Khe Sanh Veterans Association Inc.

Red Clay
Newsletter of the Veterans who served at Khe Sanh Combat Base,
Hill 950, Hill 881, Hill 861, Hill 861-A, Hill 558
Lang-Vei and Surrounding Area

Issue 46   Spring Summer 2000

Memoirs

Home
In This Issue
Notes From The Editor and Board    Health Matters   Reunion
Short Rounds   Poetry   Poems    In Memoriam

Articles on This Section
Sadness   Passing Time   Going to See Chris
Return to Khe Sanh

By Talis Kaminskis

Allow yourself the sadness. Reach down farther into the dark of emotions than ever before. BE YOURSELF! The creature of anger and rage that your life has lived. The young Marine's soul heard and cried. And cowered once again at the reality of having to confront himself. Repeatedly, it was built on all he had ever dreamed for. As a child, it brought a parent's warm arms. Growing into the teen years, the attention of young ladies. Now, in a land that held all that he knew, it portended to bring despair. He strove to avoid the forlorn emotion, but with beastly independence, it rose and rose, and it breached his private little world. From eyes that had learned to have only one look, rolled forth the merciful plea for tears. Pressure releasing, sin washing, guilt ridding tears. Strong, descriptive, communicating fears. Lied, cried and begged for them; Oh how he cried for their need. His mouth open, gasping for the breath needed to replenish the tremendous energy now pouring out of his soul. How grating were the screams resonating with his plea. His arms heralded the trembling and shaking that was to come, and with unintended actions, dropped from his grasp the constant weapon. Not laying it down with the care and importance it deserved, but casting it from his grip, in direct denial demanded by his experience. An act of defiance, letting it fall, into the dirt, into an area beyond reach. Quickly his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. Gripping, squeezing, giving the illusion of companionship. He needed to be held, to feel the touch, to acknowledge the truth governing the momentum beyond his control. Desperation was the master of the moment and, in his mind he cried. Cried to overcome. Cried to hold himself. Cried to let himself go. The visions of blood and pain flitted through his mind. His heart pained as he visualized the still bodies. Past their violence he walked, kept walking, until now. The river washing his being stopped flowing. Its current parted and, lying on the revealing shore, laid one who had been his friend. So close had been their bond that sharing had become a commitment. Sealed with an unspoken pact that each could depend on the other. Such frailties of men did not take into account the power of time and circumstance. His friend died. Whatever they possessed lay fallen with him. "I WILL NOT FEEL" echoed through the young Marine. Had risen from the ashes and proclaimed his escape from beyond the power. Clutching at the reality of the situation, the young Marine drove deep the bonds that could cause such pain. Shoulders and chest tightened; a prelude to the clenching of the jaw. Who now had the power to be a part of him? Were there any worthy of his love? Could there be one who could walk his path and not be weak enough to fall victim to war's tribulations? What made him think that he was so mighty? That he could challenge death on its own terms and come out the victor? Who in the hell did he think he was to be such a self-appointed judge, jury, and executioner? And it came. The one word came.Why? Why? why? WHY??????? The word that let himself feel. A word that brought pain. Yes, there was pain in his world. AND HE FELT IT. LET HIMSELF FEEL IT. PAIN THAT WAS A PART OF HIM. If he had any inkling of what the tears would bring, surely he would not let himself be subjected to this. But he had too. He had to let himself be. An island he had become, and an island he could not remain. No matter how enticingly it appealed to him. His body existed in a physical world. One where somewhere there was life. Where a hand was still held out and a body caressed in love. Where a smile was not cynical and a face possessed a name. He cried for himself and he cried for them all. Rising above the punishing shame. Surging past its restraints. His oath was again silent But it was strong. A vessel for more tears. An endless supply. Rolling down a mountain that no one had climbed in a long time He collapsed to his knees, trembling and sagging. A body tired and drained from feeling confronted. Stretched to physical limits not meant to be tested Nothing could have prepared him for this. It had to be his. Unbidden. Unplanned. Unasked. Revelation was a master not to be trifled with. It scoured the essence of those whose needs drove them to enter its realm. And yet it accomplished nothing more than to act as a mirror to its invader. Existence was a harsh teacher and, the tears drove the lesson deep. Ahead still lay more of the reasons for there being Footprints would disappear, but they could not be erased His path would test again and again.

