Comanche Six: Company Commander in Vietnam

by James Estep

  “No, sir! Nothing like that,” the Bull said. “Mean, could’ve just as easily been us. And there ain’t no outfit in the division what’s kicked Charlie’s ass any harder than the Seventh. But every now and then, they just wade into something like this. I mean all the way back to LZ X-Ray in the la Drang. Must be the ghost of the Little Big Horn looking over their shoulders.”

  “What’s a little big horn, Top?” Willie asked.

  “Ah, Willie, I’m afraid that too is far above your head, but thanks for the java.”

  As Sweet Willie Dubray walked off into the darkness, the Bull commented,

  “Hate to hear that ‘bout the Seventh. Losing too many of our people in this war, too many of our NCOS. Good NCOS, irreplaceable NCOS, goddamn it!”

  Uh oh! Here we go again on the NCO thing.

  “I tell you, Six, we can’t keep fighting this fucking war alone!

  Peacetime Army ain’t supposed to fight a war by itself! Mark my words, we’re gonna wake up one of these days and find we got all of those soldiers and officers out there, but no one left to teach either of ‘em a fucking thing. Oh, we’ll have a bunch of people walking ‘round with stripes on their sleeves, but the old hard-core professionals will be gone. I mean, damn it, you just don’t produce an NCO overnight!”

  “Well, that may be true, Top—shit, probably is—but if the powers that be are correct, we’ve turned the corner, and this thing’s gonna be history pretty soon; so we’re gonna save our NCO corps.”

  “Yeah, perhaps so, if indeed victory’s now at hand. But you know how I feel about that. I’m telling you, Six, this thing’s turning sour! And what if it goes on another two, three years, huh?”

  “Well, in that case, we’ll just have to keep on.”

  “No, sir! Can’t just keep on for another two or three years by ourselves! The Army—the infantry—‘cause it’s all over here now, will turn itself inside out. You’ll take the best goddamn Army the country ever fielded and turn it fucking inside out!”

  Not knowing how to respond, I said nothing, hoping he might change our conversation’s course. He didn’t.

  “Hell, you know how long it takes to grow a good NCO, Six. You used to wear stripes, right?”

  “Right, Top.”

  “Served in the 82d Airplane Division, right?”

  “Right, Top.”

  “Right! ‘Course I never cared much for anything airborne, never understood why anybody would want to jump out of an airplane—just never made any sense to me. But the 82d’s a good outfit, and their NCO’s are sharp! Worked with one of their battle groups ten, twelve years ago down in Panama and never seen sharper sergeants. I mean you could ID ‘em as NCO’s even if they weren’t wearing stripes.

  “But the point is, Six, if this war goes on another two, three years, the fucking 82d ‘Airplane’ is gonna be ‘bout the only infantry division left with its NCO corps intact, ‘cause its ‘bout the only walking infantry that ain’t yet over here! Right?”

  Oh, to hell with this. We’ve got to get some sleep.

  “Top, you’re probably right, though I honestly think you’re overly concerned about it. But whether you’re right or not, it just doesn’t matter, ‘cause there’s nothing you or I can do about it. I mean, like they say, ‘Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to take Thon Can Nhi.’ In the morning, early in the morning.”

  Grinning, he said, “Yeah, guess you’re right, Six. See you at first light.”

  Getting to his feet, he noticed he was nearly ankle deep in water.

  “Well, shit we may be seeing you before that. I’m fucking soaked, and ain’t nobody can sleep soaked.”

  The Bull wandered off toward his piece of the Nam. Sixty-three days and a wake-up. I’ll really miss him, I thought to myself. I’ve learned a lot from him, and it’ll be difficult, uncomfortable, bringing a new first on board. And I would miss him, but not in the context I then thought. Because, although I had no way of knowing it, I only had three days and a wakeup before leaving the Nam.

  “Six! Six! This is Two Six! Got a man hit! Got a man down. Over.”

  “Roger, Two Six,” I replied, speaking into Andy’s handset. “How bad? Do you need dust off?”

  “This is Two Six. Yeah, think so. Oh, yeah, absolutely. Doc’s working on him now. Stomach … uh … chest wound. Bleeding badly. Over.”

