I strolled over to where he was standing, chest deep in a caved-in bunker.
“You believe this, sir?” he asked, smiling broadly. “It’s a.50caliber machine gun, whole receiver group, everything but the barrel. In great condition, too.”
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than one of his men, who had been probing the ground behind him, announced, “Got the barrel, LT! Shit, it’s good as new, still in Cosmoline.” Then, moments later, “And here’s the tripod! We got us a whole fucking gun, LT. Lookie here!”
Colonel Lich, after we had reported our find, extended his congratulations and promised to pass the good news on to our supporting aviators. There was a reason for this. In early 1968, the enemy had not yet widely introduced his heat-seeking missiles in the south; the greatest threat to helicopters flying Binh Dinh’s plain was still the.50caliber machine gun. And although the Cav’s aviators were the bravest, most courageous, devil-may-care of all the pilots who flew in Vietnam—and all the pilots who flew in Vietnam were brave.
Even they were somewhat intimidated about being shot at by a.50caliber machine gun. As they often said, “It’s so dam difficult to be wounded by.50caliber.” Regardless of where they were hit by one of these sizable rounds, they’d very likely “buy the farm” before landing their helicopter, if it was still flyable.
Therefore, an infantry company’s quality of life in the boonies was enhanced by finding and neutralizing one of these weapons. Life in the boonies was in large part dependent on Army aviators and their willingness to fly rucks, hot meals, beer, and coke when the weather or tactical situation was iffy. And these aviators were more apt to risk their lives for soldiers who had recently captured one of the enemy’s more frightening antiaircraft weapons.
Before moving off the mountain, Bill Norwalk and his platoon rigged the area for an organic ambush. This was a little trick of the trade we employed in situations where it was almost a given that Charlie would be back, in this case looking for his.50caliber. Setting up the ambush was relatively simple. First, Norwalk and his platoon emplaced trip flares, lots of them, throughout the bunker complex. If Charlie revisited his ravaged lair that night and tripped a single, virtually invisible wire on just one flare, the whole area would light up like a Christmas tree. Then we retired from the mountain and established our NDP on the valley floor below.
That evening, after the log bird had delivered our two 8 1 -mm mortars, the gun crews adjusted fire on the mountain’s bunker complex by “direct lay,” meaning they could see their target from the guns. After so doing, the lay of the gun was not disturbed. High-explosive ammunition was then readied for firing, that is, charges were cut and the rounds placed beside the guns. And the vigil began.
From that point on until a trip flare was activated or dawn broke, at least one of the gun’s crew would remain on each of the weapons, a round at his side and his eyes glued to the mountain. The instant either saw a flare pop, the two of them would drop their six or eight rounds down the gun’s tube as fast as it would accept them.
On this occasion, around nine o’clock, Charlie turned on his flashlight before encountering one of our trip flares. And our gunners mercurially loosed their rounds on the bunker complex.
As was the case in most of our organic ambushes, it was difficult to ascertain whether or not we hurt Charlie that night. We rarely revisited these sites because we knew our enemy would either haul his dead and wounded off before dawn or, anticipating our return, leave them there as bait while he set up a counterambush. But if we didn’t hurt him, I’ll bet we scared the living hell out of him! I’ll bet in the future he thought twice before using a flashlight to hunt for a misplaced.50caliber machine gun.
“Comanche, we’ll probably be leaving you in that area for a while,”
Byson said, radioing us later that night. “That’s where the hunting seems to be best for you. Besides, we got the Tet truce coming up in a matter of days, and that’s as good an area as any to get your men some well- deserved rest.”
After thanking him and signing off, I passed the essence of his remarks along to Sergeant Sullivan, who was sitting beside me atop an empty mermite.
“Damn right, the troops need a rest!” he retorted. “Been up, walking and fighting for, what? Forty-eight hours plus? And how many assaults we made since leaving the bridge? How many different areas we worked?”
“Uh… I don’t know myself, Top. A bunch.”
