James Estep - Comanche Six

Fortunately, this disheartening task was soon someone else’s responsibility. My short-lived tenure as a battalion S-1 ended abruptly late one night in early December when Colonel Lich sent word for me to report, “bag and baggage,” to him at Battalion Forward, the following morning. Upon doing so, I learned he had relieved one of his company commanders the day before.

And I was that company’s new “Comanche Six.”

At the time, Charlie Company was guarding Highway One’s Bong Son bridge on the An Lao River in Binh Dinh Province. The evening log bird (logistics helicopter, normally a UH-ID [Huey]) deposited me, along with our evening meal, on the bridge at dust. Within minutes of it having arrived, I made two observations: many of those who greeted me had been drinking, a couple excessively, and virtually all who greeted me held their previous company commander in high esteem, believing his relief to have been at best premature. With these truths in mind and recognizing discretion as being the better part of valor, I decided to retire to my bunker for the evening and start afresh with my new command the following morning.

Later that night, First Lieutenant Brightly, the company’s attached artillery FO (forward observer), visited my sandbagged encampment and provided me his unsolicited evaluation of the company from A to Z, what was right with it (in his mind not an awful lot) and what was wrong with it (as he perceived it quite a bit). He was opinionated, somewhat intoxicated, and slightly disrespectful. He was also, I soon discovered, correct in much of what he said.

“Company’s fucking shell shocked, sir. I mean they’re goofy… uh… know what I mean?”

“No, I don’t know what you mean by ‘goofy.” Are you talking drugs?” I replied.

“Hell, no. And by the way, call me Slim, sir. Hell, I’m your Foxtrot Oscar, we’re gonna be close. FO and CO gotta be close, ‘cause you can save my fucking ass, and I for goddamn sure can save yours. ‘Member, I’m the link between you and all the artillery in the fucking free world! FO and CO gotta be close, figuratively and literally. Me and the outgoing Six were close—yeah, close—and that’s why I know what’s wrong with this fucking outfit.”

“Shit, it ain’t drugs, and it ain’t booze.” He paused momentarily, smiling, “…I mean regardless of what you’ve seen here tonight, hooch ain’t a problem in the company; we see very damn little of that! And it’s not snuffy either. Shit, company’s got the best soldiers in the division, whole goddamn Army, matter of fact. It’s Charlie. And the war. And luck, or the lack of it.”

“Slim, you’re gonna have to spell it out clearer than that,” I said, unable to comprehend the drift of his rambling. “I mean I don’t believe in luck or omens.”

“Well, shit, neither do I!” he responded, almost indignantly. “But see, the company’s had a bunch of folk killed in the last two, three months, more wounded. Snipers, booby traps, little piss-ant ambushes, you name it. And sir, we ain’t even seen a fucking gook! Snuffie’s saying he’s in a hard-luck company. Fuck, every time we get into something, it’s our guys who buy the farm or go out on dust off.”

After a moment’s silence, I asked, “Well, Slim, if that’s the problem, what’s the solution?”

“Solution! Shit, sir, the solution is to kill some fucking gooks!

Solution is to get the body count going the other way. Company needs to see some dead dinks out there. That’s the fucking solution!”

He was right. The company had suffered several costly “hits” with little to show in return. Largely because of this, many of our soldiers now perceived self-survival to be the predominate unit objective. Such a precept is dangerous since it weakens unit cohesiveness and, hence, The Cav combat effectiveness. And in infantry combat, as in all other facets of conflict, the strong destroy the weak.

Charlie Company was an airmobile rifle company that, at any given time, had a foxhole strength (the number of combat-deployable soldiers) of approximately 130 men. It was organized into three rifle platoons—the company’s “cutting edge”—Each carrying thirty to thirty-five men on its rolls; a weapons platoon of fifteen to twenty soldiers; and the command section composed of myself, the first sergeant, my two RTOs (radio telephone operators), a medic, and an attached artillery FO and his recon sergeant. Each of the platoons was commanded by a lieutenant and was normally referred to by that lieutenant’s call sign on the company command (radio) net. Thus, 1st Platoon was called “One Six”; 2nd, “Two Six”; and so on.

With the exception of vehicles, we were equipped basically the same as any other light-infantry rifle company. We had no need of vehicles, since we winged our way to war aboard helicopters.

Remaining on the bridge for another week, we trained, reequipped, suffered the constant red dust of endless military convoys traveling Highway One during the day, and slept on the damp floors of our sandbagged bunkers at night. In the meantime, I talked with our soldiers as opportunity availed itself, in doing so learning something of their frustrations. Not surprisingly, these centered on being away from home, in the Nam, in the infantry, in a hard-luck company that they felt too often came out on the losing end of the stick when confronting Charlie.

Unlike the rest of the battalion—and certainly the division as a whole—which felt Charlie to be a second-rate opponent, in the minds of some of my soldiers the enemy had assumed an almost supernatural status.

He was everywhere, behind every tree, beneath every rock, just waiting for an unsuspecting C Company to stumble across him. He was perceived by these soldiers to be a winner, a better and more competent warrior.

I knew, as did many others in the company, that this simply wasn’t true.

Charlie was good and should be so regarded; however, he was no superman, and he sure as hell could be beaten!

One of those who knew he could be beaten was my first sergeant, Sergeant Sullivan. Referred to by the troops as the “Bull,” he was a tall, slim, wiry individual with a deeply tanned, weather-beaten face that sat under a closely cropped, grayish blond crew cut. He looked more like an aged SS storm trooper than like a bull. Or perhaps, more accurately, he looked like… a first sergeant.

Unfortunately, ours was not a case of love at first sight. Sergeant Sullivan was angry over the relief of his former commander and did little to hide his bitterness. And although he held me blameless for this turn of events, I was quite obviously the most visible reminder of his commander’s impetuous departure. I, in turn, was angered by what I felt to be his misplaced loyalty and surly manner, and I briefly toyed with the idea of having him and my executive officer exchange places at company trains. (In the Nam, a rifle company’s rear-echelon logistics base—normally collocated with battalion trains—was usually supervised by the company’s executive officer or its first sergeant, the choice, of course, being left to the company commander concerned.)

But Sergeant Sullivan would have none of that!

“Sir, don’t even think it!” he said when I suggested the possibility of such a switch. “First sergeant’s place is with the troops! Always!”

“Well, First Sergeant, I agree in theory; however, other first sergeants are in charge of trains, and they…”

“And they don’t deserve to be called ‘first sergeant,’ sir!” he loudly interjected. “Good God, how can they look their soldiers in the eye when they conduct their so-called field visits or when the company stands down?”