The President of the United States
in the name of
The Congress
takes pride in presenting the
Medal of Honor (posthumously)
to
JIMMY WAYNE PHIPPS
Private First Class
United States Marine Corps
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty, as set forth in the following
Citation:
While serving as a combat engineer with Company B, 1st Engineer Battalion, 1st Marine Division on 27 May 1969 in connection with combat operations against the enemy, PFC Phipps was a member of a 2-man combat engineer demolition team assigned to locate and destroy enemy artillery ordnance and concealed firing devices. After he had expended all of his explosives and blasting caps, PFC Phipps discovered a 175mm high explosive artillery round in a rice paddy. Suspecting that the enemy had attached the artillery round to a secondary explosive device, he warned other Marines in the area to move to covered positions and prepared to destroy the round with a hand grenade. As he was attaching the hand grenade to a stake beside the artillery round, the fuse of the enemy's secondary explosive device ignited. Realizing that his assistant and the platoon commander were both within a few meters of him and that the imminent explosion could kill all 3 men, PFC Phipps grasped the hand grenade to his chest and dived forward to cover the enemy's explosive and the artillery round with his body, thereby shielding his companions from the detonation while absorbing the full and tremendous impact with his body. PFC Phipps' indomitable courage, inspiring initiative, and selfless devotion to duty saved the lives of 2 Marines and upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the U.S. Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life for his country.
Showing posts with label PFC Jimmy Phipps. Show all posts
Showing posts with label PFC Jimmy Phipps. Show all posts
27 May 2011
03 June 2009
PFC JIMMY PHIPPS
On 25 May, I got a new Platoon Sergeant, a Staff Sergeant. Although he was a Staff NCO, he was serving his first tour in Vietnam, having spent the past four years as a recruiter. I received several new Marines, bringing the platoon up to about 30 in strength.
On the morning of the 26th, we set in early in the day after a long night march. As the Platoon Sergeant and I were setting in the lines, there was a burst of rifle fire from our left. Everyone hit the deck. I told the platoon Sergeant to check our right and I moved left. At each of my holes, the troops reported that the fire had come from their left. I continued to crawl to my left, coming up to Charlie 2’s first (right-most) fighting hole. I knew the two Marines in the position from my time as Second Platoon Commander.
“Where did that rifle fire come from,” I asked?
“I fired, Sir,” one Marine replied. “A gook popped up and threw a satchel charge into our lines. I’m sure I hit him.”
Mike Tonkin, my left-most fire team leader was close by and I ordered him to take his team out to look for the wounded enemy soldier. They moved out carefully and found him about 10 meters in front of our lines. Two Marines grabbed him by the arms and pulled him back into our perimeter.
The Gunny and the Skipper crawled up. “What happened,” the Skipper asked. I told him and went on to say, “Did anyone hear an explosion? This guy tossed a satchel charge at us.”
No one had, which meant we probably had a dud satchel charge inside our lines. “What did it look like,” the Gunny asked?
“It was wrapped in banana leaves like them satchel charges we found after they blew up the An Hoa ammo dump, Gunny,” one of the Marines replied. We started a careful search and soon found a packet of leaves about 5 meters behind the hole. It had broken open on impact. All it was was a bundle of leaves.
The wounded Vietnamese was a kid of about 14. He had been hit in the stomach, and the exit wound took off most of one buttock. The corpsmen were working on him to stop the loss of blood. A medevac was called and he was flown off to Danang.
About all we could determine was that he decided to screw with us. He paid dearly for his practical joke.
That afternoon, Charlie 2 was on patrol and spotted one NVA in uniform fleeing from them into a tree line. They took him under fire, and the tree line erupted with heavy small arms fire. The platoon maneuvered forward and spotted several NVA running away in an open paddy. They called in artillery fire. A platoon from Bravo Company was patrolling nearby and linked up with Charlie 2. They found several heavy blood trails and one wounded NVA.
That next morning, I took out an area security patrol. As we entered one abandoned village, we checked the hooches and found a large piece of rusted tin. On the reverse side, drawn in chalk, was a diagram indicating how a machine gunner should lead a helicopter in order to shoot it down. It was the same kind of training aid I might use for a similar period of instruction.
A few feet away, there was a dud 175mm artillery round lying next to the trail. This would have been a deadly booby trap and needed to be destroyed. I did not have an engineer with me, and we had used our C-4 to blow a couple of dud 81 mm rounds earlier on the patrol. I reported our finds to the Skipper, marked the location of the duds on my map, and completed our patrol. When we were about 400 meters from our perimeter, I saw the re-supply chopper hover and release its external cargo net and then land. In only a minute or two, it took off and headed back toward An Hoa.
As we entered the perimeter, I told the Platoon Sergeant to return to our portion of the lines which hAd been manned by Charlie 2 during our patrol. I continued on up the rise towards the CP to report to the Skipper. As I did so, who should I see but Jimmy Phipps, the engineer with whom I had the spider hole adventure in February. Shortly before we left the bridge for the Arizona, he had returned to his parent unit, Company B, 1st Engineer Battalion up near Danang.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” he said with a big grin.
“What the hell are you doing out here, Phipps?”
“Aw, hell, Lieutenant, I’m not cut out to be a garrison Marine. Me and the First Sergeant had a disagreement. He said, ‘Phipps, for two bits I’d send your raggedy ass back out to the bush with the grunts and let you get your [male appendage] shot off.’ I pulled out a 25 cent MPC and said, ‘Go ahead. I don’t mind being with Charlie Company.’ And here I am.”
