Comanche Six: Company Commander in Vietnam Page 12

  I decided to call Major Byson and ask if he was aware of the artillery strike and, if so, to tactfully suggest that we were poorly postured to influence its outcome.

  “Listen, Comanche,” Byson somewhat irritably and indignantly responded,

  “we know about the strike, we’re working on it, and if we need your help, I’ll call you, okay? Out!”

  Oh, well, tact never was my forte.

  Thirty minutes later, Blair passed me his handset with his familiar,

  “Three’s on the horn, sir.”

  “Okay, listen up, Comanche,” Byson said in a calm, business-as-usual voice. “We know you want to get back up on that hill of yours, and I’m gonna put you in there just as soon as I can make a pickup in the A.M. If it looks like the weather won’t allow an early extract, it may be best for you to go in overland—it’s only eight klicks or so. What do you think?”

  “This is Comanche Six. Sounds fine to me. Just give us your weather decision as early as possible.”

  “This is Arizona Three. You’ll be making it, not me, Comanche. Weather at your end will be the deciding factor … break. Prepare for a pickup with four, plus two, plus two.”

  Passing the handset back to Blair, I recalled the Bull’s tactical dictum: “They’re long gone at dawn, Six. Always!”

  “Andy, get the platoon leaders over here, please. It’s time to talk.”

  “They’ll be gone at dawn, sir,” Sergeant Sullivan predicted, after he, Slim, the platoon leaders, and I had assembled for a council of war.

  “Top’s right, sir,” Mac said. “And the 506 sets right in a valley here, so it’ll be socked in till eight, nine o’clock in the morning.

  Right, Top?” he asked, turning to Sergeant Sullivan, who nodded his head in agreement.

  “Yes, sir,” the Bull said. “We’ve been in this area more times than I want to count, and it’s always like sitting in a fucking cloud in the morning. Shit, if we wait for an extract, we’ll be lucky if we’re on the mountain by ten.”

  “Kind of ironic, isn’t it? I mean, we’re undoubtedly the unit closest to the objective. Yet, because of the morning fog, I’ll bet any other, and I really mean every other, company in the battalion is in a better posture for an early extract. See what I mean? We’re both the closest to, and farthest from, the target,” Lieutenant Norwalk commented, philosophically.

  Mac gazed at Norwalk incredulously for a moment, then said, “Well, Bill, that’s really an interesting observation, and if you should ever write a book on the role weather plays in combat’s decision-making process, I suggest you include it. In the meantime, could you please tell us just what the fuck that has to do with solving our predicament? Huh?”

  Norwalk just smiled.

  “Why not move out at first light, sir?” Bob Halloway proposed.

  “I mean start moving right at BMNT. Shouldn’t take us more than an hour plus, two at the most.”

  “Too late,” the Bull replied. “They’ll be gone at dawn. Never fails.”

  “Why not start moving now, tonight?” Brightly suggested.

  “Think that’s the answer, Slim,” I said. “If you look at our options, that’s the only one that’ll get us into the area at first light.”

  Silence.

  “Uh … you mean overland, sir?” Sullivan asked. “There’s no light tonight. That shit’s just too thick to navigate with no moon, sir. It’d take us the rest of the night and most of tomorrow.”

  “Naw, not overland, Top. Right down the red line, straight down Route 506. It’ll take us within a klick of the mountain, two at the most.”

  Again, silence.

  “Sir,” Mac said, “you just don’t move on a red line at night. I mean, honestly, sir, it just isn’t done. We’d only be asking for trouble.

  ‘Sides,” he added, smiling, “I’ve only got four more days. Don’t want to become a fucking ambush statistic with only four days to go!”

  “Come on, Mac,” I responded. “No one’s gonna become a statistic because no one’s gonna get ambushed. Who the hell’s gonna ambush us? This is our AO, there’s no other friendly folk in the area, and we’ll confirm that with battalion before we depart. That leaves only Charlie.

  “Right!” Mac interrupted. “And he, sir, is our concern.” Then, turning to the others, “Hey, fellows, when you all start getting old mail on me next week, I want it marked PCS, not Search!”

