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 52     Spring 2002

Memoirs

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In This Issue
Notes From The Editor and Board   Incoming   Short Rounds  
In Memoriam   A Special Feature   A Sprinkling Of Your Poetry

By James "Jimbo" Wodecki

    Corporal Jay Books and I were born in Pennsylvania. He and I graduated from high school in June of 1964. We both were in the FFA and joined the Marine Corps together. He went to Vietnam the same month I went in -- February 66. He was stationed with Supply Company FLSG-A, FLC; I was with H&S Company FLSG-A, FLC. We both were transferred to DPP#10 in June of 1966 at Da Nang Airbase. We became friends and enjoyed talking about home and our girlfriends. His was named Diane; I forgot the name of mine. I remembered his girlfriend's name because she and Jay were going to get married when he returned to the States. Both of our fathers were carpenters, and we both worked for them. The similarities were uncanny.

    We put our names in for the CAC unit they were forming when we moved our base to a place called Red Beach, located just north of Da Nang. However, he felt that serving with a logistics unit wasn't his style. Jay thought he could contribute some of his carpentry skills to assist the Vietnamese people if he could transfer to a Marine pacification team. I just wanted some action. Jay was accepted and went to a Combined Action Committee (CAC) Hotel-1 at Red Beach, becoming one of the eight original members of that unit. I volunteered to go to Khe Sanh.

    Jay's CAP platoon worked long hours helping build schools and hospitals in Quang Nam province. In a letter home, Jay wrote, "We go on sweeps and patrols just like the infantry. We work with the Vietnamese people, administer medical aid, and build dwellings." In another letter to a family friend, he wrote, "I know God has a plan for each of our lives. i have a lot to live for, and there's a lot I miss and would like to do. But I try not to think of home. My mind is always on thoughts of getting wounded or killed."

    Between patrols and working in the local villages, Jay was assigned to build an observation tower that dominated the skyline of the Force Logistics Command base camp at Red Beach. At approximately 0200 hours on the morning of 16 Nov 1966, the Viet Cong launched a surprise attack at Red Beach. Jay was killed in action during that attack. He was blown out of an observation tower by an exploding rocket and was thought to have died by concussion, or by the impact of the fall.

    The tragic irony of his death was that his body was found at the bottom of the tower he had built. Red Beach was later renamed Camp Books in his honor. I always remember Jay on the 16th of November and say a prayer for him, as I returned but Jay didn't. Jay is buried at the Brethren in Christ Church in Cleona, Pennsylvania. The cemetery is located above the church on a hill overlooking his hometown. In the church is a stand where the guest book is placed. Over the stand is a special plaque honoring Jay's memory. Jay was straightforward, dedicated, and mature beyond his years for a nineteen-year-old. He took great pride in being a United States Marine and serving his country.

Top Side

*****

    On one of those heavily burdened but portentous mornings in early March 1968, one of the day's resupply choppers arrived with its usual gusty flap. Accompanying its approach was the chronically intense flurry of chaos; incoming enemy mortar rounds whose sudden, fracturing blasts created small, jaggedly gouged craters, men yelling excitedly, and the scent of fear hanging like a pall over the hil 1. Business as usual.

    Mail call was subsequently sounded throughout Echo Company. We were scattered evenly around and on top of the hill known on some headquarter~,~ map as 861 Alpha. As such, it seemed to me quite zt sanitary, if not indifferent, designation. For us, this place of desperation and misery was, by now, our home.

    I, among others, had received one of the coveted prizes: a letter from home. Along with mom's usual well-written reminder of better places and times were several snapshots. This was a delightful treat. There. was so much news to be eagerly digested from the home front. Yet as I read, it seems to me now that the words my morn penned then were cautious and well chosen. She meticulously crafted her sentences as if these incredible events at Khe Sanh, of which I was taking part, were happening at the intersection of other time and other place. To her apparently, it was all playing itself out grotesquely upon dissimilar life forms, surely dissimilar from her son. But for a small token of home such as this letter, I was becoming daily more thankful, regardless of what was so scrupulously left unsaid.

    Only years later did certain of these compositions with their pictorial contents bring into relief the actual significance of that moment in my short lived history. I'm certain my psychological maturation made me amblyopic or downright blind to more hidden realities. Survival preoccupied me cognitively so that I could not see that one set of distant occurrences in the world was pitting itself against the feverish ones happening all around me. We, parent and child, were shifting toward differing planets. This was not necessarily a first for our family relationships. There was, however, quite unlike the formative years I spent in their home, even then a veil, a curtain if you will, slipping trenchantly between our separating lives.

    One of mom's attending, albeit significant, photos threw a particularly impertinent gibe at me. It was a picture of my best buddy, sitting at my place at the dinner table, eating corn on the cob in my home, grinning ear to ear, so to speak. This struck me deep in a manner and place I had not been jabbed prior to that time. I did laugh outwardly at it though. As far as he and I were concerned, hearth and home were always apportioned equally and with regularity when I was there. We were best buddies, lifelong schoolmates busy with the male bonding mode. But that was then and I was currently absent, my presence missed there. Now I was here, ten thousand miles from there and then. Ten thousand lifetimes separated us. And here, upon this captured fragment of a Kodak moment his smile glared up at me. That was not its intent, but that's what it did nonetheless. His posture did not possess calculation or the hint of a mean spirit. It was full of warmth. It was fraught with "I wish you were here so we could goof off together one more time." It was brimming with playful banter. By his aggregate appearance I could tell he was clueless. Naivet6 dripped innocently from the glossy image onto the red dirt of the hill where men were hugging the womb of survival and dying daily all the same. But the misguided energy it required to take that picture and send it was misspent with equanimity for the effect it elicited.

    His context and mine stood right there and right then, counter to each other. His atmosphere was soaked with the aromatic smells of home and safety. Mine hung almost fluid with the stench of sweat, sand bags and death. A thick, impenetrable curtain was curiously separating us. Some important and significant event was happening which did not reach me where it counted. Yet, all the same, the form in which the grinding, deadly, ordered routine that my life had now taken glared back into his world, questioning. His savory corn entree stood juxtaposed to the leathery edibles to which I had become, albeit unwillingly, accustomed. I did not wish it so. I wished for any place, any time, any meal but this.

    This war was more absorbed in culling us, her servile inmates, for brutish and destructive purposes than for tickling our American palates. Her meals were tedium served with heaping portions of terror. Her sauces were exhaustion, wounds and disease. Her desserts were psychosis and depletion by death. Corn on the cob and all it represented was completely out of character for this voracious avocation.

    Quite unlike my best buddy back in the world, I, like you, would dine on the usual B-something unit, heated on a make-shift stove by one of those foul yet necessary heat tabs. In my bunker, this source of solid rocket fuel was noxious at best. At worst, it was notorious for fouling the air and burning my eyes so that they would tear. Food preparation required grimy hands and a gas mask. The meal itself was nefarious for its after-effects, that being heartburn. We all skulkingly dined in our bunkers. To eat outside in the open meant possible death. You remember. My best buddy did not know this. This picture proved that. The drapes were thick to my untrained senses and opaque to my inner eyes.

**

    Permit me to press the fast forward button. It is now the month of March in the year of our Lord, 2001. My wife and I are trying to find the correct access road to the recently erected Target store looming ahead of us. This is a moving, self-absorbed section of St. Louis with which we are both unfamiliar. She is giving me her most hopeful conjecture as the designated trip navigator. An added dimension to a more full appreciation of this scenario is her chatter on her cell phone to our daughter. (She can walk and chew bubble gum at the same time.) Catherine's directions to me are expectedly uncertain but equally and unfortunately divided in their affections. Neither of us knows exactly what street to take nor the turn lane from which to take it.

    In a few desperate moments my manufactured inner calm has become very confused, internally enlivened and all but debilitating. The mass of chaotically moving vehicles in specific directions toward their own agendas vexes me, because each is completely indifferent to my pathetic situation. They are all eating corn on the cob in their homes, and I am dining on C rations in my bunker. Has anything really changed? Here and now, the world is as unaware and unfeeling of my present dilemma as it was then and there of that situation. That, too, is a source of frustration. They are selfishly absorbed in their own subsistence. But what did I expect? Again, life seems at variance with itself and with me. I know the curtain is falling. After 30 plus years, I now know its color, its aromatic lure, its size and texture. It will embrace me, and I it, as it falls onerous and suffocating. I have been here many times. I am being wizened by its vulgar regularity. I feel leaden inside, weighted physically by my own angst.