By now, we were both grinning. I could imagine the First Sergeant’s reaction. “Well, grab your gear and come with me. I’ve got some business for you.”
We got to the CP and I briefed the Skipper. Neal Meier was there, planning the afternoon patrol. He joined our conversation and re-worked his patrol route to take him to the dud round. Phipps began to prepare charges to use on the dud.
At about 1530, my radio operator said, “Hey, Lieutenant, Charlie 1 has some casualties.”
We later learned that they had found a dud 500 pound bomb in addition to the 175 round. Phipps destroyed the bomb, but as he was putting a charge on the 175, he found that it was booby-trapped with a grenade. Shouting a warning to Neal who was observing, he leapt onto the grenade. He was 18.
Neal and another Marine were wounded, but Phipps had saved their lives. He was awarded the Medal of Honor (posthumously). His citation can be found here.
In Scripture, Christ tells us “Greater love has no man than this; that he give his life for his friends.” Phipps meets that standard.
Phipps Hall at Quantico, Phipps Hall at 2d Engineer Battalion at Camp Lejeune, and Phipps Road at Camp Pendleton are all named in his memory. His name can be found at Panel 23 W, Line 2.
On the morning of the 26th, we set in early in the day after a long night march. As the Platoon Sergeant and I were setting in the lines, there was a burst of rifle fire from our left. Everyone hit the deck. I told the platoon Sergeant to check our right and I moved left. At each of my holes, the troops reported that the fire had come from their left. I continued to crawl to my left, coming up to Charlie 2’s first (right-most) fighting hole. I knew the two Marines in the position from my time as Second Platoon Commander.
“Where did that rifle fire come from,” I asked?
“I fired, Sir,” one Marine replied. “A gook popped up and threw a satchel charge into our lines. I’m sure I hit him.”
Mike Tonkin, my left-most fire team leader was close by and I ordered him to take his team out to look for the wounded enemy soldier. They moved out carefully and found him about 10 meters in front of our lines. Two Marines grabbed him by the arms and pulled him back into our perimeter.
The Gunny and the Skipper crawled up. “What happened,” the Skipper asked. I told him and went on to say, “Did anyone hear an explosion? This guy tossed a satchel charge at us.”
No one had, which meant we probably had a dud satchel charge inside our lines. “What did it look like,” the Gunny asked?
“It was wrapped in banana leaves like them satchel charges we found after they blew up the An Hoa ammo dump, Gunny,” one of the Marines replied. We started a careful search and soon found a packet of leaves about 5 meters behind the hole. It had broken open on impact. All it was was a bundle of leaves.
The wounded Vietnamese was a kid of about 14. He had been hit in the stomach, and the exit wound took off most of one buttock. The corpsmen were working on him to stop the loss of blood. A medevac was called and he was flown off to Danang.
About all we could determine was that he decided to screw with us. He paid dearly for his practical joke.
That afternoon, Charlie 2 was on patrol and spotted one NVA in uniform fleeing from them into a tree line. They took him under fire, and the tree line erupted with heavy small arms fire. The platoon maneuvered forward and spotted several NVA running away in an open paddy. They called in artillery fire. A platoon from Bravo Company was patrolling nearby and linked up with Charlie 2. They found several heavy blood trails and one wounded NVA.
That next morning, I took out an area security patrol. As we entered one abandoned village, we checked the hooches and found a large piece of rusted tin. On the reverse side, drawn in chalk, was a diagram indicating how a machine gunner should lead a helicopter in order to shoot it down. It was the same kind of training aid I might use for a similar period of instruction.
A few feet away, there was a dud 175mm artillery round lying next to the trail. This would have been a deadly booby trap and needed to be destroyed. I did not have an engineer with me, and we had used our C-4 to blow a couple of dud 81 mm rounds earlier on the patrol. I reported our finds to the Skipper, marked the location of the duds on my map, and completed our patrol. When we were about 400 meters from our perimeter, I saw the re-supply chopper hover and release its external cargo net and then land. In only a minute or two, it took off and headed back toward An Hoa.
As we entered the perimeter, I told the Platoon Sergeant to return to our portion of the lines which hAd been manned by Charlie 2 during our patrol. I continued on up the rise towards the CP to report to the Skipper. As I did so, who should I see but Jimmy Phipps, the engineer with whom I had the spider hole adventure in February. Shortly before we left the bridge for the Arizona, he had returned to his parent unit, Company B, 1st Engineer Battalion up near Danang.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” he said with a big grin.
“What the hell are you doing out here, Phipps?”
“Aw, hell, Lieutenant, I’m not cut out to be a garrison Marine. Me and the First Sergeant had a disagreement. He said, ‘Phipps, for two bits I’d send your raggedy ass back out to the bush with the grunts and let you get your [male appendage] shot off.’ I pulled out a 25 cent MPC and said, ‘Go ahead. I don’t mind being with Charlie Company.’ And here I am.”
By now, we were both grinning. I could imagine the First Sergeant’s reaction. “Well, grab your gear and come with me. I’ve got some business for you.”
We got to the CP and I briefed the Skipper. Neal Meier was there, planning the afternoon patrol. He joined our conversation and re-worked his patrol route to take him to the dud round. Phipps began to prepare charges to use on the dud.
