Approaching the CP, I noted a somewhat disgruntled first sergeant anxiously awaiting his evening parley. I sat down beside him, and before I could query him on the state of the command, he blurted out,
“Sir, the state of the command sucks! I Corps and this goddamn weather suck! Troops are wet, cold, and miserable!”
“Well, Top, as you very well know, neither of us can change the weather. Uh… as to the state of the command, is it your considered opinion, then, that the troops are no longer so very excited about our move to I Corps?”
“Excited? Six, next to a quick flight back to the States or a second R&R, the troops would rather be back in Binh Dinh right now than anywhere else they can think of!”
He paused and then said in a calmer tone, “Aw, shit, I know we can’t do anything ‘bout the weather. Just wish the sun would come out again, you know, even for a few hours. Give us a chance to dry out.”
“Me too, Top. Just like to know it’s still up there somewhere, huh?”
“Yeah, ain’t seen it so long, shit, not more than a couple times since we left Binh Dinh. Uh… platoon sergeants think it might be a good idea to have field jackets shipped out. What’s your feeling on it?”
“Don’t know, Top. They’d be nice at night, but what with the log birds not flying that often up here, it’d be a pain in the ass carrying wet field jackets ‘round with us all day.”
“Yeah, that’s what I told ’em. You know, just hold off a while, cause the sun’s gotta shine again. If it don’t, the whole goddamn company’s gonna go bugfuck!”
“Hey, Top, you worry too much. Hell, I know the weather’s depressing, but snuffie understands there’s nothing we can do about it. And I think morale’s still good in spite of it. Least that’s my sounding. How do you see it?”
He smiled and said, “You’re right, Boss. Snuffie’s fucking miserable, but he’s joking about it. You know, ‘Gonna swim my way back to the world, Top.” And, ‘Got a can of ham and limas for a dry pair of socks, Top.” And, ‘Where’s my fucking diving pay, Top?” But what we really need is to get a couple of kills in the sunshine. Then morale would soar!”
Figuring we’d covered the issue of troop morale, I told the Bull about the deserted plantation house.
“Probably some fat old French fart now living in the lap of luxury somewhere in France,” he speculated. “You know, sipping his grape in Paris, Marseilles, or some such place.”
“I kind of hope he is, Top,” I said, surprised at my own comment.
“What? Uh… why do you say that, sir?”
“I don’t know,” I responded, suddenly laughing. “Sonofabitch, I really don’t know.”
He shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject.
“Well, what’s the plan for tomorrow, Six? How we gonna attack the ville?”
“We’re gonna do it like Benning taught us, First Sergeant, two up and one back: One Six on the left, Two Six on the right, and Three Six following. Way I see it—and by the way, I’ve already passed this on to our platoon leaders during the perimeter walk—Three Six will conduct the air assault. Then we’ll bring One Six and Two Six in on the hooks.
They’ll move off the LZ toward Thon Can Nhi, we’ll follow right behind them with Four Six, and then Three Six will fold in behind us. Inasmuch as you are the company air-movement officer, Top, how ‘bout whipping up a quick air-assault order ‘long those lines and getting it down to the platoons?”
He smiled at me and said, “Sir, it’s time you knew.”
I looked at him, perplexed.
“Think about it, Six. if you’ve already told Three Six they’re on the slicks, you’ve given your air-assault order. I mean, if they’re not the assault element, One Six and Two Six know they take the hooks. Platoon sergeants know how to get their people on the helicopters and know what their people have to do when they land. Four Six knows they always board the hooks, as do Willie, Doc Heard, and I. Andy, Blair, and our cannon cocker know they always accompany you on the slicks.
“And, Six, that’s the fucking company air-movement order!”
Sonofabitch! He’s right.
“Ah, Top,” I said, laughing, “at last I understand what you meant that first day when you said air-movement officer was the least taxing of your responsibilities.”
“Absolutely!” he said, smiling broadly. “God almighty, sir, I still can’t believe all that plastic you went through on the bridge just to tell us how to get on helicopters. I mean, stick orders, ACL, crossloading, contingencies en route, air density! I said to myself, Benning’s done warped this young captain’s mind.”
We were both laughing now.
“I mean this is the Cav, Six! Those helicopters are our horses, and any good trooper knows how to mount his fucking horse without a five-paragraph field order telling him where to find the stirrups!”
“I know, Top, I know,” I said, wiping at my eyes. “Thought at the time it was the best goddamn air-assault order ever written! Thought You all were screwed up for not recognizing it as such.”
Regaining my composure, I said, “Shit, Top, the bridge seems like a hundred years ago, huh?”
“Yeah, know what you mean. But actually, it don’t seem that long to me.
See, you’re still counting backwards, while I’m counting for ward.”
“That’s right, isn’t it. How long now before you start teaching others how to make war? Two more months?”
“Sixty-three days and a wake-up. Got my countdown figured just as close as any other snuffie.”
As we sat there in the mud with our ponchos about our shoulders me on my upturned helmet and the Bull atop an empty mermite, conversing idly, Dubray approached us—coffee in hand.
“Got here what’s the last of the fresh brewed, Top, sir,” he said, handing us the still-luke-warm coffee. “Heared you laughing. Wondered what’s funny.”
“Ah, Willie,” the Bull responded, “we were merely discussing the many facets of airmobile tactics. Far above you, I’m afraid, but many thanks for the java.”
Java! Who but the Bull would still refer to coffee as java? I thought, amused. He’s sitting here in Quang Trios mud while this miserable drizzle forms little rivulets of water on his poncho, but he would have been just as much at home in the mud of France nearly a quarter of a century ago. I sensed that Willie felt mildly rejected by Sergeant Sullivan’s somewhat callous remark. Then, suddenly brightening, he blurted out,
“Hey, Top, guy on the log bird, he say the Seventh got back their dead what they buried in the boonies!”
“What dead in the boonies?” the Bull asked. “What are you talking about, Willie?”
“Uh… don’t rightly know everything ‘bout it. Say something ‘bout burying ’em in the field after a big firefight, and the Man, he makes ’em go back and get ’em… or something.”
“You know anything about this, sir?” Sullivan asked, turning to me.
“Not much,” I responded, trying to recall what little I’d heard. “But, Willie, I think you, or maybe your friend on the log bird, might be a bit confused on when all this took place. A week or more ago—think it was the night ‘fore we left Evans—I was up at the TOC when the commanding general announced the Cav was approaching the west wall of the Citadel, severing the enemy’s supply lines into Hue. Anyway, same time, during the course of the evening brief, they mentioned that the Seventh had recovered their dead from a firefight a day or so before. As I understand it, they had no choice but to bury or leave several of their dead in the field, then go back and get ’em the next day. Hard choice, but shit, none of us here had to make it, and it probably saved lives. Any event, don’t think we should point fingers.”