| 11 July 1968. My watch reads 0300
hours. Guard duty. Pitch black and raining hard. L.R.R.P. team "Hotel-Two-Charlie"
is settled in for the night, hidden in a dense jungle thicket about 15 klicks
from the 2nd Brigade base Oasis, and the Cambodian border. We had been inserted
five days earlier to search for NVA infiltration routes leading into Pleiku province,
but found not a single trace of the enemy thus far. Only difficult terrain, the
monsoon rain, and the constant routine of marching slowly forward a step at a
time. Yesterday, the radio message from the Oasis had cancelled our scheduled
extraction because of the low cloud cover, and the mood of the team was getting
tense.
I'm sitting up leaning against a tree, constantly adjusting my poncho
to keep the rain out, but water is seeping in just the same from below. Have been
wet all day, and hoping to dry out just a little during the night. My hand groped
around in my pack for the small handheld IR scope to look at my teammates spread
out in a close circle in the dark. They are also sitting up, awake, and trying
to keep dry. Thompson, the ATL, is on my right rubbing his forearm. His mouth
moves in a silent curse. A few missions before, he had been wounded by an enemy
grenade, and tiny metal fragments were now popping up regularly from under his
skin, making him very irritable. Back in January, Thompson and I were interviewed
and accepted into the L.R.R.P.'s on the same day by Cpt. Garnett, our CO. We had
become friends and tried to stay together on the same teams since then. Thompson
volunteered for the Army and Vietnam from Alaska and was sent to communications
school. However, he now avoided having anything to do with the radio, and we frequently
competed for the point position on the teams. Thompson was soft-spoken with a
great sense of humor and judgment. Only nineteen, he was adept at quickly settling
conflicts and differences among the older team members.
The IR scope scanned
to Soule who was the newest member on the team and carried the PRC-25 radio and
spare batteries. To compensate for the weight, we gave him a sawed-off 79 grenade
launcher as a weapon. Next to him leaning up is Lt. Hall, our XO, who was supposed
to be based at the Oasis, but instead, preferred patrolling in the jungle with
us. Lt. Hall was a very deliberate and careful operational planner. He had infinite
patience and frequently tempered some of the quick decisions made by the team.
I am glad that he is with us. Six months in the L.R.R.P.'s, and this is my first
mission as TL.
Lastly, the IR scope illuminated Flores on my left. Arty is
sitting up, half covered by his poncho, wet, eyes wide open and completely ignoring
the rain. Before being drafted into the Army, Flores had been a professional boxer
in California just starting out in his career. He had a quick temper and a quicker
punch and not much regard for any authority. However, Flores was a natural fighter
and always looking forward to starting some trouble with Charlie. On a previous
mission he had killed one with his Gerber combat knife. Great asset on any team.
Now, it looked like Flores was meeting up with the rain like some old opponent
in a long-fought boxing match. Tough son of a bitch, I thought to myself, regretting
the silent railing about my own misery.
The night is dragging on. Looking
at my watch every fifteen minutes now. Maybe this will help the dawn come faster.
Impatient for that sunshine. How can this jungle be so cold? Daylight finally!
But there is no sun, the rain is blocking it out. We radio the Oasis for instructions
on our extraction. The mission is over and we want to come in. No helicopters
again, the clouds are too low. We are told to walk towards Highway 19 which runs
from Pleiku into Cambodia. A way would be found to extract us later.
We look
at the map, plan a route, roll up our ponchos, and recover the claymores set up
around our night position. No time for breakfast, it's too wet. I pick up my pack
and take the point. The 80-pound load quickly warms me up as the morning rain
drenches us to the bone again. It's covering up the sounds of our movement, though,
and we step out quickly. Charlie is probably still asleep in his dry hootch.
Mid-morning. We run into a network of trails. First sign of any people in five
days. Skirting along the side of the main trail we reach a clearing which reveals
a large square bamboo hut with no walls, well camouflaged from the air. There
are no agricultural fields nearby. It looks like an enemy transport station given
the number of empty baskets stacked up on the raised floor. We watch and listen,
concealed by the foliage. No one around. Approach slowly and dig around carefully.
My suspicions are confirmed when I find a U.S. hand grenade hidden under a mat.
