At three-thirty that afternoon we were trucked back to the camp’s pickup zone, where we were to board three hooks, which would fly us to a secure LZ astride Highway One a couple kilometers from our NDP of the night before. But there were only two hooks on the PZ—and four sticks and Major Patrick J. Byson, map in hand.
“Change of mission, Jim,” he said, as I jumped from the deuce-and-a-half. “Navaho’s got a good contact going to the southeast of us. Probably more of Hue’s recent visitors trying to find their way home.”
As we unfolded our maps, I signaled Moseley and Halloway to join us. Moseley, as the attached FO, had to be apprised of the company’s tactical scheme, and, Reserve or not, Halloway was my senior lieutenant and must be able to assume the reins of command at a moment’s notice. Sergeant Sullivan joined us because he wanted to.
“They’re in the foothills a couple klicks west of the highway, right about here,” Byson said, pointing to his map. “Ran straight into Delta Company, which was working that side of the big red. They’re trying to disengage—pretty much succeeded in doing so. My concern is that with Delta in the high country west of ’em, they’ll try to work their way around them and then get back on their trek through this next valley to the north.”
My two officers and I nodded in agreement. The Bull grunted.
“So,” Byson continued, “gonna put your folk in blocking positions up the valley ‘long about here.” He pointed to the plot of our blocking position and then to an LZ a short distance north of it at a higher elevation.
“If there are no questions, let’s get this show on the road,” he concluded. He raised his arm and, with his index finger extended, began rotating his hand in a circular motion, signaling the helicopters’ pilots to start their engines.
“Now?” I asked a bit frantically, hearing the Hueys begin their prestart whining.
Major Byson looked at me in surprise and said, “Of course, now. Get your people on the helicopters.”
“Uh… yes, sir, but can’t we have a little time to put an assault order together?”
“I’ll take care of it, sir,” the 1st Sergeant said, interrupting me.
“Who does the assault?”
“Uh… One Six,” I responded. “It’s their turn, right?”
Lieutenant Halloway nodded.
Then, turning from us and walking toward a loosely assembled Charlie Company, Sullivan yelled, “Platoon sergeants, front and center, on a run!” He talked to his sergeants for perhaps ten seconds, and in not very much more time than that our soldiers were loading their assigned helicopters in an orderly fashion. Walking toward our slick alongside Lieutenant Norwalk, I commented,
“Goddamn, Top can put an air-assault order together in a hurry. Wonder what he says to ’em?”
Norwalk knowingly, somewhat dryly replied, “Sir, I think he says, ‘Get on the helicopters.’”
Our touchdown in Thua Thien’s foothills above Highway One was without mishap, and after the hooks had off-loaded the remainder of the company, we began moving downward from the hill’s pinnacle, Two Six leading. The valley lay before us. Arriving on a gently sloping, horseshoe-shaped ridge overlooking the upper valley, we stopped and established a hasty perimeter. Then we sat down to plan how best to accomplish the task given us.
The offshoot of this hurried planning session was that we would block in much the same manner that we had on Binh Loc’s outskirts months before. Two Six would position themselves on the rightsouthern-prong of the horseshoe; One Six on the left; and Three Six, Four Six, and the headquarters section in the center.
While the line platoons set about preparing their elongated defensive perimeters, Four Six began clearing an area large enough to land a single Huey. Although we doubted we’d be logged that night, we needed an LZ in case we suffered wounded or required class V resupply.
In truth, we’d probably have cleared an area anyway; Cav troopers just don’t feel comfortable without an LZ close at hand. Besides, it was no great feat to chop out an LZ. The entire ridge line was only lightly vegetated with lowlying shrubbery and elephant grass. In fact, from our position at the middle of the horseshoe, we could see several of One Six’s and Two Six’s soldiers to the north and south of us, digging their holes.
Dusk settled over the valley. A short time later, we were pleasantly surprised when Dubray, monitoring the log net, announced, “Log bird inbound, Top.”
“Well, sonofabitch! Will wonders never cease?” the Bull said.
Turning to Anderson, I said, “Andy, give One Six and Two Six a call and tell ’em to start getting their people over here as soon as possible. Want to get ’em fed and back in position before dark.”
They came, a squad at a time, wolfed down their meals, picked up their rucks, and trudged back to their positions so others in their platoon could come forward to do the same. They were wet again and muddy from digging their defenses in Vietnam’s soil, and tired, because you’re always tired in the Nam. As the men walked by me at the end of a three-mermite chow line, they’d smile and say things like, “How’s it going, sir?” and, “Good evening, sir,” and, “When we gonna go back to our mountain, sir?”
The Bull’s right, I thought. You gotta love ’em.
That night the Bull was in a happier frame of mind than he had been lately. It might have been because of the shower and the six-or seven-hour stand down at Evans. Or perhaps it was the weather; the skies had cleared somewhat shortly after dark, and now and then we saw stars appear between the fast-moving clouds above us.
“Shit, I don’t know what your young lieutenant’s complaining about. This ain’t so much different from camping. Want to sing a song, sir?” he jested as we sat atop our mermites, watching the sky. Parachute flares were being dropped from an unseen aircraft orbiting to the south of us.
As one flare would burn itself out shortly before touching ground, another would pop above us, releasing its canister, which would make a ghostly whistling sound as it fell to the earth below. The flare, suspended from its parachute, would then drift downward with the wind until it burnt itself out, and the cycle would then be repeated.
“Can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be tonight, Six—unless it was back home, or in Australia, or Bangkok, or Egypt, or Bong Son’s plain,” he said, grinning. “On the other hand, it’s not so bad here. We’re wet again, but we’re clean, and our poncho liners are reasonably dry. And the weather looks like it might be breaking up.”
“Hope so, Top.”
“And we’re gonna get a good night’s sleep because of the weather and because Charlie, assuming he’s trying to evade us like the major says, is hardly gonna wander straight up that draw there. Hell, he had an hour or more of daylight to watch us dig in. If he didn’t see us then, he’ll see us now, what with those flares off and on turning the landscape to day.”
“Often wondered if anybody ever got hit with one of those flare canisters,” I remarked. “Wonder if the Air Force knows we’re down here.
You know, if they have some sort of no-drop zone plotted around friendlies.”
“Why, of course they do,” Sergeant Sullivan said mockingly. Then, in a serious tone, he said, “Come on, sir. You know better than that. Our boys in blue simply get a mission to light an area, and they plot wind drift and so on and start dropping flares. They don’t know or care who’s under their canisters.”
“Guess not.”