by James Estep
The Bull’s right, I thought. You gotta love ‘em.
That night the Bull was in a happier frame of mind than he had been lately. It might have been because of the shower and the six-or seven-hour stand down at Evans. Or perhaps it was the weather; the skies had cleared somewhat shortly after dark, and now and then we saw stars appear between the fast-moving clouds above us.
“Shit, I don’t know what your young lieutenant’s complaining about. This ain’t so much different from camping. Want to sing a song, sir?” he jested as we sat atop our mermites, watching the sky. Parachute flares were being dropped from an unseen aircraft orbiting to the south of us.
As one flare would burn itself out shortly before touching ground, another would pop above us, releasing its canister, which would make a ghostly whistling sound as it fell to the earth below. The flare, suspended from its parachute, would then drift downward with the wind until it burnt itself out, and the cycle would then be repeated.
“Can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be tonight, Six—unless it was back home, or in Australia, or Bangkok, or Egypt, or Bong Son’s plain,” he said, grinning. “On the other hand, it’s not so bad here. We’re wet again, but we’re clean, and our poncho liners are reasonably dry. And the weather looks like it might be breaking up.”
“Hope so, Top.”
“And we’re gonna get a good night’s sleep because of the weather and because Charlie, assuming he’s trying to evade us like the major says, is hardly gonna wander straight up that draw there. Hell, he had an hour or more of daylight to watch us dig in. If he didn’t see us then, he’ll see us now, what with those flares off and on turning the landscape to day.”
“Often wondered if anybody ever got hit with one of those flare canisters,” I remarked. “Wonder if the Air Force knows we’re down here.
You know, if they have some sort of no-drop zone plotted around friendlies.”
“Why, of course they do,” Sergeant Sullivan said mockingly. Then, in a serious tone, he said, “Come on, sir. You know better than that. Our boys in blue simply get a mission to light an area, and they plot wind drift and so on and start dropping flares. They don’t know or care who’s under their canisters.”
“Guess not.”
“But why use them, sir? That’s what I was getting at. I mean, it sounds like a good idea, right? Enemy’s trying to evade us in the dark, so you pop flares so you can see him, right?”
I nodded.
“‘Course, then he can also see you, right?”
I nodded again.
“So, when you think about it, really think about it, it doesn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense. I mean, here’s Charlie, who was able to disengage and hide himself from Running Navaho in broad daylight, and now we’re gonna pop flares to find him in the dark? Shit!”
“Well, goddamn it, Top! You’re right! Want me to call Tolson and put a stop to it?” I said, grinning at him.
“Naw, don’t bother. The good general is probably in the sack by now.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes; then I got up. “Top, think I’ll go over and talk to our new FO for a few minutes. Remiss for not doing so sooner. Join me?”
“Naw … uh … sir. Think I’ll just stay right here and count stars.”
I walked the short distance between our CP and where Lieutenant Moseley and his recon sergeant were sharing a piece of the country’s sod.
Moseley, on radio watch as his recon sergeant slept close by, was alternately studying his map under the glare of a red-filtered flashlight and then gazing out at the valley floor below. Seeing me approach, he rose to his feet, saying, “Sir?”
“Evening, Mark,” I said, motioning him to sit back down as I did the same. “Uh … thought we might chat a while. We haven’t done a lot of that. My fault. Sorry.”
A bit uncomfortably, he said, “If it’s about what’s expected of me, Slim filled me in on that quite thoroughly, sir. What with that and our little talk at Phu Cat, well, thought I’d been …”
“No! Hell, no. Nothing like that, Mark. Shit, couldn’t be more pleased with your performance—company couldn’t be more pleased.” Then, smiling, I said, “Hey, Mark, even though we all know that Slim’s gonna make general someday, and of course Lieutenant … uh … Captain Brightly knows it better than any of the rest of us, we’ve all noted that you’re firing your registrations quicker than he did.”
He brightened.
