Comanche Six: Company Commander in Vietnam Page 19

  The method by which the two platoons would accomplish the next day’s mission was pretty much standard. After the LPs and trick or treats returned to the NDP and the morning log bird departed, One Six would move out of the perimeter, due north for one klick. Two Six would do the same, moving due south. Then both platoons would circle us at a distance of one kilometer in a half-moon fashion, moving clockwise. Both would remain an equal distance from us, with our NDP separating them. At day’s end, One Six would rejoin us from the south, and Two Six from the north. In essence, this maneuver provided us our own moving “doughnut ring.”

  Of course, these preparations were all for naught. The next day we’d find ourselves doing anything, and a bit of everything, except patrolling defensively.

  Slim Brightly remained behind as my platoon leaders returned to their sectors of the perimeter. First Sergeant Sullivan, with tour-extension papers in hand on one of Three Six’s soldiers, accompanied Lieutenant Halloway.

  “So what say, Slim? Understand you’re gonna be leaving us shortly.”

  “Yeah, guess so,” he said, smiling. “My six months are up in another couple of weeks. Gotta move on to bigger and better things.”

  “And what might that be?” I asked.

  “Well, getting promoted ‘bout the same time I ferry out—least that’s when I hit my twenty-four months. Colonel says he’s gonna give me a battery. ‘Course that’s what I want, a command.”

  “Sure you do, but it can weigh on you. Especially assuming the reins same time you go double on your silver. Nervous?”

  He looked at me as if unable to comprehend my question, then said,

  “Hell, no! Ain’t nothing to commanding a battery, particularly over here where your soldiers and soldiering are ‘bout the only thing you have to worry about. I mean, you don’t have the wives and family problems, or the socials, fund drives, parades and reviews, Saturdaymorning inspections, police and support details, and so on and so forth. All you gotta worry about is making sure your soldiers can put iron on a target quicker and more accurately than any other battery in the fucking division. And my people will damn well be doing that soon enough after I take over!”

  False modesty was not one of Lieutenant Brightly’s character flaws. He was confident almost to the point of cockiness. There was little doubt in my mind that he would be an outstanding commander.

  “Hell, maybe I don’t understand the question, sir,” he continued. “Mean, were you nervous when you took the company on the bridge?”

  “Damn right I was. Still am. Every goddamn day.”

  My response seemed to surprise him. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he said, “Well, you shouldn’t be. Company’s turned itself around since you took over. Shit, we ain’t done nothing but kick Charlie’s ass up one side and down the other since leaving the bridge.”

  “Yeah, but Slim, I’ve had very damn little to do with that, and you know it. We’ve just been lucky as hell these past couple of months. Could’ve just as easily gone the other way.”

  “Whoa there, Six,” he said, grinning. “Lucky! Wasn’t it you who told me he didn’t believe in luck that first night when I said we were having damn little of it?”

  I smiled and said, “Well, let me rephrase that. The gods of war have smiled on us these last couple of months. Okay?”

  “Yeah, I copy that, and you’re right, they have. And I do believe in luck, but the company had problems other than just the lack of it before your arrival.” He paused and then, in a more serious vein, said, “See, your predecessor was one of the finest officers, one of the finest men, I’ve ever known, in the service or out. Loved his soldiers, looked over each and every one of them like they were his children. As a good commander should.”

  He breathed deeply. “And the colonel was right in relieving him. And every one of your leaders knows that ‘cept your first sergeant, and down deep he knows it, too. ‘Course, he won’t admit it to anyone except maybe himself, and you can’t fault him for that.”

  I said nothing, so he went on.

  “He loved his soldiers too much. And after he lost a couple of ‘em, he simply went too far in trying to keep the rest of the company out of harm’s way. Sort of got his priorities mixed up—you know, accomplish the mission, butfirst take care of the troops. Hell, I don’t know, maybe he just wasn’t ready for command. Maybe we’re making our lieutenants into captains too soon.”

  Changing the course of our conversation, I asked, “Hey, Slim, you gonna fire a registration tonight?”

  “Naw, don’t need it. I can work off Daisy’s RP if need be.”

