Writings Page _________________________________________ "So.........What Was Vietnam REALLY like?"
VIETNAM AND THE AMERICAN FIGHTING MAN
Viet Nam, to the American fighting man here, half a world from home, the name means many things - almost none of them good. It means the farthest place from those he loves. It means the CLOSEST place to death. It may mean a rice paddy where he lost his best friend. It does mean a war in which he most surely and quickly lost the last remnants of his own boyhood. It would be cruel enough without war.
For Viet Nam is stagnant rice paddies, red clay gumbo, prehensile jungle vines, bamboo thickets and 12 foot elephant grass. It is weeks of 120 degree heat and 95% humidity, or drought and monsoon and flood. It is a country of two seasons, hot and dry, and hot and wet. Or mixed, for as one GI complained, "This is the only place in the world where you can be shoulder deep in mud and have dust blowing in your face at the same time".
It is the residence of the inch long red ant, the Malaria mosquito, the bamboo flea and the bamboo viper, the Russell viper, pit viper, cobra, banded krait, four inch long cockroach and a couple of snakes that perform under the aliases of Mr.Two Foot and One Step Charlie. Needless to say, ALL poisonous. Spiders, lizards, flies, rats, bats, leeches and a million other insects -no two alike, thrive here. So does Malaria, Jungle Rot, Typhus, Fungus, immersion Foot, Dysentery, Pneumonia, Sunburn, Head Prostration, Tuberculosis, Leprosy and a couple of Asiatic ailments we haven't quite put a handle on yet.
They thrive, all of them. But, miraculously, so does the spirit of that amazing being, the American Fighting Man. Every day he meets the challenges of the cruel and agonizing war. He survives. He even triumphs. And what he has to go through, few civilians know. And NO ONE knows who has not been to Viet Nam. General Eisenhower, in another war, once exploded to a war correspondent, "I get so eternally tired of the lack of understanding of what the infantry soldier endures.....I get so fighting mad because of the general lack of appreciation of real Heroism which is the uncomplaining acceptance of unendurable conditions...."
The uncomplaining acceptance of unendurable conditions......the statement could have waited for a more appropriate war. This one. The numerous muddy front lines in Viet Nam may complain, but it is the healthy, time-honored fashion of the GI gripe. And the GI here DOES accept the unendurable. He accepts 18 hour workdays with no women, booze or overtime pay. And he accepts the million other little bitterness's of Viet Nam......the Halozone tablet in a canteen of rice paddy water, the bites and stings of insects, the grime, the dirt, the dust, the mud, the kind of sweat you bleed. He accepts the facts of rotting wrist-watch bands, a "Dear John" letter, reconstituted milk, canned meat, three salt tablets a day, last choice at the C-rations, and when he can even find it, WARM beer.
He hears Hanoi Hannah reading our casualty reports each night over Radio Hanoi. Sees his friends fall in battle, and he endures. And he endures the sight of a mortally wounded child, the cries of pain and "MEDIC" and "CORPSMAN", the smell of DEATH and the taste of FEAR, the prospect of the next patrol, the RAWEST emotions of the battle, and his own dreams.
For Viet Nam is these. And it is mumbled prayers under the sounds of incoming artillery, and learning to laugh at things that aren't really funny. It is the fears and doubts about yourself in battle, because you know if you stop to think about them during battle it could get you killed. It is wanting a WAR STORY without having to live it, and then living it and not wanting it. It is the PHONY war story every man despises and the war story too TRUE to ever be told. It is the fear of cowardice and fear of courage.
The American Fighting Man endures all of these, and performs everything his country asks of him. For the task, he fuels himself on Courage and Selflessness and Dedication and a Camaraderie that no one who shares will EVER really find anywhere else again, and he gets along on the most simple and pathetic, most God-awful seemingly unimportant pleasures. The sweat wrinkled photograph of a loved one, the sight of a Saffron yellow mail bag and a letter from home - or mail addressed simply to "A fighting man in Viet Nam", a clear stream with no leeches, or a nights sleep in a real bed. He cherishes hot chow, cold beer or a cool breeze. Or the reminders of home, a USO show, a circled date on a Short-timer's calendar, a favorite tune over Armed Forces Radio, or a week old copy of Stars and Stripes reassuring him that America still exists. His satisfactions are a burst of insect repellant on a leech's back or a dry cigarette.
