As we were discussing the operation, the sun suddenly emerged from the overcast sky, preparing to set over the Annamese cordillera to the west of us. In silence, almost reverence, we looked up into its fading, warming rays.
Ah, this is a good omen, I said to myself.
But it wasn’t.
That early March morning began like so many mornings before it. We stood to at first light, fired a short but violent mad minute, washed and shaved, emptied our helmets of the pint of water needed to accomplish both these toilets, and then awaited the C&D bird. It arrived an hour or so after dawn, off-loaded several cases of C rations and some ammunition, and picked up our rucks, water cans, and mermites.
But on this occasion it unexplainably failed to bring us our customary C&D.
As might be expected, this caused some grumbling among Charlie Company’s rank and file. This quickly subsided, however. By now, we had resigned ourselves to the fact that life in I Corps wasn’t going to be as pleasant as it had been on Bong Son’s plain; and it really wasn’t any cup of tea on the plain.
Some of the men ate a quick charlie rat or a portion thereof, while others decided to wait for a hot that night—a mistake on their part, since there was to be no hot that night. I had a can of fruit cocktail with peanut butter and crackers.
Shortly after the log bird departed, Blair passed me his handset, saying, “And he’s on the horn, sir.”
“Tall Comanche, this is Arizona Three. Inbound your location with four, plus two, plus two in zero six. How copy? Over.”
“This is Comanche Six. Solid copy and standing by for pickup.”
After passing word to saddle up, I watched as the company prepared to board the incoming helicopters. C rations were hurriedly discarded, holes covered, shoulder harnesses and pistol belts donned and adjusted, weapons readied, and a final radio check conducted. Troops then formed into liftoff sticks.
As was customary in an extraction, the hooks landed first, picking up One Six, Three Six, and Four Six. When these double-rotary-bladed giants lifted off, the remainder of us, Two Six and the headquarters, quickly folded our defensive perimeter and ran toward the four Hueys that set down just as the hooks took off. The orbiting Cobras covered our extraction.
Our formation of eight helicopters initially flew in a westerly direction, away from the street, so as to gain altitude and allow Major Byson time to set up his artillery prep of the LZ. In a few minutes, however, we began a gradual easterly turn and then flew back across Highway One, en route to what would be my last combat air assault of the war.
Others were not so lucky. They would be dead before the sun set that evening.
As we had hoped the night before, the day had dawned without a cloud in the sky. A bright, beautiful sunny day, so very different from those of the seemingly endless northeastern monsoon, with its surreal darkness and continuous drizzle. It felt good to be warm and dry again and about to engage the enemy on what we felt would be our terms, beating him as we had always done on the plain. We had had enough of those cold wet nights penned up inside Camp Evans waiting for a nameless, faceless enemy to loose his rockets upon us. We had had enough of those meaningless, fruitless searches for an enemy we could not find in the villages straddling Highway One. It was time to take the offensive, time to teach Charlie here in I Corps what his friends on the plain knew only too well—you don’t fuck with the Cav. No, sir!
Sitting on the floor of the doorless, seatless helicopter with my legs dangling outside, I was momentarily distracted by the funny fluttering waves the aircraft’s slipstream was making in my jungle fatigues as we clipped along at ninety knots. I looked down at the landscape slipping past us and was suddenly impressed with its simple beauty.
Composed primarily of rice paddies, it was the most vivid green I could ever recall seeing and, with the exception of an occasional water-filled bomb crater, seemingly untouched by the war. I noticed the peasant farmers working these paddies behind their water buffaloes.
Hell, they were doing the same thing yesterday, and the day before, and the day I first arrived in this country back in 1962, and, for that matter, for five centuries before that. And regardless of what happens at Xom Dong My today, they’ll be working these paddies in the same medieval fashion tomorrow, oblivious to or not caring about what might have happened to us such a short distance away.
The exhilaration I had felt earlier suddenly lost some of its flavor.
What the hell are we doing here? What lasting importance will the outcome of today’s operation have on that peasant down there, or me, my men, or any thing or anyone else? Dangerous thoughts, I told myself.
Who am I to question the importance of this or any other operation? Captains of infantry, and the soldiers they command, do not question. Theirs is not to reason why, theirs is…
Byson’s penetrating voice in the headset quickly returned my wandering mind to the present.
“Comanche Six, Red Rider, this is Arizona Three. Insert in zero four. Standard two-minute prep with last round smoke. Smoke on fifteensecond final. Blue Max will cover the insert. How copy?”
“This is Comanche Six. Good copy. Over.”
“Roger, this is Red Rider, and I copy that. Go.”
“This is Arizona Three. Okay, good hunting, Comanche. Out.”
I gave a four-finger heads ups to those aboard, signifying four minutes until touchdown.
At two minutes out, we saw the artillery begin plastering our LZ, providing Lieutenant Moseley and me an opportunity to confirm its location on our maps. Soon after that, Byson began his final insert countdown. “Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen. I have smoke on the LZ. Rider Six, make your insert.”
Now on fifteensecond final, we were coming in low and fast at treetop level. Discarding my headset, I and the others aboard shifted our weight, assuming our customary position on the aircraft’s skids.
As we skimmed across the paddies, we saw the smoke from the artillery marking round rising lazily from the LZ. Suddenly, we heard the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of an accompanying Cobra’s aerial rockets as they jetted passed us and impacted on the LZ’s perimeter in brilliant white-and-red flashes. Nearing the landing zone, the slicks began flaring, tails down, preparing to land. A second Cobra passed us, laying a blanket of minigun and 40-mm grenade fire on the flanks of the LZ. Simultaneously, our door gunners began raking the zone’s periphery with their M-60 machine guns.
When the helicopter’s skids were within two or three feet of the ground, we leaped, and our Huey pulled away without touching the paddy in which we now found ourselves. Quickly picking up speed and gaining altitude, the four slicks disappeared over the treetops as the Cobras continued to fire around the landing zone’s perimeter, covering our hurried movement to secure it.
There was no return fire. The LZ was green, and within a matter of minutes the hooks had off-loaded the rest of the company. It had all gone like clockwork. A piece of cake.
Once the company was assembled, we began moving in a northeasterly direction, Two Six leading, followed by Four Six, the headquarters section, and Three Six. One Six accompanied us on a separate route, a hundred meters or so to our left, protecting the company’s northern flank, which was dominated by a wood line of bamboo and other tropical shrubbery. If we should run into any trouble on the way to Xom Dong My, we felt it would come from that quarter, since there was nothing to the south of us except open rice paddy as far as the eye could see.
We did not have far to go, perhaps a klick or so. In the distance the village looked larger than indicated on our maps. Noting a church steeple towering above the bamboo and palms surrounding the village, I remarked to Lieutenant Moseley that he had a super registration point should he need it.