At about 1530, my radio operator said, “Hey, Lieutenant, Charlie 1 has some casualties.”
We later learned that they had found a dud 500 pound bomb in addition to the 175 round. Phipps destroyed the bomb, but as he was putting a charge on the 175, he found that it was booby-trapped with a grenade. Shouting a warning to Neal who was observing, he leapt onto the grenade. He was 18.
Neal and another Marine were wounded, but Phipps had saved their lives. He was awarded the Medal of Honor (posthumously). His citation can be found here.
In Scripture, Christ tells us “Greater love has no man than this; that he give his life for his friends.” Phipps meets that standard.
Phipps Hall at Quantico, Phipps Hall at 2d Engineer Battalion at Camp Lejeune, and Phipps Road at Camp Pendleton are all named in his memory. His name can be found at Panel 23 W, Line 2.
07 February 2009
THE SPOCK NEUTRALIZER
In mid-February, Lyn Pompper was transferred to Headquarters and Service Company at the Battalion Command Post at Phu Loc (6). I was once again moved, this time to become the platoon commander of Third Platoon. Although I missed Second Platoon, I was delighted to once again be a platoon leader. There were differences. In Second Platoon, my platoon Sergeant was Staff Sergeant Gary Beyer. He was about 28, with ten years in the Corps.
In Third Herd, my Platoon Sergeant was Corporal Daryl Levi. He was 20, with about a year in the Corps. The difference in experience was marked.
But he was a warrior. His promotion to Corporal resulted from an action in which his fire team sized patrol (four men) spotted an NVA unit that was estimated to be squad sized or larger. Arranging a hasty ambush, he took the NVA unit under rifle and grenade fire while also adjusting mortar fire onto the retreating remnant. A significant number of NVA were killed, with no casualties to Levi’s fire team. As a result, the Commanding General approved his meritorious combat promotion to Corporal.
Let me add a word about enemy casualties.
I will refrain from mentioning specific numbers of enemy dead unless I can personally vouch for the number. Because of McNamara’s fetish for numbers, the Vietnam War became famous for its emphasis on “body count.” I have heard that McNamara even had folks who would calculate rounds expended per enemy casualty, just to see if we were being economical in the use of ammunition.
Absurd! Another of Father O’Brien’s Murphy maxims is, “If someone is worth shooting, he’s worth shooting twice.” Combat is ridiculously uneconomical. You stay alive by making sure the bad guy is down for the count, and if it takes three rounds to make sure he is out of the game, give him all three. Now, fire discipline is important, and controlling a unit’s fires is one of the small unit leader’s responsibilities. Profligate firing is unacceptable because you may need the ammo later. But limiting rounds just to save money is stupid.
The apex of the body count fixation came a part of the legend of 1/5 in the Fall of 1968. Captain Marty Brandtner commanded Delta Company at the time. (Some may recall him as a Lieutenant General during Gulf War I. He was the J-3 of the Joint Staff and conducted many of the press briefings on the development and culmination of that war.)
General Brandtner was one of only two Marines to receive two Navy Crosses during the Vietnam War. They were awarded for actions only 8 days apart. The citations for those actions are here and here.
At about the same time, Delta Company was assigned to seize, occupy and defend a hilltop position. As the attack commenced in the late afternoon, it was met with heavy enemy fire. Brandtner called in artillery and mortar fire, encircling the enemy position and preventing the enemy from withdrawing. He continued to pound the enemy position with mortars, artillery and air strikes all night. The next morning, the Company walked onto the hill with no opposition. It was several feet lower than it had been the day before.
Almost immediately, Brandtner was pestered with radio requests for a “body count.” In exasperation, he responded, “Look, this place is a mess. There are no bodies, just arms and legs—nothing but meat.”
“Well, dammit,” came the reply, “count the meat!” From then on, 1/5’s unofficial motto was “We Count The Meat.” But the fixation on body count was firmly set in the bureaucratic minds in Saigon and Washington.
When I took command of Charlie 3, it numbered about 25 Marines and a Corpsman. After the normal shakedown period between a new commander and his unit, we were soon in battery with one another.
I joined the platoon when it was at strong points Charlie and Delta. The first afternoon, I went out on a local security patrol from Delta. The route they followed was further west than I was used to, but an earlier patrol had spotted a dud 81mm mortar round embedded in the ground, and we took an engineer, PFC Jimmy Phipps, with us to destroy it. (Dud rounds were potential booby traps--“improvised explosive devices” or “IEDs” in the politically correct lingo of the Iraq War.) This was the first of several “adventures” that Phipps and I had together.
We found the dud just where expected. I ordered the squad leader to proceed with the rest of the patrol on the return route to Delta. I remained with my radio operator, Phipps and a three-man fireteam for local security while Phipps prepped and then destroyed the dud. We then moved quickly to rejoin the remainder of the squad.
We found them about 150 meters ahead, still standing in column, at a two-strand barbed wire fence. About 50 meters away, there was another two-strand fence. The squad leader was about to cross through the fence, and three of his Marines were already spread out at 6 to 8 meter intervals between the two fences.
It took me about five seconds to recognize that these were minefield boundary fences, and three of my Marines were in the minefield. I yelled “Freeze!” Everyone froze, looking at the “new lieutenant” as if I was a madman.
