Battle Ready sic-4

by Tom Clancy

  This was just minutes after they’d become aware of our fight. So it didn’t sound right to them. You don’t normally get in so much trouble so fast. “Where the hell’s this coming from?” they were asking. It was clear that the seriousness of our situation was not sinking in back there and they thought they had an overly excited lieutenant on their hands. The fact was none of the guys in the rear had enough true combat time to understand the situation; I had more trigger time by then than any of them.

  Meanwhile, I told the company commander to get on his radio and give his battalion a full situation report, and to be accurate and detailed on his ammo status.

  Just then the U.S. Air Force 0–1 Birddog light observation plane came on scene. They were called “Herbies” after their call sign, and we loved these guys. I can’t praise them enough.

  “Thank God for the Herbies,” I thought. I gave him our position and the direction the last enemy contacts had come from, and asked him to check those areas.

  A few minutes later, he came back up on the net: “You have enemy massing on three sides of you,” he said. “You’ve also got VC on foot, bicycle, and motorbikes all heading your way. I’ll work up an air strike, but you need to get ready for a big hit soon. They may get to you before I can bring in our air.”

  He was right. The VC hit us before the air strike hit them. When they saw the Birddog, I’m sure they knew they had to attack before fire was rained on them.

  When they closed in, the fighting was fierce, but the Marines were careful with their shots. They had to be. During the close-quarters fighting, a few VC broke through. A red hand flare signaled that we had an enemy penetration of our lines.

  At that moment I was concentrating on the Herbie, who was feeding me coordinates for an artillery mission on the enemy positions. My head was pressed against a wall of one of the huts, with a finger plugging one ear and the radio headset over the other. The firing and yelling made hearing difficult. But before I could complete the fire mission, I was spun around by my radio operator, trying to warn me down.

  As I turned, I saw an old man in khaki shirt and shorts with a Thompson submachine gun firing directly at me from about twenty yards away. Fortunately, his rounds were smacking into the mud wall just above my head. But then when I reached for my.45 caliber pistol, my holster was empty. My radio operator already had it and was firing at the old man. So was my cowboy. Everybody was “spraying and praying”; but no one was hit.

  A moment later, the old man’s magazine was empty, and as he tried to put in a new one from the magazine belt around his shoulder, my radio operator and cowboy bolted over and tackled him. They whacked him around a bit, then dragged him over to the wall.

  “Great!” I thought. “Now we have a POW to deal with along with all the problems I’m trying to sort out.”

  As my guys were tying up our prisoner, I noticed the fire dying away. We had beaten back another attack — the fourth. That was the good news.

  The bad news: The company commander came over to tell me that the troops had only one or two rounds apiece remaining. He then gave the order to fix bayonets.

  “Great!” The effect of his order on everybody in the company was chilling.

  At that moment, I got a radio call from a U.S. Army helicopter inbound with our ammo resupply. I gave the pilot a quick brief on the situation: “Come in from the west,” I told him. “Quickly kick out the ammo, and get out the way you came in.”

  Meanwhile, the Herbie spotted the VC regrouping. They were getting ready to hit us again.

  It was looking like a very close call coming up. If we could bring the helo in and get some ammo out to the troops, we might buy time for the air and arty missions to hit.

  The helo came in low and pushed out the crates of ammo. The Marines were on the crates quickly, and runners raced the ammo out to the troops on the line. So far so good.

  But then the helo pilot came up on the net to say he was about to go out to the east to “take a look around.”

  I screamed into the radio: “The east is full of bad guys! Go out west!” But he blew me off and started east. He instantly took heavy fire as he cleared our lines, barely missing him. He then went into a steep climb out of there, with the Herbie pilot cursing him as he flew out.

  The helo pilot then reported to our task force headquarters that I’d led him east and almost got him shot down, which brought the task force advisers down on me like a ton of shit. By then the arty and air strikes were coming in, so I told them I didn’t have time to deal with all that. (They still hadn’t caught on about how bad the situation was.[17])

  These hit just as the VC hit us.

  For a tense moment, I wondered if the ammo had made it to the troops, but that worry quickly disappeared: the heavy volume of outgoing fire was music to my ears. By this stage of my tour, I could distinguish the types of weapons firing, whether the firing was incoming or outgoing, even at these close quarters, and which side had the advantage in a firefight. It was clear that we were beating them back and that the air and arty were breaking the VC attack. This was the VC’s fifth and final attack.

  The enemy was fleeing in all directions on every mode of transportation they had, the Herbie reported excitedly. He chased some of them as they tried to scatter away from the air and helo gunship strikes he was calling in.

  Not long after that, we were able to evacuate our casualties and regroup for what we hoped would be a quiet night. Fortunately, it was; and I was able to settle the company commander down and make sure we had a solid night defensive plan. I also spent a lot of time that night trying to explain what had happened to higher headquarters. They were still confused and angry. I was the guy they were talking to, so I was the guy who got yelled at. That’s just the way things are.

  Later that night, I told my radio operator and cowboy that I was proud of how well they had performed under fire. “But we’re going to be getting some shooting practice very soon,” I told them, “and no one is ever to take my weapon!”

