Readers Digest used to have a monthly feature entitled “My Most Unforgettable Character.” I have many in my life, but there is one who I met for less than an hour and whose name I never learned, only his wartime Navy nickname: “Ski.”
It was in the late summer of 1979. I was stationed in Chicago while attending law school on the Excess Leave Program. My wife was hosting a Sunday afternoon wedding or baby shower and I was tasked with getting the boys, then aged 8 and 6, out of the house. In that morning’s paper, I had seen a blurb announcing that USS Silversides, a WWII submarine undergoing renovation as a memorial, was holding tours at 3:00 pm each Sunday. The boys and I headed for Navy Pier.
To understand the rest of this story, it is necessary to learn just a little about USS Silversides. (Historical Note: Submarines are traditionally referred to as “boats” rather than “ships”.)
USS Silversides (SS-236) is a Gato-class boat, named for the silversides, a small fish marked with a silvery stripe along each side of its body. She was launched on 26 August 1941 and commissioned on 15 December 1941, eight days after the Jap attack on Pearl Harbor. Silversides made 14 war patrols in the Pacific, received twelve battle stars for World War II service, and was awarded the Presidential Unit Citation. She is credited with sinking 23 ships, the third-most of any allied World War II submarine, behind only the USS Tang and USS Tautog. The tonnage of the ships sunk by Silversides amounted to 90,080 tons, second only to the Tang's total. Judged by such standards, Silversides has the most prolific combat record of any still-extant American submarine.
[Historical Note: Tang’s records are truly amazing when one considers that she made only five war patrols before she was lost. USS Tang (SS-306), a Balao-class boat was built and launched in 1943 and was sunk by one of her own torpedos on her fifth war patrol, after only 10 months of service. Nonetheless, Tang sank 31 ships displacing 227,800 tons, a record unequaled by any American submarine before or since. Her commanding officer, LCdr Richard H. O'Kane, USN, received the Medal of Honor for her last two engagements (October 23, 1944 and October 24, 1944). Commander O’Kane had learned his trade in Wahoo as XO under the legendary Mush Morton.
USS Tautog (SS-199), a Tambor-class boat, was credited with sinking 26 Japanese ships, for a total of 72,606 tons.]
Silversides was a lucky boat. She lost only one of her sailors during the war. On 10 May 1942, just after 0800, she engaged a Japanese gunboat in a 75 minute surface action. Firing her 3 inch deck gun, she heavily damaged the enemy vessel. During this action, one of her deck gunners, Torpedoman’s Mate 3 Mike Harbin, was killed in action by enemy machine gun fire. The only man lost in action aboard Silversides during World War II, Petty Officer Harbin was buried at sea later that evening.
On 17 December 1942, Silversides departed Brisbane, Australia on her fourth war patrol. On the night of Christmas Eve, the submarine's pharmacist's mate, PhM1 Thomas Moore, informed the Captain that Fireman Second Class George Platter was suffering from appendicitis. There was no way to get Petty Officer Platter to a medical facility. As the only medically trained member of the crew (submarines did not rate having a ship’s surgeon), “Doc” Platter performed a successful emergency appendectomy on FM2 Platter using the wardroom table as an operating table, ether as anesthesia and a tea strainer as the mask, and rudimentary “surgical instruments” primarily fashioned by the ships motor machinists mates from galley utensils. The operation was over early on Christmas morning, and FM2 Platter was standing watches within 6 days.
After the war, Silversides was decommissioned and placed in reserve as a training ship for naval reservists at Chicago, Illinois. On 30 June 1969 her name was struck from the Naval Vessel Register.
The City of Chicago acquired the boat with the intention of using her as a war memorial. On 24 May 1973, Silversides became a part of the Combined Great Lakes Navy Association in Chicago and was moored behind Chicago's Naval Armory. She was moved to Navy Pier in 1979. [She is now permanently berthed at Muskegon, Michigan.]
Now, at the time the boys and I visited, she had just moved to Navy Pier where she was tended by a small crew of dedicated volunteers. Several of the active duty sailors assigned to Naval Reserve Center, Chicago to train the reservists were actually living aboard the boat.
We walked out along the pier and joined the other 12 or so people who had mustered on the forward deck at the forward torpedo loading hatch. Two active duty (but on liberty) sailors were guiding the tour. A coffee can was passed for donations and the tour was about to begin when we heard a shout from the pier.
“Ahoy, the boat. Hold the tour.” Two couples were walking down the pier. They were in their 60s, the men wearing aloha shirts and khakis and the ladies in sun dresses. They hurried up the brow and joined the tour.
A flight of wooden stairs had been built to allow people to enter the boat through the forward torpedo room. I held the boys back to keep them from being stepped on. We were right behind the foursome.
As the guide explained the layout of the torpedo room (“ten 21-inch torpedo tubes--six forward, four aft--with a wartime load of 24 torpedoes…”), and the berthing arrangement of the torpedo room in which bunks were literally atop the spare torpedoes, one of the men whispered to his friend, “that was my buddy, Tex’s bunk” pointing to one of the bunks and shaking his head. “He was transferred to Harder and is still on patrol.”
Oh, wow, I thought. This is something to remember. I decided to stick close to the two men.
As the tour continued and we moved aft through officer’s country, beneath which was the forward battery room, the “old guy” continued to regale his friend with his stories of the daily life of a submariner. We looked into the wardroom (the officers dining room which is just a bit larger than a large booth in a modern restaurant), we heard of the famous appendectomy. We next moved into the control room, beneath the conning tower, the warfighting center of the boat. From here on her tenth war patrol, she sank 6 enemy ships. And then it happened…..
The old guy pointed aft to what appeared to be a telephone booth. “That was my battle station, the radio room.” Oh, yeah, he’s a Silversides sailor! Then, pointing to a large fitting in the overhead, he said “That’s where this happened.” He held up his right hand to show the ring and little fingers were missing above the large knuckle.
“What happened,” his buddy asked?
“Oh, we were diving and that valve opened. I went to close it and caught my fingers in it. I got it closed, but . . . Anyway, they took me to sickbay, that bunk right there (pointing to a single bunk), and Doc bandaged me up. Then the skipper,Cap’n Coye, he came back and said ‘Well done, Ski, you saved my boat.’ Can you imagine that? The skipper himself said that to me.”
Well, yeah, I can, Ski. I mean, you saved his boat.
The tour moved aft, through the crew’s quarters, the galley, the engine rooms and maneuvering room to the after torpedo room. The guides gave a summing up, listing Silversides’ many accomplishments, and directing folks to the wooden stairs that led topside through the after torpedo loading hatch. Once again, I held the boys back to avoid the rush.
The two old guys had stepped away and I was behind their wives. One woman sighed impatiently. “Gawd. I need a cigarette. How long have we been down here?”
“About 45 minutes,” I offered.
“How long were they down here,” the other woman asked?
“Sixty to seventy-five days,” I replied.
“Gawd,” the first woman repeated.
“Excuse me ladies, but is one of you married to ‘Ski’? Did he serve in Silversides?”
“Oh, that’s my husband,” the first woman answered. “These are our friends who have been visiting us from Iowa. We live in Centralia and this morning my husband just up and said ‘we ought to take them up and show them the boat.’ The boat, the boat, the boat. That’s all he ever talks about. The boat, the boat, the boat.”
Well, sure he does. I mean, damn! He saved the boat!
The crowd had gone and she and her friend started topside, followed by the Iowan husband. I started the boys up.
As I looked back, there was Ski, all by himself, leaning on one of the after torpedo tubes. He was looking forward the length of the boat through the open watertight doors. There were tears on his cheeks and I knew that he was seeing things we could only—imperfectly—imagine.
And for a minute, he looked 20. I’ll never forget him.
Showing posts with label USN. Show all posts
Showing posts with label USN. Show all posts
20 April 2011
16 October 2009
THE AMAZIN’ METS OF 1969
I am going to jump ahead a little bit in my Vietnam chronicle because today marks the 40th anniversary of one of the most memorable World Series games of my lifetime—and I never saw it. The laughingstock New York Mets reached the 1969 World Series after only 7 years of existence. And 40 years ago, they won it all.
As a part of life at An Hoa, the officers of the unit responsible for part of the defensive of the perimeter, which stretched approximately 4 miles, were routinely assigned as Officer of the Day for their unit’s sector. 1/5 manned Alfa Sector on the southwest part of the line. There were a number of sand bagged 3-man bunkers on the line, manned by riflemen and machine gunners waiting for the nearly nightly probe of the line by VC and NVA sapper units. They spent the night looking out over barbed wire, a minefield, and other assorted barriers including foogas positions.
Foogas was simply napalm loaded in a 55 gallon drum. The drum was buried in the ground at about a 10 to 15 degree angle. A blasting cap was inserted and when the hell box was clicked, a great gout of jellied gasoline flamed outward, cooking anyone caught in its arc.
The OD’s post was a prefabricated wooden bunker covered with sandbags about 30 meters to the rear of the center of the line. It was about 10 feet square and had room for the OD, the Sergeant of the Guard, and a radio operator. There was another position manned by three Marines a few meters to the rear of the bunker, covering the approach to its door.
On the night of 16 October, I was OD. We had an FM radio in the bunker, tuned to AFVN (Armed Forces Radio Network Vietnam) and—courtesy of the international date line--were listening to the live broadcast of the Mets-Orioles game being played that afternoon in New York. The Mets held a three game to one lead in the Series.
In about the third inning, the world exploded in our adjacent sector. Echo Sector was manned by Battery E, 2/11. Sappers had gotten into their wire and began chucking satchel charges to blow holes in the wire. They wanted to destroy those 105mm cannon and they wanted to do it tonight. I headed out to the line, pulling one of the riflemen from the guard bunker to follow me.
My first job was to make sure that we manned positions that could fire into Echo Sector if necessary, to prevent the enemy from turning our flank. That meant spreading troops out and that took some time. There is a maxim in the Corps: “Every Marine a rifleman.” The troops on the line were not infantrymen. They were supply men and, cooks, truck drivers and clerks. But they were Marines and they were in the line. I spent some time moving from position to position, calming them down and making sure they were alert.
After a couple of hours, the “all clear” was sounded and I headed back for my bunker, anxious to hear how the game was going. As I entered, all I could hear was a terrible “static.”
“Aw, damn, what happened,” I asked? “Did we lose the signal?”
“Nosir, that ain’t static. Lieutenant, you ain’t gonna believe this, but the New York [universal modifier] Mets just won the World [universal modifier] Series.” What I had mistaken for static was 50,000 crazed Mets fans screaming their lungs out!
Now, I am a life-long Cardinals fan, and since that improbable season in 1993 when a group of happy misfits gave us a summer of joy, I have learned to love the Phillies. In both cities, the Mets are the enemy. I confess that I take joy from every Met loss.
But here’s to the Amazing Mets, the boys of summer of 1969. Bless ‘em all.
As a part of life at An Hoa, the officers of the unit responsible for part of the defensive of the perimeter, which stretched approximately 4 miles, were routinely assigned as Officer of the Day for their unit’s sector. 1/5 manned Alfa Sector on the southwest part of the line. There were a number of sand bagged 3-man bunkers on the line, manned by riflemen and machine gunners waiting for the nearly nightly probe of the line by VC and NVA sapper units. They spent the night looking out over barbed wire, a minefield, and other assorted barriers including foogas positions.
Foogas was simply napalm loaded in a 55 gallon drum. The drum was buried in the ground at about a 10 to 15 degree angle. A blasting cap was inserted and when the hell box was clicked, a great gout of jellied gasoline flamed outward, cooking anyone caught in its arc.
The OD’s post was a prefabricated wooden bunker covered with sandbags about 30 meters to the rear of the center of the line. It was about 10 feet square and had room for the OD, the Sergeant of the Guard, and a radio operator. There was another position manned by three Marines a few meters to the rear of the bunker, covering the approach to its door.
On the night of 16 October, I was OD. We had an FM radio in the bunker, tuned to AFVN (Armed Forces Radio Network Vietnam) and—courtesy of the international date line--were listening to the live broadcast of the Mets-Orioles game being played that afternoon in New York. The Mets held a three game to one lead in the Series.
In about the third inning, the world exploded in our adjacent sector. Echo Sector was manned by Battery E, 2/11. Sappers had gotten into their wire and began chucking satchel charges to blow holes in the wire. They wanted to destroy those 105mm cannon and they wanted to do it tonight. I headed out to the line, pulling one of the riflemen from the guard bunker to follow me.
My first job was to make sure that we manned positions that could fire into Echo Sector if necessary, to prevent the enemy from turning our flank. That meant spreading troops out and that took some time. There is a maxim in the Corps: “Every Marine a rifleman.” The troops on the line were not infantrymen. They were supply men and, cooks, truck drivers and clerks. But they were Marines and they were in the line. I spent some time moving from position to position, calming them down and making sure they were alert.
After a couple of hours, the “all clear” was sounded and I headed back for my bunker, anxious to hear how the game was going. As I entered, all I could hear was a terrible “static.”
“Aw, damn, what happened,” I asked? “Did we lose the signal?”
“Nosir, that ain’t static. Lieutenant, you ain’t gonna believe this, but the New York [universal modifier] Mets just won the World [universal modifier] Series.” What I had mistaken for static was 50,000 crazed Mets fans screaming their lungs out!
Now, I am a life-long Cardinals fan, and since that improbable season in 1993 when a group of happy misfits gave us a summer of joy, I have learned to love the Phillies. In both cities, the Mets are the enemy. I confess that I take joy from every Met loss.
But here’s to the Amazing Mets, the boys of summer of 1969. Bless ‘em all.
06 June 2009
CHECK FIRE, CHECK FIRE, CHECK FIRE
Note from Laundryman Charlie 3 romeo oscar: Mac,our platoon commander, was Laundryman Charlie 3 actual. I'm LMC3 romeo oscar. He's been having a tough time lately, but he wanted the June stories, leading up to what we all call "that night," to go out on schedule. Fortunately, he had them written down. I'll keep posting them until I run out. Please keep him in your prayers. LMC3 Romeo Oscar, out.
PS, I told him that piece of shrapnel was as big as his damned leg!
The NVA still did not want to come out and play. We moved every night and began to once again concentrate on the area just east of the mountains that we had covered in the first couple of days in the Arizona.
There were some memorable days. One afternoon, the Company was moving during the day—a rarity for Charlie Company. We came to a wide part of a stream that cut through high banks on both sides. The Skipper called a halt and ordered Second and Third Platoons to set up security on the opposite banks. Charlie 1 and the CP group entered the stream and washed clothes and bodies for the first time in three weeks. After they were done, they came out of the stream, most wearing only boots, flak jackets and helmets, and relieved Charlie 2. After another 20 minutes, Charlie 2 relieved Charlie 3.
I think it is hard for most folks to understand the huge effect that something as little as this unexpected “treat” could have on morale. We had lost good people and we were emotionally dragging. Spirits zoomed! After our clothes were dried (the beauty of the rip-stop material used for our utility trousers dried quickly), we dressed and resumed our march. Within an hour, we were sweaty and dirty again, but spirits remained high.