  “and …” I continued, a bit more confidently. “Really think we ought to move Mac, Charlie ain’t gonna be lying in ambush on 506 tonight,” I argued. “I mean, why the hell should he? He knows that our units don’t move around at night; he sure as hell knows we don’t move bold ass down a red line! Hey, Mac, you said it yourself; it just isn’t done. So why the fuck would he waste time setting up in ambush on a remote secondary road, waiting for an enemy that, by doctrine, never travels those roads at night?”

  I paused briefly, allowing the “council” time to recognize the logic of my argument. I’d already pretty much decided we were going to go along with Slim’s proposal, but I wanted the willing support of the others. And, with the assistance of my first sergeant, I got it.

  “CO’s right, gentlemen,” he said. “Charlie’s good, but he ain’t behind every rock, and he sure as shit can’t ambush the whole country. He only goes into ambush when he knows target A is gonna travel route B on date C, and then he spends a hell of a lot of time planning, preparing, rehearsing, moving, and so forth. And none of that’s applicable here.”

  “Well, shit, Top, we know all of that,” Mac said, a bit tauntingly, smiling. “And we’re ready to move. We just wanted to see if you knew what the captain and Slim there were talking about.”

  While they remained assembled, I got on the radio to Major Byson. Gotta be careful here, I thought to myself. Don’t want to piss him off again. I’ll just state the facts as we see them, make our proposal, and if he says no, we’ll all go to bed. Company needs the rest anyway.

  The battalion TOC’s night watch replied that Major Byson wasn’t in the area but relayed that they would try to locate him. Oh, shit, hope I’m not getting him out of the sack! Majors don’t look kindly on captains interrupting what little cot time they get while assigned duties as a battalion S-3. Moments later, Byson came on the air.

  “Comanche, this is Arizona Three. What have you got? Over.”

  “This is Comanche Six. In regard to tomorrow’s op … well, what with the fog on this end in the Alpha Mike, feel we’re gonna miss the boat if we wait for an extract.” I paused for a second and then continued. “We go out on foot tonight. That way we’d be in position to hit the objective at first light. I’m confident we can make the move without problem. Over.”

  “Hey, sounds good to me, Comanche. What are your proposed route and start point time? Check that, I’ll extend your AO. You choose the route and get back to me ASAP.”

  “This is Comanche Six. Roger. Need to confirm absence of any other friendlies in our extended AO and ensure red leg isn’t active anywhere between us and the objective after start time. My FO is working this through his channels … uh … just want to advise you of my concern.”

  “Roger, Comanche. Good copy, and there are no other friendly folk in your area. I’ll double-check the red-leg issue also … break. Now listen, I think it’s a good idea, but before I give you a green light, want to pass it by the Six. So stand by a moment.”

  And so I stood by. Within a matter of minutes, Colonel Lich was on the radio.

  “Comanche Six, this is Arizona Six. Understand what you want to do. Now listen up. It’s your AO. You’re the man on the ground, and if you think it’s a sound move, do it! Any questions?” I liked Colonel Lich.

  Passing the handset back to Blair, I gave the council a thumbs up.

  “It’s a go! Let’s get ready to move.”

  “One thing, sir,” Mac said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to move too early. Mean, it’s only gonna take us a couple hours to get down there, and we do
n’t want to go into that bunker complex in the dark. Recommend we start moving around 0300 hours. That should put us in position to hit the complex at first light.”

  “Good idea, Mac,” I said. “Let’s plan on it. That’ll also give our troops some more sack time before we move—God knows they need it; we all do.”

  I paused, collecting my thoughts, then continued. “Okay, we want to move light, silent, and fast. That means leaving our rucks, mortars, and starlight scopes behind. And that’s too much for Four Six to handle by themselves. They just don’t have the bodies.”

  Turning to Lieutenant Halloway, I said, “So I’m sorry, Bob, know you want to be on this, but you’re staying with Four Six. You’ll be in charge, of course; coordinate with Mac and Bill on how you’re gonna fill in their portions of the perimeter.”

  Then, looking back at the others, I said, “Okay, order of march is Two Six, followed by One Six.” Winking at Mac, I added, “This probably being your last one, Mac, think you should have the honor of leading?”