We discuss ways of booby-trapping the hootch with the same grenade but Lt. Hall
points out that such an action must first be closely coordinated with the brigade.
No time for such a complicated procedure. I slip the grenade into my pack. Can't
leave it with Charlie.
Descending parallel with the main trail, the jungle
thins out gradually and we reach a narrow open grassy plain. A small river with
steep banks blocks our way. On the other side, the open grassy plain continues
about 50 meters to a wood line and the dense forest backing up a steep slope.
We must cross this open field and the river to the cover of the opposite tree
line.
Still on point, I choose a log spanning the river and quickly wade to
the other side, hiding in the tall grass under the bank. Thompson and Soule cross
next and provide cover from the top of the bank. Lt. Hall is coming over now and
I film him with my Super-8 pocket movie camera. Flores is last. Stepping backward
in the tall grass, my foot breaks through loose soil and I stumble into a hole
carved into the bank. It's man-made! I am sitting on top of foot-long O.D. carton
tubes with Chinese writing on them. Hundreds of them. I don't touch them. They
look like rifle grenades. From above, Thompson reports that there is a trail leading
from the river 50 meters to the wood line and up a ridge back into the jungle.
We send Thompson, Flores and Soule to the tree line to set up a defensive position
securing the trail. Lt. Hall and I remain at the cache examining its contents.
We stack a large pile of the O.D. tubes on top of the bank, but there are plenty
more in that cave. The size of the find overcomes our natural caution about booby-traps.
Lt. Hall is in the hole passing up the tubes. I'm on top of the bank sorting the
pile.
Sudden bursts of automatic fire from the trail at the wood line! Sounds
like our CAR-15's. Quickly throw on my pack and sprint the 50 meters to join the
team. Incoming rounds slice through the leaves high over my head. I low-crawl
the remaining 15 meters, pack still on my back. Gunfire stops. Thompson is already
on the radio with the Oasis reporting the contact. A group of NVA soldiers has
come down the trail towards the river and the hasty ambush set up by the team
has driven them back up the ridge. Thompson passes me the radio and I ask the
Oasis for artillery support. It's raining hard again. Radio contact with the Oasis
fades out. Pull out the SOI. Where's the nearest artillery unit? Dialing up the
frequency. They answer! Thank God! Calculations, grid coordinates, location. Want
to put those rounds between our team at the tree line and the ridge up which the
NVA have fled. Fire Mission! First round smoke. It crashes high on the ridge.
Got to walk it down quickly. Radio goes dead. Damn! Quick, try the Oasis again.
Got the frequency. Only static. It's the damn handset, shorting out in the rain!
Jiggle it back and forth. Finally, radio contact! Oasis comes in loud and clear.
Voice on the other end sounds highly concerned. Where the hell have you been?
Quick! Fire Mission! Give your location. Plastic cover on my map is fogging up,
can't read the coordinates. Damn rain. Can't hear anything either in this downpour.
Handset is cutting out once more. Shit! Open my pack. Screwing in the back-up
handset, my hand is shaking.
Movement on the trail directly in front of us!
Thompson fires his CAR inches from my left ear. I'm deafened. Is that artillery
smoke round forcing the enemy down from the ridge? Are they going to try to overrun
us? We are in a semi-circle, facing the wood line and ridge, packs in front for
protection. Our backs are against the open field and river. We are trapped!
Movement in the brush close in front of me! Dropping the handset and radio. Where's
my CAR! Pack is open. Pick up a grenade and pull the pin. Throwing. Instinct says
don't throw, it's that enemy grenade we had found earlier. Too late, it sails
into the underbrush. Bounces. Coming back towards us! Grenade! I yell to warn
the team as the blast goes over our heads protected by the packs. Short bursts
of automatic fire very close. Can't tell what is incoming or outgoing. Gunfire
stops. The radio is working again and I am reporting the contact to the Oasis.
I must not be very calm as the voice on the other end focuses me on providing
location, distance to enemy, and azimuths. I relax and concentrate on the requirements.
Lt. Hall is here. He brings an armful of those Chicom rifle grenades and we dump
them together with my LAW behind us. He sets up to the right of Soule and I pass
him the radio. The Oasis has sent Cpt. Garnett in his bubble as well as two helicopter
gunships to support us, and we can already hear their rotors whipping up air in
the distance.
