15 Months in SOG by Thom Nicholson Page A

Oddly, I couldn’t seem to get a full measure of air in my lungs; every breath was more like a gasp. Out of the darkness, far off on the right flank, heavy gunfire shattered the calm. Lieutenant Cable’s platoon had run into an ambush. The serpentine line of men went to ground like a poleaxed mule. After a second of swallowing the heart lodged in my throat, I whispered to First Sergeant Fischer. “Stay here while I see what’s happening. If I call, start the 3d Platoon on a sweep toward the gunfire. Come on, Pham.”
    The Montagnard radio operator and I started in a hunched-over trot toward the fighting, trying to keep some cover between us and the shooting enemy. The red tracers zipping through the branches and leaves overhead didn’t do much for my sense of well-being. The crack of passing bullets was mixed with the snap of the branches they hit. I figured that was exactly what my bones would sound like if one hit me. Afraid to go back, afraid to go ahead, I pushed on.
    Just as we came up to the men of 1st Platoon, lying on the ground or kneeling behind trees, the firing stopped, and a disquieting silence greeted me. “Lieutenant Cable,” I whisperedto the platoon leader, who was peering around a large tree trunk, “what’s happening?”
    “Don’t know for sure, Captain. They started firing at the point squad, and we just started to work our way around ’em when they took off. Must have been a security team. I don’t think we got any of ’em.”
    “Okay,” I answered. “Pham, get Fischer on the horn.” I took the handset and spoke softly. “Fischer, it must have been a VC security team with a machine gun. All quiet now. Get ’em up and started forward. I’m on my way back to your location.”
    “Wilco,” the raspy voice on the radio answered. I could see the men in front cautiously move forward as I headed back to the center of the formation. In a few minutes, I was again behind the center platoon. We continued moving toward the hill and the beleaguered Marines. The gunfire over there was clearly diminishing in intensity, so I pushed the men as hard as I dared.
    “Pham, give me the radio.” I grabbed the offered handset and called for Lieutenant Cable. “Sneaky One-Six, this is Sneaky Six. What’s your situation? Any casualties?”
    “One dead and two MIA, from the point squad. I didn’t stop to look for them,” Cable answered.
    “Roger,” I said. “We’ll police them up after daylight. Keep moving. Sneaky Six out.” I had adopted Sneaky Six as my radio call sign and I was supposed to use it every time I identified myself on the air, but I often forgot when things got hot.
    We hadn’t gone more than another hundred yards when the left flank erupted in fire. Again, the entire line stopped, and again, by the time I got there the enemy had boogied, having accomplished their mission: to delay and harass us as we closed on the old fort.
    That time there were no losses, and the enemy fire faded away quickly. Pushing on, we finally made it to the edge of the cleared ground in front of the old fort. It was as quiet as it had been noisy only moments earlier. Either we had scaredthe attacking VC off or, by design, the bad guys had gone before we could hurt them. I moved to the front door of the fort and met a sweat-streaked Marine NCO with a bloody bandage around his left arm.
    “Gunnery Sergeant Fowler, Captain. Mighty glad to see you. It was getting a little sticky around here for a while.” The old Marine NCO was sucking on an unlit cigar, stopping every once in a while to spit. He stuck out a grimy paw and gave me a hearty handshake. Things must have been tight before we arrived.
    “We’ll get out security and make a sweep, as soon as it’s daylight,” I replied. “Where’s your CO?”
    “The ell-tee’s wounded. The corpsman’s working on him now. You want to speak to him?”
    “Naw.” I turned to give orders to my platoon leaders, who had gathered around, waiting for their