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 50 Summer 2001
Incoming
Home
In This Issue
Notes from the Editor and Board
2001 Reunion News
Short Rounds
Memoirs Health
Matters In
Memoriam
A Sprinkling of your Poetry
I served at Camp Carroll with the 2/94TH & 8/4 Artillery during the siege. Both units consisted of the 175mm Guns and directly supported Khe Sanh. I also visited the 8/4 Artillery Website and found it very interesting. They have a lot of great photographs which will bring back a lot of memories to all who served there. One of our members recently visited Vietnam during Memorial Day, and I would like to make the next trip.
Robert Matlock
2/94TH Arty
*****
I take my hat off to all who served at Khe Sanh. I served with 3/4 along the DMZ from Nov of 67 till Spring of 68. Places like Gio-Linh, Cam-Lo, Dong-Ha, and Camp Carroll etc. When the C-130 crashed on the runway rendering it inoperable, we resupplied Khe Sanh by convoy. As bad as the shelling was, I think my worst fear was of the rats that were as big as a cat. To all those that endured, my heart goes out to you.
Semper Fi
Eddie Young "Yogi"
K Co 3/4
*****
I served as a flight engineer on C-130s with the 35TH Troop Carrier Squadron. I flew many missions in and out of Khe Sanh.
Ed Evers
35TH TCS
*****
Imagine my surprise, while surfing the Internet seeking information on what role the 315th Air Division played in the Vietnam War, I came upon a photograph taken by my father at Khe Sanh. It was on the C-130's web site. It depicted a C-130 taking off, shielded by a defensive smoke barrage. I sure wish my dad were alive to see it -- he would have been real proud. He passed away New Year's Eve 1999. As a writer and photojournalist, I am currently putting together an album based on his time in Vietnam. His name was Marion Lee Ray IV. If anyone has additional information, please contact me.
Samantha Wales
*****
I served with I Co 3/26 3RD Platoon as a Squad Leader. In December of 1967, I went to Da-Nang to attend Interpreter School. Upon completing the course, I returned to my old company. Just three days later, we made contact with a large NVA unit on our way to Hill 881N. During the fierce action, my Platoon Leader and Platoon Sergeant were KIA. As a Squad Leader; I had to take command of the Platoon until they were replaced. I am currently a member of the 3RD Mar Div, Lone Star Chapter and am looking forward to meeting old friends at the 3/26 reunions.
Rayford "Big D" Addington
I Co 3/26 Hill 881S
*****
Glad to be with my comrades again. I served with C Btry 1/13, from Sept 67 to June 69 as a F/O, attached to the 26TH Marines. In December of 1967 I was with M Co 3/26 on Hill 881S.
Juan Earl Miles
M Co 3/26
*****
I served as a radio operator with C Btry 1/13. I have been looking for Henry L Davenport and Tim Holt for years. If anyone has information where they may be located, please contact me.
Darrell Hill
C Btry 1/13
*****
I served with G Btry 12TH Marines and D Co 1ST Battalion 4TH Marines at Khe Sanh. We were one of the last units to pull out of Khe Sanh. It was ironic that we then shelled the very places we had been living. If anyone has information concerning CB Mountain in Laos and Hills 861 and 881, please contact me.
Larry W. Deason
G Btry 12TH Marines
*****
I was a member of the 515TH Transportation Company, 36TH Battalion, under command of the 3RD Marine Division. We were charged with supplying all outpost and firebases located in the DMZ, Khe Sanh and other Northern Provinces. We lost many of our trucks and men to NVA ambushes. Our main base camps were located at Dong Ha and Quang Tri. Anyone from the 515TH can feel flee to 0 contact me. I was there from March 22, 1967 to March 15, 1968.
Jim Reeves
*****
Thanks to Jim Reeves for telling me about this site. The 515TH Transportation returned to Khe Sanh during operation Lam Son 719. Our APC "The Cracker Box." I, Pete, Joe and Mike, our driver, were the last to leave Khe Sanh. We could feel the earth move as the Air Force began massive bomb runs to destroy what was left behind. Our brother Kenneth Jones lost his life on the road between Vandergrift and Khe Sanh, may he rest in peace. Let us never forget our fallen brothers.
