On 15 May 1970 the 7th Battalion, 402d Infantry was reorganized under Department of the Army TO&E 7-35F. Headquarters and Headquarters Company was organized under TO&E 7-36F and the rifle companies under TO&E 7-37F. A few months later Companies D and E were added. Company E was a weapons support element with 81mm mortars and 90mm recoilless rifles. A reconnaissance platoon that was designed to work as a highly mobile rifle platoon or in six-man recon teams under direct control of the battalion commander was attached to Company E.
Officially an airmobile infantry battalion organized under these TO&Es at full strength had the capability to: close with the enemy by means of fire and maneuver in order to destroy or capture him; repel enemy assaults by fire, close combat and counterattack; seize and hold terrain; conduct independent operations on a limited scale; maneuver in all types of terrain and climatic conditions; and to make frequent airborne assaults.
At full strength the rifle companies fielded 121 men plus six attached personnel. A company consisted of three platoons and a command post. Each platoon had three 12-man squads and a platoon CP. A squad consisted of seven riflemen, a thumper man (M-79 grenade launcher), an M-60 ma-chine gunner and an assistant gunner (the AG carried an M-16), an RTO (carried an M-16) and the squad leader.
Platoon CPs consisted of the platoon leader (usually a 1st lieutenant), a platoon sergeant, a medic (attached) and an RTO. The company CP was headed by the company commander and had three RTOs. Attached to the main CP were the company medic, an artillery forward observer (usually a lieutenant) and a Kit Carson Scout, a Vietnamese interpreter-scout-liaison.
On 13 August Company A was at 68% strength. This was typical of the entire battalion. Bravo Company was at 70% strength, Charlie at 59%, Delta 66%, and the Recon Platoon of Echo at 74%. HHC stationed at Eagle was at 81% strength.
A military unit tends to have a character of its own, an identity comprised of its history and traditions and of the personality of its commander. A squad becomes an extension of the squad leader, a platoon a compromise of the platoon leader and platoon sergeant; and the company, the body of the captain or lieutenant who leads it. Battalion tends to be the last level where the brunt of a commander’s whims, likes and dislikes are felt by the individual soldier; yet even at brigade level the colonel marks the collective personality of the units below and again at division and corps and army. At the beginning of August 1970 there were 403,900 US military personnel in Vietnam: 293,600 Army, 22,600 Navy, 48,200 Air Force, 39,300 Marines and 200 Coast Guard; all deriving a multifaceted American personality from the leadership of MACV in Saigon and from the Pentagon and Joint Chiefs and on up to the President, Commander in Chief of all US military forces.
The division personality of the 101st was hard-ass spartan, perhaps the most spartan of all army units in Vietnam. The division ethos was purposefully directed and developed from the style, zeal and esprit de corps of the airborne of World War II. Tradition, heritage, rugged, tough and Airborne All The Way; that was the 101st Airborne. The 101st had stormed through Europe at Eagle’s Nest and Berchesgadten and Zon, had endured the Battle of the Bulge at Bastogne with General Anthony C. McAuliffe’s famous ‘Nuts’ reply to German demands for surrender, had jumped into Normandy on D-Day. In Vietnam the firebases were named after World War II locales and slogans: Veghel, Bastogne, Eagle’s Nest, Ripcord, Airborne, Checkmate, Rendezvous and Destiny.
In 1969 the division became Airmobile and by 1970 most of the troops no longer were hardcore jump-qualified paratroopers. However, most of the senior officers, the leaders, were.
Lieutenant Colonel Oliver Henderson, the GreenMan, ran the 7th of the 402d. He was a strong commander. The stronger a commander the more he affects the men he commands. Henderson ran the 7/402 with stern exacting leadership. He allowed himself few luxuries and he allowed his troops none. Henderson seemed to be unaware of American troop withdrawals and the winding down of the war. He was busy fighting. His ‘SKYHAWKS’ battalion was a proud fighting unit.
