I MUST HAVE DONE SOMETHING RIGHT
On the morning after the Nui Ba Den sapper attack, there was a fact-finding inspection by Major General Williamson, commanding general of the 25th Infantry Division. He was personally interviewing officers on the mountain concerning their actions during the attack.
Sunrise came and my body finally believed the attack was over. That’s when I heard the helicopter.
When I came up the trail, Sgt. Meyers was already talking to him. I hung back, waiting my turn. Williamson spotted me over Meyers’ shoulder.
“What about him?”
“He’s the good one,” Meyers said.
I had no idea what that meant. I didn’t have time to wonder about it either, because Williamson was already waving me over.
“Lieutenant. Tell me what you did last night.”
I gave it to him straight. The Reaction Force, the route I’d taken, the decision to move on the breach instead of holding at the perimeter. He listened without interrupting, which I later learned was not his habit.
“Show me on the map.”
I traced it for him—where we’d formed up, where we’d hit resistance, where the bunker had gone down. He studied it the way a man studies something he intends to remember.
“Walk it with me.”
So we walked it. One mile of ground still smoking in places, still smelling of cordite and diesel and the particular smell a place has after men have died on it. He didn’t rush. Every fifty yards or so he’d stop and ask me something specific—why here, why not there, what I’d been thinking when the fire shifted. I told him. He didn’t say whether I was right.
When we reached the wire, he stopped and looked at the additions I’d made to the inner and outer perimeters. Ran his hand along the concertina like he was checking my work.
“Good,” he said. Just that.
We kept walking. He was quiet for a stretch, and I remember thinking the inspection was over, that I’d said what I needed to say and now it was just two men walking back to a helicopter.
Then, without looking at me: “You planning on making a career out of this, Lieutenant?”
I told him the truth. The only way I’d stay in was Special Forces. Most professional branch there was, and I wasn’t interested in the Army any other way.
He stopped walking.
He turned and looked at me, and it wasn’t the look he’d been giving me for the last hour. This one went on. I stood there and let it, because there wasn’t anything else to do.
“Pack your bags.”
That was it. He started walking again like he hadn’t said anything at all.
Pack my bags. I ran it over in my head with every step back to the helipad, trying to find the version of that sentence that made sense. Relieved men packed their bags. Was that what this was?
He must have seen it on my face, because as he reached the helicopter he finally said something about the night before—not about me, about the mountain. That the Viet Cong would have overrun the signal site if I hadn’t led the Reaction Force when I did. He said it the way he’d said “good” at the wire. Flat. Final. Not a compliment, just a fact he was putting on the record before he left.
Then he was gone, up into the rotor wash, and I was standing there still not knowing what “pack your bags” meant.
One of his aides answered it for me. Pulled me aside before I could ask.
Two weeks. That’s how long I had to decide about Special Forces. If I said yes, jump school when I made captain, then straight in—no qualification course required. As far as the general was concerned, I’d already been through it. Last night was the course, and I’d passed.
I was still turning that over when Major Campbell came up to me.
“Me and the three lieutenants are done,” he said. “New officers are coming in on the next bird.”
He didn’t say anything about me, and I didn’t expect him to. I wasn’t one of his officers—my unit was Cu Chi, not 1st Brigade. Whatever was happening to him and his lieutenants had nothing to do with where I stood.
I didn’t know what to say to him. I just stood there.
I was stunned. Campbell and those three lieutenants were good officers, and I never expected to see any of them relieved.
Nui Ba Den wasn’t like fighting on flat ground. The noise alone was disorienting—impossible to tell where the fire was coming from.
Even after we’d fortified the destroyed bunker, I couldn’t stop running the math: where and when would the main attack hit. It was sunrise before the adrenaline drained out of me. Before my body believed the attack was over and I was going to live one more day. Before Williamson’s helicopter came.
On the morning after the Nui Ba Den sapper attack, there was a fact-finding inspection by Major General Williamson, commanding general of the 25th Infantry Division. He was personally interviewing officers on the mountain concerning their actions during the attack.
Sunrise came and my body finally believed the attack was over. That’s when I heard the helicopter.
When I came up the trail, Sgt. Meyers was already talking to him. I hung back, waiting my turn. Williamson spotted me over Meyers’ shoulder.
“What about him?”
“He’s the good one,” Meyers said.
I had no idea what that meant. I didn’t have time to wonder about it either, because Williamson was already waving me over.
“Lieutenant. Tell me what you did last night.”
I gave it to him straight. The Reaction Force, the route I’d taken, the decision to move on the breach instead of holding at the perimeter. He listened without interrupting, which I later learned was not his habit.
“Show me on the map.”
I traced it for him—where we’d formed up, where we’d hit resistance, where the bunker had gone down. He studied it the way a man studies something he intends to remember.
“Walk it with me.”
So we walked it. One mile of ground still smoking in places, still smelling of cordite and diesel and the particular smell a place has after men have died on it. He didn’t rush. Every fifty yards or so he’d stop and ask me something specific—why here, why not there, what I’d been thinking when the fire shifted. I told him. He didn’t say whether I was right.
When we reached the wire, he stopped and looked at the additions I’d made to the inner and outer perimeters. Ran his hand along the concertina like he was checking my work.
“Good,” he said. Just that.
We kept walking. He was quiet for a stretch, and I remember thinking the inspection was over, that I’d said what I needed to say and now it was just two men walking back to a helicopter.
Then, without looking at me: “You planning on making a career out of this, Lieutenant?”
I told him the truth. The only way I’d stay in was Special Forces. Most professional branch there was, and I wasn’t interested in the Army any other way.
He stopped walking.
He turned and looked at me, and it wasn’t the look he’d been giving me for the last hour. This one went on. I stood there and let it, because there wasn’t anything else to do.
“Pack your bags.”
That was it. He started walking again like he hadn’t said anything at all.
Pack my bags. I ran it over in my head with every step back to the helipad, trying to find the version of that sentence that made sense. Relieved men packed their bags. Was that what this was?
He must have seen it on my face, because as he reached the helicopter he finally said something about the night before—not about me, about the mountain. That the Viet Cong would have overrun the signal site if I hadn’t led the Reaction Force when I did. He said it the way he’d said “good” at the wire. Flat. Final. Not a compliment, just a fact he was putting on the record before he left.
Then he was gone, up into the rotor wash, and I was standing there still not knowing what “pack your bags” meant.
One of his aides answered it for me. Pulled me aside before I could ask.
Two weeks. That’s how long I had to decide about Special Forces. If I said yes, jump school when I made captain, then straight in—no qualification course required. As far as the general was concerned, I’d already been through it. Last night was the course, and I’d passed.
I was still turning that over when Major Campbell came up to me.
“Me and the three lieutenants are done,” he said. “New officers are coming in on the next bird.”
He didn’t say anything about me, and I didn’t expect him to. I wasn’t one of his officers—my unit was Cu Chi, not 1st Brigade. Whatever was happening to him and his lieutenants had nothing to do with where I stood.
I didn’t know what to say to him. I just stood there.
I was stunned. Campbell and those three lieutenants were good officers, and I never expected to see any of them relieved.
Nui Ba Den wasn’t like fighting on flat ground. The noise alone was disorienting—impossible to tell where the fire was coming from.
Even after we’d fortified the destroyed bunker, I couldn’t stop running the math: where and when would the main attack hit. It was sunrise before the adrenaline drained out of me. Before my body believed the attack was over and I was going to live one more day. Before Williamson’s helicopter came.