I moved up to the squad leader, an 18 year old PFC, and pulled him aside. “OK, we’ve got a couple of problems. The biggest is that we have to get those people out of that damned minefield before somebody gets killed.”
“Minefield?” He paled visibly.
“Move your people back to the top of that rise where you can cover us, get them down and into a three sixty, and wait for me.
The point man was about twenty five meters from me. I said, “OK. I want all three of you to freeze. You are all right for now, and we’re going to keep you that way. Standing in place, I want each of you to carefully turn back towards me.”
Phipps had joined me. He pointed to a small dirt and grass clump about 10 meters to the left of the third man. We could see that earth had eroded exposing a French “tomato can” bouncing betty type mine. 
He pointed to another about 3 meters to the right and three or four feet ahead of the second Marine. We could not see any others, so I sent him back to the squad.
I looked at the closest Marine. “Did you walk straight ahead,” I asked. He nodded.
“Then retrace your steps to me. Once your foot is on the ground, scuff the heel of your boot to mark the trail.” He did so, very slowly. Once he was back through the fence, I sent him to rejoin the squad.
The next Marine was about 15 meters from me. “Can you remember where you walked,” I asked? He nodded. Using the same technique, he moved to where the first marine had stood and then “walked on his footprints.”
The third Marine would not move. (I later learned that his best friend was the Marine killed by the mine at strong point Alpha.) I slipped through the fence and walked very carefully to where the second Marine had started to retrace his steps. I was now about 10 meters from my target, and very conscious of the mine to my right! The man still could not move.
Figuring that he had walked straight ahead, I slowly approached him, marking my footprints. When we were close enough to shake hands, I turned in place and led him out.
Rejoining the squad, we moved east towards the MSR and returned to strong point Delta. Things were very quiet. I assembled the squad and gave a hasty lecture on minefields and the indications that a field was present. I then went to strong point Charlie and gave the same class to my other squad.
I was of a mind to relieve the squad leader, but it struck me that he was a young, inexperienced Marine trying to perform a job that was meant for a Sergeant with seven or eight years service. I had been spoiled by Staff Sergeant Beyer, Sergeant McGroary and Corporal Thornton. From then on, I used all available “free time” for training.
During our stay at Charlie Base Camp, we took an average of one casualty per day, all but the three at OP 6 from booby traps. In turn, all booby trap casualties came during the morning road sweep. None that I recall were fatal, but our people were being hurt badly.
The road sweep ended at OP 6, where we met the other sweep coming south from Phu Loc (6). The trash situation at OP 6 had not worsened, because we policed our trash and brought it back to the base camp with us. But we could not get the trash left by 3/5 cleaned up. Nearly every day, we spotted an actual or suspected booby trap in the trash mound left by the last company that had manned the OP.
We were discussing the problem at the officers’ meeting one night. “It’s too bad Mr. Spock isn’t here,” Chip commented. “If he can construct a mnemonic circuit using stone knives and bearskins, he could find a way to neutralize the booby traps.”
Star Trek had premiered on TV while we were all in college. It was being re-run on Armed Forces TV out of Saigon, and we could sometimes pick up the audio on the radio. We all agreed that we needed Mr. Spock, and talked about what a “Spock neutralizer” might look like. The conversation continued for several days.
One morning a few days later, the road sweep dropped off a 55 gallon drum at OP 6.
After destroying a suspected booby trap, the trash was pretty well spread out. For the rest of the day, the Marines who were not on watch policed up some of the trash and put it in the drum. At Noon, two marines carried a case of C-Rations down to OP 5. When the road closed for the night, the OP was closed and the troops headed back to the Base Camp. The drum was left in place.
The next morning, we found that the drum had been booby trapped. The engineers blew it in place, spreading the trash, and then dropped off another empty drum. The Marines on the OP followed the same routine for four days, with the same results.
The first day that First Platoon was on the OP for the full day, the engineers blew up the drum from the day before. They dropped off another drum, although if anyone had been watching carefully, they might have noticed that it took four Marines to get it off the truck. This drum was already full. We had packed it with “grade three ammo” (unserviceable ammunition which was corroded, dented, or from lots that had been re-called), as well as several old claymore mines, the remainder of the Korean War era 60mm mortar rounds, frag grenades, two 20 pound satchel charges,
some rolls of barbed wire, loose brass and links from the machine gun positions, and other assorted goodies. That morning, it had then been filled with gasoline and sealed, except for a small hole in the lid, through which protruded wires attached to blasting caps
inserted into the satchel charges.
The box of C-rations that went to OP 5 was empty except for 400 meters of communications wire that fed out of the box up the sleeve and down the trouser leg of the Marine carrying it. His “escort” walked behind him making sure the wire stayed on the ground.
A few pieces of trash were placed on top of the drum during the day. When the troops left OP 6, an engineer attached the blasting cap to one end of the slash wire. A few minutes later, the Marines from OP 6 met up with the Marines coming down from OP 5. As they moved away, Chip and two Marines remained hidden in the scrub at the side of the road.
About 15 minutes later, they saw a group of 20 or so people leave the ville that was about 200 meters east of OP 6, the same ville into which the attackers on 12 January had fled. At least one carried a weapon. When they were about 2 meters from the drum, Chip hit the hell box and the Spock neutralizer neutralized the bad guys.
