SMALL UNIT ACTION
IN VIETNAM
SUMMER 1966
By
Captain Francis J. West, Jr., USMCR
HISTORY AND MUSEUMS DIVISION
HEADQUARTERS, U. S. MARINE CORPS
WASHINGTON, D. C.
Printed 1967
Reprinted 1977
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Original On-Line
Page Page
Foreword..................................................... 1 5
Mines and Men................................................ 3 7
Units involved: 9th Marines; 3d Amphibian
Tractor Battalion; MAG-36.
Howard's Hill................................................ 15 21
Units involved:1st Reconnaissance Battalion;
5th Marines; MAG-11; MAG-12; MAG-36
No Cigar..................................................... 31 38
Units involved:5th Marines.
Night Action................................................. 46 54
Units involved:7th Marines.
The Indians.................................................. 59 69
Units involved:1st Force Reconnaissance Company;
12th Marines; MAG-11.
Talking Fish................................................. 68 79
Units involved:12th Marines.
An Honest Effort............................................. 77 88
Units involved:5th Marines.
A Hot Walk in the Sun........................................ 82 94
Units involved:5th Marines; 1st Engineer Battalion;
Provisional Scout Dog Platoon; MAG-36.
"General, We Killed Them".................................... 90 103
Units involved:5th Marines; 9th Engineer Battalion;
Provisional Scout Dog Platoon; MAG-12; MAG-36.
Glossary of Marine Small Arms................................ 122 140
FOREWORD
The origin of this pamphlet lies in the continuing program at all levels
of command to keep Marines informed of the ways of combat and civic action in
Vietnam. Not limited in any way to set methods and means, this informational
effort spreads across a wide variety of projects, all aimed at making the
lessons learned in Vietnam available to the Marine who is fighting there and
the Marine who is soon due to take his turn in combat.
Recognizing a need to inform the men who are the key to the success of
Marine Corps operations--the enlisted Marines and junior officers of combat
and combat support units--the former Assistant Chief of Staff, G-3, Major
General William R. Collins, originated a project to provide a timely series of
short, factual narratives of small unit action, stories which would have
lessons learned as an integral part. Essential to General Collins' concept
was the fact that the stories would have to be both highly readable and
historically accurate. The basic requirement called for an author trained in
the methodology of research, with recent active duty experience at the small
unit level in the FMF, and a proven ability to write in a style that would
ensure wide readership.
On the recommendation of retired Brigadier General Frederick P.
Henderson, Captain Francis J. West, Jr., a Marine reserve officer, was invited
to apply for assignment to active duty during the summer of 1966 to research
and write the small unit action stories. Captain West was well qualified to
undertake the project: he had recently been on active duty as a platoon leader
in the Special Landing Force in the Western Pacific; he had majored in history
as an undergraduate at Georgetown University and was a graduate student at the
Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs at Princeton
University; and he had written a number of articles, papers, and a book which
indicated that he had the capability of communicating with a wide and varied
audience.
Recalled to active duty at his own request late in May 1966, Captain West
was given a series of informal briefings at Headquarters Marine Corps on the
current situation in Vietnam and was soon on his way to that country. He
arrived at Da Nang on 5 June and went into the field immediately as an
observer/member of a wide variety of Marine small units and saw action in all
parts of the III Marine Amphibious Force area of responsibility. Developing
his own methods of operation, and carrying in addition to normal weapons and
equipment, a tape recorder, a camera, and a note pad, the captain took part in
most of the actions he describes and interviewed
1
participants in the others immediately after the events portrayed. During his
stay in Vietnam, Captain West was actively supported in his work by the
Marines with whom he served, and by none more helpfully than the III MAF
commander, Lieutenant General Lewis W. Walt, and his G-3, Colonel John R.
Chaisson, who read and approved each of the rough draft narratives that
Captain West completed in Vietnam. Colonel Thomas M. Fields, of the Combat
Information Bureau at Da Nang, also provided much assistance and support.
This pamphlet, then, is based upon first-hand, eyewitness accounting of
the events described. It is documented by notes and taped interviews taken in
the field and includes lessons learned from the mouths of the Marines who are
currently fighting in Vietnam. It is published for the information of those
men who are serving and who will serve in Vietnam, as well as for the use of
other interested Americans, so that they may better understand the demands of
the Vietnam conflict on the individual Marine.
R. L. MURRAY
Major General, U. S. Marine Corps
Assistant Chief of Staff, G-3
REVIEWED AND APPROVED: 5 January 1967
2
MINES AND MEN
Preface: The author spent two weeks with the 9th Marines,
most of the time with Delta Company. He participated in the
patrol described as an extra infantryman, swapping his tape
recorder for an automatic rifle when the platoon was hit.
Throughout most of the fight, he did not see the patrol leader,
but later was able to piece together the entire action by
interviews and by listening to his recorder, which was running
throughout the engagement.
In late spring and early summer of 1966, the most notorious area in I
Corps was the flat rice paddy-and-hedgerow complex around Hill 55, seven miles
southwest of Da Nang. In the Indochina War, two battalions of the French
forces were wiped out on Hill 55; in the Vietnam War, a Marine lieutenant
colonel was killed on the same hill. The 9th Marines had the responsibility
for clearing the area and no one envied the regimental commander, Colonel
Edwin Simmons, and his men their job. The enemy they hated, the enemy they
feared the most, the enemy they found hardest to combat, was not the VC; it
was mines.
One company of the regiment--Delta--lost 10 KIA and 58 WIA in five weeks.
Two men were hit by small arms fire, one by a grenade. Mines inflicted all
the other casualties. Only four of the wounded returned to duty. From a peak
strength of 175, Delta Company dropped to 120 effectives. Among those
evacuated or killed were a high percentage of the company's leaders: five
platoon commanders; three platoon sergeants; nine squad leaders; and six fire
team leaders.
On 8 May, the 1st Platoon of Delta Company was 52 men strong, commanded
by a first lieutenant and honchoed<*> by a staff sergeant. For a month they
patrolled. At division level, the operations section could see a pattern
which indicated the patrols were slowly and surely rooting the VC
infrastructure out of the area. But for the individual rifleman, it was ugly,
unrewarding work. The VC in previous encounters had learned the futility of
determined engagements against the Marines. So they sniped and ran and left
behind the mines.
----------
<*> honcho - Marine slang, derived from Japanese, for a boss.
3
On 8 June, the 1st Platoon prepared to go out on another patrol. By
then, they numbered 32 men and were commanded by a sergeant.
During patrols on the previous day there had been no casualties. Far
from feeling encouraged, the troops were pessimistic, believing it inevitable
that today another of their group would step on a mine.
Captain John Hart had commanded Delta Company for nine months, and
another company in Vietnam before that. A shrewd tactician with a natural
ease and understanding of his men, the red-headed company commander had
decided to send two amtracs<*> with the platoon to set off the mines before
the troops reached them.
Sergeant William Cunningham believed the amtracs would solve his problem.
They would cruise through the flat lowlands, smashing mined fences and tearing
up known minefields. The platoon would walk in the tracks of the 35-ton
amtracs, unless forced by fire to disperse or ordered to do otherwise. A 60mm
mortar would deal with the snipers, who were more bothersome than dangerous.
The plan seemed sound.
The patrol moved out in two columns in the wake of an amtrac. The
platoon members knew the area well. They hated it. The paddies and fields
stretched for miles in checker-board fashion, separated by thick tree lines
and numerous hamlets. The mud of the rice paddies clung like glue to boots.
The numerous tree lines could be penetrated only by using machetes and axes.
The scattered hamlets contained from 1 to 10 houses and each house was
surrounded by thorn fences harder to break than barbed wire. The level ground
prevented a man from seeing beyond the next hedgerow.
And everywhere the mines. There seemed to be no pattern to their
emplacement. They had been scattered at trail junctions, at the intersection
of rice dikes, along fences, under gates. Having watched the movements of
Marine patrols in this area, the enemy buried their mines where they
anticipated the Marines would walk. Often they scouted the direction and path
a patrol was taking and planted the mines ahead. If the patrol passed that
point safely, the VC would scurry out of his hiding place, dig up his mine,
and keep it for another day.
Sergeant Cunningham was aware of this fact. By the same route he had
used the day before, he was returning to the same hamlet complex so that the
amtracs could set off the mines. The enemy's supply of mines was not
inexhaustible,
----------
<*> Amtrac - Marine slang for Amphibious Landing Vehicle, Tracked (LVT).
4
An LVT of the 3d Amphibian Tractor battalion, similar to those
that supported Sergeant Cunningham's platoon, moves out through a
column of infantry men (USMC A184999)
4a
especially since most were M16 "Bouncing Betties"<*>, captured from the
ARVNs<**>. This was one way of destroying them. Before the platoon left the
patrol base, the sergeant repeatedly warned his men to stay in the tracks of
the LVTs.
The Marines wore helmets and flak jackets<***>. Each rifleman carried
150 rounds of ammunition and 2 or more hand grenades. The men of the two
machine gun crews were draped with belts of linked cartridges totalling 1,200
rounds. The two 3.5-inch rocket launcher teams carried five high explosive
(HE) and five white phosphorus (WP) rockets. Four grenadiers carried 28 40mm
shells apiece for their stubby M79s. Sergeant Cunningham had given six
LAAWs<****> to some riflemen to provide additional area target capability.
Artillery and mortars were on call. The 2d Platoon would range within 1,000
yards of Sergeant Cunningham's men at all times. Although Cunningham believed
the platoon would draw only harassing fire, Captain Hart never allowed his men
to patrol without ensuring heavy firepower. Similarly, the battalion
commander, Lieutenant Colonel Richard E. Jones, liked his company commanders
to arrange for their patrols to have on-call artillery concentrations whenever
possible.
