A state of disobedience

Pecos, Texas

Tripp asked, simply, "Any final questions?" Seeing that there might be, he added, "And no, I don't mean questions like, 'Why aren't we going to rescue Major Williams and B Company?' That subject is already closed."

In the greasy and soiled garage turned into an ad hoc command post, Tripps' officers and his sergeant major shifted uncomfortably. They were no happier about leaving Williams and company in the lurch than Tripp was. They had no better answer, no better than Tripp, than to follow their orders and leave the guilt—if guilt it was—to others.

The silence, not so much sullen as sorrowful, built for a full minute before one of the staff captains, the quartermaster, asked, "Am I to be allowed to commandeer any supplies we might need on the way? Could help, sir."

"Take what you need. Give them a receipt."

"Yes, sir."

Tripp had a platoon of air defense artillery attached to his battalion. "Sir, can we get any easing of 'Weapons Tight'? My Rolands are good systems, but they need some time—at least to engage."

"No, son. Higher authority thinks the Air Force won't engage and the brigade commander thinks he can suck up the Marine's air onto the rest of the brigade. 'Weapons Tight,' it stays."

The lieutenant raised his eyebrows, lowered his eyes and made a small, annoyed symbol of his mouth. But he answered only, "Sir."