The helicopters arrive quickly on station and are ready to strafe
with miniguns. They want to confirm our position. I throw a red smoke to mark
our location. Don't have any other colors. We then fix the enemy positions and
distances from our smoke for the gunships. The gunships will strafe around us
and continue along the tree line, parallel to the river. They are coming in quick
and low. A thousand chainsaws roar! The two ships are side-by-side opening up
with miniguns 100 meters to the left of us. The noise is deafening. I'm diving
face forward into the ground as a green dust cloud is whirling to overwhelm us.
Leaves shredded by thousands of bullets. They're going to kill us! Hot casings
are falling everywhere. Each one hitting me feels like a real bullet. Lungs pound
from the impact as the soil is churned up on both sides of us just meters away.
Absolute terror. In an instant, the gunships separate, leaving us untouched in
the center to continue their run up the wood line. It's over in less than ten
seconds. We're alive!
The gunships are banking sharply to the left now into
the ridge and coming around for another attack on the tree line, almost perpendicular
to the red smoke and the river in front. The first ship fires. A rocket explodes
right where we had the last contact with the NVA. Damn that's close! The second
gunship follows low and is almost on top of us. He's going to fire! Thompson is
sitting up next to me watching it coming in. I yell to him. Down! Diving under
my pack I hear Lt. Hall calling into the radio: Check fire! Check fire! A huge
fist slams my pack backwards into my head while a blast from behind throws me
up into the air.
Silence. Total relief. It has finally happened! All the constant
anxiety and fear waiting for the unknown to arrive, and now it's finally here.
It's all over and I don't have to worry about it any more. Calm. Curious. What's
going to happen now?
Slammed to the ground. Can't move. Deaf. Lungs burning,
can't breathe. Numb. Acrid stink of explosives. Can't see anything. There is dense
smoke on the ground, even the wet grass is burning. I hear cries of pain.
I'm not dead? Can't be. Get up! Get up! You've got to get up now! I stand up.
The only one up. Feel head, arms, stomach, legs. I'm not dead! Laughing. Cries
of pain again, but not as loud.
To the right, Soule is sitting up holding
his elbow and rocking back and forth. The bone is shattered and blood is spurting
a foot into the air. Soule's eyes tell me that he's going into shock. Stop shooting;
stop shooting, he repeats quietly.
Can't think straight. Automatically reach
for the medical kit all team members carry in the same side pocket. Mumbling to
myself…clear the airway…stop the bleeding…treat shock… Countless hours of repetitive
first aid training take over as hands mechanically work tourniquet, pressure dressings,
blood expander serum tubing. It's over in minutes; the bleeding has stopped. The
smoke is dispersing. I see a jungle boot on the ground, empty, still laced all
the way up. How can this be? It's Thompson's! His leg is naked from the knee down.
All white, thin, and strangely distorted. Limp like a rag, like there is no bone
left. No blood anywhere, but I can smell that terrible scent of burning flesh.
No other wounds. I look at Thompson; he's conscious and trying to say something.
But there is no sound. His eyes are like hooks holding on to me. He's trying to
say something but I don't understand. I try to reassure him. You'll be O.K. It's
just a leg wound. You'll be O.K. I bandage the leg, but don't know what else I
can do. Inside, I feel that something's terribly wrong.
Close by, Flores is
coming to; he has been knocked out by the concussion but seems to be all right.
On the other side of Soule, Lt. Hall is sitting up holding his leg and talking
rapidly into the radio. I look at his foot. A metal fragment has passed completely
through his ankle leaving holes on both sides of his boot. I give it a shot of
morphine.
We have taken a direct hit from the gunship's rocket. It exploded
in front of us and the pack I was using for shelter is shredded. The claymore
and other gear inside have deflected the shrapnel away from my head. The LAW and
the Chicom rifle grenades stacked behind us are all gone, detonated in a secondary
explosion.
Cpt. Garnett lands by the river in his bubble and we are carrying
Soule to him. Strap him in next to the pilot. We run with Thompson. He's heavy
and it's far across the field. That terrible smell of burning flesh again. Can't
throw up now; have to run! We strap Thompson in on the other side of the pilot.