  The evening log bird landed minutes later and Lieutenant Brightly strolled off to see if it might have brought mail for him.

  “Maybe he just wasn’t ready for command.” Well, hell, who is?

  But he’s right, as was I. Although we rarely admit it, because it can’t be taught in leadership courses, the difference between a successful and an unsuccessful commander in combat is, as often as not, a matter of pure luck, fate, the fortunes of war. And we had been lucky. What if we had been caught in an ambush on one of our early forays up the mountain? “Why were you on a trail, Captain?”

  “Did you have flankers out, left and right?” What if the five NVA had been quicker with their AKs than Wester had been with his twelve-gauge the other night on the 506? “And what were you doing moving bold ass down a highway at night, Captain?”

  “Did you have flankers out.” Yeah, I’m nervous. Stay nervous.

  At dusk, after the company had messed and began settling in for the night, my first sergeant came over and sat down beside me atop an overturned five-gallon water can. In each of his hands he held two cans of beer.

  “Battalion sent out two cans per head count tonight, Six. Guess because of Tet.”

  “Kind of wish they hadn’t, Top. Gotta keep our people on their toes.”

  “Well, yeah, but we’re still abiding by our two-beer-limit rule, sir,” he retorted.

  “Hey, Top,” I replied a bit testily. “You know, and I know, that there are nondrinkers in the company, and not one of those beers will go undrunk tonight. Which means some of our folk are gonna break the two-beer rule, right?”

  “Well, yeah, guess that’s so. But shit, Six, what with the thirty-six-hour stand down and all.”

  “Sure, it’ll be all right. Guess I’m just nervous, that’s all.” Stay nervous.

  We sat in silence for a while, sipping our beer and watching the last light of day fade over Vietnam’s Annamese cordillera. “Guess Mac is winging his way home now,” I offhandedly remarked.

  “Not yet, Six. He’ll probably be leaving An Khe tomorrow or the next day, then Cam Ranh, then home. Good officer. We’ll miss him.”

  “Yeah, wish he’d stay in, but think there’s little chance of it happening.”

  “Naw, he’s not career, sir. None of your officers are, with the possible exception of Lieutenant Norwalk, and he’s undecided. But MacCarty will get out, you can bet on it. Don’t know anything about his replacement. Halloway will get out. Fact, don’t know if he could go career even if he wanted to. Him being Reserve and all.”

  “Well, hell, Top,” I interrupted, “all our officers are Reserve.”

  “Yeah, but he’s reserve Reserve. Mean, he wasn’t commissioned active in an indefinite status. He’s an inactive who volunteered for an active tour so as to do a stint in the Nam. Old-fashioned patriot.”

  Shame on you, Captain. You should’ve known that.

  “One exception, ‘though he ain’t really our officer,” he continued.

  “That’s Brightly. He’s career through and through. He’ll stay in and might even make general.” Pausing, he smiled, “If he doesn’t, it won’t be because he didn’t think he was capable of handling the duties of a general officer.”

  I laughed softly. “Yes, he is a confident young man, isn’t he?”

  “To a fault, Six.”

  After a short lull, he said, “What about you, sir? Ever
had any doubts ‘bout staying in?”

  “Nary a one. Can’t ever remember a time I didn’t want to be a soldier.

  Mac says it’s ‘cause of World War II. Hell, might be right. That’s the time of life I first remember, and everybody was in uniform except Mom.”

  “What about you, Top? You grow up wanting to soldier?”

  “Hell, no! Never even thought about it till the war came along. Joined up at seventeen—it was expected of me—but knew I’d be back on the farm soon as the thing was over.”

  “So?”

  “Well, I never saw much of the war, you know, just the tail end of it. Spent some time guarding a muddy ordnance dump in France and saw war’s end in Austria. So, anyway, I was high on the list for occupation duty. Pulled it, then, just ‘fore my hitch was up, and as I was getting ready to come home, it suddenly struck me. Hell, I don’t want to be no farmer. Soldiering is more fun than farming. Occupation duty’s better than digging taters.”

  “Found a home, huh?”

