“Well, here we go again—‘nother cold and hungry night in the NDP. Thank God, it ain’t raining,” Four Six is RTO, a young soldier nicknamed “Smiley,” muttered.
“Thank God, my rosy red ass,” another bystander somewhat irately responded. “Here we are in the middle of a fucking rice paddy, in the fucking Nam, at night, with nothing but dinks ‘round us, all of ’em wanting nothing better than to feed us our balls for breakfast, and then, on top of all this shit, battalion says they ain’t gonna get chow to us and we’re gonna freeze our nuts off ‘cause they ain’t gonna send us our rucks. And you say, ‘Thank God it ain’t raining’! Smiley, you are a hopeless, brainless, fucking incurable optimist! I mean, fuck me.
Smiley just smiled.
Shortly after dark, Lieutenant Hallowsy radioed that his platoon and its LPs were in position. He was the last of the platoon leaders to do so.
Minutes later, Blair, radio in hand, walked over to where I sat talking to Sergeant Sullivan.
“Three’s on the wire, sir.”
“Arizona Three, this is Comanche Six,” I said softly into the handset.
“Roger, Comanche.” (In the night’s stillness, Byson’s voice sounded louder than usual.)
“I’m inbound vicinity your location in two zero with Lean Apache. Gonna insert between you and the river and want you to mark your right flank.”
Insertion? Now? It’s darker than the bottom of a well.
“This is Comanche Six. Uh… Roger Arizona, but be advised I’ve got men within fifty meters of the river. Over.
“This is Arizona Three. Too close. Want to give Lean Apache ‘bout two hundred meters of frontage. Can you move your flank to accommodate? Over.”
Well, shit, I wonder if you happen to recall it was you who told me to tie in with the fucking river.
“This is Comanche Six. Can do but may need more than two zero.”
“Roger, Comanche, but make it quick as you can. Probably be putting in a light prep and don’t want any of your folks on the wrong side of your marker… break. How do you plan on marking your Romeo? Over.”
“Comanche Six. Prefer to identify marker on your zero one final.”
Shit, our radio procedure is at best horrible, and if Charlie has ears, I don’t want to give him twenty minutes to duplicate our marking signal all over these fucking rice paddies. And besides, at the moment I have no earthly idea how we’re going to mark our flank at night.
“Roger that, Comanche. Good idea. ID your flank on one-minute final… break. Be advised that after Lean Apache is in position, we’ll be putting artillery fire and intermittent illumination on the village the rest of the night.”
“This is Comanche Six. Solid copy. Any further? Over.”
“Negative further, Comanche. Get your people moving, ‘cause I’m going light on the skids with Apache inbound, now. Out.”
Hurriedly telling Anderson to call up Norwalk and Halloway, I sent Blair to find Lieutenant MacCarty, his CP being located only twenty meters or so from ours. I needed to quickly discuss the company’s reorientation with the three of them.
My plan was to pull Three Six out of their position adjacent to the river, on our right, have them pass through us, and then assume a new defensive posture between us and One Six. Thus, the company’s new orientation, from left to right, would be One Six, Three Six, Two 9 Six, with MacCarty’s platoon responsible for marking our right flank during Byson’s insertion.
Upon his arrival, I asked Mac, and anyone else within hearing distance, if he had any idea how we should go about marking our flank. Everyone had an idea.
Mac’s RTO, perhaps after referring to his bible, the CEOI, suggested we use a red-filtered flashlight to flash a predetermined letter in Morse code.
“See, we call Byson and tell him the code letter marking our flank. say, S, you know, Sierra. Then, when he tells us to mark on one-minute final, we just point the flashlight at the helicopters and flash ‘dar-dar-dar’. or is it ‘dit-dit-dit’? Anyway, whatever it is, that way he’ll know it’s us and not Charlie, right’?”
“Shit, Fanner, what do you mean, he’ll know it’s us and not Chuck?” the Bull replied. “What in the hell’s secret ‘bout the Morse code? Why the hell you think it’s called the international Morse code?”
“Well… uh… it’s just a thought, Top.”
“Sure, I know that, Farmer,” Sergeant Sullivan replied, almost apologetically, “and a damn good one too, but, see, Byson’s gonna be coming in here hot and heavy at ninety knots. He ain’t gonna have time to be looking for any red-filtered flashlight.” Then, turning to me, he said, “No, sir. Best thing to do is just dig a little hole out there on our flank, and when he asks us to mark, have someone pop a trip flare in it.”
Made sense to me.
Understandably, inasmuch as they were not required to move, neither MacCarty nor Norwalk saw any great problem in relocating Three Six between their two platoons. Mac would furnish guides to escort Three Six through his platoon sector, while Norwalk agreed to leave his right flank LP in position as a contact point.
In contrast, and just as understandably, Lieutenant Halloway saw many problems with the move and was not at all enthusiastic about taking part in it.
“This is Comanche Three Six. Strongly recommend against moving. It’s not that we just got our holes dug and have settled in here. I just feel it’s too dangerous, might get some of our men shot. Might shoot each other. Over.”
“This is Comanche Six. Sorry, but the issue is not negotiable. If you stay where you are, you will get shot ‘cause that area’s gonna be prepped in about one five. So pack it up and start moving now! Over.”
“This is Three Six. Well, I copy that! We’ll be moving in zero five.”
“This is Six. Okay, know and use current challenge and password. Inform me when your last man closes Two Six’s.”
By the time we heard the faint whump, whump, whump of distant helicopters, Bob Halloway’s last soldier had safely passed through our perimeter. Byson came up on the battalion command net moments later.
“Comanche Six, this is Arizona Three inbound with Lean Apache. You prepared to mark your Romeo, over?”
“This is Comanche Six. Roger, standing by.”
“Okay, Comanche, coming up on one-minute final. Mark now! I say again, mark your Romeo flank now! Over.”
I repeated “mark” three times into Anderson’s handset, signaling Mac, who was monitoring the company net, to activate the trip flare.
Concurrently, I informed Byson of our marking technique via Blair’s handset.
Night suddenly turned to day on our right flank. Damn, that flare is putting out a lot of light. If they dug a hole, it’s sure as hell a shallow one.
“Uh… Roger, Comanche,” Byson said. “Got your, flare, nothing subtle about that! We’ll be coming in hot in minus one minute. Keep your heads down. Out.”
The helicopters, Cobras leading, were now clearly visible against the darkened southeasterly sky. For a moment they looked as if they were heading straight for us. Careful, Blue Max. No-fire line is to the left of the flare, not the right. Abruptly, the gunships veered right, corrected, and then started their firing run. It was beautiful! So much more impressive at night.
“Wow!” someone said. “Fourth of July in the Nam! Look at the fucking fireworks!”
“Them Cobras are bad mothers,” someone else commented.
Blue Max had a section of four gunships working the LZ, first with rockets and 40-mm grenades, then 7.62-mm miniguns. The rate of fire of this multibarreled gun was so fast, its bullets with their tracer tips were spaced so close together, that when fired the weapon appeared to produce an unbroken, brilliantly illuminated red line stretching from its muzzle to the ground. The deadly red line sometimes ran straight and true, at other times weaved lazily back and forth.