MAIN FORCE ASSAULT
The Night Fighters
book 2
by
David Sherman
Main Force Assault
David Sherman
copyright 1987 by David Sherman
Smashwords Edition
Originally published by Ivy Books, an imprint of Ballantine Books, September, 1987
All rights reserved.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Once the Combined Action Program was fully worked out, all of its members were volunteers who had to undergo special testing and training before joining a CAP unit. Before then, often a rifle company would be ordered to give up enough men to form a CAP. Some of the men who went into these early CAPs volunteered; others were selected by platoon sergeants and squad leaders who often picked the men they thought they would miss the least. Those of us who didn't volunteer often didn't want to go because we saw the CAPs as suicide units. We learned soon enough that they were and we were glad of it: Charlie learned the hard way that going up against us was suicide.
David Sherman,
Philadelphia
CHAPTER ONE
After Midnight, October 17, 1966
"Oh no, not again," Sergeant J. C. Bell groaned to himself. "I don't believe this guy." He slithered a few feet to where Second Lieutenant Burrison lay sleeping and gently shook the young officer. "Roll over, sir. You're snoring again," he said in a voice that didn't carry any farther then Burrison's ears.
"Zay'wat? I don' znore," the lieutenant mumbled, but he rolled over anyway.
Shaking his head, Bell returned to his own place in the ambush line. Senses tuned to the shadows and sounds of the night, he settled down for the ambush wait. Ten minutes later he sighed and slid back to the lieutenant's position to make him roll over again. This time he stayed at Burrison's side rather than go back to his own position. No point in having to move every few minutes, he rationalized.
Second Lieutenant Burrison had been with the Combined Action Platoon, Tango Niner, for two weeks. Every night since, he had gone out with one of the CAP's three patrols. And for two weeks Corporals "Stilts" Zeitvogel and "Tex" Randall had been complaining to Sergeant J. C. Bell about him: the lieutenant had no noise discipline, used his flashlight to check their position and direction on his map and, even though he insisted he was along only as an extra rifle, always took command of the patrol from the patrol leader.
After half a night on patrol with Burrison, Bell's professional assessment was that the man was going to get someone killed. He was already framing the report in his mind: when he talks, which is too often, he talks too loudly. When he isn't talking he wants to use his flashlight to check his position on the map. And no matter how carefully he thinks he's taped down his gear, something always comes loose and clanks. They told me how bad he is on patrol, Bell told himself, and I said, 'No matter how green he is, the man's been trained as a Marine officer. No way he can be that bad. Bell chuckled ruefully to himself. I was right, he's not as bad as Stilts and Tex told me. He's worse.
Along the line of the ambush, everyone was awake except for Burrison. Bell knew it wasn't fair for the others to be awake while the officer slept, but he had decided the man would be less a problem asleep than awake and told him to cop some Zs. That's when he found out about the snoring.
When it came time to pull the ambush out of its position, three hours later, Bell felt as though he had shaken Burrison fifty times to make him stop snoring. He put his hand over Burrison's mouth when he woke him. "Oh-three-thirty," he whispered into the lieutenant's ear. "Time to move out, sir."
Burrison rolled to a sitting position, stretched, and yawned loudly enough to be heard by VC in the next district. "Wait one, Sergeant," he said. "I want to take a look at my map."
"Negative that, sir." Bell's voice didn't carry more than a few feet, but its harshness was clear to Burrison.
"But it's got a red shield on it," Burrison almost whined. "And I need to make sure I know where we're going."
"Lieutenant," Bell said, "if you flash your light, every Vee Cee in the area will see it and know where we are. All the red shield does is preserve your night vision, it doesn't keep the light from being seen as far away as white light. Besides, I'm the patrol leader and one of my jobs as patrol leader is to know where we're at and where we're going. I do."
Burrison adjusted his Marine-issue soft cover-he hadn't yet adopted the camouflage Australian-style bush hat worn by the other members of the platoon-shook himself, twisted his cartridge belt to a more comfortable position on his hips, and picked up his rifle. Bell made a mental estimate of how far the small noises the lieutenant made would carry and decided he'd never again go on patrol with him at night until the lieutenant learned to keep quiet.
When all were ready, Bell signaled Vinh, the PF who was walking point for the patrol, to move out. The patrol stayed in the shadows of tree lines and hedgerows on a kilometer-long arcing route, crossing open areas only when clouds blotted out the light of the stars. Then, at a point where the path cut through the hedgerow they were following, Vinh paused and looked back for instructions. Bell, third man in the patrol line, signaled Vinh to turn left.
Two men separated Burrison from Bell in the line. he got close enough to the intersecting hedgerow and path to see where they were heading, Burrison brushed past the two men between him and Bell and grabbed the big sergeant by the arm. "Where are you going?" he demanded in too loud a voice. "I don't remember a left turn here. I think we should be turning right."
"Don't sweat it, Mr. Burrison," Bell said in a voice that didn't reach anyone except the young lieutenant. "I remember a left turn here and we're making it."
"Hold up the point, I need to check my map."
"Mr. Burrison, you will not flash that light," Bell said in the Marine-sergeant's voice he hadn't needed to use since he was in a line company. "I don't want to advertise our position to every Vee Cee in the area. We're turning left here." He shook his arm from Burrison's grasp and walked on before Burrison could take command of the patrol from him.
Bell's tone had the desired effect. The young lieutenant stood drop-jawed, rooted to the spot. No sergeant had talked to him like that since Platoon Leaders School. Burrison was so dumbfounded he almost missed his place in the line when it reached him.
Now I truly understand what Tex and Stilts have been complaining about, Bell thought. I have to do something about this damn boot brown bar before he get somebody killed.
*
That afternoon Bell had arranged for Zeitvogel to fake a case of the shits to give him an excuse to go out with Lieutenant Burrison in his place. He met with the three corporals after they were given the patrol orders. "What do you want to do tonight?" he had asked them.
