by James Estep
Fortunately, this disheartening task was soon someone else’s responsibility. My short-lived tenure as a battalion S-1 ended abruptly late one night in early December when Colonel Lich sent word for me to report, “bag and baggage,” to him at Battalion Forward, the following morning. Upon doing so, I learned he had relieved one of his company commanders the day before.
And I was that company’s new “Comanche Six.”
3. Bong Son Bridge, Binh Dinh Province. December 1967
At the time, Charlie Company was guarding Highway One’s Bong Son bridge on the An Lao River in Binh Dinh Province. The evening log bird (logistics helicopter, normally a UH-ID [Huey]) deposited me, along with our evening meal, on the bridge at dust. Within minutes of it having arrived, I made two observations: many of those who greeted me had been drinking, a couple excessively, and virtually all who greeted me held their previous company commander in high esteem, believing his relief to have been at best premature. With these truths in mind and recognizing discretion as being the better part of valor, I decided to retire to my bunker for the evening and start afresh with my new command the following morning.
Later that night, First Lieutenant Brightly, the company’s attached artillery FO (forward observer), visited my sandbagged encampment and provided me his unsolicited evaluation of the company from A to Z, what was right with it (in his mind not an awful lot) and what was wrong with it (as he perceived it quite a bit). He was opinionated, somewhat intoxicated, and slightly disrespectful. He was also, I soon discovered, correct in much of what he said.
“Company’s fucking shell shocked, sir. I mean they’re goofy … uh … know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t know what you mean by ‘goofy.” Are you talking drugs?” I replied.
“Hell, no. And by the way, call me Slim, sir. Hell, I’m your Foxtrot Oscar, we’re gonna be close. FO and CO gotta be close, ‘cause you can save my fucking ass, and I for goddamn sure can save yours. ‘Member, I’m the link between you and all the artillery in the fucking free world! FO and CO gotta be close, figuratively and literally. Me and the outgoing Six were close—yeah, close—and that’s why I know what’s wrong with this fucking outfit.”
“Shit, it ain’t drugs, and it ain’t booze.” He paused momentarily, smiling, “… I mean regardless of what you’ve seen here tonight, hooch ain’t a problem in the company; we see very damn little of that! And it’s not snuffy either. Shit, company’s got the best soldiers in the division, whole goddamn Army, matter of fact. It’s Charlie. And the war. And luck, or the lack of it.”
“Slim, you’re gonna have to spell it out clearer than that,” I said, unable to comprehend the drift of his rambling. “I mean I don’t believe in luck or omens.”
“Well, shit, neither do I!” he responded, almost indignantly. “But see, the company’s had a bunch of folk killed in the last two, three months, more wounded. Snipers, booby traps, little piss-ant ambushes, you name it. And sir, we ain’t even seen a fucking gook! Snuffie’s saying he’s in a hard-luck company. Fuck, every time we get into something, it’s our guys who buy the farm or go out on dust off.”
After a moment’s silence, I asked, “Well, Slim, if that’s the problem, what’s the solution?”
“Solution! Shit, sir, the solution is to kill some fucking gooks!
Solution is to get the body count going the other way. Company needs to see some dead dinks out there. That’s the fucking solution!”
He was right. The company had suffered several costly “hits” with little to show in return. Largely because of this, many of our soldiers now perceived self-survival to be the predominate unit objective. Such a precept is dangerous since it weakens unit cohesiveness and, hence, The Cav combat effectiveness. And in infantry combat, as in all other facets of conflict, the strong destroy the weak.
Charlie Company was an airmobile rifle company that, at any given time, had a foxhole strength (the number of combat-deployable soldiers) of approximately 130 men. It was organized into three rifle platoons—the company’s “cutting edge”—Each carrying thirty to thirty-five men on its rolls; a weapons platoon of fifteen to twenty soldiers; and the command section composed of myself, the first sergeant, my two RTOs (radio telephone operators), a medic, and an attached artillery FO and his recon sergeant. Each of the platoons was commanded by a lieutenant and was normally referred to by that lieutenant’s call sign on the company command (radio) net. Thus, 1st Platoon was called “One Six”; 2nd, “Two Six”; and so on.
