SMALL UNIT ACTION
IN VIETNAM
SUMMER 1966
By
Captain Francis J. West, Jr., USMCR
HISTORY AND MUSEUMS DIVISION
HEADQUARTERS, U. S. MARINE CORPS
WASHINGTON, D. C.
Printed 1967
Reprinted 1977
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Original On-Line
Page Page
Foreword..................................................... 1 5
Mines and Men................................................ 3 7
Units involved: 9th Marines; 3d Amphibian
Tractor Battalion; MAG-36.
Howard's Hill................................................ 15 21
Units involved:1st Reconnaissance Battalion;
5th Marines; MAG-11; MAG-12; MAG-36
No Cigar..................................................... 31 38
Units involved:5th Marines.
Night Action................................................. 46 54
Units involved:7th Marines.
The Indians.................................................. 59 69
Units involved:1st Force Reconnaissance Company;
12th Marines; MAG-11.
Talking Fish................................................. 68 79
Units involved:12th Marines.
An Honest Effort............................................. 77 88
Units involved:5th Marines.
A Hot Walk in the Sun........................................ 82 94
Units involved:5th Marines; 1st Engineer Battalion;
Provisional Scout Dog Platoon; MAG-36.
"General, We Killed Them".................................... 90 103
Units involved:5th Marines; 9th Engineer Battalion;
Provisional Scout Dog Platoon; MAG-12; MAG-36.
Glossary of Marine Small Arms................................ 122 140
FOREWORD
The origin of this pamphlet lies in the continuing program at all levels
of command to keep Marines informed of the ways of combat and civic action in
Vietnam. Not limited in any way to set methods and means, this informational
effort spreads across a wide variety of projects, all aimed at making the
lessons learned in Vietnam available to the Marine who is fighting there and
the Marine who is soon due to take his turn in combat.
Recognizing a need to inform the men who are the key to the success of
Marine Corps operations--the enlisted Marines and junior officers of combat
and combat support units--the former Assistant Chief of Staff, G-3, Major
General William R. Collins, originated a project to provide a timely series of
short, factual narratives of small unit action, stories which would have
lessons learned as an integral part. Essential to General Collins' concept
was the fact that the stories would have to be both highly readable and
historically accurate. The basic requirement called for an author trained in
the methodology of research, with recent active duty experience at the small
unit level in the FMF, and a proven ability to write in a style that would
ensure wide readership.
On the recommendation of retired Brigadier General Frederick P.
Henderson, Captain Francis J. West, Jr., a Marine reserve officer, was invited
to apply for assignment to active duty during the summer of 1966 to research
and write the small unit action stories. Captain West was well qualified to
undertake the project: he had recently been on active duty as a platoon leader
in the Special Landing Force in the Western Pacific; he had majored in history
as an undergraduate at Georgetown University and was a graduate student at the
Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs at Princeton
University; and he had written a number of articles, papers, and a book which
indicated that he had the capability of communicating with a wide and varied
audience.
Recalled to active duty at his own request late in May 1966, Captain West
was given a series of informal briefings at Headquarters Marine Corps on the
current situation in Vietnam and was soon on his way to that country. He
arrived at Da Nang on 5 June and went into the field immediately as an
observer/member of a wide variety of Marine small units and saw action in all
parts of the III Marine Amphibious Force area of responsibility. Developing
his own methods of operation, and carrying in addition to normal weapons and
equipment, a tape recorder, a camera, and a note pad, the captain took part in
most of the actions he describes and interviewed
1
participants in the others immediately after the events portrayed. During his
stay in Vietnam, Captain West was actively supported in his work by the
Marines with whom he served, and by none more helpfully than the III MAF
commander, Lieutenant General Lewis W. Walt, and his G-3, Colonel John R.
Chaisson, who read and approved each of the rough draft narratives that
Captain West completed in Vietnam. Colonel Thomas M. Fields, of the Combat
Information Bureau at Da Nang, also provided much assistance and support.
This pamphlet, then, is based upon first-hand, eyewitness accounting of
the events described. It is documented by notes and taped interviews taken in
the field and includes lessons learned from the mouths of the Marines who are
currently fighting in Vietnam. It is published for the information of those
men who are serving and who will serve in Vietnam, as well as for the use of
other interested Americans, so that they may better understand the demands of
the Vietnam conflict on the individual Marine.
R. L. MURRAY
Major General, U. S. Marine Corps
Assistant Chief of Staff, G-3
REVIEWED AND APPROVED: 5 January 1967
2
MINES AND MEN
Preface: The author spent two weeks with the 9th Marines,
most of the time with Delta Company. He participated in the
patrol described as an extra infantryman, swapping his tape
recorder for an automatic rifle when the platoon was hit.
Throughout most of the fight, he did not see the patrol leader,
but later was able to piece together the entire action by
interviews and by listening to his recorder, which was running
throughout the engagement.
In late spring and early summer of 1966, the most notorious area in I
Corps was the flat rice paddy-and-hedgerow complex around Hill 55, seven miles
southwest of Da Nang. In the Indochina War, two battalions of the French
forces were wiped out on Hill 55; in the Vietnam War, a Marine lieutenant
colonel was killed on the same hill. The 9th Marines had the responsibility
for clearing the area and no one envied the regimental commander, Colonel
Edwin Simmons, and his men their job. The enemy they hated, the enemy they
feared the most, the enemy they found hardest to combat, was not the VC; it
was mines.
One company of the regiment--Delta--lost 10 KIA and 58 WIA in five weeks.
Two men were hit by small arms fire, one by a grenade. Mines inflicted all
the other casualties. Only four of the wounded returned to duty. From a peak
strength of 175, Delta Company dropped to 120 effectives. Among those
evacuated or killed were a high percentage of the company's leaders: five
platoon commanders; three platoon sergeants; nine squad leaders; and six fire
team leaders.
On 8 May, the 1st Platoon of Delta Company was 52 men strong, commanded
by a first lieutenant and honchoed<*> by a staff sergeant. For a month they
patrolled. At division level, the operations section could see a pattern
which indicated the patrols were slowly and surely rooting the VC
infrastructure out of the area. But for the individual rifleman, it was ugly,
unrewarding work. The VC in previous encounters had learned the futility of
determined engagements against the Marines. So they sniped and ran and left
behind the mines.
----------
<*> honcho - Marine slang, derived from Japanese, for a boss.
3
On 8 June, the 1st Platoon prepared to go out on another patrol. By
then, they numbered 32 men and were commanded by a sergeant.
During patrols on the previous day there had been no casualties. Far
from feeling encouraged, the troops were pessimistic, believing it inevitable
that today another of their group would step on a mine.
Captain John Hart had commanded Delta Company for nine months, and
another company in Vietnam before that. A shrewd tactician with a natural
ease and understanding of his men, the red-headed company commander had
decided to send two amtracs<*> with the platoon to set off the mines before
the troops reached them.
Sergeant William Cunningham believed the amtracs would solve his problem.
They would cruise through the flat lowlands, smashing mined fences and tearing
up known minefields. The platoon would walk in the tracks of the 35-ton
amtracs, unless forced by fire to disperse or ordered to do otherwise. A 60mm
mortar would deal with the snipers, who were more bothersome than dangerous.
The plan seemed sound.
The patrol moved out in two columns in the wake of an amtrac. The
platoon members knew the area well. They hated it. The paddies and fields
stretched for miles in checker-board fashion, separated by thick tree lines
and numerous hamlets. The mud of the rice paddies clung like glue to boots.
The numerous tree lines could be penetrated only by using machetes and axes.
The scattered hamlets contained from 1 to 10 houses and each house was
surrounded by thorn fences harder to break than barbed wire. The level ground
prevented a man from seeing beyond the next hedgerow.
And everywhere the mines. There seemed to be no pattern to their
emplacement. They had been scattered at trail junctions, at the intersection
of rice dikes, along fences, under gates. Having watched the movements of
Marine patrols in this area, the enemy buried their mines where they
anticipated the Marines would walk. Often they scouted the direction and path
a patrol was taking and planted the mines ahead. If the patrol passed that
point safely, the VC would scurry out of his hiding place, dig up his mine,
and keep it for another day.
Sergeant Cunningham was aware of this fact. By the same route he had
used the day before, he was returning to the same hamlet complex so that the
amtracs could set off the mines. The enemy's supply of mines was not
inexhaustible,
----------
<*> Amtrac - Marine slang for Amphibious Landing Vehicle, Tracked (LVT).
4
An LVT of the 3d Amphibian Tractor battalion, similar to those
that supported Sergeant Cunningham's platoon, moves out through a
column of infantry men (USMC A184999)
4a
especially since most were M16 "Bouncing Betties"<*>, captured from the
ARVNs<**>. This was one way of destroying them. Before the platoon left the
patrol base, the sergeant repeatedly warned his men to stay in the tracks of
the LVTs.
The Marines wore helmets and flak jackets<***>. Each rifleman carried
150 rounds of ammunition and 2 or more hand grenades. The men of the two
machine gun crews were draped with belts of linked cartridges totalling 1,200
rounds. The two 3.5-inch rocket launcher teams carried five high explosive
(HE) and five white phosphorus (WP) rockets. Four grenadiers carried 28 40mm
shells apiece for their stubby M79s. Sergeant Cunningham had given six
LAAWs<****> to some riflemen to provide additional area target capability.
Artillery and mortars were on call. The 2d Platoon would range within 1,000
yards of Sergeant Cunningham's men at all times. Although Cunningham believed
the platoon would draw only harassing fire, Captain Hart never allowed his men
to patrol without ensuring heavy firepower. Similarly, the battalion
commander, Lieutenant Colonel Richard E. Jones, liked his company commanders
to arrange for their patrols to have on-call artillery concentrations whenever
possible.
The platoon moved out at 1100. There was no breeze and no shade. The
temperature was 102 degrees. Within five minutes, every Marine was soaked in
sweat. The column plodded south, strung out over a quarter of a mile. There
was no flank section, such was the fear of mines and the confidence in quick
support, if needed. One amtrac was in the lead; the second stayed back 200
yards in the middle of the column.
After marching for half of an hour, Sergeant Cunningham halted the
column. Directly in front of the lead amtrac a thorn and bamboo fence ran at
right angles to the line of march. Two hundred meters to the right front lay
a thick tree line in which the thatch rooftops of four houses could be seen.
To the left a dirt field stretched for 400 meters, stopping at another tree
line. Other tree lines lay at farther distances to the front and rear.
Sergeant Cunningham had seen his radioman and one of his squad leaders
trip a mine attached to that fence and die. Yesterday he had cautiously led
his platoon across the fence and had been fired at. Today, with obvious
satisfaction and
----------
<*>Bouncing Betty - Marine slang for antipersonnel mine which explodes in
midair.
<**>ARVNs - Marine slang for soldiers of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam
<***>flak jacket - Marine slang for individual body armor.
<****>LAAW - Marine slang for portable antitank weapon; see Glossary of
Weapons.
5
relief, he yelled to the lead tractor: "Rip that thing apart. Really tear it
up."
The driver turned left so that the amtrac could hit the fence head-on.
It lumbered forward, crushing 30 feet of fence before its left track slipped
into a drainage ditch. The LVT churned to a halt. The second amtrac eased
forward, attached a tow rope to the front of the stranded vehicle, and pulled
it out.
Sergeant Cunningham decided to continue south to the minefields and tear
other holes in the fence on the return trip that afternoon. "Move out," he
shouted, "We'll come back to that bear later on. It'll still be here." One
amtrac roared ahead while the second idled by the fence, waiting to turn into
position near the center of the column.
The hard dirt around the fence had been churned into jagged clods by the
treads of the two amtracs. The point Marines, including Sergeant Cunningham,
carefully picked their way across the fence, stepping only in the tracks, and
fell in trace again behind the lead LVT. The rest of the column followed.
Cunningham had walked fifty meters away from the fence when he heard the
explosion. Even before he turned his head he knew what he would see. A thick
black cloud hung in the air beside the fence line. Three Marines were
sprawled on the ground. Before the shower of loose dirt and shrapnel had
stopped falling, the platoon's senior corpsman, Hospitalman 3d Class Robert E.
Perkins, had reached the side of the most seriously wounded Marine.
Corporal Raymond Lewis, leading the point squad, burst out: "Hey, why the
hell don't they follow the goddamn tracks?" Sergeant Cunningham raced back,
yelling in anger and frustration and hurt, "I told you to follow me through
here, here--we came through here." A pause, then, in a resigned voice: "O.K.
Who got it?"
Tired, feeling secure because there were many tracks near the fence and
nine Marines had walked safely past, the tenth Marine had wandered off the
path of the treads. For 20 feet he had been following the dry trail of old
tank treads. The VC had placed a mine on the old trail resting against the
torn fence. The Marine had tripped a Bouncing Betty mine, which flew
knee-high before it exploded, felling him and two Marines behind him.
The column had halted, well spread out but near no cover or concealment.
The platoon's leaders were clustered at the fence checking the wounded.
6
Then the sniping started. The first four to eight rounds were ignored by
the entire column. The Marines received fire every day. When asked one hour
earlier if he expected fire on the patrol, Sergeant Cunningham had flatly
stated that he did. The Marines were not going to divert attention from their
wounded because they received some random incoming rounds.
Ten seconds later, the situation changed abruptly. The sniping became
steady fire and the targets were the wounded, the platoon leaders, and the
platoon radioman. The enemy had found the range and the wounded could hear
the whine and snap of close misses.
Disregarding the firing, Sergeant Cunningham and the platoon guide,
Sergeant Peter Hastings, continued to discuss the technical details necessary
as they called for an immediate helicopter evacuation of the wounded. The
platoon radioman, Private First Class Blas Falcon, stood with them taking
notes. Perkins worked swiftly to prevent the most seriously wounded Marine
from bleeding to death. He did not even look up from his probing of the man's
legs when the bullets started passing close by. He had been with the company
for nine days and had tended exactly nine Marines wounded by mines.
Most of the fire was coming from a hamlet on the west flank of the
platoon, not more than 200 meters to the right of the point squad. Some was
coming from the distant tree line to the left. Among the enemy weapons, the
Marines could distinguish the flat, low reports of several carbines from the
sharp sound of an MI. A light machine gun began shooting short bursts.
Harassment had become engagement.
The VC had carefully planned the trap. The mine had stopped the column
in the open less than 200 meters from their firing position. To confuse and
spread the Marines, they had posted snipers on the other flank. They knew the
leaders would cluster around the wounded. They had their weapons sighted in
on the fence line. No more than 20 seconds had passed since the VC had opened
fire. They had much better positions and had gained fire superiority from the
start.
The volume of enemy fire increased so rapidly Cunningham never had a
chance to contact his three squad leaders and issue any comprehensive order.
The initial response was a matter of individual initiative, as Marines flopped
down and began returning fire without waiting for orders. But their fire was
ragged and scattered, lacking direction and purpose.
Corporal Lewis directed the first determined, collective effort to
destroy the enemy. Having moved out in front of the column, the 1st Squad was
100 meters ahead of the main body.
7
Lewis' five men were heavily armed and he used all the weapons he had at his
command. Over the din of the increasing volume of incoming fire, he could not
hear Sergeant Cunningham. But he did not need to be told what to do. Lewis
had been fighting in Vietnam for eight months and had participated in dozens
of fire fights. Flattened out along the side of the trail, his squad was not
under fire but was nearest to the hamlet. To his left front he could hear the
crack of sniper rifles coming from a tree line. Quickly, he directed his
machine gunner to set up and rake the far tree line, keeping his fire low and
continuous. The squad grenadier, Private First Class Michael Stay, was
pumping 40mm shells into the hamlet as fast as he could fire and reload. Lewis
decided to add more punch.
He turned his bazooka team toward the hamlet. The team leader, Corporal
John Martin, had anticipated his squad leader. His rocket launcher was set and
ready to fire. The men agreed on the targets: the houses. Both had seen men
firing from raised flaps on the roofs. Martin placed the long tube on his
shoulder, sighted swiftly, and fired from a kneeling position. A house
shuddered and pitched at an angle. He placed another white phosporous rocket
in the launcher and fired. A second house burst into flames. He reloaded and
fired again. The third house exploded. The enemy machine gun stopped.
Another rocket and a LAAW were fired into the tree line. Lewis, Martin, and
Lance Corporal Dennis Sullivan lay prone and began firing their M14 rifles at
the hedgerows bordering the huts. The fire fight was less than 2 minutes old.
The 60mm mortar crew took up where Martin left off. Sergeant James Gibbs
and his two crew members had been riding on the second LVT. When the enemy
machine gun fired, they jumped off the tractor and yelled to Cunningham,
"Should we try for the gun?"
"Go ahead," Cunningham yelled back, "but watch it when the choppers get
here."
Less than 300 meters from the hamlet, the crew set up their small tube.
Gibbs aimed in by line of sight while Lance Corporal Joe Dykes estimated the
range and Private First Class Peter Vidaurie hauled ammunition from the
amtrac. "Can we fire now?" yelled Gibbs.
"Sure, any time you want," replied Cunningham.
For the next two minutes, the 60mm crew walked rounds back and forth
along the 200-meter length of the tree line. Under cover of this shooting,
Sergeant Cunningham directed his 2d Squad into position to secure a landing
zone for the helicopters. He wanted to get his wounded out before the enemy
machine gun resumed firing.
8
SCHEMATIC SKETCH TO ACCOMPANY "MINES AND MEN"
8a
Falcon was busy on the radio explaining to company headquarters what was
happening and obtaining administrative data from the wounded. "John," he
asked, "what's your service number?" "2197620." "Come on, John, give it to me
slow." "Two, won, niner --- zero, got that?" "No, give it to me once again."
"Oh for god's sake, do you want my rifle number too? One one nine seven --."
The other wounded men laughed.
The spirits of the wounded were high. A tracer bullet chipped a rock
near them and whined away. "Boy," said one, "that was the most beautiful
tracer I ever saw." "Yeah," replied his companion, "that's the craziest angle
I ever saw a ricochet take."
The fire fight was four minutes old. Most of the small arms fire had
died away. Steadily two grenade launchers crunched at the wood line. The
three houses were blazing and their bamboo sides were expanding and popping
with a sound like hundreds of .22 rifles being fired.
A Marine directed the second amtrac which had been idling near the fence
toward the tree line. The LVT lumbered forward for several meters and stopped
before a three-foot embankment 75 meters from the hamlet. Its three man crew
and two demolition engineers lay on top of the tractor and fired at the
burning village. The amtrac commander, Staff Sergeant Howard G. Plummer,
feared the fire in the village. His vehicle was carrying explosives and 500
gallons of fuel. He had no intention of risking a cook-off in the intense
heat.
The Marine directing Plummer's vehicle saw on the right a squad walking
slowly forward with the disinterest of tired riflemen who expected nothing to
happen. The Marine at the tractor signalled them to double time and they
broke into a reluctant shuffle.
The lull in the fight broke at the same time. On the left, the enemy
light machine gun chattered, on the right an automatic carbine and several
rifles opened up. The enemy were hard-core guerrillas who had lived in the
area for years and their tactics against the Marines were to set mines and
snipe from great distances, employing ambushes at close range only when they
had overwhelming numerical superiority. They had not expected the Marines to
recover from the mine explosion so quickly. They did not believe the Marines
would assault after stepping on one mine. But now the members of the squad
were running like Olympic sprinters for the nearer amtrac. The VC
concentrated all their fire on stopping them.
The crew of the amtrac which had preceded Lewis' squad at point had been
confused by the fighting. They wanted to
9
help but no one had told them what to do. So they had contented themselves by
firing their rifles in a casual fashion at the hamlet, since that was what the
infantrymen were doing. But now, seeing the infantry rushing to the attack,
Private First Class Billy Adams, a maintenance mechanic on board the point
amtrac, excitedly urged his crew to push ahead in their vehicle. His
enthusiasm was contagious. Without orders, without flankers, without
supporting fires, the amtrac started forward.
Corporal Lewis saw the amtrac move alone into the attack. He ordered his
riflemen to throw out protecting fires on its flanks and his grenadier to fire
over the vehicle itself into the tree line beyond.
Adams fired five rifle grenades as the LVT rolled in, then turned his gas
cylinder plug and fired his rifle semiautomatically. The amtrac reached the
edge of the tree line and the driver hesitated, looking for a route through
the hedgerows. The fire at the amtrac became intense. The bullets striking
the hull sounded like people were beating on it with hammers. Adams yelled:
"It's about time to button up!"
He was pulling down the steel cover of his hatch when he saw his first
enemy. The Viet Cong was firing at the infantry troops seeking shelter behind
the second amtrac. He had raised a section of the thatched roof of a house
which had not burned and this gave him an excellent field of fire. He and
Adams saw each other at the same time. He lowered the flap just as Adams
flipped his weapon to automatic and stitched the roof, igniting it.
The turret machine gunner on Plummer's amtrac began firing, spraying the
village. Bullets were bouncing off the left side of his amtrac. To the right
side of the vehicle, a Marine rifleman engaged a VC who was lying on the roof
of a house. The rifleman was firing long bursts from an M14; the VC was
returning fire with an automatic carbine. Both had abandoned cover, so intent
were they in their private duel. Standing in the off-hand position, the
Marine finally remembered to sight in and squeeze off a few aimed rounds
instead of spraying the house. The VC fell lengthwise off the roof.
Corporal Jerry Payne brought his squad up behind Plummer's amtrac.
"Move it out. Let's roll!"
Plummer hesitated, looking for a way in not blocked by flames.
10
"Come on, the hell with waiting for this thing," an angry Marine yelled,
gesturing at the amtrac, "let's go get them!" Payne grabbed him by the
shoulder as he started around the tractor's side. "No, you don't. That whole
field is mined. They're just trying to sucker you in. Stay behind the trac!"
One hundred meters to the left, Adams' amtrac had already reached the
hedgerow and was smashing its way into the hamlet. That decided Plummer. His
tractor crawled up the embankment and pitched down into the level field and
rumbled toward the village. A Marine followed right behind. Payne yelled,
"We're going in." The five Marines clustered around him nodded nervously and
said nothing. They were more than a little apprehensive. They would follow
but they wanted somebody to lead. Payne scrambled up the embankment into a
burst of machine gun fire. His helmet spun off and he pitched forward head
first. The squad froze. Payne was their leader, the most experienced man,
the one who knew what to do. They thought he was dead.
Payne got up, unhurt but shaken. "Come on," he muttered. They dogtrotted
across the field after the amtrac.
By that time Adams' amtrac had entered the tree line. Lewis ordered his
squad to cease fire. The amtrac passed the house where Adams had fired at the
sniper hiding in the roof. Private First Class Larry Blume, a demolition
engineer riding in the LVT, saw two men run from the house to the left. But
he couldn't get a shot at them. Adams was watching out the observer's window,
placed to the right of the driver's seat. He saw a VC, trying to dodge across
the path of the tractor, stumble and fall. The amtrac crushed him.
Plummer's LVT had reached the tree line and the thorn fence surrounding
the village. The sergeant turned his vehicle right to avoid the flames. The
Marines peeled off left and ran along the fence line looking for an opening.
They went in at the center of the village. The point Marine hesitated, then
turned to the right.
Payne knew that the machine gun lay to their left but he too turned
right, thinking that, since the point man was ignoring the machine gun, he
must be attacking another target. But the point did not know of the machine
gun. His sudden appearance behind the amtrac at the start of the assault had
caught the enemy machine gunner by surprise. Payne was the first target the
machine gunner had fired at.
So while the assault force rushed to the right, the VC slipped out to the
left. Adams saw six of them moving toward his amtrac, four dragging two
bodies. He couldn't fire the .30 caliber machine gun for fear of hitting the
Marine squad
11
sweeping in the other direction. Nor could he pursue them through the burning
village. The tractor broke out of the tree line on the far side of the
hamlet, pivoted right, and raced along a cane field to turn the assault
troops. The VC slipped away toward the left flank.
While the assault was going in, the wounded Marines were lying where they
had fallen, joking with Hastings and Falcon. Helicopters had been called and
they knew they would soon be under expert care. At all times helicopters sat
on the Da Nang airstrip, 16 miles to the rear, ready to evacuate the wounded,
like ambulances at city hospitals--only faster.
Eight minutes had elapsed since the wounded had fallen, and circling
overhead, looking for the green smoke grenade which signalled a secure landing
zone, were two Hueys<*>. Hastings threw the grenade and down clattered one
chopper. The other circled aloft, ready to pounce on any enemy firing
position. That capability was not needed. The landing zone was very secure.
The 3d Squad was pushing the enemy out of the hamlet. Cunningham had settled
the fire teams of the 2d Squad in the outskirts of the surrounding tree lines,
ready to stifle by fire any enemy who tried to down the Huey. Still, a fight
was raging and one of the wounded became concerned that the helicopter might
choose not to land. "Give me a rifle," he said, "I'll secure this damn
landing zone myself, if it means I get out of here afterwards."
The helicopter settled in. Hastings was extremely careful to bring the
Huey down right on the tracks of the amtracs so it would not detonate another
mine. The wounded were placed on board, and the helicopter took off, headed
for "Charlie Med"<**> receiving hospital. Thirteen minutes after the mine had
exploded, the wounded were being tended by doctors and receiving transfusions.
All would live.
The assault force was running again. Adams had told them they were going
the wrong way. They had stopped, gasped for breath, and stumbled out the back
of the village in trace of the amtrac. A trench line ran from the village to
another tree line and hamlet 400 meters in the rear of the burned village.
Beside this trench the eight Marines trotted. They had no more sweat to drop.
Most had burns where their hands or arms had accidently brushed the heated
rifle barrels. Their flak jackets and helmets weighted them down. They didn't
ease up.
----------
<*>Huey - Marine slang for UH1E helicopter.
<**>Charlie Med - Marine slang for Company C of a medical battalion.
12
Two hundred meters from the tree line, Payne croaked to his machine gun
team to drop off and cover their advance. The LVT stopped at the tree line and
readied its machine gun. The Marines swept into the village by pairs, covering
the advance of each other. The village was empty. The trench line was empty.
The numerous fighting holes were empty. Punji traps and bamboo stakes were
everywhere. It was a typical VC village.
The Marines turned back, withdrawing cautiously, thoroughly exhausted.
Cunningham joined them near the machine gun emplacement, bringing the two
squads and the other tractor with him. Adams and Blume told the sergeant
where they had seen the VC and the bodies. Cunningham was puzzled. He said
he had passed that area five minutes after the amtracs and had seen only
women, children, and old men fleeing to the left flank. He had seen no VC and
no bodies. In that short time lapse either the VCs, or the villagers
(probably relatives)--or both--had policed the battlefield.
Cunningham consolidated his position and sent engineers into the village
to blow the bunkers and trench lines. The entire action lasted less than 40
minutes. Within six minutes the assault had been launched. Not one Marine
was wounded in the attack. It was sudden and fierce and took the VC by
surprise. The Marines were surprised themselves. In seven months in Vietnam,
Payne had never before charged the enemy. Nor had his men.
The action was sharp, brief, and inconclusive. The assault force,
assuming the VC would pull directly back, had been badly fooled by the enemy's
flank escape, probably by use of tunnels or trenches. Carelessness and
inattention caused the mine casualties, as they had caused many before and
would continue to do so. The middle men of a patrol on the march under a hot
sun had tended to relax and shuffle along.
On the other hand, the platoon responded to fire like veterans (which
they were, most having over four months of combat patrolling). In some cases
(Corporal Lewis and Private First Class Adams stand out) initial initiative
was impressive. The number of Marines returning fire was almost total.
Thirty-nine men were engaged in the action; 33 fired their weapons, either
individual or team. Those not firing were the platoon commander, the platoon
corpsman, the platoon radio man, and the three wounded. The area fire
weapons--the 3.55, the LAAWs, and the M79s--were particularly effective in
reducing the volume of enemy fire.
The platoon commander and the squad leaders moved swiftly but not rashly.
They covered their flanks and did
13
not commit the entire platoon at one time in one bunched movement, thus
minimizing the chance of a successful ambush. Lewis covered the amtracs and
then Payne's squad when they rushed the village. Cunningham had one more
squad backing Lewis. Payne covered his pursuit objective with his machine gun
team and the amtrac. Cunningham had on call at all times 81mm mortars and
artillery; Gibbs' 60mm mortar was well supplied with ammunition.
The physical conditioning of the entire platoon was superior. They ran,
fought, and thought in intense heat, no mean accomplishment.
The Marines had cleared the field by firepower and aggressive maneuver.
They had hurt the VC but did not know how badly. The mine had severely
wounded one Marine and put two more out of action. During the remainder of
the day no sniper fired at the platoon. That was unusual. The next day, the
company suffered no casualties and received very light incoming fire--that too
was unusual. The following day, a Marine from the 3d Platoon in the middle of
a column tripped a mine and five Marines were evacuated. The harassing fire
that day was moderately heavy, inaccurate, and delivered at long range. That
was usual.
14
HOWARD'S HILL
Preface: The author was on another patrol the night of the
Howard fight. He met with the men of Charlie Company, who
relieved Howard's platoon, immediately upon their return and
taped their comments and reactions. Then he went to the hospital
at Chulai and interviewed Howard and his men, talking later with
the pilots, the Special Forces officers, and Howard's company and
battalion commanders. The pictures--the only ones taken on the
hill during the fight--were provided by First Lieutenant Philip
Freed, who was the Forward Air Controller with Charlie Company.
The Marine Corps has a tested tradition: it will never leave alone on the
field of combat one of its fighting men. It will go to fantastic lengths and
commit to battle scores of men to aid and protect a few. This is the story of
a few such Marines, of the battle they fought, and the help they received from
all the services, not just the Marine Corps.
Some 20 miles inland to the west of the Marine base at Chulai runs a
range of steep mountains and twisting valleys. In that bandits' lair, the Viet
Cong and North Vietnamese could train and plan for attacks against the heavily
populated seacoast hamlets, massing only when it was time to attack. In early
June of 1966, the intelligence reports reaching III MAF headquarters indicated
that a mixed force of Viet Cong and North Vietnamese was gathering by the
thousands in those mountains. But the enemy leaders were not packing their
troops into a few large, vulnerable assembly points; they kept their units
widely dispersed, moving mainly in squads and platoons.
To frustrate that scheme and keep the enemy off balance, the Marines
launched Operation KANSAS, an imaginative concept in strategy. Rather than
send full infantry battalions to beat the bushes in search of small enemy
bands, Lieutenant General Lewis W. Walt detailed the reconnaissance battalion
of the 1st Marine Division to scout the mountains. The reconnaissance Marines
would move in small teams of 8 to 20 men. If they located a large enemy
concentration, Marine infantry would be flown in. If, as was expected, they
saw only numerous small groups of Viet Cong and North Vietnamese, they were to
smash them by calling in air and artillery strikes.
Lieutenant Colonel Arthur J. Sullivan had set high training standards for
his battalion. Every man had received
15
individual schooling in forward observer techniques and reconnaissance patrol
procedures. He was confident his men could perform the mission successfully,
despite the obvious hazards. "The Vietnam war," he said, "has given the
small-unit leader--the corporal, the sergeant, the lieutenant--a chance to be
independent. The senior officers just can't be out there looking over their
shoulders. You have to have confidence in your junior officers and NCOs."
