14

Then there was silence, broken only by the clicking of the compass-needles and snapping of watch-cases, as the heads of columns compared bearings and made appointments for the rendezvous.

Rudyard Kipling, The Lost Legion

1973

The helicopter lifted and fell as it followed the shape of the land and the height of the trees, alternately pressing me down on the metal deck and giving me the feeling of floating just above it. The land below me was a mottled amber and gray, with an occasional flare of white where a dogwood was coming into bloom. Inside the aircraft the environment was mechanical and hard-edged. The pilots' helmets hid their humanity and made it seem as if giant insects were transporting us. From my place in the back I saw only the pilots' bulbous heads, the lights and dials of the instrument panels, and the pilots' gloved hands on the controls. I did not want to talk to them. I did not need to talk to them over the clatter of our flight. The time for talking was past. Now the job was just to get there, to a spot on a map, and get off.

The land was difficult to understand at our speed and height. The contours were hidden by vegetation and shadows. It flowed past us in a rush. I was tapped on my shoulder by one of my soldiers and I looked up to see a pilot pointing through the front windscreen to a small open area. I signaled my men and we unbuckled. 

Unsafe. Not supposed to unbuckle before landing. Screw it. Too many seconds lost trying to unbuckle after landing.

The ground suddenly came into focus. Tall grass was blown down by the rotor wash. The nose tilted up, then settled and the struts were on the ground. We jumped to the earth. We crouched and shuffle-ran burdened by gear to get out and away from the wind. Then we fell to the ground, looking outward. Behind me the rattling roar of the helicopters increased. I heard the shouts of squad leaders. The flight of six machines lifted up and away and we were alone.

Twenty meters away was a tree line and we rushed towards it, running close to the ground listening, watching for a popping sound and flashes. We ran awkwardly carrying our world with us — helmets, radios, ammunition, food, canteens of water, first aid packets, knives, bayonets, pistols, rifles, grenades of several types, rocket launchers, machine guns, spools of wire, dry socks in plastic bags, cigarettes, paperback books, codebooks, maps, toothpaste, razors, shaving cream, compasses, maps, matches, green t-shirts and boxer shorts, blocks of explosive, blasting caps, claymore mines, det cord, entrenching tools, ponchos, soft caps, gloves, poncho liners, spare shirts, spare sets of trousers, extra shoe laces, rifle cleaning kits, camouflage sticks, dog tags, extra eyeglasses, mosquito repellent, aspirin, water purification tablets, ear plugs, hand soap, flashlights, grease pencils, ballpoint pens, note pads, map overlays, wallets, protective masks, atropine injectors, packets of condoms, chewing gum, candy bars, strobe lights, batteries, P-38 can openers, green duct tape —  all packed into waterproof bags and stuffed into rucksacks, or attached to web gear, or in the side pockets of trousers. It was all put someplace where it could be found in the dark.

At the tree line I got out my map to figure out where we were. I knew where I was supposed to be, but this did not feel right, it did not look right. Reports came in accounting for my people. The second flight of six appeared over the tree line and touched down. Men floundered out and dispersed. The flight took off. More humpbacked men scrambled into the trees. Another accounting was received.

A flow, it was all a flow. First I had decided how I, my company, wanted to look on the ground when we arrived. Then I worked it out backwards, each step dictated by the carrying capacity and quantity of helicopters and where they were coming from. Less than an hour ago and far away small clumps of men divided up on the edge of the pickup zone. Timed flights of helicopters arrived low over the horizon, fluttered down, and the small clumps of men shuffled into them. Then the choppers tilted forward and flowed away, to this place, again and again. Until they were all gone from there and that field was empty and marked only by crushed grass and a blowing candy wrapper, as if nothing had ever been there.

Now we were here. Each pod scattered its seeds and then the pod itself was blown away in the wind. The seeds settled in, waiting to be told where to go next. It was an illusion of scattering. Infantrymen's desperate need to stay together meant that we clumped into at least pairs, but often the clumps were larger. The first shouts of the squad leaders over the thumping of the helicopters were, as always, "Spread out! Spread out! Spread out, goddamnit!"

We were all here, wherever here was.

"Get me 3-5," I told my radio operator, "and tell him to come see me."

The radio whispered and 3-5, the Third Platoon sergeant, showed up. We did not salute. I pointed to my map and told the sergeant, "This doesn't look right. I think they put us in the wrong place." The Third Platoon did not have a lieutenant and anyhow, Sergeant Donald was the best navigator in the company.

Sergeant Donald nodded and said, "I agree."

"Where do you think we are?"

Donald took out his own plastic-wrapped map, one marked with the same symbols of where they'd been and where they were supposed to go. He pointed to two elevations on the map and two hills barely visible above the trees. "Could be the same places," he said.

A quick resection put them two kilometers east of where they were supposed to land and maybe three kilometers offset from where they were supposed to go.

"Are you sure?"

"No, sir," the platoon sergeant answered.

"Neither am I." I pointed to my map, "If we go this way, and if we are here, then we should cross that stream and that road about there."

"Looks right."