I was in a tower at strong point Delta, about six clicks away, when the device was lit off. There was a towering plume of flame, clearly visible to me. The resulting hole was about three feet deep and two to three maters wide. "Fascinating!"
After that, the booby trapping incidents at OP 6 completely died off. I think Mr. Spock would have approved.
In Third Herd, my Platoon Sergeant was Corporal Daryl Levi. He was 20, with about a year in the Corps. The difference in experience was marked.
But he was a warrior. His promotion to Corporal resulted from an action in which his fire team sized patrol (four men) spotted an NVA unit that was estimated to be squad sized or larger. Arranging a hasty ambush, he took the NVA unit under rifle and grenade fire while also adjusting mortar fire onto the retreating remnant. A significant number of NVA were killed, with no casualties to Levi’s fire team. As a result, the Commanding General approved his meritorious combat promotion to Corporal.
Let me add a word about enemy casualties.
I will refrain from mentioning specific numbers of enemy dead unless I can personally vouch for the number. Because of McNamara’s fetish for numbers, the Vietnam War became famous for its emphasis on “body count.” I have heard that McNamara even had folks who would calculate rounds expended per enemy casualty, just to see if we were being economical in the use of ammunition.
Absurd! Another of Father O’Brien’s Murphy maxims is, “If someone is worth shooting, he’s worth shooting twice.” Combat is ridiculously uneconomical. You stay alive by making sure the bad guy is down for the count, and if it takes three rounds to make sure he is out of the game, give him all three. Now, fire discipline is important, and controlling a unit’s fires is one of the small unit leader’s responsibilities. Profligate firing is unacceptable because you may need the ammo later. But limiting rounds just to save money is stupid.
The apex of the body count fixation came a part of the legend of 1/5 in the Fall of 1968. Captain Marty Brandtner commanded Delta Company at the time. (Some may recall him as a Lieutenant General during Gulf War I. He was the J-3 of the Joint Staff and conducted many of the press briefings on the development and culmination of that war.)
General Brandtner was one of only two Marines to receive two Navy Crosses during the Vietnam War. They were awarded for actions only 8 days apart. The citations for those actions are here and here.
At about the same time, Delta Company was assigned to seize, occupy and defend a hilltop position. As the attack commenced in the late afternoon, it was met with heavy enemy fire. Brandtner called in artillery and mortar fire, encircling the enemy position and preventing the enemy from withdrawing. He continued to pound the enemy position with mortars, artillery and air strikes all night. The next morning, the Company walked onto the hill with no opposition. It was several feet lower than it had been the day before.
Almost immediately, Brandtner was pestered with radio requests for a “body count.” In exasperation, he responded, “Look, this place is a mess. There are no bodies, just arms and legs—nothing but meat.”
“Well, dammit,” came the reply, “count the meat!” From then on, 1/5’s unofficial motto was “We Count The Meat.” But the fixation on body count was firmly set in the bureaucratic minds in Saigon and Washington.
When I took command of Charlie 3, it numbered about 25 Marines and a Corpsman. After the normal shakedown period between a new commander and his unit, we were soon in battery with one another.
I joined the platoon when it was at strong points Charlie and Delta. The first afternoon, I went out on a local security patrol from Delta. The route they followed was further west than I was used to, but an earlier patrol had spotted a dud 81mm mortar round embedded in the ground, and we took an engineer, PFC Jimmy Phipps, with us to destroy it. (Dud rounds were potential booby traps--“improvised explosive devices” or “IEDs” in the politically correct lingo of the Iraq War.) This was the first of several “adventures” that Phipps and I had together.
We found the dud just where expected. I ordered the squad leader to proceed with the rest of the patrol on the return route to Delta. I remained with my radio operator, Phipps and a three-man fireteam for local security while Phipps prepped and then destroyed the dud. We then moved quickly to rejoin the remainder of the squad.
We found them about 150 meters ahead, still standing in column, at a two-strand barbed wire fence. About 50 meters away, there was another two-strand fence. The squad leader was about to cross through the fence, and three of his Marines were already spread out at 6 to 8 meter intervals between the two fences.
It took me about five seconds to recognize that these were minefield boundary fences, and three of my Marines were in the minefield. I yelled “Freeze!” Everyone froze, looking at the “new lieutenant” as if I was a madman.
I moved up to the squad leader, an 18 year old PFC, and pulled him aside. “OK, we’ve got a couple of problems. The biggest is that we have to get those people out of that damned minefield before somebody gets killed.”
“Minefield?” He paled visibly.
“Move your people back to the top of that rise where you can cover us, get them down and into a three sixty, and wait for me.
The point man was about twenty five meters from me. I said, “OK. I want all three of you to freeze. You are all right for now, and we’re going to keep you that way. Standing in place, I want each of you to carefully turn back towards me.”
Phipps had joined me. He pointed to a small dirt and grass clump about 10 meters to the left of the third man. We could see that earth had eroded exposing a French “tomato can” bouncing betty type mine. 
He pointed to another about 3 meters to the right and three or four feet ahead of the second Marine. We could not see any others, so I sent him back to the squad.I looked at the closest Marine. “Did you walk straight ahead,” I asked. He nodded.
“Then retrace your steps to me. Once your foot is on the ground, scuff the heel of your boot to mark the trail.” He did so, very slowly. Once he was back through the fence, I sent him to rejoin the squad.