One such NCO was Staff Sergeant Jimmie Earl Howard, acting commander of
the 1st Platoon, Charlie Company, 1st Reconnaissance Battalion. A tall,
well-built man in his mid-thirties, Howard had been a star football player and
later a coach at the San Diego Recruit Depot. Leadership came naturally to
him. "Howard was a very personable fellow," his company commander, Captain
Tim Geraghty said. "The men liked him. They liked to work for him." In Korea
he had been wounded three times and awarded the Silver Star for bravery. In
Vietnam he would receive a fourth Purple Heart and be recommended for the
Medal of Honor.
As dusk fell on the evening of 13 June 1966, a flight of helicopters
settled on the slope of Hill 488, 25 miles west of Chulai. Howard and his 17
men jumped out and climbed the steep incline to the top. The hill, called Nui
Vu, rose to a peak of nearly 1,500 feet and dominated the terrain for miles.
Three narrow strips of level ground ran along the top for several hundred
yards before falling abruptly away. Seen from the air, they roughly resembled
the three blades on an airplane propeller. Howard chose the blade which
pointed north for his command post and placed observation teams on the other
two blades. It was an ideal vantage point.
The enemy knew it also. Their foxholes dotted the ground, each with a
small shelter scooped out two feet under the surface. Howard permitted his
men use of these one-man caves during the day to avoid the hot sun and enemy
detection. There was no other cover or concealment to be found. There were no
trees, only knee-high grass and small scrub growth.
In the surrounding valleys and villages, there were many enemy. For the
next two days, Howard was constantly calling for fire missions, as members of
the platoon saw small enemy groups almost every hour. Not all the requests
for air and artillery strikes were honored. Sullivan was concerned lest the
platoon's position, so salient and bare, be spotted by a suspicious enemy.
Most of the firing at targets located by the platoon was done only when there
was an observation plane circling in the vicinity to decoy the enemy. After
two days Sullivan and his executive officer, Major Allan Harris, became
alarmed at the risk involved in leaving the platoon stationary any longer.
But the observation
16
post was ideal; Howard had encountered no difficulty, and, in any case,
thought he had a secure escape route along a ridge to the east. So it was
decided to leave the platoon on Nui Vu for one more day.
However, the enemy were well aware of the platoon's presence. (Sullivan
has a theory that the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese, long harassed,
disrupted, and punished by reconnaissance units in territory they claimed to
control absolutely, had determined to eliminate one such unit, hoping thereby
to demoralize the others. Looked at in hindsight, the ferocity and tenacity
of the attack upon Nui Vu gives credence to the colonel's theory.) In any
case, the North Vietnamese made their preparations well and did not tip their
hand. On 15 June, they moved a fresh, well-equipped, highly trained battalion
to the base of Nui Vu. In late afternoon hundreds of the enemy started to
climb up the three blades, hoping to annihilate the dozen and a half Marines
in one surprise attack.
The Army Special Forces frustrated that plan. Sergeant 1st Class Donald
Reed and Specialist 5th Class Hardey Drande were leading a platoon of CIDG
(Civilian Irregular Defense Group) forces on patrol near Nui Vu that same
afternoon. They saw elements of the North Vietnamese battalion moving towards
the hill and radioed the news back to their base camp at Hoi An, several miles
to the south. Howard's radio was purposely set on the same frequency and so
he was alerted at the same time. Reed and Drande wanted to hit the enemy from
the rear and disrupt them, but had to abandon the idea when they suddenly
found themselves a very unpopular minority of two on the subject. Describing
the reactions of the Special Forces NCOs later, Howard could not resist
chuckling. "The language those sergeants used over the radio," he said, "when
they realized they couldn't attack the PAVNs<*>, well, they sure didn't learn
it "at communications school." Even though the Special Forces where not able
to provide the ground support they wished to, their warning alerted Howard and
enabled him to develop a precise defensive plan before the attack was
launched.
Acting on the report, Howard gathered his team leaders, briefed them on
the situation, selected an assembly point, instructed them to stay on full
alert and to withdraw to the main position at the first sign of an approaching
enemy. The corporals and lance corporals crept back to their teams and
briefed them in the growing dusk. The Marines then settled down to watch and
wait.
Lance Corporal Ricardo Binns had placed his observation team on the slope
40 meters forward of Howard's position. At
---------
<*> PAVNs - Marine slang for soldiers of the Peoples' Army of (North) Vietnam.
17
approximately 2200, while the four Marines were lying in a shallow depression
discussing in whispers their sergeant's solemn warnings, Binns quite casually
propped himself up on his elbows and placed his rifle butt in his shoulder.
Without saying a word, he pointed the barrel at a bush and fired. The bush
pitched backward and fell thrashing 12 feet away.
The other Marines jumped up. Each threw a grenade, before grabbing his
rifle and scrambling up the hill. Behind them grenades burst and automatic
weapons pounded away. The battle of Nui Vu was on.
The other outposts withdrew to the main position. The Marines commanded
a tiny rock-strewn knoll. The rocks would provide some protection for the
defenders. Placing his two radios behind a large boulder, Howard set up a
tight circular perimeter, not over 20 meters in diameter, and selected a
firing position for each Marine.
The North Vietnamese too were setting up. They had made no audible
noises while climbing. There was no talking, no clumsy movements. When Binns
killed one of their scouts, they were less than 50 meters from the top.
The Marines were surrounded. From all sides the enemy threw grenades.
Some bounced off the rocks; some rolled back down the slopes; some did not
explode, but some landed right on Marines and did explode. The next day the
platoon corpsman, Billee Don Holmes, recalled: "They were within twenty feet
of us. Suddenly there were grenades all over. Then people started hollering.
It seemed everyone got hit at the same time.
Holmes crawled forward to help. A grenade exploded between him and a
wounded man. Holmes lost consciousness.
The battle was going well for the North Vietnamese. Four .50 caliber
machine guns were firing in support of the assault units, their heavy
explosive projectiles arcing in from the four points of the compass. Red
tracer rounds from light machine guns streaked toward the Marine position,
pointing the direction for reinforcements gathering in the valley. 60mm mortar
shells smashed down and added rock splinters to the metal shrapnel whining
through the air.
The North Vietnamese followed up the grenade shower with a full,
well-coordinated assault, directed and controlled by shrill whistles and the
clacking of bamboo sticks. From different directions, they rushed the
position at the same time, firing automatic weapons, throwing grenades, and
screaming. Howard later said he hadn't been sure how his troops would react.
They were young and the situation looked hopeless.
18
They had been shocked and confused by the ferocity of the attack and the
screams of their own wounded.
But they reacted savagely. The first lines of enemy skirmishers were cut
down seconds after they stood up and exposed themselves. The assault failed
to gain momentum any place and the North Vietnamese in the rearward ranks had
more sense than to copy the mistakes of the dead. Having failed in their
swift charge, they went to earth and probed the perimeter, seeking a weak spot
through which they could drive. To do this, small bands of the enemy tried to
crawl quite close to a Marine, then overwhelm him with a burst of fire and
several grenades.
But the Marines too used grenades and the American hand grenade contains
twice the blast and shrapnel effect of the Chinese Communist stick grenade.
The Marines could throw farther and more accurately than the enemy. A Marine
would listen for a movement, gauge the direction and distance, pull the pin,
and throw. High pitched howls and excited jabberings mingled with the blasts.
The North Vietnamese pulled back to regroup.
Howard had taken the PRC-25 radio from one of his communicators, Corporal
Robert Lewis Martinez, and during the lull contacted Captain Geraghty and
Lieutenant Colonel Sullivan. With his escape route cut off and his force
facing overwhelming odds, Howard kept his message simple. "You've gotta get
us out of here," he said. "There are too many of them for my people."
Sullivan tried. Because of his insistence upon detailed preplanning of
extraction and fire support contingencies, he was a well-known figure at the
Direct Air Support Center of the 1st Marine Division and when he called near
midnight, he did not bandy words. He wanted flare ships, helicopters, and
fixed wing aircraft dispatched immediately to Nui Vu.
Somehow, the response was delayed. And shortly after midnight, the enemy
forces gathered and rushed forward in strength a second time. The Marines
threw the last of their grenades and fired their rifles semiautomatically,
relying on accuracy to suppress volume. It did and the enemy fell back, but
by that time every Marine had been wounded.
The living took the ammunition of the dead and lay under a moonless sky,
wondering about the next assault. Although he did not tell anyone, Howard
doubted they could repel a massed charge by a determined enemy. From combat
experience, he knew too that the enemy, having been badly mauled twice, would
listen for sounds which would indicate his force had been shattered or
demoralized before surging forward again.
19
Already up the slopes were floating the high, singsong taunts Marines had
heard at other places in other wars. Voices which screeched: "Marines--you
die tonight!" and "Marines, you die in an hour."
Members of the platoon wanted to return the compliments. "Sure," said
Howard, "go ahead and yell anything you want." And the Marines shouted back
down the slopes all the curses and invectives they could remember from their
collective repetoire. The North Vietnamese screamed back, giving Howard the
opportunity to deliver a master stroke in psychological oneupmanship.
"All right," he shouted. "Ready? Now!"
And all the Marines laughed and laughed and laughed at the enemy.
The North Vietnamese did not mount a third major attack and at 0100 an
Air Force flare ship, with the poetic call sign of "Smoky Gold," came on
station overhead. Howard talked to the pilot through his radio and the plane
dropped its first flare. The mountainside was lit up. The Marines looked
down the slopes. Lance Corporal Ralph Glober Victor stared, then muttered:
"Oh my God, look at them." The others weren't sure it wasn't a prayer. North
Vietnamese reinforcements filled the valley. Twenty-year-old Private First
Class Joseph Kosoglow described it vividly: "There were so many, it was just
like an ant hill ripped apart. They were all over the place."
They shouldn't have been. Circling above the mountain were attack jets
and armed helicopters. With growing frustration, they had talked to Howard
but could not dive to the attack without light. Now they had light.
They swarmed in. The jets first concentrated on the valley floor and the
approaches to Nui Vu, loosing rockets which hissed down and blanketed large
areas. Then those fast, dangerous helicopters--the Hueys--scoured the slopes.
At altitudes as low as 20 feet, they skimmed the brush, firing their machine
guns in long, sweeping bursts. The Hueys pulled off to spot for the jets, and
again the planes dipped down, releasing bombs and napalm. Then the Hueys
scurried back to pick off stragglers, survey the damage, and direct another
run. One of the platoon's communicators, Corporal Martinez, said it in two
sentences: "The Hueys were all over the place. The jets blocked the Viet Cong
off."
Two Hueys stayed over Howard's position all night; when one helicopter
had to return to home base and refuel, another would be sent out. The Huey
pilots, Captain John M. Shields
20
and Captain James M. Perryman, Jr., performed dual roles--they were the
Tactical Air Controllers' Airborne (TACAs) who directed the bomb runs of the
jets and they themselves strafed the enemy. The North Vietnamese tried
unsuccessfully to shoot the helicopters down and did hit two out of the four
Hueys alternating on station.
By the light of the flares, the jet pilots could see the hill mass and
distinguish prominent terrain features but could not spot Howard's perimeter.
To mark specific targets for the jets, the TACAs directed "Smoky" to drop
flares right on the ground as signal lights and then called the jets down to
pulverize the spot. Howard identified his position by flicking a re-filtered
flashlight on and off, and, guiding on that mark, the Huey pilots strafed
within 25 meters of the Marines.
Still on the perimeter itself the fight continued. In the shifting light
of the flares, the pilots were fearful of hitting the Marines and had to leave
some space unexposed to fire in front of the Marines' lines. Into this space
crawled the North Vietnamese.
For the Marines it was a war of hide and seek. Having run out of
grenades, they had to rely on cunning and marksmanship to beat the attackers.
Howard had passed the word to fire only at an identified target--and then only
one shot at a time. The enemy fired all automatic weapons; the Marines
replied with single shots. The enemy hurled grenades; the Marines threw back
rocks.
It was a good tactic. A Marine would hear a noise and toss a rock in
that general direction. The North Vietnamese would think it was a grenade
falling and dive for another position. The Marine would roll or crawl low to
a spot from which he could sight in on the position, and wait. In a few
seconds, the North Vietnamese would raise his head to see why the grenade had
not exploded. The Marine would fire one round. The range was generally less
than 30 feet.
The accuracy of this fire saved the life of Corpsman Holmes. When he
regained consciousness after a grenade had knocked him out, he saw a North
Vietnamese dragging away the dead Marine beside him. Then another enemy
reached over and grasped him by the cartridge belt. The soldier tugged at
him.
Lance Corporal Victor was lying on his stomach behind a rock. He had
been hit twice by grenades since the first flare had gone off and could
scarcely move. He saw an enemy soldier bending over a fallen Marine. He
sighted in and fired. The man fell backward. He saw a second enemy tugging
at another Marine's body. He sighted in again and fired.
21
Shot between the eyes, the North Vietnamese slumped dead across Billee
Holmes' chest. He pushed the body away and crawled back to the Marines'
lines. His left arm was lanced with shrapnel, and his face was swollen and
his head ringing from the concussion of the grenade. For the rest of the
night, he crawled from position to position, bandaging and encouraging the
wounded, and between times firing at the enemy.
Occasionally the flares would flicker out and the planes would have to
break off contact to avoid crashing. In those instances, artillery under the
control of the Special Forces and manned by Vietnamese gun crews would fill in
the gap and punish any enemy force gathering at the base of Nui Vu.
"Stiff Balls," Howard had radioed the Special Forces camp at Hoi An,
three miles south. "If you can keep Charlie from sending another company up
here, I'll keep these guys out of my position."
"Roger, Carnival Time." Captain Louis Maris, of the Army Special Forces,
had replied, using Howard's own peculiar call sign. Both sides kept their
parts of the bargain and the South Vietnamese crews who manned the 105mm
howitzers threw in concentration after concentration of accurate artillery
shells.
"Howard was talking on the radio. He was cool," Captain John Blair, the
Special Forces commanding officer, recalled afterwards. "He stayed calm all
the way through that night. But," he chuckled, "he never did get our call
sign right!"
In the periods of darkness, each Marine fought alone. How some of them
died no one knows. But the relieving force hours later found one Marine lying
propped up against a rock. In front of him lay a dead enemy soldier. The
muzzles of their weapons were touching each others' chests. Two Marine
entrenching tools were recovered near a group of mangled North Vietnamese;
both shovels were covered with blood. One Marine was crumpled beneath a dead
enemy. Beside him lay another Vietnamese. The Marine was bandaged around the
chest and head. His hand still clasped the hilt of a knife buried in the back
of the soldier on top of him.
At 0300, a flight of H34 helicopters whirled over Nui Vu and came in to
extract the platoon. So intense was the fire they met that they were unable
to land and Howard was told he would have to fight on until dawn. Shortly
thereafter, a richochet struck Howard in the back. His voice over the radio
faltered and died out. Those listening--the Special Forces personnel, the
pilots, the high ranking officers of the 1st Marine Division at Chulai--all
thought the end had come.
22
Then Howard's voice came back strong. Fearing the drowsing effect morphine
can have, he refused to let Holmes administer the drug to ease the pain.
Unable to use his legs, he pulled himself from hole to hole encouraging his
men and directing their fire. Wherever he went, he dragged their
lifeline--the radio.
Binns, the man whose shot had triggered the battle, was doing likewise.
Despite severe wounds, he crawled around the perimeter, urging his men to
conserve their ammunition, gathering enemy weapons and grenades for the
Marines' use, giving assistance wherever needed.
None of the Marines kept track of the time. "I'll tell you this," said
Howard, "you know that movie--The Longest Day? Well, compared to our night on
the hill, The Longest Day was just a twinkle in the eye." But the longest
night did pass and dawn came. Howard heralded its arrival. At 0525 he
shouted, "O.K., you people, reveille goes in 35 minutes." At exactly 0600, his
voice pealed out, "Reveille, reveille."' It was the start of another day and
the perimeter had held.
On all sides of their position, the Marines saw enemy bodies and
equipment. The North Vietnamese would normally have raked the battlefield
clean but so deadly was the Marine fire that they left unclaimed many of those
who fell close to the perimeter.
The firing had slacked off. Although badly mauled themselves, the enemy
still had the Marines ringed in and did not intend to leave. Nor did haste
make them foolhardy. They knew what the jets and the Hueys and the artillery
and the Marine sharpshooting would do to them on the bare slopes in daylight.
They slipped into holes and waited, intending to attack with more troops the
next night.
Bursts of fire from light machine guns chipped the rocks above the
Marines' heads. Firing uphill from concealed foxholes, the enemy could cut
down any Marine who raised up and silhouetted himself against the skyline.
Two of the .50 caliber machine guns were still firing sporadically.
There came a lull in the firing. A Huey buzzed low over the hillcrest,
while another gunship hovered to one side, ready to pounce if the enemy took
the bait. No one fired. The pilot, Major William J. Goodsell, decided to mark
the position for a medical evacuation by helicopter. His Huey fluttered
slowly down and hovered. Howard thought the maneuver too risky and said so.
But Goodsell had run the risk and come in anyway. He dropped a smoke grenade.
Still no fire. He waved to the relieved Howard and skimmed north over the
forward slope, only 10 feet above the ground.
23
The noise of machine guns drowned out the sound of the helicopter's
engines. Tracers flew toward the Huey from all directions. The helicopter
rocked and veered sharply to the right and zigzagged down the mountain. The
copilot, First Lieutenant Stephen Butler, grabbed the stick and brought the
crippled helicopter under control, crash landing in a rice paddy several miles
to the east. The pilots were picked up by their wingman. But Major Goodsell,
who had commanded Squadron VMO-6 for less than one week, died of gunshot
wounds before they reached the hospital.
The medical pickup helicopter did not hesitate. It came in.
Frantically, Howard waved it off. He was not going to see another shot down.
The pilots were dauntless but not invulnerable. The pilot saw Howard's signal
and turned off, bullets clanging off the armor plating of the undercarriage.
Howard would wait for the infantry.
In anger, the jets and the Hueys now attacked the enemy positions anew.
Flying lower and lower, they crisscrossed the slopes, searching for the
machine gun emplacements, offering themselves as targets, daring the enemy to
shoot.
The enemy did. Another Huey was hit and crashed, its crew chief killed.
The .50 calibers exposed their position and were silenced. Still the North
Vietnamese held their ground. Perhaps the assault company, with all its
automatic weapons and fresh young troops, had been ordered to wipe out the few
Marines at any cost; perhaps the commanding officer had been killed and his
subordinates were following dead orders; perhaps the enemy thought victory yet
possible.
But then the Marine infantry came in. They had flown out at dawn but so
intense was the enemy fire around Nui Vu, the helicopters had to circle for 45
minutes while jets and artillery blasted a secure landing zone. During that
time, First Lieutenant Richard E. Moser, a H34 helicopter pilot, monitored
Howard's frequency and later reported: "It was like something you'd read in a
novel. His call sign was Carnival Time and he kept talking about these North
Vietnamese down in holes in front of him. He'd say, 'you've gotta get this
guy in the crater because he's hurting my boys.' He was really impressive.
His whole concern was for his men."
On the southern slope of the mountain, helicopters finally dropped
Charlie Company of the 5th Marines. The relief company climbed fast, ignoring
sniper fire and wiping out small pockets of resistance. With the very first
round they fired, the Marine 60mm mortar team knocked out the enemy mortar.
Sergeant Frank Riojas, the weapons platoon commander, cut down a sniper at 500
yards with a tracer round from his M14. Marine machine gun sections were
detached from the main
24
Men of C/1/5 start up Howard's Hill, as napalm burns on the slope.
(Lt Freed's photo.)
Pinned down atop Howard's Hill, Lieutenant Philip Freed Calls for
air support. (Lt. Freed's photo.)
24a
body and sent up the steep fingers along the flanks of the hill to support by
fire the company's movement. The North Vietnamese were now the hunted, as
Marines scrambled around as well as up the slope, attempting to pinch off the
enemy before they could flee.
The main column climbed straight upwards. While yet a quarter of a mile
away, the point man saw recon's position on the plateau. The boulder which
served as Howard's command post was the most prominent terrain feature on the
peak. The platoon hurried forward. They had to step over enemy bodies to
enter the perimeter. Howard's men had eight rounds of ammunition left.
"Get down," were Howard's first words of welcome. "There are snipers
right in front of us." Another recon man shouted: "Hey, you got any
cigarettes?" A cry went up along the line--not expressions of joy--but
requests for cigarettes.
It was not that Howard's Marines were not glad to see other infantrymen;
it was just that they had expected them. Staff Sergeant Richard Sullivan, who
was with the first platoon to reach the recon Marines, said later: "One man
told me he never expected to see the sun rise. But once it did, he knew we'd
be coming."
The fight was not over. Before noon, in the hot day-light, despite
artillery and planes firing in support, four more Marines would die.
At Howard's urging, Second Lieutenant Ronald Meyer quickly deployed his
platoon along the crest. Meyer had graduated from the Naval Academy the
previous June and intended to make the Marine Corps his career. He had spent
a month with his bride before leaving for Vietnam. In the field he wore no
shiny bars, and officers and men alike called him "Stump," because of his
short, muscular physique.
Howard had assumed he was a corporal or a sergeant and was shouting
orders to him. Respecting Howard's knowledge and performance, Meyer obeyed.
He never did mention his rank. So Staff Sergeant Howard, waving off offers of
aid, proceeded to direct the tactical maneuvers of the relieving company,
determined to wipe out the small enemy band dug in not 20 meters downslope.
Meyer hollered for members of his platoon to pass him grenades. He would
then lob them downslope toward the snipers' holes. By peering around the base
of the boulder, Howard was able to direct his throws. "A little more to the
right on the next one, buddy. About five yards farther. That's right. No, a
little too strong." The grenades had little effect and
25
the snipers kept firing. Meyer shouted he wanted air on the target. The word
was passed back for the air liaison officer to come forward. The platoon
waited.
Lance Corporal Terry Redic wanted to fire his rifle grenade at the
snipers. A tested sharpshooter, he had several kills to his credit. In small
fire fights he often disdained to duck, prefering to suppress hostile fire by
his own rapid accurate shooting. Meyer's way seemed too slow. He raised up,
knelt on one knee, and sighted downslope looking for a target. He never found
one. The enemy shot first and killed him instantly.
Meyer swore vehemently. "Let's get that *****. You coming with me,
Sotello?" "Yes, Stump." Lance Corporal David Sotello turned to get his rifle
and some other men. Meyer didn't wait. He started forward with a grenade in
each hand. "Keep your head down, buddy, they can shoot," yelled Howard.
Meyer crawled for several yards, then threw a grenade at a hole. It
blasted an enemy soldier. He turned, looking upslope. Another sniper shot
him in the back. Sotello heard the shot as he started to crawl down.
So did Hospitalman 3d Class John Markillie, the platoon corpsman. He
crawled toward the fallen lieutenant. "For God's sake, keep your head down!"
yelled Howard. Markillie reached his lieutenant. He sat up to examine the
wound. A sniper shot him in the chest.
Another corpsman, Holloday, and a squad leader, Corporal Melville,
crawled forward. They could not feel Meyer's pulse. Markillie was still
breathing. Ignoring the sniper fire, they began dragging and pushing his body
up the hill.
Melville was hit in the head. He rolled over. His helmet bounced off.
He shook his head and continued to crawl. The round had gone in one side of
the helmet and ripped out the other, just nicking the corporal above his left
ear. Melville and Holloday dragged Markillie into the perimeter.
From Chulai, the battalion commander called his company commander, First
Lieutenant Marshall "Buck" Darling. "Is the landing zone secure, Buck?"
"Well," A pause. "...not spectacularly." Back at the base two noncommissioned
officers were listening. "I wonder what he meant by that?" asked the junior
sergeant. "What the hell do you think it means, stupid?" replied the older
sergeant. "He's getting shot at."
Ignoring his own wounds, Corpsman Billee Holmes was busy supervising the
corpsmen from Charlie Company as they administered to the wounded. With the
fire fight still going on to the front, helicopter evacuation was not possible
from
26
within the perimeter. The wounded had to be taken rearward to the south
slope. Holmes roved back and forth, making sure that all his buddies were
accounted for and taken out.
The pilots had seen easier landing sites. "For the medical evacs," Moser
said, "a pilot had to come in perpendicular to the ridge, then cock his bird
around before he sat down. We could get both main mounts
down--first--the-tail--well--sometimes we got it down. We were still taking
fire."
Holmes reported that there was still one Marine, whom he had seen die,
missing. Only after repeated assurances that they would not leave without the
body were the infantry able to convince him and Howard that it was time they
too left. They helped the Navy corpsman and the Marine sergeant to a waiting
helicopter. Howard's job was done.
Another had yet to be finished. There was a dead Marine to be found
somewhere on the field of battle. But before a search could be conducted, the
last of the enemy force had to be destroyed.
First Lieutenant Phil Freed flopped down beside Melville. Freed was the
forward air controller attached to Charlie Company that day. He had run the
last quarter mile uphill when he heard Meyer needed air. With the rounds
cracking near his head, he needed no briefing. He contacted two F8 Crusader
jets circling overhead. "This is Cottage 14. Bring it on down on a dry run.
This has to be real tight. Charlie is dug in right on our lines." At the
controls of the jets were First Lieutenants Richard W. Deilke and Edward H.
Menzer.
"There were an awful lot of planes in the air," Menzer said. "We didn't
think we'd be used so we called DASC (Direct Air Support Center) and asked for
another mission. We got diverted to the FAC (Forward Air Controller), Cottage
14. He told us he had a machine gun nest right in front of him."
As they talked back and forth, Menzer thought he recognized Freed's
voice. Later he learned he had indeed; Freed had flown jets with him in
another squadron a year earlier.
Freed was lying in a pile of rocks on the military crest of the northern
finger of the hill. Since he himself had flown the F8 Crusader, Freed could
talk to the pilots in a language they understood. Still, he was not certain
they could help. He didn't know whether they could come that close and still
not hit the Marine infantrymen. On their first run, he deliberately called
the jets in wide so he could judge the technical skills and precision of the
pilots. Rock steady.
27
He called for them to attack in earnest. When they heard the target was
20 meters from the FAC, it was the pilots' turn to be worried. "As long as
you're flying parallel to the people, it's O.K.," Menzer said. "Because it's
a good shooting bird. But even so, I was leery at first to fire with troops
that near."
Unknown to them, the two pilots were about to fly one of the closest
direct air support missions in the history of fixed-wing aviation. They
approached from the northeast with the sun behind them, and cut across the
ridgeline parallel to the friendly lines. They strafed without room for
error. The gun-sight reflector plate in an F8 Crusader jet looks like a
bullseye with the rings marked in successive 10-mil increments. When the
pilots in turn aligned their sights while 3,000 feet away, the target lay
within the 10-mil ring and the Marine position was at the edge of the ring.
The slightest variance of the controls would rake the Marine infantrymen with
fire. In that fashion, each pilot made four strafing passes, skimming by 10 to
20 feet above the ridge. Freed feared they would both crash, so close did
their wings dip to the crest of the hill. The impact of the cannon shells
showered the infantrymen with dirt. They swore they could tell the color of
the pilot's eyes. In eight attacks, the jet pilots fired 350 20mm explosive
shells into an area 60 meters long and 10 to 20 meters wide. The hillside was
gouged and torn, as if a bulldozer had churned back and forth across it.
Freed cautiously lifted his head. A round cracked by. One enemy had
survived. Somebody shouted that the shot came from the position of the sniper
who had killed Meyer. The lieutenant's body lay several yards downslope.
The F8 Crusaders had ample fuel left. Menzer called to say they could
make dummy runs over the position if the Marines thought it would be useful.
Freed asked them to try it.
The company commander, Buck Darling, watched the jets. As they passed,
he noticed the firing stopped momentarily. The planes would be his cover.
"I'm going to get Stump. Coming, Brown?" he asked the nearest Marine.
Lance Corporal James Brown was not a billboard Marine. His offbeat sense
of humor often conflicted with his superiors' sense of duty. His squad leader
later recalled with a grimace one fire fight when the enemy caught the squad
in a cross fire. The rounds were passing high over the Marines' heads. While
everyone else was returning fire, Brown strolled over to a Vietnamese
tombstone, propped himself against it with one finger, crossed his legs and
yelled: "You couldn't hit me if I was buried here!" His squad leader almost
did the job for the enemy.
28
On the hill relieving the recon unit, however, Brown was all business. He
emptied several rifle magazines and hurled grenade after grenade. When he ran
out of grenades, he threw rocks to keep the snipers ducking. All the while he
screamed and cursed, shouting every insult and blasphemy he could think of.
Howard had been very impressed, both with Brown's actions and with his
vocabulary.
He was not out of words when Darling asked him to go after Meyer's body.
As they crawled over the crest, Brown tugged at his company commander's boot.
"Don't sweat it, lieutenant, they can only kill us." Darling did not reply.
They reached Meyer's body and tried to pull it back while crawling on their
stomachs. They lacked the strength.
"All right, let's carry him." said Darling. It was Brown's turn to be
speechless. He knew what had happened to every Marine on the slope who had
raised his head--and here was his officer suggesting they stand straight up!
"We'll time our moves with the jets." When the jets passed low, they stumbled
and scrambled forward a few yards with their burden, then flattened out as the
jets pulled up. The sniper snapped shots at them after every pass. Bullets
chipped the rocks around them. They had less than 30 feet to climb. It took
over a dozen rushes. When they rolled over the crest they were exhausted.
Only the enemy was left on the slope.
The infantry went after him. Corporal Samuel Roth led his eight man
squad around the left side of the slope. On the right, Sergeant Riojas set a
machine gun up on the crest to cover the squad. A burst of automatic fire
struck the tripod of the machine gun. A strange duel developed. The sniper
would fire at the machine gun. His low position enabled him to aim in exactly
on the gun. The Marines would duck until he fired, then reach up and loose a
burst downhill, forcing the sniper to duck.
With the firing; the sniper could not hear the squad crashing through the
brush on his right side. Roth brought his men on line facing toward the
sniper. With fixed bayonets they began walking forward. They could see no
movement in the clumps of grass and torn earth.
There was a lull in the firing. The sniper heard the squad, turned and
fired. Bullets whipped by the Marines. Roth's helmet spun off. He fell. The
other Marines flopped to the ground. Roth was uninjured. The steel helmet
had saved a second Marine's life within an hour. He was not even aware that
his helmet had been shot off. "When I give the word, kneel and fire," he
said. "Now!" The Marines rose and their rounds kicked up dust and clumps of
earth in front of them. They missed the sniper. He had ducked into his hole.
29
The Marines lay back down. Roth swore. "All right--put in fresh magazines
and let's do it again." "Now!"
Just as the Marines rose, the sniper bobbed up like a duck in a shooting
gallery. A bullet knocked him backwards against the side of his hole. Roth
charged, the other Marines sprinting behind him. He drove forward with his
bayonet. A grenade with the release pin intact rolled from the sniper's left
hand. Roth jerked the blade back. The sniper slumped forward over his
machine gun.