I look up into his eyes and they have that same strange look. Hanging on to me.
His head rolls to the side. There is a small hole in the base of his skull! I
can see deep inside. No!! The helicopter is lifting off. Wait! Stop! Got to put
a bandage on! Too late, he's already high in the air. I sit on the ground and
cry.
Cpt. Garnett appears, .45 in hand. Somehow I thought that he had left.
No; he has given up his place on the bubble to the wounded and is now on the ground
with us. He's concerned that the NVA could attack again. Since the explosion,
I had completely forgotten about the enemy! We quickly form a defensive position.
Cpt. Garnett picks up Soule's chopped 79, giving it a suspicious look. He doesn't
say anything - hope he's not thinking about destruction of government property.
The bubble comes back for Lt. Hall. The rest of us are extracted to Pleiku without
incident, and the wounded are taken to the hospital.
My first mission as TL,
and "Hotel-Two-Charlie" is no more. I didn't even fire a single shot! The battalion
commander is waiting for me at the LZ. He has helicopters standing by to return
to the site and examine the cache. The Colonel looks at my tigers, ripped and
stained with blood, and keeps asking me: Soldier, are you sure you're not hurt?
Mechanically, I check all over again. No. We fly right to the log crossing and
easily find the pile of rifle grenades still sitting on the riverbank. After some
discussion, the helicopters land quite a distance away and the troops gingerly
search the area. No one touches anything, especially that pile we had made on
the bank. The troops quickly find a series of other weapons caches which follow
along the same riverbank. I walk back alone to the site of our contact. Devastation.
Ground plowed up by the gunship miniguns, thousands of empty casings, large chunks
of metal fragments sticking up, burnt grass, bits of gear. It stinks. All bark
and leaves of surrounding bushes and trees have been blown clean from their trunks
about eighteen inches from the ground. How the hell did we survive this? I start
walking up the trail near the tree line where the NVA had been. Maybe we got some
of them. But the Colonel is calling me back; the choppers are ready to lift off.
Back at the Oasis I don't talk to anyone. Go straight to my tent, put on headphones,
and turn the music up very loud to drown out any thoughts, and to let the numbness
take over. 12 July 1968. A visit to the wounded at the hospital in Pleiku is organized
for the unit that morning. I can't go. They are wounded and I am not. Feel guilty.
Will they blame me? Should we have split the team up along a known enemy trail
and leave it in a vulnerable position? Did the gunships confuse our position for
the enemy's because of my red smoke? Did I treat Thompson's wounds correctly?
Did I make a mistake?
Thompson is dead in the afternoon.
As his close
friend, I'm asked to go through Thompson's personal effects to separate what can
be sent to his folks. This is very painful and I decline. I can't touch the belongings
that he touched only a little while ago when he was still alive and now can no
longer own.
19 July 1968. I receive orders to escort Thompson's remains home
to Ward Cove, Alaska and be present at the military funeral. Days later I'm in
Oakland airport in uniform waiting for a commercial flight up north. Two burly
M.P.'s guide me persuasively to the nearest restroom. My unauthorized black beret
with the L.R.R.P. patch has their attention. They want to see orders for my CIB
too. Take them! Rip off the CIB and throw it on the floor. Shaking with rage.
Measuring distance to strike the M.P. nearest to me. But they see my escort orders
and quickly back off without another word. Alone, pick up the CIB and try to calm
down. Face in the mirror stares back empty.
The funeral is held a few days
later with full military honors. I think back to a conversation a month before
where Thompson had a premonition of being killed. He had some repeated close calls
on his last few missions and felt that his chances were running out. But he continued
to volunteer for missions. The job was important, and he had to be with his friends.
Thompson specifically asked me then that if he was indeed killed in action, that
there would only be a simple funeral for him. He did not want to be the center
of some ceremony attended by casual spectators who had no idea about why Thompson
had to keep going out on those missions. To him this was a very private commitment
not to be shared with outsiders. And here I was facilitating an official ceremony
and failing to protect his final wish. I folded up the flag in that tight triangle
over Thompson's coffin, closed my eyes to block out all of the strangers around,
and imagined that they were all instead Thompson's team mates from the Oasis.
Good-bye old friend.
Nick |