  “Yeah, guess so. Next day told the first sergeant to whip another four on me. He did. Figured I’d pull that tour and then maybe get out—my folks really wanted me back on the farm. But four years later, I was running for cover at a place called Chipyong-ni, cursing the Chinese birthrate while I was doing so.”

  I laughed. “What outfit, Top?”

  “Why, the ‘First Team,’ of course. Fifth Cav, as a matter of fact. Joined it as a replacement in ‘51.”

  “They were at … uh … Chipyong-ni?” I asked. I recalled some of the old-timers talking about the battle but remembered few of the details.

  “Yeah. Some of the Second Infantry’s folk were surrounded, and the Fifth Cav went in to relieve ‘em. Task Force Crombez, remember it well. Cold enough to freeze brass balls off a monkey; damn, it was cold. That’s the one good thing ‘bout this war, Six. Don’t have to worry about freezing your nuts off.”

  I nodded.

  “Anyway, went into Korea as a corporal and came out of it with two rockers—one of which I was allowed to keep. By then, there’s no question of getting out. Goddamn Army was in my blood, know what I mean?”

  And I nodded again.

  “There’ll be some of these kids, these men, come out of this thing the same way. None of ‘em might believe it right now. Probably tell you you’re out of your goddamn mind if you even suggest such a thing. But there’s some of ‘em who’ll stay in and others who’ll go back on the farm, or on the street, or wherever, and suddenly find they’re bored as hell. Find themselves missing a little bit of everything they’re cursing right now. And sooner or later, they’ll find their way back in.”

  “Suppose you’re right.”

  “And them that don’t, with very rare exception, will harbor few regrets for having been here—although again, they’d tell you you’re out of your goddamn mind if you suggested such a thing tonight.”

  He paused as if in thought, then said, “Don’t know why that is. Way of war, I guess. Or maybe it’s because very damn few of our soldiers, of us, will ever again do anything as … uh … as big in life as we’re doing right now. Am I making any sense, sir?”

  “Yeah, you are, Top. And you said it better than I ever could.”

  He smiled and let his thoughts drift for a moment. I did the same.

  “Think the truce will hold, Six?” he asked, opening the second of our two beers and passing one of them to me.

  “Like I told Halloway, Top, it beats the shit outa me. But, yes, I think it’ll stick. North seems to want it; least that’s what the papers say. Christmas truce held up pretty well. You know, couple flare-ups here and there, but guess that’s to be expected.”

  “Well, hope you’re right. Snuffie could use a little downtime. ‘Course, like I said at our parley, difference ‘tween offensive and defensive humping is goddamn little.”

  Darkness had fallen, which meant we could no longer smoke openly, and neither of us could enjoy what remained of our second beer without an occasional drag on a cigarette. Putting his head under a poncho, Sergeant Sullivan lit two cigarettes, and then, cupping them closely, we continued our conversation.

  “Dirty filthy habit,” he said. “Ought to give ‘em up. And by God I will! I’ll give ‘em up ‘fore I do ROTC duty. Don’t want them cadets influenced the wrong way.”

  “Shit, we ought to both give ‘em up, Top. ROTC duty aside, it’d make the hump here on the plain easier. ‘Course, if we quit tomorrow, might catch an AK-47 round through a healthy lung next week, huh?”

  He smiled. “Yeah, you’re right. Wait till this thing’s over. Then we’ll both give ‘em up the day we hit the good old U.S. of A. Okay, Six?”

  “Okay, Top.”

  “Shake?”

  We did.

  And again there was a lull in our conversation as each of us, I suppose, tried to think of other things to talk about. Because this evening discourse was important, refreshing. Neither of us could talk to others in the company quite as candidly as we talked to each other. We were both somewhat distanced from the others, he as the company’s senior NCO and me as its commander.

  “You hear about Cooper?” he asked, suddenly.

  “Our sergeant major? No.”

  “Got himself a direct commission—to captain! Getting himself a company in the mech battalion. You believe that, Six?”

  “Well, shit, I’m happy as hell to hear it. You know, Top, he said he was gonna do it, back there at An Khe. Don’t think any of us took him seriously at the time. Uh … he’s younger than you, isn’t he?”