The hill was quiet. It was noon. Darling declared the objective secure.
In the tall grass in front of Riojas' machine gun, the infantrymen found the
body of the missing Marine. The Marines paused to search 39 enemy dead for
documents, picked up 18 automatic weapons (most of them Chinese), climbed on
board a flight of helicopters, and flew off the plateau.
The Marines lost 10 dead. Charlie Company and the Huey Squadrons each
lost two. Of the 18 Marines in the reconnaissance platoon, 6 were killed; the
other 12 were wounded. Five members of Charlie Company were recommended for
medals. Every Marine under Howard's command received the Purple Heart.
Fifteen were recommended for the Silver Star; Binns and Holmes were nominated
for the Navy Cross; Howard was recommended for the Medal of Honor.
If the action had centered around just one man, then it could be
considered a unique incident of exceptional bravery on the part of an
exceptional man. It is that. But perhaps it is something more. On June
14th, few would have noticed anything unique about the 1st Reconnaissance
Platoon of Charlie Company. Just in reading the names of its dead, one has
the feeling that here are the typical and the average, who, well-trained and
well-led, rose above normal expectations to perform an exemplary feat of arms:
John Adams, Ignatius Carlisi, Thomas Glawe, James McKinney, Alcadio
Mascarenas, Jerrald Thompson.
30
NO CIGAR
Preface: The author accompanied the 3d Platoon, Company
A, 5th Marines, on several long-range patrols during the
period 16-24 June 1966. He took several pictures of the
platoon while on the patrols, which were conducted along the
outer fringe of the 1st Battalion's Tactical Area of
Responsibility, approximately eight miles northwest of the
Marine base at Chulai. This is the story of two consecutive
patrols, typical of TAOR patrolling in what the Marines called
the "war of the rice paddy farmers."
The patrol filed out through the battalion's defensive wire at 2030 on 23
June 1966. The assistant platoon leader and the guide from the company on the
defensive perimeter counted each man. They checked figures: "48?"
"48."
"See you."
"Good luck. Remember we have a listening post out about 200 meters."
The platoon started across an area of small paddies and burnt underbrush.
The column twisted and stumbled forward. There was no moon.
Whispers.
"Hold it up. Pass the word."
"What's wrong? Pass it back."
"One of Kohlbuss' men has sprained his ankle so bad he can't walk. Did
it crossing the dike."
"Nuts. O.K. Tell him to go back to the wire himself," the platoon
commander, First Lieutenant A. A. "Tony" Monroe said. "Have him crawl back if
he has to. It's only a few yards. Bielecki, call battalion and tell them an
injured Marine is coming back in. Don't shoot him."
Lieutenant Monroe signalled the point to move out again. They walked 20
yards. More whispering.
"Hold it up."
31
"Now what's the matter?"
"Mills has a toothache. It's killing him."
Staff Sergeant Albert Ellis, the platoon guide, walked up to the
lieutenant.
"It's true, sir. You know he should have gone to the dentist last week.
Three days out there now could really put a hurting on him."
"Great. Just great. Bielecki--call battalion and tell them not to shoot
Mills either. He'll be coming in. Shall we leave before everybody goes
back?"
The platoon moved forward. The point avoided the trails and stream beds.
Across gullies, along the edges of the rice paddies, through whip-saw grass
and scrub growth, the Marines trudged in single file.
An hour passed.
"Bielecki--tell battalion we've passed check point one."
Two hours. Three.
"Bielecki, tell them we've passed check point two."
The Marines twisted and wound their way toward an ambush site in the
mountains seven miles to the west. The night was muggy and the Marines
sweated freely. But it was not hot and little water was drunk.
The point came to a break in the undergrowth and the column stopped while
scouts moved ahead. Having crossed a large rice paddy, they entered and
searched a distant tree line. Finding the way clear, they waved the main body
on. The platoon walked across this paddy, keeping well spread out even in the
dark and moving rapidly. The undergrowth the platoon just left suddenly
glowed with quick red lights which winked on and off. Three sharp explosions
followed and the ground shook. The platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Berton
Robinson, ran up from the tail end of the platoon.
"Sir, those dumb artillery people just missed us!"
"Glad to hear they did, Robbie." The Marines listening chuckled. "Let's
get up that mountain before they try again. I told them we were coming out
here tonight. They should have stopped those H&I "Harassing and Interdiction"
fires in our vicinity altogether."
The point started clambering up over rocks in a westerly
32
direction. Illumination flares burst silently a few miles to the south. The
landscape was frozen in relief. A man watching from a foxhole could see in
clear outline any moving figure. The Marines crouched down in the bushes and
waited. The first parachute flares flickered out but fresh ones opened and
swung gently downward. Whispers.
"Those damn Popular Forces are putting on their nightly show," growled
one Marine. "The record is eight flares at one time. This show might top
them all."
It did. The platoon commander waited patiently. Flares were expensive
and not that plentiful. He was sure darkness would fall again soon.
The platoon was grateful for the break. They had been pushing steadily
for four hours. The hill they faced was 195 meters high, its steepness
indicated by contour intervals on the map which pressed against each other.
The flares did not cease. Monroe was amazed--and angered. He did not
like the idea of climbing a hill when anyone at the top could see him coming.
But he had no choice, if he wanted to reach the ambush site before dawn.
The Marines got to their feet. Corporal Charles Washington led his point
squad ahead of the main body. The Marines used their hands, knees, and feet
to climb. They traversed the slope back and forth, grasping for holds and
pulling themselves upwards.
"I don't like this," the lieutenant whispered. "A few grenades would
play hell with us. And we couldn't throw any; they'd bounce right back on our
heads."
They reached the top. Monroe had his squads spread out. The Marines
flopped down gasping. No one moved for many minutes. A few men threw up.
Finally, Monroe called for his squad leaders and two staff sergeants. He
outlined simply the plan they had discussed before leaving the battalion area:
the platoon would split into two groups and set up separate ambush and
reconnaissance sites on the north and south sides of Hill 176, a mile to the
south. Monroe would take one group, with two squads and the artillery forward
observer; Staff Sergeant Ellis would lead the second, with one squad and the
60mm mortar. They would communicate by radio.
Monroe motioned. It was time to saddle up, Washington's squad still in
front, Ellis' group falling in at the rear. The last mile would be easy,
since they could follow the ridgelines southwest until they arrived at Hill
176. Monroe planned to place his ambush along a trail where it crossed a low
saddle; Ellis would climb the hill and set in on the other side. The
33
Marines walked against the skyline with unconcern. The ridge was steep and
thick, preventing effective ambush from the flanks. The Marines to the front
and rear treaded cautiously.
The subdued sound of static from the radio stopped, indicating that
someone was trying to contact the platoon. So Private First Class William
Bielecki, the platoon radioman, stopped to listen. "Roger. Out." "Sir,
battalion says regiment was hit at 2400 by an estimated VC company and to look
out. They're headed our way and might try to cross the saddle on 176 to get
into the mountains."
Monroe checked his watch--0300.
"O. K. Pass the word. Make sure every man knows they're coming."
With the chances of an encounter high, the usual night sounds of a tired
Marine patrol faded away. No canteen cups rattled, no one at the rear of the
column coughed, no loose sling clattered against a rifle stock. The Marines
climbed over the crest of a small rise and began walking downwards. The
platoon was strung out in the saddle on the northern side of Hill 176. Small
clumps of scrub growth dotted the slope.
It was 0400 when the point squad reached a deep gully, thick with
secondary jungle growth. Through that tangle twisted a dry stream bed trail
which led to the mountain to the west.
Voices.
Every Marine heard them: high pitched, distinct, near. The guerrillas
were on the stream bed trail and jabbering freely--they were taking a break
near the top of the trail. They were tired and, so close to the sanctuary of
the mountains, not alert.
The Marines stopped but did not deploy. They waited for the platoon
commander's decision. Monroe gambled. Hoping to catch the VC in a cross
fire, he sent Washington's squad down to cross the trail and take the high
ground on the other side.
Five minutes passed. Crack. Crack, Crack, Crack. In the gully, shots
were exchanged. "Washington, get on that high ground," Monroe yelled. "Get
out of there!"
Washington's men scrambled out of the gully on the far side
"Fire a flare."
From the rear of the column a hand flare went up--in the wrong direction.
34
"No, stupid, down in the drawl."
Another flare popped. Forty Marines fanned out and peered down in the
gully, shading their eyes against the glare of the flares still bursting to
the south. On the far side eight more Marines did the same. The gully was
filled with the weird flickering shadows of trees and bushes.
"There's one! Right across from us--up high--in front of Wash's people."
The Marine fired his M14 three times. The figure disappeared.
Monroe was on the radio. "Enemy troops in draw. Request HE and
illumination. Also request illumination at regiment be ceased immediately. It
is lighting us up. Over."
Refused were the two requests concerning illumination. Approved was the
request for a high explosive concentration. While Monroe was explaining his
situation over the radio, Sergeants Robinson and Ellis swung the squads into a
perimeter defense. Most weapons were pointed down toward the gully but a
machine gun section climbed to the top of the hill and a fire team was sent
out to listen to the rear. Washington's squad climbed to the peak of Hill 176
and set in there. The Marines could hear the VC, who had not returned fire,
crashing through the bush below. Since there were no visible targets and
Monroe did not want to expose his exact position and size, the Marines did not
fire at the sounds. They waited for the artillery.
Forty minutes passed. The Marines could still hear noises, but only very
faintly. The radio crackled. "On the way." "Thanks a lot," Monroe answered
sarcastically.
A sharp explosion was heard out in the rice paddies to the east of the
hill.
"Left 100, drop 200. Fire three rounds."
Five minutes later the rounds smashed in.
"Drop 50, fire for effect." Two minutes later the hill shook. The
Marines lay low as fragments hummed in flight up the hillside. Robinson
yelled at the lieutenant over the noise: "That's right down there!"
"Yes--but they're long gone by now." Monroe replied.
Silence.
"All right--everyone lie still and listen," Monroe shouted.
A Marine on the forward listening post shouted back:
35
"I can hear them splashing through the paddies, sir. They're making a
hat<*>."
"Left 200, add 400, fire for effect."
Three minutes later the shells landed.
"Right in there. Cannot survey results. Thank you. Out."
It was getting light. Ellis gathered his group and set out for the far
side of the hill. Washington stayed in position, while Monroe put his men in
the draw along the trail to shield them from the coming sun. He doubted if
anyone else would use the trail during the day.
With two radio operators, his platoon sergeant, and the artillery forward
observer, Monroe crawled into the bushes above the trail to observe the
scattered hamlets to the east. At dawn, he scanned with binoculars the flat
lands below him "There they are, just like last time," he said. In a grove of
trees a half-mile away, two figures stood close together. Both were wearing
dark green uniforms and carrying rifles.
"When you try to get close to that village, they fire three warning shots
and make it," Robinson explained to the forward observer.
Monroe was busy plotting coordinates. The forward observer did the
same--they compared the results, then called for a fire mission and requested
a valley of six rounds without adjustment.
The rounds crashed into the trees. One figure fell. The other
disappeared from sight. The Marines at the observation post exchanged grins.
The sun rose high and bare and the heat beat down smothering. By noon
not even an insect flew to inspect or bite the sweating Marines. Each man had
left base camp with three full canteens. Most had drunk two, the third had to
last until the next day. The Marines sat and watched. They talked and moved
little.
Occasionally they saw the Viet Cong. Some were carrying weapons, some
wore packs, some were dressed in black peasant shirts and shorts, some in
green uniforms. They travelled freely in small groups of from two to eight
men. They crossed the rice paddies, chatted with the women hoeing or the boys
herding cows, and entered various hamlets, without any apparent military
pattern or plan to their movements. The enemy seemed unaware that the shells
which fell sporadically near them were observed fire missions, although some
were hit and dragged away.
----------
<*>make a hat - Marine slang for attempting to escape; moving away quickly
36
Lieutenant "Tony" Monroe, platoon leader of A/1/5, pauses while
calling in a fire mission against the VC. (Author's)
Corporal Charles Washington stands in front of the bushes where the
VC crawled away from Sergeant Ellis' men. (Author's)
A 105mm howitzer of the 11th Marines emplaced in its aiming circle
during operations in June 1966. (USMC A369187)
36a
Monroe requested that a Marine company sweep the area. From his
observation post, he could direct their movements. Charlie Company arrived by
foot two hours later and the platoons spread out on line to sweep the hamlets.
A quarter of a mile in front of the company, Robinson saw a group of
armed VC in uniforms run across a rice paddy and enter a large house. They
reappeared moments later, wearing black pajamas, straw conical hats, and
carrying hoes. They split up and waded into the rice paddies.
"Look at them--the innocent farmers. They're going to get the surprise
of their lives when they're scoffed up--hoes and all--in a few minutes,"
Monroe said.
It was Monroe who was surprised; the company was ordered back to base
camp to perform another mission.
"We'll get that hooch<*> ourselves on our way in tomorrow morning," he
said.
The platoon passed a quiet night. After the action of the night before,
no one walked up the draw. The Marines rested--and thought of water. It was
a night of stars, cool and without many mosquitos. A few miles to the
northeast Bravo Company, heavily engaged with a VC company, called for 155mm
artillery support. Monroe's platoon listened to the situation reports over
the radio and watched the bright, quick flashes of the big shells as they
smashed in.
"Just like watching a war flic at a drive-in movie back home," quipped
one Marine.
"Yeh," replied his buddy. "Pass me the buttered popcorn, sweetie."
At dawn, the Marines left their ambush positions and filed down the
trail. Monroe left Ellis on the high ground with a machine gun team and a
radio to cover the platoon and alert them of enemy movements. The Marines
skirted the rice paddies, staying in the tree lines and heading for the house
where the VC had changed clothes the day before. They passed a pool of water
and slowed down, each man pausing to dunk one canteen, watchful lest a leech
swim into the open top. They passed a dozen men and women working in a rice
paddy. The Vietnamese ignored them.
Ellis' voice came over the radio. "You're being followed. Two men with
weapons are in the brush behind your rear man."
"Fudge and Baily--drop off and zap the guys coming up behind us," Monroe
said.
---------
<*>hooch - Marine slang for native house
37
The two Marines had scarcely turned around when Ellis' machine gun fired
a burst, then another. Again his voice came over the radio. "They were
closing on your right flank. Watch it. The people who were working in the
paddy are making it."
"Corporal Figgins--move your squad out into the paddy to our right. Stop
those people trying to get away. Don't shoot if you can help it--just grab
them."
The Marines broke from the tree line at a dead run. The 2d Squad and
mortar crew set up along the tree line in support.
Three Vietnamese were in the field.
"Halt. Halt. Damn it--halt!" Lance Corporal George Armstrong yelled.
The Vietnamese split up and ran faster.
Two ran east directly towards the house the platoon intended to search
with several Marines in close pursuit. One Vietnamese stumbled and fell. The
other turned to help. They were caught.
One turned to the west. He ran swiftly and the angle of his flight put
him farther and farther from the Marines. A rifleman stepped up on a rice
paddy dike and snapped two warning shots high in the air. The figure ran even
faster. The rifleman dropped to his right knee, placed his left elbow on his
left knee, and fitted his cheek along the stock of his rifle. His movements
were deliberate, not hurried. He fired once. The figure fell.
The lieutenant led the 2d Squad forward and set them in near the VC
house. The corpsman trotted past the rifleman.
"Take your time, doc. I shot him in the leg."
A helicopter evacuation was called and the wounded Vietnamese flown to a
hospital. The two other fugitives were women, indistinguishable from men at a
distance. They were sullen and stolid and ignored their Marine captors.
The Marines searched the VC house, a two-room dwelling made of thatch and
bamboo. It was empty, as they had expected it to be after the firing started.
A squad split into fire teams and prodded the thickets near the house.
"Here's an entrance to one tunnel in this briar patch."
"Here's another near the gate."
38
"Don't touch that gate or the fence. It may be booby-trapped."
"Hey, Corporal Figgins, I'm no boot. I'm walking all the way around,
see?"
"O. K. big mouth, let's see how loud you can shout for somebody to come
out."
In Vietnamese, the Marine hollered several times and kicked dirt into the
tunnel opening.
"Nothing. I don't hear nothing. And it sure as hell isn't a family bomb
bunker."
"Right. Blow them both. And get back in case there's a secondary
explosion."
"Hey, corporal, how many times do I have to tell you I'm no ----."
"Shut up and get to work. Milton, you check for other entrances."
"Fire in the hole"<*> The muffled explosions of grenades followed the
shout.
The Marines waited for the smoke to clear, then explored the tunnels,
finding only a paper Viet Cong flag and a bag of cement mix. They burned the
house. The women began to cry, having finally realized the Marines did not
come on a random search. They knew they were suspect and would be taken in
for questioning.
The Marines ignored their tears. If the women had not run across the
open rice paddies, they might have taken the VC men by surprise. They were
hot, and sweaty, and tired. They had wounded or killed several VC by
artillery, but only one by small arms fire. That fact irritated them. They
spread out and trudged back to base camp. They would try again the next day.
* * * * * * * * * *
The platoon rested that afternoon. The next day the men cleaned their
equipment, drank beer, sang songs, dozed on their cots in the hot canvas squad
tents, and waited for nightfall.
At 1800 on 26 June, they blackened their faces, rechecked their
ammunition, and replotted compass courses on the maps. At 1900, Monroe
inspected them and went over a final time with the squad leaders the route,
length, and mission of the patrol
--------
<*>"Fire in the hole" - Marine slang for warning of an impending explosion
39
"O. K. We're the ambush slash observation slash blocking force for the sweep
tomorrow morning. How's that for a combo? The last time out it took eight
hours to get to that damn saddle. This hump out will last even longer. Any
questions?"
There were none. They were an old platoon, used to each other and to the
war, secretly proud of their ability to make long, silent night marches.
Within the battalion they were known as "Monroe's Nightcrawlers." They thought
the nickname was appropriate.
At 2000, the platoon approached the battalion's defensive wire. The
guide called softly to Lieutenant Monroe.
"How many?"
"38."
"O. K. Follow me."
"Huh?"
"You heard me. I'm not going to parade my people over that skyline just
before I leave the position. Go around the shoulder of the hill."
"Oh, sure, right."
The platoon started forward. A few hours earlier, it had rained, a
short, thick torrent. The damp ground and sopping bushes muffled the sounds
of the passing men. Someone belched loudly as they cleared the wire.
Robinson groaned. Monroe just shook his head.
The footing was treacherous and the cleats on the jungle boots clogged
with mud. After walking for 40 minutes, the point man waded across a swollen
stream and slipped twice scrambling up the far bank. The bank became more
slippery with the passage of every man. The crossing proved costly. Two
Marines near the end of the column twisted their ankles.
"Damn," hissed Monroe. "From now on I'm going to have all men with weak
ankles tape them before night patrols. This happens every time out."
"Sergeant Robinson, take a man from each squad and stay here with them.
Keep your radio on all night but don't speak unless it's an emergency. Fire
the red flare if you get in trouble. In the brush with your backs to the
paddy, you've got a good defensive position and I don't think you'll be
spotted. I'll have a med evac pick you up in the morning. See you."
40
"Sure, sir. Good hunting."
The point Marine avoided the trails and hamlets, setting a course through
scrub brush and around rice paddies. At the edge of one open field, he heard
a snorting noise. Lying down, he bobbed his head back and forth like a boxer,
trying to silhouette some object against the skyline. He succeeded and
whispered: "Water buffalos. Watch yourselves."
The Marines cautiously filed around the side of the field opposite the
powerful, horned animals, taking care not to disturb them, lest they charge.
The undergrowth became thicker, reaching shoulder height. Near the middle
of the column there was a sudden thrashing in the bushes. The Marines
stopped. The bushes danced wildly as some swift animal wheeled back and forth
beside the still column. A low growl was heard, followed by a short burst
from an automatic rifle.
A Marine spoke, lowly but distinctly. "No, no, no, you clown. If that
was a tiger, he was just trying to make it."
Since his position had been compromised, Monroe changed the patrol route
and the point set off at a fast pace in another direction. The platoon
followed. The brush thickened into heavy secondary jungle growth. Those who
thought to bring them put on gloves, since many trees and vines were covered
with thorns. The leaves and thickets cut off all light from the sky, and so
dark was it that it made no difference whether the Marines opened or shut
their eyes. The interval between men closed completely. The vines and thorns
formed solid fences and forced the men to grope for any small openings. Often
they crawled on their hands and knees. Sometimes they doubled back or cut at
right angles to their compass heading. In one hour they moved 200 yards.
When they did emerge from the jungle they were faced by a river. The
point squad fanned out up and down stream to find a fording place. Finding
such a spot, a fire team waded through the neck-deep water and entered the
tree line on the other side. Ten minutes later, one Marine waded back across
and spoke to the lieutenant. "Clear." Two men at a time, the platoon crossed.
At 0500, the platoon arrived at the objective. Monroe sent one squad
with Ellis to a hill overlooking the flat land to the north. He set the rest
of the platoon in an L-shaped ambush along the main trail leading from the
village which was to be searched at 0600 by Bravo and Charlie Companies.
41
By 0545, it was light enough to recognize a man at 20 meters. The
platoon moved north down the trail. Monroe had orders to proceed to a hill
selected by map reconnaissance. He radioed back that the hill provided no
observation of the village and requested permission to move forward to a
better vantage point. Permission was granted.
Ten minutes later, while the platoon was still on the move, a jet
screamed in from the south and passed low over the selected landing zone, an
open rice paddy 400 meters northeast of the village. As the Marines watched,
the bright orange of napalm was splashed against the red dawn. In common
fascination, the entire column halted and stared. "Almost makes you forget
you're fighting a war," murmured one Marine.
"Sir, there they are!"
A half a mile away to the Marines' left front, a group of 30 Vietnamese
was crossing a rice paddy.
"Are they carrying weapons?" The binoculars were uncased. "There's not
enough light to see, sir. But they have kids walking on their flanks."
The Marines just looked at each other. They were reasonably sure it was
a band of fleeing Viet Cong. But they were not positive. And there were
children.
In a few minutes, the band would be on the other side of a hill to the
Marines' left.
"Nuts. Let's get up that hill and scope them out."
"Sir, there are two more--on the hill."
Peering down over the tops of the bushes were two Vietnamese. The
Marines could see no weapons.
"Should we cut them down?"
"No--it might be just some scared farmer--though I doubt it. Figgins--get
your squad up that hill on the double."
The Vietnamese ducked from view. Forming a skirmish line, the squad
raced up the hill and peered down into the draw on the other side.
"There they go--three of them, around the side of the next hill. One of
them is carrying a rifle."
The squad leader estimated the range at 600 yards. The Marines adjusted
their sights, knelt down, and began firing.
42
"Hold them and squeeze them--hold them and squeeze them. At that range
you're not going to hit nothing if you just crank them off."
Corporal Bierwirth brought up his squad. He adjusted the sights on his
stubby M79 grenade launcher, pointed the muzzle high, and fired. A burst of
smoke appeared in front of one of the Viet Cong and the man fell. His two
companions ducked into the brush.
Lieutenant Monroe checked the terrain. "Bierwirth--you stay here.
Figgins--your squad comes with me up the next hill. That band might be hiding
on the other side. Bielecki--tell Ellis to come down the trail."
The lieutenant left and Bierwirth put lookouts on each side of the hill.
"Corporal--one of them's circled behind us and is hitting it across the
paddy."
The squad leader called for two riflemen. The fleeing Viet Cong could be
seen clearly through binoculars, 1,000 years away. The riflemen raised their
sights as high as they could and sat down where they could see over the brush.
They began firing, every fifth round a tracer. The Marine with the binoculars
watched the strike of the bullets and called corrections.
The Viet Cong zigzagged, running as fast as he could. A bullet struck
him and he went down. Then he regained his feet and staggered off. He was
not hit again.
"Probably only grazed him. Lucky to do that at that distance," said one
Marine.
Another lookout ran up to Bierwirth.
"They're behind us--where we just came from. A whole squad of 'em."
"Sure it's not Sergeant Ellis' squad?"
"Naw--they're too well camouflaged to be Marines."
Bierwirth looked down through the binoculars. On the trail heading south
he saw a line of figures in Khaki uniforms, covered with leaves and braches.
In the lead was a Viet Cong dressed in black peasant garb and wearing a straw
hat. All were carrying weapons.
As Bierwirth watched, they ducked into the bushes. "Must have seen Ellis
coming. Quick, slam them with a LAAW and get
43
that gun working."
A machine gunner started firing from the hip. The bullets sprayed the
area. "No. Get down and use it."
"I can't see down there."
"Clear a field of fire and use your tripod."
"I don't have no machete or entrenching tool. And we didn't bring the
pod."
"They're gonna make it if Ellis doesn't nail them. Fire that damn LAAW."
The high explosive shell burst short of the brush.
"Missed. But Ellis will know where they are."
The Marines heard a slight swishing sound above their heads. Three
pounding flashes erupted on the hill behind them.
"God! The lieutenant!"
Fifty meters to the right of the artillery bursts, a group of Marines
jumped out of the brush and waved their arms frantically. Monroe was roaring
into the radio, his voice carrying distinctly to Bierwirth's hill. The
Marines laughed nervously with relief.
"Boy, is he giving them hell. It'll be a long time before that artillery
observer shoots at an unidentified target again."
Sergeant Ellis came up the trail. Over the radio Monroe directed him to
fire into the brush to his right and then search it for the enemy squad.
Ellis did so, but his men found only trails of flattened grass; the Viet Cong
had slipped away in the confusion which followed the misdirected artillery
fire.
A fire team moved down the draw to recover the body of the VC Bierwirth
killed with his grenade launcher. The body was gone.
Another fire team checked the trail the first large group of Vietnamese
followed. It was plainly marked every ten or twenty meters by three stones
set like triangles with the point toward the trail--Viet Cong markings for an
unmined path.
Monroe gathered his force and reluctantly headed back to the base camp.
As they walked tiredly along, two Marines looked at each other.
44
"Next time," one said.
"Yeh--next time."
NOTE: The next time did come for the 3d Platoon, and on 10 August 1966,
they distinguished themselves in a pitched battle described in the last
chapter of this narrative.
45
NIGHT ACTION
Preface: The author spent 10 days with these Marines
from Charlie Company, 7th Marines, who were training and
fighting with some Vietnamese militia in the village of Binh
Yen No (1), about seven miles southwest of the 1st Marine
Division Headquarters at Chulai. In addition to participating
in the patrols as an extra rifleman, he taped a few of the
actual ambushes, as well as the comments of the men concerning
their combined action work.
This is not one story. It is a diary relating several night patrols.
The participants are 13 Marines, numerous Vietnamese villagers and militia,
and Viet Cong. The Marines lived with and trained the Popular Forces (PF), a
few dozen local farmers who had agreed with the central government to protect
their village in return for exemption from draft into the regular army. The
Marines had volunteered for the job because it promised action and an escape
from company routine. They found the action.
In one week, from 7-13 July 1966, the 13 Marines killed 31 guerrillas.
They set 16 ambushes and made contact 9 times. On three occasions, the VC
ambushed the Marines; each time the Marines seized the offensive within a few
minutes, forcing the VC to break contact. In many engagements the Marines
were outnumbered; but fire discipline, shooting accuracy, and aggressiveness
compensated for numbers.
The ultimate goal of the Marines was to train and develop the PF forces
so that the Marines would no longer be needed to protect the village. The men
did not deceive themselves; they knew that goal would not be reached in a few
short months. And until the PFs were a competent fighting force, the Marines
would carry the main burden of combat around the village.
This is an attempt to describe how the Marines and PF operated.
13 July 1966. Six Marines assembled in the small courtyard of the
Popular Forces fort. The squad leader, Sergeant Joseph Sullivan, wore jungle
utilities and a Marine utility cover. He carried an M14 automatic, seven
magazines, two green star cluster flares, one red star cluster, and a
flashlight. The uniforms of the other were less according to regulation. One
wore a Swiss alpine hat, another a beret, a third was clad in black utilities,
a fourth Marine wore no cover. Three
46
carried M14 automatics; the fourth an M79 grenade launcher. Each had a LAAW
slung across his shoulder. The radio operator also carried an M14 automatic
and had a PRC-10 strapped to his back.
Two PFs joined the patrol after Sullivan had inspected his men. They
were dressed in green utilities and bush hats. One carried a carbine, the
other a Thompson submachine gun. One was placed at the point of the column,
the other a few men back. (It was the belief of the Marines at that time that
the PFs could spot a VC in that locale at night before a Marine could. They
subsequently changed their minds.)
Few words were exchanged. Nothing was new to the Marines about the
patrol. They knew the area and the mission well; go down to the river and
ambush the VCs who tried to cross. G-2 had warned that day that a hard-core
battalion was operating in the vicinity. The news was accepted skeptically.
There were so many warnings from so many sources received each day.
After curfew, the patrol filed out of the fort, passing across a stagnant
moat studded with bamboo stakes and through a tall bamboo fence designed to
stop grenades. In theory, recoilless rifle shells would also explode against
it and not against the long sand-plaster building in the fort.
The PF at point turned left and walked a hundred meters to an outer
fence. Three unarmed villagers, serving as gate-openers and sentries, looked
at them blankly for a moment. Then one noisily pushed open the gate; another
lifted a wooden mallet and began tapping against a bamboo pole, tap..tap..tap
tap..tap..tap..tap. Supposedly this was the villagers' signal that the VC
were on the prowl. The Marines looked at each other uneasily. They didn't
like having their exit announced, but the PFs seemed unbothered.
In column they moved east across the rice paddies and entered the main
street of Binh Yen No (1). The street was a straight, narrow dirt path
leading northeast, overshadowed by palm trees and thick brush and lined with
thatched huts. Although it was not yet 2030, the street was pitch dark. Only
by shifting glances and looking at various angles could each Marine
distinguish the outline of the man in front of him. The villagers were still
awake and the Marines heard chatter from many houses. Lights shone from some
doorways and fell across the street. The Marines hurried across these lighted
patches.
The villagers knew a patrol was passing. Some warned the VC by signals.
In one house a man coughed loudly and falsely. Farther on, an old lady shifted
her lantern from one room to another as the Marines slipped by.
47
The patrol reached the far end of the town without drawing fire and left
the tree line. For a quarter of a mile, they followed the dikes between open
rice paddies, then they turned right and walked about fifty meters to the
river. The bank was sprinkled with skimpy shrubbery and carpeted with human
waste. The Marines called the ambush site "The Head." It provided excellent
fields of fire over the river, but it took a strong man to withstand the
smell.
The Marines lay down and slowly took off their cartridge belts and placed
them beside their weapons. The bipods for the M14s were extended gently.
There was no wind and a slight sound would carry to the opposite bank.
At each end of the line a Marine was stationed to watch the rear and
outboard flanks. The river was 100 meters wide at the ambush point. Many
nights the VC came down the river to get supplies and visit their families who
lived in Binh Yen No (1). Sometimes they paddled downstream in small boats;
sometimes they crept along the far bank and waded across at fording points.
