Comanche Six: Company Commander in Vietnam

by James Estep

  However, being the good officer—the leader—he was, he was still commanding his soldiers through gestures. His platoon sergeant, who had been at the rear of their formation, had also been hit, and his RTO had been killed. Their point man, I was told, lay somewhere atop or on the other side of the embankment along which the platoon had been moving.

  The remainder of One Six was crouched at the bottom of this embankment, seeking what cover it afforded. And Charlie was on the other side.

  While Anderson struggled to get a battle dressing around Norwalk’s neck, I attempted to ascertain that everyone was at least accounted for. One of the platoon’s squad leaders, taking charge as good squad leaders do, assured me that everyone was behind the embankment except the point man, who was dead.

  “Sir, he’s dead! I was right behind the LT. I saw them both get hit, the LT in the throat and the point right smack in the face. Goddamn, sir, the whole of his head just burst open! He’s dead!”

  But what if he wasn’t? I crawled up the embankment and looked across its crest. The point man was lying face down in a great pool of blood about ten meters or so to my right front. As I slithered toward him on my belly, I stared fixedly at the soles of his jungle boots, noting that they looked brand new. And he never suspected that when he put them on they would out last … But maybe not, maybe he was just … No, his squad leader was right. One Six’s point man was very dead. And shame on you, Captain Estep, because you can’t remember his name. Shame on you, indeed!

  War is not at all like Hollywood depicts it in movies. You do not effortlessly toss the dead or dying soldier across your shoulder and run merrily along, firing a submachine gun with your free hand. Dead and dying soldiers are so very heavy. I pulled, tugged, and rolled our nameless point man to the edge of the embankment, where Moseley helped me drag him on down to One Six’s covered position.

  Now, having our dead and wounded on the friendly side of the embankment, all that remained were to move ourselves across the open paddies, rejoin the rest of the company, and then bring down all the artillery in the free world on this ambush site and the enemy that had killed our soldiers. Unfortunately, the rest of the company, positioned as it was, could not provide covering fire, so we would have to cover our own withdrawal.

  We assigned two uninjured men of the leaderless 1st Platoon to each of their dead and wounded and then, after tossing hand grenades in over the top of the embankment, sent them scurrying across the paddy while we fired a “mini-mad minute” at a foe we could not see.

  It worked! They reached the far paddy dike and were out of harm’s way. Charlie hadn’t fired a round in return.

  I felt it best to next send what remained of the leaderless and somewhat shaken 1st Platoon. After collecting their grenades, we sent them sprinting toward safety, covering them the same way—with grenades over the embankment followed by an earsplitting volley of automatic-weapons fire.

  Again it worked. Again Charlie’s weapons remained silent.

  Now it was our turn. I told Moseley, his recon sergeant, Blair, and Andy to each toss a grenade and run like hell. The grenades exploded!

  They ran. I fired a final twentyround magazine at our unseen enemy, an enemy that I secretly suspected no longer opposed us. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the others nearing the safety of the paddy dike. I had one grenade left. I pulled the pin, threw it over the embankment, and ducked.

  Whoom!

  As dust and debris from the explosion fell around me, I jumped to my feet. Now run like the wind, Comanche!

  I nearly made it.

  I was fully two-thirds of the way across the paddy when Charlie opened up, first with small arms and then with a machine gun. And I was the only one left to shoot at!

  Oh, shit! Twenty-five, thirty meters to go. Run!

  The sordid paddy water was perhaps a foot deep. Each time a round struck, and there were many of them, the water burst ten to twelve feet into the air, showering me like a tropical downpour. I was soaked. The paddy’s soft, sucking mud pulled at my feet, slowing my passage to safety. My legs began to feel as if they were made of lead.

  Just ten or fifteen more meters! I’m going to make it. Gonna conduct this little ado without suffering a single additional casualty. Gonna …

  It did not hurt. Not at first. It merely felt like a giant iron-fisted hand had reached up from the depths of the paddy, grabbed my leg, and then in one swift violent motion snapped my entire body as if it were the cutting end of a bullwhip. My head flew back, and suddenly I was gazing at the cloudless blue sky above, watching my CAR-15 fly end over end, up and to the right, as my helmet followed a similar path of flight, up and to the left. I began falling from what seemed to be a great height. And then, briefly, there was darkness.

