Comanche Six: Company Commander in Vietnam Page 7

  As the Bull had suggested, two of our rifle squads would position themselves in an L-shaped ambush along the densely vegetated eastern and southern sides of the NDP, thirty to forty meters outside its perimeter.

  Machine-gun teams would anchor each of the ambush’s flanks, while claymore mines covered the site’s killing zone and dead space on the NDP’s western side, where the ground fell sharply into a rice paddy. The ambush force, manned by Two Six, would be in position before dawn, remaining there until Charlie took the bait or until 1000 hours.

  Meanwhile, the rest of the company would go through its normal morning routine, limiting its mad-minute fires to the northern and western sides of the perimeter and then casually leaving the NDP after the C&D bird had departed. Lieutenant MacCarty and I would remain with the ambush party.

  “What time’s first light?” I asked no one in particular.

  Blair, referring to his CEOI (communications electronics operating instructions), responded, “BMNT at 0532, sir.”

  “Okay, Mac,” I said, “let’s have our ambush force in position by 0500.

  Don’t want to take a chance on Charlie seeing us moving around after first light.”

  “Can do easy, sir.”

  “And make sure your squad leaders do a good daylight recon of their slice of the site. Gonna have to put their people in position, in the dark, without making any noise. Not much light left, so you better get on that right away.”

  “Can’t do no recon, sir,” Sullivan interjected. “Charlie sees anybody messing around the bushes outside our perimeter, he’s gonna know something’s up—and you gotta assume he’s watching us right now.”

  The Bull had a point, but I hated the thought of our squad leaders trying to noiselessly put eighteen or twenty soldiers into concealed positions at night without first having had the opportunity of seeing those positions in daylight. What to do? Suddenly, Blair spoke out, and in doing so solved the problem.

  “Have ‘em take a shit, sir.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Just have your squad leaders act like they’re taking a shit. Charlie pays no attention whatsoever to a grunt leaving the perimeter, weapon in one hand and E tool in the other.” (An E [entrenching] tool is a small, collapsible shovel.)

  Brilliant! I thought.

  So our early morning ambush positions were thoroughly surveyed in daylight by leaders who did so from a squatting position.

  Continuing our preparations, I mentioned to MacCarty that I wanted faces camouflaged and helmets “tree topped,” that is, covered with foliage.

  MacCarty balked at this.

  “Aw, hell, that’s pussy, sir. Basic training stuff. ‘Sides, we don’t have any cami sticks.”

  “Mac, do it! It’s not pussy, it’s professional, and it might just mean the difference between a good kill and a wait in the weeds.” Then, turning to Blair, I said, “Call trains. See if they can get some cami sticks on the log bird.”

  Winding up our ad hoc planning session, I asked if there were any questions, comments, or other ideas. There being none, I briefly turned my attention to the other platoon leaders, emphasizing the importance of playing the game the following morning. Although their men would know we were in ambush positions thirty meters or so from where they were drinking their morning coffee, they must in no manner indicate this to Charlie. Everything must appear completely normal—just another day in the Nam.

  As we were about to break up, Slim Brightly made another perspicacious suggestion. “Have ‘em carry their hutch poles, sir.”

  “What?” I asked, then immediately said, “No way.”

  In much of Vietnam, hutch poles (usually a bamboo pole six to ten feet long, used with the soldier’s poncho to construct a makeshift tent) were difficult to find. Because of this, some units allowed their soldiers to carry hutch poles from site to site, a practice especially favored by ARVN forces. If I had anything to say about it, and of course I did, Charlie Company would never do this; a soldier simply isn’t ready to fight carrying a weapon in one hand and a hutch pole in the other.

  Slim, however, would not take no for an answer. “I tell you, sir, have the company carry their hutch poles, just this once. Charlie sees you leaving an area with hutch pole in hand, he knows you’re leaving for good. It … uh … enhances deception.”

  I thought about it for a moment, then changed my mind. “You’re right, let’s do it.”