Mike Boatwright
*****
Like Mike and Jim, I served with the 515TH Transportation Company. We were the first Army Unit to be attached to and under the command of the 3RD Marine Division. I drove an ammunition truck and supplied all outposts along the DMZ. My prayers go out to all those fallen Heroes and their loved ones. I will never forget the loss of our brothers and sisters to a war that never really ended.
Tom Kaecher
*****
When I arrived in Khe Sanh in March of 1967, I was assigned as a radio operator to the village of Khe Sanh, Lang Vei and the Rock Quarry. In April of 67, I was reassigned to the Combined Operations Center. The center was located in an old French underground bunker. I and Cpl. Kipp Melchoir Webb each worked a 12-hour shift, plotting troop movements, H&I hits by C Company Artillery, and Air Strikes for CAP units and other bases. I also served as an interpreter for the COC. Our senior officer was Lt. Col. Reider, Operations Officer Major Fogo, and NCO was GySgt. Buchanan.
I served in this capacity during the Battle for Hills 861 and 881 with the 3RD Marines, B Co 1/9, and with the 26TH Marines during the Siege. I participated in closing out the 3RD Mar Div Headquarters, Sub Unit #5 and relocated to Dong-Ha as the Radio
Chief for TSC-15. Cpl. Melchoir and I were assigned to several other locations, and each time we came under attack. We did not realize that it was the Tet Offensive and everyone was under fire. When I attempted to return to Khe Sanh, the incoming enemy fire was so heavy we had to turn back to Phu-Bai. I returned to Dong-Ha until the end of my tour in April 19{~8.
S/Sgt Revis E. Wilson
*****
Hello to Ray Stubbe. The best to you and all you fine Marines. I have been out of touch with you for so many moons. I have traveled to some Mideast places from which contact was impossible. Just wanted to congratulate those responsible for this website. Made a Halo jump at Fort Bragg on Memorial Day with other former SOG members who had made combat jumps along the Ho Chi Minh trail. Take care, Ray, and Semper Fi to all you Marines.
William "Billy" Waugh
SGM Recon CCN, SOG
*****
Read some of the guest book, really enjoyed it. I am a former Marine S/Sgt. Who worked on C-130s during my tour September 66 to July 74. Lost many good friends over the Tonkin Gulf and on the runway at E1 Toro. Any other wing wipers out there, please give me a shout. Our squadron flew many missions in support of Khe Sanh, and I feel a personal bond with those who served there. I am proud to have been a part of the Birds (C-130s, C-54s and C47s) that flew out those who survived and those who did not. Once a Marine always a Marine.
Elmer Mansfield
*****
I was on Hill 881S during the Siege of Khe Sanh. I was a Radio Operator for M Co 3/26, 2ND Platoon. I was wondering if anyone had any photographs of Hill 881S during that time. Unfortunately, my friend Moose and I left our camera at Khe Sanh when we were sparrow-hawked out. I never saw our equipment again.
David Anderson
M Co 3/26
*****
Served as a corpsman with L Btry 4/12. We arrived at Khe Sanh at the end of the Siege and closed some of the enemy gun caves in the Co Rock Mountains with our 155s. Still remember those early morning "rocket" wake up calls.
Bob "Doc" Eddy
*****
Tom,
I have wanted to write for a long time. I served as a
corpsman with 3RD Platoon of B Co 1/26. My tour started in an area around Hill
55 shortly before we were ordered to Khe Sanh, just in time for the Hill Fights.
With all the fighting that took place, there was still time for a little humor.
While on Hill 881N, we received a bunch of replacements. One of them inquired
where he could relieve himself. I pointed to an empty 105 or 155 canister
sticking out of the ground. He proceeded to utilize 'the same, which for him was
not a good start since it was the vent for the Lieutenant's bunker. Lieutenant
Pete Guy was a great guy who later transferred to 3RD Recon. I would like to
know if he made it home.