The Marines settled down to wait. Droves of mosquitoes descended on the
men. They didn't dare slap them away. A few unfortunates disturbed some red
ants. They crept to other positions, cursing under their breaths and praying
the ambush would be soon sprung.
The Viet Cong tried to accommodate the wish. No sooner were the Marines
in position and being bitten than firing broke out to their right, coming from
the village. Red tracers streaked high over the Marines' heads. Sergeant
Sullivan identified the weapons. "Automatic carbine. Two Russian blowbacks,
maybe M1s. Lie still. Don't return fire. They're trying to get us to give
away our position," he whispered. The VC fired three bursts in the general
direction of the patrol, then stopped.
One hour passed. The Marines heard a few splashes near the far bank but
saw no movement. A second hour went by. More scattered probing fire came
from the VC. Sullivan suspected the patrol might have passed an enemy
outpost, which was now trying to locate the Marine position so their main
force could avoid it. The sergeant whispered to his men to be still. They
would play a waiting game and force the VCs to move first.
During the next hour, the Marines heard a few splashes down river and saw
a dull light bobbing along the far bank. It appeared that the VC were
portaging supplies inland after crossing farther down river.
By midnight, when the patrol still had not fired, the enemy lost caution
and started to move freely. Frequent
48
SCHEMATIC SKETCH TO ACCOMPANY "NIGHT ACTION"
48a
splashes and the mutter of low voices carried clearly to the Marines. There
came the distinct clank of a heavy bundle striking the bottom of a boat.
Corporal Leland Riley, who had the eyes of a hawk, whispered, "I see
them. Two-three boats...and a bunch of them on the bank--right across from
us."
"Yeh, LAAWs up."
Two Marines slowly extended two rocket tubes.
"See them?"
"No. Wait. Now I do."
"Fire when ready."
The sharp explosions of the recoilless weapons rang the ears of all the
Marines. Momentarily deaf, they could not even hear the blasts from their own
automatic weapons. But the six Marines were blazing away, holding down their
rifles, the bipods enabling them to keep their bursts low. With every other
round in the magazines a tracer, they placed their shot groups where they
thought they saw or heard the enemy. Hundreds of bullets skimmed across the
river and swept the opposite bank.
Water splashed some Marines in the face. "What the hell?" yelled Private
First Class Kenneth Lerch. "Hey, we're getting some incoming." The fire fight
was 15 seconds old.
"Cease fire! Shut up and listen up," Sullivan shouted.
Silence. A few seconds went by. Then a distinct splashing was heard
near the other bank. Someone was wading out of the water, trying to climb the
bank.
Two Marines fired, their tracers converged, then swept back and forth.
Again there was silence. It was anybody's guess whether they had hit the
enemy or if he were just standing still in the water, waiting until the
Marines went away.
Next there came through the air a sound like someone ripping paper,
followed by a loud pop. An 81mm mortar flare burst over the river, and began
its squeaking, dangling descent beneath its small parachute.
The illumination had been provided in accordance with a preplanned
system. When the LAAWs went off, the Marine radio watch back at the fort
heard and took a compass bearing on the noise. There were three patrols out
but each had gone in a widely different direction, so the Marine could easily
identify
49
the patrol. He called the command post at Charlie Company and said simply,
"Andy Capp 68," thus identifying the patrol by a prearranged code. From the
C.P. the word was shouted to the stand-by mortar crew lounging 50 feet away.
"81s--illum--68."
Sergeant Martin, the mortar section leader, had preplotted the firing
data for the ambush sites of all the night patrols. He checked his card for
#68 and called:
"Deflection--2650. Elevation--0800. Charge 6. Fire when up." Less than
10 seconds after the call reached Charlie Company the first of three
illumination rounds was on its way.
Under its glare, the Marines could see the other river bank clearly.
Nothing was moving. The tall sawgrass was still.
"Check those boats," Riley said.
Pulled up on the bank were two dark, canoelike shapes.
"Check them, hell. Blast them," Sullivan replied.
The other two LAAWs were quickly opened and fired. The first hit to the
left but the second one exploded dead on. Short bursts from the automatic
rifles further splintered the hulls.
The last flare died out. It was 20 minutes past midnight.
"We put a hurting on some of them," an anonymous voice said.
"Maybe tomorrow night we can catch them on our side of the river. Let's
head back in," Sullivan said.
During the next day, the villagers brought news to the fort that one of
the patrols the night before had fired upon a VC company who had come north on
a resupply mission. The villagers--and the PFs--thought the Marines were
slightly crazy to open fire on a VC force of unknown size. The Marines were
disappointed. They would have called in a priority artillery mission if they
had known there were so many Viet Cong.
14 July 1966. The patrols left the fort at 2000. It was just dark.
"We're gonna get some more tonight," Private First Class Lerch yelled to
the PFs and village chiefs who were milling around inside the fort.
The same patrol returned to the river. They set in near a group of
bamboo fish traps, a mile downstream from "The Head."
50
Three kerosene lights marked a channel through the traps. Night lights on the
river were officially forbidden since they served as beacons for the VC. But
some stubborn fishermen ignored the order night after night. The Marines, as
advisors, could not make the PFs enforce the order.
The patrol hid behind some dirt mounds along the bank and waited. To go
down river, the VCs would have to pass through the fishermens' channels. The
enemy were not long in coming.
The disturbed squawkings of ducks and geese alerted the patrol. The VC
were paddling down river. It was next to impossible to pass a raft of
waterfowl at night without scaring them up. The VCs, however, would sometimes
tie geese to their boats and try to pass as a raft of birds, hoping the
Marines would fire behind them.
A light shone through a clump of bushes on the far bank. The Marines
heard the dull sound of wood scraping against wood.
"They're carrying a boat over the fish traps," Sullivan whispered.
Corporal Riley, ignoring the activity on the river, had been watching to
the rear. "There's someone moving in on our right flank," he whispered.
Riley and another Marine moved down the bank to prevent an enemy probe.
Lance Corporal Gerald Faircloth, the squad's best shot with a LAAW, heard
paddle splashes near the fish traps. "I think I can hit that next boat when
they climb the traps," he whispered.
"O. K., blast them," Sullivan replied.
Faircloth knelt on his left knee. He placed the short fiberglass tube on
his right shoulder. The tube wavered up and down, then steadied. Flame
spurted from both ends. One hundred yards away there was a bright flash. The
Marines started sweeping the river with automatic rifle fire. Riley emptied a
magazine into the bushes along the bank to his right.
Overhead, a mortar flare blossomed. "There they are!" Riley shouted.
The firing caught two Viet Cong in a round wicker basket boat trying to
cross the river behind the fish traps. In the sudden light they were easy
targets. They dove overboard just as Riley and another Marine opened fire.
The tracers ripped through the boat and whipped the water. Standing on the
bank the two Marines changed magazines and waited to see if the head of either
Viet Cong resurfaced. They did not. The light boat rocked to and fro. The
surface of the river was calm and
51
shone brightly under the fire.
"I guess that's that," Riley said.
The other Marine didn't have a chance to reply. Bullets hummed between
them. Both were diving off the bank before they heard the sound of the
machine gun. They sprawled behind the rice paddy dike. Without lifting his
head, Riley yelled, "It's coming from the other side. They've got us spotted.
Get them off us."
To the Marines crouching 50 yards away, the acrobatics had provided an
interesting spectacle. Their main position had not been seen by the Viet Cong
and they were not under fire. They took their time and did not expose their
position by chancing a random burst of small arms fire at the machine gun.
Faircloth extended another LAAW. He gauged the distance at 100 yards.
The light was good. Faircloth had hit point targets at 300 yards. He sighted
in, then paused.
"So that's what they were doing in those bushes with a light. Setting up
a gun to cover them," Lance Corporal Sidney Fleming said, as if discussing a
subject of purely academic interest.
"Come on, come on. You just stay put, Riley," yelled Sullivan.
"Oh God, I don't believe it," groaned Riley.
Faircloth fired. The explosion was muffled by the bushes. Faircloth had
hit his target. The chatter of the machine gun stopped.
"You two dingers can come home now," laughed Sullivan.
The two Marines returned from the flank. They did not walk on the dike;
crouching low beside it, they trotted back. The Marines formed a hasty
circular perimeter, lay down and waited. The last flare hissed out. The
Marines did not talk or move. They were waiting to trap any infiltrator who
might have crept close during the firing. For 10 minutes they lay perfectly
still, listening to the night sounds and trying to detect any sharp change of
tempo in the croaks of the frogs and crickets or the surprised squawks of
waterfowl. They listened for feet to crush in the bush or slurp in the mud.
They could detect no human movement.
Sullivan broke the silence with a whisper.
"Pack it in. Keep it spread."
52
Popular Forces militiaman, armed with a carbine and portable radio,
moves toward the man gate in bamboo fence surrounding the PF fort at
Binh Yen No (1). (Author's photo)
Sergeant Joseph Sullivan, leader of the Marine patrols operating near
Binh Yen No (1), stands on the river bank; beyond him is VC territory.
(Author's photo.)
52a
15 July 1966. That night a different Marine patrol went to a different
point on the river. It was to be a short patrol, travelling not more than 400
meters away from the fort. At night the Viet Cong sneaked around all sides of
the fort to enter the village where their families lived. Some drifted down
the river right in front of the fort, having observed that the Marines roved
far and wide and left the short patrols mostly to the PFs. So Corporal
Franklin Lummis led out a security force at 2000 to seek the enemy close-in.
The four Marines and two PFs crossed a series of five rice paddies to
reach the river bank, walking on the dike walls without cover or concealment.
If fired upon from the river bank, they would drop behind a dike. Each mud
dike is a few feet high and over a foot thick. A 106mm recoilless rifle on a
nearby hill covered the area and could pulverize the river bank, if called
upon.
Without incident the patrol reached the river bank, which had been built
up to prevent the waters from flooding the paddies at high tide. The river
bed itself was bordered by thick clumps of mangroves. Water buffalo came to
the river to soak, and through the years their heavy passage had cut a 20-foot
swath in the brush. From this inlet the main stream could be seen 15 meters
away. A sandbar jutted up 20 meters farther out in the river.
Lummis led his patrol over the dike and into the dark hollow of the
inlet. He was worried about infiltrators and so he set two Marines out to
guard the right flank. Another Marine and a PF watched the dike and the
mangroves to the left. Lummis kept Lance Corporal Joseph Bettie and the other
PF with him. The three sat in the inlet.
On the right, Lance Corporal Phillip Brannon crawled onto the dike and
lay behind a large bush. His automatic weapon pointed down the dike as he
watched the skyline. Suddenly, his body tautened and he leaned forward, his
cheek resting against the rifle stock. At the edge of the mangroves below the
dike another Marine sat motionless, listening for a careless foot in the swamp
and watching Brannon. He saw Brannon slowly slip off his safety. He unwound
the elastic from the spoon of a grenade and pulled the bent-back edges of the
holding pin straight. Brannon had seen a figure creeping up the dike, but it
disappeared into the black swamps. Brannon relaxed slightly and jerked his
head in the direction of the swamp. The Marine with the grenade strained to
listen, and thought he heard a faint rustle of bushes. But not being sure it
was a man, he did not throw his grenade. Instead, he sat poised for action
and utterly still.
On the river ducks and geese started squawking, then the racket died
down. But the flutter of wings sounded quite close
53
to the inlet.
There was a second's warning, a pinging sound, slight but adequate to
warn the tense Marines.
"Grenade!" Lummis yelled.
The Marines ducked. The grenade exploded in the middle of the inlet.
"Incoming!" yelled Brannon. "Outgoing!" yelled the other Marine, as he
jerked the loose pin out and lobbed the grenade out and over the bushes around
him, like taking a hook shot with a basketball. The grenade landed with a
soft splat in the swamp and there was a delay of a few seconds. The thrower
was in the process of pitching another before the first grenade exploded. The
other Marines had reacted. Fire poured into the swamp to the left.
Red lines of tracers cut back and forth from the dike to the water line.
On the right flank, Brannon opened up with an automatic rifle after his buddy
had thrown the grenades into the bush. The noise was deafening.
After about 10 seconds, they stopped firing. Someone cursed. The
clatter of empty magazines being changed drowned out his voice. Lummis said
in a low voice, "Knock it off and sit still. Listen for them. We probably
got that one, so listen for groans or dragging sounds." "Anybody hit?"
"Yeh, Culver took some shrapnel. No big thing, though."
The Marines stopped what they were doing and waited. A flare opened over
the river.
The grenade had been a ruse. The VC did not intend to stand and fight.
While the firing was going on, some had tried to slip a boat past the inlet.
The sudden silence had forced them to stop paddling. Before they could drift
by, the mortar crew had fired illumination. They had to beach the boat on the
sandbar.
The Marines loosed short bursts of concentrated fire. They could not see
the Viet Cong, who might either have been lying in the shadows on the sandbar
or swimming away. The Marines covered both areas. The arcs of the tracers
enabled them to fire interlocking patterns almost as well as they could in
daylight.
"Hey," Brannon shouted, "let me try for that boat with a LAAW. I never
get a change to fire one." "All right, Brannon," Lummis answered, "but don't
screw up. It's our only LAAW."
54
"Relax, I'm a pro," Brannon said. "Watch this."
Brannon extended the LAAW and knelt in the inlet near the spot where the
incoming grenade had gone off. Sighting in carefully at the round wicker boat
not 30 meters away, he squeezed the firing mechanism. Nothing happened. He
realigned and squeezed again. Nothing. He tilted the tube upwards off his
shoulder to inspect the faulty trigger. The LAAW went off with a roar, the
rocket streaking out across the paddies like a howitzer shell.
"Great shooting," Lummis growled. "That'll land in district
headquarters."
The patrol leader walked to the water's edge with his grenade launcher.
He fired once and the M79 shell splintered the boat. "Let's go home," he
said, "before we shoot down a jet."
16 July 1966. First Lieutenant Thomas J. O'Rourke, the executive officer
of Charlie Company, had come to the fort. He was to advise for a few weeks and
help where he could. The men looked forward to working with him. This was
his second tour in Vietnam and his knowledge of tactics was deep. A
well-known athlete, he had a reputation for aggressive action and a knack for
massing his weapons in a fire fight.
Sullivan decided to go back to "The Head." There were not many good
ambush spots and he wanted to show O'Rourke some action. Five Marines and two
PFs comprised the patrol. As usual, a PF was placed at point. They left the
fort at 2000.
When he entered the blackness of the main village street, the PF at point
quickened the pace. O'Rourke, second in column, held to a slow, cautious
tread. Seeing that he was all alone, the PF scurried back to the column and
frantically gestured to the Marines to walk faster. The Marines ignored him.
He returned to the point and went on more slowly.
From inside a house, the loud sound of forced coughing reached the
Marines. The patrol stopped. The coughing stopped. The patrol proceeded.
The coughing started again. The Marines were waiting for such a tip-off.
They checked with the PF at point.
"Yes, yes, very bad man, number 10<*>. No VC himself but him warn VC,"
the PF said.
The PFs refused to apprehend the man. It was their village and their
politics. They wanted the Marines to take some action. The Marines were
willing.
----------
<*>number 10 - Marine slang for a bad man or situation; its opposite is
"number 1"
55
Three of them converged on the house. Lance Corporal Bettie walked to
the open door. The Vietnamese inside looked at him for a moment and made a
threatening gesture of hostility and contempt. Bettie didn't wait for the
next move. He struck once and the man fell, spitting blood. Bettie leaned
over him.
"When Marines pass, you no talk, you no cough." Bettie made a loud, false
coughing sound. "You no warn V. C. no more. I come back sometime. I see."
The man nodded after every word. He understood. Perhaps the next time
he would not cough; perhaps he would use a lantern. Or perhaps he would not.
If he did, the Marines had orders to shoot out all blinking lights.
The Marines arrived at "The Head" and set in along the river bank. The
rice paddies were to their backs and they were facing the river. They knew
the VC had been alerted but their position could be easily defended.
By 2200, the traffic across the river was heavy. The Marines heard
Vietnamese voices and splashes in the water. The night was overcast, however,
and they could spot no movement.
It was instinct as much as sound that alerted O'Rourke. Someone was
stalking them from the rear. He saw dark shadows. He watched. They did not
move. Slowly he pulled his body over the bank, twisted around, and raised
upon his elbows. Now he was facing to the rear with his back to the river.
He checked the shadows again. They were closer to the Marines, not over 60
yards away. (Later, Lance Corporal Guadalupe Garcia told of glimpsing the
infiltrators as they crept by his flank position. But he wasn't absolutely
sure of what he saw and so he didn't report it to anyone.)
O'Rourke nudged Sullivan and Riley. They turned and looked. Riley, who
could detect movement where most people would see nothing, whispered:
"Yes. Two of them."
The Marines wanted to wait until the VC had crept closer. They were given
no waiting period, however. The two VC lost their nerve. Suddenly, they
jumped up and ran diagonally away from the Marines. A Marine heaved a grenade
at them. It travelled over 60 yards and exploded behind the VC.
O'Rourke, Sullivan, and Riley fired their automatic weapons in a long
burst.
"I think I hit one," Riley said.
56
O'Rourke and Sullivan went forward to check. Sullivan went first,
bending low and running hard until he reached a paddy dike. O'Rourke came up
on his right, weaving as he ran. They found nobody. It was too dark to look
for blood trails or gear which may have been dropped.
"This ambush is blown," said O'Rourke. "The VC are getting wise to us.
We're just going to have to think these things through more. It's going to
take more planning. Let's head back in."
18 July 1966. In an effort to break established patterns and keep the
enemy off balance, Lieutenant O'Rourke altered the types and times of the
patrols. On this night, four had gone out at dusk to set up ambushes. Two
were sprung and all four patrols had returned to the fort before midnight.
O'Rourke debriefed them and it appeared that another night's work had ended.
But at 0200, O'Rourke assembled eight Marines and left the fort. Riley
took the point and the patrol headed for the village. They did not, however,
use the main street or the side trails. Instead, they wandered through the
backyards and hedgerows, moving parallel to the paths at a very slow pace.
Riley picked the way with care, pausing every few steps to look and listen.
O'Rourke had the patrol spread with the widest interval possible, just close
enough so each man could distinguish the outline of the man in front of him.
The patrol was in no hurry; they weren't going anywhere in particular. They
would just rove through the village for a few hours, hunting for any VC who
might have slipped in after the ambush patrols had returned to the fort.
After the Marines had roamed about for an hour without incident, O'Rourke
decided to strike out southeast through some backyards to cross the main
north-south trail where it was bisected by a path running due east. Thus,
Riley chose a route which had the same general direction as the east path.
Cutting through backyards, Riley had almost reached the path when he
halted. The patrol jerked up short and for several minutes nobody moved.
Riley walked silently back to O'Rourke and whispered: "I thought I heard
something on the path to our right. Did you?"
"I'm not sure," O'Rourke replied. "We were still moving when you
stopped. Go ahead but take it slow."
They had proceeded at a creep for a few minutes when Riley halted, went
down on his knees, placed his rifle on the ground, and flattened out. His
head pointed toward the path six meters away. The other members of the patrol
quietly lay down about 10 meters apart and faced in the same direction,
57
O'Rourke crawled to Riley's side.
"I know for sure I hear someone behind us. They're coming up this path."
Riley whispered.
"Do you think they've heard us?" O'Rourke asked.
"No--too far away."
O'Rourke scooted back and warned the others. Sullivan and two other
Marines pivoted about to protect the rear and right flank of the patrol.
Riley, O'Rourke, and three other Marines faced the path and waited, having
slipped off their safeties.
They heard the enemy approaching, not the steady noises of careless
footsteps but the intermittent crunches and snaps of people walking cautiously
but not cautiously enough. The middle of the path was obscured in dark
shadows. The ambushers could not see any figures approaching; they could only
gauge the distance by ear. O'Rourke thought he saw a man pass by him but he
couldn't be sure. He heard another man getting close.
Not one of the Marines could remember who sprang the ambush. All were
agreed that the four automatic rifles opened up within the same second.
Swinging his weapon back and forth each Marine fired until he had emptied a
magazine. It was strictly area fire at sounds. Not one Marine could actually
see a target or be sure that he had hit anything. Then O'Rourke and Riley
rose to their knees and heaved two grenades back down the trail in the
direction from which the VCs had come.
"Cease fire!" O'Rourke yelled. "Riley, block for us to the front. A
couple of you guys search the area."
The action had lasted eight seconds.
Corporal Lummis and Lance Corporal Larry Wingrove stepped out of the
bushes, peering at the ground in front of them. Each found and searched a
dead VC.
"Mine's clear," Lummis said.
"Mine too," said Wingrove.
"All right," O'Rourke said, "let's go home and get some rest. We'll go
out again tomorrow night."
58
THE INDIANS
Preface: At the end of July, the author spent a week with
the 1st Force Reconnaissance Company, then operating from a
task force headquarters at Dong Ha, 13 miles south of the
Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) and 8 miles west of the South China
Sea. He was the unnamed fifth member in the four-day
reconnaissance patrol described in the story.
Sergeant Orest Bishko planned the patrol carefully. Along with other
Force Reconnaissance units, his four-man team would go out on another scouting
mission. For over a month they had been shadowing the 324B North Vietnamese
Division. During the past two weeks, Marine rifle battalions, engaged in
Operation HASTINGS, with heavy air and artillery support, had killed over 800
of the North Vietnamese. But many of the enemy were slipping away and
retreating into the jungles. Reconnaissance Marines, like Sergeant Bishko,
set out to find them.
Nothing about the mission was new to the men in his team. They had been
on dozens of patrols in the hilly country north of Hue near the Demilitarized
Zone. Major Dwain A. Colby, the company commander, had formulated four basic
rules to be followed at all times. They were: (1) stay together no matter
what happens; (2) upon reaching an observation post, call artillery fire upon
a set of known coordinates so later fire missions can be called by shifting
from a reference point; (3) maintain constant radio communications with
headquarters; and (4) never stay in one spot more than 12 hours. The Marines
could recite those rules in their sleep. Still Sergeant Bishko planned
carefully. For, although he had been out on dozens of patrols, this was to be
the first one he would lead.
The night before his team was to be set in, he briefed them, using a map
and a written patrol order, stressing the importance of acting as a team out
in the brush. He inspected the uniform and equipment of each man. They were
ready.
The next morning, 26 July 1966, the men arose at 0400, applied black and
green camouflage paint to their faces and arms, put on their packs and climbed
on board a truck. They were driven to a nearby heli pad. Bishko talked to a
pilot and showed him on a map exactly where the team should be dropped. The
Marines climbed on board a Huey. Bishko put on a set of earphones.
59
Minutes later, the helicopter was skimming low down a long valley. It
flew for several miles in a westerly direction, then Bishko said something
into his mike and pointed to his right. The Huey banked sharply and dropped
to the ground. The recon team leaped out and ran into the undergrowth. The
Huey flew off down the valley, dipping down and hovering a few times in dummy
landings to confuse any enemy who might have been watching. The Huey, called
a "slick" because it carried passengers, not armament, was to stay on station
a few ridgelines to the south for 30 minutes in case the team ran into trouble
and needed to be extracted. Another Huey--this one a gunship, loaded with
rockets and machine guns--was on call to provide fire support for such a
pickup.
On the ground, Corporal William McWilliams, the team scout, assumed the
point position. He was followed by Lance Corporal Thomas Moran, the radio
operator, Bishko, another radioman, and the tail-end Charlie, Corporal Joel
Miller.
The patrol headed for the high ground. The men jogged north out of the
valley and started up the steep face of a ridgeline which ran in an east-west
direction. They avoided the trails and stream beds, climbing steadily for
several hours. Trees, bushes, thorns, and vines clogged the hill and their
loads were heavy. Between them they carried two radios, 20 grenades, 1,200
rounds of ammunition, 20 canteens, and rations to last for 72 hours. Progress
was slow.
But the weather favored them. It was overcast and cool, with a high wind
blowing and thick clouds hiding the hot sun which sapped a man's strength so
quickly.
By noon they reached a clump of trees on a nose of the hill and from
there they could see the valley floor. They settled down to wait and watch.
One man scanned the valley with binoculars while another listened to the rear.
Visibility into the brush was less than 15 feet but a man listening intently
could hear noises made 1,000 meters away. The other Marines dozed. They
alternated sentinel duty every hour or two.
McWilliams heard the enemy first. He whispered a warning to the others.
"Listen up. They're in there behind us." They strained to hear. They
filtered out the ordinary sounds, the far away jet or artillery, the low buzz
of crickets, the stirring of branches when the wind passed. They listened for
the unusual.
They heard it, an intermittent pounding noise made by something heavy
striking into the earth, coming from above them, farther along the ridgeline
back towards the mountain.
"What is it?"
60
"I don't know, but it sure isn't any elephant, so you guess who's
sounding off."
A while later, they heard someone chopping wood in the same general area.
As dusk approached, the team prepared to move, having seen no one and
heard no more sounds. Behind the knob where the Marines sat, the top of the
ridgeline slanted north and sliced back south to form an inverted V, before
turning eastward again. Rather than follow along the top in what would be the
normal route of traffic, Bishko decided to cut cross-compartment and move
west, down one side of the cut, across a stream bed, and up 600 feet to the
other side, a route so steep and thick that he thought the chances were remote
they would be seen or heard.
The hike took over two hours and when the Marines reached level ground
again on the ridgeline they were exhausted and their clothes soaked with
sweat. They squeezed, pushed, and jerked their way into the thickest brush
they could find and established a harbor site for the night.
Each man scraped the ground bare where he would lie down, so that if he
heard something during the night, he could alert the others and set up a
defense without giving away his position. The Marines ate from cold cans of
rations and spoke only when necessary, and then in brief whispers. They
arranged alternate two hour watches. The light faded quickly.
With the dark, the enemy began moving. Vietnamese voices floated up to
the Marines from the stream bed they had just crossed. Bishko called a fire
mission, requesting a three round salvo. From the sound of the explosion a
few minutes later, the Marines judged the 105mm shells had hit close to the
voices. That night the men slept fitfully, uneasy about the high wind which
could cover the movement of an enemy.
At dawn, Bishko pointed out a section of high ground to the west where he
wished to set up an observation post. The map distance measured 700 meters
and the ridgeline ran straight to it.
It took the Marines four hours to reach their destination. They avoided
the bare, conspicuous ridge crest and traversed the rain-slicked shoulder of
the hill. From past patrols they had grown calluses on the sides of their
feet, so often had they half walked, half slipped their way along mountain
sides. Although thirsty, they conserved their water, knowing that the five
canteens per man had to last four days.
When the team finally clawed up to the selected spot, a knoll covered
with chest-high elephant grass, McWilliams and Miller crawled forward to
observe; Bishko and Moran waited on
61
the reverse slope. Jutting out at a point where the ridgeline hooked abruptly
from a westerly to a northerly direction, the knoll provided an excellent
field of observation for several miles up the valley to the west. The valley,
a half-mile wide at that point, held fields of dry, tall grass and scrub brush
and arbors of dense trees; it funneled 20 miles back into Laos and served as a
main avenue of approach for the enemy into Quang Tri Province.
The Marines saw their first VC during midafternoon. Two North Viets in
khaki uniforms crossed a stream down in the valley a quarter of a mile from
the Marines. They walked across a bamboo bridge laughing and joking as if
they were in their own backyard. McWilliams and Miller were startled by their
closeness. They had scoured the distant trails for over an hour and were not
entirely pleased to find the enemy under their noses. Their vantage point
gave little concealment, only a few scraggly bushes and the rippling grass.
They froze for several minutes in rigid concentration before deciding that the
angle of vision and the careless manner of the North Vietnamese made their
discovery unlikely. McWilliams then slipped back over the slope to the niche
where Bishko sat watching to the rear.
"Sergeant," he whispered, "company to the front--two of them."
Bishko and Moran crept forward, relieved McWilliams and Miller of the
watch, and spent some time just familiarizing themselves with the valley floor
in relation to the map. Bishko pinpointed the coordinates of the bamboo
bridge and settled down to wait, paying close attention to the bridge, which
was not more than 20 feet long. Tall trees and tangles of vines overhung the
southern bank of the stream, while the northern bank looked like it had been
cut away by flash floods and was now a gravel wash, which sloped upwards for
10 meters before merging into a grove of dense trees. The knob where the team
perched was 150 feet above the stream.
Just before dusk, six more North Vietnamese ambled over the bridge and
entered the grove. Three were dressed in Khaki and three wore black pajamas;
none carried arms.
"Looks like a force of North Vietnamese with local guides," Bishko
whispered. "Moran, get out a fire mission."
The artillery strike was off. Despite a few adjustments, the rounds did
not hit near the target. The artillery battery, dug in five miles due east,
had to raise the muzzles of their howitzers at a high angle in order to fire
the 105mm shells up over the ridgeline and down into the valley. But a strong
wind was blowing the shells off course as they wavered at their apexes before
plunging down.
62
SCHEMATIC SKETCH TO ACCOMPANY "THE INDIANS"
62a
"Tell them to cease fire. We'll try again in the morning when the wind
has died."
For a harbor site that night, Bishko chose a thicket of grass and dry
bamboo, so strewn with dry leaves that a crawling snake could be heard.
Miller concealed their back trail. They cleared away some leaves and lay down
just at dark. It rained on and off during the night, but the Marines not on
watch didn't notice; they would have slept treading water.
At first light, when the sky to the east was glowing red, the team left
the harbor site. They travelled straight down the hill through the grass,
knowing they could not be seen in the dim light. Bishko led them to a small
clump of trees which was slightly nearer to the bamboo bridge than their
vantage point the day before.
At dawn the enemy began stirring. The sounds of their conversations
carried plainly to the Marines, but none crossed the bridge and the Marines
could not see through the green canopy of trees. The grove extended 300
meters north and was about 100 meters wide, bordered on the east by the
ridgeline where the patrol was hiding. The stream ran from the north along
the west side of the grove, then jinked sharply east toward the ridgeline.
Over the stream where it bent east the enemy had built their bridge. Bishko
believed there were probably a dozen North Vietnamese encamped in the grove
below him and decided to call for artillery again.
"Hateful, this is Primness," Moran whispered into the PRC 25 radio.
"Fire Mission. Concentration Papa India five zero niner. Voices in stream
bed. One round. Willy Peter. Will adjust."
From his position, Bishko could clearly see the bridge and stream. The
stream curled gradually to the right and heavy foliage covered both banks.
The voices were coming from the right bank in a clump of tall trees.
"On the way," whispered Moran. The artillery round hurtled in over the
Marines' heads. It sounded like someone ripping cloth. The explosion was
sharp and close. A cloud of white smoke drifted up. From the grove of trees
two VC emerged clad in khaki shorts and khaki shirts and casually walked south
across the bridge.
"Have them come left one hundred and fire for effect," whispered Bishko.
A few minutes later the rounds came tearing in. The grove shook with the
successive explosions. Fifteen North Vietnamese came out from the trees and
walked rapidly to the stream crossing, and waded across.
63
"Hit them with a couple of more volleys," Bishko whispered.
Twelve more rounds smashed into the trees, the sound of the explosions
mingling into one continuous roar.
