I have just learned that Colonel William E. Riley, Jr., USMC reported to Marine Barracks, Heaven earlier this summer. Colonel Riley was my battalion commander in Vietnam about whom I have written here, here, here, here, and here.
The Colonel was a tremendous combat leader, having served in Korea as a lieutenant and then in Vietnam, as Commanding Officer, 1st Battalion, Fifth Marines, 1st Marine Division. It seemed to the junior officers of the battalion that he never forgot what it was like to be a small unit leader. He trusted his subordinates and it showed. He was one of those men who other men eagerly follow, no matter how unpleasant the trip might be. Acts such as the implicit trust he placed in a 19 year old squad leader to adjust a supporting arm that could have killed us all earned him our undying trust, respect, and devotion.
Semper Fidelis.
Showing posts with label C/1/5. Show all posts
Showing posts with label C/1/5. Show all posts
30 October 2011
07 April 2010
THE END IS IN SIGHT
Mike, Tom, Jerry Ayers and I finally got our orders to depart Vietnam “on or about 12 December 1969.” As near as we could determine, we were the last to leave country of the 142 lieutenants who arrived on 20 December 1968. Then, about 1 December, my relief came aboard. Tom Pottenger and Mike Koch also had reliefs who were anxious to get to work in their new assignments. That worked for us.
The next night, I sent Sayne and another Marine down to the LZ to guard the pre-staged supplies for the battalion. We had been getting reports that the supplies were being “rat-f_____d” by the LZ personnel, i.e., someone was opening cases of C-rats and removing the more desirable meals and taking other goodies, such as SPs.
We were hit at about 2100. I grabbed my rifle and headed for the LZ to make sure my Marines were OK. They were, but I was dinged in the helmet and flak jacket by some shrapnel.
When I got back, my relief, a Captain, dressed me down but good. He reminded me that I had only a week and a half to go and that he would have to write the letter if I did something stupid and got myself killed. I was ordered to stand down.
One of the advantages of being assigned as a pay officer was the opportunity to go to Danang to pay hospitalized troops. Among the “sights” in Danang was the Freedom Hill Post Exchange, which rivaled many PX’s then extant in the US. Having a captive audience (no malls in Danang, boys and girls), many merchants opened “stores” in Vietnam.
The Big Three auto makers had kiosks outside the Exchange where a Marine could purchase a car to be picked up at home on his return. They hired “round eyes” to man the sales booths—young American women who, back home, might not have gotten a casual glance from a hormoned up teenager, but who, in Vietnam, were goddesses. I suspect that the sales in a week paid for one of the girls for a couple of months.
Every soldier, sailor, airman and Marine was issued a “ration card” which had to be presented at the time of purchase. Rationing was designed to slow down resales to the black market. Among other things, officers and Staff NCOs were allowed a ration of six quarts of alcohol per month. Of course, those in the bush were not buying or using alcohol, but the folks back at An Hoa did occasionally consume adult beverages.
Before heading to Danang, pay officers would collect ration cards and take orders. The prices were incredible, even in those days. As I recall, a quart of Chivas Regal went for three bucks. It was not uncommon for a pay officer to return from Danang with 18 to 24 bottles of hooch.
So, after my tail chewing by the Captain, I began to join Mike and Tom in a nightly “celebration.”
Our routine was to eat supper at the mess hall and then retire down to the Charlie Company sea bag tent for the evening. The sea bag tent was the storage point for the sea bags that the troops had brought in country—holding their stateside utilities, leather boots, summer service C uniform (for R & R) and other sundry clothing and equipment they did not want or could not use in the field. There were probably 200 sea bags stacked in the tent.
We would begin drinking shortly after 1800 and would continue until sleep overtook us. We would either sleep on top of the stacked sea bags, or we would stumble back to our respective bunkers. One "morning after," Mike showed up with cuts all over his arms. He had gotten a little off course on his walk back to his hooch and had fallen into some concertina barbed wire. Tom and I were sympathetic and supportive. Yes we were!
One night, I got back to the S-4 bunker in time to catch the end of the night’s cockroach races. The cockroaches in that part of the world grow to over an inch in length. The interior wooden walls of our bunker were streaked with spray painted trails resulting from our efforts to corral champion roaches. Someone would spot a roach crawling across the wall. He would grab a can of spray paint from the paint locker and begin to paint the bug. Roaches do not like to be painted, and they would scurry across the walls, leaving a winding path that Bil Keane would have been proud of.
We also had a large circle painted on the deck. Different colored roaches would be dropped at the center and the race would begin. The first to leave the circle was the winner and got to race again. The losers were squashed. As I write this, it sounds gross and not particularly exciting, but in country, it was the acme of sport. I had a yellow roach that won 10 straight races. I was sorry to step on him when he finally lost, but rules are rules.
One night just three or four days before we left, I returned to the S-4 bunker from our cocktail hour. It was about 2200 and it was raining. My boots were muddy and I was a bit unsteady. Suddenly, a large, pregnant rat scurried across the deck.
Someone called “Rat,” and I whipped out my K-Bar combat knife and dove for the beast. I missed, but managed to cut deep into my left wrist. Someone put a battle dressing on the wound and I was driven down to Battalion Aid Station 1/5. The duty Corpsman had been with Charlie Company and had given me my shots earlier that day. He looked at the cut and announced that it would take a couple of stitches to close it up. “I can give you something to numb it, Lieutenant, but it will be four sticks to deaden it and four sticks to sew it. What do you want?”
“Aw, hell, Doc, I’m already a little numb. Just sew the damn’d thing up.” Big mistake on my part.
The first stitch went in just fine. So did the first half of the second, but on the way out, the needle hit a nerve. My penance, I presume.
The rat was not seen again—probably off telling all the other rats about the idiot with the knife.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
The next night, I sent Sayne and another Marine down to the LZ to guard the pre-staged supplies for the battalion. We had been getting reports that the supplies were being “rat-f_____d” by the LZ personnel, i.e., someone was opening cases of C-rats and removing the more desirable meals and taking other goodies, such as SPs.
We were hit at about 2100. I grabbed my rifle and headed for the LZ to make sure my Marines were OK. They were, but I was dinged in the helmet and flak jacket by some shrapnel.
When I got back, my relief, a Captain, dressed me down but good. He reminded me that I had only a week and a half to go and that he would have to write the letter if I did something stupid and got myself killed. I was ordered to stand down.
One of the advantages of being assigned as a pay officer was the opportunity to go to Danang to pay hospitalized troops. Among the “sights” in Danang was the Freedom Hill Post Exchange, which rivaled many PX’s then extant in the US. Having a captive audience (no malls in Danang, boys and girls), many merchants opened “stores” in Vietnam.
The Big Three auto makers had kiosks outside the Exchange where a Marine could purchase a car to be picked up at home on his return. They hired “round eyes” to man the sales booths—young American women who, back home, might not have gotten a casual glance from a hormoned up teenager, but who, in Vietnam, were goddesses. I suspect that the sales in a week paid for one of the girls for a couple of months.
Every soldier, sailor, airman and Marine was issued a “ration card” which had to be presented at the time of purchase. Rationing was designed to slow down resales to the black market. Among other things, officers and Staff NCOs were allowed a ration of six quarts of alcohol per month. Of course, those in the bush were not buying or using alcohol, but the folks back at An Hoa did occasionally consume adult beverages.
Before heading to Danang, pay officers would collect ration cards and take orders. The prices were incredible, even in those days. As I recall, a quart of Chivas Regal went for three bucks. It was not uncommon for a pay officer to return from Danang with 18 to 24 bottles of hooch.
So, after my tail chewing by the Captain, I began to join Mike and Tom in a nightly “celebration.”
Our routine was to eat supper at the mess hall and then retire down to the Charlie Company sea bag tent for the evening. The sea bag tent was the storage point for the sea bags that the troops had brought in country—holding their stateside utilities, leather boots, summer service C uniform (for R & R) and other sundry clothing and equipment they did not want or could not use in the field. There were probably 200 sea bags stacked in the tent.
We would begin drinking shortly after 1800 and would continue until sleep overtook us. We would either sleep on top of the stacked sea bags, or we would stumble back to our respective bunkers. One "morning after," Mike showed up with cuts all over his arms. He had gotten a little off course on his walk back to his hooch and had fallen into some concertina barbed wire. Tom and I were sympathetic and supportive. Yes we were!
One night, I got back to the S-4 bunker in time to catch the end of the night’s cockroach races. The cockroaches in that part of the world grow to over an inch in length. The interior wooden walls of our bunker were streaked with spray painted trails resulting from our efforts to corral champion roaches. Someone would spot a roach crawling across the wall. He would grab a can of spray paint from the paint locker and begin to paint the bug. Roaches do not like to be painted, and they would scurry across the walls, leaving a winding path that Bil Keane would have been proud of.
We also had a large circle painted on the deck. Different colored roaches would be dropped at the center and the race would begin. The first to leave the circle was the winner and got to race again. The losers were squashed. As I write this, it sounds gross and not particularly exciting, but in country, it was the acme of sport. I had a yellow roach that won 10 straight races. I was sorry to step on him when he finally lost, but rules are rules.
One night just three or four days before we left, I returned to the S-4 bunker from our cocktail hour. It was about 2200 and it was raining. My boots were muddy and I was a bit unsteady. Suddenly, a large, pregnant rat scurried across the deck.
Someone called “Rat,” and I whipped out my K-Bar combat knife and dove for the beast. I missed, but managed to cut deep into my left wrist. Someone put a battle dressing on the wound and I was driven down to Battalion Aid Station 1/5. The duty Corpsman had been with Charlie Company and had given me my shots earlier that day. He looked at the cut and announced that it would take a couple of stitches to close it up. “I can give you something to numb it, Lieutenant, but it will be four sticks to deaden it and four sticks to sew it. What do you want?”
“Aw, hell, Doc, I’m already a little numb. Just sew the damn’d thing up.” Big mistake on my part.
The first stitch went in just fine. So did the first half of the second, but on the way out, the needle hit a nerve. My penance, I presume.
The rat was not seen again—probably off telling all the other rats about the idiot with the knife.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
02 April 2010
SPOT, THE INVISIBLE DOG
Beginning in the late 1990’s, in the afterglow of the celebration of the 50th anniversary of the landings in Normandy, the American people re-awakened to the valor of the American fighting man. The motion picture, Saving Private Ryan, with its savagely accurate, bloody 20 minute opening depiction of the landings on Omaha Beach, was a turning point. World War II veterans who had remained silent for decades were finally encouraged to speak about their experiences in what Studs Terkel christened The Good War.
For some time before that, author Steven Ambrose had been collecting oral histories from WWII vets of Company D, Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Regiment (Ox and Bucks) and E/506/101 Airborne, which he then converted into Pegasus Bridge and Band of Brothers .
[Some interesting trivia: On 6 June 1944, Captain Richard Todd, 7th (Light Infantry) Parachute Battalion, dropped in after glider-borne Company D/Ox and Bucks, had landed and captured Pegasus Bridge. In 1962, he appeared in the movie The Longest Day as Major John Howard, Officer Commanding, Company D. Talk about art imitating life.]
After the success of Saving Private Ryan, Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg collaborated to bring Band of Brothers ("BOB") to television with a ten-hour adaptation that aired beginning on September 9, 2001. Unlike “popular” movies about the Vietnam War, including Platoon and Full Metal Jacket, which portrayed the fighting men as either cartoon characters or as stoned murderers and misfits, BOB and Ryan depicted honorable men who did their duty with class. In particular, the dialog in both WWII films caught the native wit and wisdom of the American soldier at war.
After the success of Ryan and BOB, two additional war films were made and distributed that capture the essence of the American warrior: We Were Soldiers (2002), about 1/7/1 Cav in the Battle of the Ia Drang in 1965 and Flags of Our Fathers (2006) about the Battle of Iwo Jima, focusing on the men who were involved in the iconic flag raising on Mount Suribachi. Once again, the writers captured the feel of how soldiers and Marines in combat think and talk to one another.
Finally, in 2010, Spielberg and Hanks produced The Pacific for HBO. This time the focus is the ground war in the Pacific in WWII. Spielberg frankly admits that the impetus for The Pacific was the post-BOB requests from vets of “that other little fracas” on the other side of the globe from France and Germany. And again, the writers have done a good job.
Marines in combat are still young men, young American men, with the wit and repartee that makes them Americans. The dialog in all of the positive films I mention above captures the men I know and served with.
In the second or third episode of BOB (I have loaned out my copy and cannot check), Lieutenant Winters mentions to a fellow platoon commander that “General Taylor is pleased with Easy Company’s performance yesterday.”
His exhausted comrade, leaning against a door frame, mutters sleepily, “That’s why I came to France—to please General Taylor.”
More recently, in The Pacific, on Guadalcanal, after experiencing intense combat and suffering significant casualties, 1st Battalion, 1st Marines has finally gotten mail. Robert Leckie reads a letter from home to his shipmates, including a post script from his father: “Your Mother wants to know if we should send you your dress blue uniform.”
Leckies says, “I guess she thinks we are having a lot of fancy dress balls out here.”
Another Marine says, “If we do, ‘Lucky,’ will you ask me?”
“Nah, you’re too ugly. I’ll ask Hoosier.”
Without missing a beat, Hoosier, who is cleaning his rifle, in a droll drawl says “Take a number.” He never stops working on his weapon.
And that led me to think of some of my Marines.
John Gibson, my radio operator, was a poet and a philosopher—at 18. A radio operator and his officer are inseparable, never further apart than two arms lengths, so that the radio handset can be passed from one to another. They share a fighting hole, chow, and time.
Once, we were discussing our favorite cold beverages, how many we would down when we got “back to the World,” and the relative value of ice.
“You know, Lieutenant, this war is gonna turn out a whole generation of Americans who will go to a backyard barbeque and if somebody drops a ice cube, he’ll pick it up, pop it in his mouth, and never even look to see if anybody’s watching.”
When I was teaching the Law of War at TBS in 1983-85, one teaching point was that the lieutenant must be on the lookout for Marines who are in danger of going over the edge emotionally. I called it “terminal weirdness.”
All Marines in combat are weird. But when someone is terminally weird—cutting ears off bodies or extracting gold teeth from corpses—you need to get him out of their before he does something so seriously wrong that he can end up in the brig.”
To differentiate between weird and terminally weird, I told them about Gibson and Spot.
As I mentioned earlier, the Skipper had a standing order that we were not to adopt dogs as pets, or even play with them. It was an appropriate order; any Marine bitten by a local dog would be evacuated for an obligatory 14 day series of anti-rabies shots.
When we were in the Arizona, and morale was low, Gibby turned to me one afternoon and said, “You know what would perk the guys up, Sir?”
"Please, Gibby, inform me.”
“A dog, Lieutenant. We need a dog.”
“Well, that’s not a bad idea, except that the Skipper has said ‘No.’”
“Oh, I got a way to fix that, Sir. We’ll get an invisible dog that only Charlie 3 can see.”
For the next couple of hours, he walked around the perimeter, taking “Spot” for a walk. Most of the troops from Third Platoon played along. Then a runner came from the CP. “Skipper wants you, Sir.”
I reported to the Company Commander. He was stirring a can of C-rats over a home-made C-4 stove.
“What the hell is with your radio operator?”
“Sir?”
“The Gunny is ready to kill him. He was talking to my radio operator and all of a sudden he yells ‘Gunny, look out!’ The Gunny almost broke his neck taking cover. Gibson says, ‘You almost stepped on Spot, Gunny.’ I don’t think the Gunny caught him yet, but you better keep him out of sight for a day or two. Fix this!”
I walked back to my hole. Gibson was in the hole, laying low so to speak.
“We got to get rid of Spot.”
“Why, Sir? The guys like him.”
What now, Lieutenant? “Ah, the Skipper is worried that because no one else can see him, he might get hurt.” That ought to do it.
“Oh, I can fix that.” He jumped up and headed for the bomb crater that we were using as a trash pit. A few minutes later, he returned holding what appeared to be a leash. He had scrounged some parachute cord and then stiffened it with baling wire from a couple of C-ration cases. There was a loop for a collar and another as a handle.
“Now that I got him under control, he’ll be safe!”
At TBS, I would end the story by saying, “Gibson was weird, but not terminally weird. See the difference?”
It was a popular parable, but the class that took it most to heart was the last group I taught, Warrant Officer Basic Course 1-85. Warrant Officers are enlisted men who have been selected by a board convened by the Commandant. They tend to have some technical specialty and are appointed to fill the need for officers in that specialty without using up a slot for a commissioned officer. (Warrant Officers in the grade of W-1 are “appointed" officers; Chief Warrant Officers 2 through 5 are commissioned.)
When they were about to graduate, they presented me with a photograph taken during one of my last classes with them. As I was about to finish, the classroom became exceptionally tense. Suddenly there was movement to my left rear. I spun, to see a Warrant Officer, wearing “bug-eyed” glasses and carrying a very reasonable facsimile of Spot’s leash. The rest of the class was on its feet, cheering.
I still have and treasure that photo.
2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
For some time before that, author Steven Ambrose had been collecting oral histories from WWII vets of Company D, Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Regiment (Ox and Bucks) and E/506/101 Airborne, which he then converted into Pegasus Bridge and Band of Brothers .
[Some interesting trivia: On 6 June 1944, Captain Richard Todd, 7th (Light Infantry) Parachute Battalion, dropped in after glider-borne Company D/Ox and Bucks, had landed and captured Pegasus Bridge. In 1962, he appeared in the movie The Longest Day as Major John Howard, Officer Commanding, Company D. Talk about art imitating life.]
After the success of Saving Private Ryan, Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg collaborated to bring Band of Brothers ("BOB") to television with a ten-hour adaptation that aired beginning on September 9, 2001. Unlike “popular” movies about the Vietnam War, including Platoon and Full Metal Jacket, which portrayed the fighting men as either cartoon characters or as stoned murderers and misfits, BOB and Ryan depicted honorable men who did their duty with class. In particular, the dialog in both WWII films caught the native wit and wisdom of the American soldier at war.
After the success of Ryan and BOB, two additional war films were made and distributed that capture the essence of the American warrior: We Were Soldiers (2002), about 1/7/1 Cav in the Battle of the Ia Drang in 1965 and Flags of Our Fathers (2006) about the Battle of Iwo Jima, focusing on the men who were involved in the iconic flag raising on Mount Suribachi. Once again, the writers captured the feel of how soldiers and Marines in combat think and talk to one another.
Finally, in 2010, Spielberg and Hanks produced The Pacific for HBO. This time the focus is the ground war in the Pacific in WWII. Spielberg frankly admits that the impetus for The Pacific was the post-BOB requests from vets of “that other little fracas” on the other side of the globe from France and Germany. And again, the writers have done a good job.
Marines in combat are still young men, young American men, with the wit and repartee that makes them Americans. The dialog in all of the positive films I mention above captures the men I know and served with.
In the second or third episode of BOB (I have loaned out my copy and cannot check), Lieutenant Winters mentions to a fellow platoon commander that “General Taylor is pleased with Easy Company’s performance yesterday.”
His exhausted comrade, leaning against a door frame, mutters sleepily, “That’s why I came to France—to please General Taylor.”
More recently, in The Pacific, on Guadalcanal, after experiencing intense combat and suffering significant casualties, 1st Battalion, 1st Marines has finally gotten mail. Robert Leckie reads a letter from home to his shipmates, including a post script from his father: “Your Mother wants to know if we should send you your dress blue uniform.”