The platoon moved out at 1100. There was no breeze and no shade. The
temperature was 102 degrees. Within five minutes, every Marine was soaked in
sweat. The column plodded south, strung out over a quarter of a mile. There
was no flank section, such was the fear of mines and the confidence in quick
support, if needed. One amtrac was in the lead; the second stayed back 200
yards in the middle of the column.
After marching for half of an hour, Sergeant Cunningham halted the
column. Directly in front of the lead amtrac a thorn and bamboo fence ran at
right angles to the line of march. Two hundred meters to the right front lay
a thick tree line in which the thatch rooftops of four houses could be seen.
To the left a dirt field stretched for 400 meters, stopping at another tree
line. Other tree lines lay at farther distances to the front and rear.
Sergeant Cunningham had seen his radioman and one of his squad leaders
trip a mine attached to that fence and die. Yesterday he had cautiously led
his platoon across the fence and had been fired at. Today, with obvious
satisfaction and
----------
<*>Bouncing Betty - Marine slang for antipersonnel mine which explodes in
midair.
<**>ARVNs - Marine slang for soldiers of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam
<***>flak jacket - Marine slang for individual body armor.
<****>LAAW - Marine slang for portable antitank weapon; see Glossary of
Weapons.
5
relief, he yelled to the lead tractor: "Rip that thing apart. Really tear it
up."
The driver turned left so that the amtrac could hit the fence head-on.
It lumbered forward, crushing 30 feet of fence before its left track slipped
into a drainage ditch. The LVT churned to a halt. The second amtrac eased
forward, attached a tow rope to the front of the stranded vehicle, and pulled
it out.
Sergeant Cunningham decided to continue south to the minefields and tear
other holes in the fence on the return trip that afternoon. "Move out," he
shouted, "We'll come back to that bear later on. It'll still be here." One
amtrac roared ahead while the second idled by the fence, waiting to turn into
position near the center of the column.
The hard dirt around the fence had been churned into jagged clods by the
treads of the two amtracs. The point Marines, including Sergeant Cunningham,
carefully picked their way across the fence, stepping only in the tracks, and
fell in trace again behind the lead LVT. The rest of the column followed.
Cunningham had walked fifty meters away from the fence when he heard the
explosion. Even before he turned his head he knew what he would see. A thick
black cloud hung in the air beside the fence line. Three Marines were
sprawled on the ground. Before the shower of loose dirt and shrapnel had
stopped falling, the platoon's senior corpsman, Hospitalman 3d Class Robert E.
Perkins, had reached the side of the most seriously wounded Marine.
Corporal Raymond Lewis, leading the point squad, burst out: "Hey, why the
hell don't they follow the goddamn tracks?" Sergeant Cunningham raced back,
yelling in anger and frustration and hurt, "I told you to follow me through
here, here--we came through here." A pause, then, in a resigned voice: "O.K.
Who got it?"
Tired, feeling secure because there were many tracks near the fence and
nine Marines had walked safely past, the tenth Marine had wandered off the
path of the treads. For 20 feet he had been following the dry trail of old
tank treads. The VC had placed a mine on the old trail resting against the
torn fence. The Marine had tripped a Bouncing Betty mine, which flew
knee-high before it exploded, felling him and two Marines behind him.
The column had halted, well spread out but near no cover or concealment.
The platoon's leaders were clustered at the fence checking the wounded.
6
Then the sniping started. The first four to eight rounds were ignored by
the entire column. The Marines received fire every day. When asked one hour
earlier if he expected fire on the patrol, Sergeant Cunningham had flatly
stated that he did. The Marines were not going to divert attention from their
wounded because they received some random incoming rounds.
Ten seconds later, the situation changed abruptly. The sniping became
steady fire and the targets were the wounded, the platoon leaders, and the
platoon radioman. The enemy had found the range and the wounded could hear
the whine and snap of close misses.
Disregarding the firing, Sergeant Cunningham and the platoon guide,
Sergeant Peter Hastings, continued to discuss the technical details necessary
as they called for an immediate helicopter evacuation of the wounded. The
platoon radioman, Private First Class Blas Falcon, stood with them taking
notes. Perkins worked swiftly to prevent the most seriously wounded Marine
from bleeding to death. He did not even look up from his probing of the man's
legs when the bullets started passing close by. He had been with the company
for nine days and had tended exactly nine Marines wounded by mines.
Most of the fire was coming from a hamlet on the west flank of the
platoon, not more than 200 meters to the right of the point squad. Some was
coming from the distant tree line to the left. Among the enemy weapons, the
Marines could distinguish the flat, low reports of several carbines from the
sharp sound of an MI. A light machine gun began shooting short bursts.
Harassment had become engagement.
The VC had carefully planned the trap. The mine had stopped the column
in the open less than 200 meters from their firing position. To confuse and
spread the Marines, they had posted snipers on the other flank. They knew the
leaders would cluster around the wounded. They had their weapons sighted in
on the fence line. No more than 20 seconds had passed since the VC had opened
fire. They had much better positions and had gained fire superiority from the
start.
The volume of enemy fire increased so rapidly Cunningham never had a
chance to contact his three squad leaders and issue any comprehensive order.
The initial response was a matter of individual initiative, as Marines flopped
down and began returning fire without waiting for orders. But their fire was
ragged and scattered, lacking direction and purpose.
Corporal Lewis directed the first determined, collective effort to
destroy the enemy. Having moved out in front of the column, the 1st Squad was
100 meters ahead of the main body.
7
Lewis' five men were heavily armed and he used all the weapons he had at his
command. Over the din of the increasing volume of incoming fire, he could not
hear Sergeant Cunningham. But he did not need to be told what to do. Lewis
had been fighting in Vietnam for eight months and had participated in dozens
of fire fights. Flattened out along the side of the trail, his squad was not
under fire but was nearest to the hamlet. To his left front he could hear the
crack of sniper rifles coming from a tree line. Quickly, he directed his
machine gunner to set up and rake the far tree line, keeping his fire low and
continuous. The squad grenadier, Private First Class Michael Stay, was
pumping 40mm shells into the hamlet as fast as he could fire and reload. Lewis
decided to add more punch.
He turned his bazooka team toward the hamlet. The team leader, Corporal
John Martin, had anticipated his squad leader. His rocket launcher was set and
ready to fire. The men agreed on the targets: the houses. Both had seen men
firing from raised flaps on the roofs. Martin placed the long tube on his
shoulder, sighted swiftly, and fired from a kneeling position. A house
shuddered and pitched at an angle. He placed another white phosporous rocket
in the launcher and fired. A second house burst into flames. He reloaded and
fired again. The third house exploded. The enemy machine gun stopped.
Another rocket and a LAAW were fired into the tree line. Lewis, Martin, and
Lance Corporal Dennis Sullivan lay prone and began firing their M14 rifles at
the hedgerows bordering the huts. The fire fight was less than 2 minutes old.
The 60mm mortar crew took up where Martin left off. Sergeant James Gibbs
and his two crew members had been riding on the second LVT. When the enemy
machine gun fired, they jumped off the tractor and yelled to Cunningham,
"Should we try for the gun?"
"Go ahead," Cunningham yelled back, "but watch it when the choppers get
here."
Less than 300 meters from the hamlet, the crew set up their small tube.
Gibbs aimed in by line of sight while Lance Corporal Joe Dykes estimated the
range and Private First Class Peter Vidaurie hauled ammunition from the
amtrac. "Can we fire now?" yelled Gibbs.
"Sure, any time you want," replied Cunningham.
For the next two minutes, the 60mm crew walked rounds back and forth
along the 200-meter length of the tree line. Under cover of this shooting,
Sergeant Cunningham directed his 2d Squad into position to secure a landing
zone for the helicopters. He wanted to get his wounded out before the enemy
machine gun resumed firing.
8
SCHEMATIC SKETCH TO ACCOMPANY "MINES AND MEN"
8a
Falcon was busy on the radio explaining to company headquarters what was
happening and obtaining administrative data from the wounded. "John," he
asked, "what's your service number?" "2197620." "Come on, John, give it to me
slow." "Two, won, niner --- zero, got that?" "No, give it to me once again."
"Oh for god's sake, do you want my rifle number too? One one nine seven --."
The other wounded men laughed.
The spirits of the wounded were high. A tracer bullet chipped a rock
near them and whined away. "Boy," said one, "that was the most beautiful
tracer I ever saw." "Yeah," replied his companion, "that's the craziest angle
I ever saw a ricochet take."
The fire fight was four minutes old. Most of the small arms fire had
died away. Steadily two grenade launchers crunched at the wood line. The
three houses were blazing and their bamboo sides were expanding and popping
with a sound like hundreds of .22 rifles being fired.
A Marine directed the second amtrac which had been idling near the fence
toward the tree line. The LVT lumbered forward for several meters and stopped
before a three-foot embankment 75 meters from the hamlet. Its three man crew
and two demolition engineers lay on top of the tractor and fired at the
burning village. The amtrac commander, Staff Sergeant Howard G. Plummer,
feared the fire in the village. His vehicle was carrying explosives and 500
gallons of fuel. He had no intention of risking a cook-off in the intense
heat.
The Marine directing Plummer's vehicle saw on the right a squad walking
slowly forward with the disinterest of tired riflemen who expected nothing to
happen. The Marine at the tractor signalled them to double time and they
broke into a reluctant shuffle.
The lull in the fight broke at the same time. On the left, the enemy
light machine gun chattered, on the right an automatic carbine and several
rifles opened up. The enemy were hard-core guerrillas who had lived in the
area for years and their tactics against the Marines were to set mines and
snipe from great distances, employing ambushes at close range only when they
had overwhelming numerical superiority. They had not expected the Marines to
recover from the mine explosion so quickly. They did not believe the Marines
would assault after stepping on one mine. But now the members of the squad
were running like Olympic sprinters for the nearer amtrac. The VC
concentrated all their fire on stopping them.