And there IS humor, even here, not side splitting humor, but humor that fights the grimness and makes it bearable. "Didja' hear? A couple of mosquitoes landed over at DaNang Air Base the other day and Ground Support pumped 50 gallons of AVGAS into them before they realized they weren't F-4's", or "Hot Damn! Only 300 days and a wake-up, I'M SHORT". "It must be Sunday, they're feedin us Malaria pills again". And humor sprouts in the signs which GI's brand their whereabouts, "No one would DARE mortar this place and end all the confusion". On a roadside, "Drive carefully, the life you save may be your replacement". On the fuselage of an ancient C-47 transport, "Trans Paddy Airways", or outside a Marine's tent in Chu-Lai, "Chu-Lai Hilton, VACANCY", or on the side of a C-123 used to spray defoliant, "Remember, only you can prevent forests", and a much in evidence bumper sticker, "Support your Fighting Men in Viet Nam".
There is a slang in his speech. Lots, every other word sometimes. His dangerous, merciless adversary, the Viet-cong (VC or Victor Charlie in military phonetics) becomes simply CHARLIE or OLD CHARLIE. And every little Vietnamese street urchin becomes CHARLIE-SAN though they usually rate the affectionate GI pat on the head with the term, unless one has just run by and stolen your wrist-watch. Then, you grab them by the neck.
Even though billets, hooch's and tents are papered with Playboy foldouts, the memory of American womanhood is distant in his mind. To be referred to as Round Eye, Smooth Legged Woman who exists in the Land of the Big PX is about all that is spoken.
Air mattresses become rubber ladies, Piasters become "P'Z", Military Payment Certificates become Funny Money, Replacements become Turtles (because they take FOREVER to get here), and an enemy infested jungle becomes "VC National Forest". Fighting Men are, Jet Jockeys, Groundpounders, Grunts, Snuffies, River Rats, Stump Jumpers, Straight legs, and Saigon Warriors depending on their unit, rating and/or assignment. Vietnamese become Slopes, Gooks, Dinks and other assorted epithets. Montagnard Tribesmen become Yards, and the enemy becomes (besides Charlie), Congs, Gooneys, Ho's Boys or simply "The Bad Guys", and Charlie gets either Greased, Zapped, Zonked, Massaged or simply Blown-away. Jets are referred to as Birds, Prop airplanes as Spads, Scooters or Tinker toys. Snakes are Mr. No Shoulders. And there is the Thousand Yard Stare in a Ten Foot Room and the Million Dollar Wound (just serious enough to earn a ride Stateside).
There is, too, a less imaginative Alphabet Soup of letter abbreviations that lubricates the Language and Paperwork. Samples: WIA (Wounded In Action), DMZ (De-Militarized Zone), LZ (Landing Zone), FAC (Forward Air Controller), and so on....through VC, K'S, PAVN'S, ARVN, MACV, TAOR, MPC'S, and a thousand OTHER combinations and alphabetum.
The war has a favorite phrase, in Vietnamese "Xin Loi", which means "Sorry 'bout that". It is employed for every stumble, oversight, injustice, burp, blister or disaster. "Xin Loi", may be the LAST words Charlie ever hears.
And finally, everything succumbs to a GI rating system of Number ONE (Satisfactory), and Number TEN (UN-Satisfactory). There are no numbers in between. No GI wants any. In a GRAY, confusing WAR - a Number TEN War - It's nice to deal in BLACKS and WHITES again.
