“Seriously, sir,” he continued after a short pause, “what’s the answer?
I mean we just keep on killing ’em, and they just keep on coming.”
“Beats the shit out of me, Bob.”
“Answer’s artillery!” Brightly blurted out. “Just put all the artillery in the fucking free world, hub to hub, up there on the ‘Z’ where McNamara wants to put his fence, and then start plowing ground northward. Complete your mission, then roll forward fifteen or twenty klicks and do it again. Keep going till you get to the Chinese border.”
“Red leg’s not the answer to all our problems, Slim,” I said. “We proved that the other night on the 506.”
“Yeah, what do you think happened, sir?” Halloway asked.
“Beats the shit out of me, Bob.”
“I’ll tell you what happened,” Brightly said. “Charlie moved, plain and simple. While we were cranking up the mission, and Baker’s squad was going for cover, Charlie picked it up and moved elsewhere. Unobserved fire. Can’t expect miracles from unobserved fire.”
“Well, what do you think they were doing just sitting there in the first place?” Halloway asked.
“How the fuck should I know?” Brightly answered. “Maybe they were getting ready for Tet. You know, been raising Cain here on the plain for the past year, and now they’re returning to the hills for a little rest and relaxation during the truce.”
“Hey, how long does the truce last, anyway?” Halloway asked.
“Depends on whose you’re talking about,” I replied. “Theirs is supposedly seven days; ours lasts only thirty-six hours beginning at 1800 hours tonight.”
“Think they’ll stick to it, sir?”
“Beats the shit out of me, Bob.”
It was an uneventful afternoon, and with its passing Charlie Company had failed to accomplish its primary mission, that of closing with and destroying the enemy. Our foe was simply not traveling the mountain that day, nor was he on the plain.
“Perhaps Charlie finally got to wherever he’s been heading the last couple months,” Lieutenant Brightly jokingly remarked.
Around three o’clock we decided to pack it up and begin journeying back toward the valley floor. I radioed Bill Norwalk, telling him to do the same. It was the time of day we liked most, when day’s work was over and we were moving effortlessly downhill toward our NDP, a hot meal, and a night’s rest instead of struggling upward into the unknown. But it was always more satisfying to be descending our mountain after a successful hit.
As we worked our way downward along yet another east-west trail, I took note of Three Six’s riflemen. As usual, they were moving as riflemen should move when in Indian country—with weapons at the ready, distances maintained, and a warrior’s silence. Still, there was a certain aura of laxness on this occasion. Perhaps it was the result of having made the up-down sally so many times before—routine is the greatest ally of laxness—or perhaps it was simply in anticipation of the pending truce.
Two Six had selected an NDP in relatively flat terrain a klick or so from the base of the mountain but a short distance from Daisy. As the company began its nightly ritual of digging holes, clearing fields of fire, and emplacing claymores and trip flares, its platoon leaders, attached FO, first sergeant, and I assembled for our evening parley.
Unlike my tete-a-tetes with the Bull, these sessions were usually brief affairs, restricted to the company’s business at hand—the platoon leaders had little time for casual conversation until after their defensive preparations were complete. We first shared any lessons learned on that day’s operation and then turned our attention to the next day’s activities. At the conclusion of our get-together, the platoon leaders would show me where they proposed to put their LPs and trick-ortreat sites that night, and I would routinely approve their recommendations without comment. Slim Brightly would then plot these locations on his map. On this occasion, talk immediately turned to the next day’s activities.
“Where we gonna do this train-fire stuff, sir?” Lieutenant Norwalk asked.
“What train fire?” I asked in return.
“I propose we set the range up on the west side of the perimeter,”
Lieutenant Halloway said. “Use the mountain as a backdrop. ‘Course there aren’t that many villagers around here anyway, so maybe…”
“What train fire?” I repeated.
“Not enough range,” Bill Norwalk said in response to Halloway’s suggestion, as if not hearing me. “If you’re gonna even approximate the firing tables, you’re gonna need at least…”
“What train fire, goddamn it!” I snapped, feigning anger.
Silence. All heads turned toward me, then to my first sergeant.
“Uh… hadn’t had a chance to get with you since you came off the hill, sir,” the Bull said. “Sorry. Anyway, this afternoon your XO called and informed us in passing that he couldn’t find any silhouette targets, so he’s gonna send us out some charlie-rat cases that his folk have done some painting on. Seems the old man wants us to use this downtime to ‘enhance our marksmanship abilities.’”
“Okay, understand. Thanks,” I said and then, turning to the others, asked, “Well, what about it? You all think we need a little marksmanship training?”
“Fuck no!… sir.”
“No way! Colonel ought to ask Chuck about our marksmanship abilities.”
“Didn’t know we had a choice, sir.”
“Don’t know if we do,” I said. “But let me try to get to the bottom of this.”
I got up and walked the few meters to where Blair and Anderson were digging the hole they would share that night.
“Blair, my good and faithful servant, would you be so kind as to go to our log push. I would speak to my XO.”
He made the frequency adjustment.
“Comanche Five, this is Comanche Six, over.”
“This is Five Alpha. Uh… the Five ain’t in the area right now. Can I assist? Over.”
“This is Six, Roger. What do you know about train-fire activities tomorrow?”
“Five Alpha, not much. The Lieutenant had us making up these targets this afternoon. Rumor is that the colonel wants you all to do a little target practice during the stand down.”
“This is Six. Okay. Thanks. Out.”
“Back to command, please,” I said to Blair. He again quickly changed the radio’s frequency.
“Arizona Three, this is Comanche Six. Over.”
“And this is Arizona Three, over.” I could hear the faint, familiar whump, whump of a Huey as Major Byson keyed his push to talk. He was airborne somewhere over Bong Son’s plain.
“This is Comanche Six. Is there some last-minute change to our marching orders for the truce? Uh… has the Six put out anything on marksmanship training, or some such?”
“Not that I know of. Six says it’s pretty much your call. You know his philosophy on that. Man on the ground and so forth. ‘Course, you’ve got to keep yourself in a strong defensive posture. I recommend aggressive defensive patrolling during the day and the same nature of ambushing at night. Copy?”
Just another rumor that somehow nearly became fact. Story’s old as the Army. Wonder how many operations have gone afoul—or succeeded—because of it.
I walked back to our assembled council.
“No train fire,” I reported. “We aggressively defensively patrol during the day and defensively ambush at night. In short, we do what must be done to protect our own, okay?”
“Sir, might you tell us the difference ‘tween defensive and offensive patrolling and trick-or-treating?” Bill Norwalk asked, smiling.
“I’ll tell you the difference, sir,” Sergeant Sullivan replied. “The difference is we do the same thing we do every other fucking day of the year, ‘cept we don’t hurt anybody, don’t shoot anybody, in the process. Jesus Christ, what a war.”