by Dennis Foley
The combat readiness of the teams was of major concern to Hollister. The field and base camp casualties had cut across four of the teams, reducing each of them by one man. Another entire team had been zeroed out by wounds and KIAs. That left him with only five of the ten teams they had filled out before the casualties. Even the ten teams were far short of the twenty they were authorized. He had to recommend to Major Sangean that they either consolidate to make full-strength teams or stand down the short teams until they could be filled and get some training in. His experience told him to avoid mixing up team members and moving them to fill out short teams.
The decisions and the planning were going to take all Hollister’s concentration and energy to make the right moves for the company. He decided to pick up all his notes and the manning roster Dewey had provided him and head to the mess hall, where he could get a cup of coffee and spread out his work.
Crossing the company street again, Hollister passed Major Sangean. They exchanged salutes, and Sangean said, “I’m on my way over to the Division TOC to piss on the assistant G-3’s desk.”
Hollister made a face, not bothering to ask.
“They just called down and issued orders for us to provide forty-five warm bodies to serve as perimeter security tonight. They’re expecting more ground probes, and it seems that having an entire fucking infantry division at their disposal isn’t enough.”
“Seems like they could put them shoulder to shoulder on the berm and hold off Ho’s entire army,” Hollister said.
“It’d seem so to me. Anyway, you take over in case we have any more trouble around here. I’ll try to be back in a couple of hours. I’ve got a shit pot full of bones to pick with those dickheads at division.”
Sangean didn’t give Hollister a second chance to respond. He simply walked away. Hollister was beginning to understand two things about Sangean. One, he didn’t have time for anything but business. Two, there was nothing more important to him than his troops. Hollister was sure they would never be close, but they thought a lot alike when it came to the troops and the mission. And that made Hollister feel better about the tasks before him.
“Here you go, Cap’n. This is just brewed,” Sergeant Kendrick said, placing a steaming coffee mug in front of him on the picnic table that had been made out of the decking from an abandoned building. The telltale boot marks on the plywood created an unusual pattern on the dining table.
“Thanks. I won’t be in your way, will I?”
“Sir, you never been in my way. You want to use my mess hall—you just let me know, and I’ll make room for you.”
“Thanks,” Hollister said, remembering the time they had spent together in his first LRP detachment. “I’m looking forward to your cooking on this tour, too.”
“Well, I just happen to have some sweet rolls coming out of the oven in a minute here. Would you like one, sir?”
“No thanks. Maybe later. I’ve got to earn my pay before I fill my face.”
“Roger that, sir,” Kendrick said, touching the lower edge of his paper cook’s hat. He then smiled, turned, and hollered to the unseen cooks and helpers in the kitchen end of the building. “Hey! I don’t hear no pans bein’ washed or silverware bein’ dried back there!”
Kendrick’s manner amused Hollister and gave him a good feeling about the type of soldiers he had served with in LRPs and Airborne units. Kendrick was one of the unique ones who preferred to do a very unheralded job in a unit that had a big reputation. He liked being around the soldiers and NCOs he cooked for, and he liked being a LRP. He had never been out on a patrol, but there was never a man in any unit Kendrick was with who ever lacked for plenty of good food and hot coffee in the wee hours. He took lots of pride in what he did, and even though most of the troops forgot to tell him, they appreciated him.
Hollister wondered what the future held for Kendrick. He would not be able to get too many more promotions. The top of the NCO Corps pyramid becomes very pointed. For him to advance, he would have to work for a much larger organization and take on jobs like being mess steward for a ten-thousand-man mess hall or an even larger one. Doing that meant Kendrick would have to leave units like the LRPs and move to an Airborne division or a separate brigade.
As the afternoon gave way to dusk, Major Sangean returned and called a meeting of the officers and senior NCOs in the unit. Kendrick’s mess hall was the only place that could hold everyone and offer work light.