  Blair woke me at 0445 hours the following morning. With no moon, it was dark as hell—and quiet. Too quiet. Turning to Anderson, the company’s RTO, I said, “Goddamn it, we’re supposed to be in position in fifteen minutes, and they’re not even up yet. Get Two Six on the horn.”

  “They’re up and ready to move, sir,” Anderson whispered in response.

  “Lieutenant says he’ll be over here to guide us into position in zero five. You want some of this makeup, sir?”

  “Huh … uh … yeah, thanks,” I said, accepting his offered camouflage stick.

  Up and ready to move without making a sound. Super! Hell, these people know what they’re doing, I thought to myself as I applied the greasy green-black camouflage compound to my face and hands.

  Slim silently approached and whispered, “Good luck,” as Blair, Anderson, and I donned radios and gear. Although attached to our command section, we had decided it best that he and his recon sergeant depart the NDP along with the rest of the company. This would allow both elements to retain direct communications with battalion, us through the command net and Slim through the fire-control net. More to the point, we simply didn’t need any additional people at the ambush site; indeed, there was no real reason for me to be there.

  MacCarty and I, our RTOs trailing us, followed at the rear of the platoon’s file as it soundlessly left the NDP’s eastern perimeter.

  After moving a distance of thirty meters or so, the ambush force split into three different factions, a prepositioned guide leading the first squad to the right to its site covering the southern side of the NDP, another guide leading a second squad to the left on the eastern side, and a third leading Mac and me to a concealed position behind and generally between the two squads. Not a word was whispered as we ensconced ourselves for the more difficult part of the operation—the waiting.

  As the first subtle light of dawn began to show in the east, and after sitting out a somewhat frightening mad minute, I saw we had a clear view of our NDP. Before long, I could see, and hear, our soldiers beginning to move about.

  “Up, goddamn it! Boom Boom, get your fucking ass out of the sack. Now, goddamn it!”

  “Who swiped my fucking heat tabs? Shit, just want a fucking cup of coffee and somebody stole my fucking heat.”

  “Jesus H. Christ, who did this? Short Round, you shit next to my hole last night?”

  “Just another day in the Nam. Beautiful, fucking beautiful!”

  Damn, their noise discipline is atrocious! Then it suddenly dawned on me. They were merely playing the game, purposely being a bit louder and more obvious than usual to attract the enemy’s attention. This, of course, was unnecessary. Charlie knew where our NDP was.

  The morning log bird arrived, then departed. Shortly after eight, Charlie Company saddled up and began moving, casually, almost aimlessly, in a northeasterly direction, its soldiers carrying their hutch poles.

  And we waited: thirty minutes, an hour, an hour and a half. By nine forty-five, Mac and I had concluded that Charlie wasn’t going to visit us on this occasion. I wasn’t surprised. I knew there would be countless other days in which we would sit and wait in vain, hoping our enemy would take the bait. Nor was I that disappointed. Our ploy had been well planned and, if Charlie had cooperated, would have been well executed. It had been a good rehearsal.

  Just as we were about to terminate our wait in the weeds, Mac touched my arm, pointing toward the NDP. A North Vietnamese soldier was scurrying across it, stopping here and there to pick up discarded C rations. Bait.

  Through a break in
the foliage, Mac pointed toward two more NVA standing on the periphery of the NDP, just outside our killing zone. I knew, at that moment, we were all thinking the same silent prayer: please, let them step into the killing zone. Come on, Chuck, don’t let your selfish friend get all those goodies. Join him, please, just step…

  Suddenly, the machine gun on the short southern side of the L opened up!

  Simultaneously, the claymores exploded, and everyone began firing into their assigned sectors of the ambush’s killing zone and, those who were postured to do so, in the direction of the two NVA outside of it—but they were no longer there.

  Within a matter of seconds all firing ceased, and an eerie silence settled over our smoldering NDP. Lieutenant MacCarty looked at me, smiling broadly.

  “Good show, Mac, let’s sweep it,” I said.

  He and I trailed the squad composing the broad side of the L as its soldiers began sweeping across the killing zone, while the other squad remained in position as a covering force. Midway through this maneuver, I happened to look at the soldiers on my right and left; in a certain respect it was as if I were seeing them for the first time.

