“Comanche, this is Arizona Two inbound on the red line. Ready for you to light up.”
“This is Comanche Six. Roger. Marking with a threeflashlight delta in paddy on the south side of the red line. No obstacles other than some eight-to twelve-foot minipalms right against the road. LZ green.
How copy?” I responded, concurrently signaling Mac to light up the landing zone.
After a brief pause, Arizona Two came back. “Roger, Comanche. Got your Lima Zulu. We’ll be coming straight in, east to west, and probably turning our lights on just before touchdown. Might want to warn your men.”
“This is Comanche Six. Roger… break. Listen I don’t want to lose foxhole strength guarding prisoners. Want to make the handoff right here. They’re secured with WD-1 and shouldn’t cause any problem. Over.”
“This is Arizona Two. Understand and no sweat. We’ll take ’em from here. See you on the ground.”
But he didn’t. Baker and his men literally threw our two prisoners through the helicopter’s open doors the moment its skids touched the ground—and the Huey was gone. And moments later, so were we.
The sun was high in the eastern sky when we finally entered the bunker complex. We had been delayed by the meeting engagement and subsequent difficulties in negotiating the terrain between Route 506 and the mountain. As the Bull had predicted, Charlie was gone.
However, he left behind several small arms and some of his dead. We recovered the former, counted the latter, and having done so were preparing to move back down the mountain, when Lieutenant Norwalk yelled, “Hey, sir, look what we found over here!”
I strolled over to where he was standing, chest deep in a caved-in bunker.
“You believe this, sir?” he asked, smiling broadly. “It’s a.50caliber machine gun, whole receiver group, everything but the barrel. In great condition, too.”
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than one of his men, who had been probing the ground behind him, announced, “Got the barrel, LT! Shit, it’s good as new, still in Cosmoline.” Then, moments later, “And here’s the tripod! We got us a whole fucking gun, LT. Lookie here!”
Colonel Lich, after we had reported our find, extended his congratulations and promised to pass the good news on to our supporting aviators. There was a reason for this. In early 1968, the enemy had not yet widely introduced his heat-seeking missiles in the south; the greatest threat to helicopters flying Binh Dinh’s plain was still the.50caliber machine gun. And although the Cav’s aviators were the bravest, most courageous, devil-may-care of all the pilots who flew in Vietnam—and all the pilots who flew in Vietnam were brave.
Even they were somewhat intimidated about being shot at by a.50caliber machine gun. As they often said, “It’s so dam difficult to be wounded by.50caliber.” Regardless of where they were hit by one of these sizable rounds, they’d very likely “buy the farm” before landing their helicopter, if it was still flyable.
Therefore, an infantry company’s quality of life in the boonies was enhanced by finding and neutralizing one of these weapons. Life in the boonies was in large part dependent on Army aviators and their willingness to fly rucks, hot meals, beer, and coke when the weather or tactical situation was iffy. And these aviators were more apt to risk their lives for soldiers who had recently captured one of the enemy’s more frightening antiaircraft weapons.
Before moving off the mountain, Bill Norwalk and his platoon rigged the area for an organic ambush. This was a little trick of the trade we employed in situations where it was almost a given that Charlie would be back, in this case looking for his.50caliber. Setting up the ambush was relatively simple. First, Norwalk and his platoon emplaced trip flares, lots of them, throughout the bunker complex. If Charlie revisited his ravaged lair that night and tripped a single, virtually invisible wire on just one flare, the whole area would light up like a Christmas tree. Then we retired from the mountain and established our NDP on the valley floor below.
That evening, after the log bird had delivered our two 8 1 -mm mortars, the gun crews adjusted fire on the mountain’s bunker complex by “direct lay,” meaning they could see their target from the guns. After so doing, the lay of the gun was not disturbed. High-explosive ammunition was then readied for firing, that is, charges were cut and the rounds placed beside the guns. And the vigil began.
From that point on until a trip flare was activated or dawn broke, at least one of the gun’s crew would remain on each of the weapons, a round at his side and his eyes glued to the mountain. The instant either saw a flare pop, the two of them would drop their six or eight rounds down the gun’s tube as fast as it would accept them.
On this occasion, around nine o’clock, Charlie turned on his flashlight before encountering one of our trip flares. And our gunners mercurially loosed their rounds on the bunker complex.
As was the case in most of our organic ambushes, it was difficult to ascertain whether or not we hurt Charlie that night. We rarely revisited these sites because we knew our enemy would either haul his dead and wounded off before dawn or, anticipating our return, leave them there as bait while he set up a counterambush. But if we didn’t hurt him, I’ll bet we scared the living hell out of him! I’ll bet in the future he thought twice before using a flashlight to hunt for a misplaced.50caliber machine gun.
“Comanche, we’ll probably be leaving you in that area for a while,”
Byson said, radioing us later that night. “That’s where the hunting seems to be best for you. Besides, we got the Tet truce coming up in a matter of days, and that’s as good an area as any to get your men some well-deserved rest.”
After thanking him and signing off, I passed the essence of his remarks along to Sergeant Sullivan, who was sitting beside me atop an empty mermite.
“Damn right, the troops need a rest!” he retorted. “Been up, walking and fighting for, what? Forty-eight hours plus? And how many assaults we made since leaving the bridge? How many different areas we worked?”
“Uh… I don’t know myself, Top. A bunch.”
“Hey, Six, I can’t ‘member neither and don’t care to. And don’t much care where we go or what area we work tomorrow, or the next day, or next week. And, sir, that’s ‘bout the way the troops feel.”
He paused, grinned, and then continued. “Mean, shit, Six, when you reach the point that you can’t remember where you’ve been or care ‘bout where you’re going, you’re due for a break, right?”
“Right, Top,” I said without elaborating. Because the Bull really didn’t expect me to elaborate. I recognized the signs: my first sergeant was about to embark on another of his discourses regarding the haves and have-nots in the Nam. But that’s okay; he’ll feel better when he’s finished.
“Really, Six, what the hell do they expect out of snuffie? What more does he have to give? I mean, I’ve been in this man’s Army for nigh on to a quarter of a century, and I’ve never seen anything like it! Shit, I know war’s no cup of tea, but at least in the last two we had a line we either defended, or attacked, or withdrew from. Right?”
“Right, Top.”
“And every now and then,” he continued, as if not hearing me, “we’d be relieved, as a unit, from that line and stand down for a little refitting and relaxing. Here they say you’re standing down if you’re guarding the goddamn Bong Son bridge! Now, sir, you tell me the difference ‘tween digging a hole to sleep in out here every night and filling those fucking sandbags on the bridge every day. None! Right?”
“Right, Top.”
“Damn right, there’s no difference! And they expect snuffie to live like this for twelve goddamn months! Twelve months of this stinking heat, dust, mud, rain, rotting fatigues, malaria tabs, bugs, leeches, cold charlie rats, sheer boredom, and, fuck, instant terror. I’m telling you, sir, many a normal man can’t retain his sanity living like this for a goddamn year.”