Comanche Six: Company Commander in Vietnam

by James Estep

  Hence, from left to right (west to east) the company would defend with One Six on the left, tying in with Bravo Company, Two Six in the center, and Three Six on the right, hopefully tying in with the river.

  We in the command section and Four Six would collocate ourselves with Two Six.

  Taking advantage of what little twilight remained, we cleared fields of fire, set out our claymores and trip flares, and dug the holes in which we hoped to awaken the following morning. Meanwhile, we periodically gazed at the village to the north of us, watching as it and the surrounding area were worked over by a combination of artillery, air, and ARA.

  Slim Brightly was kind enough to explain this manner of madness to anyone willing to listen. And I was willing to listen.

  “What we have here, sir, is a classical air-and-artillery pile-on wherein every deliverable form of ordnance is placed on a single target simultaneously—without shooting your own aircraft down in the process.”

  I nodded, then asked him to elaborate.

  “See the gunships over there from the 20th ARA? You know, Blue Max?

  Well, if you notice, they’re coming in on their firing runs from the east and then breaking sharply before retracing their route and then doing it all over again, always staying on the east side of the river.

  That keeps ‘em out of the fast movers’ flight path and off the gun target line.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, “well, keeping one’s helicopter off the gun target line would seem to be a wise thing to do. Mean I’d hate to be winging along and suddenly find a 105 round in my lap.”

  “Sure, just fucking common sense, right? But you’d be surprised at the number of times something like that happened earlier in the war.

  Shit, sir, I could tell you some real horror stories coming back to Fort Sill in ‘65 and early ‘66. I mean, you talk ‘bout how fucking important this war is in fielding another generation of combat-experienced infantry officers. Well, sir, what you’re watching right now is just as important to us in producing the next generation of experienced artillery officers!”

  “Well, guess so, Slim, but … uh … I never really thought ‘bout the whole thing in that context. I mean.”

  “Shit, sir, we cannon cockers just don’t get many opportunities to mass fires from multiple sources on a single target in peacetime.”

  “Well, guess not, Slim, but …”

  “Now watch the fast movers,” he said, obviously excited and again interrupting me. “See how they’ve divided the village between them and division artillery? They’re dropping on the eastern side, while divarty’s working the western side. And look, look up there.” He paused, diverting my attention to a light observation aircraft, an O-IE

  “birddog”—the military’s version of a Cessna Piper Cub—lazily orbiting high above the village. “That’s the guy controlling it all, the forward air controller. He’s got all the players on his push and can shift fires any fucking way he wants. Mean, if the fast movers have to leave to rearm, he just starts putting red leg on their side of the ville.”

  Slim continued to watch the village’s bombardment through his binoculars, obviously enthralled by its devastating splendor.

  “Beautiful, fucking beautiful,” he mumbled to himself, as I turned to other things.

  Oh, well, whatever turns you on.

  Actually, his artilleryman’s spectacle was impressive, in a macabre sort of way. Although most of the village was obscured by dust and smoke, we could still see proximity-fused rounds airburst above it in brilliant red-and-white flashes and seconds later, as the sound of their detonation reached us, hear the sharp crack of their explosion. At the same time, we heard the more constant deep, nearly muffled explosions of those rounds armed with point-detonating or delayed fuses, rounds that exploded upon contact with, or after burying themselves in, the ground.

  And even from this distance, the destructive power of these fires was awesome, throwing dirt, foliage, bits of rock, and thatched roofing high into the air. Before long it was mostly divarty’s show. The F-4 Phantoms, evidently having expended their heavy ordnance, had begun making firing passes using only their multibarrel 20-mm cannon.

  Blue Max, in the meantime, had departed.

  Well, if red leg was the name of the game, we might as well play too. I told Blair to contact trains and have them put both our 8 1 -mm mortars on the log bird along with a healthy mix of illumination and HE

  (high-explosive) ammunition. Although the fires of our two 81 -mm tubes would contribute little to the destruction of Binh Loc 4, this seemed a good opportunity to get Four Six’s crews some time on their guns.