The crew of the amtrac which had preceded Lewis' squad at point had been
confused by the fighting. They wanted to
9
help but no one had told them what to do. So they had contented themselves by
firing their rifles in a casual fashion at the hamlet, since that was what the
infantrymen were doing. But now, seeing the infantry rushing to the attack,
Private First Class Billy Adams, a maintenance mechanic on board the point
amtrac, excitedly urged his crew to push ahead in their vehicle. His
enthusiasm was contagious. Without orders, without flankers, without
supporting fires, the amtrac started forward.
Corporal Lewis saw the amtrac move alone into the attack. He ordered his
riflemen to throw out protecting fires on its flanks and his grenadier to fire
over the vehicle itself into the tree line beyond.
Adams fired five rifle grenades as the LVT rolled in, then turned his gas
cylinder plug and fired his rifle semiautomatically. The amtrac reached the
edge of the tree line and the driver hesitated, looking for a route through
the hedgerows. The fire at the amtrac became intense. The bullets striking
the hull sounded like people were beating on it with hammers. Adams yelled:
"It's about time to button up!"
He was pulling down the steel cover of his hatch when he saw his first
enemy. The Viet Cong was firing at the infantry troops seeking shelter behind
the second amtrac. He had raised a section of the thatched roof of a house
which had not burned and this gave him an excellent field of fire. He and
Adams saw each other at the same time. He lowered the flap just as Adams
flipped his weapon to automatic and stitched the roof, igniting it.
The turret machine gunner on Plummer's amtrac began firing, spraying the
village. Bullets were bouncing off the left side of his amtrac. To the right
side of the vehicle, a Marine rifleman engaged a VC who was lying on the roof
of a house. The rifleman was firing long bursts from an M14; the VC was
returning fire with an automatic carbine. Both had abandoned cover, so intent
were they in their private duel. Standing in the off-hand position, the
Marine finally remembered to sight in and squeeze off a few aimed rounds
instead of spraying the house. The VC fell lengthwise off the roof.
Corporal Jerry Payne brought his squad up behind Plummer's amtrac.
"Move it out. Let's roll!"
Plummer hesitated, looking for a way in not blocked by flames.
10
"Come on, the hell with waiting for this thing," an angry Marine yelled,
gesturing at the amtrac, "let's go get them!" Payne grabbed him by the
shoulder as he started around the tractor's side. "No, you don't. That whole
field is mined. They're just trying to sucker you in. Stay behind the trac!"
One hundred meters to the left, Adams' amtrac had already reached the
hedgerow and was smashing its way into the hamlet. That decided Plummer. His
tractor crawled up the embankment and pitched down into the level field and
rumbled toward the village. A Marine followed right behind. Payne yelled,
"We're going in." The five Marines clustered around him nodded nervously and
said nothing. They were more than a little apprehensive. They would follow
but they wanted somebody to lead. Payne scrambled up the embankment into a
burst of machine gun fire. His helmet spun off and he pitched forward head
first. The squad froze. Payne was their leader, the most experienced man,
the one who knew what to do. They thought he was dead.
Payne got up, unhurt but shaken. "Come on," he muttered. They dogtrotted
across the field after the amtrac.
By that time Adams' amtrac had entered the tree line. Lewis ordered his
squad to cease fire. The amtrac passed the house where Adams had fired at the
sniper hiding in the roof. Private First Class Larry Blume, a demolition
engineer riding in the LVT, saw two men run from the house to the left. But
he couldn't get a shot at them. Adams was watching out the observer's window,
placed to the right of the driver's seat. He saw a VC, trying to dodge across
the path of the tractor, stumble and fall. The amtrac crushed him.
Plummer's LVT had reached the tree line and the thorn fence surrounding
the village. The sergeant turned his vehicle right to avoid the flames. The
Marines peeled off left and ran along the fence line looking for an opening.
They went in at the center of the village. The point Marine hesitated, then
turned to the right.
Payne knew that the machine gun lay to their left but he too turned
right, thinking that, since the point man was ignoring the machine gun, he
must be attacking another target. But the point did not know of the machine
gun. His sudden appearance behind the amtrac at the start of the assault had
caught the enemy machine gunner by surprise. Payne was the first target the
machine gunner had fired at.
So while the assault force rushed to the right, the VC slipped out to the
left. Adams saw six of them moving toward his amtrac, four dragging two
bodies. He couldn't fire the .30 caliber machine gun for fear of hitting the
Marine squad
11
sweeping in the other direction. Nor could he pursue them through the burning
village. The tractor broke out of the tree line on the far side of the
hamlet, pivoted right, and raced along a cane field to turn the assault
troops. The VC slipped away toward the left flank.
While the assault was going in, the wounded Marines were lying where they
had fallen, joking with Hastings and Falcon. Helicopters had been called and
they knew they would soon be under expert care. At all times helicopters sat
on the Da Nang airstrip, 16 miles to the rear, ready to evacuate the wounded,
like ambulances at city hospitals--only faster.
Eight minutes had elapsed since the wounded had fallen, and circling
overhead, looking for the green smoke grenade which signalled a secure landing
zone, were two Hueys<*>. Hastings threw the grenade and down clattered one
chopper. The other circled aloft, ready to pounce on any enemy firing
position. That capability was not needed. The landing zone was very secure.
The 3d Squad was pushing the enemy out of the hamlet. Cunningham had settled
the fire teams of the 2d Squad in the outskirts of the surrounding tree lines,
ready to stifle by fire any enemy who tried to down the Huey. Still, a fight
was raging and one of the wounded became concerned that the helicopter might
choose not to land. "Give me a rifle," he said, "I'll secure this damn
landing zone myself, if it means I get out of here afterwards."
The helicopter settled in. Hastings was extremely careful to bring the
Huey down right on the tracks of the amtracs so it would not detonate another
mine. The wounded were placed on board, and the helicopter took off, headed
for "Charlie Med"<**> receiving hospital. Thirteen minutes after the mine had
exploded, the wounded were being tended by doctors and receiving transfusions.
All would live.
The assault force was running again. Adams had told them they were going
the wrong way. They had stopped, gasped for breath, and stumbled out the back
of the village in trace of the amtrac. A trench line ran from the village to
another tree line and hamlet 400 meters in the rear of the burned village.
Beside this trench the eight Marines trotted. They had no more sweat to drop.
Most had burns where their hands or arms had accidently brushed the heated
rifle barrels. Their flak jackets and helmets weighted them down. They didn't
ease up.
----------
<*>Huey - Marine slang for UH1E helicopter.
<**>Charlie Med - Marine slang for Company C of a medical battalion.
12
Two hundred meters from the tree line, Payne croaked to his machine gun
team to drop off and cover their advance. The LVT stopped at the tree line and
readied its machine gun. The Marines swept into the village by pairs, covering
the advance of each other. The village was empty. The trench line was empty.
The numerous fighting holes were empty. Punji traps and bamboo stakes were
everywhere. It was a typical VC village.
The Marines turned back, withdrawing cautiously, thoroughly exhausted.
Cunningham joined them near the machine gun emplacement, bringing the two
squads and the other tractor with him. Adams and Blume told the sergeant
where they had seen the VC and the bodies. Cunningham was puzzled. He said
he had passed that area five minutes after the amtracs and had seen only
women, children, and old men fleeing to the left flank. He had seen no VC and
no bodies. In that short time lapse either the VCs, or the villagers
(probably relatives)--or both--had policed the battlefield.
Cunningham consolidated his position and sent engineers into the village
to blow the bunkers and trench lines. The entire action lasted less than 40
minutes. Within six minutes the assault had been launched. Not one Marine
was wounded in the attack. It was sudden and fierce and took the VC by
surprise. The Marines were surprised themselves. In seven months in Vietnam,
Payne had never before charged the enemy. Nor had his men.
The action was sharp, brief, and inconclusive. The assault force,
assuming the VC would pull directly back, had been badly fooled by the enemy's
flank escape, probably by use of tunnels or trenches. Carelessness and
inattention caused the mine casualties, as they had caused many before and
would continue to do so. The middle men of a patrol on the march under a hot
sun had tended to relax and shuffle along.
On the other hand, the platoon responded to fire like veterans (which
they were, most having over four months of combat patrolling). In some cases
(Corporal Lewis and Private First Class Adams stand out) initial initiative
was impressive. The number of Marines returning fire was almost total.
Thirty-nine men were engaged in the action; 33 fired their weapons, either
individual or team. Those not firing were the platoon commander, the platoon
corpsman, the platoon radio man, and the three wounded. The area fire
weapons--the 3.55, the LAAWs, and the M79s--were particularly effective in
reducing the volume of enemy fire.
The platoon commander and the squad leaders moved swiftly but not rashly.
They covered their flanks and did
13
not commit the entire platoon at one time in one bunched movement, thus
minimizing the chance of a successful ambush. Lewis covered the amtracs and
then Payne's squad when they rushed the village. Cunningham had one more
squad backing Lewis. Payne covered his pursuit objective with his machine gun
team and the amtrac. Cunningham had on call at all times 81mm mortars and
artillery; Gibbs' 60mm mortar was well supplied with ammunition.
The physical conditioning of the entire platoon was superior. They ran,
fought, and thought in intense heat, no mean accomplishment.
The Marines had cleared the field by firepower and aggressive maneuver.
They had hurt the VC but did not know how badly. The mine had severely
wounded one Marine and put two more out of action. During the remainder of
the day no sniper fired at the platoon. That was unusual. The next day, the
company suffered no casualties and received very light incoming fire--that too
was unusual. The following day, a Marine from the 3d Platoon in the middle of
a column tripped a mine and five Marines were evacuated. The harassing fire
that day was moderately heavy, inaccurate, and delivered at long range. That
was usual.
