By now, the Autumn rains had really set in and An Hoa was a sea of mud. For those of us who used the Vietnamese laundry on base, we noticed that our “clean” clothing came back with the unique odor that came from being dried over a water buffalo dung fire.
Knee-high rubber boots, just like my Dad and Granddad had worn in the feed lot on the farm, were the footwear of choice. The mud was often so deep that it nearly topped the boots.
The shower point continued to operate, opening from 1900 to 2000 each night. To keep our clothing clean and dry, it was not uncommon to see Marines walking to the shower point clad only in rubber boots, flak jacket, and helmet, carrying a towel in one hand and a rifle in the other.
And it was cold. Now, that means that the temperatures had plummeted into the low 70s, but that was a 20 to 30 degree drop. One Marine in the Comm Platoon wrote home to tell his Mom that he was cold. She immediately sent him a ski jacket. He wore it everywhere.
The problem was that it was an electric, almost fluorescent, blue. Now, An Hoa and its environs was done in shades of green, reddish brown and grey. That electric blue jacket was visible for miles! You could always tell where that Marine was because there was a big empty circle around him. If he wanted to be a target, no one wanted to be close.
* * * * *
The Regimental Sergeant Major hated the “bush cover,” an item that tended to replace the standard utility cover. The utility cover had been Marine Corps issue since at least WWII. It was cut very similarly to a railroad engineer’s cap. The bush cover, on the other hand, was a floppy hat that had a 360° degree brim. It could be turned up on the sides like a cowboy hat, pushed up in front like a cavalryman’s hat, worn with the front brim down and the rear brim up, like a fedora, or with the brim pulled down all around. And the Sergeant Major hated it.
There was a regimental policy that forbade wearing the bush cover in An Hoa, and when the Sergeant Major found someone wearing one, he had his revenge. Outside the CP bunker, he had erected a scarlet and gold board labeled “Sergeant Major’s Funny Hat Board.” The miscreant would be marched to the board, handed a hammer and nail, and ordered to nail his bush cover to the board.
The policy was not popular, and troops quickly learned to duck out of the Sergeant Major’s sight.
One evening, I was walking back from chow with another lieutenant. From our left and about 20 meters in front of us, a Marine turned onto the regimental street from the road to the LZ. He was obviously just in from the bush. He was muddy, wore a large ruck sack, carried his helmet in his free hand, and wore his bush cover in the “cavalryman” style. He was clearly tired, walking with his head down, green towel wrapped around his neck.
Suddenly, from our right and about 10 meters behind the Marine, the Sergeant Major entered the street. He made a beeline for the Marines. Getting right up behind the man, the Sergeant Major snatched the bush cover from the Marine’s head.
“Who the hell do you think you are, Marine.”
The Marine turned. On the pocket of his flak jacket, he wore the silver leaf of a lieutenant colonel. (We did not wear collar insignia of rank in the bush—it made for an inviting target. In “garrison areas” the practice was to wear one piece of insignia on the flak jacket pocket.)
“Uh, Sergeant Major. I think I’m Lieutenant Colonel ________. Seventh Marines. May I have my cover back, please?”
The Sergeant Major turned as scarlet as his funny hat board. Muttering apologies, he returned the cover, and directed the Colonel to the Regimental S-3 shop, as requested.
Then, turning and seeing the two of us, grinning, he said, “Not one word, Lieutenants, not one [universal modifier] word.”
We didn’t have to say anything. The troops who had witnessed this little morality play had had the sense to duck for cover. The story was all over the base in minutes.
* * * * *
The life we lived was primitive and much like that lived by our ancestors in a frontier town. One day was much like the next. Anything new or out of the ordinary was interesting.
One afternoon, I was walking across the regimental street to the S-4 shop when a mechanical mule sputtered by. Also on the street was a war dog handler and his dog, a German Shepherd. The dog was on a lead, but when the mule drove by, he almost pulled his handler off his feet. Barking, snarling, dancing around, the dog was lunging for the mule.
“Stop that goddam mule,” the handler shouted. The driver stopped.
The handler reached down and loosed his dog. Fido raced to the idling mule, snarling and slobbering. He latched onto the rail of the vehicle and began to shake it.
The handler waited a minute or two and then ambled over. Folding the canvas lead into a short bunch, he smacked the dog between the ears. The dog quieted and sat.
“All right stupid,” the handler said. “You caught it. Now what are you gonna do with it?”
The dog just looked at him. “OK, man. Thanks, you can go.” The mule driver put it back into gear and chugged off. The dog just sat there.
Over the ensuing 40 years, there have been times when I have been tempted. Then, through God's unfathomable grace, I have felt the "stupid smack" that Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs and we fathers of a certain age know so well and His voice saying "OK, Stupid. If you caught it, what would you do with it?”
I sometimes think that that is just another way of saying “Lead us not into temptation.”
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
Showing posts with label Marine Corps. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marine Corps. Show all posts
25 March 2010
CHRISTMAS COMES EARLY
From the initial landings by the 9th Marines in March 1965, the tour of duty for Marines in Vietnam was 13 months. Every Marine knew his “RTD” or “rotation tour date.” Starting with the date that he left CONUS (Continental United States), the RTD was 13 months later. Thus, when I left California on 18 December 1968, I knew that the latest date on which I would return to the States was 13 months later or 18 January 1970.
For those of us who had come in country in mid-December, 1968, that meant that we would “celebrate” two Christmases in Vietnam. Tom Pottenger, Mike Koch, and I were already trying to figure out how we could get to Danang for Christmas, 1969.
The Army and Air Force had a prescribed tour of 12 months. The history of this difference started with the way in which the pre-war 3d Marine Division (minus) was manned up. After Korea and before deploying to Vietnam, the 3d MarDiv was based in Okinawa. It had only two regiments, the 3d Marines and the 9th Marines. (Its third infantry regiment, the 4th Marines, was based in Hawaii as the ground combat element of the 1st Marine Brigade. When the Division deployed to Vietnam, the Brigade moved in country and was once again melded into its parent Division.)
Because of the limited training space in Okinawa, the pre war practice was for a battalion to form in the 1st Marine Division in Camp Pendleton, California. A cadre of experienced officers and NCOs would receive a draft of younger Marines, form them into a battalion, and undertake a rigorous 6 month period of training. Let us use 1/5 as an example.
On 1 January, 1/5 would begin receiving its troops. By 15 January, the battalion would be fully manned and organized. Company Commanders would begin a period of training dedicated to individual tactics and would then progress to fire team tactics, squad tactics, platoon tactics, and company tactics. The troops would spend most of their time in the field and on live firing ranges. Weapons platoons would work on gun drill and on live firing on the 1000 inch range and on full distance ranges.
Finally, there would be a time for training as a battalion. The troops would go to the rifle and pistol ranges to requalify, there would be a series of physical fitness tests, and each Marine would undergo swim qualification. The "lock on" training would end with a formal inspection by the Commanding General and a final graded field exercise.
During this time, the training schedule was full. Married men would report for formation at 0530 on a Monday. The battalion would move to the field, returning to garrison late on Friday. Saturday morning was dedicated to inspections and administration. Liberty call would be sounded after the Noon formation on Saturday, to expire on board at 0530 on Monday, when everything would start again.
Following our hypothetical schedule, on 15 May, 1/5 would board ship for a two week cruise to Okinawa. The battalion would remain in Okinawa for 12 months and then take a return cruise to California, arriving circa 15 June of the next year, 13 months after deployment. (On the way outbound, in mid-Pacific, it would pass the eastbound battalion it was replacing, let us say 2/9. As that happened, the westbound 1/5 would be re-designated as 2/9 and for the east bound unit, vice versa, preserving regimental integrity.)
Although replacements for the 1st and 3d Marine Divisions in Vietnam were flown in, no change in tour length was adopted. I do believe that, at its core, the Corps is presbyterian. The default position for the Corps was to “do it the way we have always done it.” (There was a slogan popular amongst the troops and junior officers: The Marine Corps—200 years of tradition unhindered by progress! ) Thus the 13 month tour was the norm.
With the advent of Vietnamization, a minor ground swell developed as parents and families of Marines began to contact their representatives in Congress. “Why is my neighbor’s doggie son home in 12 months, but my Marine has to stay for 13 months?”
Right after the 1969 Birthday, a rumor began to circulate that the Marine Corps was cutting the tour to 12 months. However, no official word was received.
One day, I received a letter from my brother. “We are so excited that you will be home before Christmas. With the wedding rescheduled to December 27, I am trying to change your reservations in New Orleans.” Huh? I had said nothing to anyone about any possible change.
The next morning, I went over to the MARS station to make a call to the States. In the medieval times before cell and satellite communications, e-mail and Facebook, MARS— the Military Affiliate Radio Service—was a collection of State-side ham radio operators. In Vietnam, volunteers from communications sections would man a shortwave radio. A user would place a phone call which was transmitted to the States. There, a MARS volunteer would make a collect long-distance call to the destination and patch the call through.
Although we were used to voice radio and communication security procedure, it was confusing to our families, but it was the only way to speak with them directly.
I waited all day. Finally, at about 1600 (3 am in Illinois) they put me through.
Maryann (MA): “Michael, is that you? Where are you?
Radio Operator (RO): After a long pause “Ma’am, when you are done speaking, you must say ‘Over.’”
MA: “Oh. Over.”
“I’m in Vietnam. When are we getting married, over?”
MA: “But where are you? Oh, it is so good to hear your voice.”
RO: After another long pause “Ma’am, when you are done speaking, you gotta say ‘Over.’”
MA: “Oh. Over.”
Damn it, I’ve only got 5 minutes! “Listen to me. When are we getting married, over?”
MA: “I can’t believe it’s really you. Where are you. Are you OK? [pause] Uh, over.”
RO: “Ma’am, he can’t say where he is, over.”
“When are we getting married? Have you rescheduled the wedding? Why? Over.”
MA: “On December 27th. Didn’t you get my letter?” Well, obviously not!
RO: “Ma’am, you really gotta say ‘Over.’”
MA: “Oh. Over.”
“No, I didn’t. Look, we are out of time. I’ll write. I love you, over.” The connection was broken.
When I got back to the S-4 shop, Maryann's letter was waiting. Enclosed was a newspaper article announcing that the Marine Corps had cut the tour to 12 months. I raced down to tell Pottenger that we were officially short-timers. From there, we went over to the Supply office to tell Mike who was now the Supply Officer.
We were going home. Christmas had come early.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
For those of us who had come in country in mid-December, 1968, that meant that we would “celebrate” two Christmases in Vietnam. Tom Pottenger, Mike Koch, and I were already trying to figure out how we could get to Danang for Christmas, 1969.
The Army and Air Force had a prescribed tour of 12 months. The history of this difference started with the way in which the pre-war 3d Marine Division (minus) was manned up. After Korea and before deploying to Vietnam, the 3d MarDiv was based in Okinawa. It had only two regiments, the 3d Marines and the 9th Marines. (Its third infantry regiment, the 4th Marines, was based in Hawaii as the ground combat element of the 1st Marine Brigade. When the Division deployed to Vietnam, the Brigade moved in country and was once again melded into its parent Division.)
Because of the limited training space in Okinawa, the pre war practice was for a battalion to form in the 1st Marine Division in Camp Pendleton, California. A cadre of experienced officers and NCOs would receive a draft of younger Marines, form them into a battalion, and undertake a rigorous 6 month period of training. Let us use 1/5 as an example.
On 1 January, 1/5 would begin receiving its troops. By 15 January, the battalion would be fully manned and organized. Company Commanders would begin a period of training dedicated to individual tactics and would then progress to fire team tactics, squad tactics, platoon tactics, and company tactics. The troops would spend most of their time in the field and on live firing ranges. Weapons platoons would work on gun drill and on live firing on the 1000 inch range and on full distance ranges.
Finally, there would be a time for training as a battalion. The troops would go to the rifle and pistol ranges to requalify, there would be a series of physical fitness tests, and each Marine would undergo swim qualification. The "lock on" training would end with a formal inspection by the Commanding General and a final graded field exercise.
During this time, the training schedule was full. Married men would report for formation at 0530 on a Monday. The battalion would move to the field, returning to garrison late on Friday. Saturday morning was dedicated to inspections and administration. Liberty call would be sounded after the Noon formation on Saturday, to expire on board at 0530 on Monday, when everything would start again.
Following our hypothetical schedule, on 15 May, 1/5 would board ship for a two week cruise to Okinawa. The battalion would remain in Okinawa for 12 months and then take a return cruise to California, arriving circa 15 June of the next year, 13 months after deployment. (On the way outbound, in mid-Pacific, it would pass the eastbound battalion it was replacing, let us say 2/9. As that happened, the westbound 1/5 would be re-designated as 2/9 and for the east bound unit, vice versa, preserving regimental integrity.)
Although replacements for the 1st and 3d Marine Divisions in Vietnam were flown in, no change in tour length was adopted. I do believe that, at its core, the Corps is presbyterian. The default position for the Corps was to “do it the way we have always done it.” (There was a slogan popular amongst the troops and junior officers: The Marine Corps—200 years of tradition unhindered by progress! ) Thus the 13 month tour was the norm.
With the advent of Vietnamization, a minor ground swell developed as parents and families of Marines began to contact their representatives in Congress. “Why is my neighbor’s doggie son home in 12 months, but my Marine has to stay for 13 months?”
Right after the 1969 Birthday, a rumor began to circulate that the Marine Corps was cutting the tour to 12 months. However, no official word was received.
One day, I received a letter from my brother. “We are so excited that you will be home before Christmas. With the wedding rescheduled to December 27, I am trying to change your reservations in New Orleans.” Huh? I had said nothing to anyone about any possible change.
The next morning, I went over to the MARS station to make a call to the States. In the medieval times before cell and satellite communications, e-mail and Facebook, MARS— the Military Affiliate Radio Service—was a collection of State-side ham radio operators. In Vietnam, volunteers from communications sections would man a shortwave radio. A user would place a phone call which was transmitted to the States. There, a MARS volunteer would make a collect long-distance call to the destination and patch the call through.
Although we were used to voice radio and communication security procedure, it was confusing to our families, but it was the only way to speak with them directly.
I waited all day. Finally, at about 1600 (3 am in Illinois) they put me through.
Maryann (MA): “Michael, is that you? Where are you?
Radio Operator (RO): After a long pause “Ma’am, when you are done speaking, you must say ‘Over.’”
MA: “Oh. Over.”
“I’m in Vietnam. When are we getting married, over?”
MA: “But where are you? Oh, it is so good to hear your voice.”
RO: After another long pause “Ma’am, when you are done speaking, you gotta say ‘Over.’”
MA: “Oh. Over.”
Damn it, I’ve only got 5 minutes! “Listen to me. When are we getting married, over?”
MA: “I can’t believe it’s really you. Where are you. Are you OK? [pause] Uh, over.”
RO: “Ma’am, he can’t say where he is, over.”
“When are we getting married? Have you rescheduled the wedding? Why? Over.”
MA: “On December 27th. Didn’t you get my letter?” Well, obviously not!
RO: “Ma’am, you really gotta say ‘Over.’”
MA: “Oh. Over.”
“No, I didn’t. Look, we are out of time. I’ll write. I love you, over.” The connection was broken.
When I got back to the S-4 shop, Maryann's letter was waiting. Enclosed was a newspaper article announcing that the Marine Corps had cut the tour to 12 months. I raced down to tell Pottenger that we were officially short-timers. From there, we went over to the Supply office to tell Mike who was now the Supply Officer.
We were going home. Christmas had come early.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
18 March 2010
MPC (Military Payment Certificates)
With my return to An Hoa after our little visit to the Arizona, I figured that my service in the field was probably done for my tour. Not so fast there, bucko!
A couple of days after the battalion headed for the area southeast of Phu Loc (6), I was called to the XO’s office. Along with several officers, I was informed that starting the next morning, the US Forces in Vietnam would be recovering all currently issued Military Payment Certificates (“MPC”), the scrip we used for money, and issuing a new version. We were the exchange officers.