"No big deal. I'll do what the big honcho wants," Ruizique said. Corporal Jesus Ruizique was a citizen of the Dominican Republic who had enlisted in the Marine Corps before the war in Vietnam had started and didn't think he should be fighting it.
"What I want to do," Tex Randall said, "is stay out an hour longer. We haven't covered this area much the past few weeks"-he smashed a finger down on the map-"I think if I set an ambush right the fuck there and Stilts put one here"-he indicated two spots a few hundred meters apart-"we'd have one outstanding chance of catching some Vee Cee trying to sneak supplies through."
Zeitvogel nodded agreement. "You've got that right, bro. If Charlie's sending anything through Bun Hou tonight, that's most probably where he's doing it."
"I think you two're right," Bell said. "Do it, Tex."
"Can't," Randall snorted. "Dumbass boot brown bar has you right by where I'd be setting my ambush. You'd walk right into it and I might waste you by accident."
"Do it anyway. I'll make sure we don't walk into your ambush."
Randall stared at Bell for a moment. "How you gonna do that, Honcho? You try deviating from the route Burrison drew, he'll take command from you and go where he wants to."
"No he won't.! won't let him."
"How are you going to stop him if he wants to take command? He's a lieutenant, you're a sergeant."
"That's right, I'm a sergeant. Let's hope he has moire respect for sergeants than he does for corporals."
"What if he doesn't?"
"That's my problem. You set your ambush, I'll see to it my patrol doesn't walk into it." And it was a problem. Marine sergeants aren't trained in the finer points of diplomacy and protocol. They're trained to lead men and accomplish missions. The only thing J. C. Bell could do was try to avoid giving Burrison the opportunity to try to take over the patrol. He managed to avoid Burrison's taking over the patrol when they turned left instead of right at the path, but he did it in a way that he knew had to offend the young lieutenant.
*
Rapid gunfire suddenly erupted to Bell's rear. "Hit the deck," he shouted as he dove for cover. "Hold your fire."
Burrison dropped down next to Bell. "Who's firing? That's coming from where we would have been if we turned right, back there."
"I'll find out soon enough," Bell answered, thinking, My ass is in the shit now. I just hope it's not too deep. Then he talked into his radio. "Rascal Two, this is Rascal One. What's your situation, do you need help? Over."
"Two, this is One," Randall's voice said. "Get off the horn, Honcho. Spanky, Spanky, this is Rascal Two. We got us some. Pop some illume on my position. Over." The gunfire was over.
"Rascal Two, this is Spanky," PFC David Swarnes, the platoon's radioman, answered. Lieutenant Burrison held his head close to Bell's so he could also listen. "Are you at your late 'bush site?"
"That's an affirmative, Spanky. Over."
"Two, this is Spanky. Wait one."
"Rascal Two," Burrison whispered, "that's Corporal Randall. He was suppose to have gone back in almost an hour ago. What's he doing out here? Give me that." He grabbed for the radio. "And how come Swarnes seems to know where Randall's patrol is and I don't?"
Bell held on to the radio so the lieutenant couldn't immediately talk on it. "Tex thought if he stayed out an extra hour and set an ambush there, he might be able to catch someone. Sounds like he was right." He loosened his grip on the radio but Swarnes started talking again before Burrison could say anything.
"Rascal Two, this is Spanky. You've got a light on its way. Call me back if you need an adjustment. Over."
"Roger, Spanky. Thanks for the Coleman. I'll call if I need more. Two out." The pop of the eighty-one millimeter mortar on Camp Apache's hill came in the distance.
"Rascal Two, this is Spanky Actual," Burrison said into the radio. He used a strong voice instead of the near whisper men in the field at night normally used on the radio. "What is going on? Over."
"Spanky Actual, this is Rascal Two," Randall answered. "We caught some numba tens carrying goods and zapped 'em. Over." His voice sounded nervous.
"Stand by where you are, Rascal Two. I will be there shortly. Out." He slammed the radio back at Bell and jumped to his feet. "Let's go, Sergeant. I intend to find out what is going on here." Burrison strode along the trail, leaving Bell behind to bring everyone else along.
Bell quickly got the rest of the patrol on its feet and moving, then rushed after the lieutenant. "Hold up, sir," he said. "You're moving too fast and you don't know how to walk point."
Burrison shrugged him off. "After that fire fight there aren't any unfriendlies in the area, so I can go as fast as I' want to. And forget that crap about me not knowing how to walk point. They taught me that in Officer Candidate School. Besides, you keep telling me Charlie hasn't set any booby traps in this area for a long time. If you want to poke along, go right ahead. I'm getting to Randall's position as fast as I can."
Little more than a hundred meters ahead of them an illumination mortar round popped open, letting its flare burn blue under its parachute. "Spanky, this is Two. The Coleman is dead on. Tell Big Louie he's a numba one piss-tube man. Out." Corporal "Big" Louie Slover was the mortar squad leader and number-two enlisted man in Tango Niner. One of his major responsibilities in the platoon was registering aiming checkpoints for the mortar so he could put rounds on target when the patrols needed mortar support. Slover was very good at that part of his job and seldom needed to fire more than two spotter rounds before landing on target.
Burrison didn't run toward Tex Randall's ambush site but he walked fast enough that the shortest PF in the patrol had to run to keep up. The light of a second flare was still burning under its parachute when Burrison and Bell reached his ambush site. Six bodies were lined up on one side of the path. Four of them wore black pajama pants and green uniform shirts, one was in a complete uniform, and the sixth, obviously their leader, had red patches under his rank insignia. Two AK-47 assault rifles and four SKS rifles were stacked on the other side of the path. Two Marines and two PFs were going through five large bundles scattered on the path. The four men stood up when they saw the lieutenant approaching. The more muscular of the two Marines advanced to meet Burrison. Bell arrived at Burrison's side at the same time Randall reached him.