About 40 enemy ran from the grove. They scampered to the stream and
splashed across as fast as they could, dressed in a variety of ways: some in
khaki, some in khaki shirts and black shorts, some in gray shirts and blue
shorts, some in black pajamas, some even in light blue pajamas.
"Keep that fire coming. Call for area fire and hit the other bank,"
Bishko whispered. The reconnaissance team had discovered the base camp of a
mixed VC/North Vietnamese battalion.
McWilliams tried to count the enemy as they forded the stream. He
tallied 75; then they were pouring across the stream faster than he could
count. Bishko could not tabulate an accurate figure either.
"Tell them there are more than 200 that we can see at one point. Have
them pour it on."
The shells slammed down in random patterns on both sides of the streams,
felling trees and more North Vietnamese. A group of the enemy waded back
across the stream, holding bamboo poles. Other soldiers followed them,
holding high above the water bunches of white bandages. They ran across the
gravel wash back into the grove and some minutes later trotted back carrying
their wounded and dead slung beneath the poles. Others scurried about,
hauling packs bulging with supplies. Some ran upstream clutching armfuls of
weapons.
The artillery pounded them relentlessly. The enemy seemed to lose their
sense of purpose and direction. Some staggered like punchdrunk fighters.
Others threw down their packs and ran. There was mass panic and confusion in
the stream bed.
A few dozen heavily armed men splashed through the stream bed and
disappeared from view on the Marines' right flank. The team could hear them
crashing through the brush, coming up the slope. Some Vietnamese leader had
determined that the bombardment was too continuous and accurate to be merely a
lucky burst of harassing fire. At least one group of the enemy were organized
and purposeful. They were searching for the team.
Another volley dropped into the grove. Still more of the enemy rushed
out. Some were bent over, carrying wounded on their backs. Staying together
in one large group, they started to wade the stream.
64
Another volley. Three of the shells exploded in the stream. The enemy
disappeared from the Marines' view in a shower of spray, mud, and stones.
When the debris had settled, McWilliams could see no North Vietnamese who were
still moving. Some were floating face down in the stream, others were lying
in twisted shapes along the bank, a few were hanging from vines several yards
in the air. The bamboo bridge sagged to water level under the weight of
several collapsed enemy. Bodies clogged the stream and turned its color to
rust.
The team could not stay to call in any more fire. The search party was
not 30 meters downslope. Bishko scrambled up the hill and gathered his men.
"Let's move out. They're coming up the hill after us." He paused to
catch his breath.
"But I'll tell you, we've just killed a hell of a lot of them."
They went down the back of the hill through the grass in loping strides,
passing where a 105mm shell had fallen short and clipped yards of grass off at
the roots as evenly as a scythe. McWilliams found a stream bed and led the
team down into its protecting shadows.
They arrived out of breath and uncertain of their future at the bottom of
the hill on the opposite side from the North Vietnamese camp. They collapsed
where they stood and struggled to regain their wind, feeling they could rely
only on their physical condition and knowledge of woodcraft to elude those who
chased them. Back at task force headquarters, the 5-3 of the reconnaissance
company, Captain William S. Ostrie, had listened to their whispers over the
radio and heard the situation develop. He acted to provide them immediate and
powerful support. The pilot of an Air Force observation plane was contacted
and asked to fly up the valley toward the Marines' position and to provide
what assistance he could. That pilot, in turn, guided in a Marine jet, which
had been diverted from its primary target by Ostrie's call for emergency aid
for the reconnaissance patrol.
The patrol members themselves were completely unaware of this rapid,
saving chain of events. But, while still breathing hard and lying at the base
of the hill, they did hear the soft single-engine putter of the tiny Air Force
plane and seconds later saw it flying directly toward them, not 50 feet above
the ground. Bishko stood up and waved and flashed a signal mirror at the
plane. The pilot wagged his wings in recognition and spoke to Moran over the
patrol's radio frequency. In broken sentences, Moran explained their plight.
"They're right behind us," he said. "On the hill, and their base camp's on
65
the other side, where the bodies are."
"Roger," said the pilot. "I'll take a look."
He circled once over the stream bed and reported he counted 50 bodies.
(McWilliams though there were 53.) Buzzing the hill, he caught a glimpse of
the North Vietnamese. That was all he needed. He radioed to Moran, warning
the Marines to seek cover. The enemy was closing rapidly behind them and he
did not have time to waste.
The members of the patrol never saw the jet. One minute they were
listening intently for sounds of their pursuers and the next minute the air
was filled with a sharp screeching. It was the sound of an F-8 Crusader
hurtling down at 300 mph with a 2,000-pound bomb slung under each wing.
Captain Orson G. Swindle, III, sat at the controls concentrating intently on
the observation pilot's instructions.
"Hit 50 meters at 12 o'clock on my smoke on a holding of 210 degrees."
Swindle could see the hill, the stream bed, the gravel wash, and the thin
white smoke wisps of the observations pilot's marking rockets. The target was
plain, but Swindle was uneasy, for the Air Force pilot had warned him the
reconnaissance patrol was only 400 meters from the smoke markers. Swindle had
dropped 1,000-pound bombs 700 meters in front of friendly lines and considered
that close enough. Swindle held his craft very steady and released the two
bombs simultaneously. He came out of his 300 dive at 1,800 feet, pulling 5
G's very smartly. The bombs fell free and plummeted down, thick, stubby,
menacing hulks painted a dull green and repulsive even to look at.
They struck and the blast jolted the Marines crouched on the other side
of the hill. The ground jumped under their feet. For seconds they could hear
nothing, while a high ringing sound filled their ears. They looked at each
other, gaping, not quite sure what had happened. Dirt, boulders, and the
limbs of trees began falling around them. They dove for cover under the trees
and hoped the debris would miss them.
Miller whispered: "That stuff could kill you just as quick as a bullet."
Moran got on the radio and whispered furiously. "You missed. You almost
hit us. Hit the other side. Hit the top. But don't hit here!"
A calm voice replied. "Relax. He was right on target. Nobody's behind
you now. But you have to expect some fallout when you're that close to those
blockbusters."
66
The observation pilot was right. The pursuers were no more. The patrol
turned east and toiled slowly around the shoulder of the ridge and harbored in
a deep draw, hoping to find another suitable observation post. In this
endeavor they did not succeed. But fatigue did not overcome caution.
McWilliams and Miller took turns climbing a tall tree to watch their back
trail. Late in the afternoon, their vigilance was rewarded. The enemy came,
casting for tracks and shouting loudly back and forth.
Moran called for artillery. Volley after volley smashed in, and the
valley echoed and reechoed the rolling thunder for many minutes. Bishko
listened to the din and smiled. "That artillery," he whispered, "is just like
having a guardian angel." The Marines neither saw nor heard any more North
Vietnamese that afternoon.
They had difficulty keeping awake on watch that night. They dared not
stamp their feet or move around; they were on the verge of exhaustion. By
dint of sheer determination, Bishko stayed alert throughout most of the night
to ensure the others would not doze off.
The next morning, a helicopter swooped in to pick them up. With signal
mirrors they guided the pilot into the landing zone, then clambered happily on
board and flew to task force headquarters for debriefing. There they were
told they had called in one of the most successful artillery missions on
record thus far in the Vietnamese war. The Marines were so tired they could
hardly smile. Corporal McWilliams chose that moment to look at his old friend
and say: "That's not half bad, Sergeant--for your first time, that is."
Then they smiled, close comrades sharing an in-joke.
67
TALKING FISH
Preface: After leaving the 1st Force Reconnaissance Company,
the author visited India Battery of the 12th Marines at the end
of July to determine their reaction to the exceptional fire
support they provided Bishko's patrol. After several hours
with those men, observing, questioning, and taping, it became
obvious to him that he would be doing artillery an injustice
if he merely mentioned them in a few sentences as an adjunct
to another story. Here is what the Marines of India Battery
did in the 24-hour period which included their support of the
reconnaissance patrol.
I
For the men of India Battery, the shooting day generally reached its
heaviest peak at night. During the hours of darkness, the howitzers would
unleash harassment and interdiction fires at dozens of points. These rounds
fell unobserved by the Marines, exploding in random patterns throughout enemy
territory. The purpose of such missions was to disrupt the movements of the
North Vietnamese, to cause them anxiety and lack of rest, and to deny them the
secure use of trails and stream beds.
In mid-July, India Battery, with six howitzers and 73 men, had been
transported by helicopters to a valley some four miles southwest of Dong Ha,
near the Demilitarized Zone. From this valley, the battery fired in support
of units from the 4th Marines, 5th Marines, and the 1st Force Reconnaissance
Company, all engaged in Operation HASTINGS.
On 27 July, Battery I had barely begun to fire its H&I missions when the
routine was interrupted by a radio request for a fire mission. The message
was sent from "Kalamazoo 66," a forward observer team attached to the 3d
Battalion, 5th Marines. The target designated was "moving lights on
hillside."
At 2016, the howitzers opened fire on the target. After two adjustments,
a fire-for-effect was called in and the six howitzers fired five
high-explosive rounds apiece, each shell weighing 33 pounds. Secondary
explosions followed the impact, indicating that the 105mm shells had triggered
the detonation of enemy ammunition or fuel.
68
The lights hovered and wavered in the blackness, then slowly bobbed back
up the mountain. A shift from the last fire-for-effect was called and again
the shells rustled down on the lights. There were more secondary explosions
and the lights went out. The men at the battery waited. After a delay of
several minutes, the lights reappeared farther up the mountain. Another
shift. More salvos. More secondary explosions. And still once more after
that, the process was repeated before the lights winked on the skyline and
disappeared. The battery had fired for 29 minutes on the mission and expended
134 shells.
During those fire missions, another forward observer team (Kalamazoo 61)
had monitored the radio and followed on a map the slow retreat of the enemy.
Their position was on the valley floor on the other side of the mountain from
Kalamazoo 66. By simple deduction and proper use of a map and compass, they
were able to focus their attention on a spot in the blackness where they
suspected the enemy were. Fifteen minutes passed and they saw nothing. But
at 2100 a speck of light glowed through the foliage. Having pinpointed the
coordinates, they called for an immediate fire-for-effect and the battery
responded with 12 high-explosive rounds. When the forward observer team
counted more than 12 explosions, they notified the battery of that fact, and
requested a repeat of the mission. Again the battery fired a dozen rounds,
this time mixing in white phosporous shells. A few more secondary explosions
followed and the team could see the lights no longer.
The battery returned to the conduct of ordinary H&I fires. The forward
observer team remained on watch. Forty minutes elapsed--then lights again
glimmered on the shoulders of the mountain. The team quickly notified the
battery, which suspended the H&I missions and threw 18 high-explosive shells
on the lights. The shells struck, setting off a secondary explosion so
powerful it lit up the entire mountainside. At the gun pits, 4,200 meters
away, the battery commander, Captain Burr Chambless, looked at the bright
flash on the horizon and shouted to his section chiefs: "You goofed up. What
are you firing Willie Peter for?"
The NCOs assured him they had not and the Marines of the battery began to
discuss eagerly the nature and size of the target they had destroyed. But no
immediate survey of the damage by infantrymen was possible. At night in the
jungle, close surveillance of artillery strikes is foregone.
The next day, on both sides of the mountain, patrols discovered bloody
shreds of clothing and helmets. They reported that patches of the jungle
which had been ripped by the artillery smelled of death. The twisted casings
of a few enemy 120mm mortar shells and bits of an iron wheel were found.
69
The North Vietnamese probably had intended to drag the heavy weapons into a
safe defilade position away from the ridgeline, which was vulnerable to air
and artillery strikes. They most likely had calculated that the dense canopy
would shield their lights from the sight of the Marines. They were wrong.
The first forward observer team (Kalamazoo 66) to see the lights was able
to adjust fire on the target. At night, when distances are hard to estimate
accurately and the jungle smothers the sound and dims the flash from adjusting
rounds, this was no mean feat. The other forward observer team (Kalamazoo 61)
showed good sense in tracking the fire mission and skill in adjusting its
initial fire missions on target so swiftly. Both teams remained alert even
after the lights went out. Had either team assumed the shoot was over after
their initial fires-for-effect met with success, the damage to the enemy would
have been much less severe. Both had obviously pinpointed their respective
map positions and acquainted themselves with the surrounding terrain while it
was still light.
II
Having averaged four to six hours of punctuated sleep, the men were back
at the guns in the morning when a radio message came in under the call sign
"Hateful." Hateful was the code word for a radio station operated by the 1st
Force Reconnaissance Company. The station was perched on a peak high above
the valley floor and relayed messages from long-range reconnaissance patrols
back to the task force headquarters and artillery batteries.
The relay station passed on to India Battery a fire mission from
"Primness." Chambless recognized the call sign. It was a small reconnaissance
patrol located deep in the jungle for whom the battery had fired several
missions during the past two days.
The target was designated as "voices in stream bed." Chambless was
puzzled by the vague term but he did not question it. That wasn't his job.
He had confidence in the judgment of the Marines on patrol. The
reconnaissance Marines had been trained in forward observer procedures by the
S-3 of the battalion--Major Barry Bittner. They did not call fire foolishly.
But an officer on the staff of one of the rifle battalions Chambless was
also supporting did think the mission foolish. Having monitored the radio
message from Hateful, he called Chambless, sarcastically asking if the battery
had the time and ammunition to waste on voices and bushes. Chambless replied
that his battery directly supported the reconnaissance patrol and that, yes,
he was going to fire the mission.
70
But the artillery Fire Direction Center (FDC) was momentarily stumped. The
patrol's compass azimuth to the target had been sent in code so a listening
enemy could not locate their position. This shackle system garbled the
numbers of the azimuth and the battery did not have the key to that particular
code. Staff Sergeant John E. Williams, the operations chief, solved the
problem by radioing a nearby rifle battalion, which unscrambled the numbers.
Four minutes had been wasted. The computers--men trained to compute the
technical data necessary to aim the guns--went to work. Lance Corporal F. C.
Puskoskie called out his fire data computations first. Lance Corporal William
J. Garrison studied his figures and yelled "check." Five minutes had gone by.
Next, Sergeant John Dovale called the artillery liaison officer on duty at
the operations tent of the task force. The artillery liaison officer jotted
down the coordinates of the Marines' and the enemy's positions, the azimuth of
fire, and the height the 105 shells would travel in the air. He took this
information to the air liaison officer standing watch in the same tent and
requested a "Save-A-Plane" number. Until aircraft were warned to stay clear
of the area through which the artillery shells would pass in flight, the
mission could not be fired.
The battery did not just sit idle and wait. The firing data was
transmitted over the telephone wire to the executive pit.
"Battery -- adjust.
Action Rear.
Shell Willie Peter.
Charge 6.
Fuze Quick.
Center -- one round.
Battery -- one round.
Shell H.E.
High angle.
In effect.
Deflection 2457.
Quadrant 1130."
71
On the map, no more than 300 meters separated the reconnaissance patrol
from the target. The patrol was crouched on a hill 200 feet above the stream
bed. To hit the target and miss the Marines, the Fire Direction Officer,
Second Lieutenant Dixon Kelley, plotted a high-angle shoot. When adjusted to
fire the mission, the howitzer tubes pointed almost straight up in the air.
This would throw the shells high so that, having peaked, they would plummet
almost straight down. Thus, the artillery rounds would miss the hill but hit
the target.
The previous afternoon the Primness patrol had requested the same fire
mission. A high wind, blowing in erratic gusts, had played havoc with the
prolonged flight of the shells. The patrol was forced to hastily cancel the
mission when the adjustments fell wide of their intended marks.
There was no wind early on the morning of 28 July. Still Kelley was
wary. He did not relish putting precise measurements at the whim of a puff of
air.
The battery executive officer, First Lieutenant Charles W. Cheatham, told
his phone man to pass on to the guns the data he had received from the FDC.
This added step was a safety procedure, because it insured a doublecheck to
verify the data placed on the guns. Cheatham added a twist to the routine.
"Tell the guns the target is talking fish," he said.
The artillerymen appreciated the humor. It was a good ploy which revived
the spirits of tired men. They laughed and joked as they readied the guns.
Perhaps recon had been left out in the jungles too long this time.
Private First Class Raymond O. Tindell carried a white phosporous shell
from the ammunition pit to gun 44. Private First Class N. C. Sheble loaded
the round into the breech, while Private First Class David L. Sherburne
aligned the gun according to the fire data. Lance Corporal Henry H. Smalley
grasped the rope lanyard and waited. He would fire the first adjusting round
of the mission. He was bored. He thought it was the beginning of another
futile effort. The VCs would slip away and the patrol would report back to
the battery that there had been one or two enemy wounded.
The section chief, Sergeant Bobby M. Goodnight, checked the lay of the
gun and shouted: "Gun 4 up."
Seven minutes had elapsed since the fire mission request came in. A call
came into the Fire Direction Center from the artillery liaison officer at task
force: "Save-a-plane number 28-Bravo."
72
The planes had been alerted to the fire mission. If a pilot had to cross
through the area, he would fly his plane (or helicopter) at a higher altitude
than the peak of the arc of the artillery shells.
"Fire."
Eight minutes after receiving the fire mission, the first artillery round
was on its way to target. Another 48 seconds would pass before the round
landed. Captain Chambless was dissatisfied with that amount of time. Staff
Sergeant Williams was dissatisfied. The crew of gun 4 was dissatisfied.
"Too damn long," Chambless growled. The communications snag and the
delay in clearance irritated the whole battery. They prided themselves on
fast, accurate shooting. Chambless made a notation to mention the mixup in
shackle sheets at the next pre-patrol meeting. (Before an insertion, the
reconnaissance team leader visited with his artillery support officer.
Together they preplanned fires and set procedures and also discussed past
mistakes made.)
Primness called in a correction.
"Left one hundred--fire one volley for effect." The first round had
exploded near the target. The computers were waiting. They worked quickly and
fed the data corrections to the guns.
Less than two minutes later the six-round volley was on its way. The
battery waited--set to compute and adjust for another correction.
No correction came. Instead the FOC heard: "Repeat fire for effect.
Eight VCs seen crossing stream."
Another volley was fired. The men in the battery were no longer bored.
Having learned they were firing at observed targets, their interest naturally
heightened. Hateful relayed another message from Primness.
"Left 200, add 100. A platoon of VCs seen running upstream. Request
three volleys."
Again the artillerymen fired--and wondered. The talking fish seemed to
be multiplying.
Another relay call from Primness reached the battery. "Request area
saturation fire. Two hundred VCs moving across stream bed."
The gun crews fired, reloaded, realigned, and fired, again and again.
Small shifts were phoned to the guns to insure the shells did not land on top
of one another.
73
A final message came from Primness.
"Cease fire. FO cannot observe. He has been chased off the hill."
It was 0800. In 40 minutes, India Battery had fired 1,749 pounds of high
explosives into an area 400 meters wide and 300 meters deep. They waited
expectantly for a surveillance of the mission. None came. The men were
disappointed. (Not until late in the afternoon did the battery learn 50 enemy
bodies were counted lying in the stream bed after the artillery struck. What
had happened under the canopy of trees could not be seen. Sergeant Goodnight
said, "We felt really happy when we heard the results. It made you feel like
you were over here doing something.")
The coordination, clearance, and communication problems pertaining to
Marine artillery support in Vietnam were so formidable at that time that
personal liaison between the supporting battery and the unit to be supported
became advisable, and it was standing operating procedure for reconnaissance
units to brief the artillery battery before a patrol went out. Even so, the
fire mission had come perilously close to never being fired at all. The mixup
in shackle sheets could have prevented decoding if Staff Sergeant Williams had
not immediately contacted other units to obtain the information needed.
Chambless made every effort to keep his men informed as to the nature of
the target and the patrol's situation. When a damage surveillance was not
radioed back to the battery at the end of the mission, he checked with other
sources to find out if the artillery proved helpful, and if so, what it did.
He did not neglect the morale of his men.
III
When the Primness patrol could no longer call in fire, the men stood down
from the guns but they did not rest; there was ammunition to haul and store.
The helicopters whirled in to dump out hundreds of boxes of shells. The
resupply kept the men busy hauling by hand (and one mechanical mule) 108,000
pounds of ammunition from the helicopter landing zone to the gun pits, some
hundreds of meters away. It was an all-day job.
(But for sheer Hurculean effort, the labors of the Marines loading
helicopters in the Logistic Support Area deserve special mention. There were
20 of them assigned to work the main supply point at Dong Ha for the duration
of Operation HASTINGS. Grimy, black-faced, built like bulls, they worked
steadily and impassively at their jobs for 15 days, trudging back and forth
daily across the same patch of brown earth, loading by hand the helicopters,
and chewing the dust the rotating blades swept
74
up. A glance at the supply manifest and a few casual questions showed some
startling statistics. They usually hauled cargos from 0500 one morning until
0100 the next morning, moving between 120,000 and 160,000 pounds of supplies a
day.)
The battery fired a few more missions during the day, chiefly in support
of the Primness patrol. The patrol had melted into the jungle after their
engagement with the North Vietnamese battalion but stayed near the ravaged
enemy base camp, hoping to direct another artillery or air strike. Instead,
they were almost struck themselves. The North Vietnamese, after a lull of
several hours while they reorganized, conducted a search for them.
Running off the hill, the Marines had left a trail through the dry grass
that a native of New York City could follow. The patrol leader had
anticipated the possibility of trackers. When the trackers came casting along
the backtrail, they were heard and located by the patrol. The patrol leader
radioed that information, together with the coordinates of the enemy, to the
relay station. The station notified the battery.
This time the battery did not have to wait for a decoding key. Less than
two minutes after reception of the message, the guns were firing. So swift
was the reaction that the message alerting the patrol of an impending fire
mission reached the patrol via the relay station after the shells had fallen.
The battery fired 1,188 pounds of high explosives to discourage the trackers.
It did.
Twenty minutes later, from task force headquarters came the order to
blanket the entire target area. At higher headquarters, the thinking was
that, if the North Vietnamese had organized a pursuit, they must have returned
to their base camp and been in the process of digging out. The battery fired
another area saturation mission, dropping 10,692 pounds of high explosives in
the stream bed, base camp, and hill complex.
That night--28 July--the battery engaged the enemy at much closer range.
Nestled in a small valley, the battery perimeter was linked with that of a
rifle company. This relieved in large measure the problem of a local defense,
since Captain Chambless was charged with protecting only a small sector of the
perimeter around the guns.
It was that sector the enemy probed. Chambless had set out in the jungle
three three-man listening posts. These posts were arranged in a triangular
shape, placed deep enough in the underbrush to prevent the enemy from throwing
grenades into the perimeter. At 2215, the Viet Cong attacked the outposts
with grenades and small arms fire. Over a dozen grenades were thrown at the
Marines, but all fell well short of the foxholes. The Marines in their turn
threw grenades, fired their rifles
75
semiautomatically, and fired the M79 grenade launcher. The entire action
lasted less than 15 minutes. No Marine was wounded. No known damage was
inflicted on the enemy. But it was not a random effort on the part of the VC.
It was a deliberate probe to see if the artillerymen would react foolishly or
timidly to close-in harassment. Having found this did not occur, the VC
withdrew.
They came back two hours later. This time they climbed to the top of a
small ridgeline some 300 meters from the gun positions. From there they
opened fire with four automatic weapons, aiming at the flashes from the
muzzles of the howitzers. Simultaneously, small parties of the enemy attempted
to outflank the outposts. Two separate actions developed.
The nine Marines on outpost duty fought with grenades. Their triangular
defense provided mutual support and, when the enemy tried to slip around the
point outpost, they were pinned down by the outpost to the rear and had to
pull back. Unable to budge the outposts and receiving two grenades for each
one they threw, the enemy gave up the attempt and withdrew.
Those manning the automatic weapons on the ridgeline proved more
stubborn. Captain Chambless had taken the precaution of zeroing in a .50
caliber machine gun on the ridgeline during the day. When the battery
positions came under fire, he ordered one crew to return fire with that
weapon. The VC were not impressed. Their fire poured in unabated.
The artillerymen, far from being intimidated, were enjoying the action.
Although bullets were snapping by all gun positions, no Marine had been
seriously wounded and the element of danger came as a welcome respite to the
tedium of endless H&I fires. But Chambless was exasperated. To him, the
grenade probes and machine gun fire were irritating impediments to the conduct
of efficient battery fires. Determined to dislodge the enemy and discourage
them as much as possible, he directed one gun crew to take the ridgeline under
direct fire with the howizter. Sighting in on the muzzle flashes of the enemy
weapons, the crew fired six shells in quick succession at the VC position.
That ended the fire fight and the battery began conducting H&I missions.
It was the start of another day's shoot.
76
AN HONEST EFFORT
Preface: When the author visited 2/5 early in July, the
battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Walter Moore,
suggested that he spend some time with the men of Echo Company,
who had been fighting hard in a wide valley for over a month.
For several days, the author stayed with that company. When
the fighting died down, a civic action program had been started,
an effort in which the men took more interest and devoted more
energy as it grew.
Captain Jim Cooper was tired. He was tired of climbing to the high
ground, of sitting in the hot sun, of skirmishing inconclusively with
guerrillas in the valley, and then returning to defend bare ridgelines.
His command, Echo Company of the 5th Marines, had established a combat
outpost on Hill 76, the dominating terrain feature in the center of a large
valley 10 miles west of Chulai. Each day the Marines sallied forth in platoon
strength. The patrols passed through the hamlets and villages, clusters of
wooden huts surrounded by trees and thickets. Between the hamlets stretched
acres of rice paddies, stagnant fields without shade. The hills bordering the
valley were covered by thick brush and dry grass which trapped the heat and
stopped any breeze.
The day patrols rarely encountered any Viet Cong. The Marines would
climb slowly back up Hill 76 at dusk to man the perimeter and sleep. The hill
was bare of trees and the Marines joked that there was more dust than air.
Night ambushes went out, setting in along the main trails leading from
the mountains into the hamlets. Contact was frequent but kills few. The Viet
Cong moved in small groups and, when fired upon, dispersed instantly.
The enemy controlled the hamlets. This was obvious to the Marines. When
a patrol passed, the children rarely waved and the villagers stayed within
their houses. Scattered along the trails in front of them, Marines often
found fresh leaflets showing pictures of wounded Americans and printed
messages saying: "Protest the war before this happens to you." Occasionally,
the enemy tried to ambush the Marines as they left the tree line bordering a
hamlet. This tactic was not successful because each patrol left a machine gun
team behind as security when the
77
patrol had to cross the rice paddies. The local Vietnamese Popular Forces
company never ventured outside their fort at night.
The presence of the Marines did deny to large main-force enemy units free
access to the valley. It did not, however, prevent the Viet Cong
infrastructure, the local and political forces of the enemy, from maintaining
surveillance and control of the villagers.
After a few weeks of fruitless forays and grimy living, Echo Company
changed its tactics and position. "I just got plain sick and tired of baking
on top of some hill while the VC ran the villagers down in the valleys. So I
decided to move," Captain Cooper said.
The company walked off the hill and into the hamlet of Thanh My Trung.
Cooper arranged his defensive positions with care. They did not infringe on
the villagers' houses or property but they were well within the hamlet itself.
The Marines now had shade, water, and level sleeping ground.
The villagers were flabbergasted. Cooper called a meeting of the entire
hamlet. Over 250 men, women, and children gathered to hear what he had to
say. Cooper was big and blunt. It was his third war. He had started as a
private. He had come to Vietnam to fight, not to pamper people.
He told the villagers so. He told them he had come to stay and they
wouldn't have to fear the Viet Cong any longer. He told them to tell the VC
he had come, so they would have time to run away, since they were afraid to
fight. And he told them they were looking at the hardest man alive, if they
helped the VC fight one of his Marines.
The company established a routine. Patrols became more frequent but of
shorter length and duration. Each platoon was responsible for its own
security. The number of night ambushes was increased and the number of
contacts gradually diminished until, during the month of July, the company's
tactical area of responsibility quieted completely and not even one large fire
fight was recorded. Even snipers were very rare, and, although difficulties
with mines persisted, no booby trap was ever found in Thanh My Trung.
The Marines, long covered with dust, splashed often in the ample water.
They shaved daily and soaped down and rinsed off in the evenings. Soap was
given to the villagers and they were urged to use it. At first, the villagers
scrubbed their clothes but not themselves.
It was the children who led the way. Natural mimics and completely
unafraid of the Marines, they swarmed each morning
78
and evening, anxious to show the Marines they could bathe too.
The villagers followed suit slowly. Hospitalman 3d Class Louis I.
Piatetsky, the chief corpsman in the company, was insistent that any villager
who asked for medical aid was told to wash before he would be treated. The
Marines yelled loudly and forcefully every time they saw soap squandered on
clothes.
Medical treatments also started with the children. They ran to the
Marines for comfort and help with skinned knees, cut feet, and scraped elbows.
Seeing the attention and care their children received, the villagers came
forward. Their diseases and wounds were more serious. Medical evacuations
for Vietnamese civilians from Thanh My Trung became a daily occurrence. The
corpsmen were kept busy each day. Piatetsky's knowledge of the Vietnamese
language lent order where otherwise chaos would have existed. The Vietnamese
could explain what hurt them and be understood. Piatetsky himself, in one
month (July), treated over 500 Vietnamese. Each week a doctor and a dentist
visited the hamlet. During July they recorded 480 cases in their logs.
The hamlet of Thanh My Trung had a population of less than 360. The
entire village numbered about 6,000. The Marines were amazed at how the news
travelled from the valley, but they were sure many of those treated were not
local villagers. The success of the program pleased the battalion's civil
affairs officer, Captain Herbert R. Edson. "Look at it this way," he said,
"the more concrete and immediate our help to the people is--things they can
grasp and understand right here and now--the more we're undercutting the
appeal and authority of the Viet Cong infrastructure in this same area."
The social life of Thanh My Trung revolved around the daily hot meal of
the Marines. Somehow the Marines never ate quite all their food. There was
always a little left for the children. At first, chow call looked like a
circus. The Marines would finish eating, then line up at the concertina wire
to watch the fun. Amidst the cheers of the Marines, the cooks and the company
gunnery sergeant would charge forth to set up a chow line. Gunnery Sergeant
Jack R. Montera would bellow and rant and rave for order in his best Bronx
manner. The children would giggle and swarm around him, intent only on the
food. The cooks would try to dole out equal helpings to all. But so many
small hands holding palm leaves would thrust forward that soon the entire
affair resembled a mob scene from a silent movie comedy. Cooper would laugh,
the Marines and the villagers would howl, the cooks would shout, the gunny
would swear, and the children would giggle and eat.
For a week, the gunny fought his private war. "I've trained plenty of
Marines," he would growl, "and these little imps will square away." In the end
he was successful and the Vietnamese
79
chow line succumbed to Marine discipline. The children got into line under
the watchful eyes of their parents. But the Marines were vaguely
disappointed; they had enjoyed the entertainment.
The gunny had an easier time enforcing police calls. When the children
saw the Marines picking up each scrap of paper and empty tin cans, they too
joined in. The project spread from the perimeter to the adjoining trails,
which were widened and swept clean. Not to be outdone, the villagers spruced
up their backyards, picking them clean of twigs and leaves.