We were now working the west central part of the Arizona, just under the mountains. Bravo Company was to our southeast under the command of Captain Gino Castagnetti. Company A, commanded by Captain Phil Torrey, was to our east, acting as palace guard for the battalion command post group. We had all shifted westward, trying to coax the NVA out of the mountains.
We had been “rice paddy” Marines for as long as I was in Vietnam. Unlike the Marines of the 3d MarDiv to our north and the Army to our south, we had very little experience in the mountains. However, we began patrolling into the easternmost edge of the mountains that stretched west into Laos, encountering high, steep terrain and triple canopy jungle for the first time. Navigation was extremely difficult in such terrain and it was a new learning experience. (“Triple canopy” refers to jungle that has three distinct layers of growth. The first might be 40 feet above the ground, the second layer about 70, and the third over 100 feet. It was a dark, dank environment.)
On June 1, Charlie 1 took a patrol into the mountains. Coming out of the canopy they spotted 5 NVA on a trail about 400 meters to their front. The NVA had a radio and were soon seen to be heading in Charlie 1’s general direction. The platoon established a hasty ambush and waited for nearly an hour, but the NVA had apparently taken a different trail and did not enter the ambush.
The next day, we attacked a ville to our northeast. As we did so, we received 100 to 150 rounds of small arms fire. It was a distinct possibility that we were taking stray rounds from a firefight between a patrol from Alpha Company and some NVA that were trying to cut between us. The ville was dotted with bunkers and spider holes (a foxhole with a camouflaged moveable cover) which we destroyed. We rounded up another 100 or so civilians and sent them back to Duc Duc refugee camp for interrogation.
That evening, two B-40 rocket propelled grenades exploded outside our lines. We went to 100% alert (our norm was two up and one down throughout the night)and fired illumination rounds from our 60 mm mortars, but saw nothing.
The next morning, we moved further north and attacked a ville at first light. Eight NVA ran out of the ville and we took them under fire, seeing at least two drop. We found one body with a weapon and many blood trails. We moved back to our west.
That night, Bravo Company was dug in about 3 clicks to our southwest. They were attacked by a large force that penetrated their lines. The NVA captured one of Bravo’s machine guns before being driven off.
On the 5th, Charlie 1 patrolled into the mountains again. As they rounded a bend in a trail, they had a “point-to-point” contact, one of the most common types of meeting engagements in our strange little war. Both sides opened fire—no one was hit on either side as far as we could tell. However, the NVA were probably an observation post because Charlie 1 recovered a 5 galloon can filled with a rice and meat mixture, 4 sets of black pajamas, I pair of Ho Chi Minh sandals (made out of old tires), a wallet containing identification, a couple of cans of fish and four cans of C-rations.
Just before sunset that evening, Charlie 1 spotted 22 NVA south of their observation post, near Bravo Company’s area of responsibility. Bravo sent out a platoon-sized patrol to check their area and Third Platoon was sent to cover our area. There was an aerial observer up in an OV-10. The aircraft fired several rockets into the fleeing NVA. We checked the area until dark but found nothing.
Just after midnight, an individual walked through Charlie 1’s position and was captured. At first light, the POW was brought into our lines and evacuated. The Skipper received permission to return to the same area that night.
We started to move in the early afternoon with Charlie 1 on the point, then Charlie 2, and Charlie 3 was rear security. We were moving further into the mountains than we had in the past, and the change in terrain was stark. AS he spotted the objective, Neal radioed that it was “damn’d steep.”
“How steep,” the Skipper responded?
Referring to a landmark at OCS, Neal replied “It makes the Hill Trail look like an ice rink!”
We were in a deep draw between two ridge lines that towered at least 250 meters above us. We were advised that there was a 6-man recon team from 1st Recon Battalion's permanent OP on Hill 200, which was about 6 clicks north of us, operating in the area. The team, “Mink Coat,” reported that they could hear NVA moving to their front. Suddenly, we were taken under heavy rifle and automatic weapons fire.
At the same time, the Skipper dropped off the net. His radio handset had come loose from the radio, but we needed coordination. Neal and I talked briefly and told Charlie 2 to secure the CP group as we attacked up the hill. We fired several rockets up the hill and returned fire until Mink Coat advised that they were taking some of our rounds.
Things quieted down. Frank came back up on the net and told Neal and me to proceed to the top of the hill and secure it, which we did. About 20 minutes later, Charlie 2 and the CP group finished the climb. We quickly set in our perimeter for the night, and Mink Coat harbored with us until about 2200. They then headed deeper into the mountains, looking for the NVA.
The night was quiet, but rainy. Sunrise revealed fog and dripping jungle. Before noon, we heard and then saw the NVA launching 122 mm rockets toward An Hoa. Nicknamed “Stalin’s organ” by the Germans in WWII, they made a very distinctive moaning sound as they were launched. We called artillery fire and called in airstrikes on the area. The artillery, located in An Hoa, was firing at close to its maximum range. As we had been for several days, we were on the “gun-target” line, which meant that the rounds passed over our position en route to the target. Hearing them go whooshing over us was eerie.
At about Noon, the Skipper ordered me to conduct a patrol to our south and east and to then set up a night ambush on the trail to our east. When the Company left the mountains the next morning, we were to remain behind for an hour to ambush any NVA that might be following.
At the same time, about four clicks to our south, a platoon-sized patrol from Bravo Company was also working in the mountains. The point man suddenly alerted, reporting that some 25 NVA were walking down the middle of a stream along which the patrol was located. They set up a hasty ambush and waited.
Now, Mr. Charles had a well-deserved reputation as a soldier, but we sometimes had a tendency to inflate him into a superman. In this case all 25 NVA were walking along, smoking and joking, rifles slung over their shoulders, no security out. The ambush opened fire, killing all 25 in the opening volley. Twenty-four bodies were recovered—the 25th floated away down the river. Rifles, machineguns (including the M-60 that Bravo had lost earlier in the week), B-40 and RPG-7 rocket launchers and a radio were recovered.
Back on our hill, Charlie 3 formed up and moved across the top of the hill, past the 60mm mortar position, and headed down a long southwest finger to begin our patrol. The jungle was so thick that we were practically “asshole to belly button.” We had been out about 15 minutes when the Company spotted another 27 NVA moving east into a small village. The group broke up into groups of 3 to five and entered the hooches. The Skipper called and adjusted artillery fire into the ville.
Maybe an hour later, lightning hit one of our 60 mm mortar tubes, injuring one crewman. As a CH-46 landed to evacuate him, NVA on the next ridge opened fire. I was listening to the radio and heard Frank ask Dick Wood if he could adjust fire onto the ridge. In the background, I could hear Dick Rollins sending his call for fire to the 2/11 fire direction center.
I was now well down into a draw to the east of our position and, quite frankly, lost. I heard Frank talking to Dick Wood, who was going to adjust the artillery. Frank told him “I’m going to ask for a battery 6 immediate fire for effect.” That means that he would ask the battery to fire six rounds of high explosive rounds per gun (36 rounds) without firing the usual one-gun white phosphorous round to adjust the fire.
We had just broken into a small clear area and had begun to spread out. The point fire team was separated by about 7 meters, so that the point man was 20 yards to my front. I called for a quick halt and called Frank. “Charlie 6 actual, this is Charlie 3 actual. Could you ask them to fire one willie peter (WP) round?” I was really hoping that I could see it impact and figure out my position.
“That’s a negative. It’s nowhere near you.”
“Roger, but I would really appreciate it.”
“All right, dammit, but it won’t do you any good.”
We later learned that the battery firing for us had been firing without a stop for 18 hours. Apparently one of the Marines made a 100 mill error on the elevation of the gun. A mill is one 6400th of a circle. It moves the strike of the round 1 meter for each 100 meters of distance, in this case, 1,000 yards short.
We heard the round whooshing towards us and, experienced as we were, realized that it was not going to go over us. The round hit right behind the point man’s heels. Time slowed down.
The point man went cart-wheeling through the air, his clothing on fire. The other two Marines were down with white phosphorous burns. My radio operator told me that he saw a piece of the shell casing as long as my forearm fly between us (we were about 3 feet apart).
Several people were calling “Corpsman, Corpsman,” and Doc was grabbing people to start putting mud over the white phosphorous fragments to cut off the air supply. (You may recall from high school chemistry that WP burns in the air.) The point man was down, having landed on his head, knocking him out.
I was screaming into the handset “CharlieCharlieCharlieCharlieThreeCharlieThree. Checkfirecheckfirecheckfire.”
Gibby tapped me on the shoulder, holding the connection that attached the handset to the radio. “It’s gotta be hooked up to work, Sir.”
I could hear Levi back along the column, making the same call. No more rounds came our way.
Doc advised me that two of the three were OK, but would require medical attention to remove the WP. The point man was still out cold, with second degree burns. I called for a medevac.
We were deep under triple canopy. The Skipper told me that if we needed a jungle penetrator (a heavy steel weight that could punch through the vegetation), it would take 90 minutes to rig it and get it to us. Having heard the explosion, he told me that we were about 800 meters to his east. I talked to Doc and then told him we could carry the point man to the ridge in 45 minutes. He agreed that that was the way to go.
We struggled up the hill, passing the poncho from team to team, and actually got there in 35 minutes, blowing and steaming. The bird arrived five minutes later and took all three men to the Naval Support Activity Hospital. Two returned to the platoon the next day. The point man, who already had two purple hearts, was pulled to the rear and finished his tour of duty with the regimental security platoon.
We formed up and headed back out to our ambush site. The rest of the night was quiet.
I often wonder about that day. Why did I ask for the WP round? Why did Frank—who was not known for giving in—agree. Six HE rounds would have probably killed the entire platoon . War is a fluky business!
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
PS, I told him that piece of shrapnel was as big as his damned leg!
The NVA still did not want to come out and play. We moved every night and began to once again concentrate on the area just east of the mountains that we had covered in the first couple of days in the Arizona.
There were some memorable days. One afternoon, the Company was moving during the day—a rarity for Charlie Company. We came to a wide part of a stream that cut through high banks on both sides. The Skipper called a halt and ordered Second and Third Platoons to set up security on the opposite banks. Charlie 1 and the CP group entered the stream and washed clothes and bodies for the first time in three weeks. After they were done, they came out of the stream, most wearing only boots, flak jackets and helmets, and relieved Charlie 2. After another 20 minutes, Charlie 2 relieved Charlie 3.
I think it is hard for most folks to understand the huge effect that something as little as this unexpected “treat” could have on morale. We had lost good people and we were emotionally dragging. Spirits zoomed! After our clothes were dried (the beauty of the rip-stop material used for our utility trousers dried quickly), we dressed and resumed our march. Within an hour, we were sweaty and dirty again, but spirits remained high.
We were now working the west central part of the Arizona, just under the mountains. Bravo Company was to our southeast under the command of Captain Gino Castagnetti. Company A, commanded by Captain Phil Torrey, was to our east, acting as palace guard for the battalion command post group. We had all shifted westward, trying to coax the NVA out of the mountains.
We had been “rice paddy” Marines for as long as I was in Vietnam. Unlike the Marines of the 3d MarDiv to our north and the Army to our south, we had very little experience in the mountains. However, we began patrolling into the easternmost edge of the mountains that stretched west into Laos, encountering high, steep terrain and triple canopy jungle for the first time. Navigation was extremely difficult in such terrain and it was a new learning experience. (“Triple canopy” refers to jungle that has three distinct layers of growth. The first might be 40 feet above the ground, the second layer about 70, and the third over 100 feet. It was a dark, dank environment.)
On June 1, Charlie 1 took a patrol into the mountains. Coming out of the canopy they spotted 5 NVA on a trail about 400 meters to their front. The NVA had a radio and were soon seen to be heading in Charlie 1’s general direction. The platoon established a hasty ambush and waited for nearly an hour, but the NVA had apparently taken a different trail and did not enter the ambush.
The next day, we attacked a ville to our northeast. As we did so, we received 100 to 150 rounds of small arms fire. It was a distinct possibility that we were taking stray rounds from a firefight between a patrol from Alpha Company and some NVA that were trying to cut between us. The ville was dotted with bunkers and spider holes (a foxhole with a camouflaged moveable cover) which we destroyed. We rounded up another 100 or so civilians and sent them back to Duc Duc refugee camp for interrogation.
That evening, two B-40 rocket propelled grenades exploded outside our lines. We went to 100% alert (our norm was two up and one down throughout the night)and fired illumination rounds from our 60 mm mortars, but saw nothing.
The next morning, we moved further north and attacked a ville at first light. Eight NVA ran out of the ville and we took them under fire, seeing at least two drop. We found one body with a weapon and many blood trails. We moved back to our west.
That night, Bravo Company was dug in about 3 clicks to our southwest. They were attacked by a large force that penetrated their lines. The NVA captured one of Bravo’s machine guns before being driven off.
On the 5th, Charlie 1 patrolled into the mountains again. As they rounded a bend in a trail, they had a “point-to-point” contact, one of the most common types of meeting engagements in our strange little war. Both sides opened fire—no one was hit on either side as far as we could tell. However, the NVA were probably an observation post because Charlie 1 recovered a 5 galloon can filled with a rice and meat mixture, 4 sets of black pajamas, I pair of Ho Chi Minh sandals (made out of old tires), a wallet containing identification, a couple of cans of fish and four cans of C-rations.
Just before sunset that evening, Charlie 1 spotted 22 NVA south of their observation post, near Bravo Company’s area of responsibility. Bravo sent out a platoon-sized patrol to check their area and Third Platoon was sent to cover our area. There was an aerial observer up in an OV-10. The aircraft fired several rockets into the fleeing NVA. We checked the area until dark but found nothing.
Just after midnight, an individual walked through Charlie 1’s position and was captured. At first light, the POW was brought into our lines and evacuated. The Skipper received permission to return to the same area that night.
We started to move in the early afternoon with Charlie 1 on the point, then Charlie 2, and Charlie 3 was rear security. We were moving further into the mountains than we had in the past, and the change in terrain was stark. AS he spotted the objective, Neal radioed that it was “damn’d steep.”
“How steep,” the Skipper responded?
Referring to a landmark at OCS, Neal replied “It makes the Hill Trail look like an ice rink!”
We were in a deep draw between two ridge lines that towered at least 250 meters above us. We were advised that there was a 6-man recon team from 1st Recon Battalion's permanent OP on Hill 200, which was about 6 clicks north of us, operating in the area. The team, “Mink Coat,” reported that they could hear NVA moving to their front. Suddenly, we were taken under heavy rifle and automatic weapons fire.
At the same time, the Skipper dropped off the net. His radio handset had come loose from the radio, but we needed coordination. Neal and I talked briefly and told Charlie 2 to secure the CP group as we attacked up the hill. We fired several rockets up the hill and returned fire until Mink Coat advised that they were taking some of our rounds.
Things quieted down. Frank came back up on the net and told Neal and me to proceed to the top of the hill and secure it, which we did. About 20 minutes later, Charlie 2 and the CP group finished the climb. We quickly set in our perimeter for the night, and Mink Coat harbored with us until about 2200. They then headed deeper into the mountains, looking for the NVA.