"What are you doing here, Corporal Randall?" Burrison demanded. He looked at his watch. "Your patrol was supposed to have ended almost an hour ago."
"Killing Charlie, sir." Randall gestured to the bodies laying on the side of the path.
"Where are the rest of your men?" Burrison asked, looking beyond Randall at the other Marine and the two PFs.
"You passed by Billy Boy and Pee Wee about seventy-five meters back, sir. Wildman and Collard Green are up the trail in the other direction." Randall had sent half of his men out to watch the trail for any VC who might come to investigate the fire fight.
Burrison grunted. His orders had been violated, but he couldn't argue with the results-except that his patrol might have caught the VC supply train if Randall's patrol had gone in when it was supposed to and Bell turned right instead of left. It would have been the first time in the two weeks he had been with Tango Niner that a patrol he was on had caught any VC. In the dying light of the flare, he glared at the corporal for a moment. When the flare hit the ground and sputtered out, Burrison allowed his mouth to form a pout. There were less than two hours left until daybreak. He decided to do something he thought would be as much a punishment for Randall and his men as it was the sound military thing to do.
"Corporal Randall," he said, "I want you and your patrol to stay here and guard these unfriendlies and their materials until dawn. I'll be back with Sergeant Bell and his patrol at that time. Everything will be left exactly as it is now until I return. I don't want any risk of losing something that might have intelligence use. Do you understand?"
Randall tried to look at Bell for guidance before replying, but the flares had destroyed his night vision and he couldn't make out his squad leader's face, so he decided to piss off the lieutenant instead. "Yes sir, I understand. We won't go looking for souvenirs until you get back at dawn."
Burrison flinched at the implied accusation. "I-I don't care about souvenirs, Corporal," he stammered. "I'm concerned with documents or anything else that could tell S-two who these people are or where they were taking the material they're carrying."
"We know that, sir," Bell broke in before Randall could say anything else to upset the officer. It's just that we always let the fay-epps souvenir anything they can use that doesn't have intelligence value. Tex understands about intelligence value."
"That's right, sir," Randall said quickly. "We gotta keep our fay-epps happy. The pay they get from the government is barely enough for them to support their families. The shit they get off the Vee Cee helps them make ends meet."
Burrison snorted. This conversation wasn't getting them anywhere. Besides, there might be more Viet Cong in the area and they were sitting ducks standing on the trail. "We've got a patrol to continue, Sergeant Bell," he said. "Remember, don't touch anything until we get back," he repeated to Randall before spinning on his heel and finding his place in the patrol column.
"Aye-aye, sir," Randall muttered at the young lieutenant's disappearing back. "When that dumbass boot brown bar has as much TI as I do, he won't talk to combat grunts like they don't know what they're doing," he said to the other Marine, PFC "Preacher" Langston, who had joined him before the others resumed their patrol.
You got that right, Tex," Langston said. If he ain't born again in the name of the god of war pretty hurry-up quick, he's liable to find himself wasted away to a dead man with no Lazarus bonus in his contract." Langston had grown up as the only Protestant child in a Mormon neighborhood. In self-defense against the teasing and harassment he suffered at the hands of his playmates, he had adopted an almost scriptural manner of speech.
Randall watched the other patrol until its last man had disappeared into the night. Then he said to Langston, "You and Traun go tell Wildman and Collard Green what Burrison said and relieve them for an hour. I'll take Van and let Billy Boy and Pee Wee sit here for a while." Randall didn't wait to see if Langston would obey his orders. He knew the gaunt man would. The men in Tango Niner had full confidence in most of their NCOs and never hesitated to do exactly what they were told. Now there wasn't anything to do except watch over six dead bodies, wonder what was in the over sized packs, and wait until dawn.
"A waste of time," Randall told himself. "Charlie ain't coming to investigate as long as we're here. We could have gone through those packs, given the fay-epps the food and clothing and any ammo that their rifles can use, split up the rest of the weapons and personal shit, collected anything of military value and been back at Camp Apache copping some Zs by now. But no. We gotta wait until that dumbass boot can come back and pick the choicest souvenirs for himself."
The two hours until dawn dragged slowly.
CHAPTER TWO
Sometime in March, 1966
A Different Time, A Different Lieutenant
Sergeant J. C. Bell remembered another young lieutenant he had served under. The other young lieutenant was a boot brown bar when Bell was a corporal and had just been made a squad leader. Lieutenant Martin had taken command of the platoon in the middle of an operation after Lieutenant Walsh lost a leg, and maybe his life, to a mine the VC had made from an unexploded American 105mm howitzer round.
"Squad leaders up. Pass it!" The word came along the platoon perimeter on the low hill they were settling on for the night.
"Take over, Davis," Bell said to one of his fire team leaders when the word reached him. A helicopter had touched down and taken off minutes earlier. Bell assumed the squad leaders were being called to be given their squads' food, water, and ammunition. Crouched, he ran over to where Staff Sergeant Raffin—the platoon sergeant who became acting platoon leader after Lieutenant Martin was wounded three days earlier—had established the platoon's command post. One of the other squad leaders was already there when Bell arrived, and the third reached it seconds later. A baby-faced stranger in a clean uniform sat on a pack next to Raffin. The pack was as clean and unruffled as his uniform, and a faint aroma of Cosmoline came from the Colt .45 in the holster on the new man's web belt.
While the squad leaders saw a callow youth so clean he looked like his skin would squeak if rubbed, he saw something far different in front of him. The squad leaders squatting or kneeling in the dirt were gaunt and hollow-eyed, wearing week-old beards. Their uniforms were torn and filthy, a good match for the scarred and battered rifles clutched in their hands. Their faces, under the dirt and scraggly beards, were drawn and expressionless. These were men who had seen friends die bloody deaths, men who had killed and would kill again. They stank of blood and unwashed bodies. Bell and the other two squad leaders were apparitions to unnerve a brand new Marine lieutenant.