I remember Hill 821 where the 2ND Platoon ran into an enemy ambush. we ran off 881 to help them and the company lost many good men that day. One of them was Bob Enderby, one of my best friends who was going to spend time with me when we got back to the world. Gerry Ensign and I were assigned to the 3RD Herd for a considerable time. We took care of each other, splitting time on ambushes or listening post. He would always have a hot cup of coffee or bit of food waiting for me whenever I returned from a mission. I say, Thanks, old Buddy.'
I remained with the third platoon even after my time had expired, not wanting to leave my buddies. Finally, I was ordered off the Hill, back to KSCB, which was under rocket attack every day. The Hill was a much safer place to be. Shortly thereafter, the remainder of B Co left the Hill. Finally, I would like to apologize to whomever owned the case of San Miguel beer I stole out of the hooch next to Headquarters.
Al "Doc" Winney
B Co 1/26 3RD PIt
*****
3/26 To Hold Reunion
3/26 will hold their 5TH reunion in Ennis, Montana from 12-15 June 2002. The events planned include a trip to Yellowstone National Park, a comedy show, a tour of historic Virginia City, and a memorial service. Friends and former members of 3/26 are cordialIF' invited to attend. If you have not received the Travel Montana Package from the Governor and wish to attend, contact:
Andy DeBona
Box 995
Ennis, Montana 59729
Phone: (406) 682-7337
Email: [email protected]
PS. I tried to contact Georgia Watson, page 20 of the latest issue of Red Clay in regards to information on her father, a former member of L Co 3/26. Her phone number had been disconnected, so if anyone can help I would appreciate it.
Andy DeBona
M Co 3/26
*****
Intrusive Thoughts
The headlines in Stars and Stripes would 'read, "TWO KHE SANH MARINES KILLED BY FRIENDLY FIRE. ONE MARINE CHARGED." I had had several hours to create, ponder and embellish my predicament. I was now in full-fledged dread of what lay ahead for the coming night. I was going to kill our own people, and I couldn't see any way around the inevitability.
My predicament came from the top of the chain-of-command structure to the low man on the food menu. The Captain told the platoon sergeant. The platoon sergeant told the section leader. The section leader told the squad leader. And the squad leader told me. It was my night to fire H & I's. And now this burden had been placed squarely upon my scrawny shoulders. I had rediscovered a formerly forgotten simplistic youthfulness that lay willingly buried within me. I was too young to be here, to live like this, to be doing these kinds of things. Being responsible was and wasn't my thing. I was responsible when things went wrong. I was not mature enough to be responsible to make things go right.
The sun was busy lowering itself behind the surrounding hills farther to the west of the Khe Sanh region. I was busy becoming more anxious. My mind was in frenzied disarray at creating a carefully worded "excuse." I mentally rehearsed how I would have to tell my immaculately dressed, court appointed accusers that I had tried my best to ensure such a terrible event as this short round I had fired on that ill fated night, had come to be. I would be forced to relive the grotesque horror of the mortally mangled bodies I had killed with my mortar tube. I would have to look square eyed into the faces of the parents whose sons I had placed into body bags. Life was droning to a morbid, simplistic conclusion. I was a murderer, albeit an unintentional one.
The shadows that the sun was creating were long, bony fingers pointed in mock accusation at me. In the back edges of my head, my trial had begun in earnest. The Judge was at his workbench. His gavel had come down hard with a solid slap on the hardwood in front of him. "Guilty," read the head juror. I was taken away, led by two, armed Military Policemen. I could hear, even from this distance, the terrible clang of the Iron Gate of my 8' x 5' jail cell shutting hard and sure behind me, sealing my eternal fate.