The night was quiet, but rainy. Sunrise revealed fog and dripping jungle. Before noon, we heard and then saw the NVA launching 122 mm rockets toward An Hoa. Nicknamed “Stalin’s organ” by the Germans in WWII, they made a very distinctive moaning sound as they were launched. We called artillery fire and called in airstrikes on the area. The artillery, located in An Hoa, was firing at close to its maximum range. As we had been for several days, we were on the “gun-target” line, which meant that the rounds passed over our position en route to the target. Hearing them go whooshing over us was eerie.
At about Noon, the Skipper ordered me to conduct a patrol to our south and east and to then set up a night ambush on the trail to our east. When the Company left the mountains the next morning, we were to remain behind for an hour to ambush any NVA that might be following.
At the same time, about four clicks to our south, a platoon-sized patrol from Bravo Company was also working in the mountains. The point man suddenly alerted, reporting that some 25 NVA were walking down the middle of a stream along which the patrol was located. They set up a hasty ambush and waited.
Now, Mr. Charles had a well-deserved reputation as a soldier, but we sometimes had a tendency to inflate him into a superman. In this case all 25 NVA were walking along, smoking and joking, rifles slung over their shoulders, no security out. The ambush opened fire, killing all 25 in the opening volley. Twenty-four bodies were recovered—the 25th floated away down the river. Rifles, machineguns (including the M-60 that Bravo had lost earlier in the week), B-40 and RPG-7 rocket launchers and a radio were recovered.
Back on our hill, Charlie 3 formed up and moved across the top of the hill, past the 60mm mortar position, and headed down a long southwest finger to begin our patrol. The jungle was so thick that we were practically “asshole to belly button.” We had been out about 15 minutes when the Company spotted another 27 NVA moving east into a small village. The group broke up into groups of 3 to five and entered the hooches. The Skipper called and adjusted artillery fire into the ville.
Maybe an hour later, lightning hit one of our 60 mm mortar tubes, injuring one crewman. As a CH-46 landed to evacuate him, NVA on the next ridge opened fire. I was listening to the radio and heard Frank ask Dick Wood if he could adjust fire onto the ridge. In the background, I could hear Dick Rollins sending his call for fire to the 2/11 fire direction center.
I was now well down into a draw to the east of our position and, quite frankly, lost. I heard Frank talking to Dick Wood, who was going to adjust the artillery. Frank told him “I’m going to ask for a battery 6 immediate fire for effect.” That means that he would ask the battery to fire six rounds of high explosive rounds per gun (36 rounds) without firing the usual one-gun white phosphorous round to adjust the fire.
We had just broken into a small clear area and had begun to spread out. The point fire team was separated by about 7 meters, so that the point man was 20 yards to my front. I called for a quick halt and called Frank. “Charlie 6 actual, this is Charlie 3 actual. Could you ask them to fire one willie peter (WP) round?” I was really hoping that I could see it impact and figure out my position.
“That’s a negative. It’s nowhere near you.”
“Roger, but I would really appreciate it.”
“All right, dammit, but it won’t do you any good.”
We later learned that the battery firing for us had been firing without a stop for 18 hours. Apparently one of the Marines made a 100 mill error on the elevation of the gun. A mill is one 6400th of a circle. It moves the strike of the round 1 meter for each 100 meters of distance, in this case, 1,000 yards short.
We heard the round whooshing towards us and, experienced as we were, realized that it was not going to go over us. The round hit right behind the point man’s heels. Time slowed down.
The point man went cart-wheeling through the air, his clothing on fire. The other two Marines were down with white phosphorous burns. My radio operator told me that he saw a piece of the shell casing as long as my forearm fly between us (we were about 3 feet apart).
Several people were calling “Corpsman, Corpsman,” and Doc was grabbing people to start putting mud over the white phosphorous fragments to cut off the air supply. (You may recall from high school chemistry that WP burns in the air.) The point man was down, having landed on his head, knocking him out.
I was screaming into the handset “CharlieCharlieCharlieCharlieThreeCharlieThree. Checkfirecheckfirecheckfire.”
Gibby tapped me on the shoulder, holding the connection that attached the handset to the radio. “It’s gotta be hooked up to work, Sir.”
I could hear Levi back along the column, making the same call. No more rounds came our way.
Doc advised me that two of the three were OK, but would require medical attention to remove the WP. The point man was still out cold, with second degree burns. I called for a medevac.
We were deep under triple canopy. The Skipper told me that if we needed a jungle penetrator (a heavy steel weight that could punch through the vegetation), it would take 90 minutes to rig it and get it to us. Having heard the explosion, he told me that we were about 800 meters to his east. I talked to Doc and then told him we could carry the point man to the ridge in 45 minutes. He agreed that that was the way to go.
We struggled up the hill, passing the poncho from team to team, and actually got there in 35 minutes, blowing and steaming. The bird arrived five minutes later and took all three men to the Naval Support Activity Hospital. Two returned to the platoon the next day. The point man, who already had two purple hearts, was pulled to the rear and finished his tour of duty with the regimental security platoon.
We formed up and headed back out to our ambush site. The rest of the night was quiet.
I often wonder about that day. Why did I ask for the WP round? Why did Frank—who was not known for giving in—agree. Six HE rounds would have probably killed the entire platoon . War is a fluky business!
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
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.
22 May 2009
NBC
Our routine on the bridge during the day was simple. At intervals of about 40 meters along both sides of the roadway, the SeaBees had built small platforms that hung out over the river. It gave pedestrians a place to stand when trucks were crossing. We sand-bagged one on each side of the bridge and made them the observation post for day security.
For about 22 hours each day, the wind blew downstream (from the west), but from about 3pm to 5pm, it shifted 180 degrees. I have never learned why.
On April 30, the platoon sergeant had taken out the afternoon security patrol. I headed up to the compound for the Skipper’s daily meeting. While there, I got a radio message that one of my Marines had been lost in the river.
As we later determined, the death of Lance Corporal Ernie Tews occurred like this. He and another Marine were on watch on the upstream side of the bridge. Tews was a smoker, as were most of my Marines. Most of them carried engraved Zippo lighters that they had picked up after boot camp. Most also had a plastic cigarette box (think Tupperware) that would keep a standard pack of smokes and a lighter safe from rain.
Tews had placed his smokes on the sand bags around the OP. Suddenly, the wind picked up and blew the plastic box into the river 15 feet below.
“Oh, dammit. That’s my lucky lighter,” Tews told his shipmate. He walked across the bridge. “Here it comes. It’s floating.”
He took off his helmet and flak jacket and left his rifle in the OP. Then he stepped over the rail and dropped into the river.
The patrol was just crossing the bridge to continue up to the compound for supper. The tail-end Charlie (last man in the column) was a boot camp buddy of Tews’s.
“Hey, Tews, what the (universal adjective) are you doing in the river?”
Tews was swimming upstream and was about 20 feet from the ladder next to the diving board. “Had to get my lucky lighter.” He was laughing and not in distress.
The other Marine said, “I gotta catch up. See you later.”
He was running on up the bridge to catch the rest of his squad when 2 Seabees came running up and grabbed him. Pointing to the river, one said, “Is that guy really in trouble or is he just fooling around?”
Tews was about 40 feet down stream and struggling. One of the Bees jumped into the river and swam to Tews. The other took off his boots and then followed. By the time the second Bee got to where he had last seen Tews and his shipmate, they were both underwater. He surface dived, finally made contact with one man and pulled him up. It was the other SeaBee.
We sent out search patrols along the river until dark and resumed the next morning. He was finally found floating along the south bank about two miles down stream.
He was listed as a non-battle casualty (NBC) and his death has always bothered me because it seemed so purposeless. He was a good Marine, a fire team leader, and had a lot of potential. I have since learned that of the 58,000 names on the Wall in DC, some twenty percent, nearly 11,000, were NBCs, most of whom were from vehicle accidents and drowning.
It still haunts me.
For about 22 hours each day, the wind blew downstream (from the west), but from about 3pm to 5pm, it shifted 180 degrees. I have never learned why.
On April 30, the platoon sergeant had taken out the afternoon security patrol. I headed up to the compound for the Skipper’s daily meeting. While there, I got a radio message that one of my Marines had been lost in the river.
As we later determined, the death of Lance Corporal Ernie Tews occurred like this. He and another Marine were on watch on the upstream side of the bridge. Tews was a smoker, as were most of my Marines. Most of them carried engraved Zippo lighters that they had picked up after boot camp. Most also had a plastic cigarette box (think Tupperware) that would keep a standard pack of smokes and a lighter safe from rain.
Tews had placed his smokes on the sand bags around the OP. Suddenly, the wind picked up and blew the plastic box into the river 15 feet below.
“Oh, dammit. That’s my lucky lighter,” Tews told his shipmate. He walked across the bridge. “Here it comes. It’s floating.”
He took off his helmet and flak jacket and left his rifle in the OP. Then he stepped over the rail and dropped into the river.
The patrol was just crossing the bridge to continue up to the compound for supper. The tail-end Charlie (last man in the column) was a boot camp buddy of Tews’s.
“Hey, Tews, what the (universal adjective) are you doing in the river?”
Tews was swimming upstream and was about 20 feet from the ladder next to the diving board. “Had to get my lucky lighter.” He was laughing and not in distress.
The other Marine said, “I gotta catch up. See you later.”
He was running on up the bridge to catch the rest of his squad when 2 Seabees came running up and grabbed him. Pointing to the river, one said, “Is that guy really in trouble or is he just fooling around?”
Tews was about 40 feet down stream and struggling. One of the Bees jumped into the river and swam to Tews. The other took off his boots and then followed. By the time the second Bee got to where he had last seen Tews and his shipmate, they were both underwater. He surface dived, finally made contact with one man and pulled him up. It was the other SeaBee.
We sent out search patrols along the river until dark and resumed the next morning. He was finally found floating along the south bank about two miles down stream.
He was listed as a non-battle casualty (NBC) and his death has always bothered me because it seemed so purposeless. He was a good Marine, a fire team leader, and had a lot of potential. I have since learned that of the 58,000 names on the Wall in DC, some twenty percent, nearly 11,000, were NBCs, most of whom were from vehicle accidents and drowning.
It still haunts me.
19 April 2009
ROK MARINES AND THE DEATH MARCH
That afternoon, the Skipper ordered me to take my platoon back towards the river to secure the north side of the cobble-stone road. The rest of the company moved west about 500 meters and set up to the south of the road. I was ordered to move back to the railroad cut at first light to secure a landing zone for the ROK Marine Corps.
The Republic of Korea had sent a large contingent of troops to aid the South Vietnamese. The ROK Marines were the cream of the crop.
We set up our perimeter at about 1700. As we did so, we could see two OV-10’s circling about 1500 meters north of us. Suddenly, they began to dive and fire rockets at targets on the ground. The Skipper called to tell me that they had spotted about 30 NVA in one of the villes and had taken them under fire.
Just before sunset, we spotted two Vietnamese coming toward our lines. One was an old man and the other a middle-aged woman of perhaps 30. They were carrying a long bamboo pole over their shoulders with a parachute silk hammock bent onto the pole with parachute cord. The fire team that moved out to check them out reported that they had a wounded child in the hammock.
We searched them closely and then brought them into the perimeter. The child, a boy of seven or eight, had a large hole punched through his left leg, probably from shrapnel from the rockets fired by the OV-10s. Doc patched it up, but told me that the kid needed a hospital.
I called the Skipper and passed the word. “No choppers available tonight. Keep them and evacuate the kid tomorrow,” he replied.
We were really nervous, suspecting that mama-san and grandpa-san had led the NVA to our position. Grandpa-san really wanted to return to his village It took some persuading to get him to sit still. As courteously as possible, I let him know that if he set one foot out of our perimeter or made one sound, I would shoot him pretty well dead. After that, he was quiet as a mouse.
The baby-san was a real trooper. He never made a sound. The troops kept giving him C-rats and especially the cookies and candy, treating him like a little brother. My Marines were ferocious warriors and gentle giants, all wrapped in dirty camo. God bless ’em!
Mama-san was a pill. About once an hour, she would start to moan and wail. One of us, myself, the platoon sergeant or the guide, would whack her in the head and shut her up. To this day, I am pretty certain that she was trying to guide the NVA to our position.
At first light, we saddled up and headed east about 1,000 meters to secure the LZ. When we got in place, I left mama-san and baby-san with the platoon guide in the platoon command post and sent papa-san on his way back home.
The ROK Marines were landed in US Marine Corps helicopters. I was standing in the middle of the LZ as the first wave landed. Suddenly, I heard a voice calling “Carty, Carty.”
It was 1stLt Park, a TBS classmate. (We had 16 foreign military trainees in our class. Park, an ROK Marine officer, was one of the best.) I do not know who was more surprised to see the two of us together, acting as old friends do—his Marines or mine.
After our mini-reunion, he moved off to set in his company. Accompanied by a ROK machinegun team, I headed for my CP to get mama-san and baby-san. These guys were tough. The Gunner carried an M-1919 .30 cal machine gun, complete with T&E mechanism, gun pintel and platform, and tripod, in one hand and two cans of ammo in the other, while the A-gunner carried two cans in each hand! Hard dudes. When the two ROKS saw the woman and kid, they grinned, dropped their weapons and pulled out their knives, and headed toward mom and kid. Mom began to wail.
I put myself in between them while yelling for Gibby to get one of my gold bars out of my pack. (For obvious reasons, we did not wear rank insignia in the field, but we carried a set of bars in our packs in case we had to go to Da Nang or back to An Hoa.) I showed it to the ROKs who became very apologetic, bowing and saluting. The corporal offered me his knife. Mama-san wailed some more.
It dawned on me that the knife was a gesture of courtesy: they were my prisoners and it was my privilege to cut their throats. I smiled and returned the knife, showing them my Dad’s K-bar. They really yucked it up! Finally, I sent them on their way.
Mom did not shut up until we finally had her and the kid on the chopper headed for Da Nang.
I moved out to rejoin the company which had moved southwest along the ridge. When I linked up at about 1300, we were beat. We moved into position, but got only a few minutes to rest. Then the Skipper informed us that battalion wanted us to move about 8 clicks to the An Hoa-Phu Loc (6) road by dusk.
We were not used to moving with full kit during the day, and this was a hot one—well over 100 degrees F and high humidity. As we moved out, we almost immediately began to have people straggling and suffering heat ailments. It was 1400, the hottest part of the day, we were in double canopy (jungle) so the air was heavy and still, and we were soon short on water.
Finally, in Second Platoon, one Marine collapsed and went into cardiac arrest. It was Jerome Thornton, one of the squad leaders and a fine Marine. The Docs got his heart going and an emergency medevac came roaring in. We evacuated six Marines with serious heat ailments, five of whom rejoined us. Thornton “died” at least three more times on the medevac and was revived each time. He was evacuated home.
Did I mention that our Corpsmen were miracle workers? And they still are. Ask the crew of USS San Francisco.
Up the line, I could hear the Skipper shouting on the radio that there was no reason on God’s green earth to destroy his company with a forced march.
Battalion relented. We went into a perimeter for the night.
The Republic of Korea had sent a large contingent of troops to aid the South Vietnamese. The ROK Marines were the cream of the crop.
We set up our perimeter at about 1700. As we did so, we could see two OV-10’s circling about 1500 meters north of us. Suddenly, they began to dive and fire rockets at targets on the ground. The Skipper called to tell me that they had spotted about 30 NVA in one of the villes and had taken them under fire.