14
HOWARD'S HILL
Preface: The author was on another patrol the night of the
Howard fight. He met with the men of Charlie Company, who
relieved Howard's platoon, immediately upon their return and
taped their comments and reactions. Then he went to the hospital
at Chulai and interviewed Howard and his men, talking later with
the pilots, the Special Forces officers, and Howard's company and
battalion commanders. The pictures--the only ones taken on the
hill during the fight--were provided by First Lieutenant Philip
Freed, who was the Forward Air Controller with Charlie Company.
The Marine Corps has a tested tradition: it will never leave alone on the
field of combat one of its fighting men. It will go to fantastic lengths and
commit to battle scores of men to aid and protect a few. This is the story of
a few such Marines, of the battle they fought, and the help they received from
all the services, not just the Marine Corps.
Some 20 miles inland to the west of the Marine base at Chulai runs a
range of steep mountains and twisting valleys. In that bandits' lair, the Viet
Cong and North Vietnamese could train and plan for attacks against the heavily
populated seacoast hamlets, massing only when it was time to attack. In early
June of 1966, the intelligence reports reaching III MAF headquarters indicated
that a mixed force of Viet Cong and North Vietnamese was gathering by the
thousands in those mountains. But the enemy leaders were not packing their
troops into a few large, vulnerable assembly points; they kept their units
widely dispersed, moving mainly in squads and platoons.
To frustrate that scheme and keep the enemy off balance, the Marines
launched Operation KANSAS, an imaginative concept in strategy. Rather than
send full infantry battalions to beat the bushes in search of small enemy
bands, Lieutenant General Lewis W. Walt detailed the reconnaissance battalion
of the 1st Marine Division to scout the mountains. The reconnaissance Marines
would move in small teams of 8 to 20 men. If they located a large enemy
concentration, Marine infantry would be flown in. If, as was expected, they
saw only numerous small groups of Viet Cong and North Vietnamese, they were to
smash them by calling in air and artillery strikes.
Lieutenant Colonel Arthur J. Sullivan had set high training standards for
his battalion. Every man had received
15
individual schooling in forward observer techniques and reconnaissance patrol
procedures. He was confident his men could perform the mission successfully,
despite the obvious hazards. "The Vietnam war," he said, "has given the
small-unit leader--the corporal, the sergeant, the lieutenant--a chance to be
independent. The senior officers just can't be out there looking over their
shoulders. You have to have confidence in your junior officers and NCOs."
One such NCO was Staff Sergeant Jimmie Earl Howard, acting commander of
the 1st Platoon, Charlie Company, 1st Reconnaissance Battalion. A tall,
well-built man in his mid-thirties, Howard had been a star football player and
later a coach at the San Diego Recruit Depot. Leadership came naturally to
him. "Howard was a very personable fellow," his company commander, Captain
Tim Geraghty said. "The men liked him. They liked to work for him." In Korea
he had been wounded three times and awarded the Silver Star for bravery. In
Vietnam he would receive a fourth Purple Heart and be recommended for the
Medal of Honor.
As dusk fell on the evening of 13 June 1966, a flight of helicopters
settled on the slope of Hill 488, 25 miles west of Chulai. Howard and his 17
men jumped out and climbed the steep incline to the top. The hill, called Nui
Vu, rose to a peak of nearly 1,500 feet and dominated the terrain for miles.
Three narrow strips of level ground ran along the top for several hundred
yards before falling abruptly away. Seen from the air, they roughly resembled
the three blades on an airplane propeller. Howard chose the blade which
pointed north for his command post and placed observation teams on the other
two blades. It was an ideal vantage point.
The enemy knew it also. Their foxholes dotted the ground, each with a
small shelter scooped out two feet under the surface. Howard permitted his
men use of these one-man caves during the day to avoid the hot sun and enemy
detection. There was no other cover or concealment to be found. There were no
trees, only knee-high grass and small scrub growth.
In the surrounding valleys and villages, there were many enemy. For the
next two days, Howard was constantly calling for fire missions, as members of
the platoon saw small enemy groups almost every hour. Not all the requests
for air and artillery strikes were honored. Sullivan was concerned lest the
platoon's position, so salient and bare, be spotted by a suspicious enemy.
Most of the firing at targets located by the platoon was done only when there
was an observation plane circling in the vicinity to decoy the enemy. After
two days Sullivan and his executive officer, Major Allan Harris, became
alarmed at the risk involved in leaving the platoon stationary any longer.
But the observation
16
post was ideal; Howard had encountered no difficulty, and, in any case,
thought he had a secure escape route along a ridge to the east. So it was
decided to leave the platoon on Nui Vu for one more day.
However, the enemy were well aware of the platoon's presence. (Sullivan
has a theory that the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese, long harassed,
disrupted, and punished by reconnaissance units in territory they claimed to
control absolutely, had determined to eliminate one such unit, hoping thereby
to demoralize the others. Looked at in hindsight, the ferocity and tenacity
of the attack upon Nui Vu gives credence to the colonel's theory.) In any
case, the North Vietnamese made their preparations well and did not tip their
hand. On 15 June, they moved a fresh, well-equipped, highly trained battalion
to the base of Nui Vu. In late afternoon hundreds of the enemy started to
climb up the three blades, hoping to annihilate the dozen and a half Marines
in one surprise attack.
The Army Special Forces frustrated that plan. Sergeant 1st Class Donald
Reed and Specialist 5th Class Hardey Drande were leading a platoon of CIDG
(Civilian Irregular Defense Group) forces on patrol near Nui Vu that same
afternoon. They saw elements of the North Vietnamese battalion moving towards
the hill and radioed the news back to their base camp at Hoi An, several miles
to the south. Howard's radio was purposely set on the same frequency and so
he was alerted at the same time. Reed and Drande wanted to hit the enemy from
the rear and disrupt them, but had to abandon the idea when they suddenly
found themselves a very unpopular minority of two on the subject. Describing
the reactions of the Special Forces NCOs later, Howard could not resist
chuckling. "The language those sergeants used over the radio," he said, "when
they realized they couldn't attack the PAVNs<*>, well, they sure didn't learn
it "at communications school." Even though the Special Forces where not able
to provide the ground support they wished to, their warning alerted Howard and
enabled him to develop a precise defensive plan before the attack was
launched.
Acting on the report, Howard gathered his team leaders, briefed them on
the situation, selected an assembly point, instructed them to stay on full
alert and to withdraw to the main position at the first sign of an approaching
enemy. The corporals and lance corporals crept back to their teams and
briefed them in the growing dusk. The Marines then settled down to watch and
wait.
Lance Corporal Ricardo Binns had placed his observation team on the slope
40 meters forward of Howard's position. At
---------
<*> PAVNs - Marine slang for soldiers of the Peoples' Army of (North) Vietnam.
17
approximately 2200, while the four Marines were lying in a shallow depression
discussing in whispers their sergeant's solemn warnings, Binns quite casually
propped himself up on his elbows and placed his rifle butt in his shoulder.
Without saying a word, he pointed the barrel at a bush and fired. The bush
pitched backward and fell thrashing 12 feet away.
The other Marines jumped up. Each threw a grenade, before grabbing his
rifle and scrambling up the hill. Behind them grenades burst and automatic
weapons pounded away. The battle of Nui Vu was on.
The other outposts withdrew to the main position. The Marines commanded
a tiny rock-strewn knoll. The rocks would provide some protection for the
defenders. Placing his two radios behind a large boulder, Howard set up a
tight circular perimeter, not over 20 meters in diameter, and selected a
firing position for each Marine.
The North Vietnamese too were setting up. They had made no audible
noises while climbing. There was no talking, no clumsy movements. When Binns
killed one of their scouts, they were less than 50 meters from the top.
The Marines were surrounded. From all sides the enemy threw grenades.
Some bounced off the rocks; some rolled back down the slopes; some did not
explode, but some landed right on Marines and did explode. The next day the
platoon corpsman, Billee Don Holmes, recalled: "They were within twenty feet
of us. Suddenly there were grenades all over. Then people started hollering.
It seemed everyone got hit at the same time.
Holmes crawled forward to help. A grenade exploded between him and a
wounded man. Holmes lost consciousness.
The battle was going well for the North Vietnamese. Four .50 caliber
machine guns were firing in support of the assault units, their heavy
explosive projectiles arcing in from the four points of the compass. Red
tracer rounds from light machine guns streaked toward the Marine position,
pointing the direction for reinforcements gathering in the valley. 60mm mortar
shells smashed down and added rock splinters to the metal shrapnel whining
through the air.
The North Vietnamese followed up the grenade shower with a full,
well-coordinated assault, directed and controlled by shrill whistles and the
clacking of bamboo sticks. From different directions, they rushed the
position at the same time, firing automatic weapons, throwing grenades, and
screaming. Howard later said he hadn't been sure how his troops would react.
They were young and the situation looked hopeless.
18
They had been shocked and confused by the ferocity of the attack and the
screams of their own wounded.
But they reacted savagely. The first lines of enemy skirmishers were cut
down seconds after they stood up and exposed themselves. The assault failed
to gain momentum any place and the North Vietnamese in the rearward ranks had
more sense than to copy the mistakes of the dead. Having failed in their
swift charge, they went to earth and probed the perimeter, seeking a weak spot
through which they could drive. To do this, small bands of the enemy tried to
crawl quite close to a Marine, then overwhelm him with a burst of fire and
several grenades.
But the Marines too used grenades and the American hand grenade contains
twice the blast and shrapnel effect of the Chinese Communist stick grenade.
The Marines could throw farther and more accurately than the enemy. A Marine
would listen for a movement, gauge the direction and distance, pull the pin,
and throw. High pitched howls and excited jabberings mingled with the blasts.
The North Vietnamese pulled back to regroup.
Howard had taken the PRC-25 radio from one of his communicators, Corporal
Robert Lewis Martinez, and during the lull contacted Captain Geraghty and
Lieutenant Colonel Sullivan. With his escape route cut off and his force
facing overwhelming odds, Howard kept his message simple. "You've gotta get
us out of here," he said. "There are too many of them for my people."