“Hey, Six, I can’t ‘member neither and don’t care to. And don’t much care where we go or what area we work tomorrow, or the next day, or next week. And, sir, that’s ‘bout the way the troops feel.”
He paused, grinned, and then continued. “Mean, shit, Six, when you reach the point that you can’t remember where you’ve been or care ‘bout where you’re going, you’re due for a break, right?”
“Right, Top,” I said without elaborating. Because the Bull really didn’t expect me to elaborate. I recognized the signs: my first sergeant was about to embark on another of his discourses regarding the haves and have-nots in the Nam. But that’s okay; he’ll feel better when he’s finished.
“Really, Six, what the hell do they expect out of snuffie? What more does he have to give? I mean, I’ve been in this man’s Army for nigh on to a quarter of a century, and I’ve never seen anything like it! Shit, I know war’s no cup of tea, but at least in the last two we had a line we either defended, or attacked, or withdrew from. Right?”
“Right, Top.”
“And every now and then,” he continued, as if not hearing me, “we’d be relieved, as a unit, from that line and stand down for a little refitting and relaxing. Here they say you’re standing down if you’re guarding the goddamn Bong Son bridge! Now, sir, you tell me the difference ‘tween digging a hole to sleep in out here every night and filling those fucking sandbags on the bridge every day. None! Right?”
“Right, Top.”
“Damn right, there’s no difference! And they expect snuffie to live like this for twelve goddamn months! Twelve months of this stinking heat, dust, mud, rain, rotting fatigues, malaria tabs, bugs, leeches, cold charlie rats, sheer boredom, and, fuck, instant terror. I’m telling you, sir, many a normal man can’t retain his sanity living like this for a goddamn year.”
He paused briefly, then continued. “And that’s not the real pisser of it, Six. I mean, if we were all living like this, it’d be different. But we’re not! You got any idea how them support troops are living in An Khe and Qui Nhon? Or places like Cam Ranh, Danang, Long Binh?”
I had a very good idea, and he was right: it simply wasn’t fair. But then, many things about the Nam were unfair.
“They’re living like fucking kings!” he went on. “Got hot showers, starched uniforms, clean sheets, steak every fucking night, multiservice—if you know what I mean—maids falling all over themselves. Got their clubs with two-bit-a-shot booze and go-go girls, libraries, USO shows, PXs, class VI counters with two-buck-a-bottle Johnny Walker-Black Label! Got their enterprising—again, if you know what I mean—doughnut dollies. Shit, you name it, they got it! And, Six,” he began to laugh, “those assholes are envious of them chair-borne wimps stationed in Saigon, ‘cause they have a golf course! You believe it, sir? A fucking golf course! Our generals couldn’t manage this war without building themselves a fucking golf course.”
He stopped laughing, paused, then said, “And our troops think it’s Christmas when they get a single warm can of three-point-two beer. Shit, it ain’t fair, sir.”
“Of course it’s not, Top,” I replied, “but tell me something. Where would you rather be tonight, here or on that golf course in Saigon?”
“Right goddamn here! Right here sharing this stinking crap with snuffie! Shit, you know that, sir,” he answered, defiantly. “‘Cause snuffie here, well, he’s… uh… mean, these are the greatest.” His voice broke, and his eyes suddenly moistened. He wiped at them with his hand. “‘Scuse me, sir. Uh… I mean they’re ‘bout the most magnificent human beings walking this fucking earth.”
He’s right, of course, but perhaps he’s also been out here too long. Or maybe just sent forward to fight one too many of his nation’s wars. Composing himself, smiling, he added, “Shit, you gotta love ’em, Six. Nobody else does.”
And I did. We both did. Still do.
Early the next morning, Three Six, the most rested of the company’s platoons, climbed our mountain and set up a standard two-point claymore ambush. Later in the day, One Six and Two Six conducted casual cloverleaf sweeps north and south of the company’s base, looking for a new NDP in the process. Around one o’clock in the afternoon Two Six radioed that they had found such a site a klick or so to the north of us. We in the headquarters