  They needed the firing practice. Vietnam simply wasn’t a very good war in which to enhance the technical proficiency of those assigned to a rifle company’s weapons platoon.

  Looking back on it now, it wasn’t a very good war in many respects.

  And where is the damn log bird? I thought to myself. Shit, it’s almost dark.

  “No can do on the eighty-ones, sir,” Blair said, moments later. “No log birds tonight unless we need ammunition. Trains says all birds are committed to troop lift.”

  Those within hearing distance of Blair collectively moaned at this bit of information.

  “Well, here we go again—‘nother cold and hungry night in the NDP. Thank God, it ain’t raining,” Four Six is RTO, a young soldier nicknamed “Smiley,” muttered.

  “Thank God, my rosy red ass,” another bystander somewhat irately responded. “Here we are in the middle of a fucking rice paddy, in the fucking Nam, at night, with nothing but dinks ‘round us, all of ‘em wanting nothing better than to feed us our balls for breakfast, and then, on top of all this shit, battalion says they ain’t gonna get chow to us and we’re gonna freeze our nuts off ‘cause they ain’t gonna send us our rucks. And you say, ‘Thank God it ain’t raining’! Smiley, you are a hopeless, brainless, fucking incurable optimist! I mean, fuck me.

  Smiley just smiled.

  Shortly after dark, Lieutenant Hallowsy radioed that his platoon and its LPs were in position. He was the last of the platoon leaders to do so.

  Minutes later, Blair, radio in hand, walked over to where I sat talking to Sergeant Sullivan.

  “Three’s on the wire, sir.”

  “Arizona Three, this is Comanche Six,” I said softly into the handset.

  “Roger, Comanche.” (In the night’s stillness, Byson’s voice sounded louder than usual.)

  “I’m inbound vicinity your location in two zero with Lean Apache. Gonna insert between you and the river and want you to mark your right flank.”

  Insertion? Now? It’s darker than the bottom of a well.

  “This is Comanche Six. Uh … Roger Arizona, but be advised I’ve got men within fifty meters of the river. Over.

  “This is Arizona Three. Too close. Want to give Lean Apache ‘bout two hundred meters of frontage. Can you move your flank to accommodate? Over.”

  Well, shit, I wonder if you happen to recall it was you who told me to tie in with the fucking river.

  “This is Comanche Six. Can do but may need more than two zero.”

  “Roger, Comanche, but make it quick as you can. Probably be putting in a light prep and don’t want any of your folks on the wrong side of your marker … break. How do you plan on marking your Romeo? Over.”

  “Comanche Six. Prefer to identify marker on your zero one final.”

  Shit, our radio procedure is at best horrible, and if Charlie has ears, I don’t want to give him twenty minutes to duplicate our marking signal all over these fucking rice paddies. And besides, at the moment I have no earthly idea how we’re going to mark our flank at night.

  “Roger that, Comanche. Good idea. ID your flank on one-minute final … break. Be advised that after Lean Apache is in position, we’ll be putting artillery fire and intermittent illumination on the village the rest of the night.”

  “This is Comanche Six. Solid copy. Any further? Over.”

  “Negative
further, Comanche. Get your people moving, ‘cause I’m going light on the skids with Apache inbound, now. Out.”

  Hurriedly telling Anderson to call up Norwalk and Halloway, I sent Blair to find Lieutenant MacCarty, his CP being located only twenty meters or so from ours. I needed to quickly discuss the company’s reorientation with the three of them.

  My plan was to pull Three Six out of their position adjacent to the river, on our right, have them pass through us, and then assume a new defensive posture between us and One Six. Thus, the company’s new orientation, from left to right, would be One Six, Three Six, Two 9 Six, with MacCarty’s platoon responsible for marking our right flank during Byson’s insertion.

  Upon his arrival, I asked Mac, and anyone else within hearing distance, if he had any idea how we should go about marking our flank. Everyone had an idea.

  Mac’s RTO, perhaps after referring to his bible, the CEOI, suggested we use a red-filtered flashlight to flash a predetermined letter in Morse code.

