The platoon leaders and I hurriedly discussed the task Major Byson had set out for us, in the end deciding that each of the three line platoons would take approximately a hundred meters of coverage, putting us within fifty meters of Bravo on the left and the river on the right. In the center of their assigned sectors, the platoons would establish an elongated perimeter defense, stationing listening posts on their flanks, thus maintaining loose contact with each other and with Bravo Company.
Hence, from left to right (west to east) the company would defend with One Six on the left, tying in with Bravo Company, Two Six in the center, and Three Six on the right, hopefully tying in with the river.
We in the command section and Four Six would collocate ourselves with Two Six.
Taking advantage of what little twilight remained, we cleared fields of fire, set out our claymores and trip flares, and dug the holes in which we hoped to awaken the following morning. Meanwhile, we periodically gazed at the village to the north of us, watching as it and the surrounding area were worked over by a combination of artillery, air, and ARA.
Slim Brightly was kind enough to explain this manner of madness to anyone willing to listen. And I was willing to listen.
“What we have here, sir, is a classical air-and-artillery pile-on wherein every deliverable form of ordnance is placed on a single target simultaneously—without shooting your own aircraft down in the process.”
I nodded, then asked him to elaborate.
“See the gunships over there from the 20th ARA? You know, Blue Max?
Well, if you notice, they’re coming in on their firing runs from the east and then breaking sharply before retracing their route and then doing it all over again, always staying on the east side of the river.
That keeps ’em out of the fast movers’ flight path and off the gun target line.”
“Yeah,” I replied, “well, keeping one’s helicopter off the gun target line would seem to be a wise thing to do. Mean I’d hate to be winging along and suddenly find a 105 round in my lap.”
“Sure, just fucking common sense, right? But you’d be surprised at the number of times something like that happened earlier in the war.
Shit, sir, I could tell you some real horror stories coming back to Fort Sill in ‘65 and early ‘66. I mean, you talk ‘bout how fucking important this war is in fielding another generation of combat-experienced infantry officers. Well, sir, what you’re watching right now is just as important to us in producing the next generation of experienced artillery officers!”
“Well, guess so, Slim, but… uh… I never really thought ‘bout the whole thing in that context. I mean.”
“Shit, sir, we cannon cockers just don’t get many opportunities to mass fires from multiple sources on a single target in peacetime.”
“Well, guess not, Slim, but…”
“Now watch the fast movers,” he said, obviously excited and again interrupting me. “See how they’ve divided the village between them and division artillery? They’re dropping on the eastern side, while divarty’s working the western side. And look, look up there.” He paused, diverting my attention to a light observation aircraft, an O-IE
“birddog”—the military’s version of a Cessna Piper Cub—lazily orbiting high above the village. “That’s the guy controlling it all, the forward air controller. He’s got all the players on his push and can shift fires any fucking way he wants. Mean, if the fast movers have to leave to rearm, he just starts putting red leg on their side of the ville.”
Slim continued to watch the village’s bombardment through his binoculars, obviously enthralled by its devastating splendor.
“Beautiful, fucking beautiful,” he mumbled to himself, as I turned to other things.
Oh, well, whatever turns you on.
Actually, his artilleryman’s spectacle was impressive, in a macabre sort of way. Although most of the village was obscured by dust and smoke, we could still see proximity-fused rounds airburst above it in brilliant red-and- white flashes and seconds later, as the sound of their detonation reached us, hear the sharp crack of their explosion. At the same time, we heard the more constant deep, nearly muffled explosions of those rounds armed with point-detonating or delayed fuses, rounds that exploded upon contact with, or after burying themselves in, the ground.
And even from this distance, the destructive power of these fires was awesome, throwing dirt, foliage, bits of rock, and thatched roofing high into the air. Before long it was mostly divarty’s show. The F-4 Phantoms, evidently having expended their heavy ordnance, had begun making firing passes using only their multibarrel 20- mm cannon.
Blue Max, in the meantime, had departed.
Well, if red leg was the name of the game, we might as well play too. I told Blair to contact trains and have them put both our 8 1 -mm mortars on the log bird along with a healthy mix of illumination and HE
(high-explosive) ammunition. Although the fires of our two 81 -mm tubes would contribute little to the destruction of Binh Loc 4, this seemed a good opportunity to get Four Six’s crews some time on their guns.
They needed the firing practice. Vietnam simply wasn’t a very good war in which to enhance the technical proficiency of those assigned to a rifle company’s weapons platoon.
Looking back on it now, it wasn’t a very good war in many respects.
And where is the damn log bird? I thought to myself. Shit, it’s almost dark.
“No can do on the eighty-ones, sir,” Blair said, moments later. “No log birds tonight unless we need ammunition. Trains says all birds are committed to troop lift.”
Those within hearing distance of Blair collectively moaned at this bit of information.
“Well, here we go again—‘nother cold and hungry night in the NDP. Thank God, it ain’t raining,” Four Six is RTO, a young soldier nicknamed “Smiley,” muttered.
“Thank God, my rosy red ass,” another bystander somewhat irately responded. “Here we are in the middle of a fucking rice paddy, in the fucking Nam, at night, with nothing but dinks ‘round us, all of ’em wanting nothing better than to feed us our balls for breakfast, and then, on top of all this shit, battalion says they ain’t gonna get chow to us and we’re gonna freeze our nuts off ‘cause they ain’t gonna send us our rucks. And you say, ‘Thank God it ain’t raining’! Smiley, you are a hopeless, brainless, fucking incurable optimist! I mean, fuck me.
Smiley just smiled.
Shortly after dark, Lieutenant Hallowsy radioed that his platoon and its LPs were in position. He was the last of the platoon leaders to do so.
Minutes later, Blair, radio in hand, walked over to where I sat talking to Sergeant Sullivan.
“Three’s on the wire, sir.”
“Arizona Three, this is Comanche Six,” I said softly into the handset.
“Roger, Comanche.” (In the night’s stillness, Byson’s voice sounded louder than usual.)
“I’m inbound vicinity your location in two zero with Lean Apache. Gonna insert between you and the river and want you to mark your right flank.”
Insertion? Now? It’s darker than the bottom of a well.
“This is Comanche Six. Uh… Roger Arizona, but be advised I’ve got men within fifty meters of the river. Over.
“This is Arizona Three. Too close. Want to give Lean Apache ‘bout two hundred meters of frontage. Can you move your flank to accommodate? Over.”
Well, shit, I wonder if you happen to recall it was you who told me to tie in with the fucking river.
“This is Comanche Six. Can do but may need more than two zero.”
“Roger, Comanche, but make it quick as you can. Probably be putting in a light prep and don’t want any of your folks on the wrong side of your marker… break. How do you plan on marking your Romeo? Over.”
“Comanche Six. Prefer to identify marker on your zero one final.”
Shit, our radio procedure is at best horrible, and if Charlie has ears, I don’t want to give him twenty minutes to duplicate our marking signal all over these fucking rice paddies. And besides, at the moment I have no earthly idea how we’re going to mark our flank at night.
“Roger that, Comanche. Good idea. ID your flank on one-minute final… break. Be advised that after Lean Apache is in position, we’ll be putting artillery fire and intermittent illumination on the village the rest of the night.”