The Vietnamese Popular Forces ventured farther and farther from their
fortified hill. For the first time, they came forth at night. Their
commander checked with Cooper each day and gradually assumed some
responsibility for patrols and ambushes. His soldiers gained confidence and
visited freely around the village.
The hamlet chief moved from the ARVN fort back into his own home. He
arrived each day at the Marines' "social" meal, accompanied by the village
elders. With dignity and just a touch of aloofness, they would pass through
the crowd of villagers on the outside of the barbed wire and enter the chow
line with the Marines. Occasionally, they would bring guests and make a great
show of standing beside Cooper. The Marine company commander would respond by
offering each a cigar and bending down to light it. The council of elders
regained prestige in the hamlet of Thanh My Trung.
Cooperation followed friendship. The hamlet chief showed the Marines the
favorite ambush and hiding places of the Viet Cong. One day he came running
to Cooper, followed by a trembling Viet farmer. Through Piatetsky's patient
questioning, Cooper learned that a squad of Viet Cong had captured the farmer
while he was fishing at a nearby stream. They had taken him into the
mountains and questioned him intensively about the Marines: how many they
were, what they were doing in the hamlet, how long they intended to stay.
They said they would kill him if he told the Marines. Once freed, he went to
the hamlet chief and asked to talk with the Marine commander.
The farmer pointed to a rock outcropping on a mountain slope two miles
from the hamlet. He said he was held there overnight. Cooper knew the enemy
had probably left the area hours earlier. But it was obvious these Vietnamese
needed assurance of Marine protection and power.
He took the farmer and the hamlet chief to his mortar emplacement. He
asked the farmer to point to the rocks. The farmer did so. Two 81mm mortars
and a 106mm recoilless rifle fired at the target and the rocks were splintered
apart. The farmer and the hamlet chief looked at each other and grinned.
80
Gunnery Sergeant Jack Montera of E/2/5 shepherds his chow line of
Vietnamese children from Thanh My Trung village. (Author's photo.)
80a
Cooper then brought the two Vietnamese to a nearby hillside where one of his
platoons was firing its biweekly familiarization course. From the array of
weapons, he chose a 12-gauge shotgun and a LAAW and handed them to his guests
to fire. When the Vietnamese later returned to their hamlet, they walked, not
like timid, frightened men, but with distinct swaggers.
Cooper didn't trust easily. He decided to see if the villagers were
playing a two-sided game. Deliberately, he spread a false rumor that the
Marines were leaving the next day. The next morning a Marine walking alone
down the main trail was stopped by two girls who warned him that it was not
safe because the VC were coming. Other Marines strolling in pairs or alone
were given similar warnings. Cooper was satisfied. He had found out two
things. The Viet Cong still had informers within the hamlet. But the loyalty
of most villagers lay with the Marines.
Less than a month after their arrival, the Marines did leave to go on an
operation. They left the marks of their influence behind in the village and
especially in the hamlet. The Vietnamese had reopened two schools and a
pagoda. They were washing. Their medical ills had been treated. A
Vietnamese public health nurse and two school teachers had come to the
village. The hamlet and village chiefs had returned. The Popular Forces were
acting more like disciplined troops.
What would happen in the future, Cooper was not about to guess. But he
was proud of what his Marines had done. They had worked and rebuilt the life
of a hamlet. They had not thought in those terms precisely when they came.
But by protecting the hamlet and patrolling the village, by example and
discipline, by generosity and spirit, they had infused the will and desire for
progress into a hamlet and had protected a village. Not much when compared to
the millions of Vietnamese under VC control, perhaps, but more meaningful than
sitting on a hill.
81
A HOT WALK IN THE SUN
Preface: On 6 August 1966, the 5th Marines launched
Operation COLORADO, landing in company strength at several
sites deep in Viet Cong territory, some 12 miles northwest
of Chulai. Although thousands of the enemy were supposedly
in the area, the companies initially met little resistance.
Their search and destroy missions became what the infantrymen
have termed "walks in the sun." The author describes here two
such walks by two units he knew well and worked with for several
weeks.
The men of Hotel Company, 2/5, moved down the road in helmets and flak
jackets, weighted with ammunition and gear. They had expected a fight in this
flat, populated area, so long held by the Viet Cong. They found nothing but
deserted houses and warning signs scrawled on boards which formed arch-ways
above the main trail. "Marines--do not use noxious chemicals." "Death follows
you here every step of the way." "Stop killing defenseless women and innocent
children--protest the war." "250 members of the French Expeditionary Force
are buried here--do not join them."
The Viet Cong had fled before the waves of helicopters had landed. The
villagers were hiding in small caves near their homes. The Marines searched
some of them. Inside one they found buried a rusty shotgun and a new carbine
with hundreds of cartridges. From another they dragged two Viet Cong. One
cowered and meekly obeyed the orders of his captors. The other, a well built
Vietnamese in his thirties, scowled and showed no fear. The Marines would
send them to the interrogator translator team at division headquarters when
they returned to base.
They did not have time to search all the caves, so they poked only into
those they most suspected. A corporal heard whispering from the entrance to
one large cave and Marines were stationed at both exits. The Vietnamese
interpreter with the rifle company yelled into the cave. No response. A
Marine threw in a smoke grenade. A dozen women and children slowly came out.
They looked fearfully at the grim faces of the Marines. The Marines ignored
them. The interpreter pushed them to one side.
"Is that all?" the company gunnery sergeant, Donald Constande, asked.
82
"No, here come the men," a corporal answered.
Two men came out. One walked directly to the waiting group of women.
The other looked at the Marines, then at the interpreter, stopped, turned, and
reentered the cave. Seconds later, he ran out, moving with the speed of a
sprinter. He was by the infantrymen and into the jungle before anyone
reacted.
Then two automatic rifles were fired at the same time. Two more rifles
joined in. The firing lasted less than 10 seconds. An acrid cloud of cordite
hung in the humid air in front of the cave. Bushes and small banana trees in
front of the Marines were shredded.
Two Marines advanced forward. They passed from sight in the green
foliage and reappeared shortly.
"He's dead," one said.
"Nothing on him. No ID card, no papers, no nothing," the other added.
"Stupid trick he pulled, huh?"
"What do you mean--stupid?" yelled the gunnery sergeant. "You're the ones
that are stupid. He almost made it."
"Well hell, gunny," a Marine replied, "I've never seen a VC that close
before. I didn't think he'd try to get a hat."
"Look, you just stop thinking, O.K.?" the gunny said.
The interpreter questioned the villagers. No, there were no VC in the
village. They had all gone. Yes, the dead man was a VC but he thought he
would be safe until he saw the interpreter. No, they didn't know who he was.
The column moved slowly forward. The villagers went back toward their
houses. Nobody approached the body.
From another cave came noises.
"Now don't get trigger-happy," the gunny said, "it's probably only
villagers. Just be careful. Is that clear?"
The people in the cave refused to come out. The interpreter screamed at
them. They came out.
"Check it."
"O.K., gunny," a small Marine answered.
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The Marine stripped to the waist and crawled into the mouth of the cave,
grasping a flashlight in one hand and a .45 caliber pistol in the other. The
Marines waiting heard him swear and shout angrily. There were sounds of a
scuffle and he reemerged, pulling a Vietnamese by the hair.
It was an attractive young girl, sopping wet and trembling.
"She was lying in a pool of water with only her head showing," the small
Marine said. "She didn't hardly want to come out."
Her white blouse was rust colored on one side.
"Check her out, doc."
The corpsman examined and treated the wounds.
"Just light shrapnel. No big thing."
"Skipper says we're behind schedule and holding up the whole show,
sergeant."
"Move it out," Staff Sergeant John Wysomirski shouted to his platoon.
The fire team at point did not go thirty meters before firing broke out
on the left flank. A Marine had seen six Viet Cong carrying rifles run across
a rice paddy. He fired, felling one of the enemy. Two other Viet Cong had
dragged the body into the concealment of a tree line.
"Let's go after them, Sergeant Ski," the Marine shouted. "I could follow
their trail easy."
"Skipper says no time," the sergeant replied. "We have to find and
secure a landing zone. Choppers due in an hour."
The Marines continued along the trail. It was noon and the sun was
burning. There was no breeze. The helmets and the flak jackets and the heavy
packs pushed down the Marines. The rifle barrels were too hot to touch.
Canteens were emptied. Some men stopped sweating. Some became dizzy and
chilled. Five men fell out.
Their squad leaders were furious with them. The NCOs had strongly
advised their men to drink as much water as they could, especially the day and
night before leaving on the operation. During each break on the march, the
corpsmen had reminded the men to take salt pills. Those who wilted under the
strong sun had swallowed few salt pills. Not one of them had drunk much water
the previous day. They had to be carried to a landing zone. The company lost
over an hour attending to the
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heat cases--time which could have been spent trailing the Viet Cong or
conducting a more thorough search.
A ploughed-over field was selected for a landing zone and a search of the
hut next to the field uncovered some war supplies--a bunch of khaki uniforms,
a large medicine kit, and documents written in Vietnamese and Russian. The
hut was burned and the supplies kept for processing by division intelligence.
The helicopters came and flew the company to another objective. The
Marines landed in wet rice paddies and slogged toward the tree lines
complaining of their fate. They encountered no enemy fire.
The company set out to find a defensive position large enough to hold the
entire battalion. The Marines were entering a hamlet with a dozen houses when
it began to rain. The men were elated. They stood dripping in the downpour
and grinned. They emptied the iodine-treated water from their canteens and
refilled them with rain water. They drank greedily.
The rain continued. A cool wind was blowing strongly and the men became
chilled. The company commander, Captain Richard Hughes, told them to rent
shelter in the village for the night.
"Just be grateful it ain't snowing," the gunny said.
A young man approached Hughes and through the interpreter he told his
story. He said the VC controlled the valley. He had escaped from their
forced labor camp in the hills. He wished to go with the Marines when they
left, and take his family with him. The company commander agreed.
In late afternoon, the other companies arrived and Lieutenant Colonel
Walter Moore had his men dig in for the night. Hughes asked him if they might
call a helicopter in the morning to take out a few refugees."
"Sure," said the colonel, "we'll be glad to help. Anyone else, or just
his family?"
Hughes said he didn't know the exact number but that the man had
mentioned a few friends might want to go along.
The next day, 697 refugees were evacuated. "That guy," one Marines said,
"was the greatest con artist since W. C. Fields." The Marines were stunned by
the number of refugees and their determination to leave.
They came by family groups, each person carrying clumsy bundles. Some
took pigs and chickens, others dogs. They asked the Marines to shoot their
water buffalo and burn their homes. They said they wanted to leave nothing
for the Viet Cong.
85
The Marines had no idea where so many people had come from, let alone how
they had learned the Marines would help them.
The battalion commander requested an emergency rerouting of all available
helicopters to transport the Vietnamese. All day the pilots flew the
villagers from the valley to a refugee camp at Tam Ky, near the coast.
Lieutenant Colonel Moore said: "It was the damndest thing I ever saw. We
came to fight VC and ended up playing Santa Claus. But you know something?
We felt pretty good about it."
The Vietnamese straggled into the Marine perimeter from the east and
west. Caught in the press of milling crowds and frightened by the racket of
the helicopters, many children cowered and hung back. Pigs and chickens broke
loose from their bonds and ran aimlessly around the landing zone.
The bearded infantrymen in soggy clothes took a proprietary interest in
the Vietnamese. Those not assigned to security on the perimeter drifted
toward the main trail. They stood in small groups, leaning on their rifles
and watching the exodus. They drifted toward the landing zone and started
helping the Vietnamese. They performed menial and kindly acts with detached
and bored expressions on their faces, anxious not to attract the attention and
jibes of their buddies.
Trying to cross the sopping rice paddies, an old lady floundered to a
halt. Her body sagged and she dropped her meager bundle into the water. A
large Marine said, "Ah, what the hell," and splashed into the paddy. He
brusquely picked up the old woman and her bundle and strode toward a
helicopter. Other Marines hooted and yelled at him--but without rancor. He
just grinned and strode on.
A group of Vietnamese shuffled down the trail, weaving and stumbling as
they carried an old man on a wooden door. They stopped to rest--the old man
groaned and whimpered in a wheezing voice. Two Marines walked forward, picked
up the litter, and carried the man to the landing zone.
One woman left the huddle of villagers and walked back down the trail.
"Where the hell is she going?" shouted the battalion intelligence officer,
Captain Richard Hemenez. "Kim, find out why she's leaving." The interpreter
stopped the woman and questioned her. She replied in a shrill and angry
voice. "She says her pig is not here, so she not go," the interpreter said,
after five minutes of excited talk.
"Oh, for God's sake, we can't have a refugee from the refugee program.
Big Moo Moo would chew my butt royally. Pass
86
Some of the hundreds of civilian refugees evacuated by helicopter
from VC territory during Operation COLORADO are watched by Marines
of 2/5. (USMC A369394)
86a
the word to spread out and find a runaway pig."
Laughing, the Marines shouted the order down the lines. Minutes later,
the unmistakable squeal of a frightened pig was heard over the clatter of the
helicopters. A Marine walked along a paddy dike toward the complaining woman
and the S-2 officer. In his right hand he carried his rifle; in his left hand
he grasped a small screaming pig by its rear legs. The woman greeted the pig
as if it were her child and returned to the group of refugees. The S-2
officer shook his head and walked away.
By late afternoon, the last Vietnamese family was evacuated. Hotel
Company flew to another objective.
Three days later, Gunnery Sergeant Constande and Staff Sergeant
Wysomirski were killed in action.
- - - - - - - - - -
That same day (7 August 1966), the 1st Battalion of the 5th Marines
dropped by helicopters into assigned objectives. Their area of operations lay
some 3,000 meters to the east of the valley where the 2d Battalion was
evacuating refugees. Charlie Company was helilifted into a small valley hit
the previous night by a B-52 strike.
As usual, the zone was hit by air and artillery strikes before the
160-man company landed. The helicopters whirled down and the Marines jumped
into the waist-deep rice paddies and waded toward the surrounding tree lines,
staying in their heliteams. Once out of the paddies, the platoon sergeants
sorted out their respective platoons, while the platoon commanders oriented
themselves on their maps, not an easy process with a scale of 1:50,000. The
company was twisted around the paddies in a jagged circle.
The Marines had set in a tight defensive perimeter in less than three
minutes. The procedure they followed was well established; they had done it
dozens of times, and, like most other times, this time they had encountered no
resistance.
"Hell," growled one Marine, "it's just going to be another hot walk in
the sun."
First Lieutenant Marshall (Buck) Darling studied his map carefully.
Satisfied he had located his position exactly, he reported by radio to
battalion headquarters and called a meeting of his platoon commanders. The
company would sweep east up the mile-long valley with a platoon on either side
of the main trail and one in reserve. He gave the first platoon two scout dog
teams and kept an engineer attachment with company headquarters.
87
Before the company could move, the engineers had to destroy two
boobytraps on the trail at the edge of the landing zone. Both traps had been
plainly marked to warn the villagers and the markers (three bamboo poles
placed around the mines in a triangular fashion) were still in place when the
Marines arrived. One was an explosive charge buried under a pile of loose
earth--the other a scooped-out section of the trail studded with bamboo stakes
and cleverly camouflaged. With demolitions, the engineers quickly disposed of
both obstacles.
First Lieutenant Arthur Blades attached a scout dog and handler team to
both his first and second squads. The platoon moved forward to search the
scattered huts. The area was poor. Most dwellings were small, one room huts
with hard-dirt floors, mud and bamboo walls, and straw roofs. Nearly all
contained deep bomb shelters. From past experience, the Marines knew chances
were slight that enemy soldiers would hide in those holes. When Marines were
on large offensive operations, the VC, unless cornered, fled rather than
fought. Only stragglers would go to ground in exposed areas. The German
Shepherd dogs enabled the Marines to move swiftly. The villagers rarely
emerged from their hiding places when the Marines or even the interpreter
yelled at them. But one low growl worked wonders. Cave after cave was emptied
in seconds. Still the search yielded nothing--only frightened women and
children.
Blades and his platoon were disappointed. They were spoiling for a fight
and thoroughly exasperated with the situation. Nevertheless, the platoon
commander did not allow his private opinions to influence his tactical
decisions. Throughout the long and empty afternoon he yelled at his squad
leaders to keep contact with each other, scolded his troops for bunching up,
and insisted his flankers beat through the undergrowth and not drift into a
single column. The sun sapped the Marines and gradually the pace slackened.
After a few hours the dogs showed signs of fatigue and overheating. Blades
prodded his men to stay alert. To an observer, he pointed out with particular
pride the leadership his squad leaders were showing.
"Look at them," he said, "two are lance corporals and one just made
corporal. But I wouldn't want anybody else. They know their people and work
hard. They're real hardnoses."
In the third hour of the search, the Marines found a house hidden in a
tree grove which contained VC khaki uniforms, medical supplies, and U.S. water
cans. The material judged of intelligence value was saved; the rest, as well
as the house, was burned.
In the late afternoon, Darling reported to battalion that the valley
contained no enemy force. He requested a helicopter pickup. Battalion
concurred.
88
While waiting, the Marines sat down and cooked C-rations. Few felt hungry
enough to eat hot canned meat under a hot sun. In small huddles, the
Vietnamese children had edged forward to peep at the Marines. A rifleman
enticed one little boy to overcome his fear and venture forward to gulp a
mouthful of food. Other children followed suit, timidly at first, then with
gathering confidence. For the last hour the troops were in the valley, they
played with and fed the children.
The helicopters came in and the Marines walked out into the rice paddies
to board them.
"You know," Blades commented as he led his platoon to the landing zone,
"I've been in this country for 30 days and I've never heard a shot fired in
anger. I'm beginning to wonder if there really is an enemy here at all."
The children waved goodby shyly. The adults stood and watched without
expression or movement. Charlie Company flew to another objective.
Three days later, they found their fight, a savage, slugging encounter
which made them wonder if they would ever again gripe about a lack of action.
89
"GENERAL, WE KILLED THEM"
Preface: At dawn on 11 August 1966, the author arrived by
helicopter in 1/5's perimeter, some 20 miles northwest of
Chulai and 6 miles west of Tam Ky, a district headquarters
near the South China Sea. On that perimeter 10 hours earlier,
the battalion had fought the only major battle of Operation
COLORADO. The author was well acquainted with the officers
and men of the battalion and so, gathering in large groups,
they told him in detail what had occurred and pointed out
the exact positions they had held. He wrote the somber
aftermath from personal observation.
I
ENCOUNTER FOR ALPHA COMPANY
After his companies, searching separately for the elusive enemy during
the first few days of Operation COLORADO, had met no hard resistance,
Lieutenant Colonel Hal L. Coffman had consolidated his 583-man battalion (1/5)
and was sweeping toward the sea, some seven miles to the east. For three
consecutive days, the route of the battalion lay along a dirt road which wound
through valleys out of the foothills of scrub-covered mountains and east
across monotonous expanses of flat land stretching to the sea in an unbroken
succession of rice paddies, tree lines, and hamlets. The troops had uncovered
little evidence to indicate the presence of a large enemy force, but each day
it seemed they saw fewer villagers, while the intensity of sniper fire
increased.
On the morning of 10 August, the enemy snipers were unusually persistent.
All three rifle companies--Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie--encountered small groups
of snipers every few hundred meters along the route of march. Enemy snipers
in Vietnam are like hornets. If ignored entirely, they can sting. But if
reaction is swift and aggressive, they can be swatted aside. Responding
aggressively, the Marines poured out a large volume of fire each time they
were fired upon. The snipers, however, carefully kept their distance, rarely
firing at ranges closer than 500 yards. (The previous day a few North
Vietnamese had waited until the Marine point squad was within 200 meters
before firing. Those enemy soldiers had been pinned down, enveloped, and
dispatched.)
90
SCHEMATIC SKETCH TO ACCOMPANY "GENERAL, WE KILLED THEM"
90a
Coffman and his company commanders did not like the situation; the troops
were expending ammunition at a rapid rate with no telling effect upon the
enemy. Toward noon, they ordered the squad leaders to supervise very
selective return of fire in order to conserve rounds. Marching under a clear
sky and searing sun, Coffman knew the helicopters could resupply his battalion
but disliked making that request if not solidly engaged.
At approximately 1100, the battalion arrived at the hamlet of Ky Phu.
Coffman called a halt and the men settled down in what shade they could find
and began opening C rations. Shortly thereafter, word was received for 1/5 to
remain in position pending the arrival of the regimental commander, Colonel
Charles A. Widdecke.
After a conference with Colonel Widdecke, Coffman issued the order to
push forward again. At 1400, the battalion resumed the march with the hamlet
of Thon Bay as its objective. All indications were that the battalion would
reach Thon Bay about 1600. Coffman liked to allow himself ample time to set
in before dark. It took a few hours to tie in the lines of a battalion
properly and on previous days he had allowed several hours for the task.
As they had on previous days, the companies guided on the main road which
led to the sea. In front of the Marines lay acres of rice paddies gridded by
thick tree lines and tangles of scrub brush, familiar enough landscapes.
Groves of palm trees and patches of wooden huts dotted the roadside. Storm
clouds were billowing over the mountains to the west behind the Marines.
Charlie and Alpha Companies, forming a dual point, struck off together,
covering respectively the right and left flanks of the road. Both companies
spread out far across the paddies. In trace along the road followed the
battalion command group, consisting of the 81mm mortar platoon, the battalion
headquarters, the 106mm recoilless rifle platoon (without their antitank
guns), the logistics support personnel, and others. Bravo Company brought up
the rear. The battalion was thus spread in a wide "Y" formation, the stem
anchored on the road and the prongs pushed well out in the paddies.
Upon resuming a march, a battalion commander can generally expect a time
lag of several minutes caused by a few false starts as squads, platoons, and
companies jerk and bump along before sorting themselves out and hitting a
smooth, steady pace. This did not happen on the afternoon of 10 August. The
battalion moved swiftly. The platoons at point fanned out on both sides of
the road. Slogging through paddies and twisting through tree lines, they
covered more than a mile in the first 20 minutes. Rain was washing away their
sweat and impeding their
91
vision when they arrived at the outskirts of the tiny hamlet of Cam Khe at
1510. They noticed that the huts they passed were empty. Nor were there any
farmers working in the rice paddies. Giving cursory glances into dugout
shelters and caves, the Marines saw that they were packed with villagers.
Because of this fact, the men were alert and wary when they passed
through and around the hamlet. As the 2d Platoon, Alpha Company, pushed
through the scrub growth on the left flank of the hamlet, the men saw to their
front a group of about 30 enemy soldiers cutting across a paddy from left to
right. The platoon reacted instinctively. The men did not wait to be told
what to do. Throwing their rifles to their shoulders, they immediately cut
down on the enemy. Their initial burst of fire was low, short, and furious.
Caught in the open, moving awkwardly through the water and slime, the enemy
could not escape. Shooting from a distance of less than 150 yards, the 2d
Platoon wiped them out in seconds. Farther back in the column, men thought a
squad was just returning fire on a sniper. Although they did not yet know it,
the battle which the Marines had sought was joined. The Marines had struck the
first blow, and it had hurt.
The North Vietnamese, however, counterpunched hard. From a small
hedgerow behind the fallen enemy, several semiautomatic weapons opened up and
rounds cracked by high over the Marines' heads. The troops were now keyed for
battle. Excited and stirred by their swift, sharp success, the platoon
shifted its direction of advance and splashed into the paddy. The volume of
enemy fire increased and bullets spouted in the water around the Marines. The
platoon's momentum slowed as the Marines started flopping down into the water
to avoid the fire. But no one had yet been hit, and the platoon quickly built
up a base of fire and continued the movement by short individual rushes.
The company commander, Captain Jim Furleigh, came up, bringing with him
the 1st Platoon. That unit in turn rushed into the paddy on the left flank of
the 2d Platoon. The volume of enemy fire was swelling. With 70 bulky,
slow-moving targets to hit at close ranges, the enemy gunners improved their
air as well.
Almost in the same second, a man in each platoon was struck by machine
gun bullets. Other Marines stopped firing to help the wounded men or merely
to look. The rate of outgoing fire dropped appreciably. Encouraged by this,
the North Vietnamese redoubled their rate of fire. No longer forced to duck
low themselves, they aimed more carefully and bullets hit more Marines lying
in the water. The machine gun in the tree line in front of the 2d Platoon
chattered insistently, traversing back and forth in low, sweeping bursts over
the Marines' heads. Two more Marines were hit. The men ducked low and, not
wishing to expose themselves, fired even less in return. The attack had
bogged down.
92
The 2d Platoon had advanced 40 meters across the paddy; the 1st Platoon
not more than 20. In the tree line 100 meters away, they could see the North
Vietnamese moving into better firing positions, most wearing camouflaged
helmets and some clad in flak vests. The Marines could find no cover or
concealment in the paddies and time was running against them. The machine gun
had them pinned; the rain and mud and their heavy gear prohibited a quick,
wild, surging assault. Furleigh, a sharp-eyed, quick-minded West Point
graduate, assessed the situation. As he saw it, there were two alternatives:
to go forward or back. What he would not do was let the company stay where it
was. He thought if he urged the men, they would go forward by bounds again
until they carried the enemy tree line. But casualties from a frontal assault
against the effective machine gun emplacement would be heavy. Even as he
pondered the dilemma, three more of his men were hit. That clinched it for
him. He decided to pull back; at least that way he thought his people would
escape the heavy fire and there would be time for the situation to clear and
battalion to issue specific orders.
What Furleigh did not realize at that particular moment was that heavy
fighting was raging in half a dozen other places, including the battalion
headquarters. While Company A was attacking in the paddy, mortar shells had
fallen along the road, just missing the battalion command group. The
headquarters element, quite distinguishable with its fence of radio antennas,
had hastily sought the concealment of the bushes and houses to the left of the
road. The NCOs yelled at their sections to disperse yet stay close, and the
radio operators tried to copy incoming messages and transmit at the same time.
The officers were busy trying to pinpoint their position and decide on a
course of action, when everyone was taken under small arms fire coming from
all directions. Reports filtered in by runner and radio that Alpha Company to
the northeast was pinned down and withdrawing and that to the west, at the
rear of the battalion, Bravo Company was battling. To the east, on the right
side of the road, Charlie Company reported it too was engaged.
In that situation, the battalion commander could not determine precisely
the size or the nature of the engagement. No one could. (It probably would
have been of some solace to Coffman if he had known then, as he did later,
that the enemy were also caught off balance by the sudden engagement.) The
headquarters group was busy defending itself. It was teeming rain in such
heavy sheets that at times figures only yards away were blotted out. The
visibility ceiling for aircraft had dropped to 50 feet, so no jet or
helicopter support was available.
Coffman stayed calm. His was a seasoned battalion which he had commanded
for 12 months. He knew his company commanders well. Faced with a battle
which denied tight central control, he let his junior officers direct the
fighting while he concentrated on consolidating the battalion perimeter as a
whole and shifting forces as the need arose.
93
The situation was terribly confused. Although the battalion was on the
defensive, the individual units were on the offensive. Platoons from each
company were attacking separate enemy fortified positions. Caught in an
ambush pushing at his left flank, Coffman wanted to draw the battalion in
tight. In attempting to consolidate, the companies had to fight through enemy
groups. To relieve pressure on units particularly hard pressed, Marines not
personally under fire moved to envelop the flanks of the North Vietnamese.
The extraction of wounded comrades from the fields of fire--a tradition more
sacred than life--was accomplished best by destroying the North Vietnamese
positions which covered the casualties. So isolated were the fragments of the
fight that each action is best described as it happened--as a separate event.
Fitted together, these pieces form the total picture of a good, simple plan
which was aggressively executed, with instances of brilliant tactical
maneuvers occurring at crucial moments.
By reason of extremity, Furleigh's Alpha Company played the key role in
the fight during the initial hour. From the very beginning, they were in the
thick of it. Private First Class Larry Baily, a mortarman assigned to company
headquarters, had moved up with his company commander. The way he described
it: "The VC were everywhere. They were in the banana trees; they were behind
the hedgerows, in the trenches, behind the dikes, and in the rice paddies."
Pulling back out of the paddy had not proved easy. Several Marines had been
wounded, and one more killed, bringing to a total of five the number of
American dead in the paddy. Displaying excellent fire discipline, the North
Vietnamese singled out targets and concentrated a score of weapons on one man
at a time. That unified enemy fire altered the exposed positions of some
Marines from dangerous to doomed. Those already rendered immobile by wounds
were most vulnerable to sustained sniping. These casualties (among them
Baily) had to be immediately moved from the beaten zone of the bullets.
It was an arduous movement. No man could stand erect in that storm of
steel and survive. So the wounded were dragged along through the flooded
paddies by their comrades, much like an exhausted swimmer is towed through the
water by a lifeguard. Those not dragging or being dragged returned fire at the
enemy. No one later felt that fire had inflicted more than one or two
casualties on the enemy. But it was delivered in unslacking volume and that
disconcerted the enemy gunners and forced them to snapshoot hurriedly. Had
the platoons not reestablished a steady stream of return fire, it is doubtful
they could have extricated themselves, keeping their squads and fire teams
intact and taking their wounded with them. By repeated exhortations, curses,
and orders, Furleigh provided the guidance necessary to steady the men and
prevent any slackening of fire in the moments of confusion.
94
Once the two platoons had reached the hedgerow, they spread out to form a
horseshoe perimeter with the 1st Platoon to the left of the 2d Platoon. The
open end of the horseshoe faced southwest (toward the battalion command
group), and the closed end faced the enemy to the north. Furleigh tried to
call artillery fire down on the enemy. In the full fury of the
thunder-and-lightning storm, the adjusting rounds could not be seen or heard.
Nor did anyone in Alpha Company have a clear idea where the front lines of the
other companies were. For fear of hitting friendly troops, Furleigh cancelled
the mission after the first adjusting rounds had gone astray.
Conspicuously absent from the battle at this crescendo was the mighty
fire power of supporting weapons, proclaimed by some critics as the saving
factor for Americans in encounters with the enemy. The North Vietnamese had
numerical and fire superiority. Initially, it was they who freely employed
supporting arms, namely mortars and recoilless rifles. What had developed for
Alpha Company--and for the battalion--was a test of its riflemen.
They responded magnificently. Once tied in, the two platoons of Alpha
Company needed no urging to keep fire on the enemy. At first there was an
abundance of targets to shoot at, since the North Vietnamese kept leaping up
and darting about from position to position. The Marines, lying prone and
partially concealed in the undergrowth, put out a withering fire. They could
see enemy soldiers, when hit, jerk, spin, and fall. The men shouted back and
forth, identifying targets and exclaiming at their hits. They were getting
back for their frustration in the paddy.
Losing in a contest of aimed marksman ship, the North Vietnamese pulled a
60mm mortar into plain view and aimed it at the opposite hedgerow. While they
were popping shells down the tube, the Marines who could see the weapon were
screaming: "Give us a couple of LAAWs--LAAWs up!" Several of the short
fiberglass tubes were passed forward, thrown up from man to man. Some, after
their long immersion in the water, failed to function. But others did and a
direct hit was scored on the mortar.
