?” President Yeltsin turns to Victor Chernomyrdin, the Head of the Government, who is conferring with Kozyrev and his deputies.

They are debating something, which I cannot hear.

Chernomyrdin then turns to the President, “There may be something, we are checking.”

Let there be something, an overlooked notice, a news report, something.

A young man, I’m not sure from what ministry, rushes in while announcing “Norwegian Scientists gave notice of a rocket launch to study the atmosphere. This could be the . . .

“Thirty Seconds, Mr. President” Grachev jumps in.

. . . missile.” The young man finishes.

A research rocket!

Please let it be a research rocket!

“This could be a ploy, Mr. President” Grachev’s voice comes across the speakerphone.

“It could also be true, Mr. President.” Kozyrev counters.

“What do you think Victor?” the President asks Chernomyrdin.

“A one-missle strike makes no sense, and there is evidence this is a science rocket. There is no evidence it is an attack, Mr. President.” Chernomyrdin says.

“Stand-Down Pavel, No Second Strike.” President Yeltsin speaks clearly into the phone.

“Yes, Mr. President” Grachev’s heavy voice slowly replies, a little forlorn.

WE’RE NOT GOING TO END THE WORLD!

MAY THE AMERICANS NOT BE ATTACKING!

Just then, the deputy to Kozyrev returns flustered, saying something to his boss.

Chernomyrdin turns to Kozyrev “What is it Andrei?”

“We did received notice of a rocket launch by Norwegian and American scientists today.”

IT’S NOT AN ATTACK!

The President chose correctly!

President Yeltsin turns to Chernomyrdin, who gives him a nod, before looking back at the phone on which Grachev’s line is currently silent.

“Pavel, it looks legitimate.” The President announces.

“Then why wasn’t the Defense Ministry notified?” Grachev demands.

Yeltsin looks at Chernomyrdin, who turns to Kozyrev, who then directs his visage at one of his deputy’s.

Even when it comes to the possible end of the world, shit always rolls down hill.

On January 25, 1994 the world came the closest it has ever been to nuclear annihilation. The Cold War was over. There was hope and promise across much of the world about the triumph of Western Liberalism and democracy. Yet, when Norwegian and American scientists launched a Black Brant XII sounding rocket from the Arctic Circle island of Andoya to study the aurora Borealis, it almost caused the end of humanity and most life on our planet. The scientists had issued warnings to 30 countries around the Arctic Circle, including Russia. Unfortunately, with all of the confusion of the day, the Russian early warning radar operators were not notified. They alerted Moscow of an incoming first-strike, forcing someone to wake and offer President Yeltsin his black nuclear-command suitcase. Yeltsin hurriedly phoned his Defense Minister and huddled with others to decide what action to take. This was the first time either a Soviet or Russian leader had used the nuclear briefcase in response to an actual alert. Yeltsin decided it could not be a first strike and did not retaliate.

This decision turned out to be the correct one, although Yeltsin did not know that at the time. It wasn’t revealed until later that the Russians had been notified, but the information had not been shared with the Defense Ministry.

Nuclear weapons have been around since 1945, with many close calls of their use being narrowly avoided at the last minute. Somehow, humanity has, so far, not destroyed itself with these potentially all-life-ending weapons. We’ve become comfortable with the (As Dan Carlin offers in metaphor: Growing up with a Gun to our heads) of these weapons ready to be used at any time because it’s an abstract idea very few humans in history have witnessed. Nuclear weapons are very real, their stockpiles are increasing, and threats of their use have become far more commonplace in the past five years.

I’ve walked the nuclear test-sites in the Nevada desert and can vouch for the destructive power of small versions of these weapons.

We are simply measuring time until their next use, as they will be used again. What misunderstanding, mistake, or mis-deed will cause that use. The bigger question is: What will become of life on the planet once we’ve broken that taboo?

Carrier Commando

Putrid darkness surrounds me.

Where is the exit?

How long until we’re out?

Rather than dwelling on these questions, I move on.

Nao, pushing forth from behind me, does not seem to be phased by the stench of human excrement combined with restaurant waste and who knows what else in the blackness of this Saigon Sewer.

How is he not sick too?

My stomach wretches as I push forward.

This ends soon.

Keep pushing through.

The weight of more than 25kg of explosives on my back helps keep my stomach in check.

Crawling my way through the blackened liquid in the dark on this humid May night, I can make out a change in the shade of darkness ahead.

Pausing for a moment to let my eyes adjust, I feel Nao push my foot from behind.

Maybe that’s it!

He pushes again.

I start toward to deep gray circle ahead.

Yes, an end to the sewer!

We will be able to breath again!

Turning my head around, I whisper “I see the exit” just loud enough for Nao to hear me.

