With a couple hundred meters of open paddy to cross before entering the southwest corner of Xom Dong My, I passed the word to Lieutenant Norwalk to clear the distant wood line that dominated our left flank before the rest of the company proceeded further. He did so and then continued moving along the wood line toward the northwest corner of the village, as Two Six and headquarters began crossing the paddy. Reaching the far side, Two Six postured itself defensively, preparing to cover the rest of the company’s crossing.
That’s when Charlie hit One Six! It was a hastily established but well-executed ambush, and Norwalk and his men found themselves right in the middle of it.
At the same moment, enemy fire began popping over our heads, high and ineffective but loud and unnerving. Caught midway across the paddy, we in headquarters dove for what cover a paddy can provide—which is very little. Anderson, holding his handset above the putrid water in which we had immersed ourselves, yelled, “Sir, Two Six on the horn!”
Two Six? They’re hitting One Six. Aren’t they?
“Comanche Six, this is Two Six. The dinks are hitting One Six! Over.”
“This is Six. Get off the goddamn radio, Two Six. Break. One Six, this is Six. Over.”
No reply.
“One Six, One Six, this is Six. Over.”
Still no reply.
“One Six, One Six, this is Six. Give me something, now! Over.”
Lieutenant Norwalk’s RTO, obviously frightened, probably somewhat disoriented, but still soldiering, replied, “This is One Six Alpha! One Six is down! He and the point are dead! Need help! Over.”
“This is Six. Pop smoke and hang tight! We’re on the way. Out. Break. Two Six, Three Six, go perimeter where you are and stand by to assist. I’m moving to One Six now! Out.”
While talking to One Six, we had crawled our way to the paddy dike. From there I saw they had marked their position with red smoke, which was now drifting over a large embankment approximately seventy-five meters and two rice paddies to the north of us.
Charlie Company’s headquarters section, composed of Blair, Anderson, Moseley and his recon sergeant, and me, began moving toward the red smoke. We covered each other as we crossed the paddies separating us from Norwalk and his platoon. The enemy’s fire was light and sporadic.
First Platoon had taken a swift and violent hit that had all but eliminated its chain of command. Bill Norwalk was not dead, but he had been shot through the neck and was unable to speak coherently. Sitting upright, bleeding profusely, he was obviously going into shock.
However, being the good officer—the leader—he was, he was still commanding his soldiers through gestures. His platoon sergeant, who had been at the rear of their formation, had also been hit, and his RTO had been killed. Their point man, I was told, lay somewhere atop or on the other side of the embankment along which the platoon had been moving.
The remainder of One Six was crouched at the bottom of this embankment, seeking what cover it afforded. And Charlie was on the other side.
While Anderson struggled to get a battle dressing around Norwalk’s neck, I attempted to ascertain that everyone was at least accounted for. One of the platoon’s squad leaders, taking charge as good squad leaders do, assured me that everyone was behind the embankment except the point man, who was dead.
“Sir, he’s dead! I was right behind the LT. I saw them both get hit, the LT in the throat and the point right smack in the face. Goddamn, sir, the whole of his head just burst open! He’s dead!”
But what if he wasn’t? I crawled up the embankment and looked across its crest. The point man was lying face down in a great pool of blood about ten meters or so to my right front. As I slithered toward him on my belly, I stared fixedly at the soles of his jungle boots, noting that they looked brand new. And he never suspected that when he put them on they would out last… But maybe not, maybe he was just… No, his squad leader was right. One Six’s point man was very dead. And shame on you, Captain Estep, because you can’t remember his name. Shame on you, indeed!
War is not at all like Hollywood depicts it in movies. You do not effortlessly toss the dead or dying soldier across your shoulder and run merrily along, firing a submachine gun with your free hand. Dead and dying soldiers are so very heavy. I pulled, tugged, and rolled our nameless point man to the edge of the embankment, where Moseley helped me drag him on down to One Six’s covered position.
Now, having our dead and wounded on the friendly side of the embankment, all that remained were to move ourselves across the open paddies, rejoin the rest of the company, and then bring down all the artillery in the free world on this ambush site and the enemy that had killed our soldiers. Unfortunately, the rest of the company, positioned as it was, could not provide covering fire, so we would have to cover our own withdrawal.
We assigned two uninjured men of the leaderless 1st Platoon to each of their dead and wounded and then, after tossing hand grenades in over the top of the embankment, sent them scurrying across the paddy while we fired a “mini-mad minute” at a foe we could not see.
It worked! They reached the far paddy dike and were out of harm’s way. Charlie hadn’t fired a round in return.
I felt it best to next send what remained of the leaderless and somewhat shaken 1st Platoon. After collecting their grenades, we sent them sprinting toward safety, covering them the same way—with grenades over the embankment followed by an earsplitting volley of automatic-weapons fire.
Again it worked. Again Charlie’s weapons remained silent.
Now it was our turn. I told Moseley, his recon sergeant, Blair, and Andy to each toss a grenade and run like hell. The grenades exploded!
They ran. I fired a final twentyround magazine at our unseen enemy, an enemy that I secretly suspected no longer opposed us. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the others nearing the safety of the paddy dike. I had one grenade left. I pulled the pin, threw it over the embankment, and ducked.
Whoom!
As dust and debris from the explosion fell around me, I jumped to my feet. Now run like the wind, Comanche!
I nearly made it.
I was fully two-thirds of the way across the paddy when Charlie opened up, first with small arms and then with a machine gun. And I was the only one left to shoot at!
Oh, shit! Twenty-five, thirty meters to go. Run!
The sordid paddy water was perhaps a foot deep. Each time a round struck, and there were many of them, the water burst ten to twelve feet into the air, showering me like a tropical downpour. I was soaked. The paddy’s soft, sucking mud pulled at my feet, slowing my passage to safety. My legs began to feel as if they were made of lead.
Just ten or fifteen more meters! I’m going to make it. Gonna conduct this little ado without suffering a single additional casualty. Gonna…
It did not hurt. Not at first. It merely felt like a giant iron-fisted hand had reached up from the depths of the paddy, grabbed my leg, and then in one swift violent motion snapped my entire body as if it were the cutting end of a bullwhip. My head flew back, and suddenly I was gazing at the cloudless blue sky above, watching my CAR-15 fly end over end, up and to the right, as my helmet followed a similar path of flight, up and to the left. I began falling from what seemed to be a great height. And then, briefly, there was darkness.
Choking on the putrid paddy water, I looked up to see Lieutenant Moseley and his recon sergeant lying behind the paddy dike, firing over my head at the enemy beyond. Another ten meters or so, and I’d lie in safety with them. I started to crawl forward. But something was very wrong.