Leckies says, “I guess she thinks we are having a lot of fancy dress balls out here.”
Another Marine says, “If we do, ‘Lucky,’ will you ask me?”
“Nah, you’re too ugly. I’ll ask Hoosier.”
Without missing a beat, Hoosier, who is cleaning his rifle, in a droll drawl says “Take a number.” He never stops working on his weapon.
And that led me to think of some of my Marines.
John Gibson, my radio operator, was a poet and a philosopher—at 18. A radio operator and his officer are inseparable, never further apart than two arms lengths, so that the radio handset can be passed from one to another. They share a fighting hole, chow, and time.
Once, we were discussing our favorite cold beverages, how many we would down when we got “back to the World,” and the relative value of ice.
“You know, Lieutenant, this war is gonna turn out a whole generation of Americans who will go to a backyard barbeque and if somebody drops a ice cube, he’ll pick it up, pop it in his mouth, and never even look to see if anybody’s watching.”
When I was teaching the Law of War at TBS in 1983-85, one teaching point was that the lieutenant must be on the lookout for Marines who are in danger of going over the edge emotionally. I called it “terminal weirdness.”
All Marines in combat are weird. But when someone is terminally weird—cutting ears off bodies or extracting gold teeth from corpses—you need to get him out of their before he does something so seriously wrong that he can end up in the brig.”
To differentiate between weird and terminally weird, I told them about Gibson and Spot.
As I mentioned earlier, the Skipper had a standing order that we were not to adopt dogs as pets, or even play with them. It was an appropriate order; any Marine bitten by a local dog would be evacuated for an obligatory 14 day series of anti-rabies shots.
When we were in the Arizona, and morale was low, Gibby turned to me one afternoon and said, “You know what would perk the guys up, Sir?”
"Please, Gibby, inform me.”
“A dog, Lieutenant. We need a dog.”
“Well, that’s not a bad idea, except that the Skipper has said ‘No.’”
“Oh, I got a way to fix that, Sir. We’ll get an invisible dog that only Charlie 3 can see.”
For the next couple of hours, he walked around the perimeter, taking “Spot” for a walk. Most of the troops from Third Platoon played along. Then a runner came from the CP. “Skipper wants you, Sir.”
I reported to the Company Commander. He was stirring a can of C-rats over a home-made C-4 stove.
“What the hell is with your radio operator?”
“Sir?”
“The Gunny is ready to kill him. He was talking to my radio operator and all of a sudden he yells ‘Gunny, look out!’ The Gunny almost broke his neck taking cover. Gibson says, ‘You almost stepped on Spot, Gunny.’ I don’t think the Gunny caught him yet, but you better keep him out of sight for a day or two. Fix this!”
I walked back to my hole. Gibson was in the hole, laying low so to speak.
“We got to get rid of Spot.”
“Why, Sir? The guys like him.”
What now, Lieutenant? “Ah, the Skipper is worried that because no one else can see him, he might get hurt.” That ought to do it.
“Oh, I can fix that.” He jumped up and headed for the bomb crater that we were using as a trash pit. A few minutes later, he returned holding what appeared to be a leash. He had scrounged some parachute cord and then stiffened it with baling wire from a couple of C-ration cases. There was a loop for a collar and another as a handle.
“Now that I got him under control, he’ll be safe!”
At TBS, I would end the story by saying, “Gibson was weird, but not terminally weird. See the difference?”
It was a popular parable, but the class that took it most to heart was the last group I taught, Warrant Officer Basic Course 1-85. Warrant Officers are enlisted men who have been selected by a board convened by the Commandant. They tend to have some technical specialty and are appointed to fill the need for officers in that specialty without using up a slot for a commissioned officer. (Warrant Officers in the grade of W-1 are “appointed" officers; Chief Warrant Officers 2 through 5 are commissioned.)
When they were about to graduate, they presented me with a photograph taken during one of my last classes with them. As I was about to finish, the classroom became exceptionally tense. Suddenly there was movement to my left rear. I spun, to see a Warrant Officer, wearing “bug-eyed” glasses and carrying a very reasonable facsimile of Spot’s leash. The rest of the class was on its feet, cheering.
I still have and treasure that photo.
2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
27 March 2010
30 DAYS AND A WAKE UP
And with the stroke of a pen, I became a short-timer. I do not believe that anyone who has not served in a war with set “tours of duty,” such as Vietnam and the current unpleasantness in Iraq and Afghanistan, can understand the fixation that one develops on the calendar. When I first went to the bush in December 1968, I listed the months on my helmet cover.
Thereafter, on the last day of the month, when the midnight time check was called, I would have a personal ceremony of checking off that month.
Troops carried short-timer calendars for their last 100 days, usually in the shapely shape of a well endowed young lady. There were numbered segments within the outline, one to be colored in each day. I will leave to your imagination the placement of the last three spots.
Counting the days was also a routine, although no one really started until the last 30 days. There were rules. You did not count the day you were in and the final day was “a wake up.” Therefore, on 17 November, I could say “I’ve got 30 and a wake up.” When you got into single digits, you were “so short, you could sit on the edge of a dime and dangle your legs.”
At the same time, the final 30 days was one of the two most dangerous times in country. The first 30 days, you were so green that you were a danger to yourself and others. The last 30 days, there was the danger of getting a “short-timer mentality.” In other words, there was a tendency to loosen up, to think Hey, I’ve got this knocked.
For that reason, at least in 1/5, we tried to send Marines back to the rear when they hit 30 days. They would stand lines and work in working parties. There was still the danger of rockets and mortars, but it was not as dangerous as the bush. Most of the time.
We had a Marine who extended his tour of duty for six months. This is not as strange as it sounds. If an enlisted Marine returned to the States with less than 6 months remaining on his enlistment, the Marine Corps had begun to offer early discharges, thus avoiding the cost of moving a Marine to a new duty station and then moving him again on discharge.
A lot of Marines who would have gotten to CONUS with 11 months left on their enlistment would extend so that on return, they could be discharged. To sweeten the pot, the Corps offered a Marine who extended a “free” 30 day leave (not charged against his leave balance) anywhere in the world, a choice of a new Military Occupational Specialty, and promotion.
One of our Corporals who had joined the battalion in Hue City during Tet 1968 extended. He was an 0311 (rifleman)and had completed his 13 month tour without a scratch, a real accomplishment for a veteran of Tet. He took his 30 days in the States and then returned to the battalion as a Sergeant with an 01 MOS (clerical). He was assigned to Headquarters & Service Company.
Shortly after his return, while serving as Sergeant of the Guard in our defense sector, he was wounded by shrapnel from an 82mm mortar. He was in the hospital for three days. About a week later, he was once again wounded by shrapnel, but this time his wounds did not require hospitalization. He was awarded a Purple Heart for each wound.
Another policy in effect was for wounds received in action. If a Marine received two Purple Hearts that required hospitalization in excess of 48 hours, he was immediately shipped out of country. Likewise, three Purple Hearts, whether requiring hospitalization or not, were a ticket out.
Finally, at 1145 on 15 May 1969, nine NVA 122 mm rockets landed in the battalion street. Miraculously, there was no one in the street at the time, but the area was peppered with shrapnel. (When I came in from the bush in June, in the BOQ tent, someone had circled every shrapnel hole and dated it. There were 57 holes labeled “15 May.” There were two tents between the street and the BOQ!)
As soon as the first rocket hit, everyone in the various company offices along the street headed for the sandbagged bunkers built at each end of the tents. All through An Hoa, Marines took cover. . . except for a bunch of crazy young motor transport Marines who fired up their mechanical mules and raced towards the impact area, looking for casualties.
The M274 4x4 "Mechanical Mule" was a half-ton utility vehicle used by the Army and Marine Corps all through the Vietnam War. It had a flat rectangular bed, surrounded by a raised rail. It was powered by 4 cylinder, 4 cycle engine started with a pull cord (like a lawn mower motor) and had a top speed of about 20 mph. It weighed about 900 pounds, and could carry 1000 pounds, hence the name.
On 15 May, as the Marines of H&S Company climbed out of their bunker, they found the Sergeant slumped over his typewriter. There was a shrapnel entry wound in the back of his head that exited through the right temple. Initially, they thought he was dead, but one Marine who rushed to him realized that he was still breathing. Another Marine took off his sweaty T-shirt, and they wrapped the Sergeant’s head.
About that time, a mule pulled up, and a couple of the clerks carried the Sergeant out to the Mule. Off they went, bouncing down the street, headed for the LZ. A couple of Corpsmen were triaging wounded in the Zone, and they immediately put the Sergeant on a Huey and off he went to NSA Hospital in Danang.
Eight weeks later, the Sergeant walked out of Naval Hospital, Philadelphia, a little unsteady on his feet, and exhibiting the signs of a serious head injury. But he knew his family and could speak, and function.
He should have been dead from the impact. When that didn’t kill him, the wound should have become infected from the T-shirt. Some men, God just isn’t ready for them when the world would assume He is!
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
Thereafter, on the last day of the month, when the midnight time check was called, I would have a personal ceremony of checking off that month.
Troops carried short-timer calendars for their last 100 days, usually in the shapely shape of a well endowed young lady. There were numbered segments within the outline, one to be colored in each day. I will leave to your imagination the placement of the last three spots.
Counting the days was also a routine, although no one really started until the last 30 days. There were rules. You did not count the day you were in and the final day was “a wake up.” Therefore, on 17 November, I could say “I’ve got 30 and a wake up.” When you got into single digits, you were “so short, you could sit on the edge of a dime and dangle your legs.”
At the same time, the final 30 days was one of the two most dangerous times in country. The first 30 days, you were so green that you were a danger to yourself and others. The last 30 days, there was the danger of getting a “short-timer mentality.” In other words, there was a tendency to loosen up, to think Hey, I’ve got this knocked.
For that reason, at least in 1/5, we tried to send Marines back to the rear when they hit 30 days. They would stand lines and work in working parties. There was still the danger of rockets and mortars, but it was not as dangerous as the bush. Most of the time.
We had a Marine who extended his tour of duty for six months. This is not as strange as it sounds. If an enlisted Marine returned to the States with less than 6 months remaining on his enlistment, the Marine Corps had begun to offer early discharges, thus avoiding the cost of moving a Marine to a new duty station and then moving him again on discharge.
A lot of Marines who would have gotten to CONUS with 11 months left on their enlistment would extend so that on return, they could be discharged. To sweeten the pot, the Corps offered a Marine who extended a “free” 30 day leave (not charged against his leave balance) anywhere in the world, a choice of a new Military Occupational Specialty, and promotion.
One of our Corporals who had joined the battalion in Hue City during Tet 1968 extended. He was an 0311 (rifleman)and had completed his 13 month tour without a scratch, a real accomplishment for a veteran of Tet. He took his 30 days in the States and then returned to the battalion as a Sergeant with an 01 MOS (clerical). He was assigned to Headquarters & Service Company.
Shortly after his return, while serving as Sergeant of the Guard in our defense sector, he was wounded by shrapnel from an 82mm mortar. He was in the hospital for three days. About a week later, he was once again wounded by shrapnel, but this time his wounds did not require hospitalization. He was awarded a Purple Heart for each wound.
Another policy in effect was for wounds received in action. If a Marine received two Purple Hearts that required hospitalization in excess of 48 hours, he was immediately shipped out of country. Likewise, three Purple Hearts, whether requiring hospitalization or not, were a ticket out.
Finally, at 1145 on 15 May 1969, nine NVA 122 mm rockets landed in the battalion street. Miraculously, there was no one in the street at the time, but the area was peppered with shrapnel. (When I came in from the bush in June, in the BOQ tent, someone had circled every shrapnel hole and dated it. There were 57 holes labeled “15 May.” There were two tents between the street and the BOQ!)
As soon as the first rocket hit, everyone in the various company offices along the street headed for the sandbagged bunkers built at each end of the tents. All through An Hoa, Marines took cover. . . except for a bunch of crazy young motor transport Marines who fired up their mechanical mules and raced towards the impact area, looking for casualties.
The M274 4x4 "Mechanical Mule" was a half-ton utility vehicle used by the Army and Marine Corps all through the Vietnam War. It had a flat rectangular bed, surrounded by a raised rail. It was powered by 4 cylinder, 4 cycle engine started with a pull cord (like a lawn mower motor) and had a top speed of about 20 mph. It weighed about 900 pounds, and could carry 1000 pounds, hence the name.
On 15 May, as the Marines of H&S Company climbed out of their bunker, they found the Sergeant slumped over his typewriter. There was a shrapnel entry wound in the back of his head that exited through the right temple. Initially, they thought he was dead, but one Marine who rushed to him realized that he was still breathing. Another Marine took off his sweaty T-shirt, and they wrapped the Sergeant’s head.
About that time, a mule pulled up, and a couple of the clerks carried the Sergeant out to the Mule. Off they went, bouncing down the street, headed for the LZ. A couple of Corpsmen were triaging wounded in the Zone, and they immediately put the Sergeant on a Huey and off he went to NSA Hospital in Danang.
Eight weeks later, the Sergeant walked out of Naval Hospital, Philadelphia, a little unsteady on his feet, and exhibiting the signs of a serious head injury. But he knew his family and could speak, and function.
He should have been dead from the impact. When that didn’t kill him, the wound should have become infected from the T-shirt. Some men, God just isn’t ready for them when the world would assume He is!
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
17 October 2009
SUICIDE CLIFF
Back to Okinawa in July 1969.....
Tom Kerrigan and I started our trek to the southern end of Okinawa later on the morning of 21 July. In 1969, Okinawa was still under American military government dating from 1945. The greenback was legal tender. The major American presence was in the center of the island.
We hired a cab and told the driver where we wanted to go. He shook his head and off we went. As we drove south, the “modern” Okinawa began to quickly disappear. Small farms reminiscent of the villes in the Arizona took precedence. More rice paddies appeared and there were no towns to be seen.
We finally took a gravel road to a place where the driver let us off. All around us were stone monuments with Japanese writing. I looked at the road and saw that the gravel was crushed coral. Part of a human skull was buried under some of the coral.
We followed a path to the top of the cliff where we entered a veritable forest of monuments. The cliffs were well over 100 feet high, presenting a sheer drop to the ocean below.
In 1945, as the Japanese prepared for the invasion of Okinawa, they indoctrinated the local population to resist us to the death. Some will recall that it was at Okinawa that the kamikaze made its first major appearance. The civilians were being turned into a land-based kamikaze corps. They were told that if they were captured by or surrendered to the Americans, we would kill the men, rape and kille the women and cook and eat the children. It worked.
The Okinawa operation was truly a “Typhoon of Steel.” Casualties were some of the highest of any World War Two operation: the Japanese lost over 100,000 troops, and the Allies (mostly United States) suffered more than 50,000 casualties, including over 12,000 killed in action. Hundreds of thousands of civilians were killed, wounded or attempted suicide. Approximately one-fourth of the civilian population died due to the invasion.
As we closed in on the end of the last battle of WWII, huge numbers of civilians crowded behind the dwindling Japanese line. The Japanese commander, Lieutenant General Mitsuru Ushijima and his chief of staff, Lieutenant General Isamu Chō committed suicide and the Japanese troops launched final banzai charges. To the horror of American troops, whole families jumped from the cliffs rather than face capture. To this day, many Okinawans hate the Japanese for their callous abuse of the people of Okinawa in 1945. They still claim that they were ordered by the Japanese army to commit suicide.
It was this example that led many US commanders to the conclusion that an invasion of the Home Islands must be avoided if at all possible. Hiroshima and Nagasaki followed.
In 1969, not many Americans made the trip to the southern end of the island. It did not take Tom and me long to realize that we were not welcome. After walking a couple of miles, we found a cab and headed back to the center of the island.
Still, I am glad that I saw it all.
Tom Kerrigan and I started our trek to the southern end of Okinawa later on the morning of 21 July. In 1969, Okinawa was still under American military government dating from 1945. The greenback was legal tender. The major American presence was in the center of the island.
We hired a cab and told the driver where we wanted to go. He shook his head and off we went. As we drove south, the “modern” Okinawa began to quickly disappear. Small farms reminiscent of the villes in the Arizona took precedence. More rice paddies appeared and there were no towns to be seen.
We finally took a gravel road to a place where the driver let us off. All around us were stone monuments with Japanese writing. I looked at the road and saw that the gravel was crushed coral. Part of a human skull was buried under some of the coral.
We followed a path to the top of the cliff where we entered a veritable forest of monuments. The cliffs were well over 100 feet high, presenting a sheer drop to the ocean below.
In 1945, as the Japanese prepared for the invasion of Okinawa, they indoctrinated the local population to resist us to the death. Some will recall that it was at Okinawa that the kamikaze made its first major appearance. The civilians were being turned into a land-based kamikaze corps. They were told that if they were captured by or surrendered to the Americans, we would kill the men, rape and kille the women and cook and eat the children. It worked.
The Okinawa operation was truly a “Typhoon of Steel.” Casualties were some of the highest of any World War Two operation: the Japanese lost over 100,000 troops, and the Allies (mostly United States) suffered more than 50,000 casualties, including over 12,000 killed in action. Hundreds of thousands of civilians were killed, wounded or attempted suicide. Approximately one-fourth of the civilian population died due to the invasion.
As we closed in on the end of the last battle of WWII, huge numbers of civilians crowded behind the dwindling Japanese line. The Japanese commander, Lieutenant General Mitsuru Ushijima and his chief of staff, Lieutenant General Isamu Chō committed suicide and the Japanese troops launched final banzai charges. To the horror of American troops, whole families jumped from the cliffs rather than face capture. To this day, many Okinawans hate the Japanese for their callous abuse of the people of Okinawa in 1945. They still claim that they were ordered by the Japanese army to commit suicide.
It was this example that led many US commanders to the conclusion that an invasion of the Home Islands must be avoided if at all possible. Hiroshima and Nagasaki followed.
In 1969, not many Americans made the trip to the southern end of the island. It did not take Tom and me long to realize that we were not welcome. After walking a couple of miles, we found a cab and headed back to the center of the island.
Still, I am glad that I saw it all.
16 October 2009
THE AMAZIN’ METS OF 1969
I am going to jump ahead a little bit in my Vietnam chronicle because today marks the 40th anniversary of one of the most memorable World Series games of my lifetime—and I never saw it. The laughingstock New York Mets reached the 1969 World Series after only 7 years of existence. And 40 years ago, they won it all.
As a part of life at An Hoa, the officers of the unit responsible for part of the defensive of the perimeter, which stretched approximately 4 miles, were routinely assigned as Officer of the Day for their unit’s sector. 1/5 manned Alfa Sector on the southwest part of the line. There were a number of sand bagged 3-man bunkers on the line, manned by riflemen and machine gunners waiting for the nearly nightly probe of the line by VC and NVA sapper units. They spent the night looking out over barbed wire, a minefield, and other assorted barriers including foogas positions.
Foogas was simply napalm loaded in a 55 gallon drum. The drum was buried in the ground at about a 10 to 15 degree angle. A blasting cap was inserted and when the hell box was clicked, a great gout of jellied gasoline flamed outward, cooking anyone caught in its arc.
The OD’s post was a prefabricated wooden bunker covered with sandbags about 30 meters to the rear of the center of the line. It was about 10 feet square and had room for the OD, the Sergeant of the Guard, and a radio operator. There was another position manned by three Marines a few meters to the rear of the bunker, covering the approach to its door.