He taps my foot twice as I turn again to keep going forward.

Slipping down the end of the sewer pipe, into Saigon Harbor, my eyes need time to adjust.

Nao slips down behind me, the heavy pack on his back brushing me as he quietly half-submerges his body in the harbor waters.

Just meters ahead I can see our target, the aircraft carrier the Americans audaciously docked here to deliver aircraft to the puppet regime.

This harbor air smells and tastes so good!

Without acknowledging the change in air intake, Nao puts on his snorkel just before diving under the water toward the carrier.

Pulling my snorkel out of my pack, I put it on just in time to follow him by just a meter.

This water feels so good as compared to whatever was in that sewer.

Oily, filled with debris and algae, this water surrounds me with a fresh clean feeling of liberation.

Near the aft of the ship, Nao dives deeper.

I take a deep breadth before following him down.

No sense being seen this close to getting the job done.

He swims another fifteen meters alongside the curving hull of the ship, staying below the water line.

I follow him, making sure not to get too close while not losing him in the wet dark shadow of this massive metal monster.

Nao stops swimming, rising to surface under the bilge outlet flow.

I rise next to him, pointing to the hole out of which the bilge is being pumped.

We should place a bomb there.

He nods his head in silence, assenting to my idea.

Aligning my body with the curve of the hull, I put out my arms so Nao can mount my shoulders.

He deftly ascends the side of the ship, using me as a base from which to leverage his body against its hull, rising arm over arm until he’s in-line with the bilge outlet.

Once next to it, he places three American made plastic explosive charges securely against the metal skin of the ship in a triangle formation.

That should make a pretty big hole.

Connecting wires to each explosive, he pulls the lines down as he descends his body toward the water.

When Nao is back in the water, I take the other three explosives out of my pack.

He turns to look at me, at the explosives, then at the hull of the ship.

When he turns back I see a smile on his face.

Handing him the explosives, he turns again toward the ship.

He places them in a second triangle, just above the water-line, directly below the first set.

While he’s placing them, I get the wires and timer out of my pack.

He turns toward me again, pulling the lines from my hands without a word.

I smile.

This will make a huge hole! We’re going to sink this beast!

Nao connects the wires from both triangles of explosives to the timer, before diving under the water.

What’s he doing down there?

He comes back up, holding a handful of slimy mud from the bottom of the harbor.

Packing it with his hands, he then places it on the back of the timer, before attaching the timer to the hull of the ship.

Ingenious!

An empty pack on my back, a settled stomach, and a mission set-up, I turn to go back under the water and return to the putrid stench of the sewer.

Nao puts his hand on my shoulder, pushing to turn me back around again.

What did I miss?

As I turn toward him, I see him pointing to the timer, it’s not set.

Oh!

I look him in the eyes, smile, and move toward the timer.

Of course, what would the point of any of this be if we did not set the timer?

Placing both hands on the device, I turn the electrostatic nob halfway, which should give us ten minutes to get back into the sewer, and far enough way to escape the blast and any search party sent to find us.

Nao’s hand pulls on my shoulder again.

I turn to see him already heading back under the water toward the sewer.

I’m not staying here!

Diving silently into the water, I follow Nao to the sewer entrance.

May this drive the Americans to make a different choice than the French.

Get out!

On the night of May 2, 1964 two members of the National Liberation Front (NLF, aslo known as Viet Cong by Americans stationed in Vietnam) crawled out of a sewer in Saigon harbor near the United States Naval Ship (USNS) Card, an escort carrier from World War II which had been used for three years to transport aircraft and trained crews to South Vietnam. The NLF fighters planted American made explosives on the USNS Card before slipping back into the sewer from which they had entered the harbor. A few minutes later the explosives ripped a giant hole in the hull of the carrier, sending it to the bottom of Saigon harbor. This attack disabled the ship for less than 20 days, at which point it was repaired enough to be sent to facilities in the Philippines and Japan where it was rebuilt. The attack was not reported widely in the United States, but was a propaganda coup for the NLF, showing they could strike at a massive piece of American military equipment. This kind of attack was replicated in 2000 when the U.S.S. Cole was attacked in Aden harbor with explosives by Al Qaeda. At least in that attack, the explosives themselves were not of American origin. In war, bribery and corruption of your own, or allied personnel, may leave you vulnerable to your own weapons. Especially, when you’re not supposed to be there in the first place.

Surrounded

“HERE THEY COME AGAIN.” Strained words project from the dark ridgeline as at least two battalions of North Korean infantry storm up toward my platoon.

My voice is cracking, as are my men.

We’ve been holding a forward perimeter, just south of the main peak of Hill 931, ahead of the rest of C Company, since our Battalion’s attack stalled early this morning.

