Main Force Assault

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. When 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. I 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 more 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