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 LtCol William E Riley. Show all posts
Showing posts with label LtCol William E Riley. Show all posts
30 October 2011
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.
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?
07 June 2009
WAR IS NO RESPECTER OF THE SABBATH
Sunday morning dawned sunny and clear for a change. We watched the Company pass our position and then set up an ambush, but no one came. After an hour, we moved out and rejoined the Company in a little ville about 800 meters east of the mountains. Charlie 3 had the southeast side of the perimeter.
We cleaned and inspected weapons and then I put half the platoon down for four hours sleep, or what would pass for sleep in the heat of the day. At about 1300, we shifted. I really couldn’t sleep, and just moved from hole to hole talking to the troops. The Gunny had his transistor radio on and I caught a few innings of the St Louis Cardinals game. (The broadcast team, as I may have mentioned earlier, was the greatest of the generation—Harry Caray, Joe Garagiola, and Jack Buck. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore, although Harry Kalas and Larry Anderson were pretty close.)
The battalion was on the move. The increasing contact with larger units over the past couple of days convinced the Colonel Riley that the NVA was getting ready to fight. Bravo was 5 clicks to our southwest and Alpha, with the CP group moving east from a place called An Bang (3) toward a little hill called An Bang (1) which was about 2 clicks to our southeast. At about 1500, they reached An Bang (2) which was about 800 meters west of the objective. A platoon from Alpha started across an 800 meter wide rice paddy to recon the objective.
An Bang (1) was a complex of small rises, perhaps 25 feet above the surrounding terrain. The complex was about 1,000 meters from east to west and about 500 meters from north to south. The map indicated that it was pretty much surrounded by trenches, so it may have been an old French compound at some time in the past. The ground was covered with scrub that rose to 15 or 20 feet, although the center had a long, flat open area that would make a great LZ. The northern, western, and southern sides were pretty steep—relatively speaking—but the east side had a gentle slope out into more paddies.
Charlie Company had not been there before, but I think that one of the other companies and the CP group had been. The Old Man had decided that it was time to pull the battalion together and this was good ground for a battalion-sized unit. Obviously….
As Alpha’s platoon got to within about 10 meters of the western side, they were taken under heavy fire and pinned down in the paddy. At least three Marines were KIA almost immediately. I will write later about the platoon commander and platoon sergeant, but let it suffice to say that the platoon commander did not live up to the high standards of our Corps that day.
We could hear the firefight when it started, and the battalion tactical net (the radio net that linked the battalion commander to his company commanders, just as the company tac linked Frank to Neal, Dick and me) came alive. They immediately began to pound the hill with Alpha’s 60mm mortars and the battalion’s 81mm mortars. Rob Montgomery, one of my classmates, was now the 81mm mortar platoon commander. It was his former platoon that was pinned down in the paddy.
He moved forward to be able to adjust his mortars onto the NVA position as the firefight raged.
Suddenly, I heard him on the net. “I can see them, I can see them. Oh, hell, let’s go!” He dashed out into the paddy to try to extricate “his” platoon. He stood in the paddy, directing fire at a several enemy positions which were destroyed.
Less than a minute later, someone came up on the net. “The Lieutenant is down.” He was hit by at least one machine gun bullet and began to bleed out. Nonetheless, he closed with a second machine gun position which he single-handedly destroyed along with its crew.
At that point, he collapsed. Somehow, the Corpsman kept him alive. Thankfully, his Navy Cross citation (scroll down)notes that the President takes “pleasure” in making the award. If you read enough citations, you quickly figure out that if the President “takes pride” in making the award, it is a posthumous award.
Rob left the Marine Corps after his three year obligation and had a distinguished career in the FBI. He was Special-Agent-in-Charge of the Portland, Oregon office when the Nancy Kerrigan-Tanya Harding mess occurred. In the aftermath of the Ruby Ridge stand-off, Rob was appointed the Special-Agent-in-Charge of the Crisis Management/Hostage Rescue Team headquartered at the FBI Academy (less than 3 miles as the crow flies from TBS) and then as the first Special-Agent-in-Charge of the Critical Incident Response Group, which consolidated all FBI functions relating to crisis situations.
