“It’s a promise, Top.”
But we wouldn’t. We’d never see each other again—which I suppose is also the way of war.
17. First Day of the Tet Offensive: 30 January
“Arizona Three, this is Comanche Six. Over.”
“This is Arizona Base. Go.”
Go? Where did this guy learn his radio procedure? Been talking to too many helicopter pilots.
“This is Comanche, Roger. We had an enemy probe of our November Delta Papa. Burst of automatic-weapons fire about zero five ago. I’ve got one lightly wounded. Do not, I say again, do not require medevac before first light. Request dust off at that time. How copy? Over.”
“Roger, Comanche. Solid copy. Uh. dust off at first light… break. Be advised we’re under attack at this location. Out!”
Well, that’s a switch! Hell of a way to start a truce—shooting at us in our NDP and then attacking what had always been a sacred refuge for us boonie rats—battalion headquarters.
The Bull, having just returned from One Six’s piece of the perimeter, informed me our injured soldier had indeed suffered only a minor, somewhat embarrassing, flesh wound to his buttock, one that required little more than a Band-Aid.
“It’s not a good wound, Six,” he said. “Certainly not good enough to return him Stateside. Fact, I’ll bet it gets him no farther than the battalion aid station. Probably be back out here on the evening log bird.”
He paused for a moment and then said, “On the other hand, hope it ain’t a bad omen. You know, we haven’t had a single soul so much as scratched since leaving the bridge. Hell, we ain’t even ever been fired on in our NDP!”
“Yeah, we’ve been lucky. Just glad the young stud’s okay. And I don’t believe in omens, Top.”
He nodded, smiling.
“But you know, Top, it was sort of strange the way they hit us here tonight. As if they were just passing by and decided to throw something our way—almost like an afterthought. What do you make of it?”
“Beats the hell out of me, Six.” Then, grinning and looking at his watch, he said, “But it was a hell of a short truce, wasn’t it. Must have lasted all of seven or eight hours. And shit, don’t think I’ve ever heard more red leg than they’re throwing downrange tonight… uh, this morning. Sure as hell ain’t H&I.”
“Yeah, I noticed that, too,” I replied. “By the way, when I reported our wounded soldier to battalion, know what the Three’s radio man said? Said they were under attack!”
“Hitting battalion?” he asked, obviously surprised. “Well, that’s something new. Can’t recall that ever happening before.” Then, again grinning, he said, “Wonder what they want us to do about it. Send em reinforcements?”
I smiled. “It’d be a hell of a walk, wouldn’t it?”
“Three’s on the horn, sir,” Blair said in a low voice, yawning.
“Comanche Six, this is Arizona Three. Pass line number on your WIA. Over.”
“This is Comanche Six. Roger. Wait. Out.”
Turning to Sergeant Sullivan, I asked, “Got a line number on our wounded man, Top?”
“Just a sec,” he replied, pulling his copy of the company’s roster from a cargo pocket. Bending over it with a red-filtered flashlight, he squinted for a couple of moments and then said, “Shit!”
He passed the roster and flashlight to Blair. “Uh… give me a line number, will you, Blair?”
Noticing the subtle smile on my face, my first sergeant said, “Don’t say it, sir. It ain’t the eyes. Hell, I’m seeing at twenty twenty. It’s just them red filters… uh… they mess up a man’s night vision.”
Which of course was untrue, and we both knew it. Red-filtered flashlights protect one’s night vision.
Then, grinning a bit self-consciously, he said, “Ah, sweet youth, Six. Age does take its toll, as you’ll learn soon enough.”
“I copy that, Top,” I replied, as Blair said, “Bowers, line thirteen. Shit, unlucky number.”
Retrieving his handset, I said, “Arizona Three, this is Comanche Six. Over.”
“This is Arizona Three.”
“This is Comanche Six. Reference your last, line one three. Copy?”
“Roger. Good copy. Line thirteen. Now, what happened? Over.”
“This is Comanche Six. Received a single burst of automatic-weapons fire—think it was an AK, ‘bout one five ago from the western side of the perimeter. Man in question was simply in harm’s way. Minor wound. No need for dust off before first light.”
“This is Arizona Three. Okay. Had a similar incident in Running Navaho’s sector about an hour ago. As I told him, I don’t want you to wait for wounded to report these contacts. Anytime you hear a round fired in anger during the next thirty-six… uh… twenty-eight hours, I need to know about it. Gotta keep book on the enemy so that higher can tabulate their list of ‘shame-on-you’ truce violations three days hence. Copy?”
I said I did and returned Blair’s handset to him.
Turning to Sergeant Sullivan, I said, “Seems Delta Company also had some sort of contact tonight. Byson wants to make sure we report as much as a single sniper round during the truce.”
“Well, shit, we knew that, sir. Same as Christmas, right?”
I nodded. “Blair, my good man, how about giving One Six a call-up and tell ’em I’m on my way over.”
I found our wounded soldier lying a bit uncomfortably on his stomach, on an air mattress, next to Norwalk’s command post.
Kneeling, I put my hand on his shoulder and asked, “How’s it going, Bowers?”
“I’m okay, sir. Just burns like hell.”
“Sure, it burns,” Doc Heard snorted. “Let me give you a shot of morphine, and it won’t burn, least you won’t notice it as much.”
“No. Faintly experiencing a feeling of dizzyness I said, “Come on, Bowers, let the doc give you a shot.” Make the night go quicker, mate.”
“No, sir. It ain’t that bad, and I don’t like shots—or morphine. I can take the pain.”
Ah yes, Top. Sweet youth, indeed!
Getting to my feet, I pulled Heard aside and whispered, “Prognosis?”
“Aw, he’ll be all right. Still, it is painful, and more serious than some—including our first sergeant—might think. Bullets destroy meat tissue no matter where or how lightly they hit you. Probably keep him at battalion for a couple days or so.” Then, looking at Bowers grit his teeth, he whispered, “I could give him the shot anyway, sir. I’m authorized.”
“No, it’s his call, or should be. Besides… uh… he might very well change his mind before the night’s over.”
“You see where it came from, Bill?” I asked, sitting down next to Norwalk atop his hole’s parapet.
“No, sir. Somewhere to the west of us. No one saw the flash or anything. Just heard the pops as the rounds came through our perimeter.”
I nodded my head. “Bastard.”
“What do you think, sir? One of the 10 percent that never gets the word?”
“That’s my guess. Either that or one of the 90 percent that does and just doesn’t give a shit. Both sides have ’em.”
“Guess that means we still do defensive patrolling tomorrow uh… today, huh?”
“Yep, we’ll patrol defensively, and we’ll abide by the truce even if Charlie doesn’t—’less of course we run across the one that shot your soldier.”
“And they all look alike, don’t they.”
“That’s what they say, Bill. Anyway, thought I would tag along with you, okay?”
“Sure, sir. Happy to have you.”
But of course he wasn’t. Platoon leaders don’t like having their commanders looking over their shoulder all day.
Rising to leave, I said, “Ought to get some sleep, Lieutenant. Still have another three hours before dawn.”