“You know, it’s a small thing,” I continued, “timing how long it takes to adjust on an RP, but it gives snuffie something to do before he settles in for the night. Hell, for him it’s entertainment, and he has very damn little of that. Same as with Wester and his shotgun. You heard about our point man in Two Six who can pump out a fully loaded twelve-gauge faster than an incoming replacement can fire a twentyround magazine through an M-16?”
He nodded.
“Well, anyway just wanted to chat for a while. Uh … what you doing with the map this time of night?”
“Just playing, sir. You know, figuring the lay of the land. Didn’t have that much time to read the terrain before dark.” Pausing, then pointing down the valley, he said, “Fired the RP ‘bout six hundred meters out, center of sector. See that little knoll on the floor down there?”
I nodded. I’d seen his three rounds impact earlier, the third one hitting dead atop the knoll.
“Wanted to fire it closer, but the lay of the guns precluded me from bringing rounds in any nearer One Six and Two Six. But that’s no problem. I can work off the RP in any direction, at any range.”
“Fine. How long you been over here now, Mark?”
“Six, nearly seven months.”
“Oh? Where were you assigned?”
“Eighth Field. They couldn’t find an observer slot, so they went along with my transfer to divarty. You know, got to make sure all our artillery lieutenants have an opportunity to do their time with snuffie.”
I smiled. “Yeah, one of those necessary ‘career-enhancing moves,’ huh?”
He nodded, grinning.
“Where’d you go to school?”
For the next half hour or so, we talked of that trivia that soldiers in combat talk about—families and friends, women and wives, R&R, the war, careers, the Army, the company, and the Nam. The flares, swinging to and fro under their parachutes, continued to cast eerie, bobbing shadows across the valley’s landscape below us.
Suddenly a stream of twenty or so speeding red tracer rounds slammed into the side of a hill a short distance to the north of us, exploding on impact.
I jumped! Then relaxed.
“Nervous, sir?” Moseley asked, tongue in cheek.
“Yeah, stay nervous. Uh … what was it? Forty mike-mike?”
“Yep. Dusters. Got a pair of ‘em on the highway south of Evans.
They’re just throwing rounds down range, H&I.”
“Well, hell, hope they know we’re up here.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, sir. They’re in the net and have our plot. Guarantee it.”
He was right. They must have our plot, and so there was nothing to worry about. But I said, “Check it out, will you, Mark?”
“Sir?”
“The dusters. I know and you know they know we’re up here. I just want to make sure they know, okay?”
“Sure, sir. No problem,” he said, turning to his radio.
The Bull, reclining on his back, fingers interwoven behind his neck, was still gazing skyward when I returned. “Enjoy your little tete-a-tete with our cannon cocker, Six?”
“Yes, I did, Top. Bright young lad,” I replied as I wrapped myself in my poncho liner.
He lay in silence for a while and then suddenly, buoyantly, remarked,
“Damn, look at that sky, sir! Clear as a bell. Tomorrow’s gonna be a bright and sunny day, same as if we were back on the plain.”
“Hope so, Top.”
The next morning, destined for other parts of Thua Thien Province, we w
alked off our horseshoe ridge because Evans’ helicopters were socked in. It was raining.
One evening in early March, we set up our NDP on an old French plantation several klicks east of Highway One adjacent to the river Giang, which at that juncture was actually more canal than river.
From here, Major Byson had told us, we would be picked up early the next morning and air-assaulted across the river into the village of Thon Can Nhi, which was supposedly infested—as indeed they were all supposedly infested—with enemy or enemy sympathizers.
It continued to rain, usually that irritating drizzle we had become accustomed to. The sun rarely emerged. We were always wet and chilled to the bone, wondering if I Corps’ winter monsoon would ever end.
Shortly after the evening log bird departed, I walked the company’s perimeter, as was my custom each night just before dark. This nightly ritual gave me an opportunity to check our defensive arrangements and, perhaps more important, to see and chat with the soldiers of Charlie Company.