Frank, Neal, Woody and I were getting antsy. It was obvious that this was a major contact. I said, “Geez, if we are going to go, I hope we go now. I sure don’t look forward to moving down there at night with everyone as jumpy as they are bound to be.” Frank told us to get to our platoons and make sure they were alert—no problem there; they could hear what was going on and the close air support aircraft were orbiting over our position. But the call did not come.
Finally, just at dusk, my radio operator said, “Skipper wants you.” We headed up the trail.
At the CP, Frank was packing up. Neal was there and Woody got there seconds after me. “OK, let’s saddle up. We’re moving down to link up with Alpha and the CP group. Mac, you take point. Charlie 1 next with the CP group, then Charlie 2. Be careful. We don’t need any intramural firefights.”
We headed back down the trail. I was pissed! Why move us in the dark? As I left the scrub and looked at one of my positions, an oily grey-black cloud appeared in the empty rice paddy just outside of our lines, followed by a cair-rump! Aw, who the [universal adjective] is throwing a grenade right now, I thought?
There were quickly four more explosions across the hill and I realized, as a launched myself into my hole, that we were being mortared. And it started.
We were repeatedly probed all night. There was grenade fire, mortar fire—ours and theirs—and small arms fire. Several claymores were fired. The small arms fire was most disturbing. Ordinarily, you did not fire a rifle or machine gun because it helped the enemy spot the location of the weapon. At one point, Frank radioed to the Company “The next time I hear rifle fire, there had better be a body to go with it!”
Almost immediately, there were three shots from one of my positions to my right front. OK, we need to calm down here. I told Gibby that I was going to check lines, gave him my rifle, and grabbed my .45. As I moved, I was constantly whispering, “Hold your fire; it’s me.” I got to the hole from which the rifle fire had originated.
“What the [universal adjective] are you shooting at?”
“Uh, him, Sir.” There was a dead NVA, two rounds in his chest and one in the head, lying next to the hole. Although SNL was still years away, it was a Roseanne Roseannadanna moment. Never mind. I patted the Marines on the shoulder, told them well done, and crawled back to my hole. I radioed the Skipper to report that there was, indeed, a dead body.
We continued to receive mortar and rocket propelled grenade fire all night. We had a Spooky gunship
up and firing for us. The Spook was an old DC-3 aircraft that had three 7.62mm (roughly, .303 cal) gatling guns mounted in the fuselage. As it orbited and fired, the fire concentrated so that in one minute, it could put one bullet in every square inch of a football field. In the time-lapse photo (taken by one of my Marines and used as his Christmas 1969 Christmas card with the sentiment "Peace on earth and good will to men!") you should remember that between every tracer round, there are four ball rounds. A truly awesome weapon.
Finally, at about 0400, the NVA broke contact. At first light, we checked the area and found another nine dead NVA just outside our lines. The troops had already gotten the good war prizes—belts, cap badges, knives-but I was looking for maps and other intelligence material.
We found two NVA in front of a hole, lying on their backs. Both were missing their legs from the knees down—it was clear that the Marines in the hole had popped a claymore when they were right in front of it. About 5 meters behind them was another body, lying face down.
Dick Rollins and I rolled him over and I ripped his shirt open to look for a map. He had a little Carolina blue ribbon tied through one button hole. His chest was covered with little gray bumps. “Hey, Doc,” I called to my Corpsman. “What do you make of this?” He approached. “Whattaya think, Doc? Could it be smallpox?” Doc jumped back. Dick joined him.
Finally, I was able to persuade Doc to come closer. “Is it on his back, too?” We rolled him back over and pulled up his shirt. His back was covered with entry wounds.
As near as I can tell, he either was walking backward—rear security?—or, more likely, turned to run as the flare in front of the claymore was triggered and the claymore detonated. The claymore pellets penetrated his body, but could not break through the last layer of skin. We referred to him thereafter as “the chicken gook.”
Charlie Company had seven casualties, all wounded, no emergencies, but three were priority and a total of five were evacuated. As soon as we got the wounded out, the Skipper called me and told me to mount up Charlie 3 as security for a patrol to escort him down to battalion.
Thus began another day in paradise.
