“Depends on whose you’re talking about,” I replied. “Theirs is supposedly seven days; ours lasts only thirty- six hours beginning at 1800 hours tonight.”
“Think they’ll stick to it, sir?”
“Beats the shit out of me, Bob.”
It was an uneventful afternoon, and with its passing Charlie Company had failed to accomplish its primary mission, that of closing with and destroying the enemy. Our foe was simply not traveling the mountain that day, nor was he on the plain.
“Perhaps Charlie finally got to wherever he’s been heading the last couple months,” Lieutenant Brightly jokingly remarked.
Around three o’clock we decided to pack it up and begin journeying back toward the valley floor. I radioed Bill Norwalk, telling him to do the same. It was the time of day we liked most, when day’s work was over and we were moving effortlessly downhill toward our NDP, a hot meal, and a night’s rest instead of struggling upward into the unknown. But it was always more satisfying to be descending our mountain after a successful hit.
As we worked our way downward along yet another east-west trail, I took note of Three Six’s riflemen. As usual, they were moving as riflemen should move when in Indian country—with weapons at the ready, distances maintained, and a warrior’s silence. Still, there was a certain aura of laxness on this occasion. Perhaps it was the result of having made the up-down sally so many times before—routine is the greatest ally of laxness—or perhaps it was simply in anticipation of the pending truce.
Two Six had selected an NDP in relatively flat terrain a klick or so from the base of the mountain but a short distance from Daisy. As the company began its nightly ritual of digging holes, clearing fields of fire, and emplacing claymores and trip flares, its platoon leaders, attached FO, first sergeant, and I assembled for our evening parley.
Unlike my tete-a-tetes with the Bull, these sessions were usually brief affairs, restricted to the company’s business at hand—the platoon leaders had little time for casual conversation until after their defensive preparations were complete. We first shared any lessons learned on that day’s operation and then turned our attention to the next day’s activities. At the conclusion of our get-together, the platoon leaders would show me where they proposed to put their LPs and trick-ortreat sites that night, and I would routinely approve their recommendations without comment. Slim Brightly would then plot these locations on his map. On this occasion, talk immediately turned to the next day’s activities.
“Where we gonna do this train-fire stuff, sir?” Lieutenant Norwalk asked.
“What train fire?” I asked in return.
“I propose we set the range up on the west side of the perimeter,”
Lieutenant Halloway said. “Use the mountain as a backdrop. ‘Course there aren’t that many villagers around here anyway, so maybe…”
“What train fire?” I repeated.
“Not enough range,” Bill Norwalk said in response to Halloway’s suggestion, as if not hearing me. “If you’re gonna even approximate the firing tables, you’re gonna need at least…”
“What train fire, goddamn it!” I snapped, feigning anger.
Silence. All heads turned toward me, then to my first sergeant.
“Uh… hadn’t had a chance to get with you since you came off the hill, sir,” the Bull said. “Sorry. Anyway, this afternoon your XO called and informed us in passing that he couldn’t find any silhouette targets, so he’s gonna send us out some charlie-rat cases that his folk have done some painting on. Seems the old man wants us to use this downtime to ‘enhance our marksmanship abilities.’”
“Okay, understand. Thanks,” I said and then, turning to the others, asked, “Well, what about it? You all think we need a little marksmanship training?”
“Fuck no!… sir.”
“No way! Colonel ought to ask Chuck about our marksmanship abilities.”
“Didn’t know we had a choice, sir.”
“Don’t know if we do,” I said. “But let me try to get to the bottom of this.”
I got up and walked the few meters to where Blair and Anderson were digging the hole they would share that night.
“Blair, my good and faithful servant, would you be so kind as to go to our log push. I would speak to my XO.”
He made the frequency adjustment.
“Comanche Five, this is Comanche Six, over.”
“This is Five Alpha. Uh… the Five ain’t in the area right now. Can I assist? Over.”
“This is Six, Roger. What do you know about train-fire activities tomorrow?”
“Five Alpha, not much. The Lieutenant had us making up these targets this afternoon. Rumor is that the colonel wants you all to do a little target practice during the stand down.”
“This is Six. Okay. Thanks. Out.”
“Back to command, please,” I said to Blair. He again quickly changed the radio’s frequency.
“Arizona Three, this is Comanche Six. Over.”
“And this is Arizona Three, over.” I could hear the faint, familiar whump, whump of a Huey as Major Byson keyed his push to talk. He was airborne somewhere over Bong Son’s plain.
“This is Comanche Six. Is there some last-minute change to our marching orders for the truce? Uh… has the Six put out anything on marksmanship training, or some such?”
“Not that I know of. Six says it’s pretty much your call. You know his philosophy on that. Man on the ground and so forth. ‘Course, you’ve got to keep yourself in a strong defensive posture. I recommend aggressive defensive patrolling during the day and the same nature of ambushing at night. Copy?”
Just another rumor that somehow nearly became fact. Story’s old as the Army. Wonder how many operations have gone afoul—or succeeded—because of it.
I walked back to our assembled council.
“No train fire,” I reported. “We aggressively defensively patrol during the day and defensively ambush at night. In short, we do what must be done to protect our own, okay?”
“Sir, might you tell us the difference ‘tween defensive and offensive patrolling and trick-or-treating?” Bill Norwalk asked, smiling.
“I’ll tell you the difference, sir,” Sergeant Sullivan replied. “The difference is we do the same thing we do every other fucking day of the year, ‘cept we don’t hurt anybody, don’t shoot anybody, in the process. Jesus Christ, what a war.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Top,” I commented.
We wrapped up our session by planning those defensive precautions we’d undertake over the course of the next two days in order to “protect our own.” In the main, One Six and Two Six would screen our perimeter the next day, and if the truce held Three Six, augmented by Four Six, would do the same the following day.
The method by which the two platoons would accomplish the next day’s mission was pretty much standard. After the LPs and trick or treats returned to the NDP and the morning log bird departed, One Six would move out of the perimeter, due north for one klick. Two Six would do the same, moving due south. Then both platoons would circle us at a distance of one kilometer in a half-moon fashion, moving clockwise. Both would remain an equal distance from us, with our NDP separating them. At day’s end, One Six would rejoin us from the south, and Two Six from the north. In essence, this maneuver provided us our own moving “doughnut ring.”
Of course, these preparations were all for naught. The next day we’d find ourselves doing anything, and a bit of everything, except patrolling defensively.
Slim Brightly remained behind as my platoon leaders returned to their sectors of the perimeter. First Sergeant Sullivan, with tour-extension papers in hand on one of Three Six’s soldiers, accompanied Lieutenant Halloway.
“So what say, Slim? Understand you’re gonna be leaving us shortly.”
“Yeah, guess so,” he said, smiling. “My six months are up in another couple of weeks. Gotta move on to bigger and better things.”
“And what might that be?” I asked.
“Well, getting promoted ‘bout the same time I ferry out—least that’s when I hit my twenty-four months.