  Choking on the putrid paddy water, I looked up to see Lieutenant Moseley and his recon sergeant lying behind the paddy dike, firing over my head at the enemy beyond. Another ten meters or so, and I’d lie in safety with them. I started to crawl forward. But something was very wrong.

  My right leg wouldn’t work. There was no feeling in my leg!

  Okay, we’ll just drag it along behind us, Comanche. No sweat.

  But they’re still shooting at me! They’re still trying to kill me!

  Don’t they know, haven’t they been taught, that it’s better to wound a man than kill him? Isn’t that what they told us at Benning? “Kill a man, and you only take out one of your enemy; wound him, and you take out three. Him and two others to care for him.” ‘Course, Charlie didn’t go to Benning. Silly thoughts. Keep moving.

  Finally, I reached the edge of the dike. Moseley grabbed my outstretched hand and pulled me over it, into the foul water of the next paddy. As he did so, one of Charlie’s rounds hit the top of the dike between us, taking out a full foot of its mud wall.

  Lying there exhausted, I looked down and saw the ugly white bone sticking through my torn jungle pants. I also saw the sole of my right boot angling crazily, staring back at me.

  Something is amiss here, Comanche. I fear your tenure of duty with Charlie Company, Fifth Cavalry, is nearing its end. For if you cannot walk, you cannot command. Not in the infantry.

  We were still receiving fire; in fact, it seemed to have intensified.

  Charlie, sensing we were in trouble and still separated from the rest of the company by a second paddy, was obviously maneuvering to cut us off.

  It was a wise decision on his part; he knew that as long as he “hugged” us, we couldn’t bring our artillery to bear upon him. Movement across the second paddy appeared impossible unless Moseley and his sergeant left me behind. But being the brave soldiers they were, they refused to do that.

  However, Charlie had a surprise in store for him. Blue Max was en route.

  Blair and Andy had already reached the company’s perimeter, as they were told to do. Hence, I was without my communications link with battalion—an unforgivable sin on the part of a rifle company commander.

  Shame on me again.

  Using the recon sergeant’s radio, I attempted to contact battalion through the fire-control net.

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

  “Comanche, this is Lime Light. Go to Arizona push. Out.”

  Twisting, struggling, the recon sergeant and I managed to maneuver ourselves into a posture that allowed me access to the frequency knob atop the radio on his back. I quickly changed the set’s frequency to battalion’s push, wondering in the process just who the hell Lime Light might have been.

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

  Colonel Lich responded immediately.

  “This is Arizona Six. Roger, we have dust off and Blue Max on the way. How bad are you hit?”

  How does he know that?

  “This is Comanche Six. Uh … don’t really know, but don’t think I’ll be doing much humping for a while.”

  “This is Arizona Six. Okay, hang on. I’m en route. Out!”

  Then the leg started to hurt! O
h, God, it started to hurt! It was like every single nerve ending was on fire. And, I casually observed, my arms were covered with the leeches that inhabit the Nam’s paddies. Leave ‘em alone and let ‘em suck. They’re probably all over you anyway, and there’s no bug juice handy.

  Lieutenant Moseley, in the meantime, began bringing red leg in behind Charlie, creeping the rounds forward toward us. Before the day was over, the enemy of Xom Dong My would dearly wish this young lieutenant had never been born.

  “Tall Comanche, this is Blue Max Lead inbound. Request smoke. Over.”

  Moseley’s recon sergeant tossed a yellow smoke across the top of the paddy dike, and within a matter of seconds Blue Max was back on the air.

  “Roger, Comanche. I see your banana. Where are the bad guys?”

  “This Comanche Six. We’re hugging the smoke. Other friendlies to our southwest. Enemy dug in across next paddy dike to our northeast. Uh … about forty, fifty meters at forty-five degrees. Copy?”

  “This is Blue Max, and that’s a Roger. See the dike and flashes. We’ll be coming in west to east with rockets and minigun. Keep your heads down.”