Starting shortly after the United States entered the war in 1965, a huge black market had developed, with the intent of getting access to US currency. Neither North nor South Vietnam had a recognized hard currency for foreign trade and dollars were in real demand. To shortstop the black market and to control access to US currency, as soon as a soldier, sailor, airman, or Marine arrived in Vietnam, he would exchange any US currency in his possession for scrip. When I arrived in An Hoa in December 1968, I had about $60 US. By June 1969, I still had about $20 of the scrip I received in December.
Issued in denominations of $.05, $.10, $.25, $1.00, $5.00, and $10.00, the bills were about half the size of regular US bills and were printed in any color except green. The version in use when I arrived had scenes from US history and were printed in blue, brown, red, and purple, depending on the denomination.
There was an apocryphal story that when it was first announced that scrip would replace greenbacks back in 1965, one enterprising soldier stationed in Saigon raided his unit’s rec room, removed all the bills from the Monopoly game, and went on a shopping spree. I hope it is true!
The next morning, all entrances to the base were closed. Authorized contractors, such as the mama-sans who ran the laundry and the papa-sans in the barber shop had been told to leave their cash with the disbursing officer when they left the night before. There were dozens of Vietnamese standing outside the gate trying to get the sentries to convert their illegally obtained MPCs. With officers observing each gate, they were pretty much out of luck.
I reported to the Disbursing bunker to obtain a payroll for Alpha Company, a stack of mimeographed receipts, a package of carbon paper, and a waterproof ammunition box to store the cash. I then headed down to the LZ and caught the first bird to Alpha Company.
Upon my arrival, the company reported to me by squads. For each man, I took his MPC, we counted it together, and I gave him my personal receipt for the agreed upon amount, keeping my carbon for the record. By 1300, I was done, but I had to wait until the next morning to get back to An Hoa. As soon as I got there, I returned to Disbursing where I counted and turned in the old MPC and my receipts, obtaining a receipt from the Disbursing Officer.
The next morning, I reported back to disbursing. There I counted out the new MPC (same size, color and denominations, but all of the pictures were from the manned space program), took custody of the cash and the carbons of my receipts, delivering the DO’s receipt to him, and headed back out. In the bush, I then “bought back” my receipts from the troops. The Disbursing clerks had spent all night paying out cash for each individual receipt, and we were cautioned not to “make change” for anyone.
Everything went well, except that two Marines had been medevac-ed during the night. I spent another night in the bush and had the opportunity to experience a couple of artillery short rounds that landed less than 100 meters outside the lines. As Father O'Brien said, "Friendly fire ain't!"
When I got back to An Hoa the next morning, the battalion appointed one officer to take the cash for wounded Marines from all 5 companies and go to Danang to pay them. I passed on that opportunity.
And yes, I followed the same procedure for myself. Of course, following the practice of pay officers back in those days of cash pay days, I had paid myself last in case there was a shortage. How it happened, I don’t know, but I made a profit.
I was a nickel ahead when all was done.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
A couple of days after the battalion headed for the area southeast of Phu Loc (6), I was called to the XO’s office. Along with several officers, I was informed that starting the next morning, the US Forces in Vietnam would be recovering all currently issued Military Payment Certificates (“MPC”), the scrip we used for money, and issuing a new version. We were the exchange officers.
Starting shortly after the United States entered the war in 1965, a huge black market had developed, with the intent of getting access to US currency. Neither North nor South Vietnam had a recognized hard currency for foreign trade and dollars were in real demand. To shortstop the black market and to control access to US currency, as soon as a soldier, sailor, airman, or Marine arrived in Vietnam, he would exchange any US currency in his possession for scrip. When I arrived in An Hoa in December 1968, I had about $60 US. By June 1969, I still had about $20 of the scrip I received in December.
Issued in denominations of $.05, $.10, $.25, $1.00, $5.00, and $10.00, the bills were about half the size of regular US bills and were printed in any color except green. The version in use when I arrived had scenes from US history and were printed in blue, brown, red, and purple, depending on the denomination.
There was an apocryphal story that when it was first announced that scrip would replace greenbacks back in 1965, one enterprising soldier stationed in Saigon raided his unit’s rec room, removed all the bills from the Monopoly game, and went on a shopping spree. I hope it is true!
The next morning, all entrances to the base were closed. Authorized contractors, such as the mama-sans who ran the laundry and the papa-sans in the barber shop had been told to leave their cash with the disbursing officer when they left the night before. There were dozens of Vietnamese standing outside the gate trying to get the sentries to convert their illegally obtained MPCs. With officers observing each gate, they were pretty much out of luck.
I reported to the Disbursing bunker to obtain a payroll for Alpha Company, a stack of mimeographed receipts, a package of carbon paper, and a waterproof ammunition box to store the cash. I then headed down to the LZ and caught the first bird to Alpha Company.
Upon my arrival, the company reported to me by squads. For each man, I took his MPC, we counted it together, and I gave him my personal receipt for the agreed upon amount, keeping my carbon for the record. By 1300, I was done, but I had to wait until the next morning to get back to An Hoa. As soon as I got there, I returned to Disbursing where I counted and turned in the old MPC and my receipts, obtaining a receipt from the Disbursing Officer.
The next morning, I reported back to disbursing. There I counted out the new MPC (same size, color and denominations, but all of the pictures were from the manned space program), took custody of the cash and the carbons of my receipts, delivering the DO’s receipt to him, and headed back out. In the bush, I then “bought back” my receipts from the troops. The Disbursing clerks had spent all night paying out cash for each individual receipt, and we were cautioned not to “make change” for anyone.
Everything went well, except that two Marines had been medevac-ed during the night. I spent another night in the bush and had the opportunity to experience a couple of artillery short rounds that landed less than 100 meters outside the lines. As Father O'Brien said, "Friendly fire ain't!"
When I got back to An Hoa the next morning, the battalion appointed one officer to take the cash for wounded Marines from all 5 companies and go to Danang to pay them. I passed on that opportunity.
And yes, I followed the same procedure for myself. Of course, following the practice of pay officers back in those days of cash pay days, I had paid myself last in case there was a shortage. How it happened, I don’t know, but I made a profit.
I was a nickel ahead when all was done.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
16 March 2010
EVERY MARINE A RIFLEMAN
All Marines, except some members of the United States Marine Band (“The President’s Own”), go through recruit training or OCS. One of the changes that Jim Webb argued for when he was Secretary of the Navy was for midshipmen from the Naval Academy to attend a six-week session of OCS, just as their NROTC brethren did. Boot Camp and OCS are a common ground that enlisted Marines and their officers share with their peers.
I have long felt that all Marines should complete recruit training, even those who are already destined for OCS. Many of the Mustangs with whom I have served were better troop leaders for once having been enlisted Marines. But I can settle for an OCS requirement.
Central to such training is marksmanship. “Every Marine a rifleman” is gospel within the Corps. The ability to routinely place killing aimed rifle fire on target out to 500 or more yards has been our raison d’ etre since 1775. The Germans at Belleau Wood were so surprised to learn that entire regiments of Marines could consistently kill them out to 800 to 1,000 yards that they named us teuffelhunden (“devil dogs”).
Thus, while the 0311 (rifleman) is the primary practitioner of the art of musketry, the cook in the mess hall, the clerk in battalion headquarters, and the mechanic on the flight line will also be on the rifle range each year honing and reinforcing the skills necessary to “put one between an enemy’s running lights (eyes)” at distance—just in case. And their officers will be right there with them, firing the same course of fire. That’s what makes us all Marines.
When I returned to An Hoa, I called the Company First Sergeants to the S-4 bunker and explained that the CO had directed me to form a provisional rifle company to take to the Arizona in a few days. Based on their advice, I decided that 60 Marines would be able to do the job. We routinely had about 50 to 80 “casuals,” Marines recuperating from slight wounds, Marines awaiting disciplinary action, and some short-timers, who helped us meet the requirement that we man the regimental lines. We figured that if we used 30 of those Marines, and stripped another 30 out of the company and battalion headquarters, we could man up the provisional company while still meeting the battalion’s responsibilities.
The First Sergeant of Headquarters & Service Company suggested that we could reduce the number of cooks and messmen we provided to the mess hall because we would be reducing the number of Marines from 1/5 eating there. Three cooks, a Sergeant and two PFC’s became my mortar “squad.” We formed two 28 man platoons commanded by Sergeants, and a Staff Sergeant from Motor Transport volunteered to be my “gunny.”
In fact, the entire “company” was made up of volunteers.
The folks in the rear—truck drivers, mechanics, clerks, supply men, and cooks—rankled when their peers in the rifle companies referred to them as “REMF’s” (rear echelon m----f-----). Presented with an opportunity to prove their mettle as Marines, they jumped at the chance. The three cooks never did return to the mess hall—it turns out that they were natural born mortar men, and at their request, they moved to the 81mm mortar platoon when we disbanded the “company.”
The Battalion moved to the Arizona a few days later. The first night that we were in the bush, I was talking to the Colonel when we began to receive in-coming mortar fire. I threw myself to the deck, angry that my buttons were so thick that they kept me elevated. I looked over at the Old Man. He was hunkered down just as low as was I, but he was grinning.
“Now you know why I let you con me into this crazy plan of yours, Mac. I wanted you to be eligible for the Combat Action Ribbon.” The CAR had been instituted by the Secretary of the Navy in February 1969 (retroactive to 1961) to recognize Marines and sailors who “have rendered satisfactory performance under enemy fire while actively participating in a ground or surface engagement.”
I muttered that I had been eligible since December 26, thank you very much, but he just winked.
The attack ended, but the cries of “Corpsman, Corpsman” started. A communicator from the battalion CP group had been hit in the groin. When I got there, two corpsmen were already working on him. The Operations Chief, a Master Sergeant, was with him, calming him with the assurance that “I can see that you still got yer pecker and at least one of your balls, son. Don’t worry about it. I lost one at Chosin Reservoir and we’ve have had seven kids since then.”
The Marine was on a medevac chopper within minutes, headed for Da Nang.
Life in the bush had a numbing and reassuring repetition. I sent out patrols during the day, a single ambush at night, and resumed my practice of weapons inspections every day. The 24 days raced past. Every two or three days, I would fly into An Hoa to do “S-4 stuff” as the XO called it, but never missed a night in the field.
Three events stand out in my memory.
One night, I let the mortar squad try a new (for them) method of adjusting fire. The put up a flare and then re-laid the mortar for high explosive rounds on the now visible target. The first HE round was a direct hit. They were whooped and hollered like the teenagers they were, I was impressed, and the 81 mm mortar platoon commander began his negotiations to sign them up.
Then there was the day that we received, unsolicited, an Army psychological operations team. They arrived on the afternoon resupply bird, complete with loudspeakers, a phonograph, a small generator, and assorted microphones and cables.
The Colonel talked to them and then called me over. “Take charge of these psychos. Just keep them out of my hair.”
I took the Staff Sergeant and his Sergeant the location in which they could set up. As they were doing so, I suggested that they needed a fighting hole because we had been taking occasional mortar fire.
“Well,” the Sergeant asked, “where is it?” Huh?
My gunny shook his head and said, “Well, damn, Sergeant, you’re standing right in it. You just ain’t dug the dirt outen it yet.” There then followed a short discussion regarding the different philosophies of the Army and the Marine Corps. Needless to say, the doggies were soon digging away.
After they were dug in, I briefed them on their sectors of fire.
“Sectors of fire,” the Staff Sergeant asked?
“Yeah, you’re in the line and you have specified sectors of fire.”
“Oh, no sir. We’re specialists. The host unit is responsible for our security. We don’t stand lines.”
“Really?” I called the gunny over and explained our apparent responsibilities as good hosts. He chuckled and called to the Marines in the holes on either side of our guests’ quarters. The Marines came over.
“OK, Marines. This here is Staff Sergeant ______ and Sergeant _______. They don’t want to stand lines tonight. If they get out of their holes after stand to, kill them.” The Marines nodded. The gunny turned to the doggies. “Are we clear now? Everybody happy? Good. C’mon, Lieutenant, let’s let these folks get acquainted.”
The Army team returned to from whence they came the very next morning.
And then there was the Army Warrant Officer.
We had noticed that our ambush patrols were having less and less contact. We suspected that locals were observing as the ambushes left our lines and were then warning the NVA of their locations. To counter this, we began to send the ambushes out with afternoon security patrols. The ambush squad would intermingle with the security patrol. At one of the security patrol’s stops, the ambush would go to ground and stay behind when the security patrol moved on. After dark, the ambush would move into position and our results began to improve.
One afternoon, a patrol from Alpha Company was approaching a treeline when it erupted with small arms and automatic weapons fire, pinning the patrol down in a rice paddy. The point man was hit in the chest.
Two CH 46’s were soon on station to conduct a medevac. As dash one (the lead chopper) tried to land, he came under heavy fire and could not land. He tried two more times and were shot out of the zone both times. On the last attempt, the bird was hit, one of the crew was seriously wounded, and the chopper began to leak hydraulic fluid.
He called “no joy,” and headed back to An Hoa, with dash two in trail to provide security.
I was with the battalion CP group, listening to the radio reports on the Battalion Tactical and Alpha’s Company Tactical frequencies. Alpha was sending a reinforcing platoon, but the patrol was nearly 1500 meters from the Company.
Suddenly, a new voice came up on Alpha’s company tac. “Alpha 3, Alpha 3, this is Snafflering Juliet 56. Can we be of assistance.”
“This is Alpha Six. Who the [universal modifier] are you?”
Alpha Six, I am a huey gunship coming out of Antenna Valley and orbiting just west of An Hoa. Can I help?”
Alpha 6 quickly directed the chopper to Alpha 3’s location, and the platoon commander directed the chopper’s fires onto the treeline. We could see him make low pass after low pass, occasionally hovering face to face with an NVA gunner, working out their differences with 2.75 inch rockets and machine gun fire.
The NVA fire had pretty much stopped when Snafflering Juliet finally called out that he was nearly out of ammo and could make only one more pass. “Anything else I can do to help,” he asked?
He was asked to land and evacuate the casualty, which he did. A Corpsman went with the casualty to Da Nang.
The Colonel contacted Alpha 3. “Did you identify that guy?”
“Yessir. Got his side number, his bureau number, and his call sign.”
The Old Man turned to me and said “Let’s write him up for a Silver Star. Division Air can figure out who he is.”
I sat down and wrote up a description of the action and a proposed citation, ending with the traditional words “His actions were in keeping with the finest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.” That is high praise that we do not ordinarily shower on outsiders.
About six weeks later, I was back in An Hoa. The Colonel came into the S-4 bunker and sat down next to my desk.
“I just talked to an Army Major with some aviation unit over at Hoi An. He called to thank me for the medal that he had just presented to one of his 20 year old Warrant Officers. Said he was glad to be able to do it, because this kid came back with over 50 bullet holes in his bird and reported that he had been shot up while flying 30 miles outside his assigned patrol area in response to a call over a radio net he was not authorized to monitor. They were about to court-martial him, but he got our Silver Star instead. He said the kicker was that the citation still had the reference to the standards of the Marine Corps. Thought you’d like to know.”
So, while a very few doggies didn’t quite measure up, most did. Army helicopter pilots tended to be kids who had been running their ‘56 Chevies up and down main street only a year or two earlier. We gave them their very own helicopters, complete with with rockets and machine guns, and they did the rest. God bless ‘em.
The battalion left the Arizona in late September and headed out to an area southeast of Phu Loc (6). I went back to being the S-4, and most of my “company” went back to performing their primary duties, but confident that in everyone’s eyes, they were no longer REMFs.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
I have long felt that all Marines should complete recruit training, even those who are already destined for OCS. Many of the Mustangs with whom I have served were better troop leaders for once having been enlisted Marines. But I can settle for an OCS requirement.
Central to such training is marksmanship. “Every Marine a rifleman” is gospel within the Corps. The ability to routinely place killing aimed rifle fire on target out to 500 or more yards has been our raison d’ etre since 1775. The Germans at Belleau Wood were so surprised to learn that entire regiments of Marines could consistently kill them out to 800 to 1,000 yards that they named us teuffelhunden (“devil dogs”).
