And while the machine guns echoed their familiar rat-tat-tat-tat-tat sound, the minigun produced an eerie, constant brupppppppppp.
“Here comes Alpha Company, sir,” the Bull commented, obviously impressed with the show. None of us had seen a night air assault before.
If not a rarity, they certainly weren’t commonplace in the Nam, even in the Cav.
“Damn, look at that,” he continued, “ain’t putting no hooks in here at night. All Hueys. I count twelve of ’em.”
The Cobras were now working the LZ’s periphery, their uninterrupted streams of red tracers striking the ground and then aimlessly, crazily, ricocheting off and into the night.
“Looks like a four-ship LZ,” I commented as the first four troopladen Hueys set down and then hurriedly took off again, making way for the next four.
It was all over in a matter of minutes. Then Alpha Company was on the ground to our right, and, except for the fading sound of the departing helicopters, silence returned to the valley—a silence occasionally interrupted by artillery H&I (harassment-and-interdiction) fires landing in Binh Loc.
An hour or so later, Byson’s voice again pierced the night air.
“Arizona, Arizona, this is Arizona Three. Over.”
He was making a net call, requiring all the battalion’s line companies to answer him. We did.
“This is Lean Apache, over.”
“This is Ridge Runner, over.”
“This is Tall Comanche, over,” I chimed in.
“This is [garbled] Running Navaho, over.”
“This is Arizona Three. Running Navaho disregard. Break. For the rest of you, this constitutes a frag order. At first light, or as soon thereafter as visibility will allow, we go into the ville. Intend to hold little people and Ridge Runner in their present positions and then sweep north with Lean Apache on the right and Tall Comanche on the left.
… uh… a touch of the old hammer and anvil.”
“Fires and time of attack to be announced. Lean Apache and Tall Comanche, you two choose a mutually agreed-upon line of departure and let us know what it is in the A.m. Boundary between the two of you is the main northsouth red line.” (Red line was a road or highway, so called because that’s the way it appears on a map; rivers appeared as blue lines.)
“If you need ammo, get your wants in tonight. Arizona Six will be airborne at the objective. And I hope you fellows got all that.”
We had and, in sequence, signed off.
After thinking briefly about next day’s operation, I made a net call to the platoons, informing them of the gist of Byson’s FRAGO and telling them we would attack with Two Six on the right, Three Six on the left, and One Six trailing in reserve. Then perhaps belatedly, I asked my first sergeant if he agreed with all of this.
“Sure, best way to do it, considering our disposition right now,” he replied. “Two Six and Three Six can just pick it up and move forward, while One Six falls in behind. But shit, tell you the truth, Six.”
Sergeant Sullivan had recently begun calling me “Six” when others of the company were not privy to our conversations. “I just wouldn’t worry ‘bout it too much. I mean, I’ll bet you diamonds to doughnuts that the ville over there, you know, Benny Lock 4 or whatever, will just be another walk-through. Ain’t gonna be no fight ‘cause Charlie’s gone!
Shit, sir, I’ve been through this before, and I’m telling you, no matter what you do to seal a village at night, Charlie’s gonna be long gone at dawn. Don’t care if you put snuffie ‘round it arm to arm, Charlie will find a way out ‘fore first light.”
He paused a moment and then said, “I stand corrected. I saw it… uh… heard ‘bout it working once. Alpha Company, six, seven months ago, when I first got here. ‘Course that was on the beach, easier to trap Chuck on the beach. I mean, where the fuck can he go? Can’t hardly swim back to Hanoi!”
“Hardly,” I offered, trying to catch the drift of what he was talking about.
“Yeah, see, Alpha was just doing another walk in the weeds, well, in this case, a walk in the sand and rocks ‘long Binh Dinh’s coast. Where, unknown to them, the NVA—think it was part of the 22d Regiment—had a battalion hiding in these rocks, you know, in caves and all, and Alpha Company nearly walks right over ’em, probably like a bunch of the rest of us had done a number of times before. Well, way I heard it, this last little snuffie stopped for a minute to fill his canteen from some water what had settled in the rocks. You believe that, Six? I mean he just happens to stop so as to fill his canteen, and this gook raises his head—you know, maybe he just wanted to see what an American ‘round eye’ looks like—and snuffie nails him right between the eyes.”
“So, Alpha set up ‘round this rock pile and in the next week or so kill a hundred or more of Charlie without losing any of their own. Great fucking hit!”
“Super,” I commented, as he paused briefly, before changing our conversation’s direction.
“But to hell with these war stories, sir. What I’m worried about right now is taking care of the troops. You know we ain’t had a hot since last night, and it’s pretty obvious, what with Three’s plans for an attack tomorrow, we ain’t gonna get a hot before tomorrow night. That means forty-eight hours without chow!”
“Well, not really without chow, Top,” I responded. “We did have C&D this morning and a charlie rat today, right?”
“Yeah, but that’s just one meal, sir. You know, C&D is nice, but it ain’t no meal. We need charlie rats in the morning. I mean shit, sir, to hell with battalion and their ‘class V only’ message; troops need class I! They’re getting hungry!”
Although I did not at the time recognize the signs—I would later—my first sergeant was starting to bristle over what he perceived as something less than unconstrained dedication on the part of our higher headquarters toward “taking care of the troops.” This is a somewhat common, and I’ve always thought healthy, perception among rifle company first sergeants.
“I mean fuck it, sir!” he continued, his self-induced anger intensifying. “Sometimes battalion’s philosophy ‘pears to be, ‘Fuck the troops; just feed ’em beans and mark ’em for duty’!”
“Well, Top, no one said we wouldn’t get a bird in the morning. You know, they just said they’re committed to troop lift tonight. But if you feel that strongly about it, why don’t I just call.”
“Shit, there ain’t no goddamn soldier in any fucking war ever suffered no more than snuffie here,” he went on as if not hearing me, his voice becoming perceptibly louder, “and all he asks in return is his mail and a hot meal now and then! And these goddamn chair-borne, barbecue-eating, cot-sleeping, maid-fucking, beer-drinking, son-of-abitching rear-echelon wimps put out that ‘class V only’ bullshit! I mean I’m passed, sir!”
And he was.
“Hey, Top, I’ll call the colonel and ask him to rescind that ammo only bullshit. I mean seriously, if we need C rations, I’m sure battalion will get ’em to us at first.”
“No, sir,” he interrupted, now visibly upset. “Taking care of the troops is my job! That’s first sergeant business! I’m gonna get trains on the horn right now and tell them, not ask, tell them to get us charlie rats out here in the morning! And if they mention one fucking word ‘bout ‘class V only,’ I’m gonna call the colonel. I’m getting sick and goddamn tired of this bullshit!”
Resignedly, I replied, “Okay, Top,” as he angrily stomped off into the night.
He returned within ten minutes or so, looking a little disheartened.
“What say, Top? Time for me to get involved one on one with Colonel Lich?”
“Naw… uh… everything’s worked out,” he responded a bit timidly.