Hollister took the chance to say hello to a few of the platoon sergeants, a platoon leader, and the supply officer—none of whom he had met earlier because of schedules.
Sangean held up a handful of papers that were stapled together. Several blue lines had been drawn under the typed entries with a ballpoint. “These are holes in our TO and E. We haven’t even filled out yet, and we are hurting for replacements. On top of that, the division is trying to squeeze us to beef up their security.”
Knowing looks were exchanged by some of the NCOs.
“I told ’em to go fuck themselves,” Sangean said angrily.
The room erupted in whistles and applause and catcalls.
“Okay, okay. Let’s not get too crazy. I won the argument, but we have to be busy with our mission or the division is going to tap us for sure. Before we can get back out in the bush, we have to sharpen up some skills. Captain Hollister will be tagging each patrol platoon and some of the old-timers for instructors. Don’t give him any shit.”
“Anything’s better than fucking guard mount with the legs,” someone said from the back of the room, spurring on more catcalls.
“All I want to see is training. I don’t want any reports that any of our people are seen up in the division area. Anyone that needs to go there on business will wear leg fatigues—no cammies,” Sangean said, looking toward Morrison. “You got that, First Sergeant?”
“Yessir,” Morrison said from his place near the back door.
Sangean popped the catch holding the metal wristband on his Rolex and absentmindedly rubbed the inside of his wrist. Hollister had noticed that it was a thing Sangean did when he was tired.
“Gentlemen, we shipped off eight bodies in rubber bags today. There is no excuse for any of it. I want the sandbagging to speed up around here, and God help the man I catch sleeping with his head above parapet level. The other losses could have been avoided with more training and better support. Captain Hollister and I will take care of the support problem, but the rest is up to you-all. Do I make myself clear?”
“Clear, sir! Airborne!” many of the assembled NCOs and officers yelled, reminiscent of their days at the Airborne School.
They stood at attention as Sangean grabbed his floppy hat, placed it on his near shaven head, and exited the building saying only: “Carry on.”
That night the probes on the perimeter continued. The division command post took three rockets that damaged some of the buildings, but caused no additional casualties. On the bunker line there were ten more 25th Division KIAs. The rumor was that more than half of them were from friendly fire.
The most effective damage happened to the airfield, which was pockmarked with mortar rounds. Several of the aircraft that had been dispersed around the base camp had been damaged by small arms, and a Chinook was knocked out of action by a truck driver who panicked during one of the mortar attacks and backed a deuce and a half into the fuselage.
By first light on the third day of the Tet Offensive, the single remaining LRP patrol had to return to Cu Chi after having been held up at the ARVN outpost at Hiep Hoa.
That same night the VC made one last, feeble attempt at attacking Cu Chi and only succeeded in hitting one of the ammunition storage pits that were spotted throughout the base. The ordnance detonated and continued to cook off from the flames of the burning wooden packing cases and the spilled contents of some of the artillery powder bags. The glow on the horizon and the muffled explosions could be heard all over the base camp, keeping many of the newer and more timid soldiers awake.
&nbs
p; “Basics first!” Hollister said to Sergeant Kurzikowski. “Before we put any of these folks out of a chopper on string, or try some elaborate demolitions training, I want every man—officers and NCOs—to review basic patrolling techniques, radio procedure, map and compass reading, hand-and-arm signals, and immediate-action drills. When they aren’t doing that, I want every weapon zeroed and plenty of practice on the range. Tell division that if they can’t accommodate us with range time, we want to build our own.”
“Whoa, Captain. I can’t write that fast.”
Hollister stopped long enough for Kurzikowski to catch up, then asked, “You think it’s too much?”
“Only the writing part, sir.” He tapped his pen on the pad. “You do all this training, and we’ll have lots more LRPs making it to DEROS,” Kurzikowski said, looking up and giving Hollister an approving smile.
“Good. Now, I think that we also ought to spend time working on identification—civilians and VC, like that.”