While their attention was concentrated to the front, the 2d Platoon came
under heavy fire from the right. So low and steady were the bursts from the
automatic weapons that the platoon was unable to move against them. When the
bullets came tearing in, they carried with them the sound of the weapon. Had
the fire come from across the paddy, the rounds would have passed before the
weapon could be heard firing. Thus, Furleigh judged there was a dug-in force
within the hedgerow not over 60 meters from his right flank. He called
battalion and asked that Charlie Company be committed to attack along his
right flank. Coffman concurred and ordered Lieutenant Buck Darling to the
assault.
95
Struck to earth any time they stood up, the North Vietnamese opposite
Furleigh had ceased their jack-in-the-box tactics and were staying low. The
machine gun which had stopped the company cold in the first attack swept wide
steel swaths over the Marines' heads. Attempts to knock out the gun had been
unsuccessful and had cost the company lives.
Lance Corporal R. P. Donathan had been the first to try. Donathan was
lying near Furleigh when the machine gun first opened up and killed some
Marines. Known throughout the battalion for his aggressive actions in fire
fights, he was not cowed by the near presence of death. He asked Furleigh if
he could work his way around the right flank "to get the gun." Furleigh told
him to go ahead and he had set off. Several other Marines then just got up
and followed him. He moved rapidly up a trail on the right of the hedgerow,
his swift foray catching some enemy soldiers by surprise. These his small
band cut down but the sound of the firing alerted the machine gun crew. The
gun swung towards them. Caught in the open, the raiding party was at the
mercy of the enemy. Behind Donathan, a Marine went down. The men on the
lines heard Donathan shout, "Corpsman!"
Hospitalman 3d Class T. C. Long hurried forward. He found the wounded
man lying on the trail in front of the hedgerow. While he was bandaging the
man, he heard from up the trail, Donathan shout again, "Corpsman!" Long left
the first casualty, having assured him he would return, and ran on. Several
yards farther, he came across another Marine, hit in the leg. The casualty
told him Donathan had gone on alone. Long went forward to look for him.
Both men displayed singular fortitude and determination. To go forward
alone against the enemy who has struck down all others--that takes rare
courage. A deliberate, conscious act of the will was made by each man when he
went on alone, knowing he did not have to do so. Donathan went forward,
driven by his determination to eliminate the machine gun nest. Long went
forward, sensing Donathan might need him.
He worked his way carefully, bent over to present a smaller target.
Occasional clusters of bullets whizzed past him. He saw a pack lying near
some bushes and identified it as Donathan's. He dropped his own pack beside
it and continued on, armed with a pistol and clutching his medical kit. A few
yards farther on, he saw an M14 rifle and a bandolier of ammunition lying on
the trail. He knew Donathan could not be far away. He looked into the bushes
growing on the side of a bank next to the trail.
There was Donathan, wounded but still conscious. Long slipped down to
him and began dressing the wound. He had almost finished the task when he was
hit. He cried out and pitched over Donathan. Donathan sat up and reached for
him.
96
SCHEMATIC SKETCH TO ACCOMPANY "ENCOUNTER FOR ALPHA COMPANY"
96a
"Where you hit, T. C.?", he asked.
"Back of the knee," Long replied, "the right one. Went right
through--maybe shattered."
Despite his own wounds, Donathan managed to inject Long with morphine.
He was trying to bandage the knee when two bullets tore into his back. He
fell on top of Long, conscious but unable to move. Pinned by Donathan's
weight and weak from the morphine and his wound, Long could not wiggle free.
Lying in each other's arms, they talked back and forth and tried to comfort
one another. It was mostly just idle talk, like many previous chatters they
had in rear areas. After a while Donathan's voice just trailed off. Death
claimed him quietly.
Long lay in the mud under the body with the rain pelting his face.
Despite the morphine, he felt a terrible stinging in the back of his right
knee. Time passed. But no one came.
It was not that they didn't try to find him. Although the trail was
raked by fire, Marines crawled out by ones and twos from the hedgerow to pull
back the others who had accompanied Donathan. There were five bodies sprawled
in plain view of the enemy. Four were retrieved by Marines who crept through
the bushes to the edge of the trail, then reached out and pulled the wounded
men back into the concealment of the hedgerow. The fifth casualty, Sergeant
Baker, lay in the corner of a rice paddy. Each time a Marine left the
undergrowth to edge toward him, a fusillade of shots would force him back.
Finally, Private First Class Robert English, a man light on his feet and agile
in his movements, sprinted from the hedgerow, grabbed Baker, and ploughed back
into the brush before the North Vietnamese found the range.
Furleigh then had his platoons intact and accounted for--excepting Long
and Donathan. Private First Class Bielecki, the company radioman who had
formerly been with the 3d Platoon, went off to look for them--a lone man in
search of two lost friends. He found their packs, and the rifle and
ammunition. He must have stood within 20 feet of them when he retrieved the
rifle--but he did not see or hear them. He looked down into the bottom of the
ditch--he might have looked right over them--but they were shielded from his
view. In scrambling back to the lines, Bielecki became fatigued lugging the
packs and rifle, plus his own rifle. His movements were awkward.
Nevertheless, he struggled on until it suddenly occurred to him that salvaging
nonessential gear under heavy fire really was not necessary or wise. He threw
away the packs. Carrying two rifles, he entered the lines and reported to his
company commander.
From Bielecki's report, Furleigh guessed that both Donathan and Long had
been killed and their bodies dragged, away by the North Vietnamese. The
machine gun was still firing whenever a
97
Marine exposed himself. But the rain and wind bad slackened and two armed
Hueys whirled over the battlefield. So entangled were the battle lines that
neither Furleigh nor the other company commanders were able to direct the
pilots on targets. The North Vietnamese inadvertently solved the problem by
firing at the helicopters, the troublesome machine gun 150 yards to Furleigh's
front being one of the first enemy weapons to do so. The Hueys responded
viciously, diving to pump hundreds of rounds into the tree line, turning low
and tightly, and then raking the area from the opposite direction. Incoming
fire on Alpha Company dropped abruptly as the enemy ducked into holes.
Furleigh took full advantage of the respite to move his wounded to the
battalion aid station located to his rear.
With Charlie Company driving on the right and Alpha Company holding
steady to the front, the North Vietnamese began pulling their forces westward
(to the left) in an attempt to outflank Furleigh and drive toward the
battalion command group. The men of Alpha's 1st Platoon were becoming worried
about their left flank, having seen several enemy scurrying in that direction
behind the paddy dikes. Furleigh radioed to the 3d Platoon, which had been in
the rear near the battalion command group skirmishing with snipers. He told
the acting platoon commander, Staff Sergeant Albert J. Ellis, to bring the
platoon up and refuse the left flank of the 1st Platoon.
The 37 men of the platoon moved forward to the north edge of the
hedgerow. They were immediately engaged by the enemy, who were running left
along a scrub-covered paddy dike 100 meters to their front. The volume of
fire was intense, preventing the Marines from slipping farther right to tie in
with Furleigh's group. Guided by the experience of combat, the platoon
members fanned out and flopped down to form a semi-circular perimeter. They
were not in visible contact with the 1st Platoon but could hear the sounds of
American weapons about 60 meters to their right. To their front and left were
the enemy. The 3d Platoon's fight was the Marine rifleman's dream: an
engagement in which the enemy clearly showed themselves and tried to sweep the
field by superior marksmanship. The 3d Platoon had waited long for the enemy
to make the mistake of choosing to stand and fight. (See "No Cigar.")
With dozens of visible targets, the platoon at first ignored the basics
of fire discipline and everybody just blazed away. The impact of the heavy
7.62mm bullets knocked some of the enemy completely off the dike and sent them
spinning and thrashing into the paddy. The noise was deafening. The platoon
commander, Sergeant Ellis, was furious. His men simply didn't have enough
cartridges to expend them at a fast rate, and he doubted they would receive a
resupply while the wind, rain, and lightning continued. Ellis almost went
hoarse shouting, "Knock it off! Knock it off! We don't have enough ammo. You
squad leaders get on your people!" Slowly the volume of outgoing fire dropped.
98
The platoon settled into a routine set more by reflex action than design.
Made acutely aware by Ellis that they might fight indefinitely, the men, only
minutes before profligate, became absolutely miserly in their use of bullets.
They would fire only when a distinct target appeared, and then generally but
one round per man.
The enemy, pushed to the earth, started building up their own base of
fire. Soon automatic weapons were rattling all along the dike, and Marines
felt the sharp blast of 60mm mortar shells slamming into their perimeter. The
North Vietnamese had better cover and firing positions than the Marines. They
could steady their weapons on the mud dike and expose only their heads and
shoulders while firing. They had ample ammunition and outnumbered the Marines
perhaps five to one. One out of every four Marines was hit in the fight (but
only two were killed). The enemy used aimed fire, attested by the fact that
every member of the platoon later recounted seeing the splashes of rounds
hitting near him.
Near misses to Marines were common, and one was even comical. Lance
Corporal Robert Matthews, a fire team leader in the 1st Squad, was firing from
the prone position when a bullet hit his pack and knocked him sideways. He
lay quite still, feeling a hot, sticky substance spread over his back. He
yelled, "I've been hit!" Another rifleman crawled to him and gently slid off
the damaged pack. Then the rifleman laughed and said: "That's not blood."
Matthews' 'wound' had been caused by the bursting of a can of shaving cream.
Corporal Rodney Kohlbuss took several casualties in quick succession in
his 2d Squad. He ordered his men to pick up the wounded and move to more
protected positions. The men found the shift difficult, but so strong are the
habits of training that they tried to take all their equipment with them.
Kohlbuss yelled to them to drop the excess gear and move. This they did,
while the other two squads provided covering fires.
In addition to those killed or wounded in action, Ellis had one man,
Private First Class George Fudge, missing from the platoon during the first
hour. When the fight first began, Fudge was walking well ahead of his platoon
to keep contact with the 1st Platoon to their front. In the initial burst of
firing, he thought he heard a strange sounding machine gun to his right front.
The 1st Platoon seemed not to hear it, for they veered toward the swelling
sounds of the fight to the left. Still thinking the point was just brushing
off snipers, Fudge was reluctant to alert the 3d Platoon by voicing his
suspicions. He decided instead to investigate alone the noise he had heard.
Avoiding the main trail, he cut between two huts, and proceeded to pick his
way carefully through a thin screen of underbrush. When he was abreast of the
back yard of another house, he stopped to look and listen. He flicked an
indifferent glance
99
at the yard, studded with stumpy banana trees, and was about to proceed when
he looked again in disbelief. The trees were walking. Fudge was not
inexperienced. A trained sniper, he had spotted and shot several
well-camouflaged Viet Cong in previous battles. But never had he seen such
perfect concealment. Had the North Vietnamese not moved, he would have walked
right past them and probably been shot in the back.
With their backs toward him, the North Vietnamese were clustered around a
machine gun set up on a paddy dike. Fudge did not hesitate. It never
occurred to him to go back and get help. Standing 50 meters from the North
Vietnamese, he raised his rifle to his shoulder, sighted in carefully, and
fired twice. Two of the enemy fell--the others, obviously stunned, turned and
just gaped at Fudge. He fired two more times and two more enemy soldiers went
down. Before he could fire again, the fifth enemy soldier reacted like a
stuntman in a war movie. Pushing off from his heels, he flipped backwards
over the dike in a somersault and came up blazing away with a submachine gun.
That alerted other North Vietnamese that there was an enemy in the midst of
their positions.
Bullets whipped by Fudge from all directions. He fell flat and lay
perfectly still for a moment. He was startled by the savage, if belated,
onslaught and angered that he had missed a perfect score. The unmanned
machine gun attracted his attention next. He threw a grenade and it landed
squarely on target. Satisfied with himself on that account, he crawled back
toward his platoon, belatedly aware that the company had engaged more than a
few snipers.
En route, he bumped into a party of men from the 1st Platoon moving the
wounded to the rear. He joined them to help carry the poncho litters. He
made several round trips, adding to his tally when an enemy soldier stepped
out from behind a bush 150 meters away. Fudge dropped him with one round.
When Fudge finally rejoined the 3d Platoon, Ellis was so glad to see the
deadly sharpshooter that he didn't even chew him out for being gone so long.
He just sent Fudge into the fray and told him to get busy. Fudge did not
disappoint his platoon commander. Before dark, his rifle brought down five
more enemy.
The platoon was armed with LAAWs, grenade launchers, machine guns, and
rifles. The men who had LAAWs and M79s engaged the fortified positions from
which the enemy were laying down a web of cross fires. Lance Corporal Robert
Goodner proved most effective with the LAAWs. With one shot he blasted an
automatic weapons emplacement 150 meters away. The back-blast from the
recoilless weapon whipped up a gust of spray which marked his position, and,
under a hail of bullets, he half-crawled, half-swam away.
100
Others had noted his success and he was asked to try for another gun
which had a group of Marines pinned. Goodner wormed his way to a vantage
point, waited until the gun fired, and sighted in. The range this time was
250 meters. The rocket hit the target squarely and pieces of the gun flew
into the air.
To conserve ammunition, the machine gunners kept their bursts extremely
short, but even so, with targets plentiful, the gun barrels were soon
steaming. Having hastily set up, the gunners found that their fields of fire
were extremely limited. Attempts to shift positions for delivery of enfilade
fire were thwarted by the special attention given them by enemy gunners. The
weapons squad leader, Lance Corporal Ronald Moreland, was one Marine who did
not curse the rain; it kept his guns from overheating and malfunctioning.
The performance of the riflemen was a study in marksmanship. The leaders
of the platoon had been known to walk the line in a fire fight urging the men
to "hold them and squeeze them, hold steady and shoot low." The men had gotten
over their initial desire to fire frantically and were putting out rounds one
at a time, firing sparsely and carefully. Ammunition had been replenished
slightly by taking the bandoliers of the casualties and redistributing them to
those still firing. The Marines had a clear view of the dike. At 100 yards,
the North Vietnamese were in serious trouble dueling with riflemen trained to
hit a 20-inch bullseye at 500 yards.
Failing to break the Marine perimeter by frontal fire, the enemy again
tried to shift their forces westward and turn the Marines' left flank.
Corporal Carl Sorensen held that flank with his 3d Squad. His men shouted to
him that they could see large groups of the North Vietnamese crawling and
darting to their left. He passed the word to his platoon commander--Ellis
told Furleigh, who in turn notified battalion. Lieutenant Colonel Coffman
called Bravo Company, already fighting their way forward, and told them to get
a unit up on the double to tie in the left flank of the 3d Platoon, Alpha
Company.
Kohlbuss' squad exacted a terrible toll when the enemy lifted their base
of fire and tried to slip past. In moving, the enemy soldiers exposed part of
their bodies over the top of the dike. Every time an enemy raised up, the
entire squad would fire together. They developed a rhythm to their volleys.
It was like knocking down ducks in a shooting gallery. A figure would pop up
behind the dike, a dozen rifles would crack, and the figure would pitch
sideways and disappear from sight.
But while the battle to the front was going well for the 3d Platoon, the
pressure on their left flank was increasing. More and more enemy were coming
from the northeast, trying to cut wide around the platoon. The men of the 3d
Squad estimated between 75 and 100 enemy soldiers were seeking to skirt around
101
them. The platoon did not have enough ammunition to beat off a determined
attack by a group that size. Ellis sent Sorenson to the left rear with
instructions to find Bravo Company and guide forward a relief force.
II
THE BULLS OF BRAVO
Bravo was moving up, not without difficulty. When the fight had first
begun, the company was spread out far to the rear of the battalion command
group. The march order went: 1st Platoon, 2d Platoon, and 3d Platoon, with
the 1st Platoon dispersed through both the paddies and the tree lines on the
left flank.
The 1st Platoon ran into trouble shortly after Alpha Company became
engaged. To their left flank, they saw about 40 of the enemy with bushes tied
to their backs trotting north across a wide field seeking the concealment of a
tree line. The platoon fanned out and gave chase. The 2d Squad surged ahead
and swept through the same field the North Vietnamese had deserted. The 1st
and 3d Squads were slightly to the rear and keeping to the edge of the
hedgerows.
Twenty feet from the tree line, the 2d Squad was lashed by a blaze of
automatic weapons fire. Trapped in the open, the squad was hard hit and men
began yelling for help. Three of the nine men had been badly wounded and one
killed. The Marines who could still fire did so and the sound of their
weapons brought help.
The 2d Squad was lying flat in the grass and the other two squads,
staying to the hedgerows to the rear, could not see them. By this time they
too were under fire and being kept busy. But Sergeant Darwin R. Pilson, the
right guide of the platoon, worked his way forward to the sound of the M14s.
The 2d Squad had been expending rounds feverishly, trying to smother with fire
an enemy machine gun and then move out of the open into the cover of the tree
line. The North Vietnamese, however, had returned round for round from a deep
trench and the squad had made no progress. When the Marines' fire became
particularly intense, the machine gun would stop firing, only to begin a short
time later from a different section of the trench. The men shot several enemy
who incautiously poked their heads through the underbrush but they could not
knock out the gun, which was delivering fire not a foot over their heads.
When Pilson reached them, Private First Class Eugene Calogne had just killed a
sniper with his last bullet.
Pilson dumped his ammunition on the ground beside them, told the squad
leader, Corporal Nuncio, he would bring help, and crawled away. He reached
the company headquarters and
102
reported to the company commander, Captain Sullivan, that the squad was pinned
down and had taken several casualties. He grabbed a grenade launcher and was
about to set off again when Sullivan told him, "Slow up, I'll get you some
help."
Sullivan now had three distinct problems to solve. In addition to the 2d
Squad's predicament, he had just received word from the battalion commander to
send men forward to block the left flank of Alpha Company which was in danger
of being enveloped. And the company command group itself was being subjected
to intense fire from a village 500 yards to their left rear.
The 1st Platoon was fighting on the flank and the 3d Platoon was guarding
the rear, under fire but not pressed. That left the 2d Platoon to commit.
Sullivan split the platoons sending the 2d and 3d Squads up the road to find
and help Alpha Company, while Sergeant Ronald Lee Vogel took the 1st Squad and
set out to relieve Nuncio's squad.
Pilson had gone ahead, laden with ammunition and sporting for a fight.
Marines engaged in a dozen places saw him go by, moving steadily into the
thick of it, stopping only to fire or reload or throw a grenade. Perhaps the
gods of war favored the dauntless that day, since he never got scratched
though men fell on both sides of him. He reached the 2d Squad, distributed
more ammunition, and joined the fray.
Vogel's squad slugged its way forward. The rain was falling in sheets
and the North Vietnamese held many of the intermingled hedgerows. It was
impossible to identify a man at 70 yards. Vogel lost a man before they had
gone a hundred yards when a figure in utilities and a Marine helmet loomed up
out of the dusk across a paddy. The squad paid him no attention until he
fired and killed a Marine and ducked to the undergrowth. The slain man's
friend, Lance Corporal Robert Monroe, jerked a grenade from his cartridge belt
shouting, "I'm going to kill that ___________." Vogel told him to keep low
and stay in the hedgerow but Monroe, beside himself with fury, started to move
into the open anyway. Vogel reared up and hit him, the force of the blow
knocking Monroe flat. Other Marines held him fast until he calmed down and
agreed to follow orders.
Vogel's men reached the field without taking any further casualties.
They split up and crawled through the grass to search for the dead and wounded
of the 2d Squad. None presumed to assault the trench line only a few feet
away. Their orders were to recover the casualties and it was this task they
set about.
But in a fascinating testimony to the thoroughness of the training they
had received, the unwounded Marines of the 2d
103
Squad had continued the attack. Nuncio and some others had crept forward
trying to penetrate the enemy lines. The grass and their closeness to the
earth impeded their vision so the squad members could not see one another, yet
they all moved in one direction--forward.
Vogel had to split his own squad to find them. Some men dragged the
casualties back, while others inched forward listening for M14s. Monroe found
Private First Class Gregory Pope lying under a bush a few yards from the tree
line. Pope was in the rifleman's classic prone position, legs spread, elbows
up and in, cheek resting along the stock of his rifle. So intent was his
concentration that he ignored Monroe's presence at first. From the constant
crackings overhead it was obvious to Monroe that the enemy was equally intent
on disposing of Pope, and had a lot more firepower. Monroe, fully recovered
from his irrational rage, now in turn became exasperated with Pope.
"Hey," he yelled, "what are you doing? You're all alone out here."
Startled, Pope replied, "Is that right? Then let's get the hell out of
here."
Monroe wasn't exactly right, although he had no way of knowing otherwise.
Three Marines had almost succeeded in storming the trench. They had reckoned
that if they were able to sneak close enough, they could rush the crew of the
machine gun before the enemy moved to another position. So thinking, Privates
First Class Calogne, Pico, and Millian edged toward the sound of the gun, and
right into its field of fire before they realized they were trapped. Pico and
Millian were hit moving between two trees not over 20 feet from the trench.
The trees were about 13 feet apart and were used as aiming points by the gun
crew. Calogne helped the two men crawl to shelter behind the tree on the
right and there the three lay, listening to the bullets fly by and pitching
grenade after grenade into the trench with no noticeable effect. They had run
out of grenades and were firing carefully spaced single shots when some men
from Vogel's squad heard them and came up. These Marines stayed to the left
of the machine gun's fire lane and protected the flank. Hospitalman 3d Class
Harold Lewis reached Pico and Millian, and he and Calogne pulled them back.
This completed the extraction of the 2d Squad, a unit of resolute men.
The wounded were brought back to Bravo Company's command center, a
position at that moment almost as perilous as the ones where they had been
hit. It was an easy target to mark, since Marines were constantly bringing in
wounded and ducking out with ammunition and instructions. The command group
was
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SCHEMATIC SKETCH TO ACCOMPANY "THE BULLS OF BRAVO"
104a
always in motion, with Gunnery Sergeant Thomas Beandette, Corporal Smith, and
Hospitalman 2d Class Robert Feerick sallying forth several times to bear in
the wounded. Privates First Class Patrick Scullin and James Henderson
wandered in, carrying a wounded Marine and a prisoner whom they had captured
by knocking him unconscious. They had become separated from the machine gun
section with the 2d Platoon and together had fought up and down the left flank
before making contact with some other Marines.
From a village 400 meters to the northwest, the North Vietnamese brought
heavy weapons to bear on the command center. They tried to hit the Marines
clustered there with a 3.5-inch rocket launcher, and missed. They tried with
57mm recoilless rifles, and missed. They tried with .50 caliber machine guns
and the rounds went high.
They tried with a 60mm mortar, and succeeded. They almost blew up the
wounded of the 2d Squad at their moment of deliverence. The casualties were
being carried across the paddy in front of the hedgerow when a mortar round
plunged down behind them. The litter bearers hastened their steps and gained
the concealment of the bushes just as a second shell burst behind them. Lance
Corporal Van Futch, a company radio operator sitting in the hedgerow, had been
watching the mortars chase the wounded across the paddy, and thought: "Uh-oh,
here it comes now. The next one will be right in here." He was correct. The
next shell dropped in the middle of the hedgerow and struck down two more
Marines. Flak jackets were hastily thrown over the wounded as the men
prepared to receive more incoming.
None came. A rifleman had located the enemy mortar pit, and Sergeant
Peter Rowell quickly fired his own 60mm mortar. The countermortar fire
silenced the enemy weapon.
During that exchange, Sullivan took shrapnel in the leg. It slowed him
down but did not impede his effectiveness. He was more worried about
communications. The North Vietnamese had come up on the battalion's radio
frequency and were jamming radio contact between the companies. Over the air
the enemy played music, jabbered at a fast rate, and whistled shrilly.
It worked, only the Marine communicators didn't let the enemy know it.
It had happened to the battalion on a previous operation and the battalion
communication officer, Captain Milt Harmon, had profited from that experience.
His communicators were instructed to ignore the interference and continue
transmitting as if nothing were wrong. After a while, the enemy gave up the
jamming. But Sullivan was uneasy over the prospect that they could resume the
tactic at any time.
105
And after pulling back the casualties and straightening out his left
flank, he needed to contact his 3d Platoon. The 2d Platoon was fighting with
Alpha Company and the men around him, from the 1st Platoon, were near
exhaustion from their efforts. He had to have fresh troops to carry the
wounded to the battalion evacuation point and he could use more firepower if
the enemy persisted in probing a route for an envelopment.
He managed to contact the 3d Platoon commander, First Lieutenant Woody
Gilliland, and that staunch individual lost no time in bulling his way
forward. His platoon arrived fresh and intact. The company commander and his
gunnery sergeant made no effort to hide their feelings at the sight of the ex-
football player jogging towards them along the hedgerow.
"Brother, I could kiss you!" exclaimed the gunny, momentarily forgetting
rank and sex.
Sullivan turned responsibility for the casualties over to Gilliland,
whose platoon carried them to a rice paddy marked as a landing zone.
Suitably, a landing zone must be secure--free from hostile fire--before the
helicopters can land. But large, lumbering craft though the H-34 troop
helicopter is, it can be surprisingly difficult to destroy, as events were to
show.
It was still raining but the ceiling had risen enough for the medical
evacuation helicopters to come in, provided they were not shot out of the air.
The troops on the ground tried to clear an area; it just couldn't be
done. The battalion command group were still using rifles and the 106mm
recoilless rifle platoon was shooting snipers out of trees. The three rifle
companies were fighting tooth and nail. There was no respite. The Hueys were
striking all around the perimeter. The Marines marked their lines or targets
by popping smoke grenades, only to have the enemy follow suit. A Marine would
pitch a yellow smoke grenade and no sooner would it billow than a half dozen
clouds of yellow would filter from surrounding hedgerows. Sullivan resorted
to the SOP<*> established for such emergencies. The troops would heave a
combination of different colored grenades and the pilots would identify over
the radio the color schemes. Notified when they had seen the right
combination, the Hueys could bear in. Their presence suppressed enemy fire
but the minute they flew off, the North Vietnamese emerged from their holes
and resumed the battle. As Gilliland gathered the casualties, he knew their
only chance of being flown out depended on the skill and courage of the H-34
pilots. If they came in, they would do so virtually unprotected.
--------
<*>SOP - Standing Operating Procedure
106
Of the four H-34s which conducted the medical mission, two were shot
down, neither over the battlefield itself, and a crew chief was killed. The
first craft in, piloted by Captain Lee, had been wrecked by fire. Crippled
after running a gauntlet of crossfires, it fluttered back to base headquarters
two miles south at Tam Ky, where it sputtered out altogether. The second
craft was luckier. First Lieutenant Ellis Laitala dropped his bird down to
200 feet and still could not see the nose of the helicopter. He tried twice
more to find a break in the cloud cover and finally succeeded, only to run
into fire. The enemy had had ample time to prepare for his arrival after he
had clattered over the landing zone a few times and when he did cut through
the rainy mist, they had a .30 caliber machine gun talking. Laitala's
copilot, First Lieutenant Richard Moser, saw a burst of tracers zip by his
right window chest-high. Turning to tell Laitala the enemy was zeroed in, he
saw another burst streak by the left window.
"It's a good thing that guy didn't hold one long burst," he said.
Laitala made 10 trips to bring in ammunition and first-aid dressings and
to evacuate casualties. On each approach and takeoff he received fire. He
put his helicopter through a series of desperate gyrations each time to shake
off the streams of tracers, pitting flying skill against marksmanship.
The third pilot to land shared Lee's fate. Major Raymond Duvall's craft
was hit repeatedly. During the two hours he was flying in the area, he flew
through more concentrated fire than he had seen in his 11 previous months in
Vietnam. Despite the intensity of that fire, Duvall refused to allow his
gunners to open up. In this area, and at dusk, it was difficult to
distinguish the Marine positions from those of the enemy. A wild machine gun
burst, if the helicopter suddenly rocked, could kill Marines just as quickly
as North Vietnamese. What finally forced him down was a hit in the rotor
blade. The torn hole caused a terrible shrieking noise with every revolution
of the blade and the troops on the ground were sure he would crash. But, like
Lee, Duvall managed to wobble back to Tam Ky.
Among the helicopters, though, the one most memorable to Gilliland and
the troops of Bravo Company was YL54. "I'll never forget that one," Gilliland
said. "I don't know how he did it. He should have been nailed a dozen
times."
Captain Robert J. Sheehan was flying YL54 in an exceptional manner.
Ordinarily, a helicopter is travelling through the air at a speed of 80 to 90
knots when it approaches a landing zone. Sheehan hit the landing zone doing
115 knots--to layman this difference may not seem like much but Sheehan's
copilot, First Lieutenant Marshall Morris, explained:
107
"They had our altitude pegged. I'd say if we were going 5 knots slower,
they'd have had us. Captain Sheehan really revved it up and just plain outran
the tracers. It was a speed I know I couldn't do."
In a conversation later, however, Sheehan himself was quick to point out
that landing an H-34 helicopter could not be a one-man show.
"It's a team effort," he said, "like a rifle squad. The crew chief
checks out the side door to make sure the tail is clear of obstructions when
we come in. The gunner has to suppress hostile fire. The copilot backs up
the pilot at all times. The copilot doesn't grab the controls but he palms
them, like with kid gloves. If the pilot is hit on landing and the copilot is
daydreaming the bird would probably crash."
On his first trip in, Sheehan picked up eight wounded and headed out
south at treetop level. He flew straight into a wall of bullets, one of which
hit the carburetor. Sheehan quickly pulled right and the tracers fell behind.
The hostile fire was like that on each of the nine trips he made and the
helicopter was struck on three separate occasions. On the second trip, his
gunner, Sergeant J. B. Jensen, was hit but the round ricocheted off his thick
pilot's flak jacket. Sheehan allowed his gunners to fire and he could
actually see their rounds finding targets. Jensen spun two enemy soldiers
completely around with one long burst of his M60 machine gun while the crew
chief, Lance Corporal Baker, dropped another who was crouched in a trench.
Altogether, Sheehan flew in 2,400 pounds of ammunition and 400 pounds of
battle dressings and took out 20 casualties. The last evacuation proved the
most difficult. Coming in, Sheehan attracted fire from all directions. Some
enemy were hidden not more than 50 yards from the helicopter, whose occupants
could see the hostile positions much more clearly than could the Marines on
the ground. But all the linked cartridges for the machine guns had been used
up. Their plight seemed so bad Baker swung himself out the helicopter door
onto the steel lift step and returned fire with a .38 pistol. A Navy corpsman
named King, along to attend the casualties, saw this and said, " __________
it, I'd better get out there too."
With that, he leaned out and began to fire his .45.
Sheehan put down and the infantrymen brought up a casualty. They shouted,
"Two more are comings" Sheehan jerked his thumb up in the air to signal he
understood and would wait. And wait he did, for a full five minutes while the
North Vietnamese tried frantically to destroy YL54. Tracers were whining by
at all angles, like a swarm of angry bees. From the village outside
Sullivan's perimeter came the fire helicopter pilots hate
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most, that of .50 caliber machine guns speaking in tandem. The tracers rushed
by in streams. Sheehan watched a paddy dike to his left front shred away.
The foliage on a nearby hedgerow fell away like leaves in an October wind.