    I slow the car quickly, dodging traffic, moving to the first left turn lane I see. Having arrived at the turn, I discover in one maddening instant that I should have continued straight ahead. It is the next left I am to take, not the current one in which I now find us both. I am becoming unable to deal appropriately with Catherine's inability to recognize that I need her full attention, not the lesser half of it. This is becoming secretly serious. I am certain she does not know that I feel targeted and trapped, that the war is here and now. The moment is, if anything, obtuse to all outsiders. I sense death is imminent. Survival is all that remains. Incoming!

    Two-thousand-one is nineteen-sixty-eight cloaked. Catherine is chattering tediously one second and then laughing uncontrollably into the phone the next. Nothing has changed from that letter in March 1968 or that naive photo. I inwardly withdraw to the safety of the world that I have erected, brick by brick, to survive. I have "curtained." I am now alone in a car shared with my wife in the midst of several hundred moving blurs of steel and glass and rubber. Everyone is clueless. No one cares. The ubiquitous then and there has once more traversed over into the here and now. I will "participate" in the Target store when I find it, but I will be detached. I cannot care. I will once more strain all my emotional reserves to conceal my deepening, ungainly depression.

    In conjunction with my seceding inner seclusion, my fuse is now lit, ready to explode. My 3 compatriots -- withdrawal, anger and depression -- have taken up their usual state of residency. I am unable to share them or this with anyone, not even my wife although she senses it all. She doesn't need this, but here it is. This is as infuriating as it is physically draining. This is dangerous. I want to be in a bunker, sitting alone. This is life behind the curtain.

    The lawnmower has sounded for me a generous note to the lineup for the day's coming tasks. It sputters momentarily and then roars to life after a few sturdy yanks with the cord. And thus, I go determined and expectant on my way, back and forth, forth and back. One section of the yard has now been shorn. The mowing is easy. Onward to the next province of the yard, I say to myself. And there is currently no hint that my morning will come to a jarring interruption from which I will not recover quickly.

    The whack, bang of spinning metal mower blades slicing firmly into a grass-hidden, mostly buried steel beam brings my day's schedule to a malicious and violent stop. The sudden quiet vibrates thickly, my ears and hands suddenly tingling. I have stupidly run over a hidden, immovable object. The mower's crankshaft has succumbed. It is bent within the innards of the smoking machine, now gone silent. It is dead. Killed unexpectedly in the line of duty because of my lack of attention, exposed is my inability to detect what I could not control and somehow should have observed.

    The first object I find to reflect my kindling rage is a large, split log from our stack of firewood nearby. I throw it into the neighbor's yard. Silence engulfs me for, I cannot hear. Stillness. My spleen once more vents its displeasure. I am swept insensibly headlong by audacious, turbulent waves of emotion. I pick up Duke's half-chewed softball and heave it wildly somewhere into the wood lined creek. Catherine is saying something about my trying to fix it. Fix it? I know running lawn mowers with contorted crankshafts is oxymoronic. Life as I know it has taken pause.

    The entourage of those few insane moments has put me on display, and my unfettered energy seems to have run its full heedless course into unabridged lethargy. I sit motionless in the grass. I long for solitude. I wish for sleep, the type from which one never awakens. My jaws and teeth are fixed, immovable. A tightness seeps into my chest. Some un-welcomed, foreign tonnage pulls heavily upon my abdomen. And yet I am completely hollow inside. My body futilely repels my wife's desperate need for verbal intrusion into my space. Once more I stare disconsolately into and through the curtain, into the time gone by of Khe Sanh. That yesterday has thoroughly manhandled me once more. I have broken the mower. There is no room on 861 Alpha, then or now, for anything broken. Ruined means useless, and useless means death is imminent. All meaning has hushed in the quiet air.

    Catherine is once more suggesting that I do something, go get another mower; go down to Sears Hardware. Her suggestions nettle me. I continue my motionless and absent stare. But it can all be set right, she protests. I remain fixed in past time and space. The lawn has to be mowed in the present. It will all be OK, she repeats, if only to reassure herself. Yet the curtain has already come down, firmly. We are now in two different worlds. I am in Vietnam, fighting for my existence. She is in O'Fallon, Missouri fighting for and against two concepts. She is skirmishing franticly to have her lawn manicured on the one hand. And on the other, she is trying with equal inner ferocity not to trot over and retrieve the log I just threw in order not to bludgeon me to death with it. Two tragic events and thirty three years of distance have undertaken the vanity of fusion. Transfixed physically within a six-foot radius, Catherine and I could not be more distant from each other in mind and body.

    In combat, one does not break or discard his gear intentionally or otherwise without that singular action producing dire circumstances. You do not break the sight for the mortar tube and then actuate a fire mission. You do not allow rust in the chamber of your rifle and expect to fire your weapon when someone trips an ambush. You do not let the battery on your radio go dead and trust that you will maintain contact with your air and artillery support by your good looks, if the soup really hits the fan.

    Yet, each of these acute possibilities is internalized and perpetuated all the same, trial upon trial, decade upon decade, long after the smoke and din of battle has died away. Bent crankshafts cannot be separated handily from broken mortar sights. They have mysteriously become mentally indistinguishable in the main. The delirium tremens of the past is separated from the life of the present by no greater distance than the thickness of psychological draperies. The past and present cling tenaciously, intertwined between the weavings of our own mental and material makeup.

    Inner rage at uncontrollable, outward circumstances draws the curtain taut on a weekly basis for me. And life brings it down with irresistible regularity probably for you, as well. I have read several books on the subject of making peace with the traumas of the past. I am supposed to, it is suggested, bring all that anger to roost in other places by time honored and workable means. I am sure the authors mean well. But I remain dubious. How can one truly come to a living armistice with one's own hellish war? Certainly, I cannot sue for peace in the sense in which they mean. The anger remains because the war remains fully intact and alive. It does not persist motionlessly, as if out of breath, used up or rusted shut. The events of the past are the living paraphernalia of the mind. They know not surrender, nor can they recognize the need to capitulate to my psychological insolvency. Vietnam remains the long, diffuse shadow on the wall of my soul.

    The three, aforementioned historical markers are the regular makeup of my life, past and ever present. I can assume that the future will present, for my perusal, much of the same. Each is not threadbare for they individually shoulder the undeniable inbreeding of similarity. The searching and struggling for peace with an enemy that does not have peace on its docket, has, as of this writing, not been overcome by any recent and personal battles or formulas.

    To me, it is noteworthy that the enemy lies within psychologically and at the gates of time and circumstances simultaneously. He is the black pajama-clad warrior of the night fenced outside, yet always alert for any weaknesses that may afford him entrance into my world. He eludes detection one minute and openly pronounces his arrival at his discretion the next.

    I have discovered no ready made 12-step formulas, Biblical or otherwise, to deter his aggravating intentions of disruption and depression. Although he is parasitic in nature, his residence is my emotional bloodstream. These light and dark cells must coexist as long as I remain alive. Not a comforting thought. But I find solace in the lives of others who have trod the perplexing and painful road of life before me and thus proceed by sure steps alongside my less certain plod dings. The Apostle Peter writes this about our PTSD, "Therefore, let those who suffer according to the will of God commit their souls to Him in doing good, as to a faithful Creator."

Semper Fi

Top Side

*****
Memories of Vietnam, 1951-1968
Chapter Two

Ed:
In our last issue, we learned the history of the Poilane Family from the memoirs of Madame Poilane, whose family ran the Coffee Plantation at Khe Sanh. In this issue, the Marines have arrived at Khe Sanh and the Hill Battles of 1967 are about to begin.

    The Marines who arrived knew our school very well. And when passing by, they would stop and give treats to the children. They also brought food for the Montagnard children so they could have a balanced diet for their noon meal. They were content when the Marines left. We had a little "Bambi." We bought him from the Montagnards for 500 Piastres. He was found in the brush, his mother most likely had been killed. The commanding colonel at the Marine base was our friend. He often brought us powered milk. Bambi ate at least four times a day. There were a lot of photographs taken of the Marines on their many visits passing through the plantation.

    The arrival of the nuns was a very good thing for me. I found myself less alone, especially with the Mother Superior who was French. I knew her very well. My health was not good after the death of my father-in-law. Being cut off from the town was difficult. We liked to get together with our friends from time to time, after experiencing the austere life that we had on the plantation. There were only Frenchmen at Khe Sanh, with the priest and our planter friends. We would gather every Sunday at the house to have our noon meal and evening with the priest and M. Llinares. After dinner, we would play tarot card games until midnight.

