than they’re throwing downrange tonight… uh, this morning. Sure as hell ain’t H&I.”
“Yeah, I noticed that, too,” I replied. “By the way, when I reported our wounded soldier to battalion, know what the Three’s radio man said? Said they were under attack!”
“Hitting battalion?” he asked, obviously surprised. “Well, that’s something new. Can’t recall that ever happening before.” Then, again grinning, he said, “Wonder what they want us to do about it. Send em reinforcements?”
I smiled. “It’d be a hell of a walk, wouldn’t it?”
“Three’s on the horn, sir,” Blair said in a low voice, yawning.
“Comanche Six, this is Arizona Three. Pass line number on your WIA. Over.”
“This is Comanche Six. Roger. Wait. Out.”
Turning to Sergeant Sullivan, I asked, “Got a line number on our wounded man, Top?”
“Just a sec,” he replied, pulling his copy of the company’s roster from a cargo pocket. Bending over it with a red-filtered flashlight, he squinted for a couple of moments and then said, “Shit!”
He passed the roster and flashlight to Blair. “Uh… give me a line number, will you, Blair?”
Noticing the subtle smile on my face, my first sergeant said, “Don’t say it, sir. It ain’t the eyes. Hell, I’m seeing at twenty twenty. It’s just them red filters… uh… they mess up a man’s night vision.”
Which of course was untrue, and we both knew it. Red-filtered flashlights protect one’s night vision.
Then, grinning a bit self-consciously, he said, “Ah, sweet youth, Six. Age does take its toll, as you’ll learn soon enough.”
“I copy that, Top,” I replied, as Blair said, “Bowers, line thirteen. Shit, unlucky number.”
Retrieving his handset, I said, “Arizona Three, this is Comanche Six. Over.”
“This is Arizona Three.”
“This is Comanche Six. Reference your last, line one three. Copy?”
“Roger. Good copy. Line thirteen. Now, what happened? Over.”
“This is Comanche Six. Received a single burst of automatic-weapons fire—think it was an AK, ‘bout one five ago from the western side of the perimeter. Man in question was simply in harm’s way. Minor wound. No need for dust off before first light.”
“This is Arizona Three. Okay. Had a similar incident in Running Navaho’s sector about an hour ago. As I told him, I don’t want you to wait for wounded to report these contacts. Anytime you hear a round fired in anger during the next thirty-six… uh… twenty-eight hours, I need to know about it. Gotta keep book on the enemy so that higher can tabulate their list of ‘shame-on-you’ truce violations three days hence. Copy?”
I said I did and returned Blair’s handset to him.
Turning to Sergeant Sullivan, I said, “Seems Delta Company also had some sort of contact tonight. Byson wants to make sure we report as much as a single sniper round during the truce.”
“Well, shit, we knew that, sir. Same as Christmas, right?”
I nodded. “Blair, my good man, how about giving One Six a call-up and tell ’em I’m on my way over.”
I found our wounded soldier lying a bit uncomfortably on his stomach, on an air mattress, next to Norwalk’s command post.
Kneeling, I put my hand on his shoulder and asked, “How’s it going, Bowers?”
“I’m okay, sir. Just burns like hell.”
“Sure, it burns,” Doc Heard snorted. “Let me give you a shot of morphine, and it won’t burn, least you won’t notice it as much.”
“No. Faintly experiencing a feeling of dizzyness I said, “Come on, Bowers, let the doc give you a shot.” Make the night go quicker, mate.”
“No, sir. It ain’t that bad, and I don’t like shots—or morphine. I can take the pain.”
Ah yes, Top. Sweet youth, indeed!
Getting to my feet, I pulled Heard aside and whispered, “Prognosis?”
“Aw, he’ll be all right. Still, it is painful, and more serious than some—including our first sergeant—might think. Bullets destroy meat tissue no matter where or how lightly they hit you. Probably keep him at battalion for a couple days or so.” Then, looking at Bowers grit his teeth, he whispered, “I could give him the shot anyway, sir. I’m authorized.”
“No, it’s his call, or should be. Besides… uh… he might very well change his mind before the night’s over.”
“You see where it came from, Bill?” I asked, sitting down next to Norwalk atop his hole’s parapet.
“No, sir. Somewhere to the west of us. No one saw the flash or anything. Just heard the pops as the rounds came through our perimeter.”
I nodded my head. “Bastard.”
“What do you think, sir? One of the 10 percent that never gets the word?”
“That’s my guess. Either that or one of the 90 percent that does and just doesn’t give a shit. Both sides have ’em.”
“Guess that means we still do defensive patrolling tomorrow uh… today, huh?”
“Yep, we’ll patrol defensively, and we’ll abide by the truce even if Charlie doesn’t—’less of course we run across the one that shot your soldier.”
“And they all look alike, don’t they.”
“That’s what they say, Bill. Anyway, thought I would tag along with you, okay?”
“Sure, sir. Happy to have you.”
But of course he wasn’t. Platoon leaders don’t like having their commanders looking over their shoulder all day.
Rising to leave, I said, “Ought to get some sleep, Lieutenant. Still have another three hours before dawn.”
The enemy had probed our perimeter in the wee hours of the morning on the first day of the Chinese lunar new year. Referred to by the Vietnamese as Tet, it was the most celebrated of the year’s holidays—Christmas, New Year’s, Thanksgiving, and the Fourth of July all rolled into one. In 1968, the Year of the Monkey, it was also the first day of Gen. Vo Nguyen Giap’s Tet offensive.
During the next ten days, the pace of Charlie Company’s operations would be frantic—always moving, always fighting, sometimes conducting two and three combat air assaults a day. In the morning we might find ourselves searching for remnants of the evading enemy in the dense, triple-canopied jungles of Binh Dinh’s mountains, then fighting him in the province’s coastal areas that afternoon, only to move again that night to some desolate hilltop and begin digging the residue of the general’s retreating army out of its rocks.
There was no C&D that morning. Shortly after first light, as most of us were downing a charlie rat, Blair passed me his handset, saying,
“Three’s on the horn, sir.”
“Comanche, this is Arizona Three. The truce is terminated in your Alpha Oscar. I say again, the truce is terminated! Take appropriate defensive precautions… break. Comanche, stand by for mission orders. Acknowledge. Over.”
“This is Comanche Six. Roger, acknowledge truce terminated. Standing by for orders.”
Within twenty minutes or so he radioed us again. “This is Arizona Three inbound in one five with a zero, plus three, plus zero. LZ secure. I’ll be talking to you on the ground!”
Plus three. No slicks, no gunships, all hooks. Well, at least we won’t be fighting our way onto a landing zone. The three large troop-carrying helicopters ferried us fifteen klicks or so southeast, landing adjacent to a small cluster of villages astride Highway One. Major Byson met us on the LZ. As he did so, I noticed an ARVN contingent maneuvering through one of the villages on the eastern (coastal) side of the highway.
“Hey, Jim, gotta get out of here, so let me give this to you quick and dirty. NVA attacked throughout the province last night, actually all across the central part of the country. Looks like a coordinated offensive. ‘Though info’s still real sketchy, seems to be confined mainly to the populated areas, places that haven’t heard a round fired in anger in a long time.”
“Yeah, understand they even hit battalion last night.”
Oh, shit! Wrong thing to say.
He looked at me sternly, but not unkindly, and said, “Listen up, Captain. I’ve heard my share of rounds fired