Across a paddy, a group of Marines struggled forward, half-dragging,
half-lugging two wounded wrapped in ponchos. Sheehan remembered thinking it
would be a good idea to carry a number of stretchers in his helicopter when he
went to the assistance of Marines in the future, if there were a future for
YL54. He was not going to leave without those two Marines but he thought the
furious fires would reach him before they did. Gilliland shared that belief
and stared at the stubborn helicopter in amazement. It sat, and was pounded
by bullets in the belly, and sat some more, until the two wounded had reached
it. Then Sheehan whirled away and Gilliland vowed to remember that helicopter.
Once airborne and heading south, Sheehan called over the intercom to
check on his men.
"Hey, he said, "how are you guys doing back there?"
"Hell, Captain," came the cheeky reply, "we're having a ball."
The weather and the situation were clearing all around the perimeter.
The Hueys were fluttering back and forth and had pinpointed the sections of
the village to the left front of Bravo Company from which the heaviest
concentration of hostile fire was pouring, including the .50 caliber machine
guns which had unsuccessfully searched for Sheehan. One helicopter pilot,
acting as the Tactical Air Controller Airborne (TACA), had the responsibility
for selecting and designating targets for fixed-wing aircraft. He called down
the jets, A4D attack planes specially designed for close air support. The
Huey pilot could see the tracers of a .50 caliber machine gun winking from the
side of a hill above the village. Captain D. T. Healy dropped down on the
target, his jet ducking up and out over the village before the hill
reverberated from the shock of a 2,000-pound bomb. As he levelled off, the
Huey pilot informed him he had received a heavy volume of fire from the
village as he went in and when he pulled out of his run. Healy had been
unaware of this.
Circling above the battlefield, Healy's wingman, First Lieutenant J. F.
Schneider, Jr., could see the village clearly. The TACA told him to come in.
Schneider had begun his dive when the TACA radioed to him to pull out, he
wanted more time to spot the exact source of the fire. He did this by flying
over the village and drawing fire, a tactic not recommended for the faint of
heart. Satisfied he had designated the target area properly, he told
Schneider to come in again.
109
Schneider entered his dive doing 300 knots. He concentrated on his
target--the northeast end of the village--released the 2,000 pounder and
pulled out doing 450 knots.
To the men of Bravo Company who watched his dive, it had been a marvelous
spectacle. In the growing dusk and gloom they had seen the jet slide down a
thick red stream of tracers, then pull out, leaving behind a shattering splash
of light and dirt. The infantrymen actually cheered.
In his gathering speed and steep approach angle, Schneider had been
completely unaware his jet was the object of such concentrated fire. His
plane had not been touched.
The recoilless rifles and .50 caliber machine guns did not speak again
from the village. Following the strike, Bravo Company received only desultory
sniper fire and Sullivan consolidated his lines with remarkable ease. Coffman
then directed him to bring his company up the road. Help was needed in
bringing out the casualties from Charlie Company, which had fought the hardest
battle of all.
III
THE ASSAULT OF CHARLIE COMPANY
It was the premonition of a combat rifleman which kept Charlie Company
from walking into a bad situation even before the fight had started. Charlie
Company had swept east through the village on the right side of the road and
arrived at a large open rice paddy bordered by thick hedgerows. There the
road split, one trail angling northeast off to the left, flush against a tree
line, the other running due east across a paddy, 75 meters removed from the
undergrowth.
Corporal Frank Parks was leading the point squad. He was worried by the
absence of the villagers and the lack of cows in the fields. He believed the
company was going to be hit. While he was hesitating, a fusillade broke out
to his left rear, where Alpha Company was. He thought someone had flushed a
few snipers. But faced by two trails, he chose to bring the lead element of
the company out across the paddy away from the hedgerow to the left. He
reasoned that, if they were hit from that flank, they could take cover behind
the road-dike and build up a superior volume of fire. He did not want to be
hit from positions two feet away.
Parks gestured to his point man, Private First Class Tyrone Cutrer, and
Cutrer parted the bushes and walked into the open. Other Marines followed and
the company bore to the right, leaving the hedgerow on the left flank for
Alpha Company to prod. Cutrer's platoon, the 3d, was well into the paddy when
they began taking fire from the hedgerow. The
110
rounds were passing high and didn't bother the men. The Marines estimated not
more than five or six enemy were shooting at them.
Their reaction was immediate; they wheeled left and rushed the tree line.
They screamed and shouted as they slogged across the paddy, a tradition which
had become a habit in the company over many months and many fire fights. They
could hear answering shouts and cries to the rear where the 81mm mortar
platoon was marching. Between the rifle company and the heavy mortar platoon
a bond of friendship had been struck and, hearing Charlie Company go into
action, the mortarmen were lending them all the verbal support they could.
The air was filled with rifle shots, wild shrieks, and loud cries of "Go
get 'em, Charlie!" "Whomp up on those _________!", "Do some dinging,
Charlie!" "Kill them dead!"
Park's point squad had a jump on the rest of the company and had almost
closed on the hedgerow when a man was hit and went down. The others slowed
their momentum, hesitated, then flopped down no more than 15 meters from the
bushes.
This slack period while they tended to the casualty gave the North
Vietnamese time to recover and build up an effective base of fire. Before the
Marines could resume their push, heavy automatic weapons fire was pouring
above their heads. Still, they were very close, so close that Cutrer yelled
"Let's go up on the bushline!" and bounded forward the few remaining yards.
He was thrown right back out by the blast of a grenade and for a few seconds
stood erect in front of the bushes, deaf and dazed. Recovering his senses, he
picked up the rifle which had been blasted from his hands and rushed forward
again. This time he was joined by two more Marines and all three ran full
into another grenade. Cutrer's luck held and he was the only one not injured.
He dragged his two companions down into the shelter of a drainage ditch
outside the hedgerow and put battle dressings on their wounds. Finishing that
task, he picked up a grenade launcher and pumped several shells into the
bushes in quick succession. Strung out along the ditch, the squad lay flat
and covered the hedgerow with area fire. Their attack had been stopped cold.
First Lieutenant Buck Darling, commanding Charlie Company, later
expressed dissatisfaction (as had Furleigh of Alpha Company) with the tendency
of the troops at precisely the worst moment to turn aside from attacking the
enemy to care for the wounded.
"Once a person gets hit," he said, "and your fire and maneuver stops in a
paddy, your momentum is dead. It gives the enemy a chance to sight in. When
the next man gets up, he'll
111
get dinged<*>--then nobody wants to get up. So you might as well have them
crawl back across the paddies. If you could get them up on a line and charge,
you might carry the position--with casualties, of course. But you'll probably
not get the men to do that all at once together."
"If I'd made it in that first half-hour," he added ruefully, "I'd have
squeezed them up."
At about this time, Darling received a call from Lieutenant Colonel
Coffman. Coffman explained that Alpha Company was being hit from a trenchline
to their right flank and he wanted Darling to attack it and relieve part of
the pressure on Alpha. Darling thought that Coffman must have read his mind,
since that trenchline was the enemy position which had just repulsed the 3d
Platoon and Darling at that precise moment was preparing to assault it in
force.
Darling was a seasoned commander and a master of small-unit tactics. He
had been with the battalion for 30 months, longer than any other man, and had
extended his tour in Vietnam to keep his company. Unruffled by fire and at
his best when actively engaged, Darling took his time to gauge the measure of
the enemy which confronted him. His 3d Platoon was engaged on the left flank,
his 2d had encountered no enemy on the right, and his 1st Platoon was holding
fast to the rear in reserve. Before further committing his forces, Darling
turned control of the company over to his executive officer, First Lieutenant
Ron Benigo, and went forward to assess the situation. In this action he was
motivated not by bravado but by his knowledge of close-in combat.
"A small-unit leader," he said, "in thick brush can do nothing talking
over the radio. He has to go see, which means you have to leave somebody back
to coordinate things while you go up to decide on a tactical maneuver."
What Darling saw prompted him to employ the classic small-unit maneuver:
lay down a frontal base of fire and envelop from the flank. It is a simple,
direct solution but very hard to repulse if the defenders have left the end of
a flank dangling. And the North Vietnamese had done exactly that.
Darling brought up the 2d Platoon and dispersed them along the dike-road.
From there they could deliver fire on the hedgerow and be protected
themselves. They moved far enough out into the paddy to shoot past the right
flank of the 3d Platoon and the machine gun crews set up their guns in pairs,
with excellent fields of fire. Darling thus had over a hundred weapons massed
to rake a tree line not 200 meters long.
--------
<*>dinged - Marine slang for a man being wounded or killed.
112
SCHEMATIC SKETCH TO ACCOMPANY "THE ASSAULT OF CHARLIE COMPANY"
112a
Next he called up the 1st Platoon and told their platoon commander, First
Lieutenant Arthur Blades, to take the hedgerow by assault. It was an
understrength platoon even at the beginning, numbering only 37 men, including
attachments. The 2d and 3d Squads held but six men each. It was agreed
Blades would mark his progress by smoke as he went, so that the base of fire
could be shifted and kept ahead of him.
Blades deployed his platoon on line to the left rear of the 3d Platoon.
He pushed straight north through the underbrush with his three squads abreast,
the 3d Squad on the right nearest the 3d Platoon, the 2d in the center, the
1st on the left. The platoon moved up abreast of the 3d Platoon without
opposition.
The 3d Squad was guiding on a deep, narrow trenchline cut under the
bushes just at the edge of the paddy. The rest of the platoon was strung out
left for 60 meters. The men could not see farther than 20 meters through the
maze of undergrowth, palm and banana trees, and thatched houses.
There came one of those odd lulls in a fire fight when everyone stopped
firing at the same time. That was the moment Lance Corporal Palmer Atkins
chose to move his squad, the 3d, into a small clearing. From less than 30
feet away a brace of automatic weapons withered the Marine skirmish line.
Four of the six riflemen were struck down. The other two fell flat and
returned fire.
Blades called Darling, asking for additional men so he could protect his
flanks. While he was on the radio, the last two members of the 3d Squad were
hit by small-arms fire. Blades had lost a whole squad--three of the six
casualties were dead--and had not struck a blow at the enemy. He had no idea
how many enemy opposed him nor how well they were armed. He did not know, nor
would he have cared if he had known, that his platoon faced the contest which
characterized Marine operations at places like Tarawa, Peleliu, Iwo Jima, and
Seoul: an assault against a determined, entrenched, and well-disciplined
enemy.
Responding to Blades' call for help, Darling gathered a group of Marines
and a machine gun crew and sent them forward.
As the action had increased in intensity, control of the company had
fragmented and a distinct separation of responsibilities within the command
group had occurred. This was as it should be but rarely is. Darling
controlled the overall tactics and the commitments of his platoons. Gunnery
Sergeant Steve Jimenez functioned as general supervisor and foreman. He
pointed lost Marines in the direction of their units, organized special
details to carry ammunition or casualties, and ensured that the spread of
outgoing fire along the long two-platoon
113
base stayed steady and even. The company first sergeant, Thomas J. Dockery,
saw to the evacuation of the wounded. Dockery set up an aid station and
evacuation point to the rear originally to handle only Charlie Company's
casualties. But Lieutenant Colonel Coffman, seeing that the top sergeant had
organized a system directed that the battalion aid station be set up alongside
him. Soon Dockery found himself keeping a record of all the casualties,
allotting spaces on helicopters according to the corpsmen' s recommendations,
and keeping the battalion commander informed as the number of wounded grew.
These chores he handled well.
"But my biggest problem," he said, "was holding back forward observers,
logistics support people, 81mm mortarmen, engineers, company and battalion
headquarters personnel, and radiomen who wanted to quit their usual job and go
up to the front. Even the corpsmen who were supposed to stay in the battalion
aid station were heading out with grenades and bandages."
(Within the perimeter of the battalion command group, the S-3, Major
Bayard "Scotty" Pickett, had the same problem. He had to physically restrain
Marines from leaving what they considered unnecessary jobs and rushing to the
front.
"But, hell," the ex-All-American football player grinned, "I really
wasn't too mad at them when I hauled them back. I couldn't be--I did the same
thing myself.")
Dockery, a smiling Irishman and a ready talker, kept the wounded talking
to the corpsmen and to each other--talking about anything to keep their
thoughts away from their wounds and their bodies away from lapsing into shock.
Still, one Marine died of shock before Dockery could get him helilifted out.
"What got me about that one," he said, "was that his death wasn't necessary.
He was shot in the elbow but a lot of guys were hit worse and made it. He
just clammed up inside himself and we couldn't snap him out of it, not even by
slapping him. He said he was going to die, and he did."
Darling's executive officer, Lieutenant Benigo, handled the job of
getting the wounded off the field and back to Dockery. Altogether, that
amounted to 38 men, but Benigo was not around for the final tally. While
carrying a wounded man out of the paddy, he was struck on the back of the
skull by a round which spun his helmet off and threw him flat.
"My God," he thought, "I'm dead."
Part of his scalp had been laid bare and he was bleeding hard. As if in
confirmation of his own belief, he heard a voice yell, "The lieutenant's
dead."
114
Then he thought, "No, I'm not dead."
He scrambled to his feet, picked up the wounded man again, and staggered
back to the aid station. He made two more round trips, weaving in a drunken
fashion and ignoring all suggestions that he get on a helicopter himself.
When he returned a third time to the aid station, he was set upon and forcibly
evacuated, to the last protesting he had only been scratched and the bleeding
would stop at any moment.
Most of Charlie Company's wounded came from the 1st Platoon. When the
reinforcements Darling had dispatched reached Blades, he placed them on his
left flank, thereby freeing his remaining two squads to clear the trenchline.
The 3d Squad on the extreme right having been wiped out, he sent his 2d Squad
forward parallel to the trench but shielded by two houses. In this movement,
two more Marines went down. Blades felt sick. Although a hard, driving man,
he was close to his men and had argued insistently to keep his young squad
leaders and make rank within his own platoon, not to bring in leaders from
other platoons. Now fully one-third of his organic unit was down and the
enemy force seemed unhurt.
Instead of falling back, the platoon redoubled its efforts. From behind
the houses, the Marines lobbed grenades into the trench, while men back a few
yards with Blades blasted away with automatic rifles. The platoon commander
was hit in the back by grenade fragments which ripped his flak jacket. He
flung the jacket off and continued to throw grenades. After a series of quick
throws, his men held their fire for a moment to gauge the strength of the
enemy. The opposing fire had definitely slackened, so Lance Corporal Irwin
Brazzel led his three men in a dash forward to the next house in an attempt to
outflank the North Vietnamese. Two automatic weapons opened up again and
Brazzel and another Marine were cut down. That left two fighting men in the
2d Squad. Blades was in anguish. Brazzel, hit in the shoulder, crawled
behind a house. The other Marine lay exposed and motionless. A corpsman
rushed forward to help him and was killed.
Blades wasn't sure they had killed a single enemy. But the Marines were
bombarding the trench with grenades and three grenade launchers and a dozen
rifles. Still, two--and only two--automatic weapons replied after each
fusillade.
Brazzel called to his lieutenant.
"Sir, the sniper is on the other side of this fence. I can't shoot
through it but I think you can work around it all right."
Blades moved up with the 1st Squad--his last squad. The squad leader,
Corporal Christopher Cushman, deliberately stood
115
erect for a second, then dropped flat. The sniper Brazzel bad warned about
sprang up to fire and was shot by Lance Corporal Walter McDonald, a combat
photographer who had swapped his camera for a rifle.
Next Blades had his party provide covering fire for a Marine lying
wounded in a clearing. The Marine crawled into a house next to the trench and
started kicking out the back wall so he could throw grenades into the trench.
Hearing the commotion just above his head, an enemy soldier riddled the wall,
wounding the man again. While the enemy soldier's attention was so diverted,
McDonald darted around the house and dropped a grenade right on him.
The Marine assault was now gaining momentum. As the enemy fell back,
three engineers attached to the platoon worked their way up the trench itself,
keeping the pressure on the rear of the enemy while Blades' party pounded them
from the left and Darling's base of fire poured in from the right. When the
enemy, retreating to concealed positions around a tall haystack, pinned down
Blades and his men, the engineers crept up the trench. Once close in, Lance
Corporals Clifford Butts and William Miller raised up and fired furiously at
the foliage around the haystack, while Private First Class William Joy hurled
grenades as fast as he could. They blew the haystack, most of the surrounding
foliage, and some of the enemy apart and forced the others to abandon the
position and pull back.
The engineers, who had worked together on other operations, kept their
trio intact under the intense fire. But that was the exception. The other
Marines had naturally split into pairs. Clearing the trenchline became a team
effort. One Marine would throw grenades while the other covered him by rifle
fire. In this way, Lance Corporal William Cox and Private First Class Michael
Stevenson worked their way to Brazzel and dragged him back.
Blades kept urging the men forward. He directed and the men responded.
Even those who did not belong to the platoon, but who came to fight, took
their cue from his leadership; such as McDonald, who later said, "I just did
what the lieutenant told me to do."
There were two Marines who crawled up the trench and asked the platoon
commander if they could help. Blades responded, "Yes, with grenades." At
which they extracted several grenades from their pouches and held them out to
him.
"Who the hell do you think I am," Blades roared, "John Wayne? Get out of
that trench and go throw your own grenades"
They did.
116
The M-79 grenade launcher, a key weapon in the fighting in Vietnam,
ready to be fired. (USMC A187534)
The body of a North Vietnamese soldier lies near the narrow trench
that was the center of C/1/5's battle during Operation Colorado.
(Author's photo.)
In an action typical of many fought in the rice paddies of Vietnam,
an M-60 machine gunner rises up to get a better field of fire as he
supports an attach. (USMC A369433)
116a
The platoon sergeant, Sergeant Orwin Spahn, kept an eye on the massive
base of fire and as the platoon advanced, threw smoke grenades ahead to shift
the fire. He stuck close to Blades. Both used grenade launchers, a weapon
they found particularly effective in rooting out the tenacious enemy.
The Marines were pushing the defenders back but they still weren't sure
how many there were or how many they had killed. The men could see occasional
targets, however. A head or a back would poke up here or there from the
trench for an instant and the Marines would cut loose. Fighting at less than
15 yards, they were sure they were dropping some but the two automatic weapons
continued to blaze at them from successive positions up the trenchline.
Grimly, the men dogged after the enemy.
The end came quite suddenly when the North Vietnamese ran out of
trenchline at the point of the hedgerow. Blades was grinding forward on the
left. Darling's base of fire was sweeping the open paddies to the right. The
Marines sensed victory when some of the enemy broke and ran. Cushman saw a
figure in gray khaki hop out of the trench and duck into the bushes. The
squad leader waited until he moved, then shot him. McDonald nailed two more in
a similar manner.
But that was all. The rest stayed and died in a roar of exploding
grenades and automatic rifle fire. Blades radioed to Darling. He had to put
the call through himself. In the closing minutes of the battle both his
platoon sergeant, Sergeant Spahn, and his plucky radio operator, Private First
Class William Brown, had been hit.
"We've taken the objective," he said.
The platoon commander limped over to the last section of the trench and
peered down. It was clogged with bodies pressed side by side or laying in
heaps, smashed and torn by bullets and grenades. The Marines counted 19
bodies, most packed within 15 meters of trenchline. They picked up 17 new
automatic weapons and packs crammed with stick grenades and link ammunition
smeared with vaseline.
The discipline of the North Vietnamese in firing just two weapons at a
time had been excellent. Their positions were deep, covered, and camouflaged.
A detailed map found on the body of their company commander indicated the care
with which he had prepared his fire plans and drilled his men. Yet, instead
of ambushing and annihilating the lead Marine platoon, they were overrun and
killed.
Three factors contributed to the success of the Marines' grinding
assault--Darling's plan, Blades' leadership, and the troops' aggressiveness
Especially the latter. In the opening
117
minutes of the attack, Blades lost 10 out of the 12 men in the two squads
first to engage the enemy, including both squad leaders. The assault could
have crumbled then and there. It didn't. The men went on in. They weren't
perfect. They made mistakes and Blades was the first to point them out. In
particular, he noted that men were wounded or killed because they stood erect
when they should have crawled. They did so because they were tired and it was
easier to move by standing. The weight and bulk of their gear contributed
greatly to this fatigue. Still, they adapted to two-man teams and waded in
slugging, and kept slugging, until they destroyed the enemy force.
AFTERMATH
It would be nice to close the story here, with the Marines holding the
field of battle and the North Vietnamese, beaten at every turn, slipping away
in the growing dusk, never to return. But Vietnam isn't like that. It doesn't
just end decisively. Nor did this engagement, really.
The North Vietnamese pulled back at dark and Kilo Company, 3/5, was flown
in to lend a hand, but the fight had passed. The battalion buttoned up tightly
in a circular perimeter. Flareships kept the area lighted and massive
artillery fires ringed the battalion. Not even snipers harassed the lines.
The companies passed a quiet night, noticeable for its lack of activity.
But for one Marine it was a night of terror. It had taken Corpsman T. C.
Long an hour and a half to crawl out from under Donathan's body. When at last
he had freed himself, it was dusk and he hadn't the strength to move any more.
He lay in the mud with the stinging in his kneecap where the ants were feeding
on the raw flesh and waited and dozed and prayed. Sometime during the night,
two North Vietnamese walked past and tripped over him. They stopped and
stripped both the body and him of gear. Long played dead until they walked
away. At times he blanked out. Once he awoke with a terrible thirst and
crawled to a puddle close by. As he drank, he heard footsteps approaching.
He turned his head to look and was blinded by a bright light. He blinked
dazedly into the beam of the flashlight for a few seconds, then it went out
and he heard the footsteps receding. "Why didn't he kill me?" he thought.
At first light Captain Furleigh sent out a strong patrol to find the
bodies of the two missing men. This time Bielecki saw Long, lying in a rice
paddy beside the trail. They carried him and Donathan's body back.
While Lieutenant Colonel Coffman sent out patrols to police the battle
area and pick off enemy stragglers, the press came in to get the story. The
men had little to say. To each
118
other they talked long and fully and eagerly. But to strangers they were
reluctant to speak.
By midmorning, the patrols and outposts were engaged in desultory
exchanges with enemy skirmishers and snipers. The men walked warily when they
left the perimeter. It was obvious there were still many of the enemy in the
area.
That was why the Marines didn't quite believe it even when they saw the
helicopter land and the officers in short-sleeve utilities jump out.
"Is it?", a private first class asked his sergeant.
"Sure looks like it," the sergeant replied. "I don't know anyone else in
the Marine Corps who wears four stars."
General Wallace M. Greene, Jr., the Commandant of the Marine Corps, had
come to the battlefield. With him walked Lieutenant General Lewis W. Walt,
commander of the Marine forces in Vietnam. General Walt had a habit of
dropping in unexpectedly in unsecure areas and most of the men had seen him
before and were not surprised to see him again. The feeling among the troops
was that, while it was all right for General Walt to expose himself, the
Commandant shouldn't do so. The generals walked the trenchline Blades' platoon
had cleared and asked pointed questions about the tactics and weapons used.
Ordinarily, Buck Darling is a talkative person who can go on for hours
when asked about tactics or operations. But he wasn't used to talking with
generals and his cryptic words to the Commandant might be the clearest code of
the Marine in combat. General Greene asked him what happened.
"Well, General," he replied, "we got into a fight with the enemy."
The Commandant then asked what he did.
"General," he said, "we killed them."
The general officers left and the battalion passed the afternoon burying
enemy dead, patrolling, and resting. They were going to spend the night there
and they weren't happy about it. They thought the enemy had the area plotted
perfectly. The battalion commander issued to his company commanders the march
order for the next morning and the hour of stand-to alert for that night.
At dusk the Marines were manning the lines in force. The sky to the west
was still red. Two snipers were silhouetted perfectly against the red
background as they climbed up palm trees and were dropped to the ground in a
burst of automatic
119
rifle fire by men from Bravo Company. The Marine night patrols went out and
one from Alpha Company, minutes after leaving the lines, killed two more of
the enemy. After this quick contact, the other patrols around the perimeter
were pulled in and the battalion sat defensively, waiting for probes.
None materialized and the hours dragged by. Then, at 0350, the North
Vietnamese struck. With sharp suddenness, the first 82mm mortar round
exploded right on the edge of the trench where the generals had stood that
afternoon. It was exact firing. Other shells dropped in, striking near the
command post of Alpha Company. In the blackness a Marine cried: "My God,
somebody help me. I'm hit bad. Please get me a doctor. I'm dying." Corpsmen
from both Alpha and Charlie Companies raced to the man, but he died.
The battalion command center was hit hardest by both mortars and
recoilless rifles. Two more men died there and several others were wounded.
The Bravo Company command post was established in a storehouse near the
battalion CP. A 57mm recoilless shell struck the ground just in front of it
and bounced into the side of the building. The explosion collapsed the inside
of the shelter yet dealt the Marines trapped within only ringing eardrums and
multiple scratches.
The hut where Darling, Dockery, and Jimenez were sleeping fared better.
The enemy fired at least five shells at it and all passed high. Darling lay
flat and listened to the shells flutter past, each sounding like a bird trying
to fly with a broken wing. In the din, he just barely heard another sound and
shouted: "Shut up, everybody, lie still and listen. Try and get a fix on the
sound of their weapons."
They could hear in the distance the slight but unmistakable pop of a
mortar and the much louder bang of the recoilless rifle.
Battalion was way ahead of them. Hueys had been called to fly over, spot
the weapons by their flashes, and destroy them. With the noise of their
arrival, the hostile weapons stopped firing.
In a much less effective manner, the enemy had simultaneously hit the
perimeter with a ground attack. About a squad of infantry firing automatic
weapons moved toward Bravo Company's positions. The Marines on the line laid
down a devastating blanket of fire and the enemy fell back and did not return.
The next morning, the battalion set out to walk the final four miles in
to task force headquarters. For the first two miles they would follow the
same road they had taken for the past four days. Coffman again set out a
double point, with
120
Alpha Company on the left of Bravo Company, which guided on the road. The
companies moved across the rice paddies and through the hedgerows and
encountered only scattered sniper fire.
In midmorning the battalion took its first casualty. The point of Alpha
Company stumbled over the tripwire of a grenade and went down with shrapnel in
both legs. It was Private First Class English, the man who, during the
battle, had moved so swiftly to rescue a wounded Marine. While waiting for a
helicopter to evacuate English, Captain Furleigh told his radioman: "Pass the
word to all platoons to watch where they walk. Keep an eye out for mines and
boobytraps."
Less than 10 minutes later, Furleigh crossed through a backyard at the
head of his command group to get a better glimpse of his lead platoon. He saw
them spread out in a paddy on the other side of a bushline. He headed for the
nearest opening and pushed aside the brush in his way. A grenade went off
under him and blew him back into his radio operator. Both collapsed with
multiple wounds. He was a resolute, intelligent captain who deserved a better
finish to his tour in Vietnam than medical evacuation.
Coffman sent Lieutenant Blades forward from Charlie Company to take
command of the company and the march was resumed. The men trudged under the
hot sun across the paddies and thought of nothing in particular and said very
little. They were tired and the muck of the paddies slowed their pace. Bravo
Company on the right had easier going along the road and began to outdistance
them. Blades, incredibly fresh, spurred them on by shouting, "Come on!
What's the matter with you? Square away and walk tall, Marines. Put some
pride in that step!"
That was the way the battalion walked in to the task force area, jaunty
and yet tired, glad to be back and proud of themselves. One rifleman actually
started whistling the Marine Corps Hymn as they neared the battalion area.
"Knock that off," growled his buddy, "where do you think you are--on some
grinder<*> back at boot camp?"
"No, man," came the reply, "but I can dream, can't I?"
So they came back for a few days rest and replenishment before going out
again.
And again.
--------
<*>grinder - Marine slang for parade ground.
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GLOSSARY OF MARINE SMALL ARMS
Automatic, Pistol Caliber .45, M1911A1 - A recoil-operated, magazine-fed,
self-loading hand weapon which weighs approximately 3 pounds with a full
7-round magazine; it has sustained rate of fire of 10 rounds per minute
and an effective range of 50 meters.
Grenade Launcher, M79 - A single-shot, break-open, breech-loaded, shoulder
weapon which fires 40mm projectiles and weighs approximately 6 1/2 pounds
when loaded; it has a sustained rate of aimed fire of 5-7 rounds per
minute and an effective range of 375 meters.
Hand Grenade, Fragmentation, M26 - A hand-thrown bomb, which weighs
approximately 1 pound, and contains an explosive charge in a body that
shatters into small fragments; it has an effective range of 40 meters.
Machine Gun, Caliber .50, M2 - A belt-fed, recoil-operated, air-cooled
automatic weapon, which weighs approximately 80 pounds without mount or
ammunition; it has a cyclic rate of fire of 450-550 rounds per minute and
an effective range of 1450 meters.
Machine Gun, 7.62mm, M-60 - A belt-fed, gas-operated, air-cooled automatic
weapon, which weighs approximately 23 pounds without mount or ammunition;
it has a sustained rate of fire of 100 rounds per minute and an effective
range of 1100 meters.
Mortar, 60mm, M19 - A smooth-bore, muzzle-loaded, single-shot, high angle of
fire weapon, which weighs 45.2 pounds when assembled and fires an
assortment of high explosive and pyrotechnic rounds; it has a maximum rate
of fire of 30 rounds per minute and sustained rate of fire of 18 rounds
per minute; the effective range is 2000 yards.
Mortar, 81mm, M29 - A smooth-bore, muzzle-loaded, single-shot, high angle
of fire weapon, which weighs approximately 115 pounds when assembled and
fires an assortment of high explosive and pyrotechnic rounds; it has a
sustained rate of fire of 2 rounds per minute and an effective range of
2200-3650 meters, depending upon the ammunition used.
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Recoilless Rifle, 106mm, M40A1 - A single-shot, recoilless, breech-loaded
weapon, which weighs approximately 438 pounds when assembled and mounted
for firing; it has a sustained rate of fire of 6 rounds per minute and an
effective range of 1365 meters.
Rifle, Caliber 7.62mm, M14 - A gas-operated, magazine-fed air-cooled,
semi-automatic shoulder weapon, which weighs approximately 12 pounds
with a full 20-round magazine; it has a sustained rate of fire of 30
rounds per minute and an effective range of 460 meters.
Rifle, Caliber 7.62mm, M14 (Modified) - The automatic rifle version of the
M14, which weighs approximately 14 pounds with bipod; it has a sustained
rate of fire of 40-60 rounds per minute and an effective range of 460
meters.
Rifle Grenade, HE, M28 - A high-explosive, antitank bomb, fired by a launcher
fixed to a rifle, which weighs approximately 1/2 pounds; it has an
effective range of 91 meters.
Rocket Launcher, 3.5 inch - A single-shot, open-end, shoulder-fired antitank
weapon, which weighs approximately 22 pounds when loaded; it has a
sustained rate of fire of 4 rounds per minute and an effective range of
273 meters against point targets.
Rocket Launcher, HE 66mm, M72 (LAAW) - A disposable, singleshot, open-end,
shoulder-fired, light antitank weapon, which weighs approximately 5
pounds when loaded; it has an effective range of 250 meters.
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These items and much more can be found at The Marine Corps Research Center (MCRC)
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