"This here is Lieutenant Martin," Raffin said, yanking a thumb at the new man. "They sent him from The World to take Lieutenant Walsh's place." His tone of voice was just short of disgust.
Martin looked at the squad leaders and swallowed. He had heard stories about the combat grunts, how they had no respect for anyone who hadn't been through everything they had. He had been told how it was necessary for a new officer in the field to assert himself immediately or his men would never follow him. He cleared his throat and began. "Like Staff Sergeant Raffin said, I'm Lieutenant Walsh's replacement. But I'm not going to bullshit you. It's going to take me a while before I really replace him. Lieutenant Walsh was a great Marine officer and I'm the new guy on the block. I want to live through this war, I want you to live through it, and I want all of your men to live. If I just bull my way in here and take charge, some of us are going to die in the next few days. I know things about leadership and tactics that you don't, so I expect you to follow my orders. You know things about this country and this enemy I don't, so I want you to teach me. If we all work together on this, we all have a better chance of coming out of it alive." He looked each of the squad leaders in the eye.
"Any questions?"
Bell stared blankly back at Martin. Talks a good line, he thought, but he's going to have to prove it's not a snow job. But he didn't say anything and neither did the other squad leaders.
"All right," Martin said, "the same bird that brought me in brought supplies. Staff Sergeant Raffin will give them to you."
A few hours after sunset the new lieutenant came around to check the lines. Bell was sitting cross-legged in the low bushes covering the hillside. He could see the starlit paddies below but blended in well enough with the bushes that he presented no silhouette to any unseen watchers below. Private Quinn, the squad's grenadier, lay sleeping alongside Bell. Martin sat next to Bell. He wanted to become acquainted with his squad leaders, so he and Bell talked in soft voices for a while.
"Noisy night," Martin said, referring to the periodic rolling crashes of the harassment and interdiction artillery fire.
"No, sir," Bell said. "It's quiet tonight. That's just H and I fire. Goes on all the time." They waited for the sound of several explosion flashes on the horizon to reach them. After the rumbles rolled over them, Bell said, "Quiet night. No fire fights, no incoming, no snipers." He pointed unseen at the sky. "Too many stars. Charlie knows we're here. He's not going to be wandering around out there, because we can see him."
"Where are you from?" Martin asked.
"Small place. You never heard of it."
"Try me."
Bell looked at the shadow that was the lieutenant. "Gaithersburg."
"It's in Maryland, just up the road from Rockville."
Bell looked at Martin again. He couldn't see it, but he was certain the lieutenant was smiling. "How'd you know that?"
"I went to Platoon Leaders School at Quantico. That's not far from Gaithersburg. Did you ever think of college?" Martin changed the subject again.
Bell hesitated before answering. "I turned down three scholarships and an appointment to Annapolis."
Martin did a double take. He knew some enlisted Marines were educated and many had college potential, but he was surprised to find someone who had rejected education in favor of enlisting. Especially one who had turned down something he had tired to get for himself—an appointment to the Naval Academy at Annapolis. "Why'd you do that?" he asked.
"High school Rot-C. I got tired of playing toy soldier. College would have meant four more years of the same bullshit. So I decided to do the real thing." He paused for a moment before finishing. "So here I am, playing at being a real Marine in a real shooting war."
"Why do you say you're playing at being a real Marine?"
"Because that's what we're doing. In real life nobody deliberately puts themselves in a situation where they're trying to kill people who are trying to kill them."
Martin mulled over that for a moment, then said something innocuous and moved on. After a while it was time for Bell to wake Quinn so he could get some sleep himself. "Wake me fifteen minutes before the end of your shift," Bell told his grenadier. "I'll want to check the rest of the squad before you zonk out."
High-flying clouds were hiding the stars when Quinn woke Bell to check the squad. Bell told his men to be alert now that there was no light. Charlie might decide to take advantage of the darkness. It wasn't long before Martin came around on another check of the platoon lines.
"Sure looks different out there now," the lieutenant said. Bell heard a tension in Martin's voice that he hadn't heard on the lieutenant's first visit.
"That's an affirmative, sir," Bell answered. "I wish someone'd pop a flare. I'd like 'to see what's happening in the paddies."
"Do you think anyone's out there?"
"Might be. Charlie sure loves the dark."
They listened to the silence of the night for a few minutes. Then Martin touched Bell on the shoulder and said, "I'm moving on. See you later." But before he got to his feet the silence was shattered seventy-five meters to their right front. A shout of "Oh shit!" from a listening post was drowned out by the crackling of fire from AK-47s followed by the heavier booming of M-14s and the roar of a hand grenade. Martin started to run to the platoon CP but was knocked off his feet by a grenade exploding nearby. Instantly, nearly every man on the perimeter was firing and throwing grenades downhill.
When Martin scrambled around to face the charging enemy. Bell was shouting at his squad, "Slow fire, people. Look for muzzle flashes. Fire at muzzle flashes!"