So, WHO is this remarkable American our country has sent to Viet Nam? Who IS this guy we pay the lavish sum of $65.00 extra a month and even forgive the trouble of filling out Income Tax forms, for what can only be the most underpaid work in the world? He is, of course, many men, many types, he is the Cool, Mature, Professional Officer and he is the BATTLE WISE Non-Com on his second tour of his third WAR. But MOSTLY, he's a YOUNG American (some COMBAT UNITS average 18 ˝ years of age), who would prefer to be back home doing other things, but who by chance of history is here. He VOLUNTEERED or by lack of a deferment was DRAFTED, but he is here because he LOVES his Country. By all accounts and opinions, he is the SMARTEST, STRONGEST, BEST TRAINED, MOST SPIRITED and COMPETENT Fighting Man our Country has ever sent to war ANYWHERE. He is YOUNG but he is OLD beyond his years because this war is a CRAM COURSE in Maturity and Survival.
Experts marvel at him. "In 60 years of Soldiering and watching Soldiers", writes Military Affairs specialist S.L.A. Marshall, "I have never seen higher morale than that of the U.S. men in Viet Nam...The American fighter here can outwit, out-move and out-game anyone thus far thrown against him. Their main gripe is that the enemy is loath to come out of hiding. Their aggressiveness arises from pride in unit. The bond with their buddies. A wish to get the job over...and an unfaltering belief in the rightness of their task". General William C. WESTMORELAND, Commander of American Forces in Viet Nam, calls him flatly, "The finest fighting man our country has ever produced".
There is a Sacred Brotherhood among Combat Vets. There does not have to be speaking or organized gatherings, there is merely that look, when eyes meet, and you just KNOW. Understand and LOVE you Viet Nam Vet...after what he has been through, he needs that above all else.
Written by: Mike RICE RM - Twice Dong Ha River Security Grp
NSAD Cua Viet
(June1967)
____________________________________________________________ CON THIEN, MAY 1967 A GRUNT’S STORY By Ben Cuartilon
Con Thien was two or three clicks from the DMZ. I remember being able to see a flag out to the North of us. I was told that it was a North Vietnamese Flag on the other side of the DMZ.
Con Thien's perimeter had a series of bunkers interconnected with zigzagging trench lines; with fighting holes dug in next to some of the bunkers. Delta Company had relieved a Marine unit at Con Thien after we had participated for several days as security for CBs or Engineers clearing a strip 200 meters wide, seven miles long between Gio Linn and Con Thien. The Strip was supposed to serve as a barrier complete with barbed wire and towers to prevent and detect North Vietnamese infiltration into the South.
Delta Company had the northern semicircle of the perimeter with other units (including Popular Forces) on the southern semicircle. Inside Con Thien's perimeter was an airstrip - laid diagonally from about 4 o'clock to ten o'clock - used to bring in supplies. Still on the inside, near the south end of the air strip, near 4 o'clock was what appeared to be a Special Forces camp and filling the gap to the other end of the air strip behind the Company CP was some of the heavy equipment used to clear the jungle.
When we first arrived at Con Thien, I approached Gunny Elliot. I thought he was a drill instructor, (and God knows - 6 months after graduation, I was still a boot!), "Gunny Elliot, Sir?" I said to get his attention. "Speak up, Marine." He replied. "Sir, my socks have holes. Would it be possible to get some socks?" I mumbled.
"Do you have any idea how many Marines need socks out here? Don't count on it." He said. "Just thought I'd ask, sir." I said as I turned to walk away.
A few days later, on Monday afternoon, a Chaplain came out to provide us with church services. I was told that services were not provided on Sundays in the field so that the enemy wouldn't catch us by surprise. Many gathered around near the airstrip for services that afternoon. Our days at Con Thien had been fairly uneventful except for our daily harassment of five or ten incoming mortar rounds in the evening, or an occasional monsoon rain that left the ground running with water and a few guys grabbing their soap to wash up before it ceased.
A week had gone by. It was Sunday morning and B-52's came out and lit up our front. WOW! What a show.
Later, I remember seeing a Vietnamese Popular Force walking westward along the inside of the perimeter stopping to laugh and joke with various Marines. "You come to my home, eat rats, and boom boom my sister,” he said leaving one bunker coming toward me. I just ignored him as he jumped over the trench line leading toward the Mortar pit just behind our bunker near 12 o'clock. He continued on going toward third platoon laughing and joking with whoever would join in with his merriment.