Each infantry unit had a particular spirit of independence. This too was planned. Each company, each platoon, each squad and each man was independent and responsible for himself or itself, first and then responsible up the chain of command, link by link. The infantryman, infantry unit, ultimately, like no other military entity, operates alone. Some commanders expected their soldiers to execute orders like automatons but this, especially after the expose of My Lai, was neither the official nor the most prevalent style and it was not the GreenMan’s style. Soldiers were expected to follow orders but they were also expected to know the rules of the host country and of international warfare. If a superior did not follow the rules a soldier was expected to protest. More often soldiers were expected to interpret their own situation to determine the optimum course to accomplish the military objective. As an outgrowth of My Lai, no longer was an American soldier able to excuse barbaric actions by saying, “Sir, I was only following orders.” The GreenMan strongly emphasized that each individual was part of his own leadership and he was responsible for his actions.
The following chart outlines the organization and personnel of Alpha Companny, 7th Battalion of the 402d Infantry (Airmobile) on the morning of 13 August 1970. Symbols:
AG—assistant gunnner M60—machine gunner
FO—forward observer M79—thuumper man
KCS—Kit Carson Scout RTO—radioman
M—medic SL—squad leader
During the pre-dawn Cherry had lain bewildered and silent in the trench at LZ Sally. He had been silent yet he had wanted to talk. He had contemplated asking Jackson something but he could not think of anything to ask. He could not rest. The anxiety about the coming combat assault had caused his muscles to tighten, his stomach to squeeze.
He had been up at 0400 hours. Then it had been hurry up to chow, hurry up and pack, hurry up lug that crazy ruck up the hill from the battalion area to the Oh-deuce pad then wait. At 0440 he had hurry-upped into the Chinook and at 0503 he had hurry-upped out of the bird and into the trench. Then he had waited. “Hurry up and wait,” he had muttered. “SOP. Standard Operating Procedure.”
Throughout it all no one had spoken to him. It was as if he had never met them. It was as if he had not spent the entire night drinking and smoking and talking to them. Again he was an outsider.
It was still cold in the trenches and it was uncomfortable. Restlessly he fiddled with his helmet, his weapon, the radio in his ruck. He fiddled self-consciously, quietly, trying not to disturb anyone, hoping someone else nearby would be fiddling with his equipment also so he could speak. Cherry lay back and closed his eyes. He tried not to force them to stay shut but tried to allow them to remain closed of their own relaxed accord. His eyes would not cooperate.
The sky grayed. The silhouette of mountains to the west turned green-black where the lifting darkness accentuated ridges yet remained jet-black in the canyons. Within the ravines darkness still hung. Laconic chats and extended grumbles disrupted the close silence, the tiring rest.
Doc was suffering hangover pains and pains from the lump on the back of his head and the laceration on his forehead. The thought of the open wound irritated him. “What a sucka. Man, a cut’s a real sucka. Fuckin helmet rub it and keep it open for all them bacteria. Mothafucka gonna get infected. Can’t wear no fuckin helmet.” Doc tied his helmet to the top of his rucksack, shook the pack to be sure the helmet was secure and that it would not rattle when he walked.
“That a good cut, Doc,” Jax said. “Wish I had a cut like that. I think I’s catchin cold. That good too.”
“You need somethin fo it?”
“No way. Not yet. I got this cold now an I’s gowin keep it.”
“You need somethin.”
“I needs this cold, Man. Sound pretty bad, huh?”
“Sounds bad.”
“Like bronchitis?”
“Gettin there.”
“Yeah. Good. In three or fo days I get pneumonia. Gotta keep smokin.”
“There’s m
o cig’rettes up in the Sundry pak.”
“Yeah. I’s got get me sah mo. Yo need any?”
“I got em.”
“Ef I’s get pneumonia in a few days you gowin send me in on resupply fo a week a bed rest.”
“If you gets pneumonia.”
“I’s bet I can pull that out ta a month profile,” Jax said. He pulled out his hair pick and fluffed up his ‘fro. He said, “Then with the rains startin they aint ee-ven gowin send ol Jax back out. I’s gowin sit in that hootch all day with my water bowl an get fahhcked up. Let everythin pass til—WHAM! E-T-S.”