  “This is Six. We’ll get a dust off en route. Hold tight! Out.”

  Quickly changing handsets between Andy and Blair, I called for a medevac.

  “Arizona Three, this is Comanche Six. Need a dust off. Got a WIA. Got friendly wounded on the ground at our objective. Serious. LZ is … will be green. How copy? Over.”

  Arizona acknowledged the request, promising to have a medevac en route within minutes.

  Up to that point the attack on Thon Can Nhi had gone as planned. But now, just minutes after leaving the LZ, approaching the outskirts of the village, Two Six was obviously in trouble. Moreover, since the village’s periphery was a maze of hedgerows and stick fences, intermingled here and there with an occasional mud hutch, we couldn’t see O’Brien and had little idea where the contact had occurred.

  Moving with Four Six, we were nearly on line with, and between, the two attacking platoons. As I passed the handset back to Blair, I noted that One Six’s soldiers on our left were continuing to push forward, while Two Six on the right had evidently stopped in place. Turning to Andy, I once again changed handsets.

  “One Six, this is Six. Need a quick sitrep. Over.”

  “This One Six, Roger. We’re moving into the ville now. No contact.”

  “Uh … monitored Two Six’s transmission.”

  “This is Six. Okay. Two Six appears to be stopped in place. Want you to do the same till we can get their man out.”

  “This is One Six. Wilco.”

  “This is Six, ROger. Out … break. Two Six, this is Six. Dust off en route. Have you got an LZ, and are you green at this time? Over.”

  “This is Two Six. Roger on the green. Must have been a sniper, single burst of AK fire. Stand by on the LZ … wait. Roger, we’ll bring it on the paddy to our rear. Over.”

  After our injured soldier had been evacuated, we moved on through Thon Can Nhi, discovering nothing of any consequence except for a wounded child about seven or eight years old. Although no interpreter or Kit Carson accompanied us, it was obvious from the villagers’ gestures that the young boy had been hit by a stray piece of shrapnel during Blue Max’s prep of our LZ. The wound was serious but not life threatening.

  Doc Heard patched it up, assuring the young boy’s hysterical mother that her son would be okay. I hoped he was right. Civilian casualties distressed me. Wounded children sickened me.

  That night we set up our NDP in a cemetery on the far side of the village. After the log bird had departed and a wet, watery meal had been consumed, the Bull opened our nightly ritual by saying, “Sir, I know you don’t believe in omens, so I ain’t gonna say it. But today was a bad …”

  “Don’t say it, Top! As you just pointed out, I don’t believe in omens.”

  “Okay, but our wounded man was a bad … sign.”

  We spent the next couple of wet and dreary days working the area east of Highway One in the vicinity of Thon Can Nhi. Then, on the evening of 8 March, Byson sent a warning order informing us we would air-assault the village of Xom Dong My the following morning. Locating the encoded coordinates on our maps, we discovered the village was nearly midway between Highway One and the coast of the South China Sea—right in the middle of Fall’s “street.” With this bit of information in hand, we found ourselves anticipating the attack with a certain relish, feeling that we would finally find I Corps’ elusive enemy.

  As we were discussing the operation, the sun suddenly emerged from the overcast sky, preparing to set over the Annamese cordillera to the west of us. In silence, almost reverence, we looked up into its fading, warming rays.

  Ah, this is a good omen, I said to myself.

>   But it wasn’t.

  That early March morning began like so many mornings before it. We stood to at first light, fired a short but violent mad minute, washed and shaved, emptied our helmets of the pint of water needed to accomplish both these toilets, and then awaited the C&D bird. It arrived an hour or so after dawn, off-loaded several cases of C rations and some ammunition, and picked up our rucks, water cans, and mermites.

  But on this occasion it unexplainably failed to bring us our customary C&D.

  As might be expected, this caused some grumbling among Charlie Company’s rank and file. This quickly subsided, however. By now, we had resigned ourselves to the fact that life in I Corps wasn’t going to be as pleasant as it had been on Bong Son’s plain; and it really wasn’t any cup of tea on the plain.