Top Side

Passing Time

Memories of the D.C. Reunion July 1-5, 1998
By Ernie Spencer

The precise symmetry of chalk white stone captures my gaze as I travel from a pleasant morning visit at Arlington. My eyes stare out a tinted picture window at row upon row of white gravestones I reflect upon this final place through which I wind. These fellow warriors. All their lives. All their stories I feel at one with them. To see them I need only look in a mirror, or, glance across the aisle of our air-conditioned bus at a somber, Khe Sanh brother He gazes outward, engrossed in his own personal world of lonely-contemplation. "Cogitate'n," Pipes calls it. Memories, I prefer. I had witnessed a beautiful, touching, ceremony beside the flagpole adjacent to the Tomb Of The Unknown Soldier. Large trees and fortunate location hid the ceremony from the bright rays of cloudless sun.

   The guys from Echo Company, Second Battalion, Twenty Sixth Marine Regiment, got the United States Marine Corps Awards Branch to reluctantly give up a Bronze Star. Heroic actions thirty years ago are fondly remembered during their chanted, often choking-back-tears recollections by Echo company brothers. One after another they step forward. Middle aged men in suits and ties speak of a time from their teens when they knew this man. They recall a brave, funny, good-hearted buddy who was killed in-action, one day and another firefight after the award date. His beautifully aged mother and middle-aged siblings stand in awe by all which goes on around and for them. There is a magic at such times. An enveloping air which binds together the participants. The ceremony breathes through and for those present.

   We go out for pizza at one the next morning. We run the one block gauntlet of hookers, pimps, and late-night panhandlers along, 'L Street. The pizza joint is the only thing open cheap pizza, sandwiches, and, beer by the pitcher. From 10 am until 4 in the morning. Seven days a week. The stink of nicotine and yeast of beer and pizza hits me going through the glass front door. Some real old, stooped, wrinkled, withered guy with a cigarette hanging out one side of a pouting mouth sets down a couple of pizzas within twenty minutes after we order. "We were here yesterday," Paul says. "That guy," he nods towards the old dude as he shuffles off, "that guy works the whole time. Ten in the morning till four the next. No breaks." Better him than me, I think.

Met a classmate (same platoon) from Officers Basic School 1965 at the reunion. Served with this guy in the same battalion at Khe Sanh in 1967 and a little of '68. This guy is now some businessman. Owns his own company and does not remember me. He says he's just fine.

Finally got to meet Ernest Jones after thirty years. Ernest was platoon sergeant for Delta weapons. I had a four-thirty wake up so I didn't hang out after the banquet on the Fourth. From my bed I watch the televised World Cup Soccer match between Holland and Brazil. Fireworks a few miles away send booming shock waves right through the walls and closed windows of my corner room. I look out the large windows that rattle and creak. White, red, green and other radiant colors spray outward in blooms come alive. My stomach is calm. The sounds do not send me off on another trip down memory lane. I pass unaware into sleep.

There are persons whose voices are distinct if not unique. Some say mine is one. But there is, and can only be, one, Fish. The ringing phone wakes me. The clock says well after 11 pm. "Eh Skippah, Jooones is fanahly heah." Fish says "Jones" like he's chewing---on a large piece 'of sausage and onion pizza. My meeting Ernest after thirty years is electrifying. I see his back as I enter the hospitality suite.