Thus, while the 0311 (rifleman) is the primary practitioner of the art of musketry, the cook in the mess hall, the clerk in battalion headquarters, and the mechanic on the flight line will also be on the rifle range each year honing and reinforcing the skills necessary to “put one between an enemy’s running lights (eyes)” at distance—just in case. And their officers will be right there with them, firing the same course of fire. That’s what makes us all Marines.
When I returned to An Hoa, I called the Company First Sergeants to the S-4 bunker and explained that the CO had directed me to form a provisional rifle company to take to the Arizona in a few days. Based on their advice, I decided that 60 Marines would be able to do the job. We routinely had about 50 to 80 “casuals,” Marines recuperating from slight wounds, Marines awaiting disciplinary action, and some short-timers, who helped us meet the requirement that we man the regimental lines. We figured that if we used 30 of those Marines, and stripped another 30 out of the company and battalion headquarters, we could man up the provisional company while still meeting the battalion’s responsibilities.
The First Sergeant of Headquarters & Service Company suggested that we could reduce the number of cooks and messmen we provided to the mess hall because we would be reducing the number of Marines from 1/5 eating there. Three cooks, a Sergeant and two PFC’s became my mortar “squad.” We formed two 28 man platoons commanded by Sergeants, and a Staff Sergeant from Motor Transport volunteered to be my “gunny.”
In fact, the entire “company” was made up of volunteers.
The folks in the rear—truck drivers, mechanics, clerks, supply men, and cooks—rankled when their peers in the rifle companies referred to them as “REMF’s” (rear echelon m----f-----). Presented with an opportunity to prove their mettle as Marines, they jumped at the chance. The three cooks never did return to the mess hall—it turns out that they were natural born mortar men, and at their request, they moved to the 81mm mortar platoon when we disbanded the “company.”
The Battalion moved to the Arizona a few days later. The first night that we were in the bush, I was talking to the Colonel when we began to receive in-coming mortar fire. I threw myself to the deck, angry that my buttons were so thick that they kept me elevated. I looked over at the Old Man. He was hunkered down just as low as was I, but he was grinning.
“Now you know why I let you con me into this crazy plan of yours, Mac. I wanted you to be eligible for the Combat Action Ribbon.” The CAR had been instituted by the Secretary of the Navy in February 1969 (retroactive to 1961) to recognize Marines and sailors who “have rendered satisfactory performance under enemy fire while actively participating in a ground or surface engagement.”
I muttered that I had been eligible since December 26, thank you very much, but he just winked.
The attack ended, but the cries of “Corpsman, Corpsman” started. A communicator from the battalion CP group had been hit in the groin. When I got there, two corpsmen were already working on him. The Operations Chief, a Master Sergeant, was with him, calming him with the assurance that “I can see that you still got yer pecker and at least one of your balls, son. Don’t worry about it. I lost one at Chosin Reservoir and we’ve have had seven kids since then.”
The Marine was on a medevac chopper within minutes, headed for Da Nang.
Life in the bush had a numbing and reassuring repetition. I sent out patrols during the day, a single ambush at night, and resumed my practice of weapons inspections every day. The 24 days raced past. Every two or three days, I would fly into An Hoa to do “S-4 stuff” as the XO called it, but never missed a night in the field.
Three events stand out in my memory.
One night, I let the mortar squad try a new (for them) method of adjusting fire. The put up a flare and then re-laid the mortar for high explosive rounds on the now visible target. The first HE round was a direct hit. They were whooped and hollered like the teenagers they were, I was impressed, and the 81 mm mortar platoon commander began his negotiations to sign them up.
Then there was the day that we received, unsolicited, an Army psychological operations team. They arrived on the afternoon resupply bird, complete with loudspeakers, a phonograph, a small generator, and assorted microphones and cables.
The Colonel talked to them and then called me over. “Take charge of these psychos. Just keep them out of my hair.”
I took the Staff Sergeant and his Sergeant the location in which they could set up. As they were doing so, I suggested that they needed a fighting hole because we had been taking occasional mortar fire.
“Well,” the Sergeant asked, “where is it?” Huh?
My gunny shook his head and said, “Well, damn, Sergeant, you’re standing right in it. You just ain’t dug the dirt outen it yet.” There then followed a short discussion regarding the different philosophies of the Army and the Marine Corps. Needless to say, the doggies were soon digging away.
After they were dug in, I briefed them on their sectors of fire.
“Sectors of fire,” the Staff Sergeant asked?
“Yeah, you’re in the line and you have specified sectors of fire.”
“Oh, no sir. We’re specialists. The host unit is responsible for our security. We don’t stand lines.”
“Really?” I called the gunny over and explained our apparent responsibilities as good hosts. He chuckled and called to the Marines in the holes on either side of our guests’ quarters. The Marines came over.
“OK, Marines. This here is Staff Sergeant ______ and Sergeant _______. They don’t want to stand lines tonight. If they get out of their holes after stand to, kill them.” The Marines nodded. The gunny turned to the doggies. “Are we clear now? Everybody happy? Good. C’mon, Lieutenant, let’s let these folks get acquainted.”
The Army team returned to from whence they came the very next morning.
And then there was the Army Warrant Officer.
We had noticed that our ambush patrols were having less and less contact. We suspected that locals were observing as the ambushes left our lines and were then warning the NVA of their locations. To counter this, we began to send the ambushes out with afternoon security patrols. The ambush squad would intermingle with the security patrol. At one of the security patrol’s stops, the ambush would go to ground and stay behind when the security patrol moved on. After dark, the ambush would move into position and our results began to improve.
One afternoon, a patrol from Alpha Company was approaching a treeline when it erupted with small arms and automatic weapons fire, pinning the patrol down in a rice paddy. The point man was hit in the chest.
Two CH 46’s were soon on station to conduct a medevac. As dash one (the lead chopper) tried to land, he came under heavy fire and could not land. He tried two more times and were shot out of the zone both times. On the last attempt, the bird was hit, one of the crew was seriously wounded, and the chopper began to leak hydraulic fluid.
He called “no joy,” and headed back to An Hoa, with dash two in trail to provide security.
I was with the battalion CP group, listening to the radio reports on the Battalion Tactical and Alpha’s Company Tactical frequencies. Alpha was sending a reinforcing platoon, but the patrol was nearly 1500 meters from the Company.
Suddenly, a new voice came up on Alpha’s company tac. “Alpha 3, Alpha 3, this is Snafflering Juliet 56. Can we be of assistance.”
“This is Alpha Six. Who the [universal modifier] are you?”
Alpha Six, I am a huey gunship coming out of Antenna Valley and orbiting just west of An Hoa. Can I help?”
Alpha 6 quickly directed the chopper to Alpha 3’s location, and the platoon commander directed the chopper’s fires onto the treeline. We could see him make low pass after low pass, occasionally hovering face to face with an NVA gunner, working out their differences with 2.75 inch rockets and machine gun fire.
The NVA fire had pretty much stopped when Snafflering Juliet finally called out that he was nearly out of ammo and could make only one more pass. “Anything else I can do to help,” he asked?
He was asked to land and evacuate the casualty, which he did. A Corpsman went with the casualty to Da Nang.
The Colonel contacted Alpha 3. “Did you identify that guy?”
“Yessir. Got his side number, his bureau number, and his call sign.”
The Old Man turned to me and said “Let’s write him up for a Silver Star. Division Air can figure out who he is.”
I sat down and wrote up a description of the action and a proposed citation, ending with the traditional words “His actions were in keeping with the finest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.” That is high praise that we do not ordinarily shower on outsiders.
About six weeks later, I was back in An Hoa. The Colonel came into the S-4 bunker and sat down next to my desk.
“I just talked to an Army Major with some aviation unit over at Hoi An. He called to thank me for the medal that he had just presented to one of his 20 year old Warrant Officers. Said he was glad to be able to do it, because this kid came back with over 50 bullet holes in his bird and reported that he had been shot up while flying 30 miles outside his assigned patrol area in response to a call over a radio net he was not authorized to monitor. They were about to court-martial him, but he got our Silver Star instead. He said the kicker was that the citation still had the reference to the standards of the Marine Corps. Thought you’d like to know.”
So, while a very few doggies didn’t quite measure up, most did. Army helicopter pilots tended to be kids who had been running their ‘56 Chevies up and down main street only a year or two earlier. We gave them their very own helicopters, complete with with rockets and machine guns, and they did the rest. God bless ‘em.
The battalion left the Arizona in late September and headed out to an area southeast of Phu Loc (6). I went back to being the S-4, and most of my “company” went back to performing their primary duties, but confident that in everyone’s eyes, they were no longer REMFs.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
15 March 2010
5 SEPTEMBER 1969
On the morning of 5 September, a runner came up from the S-1 bunker. “The Adjutant’s compliments, Sir, and he says ‘Haul ass for the LZ and get up to Phu Loc (6) right now. The CO wants to see you.’” The Battalion Headquarters was at the Bridge, and I knew we were about to return to the Arizona, so I assumed the Old Man wanted to talk logistics.
I grabbed my helmet, rifle and flak jacket and ran down to the LZ, located about a quarter of a mile away at the end of the runway. Fortunately, there was a CH-46 just heading to Danang that could stop at the Bridge. Ten minutes later, I was in the LZ at Phu Loc (6). As my bird flew away, another 46 landed and Jim Webb ran down the tail ramp. I waited for him.
“What’s going on,” I asked?
“We’re getting promoted.”
Oh. I realized that Academy guys were a little more conscious of those things. In another 5 minutes we were in the Command Post bunker. Colonel Griffis, read the AlMar (a message from Headquarters, Marine Corps addressed to “all Marine units”) announcing the promotion of the newest batch of First Lieutenants of Marines. He reminded us that, while our original oaths of office remained in effect, it was customary to renew them on promotion. We renewed our oaths.
If that oath sounds familiar, it is because it is the oath administered to every officer of the United States from the Vice President, Senator, Representative in Congress down to the newest Second Lieutenant.
We signed our acceptances of the President’s new commission and became the newest First Lieutenants in the Corps, at least for a couple of minutes. Webb and I got the special rush treatment because we were the only regular lieutenants in the Battalion. The law in effect at that time said that Reserve officers could be commissioned and their date of rank (and entitlement to pay and allowances in their new grade) could refer back to the date of their commission. Regular officers, however, did not receive their new pay and allowances until that actually signed the acceptance of their commission. The other second lieutenants in the battalion who had been commissioned in June 1968 were promoted quickly, but if it happened on 6 or 7 or 8 September, they lost nothing from the short delay.
The CO then reminded us that we had just lost one benefit. “Ten minutes ago you could have made a minor mistake and we would say ‘Well, he’s just a dumb second lieutenant.’ But now, I can say ‘What the heck is the matter with you? You’re a First Lieutenant for heaven’s sake.’ Congratulations. Now get back to work!”
The other assembled officers and Staff NCOs offered their congratulations.
The CO then called the Company Commanders, the Sergeant Major, and the principal staff officers into his “office.” He informed us that the battalion would soon be returning to the Arizona. The mission was to aggressively patrol and interdict NVA and VC patrols coming down out of the mountains in search of rice.
Looking at the map, he said “At our current strength, I’m not sure how we can get the coverage we need with four companies.” He and the S-3 (Operations Officer) began to discuss deployment of the battalion and the task was indeed daunting.
I was sitting next to the Sergeant Major. I looked at him and said “It’s too bad we can’t strip all of us REMFs out of An Hoa and put them in the field. At least we could be the ‘palace guard’ (security for the command group) and free up another maneuver company.”
To my surprise, the Sergeant Major said “Excuse me, Colonel, but I think the lieutenant may have just earned that new pay.” Turning to me he said “Say that again, Lieutenant.” I repeated my thought.
The XO said “You’re talking about clerks and cooks and bakers and mechanics?”
”Dammit, sir, they’re Marines,” the Sergeant Major growled.
The Old Man paused. “It’s worth a thought. OK, Mac, it’s your idea. Put it together and see what it looks like.”
Thus was born 1/5’s provisional rifle company, commanded by yours truly. I headed back to An Hoa to “put it together and see what it looks like.”
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
I grabbed my helmet, rifle and flak jacket and ran down to the LZ, located about a quarter of a mile away at the end of the runway. Fortunately, there was a CH-46 just heading to Danang that could stop at the Bridge. Ten minutes later, I was in the LZ at Phu Loc (6). As my bird flew away, another 46 landed and Jim Webb ran down the tail ramp. I waited for him.
“What’s going on,” I asked?
“We’re getting promoted.”
Oh. I realized that Academy guys were a little more conscious of those things. In another 5 minutes we were in the Command Post bunker. Colonel Griffis, read the AlMar (a message from Headquarters, Marine Corps addressed to “all Marine units”) announcing the promotion of the newest batch of First Lieutenants of Marines. He reminded us that, while our original oaths of office remained in effect, it was customary to renew them on promotion. We renewed our oaths.
I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office upon which I am about to enter. So help me God.
If that oath sounds familiar, it is because it is the oath administered to every officer of the United States from the Vice President, Senator, Representative in Congress down to the newest Second Lieutenant.
We signed our acceptances of the President’s new commission and became the newest First Lieutenants in the Corps, at least for a couple of minutes. Webb and I got the special rush treatment because we were the only regular lieutenants in the Battalion. The law in effect at that time said that Reserve officers could be commissioned and their date of rank (and entitlement to pay and allowances in their new grade) could refer back to the date of their commission. Regular officers, however, did not receive their new pay and allowances until that actually signed the acceptance of their commission. The other second lieutenants in the battalion who had been commissioned in June 1968 were promoted quickly, but if it happened on 6 or 7 or 8 September, they lost nothing from the short delay.
The CO then reminded us that we had just lost one benefit. “Ten minutes ago you could have made a minor mistake and we would say ‘Well, he’s just a dumb second lieutenant.’ But now, I can say ‘What the heck is the matter with you? You’re a First Lieutenant for heaven’s sake.’ Congratulations. Now get back to work!”
The other assembled officers and Staff NCOs offered their congratulations.
The CO then called the Company Commanders, the Sergeant Major, and the principal staff officers into his “office.” He informed us that the battalion would soon be returning to the Arizona. The mission was to aggressively patrol and interdict NVA and VC patrols coming down out of the mountains in search of rice.
Looking at the map, he said “At our current strength, I’m not sure how we can get the coverage we need with four companies.” He and the S-3 (Operations Officer) began to discuss deployment of the battalion and the task was indeed daunting.
I was sitting next to the Sergeant Major. I looked at him and said “It’s too bad we can’t strip all of us REMFs out of An Hoa and put them in the field. At least we could be the ‘palace guard’ (security for the command group) and free up another maneuver company.”
To my surprise, the Sergeant Major said “Excuse me, Colonel, but I think the lieutenant may have just earned that new pay.” Turning to me he said “Say that again, Lieutenant.” I repeated my thought.
The XO said “You’re talking about clerks and cooks and bakers and mechanics?”
”Dammit, sir, they’re Marines,” the Sergeant Major growled.
The Old Man paused. “It’s worth a thought. OK, Mac, it’s your idea. Put it together and see what it looks like.”
Thus was born 1/5’s provisional rifle company, commanded by yours truly. I headed back to An Hoa to “put it together and see what it looks like.”
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
20 December 2009
BATTALION S-4
As I write this, it is the 41st anniversary of my arrival in Vietnam. On my Face Book page, Reformed Catholic reminded me that I had started this project last year at this time. After I got through my days in the bush with the Marines of Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 5th Marines, I took a break. But now, I think it is time to finish up my time “down south in the Republic.”
After I returned to An Hoa from Embarkation School, I was “transferred” from Charlie Company to Headquarters and Service Company (H&S Company). Major Pat O’Toole was acting CO, Colonel Riley having been transferred while I was in Okinawa. The Battalion staff, consisted of Lt. Tom Pottenger (a TBS classmate) as Adjutant and S-1 (Personnel Officer), Major Bob Kerzic as “the Three” (S-3—Operations Officer), and I was now “the Four” (Logistics Officer). There was no officer available to fill the S-2 (Intelligence Officer) billet, so the “Two Chief,” an NCO performed that function.