  Some of the men ate a quick charlie rat or a portion thereof, while others decided to wait for a hot that night—a mistake on their part, since there was to be no hot that night. I had a can of fruit cocktail with peanut butter and crackers.

  Shortly after the log bird departed, Blair passed me his handset, saying, “And he’s on the horn, sir.”

  “Tall Comanche, this is Arizona Three. Inbound your location with four, plus two, plus two in zero six. How copy? Over.”

  “This is Comanche Six. Solid copy and standing by for pickup.”

  After passing word to saddle up, I watched as the company prepared to board the incoming helicopters. C rations were hurriedly discarded, holes covered, shoulder harnesses and pistol belts donned and adjusted, weapons readied, and a final radio check conducted. Troops then formed into liftoff sticks.

  As was customary in an extraction, the hooks landed first, picking up One Six, Three Six, and Four Six. When these double-rotary-bladed giants lifted off, the remainder of us, Two Six and the headquarters, quickly folded our defensive perimeter and ran toward the four Hueys that set down just as the hooks took off. The orbiting Cobras covered our extraction.

  Our formation of eight helicopters initially flew in a westerly direction, away from the street, so as to gain altitude and allow Major Byson time to set up his artillery prep of the LZ. In a few minutes, however, we began a gradual easterly turn and then flew back across Highway One, en route to what would be my last combat air assault of the war.

  Others were not so lucky. They would be dead before the sun set that evening.

  As we had hoped the night before, the day had dawned without a cloud in the sky. A bright, beautiful sunny day, so very different from those of the seemingly endless northeastern monsoon, with its surreal darkness and continuous drizzle. It felt good to be warm and dry again and about to engage the enemy on what we felt would be our terms, beating him as we had always done on the plain. We had had enough of those cold wet nights penned up inside Camp Evans waiting for a nameless, faceless enemy to loose his rockets upon us. We had had enough of those meaningless, fruitless searches for an enemy we could not find in the villages straddling Highway One. It was time to take the offensive, time to teach Charlie here in I Corps what his friends on the plain knew only too well—you don’t fuck with the Cav. No, sir!

  Sitting on the floor of the doorless, seatless helicopter with my legs dangling outside, I was momentarily distracted by the funny fluttering waves the aircraft’s slipstream was making in my jungle fatigues as we clipped along at ninety knots. I looked down at the landscape slipping past us and was suddenly impressed with its simple beauty.

  Composed primarily of rice paddies, it was the most vivid green I could ever recall seeing and, with the exception of an occasional water-filled bomb crater, seemingly untouched by the war. I noticed the peasant farmers working these paddies behind their water buffaloes.

  Hell, they were doing the same thing yesterday, and the day before, and the day I first arrived in this country back in 1962, and, for that matter, for five centuries before that. And regardless of what happens at Xom Dong My today, they’ll be working these paddies in the same medieval fashion tomorrow, oblivious to or not caring about what might have happened to us such a short distance away.

  The exhilaration I had felt earlier suddenly lost some of its flavor.

  What the hell are we doing here? What lasting importance will the outcome of today’s operation have on that peasant down there, or me, my men, or any thing or anyone else? Dangerous thoughts, I told myself.

  Who am I to question the importance of this or any other operation? Captains of infantry, and the soldiers they command, do not question. Theirs is not to reason why, theirs is …

  Byson’s penetrating voice in the headset quickly returned my wandering mind to the present.

  “Comanche Six, Red Rider, this is Arizona Three. Insert in zero four. Standard two-minute prep with last round smoke. Smoke on fifteensecond final. Blue Max will cover the insert. How copy?”

  “This is Comanche Six. Good copy. Over.”

  “Roger, this is Red Rider, and I copy that. Go.”

  “This is Arizona Three. Okay, good hunting, Comanche. Out.”

  I gave a four-finger heads ups to those aboard, signifying four minutes until touchdown.

  At two minutes out, we saw the artillery begin plastering our LZ, providing Lieutenant Moseley and me an opportunity to confirm its location on our maps. Soon after that, Byson began his final insert countdown. “Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen. I have smoke on the LZ. Rider Six, make your insert.”