We cleaned and inspected weapons and then I put half the platoon down for four hours sleep, or what would pass for sleep in the heat of the day. At about 1300, we shifted. I really couldn’t sleep, and just moved from hole to hole talking to the troops. The Gunny had his transistor radio on and I caught a few innings of the St Louis Cardinals game. (The broadcast team, as I may have mentioned earlier, was the greatest of the generation—Harry Caray, Joe Garagiola, and Jack Buck. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore, although Harry Kalas and Larry Anderson were pretty close.)
The battalion was on the move. The increasing contact with larger units over the past couple of days convinced the Colonel Riley that the NVA was getting ready to fight. Bravo was 5 clicks to our southwest and Alpha, with the CP group moving east from a place called An Bang (3) toward a little hill called An Bang (1) which was about 2 clicks to our southeast. At about 1500, they reached An Bang (2) which was about 800 meters west of the objective. A platoon from Alpha started across an 800 meter wide rice paddy to recon the objective.
An Bang (1) was a complex of small rises, perhaps 25 feet above the surrounding terrain. The complex was about 1,000 meters from east to west and about 500 meters from north to south. The map indicated that it was pretty much surrounded by trenches, so it may have been an old French compound at some time in the past. The ground was covered with scrub that rose to 15 or 20 feet, although the center had a long, flat open area that would make a great LZ. The northern, western, and southern sides were pretty steep—relatively speaking—but the east side had a gentle slope out into more paddies.
Charlie Company had not been there before, but I think that one of the other companies and the CP group had been. The Old Man had decided that it was time to pull the battalion together and this was good ground for a battalion-sized unit. Obviously….
As Alpha’s platoon got to within about 10 meters of the western side, they were taken under heavy fire and pinned down in the paddy. At least three Marines were KIA almost immediately. I will write later about the platoon commander and platoon sergeant, but let it suffice to say that the platoon commander did not live up to the high standards of our Corps that day.
We could hear the firefight when it started, and the battalion tactical net (the radio net that linked the battalion commander to his company commanders, just as the company tac linked Frank to Neal, Dick and me) came alive. They immediately began to pound the hill with Alpha’s 60mm mortars and the battalion’s 81mm mortars. Rob Montgomery, one of my classmates, was now the 81mm mortar platoon commander. It was his former platoon that was pinned down in the paddy.
He moved forward to be able to adjust his mortars onto the NVA position as the firefight raged.
Suddenly, I heard him on the net. “I can see them, I can see them. Oh, hell, let’s go!” He dashed out into the paddy to try to extricate “his” platoon. He stood in the paddy, directing fire at a several enemy positions which were destroyed.
Less than a minute later, someone came up on the net. “The Lieutenant is down.” He was hit by at least one machine gun bullet and began to bleed out. Nonetheless, he closed with a second machine gun position which he single-handedly destroyed along with its crew.
At that point, he collapsed. Somehow, the Corpsman kept him alive. Thankfully, his Navy Cross citation (scroll down)notes that the President takes “pleasure” in making the award. If you read enough citations, you quickly figure out that if the President “takes pride” in making the award, it is a posthumous award.
Rob left the Marine Corps after his three year obligation and had a distinguished career in the FBI. He was Special-Agent-in-Charge of the Portland, Oregon office when the Nancy Kerrigan-Tanya Harding mess occurred. In the aftermath of the Ruby Ridge stand-off, Rob was appointed the Special-Agent-in-Charge of the Crisis Management/Hostage Rescue Team headquartered at the FBI Academy (less than 3 miles as the crow flies from TBS) and then as the first Special-Agent-in-Charge of the Critical Incident Response Group, which consolidated all FBI functions relating to crisis situations.
Frank, Neal, Woody and I were getting antsy. It was obvious that this was a major contact. I said, “Geez, if we are going to go, I hope we go now. I sure don’t look forward to moving down there at night with everyone as jumpy as they are bound to be.” Frank told us to get to our platoons and make sure they were alert—no problem there; they could hear what was going on and the close air support aircraft were orbiting over our position. But the call did not come.
Finally, just at dusk, my radio operator said, “Skipper wants you.” We headed up the trail.