  Faces blackened, green foliage covering their helmets and protruding from their webbed gear, weapons at the ready, they moved across the killing zone, cautiously, silently, with the cold and sure confidence of men who knew they were good at what they had been called upon to do.

  These men are professionals! I thought. These eighteen-and nineteen-year-old draftees are professional soldiers who can outfight and outfox the North Vietnamese regulars! The image of those soldiers at that moment remains as clear in my mind today as it was then, nearly a quarter of a century ago. I was very proud of them at that moment, proud to be one of them.

  Our kill was an NVA lieutenant in his early twenties who, having been shot several times in the mouth, was without much of his skull.

  Searching him, we found some documents and a photograph of him in an austere NVA dress uniform standing next to a rather plain young woman holding a small child. We laid him out neatly, compassionately, on a paddy dike and folded his arms across his chest. Then one of our soldiers placed a black-and-gold Cavalry patch in the center of the NVA’s chest.

  Meanwhile, one of MacCarty’s squads was pursuing the two more fortunate enemy soldiers, at least one of whom had been wounded.

  Regrettably, the blood trail soon petered out, and the squad returned empty handed.

  I queried our machine gunner as to why he had opened fire before the claymores were detonated, as their detonation was to initiate the ambush, and learned he had had little choice in the matter. Having located himself in dense shrubbery on the southern left flank of the ambush, he was little more than five feet from where the NVA lieutenant met his maker. While our man waited, hoping that the other two enemy soldiers would step into the killing zone, the NVA lieutenant stooped to pick a pack of Cration cigarettes up and, in doing so, just happened to look directly into the muzzle of the machine gunner’s M-60. The instant the doomed man opened his mouth to shout a warning, or scream in terror, snuffie squeezed the machine gun’s trigger.

  Later that day we rejoined the company in our new area of operations astride Route 506. The following morning, after an uneventful night, we were airlifted from this location and inserted into yet another AO known throughout the division as “Happy Valley.”

  That evening, our first in Happy Valley, I reflected back on our four days in the boonies, trying in the process to evaluate the company’s performance. With four confirmed “hard” kills to our credit and suffering not as much as a scratch in return, we had done rather well, I concluded. Of course, the demise of four NVA soldiers would have little impact on the war’s outcome; however, it was the method by which these soldiers had been dispatched that counted right now. For these were not red-leg (artillery) or air-strike body counts; these were good, clean, warrior-to-warrior infantry kills. Even the company’s most doubtful soldier now knew he was every bit as good as the enemy he opposed. In little more than seventy-two hours, we had all gained enormous confidence.

  Shortly after dusk, as I sat pondering all of this, the Bull strolled over for his nightly parley.

  “Hell of a good score today, sir. First time I ever saw a false extract work without helicopters.

  He paused momentarily, introspectively, and then added, “First time I ever saw a false extract work, period. Snuffle loves the shit out of it. Morale soars tonight, boss!”

  “That’s my sounding, Top,” I replied. “And, Top, you ought to have seen ‘em! I’ve never seen a better ambush laid in. Never seen soldiers do things more right than ours did today.”

  “Well, shit, sir, I could’ve told you that. Like I said, we’ve just had some bad luck lately. But today was a good omen.”

  “And like I said, Top,” I responded, smiling, “I don’t believe in luck or omens.”

  He smiled in return, and after a short lull, I asked him why Happy Valley was called Happy Valley.

  “Beats the shit out of me, sir. There sure as hell ain’t anything happy about it!”

  5. Happy Valley To Binh Loc

  No, Happy Valley wasn’t a very happy place at all. In fact, its few inhabitants seemed to be some of the unhappiest people on earth. In every village, there was always a faint but discernible fright in the eyes of those we met, as if at any moment they expected the next ax to fall, the next unfortunate turn in their lives to occur. This wariness on their part was well founded, for the people of Happy Valley were “twilight people.”

