A Typical Night - for GIs
By CHARLES BLACK
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A Typical Night - for GIs |
But the night’s very sense
of normality to a man who had become immersed in this world of our
troops in
that war gave the pause. It was such a
stark departure from the nights spent by other Americans, such an
absolute
abnormality when compared to the one spent on the same date by people
at home,
that it being just “average” to Sky Troopers involved makes it worth
studying.
I did these things:
I located Capt. George Forrest and his A Company, First Battalion Fifth Cavalry, in the perimeter defense around Columbus Landing Zone and decided to make my abode near his command post.
I found a section of the
line which looked as if it had a good field of fire and where the
riflemen and
machine gunners had especially strong positions.
There was a small fold of
ground with a bit of dead space behind it which would be clear of any
incoming
fire from an obvious approach by any attackers, a small ridge angling
through
the trees near the landing zone but too far out to be inside of our
perimeter.
I got busy with a shovel (I
had acquired a North Vietnamese soldier’s little shovel by now. It had the name “Ky” cut into its handle and
the fact that this was the South Vietnamese Prime Minister’s name also
seemed
some kind of good luck symbol.) When I
had dug a hole I could call my own I camouflaged the fresh dirt so it
wouldn’t
be too obvious to possible callers.
Two saplings and a piece of
parachute cord, a few sticks, a poncho and I had a house which would
keep the
heavy dew or possible rain from collecting in any unendurable
quantities. I ditched around my sleeping
sight with a
kind of cynicism. (If it rained, I
would get wet but at least I would have done my best.)
I then lit some heat tablets
and heated a can of C’s, heated some water and made some coffee, and
went over
to the command post after finishing supper.
Here I got from Capt. Forrest such information as the password;
where I
should go if the very worst possible thing happened (a mass assault
which might
break into the perimeter in an effort to get to the artillery), and
what he
intended to do the next morning, which was apparently still unsettled. He had heard some tentative plans for a move
toward some new landing zones north of us but there wasn’t anything
definite.
I left the command post just
before dusk and went to a tree where five gallon plastic bags full of
water
were located. I filled two canteens (I
was carrying four by now, two on my belt and two in my rucksack) and
drank all
I could hold while the water was handy.
On the way back I “borrowed” two hand grenades and somebody gave
me 50
rounds of tracer ammunition for my M-16.
The artillery pieces of the
Second Battalion 70th Artillery had been shooting sporadically all of
this
time. The shooting was “H and I” fire (harassment and interdictory) on
likely
Communist positions or trails.
Mortars from positions just
inside the perimeter, dug in heavily on the edge of the field used by
the
howitzers and still busy helicopters, coughed out rounds, registering
on the
little ridge which had bothered me when I first saw the position. The crack of the exploding shells there made
me feel better. The mortarmen would
know exactly where to shoot if trouble started from either that quarter
or half
a dozen other places they registered on just before dusk.
Helicopters made a big swing
around the area, artillery ships loaded with rockets and questing for
targets
and machine gun-armed scout ships spying for any movement in the area.
A tense quiet came down with
the sun. I sat near my hole and smoked
cigarettes with the sneakiness a man learns out in this brush. Men were still busy around the perimeter,
some digging, some bringing up ammunition, others gathered near radios
with
maps out and red-lensed flashlights making little glows on them. Radios made a muted sound as their speakers
brought in word of impending plans or reports from units nearby.
About 8 p.m. the sky
flickered into life. A series of small
red flashes followed by the crack of an explosion and a squeaking noise
was
signal that Smoky Bear, an Air Force C-123 filled with parachute
flares, was on
station. The squeaking stopped and
brilliant blobs, three of them, hung over our sector’s front. The drifting parachutes made the light eddy
and shift. Shadows moved and were
replaced by a sudden glare as low clouds reflected the light from the
magnesium
flares.
I heard somebody go by me
toward the hole just to my right and slid into my own hole. I held the M-16 and muttered the polite
greeting of these nights.
“Halt, who goes there?”
“Friend. . .”
“Robin. . .”
“Garden. . .”
“Is that you, Frazier?”
“Who’s that, Charlie?”
“Yeah. . .the gun position
is a little to your left if you’re going there.”
S-Sgt. Melvin Frazier faded
off into the gloom and I heard it all start again when he approached
his other
friends in the next hole. I wouldn’t
like to have to stomp the perimeter to check up one last time, I
thought for
the thousandth time, and then put on more insect repellent. Mosquitoes were buzzing. Ants
were already attempting to investigate
the possibilities of dragging me off during the night.
A good soaking with 6-6-12 wouldn’t add to
your welcome in an elevator, perhaps, but it discourages bugs as much
as humans
so I used it lavishly.
I sleep a while until rifle
fire awakened me and then I crouched in my hole until somebody sent a
muffled
call to me “. . .no sweat, just thought I saw something.”
I already had figured this, there is a
feeling about perimeter fire which grows instinctive, and you learn to
sense
when it is investigative, serious or VERY serious.
This had sounded more investigative than serious.
At dawn, after waking up
several more times for no real reason, putting on more insect
repellent,
smoking more cigarettes, watching more flares and listening to more
artillery
fire, I rolled up camp, made coffee and heated C’s, and decided to go
back to Pleiku. The choppers were already
running again,
bringing in ammunition, rations, water and men.
I caught one and (got out)
back at Camp Holloway.
The First Battalion Seventh
Cavalry was over at their chapel services, held in the open near the
runway, or
going about normal Sunday business.
They had been brought back in after their heroic fight at Chu
Pong,
issued new fatigues, given a chance at some hot chow and little rest. Company B of the Second Battalion Seventh
Cavalry and one platoon of Company A of that outfit had come in with
them, the
men in those outfits had been very heavily engaged at Chu Pong and also
rated a
rest.
As I went by the area,
looking for a ride over to MACV compound with plans concerning eating
Sunday
dinner there and seeing some friends and relaxing, I saw men suddenly
leaving
the chapel services.
“I don’t know. They called the guys from the Second of the Seventh out right in the middle of services and told them to go get their gear, that their outfit was in a hell of a fight and needed them badly,” a soldier told me when I asked him what had happened.
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