Morn’s early pallor penetrated the last light of the moon, permeated it, diluted it and finally diffused it until the moon disappeared. The fourth wave of Chinooks deposited Delta Company at LZ Sally. Warm sun assailed the ocher clay. The ground became warm then hot; the air lost its morning heaviness, the paddies their mist. The sun became blinding. In the ravines 246 boonierats huddled, covered their heads and eyes with towels or buried their faces beneath olive drab helmets still hoping time would pass without their having to endure its long uncomfortable minutes, its lagging dragging slow minutes, still waiting for the assault to begin. Slow minutes only a soldier knows. No, they are not like the minutes in a locker room before the big game nor like those backstage minutes before the opening night curtain rises. They are unique minutes. Soldier’s minutes. Boonierat minutes, undistinguishable minutes, undistinguishable millennia, unsavored, endured lonely minutes 13,000 miles from home. Once the assault begins the minutes will be different. They will be filled minutes. But these. These minutes. These. Perhaps the last minutes.
Above the first set of ravines the platoon sergeants of Alpha surveyed their men; Egan from the first; Pop Randalph from the second; Don White from the third. They spoke slowly and easily, the mark of old-timers. They laughed at each other’s quips and gestured toward the fuck-ups and laughed and cursed. The light skin of Egan’s face was already beginning to re-blister from the sun. Pop’s face, tanned deep red-brown with concentric creases surrounding watery red eyes, was dirt splotched where helicopter dust stuck to sweat. Don White, tall, wiry, coffee black, shrugged an unconcerned shoulder to the sun and lightly mocked Egan as Egan wiped salve on his lips.
“Mothafuckin cunt whore son of a bitch,” Egan mumbled scraping sand bits from sun blisters on his face and arms. “I hate these mothafuckin Shithooks and this fuckin REMF sun.”
Egan bent down and rifled through a sundry pak at his feet. The box contained candy and cigarettes, razor blades and shaving cream, toothpaste and brushes, writing paper, pencils and various odds and ends. The other sergeants picked through the box too. They left the box open for anyone who wanted to come up. Sporadically troops approached, took the candy and the cigarettes and returned to the ravines. Egan bent down and picked up a package of light blue stationery, then he rose, spat toward the trench and sauntered away. Fuck it, Mick, he said to himself. Drive on. His platoon was in order, had been in order for two hours. Echo Company still had not arrived.
Company commanders and operations officers and NCOs from Intelligence formed small groups on the landing strip. They had long since hashed and rehashed the operation schedules and objectives and now stood mostly silent, waiting to be under way. The sniper teams came in by Huey and reported to their assigned companies, dropped their rucks and regrouped on a small sharp ridge between the ravines of Alpha and Charlie companies. They too were mostly silent, smoking, checking their rifles and scopes.
The platoon leaders of Alpha joined Pop and Don White by the sundry box. All three were first lieutenants, young, in their early twenties, white, all-American ROTC officers. Two carried M-16s. Lt. Larry Caldwell carried a CAR-15. Pop sneered at him and the carbine and thought, that piece a shit. That weapon couldn’t hit a water-bo at two paces. Goddamn barrel’s too short, the buffer don’t sweep right and the damn thing jams evera other round. Wonder why Brooks lets Boy Asshole carry it.
In the trench below them one man finished reading a Fantastic Four comic book. He passed it to the man next to him who had been studying a worn skin magazine. That man passed his material to a man sitting up the ravine wall who had been reading a book on the religions of the people of Vietnam. The man on the ravine wall put the book down, glanced at the magazine, passed it on and returned to his book. The sitting and waiting became unbearable so men stood and waited. There was nothing else to do. It was impossible to rest anymore. Some men hunched over their rucksacks and adjusted the straps and ties and checked the pins on the grenades tied to the sides of the pack, tightening anything loose, checking the extra ammo to insure its easy accessibility. Other men cleaned their rifles, cleaned, polished, applied a light coat of LSA oil. It was the most repetitive action of the infantry, cleaning weapons. Soldiers disassembled their rifles, cleaned them, assembled them, checked them and then began again. Time passed.
Bellowing laughter exploded in a gully halfway down the landing strip, one very loud guffaw followed by secondary eruptions of giggles and chuckles. Men in other ravines stood and looked, strained their necks to see. Cherry climbed a step up the ravine wall to witness the joke. A smile came to his face. Yet the looking seemed to extinguish the joke and the gully quieted and the soldiers returned to their immediate worlds.