There is a good crowd both standing and seated. Beer flows in the corner Delta occupies. Jones has a Delta company red ballcap, unadjusted for size, precariously perched on his George Foreman-styled head. I walk up behind him. He's tripping, shouting and bouncing, recounting Delta memories. "Sergeant Jones," I say, matter-of-factly, like I used to when we ran together. He spins around. Starts shaking. "Ohhh... Man... Skipper," he goes, then leaps and grabs me. Jones still works out. I don't. He's not just hugging. This guy squeezes me so hard I feel my lower colon start to emerge. He lifts me off the ground despite being considerably shorter than me. I believe he is going to crush me to death. Damn, I think. I survive Khe Sanh and Vietnam only to die at the hands of one of my own guys. After extricating myself from his death grip, I hold him at arms length while trying to recover my wind. "It's good to see you again, Ernest," I say in a noticeably higher octave, breathless voice. He moves again to embrace me, but my arms remain locked at the shoulders, elbows and wrists. Grinning panic on my face. We Khe Sanh vets are if nothing else, survivors.

My calm demeanor at the reunion is due to my own family situation. Since April 1 have been flying continuously to Hawaii while tending to dad's cancer surgery, mores stroke, Dads heart attack and another stroke for room. I felt like I was in a ring, on the ropes, while the Furies pounded me. I did what I always do during such times. Click it down a few notches. Shut it down until the incoming quiets. I keep reminding myself that it is my morn and dad doing the dance with death, but I still have to watch and listen. In the space of several months I see morn and dad go from being loving parents, to very unhappy children. Five days after the reunion my parents leave Hawaii for probably the last time.

I put Mom in a nursing home and Dad in an assisted living center. Alameda where they reside is forty-five minutes from me, each way, in light traffic. Perhaps in time I will relocate them closer, but for now, I want the best nursing home in the Bay Area and it is supposedly the one at Alameda where mom resides.

On the fifteenth of July I leave for what I hope is a final trip to Hawaii. Until this savage bout of illness in my family I had harbored a dream of someday returning to my childhood home. But, now, I am physically sickened by the site of Oahu. The plane descends on its final approach. I look out the left window at the subdivision where my folks' home is up for sale. Check. Check. Check. Dad wanted me to do a final check. That's how dad is. I feel sad as I walk the empty Ewa Beach home my folks had custom built. Throughout their sixty years of marriage they have accumulated a fair net worth by investing exclusively in real estate. My parents have owned and lived in over forty homes. This empty one I walk, the last.

I stop at Punchbowl National Cemetery Of The Pacific for the first time since Vietnam. Frenchy Deschaine and Jim Littier are just four graves apart. Punchbowl is an ancient volcano that overlooks Honolulu and Waikiki. It was more than rude, I knew, them being there since 1968 and me never paying my respects. I'm a Khe Sanh guy. We do some things only when we're ready. Frenchy was a Delta company squad leader. Died like a Delta guy of the times. Gunshot. Saw his obituary in the Honolulu paper. I'd only been home from Vietnam a couple of days. I needed to get a job. l didn't have the time for it and all "it" involved, then.

Jim Littier and I were two of the original six, PLCs (Platoon Leaders Class) from Hawaii in 1963. The other four DORed (Dropped On Request). Becoming a Marine officer is all about playing macho. I often wonder about those other four guys. How their quitting affected them. If you dropped out of the Marine PLC program, you were not subject to the draft. Jim and I were commissioned at graduation in 1965. Jim was older. He'd done a tour as a Mormon missionary before college. Jim went to the Mormon Church College at Laie. I went to the Catholic, Chaminade College domiciled on a hillside with a seaward view of Diamond Head, Waikiki and Punchbowl. Jim made the mistake of trying to convert me to his religion during a lay-over at Treasure Island, San Francisco. We had just successfully completed the first of two, summer boot camps at Quantico. It was the summer of 1963.I cannot recall my exact words, but I remember that Jim did not take kindly to my extemporaneous tirade on organized religion. He had been talking religion and his faith non-stop since we left Hawaii over a month and a half earlier. I felt that I had to stop him. He was driving me nuts. What really did it was when he arrogantly asked me if I ever "truly" had a religious experience. One where I felt the "spirit." I was laying on my bunk with my hands behind my head. Jim sat on a bunk across from me. "Yes," I yelled and sat straight up. "I often do while I'm doing it in the back seat of a car or on a blanket at the beach with some sweet thing." I recall that sarcastic line of mine as I stand beside him. His cement gravestone seems much older than its thirty years. The cement is pocked and seems unvisited, like Frenchy's.