Just before sunset, we spotted two Vietnamese coming toward our lines. One was an old man and the other a middle-aged woman of perhaps 30. They were carrying a long bamboo pole over their shoulders with a parachute silk hammock bent onto the pole with parachute cord. The fire team that moved out to check them out reported that they had a wounded child in the hammock.
We searched them closely and then brought them into the perimeter. The child, a boy of seven or eight, had a large hole punched through his left leg, probably from shrapnel from the rockets fired by the OV-10s. Doc patched it up, but told me that the kid needed a hospital.
I called the Skipper and passed the word. “No choppers available tonight. Keep them and evacuate the kid tomorrow,” he replied.
We were really nervous, suspecting that mama-san and grandpa-san had led the NVA to our position. Grandpa-san really wanted to return to his village It took some persuading to get him to sit still. As courteously as possible, I let him know that if he set one foot out of our perimeter or made one sound, I would shoot him pretty well dead. After that, he was quiet as a mouse.
The baby-san was a real trooper. He never made a sound. The troops kept giving him C-rats and especially the cookies and candy, treating him like a little brother. My Marines were ferocious warriors and gentle giants, all wrapped in dirty camo. God bless ’em!
Mama-san was a pill. About once an hour, she would start to moan and wail. One of us, myself, the platoon sergeant or the guide, would whack her in the head and shut her up. To this day, I am pretty certain that she was trying to guide the NVA to our position.
At first light, we saddled up and headed east about 1,000 meters to secure the LZ. When we got in place, I left mama-san and baby-san with the platoon guide in the platoon command post and sent papa-san on his way back home.
The ROK Marines were landed in US Marine Corps helicopters. I was standing in the middle of the LZ as the first wave landed. Suddenly, I heard a voice calling “Carty, Carty.”
It was 1stLt Park, a TBS classmate. (We had 16 foreign military trainees in our class. Park, an ROK Marine officer, was one of the best.) I do not know who was more surprised to see the two of us together, acting as old friends do—his Marines or mine.
After our mini-reunion, he moved off to set in his company. Accompanied by a ROK machinegun team, I headed for my CP to get mama-san and baby-san. These guys were tough. The Gunner carried an M-1919 .30 cal machine gun, complete with T&E mechanism, gun pintel and platform, and tripod, in one hand and two cans of ammo in the other, while the A-gunner carried two cans in each hand! Hard dudes. When the two ROKS saw the woman and kid, they grinned, dropped their weapons and pulled out their knives, and headed toward mom and kid. Mom began to wail.
I put myself in between them while yelling for Gibby to get one of my gold bars out of my pack. (For obvious reasons, we did not wear rank insignia in the field, but we carried a set of bars in our packs in case we had to go to Da Nang or back to An Hoa.) I showed it to the ROKs who became very apologetic, bowing and saluting. The corporal offered me his knife. Mama-san wailed some more.
It dawned on me that the knife was a gesture of courtesy: they were my prisoners and it was my privilege to cut their throats. I smiled and returned the knife, showing them my Dad’s K-bar. They really yucked it up! Finally, I sent them on their way.
Mom did not shut up until we finally had her and the kid on the chopper headed for Da Nang.
I moved out to rejoin the company which had moved southwest along the ridge. When I linked up at about 1300, we were beat. We moved into position, but got only a few minutes to rest. Then the Skipper informed us that battalion wanted us to move about 8 clicks to the An Hoa-Phu Loc (6) road by dusk.
We were not used to moving with full kit during the day, and this was a hot one—well over 100 degrees F and high humidity. As we moved out, we almost immediately began to have people straggling and suffering heat ailments. It was 1400, the hottest part of the day, we were in double canopy (jungle) so the air was heavy and still, and we were soon short on water.
Finally, in Second Platoon, one Marine collapsed and went into cardiac arrest. It was Jerome Thornton, one of the squad leaders and a fine Marine. The Docs got his heart going and an emergency medevac came roaring in. We evacuated six Marines with serious heat ailments, five of whom rejoined us. Thornton “died” at least three more times on the medevac and was revived each time. He was evacuated home.
Did I mention that our Corpsmen were miracle workers? And they still are. Ask the crew of USS San Francisco.
Up the line, I could hear the Skipper shouting on the radio that there was no reason on God’s green earth to destroy his company with a forced march.
Battalion relented. We went into a perimeter for the night.
18 April 2009
AYE, AYE, SIR
The next night we set up in a ville further west, along the cobble-stone highway, near the grenade factory. We had added some new Marines during our stay at the railroad cut, and my platoon was nearing 35 Marines (including attached weapons), almost enough to form a third squad.
The following morning, the Skipper ordered me to take a squad-sized patrol north across the river and check out the southern edge of Goi Noi Island. I thought You want me to go where with only a squad? I said, “Aye, aye, Sir.”
I alerted my first squad and we prepared to move out. Just then, Doc came up.“Sir, one of the new guys needs to get out of here.” He pointed to a skinny Marine at the end of the squad column. “He hasn’t kept a thing down for five days, he is losing weight, and I’m worried that he is dehydrated.”
What the hell?
Doc continued. “The dumb little shit wants to be a hero. Didn’t tell his squad leader and nearly passed out on watch last night. The other guy on watch with him told me this morning.”
Just what I needed ten minutes before a patrol. I motioned to Doc to follow and ran off to brief the Skipper. When I returned to the patrol, the squad leader brought the man to me.
“OK. You need to go back to An Hoa to get this fixed. Stay with the Company Corpsman and we’ll get you out of here today.”
“No way, Sir. I’m OK. I gotta stay with the squad.” I respected that, but he was weaving as he stood in front of me.
“Look, you’re no good to us sick. I promise that as soon as they clear up what ever bug you have, you’ll be right back with us. Now report to the Company Corpsman up at the CP.”
He hung his head. “Aye, aye, sir.”
We saddled up and moved out. There were thirteen of us. We had good concealment—scrub brush and grass--for the first 200 meters. The river was at low water—almost no water—but there was about 300 meters of sand bar to cross. I sent a fire team across to secure the north bank and then rushed the rest across on line.
The north side was covered in elephant grass, twelve feet tall, thick, with razor sharp blades. We forced our way into it. It was so thick that I had to navigate by compass. There were two men in front of me. The point man would force the grass down and stand on it. Number two would join him and stomp it down. The dust was thick, there was nary a breath of air, and we were quickly drenched in sweat. (Doc estimated that the ambient temperature was near 130 degrees F.) The dust began to cake on us and we looked like we had been greased and rolled in dirty flour. About 20 minutes passed as we moved slowly forward.
Suddenly, the point man broke into a cleared area. It was an old trail created by a tank or amtrac, about 15 feet wide. The grass wall on the far side looked to be as thick as ever.
This kind of clearing is a “danger area,” subjecting the unit that is crossing it to ambush. He signaled “danger area.”
I signaled back for him to check it out, and as I did so, he pointed up. A bird had been flushed on the other side. I extended my left arm to point to the grenadier to show him where I wanted him.
At this point, I weighed about 130 pounds. My Mom had given me a Bulova Acutron watch for graduation and commissioning. It was a heavy, thick watch with a leather strap. Because of the accumulated sweat, the leather had stiffened and forced the watch to stand up just a bit off my wrist. As I looked along my left arm, I felt a tug and the watch exploded. I could see the little pieces, springs, gears, and pieces of glass float through the air in slow motion. Time itself slowed down.
The point man opened up and I realized that we were under fire. I turned to face the front and hit the deck as the M-60 machine gunner flopped down next to me on my right. He was about three feet behind me, so that the muzzle of his machine gun was parallel to and about 18 inches from my right ear. He fired a burst of 5 or 6 rounds. It felt as if someone had jammed a hot needle into my right ear.
“I looked back and said, “Knock that(universal adjective) shit off. Move up a little.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.” He fired another burst. It didn’t hurt as much, but I really couldn’t hear by this time. All firing stopped.
The engagement seemed to have lasted for 20 minutes, but it was closer to 60 seconds. The point fire team rushed across the trail. One stuck his head from the grass and waved us across.
There was a fringe of grass, perhaps two feet thick, and then a beaten down area about ten by 25 meters, with trails leading to the north, west and south. The point fire team members were set in at the corners. One VC body, complete with AK-47, was crumpled face down at the southwest corner. The squad leader pointed to two more bodies, with AKs, at the north end of the patch. “The woman has a brief case, Sir.”
I started to move in that direction. Over my shoulder, I told my radio operator, “Gibby, make sure that gook is dead.” I pointed to the lone figure.
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
I took about three steps and a shot rang out. We all hit the deck. I looked around. Gibby was standing over the dead VC.
“What the (universal adjective) did you just do?”
“Made sure he’s dead, Sir.”
Damn! Doc rushed over. “Where’d you shoot him?”
“Back of the head.”
Doc felt around, shook his head, then turned the VC over. There was not a mark on his head, although he had been hit in the back by several rounds. He was graveyard dead.
I said “Show me what you did, Gibby?”
He pointed his rifle at the man’s head, muzzle about 18 inches away. I noticed that he was trembling hard—as were many of us. He was shaking so hard that he had missed from 18 inches!
Years later, when I was teaching law of war at TBS, I used this anecdote to remind lieutenants that they must be clear in their orders, especially in the heat of combat. Gibson had planned to do exactly what I told him to do. Fortunately for us, there were no "war correspondents" or TV "journalists" with us to take those 4 seconds out of context and quickly spread them around the globe just to make a corporate buck.
We reported in by radio, checked out the bodies, grabbed the brief case and rifles, and prepared to head back to the company. But the day was not yet over.
I heard the squad leader say “Oh, (universal adjective). What the (universal adjective) is that dumb (universal gerund) doing here?”
It was the Marine we had planned to evacuate. He had tagged along and was now hysterical. I was not pleased. We could have lost him and never known what happened. I grabbed him and cold-cocked him. In retrospect, that was not a good idea, because under one of the unwritten rules of patrolling, I now had the privilege of carrying him. (Rule of patrolling: "If you make a prisoner unable to walk, you get to carry him.") He wasn't technically a prisoner, but the intent of the rule was plainly applicable. Fortunately, he didn’t weigh very much. We formed up and returned uneventfully to the company.
I briefed the Skipper on the day’s events. We later learned that we had killed a VC tax collector. Her brief case contained “tax rolls” and identified a lot of the local VC infrastructure.
“OK, Mac, well done. Clean ’em up and get some rest. I’ve got something for you to do tonight.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
After thought: The skinny kid was evacuated, diagnosed with a serious allergy to C-rations, and transferred to Okinawa. I suffered some hearing loss and tinitis that plagues me to this day. I can get cheap license plates from the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and you tax payers have given me a really nice set of hearing aids, for which I thank you. My kids complain about their deaf father and do not seem to appreciate the source of that deafness. I hope they never do.
The following morning, the Skipper ordered me to take a squad-sized patrol north across the river and check out the southern edge of Goi Noi Island. I thought You want me to go where with only a squad? I said, “Aye, aye, Sir.”
I alerted my first squad and we prepared to move out. Just then, Doc came up.“Sir, one of the new guys needs to get out of here.” He pointed to a skinny Marine at the end of the squad column. “He hasn’t kept a thing down for five days, he is losing weight, and I’m worried that he is dehydrated.”
What the hell?
Doc continued. “The dumb little shit wants to be a hero. Didn’t tell his squad leader and nearly passed out on watch last night. The other guy on watch with him told me this morning.”
Just what I needed ten minutes before a patrol. I motioned to Doc to follow and ran off to brief the Skipper. When I returned to the patrol, the squad leader brought the man to me.
“OK. You need to go back to An Hoa to get this fixed. Stay with the Company Corpsman and we’ll get you out of here today.”
“No way, Sir. I’m OK. I gotta stay with the squad.” I respected that, but he was weaving as he stood in front of me.
“Look, you’re no good to us sick. I promise that as soon as they clear up what ever bug you have, you’ll be right back with us. Now report to the Company Corpsman up at the CP.”
He hung his head. “Aye, aye, sir.”
We saddled up and moved out. There were thirteen of us. We had good concealment—scrub brush and grass--for the first 200 meters. The river was at low water—almost no water—but there was about 300 meters of sand bar to cross. I sent a fire team across to secure the north bank and then rushed the rest across on line.
The north side was covered in elephant grass, twelve feet tall, thick, with razor sharp blades. We forced our way into it. It was so thick that I had to navigate by compass. There were two men in front of me. The point man would force the grass down and stand on it. Number two would join him and stomp it down. The dust was thick, there was nary a breath of air, and we were quickly drenched in sweat. (Doc estimated that the ambient temperature was near 130 degrees F.) The dust began to cake on us and we looked like we had been greased and rolled in dirty flour. About 20 minutes passed as we moved slowly forward.
Suddenly, the point man broke into a cleared area. It was an old trail created by a tank or amtrac, about 15 feet wide. The grass wall on the far side looked to be as thick as ever.
This kind of clearing is a “danger area,” subjecting the unit that is crossing it to ambush. He signaled “danger area.”
I signaled back for him to check it out, and as I did so, he pointed up. A bird had been flushed on the other side. I extended my left arm to point to the grenadier to show him where I wanted him.
At this point, I weighed about 130 pounds. My Mom had given me a Bulova Acutron watch for graduation and commissioning. It was a heavy, thick watch with a leather strap. Because of the accumulated sweat, the leather had stiffened and forced the watch to stand up just a bit off my wrist. As I looked along my left arm, I felt a tug and the watch exploded. I could see the little pieces, springs, gears, and pieces of glass float through the air in slow motion. Time itself slowed down.
The point man opened up and I realized that we were under fire. I turned to face the front and hit the deck as the M-60 machine gunner flopped down next to me on my right. He was about three feet behind me, so that the muzzle of his machine gun was parallel to and about 18 inches from my right ear. He fired a burst of 5 or 6 rounds. It felt as if someone had jammed a hot needle into my right ear.
“I looked back and said, “Knock that(universal adjective) shit off. Move up a little.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.” He fired another burst. It didn’t hurt as much, but I really couldn’t hear by this time. All firing stopped.
The engagement seemed to have lasted for 20 minutes, but it was closer to 60 seconds. The point fire team rushed across the trail. One stuck his head from the grass and waved us across.
There was a fringe of grass, perhaps two feet thick, and then a beaten down area about ten by 25 meters, with trails leading to the north, west and south. The point fire team members were set in at the corners. One VC body, complete with AK-47, was crumpled face down at the southwest corner. The squad leader pointed to two more bodies, with AKs, at the north end of the patch. “The woman has a brief case, Sir.”
I started to move in that direction. Over my shoulder, I told my radio operator, “Gibby, make sure that gook is dead.” I pointed to the lone figure.
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
I took about three steps and a shot rang out. We all hit the deck. I looked around. Gibby was standing over the dead VC.
“What the (universal adjective) did you just do?”
“Made sure he’s dead, Sir.”
Damn! Doc rushed over. “Where’d you shoot him?”
“Back of the head.”
Doc felt around, shook his head, then turned the VC over. There was not a mark on his head, although he had been hit in the back by several rounds. He was graveyard dead.
I said “Show me what you did, Gibby?”