The next Marine was about 15 meters from me. “Can you remember where you walked,” I asked? He nodded. Using the same technique, he moved to where the first marine had stood and then “walked on his footprints.”
The third Marine would not move. (I later learned that his best friend was the Marine killed by the mine at strong point Alpha.) I slipped through the fence and walked very carefully to where the second Marine had started to retrace his steps. I was now about 10 meters from my target, and very conscious of the mine to my right! The man still could not move.
Figuring that he had walked straight ahead, I slowly approached him, marking my footprints. When we were close enough to shake hands, I turned in place and led him out.
Rejoining the squad, we moved east towards the MSR and returned to strong point Delta. Things were very quiet. I assembled the squad and gave a hasty lecture on minefields and the indications that a field was present. I then went to strong point Charlie and gave the same class to my other squad.
I was of a mind to relieve the squad leader, but it struck me that he was a young, inexperienced Marine trying to perform a job that was meant for a Sergeant with seven or eight years service. I had been spoiled by Staff Sergeant Beyer, Sergeant McGroary and Corporal Thornton. From then on, I used all available “free time” for training.
“I am endeavoring, ma'am, to construct a mnemonic circuit using stone knives and bearskins.” Commander Spock, First Officer/Science Officer, USS Enterprise (NCC-1701) (City on the Edge of Forever)
During our stay at Charlie Base Camp, we took an average of one casualty per day, all but the three at OP 6 from booby traps. In turn, all booby trap casualties came during the morning road sweep. None that I recall were fatal, but our people were being hurt badly.
The road sweep ended at OP 6, where we met the other sweep coming south from Phu Loc (6). The trash situation at OP 6 had not worsened, because we policed our trash and brought it back to the base camp with us. But we could not get the trash left by 3/5 cleaned up. Nearly every day, we spotted an actual or suspected booby trap in the trash mound left by the last company that had manned the OP.
We were discussing the problem at the officers’ meeting one night. “It’s too bad Mr. Spock isn’t here,” Chip commented. “If he can construct a mnemonic circuit using stone knives and bearskins, he could find a way to neutralize the booby traps.”
Star Trek had premiered on TV while we were all in college. It was being re-run on Armed Forces TV out of Saigon, and we could sometimes pick up the audio on the radio. We all agreed that we needed Mr. Spock, and talked about what a “Spock neutralizer” might look like. The conversation continued for several days.
One morning a few days later, the road sweep dropped off a 55 gallon drum at OP 6.
After destroying a suspected booby trap, the trash was pretty well spread out. For the rest of the day, the Marines who were not on watch policed up some of the trash and put it in the drum. At Noon, two marines carried a case of C-Rations down to OP 5. When the road closed for the night, the OP was closed and the troops headed back to the Base Camp. The drum was left in place.The next morning, we found that the drum had been booby trapped. The engineers blew it in place, spreading the trash, and then dropped off another empty drum. The Marines on the OP followed the same routine for four days, with the same results.
The first day that First Platoon was on the OP for the full day, the engineers blew up the drum from the day before. They dropped off another drum, although if anyone had been watching carefully, they might have noticed that it took four Marines to get it off the truck. This drum was already full. We had packed it with “grade three ammo” (unserviceable ammunition which was corroded, dented, or from lots that had been re-called), as well as several old claymore mines, the remainder of the Korean War era 60mm mortar rounds, frag grenades, two 20 pound satchel charges,
some rolls of barbed wire, loose brass and links from the machine gun positions, and other assorted goodies. That morning, it had then been filled with gasoline and sealed, except for a small hole in the lid, through which protruded wires attached to blasting caps
inserted into the satchel charges.The box of C-rations that went to OP 5 was empty except for 400 meters of communications wire that fed out of the box up the sleeve and down the trouser leg of the Marine carrying it. His “escort” walked behind him making sure the wire stayed on the ground.
A few pieces of trash were placed on top of the drum during the day. When the troops left OP 6, an engineer attached the blasting cap to one end of the slash wire. A few minutes later, the Marines from OP 6 met up with the Marines coming down from OP 5. As they moved away, Chip and two Marines remained hidden in the scrub at the side of the road.
About 15 minutes later, they saw a group of 20 or so people leave the ville that was about 200 meters east of OP 6, the same ville into which the attackers on 12 January had fled. At least one carried a weapon. When they were about 2 meters from the drum, Chip hit the hell box and the Spock neutralizer neutralized the bad guys.
I was in a tower at strong point Delta, about six clicks away, when the device was lit off. There was a towering plume of flame, clearly visible to me. The resulting hole was about three feet deep and two to three maters wide. "Fascinating!"
After that, the booby trapping incidents at OP 6 completely died off. I think Mr. Spock would have approved.
23 May 2008
LEST WE FORGET
Next Tuesday, 27 May, marks the 39th anniversary of the death of PFC Jimmy Wayne Phipps, USMC. It is fitting that it always comes in the week of, and every so often falls on, Memorial Day.
I first met Phipps (it is a Marine Corps tradition that enlisted men below the rank of Corporal are routinely addressed by their last names) in February 1969. He was a combat engineer attached to Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 5th Marines, 1st Marine Division. I was the platoon commander of 3rd Platoon, Charlie Company. An NVA sapper team had infiltrated the 5th Marines regimental combat base at An Hoa and had destroyed the ammunition dump. We were dispatched to try to find and destroy them.