The stones of Punch bowl do not stand like those at Arlington. They lie flat upon the ground. Jim was a CH-46 helicopter pilot and went down with his entire crew. "I'm sorry guys. Please forgive me," I say, glancing between them. Tearing, I turn and walk the short incline on the southeast side. I look down into the crater that helped build Oahu. Now, dull white stones on rich green lawns have claimed its interior. A circular road wanders the lower portion like a casually tossed, black lei. Punchbowl is full. Only cremations now allowed. Who will remember any of this a hundred years from now? I turn, and gaze outward at Waikiki. My old college and Kaimuki lay hidden behind towering concrete structures, thrust up, like surreal, tombstones. I hear laughter from the gods on the breeze that sweeps by my face and ear. Playful, songfull laughter. I turn, and look down into the crater at Frenchy and Jim. There is no past or future. Only this moment.

Mamma died three months after the reunion. We'll place her ashes at Punchbowl to wait for dad. Dad was Army. I'm toying with the idea of going there myself, when the time comes.

Ernie Spencer

Top Side

By Jack Stoddard

I'm writing this story in memory of my friend Chris Cordova and for all of us who were privileged to have known him during his short life. It's three o'clock in the morning, Friday July 3, 1998. I just opened the garage door of my home in Las Vegas and I'm on my way back into the house to get my coffee. I can hear the deep mellow sound of the dual exhaust on my restored classic, a 1960 Chevy El Camino, echoing off the garage walls. I'm going to visit the final resting place of Chris Cordova with whom I served some twenty eight years ago in Vietnam.

After many hours of research with the help of my wife, Sue, we were able to locate Chris's hometown and with Sue's magic fingers on the keyboard of the computer, we even had a phone number for Robert Cordova who turned out to be the younger brother of Chris! After talking with Robert and finding out exactly were Mosquero, New Mexico, was, I decided that I needed to go and say a final goodbye to my young friend. I needed to close that door as I opened some new ones. Some 750 miles and fourteen hours from now, I'll finally be with my friend again.

The traffic was light as I drove over Hoover Dam, navigated the steep canyon, and headed for Kingman, Arizona. The trip was nice and it stayed cool all the way to Flagstaff before I rolled down the windows to pick up a breeze. I love driving across 1-40. Being a classic car buff, I really enjoy going seventy-miles-per-hour and looking into the backyards along the way to see what kind of old cars were parked there. On this trip, I didn't hear the normal, "stop looking around and keep your eyes on the road," that Sue would constantly be telling me. This journey was on my own. This was my quest, something I had wanted to do for a long time.

Around three o'clock that afternoon, I pulled into Tucumcari, New Mexico, and started on Route 54 toward the town of Logan. It was nice to get off the interstate and travel on the back roads again. The weather was great! Hot, but still very nice with white clouds cutting off the heat of the sun every so often. When I arrived in Logan, I followed the old Main Street through the city. You could see that at one time it must have been a busy place, but now a lot of the stores were closed and boarded, just as in many small towns across the country.

As I kept going north, the road seemed to be getting smaller and smaller until I finally turned on Route 39 and headed into the tiny town of Mosquero, my final destination. Now the road was a narrow, two-lane highway that seemed to be darting out into nowhere. There were nothing but green-rolling hills all around with only a few ranch houses scattered about to interrupt this gorgeous land.

By now, I was starting to get really nervous. I kept thinking about all the things that I wanted to say to Chris. And I was also nervous about meeting the Cordova family. Did they want to meet me? Had they put everything in the past or would they want me to tell them everything I remembered from all those years ago? I guess I really didn't know what to expect.

After going about twenty miles, I approached the base of a beautiful mesa. I was sure it would drop off toward the right side and go into a valley where Mosquero would be found but instead, as I reached a fork in the road, I started to climb right up the side. It was very steep and I was just hoping my old car would make it up through the steep sharp curves.

