by James Estep
Ten minutes later, on schedule, we heard the familiar whump, whump, whump of a Huey pounding toward us from the east.
“Comanche, this is Arizona Two inbound on the red line. Ready for you to light up.”
“This is Comanche Six. Roger. Marking with a threeflashlight delta in paddy on the south side of the red line. No obstacles other than some eight-to twelve-foot minipalms right against the road. LZ green.
How copy?” I responded, concurrently signaling Mac to light up the landing zone.
After a brief pause, Arizona Two came back. “Roger, Comanche. Got your Lima Zulu. We’ll be coming straight in, east to west, and probably turning our lights on just before touchdown. Might want to warn your men.”
“This is Comanche Six. Roger … break. Listen I don’t want to lose foxhole strength guarding prisoners. Want to make the handoff right here. They’re secured with WD-1 and shouldn’t cause any problem. Over.”
“This is Arizona Two. Understand and no sweat. We’ll take ‘em from here. See you on the ground.”
But he didn’t. Baker and his men literally threw our two prisoners through the helicopter’s open doors the moment its skids touched the ground—and the Huey was gone. And moments later, so were we.
The sun was high in the eastern sky when we finally entered the bunker complex. We had been delayed by the meeting engagement and subsequent difficulties in negotiating the terrain between Route 506 and the mountain. As the Bull had predicted, Charlie was gone.
However, he left behind several small arms and some of his dead. We recovered the former, counted the latter, and having done so were preparing to move back down the mountain, when Lieutenant Norwalk yelled, “Hey, sir, look what we found over here!”
I strolled over to where he was standing, chest deep in a caved-in bunker.
“You believe this, sir?” he asked, smiling broadly. “It’s a.50caliber machine gun, whole receiver group, everything but the barrel. In great condition, too.”
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than one of his men, who had been probing the ground behind him, announced, “Got the barrel, LT! Shit, it’s good as new, still in Cosmoline.” Then, moments later, “And here’s the tripod! We got us a whole fucking gun, LT. Lookie here!”
Colonel Lich, after we had reported our find, extended his congratulations and promised to pass the good news on to our supporting aviators. There was a reason for this. In early 1968, the enemy had not yet widely introduced his heat-seeking missiles in the south; the greatest threat to helicopters flying Binh Dinh’s plain was still the.50caliber machine gun. And although the Cav’s aviators were the bravest, most courageous, devil-may-care of all the pilots who flew in Vietnam—and all the pilots who flew in Vietnam were brave.
Even they were somewhat intimidated about being shot at by a.50caliber machine gun. As they often said, “It’s so dam difficult to be wounded by.50caliber.” Regardless of where they were hit by one of these sizable rounds, they’d very likely “buy the farm” before landing their helicopter, if it was still flyable.
Therefore, an infantry company’s quality of life in the boonies was enhanced by finding and neutralizing one of these weapons. Life in the boonies was in large part dependent on Army aviators and their willingness to fly rucks, hot meals, beer, and coke when the weather or tactical situation was iffy. And these aviators were more apt to risk their lives for soldiers who had recently captured one of the enemy’s more frightening antiaircraft weapons.
Before moving off the mountain, Bill Norwalk and his platoon rigged the area for an organic ambush. This was a little trick of the trade we employed in situations where it was almost a given that Charlie would be back, in this case looking for his.50caliber. Setting up the ambush was relatively simple. First, Norwalk and his platoon emplaced trip flares, lots of them, throughout the bunker complex. If Charlie revisited his ravaged lair that night and tripped a single, virtually invisible wire on just one flare, the whole area would light up like a Christmas tree. Then we retired from the mountain and established our NDP on the valley floor below.
That evening, after the log bird had delivered our two 8 1 -mm mortars, the gun crews adjusted fire on the mountain’s bunker complex by “direct lay,” meaning they could see their target from the guns. After so doing, the lay of the gun was not disturbed. High-explosive ammunition was then readied for firing, that is, charges were cut and the rounds placed beside the guns. And the vigil began.