The transports brought in water and c-rats that afternoon. The word came down to fill up our canteens. Walking back from the water, the Gunny yelled for me, "Cuartilon!" I was surprised. I didn't even know that he knew my name. 'Shit!' I thought, 'I must be in trouble.' I walked quickly toward him, "Yes Gunny." "Take care of these." He said tossing me a pair of green socks. My face must of got that Limones' grin from ear to ear. "Thank-you Gunny."
Then I remember coming up with this plan: The Chaplain might come tomorrow on Monday. I am going to take the midnight watch, stay up all night. When morning light comes, I will use one of my canteens to wash my feet and put on my new socks, and if the Chaplain comes, I will be ready for services.
Later that afternoon, someone came around asking for volunteers to help fill the line because one of the platoons was going out on a night ambush. Limones was nearest the Marine and volunteered. I always stood watch with Limones. I started to speak up, and the Marine said, "That's all we need from here". Limones, started to gather his gear. I ask him if he would be OK. He never spoke much, just smiled and nodded yes. "OK, I'll see you tomorrow." I said.
Darkness began to approach. Sunday was coming to an end. I had made arrangements to stand the midnight watch, and I needed to get to sleep. I decided to go to the shitter over by the airstrip before I sacked out. It must have been 7-8 PM. I crawled into the bunker, laid down on the ground, unsnapped the flap on my holster and unbuckled my utility belt letting the ends fall to both sides of my waist. 'That was odd', I thought, 'no evening mortar rounds. The B-52's must of took care of them.' I drifted off to sleep.
The ground began to shake. I could hear explosions. Then I heard several Marines rushing into the bunker, falling on me in the darkness. Waking me, I sat up out of my utility belt grabbing the ends and pulling it from under one of the Marines who had fallen on me and my belt and weapon. "Incoming!" I could hear them yelling as more rushed into the bunker. I remembered thinking - as matter of a drill - that we need to keep watch because the enemy would come in under their own mortar rounds. Pushed up against the wall, I said, "Someone better get a weapon in that port hole." I heard someone move to the porthole.
Then it was silent for a few seconds and I could hear a sound, shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh... Someone yelled "Grenade". Recognizing the sound of a fuse burning, I yelled back, "Satchel Charge!" Kablooie!!!! It exploded. I felt trapped in the bunker pinned against the wall. I said, "I don't know about you guys, but I am going outside. I want to see who is going to kill me." We started moving out into the trench line. Some this way and others that way. I thought I was last and paused just outside the hatch. When I heard moaning behind me. I turned. It was Stony laying half in half out of the bunker on rubble in the hatch way. He must have been the one who went to look out the port hole when the satchel went off.
'Shit!' I thought not knowing that it would be getting worst. I had to get him help, "Stony, I'm going to get you help." I took off with my utility belt still in my hands zigzagging through the trench line when it occurred to me that I better look around these zigs before I just move into the zags. I had traveled at least three bunkers with perhaps three more to go before I would reach the CP. 'Where was everyone?' I thought not noticing anyone out in the trench line except myself going to get help. But before I stopped myself, my momentum took me into the next lane where I came to a stop. I noticed a silhouette above the trench line crouched under a poncho someone must have put up for shade. I froze hoping that I was not seen, but I know I was making a herd of noise. I reached slowly inside my holster and it was empty! The silhouette turned and I thought saw me. Perhaps without my helmet and my brown skin, he thought I was one of him. He turned away and ran out in front of the perimeter. I turned around and headed back to my bunker. When I reached Stony, he was still moaning. I told him, "Please be quiet. They are everywhere."
I went inside the bunker to get his M-16, which I thought he had left. Thinking that it would jam, I decided to chamber a round and fire it into the bulkhead inside the bunker. Satisfied, I went back out into the trench line. I could see fuses flying through the air, flittering like sparklers tossed in the darkness on the Fourth of July going that way and this way. Then, I could see one coming down out of the dark at me. I fell forward hoping that it wouldn't land on me. Kablooie… It exploded as it hit the parapet shredding the back of my trousers. It felt like a thousand pins sticking me. That same feeling as when your leg falls asleep. In a few seconds the tingling feeling passed. Kablooie, Kablooie, more explosions around me. I fire a few times at silhouettes in front of the perimeter. Marines begin to appear in the trench line some wounded some moving from one place to another.