    It was really our only distraction, since the work did not allow much during the coffee harvest. During the monsoon, there was no question of working. The rain never stopped. You must know tropical rains to really understand a monsoon. Then, there was the humidity, the drizzle and constant fog in February and March before ever seeing the sun in April.

    It was then that an attack of the Viet Cong occurred on three hills, North 881,861 & 881, which were all visible from our house. The culminating point was the Tooth of the Tiger, at about 1700 meters, on a mountain located very close to us facing the Marine base. I think these three hills could be the natural boundary between the North and South, since we were said to be twenty kilometers from the border. That was difficult enough to evaluate. This attack lasted for three weeks. If my memory is good, it happened suddenly, with no one expecting it. Everything was calm, too calm. The Marines started bombing these three hills, trying to force the VC out. It was all in vain as the Viet Cong were at the bottom, well into the shelter of the mountain dugouts. They were able to prepare their food without anyone seeing the smoke. They had plenty of water and were content with what little they had to live on. They were, therefore, very strong while hearing the planes coming to bomb them.

    From our house we could see the bombs leaving the planes. The bombing went on day and night. Other times, the Marines flew in reinforcements. When the Marines evacuated their wounded, the VC responded with machine guns, which they had camouflaged in the forest. We did not take it seriously and continued to harvest the coffee. The Marine visits became rare; we understood why. The Montagnards did not seem affected by what was going on around them. As for us, we became disturbed by the incessant rotations of the C-123 and C-130 airplanes. The noise stopped us from sleeping most nights. Our friend, the Colonel, took the time to give us any news. I think if there was any immediate danger, he would have been the first to tell us to leave the plantation.

    As soon as there was a lull, the Marines came to our house to reassure us and to exchange a few ideas. The Colonel gave us his laundry (at our request.) That certainly freed him from an unpleasant job. His wife sent him packages from the United States, and he never failed to bring treats for the children and us.

    The attack finally ended and everyone breathed a little easier. Each Monday morning the Colonel brought us his laundry. When he came to pick it up in the afternoon, he was all wet. The rescue of the three hills had cost a lot in human lives. He had however, saved Khe Sanh from an attack. One cannot forget that the Ho Chi Minh Trail was there, very near, and we all knew it.

    One can ask how a surprise attack was possible. One must not forget that numerous Montagnards worked at the base and were able to observe the movements of planes, the locations of trenches, and where the machine guns were located. It is very possible that there were VC among the Montagnards. I am now able to say that the chief of the VC among the Montagnards was a woman, a young girl whom had taught me to speak "Bru." I earned her confidence, and she had confided in me. She came to the market at Khe Sanh, dressed as a simple Montagnard gathering information. It was difficult for me to betray the confidence she had entrusted in me.

    The increase of men and materials at the base left us less calm than as we had been prior to the attacks on the three hills. The VC retreated but were regrouping and preparing for another offensive. Although we feared they would attack again, we remained at the plantation. The harvest was not finished; it was May or June of 1967. It was necessary to earn a living and eat. At that time of the year, the rains began, and the Montagnards' provisions were diminishing. They survived eating sweet potatoes, manioc, bamboo shoots, and whatever vegetables they could find in the brush.

    During the next six months, it was calm. Nothing abnormal happened as the year came to an end. The Christmas celebrations continued as usual. I attended Fran~oise's eighth birthday party in October 1967. We made a nice cake, and the Marines brought an even bigger one. It took several Marines to carry it. I forgot to point out that Felix had killed a spotted panther the same day. The panther had killed a pig in a nearby village. He placed the trap the night before and his lure worked perfectly. Once it had been trapped, he shot it. The news quickly spread and everyone wanted to take a picture with the dead panther. Each person posed with it in a different manner. We had the skin sent home and tanned. I still have it along with two other skins from tigers which Felix also killed. They are all still in excellent condition.

    January 1968 arrived, and the feast of Tet began early in February. Our workers left the plantation to celebrate. That was the only vacation time they were allowed during the year. When we were short of help, I took a Montagnard woman to do the cooking. She was very clean and cooked very well. Her name was M'Pi Ania. She had previously worked at the plantation during the time my mother-in-law ran operations.

    The attack on Khe Sanh began at night on January 19th and 20th, 1968. We were surprised to hear the noise from the B-52s, which flew very high. The VC were in the village and had attacked the guard post, offices and the residence of the Chief of the District. We wanted to go to Mass but decided against it to keep the children out of danger. Father Mauvais had tried and was pushed back to the bridge of Khe Sanh, which crosses the Ta-Con River. The battle was becoming ferocious. No one left the Montagnard villages. The silence was unusual. Helicopters began bombing and firing at everything that moved. Disregarding the danger, late in the afternoon, we went to the home of Father Mauvais. Father Poncet was still in Hue City. Stray bullets from the helicopters struck the entrance to the home of the nuns, so we quickly returned to the plantation.

    Felix called all of our workers to protect our house. They gathered things from the basement and slept on cots. The B-52s continued bombing and the noise was unbearable. Helicopters dropped off wounded South Vietnamese soldiers at the Old French Fort. Two of them managed to get to our house. I left the veranda and met another wounded soldier who told me his friend was seriously wounded and was hiding where we stored coffee. I called my husband Felix, who scolded me for leaving the house. Felix located the wounded soldier who was suffering from a broken shoulder. His bleeding had stopped and Felix decided not to change the soiled dressing, to prevent the bleeding from starting again. He gave him a shot of Penicillin and water, which seemed to revive him. Felix told both soldiers to remain where they were until the B-52s ceased bombing.

    I omitted telling you that on Saturday, Mr. Miller, the American linguist, had came by the house to warn us that things were getting worse. My husband was not home at the time and when I later told him of the visit of Mr. Miller, he could see the fright on my face.

    On Monday, there was still fighting in the village of Khe Sanh. It was rumored that the American forces were no longer giving ammunition to the Vietnamese Army. The nuns continued coming by the house as there was no question of their leaving. The Montagnards did not leave either. Towards the end of the afternoon, Mr. Llinares was able to join us. His son Emmanuel, remained at their house with the rest of the coolie workers.

    On Tuesday, the Vietnamese from the villages of Khe Sanh and Cu Bach filed past the plantation carrying backpacks, heading towards the Marine base. Prior to the attack on the three hills, everything had been very peaceful. The sudden attack on the village of Khe Sanh had led to widespread panic. My husband Felix used his car to take the wounded Vietnamese soldiers to the Marine base. He was asked to drive the old and sick villagers to the Marine base. He made many trips in our old 2CV but had to stop, so the vehicle would be ready when it was our turn to leave. Some villagers offered Felix 500 Piastas for a ride, but he could not help them -we really needed the car. Felix instructed us to pack some necessary things and be ready to leave the plantation at any moment. The children were very scared and screamed every time the B-52s conducted a bombing raid. We just took with us the money we had received from the coffee crop we had sold, and a few trinkets and toiletries.

    We were the last to leave the plantation. We released our dogs and little "Bambi," then locked the door and left for the Marine base in our old 2CV. When we arrived at the base there was total confusion. The planes that were to arrive to evacuate the villagers never arrived. The Marines did not know what to do. Father Mauvais, who did not want to leave, finally changed his mind and worked his way to the base. Felix spoke to the colonel in charge of Lang Vei, a village on the Lao Bao route. We told him we did not want to leave the area, and he suggested we go with him to Lang Vei. At that time, the North Vietnamese began firing rockets at the base and the children and I took refuge behind some metal barrels that contained pine tar, which got all over me. The children and I were an awful sight and scared to death. At that moment a civilian journalist began basking questions of us. What we were doing there, where we had come from, etc. I am sure she wasn't concerned that we were suffering and had left everything we loved behind; her concern was more of a journalistic nature. She took a picture of us that later appeared in the newspaper in France. Although the photo's appearance assured our families that we were okay, it just was not the proper time to take it.

    Finally, the first C-123 arrived at the base. There was a great rush to get on the first plane. We waited, not wanting to be crushed or separated. We were ordered to join the crowd and get aboard. Felix refused, telling the Marines that they had to organize the villagers into groups to allow an orderly withdrawal. The Marines complied and when other planes arrived, it was done in an orderly manner. The planes were either going to Dong-Ha or Da Nang -- we would have preferred Hue.