With the exception of vehicles, we were equipped basically the same as any other light-infantry rifle company. We had no need of vehicles, since we winged our way to war aboard helicopters.
Remaining on the bridge for another week, we trained, reequipped, suffered the constant red dust of endless military convoys traveling Highway One during the day, and slept on the damp floors of our sandbagged bunkers at night. In the meantime, I talked with our soldiers as opportunity availed itself, in doing so learning something of their frustrations. Not surprisingly, these centered on being away from home, in the Nam, in the infantry, in a hard-luck company that they felt too often came out on the losing end of the stick when confronting Charlie.
Unlike the rest of the battalion—and certainly the division as a whole—which felt Charlie to be a second-rate opponent, in the minds of some of my soldiers the enemy had assumed an almost supernatural status.
He was everywhere, behind every tree, beneath every rock, just waiting for an unsuspecting C Company to stumble across him. He was perceived by these soldiers to be a winner, a better and more competent warrior.
I knew, as did many others in the company, that this simply wasn’t true.
Charlie was good and should be so regarded; however, he was no superman, and he sure as hell could be beaten!
One of those who knew he could be beaten was my first sergeant, Sergeant Sullivan. Referred to by the troops as the “Bull,” he was a tall, slim, wiry individual with a deeply tanned, weather-beaten face that sat under a closely cropped, grayish blond crew cut. He looked more like an aged SS storm trooper than like a bull. Or perhaps, more accurately, he looked like … a first sergeant.
Unfortunately, ours was not a case of love at first sight. Sergeant Sullivan was angry over the relief of his former commander and did little to hide his bitterness. And although he held me blameless for this turn of events, I was quite obviously the most visible reminder of his commander’s impetuous departure. I, in turn, was angered by what I felt to be his misplaced loyalty and surly manner, and I briefly toyed with the idea of having him and my executive officer exchange places at company trains. (In the Nam, a rifle company’s rear-echelon logistics base—normally collocated with battalion trains—was usually supervised by the company’s executive officer or its first sergeant, the choice, of course, being left to the company commander concerned.)
But Sergeant Sullivan would have none of that!
“Sir, don’t even think it!” he said when I suggested the possibility of such a switch. “First sergeant’s place is with the troops! Always!”
“Well, First Sergeant, I agree in theory; however, other first sergeants are in charge of trains, and they …”
“And they don’t deserve to be called ‘first sergeant,’ sir!” he loudly interjected. “Good God, how can they look their soldiers in the eye when they conduct their so-called field visits or when the company stands down?”
He paused briefly and then in a calmer voice said, “Sir, I know you’re upset ‘cause I’m upset over your predecessor’s relief, and I ain’t doing an awful lot to hide my feelings. Well, rest assured, I know you’re now, and you won’t find a more loyal first soldier than me.”
He smiled and added, “Shit, sir, I’m like an old wife now and then. Just gotta give me a couple days to work all this piss and vinegar out of my system.”
I relented, thinking to myself, Would I think more of him had he embraced me with open arms upon my arrival and slandered my prede
cessor?
Would he be a better first sergeant had he not possessed these lingering ties of loyalty to his former commander? Hardly.
My first sergeant and I avoided each other during our brief stay on the bridge, he going about his business—“working piss and vinegar out of his system”—and I going about mine. But that was okay The Bull and I would become close enough, soon enough. And I would soon discover that had I insisted on putting him in charge of our trains, I would have made the first and in all likelihood the biggest mistake of my tenure with the company. Because he was right; the first sergeant’s place is with the troops—always. Moreover, I would find that there were many things I could discuss freely with my first sergeant that I would have felt uncomfortable talking about with my own officers and would certainly have never mentioned to Colonel Lich or any of his minions. And there were many things I could learn from my first sergeant that these others could never teach me.
Looking back on it, company command would have been a lonely and dismal experience indeed had it not been for First Sergeant Sullivan.
4. Payback Time For Charlie Company
“Battalion Three’s on the horn, sir,” Specialist Four Blair, my battalion RTO, said, passing me his radio handset.
