“Can do easy, sir.”
“And make sure your squad leaders do a good daylight recon of their slice of the site. Gonna have to put their people in position, in the dark, without making any noise. Not much light left, so you better get on that right away.”
“Can’t do no recon, sir,” Sullivan interjected. “Charlie sees anybody messing around the bushes outside our perimeter, he’s gonna know something’s up—and you gotta assume he’s watching us right now.”
The Bull had a point, but I hated the thought of our squad leaders trying to noiselessly put eighteen or twenty soldiers into concealed positions at night without first having had the opportunity of seeing those positions in daylight. What to do? Suddenly, Blair spoke out, and in doing so solved the problem.
“Have ’em take a shit, sir.”
“What?” I asked.
“Just have your squad leaders act like they’re taking a shit. Charlie pays no attention whatsoever to a grunt leaving the perimeter, weapon in one hand and E tool in the other.” (An E [entrenching] tool is a small, collapsible shovel.)
Brilliant! I thought.
So our early morning ambush positions were thoroughly surveyed in daylight by leaders who did so from a squatting position.
Continuing our preparations, I mentioned to MacCarty that I wanted faces camouflaged and helmets “tree topped,” that is, covered with foliage.
MacCarty balked at this.
“Aw, hell, that’s pussy, sir. Basic training stuff. ‘Sides, we don’t have any cami sticks.”
“Mac, do it! It’s not pussy, it’s professional, and it might just mean the difference between a good kill and a wait in the weeds.” Then, turning to Blair, I said, “Call trains. See if they can get some cami sticks on the log bird.”
Winding up our ad hoc planning session, I asked if there were any questions, comments, or other ideas. There being none, I briefly turned my attention to the other platoon leaders, emphasizing the importance of playing the game the following morning. Although their men would know we were in ambush positions thirty meters or so from where they were drinking their morning coffee, they must in no manner indicate this to Charlie. Everything must appear completely normal—just another day in the Nam.
As we were about to break up, Slim Brightly made another perspicacious suggestion. “Have ’em carry their hutch poles, sir.”
“What?” I asked, then immediately said, “No way.”
In much of Vietnam, hutch poles (usually a bamboo pole six to ten feet long, used with the soldier’s poncho to construct a makeshift tent) were difficult to find. Because of this, some units allowed their soldiers to carry hutch poles from site to site, a practice especially favored by ARVN forces. If I had anything to say about it, and of course I did, Charlie Company would never do this; a soldier simply isn’t ready to fight carrying a weapon in one hand and a hutch pole in the other.
Slim, however, would not take no for an answer. “I tell you, sir, have the company carry their hutch poles, just this once. Charlie sees you leaving an area with hutch pole in hand, he knows you’re leaving for good. It… uh… enhances deception.”
I thought about it for a moment, then changed my mind. “You’re right, let’s do it.”
Blair woke me at 0445 hours the following morning. With no moon, it was dark as hell—and quiet. Too quiet. Turning to Anderson, the company’s RTO, I said, “Goddamn it, we’re supposed to be in position in fifteen minutes, and they’re not even up yet. Get Two Six on the horn.”
“They’re up and ready to move, sir,” Anderson whispered in response.
“Lieutenant says he’ll be over here to guide us into position in zero five. You want some of this makeup, sir?”
“Huh… uh… yeah, thanks,” I said, accepting his offered camouflage stick.
Up and ready to move without making a sound. Super! Hell, these people know what they’re doing, I thought to myself as I applied the greasy green-black camouflage compound to my face and hands.
Slim silently approached and whispered, “Good luck,” as Blair, Anderson, and I donned radios and gear. Although attached to our command section, we had decided it best that he and his recon sergeant depart the NDP along with the rest of the company. This would allow both elements to retain direct communications with battalion, us through the command net and Slim through the fire-control net. More to the point, we simply didn’t need any additional people at the ambush site; indeed, there was no real reason for me to be there.
MacCarty and I, our RTOs trailing us, followed at the rear of the platoon’s file as it soundlessly left the NDP’s eastern perimeter.
After moving a distance of thirty meters or so, the ambush force split into three different factions, a prepositioned guide leading the first squad to the right to its site covering the southern side of the NDP, another guide leading a second squad to the left on the eastern side, and a third leading Mac and me to a concealed position behind and generally between the two squads. Not a word was whispered as we ensconced ourselves for the more difficult part of the operation—the waiting.
As the first subtle light of dawn began to show in the east, and after sitting out a somewhat frightening mad minute, I saw we had a clear view of our NDP. Before long, I could see, and hear, our soldiers beginning to move about.
“Up, goddamn it! Boom Boom, get your fucking ass out of the sack. Now, goddamn it!”
“Who swiped my fucking heat tabs? Shit, just want a fucking cup of coffee and somebody stole my fucking heat.”
“Jesus H. Christ, who did this? Short Round, you shit next to my hole last night?”
“Just another day in the Nam. Beautiful, fucking beautiful!”
Damn, their noise discipline is atrocious! Then it suddenly dawned on me. They were merely playing the game, purposely being a bit louder and more obvious than usual to attract the enemy’s attention. This, of course, was unnecessary. Charlie knew where our NDP was.
The morning log bird arrived, then departed. Shortly after eight, Charlie Company saddled up and began moving, casually, almost aimlessly, in a northeasterly direction, its soldiers carrying their hutch poles.
And we waited: thirty minutes, an hour, an hour and a half. By nine forty-five, Mac and I had concluded that Charlie wasn’t going to visit us on this occasion. I wasn’t surprised. I knew there would be countless other days in which we would sit and wait in vain, hoping our enemy would take the bait. Nor was I that disappointed. Our ploy had been well planned and, if Charlie had cooperated, would have been well executed. It had been a good rehearsal.
Just as we were about to terminate our wait in the weeds, Mac touched my arm, pointing toward the NDP. A North Vietnamese soldier was scurrying across it, stopping here and there to pick up discarded C rations. Bait.
Through a break in the foliage, Mac pointed toward two more NVA standing on the periphery of the NDP, just outside our killing zone. I knew, at that moment, we were all thinking the same silent prayer: please, let them step into the killing zone. Come on, Chuck, don’t let your selfish friend get all those goodies. Join him, please, just step…
Suddenly, the machine gun on the short southern side of the L opened up!
Simultaneously, the claymores exploded, and everyone began firing into their assigned sectors of the ambush’s killing zone and, those who were postured to do so, in the direction of the two NVA outside of it—but they were no longer there.
Within a matter of seconds all firing ceased, and an eerie silence settled over our smoldering NDP. Lieutenant MacCarty looked at me, smiling broadly.
“Good show, Mac, let’s sweep it,” I said.
He and I trailed the squad composing the broad side of the L as its soldiers began sweeping across the killing zone, while the other squad remained in position as a covering force. Midway through this maneuver, I happened to look at the soldiers on my right and left; in a certain respect it was as if I were seeing them for the first time.
Faces blackened, green foliage covering their helmets and protruding from their webbed gear, weapons at