    We left with a heavy heart, leaving everything we loved behind. When we arrived at Da Nang, we met the Miller family, which was a very pleasant surprise. Somehow they had been made aware that we would be arriving. We asked to be taken to the house where the nuns lived. It was January 22, 1968 and nothing else had happened at Da Nang. I cleaned some of the sticky tar, which was very difficult to remove, off of my legs and skirt. Two days later we left for Hue City and the School of Joan of Arc. We had many attachments there and Tet was quickly approaching. This meant everyone would be leaving to join his or her families to celebrate together. We did not know if we would ever be able to return to Khe Sanh. We settled in, having only the bare essentials we had taken with us when we left the plantation. We would have to buy whatever things we would need.

    On the night of 31 January 1968, the Tet offensive began all over South Vietnam. We were awakened by gunfire and immediately covered the windows with an armoire. We put our mattresses under the beds to stretch out on. When night came, we left, taking what little we had with us. We worked our way through the streets to the main central building of the school. We saw the first Viet Cong enter the city from the big main gate. We put mattresses over the windows and sealed the building the best we could. Sister Henri was very scared and hid under the covers most of the time.

    The central building was located across the street from Saint Francois-Xavier Church, and the VC had taken up a position in the steeple. When shots were exchanged between them and the American forces, bullets would strike the bell in the steeple, it sounded like the song of a bird. Finally, the bell fell to the ground as if it finally gave up its spirit.

    We took our meals when the situation allowed it. Mostly, we stayed under the mattresses. The Rossignols, instructors who lived next door to the church, joined us. Soon after, about fifty other people -- nuns and others preparing to be nuns -moved into our building. Fierce fighting broke out and at one point, the American soldiers almost attacked our building. We managed to warn them that we were all civilians, and it became necessary to evacuate the building. When we tried to make our way to the chapel there was street fighting everywhere! Civilians as well as the VC and American soldiers were running everywhere. We saw my Vietnamese mother-in-law with Jean-Vincent, Cosette and Nanou. They joined us and the American soldiers helped us get behind the chapel. We thought our last moments had arrived.

    The Rossignols attempted to take refuge at the Faculty of Sciences building where everyone was being directed and which was now empty. We encountered a guard who refused to let anyone in. After a discussion, he allowed us entry but we were only given access to a room which was approximately 4 meters square. There wasn't food for anyone but at least we were not homeless. We stood back to back to use the least amount of space as possible. Little Jean-Marie, who was only four years old, cried that he wanted to go back to Joan of Arc. I did the best I could to calm him, although the sounds of the all night battle kept us awake all night.

    The next morning the rest of the refugees arrived, those who knew the nuns cooked some rice. We each had a small bowl. It wasn't much but a comfort to our empty stomachs. Felix and two of the nuns went back to Joan of Arc and retrieved some blankets and small survival kits. Sister Paul Xavier brought back her black habit and some consecrated host. She gave communion to all the Christians at the shelter, which was a particularly moving moment. Jean-Marie watched very closely, his eyes speaking for him. For the first time, we knew he understood the significance of communion.

    As more and more refugees arrived, the guards opened bigger rooms, which was a great improvement. We were finally able to stretch out. We did not know how long we would be at the shelter, so the extra room really helped. Felix began to organize the refugees, so we could all have at least two meals a day. The Americans gave Felix some raisins, cokes, and sugar. We had to guard them very closely, so that Franqoise and Jean-Marie could eat a little better.

    The only place to do laundry was in the Perfume River. It was not safe to go there by yourself, so the Americans took us by bus. A group of journalists arrived and informed us through their intermediary that they had requested our evacuation through the American Consulate. On Feb. 11, 1968, all the nuns, the Rossignols, my mother-in-law and her children, and the Philippino family, and the doctor married to a French woman were able to get on a boat. The priests, including Fathers Poncet, Petit-Jean and Neyroud, stayed at the Providence School. The Viet Cong put Father Lefas and another Frenchman up against a wall. The VC thought they had a grenade in their pocket. They were saved when they discovered it was just a battery. We had to stay on the boat at Hue until February 12, because it was not safe to move. A helicopter arrived and escorted us to Da Nang.

    When we arrived at the Da Nang American Consulate, Mary Ange and the Mother Superior of the Sacred Heart School greeted us. I had become sick on the boat and arrived wrapped in a blanket. We arrived at the school where we ate a good meal of meat and rice soup -- what a luxury! It was the first hot meal we had had in 12 days. For the first time, we enjoyed a little tranquility. It felt good to sleep in a warm bed. One could not describe the difference in accommodations, it was wonderful.

    The city of Hue was still under attack and suffered enormous damage. The Joan of Arc School was destroyed, and the coffee we had stored there was stolen and sold by the VC. The VC looted many buildings, and some personally profited from their attack by selling our coffee crop for a good price. The main bridge, which spanned the Perfume River, was cut in half by the VC and the ferry remained the only way to get to Hue.

    We were now refugees in Da Nang. Two days after our arrival, we learned that the VC somewhere near the Hue Canal had beaten Father Poncet and Father Cressonnier. Felix was devastated by the news and could not bring himself to tell me. Sister Xavier was the one who finally broke that news to me. When two of the Fathers learned that a nun had been seriously wounded in Hue at a location still under control of the VC, they returned to help her. Mr. Llinaires accompanied the Fathers. The VC executed both of the Fathers. No one ever learned why. Mr. Llinaires was wounded in the wrist and barely escaped by hiding in a trench.

    After 14 days, Father Cressonier's Thi-Ba, the woman who was responsible for the priest home, was finally able to enter the liberated zone. Unbelievably, the bodies of the two Fathers were still where they had fallen. Her and another women placed the bodies in sacks and brought them back to the home of the priest where they were temporarily buried in the back yard. In time, they would be interred at the Priest Cemetery in the District of the Citadel. The cruelty of the VC was incredible -- how many other priests died, attempting to save a child, or say Mass is unknown.

    The VC committed many atrocities. There was a group of German doctors who served at the Mission of the Order of Malte. They worked at the hospital at Hue, serving the entire population. One was a pediatrician and the others were general practitioners. One of their wives was pregnant and expecting her third baby. The VC kidnapped them and for a time, it was rumored that they had been taken to treat the wounded VC. Unfortunately, that proved to be untrue when they were found executed. One female German doctor who escaped execution, later returned to Germany with her three children.

    Most of the massacres took place outside of Hue City on the plain going towards the Benedictine Monastery of Thien-An. Two French Fathers were among those massacred. Father Urbain and Father Guy had made a wrong turn and were captured by the VC. They, like the others, were made to dig their own graves. When the city was finally liberated, many corpses were found, some only half buried. It was hard to believe human beings could be responsible for such an abomination.

    After the city of Hue was completely liberated, Felix and a group of nuns went to see the devastation. Felix took notes and recorded the widespread devastation. The Joan of Arc School suffered extensive damage. Felix, Fathers Lefas, Duval, Neyroud, along with Monsignor Urrutia, Jean-Vincent Poilane, and a Frenchmen who lived with the Fathers began salvage work at the school. I stayed in Hue with the children while they rotated back and forth from Da Nang to Hue as limited space on airplanes allowed.

    We continued living at Sacred Heart, and had a very large room on the first floor. Most of our friends were leaving Viet Nam and returning to France. The Americans provided abundant food for the orphans who lived at the school. We ate at the sisters' guest table and were able to pay for our meals with the money we had received from the six tons. of coffee we had sold from the plantation at Khe Sanh. We made our own clothes from the American surplus, some of the dresses looked very nice. My mother-in-law and friends would also send us clothes -- clothes for Felix and the children that could not be found at the school. Time passed slowly, Khe Sanh was still under siege. Hopes of ever returning were starting to fade. The Montagnards were allowed to evacuate their villages. Most of them traveled by foot to Cam-Lo. They could not stay in their villages as they were completely out of food.

    On April 9, 1968, Khe Sanh was finally liberated. Felix was ecstatic and immediately began contacting American authorities through a Philippine friend who spoke perfect English. Felix wanted to return to the plantation to see how much, if anything, remained. The Americans were reluctant, they said it was still very dangerous, the VC were still very close. Finally, they informed Felix he could return on April 12. Upon hearing the news, I hid his passport, as I did not want him to go back to Khe Sanh. He told me he was going, with or without a passport. Although I still did not want him to go, I returned it. On April 13, 1968, he departed by plane to Khe Sanh.

