Comanche Six: Company Commander in Vietnam Page 20

  I smiled. “It’d be a hell of a walk, wouldn’t it?”

  “Three’s on the horn, sir,” Blair said in a low voice, yawning.

  “Comanche Six, this is Arizona Three. Pass line number on your WIA. Over.”

  “This is Comanche Six. Roger. Wait. Out.”

  Turning to Sergeant Sullivan, I asked, “Got a line number on our wounded man, Top?”

  “Just a sec,” he replied, pulling his copy of the company’s roster from a cargo pocket. Bending over it with a red-filtered flashlight, he squinted for a couple of moments and then said, “Shit!”

  He passed the roster and flashlight to Blair. “Uh … give me a line number, will you, Blair?”

  Noticing the subtle smile on my face, my first sergeant said, “Don’t say it, sir. It ain’t the eyes. Hell, I’m seeing at twenty twenty. It’s just them red filters … uh … they mess up a man’s night vision.”

  Which of course was untrue, and we both knew it. Red-filtered flashlights protect one’s night vision.

  Then, grinning a bit self-consciously, he said, “Ah, sweet youth, Six. Age does take its toll, as you’ll learn soon enough.”

  “I copy that, Top,” I replied, as Blair said, “Bowers, line thirteen. Shit, unlucky number.”

  Retrieving his handset, I said, “Arizona Three, this is Comanche Six. Over.”

  “This is Arizona Three.”

  “This is Comanche Six. Reference your last, line one three. Copy?”

  “Roger. Good copy. Line thirteen. Now, what happened? Over.”

  “This is Comanche Six. Received a single burst of automatic-weapons fire—think it was an AK, ‘bout one five ago from the western side of the perimeter. Man in question was simply in harm’s way. Minor wound. No need for dust off before first light.”

  “This is Arizona Three. Okay. Had a similar incident in Running Navaho’s sector about an hour ago. As I told him, I don’t want you to wait for wounded to report these contacts. Anytime you hear a round fired in anger during the next thirty-six … uh … twenty-eight hours, I need to know about it. Gotta keep book on the enemy so that higher can tabulate their list of ‘shame-on-you’ truce violations three days hence. Copy?”

  I said I did and returned Blair’s handset to him.

  Turning to Sergeant Sullivan, I said, “Seems Delta Company also had some sort of contact tonight. Byson wants to make sure we report as much as a single sniper round during the truce.”

  “Well, shit, we knew that, sir. Same as Christmas, right?”

  I nodded. “Blair, my good man, how about giving One Six a call-up and tell ‘em I’m on my way over.”

  I found our wounded soldier lying a bit uncomfortably on his stomach, on an air mattress, next to Norwalk’s command post.

  Kneeling, I put my hand on his shoulder and asked, “How’s it going, Bowers?”

  “I’m okay, sir. Just burns like hell.”

  “Sure, it burns,” Doc Heard snorted. “Let me give you a shot of morphine, and it won’t burn, least you won’t notice it as much.”

  “No. Faintly experiencing a feeling of dizzyness I said, “Come on, Bowers, let the doc give you a shot.” Make the night go quicker, mate.”

  “No, sir. It ain’t that bad, and I don’t like shots—or morphine. I can take the pain.”

  Ah yes, Top. Sweet youth, indeed!

  Getting to my feet, I pulled Heard aside and whispered, “Prognosis?”

  “Aw, he’ll be all right. Still, it is painful, and more serious than some—including our first sergeant—might think. Bullets destroy meat tissue no matter where or how lightly they hit you. Probably keep him at battalion for a couple days or so.” Then, looking at Bowers grit his teeth, he whispered, “I could give him the shot anyway, sir. I’m authorized.”

  “No, it’s his call, or should be. Besides … uh … he might very well change his mind before the night’s over.”

  “You see where it came from, Bill?” I asked, sitting down next to Norwalk atop his hole’s parapet.

  “No, sir. Somewhere to the west of us. No one saw the flash or anything. Just heard the pops as the rounds came through our perimeter.”

  I nodded my head. “Bastard.”

  “What do you think, sir? One of the 10 percent that never gets the word?”