On the night of 16 October, I was OD. We had an FM radio in the bunker, tuned to AFVN (Armed Forces Radio Network Vietnam) and—courtesy of the international date line--were listening to the live broadcast of the Mets-Orioles game being played that afternoon in New York. The Mets held a three game to one lead in the Series.
In about the third inning, the world exploded in our adjacent sector. Echo Sector was manned by Battery E, 2/11. Sappers had gotten into their wire and began chucking satchel charges to blow holes in the wire. They wanted to destroy those 105mm cannon and they wanted to do it tonight. I headed out to the line, pulling one of the riflemen from the guard bunker to follow me.
My first job was to make sure that we manned positions that could fire into Echo Sector if necessary, to prevent the enemy from turning our flank. That meant spreading troops out and that took some time. There is a maxim in the Corps: “Every Marine a rifleman.” The troops on the line were not infantrymen. They were supply men and, cooks, truck drivers and clerks. But they were Marines and they were in the line. I spent some time moving from position to position, calming them down and making sure they were alert.
After a couple of hours, the “all clear” was sounded and I headed back for my bunker, anxious to hear how the game was going. As I entered, all I could hear was a terrible “static.”
“Aw, damn, what happened,” I asked? “Did we lose the signal?”
“Nosir, that ain’t static. Lieutenant, you ain’t gonna believe this, but the New York [universal modifier] Mets just won the World [universal modifier] Series.” What I had mistaken for static was 50,000 crazed Mets fans screaming their lungs out!
Now, I am a life-long Cardinals fan, and since that improbable season in 1993 when a group of happy misfits gave us a summer of joy, I have learned to love the Phillies. In both cities, the Mets are the enemy. I confess that I take joy from every Met loss.
But here’s to the Amazing Mets, the boys of summer of 1969. Bless ‘em all.
As a part of life at An Hoa, the officers of the unit responsible for part of the defensive of the perimeter, which stretched approximately 4 miles, were routinely assigned as Officer of the Day for their unit’s sector. 1/5 manned Alfa Sector on the southwest part of the line. There were a number of sand bagged 3-man bunkers on the line, manned by riflemen and machine gunners waiting for the nearly nightly probe of the line by VC and NVA sapper units. They spent the night looking out over barbed wire, a minefield, and other assorted barriers including foogas positions.
Foogas was simply napalm loaded in a 55 gallon drum. The drum was buried in the ground at about a 10 to 15 degree angle. A blasting cap was inserted and when the hell box was clicked, a great gout of jellied gasoline flamed outward, cooking anyone caught in its arc.
The OD’s post was a prefabricated wooden bunker covered with sandbags about 30 meters to the rear of the center of the line. It was about 10 feet square and had room for the OD, the Sergeant of the Guard, and a radio operator. There was another position manned by three Marines a few meters to the rear of the bunker, covering the approach to its door.
On the night of 16 October, I was OD. We had an FM radio in the bunker, tuned to AFVN (Armed Forces Radio Network Vietnam) and—courtesy of the international date line--were listening to the live broadcast of the Mets-Orioles game being played that afternoon in New York. The Mets held a three game to one lead in the Series.
In about the third inning, the world exploded in our adjacent sector. Echo Sector was manned by Battery E, 2/11. Sappers had gotten into their wire and began chucking satchel charges to blow holes in the wire. They wanted to destroy those 105mm cannon and they wanted to do it tonight. I headed out to the line, pulling one of the riflemen from the guard bunker to follow me.
My first job was to make sure that we manned positions that could fire into Echo Sector if necessary, to prevent the enemy from turning our flank. That meant spreading troops out and that took some time. There is a maxim in the Corps: “Every Marine a rifleman.” The troops on the line were not infantrymen. They were supply men and, cooks, truck drivers and clerks. But they were Marines and they were in the line. I spent some time moving from position to position, calming them down and making sure they were alert.
After a couple of hours, the “all clear” was sounded and I headed back for my bunker, anxious to hear how the game was going. As I entered, all I could hear was a terrible “static.”
“Aw, damn, what happened,” I asked? “Did we lose the signal?”
“Nosir, that ain’t static. Lieutenant, you ain’t gonna believe this, but the New York [universal modifier] Mets just won the World [universal modifier] Series.” What I had mistaken for static was 50,000 crazed Mets fans screaming their lungs out!
Now, I am a life-long Cardinals fan, and since that improbable season in 1993 when a group of happy misfits gave us a summer of joy, I have learned to love the Phillies. In both cities, the Mets are the enemy. I confess that I take joy from every Met loss.
But here’s to the Amazing Mets, the boys of summer of 1969. Bless ‘em all.
14 October 2009
REMF
When last we revisited my little part of Vietnam in 1969, I had just been pulled out of the bush and sent back to An Hoa to become Executive Officer (XO) of Charlie Company. I settled in to the routine of life on the combat base. To the troops in the field, we were known as REMF’s: “rear echelon…., well, you get the picture. For the first time in months, I could shower daily—if you got to the shower point when it opened at 1900 (7pm) and if had been a sunny day, the water was hot while it came out of the above-ground storage tank.
The worst part of being in An Hoa was that it was a fixed target. We were rocketed or mortared nearly daily. You never left your bunker without a flak jacket, helmet, rifle, and gas mask. There were nights in the monsoon season when we went to the shower point buck naked, except for our flak jackets, helmets, rifles and knee waders. The mud was that deep.
I was assigned a couple of JAG Manual investigations into missing equipment and First Sergeant Lee kept up my reading assignments, including the Marine Corps Correspondence Manual, the Assignment, Classification and Testing Manual (ACTS Manual), and other administrative publications. In later years of my career, this early introduction to administrative procedures stood me in good stead.
After about 10 days, the Battalion XO informed me that I was being sent to Okinawa for 30 days to attend Embarkation School, after which, I would become the S-4 of the Battalion. I was stunned. The S-4 was a Captain’s billet. He is the staff officer responsible for logistics: communications, supply, motor transport, medical, and embarkation. But there it was.
I went to Danang on the 25th of June and caught a C-130 to Okinawa the next morning. As I was running for the chopper to Danang, it off-loaded a couple of Charlie Company troops coming in from the Arizonza.
“Everything OK with the Company,” I asked?
“Yessir, but Bravo 6 was KIA last night.” Damn! Captain Castagnetti. But by now, I had learned to compartmentalize death.
It was as if I had been teleported to a strange world. I had changed. The first shock was being required to turn in my weapon at the battalion armory. I had been armed with a loaded weapon never further than I could reach for over 7 months. I felt naked and exposed.
At Kadena AFB, I caught a shuttle bus to Camp Hansen, the pre-war home of the 9th Marines. We had passed through in December, but now I was not a transient. Schools Battalion checked me in and I was assigned a room in the Bachelor Officers Quarters (BOQ). For the next month or so, I would have a real bed, a desk, reading lamp, chair, and I would share a head with one other officer. I was livin’ in tall cotton!
The next morning, I heard someone in the shower. After he left the head, I showered with unlimited hot water (my 5th shower in 18 hours).
As I was dressing, there was a knock at the door. It turned out that my roommate was Tom Kerrigan, a classmate from TBS. We soon learned that Chris Rodatz and Pat Murphy from our class were also in Embark School.
That afternoon, when I returned to my room, I heard the toilet flush in the head. It flushed again…and again…and again…and……
“Hey, Tommy. You OK?”
The door opened. Tom flushed the commode again. “Oh, damn, Mac. Will you look at that?” As I said, a strange new world.
The school was interesting—sort of an accounting course: debit the beach and credit the ship. We learned the storage capacity and characteristics of various classes of amphibious shipping, how to prepare a detailed loading plan, and were introduced to the new computerized loading system with its 80 column pads and punch card decks. For those of you younger than 30, we were using the computer version of a slate board.
Friday nights were special. We usually went to the Iha Castle Hotel out in town for dinner. The Iha Castle was built by Continental and Pa Am airlines as billeting for their crews that were taking troops to and from Vietnam. The restaurant had a great surf and turf dinner on Friday for $2.50. The best part was the 40 foot salad bar. Every vegetable you can imagine--there were nights when I never got to the surf and turf.
We had Saturdays and Sundays off, but Kin Blue Beach was within walking distance and Kerrigan and I spent long hours there sunning. Since May, I had had a festering sore on my left ankle. Doc had prescribed Bacitracin, but the darn thing stayed ugly. There was no way to keep it clean. By July, it was a jellied white.
In Oki, I took a couple of showers a day, and the salt water soaks seemed to help. Finally, a little piece of shrapnel worked its way out of the sore and after that, it started to heal. By September, all I had was a scar.
On Monday morning, 17 July, we started our final exam. We had to prepare a complete loading plan for a ship, using the Operation Order as our guide. The instructors told us that we had until 1630 on Friday to finish, but we could turn our plans in whenever we were done. Kerrigan and I wanted to visit the southern tip of the island to see Suicide Cliffs, so we decided to work so as to have Friday off.
I worked from 0800 to about 2300 each day. By Thursday evening at 2100, I was almost done. Then I realized that I could not account for one 3 cubic foot box. It took me another 4 hours and a revision of my load to fix it. The problem with a two dimensional plan for loading a three dimensional ship is that, on paper, you can stack boxes higher than the overhead in the compartment in which they are stowed. That’s what I had done. At 0100, I went to bed.
At 0500, I got up and headed over to the Officers Club to watch a miracle happen. The Club was jammed. Neal Armstrong walked on the Moon. Then we all went back to bed.
The next week’s classes were pro forma. I was honor grad, the only officer to have a completely workable plan.
A few nights later, we were back at Kadena, anxious to get back to Vietnam before midnight on 31 July.
“Huh,” you say?
One small advantage to being in Vietnam was that Congress saw fit to make our pay exempt from Federal income taxation for any month or part of a month spent within the confines of the “combat zone.” By getting into Country before midnight on the 31st, even if by only 5 minutes, July’s pay was tax free. We made it by three hours.
The next morning, I got a ride to 5th Marines (Rear) at 11th Motor transport Battalion and caught a chopper ride back to An Hoa. From the LZ, I trudged back up to the 1/5 BOQ tent. As I started up the steps, the screen door opened and I damn near fainted. There stood Gino Castagnetti.
“What’s the matter, Mac,” he asked?
“You’re dead, Sir. They told me.”
“Sorry, young lieutenant, but it just ain’t so. C’mon in and take a load off.”
Ah, the fog of war. And I was back in the middle of it.
The worst part of being in An Hoa was that it was a fixed target. We were rocketed or mortared nearly daily. You never left your bunker without a flak jacket, helmet, rifle, and gas mask. There were nights in the monsoon season when we went to the shower point buck naked, except for our flak jackets, helmets, rifles and knee waders. The mud was that deep.
I was assigned a couple of JAG Manual investigations into missing equipment and First Sergeant Lee kept up my reading assignments, including the Marine Corps Correspondence Manual, the Assignment, Classification and Testing Manual (ACTS Manual), and other administrative publications. In later years of my career, this early introduction to administrative procedures stood me in good stead.
After about 10 days, the Battalion XO informed me that I was being sent to Okinawa for 30 days to attend Embarkation School, after which, I would become the S-4 of the Battalion. I was stunned. The S-4 was a Captain’s billet. He is the staff officer responsible for logistics: communications, supply, motor transport, medical, and embarkation. But there it was.
I went to Danang on the 25th of June and caught a C-130 to Okinawa the next morning. As I was running for the chopper to Danang, it off-loaded a couple of Charlie Company troops coming in from the Arizonza.
“Everything OK with the Company,” I asked?
“Yessir, but Bravo 6 was KIA last night.” Damn! Captain Castagnetti. But by now, I had learned to compartmentalize death.
It was as if I had been teleported to a strange world. I had changed. The first shock was being required to turn in my weapon at the battalion armory. I had been armed with a loaded weapon never further than I could reach for over 7 months. I felt naked and exposed.
At Kadena AFB, I caught a shuttle bus to Camp Hansen, the pre-war home of the 9th Marines. We had passed through in December, but now I was not a transient. Schools Battalion checked me in and I was assigned a room in the Bachelor Officers Quarters (BOQ). For the next month or so, I would have a real bed, a desk, reading lamp, chair, and I would share a head with one other officer. I was livin’ in tall cotton!
The next morning, I heard someone in the shower. After he left the head, I showered with unlimited hot water (my 5th shower in 18 hours).
As I was dressing, there was a knock at the door. It turned out that my roommate was Tom Kerrigan, a classmate from TBS. We soon learned that Chris Rodatz and Pat Murphy from our class were also in Embark School.
That afternoon, when I returned to my room, I heard the toilet flush in the head. It flushed again…and again…and again…and……
“Hey, Tommy. You OK?”
The door opened. Tom flushed the commode again. “Oh, damn, Mac. Will you look at that?” As I said, a strange new world.
The school was interesting—sort of an accounting course: debit the beach and credit the ship. We learned the storage capacity and characteristics of various classes of amphibious shipping, how to prepare a detailed loading plan, and were introduced to the new computerized loading system with its 80 column pads and punch card decks. For those of you younger than 30, we were using the computer version of a slate board.
Friday nights were special. We usually went to the Iha Castle Hotel out in town for dinner. The Iha Castle was built by Continental and Pa Am airlines as billeting for their crews that were taking troops to and from Vietnam. The restaurant had a great surf and turf dinner on Friday for $2.50. The best part was the 40 foot salad bar. Every vegetable you can imagine--there were nights when I never got to the surf and turf.
We had Saturdays and Sundays off, but Kin Blue Beach was within walking distance and Kerrigan and I spent long hours there sunning. Since May, I had had a festering sore on my left ankle. Doc had prescribed Bacitracin, but the darn thing stayed ugly. There was no way to keep it clean. By July, it was a jellied white.
In Oki, I took a couple of showers a day, and the salt water soaks seemed to help. Finally, a little piece of shrapnel worked its way out of the sore and after that, it started to heal. By September, all I had was a scar.
On Monday morning, 17 July, we started our final exam. We had to prepare a complete loading plan for a ship, using the Operation Order as our guide. The instructors told us that we had until 1630 on Friday to finish, but we could turn our plans in whenever we were done. Kerrigan and I wanted to visit the southern tip of the island to see Suicide Cliffs, so we decided to work so as to have Friday off.
I worked from 0800 to about 2300 each day. By Thursday evening at 2100, I was almost done. Then I realized that I could not account for one 3 cubic foot box. It took me another 4 hours and a revision of my load to fix it. The problem with a two dimensional plan for loading a three dimensional ship is that, on paper, you can stack boxes higher than the overhead in the compartment in which they are stowed. That’s what I had done. At 0100, I went to bed.
At 0500, I got up and headed over to the Officers Club to watch a miracle happen. The Club was jammed. Neal Armstrong walked on the Moon. Then we all went back to bed.
The next week’s classes were pro forma. I was honor grad, the only officer to have a completely workable plan.
A few nights later, we were back at Kadena, anxious to get back to Vietnam before midnight on 31 July.
“Huh,” you say?
One small advantage to being in Vietnam was that Congress saw fit to make our pay exempt from Federal income taxation for any month or part of a month spent within the confines of the “combat zone.” By getting into Country before midnight on the 31st, even if by only 5 minutes, July’s pay was tax free. We made it by three hours.
The next morning, I got a ride to 5th Marines (Rear) at 11th Motor transport Battalion and caught a chopper ride back to An Hoa. From the LZ, I trudged back up to the 1/5 BOQ tent. As I started up the steps, the screen door opened and I damn near fainted. There stood Gino Castagnetti.
“What’s the matter, Mac,” he asked?
“You’re dead, Sir. They told me.”
“Sorry, young lieutenant, but it just ain’t so. C’mon in and take a load off.”
Ah, the fog of war. And I was back in the middle of it.
11 July 2009
FIRST SERGEANT LEE
The flight to An Hoa lasted about 10 minutes. The LZ was on the south end of the runway. As I left the bird, a Marine directed me to the Ops bunker.
From there, I began my trek into the maze that was the combat base. There were rows upon rows of strongback tents, wooden frames designed to fit the standard General Purpose tent. They were built on stilts approximately 4 feet above the ground—a necessity to allow air flow, drainage during the wet season, and rodent control. The side walls were 8 feet high—the bottom four feet were plywood and the top four feet were screened. Three or four light bulbs provided lighting. A boardwalk of pallets connected the strong backs to dirt roads that ran through the combat base.
Strong backs were used for billeting and for offices. Other offices were in prefabricated bunkers. A frame made of 12 x12 supports that were 12 feet by 20 feet, and then walled and ceilinged with 2 x 12 boards. The floor was three-quarter inch plywood. Once set in place, the bunker would be sand-bagged. The S-4 bunker had approximately 25,000 sandbags for protection: walls were 6 sandbags deep, from the ground to the roof level. Three layers of sandbags were placed on the roof, then a layer of steel runway matting followed by three more layers of sandbags, another layer of matting and a final three layers of sandbags.
Charlie Company’s office was in a strong back on the battalion street, three rows down from the main supply route (Main Street An Hoa.) Office furniture was field desks and camp stools. A field desk was a 4 x 4 x 4 “suitcase.” One side could be removed and attached to the box (that contained drawers) to form a desk.
As you entered the office, the First Sergeant’s desk was on the left. In front of the desk, he had had the troops paint a pair of yellow (properly, “gold,” because as one of our Jodie chants says, “Marine Corps colors are scarlet and gold…”, but we’ll go with yellow) footprints. Any graduate of MCRD Parris Island or MCRD San Diego will know the purpose of those footprints. They are a recruit’s first sight at a Recruit Depot.
As a new recruit leaves the bus, he or she is herded to rows of yellow footprints, heels together and feet at a 45 degree angle, the first position of “Attention.” And that is what the First Sergeant had in mind.
As I entered the office, First Sergeant Lee was hunched over the desk, signing the Skipper’s signature to the Unit Diary, then the principal daily personnel document in the Marine Corps. I entered and positioned myself on the footprints. “Just a minute, Marine,” the First Sergeant growled without looking up. “Be with you in a minute.” A couple of the clerks were grinning ear-to-ear.
As he finished the Diary, he yelled “Brown, get this over to S-1.”
PFC Brown took it and “got.”
“Now, Marine, what can I do. . . my Gawd in heaven, Lieutenant, just look at you!”
He was looking at a 6’2” Marine who weighed 118 pounds (down from 171 in December). My helmet cover was faded, muddy, and covered with the black print of my “zap number” (M6086), blood type, and my short-timer’s calendar. My flak jacket was faded, ripped, and most of the plates were bunched over my right kidney. My towel was around my neck, and under my flak jacket I wore the faded green T shirt I had worn since 23 December. My rifle was clean, but my utility trousers were still wet and muddy to the knees and my jungle boots were muddy.
“Morning, First Sergeant.” [The Army calls the unit First Sergeant the “top kick” or “top” for short. No good Marine First Sergeant will tolerate that. “A ‘top’ is a goddam kid’s toy! I’m the First Sergeant!”]
“Well, damn, Lieutenant. You are a sight! Johnson, scoot down to Supply and get the Lieutenant a clean set of dungarees.”
“Which Johnson, First Sergeant? Light green Johnson or dark green Johnson?”
First Sergeant Lee had about 21 years in the Corps. He was one of those pioneers who had entered the Marine Corps at about the time that President Truman had issued the Executive Order which desegregated the Armed Forces.