As I slowly maneuvered my way through this wonderful mesa, I came upon a huge wall of rock and saw it was covered from top to bottom with names and dates. I wondered if Chris had put his name there when he was a boy. Finally reaching the top, I saw nothing but hills covered with juniper trees about as far as you could see. It was nothing like I had expected the top of a mesa to be. I thought it would be flat and rocky. I was hoping there would be a gas station in Mosquero as I was down to a quarter of a tank and still had to travel the thirty miles back to Logan later in the day.

I soon approached the town of Mosquero and luckily saw a gas pump on the right side of town with a big sign reading, "Open" leaning against it. As I pulled toward the old-fashioned gas pump, I couldn't help but think, why would anybody want to live in this little spot in the road? I stopped my car. As I started to get out, an 'older man approached and asked how I was doing. I returned the greeting as he was removing the front cover on the pump so he could reset the meter by hand he told me the old pump had broken three years earlier). I asked him if he could answer a couple of questions for me.

First I asked him where the cemetery was located and then I asked if he knew where Robert Cordova lived. "Oh sure, that's easy," he replied and offered to call Chris Cordova (Robert's son who had been named after my friend). Chris Cordova was the local marshal and was usually around.

As he was filling my tank, I was looking over the town. I could see a volunteer fire department building with a "Closed" sign in the window and next to it was a small market with an even smaller bar attached to the side of it and the town's post office. That was downtown Mosquero, New Mexico. A few minutes later, a pickup truck pulled into the station and a young man walked up to me. I assumed it was Chris and put my hand out .to introduce myself, "Hi, I'm Jack. You must be Chris." "Yes, and I would be happy to take you to the cemetery as soon as you get your gas, sir."

A few minutes later, I was following him down the dusty road to the cemetery. We had only gone a short way before we turned off on a gravel road. Soon my car was covered in a great cloud of white dust. I remember being upset about this and at the same time feeling a little ashamed of myself. Here I was about to see my friend, Chris, and I was worried about a little dust. That was really stupid.

It wasn't long before we were pulling into the small cemetery. It was on about a quarter-acre of land with a fence around it. I guessed there were about thirty graves altogether. I was really nervous now. There were so many things I had wanted to tell Chris. As we approached the first grave, I could see a headstone engraved: "PFC Jose Cordova Died in Germany World War II." That was the grave of Chris's father who had been killed in action in 1945. I got a lump in my throat. All of the sudden, I thought, "His dad was also here and taking care of him." That meant Chris would be all right.

Then came the real hard part. I walked up to Chris's grave. There was a small stone just like his dad's. It had his name, rank, and where and when he died. There was a small American flag made of flowers in front of the headstone, but the flowers had long since wilted. But you could tell Chris was remembered and not forgotten. His nephew put his hand down and moved the wreath so I could see the complete marker. As I knelt down, something very strange happened. It was as if Chris had heard all my thoughts about him during the last decade and I really didn't have to say anything because he already knew. With tears in my eyes, all I could say was, "It's good to see you again, old buddy." I sat there touching the headstone for about five minutes as Chris's nephew backed away to give me some privacy. Finally, I said one more time, "It's good to see you, Chris," and I stood up and walked a few steps backward still looking at the grave. I really felt a sense of peace as I turned and walked back to my car, wiping the tears from my eyes. I didn't want to break down and cry since I still had to meet the rest of his family in a few minutes. The tears would come later when I was alone driving out of Mosquero.

Shortly we were pulling into the Robert Cordova's front yard. His was a large wooden house with new and old cars scattered through the yard. Robert walked out to meet us. For just a moment, I thought it was Chris, they looked so much alike. We shook hands and I could tell this was as awkward for him as it was for me. He introduced me to his sister and then his wife, Francis, and their oldest son, Floyd. I was then invited into their home and offered a beer that I gladly accepted. I'm not really much of a beer drinker any more, but it was really appreciated!

We all sat around in the living room making small talk and I was trying to figure out how to give them a copy of the story I had written about Chris. I decided to pull it out of my pocket and handed it to Robert. I watched as he took the two-page story out of the white envelope. I was scared at that moment. I took another large gulp of beer while wondering if they would like my story or not. How would they act? Did I do the right thing? I just waited.