"OK. Your platoon leads out. I'll follow with the second and first platoons. We'll take another look when we get across the stream."

Other lieutenants and NCOs were in a small circle around me now. All of them had their maps out and were casting their heads up into the air looking for landmarks. The ritual of movement was about to begin.

"Third, Second, First Platoon," I said. "First Platoon sweep the LZ. We don't want to leave any shit behind. I'll follow Third Platoon. We don't know where the hell we are, but we'll be able to figure it out." I pointed to the Second Platoon leader, "Lyle, you figure it out on your own and double check what we're doing."

Seafaring men never know quite where they are and, unless there are rocks or shoals or sandbars, as long as they're within a mile or two it does not matter. For them the computations of the sun and stars, the precise recording of time, the tables and sextants and compass cards are good enough to determine their longitude and latitude. The infantryman's going to and fro upon the earth demands a greater precision.

Well, that's not entirely the case. For the individual infantryman it is enough to know that he is here and the rest of his squad is there. But outside his little cocoon of concern he and his small collective are going somewhere to do something. He cannot get there unless he knows where he is now and where there is from here.

"I'm not gonna waste any marking rounds and I'll be damned if I'll ask the CO to find us."

Pride. That was all it really was. One way to find my location was to ask someone else. I could ask the artillery to fire a smoke round on a registered location. If I could see the round land then I could take a bearing and then I would know where we were. Or I could ask someone who was flying around to come find us and tell us where we were. I didn't want to do either of those things. I and my lieutenants and sergeants would be able to figure it out, assuming the maps were right.

Eventually I must have the answer. My company was part of a larger group. Someone up at battalion HQ had us plotted on a larger map and huddled around that map were people who also wanted to know where the hell we were and what we were doing. More important, if someone started shooting at us, I had to know. For now, just screw it. Find out on my own. So I reported my best guess and moved out following Sergeant Donald's platoon. Donald checked his compass and sent out his point man on the azimuth, compass direction, that made the most sense. His squads took up flanking positions watching the sides for shadows and threats.

When we crossed the stream the leaders gathered again. We crouched in a group under a tree. Off to the side was a cluster of radio operators, their antennas and faint whispering of their radios marking them off. Lyle, as he was supposed to do, had found another place on the map that looked very much like the ground they were seeing around them. We could be there, not here. It was a puzzle, a fundamental puzzle.

I could not get to where I was supposed to go if I didn't know where we were. Eventually there was going to be an enemy in the way. It was not a friendly world here. 

"If we're here, then that road junction ought to be there." I pointed to a place on the map. "And, if we're here, then that hilltop ought to be at a heading of about 135 degrees."

He made a decision. "OK. Lyle, send a quick patrol out to see if the junction's there. Just a klick out and back. Sergeant Donald, you go on until you get a clear view of that hilltop. I'll revise the movement plan based on what you find. Everyone else take up a hasty defense right here."

"Dig in?" someone asked.

I had to smile. I had a reputation to keep.

The platoons spread out and picked their spots.

"Sonofabitch is a goddamned mole," I heard a private say. "You stop walkin', start diggin," he said in a high, sing-song voice. 

His squad leader, who was young and had not seen much combat, agreed with the private, but he did not say so. Instead, he said, "You dig in the wrong place and you'll dig it again. Look at where you are goddammit. You've got no fields of fire. You can't see anyone on your left or right. Move back to that tree there and start again." 

They moved, but before they started on another hole, Lyle was back. "No junction," he says. "Looks like Sergeant Donald is right."

Donald came back. "We're off some. Got an azimuth that puts us right about here," he said pointing to a spot on the map.

"OK. I'll call it in and see if we can find out where Alpha and Bravo Companies are. Lyle, your platoon is on point. Let me know when you're ready to move. March order is Second, Third, and First Platoon. I'll follow the Second Platoon."

I encoded the coordinates of our position and radioed them back to the command post. I learned that the other two companies were also put down in the wrong locations. Alpha company was so far off that the helicopters were going back for them. I was told that aerial recon of the objective showed no sign of the enemy.

"Then why the Hell are we attacking it?" I said to myself.

Overall I was happy. I knew where I was, a simple pleasure in a complicated, dangerous world. I was at this little dot on a map, this little dot that was moving from here to there, there being a small circle on the map. I was connected to the rest of my battalion and brigade and division, my Army. I was even connected to the Air Force. Now that I knew where I was, I could tell them and they could come to me. Even if the air began to whistle and buzz, even if the green and blue day began to change into gray and wet, I knew where we were and I was not alone. It was a good feeling.

The private muttered and folded his entrenching tool. He shook the dirt off his M-16 and checked to make sure nothing had gotten in the barrel. He put on his rucksack and humped over to a position off the side of the trail just to the left of his squad leader.

When we got to the hill and there was no enemy. Our cautious creep through the last five hundred meters brought only sweat into our eyes, leeches on our legs, and a few more insect bites on the back of our necks. We found our places all around the upper slope of the small hill and we dug in. 

The private looked back up the hill and saw his Captain, shirt off, entrenching tool in hand, digging his own hole just like the rest of them.