Serving with Marines such as Sergeant Major Edgar Huff (the first black Sergeant Major in the Marine Corps) and Sergeant Major Gilbert H. “Hashmark” Johnson as mentors and role models, First Sergeant Robert E. Lee was one of those giants who helped mold both the modern Marine Corps and the America we know today. (“Giant,” you ask? Well Hashmark Johnson served in two wars, three branches of service, and for 32 years, half of which were in a segregated Armed Forces. Two years after his death from a heart attack, the Montford Point facility at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, which had been the segregated “black boot camp” during WWII, was renamed Camp Gilbert H. Johnson, the first military installation to be named after an African-American. I’d say that qualifies for “Giant.”)
And First Sergeant Lee’s first maxim was “I ain’t got ‘black Marines’ or ‘white Marines.’ All I have are ‘green Marines.’”
But I digress. “Light green” Johnson took off.
“Thompson, you get over to the shower point and tell them the Lieutenant will be there in five minutes.” He shook his head. “Now, Sir, let’s get you squared away.”
Within an hour, I was showered and shaved (cold water, but who cared), had new, clean clothes and had had my first real meal in over a month. (There was a huge sign on the mess hall bunker—in scarlet and gold, naturally—listing the hours of operation, followed in large letters by “MARINES IN FROM THE FIELD—ANY TIME.”)
I returned to the office, ready to get to work. “What should I do, First Sergeant,” I asked?
“Well, Sir. Why don’t you go over to the BOQ tent (Bachelor Officers’ Quarters) and take a nap? Maybe write a letter home?” [Interpreted, he was saying “Everything is under control. Don’t try to fix what ain’t broke.”]
Hmmmmm. Not a bad idea.
The only other officer in the BOQ was Lieutenant Jim Webb, a platoon commander in Delta Company. We introduced ourselves and settled in for the afternoon. I explored the Q, noting many jagged shrapnel holes which were circled and dated—reminders of rocket and mortar attacks on An Hoa. Suddenly, I missed my nice safe hole out in the Arizona.
What would tomorrow bring?
From there, I began my trek into the maze that was the combat base. There were rows upon rows of strongback tents, wooden frames designed to fit the standard General Purpose tent. They were built on stilts approximately 4 feet above the ground—a necessity to allow air flow, drainage during the wet season, and rodent control. The side walls were 8 feet high—the bottom four feet were plywood and the top four feet were screened. Three or four light bulbs provided lighting. A boardwalk of pallets connected the strong backs to dirt roads that ran through the combat base.
Strong backs were used for billeting and for offices. Other offices were in prefabricated bunkers. A frame made of 12 x12 supports that were 12 feet by 20 feet, and then walled and ceilinged with 2 x 12 boards. The floor was three-quarter inch plywood. Once set in place, the bunker would be sand-bagged. The S-4 bunker had approximately 25,000 sandbags for protection: walls were 6 sandbags deep, from the ground to the roof level. Three layers of sandbags were placed on the roof, then a layer of steel runway matting followed by three more layers of sandbags, another layer of matting and a final three layers of sandbags.
Charlie Company’s office was in a strong back on the battalion street, three rows down from the main supply route (Main Street An Hoa.) Office furniture was field desks and camp stools. A field desk was a 4 x 4 x 4 “suitcase.” One side could be removed and attached to the box (that contained drawers) to form a desk.
As you entered the office, the First Sergeant’s desk was on the left. In front of the desk, he had had the troops paint a pair of yellow (properly, “gold,” because as one of our Jodie chants says, “Marine Corps colors are scarlet and gold…”, but we’ll go with yellow) footprints. Any graduate of MCRD Parris Island or MCRD San Diego will know the purpose of those footprints. They are a recruit’s first sight at a Recruit Depot.
As a new recruit leaves the bus, he or she is herded to rows of yellow footprints, heels together and feet at a 45 degree angle, the first position of “Attention.” And that is what the First Sergeant had in mind.
As I entered the office, First Sergeant Lee was hunched over the desk, signing the Skipper’s signature to the Unit Diary, then the principal daily personnel document in the Marine Corps. I entered and positioned myself on the footprints. “Just a minute, Marine,” the First Sergeant growled without looking up. “Be with you in a minute.” A couple of the clerks were grinning ear-to-ear.
As he finished the Diary, he yelled “Brown, get this over to S-1.”
PFC Brown took it and “got.”
“Now, Marine, what can I do. . . my Gawd in heaven, Lieutenant, just look at you!”
He was looking at a 6’2” Marine who weighed 118 pounds (down from 171 in December). My helmet cover was faded, muddy, and covered with the black print of my “zap number” (M6086), blood type, and my short-timer’s calendar. My flak jacket was faded, ripped, and most of the plates were bunched over my right kidney. My towel was around my neck, and under my flak jacket I wore the faded green T shirt I had worn since 23 December. My rifle was clean, but my utility trousers were still wet and muddy to the knees and my jungle boots were muddy.
“Morning, First Sergeant.” [The Army calls the unit First Sergeant the “top kick” or “top” for short. No good Marine First Sergeant will tolerate that. “A ‘top’ is a goddam kid’s toy! I’m the First Sergeant!”]
“Well, damn, Lieutenant. You are a sight! Johnson, scoot down to Supply and get the Lieutenant a clean set of dungarees.”
“Which Johnson, First Sergeant? Light green Johnson or dark green Johnson?”
First Sergeant Lee had about 21 years in the Corps. He was one of those pioneers who had entered the Marine Corps at about the time that President Truman had issued the Executive Order which desegregated the Armed Forces.
Serving with Marines such as Sergeant Major Edgar Huff (the first black Sergeant Major in the Marine Corps) and Sergeant Major Gilbert H. “Hashmark” Johnson as mentors and role models, First Sergeant Robert E. Lee was one of those giants who helped mold both the modern Marine Corps and the America we know today. (“Giant,” you ask? Well Hashmark Johnson served in two wars, three branches of service, and for 32 years, half of which were in a segregated Armed Forces. Two years after his death from a heart attack, the Montford Point facility at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, which had been the segregated “black boot camp” during WWII, was renamed Camp Gilbert H. Johnson, the first military installation to be named after an African-American. I’d say that qualifies for “Giant.”)
And First Sergeant Lee’s first maxim was “I ain’t got ‘black Marines’ or ‘white Marines.’ All I have are ‘green Marines.’”
But I digress. “Light green” Johnson took off.
“Thompson, you get over to the shower point and tell them the Lieutenant will be there in five minutes.” He shook his head. “Now, Sir, let’s get you squared away.”
Within an hour, I was showered and shaved (cold water, but who cared), had new, clean clothes and had had my first real meal in over a month. (There was a huge sign on the mess hall bunker—in scarlet and gold, naturally—listing the hours of operation, followed in large letters by “MARINES IN FROM THE FIELD—ANY TIME.”)
I returned to the office, ready to get to work. “What should I do, First Sergeant,” I asked?
“Well, Sir. Why don’t you go over to the BOQ tent (Bachelor Officers’ Quarters) and take a nap? Maybe write a letter home?” [Interpreted, he was saying “Everything is under control. Don’t try to fix what ain’t broke.”]
Hmmmmm. Not a bad idea.
The only other officer in the BOQ was Lieutenant Jim Webb, a platoon commander in Delta Company. We introduced ourselves and settled in for the afternoon. I explored the Q, noting many jagged shrapnel holes which were circled and dated—reminders of rocket and mortar attacks on An Hoa. Suddenly, I missed my nice safe hole out in the Arizona.
What would tomorrow bring?
08 July 2009
LEAVING HEARTH AND HOME
The night was quiet and uneventful. The next morning, we moved out to establish a company patrol base. It was the first time since Monday (four days and four centuries ago) that we had not been in a battalion position.
We headed back to “The Hot Dog,” a small hill so named because of its shape on the map. Like the shepherds of the ancient days, we had plenty of time to look at our surroundings. The ancients looked at the night sky. We looked at the ground—physically and on our maps. Shapes leaped out and we named the ground: “Battleship” and “Rock Pile” and “The Hot Dog.”
Charlie 3 drew the night ambush, with a late afternoon patrol en route. Our patrol intentionally took us through the impact area of the Arc Light. It was unbelievable.
Imagine if you will the Paul Bunyan and Babe, the Great Blue Ox had gone to Vietnam. The ground looked as if Paul and Babe had pulled some gigantic plow through a field 900 meters wide by nearly 3 clicks long. Trees were mangled and reduced to kindling. What was left of one village revealed that the hooches had been interconnected by a tunnel system. We found body parts and pieces of AK-47s and a couple of RPD machine guns. We also found a couple of caches of B-40 rocket launchers and rounds, all of which revealed that the NVA had been using the ville as a base or supply depot.
We proceeded on to our night ambush site and set in for what was another uneventful evening. What was left of the 90th NVA Regiment and its VC cadre had apparently withdrawn back into the mountains to lick its wounds. At first light, we moved to a new position about 800 meters from the Hot Dog and secured it for the rest of the company.
From our position, we watched a CH-46 fly to the Hot Dog to resupply the Company. A couple of hours later, the Company moved to our new position. After we linked up, Frank called me to the CP.
“Your relief is in.” He signaled another officer who was in the CP and introduced us. “Take today to snap him in. You’ll go back to An Hoa on tomorrow’s resupply bird.”
I knew that Jerry Ayers had gone back to Regiment to the 3 Shop (Operations) the day before, meaning that I was the last of our class that had reported in December who was still commanding a platoon. I guess the powers that be decided I need a little extra time to get it straight!
My relief was an officer who had done a year in the Second Marine Division at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina before coming to Vietnam. He was eager to take over, and I was cautious about putting my Marines into unknown hands. Throughout the day, I learned that one of his favorite expressions was a variant of “That’s not the way we did it at Camp Lejeune.”
Another quiet night ensued. I told Frank that I would lead Charlie 3 on the morning security patrol, taking the new guy for an orientation. He agreed, but told me to get back by 1030.
We headed out at our usual pace. The troops picked up an interval of 10 to 20 meters between men, and set a slow, cautious pace. Before each checkpoint, I would examine the area through binoculars and then usually, work the area over with a 60mm mortar fire mission.
When I offered to let him adjust one of the mortar fire missions, my relief was hesitant. “Doesn’t the FO (artillery forward observer) do that,” he asked?
I was amazed and a little unsettled--I had called and adjusted about 250 artillery and mortar fire missions and air strikes in the past six months. How would this guy think that he could just let the FO, who was in the Company CP, try to call a fire mission for a patrol several hundred or several thousand meters away. And what would he think when a Lance Corporal squad leader called a fire mission?
[At Camp Lejeune the next year, I discovered the basis for his assumption. In an exercise, I began to call for an artillery fire mission. Our FO from the 10th Marines was aghast.
"What do you think you are doing," he asked? "I'm the FO, I'm the graduate of the Artillery School (at Fort Sill, Oklahoma). If you haven't been through Fort Sill, how can you possibly call and adjust artillery fire?"
He was a second lieutenant who, because of President Nixon's "vietnamization" wind down, would never make it to Vietnam. He seemed to think that calling and adjusting artillery was some arcane practice known only to those admitted to the Guild and taught the magic words and phrases. Naturally, the First Lieutenant infantry officers who were commanding rifle platoons (many of whom had commanded rifle companies) in combat were amused at such presumption. We soon put these poor clowns in their place.]
Back on patrol, I simply told my relief that it was all his now--artillery and mortar support, air, medevacs, the whole megilla-- and had him call every fire mission for the rest of the patrol. Part of his hesitance, I discovered, was that he was having a hard time reading the map. As I mentioned before, the Arizona was really flat, and figuring where you were could be dicey. We worked on that, too.
Once we reached each checkpoint, I would stop to take a hard look at our route to the next check point. That gave me an opportunity to let half the platoon get a nap of 20 minutes or so. My relief was getting antsy because our pace was "too slow," definitely not the way things were done at Camp Lejeune. Finally, I pulled him aside.
“Listen up, jack! Two nights ago, this company was up to its ass in gooks. They may still be out here, and if they are, they don’t like us very much. There is nothing at the next checkpoint that requires us to get there in record time. Do it right and we get a prize—we accomplish our assigned mission and everybody gets back to the company in one piece. Oh, and by the way, in case you haven’t noticed, we are not in Camp [universal modifier] Lejeune. Now just calm down, listen and learn, and everything will be OK. Got it?”
He nodded and we had a nice quiet patrol from there on out.
When we got back to the CP, we reported to the Skipper for a quick change of command.
“OK, XO," Frank grinned, "grab your trash and get ready to go. The resupply bird should be here in about half an hour.” It was the first time that I realized that I was now the second-in-command for real. My mind returned briefly to a hot Company Street at Camp Upshur, three years and a lifetime ago. I was actually that exalted personage--the XO.
I hurried down to Third Herd. Gibby had my pack made up. I went from Marine to Marine to say goodbye and to wish them luck. I pulled Levi and Henson aside to ask them to take good care of the new Lieutenant. Bob Henson just smiled, handed me a last cup of C-rat coffee, and we shook hands.
Levi chuckled. “Yessir, I heard your little chat. Don’t worry, Sir. If I could train your sorry ass, I guess I can train anybody.” He grinned and we shook hands.
At least I knew that I was leaving Charlie 3 in the hands of two solid Marines. Bob was nearly 20 and Levi was nearly 21. Dear God, we thank You for men such as these.
The resupply bird whop-whop-whopped in, dropped the net and then settled to ground. I hustled up to the CP and said goodbye to Frank. Violating one of the rules of the bush, we exchanged salutes and then I grabbed my gear and ran for the bird, still wet and muddy from the patrol.
As we lifted off, I noticed how small a company perimeter really was. I felt as if I was leaving my family and our little home.
We headed back to “The Hot Dog,” a small hill so named because of its shape on the map. Like the shepherds of the ancient days, we had plenty of time to look at our surroundings. The ancients looked at the night sky. We looked at the ground—physically and on our maps. Shapes leaped out and we named the ground: “Battleship” and “Rock Pile” and “The Hot Dog.”
Charlie 3 drew the night ambush, with a late afternoon patrol en route. Our patrol intentionally took us through the impact area of the Arc Light. It was unbelievable.
Imagine if you will the Paul Bunyan and Babe, the Great Blue Ox had gone to Vietnam. The ground looked as if Paul and Babe had pulled some gigantic plow through a field 900 meters wide by nearly 3 clicks long. Trees were mangled and reduced to kindling. What was left of one village revealed that the hooches had been interconnected by a tunnel system. We found body parts and pieces of AK-47s and a couple of RPD machine guns. We also found a couple of caches of B-40 rocket launchers and rounds, all of which revealed that the NVA had been using the ville as a base or supply depot.
We proceeded on to our night ambush site and set in for what was another uneventful evening. What was left of the 90th NVA Regiment and its VC cadre had apparently withdrawn back into the mountains to lick its wounds. At first light, we moved to a new position about 800 meters from the Hot Dog and secured it for the rest of the company.
From our position, we watched a CH-46 fly to the Hot Dog to resupply the Company. A couple of hours later, the Company moved to our new position. After we linked up, Frank called me to the CP.
“Your relief is in.” He signaled another officer who was in the CP and introduced us. “Take today to snap him in. You’ll go back to An Hoa on tomorrow’s resupply bird.”
I knew that Jerry Ayers had gone back to Regiment to the 3 Shop (Operations) the day before, meaning that I was the last of our class that had reported in December who was still commanding a platoon. I guess the powers that be decided I need a little extra time to get it straight!
My relief was an officer who had done a year in the Second Marine Division at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina before coming to Vietnam. He was eager to take over, and I was cautious about putting my Marines into unknown hands. Throughout the day, I learned that one of his favorite expressions was a variant of “That’s not the way we did it at Camp Lejeune.”
Another quiet night ensued. I told Frank that I would lead Charlie 3 on the morning security patrol, taking the new guy for an orientation. He agreed, but told me to get back by 1030.
We headed out at our usual pace. The troops picked up an interval of 10 to 20 meters between men, and set a slow, cautious pace. Before each checkpoint, I would examine the area through binoculars and then usually, work the area over with a 60mm mortar fire mission.
When I offered to let him adjust one of the mortar fire missions, my relief was hesitant. “Doesn’t the FO (artillery forward observer) do that,” he asked?
I was amazed and a little unsettled--I had called and adjusted about 250 artillery and mortar fire missions and air strikes in the past six months. How would this guy think that he could just let the FO, who was in the Company CP, try to call a fire mission for a patrol several hundred or several thousand meters away. And what would he think when a Lance Corporal squad leader called a fire mission?
[At Camp Lejeune the next year, I discovered the basis for his assumption. In an exercise, I began to call for an artillery fire mission. Our FO from the 10th Marines was aghast.
"What do you think you are doing," he asked? "I'm the FO, I'm the graduate of the Artillery School (at Fort Sill, Oklahoma). If you haven't been through Fort Sill, how can you possibly call and adjust artillery fire?"
He was a second lieutenant who, because of President Nixon's "vietnamization" wind down, would never make it to Vietnam. He seemed to think that calling and adjusting artillery was some arcane practice known only to those admitted to the Guild and taught the magic words and phrases. Naturally, the First Lieutenant infantry officers who were commanding rifle platoons (many of whom had commanded rifle companies) in combat were amused at such presumption. We soon put these poor clowns in their place.]
Back on patrol, I simply told my relief that it was all his now--artillery and mortar support, air, medevacs, the whole megilla-- and had him call every fire mission for the rest of the patrol. Part of his hesitance, I discovered, was that he was having a hard time reading the map. As I mentioned before, the Arizona was really flat, and figuring where you were could be dicey. We worked on that, too.
Once we reached each checkpoint, I would stop to take a hard look at our route to the next check point. That gave me an opportunity to let half the platoon get a nap of 20 minutes or so. My relief was getting antsy because our pace was "too slow," definitely not the way things were done at Camp Lejeune. Finally, I pulled him aside.
“Listen up, jack! Two nights ago, this company was up to its ass in gooks. They may still be out here, and if they are, they don’t like us very much. There is nothing at the next checkpoint that requires us to get there in record time. Do it right and we get a prize—we accomplish our assigned mission and everybody gets back to the company in one piece. Oh, and by the way, in case you haven’t noticed, we are not in Camp [universal modifier] Lejeune. Now just calm down, listen and learn, and everything will be OK. Got it?”
He nodded and we had a nice quiet patrol from there on out.
When we got back to the CP, we reported to the Skipper for a quick change of command.
“OK, XO," Frank grinned, "grab your trash and get ready to go. The resupply bird should be here in about half an hour.” It was the first time that I realized that I was now the second-in-command for real. My mind returned briefly to a hot Company Street at Camp Upshur, three years and a lifetime ago. I was actually that exalted personage--the XO.
I hurried down to Third Herd. Gibby had my pack made up. I went from Marine to Marine to say goodbye and to wish them luck. I pulled Levi and Henson aside to ask them to take good care of the new Lieutenant. Bob Henson just smiled, handed me a last cup of C-rat coffee, and we shook hands.
Levi chuckled. “Yessir, I heard your little chat. Don’t worry, Sir. If I could train your sorry ass, I guess I can train anybody.” He grinned and we shook hands.
At least I knew that I was leaving Charlie 3 in the hands of two solid Marines. Bob was nearly 20 and Levi was nearly 21. Dear God, we thank You for men such as these.
The resupply bird whop-whop-whopped in, dropped the net and then settled to ground. I hustled up to the CP and said goodbye to Frank. Violating one of the rules of the bush, we exchanged salutes and then I grabbed my gear and ran for the bird, still wet and muddy from the patrol.
As we lifted off, I noticed how small a company perimeter really was. I felt as if I was leaving my family and our little home.