He pointed his rifle at the man’s head, muzzle about 18 inches away. I noticed that he was trembling hard—as were many of us. He was shaking so hard that he had missed from 18 inches!
Years later, when I was teaching law of war at TBS, I used this anecdote to remind lieutenants that they must be clear in their orders, especially in the heat of combat. Gibson had planned to do exactly what I told him to do. Fortunately for us, there were no "war correspondents" or TV "journalists" with us to take those 4 seconds out of context and quickly spread them around the globe just to make a corporate buck.
We reported in by radio, checked out the bodies, grabbed the brief case and rifles, and prepared to head back to the company. But the day was not yet over.
I heard the squad leader say “Oh, (universal adjective). What the (universal adjective) is that dumb (universal gerund) doing here?”
It was the Marine we had planned to evacuate. He had tagged along and was now hysterical. I was not pleased. We could have lost him and never known what happened. I grabbed him and cold-cocked him. In retrospect, that was not a good idea, because under one of the unwritten rules of patrolling, I now had the privilege of carrying him. (Rule of patrolling: "If you make a prisoner unable to walk, you get to carry him.") He wasn't technically a prisoner, but the intent of the rule was plainly applicable. Fortunately, he didn’t weigh very much. We formed up and returned uneventfully to the company.
I briefed the Skipper on the day’s events. We later learned that we had killed a VC tax collector. Her brief case contained “tax rolls” and identified a lot of the local VC infrastructure.
“OK, Mac, well done. Clean ’em up and get some rest. I’ve got something for you to do tonight.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
After thought: The skinny kid was evacuated, diagnosed with a serious allergy to C-rations, and transferred to Okinawa. I suffered some hearing loss and tinitis that plagues me to this day. I can get cheap license plates from the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and you tax payers have given me a really nice set of hearing aids, for which I thank you. My kids complain about their deaf father and do not seem to appreciate the source of that deafness. I hope they never do.
10 April 2009
EASTER SUNDAY 1969
The next night we harbored in a ville further east. Third Platoon had both squads on the line. (Our routine was for one platoon to send out two ambushes, one to send out one, keeping the other in the perimeter, and the third to have both squads in the line. We were too small to have the normal three squads per platoon.) Moreover, we were not moving that night.
My routine was to be up on radio watch and checking lines until about 0400. I would then go to sleep for a couple of hours, fairly safe in my assumption that the bad guys would not start something so close to daylight—when the airplanes could see them.
At about 1930 on this particular night, I came down with a terrible migraine headache. Doc said, “Let me give you something to help get rid of it.”
“Naw, thanks, Doc, but I need to be up to check lines.”
My Platoon Sergeant chimed in. “Take the damn’d stuff, Sir. We’ll make sure you wake up to go out on the lines.”
“Well….” I paused to throw up. “What is that stuff?”
“Darvon, Sir. It’ll fix you right up. Take two.”
The next thing I remember is morning. My sheepish Platoon Sergeant said, “Hell, Lieutenant, we knew you needed a night off. Everything was copacetic. Course, we were a little worried when they hit us with those mortars and you didn’t wake up, but nothing came of it.” He grinned.
I was shaken to have slept through a mortar attack, but they had rolled me into my hole. And the headache was gone.
On Easter Saturday, which happened to be my sister’s birthday, I had both squads out on the night ambush. The briefed plan was for me to link up both squad sized ambushes at about 0300 and move to a ville located on a deep, fast-moving stream.
At about 0400, Mike Koch would bring out Second Platoon, link up with my right flank squad and take our cordon on around to the stream bank about 200 meters north. At first light, we began to collapse the cordon.
As I moved along the river bank in the gray, foggy dawn, I saw Mike approaching. We stood on the bank of the river, shrouded in fog and unwilling to break the silence. Finally, as if on cue, we each stuck out a hand and, as we shook, said “Happy Easter.”
The search of the ville was uneventful.
As we set in for the day, my radio operator said, “Six wants you and the platoon sergeant at his CP. He says, ‘bring your canteen cups.’”
I found Levi who, having set in our last hole, was talking to the squad leaders. “Rifle inspection in one hour. Get going.”
“C’mon. Skipper wants us. And grab a cup.”
We headed up a trail to the center of the ville, to the hooch the Captain had selected for his CP. Mike and Chip and their platoon sergeants came in from different directions. The Gunny was finishing up organizing the CP group.
“Well, gentlemen, Here we are.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label scotch. “My wife sent me this. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. This will do.”
He poured a splash into each of our cups. After our cups were “charged,” he toasted the day. “Happy Easter.”
“Happy Easter, sir.”
In my life, I have sipped and enjoyed some mighty fine scotch—single malts that cost per bottle close to my monthly pay as a second lieutenant. None ever tasted better than that Johnny Walker Red, drunk from an aluminum canteen cup, in a dank, smelly hooch on a damp, foggy Easter morning with those men.
Levi and I returned to the platoon sector and began our daily routine. One squad was pulled off the line and began to clean weapons. Levi cleaned his weapon with them. This involved field stripping the rife or machine gun or pistol, cleaning and lightly oiling it, removing ammo from each magazine and inspecting it for dents and corrosion, and cleaning and reassembling the magazines. I would then inspect each man’s weapon.
Doc was standing by to issue the daily vitamin and the Sunday malaria pill to each Marine and to make sure the pills were swallowed. That squad would then move to the lines and the other would come back and go through the same routine.
I followed this practice for the entire time I was a rifle platoon commander. The M-16 has a weird locking system that can be a bitch to clean. I was bound and determined that no Marine of mine would be killed or wounded because his rifle jammed. The troops didn’t like it, because it cut into their time to sleep, but it is the platoon commander’s job to think further than the next 40 winks.
About a year before the Second Gulf War, my next door neighbor’s son, Corporal of Marines Josh Piccoli, a fire team leader in the Seventh Marines, was home on leave. We sat around my kitchen table, drinking coffee. He was considering shipping over (reenlisting) and his Dad, a Vietnam vet, asked me to talk to him. We swapped sea stories, and I mentioned my fixation on cleaning weapons. He nodded and agreed when I mentioned that the troops were less than enthused with my inspections.
When he came home from the capture of Bagdad, with all of his Marines alive, he stopped by to thank me.
“For what,” I asked?
“We cleaned weapons every day. When my troops bitched, I told them that if it was good enough for you Marines in Vietnam, it was good enough for me. And nobody’s rifle jammed—even in the sand and crap we were in!”
* * * * *
At about 1600, the Skipper called us together. We had received orders to make a significant move to the south. We were assigned to enter a government-controlled valley about 2 clicks east and 7 clicks south, across a ridgeline. Our mission was to provide security for the rice harvest.
The NVA in the mountains around the An Hoa and Que Son valleys were short on supply. They frequently came into villages to take rice and other foodstuffs for their units. During the rice harvest, each day, the farmers were to bring the day’s harvest to a central collection point. It would be loaded onto trucks and driven east to the coastal city of Hoi An for storage and safekeeping. We would provide security throughout the day and night.
The plan was to move out at1700 that night, with Second in the lead, followed by CP, First, and then Third as the tail-end Charlie. The Skipper planned to be over the ridge and ready to move into position at first light.
Now, moving a company was not a simple thing to do. In open country, we kept 5 to 10 meter intervals between men. With 120 men in the company, that meant that when my last man began to move, he was going to be 1200 meters (better than two-thirds of a mile) behind the point man.
We moved up onto an abandoned railroad right of way (the An Hoa spur) and headed east, passing through a cut that was about 100 meters long, and then exited onto open ground towards the right of way of the main north-south railway line. Of course, there were no rails and very few steel ties, but it was clear of tangled brush. It was also elevated, perhaps 12 feet above the surrounding paddies.
The plan was to move out about 500 meters beyond the cut and then drop down off the berm to a paddy dike and head south across a small valley to the next ridge line, some five clicks away.
Third Platoon had just started to move when the column halted. My radio operator told me, “Mister Koch says there’s movement in a tree line about 400 meters to his front. Second Platoon is going to recon by fire.” I ordered him to pass that word back along the line so that the troops would know the reason for the firing to our front.
Reconnaissance by fire is simply shooting into an area to see what happens. Almost immediately, I heard an M-60 machine gun crank off a couple of bursts.
The treeline “reconned” back.
Out on the berm, Second Platoon took cover. Dick Rollins slid down the forward edge of the berm with his map already open, ready to call artillery fire onto the treeline. One Marine froze and took a round through his left arm, through his chest, and out his right shoulder. He was dead before he hit the ground, or actually, before he hit Dick. So here is Lieutenant Rollins, calling for a Corpsman, wiping blood off his map, and passing his call for fire back to his battery, all the while under fire.
The tree line quickly erupted—a 155mm battery was shooting for us. Enemy fire stopped. No one else was hit. When the Skipper called for a medevac, he was told that for a “routine” medevac, there would be a wait of a couple of hours.
Medevacs came in three flavors: emergency, priority, and routine. An emergency medevac was just that. The Marine needed to be at the hospital within the “golden hour.” (I later read that for wounded who got to a hospital within that golden hour, 98% survived!)
Priority evacuation was for serious wounds, but those that were survivable with still a little delay. “Routines” were for non-life threatening wounds that nonetheless required hospitalization or to evacuate the dead. Also, wounded Vietnamese, no matter their condition, were always routine unless they were going out on a bird with a priority or emergency evacuation of a Marine.
Hard? Yes, but the number of available medevac aircraft made it necessary to limit the higher priorities to our people. Sin loi. (“Sorry about that.”)
The Skipper correctly decided that we did not need to sit in that exposed position for a couple of hours. Instead, we would wrap the casualty in his poncho and carry him with us until a chopper was available. Second Platoon kept the lead and we moved out.
Carrying a 140 pound body in a poncho in paddy country is clumsy and tiring. The body was slowly passed back through the line as the Marines carrying the poncho tired. By about 2230, the body was at the rear of First Platoon. At the foot of the ridge, we stopped briefly for a breather before making the climb. A commotion broke out somewhere in front of my platoon.
A Marine from First Platoon had panicked when it came his turn to carry the body. To quiet him, Chip grabbed him by the throat and bruised his larynx. We now had a priority medevac.
The Skipper called me up the column.
“OK, Mac. I am going to move on up the ridge with First and Second platoons. The medevac will be here in the next thirty minutes. Get the casualties out and then move up to join us. Challenge is ‘pepper’ and counter-sign is ‘walrus.’” I was impressed. That was the first time we had used a password, something that was a staple of war movies.
As the rest of the company began the climb, I moved Third Platoon into a nearby medium sized dry paddy and set up a perimeter. Watching the last of the company disappear into the darkness made for a very lonely feeling.
About 25 minutes later, the medevac chopper came up on our radio net for a zone brief. As he approached, we could hear him; he sounded different. We arranged the casualties for a quick load and staged them. I put my strobe light into my inverted helmet, making it less visible from the ground while allowing the chopper crew to see our location.
The helicopter was a CH-53,
the newest addition to the Marine Corps helicopter inventory. It was the first time I had seen one up close and it was big. The pilot put on a landing light to find the LZ and settled into our midst. We quickly carried the two Marines up the ramp and then ran off as it began to lift off.
Levi and I were standing back-to-back in the middle of the LZ. The helicopter was about a quarter of a mile away when we saw a stream of green tracers float up into the sky, followed by a stream of red tracers from the bird’s door guns. I was yelling “All right, you sunsabitches. On your feet and saddle up so we can beat feet out of here.” Leaving a sleeping Marine behind was a nightmare that I did not want to experience.
Suddenly, one of my Marines, grabbed me and put his hand over my mouth. “Sssshhh, Lieutenant. They’ll know where we are.” I stopped, and then started to laugh.
“Son, if they didn’t see and hear that great big helicopter, I don’t think they’ll hear little ol’ me. Who the hell are you?”
“PFC Wandro, sir.” One of my new joins from the day before.
“Well, get yourself lined up and we’ll get out of here.” That was my first, but not the last, of my dealings with Jimmy Wandro, US Marine and one of America’s heroes.
We moved up the ridge, joining the company and setting in for the night. Although we were supposed to be in the valley below that night, the Skipper held us in place. The last thing we needed was broken legs from falling off a cliff.
We were at an altitude of perhaps 400 feet, situated on a narrow rocky ridge. The wind was actually cold. In the distance, we could see the lights of DaNang. It looked so peaceful.
And it was midnight. Easter Sunday was over.
My routine was to be up on radio watch and checking lines until about 0400. I would then go to sleep for a couple of hours, fairly safe in my assumption that the bad guys would not start something so close to daylight—when the airplanes could see them.
At about 1930 on this particular night, I came down with a terrible migraine headache. Doc said, “Let me give you something to help get rid of it.”
“Naw, thanks, Doc, but I need to be up to check lines.”
My Platoon Sergeant chimed in. “Take the damn’d stuff, Sir. We’ll make sure you wake up to go out on the lines.”
“Well….” I paused to throw up. “What is that stuff?”
“Darvon, Sir. It’ll fix you right up. Take two.”
The next thing I remember is morning. My sheepish Platoon Sergeant said, “Hell, Lieutenant, we knew you needed a night off. Everything was copacetic. Course, we were a little worried when they hit us with those mortars and you didn’t wake up, but nothing came of it.” He grinned.
I was shaken to have slept through a mortar attack, but they had rolled me into my hole. And the headache was gone.
On Easter Saturday, which happened to be my sister’s birthday, I had both squads out on the night ambush. The briefed plan was for me to link up both squad sized ambushes at about 0300 and move to a ville located on a deep, fast-moving stream.
At about 0400, Mike Koch would bring out Second Platoon, link up with my right flank squad and take our cordon on around to the stream bank about 200 meters north. At first light, we began to collapse the cordon.
As I moved along the river bank in the gray, foggy dawn, I saw Mike approaching. We stood on the bank of the river, shrouded in fog and unwilling to break the silence. Finally, as if on cue, we each stuck out a hand and, as we shook, said “Happy Easter.”
The search of the ville was uneventful.
As we set in for the day, my radio operator said, “Six wants you and the platoon sergeant at his CP. He says, ‘bring your canteen cups.’”
I found Levi who, having set in our last hole, was talking to the squad leaders. “Rifle inspection in one hour. Get going.”
“C’mon. Skipper wants us. And grab a cup.”
We headed up a trail to the center of the ville, to the hooch the Captain had selected for his CP. Mike and Chip and their platoon sergeants came in from different directions. The Gunny was finishing up organizing the CP group.
“Well, gentlemen, Here we are.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label scotch. “My wife sent me this. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. This will do.”
He poured a splash into each of our cups. After our cups were “charged,” he toasted the day. “Happy Easter.”
“Happy Easter, sir.”
In my life, I have sipped and enjoyed some mighty fine scotch—single malts that cost per bottle close to my monthly pay as a second lieutenant. None ever tasted better than that Johnny Walker Red, drunk from an aluminum canteen cup, in a dank, smelly hooch on a damp, foggy Easter morning with those men.
Levi and I returned to the platoon sector and began our daily routine. One squad was pulled off the line and began to clean weapons. Levi cleaned his weapon with them. This involved field stripping the rife or machine gun or pistol, cleaning and lightly oiling it, removing ammo from each magazine and inspecting it for dents and corrosion, and cleaning and reassembling the magazines. I would then inspect each man’s weapon.