The smell of sandbags surrounding me brought me back to the present. They smelled of an earthy mustiness. The steel runway matting above my head reassured me that there still might be some form of reprieve from my prison residence in Portsmouth. I had wondered since the first time I heard that name, where specifically in the States Portsmouth was. If it wasn't in Texas, it might as well have been in Antarctica. Anyway, I could get used to making "little ones out of big ones." The sergeants always hung that one maxim over our heads when we even made the appearance that we were going astray. Hard labor could be got at if I kept at it. And I could live in solitary confinement, couldn't I? But alas, I would be as morose a prisoner as I was an inept mortar man.
These lurid thoughts ricocheted off the sides of my mind like pool balls off the side rails of a billiard table. Were all my hidden sins coming home to roost? Here was a thought with needles. I didn't want to kill anybody. Just put me on working parties. Let me fill sandbags all day. But don't give me high explosive responsibilities. See where it had gotten me? I had killed the wrong people. I was the worst of the worst.
The sun was becoming my enemy with every passing minute. It had presently cleared the point of no return. I could not bring it back. I could not force the earth to move backward and retrieve the irretrievable. Blast! I was doomed. I hated my life. Wasn't it all funny? I hadn't lived enough yet.
The darkness crept further upon me like some skulking thief. It was stealing what little life I had left. My thoughts were transfixed upon my one AM appointment with destiny. That's when it would happen. That's when I would kill them both. I had not met these two men I would kill. Already I did not like them. They should have been poor excuses for Marines as I was. They should have been out of position or visiting their buddies. They were becoming objects of my derision. I was beginning to hate them, these men I had not known whom I would soon enough blow apart, concluding so abruptly their disgusting lives.
I wore the darkness like one wears a coat. It wrapped itself fully around me and made me terribly aware of my vulnerability. Vulnerable. I was actually vulnerable. The word had an unzipping effect. Up to this very moment in time I had possibly conceived of, or perhaps deceived myself, into believing that I was in some way or manner in control of my life. And now the world was spinning outward and off balance.
As the evening wore on, my conversations were of a more strained nature. The men in the mortar squad appeared zombie-like. Their motions were exaggerated. Their words were inaudible or unintelligible. They moved as shadows move, following but removed from my perplexity. Their banter was not playful tonight. It was all so wearying. Their comfort was heavy. Exhaustion was thick, and it hung about me like a pall.
Eight-thirty. There was no light in my bunker by which I might read to alleviate the pressure smothering my mind. I would lie down. I would try and sleep. No, I would go out to the gun pit and begin the process of gun drill in the darkness. There was no moon by which I could see the range card. How would I discover what information to put on the gun sight? How did Jimmy do this? I was trained on the .81 mm mortar. Why did they put me in .60s? I knew the .81. This little sight was worthless. There was no light to see, to make choices.
I eased into Jimmy's bunker. His Spartan living accommodations were replete with radio and lantern. I gave no hint at my internalized agony to the men chatting and smoking before me. I would not give these men the satisfaction of seeing me terrified, of knowing that my future would be prison. I would go about my business, this deadly business of keeping Charlie at bay. I looked at the yellow range card with the neat black printing as if it had been an old friend. I found what I was looking for. Here was the elevation and the deflection that would have to be registered on the sight. I already knew I would have to remove all the increments. In my mind I also knew the gun would be pointing nearly vertical. The trajectory too, would be almost vertical. I would kill those men, and they would not know who had snuffed out their lives. They would be dead. What would they care? Dead is still dead no matter how one arrives at it. How much was my life really worth now?
'Nine o'clock. I sat in the gun pit to see if my eyes would adjust to the blinding darkness. Time. I had hours, days, months, and years until I would slip that five-pound rocket-shaped projectile, fin first, up to the lip of the mortar tube and purposefully release it. And I would hear it slide, metal scraping against metal, down and down and down until it exploded angrily within the base of the tube forcing it skyward in an instant. Up and up and up it would go until its inertia had peaked and then it would begin its descent. It would sound like an object way up in the night sky hissing and the sound would grow full until it reached a crescendo, and then it would kill those two men.
I had to stop this. I had to quit thinking negatively. I had to make certain I didn't kill those guys. But how could I? I would go over this entire procedure as I had practiced it so many times before. I would make myself see the numbers on the sight. I would will it so. I would adjust to the circumstances. I would not kill them. I was not going to jail. If anyone were going to die tonight it would be the enemy.