The order hardly seemed necessary to Martin. There was a solid line of muzzle flashes in front of him; no need to pick a target. He ducked as low as he could in the bushes and still be able to see, pulled his .45 out of its holster an fired downhill five times. Reloading his weapon, he thought there were fewer muzzle flashes coming at him. To both-sides he heard Marine fire team and squad leaders shouting orders at their men, giving directions to their automatic riflemen and grenadiers. Machine guns clattered their fire at angles to the advancing VC, mowing them down like grass. Whistles and singsong Vietnamese voices rose above the clatter of rifle fire coming from downhill. Soon fewer muzzles flashed. Now Martin fired more slowly, carefully pointing his .45 at the orange bursts of light still coming toward him. Five more shots and he reloaded again. The assault seemed to be wavering. "They'll break any second now," he thought. Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, he again emptied his .45 at the advancing flashes. Fumbling for another magazine he later realized he wasn't carrying, Martin saw a shadow loom in front of him. Starlight shining through a sudden break in the clouds glinted off the bayonet fixed to the rifle of the onrushing VC. Martin threw his useless pistol at the shadow. It hit with a satisfying thud as he lunged after it. He pinned the VC and grappled with him as the small, wiry man tried to slither out from underneath. Somehow, Martin managed to hold him with one hand while his other pulled his K-bar knife from its scabbard then plunged the seven-inch blade deep under the man's ribs and twisted. The body underneath him bucked so hard it almost threw him off, then sagged and lay inert. Martin yanked the knife out and slashed the man's throat, making certain he was dead. Trembling, he pushed himself to hands and feet. When he became aware of his surroundings again, he realized the Marines were putting out sporadic fire and no more muzzle flashes were coming from his front. The assault was over.
"Lieutenant," Bell's rasping voice came to him, "you said you wanted the squad leaders to teach you. Here's your first lesson. Five rounds in your magazine is fine when you've got duty as Officer of the Day back in The World, but not here. Load your magazines with seven rounds and keep an eighth in the chamber. And carry more than two spares."
Martin's chest heaved a few times and he gasped out, "I will. I'll do exactly that thing, Corporal Bell."
In the morning close to thirty Viet Cong bodies were found on the hillside below the platoon's position. There were many more than thirty blood trails leading down to the paddies. A helicopter came in shortly after dawn to evacuate the few Marines who had been wounded or killed in the attack. The casualties included the entire four-man listening post that had given the platoon the few seconds warning it had. Before they moved out again Bell sought out Lieutenant Martin.
"The man who these belonged to won't need them anymore," he said. "You might." He handed Martin an M-I4, a cartridge belt with six magazines on it, and two bandoleers.
"Thanks, Corporal Bell," Martin said, accepting them. "I imagine I will."
CHAPTER THREE
First Thing in the Morning, October 17, 1966
Two weeks. That's how long Second Lieutenant Burrison had been with Tango Niner. Vietnam was his first duty station and he was eager to do well. He had arrived in-country within days of when First Lieutenant Masterman and Sergeant Bell had shown up in Bun Hou village to work with Lieutenant Phao Houng, the newly appointed Popular Forces platoon leader, to establish his platoon and form a Combined Action Platoon. While Masterman, Bell, Houng, and their Marines and PFs were wiping out the company of local VC in Bun Hou village, Burrison had served as a platoon leader in a Marine rifle company that was guarding a portion of the perimeter at Da Nang. When Tango Niner was fighting off the local VC company sent from another village to chase it away, Burrison was serving as assistant S1—assistant personnel officer—of his battalion while it was off on a combat operation. During the weeks Tango Niner spent hunting down the NVA sapper platoon that was supposed to kill them to the last man, Lieutenant Burrison was hospitalized with dysentery: but the battalion S1 chief, his boss, was very aware of the importance of combat operations on an officer's record and had him listed as being on the battalion's current operation. Lieutenant Masterman was badly wounded in an NVA mortar attack and command of Tango Niner was temporarily given to J. C. Bell. With Bell in command, the Marines, and the few PFs who weren't frightened off by the sappers, found the sappers' tunnel complex and killed all of them except for Major Nghu, their commanding officer. While that was happening, Burrison was again a platoon leader, but his platoon was sitting guard duty around a hill an antiaircraft battery was sitting on. Two days before Burrison's battalion headed back to Indian Country on another operation, he was reassigned, as commanding officer of CAP Tango Niner.
Life for the Marines and PFs hadn't been the same since.
Second Lieutenant Burrison was an eager young officer, full of piss and hellfire. He ardently desired to prove himself as worthy of being the proudest of the proud, one of that noble Band of Brothers: a Marine officer. He had been an infantry officer in a combat zone for four months and he had yet to fire his weapon in anger. There had been no opportunity for him to direct men in combat. The only shots he had ever heard fired were the sounds of someone else's fire fights.
And, of course, he wanted souvenirs to prove he had been there.
Lieutenant Masterman, when he had been in command, drew loose parole routes for the two mobile patrols and one all-night ambush patrol his platoon fielded every night; the patrol leaders knew the land better than he did and changed their assigned routes to match their knowledge of the land and where the VC were likely to come through. The three corporals who led the nightly patrols could choreograph their independent patrols in a way he couldn't. Then he stayed where he belonged—near the radios in Camp Apache in case any of the patrols ran into trouble. If one did, he could coordinate the movements of the others if they should go to the assistance of the patrol in trouble, or lead a rescue force if that was necessary. It seldom was.
Lieutenant Burrison, on the other hand, understood that officers are leaders. The job of sergeants and corporals, he believed, was to see to it the officers' orders were carried out as given. And he craved action. Being full of piss and hellfire as he was, it was natural for him to crave action. His ardor might have been less if anyone had ever shot at him, but no one ever had. And he believed leaders should lead from the front.
Every afternoon Lieutenant Burrison drew three patrol routes. A four-Marine fire team would go out sometime during the night, meet anywhere from three to seven PFs, and follow a route that would take it approximately four hours to cover. A second patrol would leave the compound either before or after the first one, meet its PFs, and follow a route that took about six hours. Both of these patrols would return before dawn, either or both might have an ambush of thirty minutes or an hour assigned to it somewhere along its route. The third patrol would go out before dusk and not return until after sunup. It would spend half the night in an ambush and the other half following an assigned route.