Doc was standing by to issue the daily vitamin and the Sunday malaria pill to each Marine and to make sure the pills were swallowed. That squad would then move to the lines and the other would come back and go through the same routine.
I followed this practice for the entire time I was a rifle platoon commander. The M-16 has a weird locking system that can be a bitch to clean. I was bound and determined that no Marine of mine would be killed or wounded because his rifle jammed. The troops didn’t like it, because it cut into their time to sleep, but it is the platoon commander’s job to think further than the next 40 winks.
About a year before the Second Gulf War, my next door neighbor’s son, Corporal of Marines Josh Piccoli, a fire team leader in the Seventh Marines, was home on leave. We sat around my kitchen table, drinking coffee. He was considering shipping over (reenlisting) and his Dad, a Vietnam vet, asked me to talk to him. We swapped sea stories, and I mentioned my fixation on cleaning weapons. He nodded and agreed when I mentioned that the troops were less than enthused with my inspections.
When he came home from the capture of Bagdad, with all of his Marines alive, he stopped by to thank me.
“For what,” I asked?
“We cleaned weapons every day. When my troops bitched, I told them that if it was good enough for you Marines in Vietnam, it was good enough for me. And nobody’s rifle jammed—even in the sand and crap we were in!”
* * * * *
At about 1600, the Skipper called us together. We had received orders to make a significant move to the south. We were assigned to enter a government-controlled valley about 2 clicks east and 7 clicks south, across a ridgeline. Our mission was to provide security for the rice harvest.
The NVA in the mountains around the An Hoa and Que Son valleys were short on supply. They frequently came into villages to take rice and other foodstuffs for their units. During the rice harvest, each day, the farmers were to bring the day’s harvest to a central collection point. It would be loaded onto trucks and driven east to the coastal city of Hoi An for storage and safekeeping. We would provide security throughout the day and night.
The plan was to move out at1700 that night, with Second in the lead, followed by CP, First, and then Third as the tail-end Charlie. The Skipper planned to be over the ridge and ready to move into position at first light.
Now, moving a company was not a simple thing to do. In open country, we kept 5 to 10 meter intervals between men. With 120 men in the company, that meant that when my last man began to move, he was going to be 1200 meters (better than two-thirds of a mile) behind the point man.
We moved up onto an abandoned railroad right of way (the An Hoa spur) and headed east, passing through a cut that was about 100 meters long, and then exited onto open ground towards the right of way of the main north-south railway line. Of course, there were no rails and very few steel ties, but it was clear of tangled brush. It was also elevated, perhaps 12 feet above the surrounding paddies.
The plan was to move out about 500 meters beyond the cut and then drop down off the berm to a paddy dike and head south across a small valley to the next ridge line, some five clicks away.
Third Platoon had just started to move when the column halted. My radio operator told me, “Mister Koch says there’s movement in a tree line about 400 meters to his front. Second Platoon is going to recon by fire.” I ordered him to pass that word back along the line so that the troops would know the reason for the firing to our front.
Reconnaissance by fire is simply shooting into an area to see what happens. Almost immediately, I heard an M-60 machine gun crank off a couple of bursts.
The treeline “reconned” back.
Out on the berm, Second Platoon took cover. Dick Rollins slid down the forward edge of the berm with his map already open, ready to call artillery fire onto the treeline. One Marine froze and took a round through his left arm, through his chest, and out his right shoulder. He was dead before he hit the ground, or actually, before he hit Dick. So here is Lieutenant Rollins, calling for a Corpsman, wiping blood off his map, and passing his call for fire back to his battery, all the while under fire.
The tree line quickly erupted—a 155mm battery was shooting for us. Enemy fire stopped. No one else was hit. When the Skipper called for a medevac, he was told that for a “routine” medevac, there would be a wait of a couple of hours.
Medevacs came in three flavors: emergency, priority, and routine. An emergency medevac was just that. The Marine needed to be at the hospital within the “golden hour.” (I later read that for wounded who got to a hospital within that golden hour, 98% survived!)
Priority evacuation was for serious wounds, but those that were survivable with still a little delay. “Routines” were for non-life threatening wounds that nonetheless required hospitalization or to evacuate the dead. Also, wounded Vietnamese, no matter their condition, were always routine unless they were going out on a bird with a priority or emergency evacuation of a Marine.
Hard? Yes, but the number of available medevac aircraft made it necessary to limit the higher priorities to our people. Sin loi. (“Sorry about that.”)
The Skipper correctly decided that we did not need to sit in that exposed position for a couple of hours. Instead, we would wrap the casualty in his poncho and carry him with us until a chopper was available. Second Platoon kept the lead and we moved out.
Carrying a 140 pound body in a poncho in paddy country is clumsy and tiring. The body was slowly passed back through the line as the Marines carrying the poncho tired. By about 2230, the body was at the rear of First Platoon. At the foot of the ridge, we stopped briefly for a breather before making the climb. A commotion broke out somewhere in front of my platoon.
A Marine from First Platoon had panicked when it came his turn to carry the body. To quiet him, Chip grabbed him by the throat and bruised his larynx. We now had a priority medevac.
The Skipper called me up the column.
“OK, Mac. I am going to move on up the ridge with First and Second platoons. The medevac will be here in the next thirty minutes. Get the casualties out and then move up to join us. Challenge is ‘pepper’ and counter-sign is ‘walrus.’” I was impressed. That was the first time we had used a password, something that was a staple of war movies.
As the rest of the company began the climb, I moved Third Platoon into a nearby medium sized dry paddy and set up a perimeter. Watching the last of the company disappear into the darkness made for a very lonely feeling.
About 25 minutes later, the medevac chopper came up on our radio net for a zone brief. As he approached, we could hear him; he sounded different. We arranged the casualties for a quick load and staged them. I put my strobe light into my inverted helmet, making it less visible from the ground while allowing the chopper crew to see our location.
The helicopter was a CH-53,
the newest addition to the Marine Corps helicopter inventory. It was the first time I had seen one up close and it was big. The pilot put on a landing light to find the LZ and settled into our midst. We quickly carried the two Marines up the ramp and then ran off as it began to lift off.Levi and I were standing back-to-back in the middle of the LZ. The helicopter was about a quarter of a mile away when we saw a stream of green tracers float up into the sky, followed by a stream of red tracers from the bird’s door guns. I was yelling “All right, you sunsabitches. On your feet and saddle up so we can beat feet out of here.” Leaving a sleeping Marine behind was a nightmare that I did not want to experience.
Suddenly, one of my Marines, grabbed me and put his hand over my mouth. “Sssshhh, Lieutenant. They’ll know where we are.” I stopped, and then started to laugh.
“Son, if they didn’t see and hear that great big helicopter, I don’t think they’ll hear little ol’ me. Who the hell are you?”
“PFC Wandro, sir.” One of my new joins from the day before.
“Well, get yourself lined up and we’ll get out of here.” That was my first, but not the last, of my dealings with Jimmy Wandro, US Marine and one of America’s heroes.
We moved up the ridge, joining the company and setting in for the night. Although we were supposed to be in the valley below that night, the Skipper held us in place. The last thing we needed was broken legs from falling off a cliff.
We were at an altitude of perhaps 400 feet, situated on a narrow rocky ridge. The wind was actually cold. In the distance, we could see the lights of DaNang. It looked so peaceful.
And it was midnight. Easter Sunday was over.
06 April 2009
THE GRENADE FACTORY, THE WELLS FARGO WAGON, AND AN EASTER CARD
We moved out at about 2300 to cordon a village about a click to the east. It was there that we encountered the remains of a French colonial highway—-cobble-stoned, but grassy. At first light, Third Platoon passed through the cordon to sweep the ville, and after securing it, it became the company’s patrol base for the day. That afternoon, Chip led a patrol on down the road towards the next ville, about 1800 meters away.
When the patrol returned, the Skipper conducted our usual evening meeting. Chip had observed suspicious activity in the ville. The order was fairly straightforward.
At 2300 (11pm) First Platoon, followed by Third Platoon, Command Post Group, and Second Platoon, would move east along the trace of the old French road. About 800 meters short of the ville, the CP Group, including the mortar squad, and Second Platoon would halt to set up in reserve and to support us by fire. First and Third Platoons would continue to the objective, which was surrounded by an easily recognizable dirt trail.
First Platoon would cover the north and east sides, and Third would turn right to take the west and south sides of the cordon. At first light, Second and the headquarters would move forward and search the village.
We were in the dark of the moon, so movement was slow. At about 0030, as we were still along the road, Chip radioed the Skipper. “I don’t know what you expected to find, but we have beaucoup gooks.”
“Charlie One, this is Six. What do you mean ‘beaucoup?’”
“I mean booooo cooooooo!”
As I turned to pass the word to my radio operator, he whispered, “Aw, shit!” He was pointing to a bamboo arch over the road with a five-pointed bamboo star at its apex. We were definitely in indian country.
We increased our rate of march and within two or three minutes had made the right turn to begin the cordon. I was just behind my first fireteam. We were within about 20 meters of linking up with Chip when a group of men ran through the gap, firing AK-47’s (a very distinctive sound to anyone who has ever heard it.) There was also cautious M-16 fire, but we were all concerned with avoiding hitting other Marines.
At the same moment, as we were taking cover, the first explosions began. We would hear a “thump” as something hit the ground, followed by a low order explosion. There were many more thumps than explosions, but enough to keep us low. There were also a number of explosions easily identified as coming from M-26 fragmentation grenades.
The 60mm mortar squad back with the CP group began to fire flares to help us link up, and after about 30 minutes of cautious movement, we were able to do so.
The rest of the night was punctuated with infrequent rifle fire and lots of explosions. I had three men slightly wounded by shrapnel.
At first light, Second Platoon swept through the village, clearing and securing it. We had hit a VC grenade factory. The village “manufactured “ ChiCom grenades for the local VC and NVA units. It was also an “R&R” (“rest and recreation”) area for the NVA, and a clothing repair point.
The ChiCom factory was the biggest find. Chicoms were the VC grenade of choice. Think of the WWII German "potato masher" grenade we’ve all seen in the movies. Make the handle out of bamboo, and make it shorter. In place of the machined or cast grenade body, use an old round fish can, complete with painted or paper wrapper, about the size of a frozen orange juice can. Pack it with home-made explosive using a water buffalo dung base. Add a friction fuse in the grenade armed by pulling a cord that ran down the inside of the handle and ending with a piece of bamboo to be used as the pull tab.
They were crude, but if one went off close to your head, deadly. Otherwise, you got some nasty shrapnel wounds and concussion injury.
We later found hundreds of “duds” that had been thrown at us, and I estimated that there were two-to-three detonations per minute somewhere within the village during the five hours between the start of the firefight and the time that we collapsed the cordon.
As we secured the village and established the perimeter, all residents were herded to the center of the ville. In one location, several Marines were securing an NVA soldier who had been wounded in the leg. He was glaring at us and looking furtively at our equipment. I moved on ahead to find the Skipper.
While I was reporting that we had secured our part of the perimeter, there was a shot. I ran back and found the NVA dead. He had apparently tried to grab a Marine’s rifle and was killed by another Marine. This was, as I have said, a hard core area.
Eventually, we found 18 bodies in various clothing, including 12 in partial or complete NVA uniforms. We captured a number of AK-47 and SKS rifles, hundreds of chicom grenades, several rocket propelled grenades, and other assorted weaponry. We also found a bolt of NVA green cloth and a Singer sewing machine, which we destroyed.
Our first opposed cordon and search had been successful. We suffered seven casualties, none requiring medevac.
We settled in for the day. The villagers were searched and interrogated to no avail. They had no idea where the grenades came from, had never seen the dead strangers—although there was a lot of wailing among some of the families—and they were all loyal to the Saigon government. As usual, the kids were treated well by our troops. Our Marines shared candy from their Cs with the baby-sans, and the Docs began to treat the many rampant skin infections they found. Other than the dead, there were no young men in the village. Old men (60+) old women, young women and kids, including some infants (perhaps the products of NVA R&R), but no young men. Imagine that!
I took out a reconnaissance patrol that afternoon, preparatory to the night’s move. As we left the perimeter, we passed a bomb crater into which the dead NVA bodies had been placed and covered with earth. There was a crude sign stuck on a dead tree limb, written in grease pencil on cardboard from a C-ration carton: “These dudes done in by C/1/5.” The ancient and honorable ritual of counting coup was being observed.
While we were out on patrol, we were resupplied by helicopter. Resupply was a big deal. The requested supplies—ammunition, food, spare parts, batteries, were carried in a cargo net slung from the belly of a CH-46 helicopter.
After the net was landed and the tether dropped, the bird would land to off-load passengers and mail, to pick up passengers (especially those lucky souls going on R&R or home for good) and to reclaim the cargo net. As the chopper moved in, I always thought of the song “Wells Fargo Wagon” from The Music Man. The kid wonders what goodies might be on the wagon for him, and we all thought the same.
In the day’s mail, I found a large manila envelope from a second grade class at McKinley School in Granite City, Illinois. My Mom was a School Nurse, and McKinley was one of her schools. Easter was upon us, and the kids had hand-drawn Easter cards for me. They were lovely.
Some reflected the importance of that day—the open tomb and the empty cross. The girls had drawn bunnies, brightly colored eggs, and rainbows. At least two boys had airplanes running airstrikes on Golgotha—probably future Baptist preachers! But one captured me so intently that I kept it and reproduce it here. It is the essence of the Marine!
Gary T is now 47 or so, about my wife’s age. He probably has kids of his own. I wonder if he knows how many times over the past 40 years I have pulled his card out of my scrapbook to ponder it and thank him in my heart for the wisdom that a little boy shared with me.
Semper Fi.
When the patrol returned, the Skipper conducted our usual evening meeting. Chip had observed suspicious activity in the ville. The order was fairly straightforward.
At 2300 (11pm) First Platoon, followed by Third Platoon, Command Post Group, and Second Platoon, would move east along the trace of the old French road. About 800 meters short of the ville, the CP Group, including the mortar squad, and Second Platoon would halt to set up in reserve and to support us by fire. First and Third Platoons would continue to the objective, which was surrounded by an easily recognizable dirt trail.
First Platoon would cover the north and east sides, and Third would turn right to take the west and south sides of the cordon. At first light, Second and the headquarters would move forward and search the village.
We were in the dark of the moon, so movement was slow. At about 0030, as we were still along the road, Chip radioed the Skipper. “I don’t know what you expected to find, but we have beaucoup gooks.”
“Charlie One, this is Six. What do you mean ‘beaucoup?’”
“I mean booooo cooooooo!”
As I turned to pass the word to my radio operator, he whispered, “Aw, shit!” He was pointing to a bamboo arch over the road with a five-pointed bamboo star at its apex. We were definitely in indian country.
We increased our rate of march and within two or three minutes had made the right turn to begin the cordon. I was just behind my first fireteam. We were within about 20 meters of linking up with Chip when a group of men ran through the gap, firing AK-47’s (a very distinctive sound to anyone who has ever heard it.) There was also cautious M-16 fire, but we were all concerned with avoiding hitting other Marines.