I squinted, straining at the diminutive sight upon which my fingers were fumbling. Jimmy pulled back the flap on his bunker. He said something and extended his hand. In it was a round and long hard object. It was a flashlight! My salvation had come from behind door number two. I eagerly snatched it from Jimmy's grasp and very carefully clicked it on with one specific purpose in mind. I wanted to know that the dope on the gun was correct. I looked again at the range card. I looked at the numbers on the sight, then back at the range card. It was right. Even in the dark I had been correct. That cold tubular flashlight made my heart leap. I would not kill those men after all.
Ten o'clock. I could hear the faint sounds of music coming from the transistor radio inside Jimmy's bunker or someone's. How long had it been playing? The song was "Green Tambourine." I hated that song. It was so full of everything that reeked of ignorant America. It was so stupid. Could you imagine a grunt with a green tambourine instead of his M-167
Then it was The Temptations turn. My whole body began to move with the beat. The time was passing now. More music paraded before my ears and with the music came the memories of dating and drinking and football and... The Beach Boys did their thing. The Beatles performed just for me. And then silence flooded the crest of the hill once more.
Eleven o'clock. Jimmy and the other guys must be going to sleep before it's time for their watches.
Now I was terribly alone with myself. There was no one with which to check about this H & I. Waking someone out of my abject fear was now beyond thinkable. Exposure was not an option. My relief would come after I fired my H & I. I reached for the mortar round. It was encased within a black, tubular, thick cardboard cylinder approximately 3" in diameter and about 9" long. Two thirds of the way up the canister, black tape was wrapped several times around the neck of the cylinder separating the top from the bottom. I pulled the tape circling the canister until it was lying limp in my hand. Casting it aside, I separated the top part and set it on the sandbag-lined parapet surrounding the lip of the mortar pit. The four slender fins of the round were now exposed along with the compressed ballasite packets, held by a wire between each fin. These four packets were designed to propel the deadly device for a certain, measurable distance. The range card identified the distance with the specific number of packets. If one packet were removed the round would travel less far. Remove a second and the results would become more visible because there would be less distance the round could travel, and so forth.
I would be firing this round with all four of the packets removed. My fears began to play upon my mind once again. I was back to reading those awful headlines. I slipped the round completely out of its canister and held it in my hand. My hand examined its features closely. It was heavy. It was barrel chested and narrowed at the top and bottom. As I could not see it clearly, the touch of my hands and fingers became my eyes. With my left hand, I held the small rocket shape snugly. With my right hand, I placed my trigger finger gently on the flat tip of the fuse. I found the curved safety wire firmly imbedded in its place. I tugged on it slightly. The wire moved grudgingly. I eased my pull. The spring-loaded screw, the second safety measure, was also where and as it should be. Since the round was painted olive drab, I could not see its contour well. The slightly visible yellow markings informed me that I was holding a high explosive round. The bursting radius was five meters. That meant that when it landed and detonated, anything living within that five-meter radius would probably be killed or maimed for life.
Facts. So many facts buzzed around my wide awake mind. Mortar school flashed before me. The daily gun drill became a grind. Setting the aiming stakes in their proper alignment was critical to the success of every fire mission. How many times I misaligned them in school I can't remember. Stop thinking so much. I suppose any memory that took me home and away from this place was good time.
All of a sudden I could smell myself. I smelled awful. It might be because I hadn't taken a bath in over a month. I had not removed my boots in a week. When had I brushed my teeth last? The gods of war knew. I was fully cognizant about how dirty I was. I could feel the grime. My tongue tasted the salty, food crusted corners of my mouth. I breathed into my cupped hands and inhaled. My breath could melt steel. I was rancid from top to bottom, inside out. I had forgotten what toothpaste tasted like. Why was I thinking of personal hygiene now? None of the last few moments mattered because tomorrow there wouldn't be any more water to drink than there was today, and none with which to bathe.