    I did not hear from him on Easter Sunday, 14 April 1968, and immediately sensed something was wrong. A journalist informed Mother Angel of the tragic news. She kept it from me until Monday morning, fearing I would not sleep the night before. She sent for me on Monday, the pale look on her face told me something was indeed wrong. She informed me that something had happened at Khe Sanh, and that she was going to the American Consulate to learn the details. When I tried to go with her she refused, making me wait for her return.

    She returned and informed me that Felix's plane had been shot down over Khe Sanh. Felix was the only civilian on board. He died in the crash, with five of the fourteen military passengers being injured. One later died. The same nun that went to the consulate located the hospital where Felix's body had been brought. She and the other nuns took care of everything for me. They made the notifications to his mother, took care of the administrative papers, and ordered a coffin. I informed her of my wish to have his body returned to France. The nuns tried to dissuade me. The priests wanted to bury him next to Father Poncet. If he could have spoken to me, maybe that would have been his desire. I did not know, he loved this country so much.

    The Americans embalmed his body and returned it to us on April 17, 1968. He was laid out in a little room that served as an office for the chapel. He was dressed in his dark, navy blue suit. A little drop of water and blood came falling from his right ear from time to time. He appeared to have just gone to sleep and was at peace. A tri-colored ribbon and simple bouquet of flowers adorned his coffin. Francoise and Jean-Marie had grim faces. Jean-Marie was especially affected. He came, looked at his Father, left and went back again. At five years old, he could not understand what was happening. Father Petit-Jean remained close to me to get me through the ordeal. I hugged Felix for a long time, his face against mine.

    On 18 April 1968, funeral services were held at the Cathedral of Da Nang. Nine priests co-celebrated the mass, which was said by the Vietnamese parish priest. They were all his friends. Father Lefas eulogized Felix in a very solemn way. He had felt particular pain, as Felix was his student at the College of Providence at Hue. Among the many mourners was the lieutenant who had authorized Felix's plane trip; he felt responsible.

    After the ceremony, the Americans took the body to Saigon to await transportation to France. I returned to Hue City with the nuns to clear up affairs with the bank. I found the city destroyed. It was still a dangerous time to be in Hue and several times during the night we had to hide on the first floor. Due to the still continuing dangerous situation in Vietnam, there was a delay in our leaving. During this time I could not take the pressure and had to get treatment to allow me to sleep. On 22 June 1968, the children and I left for France after making sure Felix's body would be returned. My stepsisters, Cosette and Nanou, and two nuns came with us. Goodbye Vietnam, where I left so many memories. A part of my life and heart remain in that country where I knew both joy and suffering at the plantation. Life goes on and I still have the children. But Vietnam remains forever engraved in me. It is still hard to describe all these events, it was so brutal.

    Felix was 37 years old when he died. He was born on April 30, 1930 at Khe Sanh, and had gone back to die at Khe Sanh.

The Poilane Children

Top side

*****

Navy Doc

    At our upcoming reunion in Dallas Texas, the KSV will be honoring our Heroic Corpsmen and Medics who served with us. Their history and Heroic achievements do not need to be repeated. We will also be honoring the Doctors who saved so many lives. This is the story of one KSV Navy surgeon who is remembered in history for removing a live mortar round from a wounded Marine. What is not widely known are his Heroics while serving with an Army Unit at Hill 162 on 04 September 1968. Heroics that have gone unheralded. Here are the eyewitness accounts of those who were there and want his actions properly rewarded.

Prelude to Battle

By Kirk Ross

    The pronouncement that they were being assigned to the 1st Battalion of the 61st Infantry Regiment (Mechanized), an outfit operating on the DMZ, was enough to test the nerve of even the best of Captain John W. Langston's young infantry replacements. Captain Langston, Bravo Company C/O, did his best to set the new men at ease and, in a fatherly tone, assured them that they were not going to die while serving under his command. The talk usually worked and with time and experience, the men began to mirror their commander, becoming almost as cocky and confident as him.

    Like all the company commanders of the 1st Battalion, 61st Infantry Regiment, Captain Langston wore the patch of the US Army's 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile) on his right sleeve. In November 1965, he had fought with a 1st Cav Blue Team in the Ia Drang Valley in a pitched battle which marked the first engagement fought between North Vietnamese Army Main Force units and United States troops. The intensity of that action also served to set the tone for what was to come, as the conflict in the South escalated. In July 1968, Captain Langston and his fellow officers were serving in a new outfit, which had just deployed to Vietnam. On this tour, he and the others were all experienced veterans, eager to be going back into combat.

    The 1st of the 61st was a part of the Colonel Richard J. Glikes' 1 st Infantry Brigade, 5th Infantry Division (Mechanized), which had arrived in Vietnam in July. The Brigade's headquarters were established in Quang Tri while its three maneuver battalions were located at separate base camps outside Quang Tri base proper. Placed under the operational control of the 3rd Marine Division, Glikes' brigade became, for tactical purposes, an asset of the United States Marine Corps. However, with much of the Marine Corps' attention focused on the area around Khe Sanh and the western portion of the I Corps zone, the bulk of operational responsibility for patrolling the DMZ from Wonder Beach to the hills west of the Con Thien fire support base, fell to the 1st Brigade.

    Colonel Glikes' brigade often operated jointly with elements of the 3rd, 4th, and 9th Marine Regiments. The foot-bound Marines, according to Lieutenant Colonel Bernard D. Wheeler, C/O of the 1st Battalion of the 61st, unlike his men, were not equipped with armored personnel carriers and seemed always in need of support from their relatively lavishly equipped Army cousins. When they encountered strong opposition, the Marines' lives sometimes relied on the firepower delivered by the highly mobile infantry companies of Wheeler's battalion coming quickly to their aid, a circumstance that Wheeler admitted, often required his men to "throw caution to the wind."

    According to Captain Langston, the men of his battalion -- in fact, those of the whole 1st Brigade spent most of August shaking down equipment and familiarizing themselves with their area of operations. During that month, the 1st Battalion of the 77th Armored Regiment and the 1st Battalion of the 1 lth Infantry Regiment fought two separate engagements near the DMZ which resulted in 132 enemy killed. Despite the successes of its sister organizations, the 1st of the 61st still had fought no significant engagements with the enemy. However, with the Brigade's move on 26 August to a new area of operations west of Cam L6, which was about to be known as "Leatherneck Square," it was about to.

    On the morning of 4 September 1968, A Company of the 1st Battalion was ordered to conduct a sweep mission with the purpose of effecting a linkup with a Mike Force of the 3rd Battalion, 9th Marine Regiment. Mike 3/9, having the radio call sign "7up Mike," had been in contact with the enemy all morning; however it was not enemy action, but rather increasingly poor weather conditions that compelled its immediate extraction. Soon after linking up with the Marines, A Company would come under the attack of a sizable NVA force. The battle that ensued would prove to be the 1st Battalion's first major contact with the enemy in the Republic of Vietnam. The engagement would also see a young Navy surgeon, Lt. Edward M. Feldman, become an unwitting hero to the embattled Army troops.

    Accompanied by a platoon of tanks from the 1st Battalion, 77th Armored, A Company, under the command of Capt. Charles E. Vernon, moved out on its mission at 0645 hours. The column of tracks, which was composed of some thirteen or more M113 Armored Cavalry Assault Vehicles and two tracked recovery vehicles, moved west from the vicinity of Fire Support Base Charlie 2 near Cam Lo, following the course of the east-west grid line "65" for more than two-and-a-half hours until they reached a position approximately one kilometer east of the 160-meter high hill (henceforth referred to as Hill 160) that would be the focal point in the coming battle. Along the way, heavy mud forced the tanks to turn back. This same mud would prove to make the going arduous for A Company's tracks as well. At 0914 hours, Captain Vernon called 1st Battalion requesting to know if the helicopter that had begun circling a point north of his location a few minutes earlier, was in fact circling over 7up Mike. The reply from 1st Battalion confirmed Vernon's guess. This was apparently, the much-delayed re-supply helicopter the Marines had requested some two hours before. With the Marines' location approximately fixed, A Company dropped smoke to mark its position to the Mike Force. The smoke was soon spotted by the Marines, and to coordinate the extraction, 7up Mike then switched over to A Company's radio frequency.

