stumble across him. He was perceived by these soldiers to be a winner, a better and more competent warrior.
I knew, as did many others in the company, that this simply wasn’t true.
Charlie was good and should be so regarded; however, he was no superman, and he sure as hell could be beaten!
One of those who knew he could be beaten was my first sergeant, Sergeant Sullivan. Referred to by the troops as the “Bull,” he was a tall, slim, wiry individual with a deeply tanned, weather-beaten face that sat under a closely cropped, grayish blond crew cut. He looked more like an aged SS storm trooper than like a bull. Or perhaps, more accurately, he looked like… a first sergeant.
Unfortunately, ours was not a case of love at first sight. Sergeant Sullivan was angry over the relief of his former commander and did little to hide his bitterness. And although he held me blameless for this turn of events, I was quite obviously the most visible reminder of his commander’s impetuous departure. I, in turn, was angered by what I felt to be his misplaced loyalty and surly manner, and I briefly toyed with the idea of having him and my executive officer exchange places at company trains. (In the Nam, a rifle company’s rear-echelon logistics base— normally collocated with battalion trains—was usually supervised by the company’s executive officer or its first sergeant, the choice, of course, being left to the company commander concerned.)
But Sergeant Sullivan would have none of that!
“Sir, don’t even think it!” he said when I suggested the possibility of such a switch. “First sergeant’s place is with the troops! Always!”
“Well, First Sergeant, I agree in theory; however, other first sergeants are in charge of trains, and they…”
“And they don’t deserve to be called ‘first sergeant,’ sir!” he loudly interjected. “Good God, how can they look their soldiers in the eye when they conduct their so-called field visits or when the company stands down?”
He paused briefly and then in a calmer voice said, “Sir, I know you’re upset ‘cause I’m upset over your predecessor’s relief, and I ain’t doing an awful lot to hide my feelings. Well, rest assured, I know you’re now, and you won’t find a more loyal first soldier than me.”
He smiled and added, “Shit, sir, I’m like an old wife now and then. Just gotta give me a couple days to work all this piss and vinegar out of my system.”
I relented, thinking to myself, Would I think more of him had he embraced me with open arms upon my arrival and slandered my predecessor?
Would he be a better first sergeant had he not possessed these lingering ties of loyalty to his former commander? Hardly.
My first sergeant and I avoided each other during our brief stay on the bridge, he going about his business —“working piss and vinegar out of his system”—and I going about mine. But that was okay The Bull and I would become close enough, soon enough. And I would soon discover that had I insisted on putting him in charge of our trains, I would have made the first and in all likelihood the biggest mistake of my tenure with the company. Because he was right; the first sergeant’s place is with the troops—always. Moreover, I would find that there were many things I could discuss freely with my first sergeant that I would have felt uncomfortable talking about with my own officers and would certainly have never mentioned to Colonel Lich or any of his minions. And there were many things I could learn from my first sergeant that these others could never teach me.
Looking back on it, company command would have been a lonely and dismal experience indeed had it not been for First Sergeant Sullivan.
4. Payback Time for Charlie Company
“Battalion Three’s on the horn, sir,” Specialist Four Blair, my battalion RTO, said, passing me his radio handset.
“Comanche Six, this is Arizona Three, inbound your location in zero five with four, plus two, plus two. How copy? Over.”
“This is Comanche Six,” I replied. “Roger, that’s a good… copy… uh… we’ll be standing by. Out.”
Our sort-of stand down on Bong Son’s bridge had come to an end. Major Byson, the battalion’s S-3 (Arizona Three), had radioed us a fragmentary order the night before, sending Charlie Company back to the boonies.
DTG 182145L DEC. Frago. Tall comanche conducts air assault on LZ Daisy, point of origin, Right three two, up zero four, at 190900 local DEC, Via four [UH-ID “Iroquois” troop-assault helicopters “slicks”], Plus two [CH-47 “Chinook” troop-transport helicopters “hooks”], Plus two [AH-IG “Cobra” attack helicopters], To seek and destroy enemy in AO Tiger three. blue max [radio call sign for the division’s aerial rocket artillery, or ARAI supports initial assault. DS Arty Provides two-minute LZ Prep and subsequent fires on call. current CEOI ineffective. Acknowledged.
After receiving Byson’s message, I had spent nearly two hours preparing the company’s air-assault order, relying heavily on a pound or more of laminated doctrinal material I’d “liberated” from the Infantry School’s air- operations department before departing Fort Benning. My efforts, I thought, had not been in vain. It was a model air-assault order, written strictly in accordance with the doctrinal requirements of those who teach others how to do such things. It had everything—assembly procedures, load plans, stick orders, helicopter ACLs (allowable cargo loads), contingency considerations en route, and, at the objective, LZ consolidation plans, fires, and on and on.
Having issued this work of art to my platoon leaders late the night before, I’d gone over it with them a second time after the morning log bird departed. Now, with our helicopters only five minutes out, we were once again assembled as I tried for the third time to explain my order to them—and they still couldn’t quite grasp it.
“Sir, I take the slicks, right?”
I turned to Lieutenant MacCarty, 2d Platoon, and somewhat impatiently replied, “Yes, Lieutenant, you take the slicks. I’ve stated that as clearly as I know how under paragraph three, ‘execution,’ subparagraph b, ‘subordinate unit tasks,’ and I quote, ‘2d Platoon conducts initial assault, via four UH-ID helicopters, to secure LZ Daisy. Is that clear?”
“Uh… yes, sir, that’s clear, but somewhere else in there you mentioned something ‘bout the ACL and crossloading.”
“Right,” I quickly responded, “that’s under paragraph three c, ‘coordinating instructions.” As I see it, based on what we know of the LZ’s air density and altitude, coupled with the info Three sent us, the approximate ACL per Huey is eight men. You have a foxhole strength of twenty-eight soldiers; there’s five of us in the command section. That’s a total of thirty-three, which means we exceed our ACL by one person. So you coordinate with Lieutenant Norwalk aboard the first Chinook and…”
Suddenly, I heard the familiar whump, whump, whump sound of inbound helicopters. All heads turned to see four dots on the southern horizon, closing fast.
Oh shit!
“Slicks on final, sir! Two minutes!” Blair yelled from where he stood atop the bridge’s command bunker, his AN/PRC-25 radio at his feet.
Oh, double shit!
I turned to my leaders, who as one looked back at me in total bewilderment.
Sergeant Marvel, Weapons Platoon leader (the platoon had no officer assigned), broke an uneasy silence by somewhat meekly asking, “Sir, where do you want my people to go? I still don’t really understand…”
Fuck! I can’t believe this!
“Sergeant,” I replied as calmly as possible, “you take the second Chinook… or is it the first? No, I think you have to divide your people between… wait a sec, goddamn it, I have the numbers right here under paragraph…”