From that point on until a trip flare was activated or dawn broke, at least one of the gun’s crew would remain on each of the weapons, a round at his side and his eyes glued to the mountain. The instant either saw a flare pop, the two of them would drop their six or eight rounds down the gun’s tube as fast as it would accept them.
On this occasion, around nine o’clock, Charlie turned on his flashlight before encountering one of our trip flares. And our gunners mercurially loosed their rounds on the bunker complex.
As was the case in most of our organic ambushes, it was difficult to ascertain whether or not we hurt Charlie that night. We rarely revisited these sites because we knew our enemy would either haul his dead and wounded off before dawn or, anticipating our return, leave them there as bait while he set up a counterambush. But if we didn’t hurt him, I’ll bet we scared the living hell out of him! I’ll bet in the future he thought twice before using a flashlight to hunt for a misplaced.50caliber machine gun.
“Comanche, we’ll probably be leaving you in that area for a while,”
Byson said, radioing us later that night. “That’s where the hunting seems to be best for you. Besides, we got the Tet truce coming up in a matter of days, and that’s as good an area as any to get your men some well-deserved rest.”
After thanking him and signing off, I passed the essence of his remarks along to Sergeant Sullivan, who was sitting beside me atop an empty mermite.
“Damn right, the troops need a rest!” he retorted. “Been up, walking and fighting for, what? Forty-eight hours plus? And how many assaults we made since leaving the bridge? How many different areas we worked?”
“Uh … I don’t know myself, Top. A bunch.”
“Hey, Six, I can’t ‘member neither and don’t care to. And don’t much care where we go or what area we work tomorrow, or the next day, or next week. And, sir, that’s ‘bout the way the troops feel.”
He paused, grinned, and then continued. “Mean, shit, Six, when you reach the point that you can’t remember where you’ve been or care ‘bout where you’re going, you’re due for a break, right?”
“Right, Top,” I said without elaborating. Because the Bull really didn’t expect me to elaborate. I recognized the signs: my first sergeant was about to embark on another of his discourses regarding the haves and have-nots in the Nam. But that’s okay; he’ll feel better when he’s finished.
“Really, Six, what the hell do they expect out of snuffie? What more does he have to give? I mean, I’ve been in this man’s Army for nigh on to a quarter of a century, and I’ve never seen anything like it! Shit, I know war’s no cup of tea, but at least in the last two we had a line we either defended, or attacked, or withdrew from. Right?”
“Right, Top.”
“And every now and then,” he continued, as if not hearing me, “we’d be relieved, as a unit, from that line and stand down for a little refitting and relaxing. Here they say you’re standing down if you’re guarding the goddamn Bong Son bridge! Now, sir, you tell me the difference ‘tween digging a hole to sleep in out here every night and filling those fucking sandbags on the bridge every day. None! Right?”
“Right, Top.”
“Damn right, there’s no difference! And they expect snuffie to live like this for twelve goddamn months! Twelve months of this stinking heat, dust, mud, rain, rotting fatigues, malaria tabs, bugs, leeches, cold charlie rats, sheer boredom, and, fuck, instant terror. I’m telling you, sir, many a normal man can’t retain his sanity living like this for a goddamn year.”
He paused briefly, then continued. “And that’s not the real pisser of it, Six. I mean, if we were all living like this, it’d be different. But we’re not! You got any idea how them support troops are living in An Khe and Qui Nhon? Or places like Cam Ranh, Danang, Long Binh?”
I had a very good idea, and he was right: it simply wasn’t fair. But then, many things about the Nam were unfair.
“They’re living like fucking kings!” he went on. “Got hot showers, starched uniforms, clean sheets, steak every fucking night, multiservice—if you know what I mean—maids falling all over themselves. Got their clubs with two-bit-a-shot booze and go-go girls, libraries, USO shows, PXs, class VI counters with two-buck-a-bottle Johnny Walker-Black Label! Got their enterprising—again, if you know what I mean—doughnut dollies. Shit, you name it, they got it! And, Six,” he began to laugh, “those assholes are envious of them chair-borne wimps stationed in Saigon, ‘cause they have a golf course! You believe it, sir? A fucking golf course! Our generals couldn’t manage this war without building themselves a fucking golf course.”
