Free A Rumor of War by Philip Caputo Page A

installations had to be sent into the field, both to make good ARVN losses and to provide enough manpower for a counteroffensive. American ground troops, therefore, had to be deployed immediately to Vietnam as security forces for U.S. bases, which were in imminent danger of being attacked and overrun. At Danang, the Viet Cong were believed to be massing for a large-scale raid, like the one that had struck Pleiku. Sniping and infiltration had increased recently.
    Security for the base was to be provided by the 9th Marine Expeditionary Brigade, a task-organized unit consisting of our battalion; 3d Battalion, 9th Marines; an artillery battalion; and assorted support troops. The brigade was to stage a combined air-sea assault at such-and-such hours the next morning and then establish defensive positions around Danang. Three-Nine would make an amphibious landing north of the city, at a place called Red Beach One, move inland, and occupy Hill 327, which dominated the base from the west. One-Three would take off from Kadena on Air Force C-130s and, after landing, set up a perimeter around the airfield itself. C Company would be in the first wave. There was little else he could tell us. “Any questions?”
    “Yes, sir, what kind of resistance is expected?”
    “Light resistance at most, some sniping, some anti-aircraft maybe; nevertheless, you ought to be prepared for heavier opposition. Anything else? Yes, Lieutenant Lemmon?”
    “Yes, sir,” Lemmon drawled. “How do I get out of this chicken-shit outfit?”
    There was laughter from us and a frown from the skipper.
    “Knock off the grabass, Glen. Okay, listen up. When you brief your people, make it clear that our mission is defensive only. I don’t want anyone going in there thinking he’s going to play John Wayne. We’re to provide security and that’s all. We’re not going in to fight, but to free the ARVNs to fight. It’s their war.”
    That said, we went out and passed the word to our platoons. “Defensive perimeter, shee-hit,” I heard one rifleman say. “This is a grunt battalion, not a buncha gate guards.” Still, it was better than hanging around on the Rock and, on second thought, a traditional Marine Corps operation: American lives and property had to be protected, a beleaguered ally helped, and a foreign enemy taught that the United States meant business. The Marines have landed and all that.
    A convoy formed up sometime later. Supplies and equipment were loaded, after which the rifle companies scrambled on board. Then, having hurried all day, we did what soldiers spend three-fourths of their time doing: we waited. Half an hour went by, an hour, two hours. I sat in a jeep near the middle of that long idle column, feeling tired and wondering if it were really me sitting there in a helmet and flak jacket, with a Colt automatic on my hip. Could it have been only a year since I was discussing the relative merits of
Tom Jones
and
Joseph Andrews
in a seminar on the English novel? Since my roommate and I were listening to Bach and Vivaldi as we studied for our graduate record exams? What a waste of time that all seemed now.
    A sudden roaring of engines woke me from this reverie. Ahead, about a dozen riflemen were running to board one of the six-bys. Apparently, we had been waiting for stragglers. The convoy began to bump forward, crawling uphill toward the main gate. Colby, McCloy’s platoon sergeant, a straggler who had failed to make it back on time, stood in the street wearing a sport shirt and a silly grin. “So long, Charley Company,” he said. “Bye-bye, boys.” A marine, knowing that darkness guarantees anonymity, called down from one of the trucks, “Sergeant Colby’s missin‘ movement, hang his ass.” Colby just grinned and waved. “Bye-bye, boys.” I asked where the hell he had been all day.
    “Just gettin‘ me a little poontang, lieutenant.”
    “You know we’re going South?”
    “Yes, sir!” He gave me a wobbly salute. “And I want