  He grinned and, replied, somewhat sarcastically, “Thanks, sir, and I want you to know I appreciate it.”

  “Thought you would. Start point time is 0300 hours. Start point is … any suggestions?”

  “Why don’t we make it the 506 at the point it crosses our perimeter on the east?” Mac offered.

  “Great!” I replied. “Okay, I’ll be accompanying Two Six. Anything we missed?”

  “Yes, sir,” the Bull said, turning his attention to the others. “When you gentlemen return to your platoons—and this is just a reminder, sirs—make sure your people tape and tie weapons and LBE for silent movement. Don’t want any clang, clang on the 506 in the morning.”

  “What about immediate action in an ambush … uh … I mean if we should get hit from the flank, sir?” Bill Norwalk asked. “‘Course, like you all say, that’s not gonna happen. But just in case something like that should happen, what’s the procedure? Same as in daylight? Mean, charge it if it’s near, go for cover if it’s far?”

  “Uh … right.” I said, mentally kicking myself for not thinking of so obvious a contingency. Bill Norwalk has his head screwed on tighter than I do tonight.

  “Good point, Bill,” MacCarty said, “but I wouldn’t worry too much about it. I think a greater concern is a meeting engagement, you know, just running into Charlie going the other way. ‘Cause, like the Six says, it’s his road at night.”

  “And that’s a good point, Mac,” I said, rebounding.

  “Wich reminds me—and ‘course it’s your platoon—who’s gonna be our point?”

  He smiled and said, “Shit, sir, you know damn well who—Wester.”

  As planned, we left the NDP’s perimeter at three o’clock in the morning, Wester and his bronze plate-embedded twelve-gauge shotgun leading the formation, followed by his squad leader and a two-man M-60 machine-gun team, Mac and his RTO, and me and mine. It was pleasantly cool and very dark. The column moved east along Route 506 for an hour or so—silently, speedily, professionally. There was no cussing, clanging, banging, jingling, or needless whispering. They’re good, I thought to myself, moving as infantrymen are supposed to move in the still of night in Indian country.

  Abruptly we halted. Mac moved forward, passing his machine-gun team as he did so. I waited in place for a few moments, then, telling Blair and Andy to stand fast, followed after him. I found him twenty-five to thirty meters forward of the column, huddled with Wester and Sergeant Baker, the lead squad’s squad leader.

  “Problems?” I whispered.

  “Uh … no, sir,” Mac whispered in return. “Just checking to see if this is ‘bout the right place to leave the 506 and cut south toward the mountain.”

  Recalling our previous night’s map reconnaissance, I was about to say I thought we had another couple hundred meters to go when Wester whispered, “Shhhh! Think I hear something.”

  The four of us stood in silence, looking down the road, which inclined gently upward and over a small hill before falling off again toward the east. For a moment we heard nothing. Then, faintly, we could hear the rhythmic, crunching sound of footsteps on the sparsely graveled surface of Route 506. We stared at the top of the hill, twenty meters or so to our front. Suddenly, silhouetted against the murky night sky, a man’s head appeared, rising over the hill’s summit. Then another. And another.

  They seemed to wear helmets of a sort and looked to be carrying weapons, but who were they? The enemy? And now, behind them, as they started down the hill toward us, two more heads appeared on the hilltop’s skyline. Were there others behind them?

  We continued to stand and stare as if frozen in place, Wester in front—closest to the approaching figures—Sergeant Baker to his rear, and Mac and myself behind Sergeant Baker. Five of them, four of us. Within seconds, they’d have to see us, either that or run straight into us. It was one of those electrifying, exhilarating moments that make soldiering a more memorable endeavor than other walks of life.

  The first three figures, evidently seeing us, stopped abruptly less than ten meters to our front. One of them yelled, “Dung lai!”

  It was the biggest mistake of his life, and the last one he’d ever make. Americans don’t yell “dung lai” when they want someone to stand in place, and Wester knew that.

  Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Each time Wester fired, the muzzle flash from his shotgun momentarily and brilliantly illuminated another blood-splattered, khaki-clad figure caught photolike in a grotesque dance of death. In not more than two seconds, his chamber was empty, and he yelled,

  “Grenade!” We fell to the ground, thinking he was warning us of an incoming grenade. We quickly saw that was not the case as he threw one of his own grenades across the bodies to our front and into the ditch on the left side of the road. Then he hit the dirt.