    7up Mike, which was at that time located on a minor prominence about two kilometers northwest of A Company, had been in contact with the enemy since well before daylight. During the nearly four hours preceding their initial contact with A Company, the Marines had coordinated several artillery fire missions on suspected enemy positions west and northwest of Hill 160. When their re-supply helicopter drew enemy automatic weapons fire from a position approximately two kilometers to its northwest, 7up Mike resumed its calls to the 1st Battalion of the 61st Infantry requesting two more fire missions. Still further calls for artillery were made at 1000 hours, at 1006 hours, and at 1007 hours. Eleven minutes later, 7up Mike called 1st Battalion to end the fire missions, which apparently resulted in "excellent coverage" of the target areas. Perhaps prompted by the increasing enemy activity, or perhaps because the visibility was decreasing due to worsening weather conditions, 1st Battalion's Operations Officer again contacted Capt. Vernon with instructions to link up with the Marines.

    Capt. Vernon decided that, before he moved to link up with 7up Mike, he would first establish a perimeter atop Hill 160, and so led his men to this position. Along the way, Sgt. Stephen Zerfas' ACAV threw a track and had to stop to make repairs. Another vehicle broke down atop the hill, that of Sgt. Ronald E. Fujikawa. The 1st Platoon, commanded by 2Lt. Duane E. Hulett, was ordered to hold its position atop the hill so as to defend Sgt. Fujikawa's track until it regained mo. bility. Capt. Vernon, meanwhile, ordered the four tracks of the 2nd Platoon to sweep west and north and cross the Song Noan, a small stream, while Captain Vernon's command group, accompanied by the tracks of 2Lt. Douglas N. Mulford's Weapons Platoon, would sweep north in the direction of the Marines. This dividing of the force, although dangerous, was for Captain Vernon apparently necessary, as it seems he was unsure of the Mike Forces' exact location. The several elements presently moved out and, by 1037 hours, 2Lt. Hesti's platoon was approaching the Song Noan. Apparently, neither 2Lt. Hesli or anyone in A Company had been informed that they were heading into a hot area, one in which the Marines had only recently made several contacts with the enemy. This proximate danger would only be recognized too late.

    On 4 September 1968, at approximately 1700 hours, Lt. Edward M. Feldman, USNR, was preparing the triage at the main medical facility at Quang Tri for receiving casualties. An Army helicopter crewman came running in asking for a doctor to follow him to his helicopter. Lt. Feldman accompanied the airman and, upon reaching the helicopter, was motioned aboard. Lt. Feldman's first impression was that the aircrew had a wounded man aboard and did not know how to move him. However, when he discovered there were no wounded aboard, Lt. Feldman assumed that the aircrew wanted to lift him to a casualty a short distance away and, therefore, volunteered to go with them.

    After flying at very low altitude for some fifteen to twenty minutes, buffeted by typhoon-strength winds, the pilot settled the helicopter into a hover. The helicopter immediately began taking fire from its left side and the pilot abruptly landed atop a knoll carpeted by swampy elephant grass. There below him, Lt. Feldman could see several armored personnel carriers (APC's) from A Company, 1st Battalion, 61st Infantry (Mechanized) under violent attack by a battalion-size NVA force.

    Lt. Feldman jumped out of the helicopter and was met by a man who briefed him on the situation. Lt. Feldman was told that he was three kilometers south of the Demilitarized Zone near Charlie 2 Cam Lo combat base. At that moment, enemy automatic weapons and rocket-propelled grenades set on fire one of the APCs spaced at intervals along the column. When this happened, the weight of enemy fire seemed to shift toward this vehicle. Heedless of the enemy small arms fire being directed toward A Company, Lt. Feldman immediately moved to the head of the column of APCs. Finding no wounded, Lt. Feldman stopped long enough to put on a discarded flak vest and helmet and picked up a M-16 which had also been abandoned. Like everything, it was caked with sticky, red clay. After assuring himself that the weapon was functioning properly, Lt. Feldman, exposing himself to moderate but steady enemy fire, began making his way from track to track.

    Behind each of the APC's were clutches of soldiers, huddled close together, returning fire. Lt. Feldman stopped at each vehicle, assisting the wounded and encouraging the men. After he had reached the last APC, Lt. Feldman, advancing as before, retraced his steps back up the column of dispersed APCs stopping again to assist the wounded. As he moved, he was constantly aware of the enemy automatic fire and rocket-propelled grenades coming from a line of small trees and brush off to the right flank, and that some of it was being directed at him. Lt. Feldman stopped to return fire himself many times.

    At approximately 1852 hours, Lt. Feldman took charge of A Company 1/61 and personally began directing the men to move with their wounded to a new, more defensible position atop a hill just to the south from which the men could better direct their fire upon the enemy, and from which point medevacs could effectively evacuate the wounded. As the APCs began climbing the hill, they received what Lt. Feldman thought was heavy mortar fire, as well as RPG and automatic weapons fire. Once atop the hill, Lt. Feldman guided the men in forming a perimeter until all the APCs were in position.

    Sometime after getting into position, a lieutenant from A Company 1/61 informed Lt. Feldman that only a small amount of concertina wire and about thirty-two claymore mines were available for night defenses. Feldman was further informed because of the poor weather, they would not be getting any close air or artillery support, and it was unlikely that there would be any evacuation of casualties. Undaunted, Lt. Feldman directed the men in establishing a defensive perimeter. With enemy activity in the area slackening somewhat with the fall of darkness, Lt. Feldman busied himself reevaluating the existing casualties and checking to make sure that any new casualties received medical attention.

    Until Lt. Feldman arrived, A Company 1/61 had been taking care of its wounded as best it could. Once the company had been assembled by Lt. Feldman atop the hill, he ordered all no-nambulatory men placed in a tight perimeter within the main defensive position where they would be protected from direct fire. This allowed him and one or two A Company men to provide better medical treatment. A dozen or more such wounded were administered to by Lt. Feldman. Many of these wounded men had gone into shock due to their loss of blood. Lt. Feldman separated those casualties that could be saved from those for which there was no hope. Lt. Feldman gave the mortally wounded morphine and made them as comfortable as possible.

    At 1930 hours, C Company 1/61 arrived to reinforce A Company. However, Lt. Feldman retained command over the evacuation of the wounded. Lt. Feldman was not formally relieved of his responsibility for A Company's defenses until the next morning. Once the wounded were stabilized, Lt. Feldman placed a called for a CH-47 Chinook for the evacuation of the wounded. Lt. Feldman knew A Company's position on the hill was still being subjected to enemy fire. The wounded would stand a better chance if all were evacuated at one time, thus necessitating the Chinook. Lt. Feldman directed the men to establish a landing zone for the medevac. All the while, A Company 1/61 was still taking moderate small arms and mortar fires.

    At 2245 hours, a US Army Chinook helicopter landed on the hill. While Lt. Feldman ordered all the wounded of A Company 1/61 to be placed on board, enemy small arms and automatic weapons fire intensified. The dead were also evacuated, their bodies placed on the floor of the Chinook. Lt. Feldman refused evacuation himself, choosing instead to stay with the men who had been placed in his care. He remained with A Company 1/61 until 6 September 1968 at which time he was flown to C2.

    Lt. Feldman demonstrated aggressiveness in taking command and reorganizing the separated elements of A Company 1/61, placed the company in a strong position on high ground, one from which it would have a reasonable chance of withstanding a determined enemy assault if one had come. Moreover, Lt. Feldman's presence had a profound impact on the survival of A Company's wounded.

**

    On the aftemoon of 4 September 1968, I was a track (ACAV) commander in 2Lt. Duane E. Hulett's 1st Platoon of A Company, 1/61. In the course of carrying out our objective -- the link up with and extraction of a Marine Mike Force -- my track became immobilized on top of the Hill 162 (location of the destroyed village of Lang Dong Bao Thu-o-ng).

    To effect the link-up with the Mike Force, its exact location yet unknown, the Company Commander, Captain Charles E. Vernon, ordered the four tracks of the 2nd Platoon, commanded by 2Lt. Philip T. Hesli, Jr., to sweep west and north, and cross the Song Noan. Meanwhile, Captain Vernon's command group, accompanied by the tracks of 2Lt. Douglas N. Mulford's Weapons Platoon, would sweep north. The 1st Platoon was to hold its position atop the hill so as to defend my track until it regained mobility.