  “That’s my guess. Either that or one of the 90 percent that does and just doesn’t give a shit. Both sides have ‘em.”

  “Guess that means we still do defensive patrolling tomorrow uh … today, huh?”

  “Yep, we’ll patrol defensively, and we’ll abide by the truce even if Charlie doesn’t—‘less of course we run across the one that shot your soldier.”

  “And they all look alike, don’t they.”

  “That’s what they say, Bill. Anyway, thought I would tag along with you, okay?”

  “Sure, sir. Happy to have you.”

  But of course he wasn’t. Platoon leaders don’t like having their commanders looking over their shoulder all day.

  Rising to leave, I said, “Ought to get some sleep, Lieutenant. Still have another three hours before dawn.”

  The enemy had probed our perimeter in the wee hours of the morning on the first day of the Chinese lunar new year. Referred to by the Vietnamese as Tet, it was the most celebrated of the year’s holidays—Christmas, New Year’s, Thanksgiving, and the Fourth of July all rolled into one. In 1968, the Year of the Monkey, it was also the first day of Gen. Vo Nguyen Giap’s Tet offensive.

  During the next ten days, the pace of Charlie Company’s operations would be frantic—always moving, always fighting, sometimes conducting two and three combat air assaults a day. In the morning we might find ourselves searching for remnants of the evading enemy in the dense, triple-canopied jungles of Binh Dinh’s mountains, then fighting him in the province’s coastal areas that afternoon, only to move again that night to some desolate hilltop and begin digging the residue of the general’s retreating army out of its rocks.

  There was no C&D that morning. Shortly after first light, as most of us were downing a charlie rat, Blair passed me his handset, saying,

  “Three’s on the horn, sir.”

  “Comanche, this is Arizona Three. The truce is terminated in your Alpha Oscar. I say again, the truce is terminated! Take appropriate defensive precautions … break. Comanche, stand by for mission orders. Acknowledge. Over.”

  “This is Comanche Six. Roger, acknowledge truce terminated. Standing by for orders.”

  Within twenty minutes or so he radioed us again. “This is Arizona Three inbound in one five with a zero, plus three, plus zero. LZ secure. I’ll be talking to you on the ground!”

  Plus three. No slicks, no gunships, all hooks. Well, at least we won’t be fighting our way onto a landing zone. The three large troop-carrying helicopters ferried us fifteen klicks or so southeast, landing adjacent to a small cluster of villages astride Highway One. Major Byson met us on the LZ. As he did so, I noticed an ARVN contingent maneuvering through one of the villages on the eastern (coastal) side of the highway.

  “Hey, Jim, gotta get out of here, so let me give this to you quick and dirty. NVA attacked throughout the province last night, actually all across the central part of the country. Looks like a coordinated offensive. ‘Though info’s still real sketchy, seems to be confined mainly to the populated areas, places that haven’t heard a round fired in anger in a long time.”

  “Yeah, understand they even hit battalion last night.”

  Oh, shit! Wrong thing to say.

  He looked at me sternly, but not unkindly, and said, “Listen up, Captain. I’ve heard my share of rounds fired in anger.”

  “lib … yes, sir. That’s not what I meant, really.”

  Then, smiling, he said, “But yeah, Chuck did throw us a couple rounds last night. Nothing serious. In fact, he seems to be pretty much leaving our folk alone. Concentrating on villages and cities, shit, in some cases district and maybe even provincial capitals.”

  I nodded, making no
tes as he spoke.

  “But our concern right now is Binh Dinh,” he continued. “NVA went through these supposedly secure villages last night. ARVN’s now in the process of digging out those still in the area. Want you and your folk to do the same. Highway’s your boundary, little people on the left … coastal side, you on the right. I brought along a Kit Carson who may be of some help to you.” He grinned, “Doesn’t speak much English, but he’s really fluent in Vietnamese. “Jim, everything’s up in the air right now. Don’t know if you’ll be staying ‘round here tonight, or moving on, or what. But I’ll promise you one thing; you’ll go wherever we find Charlie. So hang loose, or as we say in the military venacular, stay flexible!”

  We wished each other well, and he departed aboard the battalion’s C&C ship.