  Whoom!

  The four of us got up and slowly, cautiously moved forward. In the center of the road, spaced within five feet of each other, lay three dead NVA soldiers. On the ground next to them lay two AK-47 assault rifles. In the ditch adjoining Route 506 we found two more enemy soldiers, both of whom were superficially wounded; and neither one could surrender quite fast enough to suit the other.

  Mac wisely and hurriedly called his lead squad forward, sending them on down the road another twenty to thirty meters in case those who lay dead at our feet had friends following. Doc Heard had also charged forward and, after ensuring none of us were injured, began examining our wounded POWS.

  “Lucky, both of them,” he said. “Lot of blood, shrapnel, but don’t think either one’s hurting that much. Vital organs appear to be untouched.” Then he added, “‘Course, who can see a fucking thing in this light.?” I heard him mumbling and said offhandedly, “Go ‘head and use your flashlight, Doc. It’s okay.”

  With the rest of the column now moving forward, I thought it best to go into a hasty perimeter defense where we stood, Two Six on the right of the road, One Six on the left. Having so decided, I radioed battalion.

  “Arizona Three, this is Comanche Six. We’re in contact, over.”

  “This is Arizona Three. Send your traffic.”

  Damn, it’s Byson! Four-thirty in the fucking morning, and he’s on the horn in a flash! Doesn’t the man ever sleep?

  “This is Comanche, Roger. Ran into five NVA on 506 at … uh … zero four ten hours.” That’s got to be close. “Got three NVA killed in action, two POWS, both lightly wounded. Also got two AK-47s and one SKS. No friendly casualties. Over.”

  “Understand you’ve got two prisoners, two live ones. is that correct?”

  “That’s affirmative.” I replied, beaming.

  “This is Arizona Three. Okay! Super! We’ll want to get them out as quickly as possible. I’m gonna pass this on to the Six, then get back to you. Stand by.”

  The two platoons, having moved forward, were hurriedly and noiselessly establishing their perimeter, though there was little real need for noise discipline at this juncture. Doc Heard, meanwh
ile, was performing some quick patchwork on our prisoners, while Sergeant Baker, assisted by one of his men, was binding their hands behind their backs with WD-1 (communications wire).

  “Comanche, this is Arizona Six. Over.” It was Colonel Lich on the battalion command net.

  “This is Comanche Six.”

  “This is Arizona Six. Good job, Comanche. Now I want to get your prisoners out of there and interrogated right away. They may know something ‘bout the area you’re going into. The Three’s gonna have a bird inbound in—wait—fifteen minutes. Any problem? Over.”

  “Negative, no problem. We’ll be ready, over.”

  “Okay, pass on a ‘well done’ to your soldiers. They’ve already done a good night’s work. Out.”

  Mac, having just positioned his platoon in a half circle on the right of 506, walked back to our center-of-the-road CP and, gesturing toward the prisoners, asked, “What about our newfound friends here, sir? It’s gonna slow us down if they have to tag along.”

  “Colonel says he’ll have a bird here in fifteen minutes to evac ‘em,” I replied. “How ‘bout bringing it in on the paddy over there on the right, Mac.”

  Sergeant Baker, completing his task of binding the two unfortunates, turned to MacCarty and said, “My squad will set up the LZ, sir. It’s all part of a POW package deal we’re offering tonight, and these two runts belong to us!”

  “Uh … how do you want me to mark it?”

  I looked at Mac. Mac looked at me.

  Before either of us could think of how best to bring in the helicopters, Sergeant Baker continued, “Why don’t I just give ‘em a threeflashlight triangle and bring the bird down in the middle of it?”

  Mac and I again looked at each other, then nodded our heads. We might do better in this war if we simply turned it over to our sergeants, I thought to myself.

  “Battalion wants to know our location for the POW extract, sir,” Blair announced, his handset to his ear.

  “Tell ‘em to just fly the red line,” I replied. “We’ll mark when they’re overhead.”