At the same moment, as we were taking cover, the first explosions began. We would hear a “thump” as something hit the ground, followed by a low order explosion. There were many more thumps than explosions, but enough to keep us low. There were also a number of explosions easily identified as coming from M-26 fragmentation grenades.
The 60mm mortar squad back with the CP group began to fire flares to help us link up, and after about 30 minutes of cautious movement, we were able to do so.
The rest of the night was punctuated with infrequent rifle fire and lots of explosions. I had three men slightly wounded by shrapnel.
At first light, Second Platoon swept through the village, clearing and securing it. We had hit a VC grenade factory. The village “manufactured “ ChiCom grenades for the local VC and NVA units. It was also an “R&R” (“rest and recreation”) area for the NVA, and a clothing repair point.
The ChiCom factory was the biggest find. Chicoms were the VC grenade of choice. Think of the WWII German "potato masher" grenade we’ve all seen in the movies. Make the handle out of bamboo, and make it shorter. In place of the machined or cast grenade body, use an old round fish can, complete with painted or paper wrapper, about the size of a frozen orange juice can. Pack it with home-made explosive using a water buffalo dung base. Add a friction fuse in the grenade armed by pulling a cord that ran down the inside of the handle and ending with a piece of bamboo to be used as the pull tab.
They were crude, but if one went off close to your head, deadly. Otherwise, you got some nasty shrapnel wounds and concussion injury.
We later found hundreds of “duds” that had been thrown at us, and I estimated that there were two-to-three detonations per minute somewhere within the village during the five hours between the start of the firefight and the time that we collapsed the cordon.
As we secured the village and established the perimeter, all residents were herded to the center of the ville. In one location, several Marines were securing an NVA soldier who had been wounded in the leg. He was glaring at us and looking furtively at our equipment. I moved on ahead to find the Skipper.
While I was reporting that we had secured our part of the perimeter, there was a shot. I ran back and found the NVA dead. He had apparently tried to grab a Marine’s rifle and was killed by another Marine. This was, as I have said, a hard core area.
Eventually, we found 18 bodies in various clothing, including 12 in partial or complete NVA uniforms. We captured a number of AK-47 and SKS rifles, hundreds of chicom grenades, several rocket propelled grenades, and other assorted weaponry. We also found a bolt of NVA green cloth and a Singer sewing machine, which we destroyed.
Our first opposed cordon and search had been successful. We suffered seven casualties, none requiring medevac.
We settled in for the day. The villagers were searched and interrogated to no avail. They had no idea where the grenades came from, had never seen the dead strangers—although there was a lot of wailing among some of the families—and they were all loyal to the Saigon government. As usual, the kids were treated well by our troops. Our Marines shared candy from their Cs with the baby-sans, and the Docs began to treat the many rampant skin infections they found. Other than the dead, there were no young men in the village. Old men (60+) old women, young women and kids, including some infants (perhaps the products of NVA R&R), but no young men. Imagine that!
I took out a reconnaissance patrol that afternoon, preparatory to the night’s move. As we left the perimeter, we passed a bomb crater into which the dead NVA bodies had been placed and covered with earth. There was a crude sign stuck on a dead tree limb, written in grease pencil on cardboard from a C-ration carton: “These dudes done in by C/1/5.” The ancient and honorable ritual of counting coup was being observed.
While we were out on patrol, we were resupplied by helicopter. Resupply was a big deal. The requested supplies—ammunition, food, spare parts, batteries, were carried in a cargo net slung from the belly of a CH-46 helicopter.
After the net was landed and the tether dropped, the bird would land to off-load passengers and mail, to pick up passengers (especially those lucky souls going on R&R or home for good) and to reclaim the cargo net. As the chopper moved in, I always thought of the song “Wells Fargo Wagon” from The Music Man. The kid wonders what goodies might be on the wagon for him, and we all thought the same.In the day’s mail, I found a large manila envelope from a second grade class at McKinley School in Granite City, Illinois. My Mom was a School Nurse, and McKinley was one of her schools. Easter was upon us, and the kids had hand-drawn Easter cards for me. They were lovely.
Some reflected the importance of that day—the open tomb and the empty cross. The girls had drawn bunnies, brightly colored eggs, and rainbows. At least two boys had airplanes running airstrikes on Golgotha—probably future Baptist preachers! But one captured me so intently that I kept it and reproduce it here. It is the essence of the Marine!
Gary T is now 47 or so, about my wife’s age. He probably has kids of his own. I wonder if he knows how many times over the past 40 years I have pulled his card out of my scrapbook to ponder it and thank him in my heart for the wisdom that a little boy shared with me.Semper Fi.
27 February 2009
THINGS HEAT UP
In late February 1969, we had been at Charlie Base Camp for nearly two months. Around 20 February, a company from 3/5 came out of the mountains as Operation Taylor Common was winding down. They reported to the Base camp and we prepared to move out into the Thu Bons—north of the base camp and east of An Hoa.
Because we had not “humped the bush,” i.e., spent several days or weeks continuously patrolling, the learning curve was a bit steep. We had received many new troops, and Third Herd was now up to about 30 Marines.
We moved out on the afternoon of 21 February and hiked about 5 clicks north. As the sun set, we moved into a ville and began to dig in. I was setting in one of my M-60s in the back garden of a thatch hooch when a child rolled the rice mat "door" away to look at us. Mama-san smacked him, and the door was once again covered. I wondered what would be my Mother’s reaction if she opened her back door one night to find a bunch of rough strangers digging holes in her garden and setting up machine guns.
We had a quiet night. The next morning, we moved further north towards the river before we got word to return to the base camp. We moved inside the wire at about 1700. Captain Wilson offered to share the lines with the other company commander, but the 3/5 guy said, “Nah. My guys are in place. Let your Marines get some sleep.”
Mike, Chip, Dick and I moved into one of the camp buildings and settled in for a night of no responsibility.
Suddenly, at about 0200, the world rattled. We rushed outside to see a massive fireball rising from An Hoa. The ammunition dump had exploded. For the next two hours, we watched as additional explosions lit off, sending white hot ordnance flying high into the sky.
At about 0600, we were ordered to return to the Thu Bons to search for the NVA sappers who had penetrated An Hoa and attacked the dump. As we saddled up, my radio operator took my picture.
We lined up in a column to move out. As we passed the Skipper’s driver—who would return to An Hoa—he snapped to attention and saluted me. It was only after I returned his salute that it dawned on me that he was saying “good bye.”
Our search was uneventful and we were once again ordered to return to the base camp. The company from 3/5 rotated into the Arizona Territory across the river from An Hoa, and we resumed our road security role.
The “Arizona Territory” or “Arizona Valley” was the area north of the Song Thu Bon, South of the Song Vu Gia, and east of the Anh Tu slope. It was so named because an early operation there was Operation Arizona. (An area northeast of us, in the 7th Marines Tactical Area of Responsibility (TAOR) was known as “the Dodge City” after Operation Dodge. There was a lot of western terminology used in my war, including the frequent reference to bad guy territory as “Indian Country.”) The Arizona was a very bad place, but we will get to that later.
On March 19, my platoon was at Strong points Alpha and Bravo. A PF detachment had come up to reinforce us and we had followed the usual routine--they were assigned to one bunker and told that under no circumstances were they to leave it. We then placed two claymore mines close to the door and aiming in. Our greatest concern was that one or more VC would be in the PF detachment, and we took no chances.
At about 0130, I had just stretched out when the radio watch tapped my boot. “Sir, they want you in Tower 1.”
Tower one was on the northeast corner of the compound. As I moved in that direction, in the distance I could hear the steady “bump-bump, bump-bump, bump-bump” of a machine gun being fired by a really good gunner.
When I climbed into the tower, the duty Marine, one of our new joins, said, “Look, sir. They are fam firing at Phu Loc (6).”
Fam firing (familiarization firing) is never done at night. The sky over Phu Loc (6), some eight clicks away, was full of flares and tracers were flying in bright red streams. I reported this to Captain Wilson.
“Yeah, I know. Stay off the net. In crease your alert.” I got everybody up.
The next morning, we learned that an NVA sapper unit of 93 soldiers had penetrated the west side of the hill in the area of Battery D, 2/11. Two of the six gun pits were over-run. The Marines in Pits 3 and 4 were shooting it out with the NVA in Pits 1 and 2, while guns 5 and 6 continued to shoot fire missions in support of Marine units in the Arizona.
HM2 David R. Ray, U.S. Navy, was Delta Battery’s senior Corpsman. As attested to by his Medal of Honor citation, when the first explosion occurred, Doc Ray moved from gun pit to gun pit, rendering emergency medical treatment to the wounded. He was seriously wounded early in the attack, but refused medical aid and continued caring for his Marines. While he was bandaging a wounded Marine, two NVA attacked his position. He killed one and wounded the other. He kept moving from one casualty to another, treating the wounded and holding off the enemy until he ran out of ammunition. He was killed in action when he threw himself across a wounded Marine when an enemy grenade landed nearby. He died, but his patient survived. The title "Doc" is one our Corpsmen take with pride. Doc Ray set the example.
USS David Ray is named in his honor.
At some point during the fight, an NVA flame thrower operator destroyed Delta Battery’s Fire Direction Center (FDC), killing all in the bunker. A Marine from 1/5 walked up behind the gook, tapped him on the shoulder, and when he turned, calmly shot him between the eyes. The Russian flame thrower hung in 1/5’s CP for as long as I was in country.
Across the road, a couple of NVA tried to take refuge in the mess hall. The battalion mess chief, GySgt Floyd M. Keefe, had once declared that “If any of those bastards ever try to take my mess hall, it will be the Alamo all over again. “ The Gunny kept his word. The next morning, his body was found surrounded by several dead NVA. He was posthumously awarded the Silver Star.
Lyn Pompper was also severely wounded that night and evacuated out of country. Ultimately, 13 Marines and two Navy Corpsmen died in the attack - 12 from Delta 2/11 and 3 from the 1/5 CP. Seventy-nine NVA bodies were found in the artillery compound alone, and 11 more were in the 1/5 area.
Two days later, we were relieved by a company from 2/5. We headed out to the area east of Phu Loc (6) on what would be a most eventful operation.
Because we had not “humped the bush,” i.e., spent several days or weeks continuously patrolling, the learning curve was a bit steep. We had received many new troops, and Third Herd was now up to about 30 Marines.
We moved out on the afternoon of 21 February and hiked about 5 clicks north. As the sun set, we moved into a ville and began to dig in. I was setting in one of my M-60s in the back garden of a thatch hooch when a child rolled the rice mat "door" away to look at us. Mama-san smacked him, and the door was once again covered. I wondered what would be my Mother’s reaction if she opened her back door one night to find a bunch of rough strangers digging holes in her garden and setting up machine guns.
We had a quiet night. The next morning, we moved further north towards the river before we got word to return to the base camp. We moved inside the wire at about 1700. Captain Wilson offered to share the lines with the other company commander, but the 3/5 guy said, “Nah. My guys are in place. Let your Marines get some sleep.”
Mike, Chip, Dick and I moved into one of the camp buildings and settled in for a night of no responsibility.
Suddenly, at about 0200, the world rattled. We rushed outside to see a massive fireball rising from An Hoa. The ammunition dump had exploded. For the next two hours, we watched as additional explosions lit off, sending white hot ordnance flying high into the sky.
At about 0600, we were ordered to return to the Thu Bons to search for the NVA sappers who had penetrated An Hoa and attacked the dump. As we saddled up, my radio operator took my picture.
We lined up in a column to move out. As we passed the Skipper’s driver—who would return to An Hoa—he snapped to attention and saluted me. It was only after I returned his salute that it dawned on me that he was saying “good bye.”
Our search was uneventful and we were once again ordered to return to the base camp. The company from 3/5 rotated into the Arizona Territory across the river from An Hoa, and we resumed our road security role.
The “Arizona Territory” or “Arizona Valley” was the area north of the Song Thu Bon, South of the Song Vu Gia, and east of the Anh Tu slope. It was so named because an early operation there was Operation Arizona. (An area northeast of us, in the 7th Marines Tactical Area of Responsibility (TAOR) was known as “the Dodge City” after Operation Dodge. There was a lot of western terminology used in my war, including the frequent reference to bad guy territory as “Indian Country.”) The Arizona was a very bad place, but we will get to that later.
On March 19, my platoon was at Strong points Alpha and Bravo. A PF detachment had come up to reinforce us and we had followed the usual routine--they were assigned to one bunker and told that under no circumstances were they to leave it. We then placed two claymore mines close to the door and aiming in. Our greatest concern was that one or more VC would be in the PF detachment, and we took no chances.
At about 0130, I had just stretched out when the radio watch tapped my boot. “Sir, they want you in Tower 1.”
Tower one was on the northeast corner of the compound. As I moved in that direction, in the distance I could hear the steady “bump-bump, bump-bump, bump-bump” of a machine gun being fired by a really good gunner.
When I climbed into the tower, the duty Marine, one of our new joins, said, “Look, sir. They are fam firing at Phu Loc (6).”
Fam firing (familiarization firing) is never done at night. The sky over Phu Loc (6), some eight clicks away, was full of flares and tracers were flying in bright red streams. I reported this to Captain Wilson.
“Yeah, I know. Stay off the net. In crease your alert.” I got everybody up.
The next morning, we learned that an NVA sapper unit of 93 soldiers had penetrated the west side of the hill in the area of Battery D, 2/11. Two of the six gun pits were over-run. The Marines in Pits 3 and 4 were shooting it out with the NVA in Pits 1 and 2, while guns 5 and 6 continued to shoot fire missions in support of Marine units in the Arizona.
HM2 David R. Ray, U.S. Navy, was Delta Battery’s senior Corpsman. As attested to by his Medal of Honor citation, when the first explosion occurred, Doc Ray moved from gun pit to gun pit, rendering emergency medical treatment to the wounded. He was seriously wounded early in the attack, but refused medical aid and continued caring for his Marines. While he was bandaging a wounded Marine, two NVA attacked his position. He killed one and wounded the other. He kept moving from one casualty to another, treating the wounded and holding off the enemy until he ran out of ammunition. He was killed in action when he threw himself across a wounded Marine when an enemy grenade landed nearby. He died, but his patient survived. The title "Doc" is one our Corpsmen take with pride. Doc Ray set the example.
USS David Ray is named in his honor.At some point during the fight, an NVA flame thrower operator destroyed Delta Battery’s Fire Direction Center (FDC), killing all in the bunker. A Marine from 1/5 walked up behind the gook, tapped him on the shoulder, and when he turned, calmly shot him between the eyes. The Russian flame thrower hung in 1/5’s CP for as long as I was in country.
Across the road, a couple of NVA tried to take refuge in the mess hall. The battalion mess chief, GySgt Floyd M. Keefe, had once declared that “If any of those bastards ever try to take my mess hall, it will be the Alamo all over again. “ The Gunny kept his word. The next morning, his body was found surrounded by several dead NVA. He was posthumously awarded the Silver Star.
Lyn Pompper was also severely wounded that night and evacuated out of country. Ultimately, 13 Marines and two Navy Corpsmen died in the attack - 12 from Delta 2/11 and 3 from the 1/5 CP. Seventy-nine NVA bodies were found in the artillery compound alone, and 11 more were in the 1/5 area.