I had no idea how to be the Four, but fortunately for me, Captain Castagnetti was soon assigned as Regimental S-4. Three-Five’s four was a Captain who had shepherded our little gaggle of lieutenants down to An Hoa the previous December. Those two Captains took me under their wings and I began to learn how to be a staff officer. In particular, Captain (soon to be Major) Castagnetti began to “invite” me to his bunker for a nightly “four” school. The many things I learned, from references to Marine Corps publications to tricks of the trade, stood me in good stead for the rest of my career.
A few days later, we got a new Battalion Commander. Lieutenant Colonel Joseph K. Griffis is one of those men who make a mark on a young man’s life. He was a veteran of WWII (as a very young enlisted Marine) and Korea. Joe Griffis was a hard man who knew the hard business of war. And as young men often do, we failed to realize just how lucky we were to have him as “the Old Man.” Fortunately, we had the privilege of being his boys for another 39 years.
In 1969, he wore a trademark blue bandana at his neck and insisted that every man in the battalion carry a rifle unless he was actually carrying a crew-served weapon. (That would later cause me some grief, but that is a story for another day.) He himself had acquired a M-16 carbine, another trademark.
As a result of his arrival, Maj. O’Toole came back to An Hoa and resumed his position as Executive Officer. The battalion continued to operate in The Arizona.
I did not really like being a staff officer. It was tedious and not very exciting. Then I heard that 1st Reconnaissance Battalion was looking for platoon commanders. That struck me as a perfect solution.
A reconnaissance platoon commander led recon patrols deep into enemy-controlled territory. A team of six to eight Marines with a Corpsman would be inserted into an area for several days to seek out enemy positions, snatch prisoners, and call in artillery on enemy formations. It was lonely and dangerous work, but it sure beat manning a desk. All I had to do was get the transfer.
I can best tell what happened in this way. In 1999, the 1st Marine Division Association held its annual reunion in Philadelphia. I had been a Life member since 1969 but had never attended a reunion. Robin Montgomery called me and asked me to attend so that we could vote for his platoon sergeant who was running for Vice President.
SWMBO came into town for the banquet on Saturday night. That afternoon we were in the Charlie Company hospitality suite when in walked J.K. Griffis. He was greeted warmly by a number of folks. I caught his eye.
“Sir, you probably don’t remember me, but. . .”
“Of course I do, Mac. You were my Four!” After 30 years!!! I started to introduce SWMBO when I was grabbed from behind in a monstrous bear hug.
“Mac, Mac, you sonuvabitch! I was hoping you would be here!” It was Colonel O’Toole.
SWMBO’s eyes were like dinner plates. I began to introduce her to a grinning Colonel Griffis and the XO. Pat O’Toole turned to SWMBO. “I am so pleased to meet you,” he said. “Let me tell you about the crazy sob you married.”
“He had been the Four for a week or so. One Friday morning, he reported to me with an AA form (Administrative Action form) requesting a transfer to Recon Battalion. I tore it up and told him ‘You’re the Four. Now get back to work.’”
“But he wants to argue. ‘Major,’ he says, you can’t do that. The book says you can forward it recommending disapproval, but you have to forward it.’ I said ‘The hell I can’t. You’re the Four. Now get out of here.’ There was no way we were going to lose him.”
“Well, the next Friday morning, there he is again. I tore up his AA form and we had the same conversation. The next week, I had something going on with Regiment, so I told one of the S-1 clerks to go up and tell Mac that I was busy and that he should just go ahead and tear up the AA form himself.”
“And, Mrs. Mac, the crazy sob did just that!”
Unlike most sea stories, that one was spot on. The room erupted in laughter. A couple of guys said “So. It was you. He has told that story for years!” I was home again.
A few days after the “AA form incident,” I went on R&R to Hawaii and by the time I returned, I knew that I was the Four for the duration of my tour. In retrospect, it was right for me.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
After I returned to An Hoa from Embarkation School, I was “transferred” from Charlie Company to Headquarters and Service Company (H&S Company). Major Pat O’Toole was acting CO, Colonel Riley having been transferred while I was in Okinawa. The Battalion staff, consisted of Lt. Tom Pottenger (a TBS classmate) as Adjutant and S-1 (Personnel Officer), Major Bob Kerzic as “the Three” (S-3—Operations Officer), and I was now “the Four” (Logistics Officer). There was no officer available to fill the S-2 (Intelligence Officer) billet, so the “Two Chief,” an NCO performed that function.
I had no idea how to be the Four, but fortunately for me, Captain Castagnetti was soon assigned as Regimental S-4. Three-Five’s four was a Captain who had shepherded our little gaggle of lieutenants down to An Hoa the previous December. Those two Captains took me under their wings and I began to learn how to be a staff officer. In particular, Captain (soon to be Major) Castagnetti began to “invite” me to his bunker for a nightly “four” school. The many things I learned, from references to Marine Corps publications to tricks of the trade, stood me in good stead for the rest of my career.
A few days later, we got a new Battalion Commander. Lieutenant Colonel Joseph K. Griffis is one of those men who make a mark on a young man’s life. He was a veteran of WWII (as a very young enlisted Marine) and Korea. Joe Griffis was a hard man who knew the hard business of war. And as young men often do, we failed to realize just how lucky we were to have him as “the Old Man.” Fortunately, we had the privilege of being his boys for another 39 years.
In 1969, he wore a trademark blue bandana at his neck and insisted that every man in the battalion carry a rifle unless he was actually carrying a crew-served weapon. (That would later cause me some grief, but that is a story for another day.) He himself had acquired a M-16 carbine, another trademark.
As a result of his arrival, Maj. O’Toole came back to An Hoa and resumed his position as Executive Officer. The battalion continued to operate in The Arizona.
I did not really like being a staff officer. It was tedious and not very exciting. Then I heard that 1st Reconnaissance Battalion was looking for platoon commanders. That struck me as a perfect solution.
A reconnaissance platoon commander led recon patrols deep into enemy-controlled territory. A team of six to eight Marines with a Corpsman would be inserted into an area for several days to seek out enemy positions, snatch prisoners, and call in artillery on enemy formations. It was lonely and dangerous work, but it sure beat manning a desk. All I had to do was get the transfer.
I can best tell what happened in this way. In 1999, the 1st Marine Division Association held its annual reunion in Philadelphia. I had been a Life member since 1969 but had never attended a reunion. Robin Montgomery called me and asked me to attend so that we could vote for his platoon sergeant who was running for Vice President.
SWMBO came into town for the banquet on Saturday night. That afternoon we were in the Charlie Company hospitality suite when in walked J.K. Griffis. He was greeted warmly by a number of folks. I caught his eye.
“Sir, you probably don’t remember me, but. . .”
“Of course I do, Mac. You were my Four!” After 30 years!!! I started to introduce SWMBO when I was grabbed from behind in a monstrous bear hug.
“Mac, Mac, you sonuvabitch! I was hoping you would be here!” It was Colonel O’Toole.
SWMBO’s eyes were like dinner plates. I began to introduce her to a grinning Colonel Griffis and the XO. Pat O’Toole turned to SWMBO. “I am so pleased to meet you,” he said. “Let me tell you about the crazy sob you married.”
“He had been the Four for a week or so. One Friday morning, he reported to me with an AA form (Administrative Action form) requesting a transfer to Recon Battalion. I tore it up and told him ‘You’re the Four. Now get back to work.’”
“But he wants to argue. ‘Major,’ he says, you can’t do that. The book says you can forward it recommending disapproval, but you have to forward it.’ I said ‘The hell I can’t. You’re the Four. Now get out of here.’ There was no way we were going to lose him.”
“Well, the next Friday morning, there he is again. I tore up his AA form and we had the same conversation. The next week, I had something going on with Regiment, so I told one of the S-1 clerks to go up and tell Mac that I was busy and that he should just go ahead and tear up the AA form himself.”
“And, Mrs. Mac, the crazy sob did just that!”
Unlike most sea stories, that one was spot on. The room erupted in laughter. A couple of guys said “So. It was you. He has told that story for years!” I was home again.
A few days after the “AA form incident,” I went on R&R to Hawaii and by the time I returned, I knew that I was the Four for the duration of my tour. In retrospect, it was right for me.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
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.
11 July 2009
FIRST SERGEANT LEE
The flight to An Hoa lasted about 10 minutes. The LZ was on the south end of the runway. As I left the bird, a Marine directed me to the Ops bunker.
From there, I began my trek into the maze that was the combat base. There were rows upon rows of strongback tents, wooden frames designed to fit the standard General Purpose tent. They were built on stilts approximately 4 feet above the ground—a necessity to allow air flow, drainage during the wet season, and rodent control. The side walls were 8 feet high—the bottom four feet were plywood and the top four feet were screened. Three or four light bulbs provided lighting. A boardwalk of pallets connected the strong backs to dirt roads that ran through the combat base.
Strong backs were used for billeting and for offices. Other offices were in prefabricated bunkers. A frame made of 12 x12 supports that were 12 feet by 20 feet, and then walled and ceilinged with 2 x 12 boards. The floor was three-quarter inch plywood. Once set in place, the bunker would be sand-bagged. The S-4 bunker had approximately 25,000 sandbags for protection: walls were 6 sandbags deep, from the ground to the roof level. Three layers of sandbags were placed on the roof, then a layer of steel runway matting followed by three more layers of sandbags, another layer of matting and a final three layers of sandbags.
Charlie Company’s office was in a strong back on the battalion street, three rows down from the main supply route (Main Street An Hoa.) Office furniture was field desks and camp stools. A field desk was a 4 x 4 x 4 “suitcase.” One side could be removed and attached to the box (that contained drawers) to form a desk.
As you entered the office, the First Sergeant’s desk was on the left. In front of the desk, he had had the troops paint a pair of yellow (properly, “gold,” because as one of our Jodie chants says, “Marine Corps colors are scarlet and gold…”, but we’ll go with yellow) footprints. Any graduate of MCRD Parris Island or MCRD San Diego will know the purpose of those footprints. They are a recruit’s first sight at a Recruit Depot.
As a new recruit leaves the bus, he or she is herded to rows of yellow footprints, heels together and feet at a 45 degree angle, the first position of “Attention.” And that is what the First Sergeant had in mind.
As I entered the office, First Sergeant Lee was hunched over the desk, signing the Skipper’s signature to the Unit Diary, then the principal daily personnel document in the Marine Corps. I entered and positioned myself on the footprints. “Just a minute, Marine,” the First Sergeant growled without looking up. “Be with you in a minute.” A couple of the clerks were grinning ear-to-ear.
As he finished the Diary, he yelled “Brown, get this over to S-1.”
PFC Brown took it and “got.”
“Now, Marine, what can I do. . . my Gawd in heaven, Lieutenant, just look at you!”
He was looking at a 6’2” Marine who weighed 118 pounds (down from 171 in December). My helmet cover was faded, muddy, and covered with the black print of my “zap number” (M6086), blood type, and my short-timer’s calendar. My flak jacket was faded, ripped, and most of the plates were bunched over my right kidney. My towel was around my neck, and under my flak jacket I wore the faded green T shirt I had worn since 23 December. My rifle was clean, but my utility trousers were still wet and muddy to the knees and my jungle boots were muddy.
“Morning, First Sergeant.” [The Army calls the unit First Sergeant the “top kick” or “top” for short. No good Marine First Sergeant will tolerate that. “A ‘top’ is a goddam kid’s toy! I’m the First Sergeant!”]
“Well, damn, Lieutenant. You are a sight! Johnson, scoot down to Supply and get the Lieutenant a clean set of dungarees.”
“Which Johnson, First Sergeant? Light green Johnson or dark green Johnson?”
First Sergeant Lee had about 21 years in the Corps. He was one of those pioneers who had entered the Marine Corps at about the time that President Truman had issued the Executive Order which desegregated the Armed Forces.
Serving with Marines such as Sergeant Major Edgar Huff (the first black Sergeant Major in the Marine Corps) and Sergeant Major Gilbert H. “Hashmark” Johnson as mentors and role models, First Sergeant Robert E. Lee was one of those giants who helped mold both the modern Marine Corps and the America we know today. (“Giant,” you ask? Well Hashmark Johnson served in two wars, three branches of service, and for 32 years, half of which were in a segregated Armed Forces. Two years after his death from a heart attack, the Montford Point facility at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, which had been the segregated “black boot camp” during WWII, was renamed Camp Gilbert H. Johnson, the first military installation to be named after an African-American. I’d say that qualifies for “Giant.”)
And First Sergeant Lee’s first maxim was “I ain’t got ‘black Marines’ or ‘white Marines.’ All I have are ‘green Marines.’”
But I digress. “Light green” Johnson took off.
“Thompson, you get over to the shower point and tell them the Lieutenant will be there in five minutes.” He shook his head. “Now, Sir, let’s get you squared away.”
Within an hour, I was showered and shaved (cold water, but who cared), had new, clean clothes and had had my first real meal in over a month. (There was a huge sign on the mess hall bunker—in scarlet and gold, naturally—listing the hours of operation, followed in large letters by “MARINES IN FROM THE FIELD—ANY TIME.”)
I returned to the office, ready to get to work. “What should I do, First Sergeant,” I asked?
“Well, Sir. Why don’t you go over to the BOQ tent (Bachelor Officers’ Quarters) and take a nap? Maybe write a letter home?” [Interpreted, he was saying “Everything is under control. Don’t try to fix what ain’t broke.”]
Hmmmmm. Not a bad idea.
The only other officer in the BOQ was Lieutenant Jim Webb, a platoon commander in Delta Company. We introduced ourselves and settled in for the afternoon. I explored the Q, noting many jagged shrapnel holes which were circled and dated—reminders of rocket and mortar attacks on An Hoa. Suddenly, I missed my nice safe hole out in the Arizona.
What would tomorrow bring?
From there, I began my trek into the maze that was the combat base. There were rows upon rows of strongback tents, wooden frames designed to fit the standard General Purpose tent. They were built on stilts approximately 4 feet above the ground—a necessity to allow air flow, drainage during the wet season, and rodent control. The side walls were 8 feet high—the bottom four feet were plywood and the top four feet were screened. Three or four light bulbs provided lighting. A boardwalk of pallets connected the strong backs to dirt roads that ran through the combat base.
Strong backs were used for billeting and for offices. Other offices were in prefabricated bunkers. A frame made of 12 x12 supports that were 12 feet by 20 feet, and then walled and ceilinged with 2 x 12 boards. The floor was three-quarter inch plywood. Once set in place, the bunker would be sand-bagged. The S-4 bunker had approximately 25,000 sandbags for protection: walls were 6 sandbags deep, from the ground to the roof level. Three layers of sandbags were placed on the roof, then a layer of steel runway matting followed by three more layers of sandbags, another layer of matting and a final three layers of sandbags.
Charlie Company’s office was in a strong back on the battalion street, three rows down from the main supply route (Main Street An Hoa.) Office furniture was field desks and camp stools. A field desk was a 4 x 4 x 4 “suitcase.” One side could be removed and attached to the box (that contained drawers) to form a desk.
As you entered the office, the First Sergeant’s desk was on the left. In front of the desk, he had had the troops paint a pair of yellow (properly, “gold,” because as one of our Jodie chants says, “Marine Corps colors are scarlet and gold…”, but we’ll go with yellow) footprints. Any graduate of MCRD Parris Island or MCRD San Diego will know the purpose of those footprints. They are a recruit’s first sight at a Recruit Depot.
As a new recruit leaves the bus, he or she is herded to rows of yellow footprints, heels together and feet at a 45 degree angle, the first position of “Attention.” And that is what the First Sergeant had in mind.
As I entered the office, First Sergeant Lee was hunched over the desk, signing the Skipper’s signature to the Unit Diary, then the principal daily personnel document in the Marine Corps. I entered and positioned myself on the footprints. “Just a minute, Marine,” the First Sergeant growled without looking up. “Be with you in a minute.” A couple of the clerks were grinning ear-to-ear.
As he finished the Diary, he yelled “Brown, get this over to S-1.”
PFC Brown took it and “got.”
“Now, Marine, what can I do. . . my Gawd in heaven, Lieutenant, just look at you!”