06 July 2009
LEADERSHIP IN THE LITTLE THINGS
As we recovered from the night of June 10-11, 1969, morale was low. We had suffered two killed in action, and the strength of the NVA attack was unexpected. The medevac birds were in the zone by 0700, and knowing that our WIA were on their way to good medical care helped a little.
At about 0900, Frank ordered me to take a patrol to our east to see what was out there. We moved cautiously, out of tactical concern and simple physical exhaustion. About a click to the east, we found several rows of packs which looked as if the NVA had formed into a battalion formation of three ranks.
We spent time looking through the packs for intelligence materials and then I allowed the troops to look for souvenirs. Afterwards, we piled them up and used a couple of flare grenades to burn them. At about 1145, Frank called me on the radio and told me to make sure I was back in the lines by 1215.
We headed back across the paddies and entered the lines just as a CH-46 landed in the LZ. Marines in mess whites began to off-load vacuum cans and to set up a mess line. We later learned that at about 0830, Col. Riley had called the Battalion S-4 and ordered him to get a hot meal out for the troops. Now, that is not a lot of time, but the Four got it done.
The menu was steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, green peas, and white bread. The steaks were from canned “B” rations, but it was steak. Because we lived on C-rats, no one carried a mess kit, but that was no problem. We tore up C-rat cartons to use as plates and nearly everyone had a knife of some kind (bayonet, K-Bar, or some other form of sheath knife) and our plastic C-rat spoons. It was a messy meal—and the best I have ever eaten. Morale sky-rocketed.
I suppose many folks will think that I exaggerate. How could canned steaks do that? I guess you had to be there. These men had lived on the same monotonous menu for weeks. They had been in contact with the enemy for several days, and they had fought a monumental fight just hours before. Anything different was exciting. Col. Riley knew that and it was his leadership in the little things that mark him in my mind as one of the finest leaders I ever knew.
That evening we stayed in a battalion perimeter. At dusk, I was standing along the edge of my lines, just looking out into the paddy. Suddenly, to our southeast, the sky lit up in what appeared to be sustained yellow heat lightning. Suddenly there was a “swoosh-Swoosh-SWOOSH-THUD” about a foot to my right front. I looked down and saw a metal ball. I bent and touched it and jerked away. It was painfully hot.
At the same time, the ground shook and a rumble filled the air. I had just observed an Arc-Light.
Arc-Light was an Air Force tactic in which three B-52 bombers, flying in a trail formation, dropped their bomb-loads by radar from 25,000 to 30,000 feet. The bomb load per aircraft was 108 five hundred pound bombs. (That is 27 tons per aircraft, 81 tons per 3 ship mission.) The first time the folks in the impact area knew they were being targeted was when the first bomb detonated. An Arc Light strike could obliterate an area 1.2 miles long by .6 miles wide. It was awesome.
Had I stood but a foot forward and a foot to the right, it would have been lights out for me. And I didn’t give a damn!
At about 0900, Frank ordered me to take a patrol to our east to see what was out there. We moved cautiously, out of tactical concern and simple physical exhaustion. About a click to the east, we found several rows of packs which looked as if the NVA had formed into a battalion formation of three ranks.
We spent time looking through the packs for intelligence materials and then I allowed the troops to look for souvenirs. Afterwards, we piled them up and used a couple of flare grenades to burn them. At about 1145, Frank called me on the radio and told me to make sure I was back in the lines by 1215.
We headed back across the paddies and entered the lines just as a CH-46 landed in the LZ. Marines in mess whites began to off-load vacuum cans and to set up a mess line. We later learned that at about 0830, Col. Riley had called the Battalion S-4 and ordered him to get a hot meal out for the troops. Now, that is not a lot of time, but the Four got it done.
The menu was steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, green peas, and white bread. The steaks were from canned “B” rations, but it was steak. Because we lived on C-rats, no one carried a mess kit, but that was no problem. We tore up C-rat cartons to use as plates and nearly everyone had a knife of some kind (bayonet, K-Bar, or some other form of sheath knife) and our plastic C-rat spoons. It was a messy meal—and the best I have ever eaten. Morale sky-rocketed.
I suppose many folks will think that I exaggerate. How could canned steaks do that? I guess you had to be there. These men had lived on the same monotonous menu for weeks. They had been in contact with the enemy for several days, and they had fought a monumental fight just hours before. Anything different was exciting. Col. Riley knew that and it was his leadership in the little things that mark him in my mind as one of the finest leaders I ever knew.
That evening we stayed in a battalion perimeter. At dusk, I was standing along the edge of my lines, just looking out into the paddy. Suddenly, to our southeast, the sky lit up in what appeared to be sustained yellow heat lightning. Suddenly there was a “swoosh-Swoosh-SWOOSH-THUD” about a foot to my right front. I looked down and saw a metal ball. I bent and touched it and jerked away. It was painfully hot.
At the same time, the ground shook and a rumble filled the air. I had just observed an Arc-Light.
Arc-Light was an Air Force tactic in which three B-52 bombers, flying in a trail formation, dropped their bomb-loads by radar from 25,000 to 30,000 feet. The bomb load per aircraft was 108 five hundred pound bombs. (That is 27 tons per aircraft, 81 tons per 3 ship mission.) The first time the folks in the impact area knew they were being targeted was when the first bomb detonated. An Arc Light strike could obliterate an area 1.2 miles long by .6 miles wide. It was awesome.
Had I stood but a foot forward and a foot to the right, it would have been lights out for me. And I didn’t give a damn!
10 June 2009
THAT NIGHT
From Laundryman Charlie 3 romeo oscar: Check out my message on 6 June.
10 June 2009. Today, my heart and mind will spend the day back at An Bang (1).
10 June 1969. Dusk in the Arizona. We settled in for the night. When I checked lines at about 2200, we were still on 2 up, 1 down. The FNGs were nervous, as was to be expected, but my experienced Marines were steady.
Charlie 3 Bravo (Tonkyn) was to my left and 3 Alpha was about 10 meters to my front and slightly right. Our 60mm mortar section was about 20 meters to my left. The Skipper’s CP was behind me and to my right. Further down to my right, Charlie 1 was also settled in. Neal had a three man listening post about 75 meters in front of his lines.
Shortly after midnight, we were mortared, with no real effect. About 15 minutes later, there was an explosion to my right front. I heard Neal call the Skipper on the radio to report that he had lost contact with his LP. He asked permission to take a fire team forward to check them out. Frank denied that request. “Look, I may have just lost some Marines. I don’t need to lose you until we are sure what is going on. Both you and Charlie 3 check your lines and get back to me.”
I called Tonkyn who reported that he had checked his lines and all was secure. I could not raise 3 Alpha. I got out of my hole and moved up to the squad CP. There were 3 Marines in the position—the squad leader, PFC Wandro, and another Marine. All were asleep. The radio handset was in Wandro’s lap. I grabbed him, waking all three. “What the hell—sleeping on watch?”
He shook himself awake. “No sir. But…but.”
The rocket squad leader came sliding over from his hole about 3 meters to the left. “Can it,” I said. “You (pointing to the squad leader), check your lines to the right and get back to me. You (to the rocket squad leader), check things out to the left. And stay awake, dammit.”
The two squad leaders took off. The rocket squad leader walked perhaps 15 meters along the inside edge of the trench. I could see him bend over, as if to talk to someone. Suddenly, a stream of green tracers erupted from the trench. “Rockets” flew back and fell to the ground. Damn, I thought, he’s dead.
A minute later, we heard a scuffling sound to our left. “Don’t [universal modifier] shoot. It’s me.” The rocket squad leader flopped into the hole, breathing heavily. “Goddammit, Sir. There’s a bunch of [universal modifier] gooks in that trench.” No kidding. “I saw them crouching down, looking outboard. I thought they were the FNGs. I said ‘Are you dudes from Charlie 3?’ and they shot at me.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know, Sir. A whole damn pisspot full. . . . . Uh, at least 10.”
“OK, hold fast here. You’re in charge until the squad leader gets back.” I called the Skipper to report this disturbing news.
“Keep everybody in their holes. Anybody walking around is a sure target.”
“Uh, roger.” I passed that word to the three Marines and then, being the only Marine around who was above ground, I crawled back to my position. When I got there, Levi told me that as far as he could tell, we were being probed all along our front. He was huddled down, smoking a cigarette, which he held low in the hole, cupped in his hand. “Give me one of those,” I asked.
“You don’t smoke,” he replied.
“Well, this may be my last chance to try.” It was my first and last cigarette.
Meanwhile, over in Charlie 1, Neal had his hands full. I have heard him tell the story many times, but you really need to hear him tell it in his Georgia drawl.
As soon as the Skipper told Neal to hold fast, one of his Marines, Sam “Frags” Felton took off for the LP. Frags Felton is a gentle giant. He is a black Marine from Ohio, about 6’5”, wasp-waisted, a mountain of a man. When he got to the LP, all three Marines were wounded. He grabbed two and carried them back into our lines. Neal begins:
“So, here’s this big black man with two white boys, one under each arm. He lays them down and says ‘Here’s two of them, Sir. I’ve got to get the other one.’” Frags dashed outside the lines again. He picked up the last man, destroyed the radio, and headed back. Two NVA popped up in front of him. One shot him, but he killed both NVA with his rifle, and then limped back into our lines. He remained at his post until evacuated the next morning. You can read his Navy Cross citation here (scroll down).
It seemed as if the NVA were particularly heavy to our left front. There were repeated blasts as grenades were thrown to our front. The Colonel came up on our company tac net for a situation report. The rocket squad leader was still handling first squad.
I learned the next morning that the 3 Alpha was between holes, checking lines, when a chicom went off at his feet, knocking him out, but doing little other harm. He did, however, lose his rifle. When he regained consciousness, an NVA was hiding behind his “body,” using it as a rifle rest. Finally, when the gook had to change magazines, the squad leader grabbed him and strangled him!
The Old Man finally reported that we had a Spooky coming. “Can anyone adjust,” he asked?
“Three Bravo (Tonkyn) has the best line of sight,” I replied. “Three Bravo, can you adjust?”
“Roger.”
OM: “OK, 3 Bravo, the man does not want to shoot any closer to our lines than 100 meters. Do you understand?”
3B: “Roger.”
OM: “Stand by.” The Spook opened up with one gun. There was a hum and then a ripping sound, like canvas being torn, as the rounds came to earth.
3B: “Uh, bring him in 50 meters.”
OM: “Son, remember that he doesn’t want to shoot any closer to us than 100 meters.”
3B: “Roger. In 50.” The Spook fired again. It sounded louder to me. Two RPGs exploded between me and the mortar pit. There was rifle and grenade fire all along the east side of the position.
3B: “Laundryman 6, this is Charlie 3 Bravo. Have him come in another 50.”
Long pause. OM: “Uh, son, remember that he wants to stay at least 100 meters out.”
3B: “Roger.” Much more insistent. “ In another 50.” They fired again. It sounded to me as if they were hitting right outside my hole.
3B: “OK, come in 25 and fire for effect.”
OM: “OK, but keep him at least 100 meters out.”
3B: “Roger. In 25 and fire for effect.” All three guns fired. I cannot describe the sound, but I’ll know it when I have forgotten everything else. Spook made three circuits and then had to leave for fuel.
About 40 minutes later, we were probed again. The Skipper passed the word to “Fix bayonets.” Those are eerie words to hear, echoing in the night, as Marine after Marine passes the word. And then you hear them clicking into place.
A minute later, a red flare went up and I could hear the Skipper shouting “Fire the FPL. Fire the FPL.”
Every weapon in our lines opened up. The FPL, i.e., the “final protective line,” is a defensive measure when the enemy is in the assault. Often referred to as the “mad minute,” every weapon is fired along a pre-designated line, planned so that rifles, automatic rifles, machine guns, 40mm grenades, and mortars create a criss-crossing and interlocking band of steel to your front. At TBS, it was demonstrated with every weapon firing nothing but tracers, and it is awesome.
After about 90 seconds, the word was passed to “Cease fire.” The silence was deafening.
The threat from outside our lines was about over, with only an occasional RPG or mortar winging our way. The NVA in the trench were still a problem. Tonkyn’s busy night was not yet over.
As the sky lightened in the east, he began a single-handed attack on the trench, crawling forward with hand grenades and tossing them into the trench. The NVA threw chicoms and fired their AK 47s. Tonkyn would crawl back to get more grenades and then head back to the trench. He made at least three separate trips, over 20 meters of flat open ground, totally exposed.
Finally, a Sergeant from 2d Platoon, apparently feeling left out, dashed forward towards the trench. He was hit in the throat and fell forward so that he was half in and half out of the trench. Tonkyn crawled forward, grabbed the Sergeant by his belt, and pulled him out of the trench. He grabbed the Sergeant’s rifle in his other hand and then pulled him back to where a corpsman could start working on him.
Taking two more grenades, Tonkyn crawled back to the trench, tossed in both grenades, and them, his rifle in one hand and the Sergeant’s in the other, he jumped into the trench and walked up it, firing both weapons like Wyatt Earp on a Dodge City Saturday night. The NVA jumped up and it looked like one of those Road Runner cartoons where Wile E. Coyote has realized he has stepped over the cliff and is trying to walk on air. Tonkyn killed seven of the NVA, although other Marines joined in. We found another three further up the trench.
And it was over.
As I tried to account for everyone, we realized that Wandro was missing. Finally, Bob Henson came up to me. “We think we found him, Sir” Think? “He was hit in the head, but he is the only one missing.” His body was in the trench, near the three dead NVA. He had apparently tried to clear the trench from his end, killing three before another NVA killed him.
On Wandro's Vietnam Wall page, Rod Pontious, one of our 60mm mortarmen who was about 20 meters to my right, wrote about Wandro:
Private First Class James Wayne Wandro, USMC, had just turned 19. “With pride”, the President awarded him the Silver Star Medal (posthumously). His name is on Panel 22 W, Line 29. I go there every time I am in DC.
Charlie 1 had captured one wounded NVA. I heard one of the Marines bragging about it, right after we found Wandro. The next thing I knew, the Gunny had me in a bear hug and Levi, Henson, and Gibby were yelling at me. I had my pistol in hand and was on the way to kill the NVA. The Gunny grabbed took my pistol and told Levi and Henson to stay with me until I calmed down.
I had four Marines wounded, including three of the new guys. One had been shot through the left bicep. When I went to see him at the Battalion Aid Station, which our Surgeon, Lieutenant Alexander, MC, USNR, had set up in a bomb crater toward the west side of the hill, the Marine was running a small stick through the wound. “Wow. Look, Sir, it goes all the way through.” One of the corpsmen told him to “knock that shit off,” gave him a shot, and he calmed down.
About 20 minutes later, the Skipper and the Old Man walked over. “The Colonel wants to talk to Tonkyn,” Frank said. I led them over.
Tonkyn was sitting on the edge of his fighting hole, staring out into the paddy. He was eating a can of pineapple bits. The Old Man waved us off and walked on over.
“Morning, Tonkyn.” Mike looked up and started to rise. “Keep your seat, son. You’ve had a busy night.” He sat down.
Tonkyn started to take another bite of pineapple, then hesitated. “Oh, sorry, Sir.” He offered the Old Man the can.
“Ah, I’ve already eaten, but thanks,” he said gently. “You just go ahead and finish your breakfast.” They continued to sit there silently, looking out at the paddy.
Finally, the Old Man spoke. “Tonkyn, I have just one question for you. When you finally had Spooky fire for effect, how close were you shooting?”
Mike paused. “Uh, you see that beaten up ground about 25 meters from that hole in front of me?” He gestured with his plastic spoon, never taking his eyes off the paddy. “ That’s where he was shooting.”
The Old Man nodded. “I thought as much.” He paused. “ Son, do you know why that pilot didn’t want to shoot any closer than 100 meters?”
“Oh, yessir. Any closer and he so much as hiccups, we’re dead.”
“Right. So, why did you bring him in so close?”
Very softly, and still without looking away from the paddy, Tonkyn answered “Well, Sir, them fuckin’ gooks wasn’t a hundred meters out.” Sorry. You have to hear the exact words to appreciate the moment.
The Old man slapped Mike on the back and said, “Well done.” Then he turned to Frank and me. “I’d like to see a recommendation for the Navy Cross this morning.” You can find the citation
here (scroll down).
Later that morning, I took a patrol out to our east. Behind a small rise about a click to our east, we found row upon row of packs where the NVA formation had dropped them before they went into the attack. We believe that our two platoons, numbering about 60 Marines, were hit by 600 NVA from the 7th Battalion, 90th NVA Regiment. No one had come back for the packs, so Tonkyn’s shooting must have been pretty good. Charlie Company suffered two KIA and 8 WIA; no one else in the battalion was hit.
For that one fight, two Charlie Company Marines—Frags Felton and Mike Tonkyn--were awarded the Navy Cross (for entirely separate acts of heroism), three were awarded Silver Stars (including Wandro), and three, Bronze Stars, as well as 17 Purple Hearts.
In 2005, Frank Satterfield arranged for a group of us to have dinner together in Kansas City during the 1st Marine Division Association annual reunion. I had attended only one before that, and only Rob Montgomery was there from our time. Most of the guys were from the Hue City operation during Tet 1968.
In Kansas City, it was our first time together since 1969. It was as if we had last seen each other the day before. When I got home, SWMBO asked me how it went. I said, “Well, it was nice to be with a bunch of guys who could talk about ‘that night.’”
“What do you mean?”
"Well, nobody had to ask ‘What night are you talking about?’”
It was Frags Felton who christened the night of June 10-11, 1969 as “that night,” and so shall it be until none of us who were there are still alive. During dinner, he said, “You know, Frank, about 0230 that night, when you passed the word to fix bayonets, I started to get a little worried.”
“I gave no such order,” our noble leader avered.
Six heads swiveled and replied in unison “The [universal modifier] you say.” (A lady in the restaurant complained, but the manager, himself a Vietnam vet who had personally taken care of our party, simply told her that we were praying a special Marine prayer! He understood.)
But I think about that night every day. Our Marines acted with calm fortitude, presence of mind, and nobility, worthy successors to the Marines who fought with O’Bannon at Derne, at Chapultepec castle, with Daly at Belleau Wood, with the Division at Guadalcanal and the “frozen Chosin” reservoir, and our 1/5 brothers at Hue City.
In each generation, God allows only a few men the privilege of leading Marines in combat. I cannot tell you how thankful I am to have had the privilege of serving in their presence.
And, always, I think of Wandro. He is the other reason I have not had a good night’s sleep in 40 years. Later that morning, the other Marine (who he is is unimportant-he is a good Marine and nothing that he did could have changed that night) came to me.
“Uh, Lieutenant. Wandro wasn’t sleeping, Sir. He had woke me up to take over the radio watch. I guess I drifted off and dropped the handset into his lap. It wasn’t his damn fault, Sir.” He had tears in his eyes.
I told him that it was OK. “But don’t ever let it happen again.”
“No, Sir. You have my word on that.”
But I never got to say “I’m sorry, Wandro. I was wrong.” And I need to know that Wandro knows how sorry I am.
Semper Fidelis.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
10 June 2009. Today, my heart and mind will spend the day back at An Bang (1).
10 June 1969. Dusk in the Arizona. We settled in for the night. When I checked lines at about 2200, we were still on 2 up, 1 down. The FNGs were nervous, as was to be expected, but my experienced Marines were steady.