An action-oriented, up-front leader, Lieutenant Burrison went out with a different patrol every night. He was confused: though all three corporals who served as patrol leaders had reputations as excellent NC0s, there came a time on every patrol he went out with that was led by either Corporal Zeitvogel or Corporal Randall when he had to take command. Those two seemed to have serious problems understanding their orders. Part of an officer's job is teaching his NCOs. It must be that whoever had led Zeitvogel and Randall in the past hadn't been very good teachers. Either that or the corporals were deliberately disobeying his orders. But good NC0s, as these two were supposed to be, would never do that. Would they? Lieutenant Houng, the PF platoon leader, tried to reason with Burrison, but the young American wouldn't listen to him. "I'm a U. S. Marine officer," he told the PF officer. "You're a PF. You have to listen to me." Houng's several years experience as a combat sergeant in the ARVN and his decorations for personal valor made no difference to Burrison.
Four times in the previous two weeks a patrol had ambushed a VC supply train. Oddly, the successful patrol was never the one Burrison was with, as tonight's successful patrol was one he wasn't with. And every time he arrived at the scene of the kill, the patrol never seemed to be quite where it was supposed to be, but the lieutenant didn't know the land very well and at night it's not all that easy to know where you are.
Tonight Burrison learned the horrible truth. This was the fifth time in two weeks a patrol he wasn't with made contact, killed VC, and captured weapons and supplies. But this time he knew the patrol wasn't where it was supposed to be because when it ambushed the VC, this patrol was supposed to be back at Camp Apache.
The Marines and PFs of Tango Niner, who ran the patrols, were frightened by Lieutenant Burrison. He was trying to do more than he knew how to do and insisting they do everything his way. They thought his way put their lives in too much jeopardy.
"Morning, Lieutenant,", said Lance Corporal Billy Harold Lewis when Burrison led Bell's patrol to the site of Randall's ambush. Burrison almost jumped at Lewis's voice. With his back to the rising sun he thought he would be on top of Randall and his men before they saw him. Instead, he walked past Lewis's outpost without suspecting its presence.
"Good morning," the lieutenant said. "Who's that?"
"Billy Boy and Pee Wee, sir. Watching in case Charlie doesn't think we're still here and comes looking for his 'panos."
"You're doing a good job, Lance Corporal. Keep it up." Burrison had learned in OCS not to assume self-knowledge of a job well done as enough for the men. They taught him to give compliments and always call other Marines by their rank. Names were used along with ranks to identify a person only when there was another person with the same rank present. He waved his arm and led his patrol onward.
When Bell reached Lewis's position, Lewis said to him, "That man got a problem, he's walking the point himself? And what's he doing saying 'good job' to me? I ain't even half hid."
Bell shrugged. "Never mind, Billy Boy, just keep doing your good job." He cleared his throat and spat on the side of the trail across from Lewis's position. An hour and a half earlier something had happened that no one had ever done to him before—this damn boot brown bar took command of his patrol from him. Goddamn, he swore to himself for the fiftieth time since being relieved, I've been leader of boo-coo patrols officers went on and none of them ever took one away from me. A major even went out with me once and he did what I said. Goddamn.
Tex Randall and the PP squad leader the Marines called "Collard Green" because his skin had a greenish cast to it and his expression was that of a man who was about to throw up sat on two of the VC packs, watching the young lieutenant approach. A few feet away flies were busy crawling over the bodies of the dead VC, looking for places to lay eggs. The men slowly stood up when Lieutenant Burrison reached them.
Burrison crinkled his nose at the stench already wafting from the corpses. They hadn't started swelling yet but would in a few hours. He smiled at sight of the six captured rifles—maybe he could have one as a souvenir. "Where are the rest of your men?" he asked Randall after he scanned the surrounding area.
"Preacher and Traun are in an OP up the trail and Wildman is with Van in that treeline over there." Randall swung his arm at the trees a hundred meters to the south. "Charlie usually comes around to police his dead if we leave them lying where we wasted them. I don't like the idea of him being able to get too close to me before I know he's coming."
Burrison nodded, impressed at the wisdom of what Randall had done without realizing it was standard procedure. "Let's see what we've got," he said.
The VC packs were a mixed lot. There was a U.S. Army rucksack, two were the very comfortable NVA backpacks, one was the shoulder-cutting U.S. Marine haversack-knapsack rig, and the other two were simply large burlap bags mounted on A frames with shoulder straps.
Bell told Lance Corporal "Short Round" Hempen, PFC "Big Red" Robertson, and PFC lzzy Perez to help search the packs. The four Marines unceremoniously dumped the contents onto the packed earth of the trail. The packs disgorged three thousand rounds of ammunition, two hundred pounds of rice cakes, a medical kit containing surgical instruments, and one hundred morphine styrenes as well as seventy-five U.S.-issue compress bandages.
Bell whistled at the catch. "Looks like someone was expecting to get into one bodacious fire fight," he said.
Burrison nodded. "Put it all back in the packs. We can hand it over to S2. Maybe it'll give them some information about who and when they're planning to hit," he said. "Did you check the bodies for documents?" he asked Randall. The corporal handed over a packet of papers. "Looks like mostly personal letters," he said. "We'll let S2 decide that," Burrison said, taking the papers. He put them in his map case without even rifling through them. The Marines looked at Sergeant Bell before starting to repack the weapons, medical supplies, and food.
"Sir," Bell said, "we always give any food and any ammunition they can use for their weapons to the PFs who were in on the kill. They don't get paid much and everything we can do to help them keeps up their morale and makes them more loyal to us."
Burrison hesitated before grudgingly agreeing. "All right, they can have the rice cakes. We hand the ammunition over to S2."
"Sir, the ammo doesn't have any intelligence value of its own. All S2 really needs to know is how many rounds of what caliber was captured where and under what circumstances: We hand it over to them they're only going to destroy it. There's rounds there for M-1 carbines. Our fay-epps might need it someday." Burrison didn't look like Bell's argument meant anything to him, so he continued. "Them having it might save one of our lives someday."