Sullivan tried. Because of his insistence upon detailed preplanning of
extraction and fire support contingencies, he was a well-known figure at the
Direct Air Support Center of the 1st Marine Division and when he called near
midnight, he did not bandy words. He wanted flare ships, helicopters, and
fixed wing aircraft dispatched immediately to Nui Vu.
Somehow, the response was delayed. And shortly after midnight, the enemy
forces gathered and rushed forward in strength a second time. The Marines
threw the last of their grenades and fired their rifles semiautomatically,
relying on accuracy to suppress volume. It did and the enemy fell back, but
by that time every Marine had been wounded.
The living took the ammunition of the dead and lay under a moonless sky,
wondering about the next assault. Although he did not tell anyone, Howard
doubted they could repel a massed charge by a determined enemy. From combat
experience, he knew too that the enemy, having been badly mauled twice, would
listen for sounds which would indicate his force had been shattered or
demoralized before surging forward again.
19
Already up the slopes were floating the high, singsong taunts Marines had
heard at other places in other wars. Voices which screeched: "Marines--you
die tonight!" and "Marines, you die in an hour."
Members of the platoon wanted to return the compliments. "Sure," said
Howard, "go ahead and yell anything you want." And the Marines shouted back
down the slopes all the curses and invectives they could remember from their
collective repetoire. The North Vietnamese screamed back, giving Howard the
opportunity to deliver a master stroke in psychological oneupmanship.
"All right," he shouted. "Ready? Now!"
And all the Marines laughed and laughed and laughed at the enemy.
The North Vietnamese did not mount a third major attack and at 0100 an
Air Force flare ship, with the poetic call sign of "Smoky Gold," came on
station overhead. Howard talked to the pilot through his radio and the plane
dropped its first flare. The mountainside was lit up. The Marines looked
down the slopes. Lance Corporal Ralph Glober Victor stared, then muttered:
"Oh my God, look at them." The others weren't sure it wasn't a prayer. North
Vietnamese reinforcements filled the valley. Twenty-year-old Private First
Class Joseph Kosoglow described it vividly: "There were so many, it was just
like an ant hill ripped apart. They were all over the place."
They shouldn't have been. Circling above the mountain were attack jets
and armed helicopters. With growing frustration, they had talked to Howard
but could not dive to the attack without light. Now they had light.
They swarmed in. The jets first concentrated on the valley floor and the
approaches to Nui Vu, loosing rockets which hissed down and blanketed large
areas. Then those fast, dangerous helicopters--the Hueys--scoured the slopes.
At altitudes as low as 20 feet, they skimmed the brush, firing their machine
guns in long, sweeping bursts. The Hueys pulled off to spot for the jets, and
again the planes dipped down, releasing bombs and napalm. Then the Hueys
scurried back to pick off stragglers, survey the damage, and direct another
run. One of the platoon's communicators, Corporal Martinez, said it in two
sentences: "The Hueys were all over the place. The jets blocked the Viet Cong
off."
Two Hueys stayed over Howard's position all night; when one helicopter
had to return to home base and refuel, another would be sent out. The Huey
pilots, Captain John M. Shields
20
and Captain James M. Perryman, Jr., performed dual roles--they were the
Tactical Air Controllers' Airborne (TACAs) who directed the bomb runs of the
jets and they themselves strafed the enemy. The North Vietnamese tried
unsuccessfully to shoot the helicopters down and did hit two out of the four
Hueys alternating on station.
By the light of the flares, the jet pilots could see the hill mass and
distinguish prominent terrain features but could not spot Howard's perimeter.
To mark specific targets for the jets, the TACAs directed "Smoky" to drop
flares right on the ground as signal lights and then called the jets down to
pulverize the spot. Howard identified his position by flicking a re-filtered
flashlight on and off, and, guiding on that mark, the Huey pilots strafed
within 25 meters of the Marines.
Still on the perimeter itself the fight continued. In the shifting light
of the flares, the pilots were fearful of hitting the Marines and had to leave
some space unexposed to fire in front of the Marines' lines. Into this space
crawled the North Vietnamese.
For the Marines it was a war of hide and seek. Having run out of
grenades, they had to rely on cunning and marksmanship to beat the attackers.
Howard had passed the word to fire only at an identified target--and then only
one shot at a time. The enemy fired all automatic weapons; the Marines
replied with single shots. The enemy hurled grenades; the Marines threw back
rocks.
It was a good tactic. A Marine would hear a noise and toss a rock in
that general direction. The North Vietnamese would think it was a grenade
falling and dive for another position. The Marine would roll or crawl low to
a spot from which he could sight in on the position, and wait. In a few
seconds, the North Vietnamese would raise his head to see why the grenade had
not exploded. The Marine would fire one round. The range was generally less
than 30 feet.
The accuracy of this fire saved the life of Corpsman Holmes. When he
regained consciousness after a grenade had knocked him out, he saw a North
Vietnamese dragging away the dead Marine beside him. Then another enemy
reached over and grasped him by the cartridge belt. The soldier tugged at
him.
Lance Corporal Victor was lying on his stomach behind a rock. He had
been hit twice by grenades since the first flare had gone off and could
scarcely move. He saw an enemy soldier bending over a fallen Marine. He
sighted in and fired. The man fell backward. He saw a second enemy tugging
at another Marine's body. He sighted in again and fired.
21
Shot between the eyes, the North Vietnamese slumped dead across Billee
Holmes' chest. He pushed the body away and crawled back to the Marines'
lines. His left arm was lanced with shrapnel, and his face was swollen and
his head ringing from the concussion of the grenade. For the rest of the
night, he crawled from position to position, bandaging and encouraging the
wounded, and between times firing at the enemy.
Occasionally the flares would flicker out and the planes would have to
break off contact to avoid crashing. In those instances, artillery under the
control of the Special Forces and manned by Vietnamese gun crews would fill in
the gap and punish any enemy force gathering at the base of Nui Vu.
"Stiff Balls," Howard had radioed the Special Forces camp at Hoi An,
three miles south. "If you can keep Charlie from sending another company up
here, I'll keep these guys out of my position."
"Roger, Carnival Time." Captain Louis Maris, of the Army Special Forces,
had replied, using Howard's own peculiar call sign. Both sides kept their
parts of the bargain and the South Vietnamese crews who manned the 105mm
howitzers threw in concentration after concentration of accurate artillery
shells.
"Howard was talking on the radio. He was cool," Captain John Blair, the
Special Forces commanding officer, recalled afterwards. "He stayed calm all
the way through that night. But," he chuckled, "he never did get our call
sign right!"
In the periods of darkness, each Marine fought alone. How some of them
died no one knows. But the relieving force hours later found one Marine lying
propped up against a rock. In front of him lay a dead enemy soldier. The
muzzles of their weapons were touching each others' chests. Two Marine
entrenching tools were recovered near a group of mangled North Vietnamese;
both shovels were covered with blood. One Marine was crumpled beneath a dead
enemy. Beside him lay another Vietnamese. The Marine was bandaged around the
chest and head. His hand still clasped the hilt of a knife buried in the back
of the soldier on top of him.
At 0300, a flight of H34 helicopters whirled over Nui Vu and came in to
extract the platoon. So intense was the fire they met that they were unable
to land and Howard was told he would have to fight on until dawn. Shortly
thereafter, a richochet struck Howard in the back. His voice over the radio
faltered and died out. Those listening--the Special Forces personnel, the
pilots, the high ranking officers of the 1st Marine Division at Chulai--all
thought the end had come.
22
Then Howard's voice came back strong. Fearing the drowsing effect morphine
can have, he refused to let Holmes administer the drug to ease the pain.
Unable to use his legs, he pulled himself from hole to hole encouraging his
men and directing their fire. Wherever he went, he dragged their
lifeline--the radio.
Binns, the man whose shot had triggered the battle, was doing likewise.
Despite severe wounds, he crawled around the perimeter, urging his men to
conserve their ammunition, gathering enemy weapons and grenades for the
Marines' use, giving assistance wherever needed.
None of the Marines kept track of the time. "I'll tell you this," said
Howard, "you know that movie--The Longest Day? Well, compared to our night on
the hill, The Longest Day was just a twinkle in the eye." But the longest
night did pass and dawn came. Howard heralded its arrival. At 0525 he
shouted, "O.K., you people, reveille goes in 35 minutes." At exactly 0600, his
voice pealed out, "Reveille, reveille."' It was the start of another day and
the perimeter had held.
On all sides of their position, the Marines saw enemy bodies and
equipment. The North Vietnamese would normally have raked the battlefield
clean but so deadly was the Marine fire that they left unclaimed many of those
who fell close to the perimeter.
The firing had slacked off. Although badly mauled themselves, the enemy
still had the Marines ringed in and did not intend to leave. Nor did haste
make them foolhardy. They knew what the jets and the Hueys and the artillery
and the Marine sharpshooting would do to them on the bare slopes in daylight.
They slipped into holes and waited, intending to attack with more troops the
next night.
Bursts of fire from light machine guns chipped the rocks above the
Marines' heads. Firing uphill from concealed foxholes, the enemy could cut
down any Marine who raised up and silhouetted himself against the skyline.
Two of the .50 caliber machine guns were still firing sporadically.
There came a lull in the firing. A Huey buzzed low over the hillcrest,
while another gunship hovered to one side, ready to pounce if the enemy took
the bait. No one fired. The pilot, Major William J. Goodsell, decided to mark
the position for a medical evacuation by helicopter. His Huey fluttered
slowly down and hovered. Howard thought the maneuver too risky and said so.
But Goodsell had run the risk and come in anyway. He dropped a smoke grenade.
Still no fire. He waved to the relieved Howard and skimmed north over the
forward slope, only 10 feet above the ground.