    As the tracks of the 2nd Platoon approached the Song Noan, I saw them come under some light, harassing enemy fire. Nevertheless, 2Lt. Hesli's tracks continued across the small river and made their way into the brush on the far side. 2Lt. Hulett received a radio message from 2Lt. Hesli -- one of his tracks had become bogged down on the far side of the river. Hesli had attempted to pull it free with another track, but to no avail. Adding to his difficulty, Helsi's only tow cable had been broken in the attempt. Leaving one track to watch over mine, 2Lt. Hulett struck out to assist 2Lt. Hesli's platoon.

    After some considerable effort, the mired track was freed and all six tracks which had crossed the river now re-crossed the Song Noan and began making their way back toward the top of Hill 162, where my element waited. As Hesli's element made their way single-file up the incline at the base of the hill, what had formerly amounted to sporadic enemy sniping began to increase dramatically in pitch.

    As the sounds of firing grew steadily, I yelled over to my friend in the other track fifty feet away, "Man, there's something wrong here."

    "I don't like this," thirty-two-year-old SP4 Charles Robertson replied.

    "Man, I don't like this either," I agreed.

    From my position atop the hill, I could see clearly 2Lt. Hesli's tracks, about three to four hundred yards away, which were now under the concentrated attack of a sizable and determined NVA force. I immediately directed my men to open fire on the enemy with two of my track's M60 machine guns. I began firing on the attacking NVA with my .5{3 caliber machine gun. The NVA, which were attacking the right (west) flank of 2Lt. Hesli's element, had not yet closed with the tracks, but I gauged that the enemy were trying to become intermingled with the column so as to render ineffective the heavy firepower of the tracks' machine guns -- the gunners would be disinclined to fire into their own column. Nevertheless, my position afforded me excellent observation of the enemy and the fires from my tracks, I felt, were assisting greatly in preventing the enemy from closing on 2Lt. Hesli's tracks.

    It was then that I noticed that Sp4 Robertson's track had engaged NVA troops attempting to close on my own position from the south side of Hill 162. I ordered my track's remaining M60 to engage this new threat while I continued to fire on the enemy attacking 2Lt. Hesli's position. Alpha 1/61's Armored Cavalry Assault Vehicles (ACAV), basically heavily armed variants of the M-113 Armored Personnel Carriers, were each armed with three M60 7.62mm general purpose machine guns and a single M2-HB .50 caliber machine gun mounted in the commander's cupola. Along with ammunition for each man's personal weapons, each track carried 2,000-3,000 rounds of ammunition for the M60s and approximately 1,500 rounds for the .50 caliber machine gun. As well, each crew was provided with an M-79 grenade launcher with 50 to 100 rounds of ammunition. Although this may seem like an abundant supply, in a hot firefight, even this amount of ammunition was rapidly consumed by the sustained firing of automatic weapons. Moreover, such sustained firing quickly burned out the barrels of automatic weapons, and there were only so many barrels available. Pausing between every 200-300 rounds to let the overheated M60s cool down, my men fired on the enemy with their M-16s. Meanwhile, Robertson, with an M-79, fired at targets all across the south slope of the hill. So far, Robertson had prevented the enemy from advancing from that direction.

    Atop the hill, my element had a terrific field of fire and were inflicting heavy losses on the enemy. To the NVA, however, we also presented an attractive target. I heard the throaty crumping of mortars firing in the distance. In fact, they were coming in by the dozen, I estimated four batteries. Then, one, perhaps as many as four shells, landed on top of my track. I, in the .50 caliber machine gun cupola, was wounded in the face by shrapnel and lost my helmet. I was nearly deafened by the blast. After the mortar fire ended, a direct assault on my position began.

    From the amount of movement I had already observed, and from the weight of the enemy's fire, I estimated Alpha 1/61 was being hit by an NVA battalion-sized force of approximately 200 men. Now, from all sides, the enemy came on like madmen. The battle had been raging for thirty to forty-five minutes when the assault began, and I was down to my last .50 caliber barrel -- I had already burned up four. As they came on, the enemy managed to close to within fifty meters, and many as near as twenty meters and closer.

    The men of my element returned fire furiously, expending most of their machine gun ammunition as well as most of their 40mm grenades. When my .50 caliber began to overheat, I drew up my M-16 rifle, giving my machine gun time to cool down. Some enemy troops overran the top of the hill, placing themselves between my track and Robertson's, and forcing Alpha's machine gunners to use extreme caution when engaging targets. Nevertheless, the attack was beaten off with terrific casualties being inflicted upon the enemy. I estimated that the men of my element had probably killed at least forty or more of the enemy, and that I had, myself, accounted for ten to twelve of those killed by fire from my .50 caliber. In addition to myself, two other men in my track were wounded, one in the arm and one in the shoulder. I did not know if Robertson's squad had sustained any casualties.

    I spotted Captain Vernon's element in the distance to the northeast, and I was aware that they too had been hit, but its attackers were too far away to engage effectively. 2Lt. Hesli's element, though having beaten back their attackers, was stalled as well. Alpha's communications had broken down. As I recalled, no one was in charge, it was chaotic. All I could do was sit tight, and try to keep the enemy at a distance. Meanwhile, as there were no medics present, the men applied tourniquets to the wounds of the casualties and otherwise made them as comfortable as possible.

    Approximately ninety minutes later, medevacs began to arrive. One medevac, accompanied by two Huey gunships and one Cobra gunship, landed in the valley near Captain Vernon's element. Soon thereafter, a lone medevac landed fifty meters away on the hilltop between my element and 2Lt. Hesli's. One man, whom I learned was a Navy doctor, Lt. Edward R. Feldman, jumped off. With him he carried nothing and had neither a helmet, nor a flak vest. As I recalled, Lt. Feldman immediately started directing traffic.

    As Lt. Feldman began moving down the line of tracks of Hesli's element, I looked on, amazed by his seemingly casual disregard for the enemy small arms fire still being directed toward Alpha Company. "Who's this, John Wayne or what?" I hollered over to Robertson. "This guy ain't gonna last twenty minutes."

    "We wanted to see someone in charge," I recalled, "He (Feldman] took charge." Feldman picked up an M-16 rifle from one of the wounded, and put on a discarded helmet and flak vest. Although he was under "moderate but steady fire," he made his way "from track to track to track to take care of the wounded." After he had done this, Lt. Feldman then began directing the tracks of 2Lt. Hesli's clement, along with his wounded, to move to the top of Hill 162. Once there, Feldman guided the men in forming a perimeter. "Hey you, put this track over here," he commanded. "Hey you, put this track over there," until all the tracks were in position.

    I did not remember seeing any of our own medics. Therefore, until Lt. Feldman arrived, Alpha had been taking care of its wounded as best they could. Once the company, less Captain Vernon's element, had been assembled by Lt. Feldman atop Hill 162, the Lieutenant ordered all non-ambulatory men placed in a tight perimeter within the main defensive position. This enabled Lt. Feldman, while being assisted by one or two Alpha men, a safe place they could be worked on. A dozen or more such wounded were administered to by Lt. Feldman. Many of the wounded men had gone into shock because of their loss of blood.

    Once the wounded were stabilized, Lt. Feldman said, "We got to get these dead and wounded out of here," and got on the radio. In the discussion I overheard, Lt. Feldman told the receiver, "Don't send medevacs, send a Chinook." Feldman knew that, due to the fact Alpha's position on Hill 162 was still being subjected to enemy fire, the wounded would stand a better chance if all were evacuated at one time, thus necessitating the Chinook. Lt. Feldman then ordered the men to establish a landing zone (LZ) for the Chinook. Men set out immediately digging holes into which they dropped strobe lights; these would be visible from the air but could not be seen from the ground. All the while, Alpha was still taking sporadic small arms fire.

    At 2245 hours, a US Army Chinook helicopter landed on the LZ on Hill 162. Lt. Feldman directed the evacuation of the wounded of Alpha 1/61. I was evacuated at this time. The dead were also evacuated, and their bodies were placed on the floor of the Chinook. There were no body bags for the dead. There were so many casualties that the wounded were forced to, in some cases, sit on top of the bodies of our dead comrades. Conspicuously not aboard was Lt. Feldman, who had chosen to stay on the ground. As the Chinook lifted into the black night, it was fired on by at least four enemy machine guns. Lines of tracers arched their way toward the helicopter but did not find their target. With the knowledge that our fellow Alpha men we had left behind were so critically short of ammunition, none of the wounded aboard the Chinook, including myself, could help but worry for the defenders of Hill 162 as we were flown to the field hospital.

