combat

machines down there. Or any long-wall equipment.”
He drove over Frank’s gathering protest. “I need you here, Frank—not buried hundreds of yards down in the ground. We’ve got to build us a real little army now. I’m counting on you to show me the ropes. You’re a real veteran of a real war, which I’m not.”
Frank stared at him. Then at Quentin Underwood, then at James Nichols, and then at Ed Piazza. Those were the Vietnam War veterans in the room.
“I will be good God damned,” he mused. “Whaddaya know? The Vietnam ‘era’ is finally classified as a for-real war.”
The other vets chuckled. Quentin eyed Mike. “How ’bout me?” he demanded. “You going to insist on putting me in a uniform too?”
Mike shook his head. “No offense, Quentin, but you were stationed on an aircraft carrier. I need men with combat experience on dry land. James was in the Marines, but he’s one of our only two doctors. Ed—”
The short, stocky principal laughed. “Not me! Spent my whole tour of duty as a rear-echelon motherfu—” He broke off the vulgar term, glancing warily at Melissa. She responded with a grin and a wagging finger. “The closest I ever got to action was being caught in a shoot-out in downtown Saigon between the police and some black market­eers. You want a real combat vet like Frank.”
Jackson made a sour face. “I was in the Eleventh Armored Cav, Mike. I haven’t noticed any tanks parked around town.”
Nichols’ eyes widened a bit. “You were with the Blackhorse?” he asked. “Good outfit.”
Frank returned the doctor’s compliment with a brief nod. “So were the Marines. By the way, which unit were you in?” He shook his head. “Ah, never mind. Later.”
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