  Several months later, the company commander was relieved, arrested for corruption, and jailed. I never got the details, but his departure was no loss to the VNMC.

  It’s often hard to think of the enemy as human beings. But sometimes I’d run into a situation that powerfully demonstrated that that is what they are.

  One morning, I went out with another company into the hills west of Highway 1 to block for a 1st Cav sweeping operation. We moved over the crest of some low hills to set up positions above a few small hamlets. As our lead elements began working down the hill toward the villages, they suddenly stopped and gave the hand signal for “enemy ahead.” The Marines quickly and quietly came on line toward the direction indicated by the point men.

  As I came up with the company commander, I could see about seventy-five meters below us a small gathering around a cooking fire among the village huts — probably a family eating the morning meal. At the same time, I noticed two AK-47 assault rifles on the ground next to two young men.

  Just as this registered with me, the people around the fire noticed us. The young men grabbed the weapons and made their way toward a shed or barn, firing as they went. They never made it. The Marines cut them down in a hail of fire. One was hit so many times his body literally skipped along the ground.

  Meanwhile, the rest of the family — women, kids, and old folks — had scattered in the opposite direction.

  We quickly moved down the hill, rounded up the family, and put them in a covered animal pen for safekeeping, while our troops continued searching the area. They discovered uniforms, equipment, and papers belonging to the two young men — including a diary, the work of the senior of the two, a lieutenant in the NVA… the one we’d hit so many times by our fire. The other was his assistant.

  Later we learned from the family that the lieutenant was a platoon commander home on leave, and this was his family — his mother, father, wife, and kids. He’d traveled from the west near the Cambodian border back to his home v
illage.

  During our noon meal on the stoop of the family’s house, the company commander and I read selections from the diary and other papers. Soon rain started coming down, so we moved back under the palm frond overhang of the roof.

  The diary was a fascinating and incredibly meticulous account of the young lieutenant’s life as a platoon commander. He seemed to leave out nothing — from personal details about his wife and family, to the money spent on food for his troops, to the money he’d allotted for his troops to hire prostitutes. There were photos of his graduation from the military academy in North Vietnam and photos of his wife and children. He was an idealistic young man, caught up in his cause — as committed to his “faith” as we were to ours… a sobering realization.

  As I read, I had a disturbing sense that I was being watched. When I looked up, the family was standing in a shocked, emotionless cluster, like zombies, just staring at me through the rain pouring off the thatched roof of the animal pen where they were confined. Though they were stoic, like all Vietnamese, their gaze was a powerful judgment.

  There were many dizzying and disturbing moments in this seemingly senseless and confusing war that shook my certitudes. This was one of the most disturbing.

  Zinni was promoted to captain in July. The war had shortened the old time-in-grade requirements.

  UTILITY INFIELDER

  As the advisers’ utility infielder, Zinni never stayed long in one place. Here is how all that traveling broke down chronologically:

  • April 3 to April 21: Rung Sat Special Zone

  • April 24 to May 13, June 20 to August 10, and November 8 to December 13: II CTZ — Operation Pershing

  • May 15 to 19, September 2 to 9, and October 19 to November 15: Capital Military District (CMD)

  • May 24 to May 31: Mekong Delta

  • June 7 to 17, August 11 to September 2, and September 9 to October 10: III CTZ — Jungle

  • October 24 to 30: R & R in Hong Kong

  • December 13: Evacuated to Qui Non

  Zinni saw constant action during his times in II CTZ, but his times in the jungle — III CTZ — were every bit as memorable.

  He operated there for three periods during his tour: for ten days in June (when he was still comparatively green), and for most of August and September. The specific area of operations was called the Ong Dong Forest, a classic triple-canopy rain forest, thinly populated, but containing immense varieties of exotic flora and fauna — elephants, tigers, all kinds of biting insects, poisonous snakes, and other nasties. Operations in the jungle were exercises in survival as well as military operations to find the enemy. Zinni loved it. His most fascinating times in Vietnam were in the jungle.

  He takes up the story:

  Truly, when you’re out there in the jungle, you’re in a strange, new world — a world that feels untouched by humans… totally alien. Nothing seems familiar. You have a real sense of uncertainty about what might confront you. There were constant surprises. And even though I went in with savvy, experienced companions, I always felt as though I was on my own. The jungle does that to you… it makes you feel solitary.

  Our operations in the jungle were known as Operation Billings by the Americans, and Operations Song Than and Dong Nai by the Vietnamese. The U.S. unit in the area was the 1st U.S. Infantry Division, “the Big Red One.” Though we conducted a few coordinated operations with the U.S. forces, the jungle was too dense for large operations. You had to literally hack your way through vines and thick foliage, moving very slowly, mostly in small units — squad-sized, platoon-sized, maybe company-sized patrols. I learned a great deal about jungle craft, patrolling, tactics, and survival from the skilled Vietnamese Marines on these patrols.

  The aim of Billings was to interdict the enemy coming down the Ho Chi Minh Trail through Laos and Cambodia and infiltrating through the mountains and rugged terrain of the jungles into the populated regions near the coast. We didn’t actually encounter large numbers of the enemy in the jungle, but we knew they were there. Our job was to search for indications of them, their infiltration routes, or base camps or other places they might be using as sanctuaries; and we frequently found unoccupied VC positions — often clever bunkers tunneled under thick bamboo clumps, providing them with a natural cover.