  Minutes later we began our sweep of the villages with One Six tying into Highway One on the left, Two Six on the right, and Three Six, followed by Four Six and headquarters, in the center. We found no enemy. We found only scared and crying children and their shocked elders wailing over their dead as only the Vietnamese can wail over their dead. Most of the demised were village officials, and most had been executed with a single shot to the base of their skull. We would later learn that such atrocities were the norm throughout Vietnam on the nights of 30 and 31 January and 1 February 1968; and for a longer period in the city of Hue.

  Within two hours of his departure, Byson called with a change in our orders. “This is Arizona Three. Want you to move to the red line and prepare for attachment to Prairie Schooner in two zero. You’ll be conducting combined arms sweep of an area … oh, say, seven klicks to your north. Prairie Schooner’s in command; however, if you have any problem with that just give me a call. How copy? Over.”

  “This is Comanche Six. Solid copy. Where on the red line do we marry up with Schooner?”

  “This is Arizona Three. Just assemble your element on the big red. Schooner has your push. He can’t miss you.”

  Turning quickly to Blair, I asked, “Who the fuck’s Prairie Schooner?”

  He was already thumbing through his CEOI codes and within moments said,

  “Prairie Schooner’s … hot damn! It’s the mech folk; looks like we ride for a while.”

  Thirty minutes later, we were barreling north on Highway One atop Prairie Schooner’s M-113 APCs (armored personnel carriers).

  Captain Rogers, commander of the mech company to which we were attached, and I had agreed that my men would ride on top of the carriers, while his soldiers occupied their normal positions inside the vehicles. A mechanized rifle company is organized very similarly to an airmobile rifle company (the main difference between the two being that they sometimes walked but usually rode, while we sometimes flew but usually walked), so crossattachment of our two commands proved relatively simple. One Six merely joined forces with Schooner’s One Six, Two Six with their Two Six, and so on.

  Our objective was a large lowlying hill mass on the right, eastern, side of the highway about six klicks from our pickup point. According to some of the villagers in the area, remnants of an NVA force were now hiding in the hill’s vegetation.

  The carriers slowed and then, each suddenly braking on its right track, turned sharply ninety degrees to the right—and stopped. We were now facing the hill, with a distance of ten to fifteen meters separating each of the fourteen carriers on line at its base. Riding with Rogers atop his track, I asked what our plan of attack was.

  “Plan?” he replied. “We’re gonna recon by fire with the fifties. IE (referring to his .50caliber machine guns, one of which was mounted on each of the APCS) and then roll forward.”

  “Fine,” I replied. “You want my people to dismount and follow, or what?”

  “Naw, that’d just slow us up. ‘Sides, we don’t really know if Charlie’s up there or not. Why don’t you keep your folk mounted, and then if we run into something, you can dismount at that time.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I responded, being anything but an expert on mechanized warfare.

  He talked briefly into the mike attached to his helmet, and then fourteen .50caliber machine guns instantaneously began firing into the hill mass before us, their third-round tracers plunging brilliantly into the lush, emerald green elephant grass covering the hillside and then ricocheting crazily upward.

  Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

  It was an incredible earsplitting display of firepower. We of Charlie Company, having never seen so many .50calibers firing simultaneously, watched in fascination as the tracers swept the hillside, back and forth, from its base to its crest.

  Finally Rogers gave the signal to cease fire. The tracks began moving forward, slowly at first as they negotiated the highway’s embankment, which jutted downward at a steep angle, and then gaining speed as they started up the hill, crushing the dense foliage before them.

  We had moved perhaps fifty meters, less than a third of the way up the hill, when we ran into—no, over—Charlie. The enemy had dug himself into the hill’s side, underneath its tall, thick, grassy covering, but in so doing had postured himself to hide, not fight. The track to our immediate right ran over the first of these positions, and as it did so an NVA soldier popped from his place of hiding and quickly pointed a rocket propelled grenade at the rear of the vehicle.

  “RPG!” yelled one of our riflemen as he fired his M-16, killing his opponent before he could loose the grenade.

  Moments later we heard an exchange of gunfire fifty or sixty meters to our left, where another of the tracks had uncovered a similar position.