Instead of sending reinforcements, Battalion told us to stay put.

We volunteered to hold the front. Now, even with support from artillery, mortar, and heavy machine guns, we’re about to be overwhelmed.

“STAY LOW AND FIRE!” I order, hoping my guys stay out of the crossfire between the rest of our battalion and the oncoming red tide.

“LIEUTENANT, WE CAN PULL BACK,” Sanchez, my radioman, yells toward me.

God Bless!

Battalion must have realized our position is untenable. How nice of them!

“ALRIGHT, WE’RE PULLING OUT!” I yell to the men. “FIRST SQUAD, I’LL STAY WITH YOU. SPREAD OUT AND COVER THE REST OF THE COMPANY. EVERYONE ELSE, PULL BACK.”

As my hands fumble with a belt of ammunition for our light machine gun, I order Sanchez, “Leave the set, I’ll need it.”

He climbs out of the harness while moving the Motorola behind a rock.

At least most of my boys will be able to rejoin battalion.

Men start running back toward the line, leaving first squad and me out in front of the whole unit.

“KEEP FIRING, THEN MOVE!” I yell, hoping to stave off a wholesale sprint by most of my men.

“COVER FIRE! MAINTAIN COVER FIRE!” I scream as I tap the light machine gun twice to signal to Perez it’s loaded.

Before I can even take my hand off the device, it’s already heating up from projected rounds spewing forth toward the reds.

Tracer rounds streaking overhead keep me low as I move toward the Motorola.

We need more artillery support.

“THIS IS C COMPANY. WE NEED MORE FIRE SUPPORT NOW!” I yell into the device, fingers trembling on the speak button.

“There’s too many of them!” Napier yells from somewhere in front of me.

We’re going to be slaughtered out here if we wait any longer.

“FIRST SQUAD, EVERYONE BACK TO BATTALION!” I order in the loudest voice I can muster.

I can’t let these boys die out here while the rest of the unit is on the ridge.

Thomas starts heading back, followed by Richards.

Then Wallace and Zopa pop up from an outcrop.

Where’s Pililaʻau, my BAR carrier?

“PILILA’AU, GET BACK!” I call out, not knowing exactly where he is after so much movement to cover the whole position by just a few men.

“I’ll stay LIEUTENANT!” I hear from in front of a rock outcrop about 10 meters from me.

“I SAID EVERYONE!” I yell back.

“YOU’LL NEED COVER LIEUTENANT!” he replies, fire still coming from his position.

I can order him to get out of here, but he’s right, I do need cover.

Just 20 meters ahead of my positions, massive explosions burst as our artillery finally shows up. Despite this onslaught of explosive and shrapnel, I can see reds advancing through it. Limbs flying, bodies flung about; yet they continue up the hill.

“USE WHAT AMMO YOU HAVE, THEN GET OUT OF HERE!” I order.

Back on the Motorola, I scream above the din, “PUT EVERYTHING ON US, THEY’RE STILL COMING!”

The staccato firing of the Browning automatic rifle reassures me Pililaʻau is still out there as I look over the rocks toward the ever-advancing North Koreans.

Some must have seen me as rock splinters shoot out in every direction, inches from my shoulder.

I’ve gotta move.

Sliding away from my rock, I take the Motorola with me to find another safe perch from which to call in the artillery. Looking right and left, I’m lost in time for a moment. I cannot see beyond the small black-filled night, interrupted intermittently with tracer rounds, and finally, the bright burst of explosive shells as artillery is plowed over our position.

Finding a rock about fifteen feet from my original position, I hide behind it to catch my breath.

I haven’t heard Pililaʻau since the last burst of artillery.

“YOU STILL THERE?” I yell, not knowing in which direction I should be calling to him.

“YES LIEUTENANT, BUT RUNNING LOW ON AMMO FOR THE BAR,” he replies from somewhere in front of me. I can’t make it out in the darkness.

“PULL BACK NOW!” I order into the darkness.

More lightening, like bursts of artillery, with the accompanying crash of thunder, as round after round lands among the onrushing red tide. Bullets again start striking near me. Tracer rounds as long white perfectly straight lines, streak across the night, shattering rock near my head.

Shit, I must move again!

“I’M MOVING AGAIN, GET OUT!” I scream into the ether as I run back toward where I think the rest of the unit is holding the line.

During my ascent up the slope, an unstoppable crescendo of rounds striking rocks and dirt streams forth from all directions.

Both sides must be shooting at me!

Just twenty meters away from where I think our line is, the dark outline of dug-in soldiers is illuminated by the tracer rounds following me up the slope.