I am not sure how much time goes by, but I hear a sound of someone coming up from behind me - from the direction of third platoon - I turn quickly pointing my weapon at the figure who shouts, "Don't Shoot!" It was Lt. Baker. He said that he was needed at the CP, adding that there was some enemy movement in front of the tank four or five bunkers to my right where third platoon startedMy Squad Leader Cpl. Jette, was in the fighting hole next to our bunker. After Lt. Baker passed by me, I told Jette what Baker had said. Jette said to cover him as he pulled some grenades and prepared to toss them in front of the tank. I'm covering for him when he yells, "Get DOWN!" I start to move down when I see the light of an explosion. I toss my head back to avoid the blast, at the same time, I push back falling on my back several meters back down the trench line. Jette says that he saw a satchel coming down out of the sky when he told me to get down.
Again, I feel that tingling sensation all over my body. I knell and notice that the tingling is subsiding. Keeping watch, I notice that the tingling is not leaving my left hand. Too dark to see, I reach over with my right hand and feel that my left hand is drenched with blood. I quickly grab my bandage and turn to a Marine in the trench line and ask him to wrap my hand tightly. The tingling turns to throbbing pain. Explosions and small arms firing continues for a few more minutes around us.
After a while - I can't say how long - it gets quiet around our bunker. I have three rounds left in Stony's M-16. Others around us are also running low on ammo. Cpl Jette finds a radio; the handset is broken in half. Sitting back against the bulkhead of the trench line, I see and hear him talking to the CP (I presume) giving an ammo and casualty report using this broken hand set. The sounds of explosions seemed to be moving around to other parts of the perimeter. The Special Forces camp is burning, we can see enemy silhouettes moving about the camp.
A short time later, the CB's or Engineers from their CP among the bulldozers and other heavy equipment come out to re-enforce our positions. With M-1s or M-14s and twenty rounds of ammunition. With enemy movement to our front again it isn't long before they are out of ammunition too. My bandage is drenched and I wrap another around my hand as I lay in the trench line between the bunker and the Mortar Pit. One of the Engineers turns to me and says, "I am out of Ammo." I offer him Stony's M-16 telling him not to use the last three rounds until the enemy is in his face.
After I gave up the M-16, I remember how scared I became. It was so dark. I seem to remember a slight misty haze that made the night darker.
Soon there after, I heard Cpl Jette asking for volunteers to go to the tank that had long been abandoned, and see what kind of weapons could be had there. Well, he took three or four Marines who had not been wounded. They were gone 10-15 minutes and returned with a 30-caliber machine gun and several cases of ammo. The sweetest sound I heard that night. However, it seems that enemy troops that were inside the perimeter started crawling from behind us trying to take out the 30 cal. Several of them were spotted on the airstrip and killed from the Mortar Pit.
After several hours, Puff showed up dropping flares that helped us to see, but when the flare burnt out, with our night vision gone, it became darker than before. It seemed too long before the next flair was dropped. I could see bodies of the wounded and dead were lying in the trench line. I remember a Corpsman working his way from body to body; he stopped at one Marine who had lost his leg below the knee. Stayed there for a while and moved to the next. I asked him to leave me another bandage to put on my hand, which was soaked again.
Morning finally came and VC trapped inside the perimeter were killed or captured trying to hide or fight their way out. The dead were brought to the CP. Rows of bodies covered with ponchos. The wounded were ordered to the CP for medevac. I told Jette when I left; “See you in a few days.” not knowing the extent of my injuries. I was shipped home on the 9th of May. When I got to Oak Knoll Naval Hospital in Ca., I wrote back to ask about Limones and others. I was told that he and the gunny among others were killed that night.
A moment of silence for all of our fallen brothers....