Entering Two Six’s area, which was closest to the river and obscured from most of the company by a grove of palms intermingled with banana trees and other tropical vegetation, I saw, twenty or thirty meters forward of the platoon’s perimeter trace, a picturesque two-story French plantation house. It was an imposing brick-and-stucco structure, now badly in need of a coat of whitewash, with a red-tile roof. The roof was also in dire need of repair. Still, the house looked very out of place in a land of thatched and mud-walled hutches.
I left our perimeter and entered the house from the rear. It was, of course, deserted and was devoid of furniture, with the single exception of an old rocking chair in the middle of what probably had been the downstairs parlor. I wondered why the rocker hadn’t been “liberated” along with the other furnishings. Maybe the Viets don’t like rocking chairs?
Exiting the front door, I walked out onto a weathered veranda and gazed across what had undoubtedly once been a beautifully landscaped lawn that descended gently to a small canal running inland from the Giang.
Although the lawn was now hopelessly overgrown, there were still several giant tamarind trees forming an archway from the veranda to the canal. Reentering the house, I sat in the chair and rocked myself for a while, savoring the surreal tranquility of the moment. I tried to imagine what the house had been like in its heyday and found myself pondering the fate of the family that had lived within its walls years, perhaps a decade or more, ago. Then I got up and walked back to the war. It was nearly dark.
Approaching the CP, I noted a somewhat disgruntled first sergeant anxiously awaiting his evening parley. I sat down beside him, and before I could query him on the state of the command, he blurted out,
“Sir, the state of the command sucks! I Corps and this goddamn weather suck! Troops are wet, cold, and miserable!”
“Well, Top, as you very well know, neither of us can change the weather. Uh … as to the state of the command, is it your considered opinion, then, that the troops are no longer so very excited about our move to I Corps?”
“Excited? Six, next to a quick flight back to the States or a second R&R, the troops would rather be back in Binh Dinh right now than anywhere else they can think of!”
He paused and then said in a calmer tone, “Aw, shit, I know we can’t do anything ‘bout the weather. Just wish the sun would come out again, you know, even for a few hours. Give us a chance to dry out.”
“Me too, Top. Just like to know it’s still up there somewhere, huh?”
“Yeah, ain’t seen it so long, shit, not more than a couple times since we left Binh Dinh. Uh … platoon sergeants think it might be a good idea to have field jackets shipped out. What’s your feeling on it?”
“Don’t know, Top. They’d be nice at night, but what with the log birds not flying that often up here, it’d be a pain in the ass carrying wet field jackets ‘round with us all day.”
“Yeah, that’s what I told ‘em. You know, just hold off a while, cause the sun’s gotta shine again. If it don’t, the whole goddamn company’s gonna go bugfuck!”
“Hey, Top, you worry too much. Hell, I know the weather’s depressing, but snuffie understands there’s nothing we can do about it. And I think morale’s still good in spite of it. Least that’s my sounding. How do you see it?”
He smiled and said, “You’re right, Boss. Snuffie’s fucking miserable, but he’s joking about it. You know, ‘Gonna swim my way back to the world, Top.” And, ‘Got a can of ham and limas for a dry pair of socks, Top.” And, ‘Where’s my fucking diving pay, Top?” But what we really need is to get a couple of kills in the sunshine. Then morale would soar!”
Figuring we’d covered the issue of troop morale, I told the Bull about the deserted plantation house.
“Probably some fat old French fart now living in the lap of luxury somewhere in France,” he speculated. “You know, sipping his grape in Paris, Marseilles, or some such place.”
“I kind of hope he is, Top,” I said, surprised at my own comment.
“What? Uh … why do you say that, sir?”
“I don’t know,” I responded, suddenly laughing. “Sonofabitch, I really don’t know.”
He shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject.
“Well, what’s the plan for tomorrow, Six? How we gonna attack the ville?”
“We’re gonna do it like Benning taught us, First Sergeant, two up and one back: One Six on the left, Two Six on the right, and Three Six following. Way I see it—and by the way, I’ve already passed this on to our platoon leaders during the perimeter walk—Three Six will conduct the air assault. Then we’ll bring One Six and Two Six in on the hooks.