He was looking at a 6’2” Marine who weighed 118 pounds (down from 171 in December). My helmet cover was faded, muddy, and covered with the black print of my “zap number” (M6086), blood type, and my short-timer’s calendar. My flak jacket was faded, ripped, and most of the plates were bunched over my right kidney. My towel was around my neck, and under my flak jacket I wore the faded green T shirt I had worn since 23 December. My rifle was clean, but my utility trousers were still wet and muddy to the knees and my jungle boots were muddy.
“Morning, First Sergeant.” [The Army calls the unit First Sergeant the “top kick” or “top” for short. No good Marine First Sergeant will tolerate that. “A ‘top’ is a goddam kid’s toy! I’m the First Sergeant!”]
“Well, damn, Lieutenant. You are a sight! Johnson, scoot down to Supply and get the Lieutenant a clean set of dungarees.”
“Which Johnson, First Sergeant? Light green Johnson or dark green Johnson?”
First Sergeant Lee had about 21 years in the Corps. He was one of those pioneers who had entered the Marine Corps at about the time that President Truman had issued the Executive Order which desegregated the Armed Forces.
Serving with Marines such as Sergeant Major Edgar Huff (the first black Sergeant Major in the Marine Corps) and Sergeant Major Gilbert H. “Hashmark” Johnson as mentors and role models, First Sergeant Robert E. Lee was one of those giants who helped mold both the modern Marine Corps and the America we know today. (“Giant,” you ask? Well Hashmark Johnson served in two wars, three branches of service, and for 32 years, half of which were in a segregated Armed Forces. Two years after his death from a heart attack, the Montford Point facility at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, which had been the segregated “black boot camp” during WWII, was renamed Camp Gilbert H. Johnson, the first military installation to be named after an African-American. I’d say that qualifies for “Giant.”)
And First Sergeant Lee’s first maxim was “I ain’t got ‘black Marines’ or ‘white Marines.’ All I have are ‘green Marines.’”
But I digress. “Light green” Johnson took off.
“Thompson, you get over to the shower point and tell them the Lieutenant will be there in five minutes.” He shook his head. “Now, Sir, let’s get you squared away.”
Within an hour, I was showered and shaved (cold water, but who cared), had new, clean clothes and had had my first real meal in over a month. (There was a huge sign on the mess hall bunker—in scarlet and gold, naturally—listing the hours of operation, followed in large letters by “MARINES IN FROM THE FIELD—ANY TIME.”)
I returned to the office, ready to get to work. “What should I do, First Sergeant,” I asked?
“Well, Sir. Why don’t you go over to the BOQ tent (Bachelor Officers’ Quarters) and take a nap? Maybe write a letter home?” [Interpreted, he was saying “Everything is under control. Don’t try to fix what ain’t broke.”]
Hmmmmm. Not a bad idea.
The only other officer in the BOQ was Lieutenant Jim Webb, a platoon commander in Delta Company. We introduced ourselves and settled in for the afternoon. I explored the Q, noting many jagged shrapnel holes which were circled and dated—reminders of rocket and mortar attacks on An Hoa. Suddenly, I missed my nice safe hole out in the Arizona.
What would tomorrow bring?
08 July 2009
LEAVING HEARTH AND HOME
The night was quiet and uneventful. The next morning, we moved out to establish a company patrol base. It was the first time since Monday (four days and four centuries ago) that we had not been in a battalion position.
We headed back to “The Hot Dog,” a small hill so named because of its shape on the map. Like the shepherds of the ancient days, we had plenty of time to look at our surroundings. The ancients looked at the night sky. We looked at the ground—physically and on our maps. Shapes leaped out and we named the ground: “Battleship” and “Rock Pile” and “The Hot Dog.”
Charlie 3 drew the night ambush, with a late afternoon patrol en route. Our patrol intentionally took us through the impact area of the Arc Light. It was unbelievable.
Imagine if you will the Paul Bunyan and Babe, the Great Blue Ox had gone to Vietnam. The ground looked as if Paul and Babe had pulled some gigantic plow through a field 900 meters wide by nearly 3 clicks long. Trees were mangled and reduced to kindling. What was left of one village revealed that the hooches had been interconnected by a tunnel system. We found body parts and pieces of AK-47s and a couple of RPD machine guns. We also found a couple of caches of B-40 rocket launchers and rounds, all of which revealed that the NVA had been using the ville as a base or supply depot.
We proceeded on to our night ambush site and set in for what was another uneventful evening. What was left of the 90th NVA Regiment and its VC cadre had apparently withdrawn back into the mountains to lick its wounds. At first light, we moved to a new position about 800 meters from the Hot Dog and secured it for the rest of the company.
From our position, we watched a CH-46 fly to the Hot Dog to resupply the Company. A couple of hours later, the Company moved to our new position. After we linked up, Frank called me to the CP.
“Your relief is in.” He signaled another officer who was in the CP and introduced us. “Take today to snap him in. You’ll go back to An Hoa on tomorrow’s resupply bird.”
I knew that Jerry Ayers had gone back to Regiment to the 3 Shop (Operations) the day before, meaning that I was the last of our class that had reported in December who was still commanding a platoon. I guess the powers that be decided I need a little extra time to get it straight!
My relief was an officer who had done a year in the Second Marine Division at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina before coming to Vietnam. He was eager to take over, and I was cautious about putting my Marines into unknown hands. Throughout the day, I learned that one of his favorite expressions was a variant of “That’s not the way we did it at Camp Lejeune.”
Another quiet night ensued. I told Frank that I would lead Charlie 3 on the morning security patrol, taking the new guy for an orientation. He agreed, but told me to get back by 1030.
We headed out at our usual pace. The troops picked up an interval of 10 to 20 meters between men, and set a slow, cautious pace. Before each checkpoint, I would examine the area through binoculars and then usually, work the area over with a 60mm mortar fire mission.
When I offered to let him adjust one of the mortar fire missions, my relief was hesitant. “Doesn’t the FO (artillery forward observer) do that,” he asked?
I was amazed and a little unsettled--I had called and adjusted about 250 artillery and mortar fire missions and air strikes in the past six months. How would this guy think that he could just let the FO, who was in the Company CP, try to call a fire mission for a patrol several hundred or several thousand meters away. And what would he think when a Lance Corporal squad leader called a fire mission?
[At Camp Lejeune the next year, I discovered the basis for his assumption. In an exercise, I began to call for an artillery fire mission. Our FO from the 10th Marines was aghast.
"What do you think you are doing," he asked? "I'm the FO, I'm the graduate of the Artillery School (at Fort Sill, Oklahoma). If you haven't been through Fort Sill, how can you possibly call and adjust artillery fire?"
He was a second lieutenant who, because of President Nixon's "vietnamization" wind down, would never make it to Vietnam. He seemed to think that calling and adjusting artillery was some arcane practice known only to those admitted to the Guild and taught the magic words and phrases. Naturally, the First Lieutenant infantry officers who were commanding rifle platoons (many of whom had commanded rifle companies) in combat were amused at such presumption. We soon put these poor clowns in their place.]
Back on patrol, I simply told my relief that it was all his now--artillery and mortar support, air, medevacs, the whole megilla-- and had him call every fire mission for the rest of the patrol. Part of his hesitance, I discovered, was that he was having a hard time reading the map. As I mentioned before, the Arizona was really flat, and figuring where you were could be dicey. We worked on that, too.
Once we reached each checkpoint, I would stop to take a hard look at our route to the next check point. That gave me an opportunity to let half the platoon get a nap of 20 minutes or so. My relief was getting antsy because our pace was "too slow," definitely not the way things were done at Camp Lejeune. Finally, I pulled him aside.
“Listen up, jack! Two nights ago, this company was up to its ass in gooks. They may still be out here, and if they are, they don’t like us very much. There is nothing at the next checkpoint that requires us to get there in record time. Do it right and we get a prize—we accomplish our assigned mission and everybody gets back to the company in one piece. Oh, and by the way, in case you haven’t noticed, we are not in Camp [universal modifier] Lejeune. Now just calm down, listen and learn, and everything will be OK. Got it?”
He nodded and we had a nice quiet patrol from there on out.
When we got back to the CP, we reported to the Skipper for a quick change of command.
“OK, XO," Frank grinned, "grab your trash and get ready to go. The resupply bird should be here in about half an hour.” It was the first time that I realized that I was now the second-in-command for real. My mind returned briefly to a hot Company Street at Camp Upshur, three years and a lifetime ago. I was actually that exalted personage--the XO.
I hurried down to Third Herd. Gibby had my pack made up. I went from Marine to Marine to say goodbye and to wish them luck. I pulled Levi and Henson aside to ask them to take good care of the new Lieutenant. Bob Henson just smiled, handed me a last cup of C-rat coffee, and we shook hands.
Levi chuckled. “Yessir, I heard your little chat. Don’t worry, Sir. If I could train your sorry ass, I guess I can train anybody.” He grinned and we shook hands.
At least I knew that I was leaving Charlie 3 in the hands of two solid Marines. Bob was nearly 20 and Levi was nearly 21. Dear God, we thank You for men such as these.
The resupply bird whop-whop-whopped in, dropped the net and then settled to ground. I hustled up to the CP and said goodbye to Frank. Violating one of the rules of the bush, we exchanged salutes and then I grabbed my gear and ran for the bird, still wet and muddy from the patrol.
As we lifted off, I noticed how small a company perimeter really was. I felt as if I was leaving my family and our little home.
We headed back to “The Hot Dog,” a small hill so named because of its shape on the map. Like the shepherds of the ancient days, we had plenty of time to look at our surroundings. The ancients looked at the night sky. We looked at the ground—physically and on our maps. Shapes leaped out and we named the ground: “Battleship” and “Rock Pile” and “The Hot Dog.”
Charlie 3 drew the night ambush, with a late afternoon patrol en route. Our patrol intentionally took us through the impact area of the Arc Light. It was unbelievable.
Imagine if you will the Paul Bunyan and Babe, the Great Blue Ox had gone to Vietnam. The ground looked as if Paul and Babe had pulled some gigantic plow through a field 900 meters wide by nearly 3 clicks long. Trees were mangled and reduced to kindling. What was left of one village revealed that the hooches had been interconnected by a tunnel system. We found body parts and pieces of AK-47s and a couple of RPD machine guns. We also found a couple of caches of B-40 rocket launchers and rounds, all of which revealed that the NVA had been using the ville as a base or supply depot.
We proceeded on to our night ambush site and set in for what was another uneventful evening. What was left of the 90th NVA Regiment and its VC cadre had apparently withdrawn back into the mountains to lick its wounds. At first light, we moved to a new position about 800 meters from the Hot Dog and secured it for the rest of the company.
From our position, we watched a CH-46 fly to the Hot Dog to resupply the Company. A couple of hours later, the Company moved to our new position. After we linked up, Frank called me to the CP.
“Your relief is in.” He signaled another officer who was in the CP and introduced us. “Take today to snap him in. You’ll go back to An Hoa on tomorrow’s resupply bird.”
I knew that Jerry Ayers had gone back to Regiment to the 3 Shop (Operations) the day before, meaning that I was the last of our class that had reported in December who was still commanding a platoon. I guess the powers that be decided I need a little extra time to get it straight!
My relief was an officer who had done a year in the Second Marine Division at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina before coming to Vietnam. He was eager to take over, and I was cautious about putting my Marines into unknown hands. Throughout the day, I learned that one of his favorite expressions was a variant of “That’s not the way we did it at Camp Lejeune.”
Another quiet night ensued. I told Frank that I would lead Charlie 3 on the morning security patrol, taking the new guy for an orientation. He agreed, but told me to get back by 1030.
We headed out at our usual pace. The troops picked up an interval of 10 to 20 meters between men, and set a slow, cautious pace. Before each checkpoint, I would examine the area through binoculars and then usually, work the area over with a 60mm mortar fire mission.
When I offered to let him adjust one of the mortar fire missions, my relief was hesitant. “Doesn’t the FO (artillery forward observer) do that,” he asked?
I was amazed and a little unsettled--I had called and adjusted about 250 artillery and mortar fire missions and air strikes in the past six months. How would this guy think that he could just let the FO, who was in the Company CP, try to call a fire mission for a patrol several hundred or several thousand meters away. And what would he think when a Lance Corporal squad leader called a fire mission?
[At Camp Lejeune the next year, I discovered the basis for his assumption. In an exercise, I began to call for an artillery fire mission. Our FO from the 10th Marines was aghast.
"What do you think you are doing," he asked? "I'm the FO, I'm the graduate of the Artillery School (at Fort Sill, Oklahoma). If you haven't been through Fort Sill, how can you possibly call and adjust artillery fire?"
He was a second lieutenant who, because of President Nixon's "vietnamization" wind down, would never make it to Vietnam. He seemed to think that calling and adjusting artillery was some arcane practice known only to those admitted to the Guild and taught the magic words and phrases. Naturally, the First Lieutenant infantry officers who were commanding rifle platoons (many of whom had commanded rifle companies) in combat were amused at such presumption. We soon put these poor clowns in their place.]
Back on patrol, I simply told my relief that it was all his now--artillery and mortar support, air, medevacs, the whole megilla-- and had him call every fire mission for the rest of the patrol. Part of his hesitance, I discovered, was that he was having a hard time reading the map. As I mentioned before, the Arizona was really flat, and figuring where you were could be dicey. We worked on that, too.
Once we reached each checkpoint, I would stop to take a hard look at our route to the next check point. That gave me an opportunity to let half the platoon get a nap of 20 minutes or so. My relief was getting antsy because our pace was "too slow," definitely not the way things were done at Camp Lejeune. Finally, I pulled him aside.
“Listen up, jack! Two nights ago, this company was up to its ass in gooks. They may still be out here, and if they are, they don’t like us very much. There is nothing at the next checkpoint that requires us to get there in record time. Do it right and we get a prize—we accomplish our assigned mission and everybody gets back to the company in one piece. Oh, and by the way, in case you haven’t noticed, we are not in Camp [universal modifier] Lejeune. Now just calm down, listen and learn, and everything will be OK. Got it?”
He nodded and we had a nice quiet patrol from there on out.
When we got back to the CP, we reported to the Skipper for a quick change of command.
“OK, XO," Frank grinned, "grab your trash and get ready to go. The resupply bird should be here in about half an hour.” It was the first time that I realized that I was now the second-in-command for real. My mind returned briefly to a hot Company Street at Camp Upshur, three years and a lifetime ago. I was actually that exalted personage--the XO.
I hurried down to Third Herd. Gibby had my pack made up. I went from Marine to Marine to say goodbye and to wish them luck. I pulled Levi and Henson aside to ask them to take good care of the new Lieutenant. Bob Henson just smiled, handed me a last cup of C-rat coffee, and we shook hands.
Levi chuckled. “Yessir, I heard your little chat. Don’t worry, Sir. If I could train your sorry ass, I guess I can train anybody.” He grinned and we shook hands.
At least I knew that I was leaving Charlie 3 in the hands of two solid Marines. Bob was nearly 20 and Levi was nearly 21. Dear God, we thank You for men such as these.
The resupply bird whop-whop-whopped in, dropped the net and then settled to ground. I hustled up to the CP and said goodbye to Frank. Violating one of the rules of the bush, we exchanged salutes and then I grabbed my gear and ran for the bird, still wet and muddy from the patrol.
As we lifted off, I noticed how small a company perimeter really was. I felt as if I was leaving my family and our little home.
06 July 2009
LEADERSHIP IN THE LITTLE THINGS
As we recovered from the night of June 10-11, 1969, morale was low. We had suffered two killed in action, and the strength of the NVA attack was unexpected. The medevac birds were in the zone by 0700, and knowing that our WIA were on their way to good medical care helped a little.
At about 0900, Frank ordered me to take a patrol to our east to see what was out there. We moved cautiously, out of tactical concern and simple physical exhaustion. About a click to the east, we found several rows of packs which looked as if the NVA had formed into a battalion formation of three ranks.
We spent time looking through the packs for intelligence materials and then I allowed the troops to look for souvenirs. Afterwards, we piled them up and used a couple of flare grenades to burn them. At about 1145, Frank called me on the radio and told me to make sure I was back in the lines by 1215.