As we secured a small ville northeast of An Hoa, I came upon a fighting hole at the perimeter of the village. It was complete with overhead cover. In other words, the hole was dug and then logs, earth and finally sod were put in place to camouflage it and to provide cover from artillery and mortar air bursts. It had to be destroyed.
Who should walk up but Phipps. “Watcha got, Lieutenant?” he asked.
I showed him and we agreed that a C-4 charge would do the job. C-4 is a clay-like white substance that is commonly referred to as “plastic explosive.” It came packaged in satchel charges made up of numerous plastic-wrapped quarter pound sticks. All you had to do was punch a hole in the plastic wrap, insert a blasting cap, fuse and fuse lighter, ignite the fuse lighter, and run like hell.
I had a quarter pound stick in my pack. (I had scrounged it to use it to heat my C-Rations.) Phipps had another two sticks. We agreed that that should probably do the job. I peeled the sticky tape on the back of each stick and put them together, while Phipps cut a piece of fuse, inserted and crimped it into a blasting cap and then crimped on a fuse lighter. He pulled the pin, set the charge in the back side of the hole, and we took off, yelling “Fire in the hole!”
We soon learned that in our inexperience, we had slightly overestimated the amount of C-4 we needed. The ground erupted, and I suspect that some of that bunker is still in orbit. The Skipper had a few choice comments, fatherly and memorable, about adding to his age, about our judgment, and the future location of our posteriors if we did it again. Thereafter, Phipps and I laughed about it every time we saw each other.
By April, he had finished his tour in the bush and returned to his parent unit, Bravo Company, 1st Engineer Battalion in Danang.
In mid-May, 1/5 waded the Song Thu Bon River and began a six week operation in what was known as the “Arizona Territory,” a low area of rice paddies and tree lines between the Song Thu Bon and the Song Vu Gia rivers. It was a free fire zone, meaning that non-combatants had been evacuated to a refugee camp and only bad guys were left. Of course, it didn’t work that way, because the peasant villagers insisted on returning to their ancestoral homes. Nonetheless, it was an area in which at least two NVA regiments were operating. It was a very bad place.
At around midnight on 26-27 May 1969, Charlie Company made one of its patented night moves to a small village and established a cordon around it. At first light, we entered the ville, rounded up the inhabitants for an id check, and searched the hooches for weapons and ordnance. We then dug in for the day.
Third Platoon was ordered to conduct the morning local security patrol out to about three clicks (kilometers). We would make sure that there were no enemy forces in the vicinity and also recon the area for that night’s move. We found a couple of dud mortar rounds which we destroyed with C-4.
In the last ville we entered, we found a dud 175mm artillery round sitting next to a hooch. It had obviously been moved there. We also found a rusted sheet of scrap tin covered with a chalk diagram used to teach machine gunners how to lead an American helicopter in order to shoot it down.
I called it in and we then rounded up all the villagers (old men, old women, young women and kids—no young men), and herded them back to our perimeter for air evacuation to the refugee camp. I told the Skipper about the dud. I had no more C-4, so he told me to note the location. I understood that he would send the afternoon security patrol out that way to finish it off.
As we were moving back to the Company, we saw the resupply helicopter land and then take off. As we entered our lines, I told the platoon sergeant to get our people set in and to get them to work on their holes. I headed for the command post.
As I walked up the gentle slope, there was Phipps, with his usual shy grin on his face. He had come out on the resupply bird.
“Phipps, what the hell are you doing here?" I asked.
“Aw, you know me, sir. Me an’ the First Sergeant didn’t see eye to eye. I ain’t cut out to be a garrison Marine, so I told him ‘For two cents, I’d go back out with my friends in Charlie Company.’ Here I am.”
By then, we were both laughing. “Well, c’mon along while I brief the Skipper, ‘cause I’ve got some business for you.”
That afternoon, my OCS Bunkie, Lieutenant Neal Meier, took 1st Platoon out on the patrol. Phipps went along. His Medal of Honor Citation tells the rest:
Jimmy Wayne Phipps was 18 years, six month and 26 days old, the third youngest Marine to be awared the Medal of Honor in Vietnam. His name appears on the Vietnam War Memorial, Panel 23W at line 2. Phipps Hall at Marine Corps Base, Quantico is named in his honor.
The Marine’s Hymn assures us that the streets of Heaven are guarded by United States Marines. If so, I pray that the ultimate Sergeant of the Guard has given Phipps a special liberty for eternity.
Semper Fidelis
I first met Phipps (it is a Marine Corps tradition that enlisted men below the rank of Corporal are routinely addressed by their last names) in February 1969. He was a combat engineer attached to Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 5th Marines, 1st Marine Division. I was the platoon commander of 3rd Platoon, Charlie Company. An NVA sapper team had infiltrated the 5th Marines regimental combat base at An Hoa and had destroyed the ammunition dump. We were dispatched to try to find and destroy them.
As we secured a small ville northeast of An Hoa, I came upon a fighting hole at the perimeter of the village. It was complete with overhead cover. In other words, the hole was dug and then logs, earth and finally sod were put in place to camouflage it and to provide cover from artillery and mortar air bursts. It had to be destroyed.
Who should walk up but Phipps. “Watcha got, Lieutenant?” he asked.