Charlie 3 Bravo (Tonkyn) was to my left and 3 Alpha was about 10 meters to my front and slightly right. Our 60mm mortar section was about 20 meters to my left. The Skipper’s CP was behind me and to my right. Further down to my right, Charlie 1 was also settled in. Neal had a three man listening post about 75 meters in front of his lines.
Shortly after midnight, we were mortared, with no real effect. About 15 minutes later, there was an explosion to my right front. I heard Neal call the Skipper on the radio to report that he had lost contact with his LP. He asked permission to take a fire team forward to check them out. Frank denied that request. “Look, I may have just lost some Marines. I don’t need to lose you until we are sure what is going on. Both you and Charlie 3 check your lines and get back to me.”
I called Tonkyn who reported that he had checked his lines and all was secure. I could not raise 3 Alpha. I got out of my hole and moved up to the squad CP. There were 3 Marines in the position—the squad leader, PFC Wandro, and another Marine. All were asleep. The radio handset was in Wandro’s lap. I grabbed him, waking all three. “What the hell—sleeping on watch?”
He shook himself awake. “No sir. But…but.”
The rocket squad leader came sliding over from his hole about 3 meters to the left. “Can it,” I said. “You (pointing to the squad leader), check your lines to the right and get back to me. You (to the rocket squad leader), check things out to the left. And stay awake, dammit.”
The two squad leaders took off. The rocket squad leader walked perhaps 15 meters along the inside edge of the trench. I could see him bend over, as if to talk to someone. Suddenly, a stream of green tracers erupted from the trench. “Rockets” flew back and fell to the ground. Damn, I thought, he’s dead.
A minute later, we heard a scuffling sound to our left. “Don’t [universal modifier] shoot. It’s me.” The rocket squad leader flopped into the hole, breathing heavily. “Goddammit, Sir. There’s a bunch of [universal modifier] gooks in that trench.” No kidding. “I saw them crouching down, looking outboard. I thought they were the FNGs. I said ‘Are you dudes from Charlie 3?’ and they shot at me.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know, Sir. A whole damn pisspot full. . . . . Uh, at least 10.”
“OK, hold fast here. You’re in charge until the squad leader gets back.” I called the Skipper to report this disturbing news.
“Keep everybody in their holes. Anybody walking around is a sure target.”
“Uh, roger.” I passed that word to the three Marines and then, being the only Marine around who was above ground, I crawled back to my position. When I got there, Levi told me that as far as he could tell, we were being probed all along our front. He was huddled down, smoking a cigarette, which he held low in the hole, cupped in his hand. “Give me one of those,” I asked.
“You don’t smoke,” he replied.
“Well, this may be my last chance to try.” It was my first and last cigarette.
Meanwhile, over in Charlie 1, Neal had his hands full. I have heard him tell the story many times, but you really need to hear him tell it in his Georgia drawl.
As soon as the Skipper told Neal to hold fast, one of his Marines, Sam “Frags” Felton took off for the LP. Frags Felton is a gentle giant. He is a black Marine from Ohio, about 6’5”, wasp-waisted, a mountain of a man. When he got to the LP, all three Marines were wounded. He grabbed two and carried them back into our lines. Neal begins:
“So, here’s this big black man with two white boys, one under each arm. He lays them down and says ‘Here’s two of them, Sir. I’ve got to get the other one.’” Frags dashed outside the lines again. He picked up the last man, destroyed the radio, and headed back. Two NVA popped up in front of him. One shot him, but he killed both NVA with his rifle, and then limped back into our lines. He remained at his post until evacuated the next morning. You can read his Navy Cross citation here (scroll down).
It seemed as if the NVA were particularly heavy to our left front. There were repeated blasts as grenades were thrown to our front. The Colonel came up on our company tac net for a situation report. The rocket squad leader was still handling first squad.
I learned the next morning that the 3 Alpha was between holes, checking lines, when a chicom went off at his feet, knocking him out, but doing little other harm. He did, however, lose his rifle. When he regained consciousness, an NVA was hiding behind his “body,” using it as a rifle rest. Finally, when the gook had to change magazines, the squad leader grabbed him and strangled him!
The Old Man finally reported that we had a Spooky coming. “Can anyone adjust,” he asked?
“Three Bravo (Tonkyn) has the best line of sight,” I replied. “Three Bravo, can you adjust?”
“Roger.”
OM: “OK, 3 Bravo, the man does not want to shoot any closer to our lines than 100 meters. Do you understand?”
3B: “Roger.”
OM: “Stand by.” The Spook opened up with one gun. There was a hum and then a ripping sound, like canvas being torn, as the rounds came to earth.
3B: “Uh, bring him in 50 meters.”
OM: “Son, remember that he doesn’t want to shoot any closer to us than 100 meters.”
3B: “Roger. In 50.” The Spook fired again. It sounded louder to me. Two RPGs exploded between me and the mortar pit. There was rifle and grenade fire all along the east side of the position.
3B: “Laundryman 6, this is Charlie 3 Bravo. Have him come in another 50.”
Long pause. OM: “Uh, son, remember that he wants to stay at least 100 meters out.”
3B: “Roger.” Much more insistent. “ In another 50.” They fired again. It sounded to me as if they were hitting right outside my hole.
3B: “OK, come in 25 and fire for effect.”
OM: “OK, but keep him at least 100 meters out.”
3B: “Roger. In 25 and fire for effect.” All three guns fired. I cannot describe the sound, but I’ll know it when I have forgotten everything else. Spook made three circuits and then had to leave for fuel.
About 40 minutes later, we were probed again. The Skipper passed the word to “Fix bayonets.” Those are eerie words to hear, echoing in the night, as Marine after Marine passes the word. And then you hear them clicking into place.
A minute later, a red flare went up and I could hear the Skipper shouting “Fire the FPL. Fire the FPL.”
Every weapon in our lines opened up. The FPL, i.e., the “final protective line,” is a defensive measure when the enemy is in the assault. Often referred to as the “mad minute,” every weapon is fired along a pre-designated line, planned so that rifles, automatic rifles, machine guns, 40mm grenades, and mortars create a criss-crossing and interlocking band of steel to your front. At TBS, it was demonstrated with every weapon firing nothing but tracers, and it is awesome.
After about 90 seconds, the word was passed to “Cease fire.” The silence was deafening.
The threat from outside our lines was about over, with only an occasional RPG or mortar winging our way. The NVA in the trench were still a problem. Tonkyn’s busy night was not yet over.
As the sky lightened in the east, he began a single-handed attack on the trench, crawling forward with hand grenades and tossing them into the trench. The NVA threw chicoms and fired their AK 47s. Tonkyn would crawl back to get more grenades and then head back to the trench. He made at least three separate trips, over 20 meters of flat open ground, totally exposed.
Finally, a Sergeant from 2d Platoon, apparently feeling left out, dashed forward towards the trench. He was hit in the throat and fell forward so that he was half in and half out of the trench. Tonkyn crawled forward, grabbed the Sergeant by his belt, and pulled him out of the trench. He grabbed the Sergeant’s rifle in his other hand and then pulled him back to where a corpsman could start working on him.
Taking two more grenades, Tonkyn crawled back to the trench, tossed in both grenades, and them, his rifle in one hand and the Sergeant’s in the other, he jumped into the trench and walked up it, firing both weapons like Wyatt Earp on a Dodge City Saturday night. The NVA jumped up and it looked like one of those Road Runner cartoons where Wile E. Coyote has realized he has stepped over the cliff and is trying to walk on air. Tonkyn killed seven of the NVA, although other Marines joined in. We found another three further up the trench.
And it was over.
As I tried to account for everyone, we realized that Wandro was missing. Finally, Bob Henson came up to me. “We think we found him, Sir” Think? “He was hit in the head, but he is the only one missing.” His body was in the trench, near the three dead NVA. He had apparently tried to clear the trench from his end, killing three before another NVA killed him.
On Wandro's Vietnam Wall page, Rod Pontious, one of our 60mm mortarmen who was about 20 meters to my right, wrote about Wandro:
I was a member of Charlie Company and [Jim and I]arrived at the 5th Marines about the same time. Jim went to a rifle plt. and I went to the 60mm Mortar section. Both of us were assigned "mess duty" at Liberty Bridge, the small side a month or so before he was killed. I remember the night he was killed. We were in the "Arizonia Territory" and were attacked by the 90th NVA Regiment that night.The NVA had broken into our lines and were in a trench about 20-25 yards in front of my mortar section between us and the perimeter fox holes. I was in a one man fox hole with Allen to the right of the mortar pit. The NVA would continually pop up and let out a burst of AK fire or throw their chi com grenades at us. I remember getting hit by dirt from their rounds hitting in front of me and grenades going off just in front of me and one bounced off my flack jacket and went off somewhere behind me. That night was a flashing memory with illumination, enemy tracer rounds of greenish yellow, fiery trails of RPGs, grenades and Spookys hosing red tracer trails and confusion. We couldn't fire back at the NVA because of fear of hitting our own men behind the enemy and my mortar section had given all of our frags to the lines when the attack first happened. This was when Jim crawled out to try to contact our lines near us and locate the enemy position. We got the NVA in the trench when dawn started to break and they couldn't use the darkness as cover to escape, One even tried to choi hoi. We found Jim's body that morning. I have a photo of him taken at An Hoa less than two months before his death. He was a good back alley player and I think of him all the time. Semper Fi.
Private First Class James Wayne Wandro, USMC, had just turned 19. “With pride”, the President awarded him the Silver Star Medal (posthumously). His name is on Panel 22 W, Line 29. I go there every time I am in DC.
Charlie 1 had captured one wounded NVA. I heard one of the Marines bragging about it, right after we found Wandro. The next thing I knew, the Gunny had me in a bear hug and Levi, Henson, and Gibby were yelling at me. I had my pistol in hand and was on the way to kill the NVA. The Gunny grabbed took my pistol and told Levi and Henson to stay with me until I calmed down.
I had four Marines wounded, including three of the new guys. One had been shot through the left bicep. When I went to see him at the Battalion Aid Station, which our Surgeon, Lieutenant Alexander, MC, USNR, had set up in a bomb crater toward the west side of the hill, the Marine was running a small stick through the wound. “Wow. Look, Sir, it goes all the way through.” One of the corpsmen told him to “knock that shit off,” gave him a shot, and he calmed down.
About 20 minutes later, the Skipper and the Old Man walked over. “The Colonel wants to talk to Tonkyn,” Frank said. I led them over.
Tonkyn was sitting on the edge of his fighting hole, staring out into the paddy. He was eating a can of pineapple bits. The Old Man waved us off and walked on over.
“Morning, Tonkyn.” Mike looked up and started to rise. “Keep your seat, son. You’ve had a busy night.” He sat down.
Tonkyn started to take another bite of pineapple, then hesitated. “Oh, sorry, Sir.” He offered the Old Man the can.
“Ah, I’ve already eaten, but thanks,” he said gently. “You just go ahead and finish your breakfast.” They continued to sit there silently, looking out at the paddy.
Finally, the Old Man spoke. “Tonkyn, I have just one question for you. When you finally had Spooky fire for effect, how close were you shooting?”
Mike paused. “Uh, you see that beaten up ground about 25 meters from that hole in front of me?” He gestured with his plastic spoon, never taking his eyes off the paddy. “ That’s where he was shooting.”
The Old Man nodded. “I thought as much.” He paused. “ Son, do you know why that pilot didn’t want to shoot any closer than 100 meters?”
“Oh, yessir. Any closer and he so much as hiccups, we’re dead.”
“Right. So, why did you bring him in so close?”
Very softly, and still without looking away from the paddy, Tonkyn answered “Well, Sir, them fuckin’ gooks wasn’t a hundred meters out.” Sorry. You have to hear the exact words to appreciate the moment.
The Old man slapped Mike on the back and said, “Well done.” Then he turned to Frank and me. “I’d like to see a recommendation for the Navy Cross this morning.” You can find the citation
here (scroll down).
Later that morning, I took a patrol out to our east. Behind a small rise about a click to our east, we found row upon row of packs where the NVA formation had dropped them before they went into the attack. We believe that our two platoons, numbering about 60 Marines, were hit by 600 NVA from the 7th Battalion, 90th NVA Regiment. No one had come back for the packs, so Tonkyn’s shooting must have been pretty good. Charlie Company suffered two KIA and 8 WIA; no one else in the battalion was hit.
For that one fight, two Charlie Company Marines—Frags Felton and Mike Tonkyn--were awarded the Navy Cross (for entirely separate acts of heroism), three were awarded Silver Stars (including Wandro), and three, Bronze Stars, as well as 17 Purple Hearts.
In 2005, Frank Satterfield arranged for a group of us to have dinner together in Kansas City during the 1st Marine Division Association annual reunion. I had attended only one before that, and only Rob Montgomery was there from our time. Most of the guys were from the Hue City operation during Tet 1968.
In Kansas City, it was our first time together since 1969. It was as if we had last seen each other the day before. When I got home, SWMBO asked me how it went. I said, “Well, it was nice to be with a bunch of guys who could talk about ‘that night.’”
“What do you mean?”
"Well, nobody had to ask ‘What night are you talking about?’”
It was Frags Felton who christened the night of June 10-11, 1969 as “that night,” and so shall it be until none of us who were there are still alive. During dinner, he said, “You know, Frank, about 0230 that night, when you passed the word to fix bayonets, I started to get a little worried.”
“I gave no such order,” our noble leader avered.
Six heads swiveled and replied in unison “The [universal modifier] you say.” (A lady in the restaurant complained, but the manager, himself a Vietnam vet who had personally taken care of our party, simply told her that we were praying a special Marine prayer! He understood.)
But I think about that night every day. Our Marines acted with calm fortitude, presence of mind, and nobility, worthy successors to the Marines who fought with O’Bannon at Derne, at Chapultepec castle, with Daly at Belleau Wood, with the Division at Guadalcanal and the “frozen Chosin” reservoir, and our 1/5 brothers at Hue City.
In each generation, God allows only a few men the privilege of leading Marines in combat. I cannot tell you how thankful I am to have had the privilege of serving in their presence.
And, always, I think of Wandro. He is the other reason I have not had a good night’s sleep in 40 years. Later that morning, the other Marine (who he is is unimportant-he is a good Marine and nothing that he did could have changed that night) came to me.
“Uh, Lieutenant. Wandro wasn’t sleeping, Sir. He had woke me up to take over the radio watch. I guess I drifted off and dropped the handset into his lap. It wasn’t his damn fault, Sir.” He had tears in his eyes.
I told him that it was OK. “But don’t ever let it happen again.”
“No, Sir. You have my word on that.”
But I never got to say “I’m sorry, Wandro. I was wrong.” And I need to know that Wandro knows how sorry I am.
Semper Fidelis.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
09 June 2009
NOBODY MADE ME GOD OUT HERE
From Laundryman Charlie 3 romeo oscar: Check out my message on 6 June.
I had gotten six new Marines the afternoon before. One squad got four and the other, two.
At about 0700, the Skipper came over. “How are you doing?” I think he was worried about me. I know now that in this time frame, my Mom was really concerned about the tone of my letters, especially after losing Phipps and Unfried. She once described them as "suicidal;" I think "resigned" is probably a closer description.
“I’m OK. What’s up?”
He pulled out his map. "The helicopter that was shot down yesterday is located here.” He pointed to a spot about 1500 meters to the southwest. “Bravo buried the .50 cals from the bird, and the 12.7 they captured, before they came in last night. Saddle up your platoon and go out and secure the bird. Bravo is sending us a Marine who can find the three machineguns. The air wing is sending out a team to recover the bird. Send the .50s back with them, but bring that 12.7 in. The Old Man wants to see it.”
A few minutes later, a Lance Corporal from Bravo showed up and we headed out. It took about 35 minutes to reach the downed helicopter. We immediately dug up the three machine guns and carried the .50s onto the bird. There were IV lines dangling from the overhead and bloody battle dressings littered the deck. An M-16 was in amongst the litter. Levi picked up the rifle. It was smeared with blood and there was a shell casing caught between the bolt and the forward edge of the ejection port. The man’s rifle had jammed.
Levi walked off the bird and cleared the weapon. When he inspected it, it was cruddy. He took the rifle around to our troops. “The next time you ladies (he actually used a very crude feminine descriptor) complain about cleaning your weapons every day, remember this. Damn. It’s nothing less than suicide!" He practically made the FNGs kiss the weapon, it was so far in their faces. "Goddamn plastic piece of [crud].”
A few years later, Leatherneck Magazine ran an article based on a letter that then-Representative James Symington of Missouri had written to his Dad, Senator Stuart Symington, when he was in boot camp. In describing the hard NCOs who were his DIs, he wrote a line that was the title of the article. "War," he wrote, "is the business of Sergeants." He was absolutely right. There are things that Sergeants can, and are expected to do, that officers cannot. Sergeant Levi was an excellent Sergeant.
Levi's final comment was telling. There was still a serious reservation on the part of many Marines about the M-16. This dated from McNamara's decision to force it on the DOD without a chromed barrel and receiver. Too many Marines knew Marines who had been in the fights for Hills 881 North and 881 South in 1967, when rifles jammed right and left and many Marine KIAs were found with their rifle disassembled and cleaning rods inserted into the barrels to clear jams. If properly cleaned and maintained, it was an adequate rifle, but the concern that it was a plastic toy--"Matty Mattel"--was always just under the surface.
We checked out the area for any enemy WIAs, but there were none. It was littered with NVA bodies and weapons, and we set about policing up the gear. Suddenly, one Marine called to me. "You gotta see this.”
In a deep fighting hole dug at the base of a tall tree we could see a body. He was wearing a holster. Someone was about to get the most sought-after war prize of all—a pistol. “Who found him,” I asked?
A Marine stepped forward. “All right, if the weapon is still there, it’s yours. Get him out of there.”
Marines are nothing if not born resourceful. The body was jammed into the bottom of the hole and no one wanted to have to get in there with the dead guy. I walked away. Finally, someone tossed a piece of line over a tree branch and looped a noose around the corpse’s neck. Then they hoisted him out. Luckily, I was able to stop the three photographers from taking pictures. It probably would not have looked good, although rigor mortis had set in and he was swinging at weird angles.
“Pull him aside and check for papers.” One man found a folded piece of paper in the guy’s pocket. When later translated, we realized that we had found either the Commanding Officer or the Political Officer of the 2d Battalion, 90th NVA Regiment. (The document was an appointing order addressed to the CO and cc’d to the Political Officer.) He had a Makarov pistol in really great shape and I had a very happy Marine.
We found about thirty NVA dead around the area. Levi organized a working party (mainly the FNGs) and buried them in a bomb crater. Then we settled in to wait for the recovery bird.
Within about 10 minutes after we arrived, a couple of civilians materialized and indicated that they needed “bac si” (doctor) at a hooch about 40 meters away. I sent a fire team to check it out again, and Doc went over to see what was what.
He came back about 20 minutes later. “There’s an old lady over there, Sir. She’s got a sucking chest wound and she’s in real bad shape. I patched her up, but we need to medevac her.”
I called the Skipper, but in a few minutes he called back to tell me that 2/5 had had a big dust up the night before and that we probably wouldn’t get a medevac for a routine casualty until late that afternoon. I told Doc.
Doc went over to check on her again and came back after another half an hour. “Sir, she won’t last until the afternoon. She’s in a lot of pain and is essentially choking to death on her own blood.”
“Dammit, Doc, I know. But we aren’t gonna get a medevac anytime soon.”
“Yessir, I know. Do you want me to do something for her?”