Twelve o'clock. I was starting to feel stiff, sitting there exposed to the hilltop elements. The dew was settling on everything. I re-holstered the mortar round in its canister, placed the top back over the fins and just sat there. One more hour and my life would be justified. There was no motion in any direction. The clouds were intermittent.
The moon must have been clinging to the horizon, but I could see only a slight spectral light between the clouds. The tall grass swayed and brushed against itself in the gentle wind. And there I sat. I had never been this alone in my life. All the hubbub of high school did not make sense here. All the commotion of my entire life seemed senseless here.
I was suddenly hungry. But could I sneak back into my bunker without waking up both Mikes? My hunger overrode any reticence I displayed. I knew where my few remaining crackers were. I saved them at my evening meal for this specific time. Yet crackers without something with which to wash them down made for a mouth full of dry crumble. Swallowing was interesting, if not difficult. Now I was thirsty, very much so. Knowing my growing girth as I did, I was not really amazed that my stomach's needs were powerful enough to override my fearful thoughts of court-martial.
Twelve fifty. In the faint half-light given off by the shy moon, the mortar tube looked vertical, absolutely perpendicular to the ground. The ink of the headlines was almost dried as it rolled off the presses. It was hard to breathe. Thoughts of murder, unintentional as it would be, were once more fresh. Five minutes to go. I switched on the flashlight very carefully. Any sudden light at night made one a specific target. The sight had not changed. The bubbles were level. I could fire at any time now. My hesitancy was overwhelming. I had wanted to go to Vietnam and fight. Now my genuine cowardice was appalling. Firing H & I's was fighting, sort of, wasn't it?
The top of the canister was wrung off and laid aside once again. I slid the round slowly out of the dark cylinder, cradling it firmly in my right hand. I removed the packets one by one until they were lying in the canister and out of the way. I pulled the safety wire completely out of its position, laying it, too, aside. Now, this "thing" was armed and dangerous.
One o'clock. I suddenly noticed that the end of my ' tongue was sticking out of my mouth. I was using all the body English I could muster to complete this unwanted task. Get it over with I thought. If I kill them, I kill them. Just put an end to it.
With the care a mother lavishes upon her newborn child, I placed the fins over the lip of the tube and I dropped the round. It didn't go as I had planned. It didn't fall down and down and down. In an instant ' it hit the firing pin at the bottom of the barrel and exploded right back out of the muzzle. I could not stop it now and up it went. I could hear it straining for the sky. I heard it reach its peak and arc over. And I heard it begin its descent. Now it was falling down and down and down. It sounded like it was coming right back into the gun pit. Oh Lord, help me. I'm going to kill myself!
The explosion was terrifying. I pursed my lips. The next sound I would hear would be "Corpsman up!" I had done it. I had killed those Marines after all. I knew I would. I was a murderer. Still silence. Nothing. No movement. No scurrying about.
Had I done it right? No one was more relieved than I, when after a few intensely emotional moments were passed, everything remained as it was prior to my tiniest of artillery experiences. I just sat there, amazed. I had actually fired my first live high explosive round in a combat area and not killed anyone on our side.
The world moved off of my shoulders and thudded deftly upon the ground. Still, there was no movement, no screaming, and no sound of any kind except that of the rustling grasses swaying in the breeze. It was funny in a warped sort of way how no one knew the past hours of imagined terror I had been living. The war had gone on. Men were still doing what they do in the night watches. The world was still in its orbit. The world's tides were moving into shore in the great oceans. The wind was blowing and the grasses still rustled in protest.
I quietly opened the flap on Jimmy's bunker and laid the flashlight near where he was sleeping. Quiet snoring could be heard farther in. I walked through the open trench line to the entrance of our pitch black bunker and wearily climbed in. Stumbling a bit, I awakened Mike for his watch. I could now lie my exhausted body down and go to sleep for a few short hours until this whole nightmare started all over again when the sun announced its routine appearance. For a few hours, I could forget why I was here.
Jim Carmichael
E Co 2/26 Hill 861A
*****