I showed him and we agreed that a C-4 charge would do the job. C-4 is a clay-like white substance that is commonly referred to as “plastic explosive.” It came packaged in satchel charges made up of numerous plastic-wrapped quarter pound sticks. All you had to do was punch a hole in the plastic wrap, insert a blasting cap, fuse and fuse lighter, ignite the fuse lighter, and run like hell.
I had a quarter pound stick in my pack. (I had scrounged it to use it to heat my C-Rations.) Phipps had another two sticks. We agreed that that should probably do the job. I peeled the sticky tape on the back of each stick and put them together, while Phipps cut a piece of fuse, inserted and crimped it into a blasting cap and then crimped on a fuse lighter. He pulled the pin, set the charge in the back side of the hole, and we took off, yelling “Fire in the hole!”
We soon learned that in our inexperience, we had slightly overestimated the amount of C-4 we needed. The ground erupted, and I suspect that some of that bunker is still in orbit. The Skipper had a few choice comments, fatherly and memorable, about adding to his age, about our judgment, and the future location of our posteriors if we did it again. Thereafter, Phipps and I laughed about it every time we saw each other.
By April, he had finished his tour in the bush and returned to his parent unit, Bravo Company, 1st Engineer Battalion in Danang.
In mid-May, 1/5 waded the Song Thu Bon River and began a six week operation in what was known as the “Arizona Territory,” a low area of rice paddies and tree lines between the Song Thu Bon and the Song Vu Gia rivers. It was a free fire zone, meaning that non-combatants had been evacuated to a refugee camp and only bad guys were left. Of course, it didn’t work that way, because the peasant villagers insisted on returning to their ancestoral homes. Nonetheless, it was an area in which at least two NVA regiments were operating. It was a very bad place.
At around midnight on 26-27 May 1969, Charlie Company made one of its patented night moves to a small village and established a cordon around it. At first light, we entered the ville, rounded up the inhabitants for an id check, and searched the hooches for weapons and ordnance. We then dug in for the day.
Third Platoon was ordered to conduct the morning local security patrol out to about three clicks (kilometers). We would make sure that there were no enemy forces in the vicinity and also recon the area for that night’s move. We found a couple of dud mortar rounds which we destroyed with C-4.
In the last ville we entered, we found a dud 175mm artillery round sitting next to a hooch. It had obviously been moved there. We also found a rusted sheet of scrap tin covered with a chalk diagram used to teach machine gunners how to lead an American helicopter in order to shoot it down.
I called it in and we then rounded up all the villagers (old men, old women, young women and kids—no young men), and herded them back to our perimeter for air evacuation to the refugee camp. I told the Skipper about the dud. I had no more C-4, so he told me to note the location. I understood that he would send the afternoon security patrol out that way to finish it off.
As we were moving back to the Company, we saw the resupply helicopter land and then take off. As we entered our lines, I told the platoon sergeant to get our people set in and to get them to work on their holes. I headed for the command post.
As I walked up the gentle slope, there was Phipps, with his usual shy grin on his face. He had come out on the resupply bird.
“Phipps, what the hell are you doing here?" I asked.
“Aw, you know me, sir. Me an’ the First Sergeant didn’t see eye to eye. I ain’t cut out to be a garrison Marine, so I told him ‘For two cents, I’d go back out with my friends in Charlie Company.’ Here I am.”
By then, we were both laughing. “Well, c’mon along while I brief the Skipper, ‘cause I’ve got some business for you.”
That afternoon, my OCS Bunkie, Lieutenant Neal Meier, took 1st Platoon out on the patrol. Phipps went along. His Medal of Honor Citation tells the rest:
The President of the United States takes pride in presenting the MEDAL OF HONOR posthumously to
PRIVATE FIRST CLASS JIMMY W. PHIPPS
UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS
for service as set forth in the following CITATION:
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving as a combat Engineer with Company B, First Engineer Battalion, First Marine Division in connection with combat operations against the enemy in the Republic of Vietnam. On 27 May 1969, Private First Class Phipps was a member of a two-man combat engineer demolition team assigned to locate and destroy enemy artillery ordnance and concealed firing devices. After he had expended all of his explosives and blasting caps, Private First Class Phipps discovered a 175mm high explosive artillery round in a rice paddy. Suspecting that the enemy had attached at the artillery round to a secondary explosive device, he warned other Marines in the area to move to covered positions and prepared to destroy the round with a hand grenade. As he was attaching the hand grenade to a stake beside the artillery round, the fuse of the enemy's secondary explosive device ignited. Realizing that his assistant and the platoon commander were both within a few meters of him and that the imminent explosion could kill all three men, Private First Class Phipps grasped the hand grenade to his chest and dived forward to cover the enemy's explosive and the artillery round with his body, thereby shielding his companions from the detonation while absorbing the full and tremendous impact with his own body. Private First Class Phipp's indomitable courage, inspiring initiative and selfless devotion to duty saved the lives of two Marines and upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life for his country.
/S/ RICHARD M. NIXON
Jimmy Wayne Phipps was 18 years, six month and 26 days old, the third youngest Marine to be awared the Medal of Honor in Vietnam. His name appears on the Vietnam War Memorial, Panel 23W at line 2. Phipps Hall at Marine Corps Base, Quantico is named in his honor.
The Marine’s Hymn assures us that the streets of Heaven are guarded by United States Marines. If so, I pray that the ultimate Sergeant of the Guard has given Phipps a special liberty for eternity.
Semper Fidelis
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