He stopped laughing, paused, then said, “And our troops think it’s Christmas when they get a single warm can of three-point-two beer. Shit, it ain’t fair, sir.”
“Of course it’s not, Top,” I replied, “but tell me something. Where would you rather be tonight, here or on that golf course in Saigon?”
“Right goddamn here! Right here sharing this stinking crap with snuffie! Shit, you know that, sir,” he answered, defiantly. “‘Cause snuffie here, well, he’s … uh … mean, these are the greatest.” His voice broke, and his eyes suddenly moistened. He wiped at them with his hand. “‘Scuse me, sir. Uh … I mean they’re ‘bout the most magnificent human beings walking this fucking earth.”
He’s right, of course, but perhaps he’s also been out here too long. Or maybe just sent forward to fight one too many of his nation’s wars. Composing himself, smiling, he added, “Shit, you gotta love ‘em, Six. Nobody else does.”
And I did. We both did. Still do.
Early the next morning, Three Six, the most rested of the company’s platoons, climbed our mountain and set up a standard two-point claymore ambush. Later in the day, One Six and Two Six conducted casual cloverleaf sweeps north and south of the company’s base, looking for a new NDP in the process. Around one o’clock in the afternoon Two Six radioed that they had found such a site a klick or so to the north of us. We in the headquarters section and Four Six waited until One Six had returned from their sally to the south and then, joining forces with them, began moving toward our new NDP.
Shortly before closing Two Six’s position, we heard the familiar report of a claymore’s detonation, followed by the rhythmic pounding of an M-60 machine gun on the mountain towering to the left of us. And we felt good.
“Three Six bagged ‘em!”
“The sun shines today.”
“Cloverleaves suck! The good hunting’s always in the high country.”
It was not that we were jubilant about the sudden violent demise of what I would moments later learn to be three NVA soldiers—three fellow human beings. It was simply that we had scored. That we had succeeded in doing what we had been trained and sent to Vietnam to do. The death of enemy soldiers at our hands quite simply produced a good feeling, a feeling of exhilaration much like that experienced when one’s high school football team scores a touchdown. In this sense, we modern ethren or Genghis Khan’s warriors.
After joining Two Six in our new NDP, I pulled MacCarty aside. “Hey, Mac, how about putting your trick or treat, say, a squad or so, on the 506 ‘bout where Wester scratched those five NVA night ‘fore last? I mean, they’re obviously traveling the route, and we might get lucky again.”
“506? Sir, that’s nearly two klicks out. Quite a ways for a single squad to set up.”
“Well, shit, Mac, beef it up a bit. ‘Nother M-60, couple M-79s. Your call, but I want an ambush on the 506 tonight, okay?”
“Okay, Six. I’ll take a squad plus. We’ll leave the perimeter shortly after …”
“Mac, I don’t want you going. Hey, you’ll be leaving us in a day or two, and you’ve got good squad leaders—Baker’s one of the best. You gotta give ‘em room to grow, and they can’t do that with you looking over their shoulder all the time.”
He looked at me a moment, amused, and then smiled and said, “Right, sir. Kind of like you letting me grow while looking over my shoulder during our two-squad helicopterless false extraction, right?”
“Uh … that was different,” I protested, blushing a little. “Mean, I was but a casual observer on that venture. Just … learning the ins and outs of a stay-behind. You know, being new on board and all, I just wanted to …”
“Or during our claymore forays up the mountain, huh?” He interrupted, grinning broadly.
“Well, shit, Mac, I can hardly sit on my ass with Four Six in the NDP all day, now, can I?”
“No, sir, you can’t, and I copy you loud and clear,” he said, still smiling. “And Baker it’ll be, and he’ll be augmented accordingly.”
In the wee hours of the following morning, I was awakened by a very concerned Lieutenant MacCarty.
“Sergeant Baker’s in a bind, sir. Says he’s got what he thinks is a company of NVA on the 506 where it intersects with that secondary northsouth trail we traveled the other night. Says they’re just sitting there, like they’re assembling or something.”
“Is he in contact?” I said, hurriedly unwrapping myself from my poncho liner and getting to my feet.