  Because of the difficult terrain, the Vietnamese command wanted top troops there, and that meant the Marines.

  We operated out of a small village on the edge of the jungle called Tan Uyen, where the Marines had a base. From there we’d send a company into the jungle for six or seven days at a time to look for enemy moving eastward from the Cambodian border.

  Under the thick jungle canopy, we were on our own; we could not expect reinforcement or resupply, and we carried little food. We had no field rations, for example (such as American C rations). With the exception of a few balls of precooked rice packed in small aluminum cans, a chicken or two bound and gagged over our packs (to be killed and eaten the first or second day out), and some nouc mam, Vietnamese fish sauce, everything we ate had to be foraged (like breadfruit or bamboo shoots) or killed (like monkeys and snakes) in the field.

  Once in the jungle, the Marines knew how to use materials found there to enhance their living conditions and improve their security.

  I learned how to quickly build bamboo platforms for my gear, how to set up alarms and booby traps around our night base, and how to read tracks and signs in the jungle from our expert scouts. The most important lesson I learned was how to travel light. Before each patrol, I found a new way to lighten my load and leave behind another previously “indispensable” piece of gear.

  On my first patrol, I carried a heavy U.S. jungle hammock and a “rubber lady”—an inflatable mattress. As I settled in for the night, the Marines warned me not to sleep on the ground. “Set up your hammock in a tree,” they told me.

  I thought that was a bad idea. “We shouldn’t sleep in the trees,” I answered. “We have to be ready in case the enemy attacks.”

  They shook their heads knowingly and slept in the trees.

  Just in case, I tied my hammock up in a tree, but went to sleep on my rubber lady.

  In the middle of the night, my mattress suddenly deflated like a tire blowing out, and I was stabbed by hundreds of burning hot stings. Slapping wildly at them, I jumped into the hammock. I didn’t need further persuasion. In time, the pain subsided and I was able to sleep.

  The next morning, my skin was a red mass of bites. And when I poked my head over my hammock, I could see my mattress — or what was left of it — being devoured by thousands of ants. Only a two-foot square remained.

  The Marines gave me an “I told you so” look. Then advised me to get rid of my heavy hammock and grab one of their light nylon ones (they folded up small enough to be stowed in a pocket). I did.

  The fieldcraft of the Vietnamese was impressive.

  Every activity on the patrols was a preset drill. Before we set out, we rehearsed everything — occupation of a patrol base; getting water; acquiring food; setting up our night defenses; crossing danger areas such as streams and clearings; setting up ambushes; and even using the field sanitation pits. Nothing was left to chance or improvisation. No one did anything alone (some Marines’ only function was to maintain security while others fetched water or gathered food). And no one did anything until the order was given. Anyone attempting otherwise did so at his peril.

  On one patrol, we lost a new recruit who went off to get water from a nearby stream before the order came to go. All we found after a search was his helmet by a stream.

  In the jungle, it wasn’t only the enemy you had to worry about; other dangers could easily strike. I awoke one morning to hear an obviously upset company commander chewing out his men for some nighttime security breach. This was strange, since the Vietnamese Marines were reliably vigilant, especially at night. When I asked him about it, he showed me a huge steaming pile of dung in the middle of the patrol base. It was tiger shit.

  The Ma
rines swore that they’d been alert; and I believed them. The tiger had come in without tripping any of our bamboo clapper alarms or claymore mines and had been undetected by our security. I didn’t sleep too soundly after that.

  On another morning, I was awakened by a group of Marines around my hammock, chattering excitedly and pointing above the poncho I had rigged over it. Pulling back the poncho revealed a gigantic snake curled on a branch a few feet above my head — a twelve-foot python with a big bulge in his middle. He had recently eaten.

  To the Vietnamese this was gold. They quickly cut down the snake, twisted the lethargic reptile around a makeshift pole cut from a branch, and sewed up the snake’s mouth with a rawhide-like chord. Though the snake seemed half-dead, I assumed that condition had been brought on by his recent meal.

  The Marines decided we should take the snake back to the village, since killing and eating it in the field would be a waste (food spoiled fast and had to be consumed shortly after killing it). We had three days left on our patrol.

  Toward the end of the patrol, the snake grew increasingly active, but we made it back with him and enjoyed a grand meal.

  The marines were as careful in their departures as they were in their preparations. They tried never to leave any trace of their presence behind. When we pulled out of our bases, we meticulously cleaned them. The aim was to leave behind as little evidence of our presence as possible and to prevent the VC from getting their hands on anything they could use… a discarded C ration can and a grenade could quickly be turned into a booby trap.

  Several times we came across positions once used by U.S. or South Vietnamese units. Since these were always booby-trapped by the enemy, I was glad our policy was never to occupy a position used before. The Vietnamese were always angered by the carelessness of U.S. forces. Abandoned U.S. bases or night positions normally had claymore mines still in place and discarded or forgotten equipment strewn about.