  “See, we call Byson and tell him the code letter marking our flank. say, S, you know, Sierra. Then, when he tells us to mark on one-minute final, we just point the flashlight at the helicopters and flash ‘dar-dar-dar’. or is it ‘dit-dit-dit’? Anyway, whatever it is, that way he’ll know it’s us and not Charlie, right’?”

  “Shit, Fanner, what do you mean, he’ll know it’s us and not Chuck?” the Bull replied. “What in the hell’s secret ‘bout the Morse code? Why the hell you think it’s called the international Morse code?”

  “Well … uh … it’s just a thought, Top.”

  “Sure, I know that, Farmer,” Sergeant Sullivan replied, almost apologetically, “and a damn good one too, but, see, Byson’s gonna be coming in here hot and heavy at ninety knots. He ain’t gonna have time to be looking for any red-filtered flashlight.” Then, turning to me, he said, “No, sir. Best thing to do is just dig a little hole out there on our flank, and when he asks us to mark, have someone pop a trip flare in it.”

  Made sense to me.

  Understandably, inasmuch as they were not required to move, neither MacCarty nor Norwalk saw any great problem in relocating Three Six between their two platoons. Mac would furnish guides to escort Three Six through his platoon sector, while Norwalk agreed to leave his right flank LP in position as a contact point.

  In contrast, and just as understandably, Lieutenant Halloway saw many problems with the move and was not at all enthusiastic about taking part in it.

  “This is Comanche Three Six. Strongly recommend against moving. It’s not that we just got our holes dug and have settled in here. I just feel it’s too dangerous, might get some of our men shot. Might shoot each other. Over.”

  “This is Comanche Six. Sorry, but the issue is not negotiable. If you stay where you are, you will get shot ‘cause that area’s gonna be prepped in about one five. So pack it up and start moving now! Over.”

  “This is Three Six. Well, I copy that! We’ll be moving in zero five.”

  “This is Six. Okay, know and use current challenge and password. Inform me when your last man closes Two Six’s.”

  By the time we heard the faint whump, whump, whump of distant helicopters, Bob Halloway’s last soldier had safely passed through our perimeter. Byson came up on the battalion command net moments later.

  “Comanche Six, this is Arizona Three inbound with Lean Apache. You prepared to mark your Romeo, over?”

  “This is Comanche Six. Roger, standing by.”

  “Okay, Comanche, coming up on one-minute final. Mark now! I say again, mark your Romeo flank now! Over.”

  I repeated “mark” three times into Anderson’s handset, signaling Mac, who was monitoring the company net, to activate the trip flare.

  Concurrently, I informed Byson of our marking technique via Blair’s handset.

  Night suddenly turned to day on our right flank. Damn, that flare is putting out a lot of light. If they dug a hole, it’s sure as hell a shallow one.

  “Uh … Roger, Comanche,” Byson said. “Got your, flare, nothing subtle about that! We’ll be coming in hot in minus one minute. Keep your heads down. Out.”

  The helicopters, Cobras leading, were now clearly visible against the darkened southeasterly sky. For a moment they looked as if they were heading straight for us. Careful, Blue Max. No-fire line is to the left of the flare, not the right. Abruptly, the gunships veered right, corrected, and then started their firing run. It was beautiful! So much more impressive at night.

  “Wow!” someone said. “Fourth of July in the Nam! Look at the fucking fireworks!”

  “Them Cobras are bad mothers,” someone else commented.

  Blue Max had a section of four gunships working the LZ, first with rockets and 40-mm grenades, then 7.62-mm miniguns. The rate of fire of this multibarreled gun was so fast, its bullets with their tracer tips were spaced so close together, that when fired the weapon appeared to produce an unbroken, brilliantly illuminated red line stretching from its muzzle to the ground. The deadly red line sometimes ran straight and true, at other times weaved lazily back and forth.

  And while the machine guns echoed their familiar rat-tat-tat-tat-tat sound, the minigun produced an eerie, constant brupppppppppp.

  “Here comes Alpha Company, sir,” the Bull commented, obviously impressed with the show. None of us had seen a night air assault before.

  If not a rarity, they certainly weren’t commonplace in the Nam, even in the Cav.