“No, sir. Says they’re not in his kill zone, and there’s too many of ‘em for him to take on anyway. But he’s got ‘em on the starlight scope.”
Turning to Anderson, who was on radio watch, I loudly whispered, “Andy, go to Two Six’s push.”
“They’re not in a posture to do much talking, sir,” MacCarty commented.
“Understand that, Mac,” I remarked, “but if he’s got a company out there, and he can’t take ‘em on, we gotta get some red leg on ‘em.
Which means Baker and his people are gonna have to move.”
He nodded and then took Anderson’s extended handset, whispering into it,
“Two Six Tango, this is Six. We’re gonna be bringing red leg in on your target. If you can move, key your handset twice. Over.”
We listened as the handset’s rushing noise was interrupted by two distinct breaks.
“Okay, Tango, I copy. Now I understand that northsouth trail is the same one we used when we left the red line the other night. If so, give us another two clicks and then haul ass and go for cover. Call me as soon as it’s safe to do so. Over.”
Again the handset’s rushing sound was twice broken by Baker keying his push-to-talk.
“I’ll get Brightly,” the Bull, now also up, offered.
Lieutenant Brightly quickly plotted the grid and requested his fire mission. Moments later he said, in a louder voice than he should have,
“Hot damn! They’re gonna put a TOT on ‘em! Been out here better than five months and ain’t never seen a TOT fired.” Time on target is a mission in which artillery fires from several firing locations are simultaneously massed on a single target.
“Uh … it’ll take ‘em a few minutes to crank it up, Boss,” he added, turning to me.
“And it’ll take Baker longer than that to clear the area. There ain’t gonna be no TOT until he and his soldiers are safely tucked in somewhere,” Sergeant Sullivan remarked, leaving little doubt in anyone’s mind that he meant what he said.
“I copy that, Top,” Slim Brightly said. “Not to worry. We don’t shoot at the good guys.”
“Probably ought to wait ‘til Baker’s a good six, seven hundred meters up range, huh?” MacCarty remarked more than asked.
“A klick would be better. Just to be on the safe side,” the Bull said.
They’re even bringing an ARVN battery in on it,” Brightly said, his handset to his ear.
“Bet
ter make that two klicks,” the Bull said dryly.
“Hell, Top, if they fall back two klicks, they’ll be sitting with us in the NDP!” Mac said.
“You’re right, Lieutenant. And I don’t know ‘bout the rest of you, but I’m gonna sit this one out in my hole,” Sullivan grunted.
A short while later, Sergeant Baker informed us that he and his patrol were out of harm’s way, having retired to a ravine a klick or so south of the 506. Moments later, Slim Brightly, smiling broadly, gave a thumbs up: “Rounds on the way!”
Then we heard the shrieking, screaming sound of artillery projectiles passing over our heads from the southeast. Suddenly the northern horizon lit up in multiple vermilion-and-white flashes, and moments later we heard the crashing sound of the projectiles exploding on Route 506. The earsplitting display of firepower lasted several minutes.
“Divarty requests some feedback on the mission, sir,” Slim said after it was over. “Wants to hear about piles of dead gooks out there.”
“Well, ain’t nobody going back there tonight,” I replied. “Tell ‘em we’ll check it out at first light.”
Baker and his patrol did just that but found nothing. No dead bodies, no weapons, no blood trails—nothing. And neither divarty nor battalion was happy about that.
That night, after the log bird had departed and while the Bull and I were in idle conversation, we received a call from Colonel Lich’s executive officer.
“Comanche Six, this Arizona Five. Uh … we’re a little concerned ‘bout last night’s fire mission. You know, large expenditure of class V with nothing to show for it. Request that you try to ascertain whether or not there was actually a large enemy force out there or whether your people might have just been seeing ghosts.”
Why, you pompous, chair-warming sonofabitch!
“This is Comanche Six. Be advised that I am well acquainted with the soldier in charge of that patrol, and if he says there was enemy out there, there was enemy out there. And that’s all the ‘ascertaining’ I intend to do,” I said heatedly. “How copy?”
“Roger, I copy. Don’t know if that’ll satisfy higher, but I’ll pass it along.”