The restless infantrymen in the trenches and their clustered sergeants and lieutenants and captains on the landing strip represented a collective consciousness of America. These men, Chelini, Egan, Doc, Silvers, Brooks, all of them, were products of the Great American Experiment, black brown yellow white and red, children of the Melting Pot. Their actions were the blossoming of the past, blooming continuously from the humus of decayed antiquity, flowering from the stems of living yesterdays. What they had in common was the denominator of American society in the ’50s and ’60s, a television culture, the army experience—basic, AIT, RVN training, SERTS, the Oh-deuce and now the sitting, waiting in the trench at LZ Sally, I Corps, in the Republic of Vietnam.
A feeling of urgency, a contagious expectation swept over the men. The terrible enduring of minutes gave way to impetuous movement and thought, accelerating gradually, continuously, as lift-off time approached.
At the north end of the landing strip Egan sat alone, his legs dangling into a ravine. He was thinking of the World again, his non-Nam, pre-Nam World. I never did send her those sketches, he thought. He pictured the drawings of two homes that he had designed for a pre-architecture course. In their student days, his and Stephanie’s, he had sketched homes for her and she had designed interiors for him. In their heads they worked for each other yet they seldom actually sent the works to each other. Fuck it, Mick, Egan said to himself, I’ll bring them to her when I get back. He stared for a moment into the paddies before him then at the writing paper on his lap. He began a letter to Stephanie. He did not include date, time or salutation.
You are on my mind again. It is three years, maybe four now, since we lay on the freshly mowed lawn in the sun of mid-spring’s warmth. Maybe it is longer. Perhaps it is five years since we walked down darkened city streets in the quiet of pre-dawn or since we first sat on the floor in your room and listened to Sandy Bull’s Fantasia. I remember every moment, every word we said, everything we did. I do not know why my time here has not blunted my memory of you. Days with you stand out as if they were happening today, even with all that has happened between. I think I laughed a lot. You’d have to tell me for I don’t laugh like that anymore and it is possible I did not laugh then either but simply think I did when I think about you and me. I need to know if we ever really had what I sense we had or if it is just something in my mind now and it never was a reality.
When I was drafted—I wasn’t drafted. I enlisted. Did you know that? Was I that honest with you? I think you knew that whether I was honest or not. I have experienced it now, all and more than I wanted and I think now I could have stayed there with you and you would have been all the experience I’d ever have needed. But if I’d not gone I would have ne
ver known. Stephanie, we are starting a new operation this morning and I must get busy. I’ll continue this later.
Leon Silvers sat in a trench with Minh, Whiteboy and Doc. He also was restless. The others were fidgeting but not talking. Silvers opened his journal to make the day’s first entry.
Day 223—I look around me at my boonierat brothers and their sincerity amazes me. My own sincerity amazes me. I do not know if I am or am not my brother’s keeper or if I should be. I do not know if it is morally proper for my country to attempt to assist another to stop the infiltration from a third. I do not know if we should fight and spill our blood and have those we try to rescue spill theirs and again spill much of our enemy’s. Perhaps we should not. Perhaps we should not have gone to Korea either. Or to Europe for the First and Second World Wars. I don’t know if morality has anything to do with it, yet I look around and see these young men here about me. How can we feel this responsibility? Is that not morality?
All mankind is my brother.
Am I not my brother’s keeper?
If then, one of my brothers
Turns against another,
Am I not responsible to maintain
The latter’s keep?
All mankind is my brother.
I do not wish to side with one Brother against another.
I do not wish to have a brother
Against me.
But if all mankind is my brother
Mustn’t I be the keeper
Of my brother in need?
Why do some of my boonierat brothers think we should withdraw completely? Would we then not be like so many Jews in the 1930s allowing the world to push them around? I look about me and I know these men believe as I do, most of them at least, we must be here. If we were to leave, it would be immoral. Once we behave in an immoral way, we will lose our spirit and wander in the wilderness.
Silvers stopped writing. He looked around. It was very warm. There still was nothing to do. He removed a sheet of paper from the back of his journal and began a letter to his brother.
13th Valley Page 18