  That’s it! I said to myself. Enemy’s here, he’s got RPGS, and there ain’t no reason for Charlie Company to be riding atop these tin coffins.

  I tapped Captain Rogers on the shoulder, pulled his helmeted headset aside, and said, “I’m dismounting my people, now!”

  He gave me a thumbs up and signaled his tracks to stop momentarily, while we quickly dismounted. Then, after forming up behind the APCS, we continued up the hill afoot.

  It turned out to be a very successful engagement. On our initial sweep, we netted ten or twelve of the enemy; on our return trip down the hill we killed another two or three. Finally, a horizontal sweep across the hill’s face, with us once again mounted, turned up nothing.

  Upon completion of this maneuver, Rogers assembled his tracks in a relatively flat area at the base of the hill, circling them into a “covered-wagon” defensive perimeter. We broke for lunch while awaiting new orders; and they were not long in coming.

  “Comanche Six, this is Arizona Three inbound with four, plus two, plus two in one five. Gonna put you into your old stomping grounds.

  Getting reports of movement there. Looks like Charlie’s using that general area as one of his routes of regress … break. Good show with Schooner, Over Trail Six passes ‘well done.” As do we. You are now detached from Schooner. I’ll see you on the ground in about one five. How copy? Over.”

  “This is Comanche Six. Solid. Standing by.”

  After quickly passing the gist of Byson’s conversation to the platoon leaders and designating Bob Halloway’s Three Six as our assault element, I turned over the business of moving the company to Bull Sullivan. Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in the Huey’s door frame, basking in the coolness of its ninety-knot backwash.

  One of the fringe benefits of being in the assault element, I thought to myself. For a few brief moments aboard your doorless slick you can escape Vietnam’s torrid heat while the rest of the company, following in the hooks, continues to sweat. Of course, if the LZ turns out to be “red,” you may find yourself getting your clock cleaned while the rest of the company orbits above, sweating in safety. Is there a moral here?

  No, I don’t think so. It merely means that in the Nam, the smallest of luxuries are often but a matter of chance and usually costless. But on occasion, suddenly and unknowingly, they are purchased at the price of life itself. Or, as the Bull would say, “Sometimes you eat the bear, and sometimes the bear eats you!”


  I put my philosophical wanderings aside as we touched down on a green LZ a short distance from Daisy.

  Attempting to cover as much of the area as possible in interdicting the enemy’s withdrawal from Binh Dinh’s populated areas, we kept two of our rifle platoons on the valley floor, sweeping the plain’s approach routes into the mountains. One Six moved due north while Three Six, accompanied by the headquarters section, moved south. The 3d Platoon, Two Six, charged straight up the mountain to the west of us, accessing it by means of the same trail we had first discovered upon departing the Bong Son bridge two months before—the trail from which we had evacuated our nearly dead captive strapped to a jungle penetrator.

  Neither of the valley platoons found Charlie, though both ran across evidence, hoofprints and so forth, that he had been traveling the area recently and extensively. In the process of making these discoveries, Lieutenant Norwalk found a suitable NDP site, and by 1500 hours One Six and Three Six had converged at this location.

  Lieutenant O’Brien, MacCarty’s replacement, remained on the mountain with Two Six. But not as long as he should have.

  Within minutes of joining forces with Norwalk, we heard an abrupt explosive blast of automatic-weapons fire intermingled with the detonation of 40-mm grenades. O’Brien was evidently in contact!

  Concerned at not having heard a claymore explosion precede the sudden outbreak of small-arms fire, I took Anderson’s handset from him and attempted to contact O’Brien.

  “Two Six, this is Six. Give me a sitrep. Over.”

  Silence. No response from O’Brien, and the firing had stopped as suddenly as it began.

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

  “This is Two Six. Uh … Roger, ran into something big. Think a large enemy force. We’ve succeeded in breaking contact and are now regressing down the hill. Looking forward to marrying up with you in about two zero.”

  You only think you’re looking forward to marrying up with me, Lieutenant. Regressing, indeed!

  “This is Six. Do you need dust off? Red leg? Over?”

  “This is Two Six. Negative. Over.”

  “Okay, Two Six, I’ll see you on the floor in two zero. Out.”