Bingo!
“What about you, sir?”
“Never went to college,” I answered. “Came out of the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia, with a clean set of underwear and ten dollars in my pocket, and joined the ‘regular’ Army. And the regular Army, by the way, tells me I’d better be getting some education pretty damn soon if I want to remain part of the regular Army. But that’s neither here nor there. Mac, career aspirations aside, you can’t seriously question whether or not we’re gonna win this thing? Shit, look at the record. How long have we been here? I mean our ground forces, the infantry, ‘queen of battle.” Two years? And in that two years, we’ve done nothing but kick ass! From la Drang in ‘65 till right now while we’re talking, we’ve beaten Charlie every single time he’s come out to play! It’s just a question of time till he’s gonna have to throw in the towel. Hell, we’re bleeding him white, Mac. You can’t question that.”
“No, sir, I don’t. But they’re still fighting; they’re still in there kicking. I mean if they weren’t, we wouldn’t be here, right?”
“Well, yeah, but.”
“And I’m afraid they may continue kicking longer than we, and I mean the folks back home, can put up with it.”
This was heresy! One of us was out of touch with reality, and I figured it had to be Mac. I couldn’t even fathom what he, somewhat less than subtly, was alluding to—losing!
“Uh… don’t get me wrong, sir,” he quickly added, perhaps noting the bewildered, agitated look on my face. “I hope and pray we do win; we’ve already paid a hell of a price. And I know we have the wherewithal to do it. I just question whether or not we have the guts to continue the fight at this pace. You know, sir, there’s a very vocal minority back in the States right now that would like to see us out of here; and daily they’re becoming more vocal and less of a minority. Look Sir, all I’m saying is I think we’re in a race against time on the thing$ and I don’t believe our leadership, from LBJ on down, realizes it.”
“Well, Mac, you’re wrong. We’re gonna win this sucker, even at this pace, and ten years from now South Vietnam will be another Korea, an up-and-coming economic power in the Pacific. And twenty years from now, it’ll be competing with Japan. It never fails: wherever we go and whenever we win—and, Mac, we always win—good times follow.”
He nodded, but without conviction. So I continued. “Well, economics aside, you can’t actually conceive of North Vietnam simply overrunning the country, can you, Mac?”
“No, sir, I can’t really envision that. I see the whole thing just kind of petering out, just dying a slow and uneventful death. You know, sort of like Britain’s experience with the CTs in Malaysia, well, Malaya at the time. Hey!” he said, suddenly brightening. “Maybe that’s what we should do, sir! Know what the Brits did in Malaysia?”
I shook my head. As far as I could recall, they pretty well whipped the CTs (Communist terrorists—Malaysia’s Viet Cong).
“Well,” he continued, “after fighting the CTs for years and finally concluding they were at a Mexican standoff—you know, with neither side able to defeat the other—the Brits suddenly announced to the world that they had won, period. Said they had won the war, the emergency was over, the colony was to be granted independence, and they were going home. And they did! It was that simple. When they discovered they couldn’t beat the CTs, they just said they already had and then packed their rucks and left!”
The two of us started laughing.
“Yes, sir, LBJ ought to read more British history. Hell, he could solve this thing the same way, right? Hey, sir, couldn’t you just see him there on TV, you know, ‘Ma fellow ‘Mericans, we’ve won! We’ve arrived at the end of the tunnel, turned off the light, and now ah’m gonna bring our ‘Merican boys home, so them little Asian boys can continue’. huh?”
Our laughter set a poor example in after-dark noise discipline. But no matter how hard we tried to suppress it, neither of us could.
“Of course, there’d still be a lot of VC in Vietnam,” Mac added, same as there’s still a lot of CTs in Malaysia, right?”
“Guess so,” I replied, wiping my eyes. “But tell me, Mac, how the hell did we get around to LBJ and Malaysian history?”
“Think it started when you asked if I planned to stay in, and I guess I took the long way ‘round the hutch in saying no,” he said, still laughing.
“Well,” I responded, soberly, seriously, “you may change your mind, and I really hope you do, Mac. ‘Cause you’re one hell of a combat leader.
And, by the way, whether you stay in or not, I mean regardless of what you might do in the future, that’s something no one can ever take from you.”
“Thanks, sir,” he said, then got up and strolled into the night, back to his place of rest in Vietnam’s sod. Only six more such holes to dig.
One Six and Two Six, working the mountain the next day, surprisingly came up dry, no contact whatsoever. But Three Six, while walking the valley floor, unexpectedly came upon three NVA napping in a grove of palms. One of the three was quick enough to get away with his life; the other two became part of the war’s body count.
We moved our NDP again that night and then continued our operational routine the following day with One Six and Three Six on the mountain and Two Six in the valley. The command section accompanied One Six.
It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon when a single unsuspecting NVA soldier walked into our ambush.
“Thank God,” I said to Sergeant Sullivan, who was sitting beside me when we heard the familiar boom! of the claymore’s detonation.
“Thought we were gonna go two days in a row without a hit in the high country.”
“Yeah, and you know what snuffie’s beginning to say,” he replied, smiling. “A day without a hit is like a day without sunshine.”
“Goddamn, he’s a mess, ain’t he?” the Bull observed as we surveyed the ambush site. The hit man, perhaps because there was only one enemy soldier to contend with, had waited until the last possible moment before detonating his claymore, thus ensuring a kill. The mine’s force had virtually severed its victim at the waist, with only the spinal column and shreds of flesh connecting his upper and lower torsos. It was a quick, merciful death.
After reporting our kill to battalion, we began our descent down the mountain. As we did so, I radioed Halloway, telling him to remain in position for another twenty to thirty minutes and then follow us.
Within minutes after we joined Two Six in our NDP, Major Byson called.
“Comanche, this is Arizona Three. Are you in posture to move within one zero? Over.”
“Uh… negative. Still have my Three Six on the hump. They should close my location within two zero or so. Over.”
“This is Arizona Three. Okay, tell ’em to hustle it up. I’m inbound with four, plus two, plus two in two zero. Arclight opened up a large bunker complex on the side of a mountain to the northeast of you, and you’re the closest and fastest thing we can get on top of it. How copy?”
“This is Comanche Six. Roger, solid copy. We’ll be ready.”
En route to our objective, Major Byson informed us we would have to work our way into the bunker complex from the valley below since he simply couldn’t find a suitable LZ atop the mountain. This was an atypical method of air-assaulting a target inasmuch as one of the division’s tactical strengths lies in its ability to land a force above the enemy and then attack downward. It never ceased to amaze us that, regardless of how many times we so conducted our assaults, the NVA, I suppose being set in their ways, continued to defend downward, in the opposite direction from which we were attacking.
Overflying the B-52 (Arclight) strike before landing, we saw it had made an ugly mess of the untouched tropical rain forest. The double-and triple-forested canopy had been torn asunder, revealing a maze of giant teak trees and other jungle vegetation lying in disarray. Yet in another, somewhat morbid sense, the strike was beautiful! Beautiful in its manifestation of destructive power, in the near-perfect symmetrical pattern its bomb craters formed upon the face of the mountain below.