  Whoom! Whoom! Whoom!

  Give it to ‘em, Blue Max! Tear ‘em apart! Kill those sonofabitches.”

  As the Cobras began their second firing run, the three of us started crawling along the edge of the dike toward the company’s perimeter. Our progress was slow, painful! Suddenly Sergeant Naple, Two Six’s platoon sergeant, was kneeling at my side. Naple! What the hell is he doing here? He’s with Two Six, a world away.

  Smiling down at me, he said, “Sir, if it won’t be bothering you too much, I’m gonna get you out of this shit.”

  He grabbed the back of my suspenders and began running across the paddy, dragging me behind him as the enemy’s rounds popped over our heads. God, it hurt! Then, passing a clump of bamboo adjacent to the dike, I saw Wester jump out of the foliage, fire two quick rounds from his M-79, and fall in behind us.

  Wester! What’s he doing here? Brave men, Naple and Wester. Brave men, indeed!

  We made it. And then Doc Heard pounced on me. “I told you, sir! Again and again, I told you. Always want to travel with the point. Always want to see what’s happening. Well, I told you sooner or later something like this was gonna … goddamn it, I told you!”

  And I suppose he had.

  After giving me a shot of morphine, which did absolutely nothing to relieve the pain, he pulled my right leg straight and tied it to my left leg. As he was filling out a casualty card, I asked, “How about it, Doc? Will I be coming back?”

  He shook his head. “Sir, you know better than that.”

  Arizona Six landed moments later with a new captain at his side. My replacement? Colonel Lich and I talked briefly, the two of us agreeing that it was best to hit Charlie hard with artillery before sending the company back in. I told him he must get new leadership to 1st Platoon quickly, before they began feeling sorry for themselves. He said he would. After a short and somewhat awkward lull, he told me I mustn’t worry about the company; I’d be back. But he also knew better than that.

  Then, looking up, I saw the Bull kneeling beside me. He was smiling but had concern in his eyes. “Like I say, Six, sometimes you eat the bear, and sometimes the bear eats you.”

  “I’ll be back, Top,” I said, forcing a smile. “Just hold it together till I get back.”

  He looked at my leg, shook his head, and said, “No, you won’t be back, sir. And we’ll miss you; company will miss YOU.”

  Seeing the dust-off Huey coming in on final, he got to his feet. Looking down at me, he said, “Good luck, Six. See you in the world.”

  I was loaded aboard the Huey, and we took off. The helicopter gained altitude quickly and then, banking sharply to the left, overflew the company’s perimeter on its way back to Evans. From atop my stretcher, I was able to look over my shoulder and see the men of Charlie Company digging their defenses on the edge of Xom Dong My.

  I’ll miss you so very much.

  23. Tour’s End: 9 March 1968

  As I was taken from the helicopter and rushed into the Cav’s forward evacuation station at Evans, I noticed that the sun was still shining. It was a beautiful day. Everyone began working on me at once. Someone removed my left boot, while others cut away my uniform and right boot.

  Suddenly I was naked, filthy, and covered with leeches. These were quickly removed.

  Meanwhile, someone inserted an IV in my right arm, while others straightened my leg—a dreadfully painful experience—cleaned it, stuffed some gauze in the open wound, and then splinted it with wire and ace bandages.

  Throughout this ordeal, yet another party kept asking me questions.

  “Name and rank?”

  “Estep, James L., Captain.”

  “Service number?”

  “05322246”

  “Unit … next of kin … home of record.” And so forth.

  After giving me a general wipe down to remove most of the mud, they gave me another shot of morphine, covered my nakedness with a blanket, wrote up what they had done, and put me back on the helicopter.

  It had all taken less than twenty minutes.

  My next stop was one of the Corps’ evacuation hospitals, a major medical facility located at Hue-Phu Bai. Here things did not go nearly as quickly as they had at Camp Evans. After being hurriedly transported from my Huey into a spacious warehouselike structure, I was placed on a concrete floor—and left there.