We headed back across the paddies and entered the lines just as a CH-46 landed in the LZ. Marines in mess whites began to off-load vacuum cans and to set up a mess line. We later learned that at about 0830, Col. Riley had called the Battalion S-4 and ordered him to get a hot meal out for the troops. Now, that is not a lot of time, but the Four got it done.
The menu was steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, green peas, and white bread. The steaks were from canned “B” rations, but it was steak. Because we lived on C-rats, no one carried a mess kit, but that was no problem. We tore up C-rat cartons to use as plates and nearly everyone had a knife of some kind (bayonet, K-Bar, or some other form of sheath knife) and our plastic C-rat spoons. It was a messy meal—and the best I have ever eaten. Morale sky-rocketed.
I suppose many folks will think that I exaggerate. How could canned steaks do that? I guess you had to be there. These men had lived on the same monotonous menu for weeks. They had been in contact with the enemy for several days, and they had fought a monumental fight just hours before. Anything different was exciting. Col. Riley knew that and it was his leadership in the little things that mark him in my mind as one of the finest leaders I ever knew.
That evening we stayed in a battalion perimeter. At dusk, I was standing along the edge of my lines, just looking out into the paddy. Suddenly, to our southeast, the sky lit up in what appeared to be sustained yellow heat lightning. Suddenly there was a “swoosh-Swoosh-SWOOSH-THUD” about a foot to my right front. I looked down and saw a metal ball. I bent and touched it and jerked away. It was painfully hot.
At the same time, the ground shook and a rumble filled the air. I had just observed an Arc-Light.
Arc-Light was an Air Force tactic in which three B-52 bombers, flying in a trail formation, dropped their bomb-loads by radar from 25,000 to 30,000 feet. The bomb load per aircraft was 108 five hundred pound bombs. (That is 27 tons per aircraft, 81 tons per 3 ship mission.) The first time the folks in the impact area knew they were being targeted was when the first bomb detonated. An Arc Light strike could obliterate an area 1.2 miles long by .6 miles wide. It was awesome.
Had I stood but a foot forward and a foot to the right, it would have been lights out for me. And I didn’t give a damn!
At about 0900, Frank ordered me to take a patrol to our east to see what was out there. We moved cautiously, out of tactical concern and simple physical exhaustion. About a click to the east, we found several rows of packs which looked as if the NVA had formed into a battalion formation of three ranks.
We spent time looking through the packs for intelligence materials and then I allowed the troops to look for souvenirs. Afterwards, we piled them up and used a couple of flare grenades to burn them. At about 1145, Frank called me on the radio and told me to make sure I was back in the lines by 1215.
We headed back across the paddies and entered the lines just as a CH-46 landed in the LZ. Marines in mess whites began to off-load vacuum cans and to set up a mess line. We later learned that at about 0830, Col. Riley had called the Battalion S-4 and ordered him to get a hot meal out for the troops. Now, that is not a lot of time, but the Four got it done.
The menu was steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, green peas, and white bread. The steaks were from canned “B” rations, but it was steak. Because we lived on C-rats, no one carried a mess kit, but that was no problem. We tore up C-rat cartons to use as plates and nearly everyone had a knife of some kind (bayonet, K-Bar, or some other form of sheath knife) and our plastic C-rat spoons. It was a messy meal—and the best I have ever eaten. Morale sky-rocketed.
I suppose many folks will think that I exaggerate. How could canned steaks do that? I guess you had to be there. These men had lived on the same monotonous menu for weeks. They had been in contact with the enemy for several days, and they had fought a monumental fight just hours before. Anything different was exciting. Col. Riley knew that and it was his leadership in the little things that mark him in my mind as one of the finest leaders I ever knew.
That evening we stayed in a battalion perimeter. At dusk, I was standing along the edge of my lines, just looking out into the paddy. Suddenly, to our southeast, the sky lit up in what appeared to be sustained yellow heat lightning. Suddenly there was a “swoosh-Swoosh-SWOOSH-THUD” about a foot to my right front. I looked down and saw a metal ball. I bent and touched it and jerked away. It was painfully hot.
At the same time, the ground shook and a rumble filled the air. I had just observed an Arc-Light.
Arc-Light was an Air Force tactic in which three B-52 bombers, flying in a trail formation, dropped their bomb-loads by radar from 25,000 to 30,000 feet. The bomb load per aircraft was 108 five hundred pound bombs. (That is 27 tons per aircraft, 81 tons per 3 ship mission.) The first time the folks in the impact area knew they were being targeted was when the first bomb detonated. An Arc Light strike could obliterate an area 1.2 miles long by .6 miles wide. It was awesome.
Had I stood but a foot forward and a foot to the right, it would have been lights out for me. And I didn’t give a damn!
09 June 2009
NOBODY MADE ME GOD OUT HERE
From Laundryman Charlie 3 romeo oscar: Check out my message on 6 June.
I had gotten six new Marines the afternoon before. One squad got four and the other, two.
At about 0700, the Skipper came over. “How are you doing?” I think he was worried about me. I know now that in this time frame, my Mom was really concerned about the tone of my letters, especially after losing Phipps and Unfried. She once described them as "suicidal;" I think "resigned" is probably a closer description.
“I’m OK. What’s up?”
He pulled out his map. "The helicopter that was shot down yesterday is located here.” He pointed to a spot about 1500 meters to the southwest. “Bravo buried the .50 cals from the bird, and the 12.7 they captured, before they came in last night. Saddle up your platoon and go out and secure the bird. Bravo is sending us a Marine who can find the three machineguns. The air wing is sending out a team to recover the bird. Send the .50s back with them, but bring that 12.7 in. The Old Man wants to see it.”
A few minutes later, a Lance Corporal from Bravo showed up and we headed out. It took about 35 minutes to reach the downed helicopter. We immediately dug up the three machine guns and carried the .50s onto the bird. There were IV lines dangling from the overhead and bloody battle dressings littered the deck. An M-16 was in amongst the litter. Levi picked up the rifle. It was smeared with blood and there was a shell casing caught between the bolt and the forward edge of the ejection port. The man’s rifle had jammed.
Levi walked off the bird and cleared the weapon. When he inspected it, it was cruddy. He took the rifle around to our troops. “The next time you ladies (he actually used a very crude feminine descriptor) complain about cleaning your weapons every day, remember this. Damn. It’s nothing less than suicide!" He practically made the FNGs kiss the weapon, it was so far in their faces. "Goddamn plastic piece of [crud].”
A few years later, Leatherneck Magazine ran an article based on a letter that then-Representative James Symington of Missouri had written to his Dad, Senator Stuart Symington, when he was in boot camp. In describing the hard NCOs who were his DIs, he wrote a line that was the title of the article. "War," he wrote, "is the business of Sergeants." He was absolutely right. There are things that Sergeants can, and are expected to do, that officers cannot. Sergeant Levi was an excellent Sergeant.
Levi's final comment was telling. There was still a serious reservation on the part of many Marines about the M-16. This dated from McNamara's decision to force it on the DOD without a chromed barrel and receiver. Too many Marines knew Marines who had been in the fights for Hills 881 North and 881 South in 1967, when rifles jammed right and left and many Marine KIAs were found with their rifle disassembled and cleaning rods inserted into the barrels to clear jams. If properly cleaned and maintained, it was an adequate rifle, but the concern that it was a plastic toy--"Matty Mattel"--was always just under the surface.
We checked out the area for any enemy WIAs, but there were none. It was littered with NVA bodies and weapons, and we set about policing up the gear. Suddenly, one Marine called to me. "You gotta see this.”
In a deep fighting hole dug at the base of a tall tree we could see a body. He was wearing a holster. Someone was about to get the most sought-after war prize of all—a pistol. “Who found him,” I asked?
A Marine stepped forward. “All right, if the weapon is still there, it’s yours. Get him out of there.”
Marines are nothing if not born resourceful. The body was jammed into the bottom of the hole and no one wanted to have to get in there with the dead guy. I walked away. Finally, someone tossed a piece of line over a tree branch and looped a noose around the corpse’s neck. Then they hoisted him out. Luckily, I was able to stop the three photographers from taking pictures. It probably would not have looked good, although rigor mortis had set in and he was swinging at weird angles.
“Pull him aside and check for papers.” One man found a folded piece of paper in the guy’s pocket. When later translated, we realized that we had found either the Commanding Officer or the Political Officer of the 2d Battalion, 90th NVA Regiment. (The document was an appointing order addressed to the CO and cc’d to the Political Officer.) He had a Makarov pistol in really great shape and I had a very happy Marine.
We found about thirty NVA dead around the area. Levi organized a working party (mainly the FNGs) and buried them in a bomb crater. Then we settled in to wait for the recovery bird.
Within about 10 minutes after we arrived, a couple of civilians materialized and indicated that they needed “bac si” (doctor) at a hooch about 40 meters away. I sent a fire team to check it out again, and Doc went over to see what was what.
He came back about 20 minutes later. “There’s an old lady over there, Sir. She’s got a sucking chest wound and she’s in real bad shape. I patched her up, but we need to medevac her.”
I called the Skipper, but in a few minutes he called back to tell me that 2/5 had had a big dust up the night before and that we probably wouldn’t get a medevac for a routine casualty until late that afternoon. I told Doc.
Doc went over to check on her again and came back after another half an hour. “Sir, she won’t last until the afternoon. She’s in a lot of pain and is essentially choking to death on her own blood.”
“Dammit, Doc, I know. But we aren’t gonna get a medevac anytime soon.”
“Yessir, I know. Do you want me to do something for her?”
“Sure, Doc, make her as comfortable as possible.”
“Uh, no sir. I mean do you want me to do something for her?”
Aw, Christ on a crutch! And then I said something that I never thought I could say. “Give me a couple of minutes to think about it, Doc, OK?”
“Yessir.” All the CP group moved away from me, leaving me alone to make a decision. Ten minutes later, I called Doc over.
“Look, I know she’s hurting, but dammit, Doc, nobody made me God out here! You make her as comfortable as possible, but don’t do anything else, you understand? Nothing else!”
“Aye, aye, Sir.” He went back to be with her. She died about 2 hours later.
I spent the rest of the time until the helicopter recovery team arrived, thinking. How could it have taken me ten minutes to say “No”? The fact that I even considered any other response scared me. It was time for me to get out of here.
I often wonder if, in the grand scheme of things, I made the right decision. I think I did, but I wonder what that little old lady would have thought?
The recovery team arrived in the early afternoon. A group of mechanics, led by a Master Sergeant, quickly removed the six rotor blades and stowed them in the chopper. The .50s were also tied down and a sling was rigged.
As the crew was working, the Master Sergeant called me over. “Look at this, Lieutenant.”
There were only three bullet holes in the helicopter—one in the fairing around the forward rotor shaft, one in the fairing around the after shaft, and one evenly spaced between the other two. “There’s a governor on each shaft, Sir," he explained. "Lose one, and you can still fly. These bastards hit both, with only three rounds. Son of a bitch!”
Have I mentioned that war is fluky?
The recovery bird, a CH-53, landed to pick up the crew. One of my Marines held the donkey dick and hooked it up to the bird, jumping as the connection was made. (There is a tremendous build up in static electricity in a flying helicopter. If he had stood his ground, the discharge would have knocked him flying.)
We then saddled up and headed home.
In our absence, the perimeter had been expanded and the lines adjusted. Bravo had moved in between Alpha and Charlie Companies, along the west side of the hill. Bravo tied in with Charlie 1 on the south. Alpha had Bravo on its left and Charlie 3 on the right. Neal and I had the eastern side of the hill on a fairly straight front. Charlie 2 became battalion reserve. I got my people dug in, sighted weapons and prepared for the night.
There was an old trench that ran from the rice paddy to the north straight up into our position, between my lines and the concrete bunker. It ended just south of the point where my two squads linked up.
That concerned me, because the lines had been marked during our absence, and that trench ran right between my platoon and Alpha Company's right flank platoon. There is a maxim in tactics that you never split responsibility for an avenue of approach, i.e., an easy way into a position. For the sake of clarity, someone unit must know that it has sole responsibility for that avenue.
I moved along my lines,telling off my Marines into their prospective positions, marking positions for machine guns (which would be emplaced after dark so the enemy did not see their locations). I started with our connection with Charlie 1 on my right and moved to the link up with Alpha Company. Mike Tonkyn’s squad, Charlie 3 Bravo, had that portion of our lines. His nearest and left-most position was about 20 meters from the trench. I told him to have his Marines hold off digging in and then took him with me in search of the Alpha Company platoon commander.
It was the guy who had lost his people in the paddy on Sunday (two days or two years ago, depending). He was sitting under a tree, reading Stars and Stripes.
“I’m Lieutenant McCarty. My platoon is on your right flank. Let’s walk, eh?”
“Well, what do you want?” He didn’t move. Arrogant little .......
“We need to check lines so we can make sure we have everything covered.”
“I’m waiting for my Captain to do that. Come back later,” he said dismissively. (I wish I had.)
“Look, Sport, we’ve had a long couple of days. Before my guys dig in, I want to make sure I won’t have to shift lines and make them do it all over again. Now get off your ass and let’s go.” Tonkyn was doing his best to disappear while the officers hashed things out.
The lieutenant grumbled and got up. We walked over to the trench. There was a fighting hole right next to it with an M-16 in the hole. “Is this one of yours,” I asked?
“Yeah, it’s mine.”
Well, Lance Corporal Tonkyn’s first position is that one over there.” I pointed to three Marines about 20 meters away. There was a clear area between the trench and the Alpha company position. “Do you want me to move them closer?”
“Nah. I think we’re OK. You can run along now.” Snotty little brat.
The next day, I learned that about 20 minutes later, near dark, Captain Torrey checked lines and was assured by that lieutenant that he was covering the trench. The Captain asked “And where is your position?”
“This is my hole,” the lieutenant replied, pointing to the hole right next to the trench. I suspect that he had chosen that position because the ground was relatively soft and made for easy digging.
“No. No. You cannot be on the far right flank of your lines. You need to be centered so you can control the fires of your entire platoon. Move your position and rearrange your lines.”
The idiot did move his position, but decided that he did not want to inconvenience his troops (who, we later learned, hated the SOB), so he just left the hole vacant and the trench unprotected. Within days, he was relieved of his platoon, sent back to Regiment to be the Civil Affairs Officer (a sort of liaison with the local Vietnamese military and political establishment) and then to Danang to be a Special Services Officer running part of the Freedom Hill PX. But that’s in the future.
All around me, I could hear my troops digging in. I went over to help Gibby get our hole ready for the night for the night.
I had gotten six new Marines the afternoon before. One squad got four and the other, two.
At about 0700, the Skipper came over. “How are you doing?” I think he was worried about me. I know now that in this time frame, my Mom was really concerned about the tone of my letters, especially after losing Phipps and Unfried. She once described them as "suicidal;" I think "resigned" is probably a closer description.
“I’m OK. What’s up?”
He pulled out his map. "The helicopter that was shot down yesterday is located here.” He pointed to a spot about 1500 meters to the southwest. “Bravo buried the .50 cals from the bird, and the 12.7 they captured, before they came in last night. Saddle up your platoon and go out and secure the bird. Bravo is sending us a Marine who can find the three machineguns. The air wing is sending out a team to recover the bird. Send the .50s back with them, but bring that 12.7 in. The Old Man wants to see it.”
A few minutes later, a Lance Corporal from Bravo showed up and we headed out. It took about 35 minutes to reach the downed helicopter. We immediately dug up the three machine guns and carried the .50s onto the bird. There were IV lines dangling from the overhead and bloody battle dressings littered the deck. An M-16 was in amongst the litter. Levi picked up the rifle. It was smeared with blood and there was a shell casing caught between the bolt and the forward edge of the ejection port. The man’s rifle had jammed.
Levi walked off the bird and cleared the weapon. When he inspected it, it was cruddy. He took the rifle around to our troops. “The next time you ladies (he actually used a very crude feminine descriptor) complain about cleaning your weapons every day, remember this. Damn. It’s nothing less than suicide!" He practically made the FNGs kiss the weapon, it was so far in their faces. "Goddamn plastic piece of [crud].”
