encore Intruder Alert
When an Army judge advocate major tags along with a reconnaissance platoon in Vietnam, a night ambush forces him to remember what he was taught in basic training.
W
hen I went to Vietnam in 1967, I was a judge advocate major. Though I’d had basic
infantry training during my enlisted days, war otherwise was something out of books. But now I had been assigned to a division and had a chance to see what war was like. I asked the commander of one of my cli-
ent infantry battalions if I could spend a day or two each month in the weeds with his re- connaissance platoon or with one of his rifle companies. He looked at me for a while and then said, “I guess if you’re crazy enough to want to do that, I’m crazy enough to let you.” He took a chance on having to explain how a staff officer, who had no business out in the bushes, got killed. I got to spend time out in the leeches
and terrain with some superb fighting men and learned the American soldier is as good as they come. I was hungry for all the experience I
could get, so I promoted my way out on a night ambush not far from the division base camp. Not much was likely to happen so close to headquarters, but this was my first night ambush, so I lay there with my clay- mores out in front, remembering my ser- geants in basic training telling me to keep my eyes constantly moving so I wouldn’t imagine movement when there wasn’t any. That particular night was wet and dark,
and thunder was rumbling all around. Around 4 a.m. — that deadly time when you’re least alert — I saw something move in front of me. I blinked my eyes and kept them moving and still saw movement. This
8 4 MI L I T A R Y O F F I C E R O C TO B E R 2 0 1 0
was it. Someone was crawling around, ready to attack. Not with me on the job! I thought. I nudged the man next to me, slipped off the safeties on my two claymores, and prepared to demolish the intruders. But just as I was ready to fire, a flash of light- ning lit up the sky. There was the enemy: the biggest cow I had ever seen, placidly munching on some grass. I exhaled. The rest of the night passed
with us peacefully coexisting with the cow. When dawn came, we picked up and I
went back to being a lawyer. I didn’t tell anyone how close I had come to producing a huge heap of hamburger that night.
MO
— Robert Barr Smith is a retired Army colo- nel. He lives in Norman, Okla. For submission information, see page 18.
ILLUSTRATION: ELWOOD SMITH
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