They’ll move off the LZ toward Thon Can Nhi, we’ll follow right behind them with Four Six, and then Three Six will fold in behind us. Inasmuch as you are the company air-movement officer, Top, how ‘bout whipping up a quick air-assault order ‘long those lines and getting it down to the platoons?”
He smiled at me and said, “Sir, it’s time you knew.”
I looked at him, perplexed.
“Think about it, Six. if you’ve already told Three Six they’re on the slicks, you’ve given your air-assault order. I mean, if they’re not the assault element, One Six and Two Six know they take the hooks. Platoon sergeants know how to get their people on the helicopters and know what their people have to do when they land. Four Six knows they always board the hooks, as do Willie, Doc Heard, and I. Andy, Blair, and our cannon cocker know they always accompany you on the slicks.
“And, Six, that’s the fucking company air-movement order!”
Sonofabitch! He’s right.
“Ah, Top,” I said, laughing, “at last I understand what you meant that first day when you said air-movement officer was the least taxing of your responsibilities.”
“Absolutely!” he said, smiling broadly. “God almighty, sir, I still can’t believe all that plastic you went through on the bridge just to tell us how to get on helicopters. I mean, stick orders, ACL, crossloading, contingencies en route, air density! I said to myself, Benning’s done warped this young captain’s mind.”
We were both laughing now.
“I mean this is the Cav, Six! Those helicopters are our horses, and any good trooper knows how to mount his fucking horse without a five-paragraph field order telling him where to find the stirrups!”
“I know, Top, I know,” I said, wiping at my eyes. “Thought at the time it was the best goddamn air-assault order ever written! Thought You all were screwed up for not recognizing it as such.”
Regaining my composure, I said, “Shit, Top, the bridge seems like a hundred years ago, huh?”
“Yeah, know what you mean. But actually, it don’t seem that long to me.
See, you’re still counting backwards, while I’m counting for ward.”
“That’s right, isn’t it. How long now before you start teaching others how to make war? Two more months?”
“Sixty-three days and a wake-up. Got my countdown
figured just as close as any other snuffie.”
As we sat there in the mud with our ponchos about our shoulders me on my upturned helmet and the Bull atop an empty mermite, conversing idly, Dubray approached us—coffee in hand.
“Got here what’s the last of the fresh brewed, Top, sir,” he said, handing us the still-luke-warm coffee. “Heared you laughing. Wondered what’s funny.”
“Ah, Willie,” the Bull responded, “we were merely discussing the many facets of airmobile tactics. Far above you, I’m afraid, but many thanks for the java.”
Java! Who but the Bull would still refer to coffee as java? I thought, amused. He’s sitting here in Quang Trios mud while this miserable drizzle forms little rivulets of water on his poncho, but he would have been just as much at home in the mud of France nearly a quarter of a century ago. I sensed that Willie felt mildly rejected by Sergeant Sullivan’s somewhat callous remark. Then, suddenly brightening, he blurted out,
“Hey, Top, guy on the log bird, he say the Seventh got back their dead what they buried in the boonies!”
“What dead in the boonies?” the Bull asked. “What are you talking about, Willie?”
“Uh … don’t rightly know everything ‘bout it. Say something ‘bout burying ‘em in the field after a big firefight, and the Man, he makes ‘em go back and get ‘em … or something.”
“You know anything about this, sir?” Sullivan asked, turning to me.
“Not much,” I responded, trying to recall what little I’d heard. “But, Willie, I think you, or maybe your friend on the log bird, might be a bit confused on when all this took place. A week or more ago—think it was the night ‘fore we left Evans—I was up at the TOC when the commanding general announced the Cav was approaching the west wall of the Citadel, severing the enemy’s supply lines into Hue. Anyway, same time, during the course of the evening brief, they mentioned that the Seventh had recovered their dead from a firefight a day or so before. As I understand it, they had no choice but to bury or leave several of their dead in the field, then go back and get ‘em the next day. Hard choice, but shit, none of us here had to make it, and it probably saved lives. Any event, don’t think we should point fingers.”