23
The noise of machine guns drowned out the sound of the helicopter's
engines. Tracers flew toward the Huey from all directions. The helicopter
rocked and veered sharply to the right and zigzagged down the mountain. The
copilot, First Lieutenant Stephen Butler, grabbed the stick and brought the
crippled helicopter under control, crash landing in a rice paddy several miles
to the east. The pilots were picked up by their wingman. But Major Goodsell,
who had commanded Squadron VMO-6 for less than one week, died of gunshot
wounds before they reached the hospital.
The medical pickup helicopter did not hesitate. It came in.
Frantically, Howard waved it off. He was not going to see another shot down.
The pilots were dauntless but not invulnerable. The pilot saw Howard's signal
and turned off, bullets clanging off the armor plating of the undercarriage.
Howard would wait for the infantry.
In anger, the jets and the Hueys now attacked the enemy positions anew.
Flying lower and lower, they crisscrossed the slopes, searching for the
machine gun emplacements, offering themselves as targets, daring the enemy to
shoot.
The enemy did. Another Huey was hit and crashed, its crew chief killed.
The .50 calibers exposed their position and were silenced. Still the North
Vietnamese held their ground. Perhaps the assault company, with all its
automatic weapons and fresh young troops, had been ordered to wipe out the few
Marines at any cost; perhaps the commanding officer had been killed and his
subordinates were following dead orders; perhaps the enemy thought victory yet
possible.
But then the Marine infantry came in. They had flown out at dawn but so
intense was the enemy fire around Nui Vu, the helicopters had to circle for 45
minutes while jets and artillery blasted a secure landing zone. During that
time, First Lieutenant Richard E. Moser, a H34 helicopter pilot, monitored
Howard's frequency and later reported: "It was like something you'd read in a
novel. His call sign was Carnival Time and he kept talking about these North
Vietnamese down in holes in front of him. He'd say, 'you've gotta get this
guy in the crater because he's hurting my boys.' He was really impressive.
His whole concern was for his men."
On the southern slope of the mountain, helicopters finally dropped
Charlie Company of the 5th Marines. The relief company climbed fast, ignoring
sniper fire and wiping out small pockets of resistance. With the very first
round they fired, the Marine 60mm mortar team knocked out the enemy mortar.
Sergeant Frank Riojas, the weapons platoon commander, cut down a sniper at 500
yards with a tracer round from his M14. Marine machine gun sections were
detached from the main
24
Men of C/1/5 start up Howard's Hill, as napalm burns on the slope.
(Lt Freed's photo.)
Pinned down atop Howard's Hill, Lieutenant Philip Freed Calls for
air support. (Lt. Freed's photo.)
24a
body and sent up the steep fingers along the flanks of the hill to support by
fire the company's movement. The North Vietnamese were now the hunted, as
Marines scrambled around as well as up the slope, attempting to pinch off the
enemy before they could flee.
The main column climbed straight upwards. While yet a quarter of a mile
away, the point man saw recon's position on the plateau. The boulder which
served as Howard's command post was the most prominent terrain feature on the
peak. The platoon hurried forward. They had to step over enemy bodies to
enter the perimeter. Howard's men had eight rounds of ammunition left.
"Get down," were Howard's first words of welcome. "There are snipers
right in front of us." Another recon man shouted: "Hey, you got any
cigarettes?" A cry went up along the line--not expressions of joy--but
requests for cigarettes.
It was not that Howard's Marines were not glad to see other infantrymen;
it was just that they had expected them. Staff Sergeant Richard Sullivan, who
was with the first platoon to reach the recon Marines, said later: "One man
told me he never expected to see the sun rise. But once it did, he knew we'd
be coming."
The fight was not over. Before noon, in the hot day-light, despite
artillery and planes firing in support, four more Marines would die.
At Howard's urging, Second Lieutenant Ronald Meyer quickly deployed his
platoon along the crest. Meyer had graduated from the Naval Academy the
previous June and intended to make the Marine Corps his career. He had spent
a month with his bride before leaving for Vietnam. In the field he wore no
shiny bars, and officers and men alike called him "Stump," because of his
short, muscular physique.
Howard had assumed he was a corporal or a sergeant and was shouting
orders to him. Respecting Howard's knowledge and performance, Meyer obeyed.
He never did mention his rank. So Staff Sergeant Howard, waving off offers of
aid, proceeded to direct the tactical maneuvers of the relieving company,
determined to wipe out the small enemy band dug in not 20 meters downslope.
Meyer hollered for members of his platoon to pass him grenades. He would
then lob them downslope toward the snipers' holes. By peering around the base
of the boulder, Howard was able to direct his throws. "A little more to the
right on the next one, buddy. About five yards farther. That's right. No, a
little too strong." The grenades had little effect and
25
the snipers kept firing. Meyer shouted he wanted air on the target. The word
was passed back for the air liaison officer to come forward. The platoon
waited.
Lance Corporal Terry Redic wanted to fire his rifle grenade at the
snipers. A tested sharpshooter, he had several kills to his credit. In small
fire fights he often disdained to duck, prefering to suppress hostile fire by
his own rapid accurate shooting. Meyer's way seemed too slow. He raised up,
knelt on one knee, and sighted downslope looking for a target. He never found
one. The enemy shot first and killed him instantly.
Meyer swore vehemently. "Let's get that *****. You coming with me,
Sotello?" "Yes, Stump." Lance Corporal David Sotello turned to get his rifle
and some other men. Meyer didn't wait. He started forward with a grenade in
each hand. "Keep your head down, buddy, they can shoot," yelled Howard.
Meyer crawled for several yards, then threw a grenade at a hole. It
blasted an enemy soldier. He turned, looking upslope. Another sniper shot
him in the back. Sotello heard the shot as he started to crawl down.
So did Hospitalman 3d Class John Markillie, the platoon corpsman. He
crawled toward the fallen lieutenant. "For God's sake, keep your head down!"
yelled Howard. Markillie reached his lieutenant. He sat up to examine the
wound. A sniper shot him in the chest.
Another corpsman, Holloday, and a squad leader, Corporal Melville,
crawled forward. They could not feel Meyer's pulse. Markillie was still
breathing. Ignoring the sniper fire, they began dragging and pushing his body
up the hill.
Melville was hit in the head. He rolled over. His helmet bounced off.
He shook his head and continued to crawl. The round had gone in one side of
the helmet and ripped out the other, just nicking the corporal above his left
ear. Melville and Holloday dragged Markillie into the perimeter.
From Chulai, the battalion commander called his company commander, First
Lieutenant Marshall "Buck" Darling. "Is the landing zone secure, Buck?"
"Well," A pause. "...not spectacularly." Back at the base two noncommissioned
officers were listening. "I wonder what he meant by that?" asked the junior
sergeant. "What the hell do you think it means, stupid?" replied the older
sergeant. "He's getting shot at."
Ignoring his own wounds, Corpsman Billee Holmes was busy supervising the
corpsmen from Charlie Company as they administered to the wounded. With the
fire fight still going on to the front, helicopter evacuation was not possible
from
26
within the perimeter. The wounded had to be taken rearward to the south
slope. Holmes roved back and forth, making sure that all his buddies were
accounted for and taken out.
The pilots had seen easier landing sites. "For the medical evacs," Moser
said, "a pilot had to come in perpendicular to the ridge, then cock his bird
around before he sat down. We could get both main mounts
down--first--the-tail--well--sometimes we got it down. We were still taking
fire."
Holmes reported that there was still one Marine, whom he had seen die,
missing. Only after repeated assurances that they would not leave without the
body were the infantry able to convince him and Howard that it was time they
too left. They helped the Navy corpsman and the Marine sergeant to a waiting
helicopter. Howard's job was done.
Another had yet to be finished. There was a dead Marine to be found
somewhere on the field of battle. But before a search could be conducted, the
last of the enemy force had to be destroyed.
First Lieutenant Phil Freed flopped down beside Melville. Freed was the
forward air controller attached to Charlie Company that day. He had run the
last quarter mile uphill when he heard Meyer needed air. With the rounds
cracking near his head, he needed no briefing. He contacted two F8 Crusader
jets circling overhead. "This is Cottage 14. Bring it on down on a dry run.
This has to be real tight. Charlie is dug in right on our lines." At the
controls of the jets were First Lieutenants Richard W. Deilke and Edward H.
Menzer.
"There were an awful lot of planes in the air," Menzer said. "We didn't
think we'd be used so we called DASC (Direct Air Support Center) and asked for
another mission. We got diverted to the FAC (Forward Air Controller), Cottage
14. He told us he had a machine gun nest right in front of him."
As they talked back and forth, Menzer thought he recognized Freed's
voice. Later he learned he had indeed; Freed had flown jets with him in
another squadron a year earlier.
Freed was lying in a pile of rocks on the military crest of the northern
finger of the hill. Since he himself had flown the F8 Crusader, Freed could
talk to the pilots in a language they understood. Still, he was not certain
they could help. He didn't know whether they could come that close and still
not hit the Marine infantrymen. On their first run, he deliberately called
the jets in wide so he could judge the technical skills and precision of the
pilots. Rock steady.
27
He called for them to attack in earnest. When they heard the target was
20 meters from the FAC, it was the pilots' turn to be worried. "As long as
you're flying parallel to the people, it's O.K.," Menzer said. "Because it's
a good shooting bird. But even so, I was leery at first to fire with troops
that near."
Unknown to them, the two pilots were about to fly one of the closest
direct air support missions in the history of fixed-wing aviation. They
approached from the northeast with the sun behind them, and cut across the
ridgeline parallel to the friendly lines. They strafed without room for
error. The gun-sight reflector plate in an F8 Crusader jet looks like a
bullseye with the rings marked in successive 10-mil increments. When the
pilots in turn aligned their sights while 3,000 feet away, the target lay
within the 10-mil ring and the Marine position was at the edge of the ring.