  “Damn, look at that,” he continued, “ain’t putting no hooks in here at night. All Hueys. I count twelve of ‘em.”

  The Cobras were now working the LZ’s periphery, their uninterrupted streams of red tracers striking the ground and then aimlessly, crazily, ricocheting off and into the night.

  “Looks like a four-ship LZ,” I commented as the first four troopladen Hueys set down and then hurriedly took off again, making way for the next four.

  It was all over in a matter of minutes. Then Alpha Company was on the ground to our right, and, except for the fading sound of the departing helicopters, silence returned to the valley—a silence occasionally interrupted by artillery H&I (harassment-and-interdiction) fires landing in Binh Loc.

  An hour or so later, Byson’s voice again pierced the night air.

  “Arizona, Arizona, this is Arizona Three. Over.”

  He was making a net call, requiring all the battalion’s line companies to answer him. We did.

  “This is Lean Apache, over.”

  “This is Ridge Runner, over.”

  “This is Tall Comanche, over,” I chimed in.

  “This is [garbled] Running Navaho, over.”

  “This is Arizona Three. Running Navaho disregard. Break. For the rest of you, this constitutes a frag order. At first light, or as soon thereafter as visibility will allow, we go into the ville. Intend to hold little people and Ridge Runner in their present positions and then sweep north with Lean Apache on the right and Tall Comanche on the left.

  … uh … a touch of the old hammer and anvil.”

  “Fires and time of attack to be announced. Lean Apache and Tall Comanche, you two choose a mutually agreed-upon line of departure and let us know what it is in the A.m. Boundary between the two of you is the main northsouth red line.” (Red line was a road or highway, so called because that’s the way it appears on a map; rivers appeared as blue lines.)

  “If you need ammo, get your wants in tonight. Arizona Six will be airborne at the objective. And I hope you fellows got all that.”

  We had and, in sequence, signed off.

  After thinking briefly about next day’s operation, I made a net call to the platoons, informing them of the gist of Byson’s FRAGO and telling them we would attack with Two Six on the right, Three Six on the left, and One Six trailing in reserve. Then perhaps belatedly, I asked my first sergeant if he agreed with all of this.

  “Sure, best way to do it, considering our disposition right now,” he replied. “Two Six and Three Six can just pick it up
and move forward, while One Six falls in behind. But shit, tell you the truth, Six.”

  Sergeant Sullivan had recently begun calling me “Six” when others of the company were not privy to our conversations. “I just wouldn’t worry ‘bout it too much. I mean, I’ll bet you diamonds to doughnuts that the ville over there, you know, Benny Lock 4 or whatever, will just be another walk-through. Ain’t gonna be no fight ‘cause Charlie’s gone!

  Shit, sir, I’ve been through this before, and I’m telling you, no matter what you do to seal a village at night, Charlie’s gonna be long gone at dawn. Don’t care if you put snuffie ‘round it arm to arm, Charlie will find a way out ‘fore first light.”

  He paused a moment and then said, “I stand corrected. I saw it … uh … heard ‘bout it working once. Alpha Company, six, seven months ago, when I first got here. ‘Course that was on the beach, easier to trap Chuck on the beach. I mean, where the fuck can he go? Can’t hardly swim back to Hanoi!”

  “Hardly,” I offered, trying to catch the drift of what he was talking about.

  “Yeah, see, Alpha was just doing another walk in the weeds, well, in this case, a walk in the sand and rocks ‘long Binh Dinh’s coast. Where, unknown to them, the NVA—think it was part of the 22d Regiment—had a battalion hiding in these rocks, you know, in caves and all, and Alpha Company nearly walks right over ‘em, probably like a bunch of the rest of us had done a number of times before. Well, way I heard it, this last little snuffie stopped for a minute to fill his canteen from some water what had settled in the rocks. You believe that, Six? I mean he just happens to stop so as to fill his canteen, and this gook raises his head—you know, maybe he just wanted to see what an American ‘round eye’ looks like—and snuffie nails him right between the eyes.”

  “So, Alpha set up ‘round this rock pile and in the next week or so kill a hundred or more of Charlie without losing any of their own. Great fucking hit!”