COPYRIGHT 1-7-2000 by Ben Cuartilon ________________________________________________________________________________
INSIDE THE WALL
At first there was no place for us to go until someone put up that Black Granite Wall. Now, everyday and night, my Brothers and my Sisters wait to see the many people from places afar file in front of this Wall. Many stopping briefly and many for hours and some that come on a regular basis. It was hard at first, not that it's gotten any easier, but it seems that many of the attitudes towards that war that we were involved in have changed. I can only pray that the ones on the other side have learned something and more Walls as this one, needn't be built.
Several members of my unit and many that I did not recognize have called me to the Wall by touching my name that is engraved upon it. The tears aren't necessary but are hard even for me to hold back. Don't feel guilty for not being with me, my Brothers. This was my destiny as it is yours, to be on that side of the Wall. Touch the Wall, my Brothers, so that we can share in the memories that we had. I have learned to put the bad memories aside and remember only the pleasant times that we had together. Tell our other Brothers out there to come and visit me, not to say Good Bye but to say Hello and be together again, even for a short time and to ease that pain of loss that we all share.
Today, an irresistible and loving call comes from the Wall. As I approach I can see an elderly lady and as I get closer I recognize her It's Momma! As much as I have looked forward to this day, I have also regretted it because I didn't know what reaction I would have.
Next to her, I suddenly see my wife and immediately think how hard it must of been for her to come to this place and my mind floods with the pleasant memories of 30 years past. There's a young man in a military uniform standing with his arm around her......My God!......It's has to be my son. Look at him trying to be the man without a tear in his eye. I yearn to tell him how proud I am, seeing him standing tall, straight and proud in his uniform.
Momma comes closer and touches the Wall and I feel the soft and gentle touch I had not felt in so many years. Dad has crossed to this side of the Wall and through our touch, I try to convey to her that Dad is doing fine and is no longer suffering or feeling pain. I see my wife's courage building as she sees Momma touch the Wall and she approaches and lays her hand on my waiting hand. All the emotions, feelings and memories of three decades past flash between our touch and I tell her that it's all right.
Carry on with your life and don't worry about me. I can see as I look into her eyes that she hears and understands me and a big burden has been lifted from her.
I watch as they lay flowers and other memories of my past. My lucky charm that was taken from me and sent to her by my CO, a tattered and worn teddy bear that I can barely remember having as I grew up as a child and several medals that I had earned and were presented to my wife. One of them is the Combat Infantry Badge that I am very proud of and I notice that my son is also wearing this medal. I had earned mine in the jungles of Vietnam and he had probably earned his in the deserts of Iraq.
I can tell that they are preparing to leave and I try to take a mental picture of them together, because I don't know when I will see them again. I wouldn't blame them if they were not to return and can only thank them that I was not forgotten. My wife and Momma near the Wall for one final touch and so many years of indecision, fear and sorrow are let go. As they turn to leave I feel my tears that had not flowed for so many years, form as if dew drops on the other side of the Wall.
They slowly move away with only a glance over their shoulder. My son suddenly stops and slowly returns. He stand straight and proud in front of me and snaps a salute. Something makes him move to the Wall and he puts his hand upon the Wall and touches my tears that had formed on the face of the Wall and I can tell that he senses my presence there and the pride and the love that I have for him. He falls to his knees and the tears flow from his eyes and I try my best to reassure him that it's all right and the tears do not make him any less of a man. As he moves back wiping the tears from his eyes, he silently mouths, God Bless you, Dad. God Bless, YOU, Son. We WILL meet someday but in the meanwhile, go on your way. There is no hurry. There is no hurry at all.
As I see them walk off in the distance, I yell out to THEM and EVERYONE there today, as loud as I can, THANKS FOR REMEMBERING and as others on this side of the Wall join in, I notice that the US Flag that so proudly flies in front of us everyday, is flapping and standing proudly straight out in the wind today,
"THANK YOU ALL FOR REMEMBERING"
For he today, that sheds his blood with me, shall be my brother.
Author Unknown)
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VIETNAM MEMORIES
By
Dan McCall
8 MAY 1967: Con Thien
The early morning silence was broken by a hale of enemy mortar rounds tearing
into Delta Companies position at Con Thien. Many Marines were unable to get
out of their bunkers before NVA sappers unloaded bags of TNT and destroyed
them; bring death and destruction. Those that were able to man their
positions; faced two reinforced battalions of hard core NVA regulars, which
were trying their best to annihilate our company.