“What do you mean?” Kurzikowski asked.
“I want someone who can tell more about a Viet from looking at him to teach us what to look for. My first tour it was pretty easy to spot a bad guy.” Hollister waved his arm in the direction of the Cambodian border. “But out there they all look alike to us round-eyes. Out there in the paddies, they’re all likely to be VC. But you can’t make me believe that the Vietnamese don’t know more about it than we do. We need to find that person.”
Kurzikowski put his pen to his lip and rolled his eyes. “Makes sense, but I’m not rightly sure I know who that is. Give me time to sleep on it.”
The training started almost immediately. Hollister assigned himself to teach patrol-leading techniques to the Specialist 4s and sergeants who were assigned as team leaders. He insisted that the two platoon leaders—both second lieutenants—take all the training as if they were LRP team members.
The decision wasn’t popular with the lieutenants, but they didn’t complain too much. They knew they had to win the confidence of the patrol members by showing they could—and would—do everything the members of their platoons were expected to do.
It didn’t take very long for the lieutenants to find out that Hollister himself had been a platoon leader of a LRP platoon. They also knew they were not going to be able to put anything over on him. Of the four lieutenants in the company—two platoon leaders, a commo officer, and the supply officer—two had been Ranger students while Hollister was an instructor at Ranger School.
So there was no getting out of anything with Hollister. To most of them, he was consistent with Sangean’s approach to hard training and serious business in the field. But unlike Sangean, they found that Hollister had a sense of humor and they could talk to him.
It didn’t take them long to acquire a carcass from a Huey, minus the tail boom and the rotor assembly, by way of what the Airborne called “midnight requisition.” With it the LRPs practiced loading, unloading, firing, and supporting the fires of onboard door gunners.
Their progress was easy to measure with a stopwatch. The time on the ground getting into or out of a chopper was the most vulnerable time for every LRP.
The troops started each day early and ended very late, with a critique of the day’s training. After that, the playfulness that normally took place before training gave way to more practical things—like sleep.
The platoon leaders and the patrol leaders had extra training beyond that of the patrol members. Hollister and Kurzikowski gave classes on the use of gunships, medevac procedures, calling and adjusting artillery, and close air support. And Major Sangean drilled Hollister and Kurzikowski on company operations, planning, coordination, communications, and reporting.
Hollister found himself grabbing an hour of sleep here and there, but never anything near a full night’s sleep. He was only able to get a letter out to Susan about every third day and then only by writing in five-minute snatches, when he could. He knew his words would make little sense and paragraphs would be completely disconnected in subject matter and mood. Still, he wanted to get them off to her to let her know that he was thinking about her and that he missed her.
There was no avoiding the special complications that working in western III Corps brought to Juliet Company. As a result Hollister took every opportunity to get out over the AO in a chopper or fixed-wing aircraft. He studied the patterns that civilians used to get to places and took note of what they avoided. He felt that the local guerrillas were certainly being used to guide North Vietnamese and Main Force units through the area. He also suspected that the patterns the locals had developed growing up would not change much in their selection of routes and places to hide from U.S. and South Vietnamese observation. He hoped he was right.
The patterns seemed to break down into very practical matters. Civilians wove easily recognizable trails into the countryside as they avoided the farmland, which was near to being sacred. Paths were along dikes and on the margins of dirt roads and highways. The waterways were followed extensively because of their convenience and the lack of damage using them caused. Often, paths ran just under the overhang of trees planted to mark property and break monsoon winds.
Hollister’s first instinct was to suspect this was a way to avoid aerial observation. But then he realized that the paths had been carved there long before the skies were patrolled by aircraft, and he remembered that Vietnamese didn’t value a suntan the way Americans did. Everywhere, in the field and in the cities, he saw Vietnamese women holding hats, books, or parcels between their faces and the sun to prevent the rays from darkening their skin. Dark skin was the mark of field hands, not the mark of aristocracy. The paths under the trees were simply to avoid the sun where possible.
