He paused briefly, then continued. “And that’s not the real pisser of it, Six. I mean, if we were all living like this, it’d be different. But we’re not! You got any idea how them support troops are living in An Khe and Qui Nhon? Or places like Cam Ranh, Danang, Long Binh?”
I had a very good idea, and he was right: it simply wasn’t fair. But then, many things about the Nam were unfair.
“They’re living like fucking kings!” he went on. “Got hot showers, starched uniforms, clean sheets, steak every fucking night, multiservice—if you know what I mean—maids falling all over themselves. Got their clubs with two-bit-a-shot booze and go-go girls, libraries, USO shows, PXs, class VI counters with two-buck-a-bottle Johnny Walker-Black Label! Got their enterprising—again, if you know what I mean—doughnut dollies. Shit, you name it, they got it! And, Six,” he began to laugh, “those assholes are envious of them chair-borne wimps stationed in Saigon, ‘cause they have a golf course! You believe it, sir? A fucking golf course! Our generals couldn’t manage this war without building themselves a fucking golf course.”
He stopped laughing, paused, then said, “And our troops think it’s Christmas when they get a single warm can of three-point-two beer. Shit, it ain’t fair, sir.”
“Of course it’s not, Top,” I replied, “but tell me something. Where would you rather be tonight, here or on that golf course in Saigon?”
“Right goddamn here! Right here sharing this stinking crap with snuffie! Shit, you know that, sir,” he answered, defiantly. “‘Cause snuffie here, well, he’s… uh… mean, these are the greatest.” His voice broke, and his eyes suddenly moistened. He wiped at them with his hand. “‘Scuse me, sir. Uh… I mean they’re ‘bout the most magnificent human beings walking this fucking earth.”
He’s right, of course, but perhaps he’s also been out here too long. Or maybe just sent forward to fight one too many of his nation’s wars. Composing himself, smiling, he added, “Shit, you gotta love ’em, Six. Nobody else does.”
And I did. We both did. Still do.
Early the next morning, Three Six, the most rested of the company’s platoons, climbed our mountain and set up a standard two-point claymore ambush. Later in the day, One Six and Two Six conducted casual cloverleaf sweeps north and south of the company’s base, looking for a new NDP in the process. Around one o’clock in the afternoon Two Six radioed that they had found such a site a klick or so to the north of us. We in the headquarters section and Four Six waited until One Six had returned from their sally to the south and then, joining forces with them, began moving toward our new NDP.
Shortly before closing Two Six’s position, we heard the familiar report of a claymore’s detonation, followed by the rhythmic pounding of an M-60 machine gun on the mountain towering to the left of us. And we felt good.
“Three Six bagged ’em!”
“The sun shines today.”
“Cloverleaves suck! The good hunting’s always in the high country.”
It was not that we were jubilant about the sudden violent demise of what I would moments later learn to be three NVA soldiers—three fellow human beings. It was simply that we had scored. That we had succeeded in doing what we had been trained and sent to Vietnam to do. The death of enemy soldiers at our hands quite simply produced a good feeling, a feeling of exhilaration much like that experienced when one’s high school football team scores a touchdown. In this sense, we modern ethren or Genghis Khan’s warriors.
After joining Two Six in our new NDP, I pulled MacCarty aside. “Hey, Mac, how about putting your trick or treat, say, a squad or so, on the 506 ‘bout where Wester scratched those five NVA night ‘fore last? I mean, they’re obviously traveling the route, and we might get lucky again.”
“506? Sir, that’s nearly two klicks out. Quite a ways for a single squad to set up.”
“Well, shit, Mac, beef it up a bit. ‘Nother M-60, couple M-79s. Your call, but I want an ambush on the 506 tonight, okay?”
“Okay, Six. I’ll take a squad plus. We’ll leave the perimeter shortly after…”
“Mac, I don’t want you going. Hey, you’ll be leaving us in a day or two, and you’ve got good squad leaders—Baker’s one of the best. You gotta give ’em room to grow, and they can’t do that with you looking over their shoulder all the time.”
He looked at me a moment, amused, and then smiled and said, “Right, sir. Kind of like you letting me grow while looking over my shoulder during our two-squad helicopterless false extraction, right?”
“Uh… that was different,” I protested, blushing a little. “Mean, I was but a casual observer on that venture. Just… learning the ins and outs of a stay-behind. You know, being new on board and all, I just wanted to…”
“Or during our claymore forays up the mountain, huh?” He interrupted, grinning broadly.
“Well, shit, Mac, I can hardly sit on my ass with Four Six in the NDP all day, now, can I?”
“No, sir, you can’t, and I copy you loud and clear,” he said, still smiling. “And Baker it’ll be, and he’ll be augmented accordingly.”
In the wee hours of the following morning, I was awakened by a very concerned Lieutenant MacCarty.
“Sergeant Baker’s in a bind, sir. Says he’s got what he thinks is a company of NVA on the 506 where it intersects with that secondary northsouth trail we traveled the other night. Says they’re just sitting there, like they’re assembling or something.”
“Is he in contact?” I said, hurriedly unwrapping myself from my poncho liner and getting to my feet.
“No, sir. Says they’re not in his kill zone, and there’s too many of ’em for him to take on anyway. But he’s got ’em on the starlight scope.”
Turning to Anderson, who was on radio watch, I loudly whispered, “Andy, go to Two Six’s push.”
“They’re not in a posture to do much talking, sir,” MacCarty commented.
“Understand that, Mac,” I remarked, “but if he’s got a company out there, and he can’t take ’em on, we gotta get some red leg on ’em.
Which means Baker and his people are gonna have to move.”
He nodded and then took Anderson’s extended handset, whispering into it,
“Two Six Tango, this is Six. We’re gonna be bringing red leg in on your target. If you can move, key your handset twice. Over.”
We listened as the handset’s rushing noise was interrupted by two distinct breaks.
“Okay, Tango, I copy. Now I understand that north-south trail is the same one we used when we left the red line the other night. If so, give us another two clicks and then haul ass and go for cover. Call me as soon as it’s safe to do so. Over.”
Again the handset’s rushing sound was twice broken by Baker keying his push-to-talk.
“I’ll get Brightly,” the Bull, now also up, offered.
Lieutenant Brightly quickly plotted the grid and requested his fire mission. Moments later he said, in a louder voice than he should have,
“Hot damn! They’re gonna put a TOT on ’em! Been out here better than five months and ain’t never seen a TOT fired.” Time on target is a mission in which artillery fires from several firing locations are simultaneously massed on a single target.
“Uh… it’ll take ’em a few minutes to crank it up, Boss,” he added, turning to me.
“And it’ll take Baker longer than that to clear the area. There ain’t gonna be no TOT until he and his soldiers are safely tucked in somewhere,” Sergeant Sullivan remarked, leaving little doubt in anyone’s mind that he meant what he said.