  “Sure, Couldn’t have got a commission if he weren’t. But see, I’m having more fun than he is. Least I was ‘fore he got a company. But he’ll make a good commander. Jess is a soldier’s soldier.”

  And so are you, First Sergeant, I thought to myself. You could take a company right now without missing a beat.

  “And he’s worked with me before,” he continued, “back in the late fifties, in Germany. He’ll do well.”

  We sat in silence for several minutes before I asked, “Anything happening on the admin side I ought to know about?”

  “Naw, just routine. Gonna have to get Young in 1st Platoon in to English for some emergency dental work, got a tooth that went bad on him. Smathers, also in 1st Platoon, is complaining of dizzy spells. Doc Heard says we don’t have no choice but to send him in for a looksee. I’ll have both of ‘em on the morning log bird. Burke, Three Six, signed his extension papers this evening and is catching hell from the rest of the platoon, none of whom think he’s quite sane. But he wants to be a door gunner, so we’ll probably be losing him ‘fore too long. Uh … let’s see, anything else? Oh, yeah, Sweet Willie’s Pfc stripe came down. Shit, Six, we ought to have a little ceremony.”

  Suddenly we heard a faint fusillade of small-arms fire somewhere in the distance.

  “Probably a bunch of the little people celebrating Tet,” the Bull remarked, then a bit moodily, “wish I was somewhere celebrating something, anything.”

  “Well, when this thing’s over we’ll do that very thing, Top.”

  Brightening, he said, “Goddamn right we will, Six! When we get back to the States, the two of us, just the two of us, will get us a bottle of Rebel Yell and sit down in the sand someplace and get drunk as skunks, okay?”

  “It’s a promise, Top.”

  But we wouldn’t. We’d never see each other again—which I suppose is also the way of war.

  17. First Day of the Tet Offensive: 30 January

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

  “This is Arizona Base. Go.”

  Go? Where did this guy learn his radio procedure? Been talking to too many helicopter pilots.

  “This is Comanche, Roger. We had an enemy probe of our November Delta Papa. Burst of automatic-weapons fire about zero five ago. I’ve got one lightly wounded. Do not, I say again, do not require medevac before first light. Request dust off at that time. How copy? Over.”

  “Roger,
Comanche. Solid copy. Uh. dust off at first light… break. Be advised we’re under attack at this location. Out!”

  Well, that’s a switch! Hell of a way to start a truce—shooting at us in our NDP and then attacking what had always been a sacred refuge for us boonie rats—battalion headquarters.

  The Bull, having just returned from One Six’s piece of the perimeter, informed me our injured soldier had indeed suffered only a minor, somewhat embarrassing, flesh wound to his buttock, one that required little more than a Band-Aid.

  “It’s not a good wound, Six,” he said. “Certainly not good enough to return him Stateside. Fact, I’ll bet it gets him no farther than the battalion aid station. Probably be back out here on the evening log bird.”

  He paused for a moment and then said, “On the other hand, hope it ain’t a bad omen. You know, we haven’t had a single soul so much as scratched since leaving the bridge. Hell, we ain’t even ever been fired on in our NDP!”

  “Yeah, we’ve been lucky. Just glad the young stud’s okay. And I don’t believe in omens, Top.”

  He nodded, smiling.

  “But you know, Top, it was sort of strange the way they hit us here tonight. As if they were just passing by and decided to throw something our way—almost like an afterthought. What do you make of it?”

  “Beats the hell out of me, Six.” Then, grinning and looking at his watch, he said, “But it was a hell of a short truce, wasn’t it. Must have lasted all of seven or eight hours. And shit, don’t think I’ve ever heard more red leg than they’re throwing downrange tonight … uh, this morning. Sure as hell ain’t H&I.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that, too,” I replied. “By the way, when I reported our wounded soldier to battalion, know what the Three’s radio man said? Said they were under attack!”

  “Hitting battalion?” he asked, obviously surprised. “Well, that’s something new. Can’t recall that ever happening before.” Then, again grinning, he said, “Wonder what they want us to do about it. Send em reinforcements?”