  It was a dark, dreary place, but there was still enough light to see that I was not alone. Stretchers such as mine, with wounded soldiers atop them, literally covered the building’s floor. Many of the men were in pain. Some of them moaned, a few called for their mothers or divine intervention, while one simply screamed over and over. There was one other who loudly cursed everything and everyone imaginable.

  Taken together, these many expressions of pain produced an eerie, morbid “oversound” that Hollywood could never recreate in its most macabre horror films. I didn’t like it. I missed the security of my company. I missed sitting atop my mermite and discussing the state of the command with the Bull.

  The hours passed. Oh, how my leg hurt! The pain began coming in waves, the crests of which brought tears to my eyes. Occasionally a medic would check my wound and vital signs.

  “How’s it going, buddy?”

  “I’m in pain. Lots of pain.”

  “Sorry, buddy, can’t give you anything yet. Too soon. Hang in there.”

  Don’t call me “buddy,” goddamn it! I’m a captain, captain of infantry, queen of battle! Address me as “sir.”

  But he had already left.

  They continued to hurry stretchers out one end of the building, while bringing them in the other just as quickly.

  I know what we have here, I thought to myself, remembering my Special Forces training. This is the triage process, the process of determining priority of treatment when confronted with mass casualties. Those with life-threatening wounds, but who can be saved, go first. Serious but non-life-threatening wounds are treated next. Those so seriously wounded that treatment would probably be of no avail—well, you put them in the corner and call the chaplain. This is a good sign! I’m not in a corner, and I’m obviously not being treated as first priority in their sorting process.

  Sometime later the medical attendant returned.

  “How’s it going, buddy?”

  “Are you gonna give me a shot?” I asked. You can call me buddy if you’ll give me a shot.

  “Yes, but only if you feel you really need it.”

  You pompous sonofabitch! Who made you keeper of Uncle Sam’s medicine chest?

  “Yes, I really need it, goddamn it! And if you call me buddy again, if you don’t address me as sir, I’m gonna have you up on charges!”

  I must have drifted off for a short while. Suddenly, I awoke to find myself being moved. It was my turn. Lifting me from the stretcher, they placed me on a gurney and wheeled me through the double s
winging doors at the end of our “warehouse.” The next room was a brightly lit operating facility, a large one composed of several cubicles. I was wheeled into one of them.

  “Okay, what do we have here?” someone asked.

  “High-velocity gunshot wound, lower right leg. Compound fracture, tibia-fibula. He’s stable,” someone else replied.

  Stable, my ass. I’ve never been so unstable in my entire fucking life.

  “Roll him on his side. We can handle this with a spinal,” the first party replied.

  As they rolled me over on my side, a third party said, “This won’t hurt at all, and it’ll take the pain completely away.”

  He, or she, was 100 percent correct. It didn’t hurt, and, like magic, the pain disappeared! For the first time in the six to eight hours since Moseley had pulled me over that paddy dike, my leg didn’t hurt. I felt absolutely nothing from the waist down. Now, with the pain gone, I could feel the effects of the morphine, or Demerol, or whatever I was shot up with—and it felt good.

  All right, Doc, let’s get on with this operation. Piece of cake! Like we say in the Cav, “Ain’t no big thing.”

  A bit fuzzily, almost mindlessly, I watched as they did a quick prep and then went to work trying to clean up the mess Charlie had made of my leg. A modern high-velocity projectile, regardless of its caliber, destroys a lot of tissue as it passes through the human body.

  An AK-47 round is no exception. Hence, the team’s first order of business was the debridement, or removal, of this dead meat, which they accomplished quickly and efficiently. A drain was then inserted in the open wound, the wound sutured around it, and the leg set and plastered around the drain. Then I was whisked away as one of the surgical team yelled, “Next!”

  Later that night or early the following morning, when the effects of the spinal had worn off, I awoke in one of Hue-Phu Bai’s holding wards to find the searing pain once again attacking me in throbbing waves. A nurse gave me a shot and a sleeping pill, and I drifted off for another couple of hours. This was the first night of a sleep, wake, pain, wait, shot, pill, sleep again ritual that would be part of all my nights for weeks, indeed months, to come.