Free A Rumor of War by Philip Caputo

the floor with a thud. Following Lemmon’s instructions, I stowed extra combat gear in my seabag and packed my service “A” uniforms, most of my civilian clothes, and, regrettably, my books into a footlocker. I would have liked to bring the books along, but there wasn’t enough room in the seabag. I was also sure there would not be enough time to read in Vietnam. I didn’t know then that nine-tenths of war is waiting around for the remaining one-tenth to happen. The packing done, I stenciled CAPUTO, P.J. 2LT. 089046 c-1-3 on the footlocker and tagged it for shipment to the division warehouse at Camp Courtney. It would be stored there until I returned to claim it. The possibility that I might not return did not occur to me. I was twenty-three years old, in superb condition, and quite certain that I would live forever.

    The scene at the battalion area was chaotic and the atmosphere one of crisis. Enlisted men were running in and out of the squad bays with the frenzied motions of figures in a silent film. Some were in full battle-dress, some still in civilian clothes, and others in only their underwear, odd bits of equipment slung over their naked shoulders. Working parties lugged crates from the supply sheds and piled them in the streets, creating an obstacle course for jeep and truck drivers. A mechanical mule—a heavy-weapons carrier that looked nothing like a mule but rather resembled an oversized toy wagon—dodged one of the stacks, went over a curb, and roared down a sidewalk, a 106-mm recoilless rifle bouncing in its flatbed. Charley Company’s area, like the others, resembled an outdoor army surplus store. Scattered everywhere were mortar tubes, baseplates, rows of packs with rifles propped against them, tent canvas, machine-gun belts—the linked cartridges coiled in the metal ammo cans—flak jackets, helmets, and a variety of communications gear. Testing the radios, the operators produced a concert of squawks, bleeps, and static hisses, above which their voices rose in monotonous chants. “Burke Six, Burke Six, this is Charley Six, Charley Six. Read you weak and garbled, say again weak and garbled. Give me a long test-count.”
    “… Roger, Charley Six. Long test-count follows… ten, niner, eight…”
    I recall very little of the next few hours. It was all noise and confusion, with officers yelling orders at sergeants, sergeants at corporals, corporals at lance corporals, lance corporals at privates, who, having no one to yell at, did all the work. The chain of command, if nothing else, was functioning smoothly. I remember the theatrical McCloy exclaiming, “The bronzed gods are off to war!” when he saw a marine with bandoliers crossed over his chest, Mexican-bandit style; a supply clerk who said, “These’re so’s your pecker don’t get blown off” as he issued sets of armored shorts; the strange feeling, a mixture of apprehension and anticipation, when I drew my pistol from the armory and saw the .45-caliber rounds, gleaming in the magazines like blunted yellow teeth.
    About 2000 hours, more commonly known as eight P.M., Peterson summoned his platoon leaders and staff NCOs to , the company office for a briefing. We crowded into the small room, which was soon dense with cigarette smoke and the stench of stale sweat. The tall, boyish-looking Peterson was bent over an acetate-covered map upon which lines and arrows had been drawn in grease pencil. Copies were passed to the platoon commanders. Some of us were so ignorant of Vietnamese geography that the skipper had to begin by pointing out where Danang was. It appeared on the old French Army maps under its colonial name, Tourane.

    The briefing turned out to be sketchy. The Communists, Peterson said, had launched a dry-season offensive in I Corps and the Central Highlands and threatened to cut South Vietnam in half. The ARVN had been taking heavy casualties, the equivalent of a battalion a week. South Vietnamese units now guarding vital