  Most areas of Vietnam were actually relatively stable: the daily routine of living, of nurturing families, and so forth was rarely interrupted by the war. For example, in and around the larger cities and provincial capitals, as well as throughout much of the country’s coastal plain and, by 1967, most of the Mekong Delta, the people were only sporadically disturbed by enemy intrusions. And in much of the country’s hinterland—previously the Viet Minh’s and now the Viet Cong’s stronghold—life was interrupted only infrequently by aerial bombings or, at times, by allied incursions. Happy Valley and much of Binh Dinh Province, in contrast, rested in a twilight area between these two extremes, with neither the republic nor the Viet Cong able to fully and consistently exercise control over the population therein. The area’s strategic location, midway between the demilitarized zone (DMZ) and the southern tip of the Cau Mau Peninsula, meant that both sides continued to fight over it.

  This back-and-forth battle for the hearts and minds—and taxes, recruits, porters, laborers, rice, cattle, and so forth—of the valley’s people had been going on since 1946, twenty years before. As we worked the valley, we could imagine what it must be like to live in such a life-threatening political milieu. Currently, the republic, thanks to U.S. intervention in the form of the First Air Cavalry, had the upper hand.

  But when the First Cav departed, as of course we did following the Tet offensive, the Viet Cong would return. And there would be reprisals against the people of Happy Valley.

  We had been working the valley for about a week with little to show for our efforts. We were therefore anxious to return to the mountains above Daisy, where we felt the hunting was better. One late afternoon, as we were somewhat lethargically searching for an NDP, Blair passed me his handset.

  “Three’s on the horn, sir.”

  “Hey, Tall Comanche,” Major Byson said, a touch of excitement in his voice, “we got a big fight going on farther up the valley. I’m inbound for pickup and short hop insert in one zero with four, plus two, plus two. Will brief you en route. How copy? Over.”

  “This is Comanche Six, solid copy,” I replied. “We’ll be standing by with smoke.”

  Passing the handset back to Blair, I asked Anderson to give the platoon leaders a call-up and, once they were assembled, quickly relayed to them the gist of Byson’s message. Then I turned the whole affair over to the Bull, telling him only that One Six was to conduct the assault.

  Donning one of the Hu
ey’s headsets as we lifted off, I listened to Major Byson’s description of what we were getting into: “Gotta be brief, Comanche, touchdown in zero five. LZ green, no prep. Got a large enemy force bottled up in Binh Loc four … uh … least a company, might be a battalion. Red leg, Blue Max, and the fast movers been working the area for thirty minutes or so. Got ‘little people’ to the north of the village and just inserted Ridge Runner [Bravo Company] on the west side.

  They’ll tie … hey, are you copying this? I mean really copying it, ‘cause it gets sort of detailed. Over.”

  “This is Comanche Six. Roger, taking notes. Over.” And I was, while sitting in the door of a Huey traveling at ninety knots!

  “This is Arizona Three. Okay … Ridge Runner will tie in with the little people on the north. I’ll be putting you in to the south.

  Want you to tie into Ridge Runner on your left and then string your men as far east as you can, all the way to the river that runs along the east side of the village, if possible. How copy so far? Over.”

  “This is Comanche Six. Good copy … little people to the north, Ridge Runner to the west, we’re on the south. I tie in with Ridge Runner on my left and the river on my right. Over.”

  “Roger, solid copy, Comanche. Now I know that’s a lot of territory to cover, but I may not be able to get Lean Apache [Alpha Company] in before dark, and we want to seal the damn village before then …”

  Byson signed off, and Anderson passed word to One Six that we were going in green.

  Once on the ground, and after the Chinooks had off-loaded the rest of the company, I contacted Bravo Company’s commander and, in doing so, discovered we had nearly four hundred meters of frontage between his right flank and the river on the village’s eastern side. Far too much terrain to cover at night, and day’s light was quickly fading.

  The platoon leaders and I hurriedly discussed the task Major Byson had set out for us, in the end deciding that each of the three line platoons would take approximately a hundred meters of coverage, putting us within fifty meters of Bravo on the left and the river on the right. In the center of their assigned sectors, the platoons would establish an elongated perimeter defense, stationing listening posts on their flanks, thus maintaining loose contact with each other and with Bravo Company.