The slightest variance of the controls would rake the Marine infantrymen with
fire. In that fashion, each pilot made four strafing passes, skimming by 10 to
20 feet above the ridge. Freed feared they would both crash, so close did
their wings dip to the crest of the hill. The impact of the cannon shells
showered the infantrymen with dirt. They swore they could tell the color of
the pilot's eyes. In eight attacks, the jet pilots fired 350 20mm explosive
shells into an area 60 meters long and 10 to 20 meters wide. The hillside was
gouged and torn, as if a bulldozer had churned back and forth across it.
Freed cautiously lifted his head. A round cracked by. One enemy had
survived. Somebody shouted that the shot came from the position of the sniper
who had killed Meyer. The lieutenant's body lay several yards downslope.
The F8 Crusaders had ample fuel left. Menzer called to say they could
make dummy runs over the position if the Marines thought it would be useful.
Freed asked them to try it.
The company commander, Buck Darling, watched the jets. As they passed,
he noticed the firing stopped momentarily. The planes would be his cover.
"I'm going to get Stump. Coming, Brown?" he asked the nearest Marine.
Lance Corporal James Brown was not a billboard Marine. His offbeat sense
of humor often conflicted with his superiors' sense of duty. His squad leader
later recalled with a grimace one fire fight when the enemy caught the squad
in a cross fire. The rounds were passing high over the Marines' heads. While
everyone else was returning fire, Brown strolled over to a Vietnamese
tombstone, propped himself against it with one finger, crossed his legs and
yelled: "You couldn't hit me if I was buried here!" His squad leader almost
did the job for the enemy.
28
On the hill relieving the recon unit, however, Brown was all business. He
emptied several rifle magazines and hurled grenade after grenade. When he ran
out of grenades, he threw rocks to keep the snipers ducking. All the while he
screamed and cursed, shouting every insult and blasphemy he could think of.
Howard had been very impressed, both with Brown's actions and with his
vocabulary.
He was not out of words when Darling asked him to go after Meyer's body.
As they crawled over the crest, Brown tugged at his company commander's boot.
"Don't sweat it, lieutenant, they can only kill us." Darling did not reply.
They reached Meyer's body and tried to pull it back while crawling on their
stomachs. They lacked the strength.
"All right, let's carry him." said Darling. It was Brown's turn to be
speechless. He knew what had happened to every Marine on the slope who had
raised his head--and here was his officer suggesting they stand straight up!
"We'll time our moves with the jets." When the jets passed low, they stumbled
and scrambled forward a few yards with their burden, then flattened out as the
jets pulled up. The sniper snapped shots at them after every pass. Bullets
chipped the rocks around them. They had less than 30 feet to climb. It took
over a dozen rushes. When they rolled over the crest they were exhausted.
Only the enemy was left on the slope.
The infantry went after him. Corporal Samuel Roth led his eight man
squad around the left side of the slope. On the right, Sergeant Riojas set a
machine gun up on the crest to cover the squad. A burst of automatic fire
struck the tripod of the machine gun. A strange duel developed. The sniper
would fire at the machine gun. His low position enabled him to aim in exactly
on the gun. The Marines would duck until he fired, then reach up and loose a
burst downhill, forcing the sniper to duck.
With the firing; the sniper could not hear the squad crashing through the
brush on his right side. Roth brought his men on line facing toward the
sniper. With fixed bayonets they began walking forward. They could see no
movement in the clumps of grass and torn earth.
There was a lull in the firing. The sniper heard the squad, turned and
fired. Bullets whipped by the Marines. Roth's helmet spun off. He fell. The
other Marines flopped to the ground. Roth was uninjured. The steel helmet
had saved a second Marine's life within an hour. He was not even aware that
his helmet had been shot off. "When I give the word, kneel and fire," he
said. "Now!" The Marines rose and their rounds kicked up dust and clumps of
earth in front of them. They missed the sniper. He had ducked into his hole.
29
The Marines lay back down. Roth swore. "All right--put in fresh magazines
and let's do it again." "Now!"
Just as the Marines rose, the sniper bobbed up like a duck in a shooting
gallery. A bullet knocked him backwards against the side of his hole. Roth
charged, the other Marines sprinting behind him. He drove forward with his
bayonet. A grenade with the release pin intact rolled from the sniper's left
hand. Roth jerked the blade back. The sniper slumped forward over his
machine gun.
The hill was quiet. It was noon. Darling declared the objective secure.
In the tall grass in front of Riojas' machine gun, the infantrymen found the
body of the missing Marine. The Marines paused to search 39 enemy dead for
documents, picked up 18 automatic weapons (most of them Chinese), climbed on
board a flight of helicopters, and flew off the plateau.
The Marines lost 10 dead. Charlie Company and the Huey Squadrons each
lost two. Of the 18 Marines in the reconnaissance platoon, 6 were killed; the
other 12 were wounded. Five members of Charlie Company were recommended for
medals. Every Marine under Howard's command received the Purple Heart.
Fifteen were recommended for the Silver Star; Binns and Holmes were nominated
for the Navy Cross; Howard was recommended for the Medal of Honor.
If the action had centered around just one man, then it could be
considered a unique incident of exceptional bravery on the part of an
exceptional man. It is that. But perhaps it is something more. On June
14th, few would have noticed anything unique about the 1st Reconnaissance
Platoon of Charlie Company. Just in reading the names of its dead, one has
the feeling that here are the typical and the average, who, well-trained and
well-led, rose above normal expectations to perform an exemplary feat of arms:
John Adams, Ignatius Carlisi, Thomas Glawe, James McKinney, Alcadio
Mascarenas, Jerrald Thompson.
30
NO CIGAR
Preface: The author accompanied the 3d Platoon, Company
A, 5th Marines, on several long-range patrols during the
period 16-24 June 1966. He took several pictures of the
platoon while on the patrols, which were conducted along the
outer fringe of the 1st Battalion's Tactical Area of
Responsibility, approximately eight miles northwest of the
Marine base at Chulai. This is the story of two consecutive
patrols, typical of TAOR patrolling in what the Marines called
the "war of the rice paddy farmers."
The patrol filed out through the battalion's defensive wire at 2030 on 23
June 1966. The assistant platoon leader and the guide from the company on the
defensive perimeter counted each man. They checked figures: "48?"
"48."
"See you."
"Good luck. Remember we have a listening post out about 200 meters."
The platoon started across an area of small paddies and burnt underbrush.
The column twisted and stumbled forward. There was no moon.
Whispers.
"Hold it up. Pass the word."
"What's wrong? Pass it back."
"One of Kohlbuss' men has sprained his ankle so bad he can't walk. Did
it crossing the dike."
"Nuts. O.K. Tell him to go back to the wire himself," the platoon
commander, First Lieutenant A. A. "Tony" Monroe said. "Have him crawl back if
he has to. It's only a few yards. Bielecki, call battalion and tell them an
injured Marine is coming back in. Don't shoot him."
Lieutenant Monroe signalled the point to move out again. They walked 20
yards. More whispering.
"Hold it up."
31
"Now what's the matter?"
"Mills has a toothache. It's killing him."
Staff Sergeant Albert Ellis, the platoon guide, walked up to the
lieutenant.
"It's true, sir. You know he should have gone to the dentist last week.
Three days out there now could really put a hurting on him."
"Great. Just great. Bielecki--call battalion and tell them not to shoot
Mills either. He'll be coming in. Shall we leave before everybody goes
back?"
The platoon moved forward. The point avoided the trails and stream beds.
Across gullies, along the edges of the rice paddies, through whip-saw grass
and scrub growth, the Marines trudged in single file.
An hour passed.
"Bielecki--tell battalion we've passed check point one."
Two hours. Three.
"Bielecki, tell them we've passed check point two."
The Marines twisted and wound their way toward an ambush site in the
mountains seven miles to the west. The night was muggy and the Marines
sweated freely. But it was not hot and little water was drunk.
The point came to a break in the undergrowth and the column stopped while
scouts moved ahead. Having crossed a large rice paddy, they entered and
searched a distant tree line. Finding the way clear, they waved the main body
on. The platoon walked across this paddy, keeping well spread out even in the
dark and moving rapidly. The undergrowth the platoon just left suddenly
glowed with quick red lights which winked on and off. Three sharp explosions
followed and the ground shook. The platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Berton
Robinson, ran up from the tail end of the platoon.
"Sir, those dumb artillery people just missed us!"
"Glad to hear they did, Robbie." The Marines listening chuckled. "Let's
get up that mountain before they try again. I told them we were coming out
here tonight. They should have stopped those H&I "Harassing and Interdiction"
fires in our vicinity altogether."
The point started clambering up over rocks in a westerly
32
direction. Illumination flares burst silently a few miles to the south. The
landscape was frozen in relief. A man watching from a foxhole could see in
clear outline any moving figure. The Marines crouched down in the bushes and
waited. The first parachute flares flickered out but fresh ones opened and
swung gently downward. Whispers.
"Those damn Popular Forces are putting on their nightly show," growled
one Marine. "The record is eight flares at one time. This show might top
them all."
It did. The platoon commander waited patiently. Flares were expensive
and not that plentiful. He was sure darkness would fall again soon.
The platoon was grateful for the break. They had been pushing steadily
for four hours. The hill they faced was 195 meters high, its steepness
indicated by contour intervals on the map which pressed against each other.
The flares did not cease. Monroe was amazed--and angered. He did not
like the idea of climbing a hill when anyone at the top could see him coming.
But he had no choice, if he wanted to reach the ambush site before dawn.
The Marines got to their feet. Corporal Charles Washington led his point
squad ahead of the main body. The Marines used their hands, knees, and feet
to climb. They traversed the slope back and forth, grasping for holds and
pulling themselves upwards.
"I don't like this," the lieutenant whispered. "A few grenades would
play hell with us. And we couldn't throw any; they'd bounce right back on our
heads."
They reached the top. Monroe had his squads spread out. The Marines
flopped down gasping. No one moved for many minutes. A few men threw up.
