inch.
After an uneventful insertion on a green LZ, we established a company base astride Route 506 and began conducting “cloverleaf” operations.
This maneuver was generally regarded as defensive, not offensive, in nature, its primary objective being not to find and attack the enemy but to make sure the enemy was not about to find and attack us. it was a good technique to employ in a circumstance, such as this one, in which we didn’t know where to concentrate our offensive effortswhere the hunting in one direction looked no better or worse than in any other.
The operation derived its name from the diagram that depicts it, the company base being the clover’s stem, and the three platoons’ large circular sweeps outward from the base the clover’s leaves.
Our first day in area 506 was obviously going to be a day without sunshine. The last of the platoons returned from its cloverleaf maneuver in the early afternoon having found, like the two earlier returning platoons, no trace of our elusive foe. We were surprised as this point on Route 506, where it enters Binh Dinh’s mountain passes, was only six to eight kilometers northwest of “our” mountain where we had been consistently successful with our claymores.
The afternoon heat was blistering, and the previous day’s B-52 postmission assessment coupled with our cloverleaf walk in the weeds had nearly exhausted us. Since we seemed to be in no imminent danger, we decided to convert our cloverleaf base to an NDP, call the log bird in early, and get some rest. The decision was popular and, as events would unfold, auspicious. We would need the rest.
Most of the company napped away the afternoon. Shortly before dusk, the log bird dropped off a smattering of ammo, water, a hot, our rucks, and one can of beer and one of coke per company head count. All was once again right with our little piece of the republic.
But the First Air Cavalry was a large organization, and while we were at peace with the world astride Route 506, other cavalrymen were still at work. As we sat sipping our warm beer, an OH-6A Cayuse helicopter pilot was flying last-light recon. He was becoming increasingly interested in the side of a mountain only six to eight kilometers from where we sat.
Whoom! Whoom!
“Red leg going in. Not too far from us,” Sergeant Sullivan offhandedly commented.
Minutes passed as the Bull, Slim Brightly, and I chitchatted about unimportant things.
Whoom! Whoom! Whoom! Whoom!
“Sounds like one five five,” the Bull said. “Sounds like it’s going in on our mountain.”
“Maybe H&I, huh, Slim?” I asked.
“Naw, too much of it for H&I,” Slim replied, and he should know.
“Well, then, how about seeing if you can find out what’s going on, Lieutenant Brightly!” I said jokingly. “You know, get on the horn and talk some of your cannon-cocker lingo to your red-leg connections.”
“Roger that, Six,” he responded. Smiling, he got to his feet, muttering as if to himself, and putting his precious three-point-two elixir aside, the company’s attached forward observer hurried off to do his master’s bidding. “For an artilleryman’s duties amongst infantrymen are many and varied. He must, for example, count for them when the numbers surpass that of single digits; must read their mail and comic books to them and apprise them of the difference between a right and left piece of footwear. He must teach them to tell time.”
The Bull and I were laughing as he turned to leave.
“And when Mickey’s big hand is on the…”
“Hey, Slim, see if you can get a grid, okay?”
“But of course, sir, and I shall even spell it for you.”
Whoom! Whoom! Whoom! Whoom!
The artillery fires continued to increase in tempo and were producing a fairly steady rumble to the southeast of us when Lieutenant Brightly, now all business, returned from his radio set.
“Got a grid, sir,” he said, “and it looks like our mountain.” He paused, flashlight in hand, as he plotted the grid coordinates on his map. Then he replotted them. “Shit! If this grid is correct, I’ll bet we were within twenty fucking meters of this bunker complex on nearly that many fucking occasions.”
“That’s what it is?” I asked. “A bunker complex?”
“Yes, sir. Seems one of the Cav squadron’s birds was doing a routine last light, thought he saw some smoke or something, so he called in a couple rounds. Well, that opened the canopy up a bit, so he called for effect, and, hey, that really opened it up! Says he saw all kinds of bunkers with a bunch of gooks scrambling about ’em.”
“Sonofabitch!” I said, looking at the plot on his map. “Target’s no more than a klick from Daisy!”
“Damn right, it’s not!” Slim retorted. “And that’s where we should be tonight, sir. Right at the base of that fucking mountain! It beats the shit out of me why battalion put us out here ‘stead of back there where we were killing gooks ‘bout every fucking day.”
“Well, you’re sure as hell right on that, sir!” the Bull interjected.
“We ain’t never had any luck in the 506. Sometimes I really question the operational thinking of some of those shits in the three section. I mean who sets their head space and timing? Ho Chi Minh?”
Someone else echoed the first sergeant’s sentiments. “Yeah, Top. It’s the fucking S-2! He keeps his head up his ass.”
As word of the discovery on “our” mountain spread throughout the company, it became apparent that the consensus sided with Slim and the Bull. And it was a shame we weren’t located at the base of the mountain as we had been on so many uneventful nights in the recent past. But what to do about it?
I decided to call Major Byson and ask if he was aware of the artillery strike and, if so, to tactfully suggest that we were poorly postured to influence its outcome.
“Listen, Comanche,” Byson somewhat irritably and indignantly responded,
“we know about the strike, we’re working on it, and if we need your help, I’ll call you, okay? Out!”
Oh, well, tact never was my forte.
Thirty minutes later, Blair passed me his handset with his familiar,
“Three’s on the horn, sir.”
“Okay, listen up, Comanche,” Byson said in a calm, business-as-usual voice. “We know you want to get back up on that hill of yours, and I’m gonna put you in there just as soon as I can make a pickup in the A.M. If it looks like the weather won’t allow an early extract, it may be best for you to go in overland—it’s only eight klicks or so. What do you think?”
“This is Comanche Six. Sounds fine to me. Just give us your weather decision as early as possible.”
“This is Arizona Three. You’ll be making it, not me, Comanche. Weather at your end will be the deciding factor… break. Prepare for a pickup with four, plus two, plus two.”
Passing the handset back to Blair, I recalled the Bull’s tactical dictum: “They’re long gone at dawn, Six. Always!”
“Andy, get the platoon leaders over here, please. It’s time to talk.”
“They’ll be gone at dawn, sir,” Sergeant Sullivan predicted, after he, Slim, the platoon leaders, and I had assembled for a council of war.
“Top’s right, sir,” Mac said. “And the 506 sets right in a valley here, so it’ll be socked in till eight, nine o’clock in the morning.
Right, Top?” he asked, turning to Sergeant Sullivan, who nodded his head in agreement.
“Yes, sir,” the Bull said. “We’ve been in this area more times than I want to count, and it’s always like sitting in a fucking cloud in the morning. Shit, if we wait for an extract, we’ll be lucky if we’re on the mountain by ten.”
“Kind of ironic, isn’t it? I mean, we’re undoubtedly the unit closest to the objective. Yet, because of the morning fog, I’ll bet any other, and I really mean every other, company in the battalion is in a better posture for an early extract. See what I mean? We’re both the closest to, and farthest from, the target,” Lieutenant Norwalk commented, philosophically.
Mac gazed at Norwalk incredulously for a moment, then said, “Well, Bill, that’s really an interesting observation, and if you should ever write a book on the role weather plays in combat’s decision-making process, I suggest you include it. In the meantime, could you please tell us just what the fuck that has to do with solving our predicament? Huh?”
Norwalk just smiled.