At the CP, Frank was packing up. Neal was there and Woody got there seconds after me. “OK, let’s saddle up. We’re moving down to link up with Alpha and the CP group. Mac, you take point. Charlie 1 next with the CP group, then Charlie 2. Be careful. We don’t need any intramural firefights.”
We headed back down the trail. I was pissed! Why move us in the dark? As I left the scrub and looked at one of my positions, an oily grey-black cloud appeared in the empty rice paddy just outside of our lines, followed by a cair-rump! Aw, who the [universal adjective] is throwing a grenade right now, I thought?
There were quickly four more explosions across the hill and I realized, as a launched myself into my hole, that we were being mortared. And it started.
We were repeatedly probed all night. There was grenade fire, mortar fire—ours and theirs—and small arms fire. Several claymores were fired. The small arms fire was most disturbing. Ordinarily, you did not fire a rifle or machine gun because it helped the enemy spot the location of the weapon. At one point, Frank radioed to the Company “The next time I hear rifle fire, there had better be a body to go with it!”
Almost immediately, there were three shots from one of my positions to my right front. OK, we need to calm down here. I told Gibby that I was going to check lines, gave him my rifle, and grabbed my .45. As I moved, I was constantly whispering, “Hold your fire; it’s me.” I got to the hole from which the rifle fire had originated.
“What the [universal adjective] are you shooting at?”
“Uh, him, Sir.” There was a dead NVA, two rounds in his chest and one in the head, lying next to the hole. Although SNL was still years away, it was a Roseanne Roseannadanna moment. Never mind. I patted the Marines on the shoulder, told them well done, and crawled back to my hole. I radioed the Skipper to report that there was, indeed, a dead body.
We continued to receive mortar and rocket propelled grenade fire all night. We had a Spooky gunship
up and firing for us. The Spook was an old DC-3 aircraft that had three 7.62mm (roughly, .303 cal) gatling guns mounted in the fuselage. As it orbited and fired, the fire concentrated so that in one minute, it could put one bullet in every square inch of a football field. In the time-lapse photo (taken by one of my Marines and used as his Christmas 1969 Christmas card with the sentiment "Peace on earth and good will to men!") you should remember that between every tracer round, there are four ball rounds. A truly awesome weapon.
Finally, at about 0400, the NVA broke contact. At first light, we checked the area and found another nine dead NVA just outside our lines. The troops had already gotten the good war prizes—belts, cap badges, knives-but I was looking for maps and other intelligence material.
We found two NVA in front of a hole, lying on their backs. Both were missing their legs from the knees down—it was clear that the Marines in the hole had popped a claymore when they were right in front of it. About 5 meters behind them was another body, lying face down.
Dick Rollins and I rolled him over and I ripped his shirt open to look for a map. He had a little Carolina blue ribbon tied through one button hole. His chest was covered with little gray bumps. “Hey, Doc,” I called to my Corpsman. “What do you make of this?” He approached. “Whattaya think, Doc? Could it be smallpox?” Doc jumped back. Dick joined him.
Finally, I was able to persuade Doc to come closer. “Is it on his back, too?” We rolled him back over and pulled up his shirt. His back was covered with entry wounds.
As near as I can tell, he either was walking backward—rear security?—or, more likely, turned to run as the flare in front of the claymore was triggered and the claymore detonated. The claymore pellets penetrated his body, but could not break through the last layer of skin. We referred to him thereafter as “the chicken gook.”
Charlie Company had seven casualties, all wounded, no emergencies, but three were priority and a total of five were evacuated. As soon as we got the wounded out, the Skipper called me and told me to mount up Charlie 3 as security for a patrol to escort him down to battalion.
Thus began another day in paradise.
23 May 2009
TIME AT THE BRIDGE
We continued our stay at the bridge for another couple of uneventful weeks. Mike Koch went back to An Hoa as Executive Officer of Bravo Company and Dick Woods took over as Charlie 2. The bridge was our home. There were no more casualties, although we did medevac two Marines for head injuries.
There was always a close air support flight in the air, ready to respond to calls for CAS. Combat aircraft do not land with ordnance (bombs and rockets) attached to the plane. Therefore, if a flight was not called upon to attack during its two hour flight, it would be directed to a “free fire zone” to dump its ordnance. The Arizona was a free fire zone.