A few years later, Leatherneck Magazine ran an article based on a letter that then-Representative James Symington of Missouri had written to his Dad, Senator Stuart Symington, when he was in boot camp. In describing the hard NCOs who were his DIs, he wrote a line that was the title of the article. "War," he wrote, "is the business of Sergeants." He was absolutely right. There are things that Sergeants can, and are expected to do, that officers cannot. Sergeant Levi was an excellent Sergeant.
Levi's final comment was telling. There was still a serious reservation on the part of many Marines about the M-16. This dated from McNamara's decision to force it on the DOD without a chromed barrel and receiver. Too many Marines knew Marines who had been in the fights for Hills 881 North and 881 South in 1967, when rifles jammed right and left and many Marine KIAs were found with their rifle disassembled and cleaning rods inserted into the barrels to clear jams. If properly cleaned and maintained, it was an adequate rifle, but the concern that it was a plastic toy--"Matty Mattel"--was always just under the surface.
We checked out the area for any enemy WIAs, but there were none. It was littered with NVA bodies and weapons, and we set about policing up the gear. Suddenly, one Marine called to me. "You gotta see this.”
In a deep fighting hole dug at the base of a tall tree we could see a body. He was wearing a holster. Someone was about to get the most sought-after war prize of all—a pistol. “Who found him,” I asked?
A Marine stepped forward. “All right, if the weapon is still there, it’s yours. Get him out of there.”
Marines are nothing if not born resourceful. The body was jammed into the bottom of the hole and no one wanted to have to get in there with the dead guy. I walked away. Finally, someone tossed a piece of line over a tree branch and looped a noose around the corpse’s neck. Then they hoisted him out. Luckily, I was able to stop the three photographers from taking pictures. It probably would not have looked good, although rigor mortis had set in and he was swinging at weird angles.
“Pull him aside and check for papers.” One man found a folded piece of paper in the guy’s pocket. When later translated, we realized that we had found either the Commanding Officer or the Political Officer of the 2d Battalion, 90th NVA Regiment. (The document was an appointing order addressed to the CO and cc’d to the Political Officer.) He had a Makarov pistol in really great shape and I had a very happy Marine.
We found about thirty NVA dead around the area. Levi organized a working party (mainly the FNGs) and buried them in a bomb crater. Then we settled in to wait for the recovery bird.
Within about 10 minutes after we arrived, a couple of civilians materialized and indicated that they needed “bac si” (doctor) at a hooch about 40 meters away. I sent a fire team to check it out again, and Doc went over to see what was what.
He came back about 20 minutes later. “There’s an old lady over there, Sir. She’s got a sucking chest wound and she’s in real bad shape. I patched her up, but we need to medevac her.”
I called the Skipper, but in a few minutes he called back to tell me that 2/5 had had a big dust up the night before and that we probably wouldn’t get a medevac for a routine casualty until late that afternoon. I told Doc.
Doc went over to check on her again and came back after another half an hour. “Sir, she won’t last until the afternoon. She’s in a lot of pain and is essentially choking to death on her own blood.”
“Dammit, Doc, I know. But we aren’t gonna get a medevac anytime soon.”
“Yessir, I know. Do you want me to do something for her?”
“Sure, Doc, make her as comfortable as possible.”
“Uh, no sir. I mean do you want me to do something for her?”
Aw, Christ on a crutch! And then I said something that I never thought I could say. “Give me a couple of minutes to think about it, Doc, OK?”
“Yessir.” All the CP group moved away from me, leaving me alone to make a decision. Ten minutes later, I called Doc over.
“Look, I know she’s hurting, but dammit, Doc, nobody made me God out here! You make her as comfortable as possible, but don’t do anything else, you understand? Nothing else!”
“Aye, aye, Sir.” He went back to be with her. She died about 2 hours later.
I spent the rest of the time until the helicopter recovery team arrived, thinking. How could it have taken me ten minutes to say “No”? The fact that I even considered any other response scared me. It was time for me to get out of here.
I often wonder if, in the grand scheme of things, I made the right decision. I think I did, but I wonder what that little old lady would have thought?
The recovery team arrived in the early afternoon. A group of mechanics, led by a Master Sergeant, quickly removed the six rotor blades and stowed them in the chopper. The .50s were also tied down and a sling was rigged.
As the crew was working, the Master Sergeant called me over. “Look at this, Lieutenant.”
There were only three bullet holes in the helicopter—one in the fairing around the forward rotor shaft, one in the fairing around the after shaft, and one evenly spaced between the other two. “There’s a governor on each shaft, Sir," he explained. "Lose one, and you can still fly. These bastards hit both, with only three rounds. Son of a bitch!”
Have I mentioned that war is fluky?
The recovery bird, a CH-53, landed to pick up the crew. One of my Marines held the donkey dick and hooked it up to the bird, jumping as the connection was made. (There is a tremendous build up in static electricity in a flying helicopter. If he had stood his ground, the discharge would have knocked him flying.)
We then saddled up and headed home.
In our absence, the perimeter had been expanded and the lines adjusted. Bravo had moved in between Alpha and Charlie Companies, along the west side of the hill. Bravo tied in with Charlie 1 on the south. Alpha had Bravo on its left and Charlie 3 on the right. Neal and I had the eastern side of the hill on a fairly straight front. Charlie 2 became battalion reserve. I got my people dug in, sighted weapons and prepared for the night.
There was an old trench that ran from the rice paddy to the north straight up into our position, between my lines and the concrete bunker. It ended just south of the point where my two squads linked up.
That concerned me, because the lines had been marked during our absence, and that trench ran right between my platoon and Alpha Company's right flank platoon. There is a maxim in tactics that you never split responsibility for an avenue of approach, i.e., an easy way into a position. For the sake of clarity, someone unit must know that it has sole responsibility for that avenue.
I moved along my lines,telling off my Marines into their prospective positions, marking positions for machine guns (which would be emplaced after dark so the enemy did not see their locations). I started with our connection with Charlie 1 on my right and moved to the link up with Alpha Company. Mike Tonkyn’s squad, Charlie 3 Bravo, had that portion of our lines. His nearest and left-most position was about 20 meters from the trench. I told him to have his Marines hold off digging in and then took him with me in search of the Alpha Company platoon commander.
It was the guy who had lost his people in the paddy on Sunday (two days or two years ago, depending). He was sitting under a tree, reading Stars and Stripes.
“I’m Lieutenant McCarty. My platoon is on your right flank. Let’s walk, eh?”
“Well, what do you want?” He didn’t move. Arrogant little .......
“We need to check lines so we can make sure we have everything covered.”
“I’m waiting for my Captain to do that. Come back later,” he said dismissively. (I wish I had.)
“Look, Sport, we’ve had a long couple of days. Before my guys dig in, I want to make sure I won’t have to shift lines and make them do it all over again. Now get off your ass and let’s go.” Tonkyn was doing his best to disappear while the officers hashed things out.
The lieutenant grumbled and got up. We walked over to the trench. There was a fighting hole right next to it with an M-16 in the hole. “Is this one of yours,” I asked?
“Yeah, it’s mine.”
Well, Lance Corporal Tonkyn’s first position is that one over there.” I pointed to three Marines about 20 meters away. There was a clear area between the trench and the Alpha company position. “Do you want me to move them closer?”
“Nah. I think we’re OK. You can run along now.” Snotty little brat.
The next day, I learned that about 20 minutes later, near dark, Captain Torrey checked lines and was assured by that lieutenant that he was covering the trench. The Captain asked “And where is your position?”
“This is my hole,” the lieutenant replied, pointing to the hole right next to the trench. I suspect that he had chosen that position because the ground was relatively soft and made for easy digging.
“No. No. You cannot be on the far right flank of your lines. You need to be centered so you can control the fires of your entire platoon. Move your position and rearrange your lines.”
The idiot did move his position, but decided that he did not want to inconvenience his troops (who, we later learned, hated the SOB), so he just left the hole vacant and the trench unprotected. Within days, he was relieved of his platoon, sent back to Regiment to be the Civil Affairs Officer (a sort of liaison with the local Vietnamese military and political establishment) and then to Danang to be a Special Services Officer running part of the Freedom Hill PX. But that’s in the future.
All around me, I could hear my troops digging in. I went over to help Gibby get our hole ready for the night for the night.
08 June 2009
THE ATTACK ON AN BANG (1)
From Laundryman Charlie 3 romeo oscar: Check out my message on 6 June. And the Lieutenant is just protecting me. I counted at least 150 people before I gave up!
When we got to a small hill just north of Alpha and the CP group, I had the platoon establish a defensive perimeter. The Skipper, his radio operator, my radio operator and I, headed south with one fire team for security. We passed through Alpha’s lines at about 0715 and headed for the CP.
Colonel Riley, his S-3 (Operations Officer) and other members of his staff were under a tree, along with Captain Torrey, Alpha 6. Jerry Ayers, one of my classmates, was standing about 10 meters away. I nodded to him and moved with the Skipper to join Laundryman 6.
Lieutenant Colonel William Riley had assumed command of the battalion while we were at the bridge. I had met him, but only briefly, along with the other officers of the Company. He looked up and grinned, exuding confidence. “Great! Frank’s here. Let’s get started. Everything OK?”
Frank nodded. “Five wounded, but nothing too serious, Sir.”
The Three pulled out a map. “OK—we think there was at least a battalion of NVA on this hill yesterday afternoon. We think they slipped off to the east during the night, but we have no contact with them right now. We have been taking sporadic small arms fire from the hill this morning, so somebody is still there. Bravo is about three clicks over thataway (southwest) and will patrol to our south. Charlie will move down here from the north and east to see if the bad guys may have tried to go around north, but do it smartly. We need you to assume CP security . Alpha will resume its attack on the objective at 0900.”
The Old Man took over. “Frank, Alpha has several casualties out in that damned paddy. Their platoon is going out to recover them. Attach one of you platoons to Alpha Company for their attack.”
I grabbed our radio handset. “Charlie 3, this three actual. Saddle up and get over here most ricky tick.” I looked up. Frank was scowling. “Well, you’re gonna give Alpha your most experienced platoon, right?”
He grinned and shook his head. “Sure, but how about you let me make the decision first, OK?”
The Old Man chuckled and slapped us both on the shoulder. “All right, gents, let’s get this done.” I felt as if my Dad was there--the Old Man's calm confidence was just like Dad's.
I moved away with Captain Torrey, Jerry and another lieutenant I did not know. At this point in time, of the surviving members of our class that had joined the battalion in December, Jerry and I were the only two still in the bush as rifle platoon commanders. In the distance, I saw another lieutenant forming up a platoon and moving toward the eastern edge of the position. The platoon did not look right to me. They had lost five KIAs the day before, but there was an air about them—something unhealthy. Jerry cast a glance their way, frowned, and shook his head.
Captain Torrey took us to a concealed position from which we could observe our objective. It was about 800 meters away across a wet paddy.
“OK . That is Objective A. Situation: Objective A is believed to be held by anywhere between a company and a platoon. It has been hit with artillery all night. Charlie Company is to our north and bravo to our south. One platoon will be about 150 meters to our left recovering their casualties.
Mission: We will attack and seize objective A. Execution: We are going in with two up and one back. Jerry, your platoon will be on the left. Mac, you take the right. I will follow with the CP group and the other platoon. Logistics: Make sure you have plenty of ammo and grenades. Mac, there is a dump over by that tree. Make sure you have fresh batteries for the radios. Mac, Company Tac is 71.05.
It is now 0802. Be in position to commence the attack at 0900. Questions?” There were none. I headed over to my platoon.
I had heard them coming in about 10 minutes before. As usual, the grapevine worked well. Levi had already gotten the word that we were going in. I paused to watch this seeming normality. I had not said a word to my small unit leaders since the radio message telling them to hiyacko on down to join me.
Levi had them finishing up with cleaning weapons (they had started automatically when we stopped on the intermediate objective) and Bob Henson had already found the supply dump. He had a working party carrying boxes of grenades and other ammo as well as fresh batteries over to the platoon. I heard him yell “Hey, Doc. Do you need any resupply?" The Leading Petty Officer of the battalion medical platoon, a Petty Officer First Class, was already talking to Doc. “I’m cool, Henson,” Doc replied.
Doc was 19. Henson was 19. Sergeant Levi was almost 21, an old man. There was no urgency or apparent concern, just men who knew what they had to do, going about doing it. The squad leaders (one 18, one 19) were inspecting weapons. Gibby (18) was with the other radio operators, making sure they knew the correct frequency. I realized that I was truly blessed.
I called Levi, Henson, Doc, and the squad leaders over. One squad leader, Mike Tonkyn, had just taken over his squad—his squad leader was one of the casualties from the short round on Saturday. He had become a fire team leader 8 days before, taking over Unfried’s fire team. He was as cool as a cucumber, as if he had been a squad leader all his young life. (He looked 12—and still does!!! Sorry Mike, but that’s the truth.)
I issued the order, asked for questions, and getting none, told them I would inspect weapons in 10 minutes and we would then move out to get into position. At 0855, I moved to Jerry Ayers’s right, ensuring that we were linked up. We shook hands, exchanged “see you on the hill”s, and went to work.
At exactly 0900, we moved out. Jerry and I had agreed that, based on yesterday’s experience, we would move across in squad rushes, then fire team rushes, then individual rushes. A squad rush is coordinated by the platoon commander. He orders one squad to move while the other (we still had only two squads per platoon) covers. A fire team rush is coordinated by the squad leaders, moving one fire team at a time. Individual rushes are controlled by the fire team leader.
We started receiving fire almost immediately, although it was light and sounded high. Both platoons crossed an 800 meter wide paddy about two meters at a time. You are chillingly exposed in a paddy, especially a wet paddy, as this one was. The mud and water are knee deep and it is hard to move, so you are essentially launching yourself forward in a shallow dive each time you move.
We reached the far side two days later—OK, it was about 15 minutes, but it seemed longer—and started to move up onto the hill. Captain Torrey came behind us and moved his other platoon into the center as we wheeled north. Jerry was still on the left and I had shifted east but was still on the right. The south side of the objective was covered in scrub and continued to slope upwards.
I sent a scout forward to see what was in front of us. In the movies, everything always moves quickly and everyone is running around fully erect. It just doesn’t happen that way. We moved slowly, crawling, taking our time.
The scout reported that about 100 meters to our front (north) the ground leveled off and opened up. In the middle of a large open area, there was some sort of a low concrete structure which stood about waist high. For at least 50 meters all around, the ground was open and flat as a board.
I moved up for a look and then reported this to Captain Torrey. Jerry had done the same thing on his side. There was just no good way to get to that bunker (as we now thought of it).
The Skipper told all three platoons to inch forward. The middle platoon began to receive fire. Putting binoculars on the concrete structure, I could see what appeared to be ventilation slits about 6 inches above the ground. The slits were about two inches high by six inches wide. The NVA were using them as firing slits and were getting great grazing fire. Every casualty was initially hit in the ankles. We pulled back a bit. It was now about 1045.
Captain Torrey called for the platoon commanders. He had set up his CP in a little dip in the ground. His corpsmen were working on the casualties and the Gunny was making a canteen cup of coffee, which the Skipper passed around. Jerry came sliding in from the left just as I got there. The other lieutenant was already there.
The Skipper had moved up and had seen what we faced. Normally, a position like that is reduced by the “blind ‘em, blast’em and burn ‘em” method. Someone would toss a WP grenade in front of the aperture, followed by a satchel charge and then a flame thrower. There were problems, however.
I doubt that a NFL quarterback could toss a WP grenade 50 yards, and there was no way anyone was going to get closer and remain unhit. We had satchel charges available, but the flame section was back at An Hoa and no one could remember when we had last used our flame throwers.
The Skipper decided that Jerry and I would provide suppressive fire and the middle platoon would try to hit the southern firing slits with anti-tank rockets. The 66mm LAAW (light anti-tank assault weapon) had replaced the 3.5 inch rocket launcher (a super bazooka that replaced the original bazooka, the WWII 2.36 inch rocket launcher). The LAAW was light, disposable, and fairly easy to fire. However, it did not have a white phosphorus round which we could really have used.
We returned to our platoons, briefed our small unit leaders, and when all three platoons reported “ready,” we started. The machine guns and rifles fired at the slits, but return fire was heavy. Only two of six LAAWS hit anywhere on the structure. The middle platoon took more casualties, again marked by ankle wounds.
