“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Top,” I commented.
We wrapped up our session by planning those defensive precautions we’d undertake over the course of the next two days in order to “protect our own.” In the main, One Six and Two Six would screen our perimeter the next day, and if the truce held Three Six, augmented by Four Six, would do the same the following day.
The method by which the two platoons would accomplish the next day’s mission was pretty much standard. After the LPs and trick or treats returned to the NDP and the morning log bird departed, One Six would move out of the perimeter, due north for one klick. Two Six would do the same, moving due south. Then both platoons would circle us at a distance of one kilometer in a half-moon fashion, moving clockwise. Both would remain an equal distance from us, with our NDP separating them. At day’s end, One Six would rejoin us from the south, and Two Six from the north. In essence, this maneuver provided us our own moving “doughnut ring.”
Of course, these preparations were all for naught. The next day we’d find ourselves doing anything, and a bit of everything, except patrolling defensively.
Slim Brightly remained behind as my platoon leaders returned to their sectors of the perimeter. First Sergeant Sullivan, with tour-extension papers in hand on one of Three Six’s soldiers, accompanied Lieutenant Halloway.
“So what say, Slim? Understand you’re gonna be leaving us shortly.”
“Yeah, guess so,” he said, smiling. “My six months are up in another couple of weeks. Gotta move on to bigger and better things.”
“And what might that be?” I asked.
“Well, getting promoted ‘bout the same time I ferry out—least that’s when I hit my twenty-four months. Colonel says he’s gonna give me a battery. ‘Course that’s what I want, a command.”
“Sure you do, but it can weigh on you. Especially assuming the reins same time you go double on your silver. Nervous?”
He looked at me as if unable to comprehend my question, then said,
“Hell, no! Ain’t nothing to commanding a battery, particularly over here where your soldiers and soldiering are ‘bout the only thing you have to worry about. I mean, you don’t have the wives and family problems, or the socials, fund drives, parades and reviews, Saturday-morning inspections, police and support details, and so on and so forth. All you gotta worry about is making sure your soldiers can put iron on a target quicker and more accurately than any other battery in the fucking division. And my people will damn well be doing that soon enough after I take over!”
False modesty was not one of Lieutenant Brightly’s character flaws. He was confident almost to the point of cockiness. There was little doubt in my mind that he would be an outstanding commander.
“Hell, maybe I don’t understand the question, sir,” he continued. “Mean, were you nervous when you took the company on the bridge?”
“Damn right I was. Still am. Every goddamn day.”
My response seemed to surprise him. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he said, “Well, you shouldn’t be. Company’s turned itself around since you took over. Shit, we ain’t done nothing but kick Charlie’s ass up one side and down the other since leaving the bridge.”
“Yeah, but Slim, I’ve had very damn little to do with that, and you know it. We’ve just been lucky as hell these past couple of months. Could’ve just as easily gone the other way.”
“Whoa there, Six,” he said, grinning. “Lucky! Wasn’t it you who told me he didn’t believe in luck that first night when I said we were having damn little of it?”
I smiled and said, “Well, let me rephrase that. The gods of war have smiled on us these last couple of months. Okay?”
“Yeah, I copy that, and you’re right, they have. And I do believe in luck, but the company had problems other than just the lack of it before your arrival.” He paused and then, in a more serious vein, said, “See, your predecessor was one of the finest officers, one of the finest men, I’ve ever known, in the service or out. Loved his soldiers, looked over each and every one of them like they were his children. As a good commander should.”
He breathed deeply. “And the colonel was right in relieving him. And every one of your leaders knows that ‘cept your first sergeant, and down deep he knows it, too. ‘Course, he won’t admit it to anyone except maybe himself, and you can’t fault him for that.”
I said nothing, so he went on.
“He loved his soldiers too much. And after he lost a couple of ’em, he simply went too far in trying to keep the rest of the company out of harm’s way. Sort of got his priorities mixed up—you know, accomplish the mission, but first take care of the troops. Hell, I don’t know, maybe he just wasn’t ready for command. Maybe we’re making our lieutenants into captains too soon.”
Changing the course of our conversation, I asked, “Hey, Slim, you gonna fire a registration tonight?”
“Naw, don’t need it. I can work off Daisy’s RP if need be.”
The evening log bird landed minutes later and Lieutenant Brightly strolled off to see if it might have brought mail for him.
“Maybe he just wasn’t ready for command.” Well, hell, who is?
But he’s right, as was I. Although we rarely admit it, because it can’t be taught in leadership courses, the difference between a successful and an unsuccessful commander in combat is, as often as not, a matter of pure luck, fate, the fortunes of war. And we had been lucky. What if we had been caught in an ambush on one of our early forays up the mountain? “Why were you on a trail, Captain?”
“Did you have flankers out, left and right?” What if the five NVA had been quicker with their AKs than Wester had been with his twelve-gauge the other night on the 506? “And what were you doing moving bold ass down a highway at night, Captain?”
“Did you have flankers out.” Yeah, I’m nervous. Stay nervous.
At dusk, after the company had messed and began settling in for the night, my first sergeant came over and sat down beside me atop an overturned five-gallon water can. In each of his hands he held two cans of beer.
“Battalion sent out two cans per head count tonight, Six. Guess because of Tet.”
“Kind of wish they hadn’t, Top. Gotta keep our people on their toes.”
“Well, yeah, but we’re still abiding by our two-beer-limit rule, sir,” he retorted.
“Hey, Top,” I replied a bit testily. “You know, and I know, that there are nondrinkers in the company, and not one of those beers will go undrunk tonight. Which means some of our folk are gonna break the two-beer rule, right?”
“Well, yeah, guess that’s so. But shit, Six, what with the thirty-six-hour stand down and all.”
“Sure, it’ll be all right. Guess I’m just nervous, that’s all.” Stay nervous.
We sat in silence for a while, sipping our beer and watching the last light of day fade over Vietnam’s Annamese cordillera. “Guess Mac is winging his way home now,” I offhandedly remarked.
“Not yet, Six. He’ll probably be leaving An Khe tomorrow or the next day, then Cam Ranh, then home. Good officer. We’ll miss him.”
“Yeah, wish he’d stay in, but think there’s little chance of it happening.”
“Naw, he’s not career, sir. None of your officers are, with the possible exception of Lieutenant Norwalk, and he’s undecided. But MacCarty will get out, you can bet on it. Don’t know anything about his replacement. Halloway will get out. Fact, don’t know if he could go career even if he wanted to. Him being Reserve and all.”
“Well, hell, Top,” I interrupted, “all our officers are Reserve.”
“Yeah, but he’s reserve Reserve. Mean, he wasn’t commissioned active in an indefinite status. He’s an inactive who volunteered for an active tour so as to do a stint in the Nam. Old-fashioned patriot.”