“Comanche Six, this is Arizona Three, inbound your location in zero five with four, plus two, plus two. How copy? Over.”
“This is Comanche Six,” I replied. “Roger, that’s a good … copy … uh … we’ll be standing by. Out.”
Our sort-of stand down on Bong Son’s bridge had come to an end. Major Byson, the battalion’s S-3 (Arizona Three), had radioed us a fragmentary order the night before, sending Charlie Company back to the boonies.
DTG 182145L DEC. Frago. Tall comanche conducts air assault on LZ Daisy, point of origin, Right three two, up zero four, at 190900 local DEC, Via four [UH-ID “Iroquois” troop-assault helicopters “slicks”], Plus two [CH-47 “Chinook” troop-transport helicopters “hooks”], Plus two [AH-IG “Cobra” attack helicopters], To seek and destroy enemy in AO Tiger three. blue max [radio call sign for the division’s aerial rocket artillery, or ARAI supports initial assault. DS Arty Provides two-minute LZ Prep and subsequent fires on call. current CEOI ineffective. ACknowledged.
After receiving Byson’s message, I had spent nearly two hours preparing the company’s air-assault order, relying heavily on a pound or more of laminated doctrinal material I’d “liberated” from the Infantry School’s air-operations department before departing Fort Benning. My efforts, I thought, had not been in vain. It was a model air-assault order, written strictly in accordance with the doctrinal requirements of those who teach others how to do such things. It had everything—assembly procedures, load plans, stick orders, helicopter ACLs (allowable cargo loads), contingency considerations en route, and, at the objective, LZ consolidation plans, fires, and on and on.
Having issued this work of art to my platoon leaders late the night before, I’d gone over it with them a second time after the morning log bird departed. Now, with our helicopters only five minutes out, we were once again assembled as I tried for the third time to explain my order to them—and they still couldn’t quite grasp it.
“Sir, I take the slicks, right?”
I turned to Lieutenant MacCarty, 2d Platoon, and somewhat impatiently replied, “Yes, Lieutenant, you take the slicks. I’ve stated that as clearly as I know how under paragraph three, ‘execution,’ subparagraph b, ‘subordinate unit tasks,’ and I quote, ‘2d Platoon conducts initial assault, via four UH-ID helicopters, to secure LZ Daisy. Is that clear?”
“Uh … yes, sir, that’s clear, but somewhere else in there you mentioned something ‘bout the ACL and crossloading.”
“Right,” I quickly responded, “that’s under paragraph three c, ‘coordinating instructions.” As I see it, based on what we know of the LZ’s air density and altitude, coupled with the info Three sent us, the approximate ACL per Huey is eight men. You have a foxhole strength of twenty-eight soldiers; there’s five of us in the command section. That’s a total of thirty-three, which means we exceed our ACL by one person. So you coordinate with Lieutenant Norwalk aboard the first Chinook and …”
Suddenly, I heard the familiar whump, whump, whump sound of inbound helicopters. All heads turned to see four dots on the southern horizon, closing fast.
Oh shit!
“Slicks on final, sir! Two minutes!” Blair yelled from where he stood atop the bridge’s command bunker, his AN/PRC-25 radio at his feet.
Oh, double shit!
I turned to my leaders, who as one looked back at me in total bewilderment.
Sergeant Marvel, Weapons Platoon leader (the platoon had no officer assigned), broke an uneasy silence by somewhat meekly asking, “Sir, where do you want my people to go? I still don’t really understand …”
Fuck! I can’t believe this!
“Sergeant,” I replied as calmly as possible, “you take the second Chinook … or is it the first? No, I think you have to divide your people between … wait a sec, goddamn it, I have the numbers right here under paragraph …”
The whump, whump of the inbound Hueys was noticeably louder when 1st Sgt. Bull Sullivan decided to intervene and save his new commander’s ass.
“Sir, why don’t you let me try to clarify your order?”
“First Sergeant, please be my guest,” I hastily responded, hoping for some small miracle on his part.
“Okay, you want Two Six to conduct the assault and the rest of the company to follow in the hooks, right?”
