The following day Ortega wanted to meet Trautman personally, but in order to do it he had had to go up to Saigon.
It may have been a long and dangerous journey, but Ortega went given that he didn't really have any other choice
He had to go back to the US and he had to do it now while the entire Baker team was on leave and before it was too late.
Manuel Ortega was concerned about losing himself in Vietnam because he didn’t want it to happen.
He wanted to keep both feet on the ground.
Therefore, the first thing he did was get himself a helicopter ride, and then a couple of truck rides and in the end even took a bike to make it. The SOG Command Centre was located inside the US embassy. When he arrived, he noticed some of the embassy walls still showed signs of the Tet attack, which had taken place a year earlier.
Once he had identified himself to the grade crossing, they announced his name at the office entrance and asked him to wait.
Trautman came down in person to pick him up at SOG Command.
He showed him the Command Centre where an enormous map of Vietnam and its neighbouring countries hung on the wall.
The room stank of smoke and sweat and there were many small groups of people talking to each other.
They had just ended a meeting that had lasted several hours, Trautman told him.
It was a good thing he arrived in the morning or he would have had to wait for hours.
“Do you want a job, son? A mission? RT Missouri is leaving right now. You’re still in time to prepare, equip and join them.”
“We weren’t a recon team like the others were, Sir.”
“I know that son,” Trautman smiled.
“I created you.”
“Right.”
Ortega collected his thoughts and then added:
“Can we speak privately?”
“Of course, son.”
Trautman left room and they went into the corridor.
His office was nearby.
The two of them went in. Trautman closed the door behind him and sat down at his desk.
“At ease, Ortega,” he said with a smile.
“Yessir.”
“Go ahead, shoot. What’s on your mind soldier?”
“It’s just that, well, I know I told you that I was planning on staying at the base, in Dak To Sir. However, well Sir, in all actuality, I’ve changed my mind, Sir. I would like to spend my leave in the US, Sir, that’s all, if I still can of course.”
Trautman didn’t hide his surprise.
“Christ...” he said.
In all honesty, Ortega had expected Trautman to get angry about his change in plans.
Judging by the expression he generally had on his face however, he looked angry already.
Yet, to Ortega’s surprise, he didn't get angry, or at least, he wasn’t the kind of angry Ortega imagined he would have anyway.
“For Christ’s sake Ortega,” Trautman began. “Are you trying to tell me that you came all the way to Saigon to say that? Have you lost your mind? Wasn’t a phone call enough? Or a message even?”
“Sir?” Ortega said a bit unsure.
“You’re already on leave soldier. You could’ve left for the US without giving anyone any kind of notice and you would have done well, in full right doing so.”
“Well, with all due respect Sir, I had informed you however that I would be at your disposal despite being on leave.”
“Am I speaking a language you don’t understand, Ortega?”
“No Sir,” he said looking up at the Colonel instantly and suddenly put himself at the ready.
“Good. You can do what you want, soldier. If you want to leave, leave. If you want to join RT Missouri, they’re locked, loaded and ready. Therefore, there’s no doubt you’re welcome to go if that’s what you’re looking to do. Otherwise, you can go out with any of the other recon teams ready to dispatch, and if you’re worried it’s too soft for you, don’t be because I assure you their missions are just as hard as yours are!”
“I want to go and meet my family, Sir.”
“Of course that’s what you want soldier,” Trautman responded.
Then, for the first time, Trautman’s voice went cold.
“Right, I heard you loud and clear soldier. What I’m trying to get at is why you didn’t want to meet your family before.”
“Well Sir, I …”
“It’s a simple question, soldier.”
“I don’t know what to answer, Sir.”
“That’s just as well, Ortega.”
Trautman shifted position in his chair moving it forward so he was up close to Ortega. The Colonel altered his tone for a second time, and said:
“Let’s cut out the ‘Sir’ formalities for a second. What I’m about to say I’m gonna’ say as a friend and that’s not something I like to do often or regularly. As a matter of fact it probably won’t happen again, so open your ears and listen very carefully because I’m gonna’ say this one time and one time only.”
“Sir?” said Ortega not following the Colonel at all.
There was an awkwardness overcoming Ortega that he hadn't felt since elementary school.
“You don’t look so good in my opinion, Ortega,” Trautman said, finally spitting out what was really on his mind
“In fact, in all honesty, you don’t look good at all.”
Ortega was taken aback by the Colonel’s candid comment.
Unexpectedly, Ortega was having a vision, and it was playing out right before his eyes.
Initially somewhat blurry there seemed to be an open area in front of him, and right in the middle of it, there was blood.
As the scene unfolded before him, there was a chopper and it looked like it was down. Yeah, it was down and there was a figure just lying there, not moving. Looking more carefully, he realized it was Jorgenson; it looked like his skull had been crushed, and someone was shooting incessantly from the downed chopper right bloody well next to him.
Looking around the vicinity, he saw a body of water, and almost inevitably, a hand emerged from within it. It was Lowell’s and he was grasping at anything and nothing because the rapids carried him away.
“You just don’t look good at all, in my opinion,” the Colonel repeated to him.
Ortega came back to reality.
“I don’t think you have the nerves for this job right now. Now, don’t get me wrong: I said nerves and nothing but nerves. You’re the best officer I’ve ever had and I’d be willing to swear on it. I raised you, damn it. I moulded you into the leader you are and you’re my personal masterpiece, and I’m not kidding. I did the exact same thing with Rambo, as a shadow-man, and now he’s my personal masterpiece in that too.