Hollister took Lieutenants Osborne and Seeley along on the terrain flights. Osborne was a VMI grad who had a slow Southern drawl and an unshakable personality. Hollister liked his stability and thought that all he needed to work on was Osborne’s awareness of the troops and their needs.
Hollister didn’t envy any officer who had not been an enlisted man. In his mind the experience was invaluable in understanding the point of view and the perceptions of soldiers who rarely have the big picture and often mistake the motives of the officers in charge.
Seeley was another West Pointer, but unlike most of his classmates, he was a former enlisted man who had taken competitive exams to get accepted into the Military Academy Prep School at Fort Belvoir. After a year at the prep school, he’d been accepted by West Point with the other plebes, who were there by congressional appointment.
Seeley had a handle on his relationship with the troops, but needed work on decision making under pressure. He had only been out of the academy for a year, and during that time he had been a general’s aide at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri. Fort Leonard Wood was an engineer post that had a small training brigade to teach infantry basic training. The deputy post commander was an infantryman. So Seeley’s development as a platoon leader had been put on hold until he arrived in Vietnam and was able to convince the assignments officer at the Replacement Battalion that he should be assigned to the newly forming LRP company.
On their flights Hollister called out situations to the officers to test their reactions and to critique their performances. Hollister was fond of picking out terrain features like road junctions, or even a grazing water buffalo, and charging one of the officers with determining the grid coordinates, as if he were preparing to call for artillery or air support. He pressed them to do it rapidly, reminding them that time was half of effective fire support.
He would develop scenarios where imaginary patrols were holed up in patches of green and in need of medevac, emergency equipment, or gunship support, then let the lieutenants explain how they would handle the situation—who they would contact, what frequencies they needed to monitor, what considerations they would make concerning the immediate situation near the patrol. The hardest part for them was sizing up the intentions and the threat presented by the civilians working and wan
dering near the simulated patrol locations.
At the end of each flight, Hollister would come back with his map case covered with grease-pencil notes on the terrain, so hoarse he could hardly speak.
“I’ve got some good news for you, Hollister,” Major Sangean said.
“What’s that, sir? I could use a lift,” Hollister said as he entered Operations.
“Meet Captain Jack Stanton. He’s from the One hundred forty-fifth Aviation Battalion and will be honchoing our new gunship support.”
Stanton stood, put down the cold drink he was sipping, wiped the can’s condensation from his hand, and stuck it out for Hollister to shake.
Taking Stanton’s hand, Hollister looked from him back to Sangean. “Permanentlike?”
“You got it,” Stanton said. “We’ve been attached for operational control. The One hundred forty-fifth is going to provide maintenance, Log support, and Admin. All you have to do is fly us, feed us, and bunk us down.”
“Hot shit!” Hollister yelled. “Man, are we glad to see you. So, what can we expect?”
Stanton looked to Sangean, as if they had a secret.
“How do you feel about Cobras?” Sangean asked, cracking a smile for the first time in days.
“Holy fuck!” Hollister said. “I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it! Cobras!”
“Believe it. I’ve got six snakes and crews to go with them. Only problem is that only ’bout half my crews are checked out in snakes. And they all need more in-country transition and check rides. But they’re wetting their pants to get to it,” Jack Stanton said.
“I gotta sit down,” Hollister said, half kidding. He dropped his map case and hat on the field desk he had set up in Operations and flopped onto the folding chair next to it.
“This Major Fowler’s doing?” Hollister asked Sangean.
Sangean shrugged.
“I don’t know who Major Fowler is,” said Stanton, “but I got my marching orders through channels from USARV. They wanted to tie up the first Cobras in-country with a larger Log base to support any maintenance needs and test us with small units. There are a bunch of ’em going to the Cav, but they’re working on a different concept. So we belong to you, and we’re ready to move forward from Bien Hoa in the next couple of days. You got room for us?”