CUE: The Weight, THE BAND
Life as a member of the command unit was completely different and wholly unexpected. There was no time to acclimate to the differences. We were on the move as soon as I threw my stuff into the back of the track. I was now the gunner, which meant I was riding in the gunner's hatch. This was, without a doubt, the best position to be in. I was seated behind a .50-caliber Browning machine gun and surrounded by a thick steel shield that could deflect anything but an artillery round. I wore a headset that was plugged into battalion and company channels and could hear pretty much everything that was going on around us. This was a step up and away from being a simple rifleman who crawled around in the bushes much of the time.
The rest of the command unit was made up of men who were trained for just such work. Carnes, the driver, was the only track jockey I ever met who had actually been to APC school. He knew the track inside and out and was highly respected for his mechanical expertise. He even knew the .50-caliber gun better than I did. I suspect he looked on me with a great deal of disdain, since I had been pulled from the line to sit next to him. I have to say that his opinion of me was, for the most part, pretty accurate.
There were two trained radio operators. The track not only had battalion and company radios but also boasted a “secure set” that could send and receive scrambled messages that supposedly could not be understood by listening ears on the same frequency. This piece of technology was testy and needed trained hands. The radio telephone operators, or RTOs, were responsible for keeping the company commander in contact with everyone at all times. When he left the track, one or sometimes both of the RTOs followed him with radios strapped to their backs. Both of these communications zealots were specially trained for the job, and oddly enough, both of them had amazingly blond hair. In fact, their hair was so light it was easy to spot them at a distance. It is not surprising that one of them went by the nickname “Cotton.” I confess that I cannot remember the name of the other. I do seem to recall that it had a sort of Scandinavian ring to it, which might explain the pale blond hair.
Off and on, the command track carried an officer from the artillery along with his radioman. Because he was the forward observer for the big guns in the rear, the officer was always referred to as “Fo,” thereby losing his personal identity and real name. That seems to be an age-old military problem.
The company commander was Captain Mitchell Meilstrup. He was an impressive man in many ways, but his eyes told the real story. He wore glasses, and the sparks that flew from his eyes in moments of conflict were unmistakable indicators of a warrior's soul behind the lenses. He was tall and lithe and had a reputation as a seasoned combat commander. In the center of his chest he bore a huge scar that had been gained leading men in combat as a second lieutenant. He was a leader tested by fire, and his very presence seemed to mold the company in his image. The formidable reputation of C Company had come about, in part, because Mitch Meilstrup was its leader. We had been commanded by others, but they could not hold a candle to this man.
As I sat atop my perch on that first day, I could not have felt more out of place. In my heart, I was now an orphan from the Two Zero track and the 2nd Platoon, yet I was in a position envied by some. As we took our place in the line of moving APCs, I set the tommy gun down in the gunner's hatch beside me. I no longer needed it. I had a huge .50-caliber machine gun right in front of me, yet it seemed comforting to have something of the old life within my grasp. It would stay there until the track itself was blown away.
My new duties would be more detail oriented, and I soon found that each move not only could affect my own welfare but also that of so many others. Communications were relayed to and from the company commander through the RTOs when Meilstrup was on the ground, but through the track radio when he was onboard. This meant that much of the time, command decisions and even orders were relayed through me. I became a sort of combat commander's answering service. Even though I had carried the radio some of the time on ambush patrols, this was altogether different. I now had to deal with everything from resupply communication to calling for dustoff choppers and even relaying attack orders. It was a huge adjustment.
To be truthful, I cannot remember much about my first day in this new position. I am fairly certain I spent those hours stumbling through the new duties and trying to learn as fast as possible. The end of that day, however, sticks in my memory.
At four thirty, Captain Meilstrup leaned over and told me to order the company to circle up. I pressed the button and spoke into the microphone, and the whole company went into action. The tracks began to form their customary defensive circle, and like an army of ants, the troops began digging fighting positions and putting up RPG screens and barbed wire. The enlisted members of the command track complement began to do the same thing, but in our case there was a difference. The platoon tracks formed a huge circle, making a defensive perimeter, but the command track, the medic's track, and the mortar tracks were in the center of that circle. As I looked around me, I realized that in case of attack, I could not shoot in any direction. We were surrounded by our troops. When such attacks did come, it was unnerving to sit and do nothing while the men around the perimeter did all the fighting.
As the first afternoon began to draw to a close, I crawled on top of the track to secure the radio headset out of the weather for the night. I remember looking in the direction of the 2nd Platoon tracks, where I caught sight of a line of men threading their way through the barbed wire and out to an ambush position. I had been with them countless times on such missions. Now I was watching them go. As if he felt my eyes on him, one of the departing figures turned and looked back at me and waved. It was Oscar Solis. In less than a month, he would be dead.