"All right, Sergeant Bell, I'll ask S2 to return the ammunition to us when they're through with it."
Bell looked at Burrison with a blank expression. He knew if they turned the ammunition over to intelligence they'd never see it again. Randall looked away because he didn't want the lieutenant to see the look of disgust he couldn't hide.
Tex Randall signaled his outposts to come in while everything but the rice cakes was returned to the packs. When they were assembled and the packs were filled, Burrison took a last look at the VC corpses. He bent over and picked up the pith helmet that had been worn by the one in the uniform with red patches under his rank insignia and examined it.
"NVA issue," Bell said. "He probably got his training in the North. Might be political cadre."
Burrison's eyes widened and he looked back at the body. "Do you think he might be a high-ranking officer?"
"No, sir. That's a captain's rank insignia. He probably doesn't function on a level higher than company."
The lieutenant studied the body for a moment longer, then abruptly knelt and cut the collar tabs of its shirt. "S2 might be interested in this," he said.
"They might be real interested to know a VC captain was humping a supply pack," Randall said.
Burrison pondered Randall's remark for a moment, then said, "I'm going to cut you people a break. You're not going to have to hump those packs back to Camp Apache. I'm going to call for a helicopter to come and collect these bodies and packs." He looked at Randall. "Corporal, you and your patrol stay here and guard them until the chopper arrives." The order pleased the young lieutenant. Once more he had found a militarily sound thing to do that was also a punishment for an NCO who had not followed his orders exactly. To Bell and his patrol he said, "Move out. We're going back to Camp Apache."
None of the enlisted men said anything, but they stared angrily at Burrison's back as he walked away from them. He should have radioed for "Big" Louie Stover to send a few men from the mortar squad or the machine gun team to wait for the bird instead of leaving men who hadn't gotten any sleep. As soon as Burrison was out of sight. Randall removed the M-I carbine ammunition from the packs, gave it to his PFs, and sent them home. Then he moved his fire team out of the open into a treeline to watch. He let his men sleep two men at a time in rotation. He didn't sleep himself. After three hours he heard the thrumming of a distant helicopter and moved into the open where he could see it and be seen by its crew. When it was close enough, he raised it on his radio and tossed a green smoke grenade to show the pilot his exact location and the wind direction. The helicopter touched down next to the bodies, and its assistant gunner jumped out to help toss the bodies and packs into the bird while the crew chief scanned the nearby treelines and trained his machine gun on them. Loaded, the helicopter took off and Randall led his men back to Camp Apache.
Bell and Burrison were both sleeping when Randall's fire team reached the compound, so he let Slover know they were back before going to the squad's tent. He barely managed to get his boots off before collapsing onto his cot and passing out.
CHAPTER FOUR
Afternoon, October 17, 1966
"All right, Sergeant Be!!," Burrison said in his best Marine-officer voice after the two had gotten a few hours sleep, "I want to know why Corporal Randall's patrol was lying in ambush in a location off its assigned patrol route after the time the patrol was supposed to have ended. And why did everybody seem to know about it but me?" The lieutenant's quarters were in the command hootch, one end of which was the radio room, the domain of "Swearin'" Swarnes, the platoon's radioman. The other end was a supply room, where food, medicines, and all other supplies except ammunition was stored. Previously Bell had shared quarters with Lieutenant Masterman. When Burrison balked at sharing quarters with an NCO, Bell moved his own cot, table, and beer cooler into the store-room end and he shared it with the platoon's two corpsmen. Burrison sat on the chair at his field desk. He did not invite Bell to sit on either the foot locker or the cot, the only other places to sit.
Bell took advantage of this to stand, arms akimbo, close to the young officer and let his six-foot-one height tower over the seated lieutenant. He leaned over slightly to increase the effect. "Tex and Stilts had a feeling they could catch Charlie if they set ambushes a couple of hours before dawn. One ambush where Tex set in. Another, seventy-five meters up the trail I was going to pull us into. Their feelings were right."
Bell's stance had the desired effect—the lieutenant leaned back and a note of uncertainty entered his voice. "Why wasn't I consulted on this?"
Bell edged forward just the slightest bit, pressing his advantage. "Mr. Burrison," Bell said. Calling a junior officer "Mister" is a proper form of address, but the way the sergeant said it implied a world of disrespect. "You weren't consulted because the entire time you have been with Tango Niner you have refused to learn anything from me or from anyone else in this platoon. You have always insisted on doing everything your way. The patrols had to go out and come in at exactly the times you designated, following exactly the routes you drew and sticking exactly to your timetable. Those three corporals who lead the patrols, especially Stilts Zeitvogel and Tex Randall, know this area. They know every night shape, every shadow, every smell, and every sound. Put either one of them down blindfolded anywhere in Tango Niner's area of operations, and he could tell you exactly where he was. They have an intuition about when and where Charlie's likely to come through. The best thing you could do as platoon leader here is let me help you assign territories for them to cover until you know it well enough to do it without my help. Then go out with each of them every night for a month as the extra rifle you claim you go out as, and learn from them. The next morning you can ask them why they did this or that. They'll tell you and you'll learn until you're good enough to take out a patrol yourself and be as successful as they are.
"That's why you Weren't consulted." Bell drew a deep breath after that speech. Many times in the past he had wanted to tell an officer off, but this was the first time he really had the chance.
The young lieutenant held himself tightly so he wouldn't tremble from the combination of fear of the big sergeant and rage at having been dressed down like that by someone subordinate to him. He rose to his feet, standing with the backs of his knees pressed tightly against his chair, so he had room to look up at Bell without having to lean backward. "Sergeant, I'm in command here," he said. "I have the responsibility for this platoon and its mission, not you and not those corporals. Furthermore, I am a commissioned officer and you are a noncommissioned officer. You must show me and this uniform respect."