Your problem is you suffer too much.
You also care too much I might add.
I get it, I get it. You’re a fucking perfectionist.”
Ortega lowered his head somewhat defeated.
He felt awkward that the Colonel could read him the same way he read any old open book.
He felt vulnerable and was in no means used to it.
“You are a perfectionist Manuel, but that doesn’t always work at war, you know, and especially not between the operatives in particular. The fact of the matter is, and you know better than anyone else does, perfection has never existed at war, and never will.
There’s nothing dirtier, rougher or more imperfect than war.
At the end of the day, just the fact that there’s a fucking war going on means everything has gone very wrong already. It means that we couldn’t reach it and had to try on the field.
You know…
War is always bad business.
Then naturally, with all of these films coming out made by people who haven’t the slightest idea of what war really is, give everybody an outright wrong idea about it, but you and I know how it works for real.
You never walk away with a clean conscience from it.
Sure, you can be victorious, of course. That’s possible and someone always does.
Can you get the job done with a clean conscious? That’s impossible, and it doesn't even happen when you win.
There’s no such thing as a victory without loss.
The cost of victory is always too high: too much blood, too many civilians or too much money. Then at the end of it all, there’s always something not one-hundred percent right about it.
There’s no such thing as a seamless victory because that’s the way war is, period.
That’s its nature.
Is that clear?”
Ortega nodded.
“Of course it’s clear. It’s clear to everyone by now. It’s just you and despite knowing it, you just can’t accept it. You’re the one who still hopes to go back to the base to find everything perfect. Jesus Christ.”
Ortega didn’t reply.
“I know that’s the way you reason. How many friends is capturing a VC officer worth? How many dead friends will it take before my victory starts looking more like a disaster than anything else does?
To you and people like you, a single loss equals a defeat, but in exchange for a single loss, you can save a hundred lives.
Sometimes I see it that way too, in a certain respects. Of course I do.
The problem here Ortega is that that suffering in silence is a part of a being a soldier. It’s a duty.
I’m not telling you that you have to stop suffering, or that you have to be a robot either.
I’m just saying that you’ve got to work at being stronger, because quite frankly, I don’t think you’ve been strong enough this far out.”
Ortega didn't flinch.
“You’ve gotta’ learn how to not give a fuck, soldier.
You’ve gotta’ learn to give your best while not giving a fuck about the unimportant details.
After all, you’re one of the best already.”
Trautman quietly reflected for a moment but then went on to say:
“Son, I can’t teach you how to do it, but there are two things I can do for you. I can point the problem out but then it’s up to you to fix it before it’s too late, and I can tell you how I solved it.
How many have to die? However many it takes.
Not even failure phases me anymore.
I lose men – and trust me, I’ve lost far more men than you ever will – expecting nothing less from them than I expect from myself.
They know damn well they won’t be squandered, and that I’m ready to die with them at any moment if that’s what it takes.
They can’t expect more than that however, nor do they.
To save those prisoners in ‘Point of No Return’, you sacrificed two of your men, and you see this as a failure, or a mistake made on the field. That’s not how I see it, however. It was a calculated play made on the field logically based on combat judgement and there’s a medal in your honour to prove it.”
Ortega nodded.
“There’s one last thing, Ortega.
If you don’t change your course, it’s not going to get any better. It’ll just make you feel worse actually.
Been there, done that.
The dark moments will outnumber the rest.
You’ll wind up looking forward to getting back to the base at night just to get drunk, so you can forget.
You’ll carry on day in and day out thanks to the booze you drink or the black-O you smoke and nothin’ else. Then one day you’ll end up injured and you won’t understand if it was an accident or if somehow, some way you let it happen because – all things considered – you wished you were dead.
You’re in bad shape, Ortega, you and Jorgenson both, and in the long run, one day your problem is going to become my problem.
Nevertheless, if you eventually give up because you don’t think you’re up to this, keep in mind whoever takes your place will be a lot worse at it than you think you are.
You’re the best, Ortega.
And I certainly can’t afford to lose my best.”
“Thank you Sir,” replied Ortega, taken aback more by the fact that he had mentioned Jorgenson than by being told he was the best.
His impression of Jorgenson was spot on and couldn’t be better.
There was something the matter with Jorgenson too.
This “something” was in place long before ‘Point Of No Return’ ever transpired.
Then, looking straight at the Colonel, Ortega went on to say:
“I don’t think Jorgenson is in good shape either, Sir.”
Trautman sighed in resignation.
“Tell me about him then,” he said, changing the subject at long last.
Finally - thought Ortega to himself but after reflecting a moment replied:
“There really isn’t much to say.”
“I don’t think it’s a question of the time he spent in the jungle. Even before he ended up missing in action there, he kept making all kinds of mistakes. He was always distracted, tired, and largely, without a good reason. Worst of all however, he was aggressive with everybody. Everything irritated him before that mission. There isn’t a single person in Dak To right now that doesn’t hate Jorgenson, except us of course. Let’s have him checked, Colonel.”
Trautman looked down at the papers on his desk.
“Yeah, we might do.”
Then, a moment later, he added:
“Considering he is on leave in the US, I could get him checked by a specialist back home and fix the matter with a couple of cables.”
“Do it Sir, please. Do it as a personal favour to me, if possible.”
“I have a few strings I can pull, yes. I might just do.”
“We can’t work with him if there’s something wrong, Sir.”
“Right.”
Trautman looked outside the window at the clear blue sky.
“That’s just it, Manuel.”