The story was passed from one member of the family to the next with only a few nods of their heads as any sign of what they read. I could see Robert's eyes were a little red but other than that, not a word was spoken. I was offered another beer and after some prodding, accepted a plate of homemade enchiladas. While we were all sitting around the table, Robert's daughter-in-law entered the kitchen. "That was a really nice story you wrote about Chris," she said. "We all liked it very much." That was all that was ever said about it, but it did make me feel much better and a little more at ease.

After I had eaten a few more bites of dinner, out came the photo albums. There were lots of pictures in various sizes already in the living room with a separate special area for each one of the sons and cousins who had served in the military. Chris had his spot with his medals hanging next to his basic training picture and next to him was Robert's son, Floyd. Floyd had served in the Persian Gulf, but was now on disability from a back injury.

After a couple of beers, things started to get better. The family shared stories about the two brothers, Chris and Robert, as we sat in this small room on the top of this beautiful mesa in New Mexico. Robert told me about a doctor who also had lost a son in Vietnam and who had built a memorial and chapel in the little town of Angel Fire, eighty miles northwest of Mosquero. All the boys from the surrounding four counties who had died in Vietnam had their pictures and some personal effects placed in the memorial building. Chris's pictures, along with his dog tags, were there. Every week a different picture was placed in the chapel and that family was notified. Robert called this place "holy ground." A lot of the conversation was centered on the brothers and how their Uncle Joe had taught them to swim in the local swimming hole, to hunt, and to fish.

Soon, with a third beer in our hands, Robert, Floyd, and I headed out the door and on our way "cruzin," as Robert put it. I was no longer a stranger. I had been accepted as a friend. There couldn't have been more than thirty houses in this small town. Many of them had been boarded up as the people who had lived there were now long gone. I was told that when Chris was a boy, there were probably 300 people living in town, but the population had now dwindled to around a hundred. Three of the largest ranchers in the area had bought out most of the small ranches.

As we left the house, we went about a half block away and saw the small, white buildings that were the elementary and high schools Robert told me a picture honoring Chris was in the main hallway of the high school. We then drove by a church and the little hospital that had closed over ten years ago and was now the school superintendent's house.

Every time we drove past a house, everybody would wave and l would wave back. I could imagine what they must have thought at the site of this strange gringo riding around in Robert's green pickup truck! Everybody knew everyone else in this town. It was like one huge family. You just couldn't help but fall in love with Mosquero.

Robert drove us down Bell Ranch Road for about forty miles. As we drove, more stories came out about Chris's funeral and how Robert was on his senior class field trip to the Lake of the Ozarks when he was notified of his brother's death. The class, all five of them, cut the trip short and returned home. He said the whole town turned out for Chris's funeral, as well as the honor guard from the Air Force National Guard in CIovis.

Robert told me about the wild elk that roamed the area and Floyd directed my attention to the local sights such as the Indian caves. When we got to the end of the mesa, they pointed to an area across the valley where dinosaur footprints had been discovered. We had a really nice talk as we returned to their home and I felt I now knew more about Chris than I had known during that whole year we served together.

Robert wanted me to spend the night and kept asking me over and over again, but I didn't feel right about staying. I didn't want to ruin their Fourth of July weekend. Deep inside, I really liked these new-found friends and could easily have stayed longer, but I knew l had to get home to my own little family. It took me nearly thirty years, but I finally was able to close the door on Chris. But, I also knew it could be opened again and his family and friends would welcome me.

I departed at dark and as I was driving out of town, the full impact of what had happened hit me. I had to wipe the tears away as I drove off the mesa and headed for the busy world below. I couldn't help but think of the past and how my wife encouraged me to write this book about the way Vietnam really was. About good men doing an impossible job as best they could. Not killers, but boys who became men long before their time, some who came home and some, like Chris, who didn't.

When I wanted and needed to go see Chris, my wife told me, "Go do what you have to do." Sometimes, I think she must understand me better than I understand myself. Thank you, Sue, for helping me close those doors.

