Comanche Six

“This is Comanche Six. Solid copy. Any further? Over.”

“Negative further, Comanche. Get your people moving, ‘cause I’m going light on the skids with Apache inbound, now. Out.”

Hurriedly telling Anderson to call up Norwalk and Halloway, I sent Blair to find Lieutenant MacCarty, his CP being located only twenty meters or so from ours. I needed to quickly discuss the company’s reorientation with the three of them.

My plan was to pull Three Six out of their position adjacent to the river, on our right, have them pass through us, and then assume a new defensive posture between us and One Six. Thus, the company’s new orientation, from left to right, would be One Six, Three Six, Two 9 Six, with MacCarty’s platoon responsible for marking our right flank during Byson’s insertion.

Upon his arrival, I asked Mac, and anyone else within hearing distance, if he had any idea how we should go about marking our flank. Everyone had an idea.

Mac’s RTO, perhaps after referring to his bible, the CEOI, suggested we use a red-filtered flashlight to flash a predetermined letter in Morse code.

“See, we call Byson and tell him the code letter marking our flank. say, S, you know, Sierra. Then, when he tells us to mark on one-minute final, we just point the flashlight at the helicopters and flash ‘dar-dar-dar’. or is it ‘dit-dit-dit’? Anyway, whatever it is, that way he’ll know it’s us and not Charlie, right’?”

“Shit, Fanner, what do you mean, he’ll know it’s us and not Chuck?” the Bull replied. “What in the hell’s secret ‘bout the Morse code? Why the hell you think it’s called the international Morse code?”

“Well… uh… it’s just a thought, Top.”

“Sure, I know that, Farmer,” Sergeant Sullivan replied, almost apologetically, “and a damn good one too, but, see, Byson’s gonna be coming in here hot and heavy at ninety knots. He ain’t gonna have time to be looking for any red-filtered flashlight.” Then, turning to me, he said, “No, sir. Best thing to do is just dig a little hole out there on our flank, and when he asks us to mark, have someone pop a trip flare in it.”

Made sense to me.

Understandably, inasmuch as they were not required to move, neither MacCarty nor Norwalk saw any great problem in relocating Three Six between their two platoons. Mac would furnish guides to escort Three Six through his platoon sector, while Norwalk agreed to leave his right flank LP in position as a contact point.

In contrast, and just as understandably, Lieutenant Halloway saw many problems with the move and was not at all enthusiastic about taking part in it.

“This is Comanche Three Six. Strongly recommend against moving. It’s not that we just got our holes dug and have settled in here. I just feel it’s too dangerous, might get some of our men shot. Might shoot each other. Over.”

“This is Comanche Six. Sorry, but the issue is not negotiable. If you stay where you are, you will get shot ‘cause that area’s gonna be prepped in about one five. So pack it up and start moving now! Over.”

“This is Three Six. Well, I copy that! We’ll be moving in zero five.”

“This is Six. Okay, know and use current challenge and password. Inform me when your last man closes Two Six’s.”

By the time we heard the faint whump, whump, whump of distant helicopters, Bob Halloway’s last soldier had safely passed through our perimeter. Byson came up on the battalion command net moments later.

“Comanche Six, this is Arizona Three inbound with Lean Apache. You prepared to mark your Romeo, over?”

“This is Comanche Six. Roger, standing by.”

“Okay, Comanche, coming up on one-minute final. Mark now! I say again, mark your Romeo flank now! Over.”

I repeated “mark” three times into Anderson’s handset, signaling Mac, who was monitoring the company net, to activate the trip flare.

Concurrently, I informed Byson of our marking technique via Blair’s handset.

Night suddenly turned to day on our right flank. Damn, that flare is putting out a lot of light. If they dug a hole, it’s sure as hell a shallow one.

“Uh… Roger, Comanche,” Byson said. “Got your, flare, nothing subtle about that! We’ll be coming in hot in minus one minute. Keep your heads down. Out.”

The helicopters, Cobras leading, were now clearly visible against the darkened southeasterly sky. For a moment they looked as if they were heading straight for us. Careful, Blue Max. No-fire line is to the left of the flare, not the right. Abruptly, the gunships veered right, corrected, and then started their firing run. It was beautiful! So much more impressive at night.

“Wow!” someone said. “Fourth of July in the Nam! Look at the fucking fireworks!”

“Them Cobras are bad mothers,” someone else commented.

Blue Max had a section of four gunships working the LZ, first with rockets and 40-mm grenades, then 7.62 -mm miniguns. The rate of fire of this multibarreled gun was so fast, its bullets with their tracer tips were spaced so close together, that when fired the weapon appeared to produce an unbroken, brilliantly illuminated red line stretching from its muzzle to the ground. The deadly red line sometimes ran straight and true, at other times weaved lazily back and forth.

And while the machine guns echoed their familiar rat-tat-tat-tat-tat sound, the minigun produced an eerie, constant brupppppppppp.

“Here comes Alpha Company, sir,” the Bull commented, obviously impressed with the show. None of us had seen a night air assault before.

If not a rarity, they certainly weren’t commonplace in the Nam, even in the Cav.

“Damn, look at that,” he continued, “ain’t putting no hooks in here at night. All Hueys. I count twelve of ’em.”

The Cobras were now working the LZ’s periphery, their uninterrupted streams of red tracers striking the ground and then aimlessly, crazily, ricocheting off and into the night.

“Looks like a four-ship LZ,” I commented as the first four troopladen Hueys set down and then hurriedly took off again, making way for the next four.

It was all over in a matter of minutes. Then Alpha Company was on the ground to our right, and, except for the fading sound of the departing helicopters, silence returned to the valley—a silence occasionally interrupted by artillery H&I (harassment-and-interdiction) fires landing in Binh Loc.

An hour or so later, Byson’s voice again pierced the night air.

“Arizona, Arizona, this is Arizona Three. Over.”

He was making a net call, requiring all the battalion’s line companies to answer him. We did.

“This is Lean Apache, over.”

“This is Ridge Runner, over.”

“This is Tall Comanche, over,” I chimed in.

“This is [garbled] Running Navaho, over.”

“This is Arizona Three. Running Navaho disregard. Break. For the rest of you, this constitutes a frag order. At first light, or as soon thereafter as visibility will allow, we go into the ville. Intend to hold little people and Ridge Runner in their present positions and then sweep north with Lean Apache on the right and Tall Comanche on the left.

… uh… a touch of the old hammer and anvil.”

“Fires and time of attack to be announced. Lean Apache and Tall Comanche, you two choose a mutually agreed-upon line of departure and let us know what it is in the A.m. Boundary between the two of you is the main northsouth red line.” (Red line was a road or highway, so called because that’s the way it appears on a map; rivers appeared as blue lines.)

“If you need ammo, get your wants in tonight. Arizona Six will be airborne at the objective. And I hope you fellows got all that.”

We had and, in sequence, signed off.

After thinking briefly about next day’s operation, I made a net call to the platoons, informing them of the gist of Byson’s FRAGO and telling them we would attack with Two Six on the right, Three Six on the left, and One Six trailing in reserve. Then perhaps belatedly, I asked my first sergeant if he agreed with all of this.