“You got it, First Sergeant. That’s the order in a nutshell.”
He turned to Lieutenant MacCarty and said, “Sir, you take the slicks and go in hot. Make room for headquarters on number four.”
MacCarty gave a thumbs up and replied, “Right, Top.”
Turning back to me momentarily, Sergeant Sullivan asked, “You did want to go in with the assault, didn’t you, sir?”
“Of course I go in with the assault. See, it’s right here under paragraph five, ‘command and signal,’ “Company headquarters initially accompanies … oh, to hell with it.”
He had already turned to Lieutenant Norwalk, 1st Platoon. “Sir, you take the first hook, okay?”
“Right, Top.”
Then, speaking to Lieutenant Halloway, 3d Platoon, he said, “Three Six, you’ve got the second hook.”
“Right, Top.”
Finally, turning to Sergeant Marvel, “Haden, split your people between the two hooks and consolidate on the LZ.”
“Right, Top.”
“Any questions?”
In unison, “No, Top.”
And they assembled and loaded, quickly and efficiently. The liftoff went like clockwork, letter perfect, smooth as That silk.
On the way to our helicopter, just before taking off, Sergeant Sullivan mentioned that he had normally handled the company’s air movements under the previous commander, and, if I so desired, he would continue to do so during my tenure.
“Gives me something to do, sir, and takes another little piss-ant admin burden off your back. I mean you ain’t got time for this small shit.”
I couldn’t have agreed more and assured him, with perhaps more enthusiasm than I intended to show as his new commander, that henceforth he was the company’s “air-movement officer.”
Before boarding the Huey, I threw my pound or so of laminated air-assault doctrine in the nearest fifty-gallon trash drum, recalling as I did so another of Sergeant Fallow’s military axioms, “There’s the way it’s taught, and the way it’s done, and in combat, any similarity between the two is usually a matter of pure coincidence.”
AO Tiger was located in western central Binh Dinh, encompassing portions of the province’s Bong Son plain and the mountains beyond. The plain was sparsely populated, composed mainly of rice paddies and lightly vegetated, gently rolling terrain. The mountains were generally uninhabited—except for the enemy—steep and densely vegetated under double-and triple-canopy
rain forest. LZ Daisy lay at the base of the mountains.
Shortly after lifting off from the bridge, the number-four Huey’s crew chief had handed me a headset, enabling me to monitor Major Byson on the battalion command net. As the S-3, he controlled the assault until such time as we were on the ground and the LZ was secured.
Now, at two minutes and seconds before touchdown, I overheard him working our artillery preparation. “Roger, I have rounds on the way, wait.”
Leaning out of the helicopter’s door, into its ninety-knot slipstream, I saw the distant LZ suddenly explode in an orange-white-and-gray fury, as the artillery rounds threw foliage, dirt, dust, and debris high into the calm morning air.
Beautiful! I thought to myself. Sure as hell beats those nonprepped, door-gunner-only-supported inserts we used to make around and about ARO.
In the First Cavalry, as in most U.S. divisions in Vietnam, it was pretty much standard procedure to fire a short artillery preparation on any LZ that could conceivably be occupied by the enemy, which, of course, was virtually any LZ not occupied by friendly forces. Due to the number of air assaults made daily in the division and the ensuing expenditure of artillery ammunition, the cost-effectiveness of such a policy was sometimes questioned by those who involve themselves in such trivia. Obviously, it was only “cost-effective” if Charlie was indeed waiting in ambush on the landing zone. Having once seen the consequences of such an ambush, I quickly became an avid supporter of preassault artillery preps.
We were on fifteensecond final, coming in fast and low, skimming the treetops twenty or thirty feet below, when the last artillery round (white smoke) impacted. As our helicopters flared tails down, preparing to land, the two accompanying Cobra gunships roared past us on our flanks, pouring 2.75-inch rocket and 7.62-mm minigun fire on the LZ’s perimeter. Finally, as the Hueys’ skids were about to graze the landing zone’s protruding foliage, our door gunners opened up with their M-60 machine guns. We were off the helicopters in a split second.