"I have nothing but respect for the uniform, Mr. Burrison," Bell cut in. "And I have as much respect for you as you earn."
They were interrupted by Swarnes poking his head through the flap separating his radio room from the lieutenant's quarters to say, "Just got a message on the horn, sir. We've got a visitor from HQ landing in zero-five." A broad grin split Swarnes's round face. He had obviously overheard Bell's speech to Burrison, and was enjoying it.
"I'll get Big Louie on the landing pad and put out security, sir," Bell said. His voice held more respect for the young officer now that a junior man was present.
"You do that, Sergeant," Burrison said.
Bell brushed past Swarnes, glad the confrontation was over, but wondering if the lieutenant would bring charges of insubordination against him.
"Any word on who it is?" Burrison asked Swarnes.
"Somebody from S2," Swarnes said, still grinning.
"If the Marine Corps wanted you to have a grin, Swarnes, you would have been issued one. Get back to your radio."
Swarnes wiped the grin off his face. "Aye-aye, sir," he said, and executed a sloppy about-face. He was grinning again before he completed his turn:
"Big Louie!" Bell shouted to a black man bouncing a badminton birdie off an orange paddle. "Put a shirt on and get your Ping-Pong paddles over to the landing pad, we've got a bird coming in in less than zero-five."
"Don't need no shirt," Slover called back. "Black skin's tougher than white skin, and the blacker it is, the tougher it is." And Big Louie Slover's skin was very black. He was a very big man, as tall as Bell and broader. He had the kind of build that is meant when someone says, "He has muscles in places where other men don't have places." Slover crammed the birdie into one hip pocket of his utility trousers and pulled another orange paddle out of the other. He strolled calmly to the white-painted circle in the northwest corner of the compound, checked the wind direction, and stood facing the circle with his back to the wind.
Bell made sure the machine-gun team was alert at the main gate on the north side of the compound and placed his three fire teams in six fighting holes around the perimeter. Moments after the defensive preparations were completed, a helicopter swooped low over the main gate where a hand-painted sign read:
CAMP APACHE
USMC
Home of Combined Action Platoon T-9
It Takes Two to Tango
Charlie Gonna Die Here
Barry Sadler, Eat Your Heart Out
The pilot brought his bird down a few feet in front of Slover. The big black man became a big gray man as white-painted dirt was thrown up by the helicopter's downwash, then stuck to his sweaty skin. Two men jumped off the helicopter and, bent over, ran to where Burrison and Bell stood waiting.
"Good afternoon," one of the newcomers said, "I'm Captain Hasford, from S2. This is Staff Sergeant Suddick, my assistant. You're Lieutenant Burrison and Sergeant Bell." Hasford didn't ask them who they were, he told them. "Get your team leaders up. I want to know what's been happening with the Vee Cee supply runs, you've been wasting for the past month." Hasford walked to the east side of the hill with Suddick marching a pace to his rear and two to his left. Close to the concertina wire surrounding the compound the two unfolded the camp stools they were carrying and Suddick opened a card table in front of their stools. They sat down to wait for Tango Niner's patrol leaders.
"So how do you like being out of a line company and in a CAP?" Hasford asked Burrison.
"I like it a lot, sir. It's a big responsibility but I think I'm up to it." Burrison chewed on his lower lip for a moment, looking absently through a break in the trees at the water of the distant Song Du Ong river. "But I'm just not seeing as much action as I expected to."
Hasford raised an eyebrow. He knew Tango Niner was hitting the Viet Cong two or three times a week. Did Burrison want to be John Wayne? "What do you mean, you're not seeing enough action?" he asked. "This platoon's got more than enough to satisfy me if I was in command of it."
"Well, that's it, sir." Burrison looked at the intelligence captain. "The platoon is getting a lot of action, but I'm not in on it."
"Yes?" Hasford was curious about that statement. Most of the officers and staff NCOs assigned to the Combined Action Program saw their assignments as a chance to get out of the line of fire.
"I've been very careful about drawing up the patrol routes every day and I've gone out on one every night since I've been here. But it's always a patrol other than the one I'm on that gets the Vee Cee. I haven't had a chance to fire a weapon since I've been here." Burrison didn't mention the fact he hadn't been in a fire fight his entire time in-country.
"Amazing," Hasford said, then turned his attention to Bell, who arrived just then with Corporals Stover, Zeitvogel, Randall, and Ruizique. "All right, gentlemen," he began when the introductions were complete, "let's keep this short and sweet. Division thinks Charlie is getting ready to make a big push somewhere, and we need all the information we can get to try to find out when and where. This map"—he unfolded a topographical map of the area on the card table—"shows the date, time, and location of every one of your contacts over the past month. You're not the only ones making contact. In this district and eight others in this area, several Viet Cong supply teams are getting wiped out every night. There must be a lot more getting through than are getting killed. I want your best guesses as to how many are getting through your area and what the best strategy for intercepting all of them is."
"Well, sir." Burrison cleared his throat. He was uncomfortable because the NCOs from the platoon were present. "We put out three patrols every night and they have had ten contacts in the past month. That equals about one out of ten patrols hits the Viet Cong. I think we're getting most of them and they're following this route." His finger drew a meandering line that passed near all of the contact marks on the map.
Bell, Slover, Zeitvogel, and Randall looked at one another but didn't shake their heads. Ruizique just watched the lieutenant. They all knew he was wrong.
Hasford caught their glances. "Sergeant Bell, what do you think?" he asked.
"Sir, I think Charlie's out there every damn night," Bell said, "sometimes with more than one run. I think he's using every route he can come up with that doesn't pass near this hill or through any of the hamlets."
"Why do you think that?"
"This is simply too big an area for three small patrols to have much chance to catch anyone who wants to sneak through unless there's a lot of them."