The A-4 had a 20 mm internal gun. After they dropped their bombs, they would shoot up the area. The easiest way for them to do that was to follow the river. The problem was that the spent brass still had to come to earth. Despite our repeated request that they fly along one side of the river or the other, they continued to fly right down the middle of the river. As they would fire, we could hear the spent brass splashing into the water.
The troops were terrified that they would be hit by falling brass. We would tell them to stand still, but there was always someone who would run. One night, two Marines ran into each other, forehead to forehead. They each then fell back and hit the asphalt. Each man was unconscious and had goose eggs on both the forehead and the back of the head. Within two days, they were back.
On May 13, my birthday, I got to the mess for a late breakfast. As I was eating alone, the Gunny came in for a cup of coffee. He brought me my mail, which included a number of cards. I explained that it was my birthday. He turned on his heel and walked off.
A couple of minutes later, he returned with a C-ration pecan nut roll into which he had stuck piece of lit time fuse. “Happy birthday, Lieutenant.” It was my most memorable birthday cake.
A few days later, we were alerted that the battalion would relieve 2/5 in the Arizona. That weekend, the Skipper’s jeep unexpectedly came down to the bridge. He, Neal, Woody and the Gunny were already aboard. He told me to wedge myself in, and we headed for the battalion CP. The new battalion commander, LtCol William E. Riley, Jr., USMC, had arranged for the officers and Staff NCOs to make MARS calls home. This was an an ominous sign, but typical of the Old Man'sleadership.
Fortunately, I remembered that Maryann was visiting my Mom that weekend.
The Military Affiliate Radio System was made up of ham radio operators in the States. The phone call would be patched into a shortwave station at An Hoa. The operator would then contact a ham operator in the States who would place a collect call to, e.g., my Mom’s house. I was able to speak to both Mom and Maryann.
We began to prepare mentally and logistically for our return to the bush.
There was always a close air support flight in the air, ready to respond to calls for CAS. Combat aircraft do not land with ordnance (bombs and rockets) attached to the plane. Therefore, if a flight was not called upon to attack during its two hour flight, it would be directed to a “free fire zone” to dump its ordnance. The Arizona was a free fire zone.
The A-4 had a 20 mm internal gun. After they dropped their bombs, they would shoot up the area. The easiest way for them to do that was to follow the river. The problem was that the spent brass still had to come to earth. Despite our repeated request that they fly along one side of the river or the other, they continued to fly right down the middle of the river. As they would fire, we could hear the spent brass splashing into the water.
The troops were terrified that they would be hit by falling brass. We would tell them to stand still, but there was always someone who would run. One night, two Marines ran into each other, forehead to forehead. They each then fell back and hit the asphalt. Each man was unconscious and had goose eggs on both the forehead and the back of the head. Within two days, they were back.
On May 13, my birthday, I got to the mess for a late breakfast. As I was eating alone, the Gunny came in for a cup of coffee. He brought me my mail, which included a number of cards. I explained that it was my birthday. He turned on his heel and walked off.
A couple of minutes later, he returned with a C-ration pecan nut roll into which he had stuck piece of lit time fuse. “Happy birthday, Lieutenant.” It was my most memorable birthday cake.
A few days later, we were alerted that the battalion would relieve 2/5 in the Arizona. That weekend, the Skipper’s jeep unexpectedly came down to the bridge. He, Neal, Woody and the Gunny were already aboard. He told me to wedge myself in, and we headed for the battalion CP. The new battalion commander, LtCol William E. Riley, Jr., USMC, had arranged for the officers and Staff NCOs to make MARS calls home. This was an an ominous sign, but typical of the Old Man'sleadership.
Fortunately, I remembered that Maryann was visiting my Mom that weekend.
The Military Affiliate Radio System was made up of ham radio operators in the States. The phone call would be patched into a shortwave station at An Hoa. The operator would then contact a ham operator in the States who would place a collect call to, e.g., my Mom’s house. I was able to speak to both Mom and Maryann.
We began to prepare mentally and logistically for our return to the bush.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)