“Problems?” I whispered.
“Uh… no, sir,” Mac whispered in return. “Just checking to see if this is ‘bout the right place to leave the 506 and cut south toward the mountain.”
Recalling our previous night’s map reconnaissance, I was about to say I thought we had another couple hundred meters to go when Wester whispered, “Shhhh! Think I hear something.”
The four of us stood in silence, looking down the road, which inclined gently upward and over a small hill before falling off again toward the east. For a moment we heard nothing. Then, faintly, we could hear the rhythmic, crunching sound of footsteps on the sparsely graveled surface of Route 506. We stared at the top of the hill, twenty meters or so to our front. Suddenly, silhouetted against the murky night sky, a man’s head appeared, rising over the hill’s summit. Then another. And another.
They seemed to wear helmets of a sort and looked to be carrying weapons, but who were they? The enemy? And now, behind them, as they started down the hill toward us, two more heads appeared on the hilltop’s skyline. Were there others behind them?
We continued to stand and stare as if frozen in place, Wester in front—closest to the approaching figures— Sergeant Baker to his rear, and Mac and myself behind Sergeant Baker. Five of them, four of us. Within seconds, they’d have to see us, either that or run straight into us. It was one of those electrifying, exhilarating moments that make soldiering a more memorable endeavor than other walks of life.
The first three figures, evidently seeing us, stopped abruptly less than ten meters to our front. One of them yelled, “Dung lai!”
It was the biggest mistake of his life, and the last one he’d ever make. Americans don’t yell “dung lai” when they want someone to stand in place, and Wester knew that.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
Each time Wester fired, the muzzle flash from his shotgun momentarily and brilliantly illuminated another blood-splattered, khaki-clad figure caught photolike in a grotesque dance of death. In not more than two seconds, his chamber was empty, and he yelled,
“Grenade!” We fell to the ground, thinking he was warning us of an incoming grenade. We quickly saw that was not the case as he threw one of his own grenades across the bodies to our front and into the ditch on the left side of the road. Then he hit the dirt.
Whoom!
The four of us got up and slowly, cautiously moved forward. In the center of the road, spaced within five feet of each other, lay three dead NVA soldiers. On the ground next to them lay two AK-47 assault rifles. In the ditch adjoining Route 506 we found two more enemy soldiers, both of whom were superficially wounded; and neither one could surrender quite fast enough to suit the other.
Mac wisely and hurriedly called his lead squad forward, sending them on down the road another twenty to thirty meters in case those who lay dead at our feet had friends following. Doc Heard had also charged forward and, after ensuring none of us were injured, began examining our wounded POWS.
“Lucky, both of them,” he said. “Lot of blood, shrapnel, but don’t think either one’s hurting that much. Vital organs appear to be untouched.” Then he added, “‘Course, who can see a fucking thing in this light.?” I heard him mumbling and said offhandedly, “Go ‘head and use your flashlight, Doc. It’s okay.”
With the rest of the column now moving forward, I thought it best to go into a hasty perimeter defense where we stood, Two Six on the right of the road, One Six on the left. Having so decided, I radioed battalion.
“Arizona Three, this is Comanche Six. We’re in contact, over.”
“This is Arizona Three. Send your traffic.”
Damn, it’s Byson! Four-thirty in the fucking morning, and he’s on the horn in a flash! Doesn’t the man ever sleep?
“This is Comanche, Roger. Ran into five NVA on 506 at… uh… zero four ten hours.” That’s got to be close. “Got three NVA killed in action, two POWS, both lightly wounded. Also got two AK-47s and one SKS. No friendly casualties. Over.”
“Understand you’ve got two prisoners, two live ones. is that correct?”
“That’s affirmative.” I replied, beaming.
“This is Arizona Three. Okay! Super! We’ll want to get them out as quickly as possible. I’m gonna pass this on to the Six, then get back to you. Stand by.”
The two platoons, having moved forward, were hurriedly and noiselessly establishing their perimeter, though there was little real need for noise discipline at this juncture. Doc Heard, meanwhile, was performing some quick patchwork on our prisoners, while Sergeant Baker, assisted by one of his men, was binding their hands behind their backs with WD-1 (communications wire).
“Comanche, this is Arizona Six. Over.” It was Colonel Lich on the battalion command net.
“This is Comanche Six.”
“This is Arizona Six. Good job, Comanche. Now I want to get your prisoners out of there and interrogated right away. They may know something ‘bout the area you’re going into. The Three’s gonna have a bird inbound in—wait—fifteen minutes. Any problem? Over.”
“Negative, no problem. We’ll be ready, over.”
“Okay, pass on a ‘well done’ to your soldiers. They’ve already done a good night’s work. Out.”
Mac, having just positioned his platoon in a half circle on the right of 506, walked back to our center-of-the- road CP and, gesturing toward the prisoners, asked, “What about our newfound friends here, sir? It’s gonna slow us down if they have to tag along.”
“Colonel says he’ll have a bird here in fifteen minutes to evac ’em,” I replied. “How ‘bout bringing it in on the paddy over there on the right, Mac.”
Sergeant Baker, completing his task of binding the two unfortunates, turned to MacCarty and said, “My squad will set up the LZ, sir. It’s all part of a POW package deal we’re offering tonight, and these two runts belong to us!”
“Uh… how do you want me to mark it?”
I looked at Mac. Mac looked at me.
Before either of us could think of how best to bring in the helicopters, Sergeant Baker continued, “Why don’t I just give ’em a threeflashlight triangle and bring the bird down in the middle of it?”
Mac and I again looked at each other, then nodded our heads. We might do better in this war if we simply turned it over to our sergeants, I thought to myself.
“Battalion wants to know our location for the POW extract, sir,” Blair announced, his handset to his ear.
“Tell ’em to just fly the red line,” I replied. “We’ll mark when they’re overhead.”
Ten minutes later, on schedule, we heard the familiar whump, whump, whump of a Huey pounding toward us from the east.
“Comanche, this is Arizona Two inbound on the red line. Ready for you to light up.”
“This is Comanche Six. Roger. Marking with a threeflashlight delta in paddy on the south side of the red line. No obstacles other than some eight-to twelve-foot minipalms right against the road. LZ green.
How copy?” I responded, concurrently signaling Mac to light up the landing zone.
After a brief pause, Arizona Two came back. “Roger, Comanche. Got your Lima Zulu. We’ll be coming straight in, east to west, and probably turning our lights on just before touchdown. Might want to warn your men.”
“This is Comanche Six. Roger… break. Listen I don’t want to lose foxhole strength guarding prisoners. Want to make the handoff right here. They’re secured with WD-1 and shouldn’t cause any problem. Over.”
“This is Arizona Two. Understand and no sweat. We’ll take ’em from here. See you on the ground.”
But he didn’t. Baker and his men literally threw our two prisoners through the helicopter’s open doors the moment its skids touched the ground—and the Huey was gone. And moments later, so were we.
The sun was high in the eastern sky when we finally entered the bunker complex. We had been delayed by the meeting engagement and subsequent difficulties in negotiating the terrain between Route 506 and the mountain. As the Bull had predicted, Charlie was gone.
However, he left behind several small arms and some of his dead. We recovered the former, counted the latter, and having done so were preparing to move back down the mountain, when Lieutenant Norwalk yelled, “Hey, sir, look what we found over here!”