“Sure, Doc, make her as comfortable as possible.”
“Uh, no sir. I mean do you want me to do something for her?”
Aw, Christ on a crutch! And then I said something that I never thought I could say. “Give me a couple of minutes to think about it, Doc, OK?”
“Yessir.” All the CP group moved away from me, leaving me alone to make a decision. Ten minutes later, I called Doc over.
“Look, I know she’s hurting, but dammit, Doc, nobody made me God out here! You make her as comfortable as possible, but don’t do anything else, you understand? Nothing else!”
“Aye, aye, Sir.” He went back to be with her. She died about 2 hours later.
I spent the rest of the time until the helicopter recovery team arrived, thinking. How could it have taken me ten minutes to say “No”? The fact that I even considered any other response scared me. It was time for me to get out of here.
I often wonder if, in the grand scheme of things, I made the right decision. I think I did, but I wonder what that little old lady would have thought?
The recovery team arrived in the early afternoon. A group of mechanics, led by a Master Sergeant, quickly removed the six rotor blades and stowed them in the chopper. The .50s were also tied down and a sling was rigged.
As the crew was working, the Master Sergeant called me over. “Look at this, Lieutenant.”
There were only three bullet holes in the helicopter—one in the fairing around the forward rotor shaft, one in the fairing around the after shaft, and one evenly spaced between the other two. “There’s a governor on each shaft, Sir," he explained. "Lose one, and you can still fly. These bastards hit both, with only three rounds. Son of a bitch!”
Have I mentioned that war is fluky?
The recovery bird, a CH-53, landed to pick up the crew. One of my Marines held the donkey dick and hooked it up to the bird, jumping as the connection was made. (There is a tremendous build up in static electricity in a flying helicopter. If he had stood his ground, the discharge would have knocked him flying.)
We then saddled up and headed home.
In our absence, the perimeter had been expanded and the lines adjusted. Bravo had moved in between Alpha and Charlie Companies, along the west side of the hill. Bravo tied in with Charlie 1 on the south. Alpha had Bravo on its left and Charlie 3 on the right. Neal and I had the eastern side of the hill on a fairly straight front. Charlie 2 became battalion reserve. I got my people dug in, sighted weapons and prepared for the night.
There was an old trench that ran from the rice paddy to the north straight up into our position, between my lines and the concrete bunker. It ended just south of the point where my two squads linked up.
That concerned me, because the lines had been marked during our absence, and that trench ran right between my platoon and Alpha Company's right flank platoon. There is a maxim in tactics that you never split responsibility for an avenue of approach, i.e., an easy way into a position. For the sake of clarity, someone unit must know that it has sole responsibility for that avenue.
I moved along my lines,telling off my Marines into their prospective positions, marking positions for machine guns (which would be emplaced after dark so the enemy did not see their locations). I started with our connection with Charlie 1 on my right and moved to the link up with Alpha Company. Mike Tonkyn’s squad, Charlie 3 Bravo, had that portion of our lines. His nearest and left-most position was about 20 meters from the trench. I told him to have his Marines hold off digging in and then took him with me in search of the Alpha Company platoon commander.
It was the guy who had lost his people in the paddy on Sunday (two days or two years ago, depending). He was sitting under a tree, reading Stars and Stripes.
“I’m Lieutenant McCarty. My platoon is on your right flank. Let’s walk, eh?”
“Well, what do you want?” He didn’t move. Arrogant little .......
“We need to check lines so we can make sure we have everything covered.”
“I’m waiting for my Captain to do that. Come back later,” he said dismissively. (I wish I had.)
“Look, Sport, we’ve had a long couple of days. Before my guys dig in, I want to make sure I won’t have to shift lines and make them do it all over again. Now get off your ass and let’s go.” Tonkyn was doing his best to disappear while the officers hashed things out.
The lieutenant grumbled and got up. We walked over to the trench. There was a fighting hole right next to it with an M-16 in the hole. “Is this one of yours,” I asked?
“Yeah, it’s mine.”
Well, Lance Corporal Tonkyn’s first position is that one over there.” I pointed to three Marines about 20 meters away. There was a clear area between the trench and the Alpha company position. “Do you want me to move them closer?”
“Nah. I think we’re OK. You can run along now.” Snotty little brat.
The next day, I learned that about 20 minutes later, near dark, Captain Torrey checked lines and was assured by that lieutenant that he was covering the trench. The Captain asked “And where is your position?”
“This is my hole,” the lieutenant replied, pointing to the hole right next to the trench. I suspect that he had chosen that position because the ground was relatively soft and made for easy digging.
“No. No. You cannot be on the far right flank of your lines. You need to be centered so you can control the fires of your entire platoon. Move your position and rearrange your lines.”
The idiot did move his position, but decided that he did not want to inconvenience his troops (who, we later learned, hated the SOB), so he just left the hole vacant and the trench unprotected. Within days, he was relieved of his platoon, sent back to Regiment to be the Civil Affairs Officer (a sort of liaison with the local Vietnamese military and political establishment) and then to Danang to be a Special Services Officer running part of the Freedom Hill PX. But that’s in the future.
All around me, I could hear my troops digging in. I went over to help Gibby get our hole ready for the night for the night.
I had gotten six new Marines the afternoon before. One squad got four and the other, two.
At about 0700, the Skipper came over. “How are you doing?” I think he was worried about me. I know now that in this time frame, my Mom was really concerned about the tone of my letters, especially after losing Phipps and Unfried. She once described them as "suicidal;" I think "resigned" is probably a closer description.
“I’m OK. What’s up?”
He pulled out his map. "The helicopter that was shot down yesterday is located here.” He pointed to a spot about 1500 meters to the southwest. “Bravo buried the .50 cals from the bird, and the 12.7 they captured, before they came in last night. Saddle up your platoon and go out and secure the bird. Bravo is sending us a Marine who can find the three machineguns. The air wing is sending out a team to recover the bird. Send the .50s back with them, but bring that 12.7 in. The Old Man wants to see it.”
A few minutes later, a Lance Corporal from Bravo showed up and we headed out. It took about 35 minutes to reach the downed helicopter. We immediately dug up the three machine guns and carried the .50s onto the bird. There were IV lines dangling from the overhead and bloody battle dressings littered the deck. An M-16 was in amongst the litter. Levi picked up the rifle. It was smeared with blood and there was a shell casing caught between the bolt and the forward edge of the ejection port. The man’s rifle had jammed.
Levi walked off the bird and cleared the weapon. When he inspected it, it was cruddy. He took the rifle around to our troops. “The next time you ladies (he actually used a very crude feminine descriptor) complain about cleaning your weapons every day, remember this. Damn. It’s nothing less than suicide!" He practically made the FNGs kiss the weapon, it was so far in their faces. "Goddamn plastic piece of [crud].”
A few years later, Leatherneck Magazine ran an article based on a letter that then-Representative James Symington of Missouri had written to his Dad, Senator Stuart Symington, when he was in boot camp. In describing the hard NCOs who were his DIs, he wrote a line that was the title of the article. "War," he wrote, "is the business of Sergeants." He was absolutely right. There are things that Sergeants can, and are expected to do, that officers cannot. Sergeant Levi was an excellent Sergeant.
Levi's final comment was telling. There was still a serious reservation on the part of many Marines about the M-16. This dated from McNamara's decision to force it on the DOD without a chromed barrel and receiver. Too many Marines knew Marines who had been in the fights for Hills 881 North and 881 South in 1967, when rifles jammed right and left and many Marine KIAs were found with their rifle disassembled and cleaning rods inserted into the barrels to clear jams. If properly cleaned and maintained, it was an adequate rifle, but the concern that it was a plastic toy--"Matty Mattel"--was always just under the surface.
We checked out the area for any enemy WIAs, but there were none. It was littered with NVA bodies and weapons, and we set about policing up the gear. Suddenly, one Marine called to me. "You gotta see this.”
In a deep fighting hole dug at the base of a tall tree we could see a body. He was wearing a holster. Someone was about to get the most sought-after war prize of all—a pistol. “Who found him,” I asked?
A Marine stepped forward. “All right, if the weapon is still there, it’s yours. Get him out of there.”
Marines are nothing if not born resourceful. The body was jammed into the bottom of the hole and no one wanted to have to get in there with the dead guy. I walked away. Finally, someone tossed a piece of line over a tree branch and looped a noose around the corpse’s neck. Then they hoisted him out. Luckily, I was able to stop the three photographers from taking pictures. It probably would not have looked good, although rigor mortis had set in and he was swinging at weird angles.
“Pull him aside and check for papers.” One man found a folded piece of paper in the guy’s pocket. When later translated, we realized that we had found either the Commanding Officer or the Political Officer of the 2d Battalion, 90th NVA Regiment. (The document was an appointing order addressed to the CO and cc’d to the Political Officer.) He had a Makarov pistol in really great shape and I had a very happy Marine.
We found about thirty NVA dead around the area. Levi organized a working party (mainly the FNGs) and buried them in a bomb crater. Then we settled in to wait for the recovery bird.
Within about 10 minutes after we arrived, a couple of civilians materialized and indicated that they needed “bac si” (doctor) at a hooch about 40 meters away. I sent a fire team to check it out again, and Doc went over to see what was what.
He came back about 20 minutes later. “There’s an old lady over there, Sir. She’s got a sucking chest wound and she’s in real bad shape. I patched her up, but we need to medevac her.”
I called the Skipper, but in a few minutes he called back to tell me that 2/5 had had a big dust up the night before and that we probably wouldn’t get a medevac for a routine casualty until late that afternoon. I told Doc.
Doc went over to check on her again and came back after another half an hour. “Sir, she won’t last until the afternoon. She’s in a lot of pain and is essentially choking to death on her own blood.”
“Dammit, Doc, I know. But we aren’t gonna get a medevac anytime soon.”
“Yessir, I know. Do you want me to do something for her?”
“Sure, Doc, make her as comfortable as possible.”
“Uh, no sir. I mean do you want me to do something for her?”
Aw, Christ on a crutch! And then I said something that I never thought I could say. “Give me a couple of minutes to think about it, Doc, OK?”
“Yessir.” All the CP group moved away from me, leaving me alone to make a decision. Ten minutes later, I called Doc over.
“Look, I know she’s hurting, but dammit, Doc, nobody made me God out here! You make her as comfortable as possible, but don’t do anything else, you understand? Nothing else!”
“Aye, aye, Sir.” He went back to be with her. She died about 2 hours later.
I spent the rest of the time until the helicopter recovery team arrived, thinking. How could it have taken me ten minutes to say “No”? The fact that I even considered any other response scared me. It was time for me to get out of here.
I often wonder if, in the grand scheme of things, I made the right decision. I think I did, but I wonder what that little old lady would have thought?
The recovery team arrived in the early afternoon. A group of mechanics, led by a Master Sergeant, quickly removed the six rotor blades and stowed them in the chopper. The .50s were also tied down and a sling was rigged.
As the crew was working, the Master Sergeant called me over. “Look at this, Lieutenant.”
There were only three bullet holes in the helicopter—one in the fairing around the forward rotor shaft, one in the fairing around the after shaft, and one evenly spaced between the other two. “There’s a governor on each shaft, Sir," he explained. "Lose one, and you can still fly. These bastards hit both, with only three rounds. Son of a bitch!”
Have I mentioned that war is fluky?
The recovery bird, a CH-53, landed to pick up the crew. One of my Marines held the donkey dick and hooked it up to the bird, jumping as the connection was made. (There is a tremendous build up in static electricity in a flying helicopter. If he had stood his ground, the discharge would have knocked him flying.)
We then saddled up and headed home.
In our absence, the perimeter had been expanded and the lines adjusted. Bravo had moved in between Alpha and Charlie Companies, along the west side of the hill. Bravo tied in with Charlie 1 on the south. Alpha had Bravo on its left and Charlie 3 on the right. Neal and I had the eastern side of the hill on a fairly straight front. Charlie 2 became battalion reserve. I got my people dug in, sighted weapons and prepared for the night.
There was an old trench that ran from the rice paddy to the north straight up into our position, between my lines and the concrete bunker. It ended just south of the point where my two squads linked up.
That concerned me, because the lines had been marked during our absence, and that trench ran right between my platoon and Alpha Company's right flank platoon. There is a maxim in tactics that you never split responsibility for an avenue of approach, i.e., an easy way into a position. For the sake of clarity, someone unit must know that it has sole responsibility for that avenue.
I moved along my lines,telling off my Marines into their prospective positions, marking positions for machine guns (which would be emplaced after dark so the enemy did not see their locations). I started with our connection with Charlie 1 on my right and moved to the link up with Alpha Company. Mike Tonkyn’s squad, Charlie 3 Bravo, had that portion of our lines. His nearest and left-most position was about 20 meters from the trench. I told him to have his Marines hold off digging in and then took him with me in search of the Alpha Company platoon commander.
It was the guy who had lost his people in the paddy on Sunday (two days or two years ago, depending). He was sitting under a tree, reading Stars and Stripes.
“I’m Lieutenant McCarty. My platoon is on your right flank. Let’s walk, eh?”
“Well, what do you want?” He didn’t move. Arrogant little .......
“We need to check lines so we can make sure we have everything covered.”
“I’m waiting for my Captain to do that. Come back later,” he said dismissively. (I wish I had.)
“Look, Sport, we’ve had a long couple of days. Before my guys dig in, I want to make sure I won’t have to shift lines and make them do it all over again. Now get off your ass and let’s go.” Tonkyn was doing his best to disappear while the officers hashed things out.
The lieutenant grumbled and got up. We walked over to the trench. There was a fighting hole right next to it with an M-16 in the hole. “Is this one of yours,” I asked?
“Yeah, it’s mine.”
Well, Lance Corporal Tonkyn’s first position is that one over there.” I pointed to three Marines about 20 meters away. There was a clear area between the trench and the Alpha company position. “Do you want me to move them closer?”
“Nah. I think we’re OK. You can run along now.” Snotty little brat.
The next day, I learned that about 20 minutes later, near dark, Captain Torrey checked lines and was assured by that lieutenant that he was covering the trench. The Captain asked “And where is your position?”
“This is my hole,” the lieutenant replied, pointing to the hole right next to the trench. I suspect that he had chosen that position because the ground was relatively soft and made for easy digging.
“No. No. You cannot be on the far right flank of your lines. You need to be centered so you can control the fires of your entire platoon. Move your position and rearrange your lines.”
The idiot did move his position, but decided that he did not want to inconvenience his troops (who, we later learned, hated the SOB), so he just left the hole vacant and the trench unprotected. Within days, he was relieved of his platoon, sent back to Regiment to be the Civil Affairs Officer (a sort of liaison with the local Vietnamese military and political establishment) and then to Danang to be a Special Services Officer running part of the Freedom Hill PX. But that’s in the future.
All around me, I could hear my troops digging in. I went over to help Gibby get our hole ready for the night for the night.
08 June 2009
THE ATTACK ON AN BANG (1)
From Laundryman Charlie 3 romeo oscar: Check out my message on 6 June. And the Lieutenant is just protecting me. I counted at least 150 people before I gave up!
When we got to a small hill just north of Alpha and the CP group, I had the platoon establish a defensive perimeter. The Skipper, his radio operator, my radio operator and I, headed south with one fire team for security. We passed through Alpha’s lines at about 0715 and headed for the CP.
Colonel Riley, his S-3 (Operations Officer) and other members of his staff were under a tree, along with Captain Torrey, Alpha 6. Jerry Ayers, one of my classmates, was standing about 10 meters away. I nodded to him and moved with the Skipper to join Laundryman 6.
Lieutenant Colonel William Riley had assumed command of the battalion while we were at the bridge. I had met him, but only briefly, along with the other officers of the Company. He looked up and grinned, exuding confidence. “Great! Frank’s here. Let’s get started. Everything OK?”
Frank nodded. “Five wounded, but nothing too serious, Sir.”
The Three pulled out a map. “OK—we think there was at least a battalion of NVA on this hill yesterday afternoon. We think they slipped off to the east during the night, but we have no contact with them right now. We have been taking sporadic small arms fire from the hill this morning, so somebody is still there. Bravo is about three clicks over thataway (southwest) and will patrol to our south. Charlie will move down here from the north and east to see if the bad guys may have tried to go around north, but do it smartly. We need you to assume CP security . Alpha will resume its attack on the objective at 0900.”
The Old Man took over. “Frank, Alpha has several casualties out in that damned paddy. Their platoon is going out to recover them. Attach one of you platoons to Alpha Company for their attack.”
I grabbed our radio handset. “Charlie 3, this three actual. Saddle up and get over here most ricky tick.” I looked up. Frank was scowling. “Well, you’re gonna give Alpha your most experienced platoon, right?”
He grinned and shook his head. “Sure, but how about you let me make the decision first, OK?”
The Old Man chuckled and slapped us both on the shoulder. “All right, gents, let’s get this done.” I felt as if my Dad was there--the Old Man's calm confidence was just like Dad's.
I moved away with Captain Torrey, Jerry and another lieutenant I did not know. At this point in time, of the surviving members of our class that had joined the battalion in December, Jerry and I were the only two still in the bush as rifle platoon commanders. In the distance, I saw another lieutenant forming up a platoon and moving toward the eastern edge of the position. The platoon did not look right to me. They had lost five KIAs the day before, but there was an air about them—something unhealthy. Jerry cast a glance their way, frowned, and shook his head.
Captain Torrey took us to a concealed position from which we could observe our objective. It was about 800 meters away across a wet paddy.
“OK . That is Objective A. Situation: Objective A is believed to be held by anywhere between a company and a platoon. It has been hit with artillery all night. Charlie Company is to our north and bravo to our south. One platoon will be about 150 meters to our left recovering their casualties.
Mission: We will attack and seize objective A. Execution: We are going in with two up and one back. Jerry, your platoon will be on the left. Mac, you take the right. I will follow with the CP group and the other platoon. Logistics: Make sure you have plenty of ammo and grenades. Mac, there is a dump over by that tree. Make sure you have fresh batteries for the radios. Mac, Company Tac is 71.05.
It is now 0802. Be in position to commence the attack at 0900. Questions?” There were none. I headed over to my platoon.
I had heard them coming in about 10 minutes before. As usual, the grapevine worked well. Levi had already gotten the word that we were going in. I paused to watch this seeming normality. I had not said a word to my small unit leaders since the radio message telling them to hiyacko on down to join me.
Levi had them finishing up with cleaning weapons (they had started automatically when we stopped on the intermediate objective) and Bob Henson had already found the supply dump. He had a working party carrying boxes of grenades and other ammo as well as fresh batteries over to the platoon. I heard him yell “Hey, Doc. Do you need any resupply?" The Leading Petty Officer of the battalion medical platoon, a Petty Officer First Class, was already talking to Doc. “I’m cool, Henson,” Doc replied.
Doc was 19. Henson was 19. Sergeant Levi was almost 21, an old man. There was no urgency or apparent concern, just men who knew what they had to do, going about doing it. The squad leaders (one 18, one 19) were inspecting weapons. Gibby (18) was with the other radio operators, making sure they knew the correct frequency. I realized that I was truly blessed.
I called Levi, Henson, Doc, and the squad leaders over. One squad leader, Mike Tonkyn, had just taken over his squad—his squad leader was one of the casualties from the short round on Saturday. He had become a fire team leader 8 days before, taking over Unfried’s fire team. He was as cool as a cucumber, as if he had been a squad leader all his young life. (He looked 12—and still does!!! Sorry Mike, but that’s the truth.)