The preceding piece is an excerpt from the book "What Are they Going To Do, Send Me To VietNam?" Written by Jack Stoddard. If you enjoyed this chapter you can purchase the entire book from Jack at: Sunrise Mountain Publishing, 5397 E. Washington Ave., Las Vegas, Nevada 89110. Phone: 702-459-4233. E-Mail [email protected] The price is $16.00 which includes shipping and handling.

Top Side

By Col. Bruce F. Meyers
USMC (Retired)

I have now had the chance to return to Khe Sanh twice. In March 1998, I took my wife Jo and we accompanied some forty plus former and active duty Marines plus Army Special Forces Rangers The March 1998 trip was thirty years almost to the month from when we of the 26th Marines left Khe Sanh. I have just now returned from my 2nd "Returned," this time taking my son age forty-three, who was previously a Marine. Too young at the time for either the service or Vietnam. Both trips were great.

Vietnamese security persons were always with us in the background, never intrusive, but we always knew they were they're observing our return. For whatever reason, general Mundy and myself seemed to be followed more than others. I had brought several St. Christopher and St. Michael medals (patron saints of "Grunt' Marines) with me to bury as a private memorial for lost friends at Khe Sanh. It had to appear that l was going over to relieve myself next to a coffee tree Only then did the NVA security people turn away. I slipped my metal down my leg and had to bury them with my boot, so as not to call attention to the security or the many small Vietnamese or Bru children who followed us everywhere.

Only when we walked out to where our perimeter (1/26 as I remember) was located on the north side of the airstrip could you find foxholes and individual emplacements. I found scraps of the green plastic sandbags and pieces of barbwire that brought memories flooding back. One of our MHT tour directors retired Sgt. Major Len Koontz (Navy Cross as Lance Cpl. At Khe Sanh) had wire cutters which we used to recover small two inch sections of the barbed wire to bring home. I later made up small plaques with a piece of barbed wire, a scrap of sandbag and a small bottle of the red soil of Khe Sanh.

In March 1999 I went back to Khe Sanh again for a more in-depth look. Five of us stayed overnight in Khe Sanh village. I was the only one that had been in on the 800 series hills in 1968. I recommended long trousers and light shirts with sun hats and light packs and plenty of drinking water. We hired a Bru woman accompanied by her teenage children, to guide us up to 881. Wading through four streams up to our waist, none of us had any problems with leeches. Climbing up through the elephant grass was tiring in the 107-degree heat and 100% humidity. We took our time and by late mid-morning we had reached the spur just east of hill 881S. We confirmed our position with GPS and taking compass bearings on surrounding hills. There is still considerable live ordinance throughout this area. Use extreme caution. Coming down the trail that we were ascending, bumping rocks along the way, were two Bru's with a water buffalo hauling a two hundred and fifty pound bomb casing and a 155 mm shell! We about dove off the trail. Later we determined that they had been defused and we were glad.

My memories of April '68 came flooding out. One of my battalions (3/26) under Lt. Col. John Studt, with Maj. Matt Gaulfield, and Capts. Harry, Jenkins and Bill Dabhey and 1st Lt. Tom Esslinger, among many others, participated in the retaking of hill 881N. I spotted the place where Bill Dabney and I urinated on the 106 tubes, to cool them from cherry hot. They were firing overhead direct fire as the attack elements of 3/26 retook 881N. I had flown up from the Combat Base with my air and artillery officers and we spent that day with 3/26 during the attack. Later that day I flew a wounded NVA officer and enlisted man back on my helo for medical care and interrogation. Intervening years stripped away and l could almost smell the cordite and winced at incoming. It was total recall. It lasted but a short time, but somehow made me feel better that we had made this effort to come back. Some how it put much of Vietnam behind me. My son and the others could tell how much it meant to me to get back up there. Running out of time, we beat a hasty trip down the hill, back through the streams to our bus, for the nearly two hundred-mile drive south to DA Nang.

The country is friendly. More than 85% there have been born since the US left VN. The scenery is beautiful. It will become a destination resort in a few years. If you get the chance go. It is a decision I know that those who have done it have no regrets and only positive memories.

Top Side