Two days later, we were relieved by a company from 2/5. We headed out to the area east of Phu Loc (6) on what would be a most eventful operation.
09 December 2008
EVERY CLIME AND PLACE
When I returned to ISU for my sophomore year, I immediately checked the University Union calendar for the scheduled visit by the Marine Officer Selection Officer from Recruiting Station, Chicago.
In November 1965, a new Officer Selection Officer, Captain R. Richard Thrasher, USMC, made his first trip to the ISU campus. I was waiting in the parking lot of the Student Union when he arrived, and helped him carry recruiting materials into the building. He was freshly returned from Vietnam where he had commanded Company F, 2d Battalion, 9th Marines during its March 1965 landings at Danang. (Ten years later, in March 1975, I assumed command of Fox Company, Ninth Marines at Camp Schwab, Okinawa shortly before Danang fell to the North Vietnamese Army. In October 1975, I reported to Company F, 24th Marines in Milwaukee as the Inspector-Instructor. The Inspector-Instructor of 2/24 in Chicago was LtCol R. Richard Thrasher. It’s a small Corps!)
On 22 November 1965, the second anniversary of JFK’s assassination, I took the oath of enlistment in the U.S. Marine Corps Reserve and was assigned to the Platoon Leaders’ Course. The PLC was an officer-candidate program designed, in part, for colleges and universities that had no ROTC programs. The PLC candidate had no military duties prior to commissioning except two six-week sessions at Officer Candidates School at Marine Corps Schools (now Marine Corps Base), Quantico, Virginia. One other benefit that was repeatedly touted to us was that, as enlisted reservists, we were earning “longevity.” It took years for me to figure that one out. Stay tuned.
In the summer of 1966, I was ordered to attend the PLC, JR. course. Our flight out of St. Louis was delayed by 24 hours due to a national airline strike, so we arrived at Washington National Airport at about 9 pm on a hot Tuesday in mid-July. As we waited for the bus that would pick us up and deliver us to Quantico, several “elderly” ladies (in their 50’s, I would guess) took an interest in us.
When the bus arrived, a Sergeant disembarked and pleasantly said, “OK, Candidates, pick up your gear and find a seat on the bus.”
The ladies wished us well, and I remember hearing one comment on “that nice young man who is taking such good care of the boys.”
As the bus door closed and we moved out, it began! The “nice young man” and another Sergeant turned into quintessential NCOs. Initially, they must have been told that we were deaf, because every order and instruction neared the 100 decibel level. Because they were often given with the Sergeant's mouth only millimeters from our ears, we were able to hear them despite our presumed deafness.
We were informed that we were the lowest form of life on the planet, lower than whale excrement on the floor of the Mariannas Trench. Under no circumstances were we Marines. We were not fit to be the pus in a pimple on a Marine's posterior and any thought to the contrary had better never even enter our pea brains!
We were to “sit at attention,” a contradiction in terms that I have never been able to fathom. Not a sound was to leave our miserable mouths, now known as “filthy commodes.” We would speak only if spoken to. The only acceptable responses were “Yes, Sergeant,” “No, Sergeant,” and “Aye, Aye, Sergeant.” Although all windows (“portholes”) on the bus were closed and the humidity began to rise to equal the temperature (high 90’s at 10 pm, er…”2200”), under no circumstances were we to sleep.
I soon learned a valuable skill, the ability to sleep "at attention" with my eyes wide open.
We arrived at the transient barracks at OCS at about 2300. We were hurried into an empty bunkroom, issued two sheets, a blanket and a pillow case and instructed to “make up those racks,” i.e., steel bunk beds aligned along both sides of the "squadbay." The first effort nearly reduced one of the Sergeants to tears.
“I am a good Christian man! I am, candidates! So why has God punished me by sending me helpless, hopeless, hapless vermin like you people?”
I already liked him—he was a wordsmith. Fortunately, I never found the time to express my appreciation. I say "fortunately" because OCS backs up on Chopawamsic Creek, a tributary of the of the Potomac. It is a tidal stream and the muck and mire are three feet deep at low tide. I doubt if anyone would have ever found my remains after such a presumtuous conversation!
Finally, by 0200, we had made up our racks to some semblance of acceptability and we were allowed to actually test them. That is, we had “30 seconds to get out of them scummy civilian rags, right down to them scummy civilian skivvies, and fall in at the foot of them racks. Then, when I give the order, you will fall out and get in the sack. Fall out. Nooooooo. Out out out. What was that? WHAT was that? Now fall in and when I give the order, fall out and get in the sack. Arrrghhh! Outoutoutout! You people could screw up the Lord's Prayer. If you want to play, we have all night. Now fall out!"
Ah, sweet success. We were now to be granted the privilege of two and a half hours sleep, but not until we had said our prayers. “God bless the Marine Corps. God bless the Commandant of the Marine Corps. God bless our two sergeants and please forgive us for causing them so much distress, and feel free to strike any of us dead who might think that we were Marines, worthless whale dung that we really were. And God bless Chesty Puller.”
It occurred to me that perhaps he had been a seminarian in another life.
By the third try, we finally achieved a volume that made it possible for God and the sergeants to hear us.
The lights went out.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
In November 1965, a new Officer Selection Officer, Captain R. Richard Thrasher, USMC, made his first trip to the ISU campus. I was waiting in the parking lot of the Student Union when he arrived, and helped him carry recruiting materials into the building. He was freshly returned from Vietnam where he had commanded Company F, 2d Battalion, 9th Marines during its March 1965 landings at Danang. (Ten years later, in March 1975, I assumed command of Fox Company, Ninth Marines at Camp Schwab, Okinawa shortly before Danang fell to the North Vietnamese Army. In October 1975, I reported to Company F, 24th Marines in Milwaukee as the Inspector-Instructor. The Inspector-Instructor of 2/24 in Chicago was LtCol R. Richard Thrasher. It’s a small Corps!)
On 22 November 1965, the second anniversary of JFK’s assassination, I took the oath of enlistment in the U.S. Marine Corps Reserve and was assigned to the Platoon Leaders’ Course. The PLC was an officer-candidate program designed, in part, for colleges and universities that had no ROTC programs. The PLC candidate had no military duties prior to commissioning except two six-week sessions at Officer Candidates School at Marine Corps Schools (now Marine Corps Base), Quantico, Virginia. One other benefit that was repeatedly touted to us was that, as enlisted reservists, we were earning “longevity.” It took years for me to figure that one out. Stay tuned.
In the summer of 1966, I was ordered to attend the PLC, JR. course. Our flight out of St. Louis was delayed by 24 hours due to a national airline strike, so we arrived at Washington National Airport at about 9 pm on a hot Tuesday in mid-July. As we waited for the bus that would pick us up and deliver us to Quantico, several “elderly” ladies (in their 50’s, I would guess) took an interest in us.
When the bus arrived, a Sergeant disembarked and pleasantly said, “OK, Candidates, pick up your gear and find a seat on the bus.”
The ladies wished us well, and I remember hearing one comment on “that nice young man who is taking such good care of the boys.”
As the bus door closed and we moved out, it began! The “nice young man” and another Sergeant turned into quintessential NCOs. Initially, they must have been told that we were deaf, because every order and instruction neared the 100 decibel level. Because they were often given with the Sergeant's mouth only millimeters from our ears, we were able to hear them despite our presumed deafness.
We were informed that we were the lowest form of life on the planet, lower than whale excrement on the floor of the Mariannas Trench. Under no circumstances were we Marines. We were not fit to be the pus in a pimple on a Marine's posterior and any thought to the contrary had better never even enter our pea brains!
We were to “sit at attention,” a contradiction in terms that I have never been able to fathom. Not a sound was to leave our miserable mouths, now known as “filthy commodes.” We would speak only if spoken to. The only acceptable responses were “Yes, Sergeant,” “No, Sergeant,” and “Aye, Aye, Sergeant.” Although all windows (“portholes”) on the bus were closed and the humidity began to rise to equal the temperature (high 90’s at 10 pm, er…”2200”), under no circumstances were we to sleep.
I soon learned a valuable skill, the ability to sleep "at attention" with my eyes wide open.
We arrived at the transient barracks at OCS at about 2300. We were hurried into an empty bunkroom, issued two sheets, a blanket and a pillow case and instructed to “make up those racks,” i.e., steel bunk beds aligned along both sides of the "squadbay." The first effort nearly reduced one of the Sergeants to tears.
“I am a good Christian man! I am, candidates! So why has God punished me by sending me helpless, hopeless, hapless vermin like you people?”
I already liked him—he was a wordsmith. Fortunately, I never found the time to express my appreciation. I say "fortunately" because OCS backs up on Chopawamsic Creek, a tributary of the of the Potomac. It is a tidal stream and the muck and mire are three feet deep at low tide. I doubt if anyone would have ever found my remains after such a presumtuous conversation!
Finally, by 0200, we had made up our racks to some semblance of acceptability and we were allowed to actually test them. That is, we had “30 seconds to get out of them scummy civilian rags, right down to them scummy civilian skivvies, and fall in at the foot of them racks. Then, when I give the order, you will fall out and get in the sack. Fall out. Nooooooo. Out out out. What was that? WHAT was that? Now fall in and when I give the order, fall out and get in the sack. Arrrghhh! Outoutoutout! You people could screw up the Lord's Prayer. If you want to play, we have all night. Now fall out!"
Ah, sweet success. We were now to be granted the privilege of two and a half hours sleep, but not until we had said our prayers. “God bless the Marine Corps. God bless the Commandant of the Marine Corps. God bless our two sergeants and please forgive us for causing them so much distress, and feel free to strike any of us dead who might think that we were Marines, worthless whale dung that we really were. And God bless Chesty Puller.”
It occurred to me that perhaps he had been a seminarian in another life.
By the third try, we finally achieved a volume that made it possible for God and the sergeants to hear us.
The lights went out.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
07 December 2008
THE START OF A JOURNEY
It was December 7, 1957. For my folks, it was the 16th anniversary of a day that turned their world—and that of their generation—upside down: that date that would live in infamy.
Starting in third grade, I had read books about our Navy in World War II. My boyhood heroes were Mush Morton, Donc Donaho, Red Ramage,and Gene Fluckey. I knew the records of Tang and Wahoo and Trigger, and I had cried at the heroism of Howard Gilmore whose dying words on the shattered bridge of USS Growler still echo down the halls of American naval history: “Take her down!”
I was inspired by three legendary Wildcat commanders, Jimmy Thach, creator with Medal of Honor recipient Butch O’Hare, of the “Thach Weave”, the maneuver, named by Jimmy Flatley, that kept the old F4F Wildcat alive against the Japanese Zero. I had made a model of Jimmy Flatley’s F6F Hellcat. Oh, yeah, Flatley, “Reaper Leader” of Fighting Ten, the Grim Reapers, was a hero in my book.
And there was my number one hero, my Dad, former Chief Pharmacists Mate John James McCarty. I secretly suspected that he won the war all by himself, not that he talked much about it. Five opposed landings and they were bad ones—Tarawa, Kwajalien, Saipan, Tinian and Pelelieu.
Navy blue and gold were my favorite colors.
So on that gray December day, after seeing the “Pearl Harbor” episode of Victory at Sea on TV, I decided that I wanted to follow my Dad’s footsteps and become a squared away North American bluejacket. My Mom suggested that if I wanted to be in the Navy, I ought to attend the Naval Academy. To get there required a Congressional appointment.
That evening, I sat down at the kitchen table with a ballpoint pen and a piece of lined school paper and wrote the first of what would be many letters to Representative Melvin Price, our Congressman. Only a few days later, I received a letter from Mr. Price, sending me a copy of the Midshipman Handbook, asking that I keep him informed of my progress through school.
(Later, while my Mom was vice-president of her American Federation of Teachers local, she met Mr. Price. “Oh,” he said, “your son is the boy that wants to go to Annapolis.” They don’t make them like that any more.)
In early 1964, I was appointed to the Naval Academy class of 1968. When I took my physical at Scott Air Force Base, I was declared to be NPQ, “not physically qualified” due to poor eyesight. Coming on the heels of the deaths of my Dad and my Grand-dad, it could have been a crushing blow. By then, however, I had discovered another branch of the Naval Service—the United States Marine Corps. We had read parts of John Thomason's World War I classic, Fix Bayonets!, in English class and I felt as if I had served alongside Robert Leckie (Helmet For My Pillow) and that Richard Tregaskis (Guadalcanal Diary) was a close friend. And of course, I had read Robert Sherrod’s Tarawa: The Story Of A Battle until the pages fell apart.
So, today marks for me the 51st anniversary of the start of a journey that really took off 40 years ago next week. Stay tuned!
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
Starting in third grade, I had read books about our Navy in World War II. My boyhood heroes were Mush Morton, Donc Donaho, Red Ramage,and Gene Fluckey. I knew the records of Tang and Wahoo and Trigger, and I had cried at the heroism of Howard Gilmore whose dying words on the shattered bridge of USS Growler still echo down the halls of American naval history: “Take her down!”
I was inspired by three legendary Wildcat commanders, Jimmy Thach, creator with Medal of Honor recipient Butch O’Hare, of the “Thach Weave”, the maneuver, named by Jimmy Flatley, that kept the old F4F Wildcat alive against the Japanese Zero. I had made a model of Jimmy Flatley’s F6F Hellcat. Oh, yeah, Flatley, “Reaper Leader” of Fighting Ten, the Grim Reapers, was a hero in my book.
And there was my number one hero, my Dad, former Chief Pharmacists Mate John James McCarty. I secretly suspected that he won the war all by himself, not that he talked much about it. Five opposed landings and they were bad ones—Tarawa, Kwajalien, Saipan, Tinian and Pelelieu.
Navy blue and gold were my favorite colors.
So on that gray December day, after seeing the “Pearl Harbor” episode of Victory at Sea on TV, I decided that I wanted to follow my Dad’s footsteps and become a squared away North American bluejacket. My Mom suggested that if I wanted to be in the Navy, I ought to attend the Naval Academy. To get there required a Congressional appointment.
That evening, I sat down at the kitchen table with a ballpoint pen and a piece of lined school paper and wrote the first of what would be many letters to Representative Melvin Price, our Congressman. Only a few days later, I received a letter from Mr. Price, sending me a copy of the Midshipman Handbook, asking that I keep him informed of my progress through school.
(Later, while my Mom was vice-president of her American Federation of Teachers local, she met Mr. Price. “Oh,” he said, “your son is the boy that wants to go to Annapolis.” They don’t make them like that any more.)
In early 1964, I was appointed to the Naval Academy class of 1968. When I took my physical at Scott Air Force Base, I was declared to be NPQ, “not physically qualified” due to poor eyesight. Coming on the heels of the deaths of my Dad and my Grand-dad, it could have been a crushing blow. By then, however, I had discovered another branch of the Naval Service—the United States Marine Corps. We had read parts of John Thomason's World War I classic, Fix Bayonets!, in English class and I felt as if I had served alongside Robert Leckie (Helmet For My Pillow) and that Richard Tregaskis (Guadalcanal Diary) was a close friend. And of course, I had read Robert Sherrod’s Tarawa: The Story Of A Battle until the pages fell apart.
So, today marks for me the 51st anniversary of the start of a journey that really took off 40 years ago next week. Stay tuned!
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
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