Each Marine fought his own private battles as wave after wave of NVA soldiers
pressed forward. The sounds of the NVA AK-47 automatic fire, Mortars, M-16
rifles on automatic and explosions from hand grenades, satchel charges and RPG
rounds filled the air. At some point, one of the "friendly" South Vietnamese
tanks behind first platoons lines opened fire on the Marine bunkers in front
of it. Thinking that the tank crew had "turned" for the enemy, I shot at the
tank commander that was just barely visible in the commanders hatch of his
tank. I could not tell if I hit him, but he disappeared back into the tank and
for the rest of the fight the tank remained quite. Within minutes, I was blown
off the top of the bunker I was firing from into the trench line behind it by
either a hand grenade or RPG round. Other than the concussion and being deaf
as a door know, I was ok and continued to fire at the NVA from the trench
line.
Soon I was almost out of ammo and darted into the bunker near me searching for
extra ammunition. It must have been my lucky day, because 2nd platoon was away
on an ambush and had left their extra magazines behind. I found about eight
full magazines and tripped over a box of parachute flares on the way back out.
Knowing that our company mortar crew had run out of illumination rounds, I
drug the box into the trench with me. The night was pitch black. We
desperately needed to be able to see the enemy; so I started shooting up a
flare and then firing my rifle. This became an automatic cycle the was
repeated every five minutes or so.
I did not see any of the other Marines in my company, although I could hear
their M-16's firing. At this point, I knew it was up to each Marine to try and
hold their area. As my hearing started to return, I remembered that we had a
Army Quad 40 (Duster) at the corner of 1st and 2nd platoons lines. Hearing no
fire from it, I decided to run down the trench line and see what was going on.
I tripped over dead (and maybe wounded Marines and NVA as I went, since none
made a sound I assumed they were all dead. At first I thought the duster was
out of action, but then I heard voices from under the vehicle.
Peering into the darkened area, I could just make out movement. It was obvious
that the crew chose not to man the weapon because they were scared. I pulled
out my .45 cal pistol and gave them the choice of either dieing where they
were or get out and man their weapon. I guess they decided I meant what I
said, as the crew crawled out and set up the duster guns. I told them that if
they dropped the elevation of the gun to between 35 and 45 degrees and started
firing from right to left, it would catch a lot of NVA off guard. Since I was
afraid to leave the duster crew alone, I repositioned myself near by so I
could keep an eye on them and still fire at the enemy.
In the early dawns light, shadowy enemy figures could be seen breaching our
line of defense and racing into the center of our position. Soon the noise of
Amtrak's were heard coming from the direction of another firebase called Gio
Lyn. Much later I found out that the Amtrak's had been sent with extra troop
and ammunition, but were blown up by NVA RPG rounds as they entered out area.
Soon the sun began to provide light and the few Marines left were giving the
NVA hell. The firing was constant amid the sound of grenades and other weapons
fire. Our radio message must have gotten through, because soon a C-130
aircraft appeared (Puff the Magic Dragon) and cut loose with a devastating
fire from it's gattling guns.
The enemy began to pull back, unable to break and over run the tired and
totally outnumbered Marines. By now it was close to 0730 or there a bouts and
a company of Marines had been helicopter in to a landing zone a few miles away
to support and relieve Delta Company. Around 8:30 or so the last of the firing
had died down. Within 30 minutes the relief company entered our lines. The
last Marines of Delta were either dead, to wounded or too shell shocked to do
anything but drop in place to rest. The initial horror of the nights fire
fight was over, but the horror of finding and treating the wounded came next.
I believe that the relief company was able to located an bury in a mass grave
over 196 NVA soldiers. With the exception of 2nd platoon , which had been on
an ambush away from the base that night, I think there were only 7 or 8
non-wounded Marines and God knows how many wounded and dead Marines. For those
that died that night, I hope they know somehow that the NVA paid a very high
price for attacking Delta Company. . .