“THIS IS LIEUTENANT HAGAR, DON’T SHOOT!” I scream in an almost failing voice, hoping my guys can hear me above explosive artillery rounds landing nearby.

“GET HERE!” someone yells from in front of me.

Yes, they heard me!

“HAS PILILA’AU GOTTEN BACK YET?” I ask all as I jump into a dugout.

“Lieutenant, he’s not only not come back, but look,” Zopa replies, pointing back out toward where the artillery is bursting. By the light of explosive rounds, I can make out a single man throwing grenades toward the onrushing Koreans.

DAMN IT, HE DIDN’T GET OUT OF THERE!

“GIVE HIM COVER BOYS!” I order, not knowing how many men heard me.

Flashes of artillery keep his silhouette visible as we fire all around him. From just in front, behind, and to his sides, I can see Korean soldiers thronging, thrusting, and thrashing at him.

Within reach lays an unused rifle, so I pick it up.

“FIRE ALL AROUND HIM!”

Firing tirelessly to his left I see him pick up rocks to throw.

He’s out of ammo and grenades.

“KEEP FIRING!”

Pililaʻau pulls out his trench knife and lunges at a Korean soldier as a new set of explosive rounds lights up the whole face of the hill. Revealed by the explosion, a mass of Korean soldiers flows like a wave toward us, except in the area where Pilila’au’s fighting them off tooth and nail as an island in a sea.

His silhouette crumples, as if hit by a bullet in the mid-section.

He’s down!

Then the mass of Koreans continues forth over where he was fighting. Another round of bright explosive bursts reveals a Korean standing over something, bayonet in hand, stabbing at the ground.

He’s gone.

*****

Herbert Kailieha Pililaʻau

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Herbert_K._Pililaau

On September 17, 1951 Company C, 1st Battalion, 23rd Infantry Regiment, 2nd United States Infantry Division was ordered to take Hill 931 near Pia-ri, Korea. After the attack stalled at the ridgeline south of Hill 931 and north of Hill 854 a platoon of Company C was ordered to hold a forward position while the rest of the Company rejoined the main body behind the ridge. At around 10:00 p.m. two battalions of the 13th Infantry Regiment, 6th Division, Korean People’s Army, began a concerted attack on the American position. The North Korean attack overwhelmed this small force, compelling them to retreat to rejoin the company. Private First Class Herbert Kailieha Pililaʻau’s squad was assigned to stay back momentarily and cover the retreat. Eventually, only Pililaʻau and his squad leader remained at the platoon’s original position.

The squad leader and forward observer Lt. Richard Hagar called in artillery fire continuously ahead of Pililaʻau, trying to cover him while he moved, also calling fire on the two hilltops, while Pililaʻau continued to fight off the attack. At one point, Hagar became afraid that the artillery was too close and that he hit Pililaʻau. Hagar called out for him, and Pililaʻau said he was ok and told Hagar to keep going. After exhausting the ammunition for his BAR, Pilila’au began throwing hand grenades until those too were gone. As some of his comrades watched from their new position further down the ridge, Pililaʻau threw rocks at the attackers before charging at them, wielding his trench knife with one hand, and punching with the other. He was soon surrounded and killed by bayonet. When his platoon retook the position the next day, they found forty dead North Korean soldiers around his body.

A Native Hawaiian who was born and raised on the island of Oʻahu, Pililaʻau was a talented singer and ukulele player and an avid reader. Drafted into the Army, he briefly considered declaring himself a conscientious objector, as his Christian faith made him unsure of killing others, but decided against this idea. He was sent to Korea in March 1951. Aged 22 at his death, Pililaʻau was buried at the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific in Honolulu on February 26, 1952 (Section P, Grave 127). For his actions on, what would later become known as Heartbreak Ridge, he was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor.

Medal of Honor citation

Pfc. Pililaʻau, a member of Company C, distinguished himself by conspicuous gallantry and outstanding courage above and beyond the call of duty in action against the enemy. The enemy sent wave after wave of fanatical troops against his platoon, which held a key terrain feature on Heartbreak Ridge. Valiantly defending its position, the unit repulsed each attack until ammunition became practically exhausted and it was ordered to withdraw to a new position. Voluntarily remaining behind to cover the withdrawal, Pfc. Pililaʻau fired his automatic weapon into the ranks of the assailants, threw all his grenades and, with ammunition exhausted, closed with the foe in hand-to-hand combat, courageously fighting with his trench knife and bare fists until finally overcome and mortally wounded. When the position was subsequently retaken, more than 40 enemy dead were counted in the area he had so valiantly defended. His heroic devotion to duty, indomitable fighting spirit, and gallant self-sacrifice reflect the highest credit upon himself, the infantry, and the U.S. Army.