    Prior to my evacuation, I recalled how, as the evening progressed, everyone on the hill began to worry. We [Alpha] were "super low on ammunition," and had continued to get fire all through the night. Apparently, the NVA never knew how bad off we were. What is apparent, however, is that Lt. Feldman's demonstrated aggressiveness in taking command and reorganizing the separated elements of Alpha Company, placed the company in a strong position on high ground [Hill 162], one from which we would have a reasonable chance of withstanding a determined enemy assault if it came. Had the company remained in the valley, a determined enemy assault might have easily overrun our positions. Moreover, Lt. Feldman's presence had a profound impact on the survival of Alpha's wounded. Many of the wounded would have surely died had not Lt. Feldman been present to assist them.

Ronald E. Fujikawa

**

    On the afternoon of 4 September 1968, I was 2nd Platoon Commander in Captain Charles E. Vernon's A Company, 1/61. On that day, my company's objective was the link up with and extraction of Marine Mike Force.

At approximately 1037 hours, my platoon, mounted on four M-113 ACAVs, was located at coordinates (04.5-65.3) attempting to ford the Song Noan, a small stream with treacherous banks. While in the process of this complex maneuver, one of my tracks became mired in sucking mud. After repeated attempts to flee the trapped vehicle on my own, my single tow cable snapped.

    Due to the worsening weather conditions, visibility was down to only 500 meters. Neither I or the men under my command, were able to spot the large body of NVA regulars which had moved into ambush positions along our path. They were prepared to strike my element. The first rocket-propelled grenade impacted with such violence that it threw me off the top of my track and into the bottom of a shallow creek bed, which ran parallel to my stretched out column. I had been riding in the .50 caliber machine gun cupola. When I had recovered from my initial shock, I discovered I was covered with the brains of Sp4 Barry Walls who had been manning the M60 machine gun mounted on the right side of the track. Sp4 Walls was nearly decapitated by the exploding rocket. Blood was sticky on my face, and I soon realized that much of it was not Walls' but my own. Rocket shrapnel had blinded me in one eye.

    NVA soldiers were all around me firing from positions a mere twenty meters away. Already drenched from the heavily falling rain, the barrage of small arms fire mowed down the elephant grass, showering me with debris as I lay in the ditch. This continued for some time but eventually, with my men directing heavy streams of automatic weapons fire into every suspected enemy position, the immediate area quieted somewhat. I began crawling back along the muddy stream bed toward a small thicket situated near the rear of my stalled column.

    Sgt. Donald M. Gaines, the weapons platoon sergeant who, for some reason, had accompanied Hulett, was manning an M60 machine gun on the left side of his ACAV. The last track in the column sighted the mud-bathed figure of a man rise up from a small crop of scrub wood and begin to approach his ACAV. Preparing to open fire, Gaines swung his M60 toward me as I advanced. He's one of our guys," shouted another soldier, tipping Gaines' muzzle away from me.

    "Let's get out of here," I ordered as I scrambled aboard Gaines' track. I ordered the track driver to move up parallel to my own stalled track. There, I sighted the form of Sgt. James A. Wright lying in the mud behind my track. I dismounted and moved quickly to Wright's assistance. Wright appeared to be dead.

    I dropped the rear gate of my track and while being assisted by another soldier, staying as low to the ground as possible to avoid the intense enemy small arms and rocket fire, I attempted to roll Wright's body up the ramp and inside. Wright, who was a chunky guy, was wearing a pack when he was hit, and I found it terribly difficult to roll his body. After some time elapsed, enemy fire compelled the men still inside my track to close the gate. Realizing that I needed support if I was to get Sgt Wright on the track, I called for 2Lt. Hulett's track, located behind my own and to the left, to pull foreword. Hulett responded immediately, ordering his driver to advance. The driver, whose visibility was limited, pulled right over my legs, pressing me down into the mud. With the right track of Hulett's M-113 resting over the backs of my thighs, I cried out. 2Lt. Hulett, looking over the side, saw me squirming in the mud below, and told his driver to back up. Miraculously, my legs were uninjured. I then told Hulett to cover me by placing his track in a position to shield me while I loaded Sgt. Wright onto my track.

    The radio in my track was not functioning. Using PRC-22, I was able to establish contact with Battalion. I informed Lt. Col. Wheeler, the Battalion Commander, that we were unsure of our exact location. We began to receive mortar fire as well as small ú arms. It was shortly after this time that a medevac helicopter arrived. I later learned that Lt. Edward R. Feldman, a Navy doctor came in on this helicopter.

    I assisted in reorganizing my element and then in moving it up to the high ground where, that night, we established a defensive position. It rained all evening, so until I was evacuated with the other casualties, I remained inside one of the tracks. My leg was stiffening up, and my eye was swollen badly. In fact, I had two black eyes and both were swollen shut. About an hour after we moved to the high ground, Lt. Feldman came to check on me. With only the red light to see by, he cut my pants leg off and put medication on my wounds. Although our position was still being subjected to intermittent enemy fire, he left to attend other wounded. He separated the wounded and filled the dying with morphine. Sometime thereafter, C Company arrived to support us.

    At 2246 hours, an Army CH-47 arrived to evacuate our wounded, and it was on this helicopter that I, too, was evacuated. With regard to the wounded of Alpha Company, it is my opinion that Lt. Feldman's presence definitely had a positive bearing on their fate. It is possible that some of our wounded would not have survived if it had not been for the care given them by Lt. Feldman.

Philip T Hesli

**

    On 4 September 1968, I was in command of B Company, 1st Battalion of the 61st Infantry Regiment (Mechanized). My company had just completed a search and clear operation within the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) and had returned to Firebase C2, north of Cam Lo, Republic of Vietnam, for a stand down. At about 1600 hours that day, a runner arrived with orders from the Battalion Commander, Lt. Col. Bernard Wheeler, to monitor the Battalion Command and A Company frequencies. At that time, A Company was conducting search and clear operations near the DMZ.

    When I turned on my radio, I heard Capt. Charles E. Vernon, A Company's Commander, reporting that his track had been hit by several rocket propelled grenades (RPGs) wounding him and several others. The North Vietnamese Army (NVA) were attempting to overrun his position. Capt. Vernon's driver turned his track around and began to withdraw when it was struck by another RPG which disabled the vehicle and killed or wounded all on board. Capt. Vernon, obviously in tears, was begging for help.

    At that time, weather conditions did not permit the employment of close air support. Although artillery support was available, the forward observer accompanying Capt. Vernon had been killed by RPG fragments. Apparently, none of A Company's personnel were aware of their exact location and did not, or could not, call for artillery support. It soon became clear that A Company's several elements were widely dispersed and fighting separate engagements, against a numerically superior enemy force -- several of A Company's platoon leaders had become casualties. Although A Company's men continued to battle determinedly, it was plain that the company's command structure had disintegrated.

    As I continued to monitor the Battalion and A Company frequencies, I discovered a Navy doctor, whom I later learned was Lt. Edward M. Feldman, had arrived by helicopter in the battle area. He immediately undertook the task of caring for A Company's wounded. Apparently, Lt. Feldman determined with night closing in, the only way to successfully effect the evacuation of A Company's many casualties, was to reform the widely separated elements. He located a new defensive position atop a nearby prominence. Exercising an obvious innate leadership ability and assuming responsibility for what would have proved a difficult task for even an experienced infantry officer, Lt. Feldman took command of the situation and led the men of A Company in successfully completing this difficult maneuver. Later that night, while still monitoring the radios, I listened as Lt. Feldman called for a CH-47 helicopter to medevac A Company's remaining dead and wounded.

    Lt. Feldman had chosen not to leave, but to stay on the ground with A Company, where his leadership and encouragement were needed most. It is my opinion, speaking as a combat experienced Company Commander and career Army officer, that if it were not for the skillful and courageous leadership of Lt. Feldman, many of A Company's wounded would have perished. Moreover, the several elements of the company would have been, had they remained separated, isolated and destroyed piecemeal by the enemy. Therefore, for his conspicuous acts of gallantry in coming to the aid of the men of A Company, 1st Battalion of the 61st Infantry Regiment (Mechanized), which were made at the risk of his own life, over and beyond the call of duty, I am recommending that Lt. Edward M. Feldman be awarded the Medal of Honor.

John Langston (Lt. Col. USA RET)

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