The Skipper called for us again. It was nearly Noon.
The coffee was still fresh—fresh being a relative term when discussing C-rations. It was surreal. We were taking coffee breaks from the war to plan our next try! What I wouldn’t give for one more cup of coffee with Jerry, Captain Torrey, the Gunny and that other lieutenant, in that little dip, with the occasional round cracking over our heads, and the adrenaline high.
“Any suggestions,” the Skipper asked.
Jerry piped up “Well, I could hook left around the old Chevy and Mac could go long towards the telephone pole.” We all grinned, remembering other gentler days of improvisation. We continued to brainstorm.
About 1330, the S-3 called to brief us on a new idea. We headed for our platoons. In about 10 minutes, a CH-46 appeared carrying a 500 gallon fuel bladder as an external lift. We put more rockets and 40mm grenade fire on the bunker to keep the inhabitants busy.
The bladder was tethered to the chopper by two hoists (known in the trade as “donkey dicks”) which kept it twice as far from the bird. The crew chief, looking through the hell hole in the bottom of the chopper guided his pilot until they could set the bladder onto the top of the structure. He then released the cargo and beat fee outta there.
The middle platoon, which had taken all the casualties, was given the honor of firing machinegun tracers at the bladder. On the second burst, it exploded in a huge roiling gout of flame and smoke.
Jerry’s platoon assaulted from the west, but it was all over. There were nine dead NVA in the structure. They did not appear to be burned; Doc surmised that they suffocated or died of ruptured lungs. A couple of grenades made sure. It was now 1430.
We checked out the rest of the hill and reported it secure. By 1545, Charlie Company and the CP group were on the hill, I had chopped back to Charlie Company, and we began organizing our defensive perimeter. Charlie 3 had the east center of the hill, with Neal on my right and Woody on my left. Alpha took the west side of the hill, tying in with Charlie 1 on the south and Charlie 2 on the north.
We had not been resupplied since Friday morning, so as soon as the hill was secure, resupply birds appeared.
At about 1615, we heard heavy fire to our southwest. Bravo Company, moving to join the battalion, had run into a large body of NVA. The firefight started when the point man spotted six NVA setting up a 12.7mm anti-aircraft machine gun. Captain Castagnetti assigned six riflemen to aim in in the crew and ordered “Fire.” Five dropped and the sixth only had a second to look around before he, too, was history. And the fight was on.
A few minutes later, we saw two CH-46’s enter a race track pattern over Bravo’s position. This was a classic medevac formation, and Frank confirmed it when he said “Bravo’s got two emergencies.”
The lead (Dash 1) headed in and the chase bird (Dash 2) continued to circle. Suddenly, Dash 2 layed over on its side and swooped down. I heard Frank mutter “Oh, shit, Dash 1 was just shot down.” Within a minute Dash 2 pulled out of the zone and headed for Danang, hedge hopping over our position before it climbed to altitude.
The firefight continued for another hour or more. Occasional rounds came zipping over our heads.
Two resupply birds dropped their external loads and then, one at a time, landed to off load passengers. We were receiving replacements. The last man was walking down the ramp when he suddenly crumpled. A stray round from the firefight had hit him right between the eyes. He was medevacked on the same bird. War is a fluky business!
As darkness settled, we manned a very strong position. It was a quiet night. We were all beat. Charlie 3 had gotten some sleep on Sunday morning, but many of us had not slept since Friday night. At about midnight, Bravo Company came into the lines and just dropped in place. I checked lines one more time and stretched out.
The next morning, one of my Marines came up and sheepishly asked, “Did anyone enter our lines from over their (pointing east) last night?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Because about 0200, a column of people walked right across the top of the hill in single file.” Damn!
“Why didn’t you challenge them,” I asked.
“Uh, well, Sir, I thought maybe I was the only man on this whole damn hill that was awake, and I didn’t think I could handle them all by myself.” (To this day, that has remained my rule of thumb definition of “prudence.”)
“Yeah, I see. Well, let’s just let that be our little secret, OK?” Fluky, flukier, flukiest!
He grinned. “Aye, aye, Sir. Works for me.”
Marines. How can you not love them?
When we got to a small hill just north of Alpha and the CP group, I had the platoon establish a defensive perimeter. The Skipper, his radio operator, my radio operator and I, headed south with one fire team for security. We passed through Alpha’s lines at about 0715 and headed for the CP.
Colonel Riley, his S-3 (Operations Officer) and other members of his staff were under a tree, along with Captain Torrey, Alpha 6. Jerry Ayers, one of my classmates, was standing about 10 meters away. I nodded to him and moved with the Skipper to join Laundryman 6.
Lieutenant Colonel William Riley had assumed command of the battalion while we were at the bridge. I had met him, but only briefly, along with the other officers of the Company. He looked up and grinned, exuding confidence. “Great! Frank’s here. Let’s get started. Everything OK?”
Frank nodded. “Five wounded, but nothing too serious, Sir.”
The Three pulled out a map. “OK—we think there was at least a battalion of NVA on this hill yesterday afternoon. We think they slipped off to the east during the night, but we have no contact with them right now. We have been taking sporadic small arms fire from the hill this morning, so somebody is still there. Bravo is about three clicks over thataway (southwest) and will patrol to our south. Charlie will move down here from the north and east to see if the bad guys may have tried to go around north, but do it smartly. We need you to assume CP security . Alpha will resume its attack on the objective at 0900.”
The Old Man took over. “Frank, Alpha has several casualties out in that damned paddy. Their platoon is going out to recover them. Attach one of you platoons to Alpha Company for their attack.”
I grabbed our radio handset. “Charlie 3, this three actual. Saddle up and get over here most ricky tick.” I looked up. Frank was scowling. “Well, you’re gonna give Alpha your most experienced platoon, right?”
He grinned and shook his head. “Sure, but how about you let me make the decision first, OK?”
The Old Man chuckled and slapped us both on the shoulder. “All right, gents, let’s get this done.” I felt as if my Dad was there--the Old Man's calm confidence was just like Dad's.
I moved away with Captain Torrey, Jerry and another lieutenant I did not know. At this point in time, of the surviving members of our class that had joined the battalion in December, Jerry and I were the only two still in the bush as rifle platoon commanders. In the distance, I saw another lieutenant forming up a platoon and moving toward the eastern edge of the position. The platoon did not look right to me. They had lost five KIAs the day before, but there was an air about them—something unhealthy. Jerry cast a glance their way, frowned, and shook his head.
Captain Torrey took us to a concealed position from which we could observe our objective. It was about 800 meters away across a wet paddy.
“OK . That is Objective A. Situation: Objective A is believed to be held by anywhere between a company and a platoon. It has been hit with artillery all night. Charlie Company is to our north and bravo to our south. One platoon will be about 150 meters to our left recovering their casualties.
Mission: We will attack and seize objective A. Execution: We are going in with two up and one back. Jerry, your platoon will be on the left. Mac, you take the right. I will follow with the CP group and the other platoon. Logistics: Make sure you have plenty of ammo and grenades. Mac, there is a dump over by that tree. Make sure you have fresh batteries for the radios. Mac, Company Tac is 71.05.
It is now 0802. Be in position to commence the attack at 0900. Questions?” There were none. I headed over to my platoon.
I had heard them coming in about 10 minutes before. As usual, the grapevine worked well. Levi had already gotten the word that we were going in. I paused to watch this seeming normality. I had not said a word to my small unit leaders since the radio message telling them to hiyacko on down to join me.
Levi had them finishing up with cleaning weapons (they had started automatically when we stopped on the intermediate objective) and Bob Henson had already found the supply dump. He had a working party carrying boxes of grenades and other ammo as well as fresh batteries over to the platoon. I heard him yell “Hey, Doc. Do you need any resupply?" The Leading Petty Officer of the battalion medical platoon, a Petty Officer First Class, was already talking to Doc. “I’m cool, Henson,” Doc replied.
Doc was 19. Henson was 19. Sergeant Levi was almost 21, an old man. There was no urgency or apparent concern, just men who knew what they had to do, going about doing it. The squad leaders (one 18, one 19) were inspecting weapons. Gibby (18) was with the other radio operators, making sure they knew the correct frequency. I realized that I was truly blessed.
I called Levi, Henson, Doc, and the squad leaders over. One squad leader, Mike Tonkyn, had just taken over his squad—his squad leader was one of the casualties from the short round on Saturday. He had become a fire team leader 8 days before, taking over Unfried’s fire team. He was as cool as a cucumber, as if he had been a squad leader all his young life. (He looked 12—and still does!!! Sorry Mike, but that’s the truth.)
I issued the order, asked for questions, and getting none, told them I would inspect weapons in 10 minutes and we would then move out to get into position. At 0855, I moved to Jerry Ayers’s right, ensuring that we were linked up. We shook hands, exchanged “see you on the hill”s, and went to work.
At exactly 0900, we moved out. Jerry and I had agreed that, based on yesterday’s experience, we would move across in squad rushes, then fire team rushes, then individual rushes. A squad rush is coordinated by the platoon commander. He orders one squad to move while the other (we still had only two squads per platoon) covers. A fire team rush is coordinated by the squad leaders, moving one fire team at a time. Individual rushes are controlled by the fire team leader.
We started receiving fire almost immediately, although it was light and sounded high. Both platoons crossed an 800 meter wide paddy about two meters at a time. You are chillingly exposed in a paddy, especially a wet paddy, as this one was. The mud and water are knee deep and it is hard to move, so you are essentially launching yourself forward in a shallow dive each time you move.
We reached the far side two days later—OK, it was about 15 minutes, but it seemed longer—and started to move up onto the hill. Captain Torrey came behind us and moved his other platoon into the center as we wheeled north. Jerry was still on the left and I had shifted east but was still on the right. The south side of the objective was covered in scrub and continued to slope upwards.
I sent a scout forward to see what was in front of us. In the movies, everything always moves quickly and everyone is running around fully erect. It just doesn’t happen that way. We moved slowly, crawling, taking our time.
The scout reported that about 100 meters to our front (north) the ground leveled off and opened up. In the middle of a large open area, there was some sort of a low concrete structure which stood about waist high. For at least 50 meters all around, the ground was open and flat as a board.
I moved up for a look and then reported this to Captain Torrey. Jerry had done the same thing on his side. There was just no good way to get to that bunker (as we now thought of it).
The Skipper told all three platoons to inch forward. The middle platoon began to receive fire. Putting binoculars on the concrete structure, I could see what appeared to be ventilation slits about 6 inches above the ground. The slits were about two inches high by six inches wide. The NVA were using them as firing slits and were getting great grazing fire. Every casualty was initially hit in the ankles. We pulled back a bit. It was now about 1045.
Captain Torrey called for the platoon commanders. He had set up his CP in a little dip in the ground. His corpsmen were working on the casualties and the Gunny was making a canteen cup of coffee, which the Skipper passed around. Jerry came sliding in from the left just as I got there. The other lieutenant was already there.
The Skipper had moved up and had seen what we faced. Normally, a position like that is reduced by the “blind ‘em, blast’em and burn ‘em” method. Someone would toss a WP grenade in front of the aperture, followed by a satchel charge and then a flame thrower. There were problems, however.
I doubt that a NFL quarterback could toss a WP grenade 50 yards, and there was no way anyone was going to get closer and remain unhit. We had satchel charges available, but the flame section was back at An Hoa and no one could remember when we had last used our flame throwers.
The Skipper decided that Jerry and I would provide suppressive fire and the middle platoon would try to hit the southern firing slits with anti-tank rockets. The 66mm LAAW (light anti-tank assault weapon) had replaced the 3.5 inch rocket launcher (a super bazooka that replaced the original bazooka, the WWII 2.36 inch rocket launcher). The LAAW was light, disposable, and fairly easy to fire. However, it did not have a white phosphorus round which we could really have used.
We returned to our platoons, briefed our small unit leaders, and when all three platoons reported “ready,” we started. The machine guns and rifles fired at the slits, but return fire was heavy. Only two of six LAAWS hit anywhere on the structure. The middle platoon took more casualties, again marked by ankle wounds.
The Skipper called for us again. It was nearly Noon.
The coffee was still fresh—fresh being a relative term when discussing C-rations. It was surreal. We were taking coffee breaks from the war to plan our next try! What I wouldn’t give for one more cup of coffee with Jerry, Captain Torrey, the Gunny and that other lieutenant, in that little dip, with the occasional round cracking over our heads, and the adrenaline high.
“Any suggestions,” the Skipper asked.
Jerry piped up “Well, I could hook left around the old Chevy and Mac could go long towards the telephone pole.” We all grinned, remembering other gentler days of improvisation. We continued to brainstorm.
About 1330, the S-3 called to brief us on a new idea. We headed for our platoons. In about 10 minutes, a CH-46 appeared carrying a 500 gallon fuel bladder as an external lift. We put more rockets and 40mm grenade fire on the bunker to keep the inhabitants busy.
The bladder was tethered to the chopper by two hoists (known in the trade as “donkey dicks”) which kept it twice as far from the bird. The crew chief, looking through the hell hole in the bottom of the chopper guided his pilot until they could set the bladder onto the top of the structure. He then released the cargo and beat fee outta there.
The middle platoon, which had taken all the casualties, was given the honor of firing machinegun tracers at the bladder. On the second burst, it exploded in a huge roiling gout of flame and smoke.
Jerry’s platoon assaulted from the west, but it was all over. There were nine dead NVA in the structure. They did not appear to be burned; Doc surmised that they suffocated or died of ruptured lungs. A couple of grenades made sure. It was now 1430.
We checked out the rest of the hill and reported it secure. By 1545, Charlie Company and the CP group were on the hill, I had chopped back to Charlie Company, and we began organizing our defensive perimeter. Charlie 3 had the east center of the hill, with Neal on my right and Woody on my left. Alpha took the west side of the hill, tying in with Charlie 1 on the south and Charlie 2 on the north.
We had not been resupplied since Friday morning, so as soon as the hill was secure, resupply birds appeared.
At about 1615, we heard heavy fire to our southwest. Bravo Company, moving to join the battalion, had run into a large body of NVA. The firefight started when the point man spotted six NVA setting up a 12.7mm anti-aircraft machine gun. Captain Castagnetti assigned six riflemen to aim in in the crew and ordered “Fire.” Five dropped and the sixth only had a second to look around before he, too, was history. And the fight was on.
A few minutes later, we saw two CH-46’s enter a race track pattern over Bravo’s position. This was a classic medevac formation, and Frank confirmed it when he said “Bravo’s got two emergencies.”
The lead (Dash 1) headed in and the chase bird (Dash 2) continued to circle. Suddenly, Dash 2 layed over on its side and swooped down. I heard Frank mutter “Oh, shit, Dash 1 was just shot down.” Within a minute Dash 2 pulled out of the zone and headed for Danang, hedge hopping over our position before it climbed to altitude.
The firefight continued for another hour or more. Occasional rounds came zipping over our heads.
Two resupply birds dropped their external loads and then, one at a time, landed to off load passengers. We were receiving replacements. The last man was walking down the ramp when he suddenly crumpled. A stray round from the firefight had hit him right between the eyes. He was medevacked on the same bird. War is a fluky business!
As darkness settled, we manned a very strong position. It was a quiet night. We were all beat. Charlie 3 had gotten some sleep on Sunday morning, but many of us had not slept since Friday night. At about midnight, Bravo Company came into the lines and just dropped in place. I checked lines one more time and stretched out.
The next morning, one of my Marines came up and sheepishly asked, “Did anyone enter our lines from over their (pointing east) last night?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Because about 0200, a column of people walked right across the top of the hill in single file.” Damn!
“Why didn’t you challenge them,” I asked.
“Uh, well, Sir, I thought maybe I was the only man on this whole damn hill that was awake, and I didn’t think I could handle them all by myself.” (To this day, that has remained my rule of thumb definition of “prudence.”)
“Yeah, I see. Well, let’s just let that be our little secret, OK?” Fluky, flukier, flukiest!
He grinned. “Aye, aye, Sir. Works for me.”
Marines. How can you not love them?
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.
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