I issued the order, asked for questions, and getting none, told them I would inspect weapons in 10 minutes and we would then move out to get into position. At 0855, I moved to Jerry Ayers’s right, ensuring that we were linked up. We shook hands, exchanged “see you on the hill”s, and went to work.
At exactly 0900, we moved out. Jerry and I had agreed that, based on yesterday’s experience, we would move across in squad rushes, then fire team rushes, then individual rushes. A squad rush is coordinated by the platoon commander. He orders one squad to move while the other (we still had only two squads per platoon) covers. A fire team rush is coordinated by the squad leaders, moving one fire team at a time. Individual rushes are controlled by the fire team leader.
We started receiving fire almost immediately, although it was light and sounded high. Both platoons crossed an 800 meter wide paddy about two meters at a time. You are chillingly exposed in a paddy, especially a wet paddy, as this one was. The mud and water are knee deep and it is hard to move, so you are essentially launching yourself forward in a shallow dive each time you move.
We reached the far side two days later—OK, it was about 15 minutes, but it seemed longer—and started to move up onto the hill. Captain Torrey came behind us and moved his other platoon into the center as we wheeled north. Jerry was still on the left and I had shifted east but was still on the right. The south side of the objective was covered in scrub and continued to slope upwards.
I sent a scout forward to see what was in front of us. In the movies, everything always moves quickly and everyone is running around fully erect. It just doesn’t happen that way. We moved slowly, crawling, taking our time.
The scout reported that about 100 meters to our front (north) the ground leveled off and opened up. In the middle of a large open area, there was some sort of a low concrete structure which stood about waist high. For at least 50 meters all around, the ground was open and flat as a board.
I moved up for a look and then reported this to Captain Torrey. Jerry had done the same thing on his side. There was just no good way to get to that bunker (as we now thought of it).
The Skipper told all three platoons to inch forward. The middle platoon began to receive fire. Putting binoculars on the concrete structure, I could see what appeared to be ventilation slits about 6 inches above the ground. The slits were about two inches high by six inches wide. The NVA were using them as firing slits and were getting great grazing fire. Every casualty was initially hit in the ankles. We pulled back a bit. It was now about 1045.
Captain Torrey called for the platoon commanders. He had set up his CP in a little dip in the ground. His corpsmen were working on the casualties and the Gunny was making a canteen cup of coffee, which the Skipper passed around. Jerry came sliding in from the left just as I got there. The other lieutenant was already there.
The Skipper had moved up and had seen what we faced. Normally, a position like that is reduced by the “blind ‘em, blast’em and burn ‘em” method. Someone would toss a WP grenade in front of the aperture, followed by a satchel charge and then a flame thrower. There were problems, however.
I doubt that a NFL quarterback could toss a WP grenade 50 yards, and there was no way anyone was going to get closer and remain unhit. We had satchel charges available, but the flame section was back at An Hoa and no one could remember when we had last used our flame throwers.
The Skipper decided that Jerry and I would provide suppressive fire and the middle platoon would try to hit the southern firing slits with anti-tank rockets. The 66mm LAAW (light anti-tank assault weapon) had replaced the 3.5 inch rocket launcher (a super bazooka that replaced the original bazooka, the WWII 2.36 inch rocket launcher). The LAAW was light, disposable, and fairly easy to fire. However, it did not have a white phosphorus round which we could really have used.
We returned to our platoons, briefed our small unit leaders, and when all three platoons reported “ready,” we started. The machine guns and rifles fired at the slits, but return fire was heavy. Only two of six LAAWS hit anywhere on the structure. The middle platoon took more casualties, again marked by ankle wounds.
The Skipper called for us again. It was nearly Noon.
The coffee was still fresh—fresh being a relative term when discussing C-rations. It was surreal. We were taking coffee breaks from the war to plan our next try! What I wouldn’t give for one more cup of coffee with Jerry, Captain Torrey, the Gunny and that other lieutenant, in that little dip, with the occasional round cracking over our heads, and the adrenaline high.
“Any suggestions,” the Skipper asked.
Jerry piped up “Well, I could hook left around the old Chevy and Mac could go long towards the telephone pole.” We all grinned, remembering other gentler days of improvisation. We continued to brainstorm.
About 1330, the S-3 called to brief us on a new idea. We headed for our platoons. In about 10 minutes, a CH-46 appeared carrying a 500 gallon fuel bladder as an external lift. We put more rockets and 40mm grenade fire on the bunker to keep the inhabitants busy.
The bladder was tethered to the chopper by two hoists (known in the trade as “donkey dicks”) which kept it twice as far from the bird. The crew chief, looking through the hell hole in the bottom of the chopper guided his pilot until they could set the bladder onto the top of the structure. He then released the cargo and beat fee outta there.
The middle platoon, which had taken all the casualties, was given the honor of firing machinegun tracers at the bladder. On the second burst, it exploded in a huge roiling gout of flame and smoke.
Jerry’s platoon assaulted from the west, but it was all over. There were nine dead NVA in the structure. They did not appear to be burned; Doc surmised that they suffocated or died of ruptured lungs. A couple of grenades made sure. It was now 1430.
We checked out the rest of the hill and reported it secure. By 1545, Charlie Company and the CP group were on the hill, I had chopped back to Charlie Company, and we began organizing our defensive perimeter. Charlie 3 had the east center of the hill, with Neal on my right and Woody on my left. Alpha took the west side of the hill, tying in with Charlie 1 on the south and Charlie 2 on the north.
We had not been resupplied since Friday morning, so as soon as the hill was secure, resupply birds appeared.
At about 1615, we heard heavy fire to our southwest. Bravo Company, moving to join the battalion, had run into a large body of NVA. The firefight started when the point man spotted six NVA setting up a 12.7mm anti-aircraft machine gun. Captain Castagnetti assigned six riflemen to aim in in the crew and ordered “Fire.” Five dropped and the sixth only had a second to look around before he, too, was history. And the fight was on.
A few minutes later, we saw two CH-46’s enter a race track pattern over Bravo’s position. This was a classic medevac formation, and Frank confirmed it when he said “Bravo’s got two emergencies.”
The lead (Dash 1) headed in and the chase bird (Dash 2) continued to circle. Suddenly, Dash 2 layed over on its side and swooped down. I heard Frank mutter “Oh, shit, Dash 1 was just shot down.” Within a minute Dash 2 pulled out of the zone and headed for Danang, hedge hopping over our position before it climbed to altitude.
The firefight continued for another hour or more. Occasional rounds came zipping over our heads.
Two resupply birds dropped their external loads and then, one at a time, landed to off load passengers. We were receiving replacements. The last man was walking down the ramp when he suddenly crumpled. A stray round from the firefight had hit him right between the eyes. He was medevacked on the same bird. War is a fluky business!
As darkness settled, we manned a very strong position. It was a quiet night. We were all beat. Charlie 3 had gotten some sleep on Sunday morning, but many of us had not slept since Friday night. At about midnight, Bravo Company came into the lines and just dropped in place. I checked lines one more time and stretched out.
The next morning, one of my Marines came up and sheepishly asked, “Did anyone enter our lines from over their (pointing east) last night?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Because about 0200, a column of people walked right across the top of the hill in single file.” Damn!
“Why didn’t you challenge them,” I asked.
“Uh, well, Sir, I thought maybe I was the only man on this whole damn hill that was awake, and I didn’t think I could handle them all by myself.” (To this day, that has remained my rule of thumb definition of “prudence.”)
“Yeah, I see. Well, let’s just let that be our little secret, OK?” Fluky, flukier, flukiest!
He grinned. “Aye, aye, Sir. Works for me.”
Marines. How can you not love them?
When we got to a small hill just north of Alpha and the CP group, I had the platoon establish a defensive perimeter. The Skipper, his radio operator, my radio operator and I, headed south with one fire team for security. We passed through Alpha’s lines at about 0715 and headed for the CP.
Colonel Riley, his S-3 (Operations Officer) and other members of his staff were under a tree, along with Captain Torrey, Alpha 6. Jerry Ayers, one of my classmates, was standing about 10 meters away. I nodded to him and moved with the Skipper to join Laundryman 6.
Lieutenant Colonel William Riley had assumed command of the battalion while we were at the bridge. I had met him, but only briefly, along with the other officers of the Company. He looked up and grinned, exuding confidence. “Great! Frank’s here. Let’s get started. Everything OK?”
Frank nodded. “Five wounded, but nothing too serious, Sir.”
The Three pulled out a map. “OK—we think there was at least a battalion of NVA on this hill yesterday afternoon. We think they slipped off to the east during the night, but we have no contact with them right now. We have been taking sporadic small arms fire from the hill this morning, so somebody is still there. Bravo is about three clicks over thataway (southwest) and will patrol to our south. Charlie will move down here from the north and east to see if the bad guys may have tried to go around north, but do it smartly. We need you to assume CP security . Alpha will resume its attack on the objective at 0900.”
The Old Man took over. “Frank, Alpha has several casualties out in that damned paddy. Their platoon is going out to recover them. Attach one of you platoons to Alpha Company for their attack.”
I grabbed our radio handset. “Charlie 3, this three actual. Saddle up and get over here most ricky tick.” I looked up. Frank was scowling. “Well, you’re gonna give Alpha your most experienced platoon, right?”
He grinned and shook his head. “Sure, but how about you let me make the decision first, OK?”
The Old Man chuckled and slapped us both on the shoulder. “All right, gents, let’s get this done.” I felt as if my Dad was there--the Old Man's calm confidence was just like Dad's.
I moved away with Captain Torrey, Jerry and another lieutenant I did not know. At this point in time, of the surviving members of our class that had joined the battalion in December, Jerry and I were the only two still in the bush as rifle platoon commanders. In the distance, I saw another lieutenant forming up a platoon and moving toward the eastern edge of the position. The platoon did not look right to me. They had lost five KIAs the day before, but there was an air about them—something unhealthy. Jerry cast a glance their way, frowned, and shook his head.
Captain Torrey took us to a concealed position from which we could observe our objective. It was about 800 meters away across a wet paddy.
“OK . That is Objective A. Situation: Objective A is believed to be held by anywhere between a company and a platoon. It has been hit with artillery all night. Charlie Company is to our north and bravo to our south. One platoon will be about 150 meters to our left recovering their casualties.
Mission: We will attack and seize objective A. Execution: We are going in with two up and one back. Jerry, your platoon will be on the left. Mac, you take the right. I will follow with the CP group and the other platoon. Logistics: Make sure you have plenty of ammo and grenades. Mac, there is a dump over by that tree. Make sure you have fresh batteries for the radios. Mac, Company Tac is 71.05.
It is now 0802. Be in position to commence the attack at 0900. Questions?” There were none. I headed over to my platoon.
I had heard them coming in about 10 minutes before. As usual, the grapevine worked well. Levi had already gotten the word that we were going in. I paused to watch this seeming normality. I had not said a word to my small unit leaders since the radio message telling them to hiyacko on down to join me.
Levi had them finishing up with cleaning weapons (they had started automatically when we stopped on the intermediate objective) and Bob Henson had already found the supply dump. He had a working party carrying boxes of grenades and other ammo as well as fresh batteries over to the platoon. I heard him yell “Hey, Doc. Do you need any resupply?" The Leading Petty Officer of the battalion medical platoon, a Petty Officer First Class, was already talking to Doc. “I’m cool, Henson,” Doc replied.
Doc was 19. Henson was 19. Sergeant Levi was almost 21, an old man. There was no urgency or apparent concern, just men who knew what they had to do, going about doing it. The squad leaders (one 18, one 19) were inspecting weapons. Gibby (18) was with the other radio operators, making sure they knew the correct frequency. I realized that I was truly blessed.
I called Levi, Henson, Doc, and the squad leaders over. One squad leader, Mike Tonkyn, had just taken over his squad—his squad leader was one of the casualties from the short round on Saturday. He had become a fire team leader 8 days before, taking over Unfried’s fire team. He was as cool as a cucumber, as if he had been a squad leader all his young life. (He looked 12—and still does!!! Sorry Mike, but that’s the truth.)
I issued the order, asked for questions, and getting none, told them I would inspect weapons in 10 minutes and we would then move out to get into position. At 0855, I moved to Jerry Ayers’s right, ensuring that we were linked up. We shook hands, exchanged “see you on the hill”s, and went to work.
At exactly 0900, we moved out. Jerry and I had agreed that, based on yesterday’s experience, we would move across in squad rushes, then fire team rushes, then individual rushes. A squad rush is coordinated by the platoon commander. He orders one squad to move while the other (we still had only two squads per platoon) covers. A fire team rush is coordinated by the squad leaders, moving one fire team at a time. Individual rushes are controlled by the fire team leader.
We started receiving fire almost immediately, although it was light and sounded high. Both platoons crossed an 800 meter wide paddy about two meters at a time. You are chillingly exposed in a paddy, especially a wet paddy, as this one was. The mud and water are knee deep and it is hard to move, so you are essentially launching yourself forward in a shallow dive each time you move.
We reached the far side two days later—OK, it was about 15 minutes, but it seemed longer—and started to move up onto the hill. Captain Torrey came behind us and moved his other platoon into the center as we wheeled north. Jerry was still on the left and I had shifted east but was still on the right. The south side of the objective was covered in scrub and continued to slope upwards.
I sent a scout forward to see what was in front of us. In the movies, everything always moves quickly and everyone is running around fully erect. It just doesn’t happen that way. We moved slowly, crawling, taking our time.
The scout reported that about 100 meters to our front (north) the ground leveled off and opened up. In the middle of a large open area, there was some sort of a low concrete structure which stood about waist high. For at least 50 meters all around, the ground was open and flat as a board.
I moved up for a look and then reported this to Captain Torrey. Jerry had done the same thing on his side. There was just no good way to get to that bunker (as we now thought of it).
The Skipper told all three platoons to inch forward. The middle platoon began to receive fire. Putting binoculars on the concrete structure, I could see what appeared to be ventilation slits about 6 inches above the ground. The slits were about two inches high by six inches wide. The NVA were using them as firing slits and were getting great grazing fire. Every casualty was initially hit in the ankles. We pulled back a bit. It was now about 1045.
Captain Torrey called for the platoon commanders. He had set up his CP in a little dip in the ground. His corpsmen were working on the casualties and the Gunny was making a canteen cup of coffee, which the Skipper passed around. Jerry came sliding in from the left just as I got there. The other lieutenant was already there.
The Skipper had moved up and had seen what we faced. Normally, a position like that is reduced by the “blind ‘em, blast’em and burn ‘em” method. Someone would toss a WP grenade in front of the aperture, followed by a satchel charge and then a flame thrower. There were problems, however.
I doubt that a NFL quarterback could toss a WP grenade 50 yards, and there was no way anyone was going to get closer and remain unhit. We had satchel charges available, but the flame section was back at An Hoa and no one could remember when we had last used our flame throwers.
The Skipper decided that Jerry and I would provide suppressive fire and the middle platoon would try to hit the southern firing slits with anti-tank rockets. The 66mm LAAW (light anti-tank assault weapon) had replaced the 3.5 inch rocket launcher (a super bazooka that replaced the original bazooka, the WWII 2.36 inch rocket launcher). The LAAW was light, disposable, and fairly easy to fire. However, it did not have a white phosphorus round which we could really have used.
We returned to our platoons, briefed our small unit leaders, and when all three platoons reported “ready,” we started. The machine guns and rifles fired at the slits, but return fire was heavy. Only two of six LAAWS hit anywhere on the structure. The middle platoon took more casualties, again marked by ankle wounds.
The Skipper called for us again. It was nearly Noon.
The coffee was still fresh—fresh being a relative term when discussing C-rations. It was surreal. We were taking coffee breaks from the war to plan our next try! What I wouldn’t give for one more cup of coffee with Jerry, Captain Torrey, the Gunny and that other lieutenant, in that little dip, with the occasional round cracking over our heads, and the adrenaline high.
“Any suggestions,” the Skipper asked.
Jerry piped up “Well, I could hook left around the old Chevy and Mac could go long towards the telephone pole.” We all grinned, remembering other gentler days of improvisation. We continued to brainstorm.
About 1330, the S-3 called to brief us on a new idea. We headed for our platoons. In about 10 minutes, a CH-46 appeared carrying a 500 gallon fuel bladder as an external lift. We put more rockets and 40mm grenade fire on the bunker to keep the inhabitants busy.
The bladder was tethered to the chopper by two hoists (known in the trade as “donkey dicks”) which kept it twice as far from the bird. The crew chief, looking through the hell hole in the bottom of the chopper guided his pilot until they could set the bladder onto the top of the structure. He then released the cargo and beat fee outta there.
The middle platoon, which had taken all the casualties, was given the honor of firing machinegun tracers at the bladder. On the second burst, it exploded in a huge roiling gout of flame and smoke.
Jerry’s platoon assaulted from the west, but it was all over. There were nine dead NVA in the structure. They did not appear to be burned; Doc surmised that they suffocated or died of ruptured lungs. A couple of grenades made sure. It was now 1430.
We checked out the rest of the hill and reported it secure. By 1545, Charlie Company and the CP group were on the hill, I had chopped back to Charlie Company, and we began organizing our defensive perimeter. Charlie 3 had the east center of the hill, with Neal on my right and Woody on my left. Alpha took the west side of the hill, tying in with Charlie 1 on the south and Charlie 2 on the north.
We had not been resupplied since Friday morning, so as soon as the hill was secure, resupply birds appeared.
At about 1615, we heard heavy fire to our southwest. Bravo Company, moving to join the battalion, had run into a large body of NVA. The firefight started when the point man spotted six NVA setting up a 12.7mm anti-aircraft machine gun. Captain Castagnetti assigned six riflemen to aim in in the crew and ordered “Fire.” Five dropped and the sixth only had a second to look around before he, too, was history. And the fight was on.
A few minutes later, we saw two CH-46’s enter a race track pattern over Bravo’s position. This was a classic medevac formation, and Frank confirmed it when he said “Bravo’s got two emergencies.”
The lead (Dash 1) headed in and the chase bird (Dash 2) continued to circle. Suddenly, Dash 2 layed over on its side and swooped down. I heard Frank mutter “Oh, shit, Dash 1 was just shot down.” Within a minute Dash 2 pulled out of the zone and headed for Danang, hedge hopping over our position before it climbed to altitude.
The firefight continued for another hour or more. Occasional rounds came zipping over our heads.
Two resupply birds dropped their external loads and then, one at a time, landed to off load passengers. We were receiving replacements. The last man was walking down the ramp when he suddenly crumpled. A stray round from the firefight had hit him right between the eyes. He was medevacked on the same bird. War is a fluky business!
As darkness settled, we manned a very strong position. It was a quiet night. We were all beat. Charlie 3 had gotten some sleep on Sunday morning, but many of us had not slept since Friday night. At about midnight, Bravo Company came into the lines and just dropped in place. I checked lines one more time and stretched out.
The next morning, one of my Marines came up and sheepishly asked, “Did anyone enter our lines from over their (pointing east) last night?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Because about 0200, a column of people walked right across the top of the hill in single file.” Damn!
“Why didn’t you challenge them,” I asked.
“Uh, well, Sir, I thought maybe I was the only man on this whole damn hill that was awake, and I didn’t think I could handle them all by myself.” (To this day, that has remained my rule of thumb definition of “prudence.”)
“Yeah, I see. Well, let’s just let that be our little secret, OK?” Fluky, flukier, flukiest!
He grinned. “Aye, aye, Sir. Works for me.”
Marines. How can you not love them?
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