  Now on fifteensecond final, we were coming in low and fast at treetop level. Discarding my headset, I and the others aboard shifted our weight, assuming our customary position on the aircraft’s skids.

  As we skimmed across the paddies, we saw the smoke from the artillery marking round rising lazily from the LZ. Suddenly, we heard the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of an accompanying Cobra’s aerial rockets as they jetted passed us and impacted on the LZ’s perimeter in brilliant white-and-red flashes. Nearing the landing zone, the slicks began flaring, tails down, preparing to land. A second Cobra passed us, laying a blanket of minigun and 40-mm grenade fire on the flanks of the LZ. Simultaneously, our door gunners began raking the zone’s periphery with their M-60 machine guns.

  When the helicopter’s skids were within two or three feet of the ground, we leaped, and our Huey pulled away without touching the paddy in which we now found ourselves. Quickly picking up speed and gaining altitude, the four slicks disappeared over the treetops as the Cobras continued to fire around the landing zone’s perimeter, covering our hurried movement to secure it.

  There was no return fire. The LZ was green, and within a matter of minutes the hooks had off-loaded the rest of the company. It had all gone like clockwork. A piece of cake.

  Once the company was assembled, we began moving in a northeasterly direction, Two Six leading, followed by Four Six, the headquarters section, and Three Six. One Six accompanied us on a separate route, a hundred meters or so to our left, protecting the company’s northern flank, which was dominated by a wood line of bamboo and other tropical shrubbery. If we should run into any trouble on the way to Xom Dong My, we felt it would come from that quarter, since there was nothing to the south of us except open rice paddy as far as the eye could see.

  We did not have far to go, perhaps a klick or so. In the distance the village looked larger than indicated on our maps. Noting a church steeple towering above the bamboo and palms surrounding the village, I remarked to Lieutenant Moseley that he had a super registration point should he need it.

  With a couple hundred meters of open paddy to cross before entering the southwest corner of Xom Dong My, I passed the word to Lieutenant Norwalk to clear the distant wood line that dominated our left flank before the rest of the company proceeded further. He did so and then continued moving along the wood line toward the northwest corner of the village, as Two Six and headquarters began crossing the paddy. Reaching the far side, Two Six postured itself defensively, preparing to cover the rest of the company’s crossing.

  That’s when Charlie hit One Six! It was a hastily establi
shed but well-executed ambush, and Norwalk and his men found themselves right in the middle of it.

  At the same moment, enemy fire began popping over our heads, high and ineffective but loud and unnerving. Caught midway across the paddy, we in headquarters dove for what cover a paddy can provide—which is very little. Anderson, holding his handset above the putrid water in which we had immersed ourselves, yelled, “Sir, Two Six on the horn!”

  Two Six? They’re hitting One Six. Aren’t they?

  “Comanche Six, this is Two Six. The dinks are hitting One Six! Over.”

  “This is Six. Get off the goddamn radio, Two Six. Break. One Six, this is Six. Over.”

  No reply.

  “One Six, One Six, this is Six. Over.”

  Still no reply.

  “One Six, One Six, this is Six. Give me something, now! Over.”

  Lieutenant Norwalk’s RTO, obviously frightened, probably somewhat disoriented, but still soldiering, replied, “This is One Six Alpha! One Six is down! He and the point are dead! Need help! Over.”

  “This is Six. Pop smoke and hang tight! We’re on the way. Out. Break. Two Six, Three Six, go perimeter where you are and stand by to assist. I’m moving to One Six now! Out.”

  While talking to One Six, we had crawled our way to the paddy dike. From there I saw they had marked their position with red smoke, which was now drifting over a large embankment approximately seventy-five meters and two rice paddies to the north of us.

  Charlie Company’s headquarters section, composed of Blair, Anderson, Moseley and his recon sergeant, and me, began moving toward the red smoke. We covered each other as we crossed the paddies separating us from Norwalk and his platoon. The enemy’s fire was light and sporadic.

  First Platoon had taken a swift and violent hit that had all but eliminated its chain of command. Bill Norwalk was not dead, but he had been shot through the neck and was unable to speak coherently. Sitting upright, bleeding profusely, he was obviously going into shock.