Finally, Monroe called for his squad leaders and two staff sergeants. He
outlined simply the plan they had discussed before leaving the battalion area:
the platoon would split into two groups and set up separate ambush and
reconnaissance sites on the north and south sides of Hill 176, a mile to the
south. Monroe would take one group, with two squads and the artillery forward
observer; Staff Sergeant Ellis would lead the second, with one squad and the
60mm mortar. They would communicate by radio.
Monroe motioned. It was time to saddle up, Washington's squad still in
front, Ellis' group falling in at the rear. The last mile would be easy,
since they could follow the ridgelines southwest until they arrived at Hill
176. Monroe planned to place his ambush along a trail where it crossed a low
saddle; Ellis would climb the hill and set in on the other side. The
33
Marines walked against the skyline with unconcern. The ridge was steep and
thick, preventing effective ambush from the flanks. The Marines to the front
and rear treaded cautiously.
The subdued sound of static from the radio stopped, indicating that
someone was trying to contact the platoon. So Private First Class William
Bielecki, the platoon radioman, stopped to listen. "Roger. Out." "Sir,
battalion says regiment was hit at 2400 by an estimated VC company and to look
out. They're headed our way and might try to cross the saddle on 176 to get
into the mountains."
Monroe checked his watch--0300.
"O. K. Pass the word. Make sure every man knows they're coming."
With the chances of an encounter high, the usual night sounds of a tired
Marine patrol faded away. No canteen cups rattled, no one at the rear of the
column coughed, no loose sling clattered against a rifle stock. The Marines
climbed over the crest of a small rise and began walking downwards. The
platoon was strung out in the saddle on the northern side of Hill 176. Small
clumps of scrub growth dotted the slope.
It was 0400 when the point squad reached a deep gully, thick with
secondary jungle growth. Through that tangle twisted a dry stream bed trail
which led to the mountain to the west.
Voices.
Every Marine heard them: high pitched, distinct, near. The guerrillas
were on the stream bed trail and jabbering freely--they were taking a break
near the top of the trail. They were tired and, so close to the sanctuary of
the mountains, not alert.
The Marines stopped but did not deploy. They waited for the platoon
commander's decision. Monroe gambled. Hoping to catch the VC in a cross
fire, he sent Washington's squad down to cross the trail and take the high
ground on the other side.
Five minutes passed. Crack. Crack, Crack, Crack. In the gully, shots
were exchanged. "Washington, get on that high ground," Monroe yelled. "Get
out of there!"
Washington's men scrambled out of the gully on the far side
"Fire a flare."
From the rear of the column a hand flare went up--in the wrong direction.
34
"No, stupid, down in the drawl."
Another flare popped. Forty Marines fanned out and peered down in the
gully, shading their eyes against the glare of the flares still bursting to
the south. On the far side eight more Marines did the same. The gully was
filled with the weird flickering shadows of trees and bushes.
"There's one! Right across from us--up high--in front of Wash's people."
The Marine fired his M14 three times. The figure disappeared.
Monroe was on the radio. "Enemy troops in draw. Request HE and
illumination. Also request illumination at regiment be ceased immediately. It
is lighting us up. Over."
Refused were the two requests concerning illumination. Approved was the
request for a high explosive concentration. While Monroe was explaining his
situation over the radio, Sergeants Robinson and Ellis swung the squads into a
perimeter defense. Most weapons were pointed down toward the gully but a
machine gun section climbed to the top of the hill and a fire team was sent
out to listen to the rear. Washington's squad climbed to the peak of Hill 176
and set in there. The Marines could hear the VC, who had not returned fire,
crashing through the bush below. Since there were no visible targets and
Monroe did not want to expose his exact position and size, the Marines did not
fire at the sounds. They waited for the artillery.
Forty minutes passed. The Marines could still hear noises, but only very
faintly. The radio crackled. "On the way." "Thanks a lot," Monroe answered
sarcastically.
A sharp explosion was heard out in the rice paddies to the east of the
hill.
"Left 100, drop 200. Fire three rounds."
Five minutes later the rounds smashed in.
"Drop 50, fire for effect." Two minutes later the hill shook. The
Marines lay low as fragments hummed in flight up the hillside. Robinson
yelled at the lieutenant over the noise: "That's right down there!"
"Yes--but they're long gone by now." Monroe replied.
Silence.
"All right--everyone lie still and listen," Monroe shouted.
A Marine on the forward listening post shouted back:
35
"I can hear them splashing through the paddies, sir. They're making a
hat<*>."
"Left 200, add 400, fire for effect."
Three minutes later the shells landed.
"Right in there. Cannot survey results. Thank you. Out."
It was getting light. Ellis gathered his group and set out for the far
side of the hill. Washington stayed in position, while Monroe put his men in
the draw along the trail to shield them from the coming sun. He doubted if
anyone else would use the trail during the day.
With two radio operators, his platoon sergeant, and the artillery forward
observer, Monroe crawled into the bushes above the trail to observe the
scattered hamlets to the east. At dawn, he scanned with binoculars the flat
lands below him "There they are, just like last time," he said. In a grove of
trees a half-mile away, two figures stood close together. Both were wearing
dark green uniforms and carrying rifles.
"When you try to get close to that village, they fire three warning shots
and make it," Robinson explained to the forward observer.
Monroe was busy plotting coordinates. The forward observer did the
same--they compared the results, then called for a fire mission and requested
a valley of six rounds without adjustment.
The rounds crashed into the trees. One figure fell. The other
disappeared from sight. The Marines at the observation post exchanged grins.
The sun rose high and bare and the heat beat down smothering. By noon
not even an insect flew to inspect or bite the sweating Marines. Each man had
left base camp with three full canteens. Most had drunk two, the third had to
last until the next day. The Marines sat and watched. They talked and moved
little.
Occasionally they saw the Viet Cong. Some were carrying weapons, some
wore packs, some were dressed in black peasant shirts and shorts, some in
green uniforms. They travelled freely in small groups of from two to eight
men. They crossed the rice paddies, chatted with the women hoeing or the boys
herding cows, and entered various hamlets, without any apparent military
pattern or plan to their movements. The enemy seemed unaware that the shells
which fell sporadically near them were observed fire missions, although some
were hit and dragged away.
----------
<*>make a hat - Marine slang for attempting to escape; moving away quickly
36
Lieutenant "Tony" Monroe, platoon leader of A/1/5, pauses while
calling in a fire mission against the VC. (Author's)
Corporal Charles Washington stands in front of the bushes where the
VC crawled away from Sergeant Ellis' men. (Author's)
A 105mm howitzer of the 11th Marines emplaced in its aiming circle
during operations in June 1966. (USMC A369187)
36a
Monroe requested that a Marine company sweep the area. From his
observation post, he could direct their movements. Charlie Company arrived by
foot two hours later and the platoons spread out on line to sweep the hamlets.
A quarter of a mile in front of the company, Robinson saw a group of
armed VC in uniforms run across a rice paddy and enter a large house. They
reappeared moments later, wearing black pajamas, straw conical hats, and
carrying hoes. They split up and waded into the rice paddies.
"Look at them--the innocent farmers. They're going to get the surprise
of their lives when they're scoffed up--hoes and all--in a few minutes,"
Monroe said.
It was Monroe who was surprised; the company was ordered back to base
camp to perform another mission.
"We'll get that hooch<*> ourselves on our way in tomorrow morning," he
said.
The platoon passed a quiet night. After the action of the night before,
no one walked up the draw. The Marines rested--and thought of water. It was
a night of stars, cool and without many mosquitos. A few miles to the
northeast Bravo Company, heavily engaged with a VC company, called for 155mm
artillery support. Monroe's platoon listened to the situation reports over
the radio and watched the bright, quick flashes of the big shells as they
smashed in.
"Just like watching a war flic at a drive-in movie back home," quipped
one Marine.
"Yeh," replied his buddy. "Pass me the buttered popcorn, sweetie."
At dawn, the Marines left their ambush positions and filed down the
trail. Monroe left Ellis on the high ground with a machine gun team and a
radio to cover the platoon and alert them of enemy movements. The Marines
skirted the rice paddies, staying in the tree lines and heading for the house
where the VC had changed clothes the day before. They passed a pool of water
and slowed down, each man pausing to dunk one canteen, watchful lest a leech
swim into the open top. They passed a dozen men and women working in a rice
paddy. The Vietnamese ignored them.
Ellis' voice came over the radio. "You're being followed. Two men with
weapons are in the brush behind your rear man."
"Fudge and Baily--drop off and zap the guys coming up behind us," Monroe
said.
---------
<*>hooch - Marine slang for native house
37
The two Marines had scarcely turned around when Ellis' machine gun fired
a burst, then another. Again his voice came over the radio. "They were
closing on your right flank. Watch it. The people who were working in the
paddy are making it."
"Corporal Figgins--move your squad out into the paddy to our right. Stop
those people trying to get away. Don't shoot if you can help it--just grab
them."
The Marines broke from the tree line at a dead run. The 2d Squad and
mortar crew set up along the tree line in support.
Three Vietnamese were in the field.
"Halt. Halt. Damn it--halt!" Lance Corporal George Armstrong yelled.
The Vietnamese split up and ran faster.
Two ran east directly towards the house the platoon intended to search
with several Marines in close pursuit. One Vietnamese stumbled and fell. The
other turned to help. They were caught.
One turned to the west. He ran swiftly and the angle of his flight put
him farther and farther from the Marines. A rifleman stepped up on a rice
paddy dike and snapped two warning shots high in the air. The figure ran even
faster. The rifleman dropped to his right knee, placed his left elbow on his
left knee, and fitted his cheek along the stock of his rifle. His movements
were deliberate, not hurried. He fired once. The figure fell.
The lieutenant led the 2d Squad forward and set them in near the VC
house. The corpsman trotted past the rifleman.
"Take your time, doc. I shot him in the leg."
A helicopter evacuation was called and the wounded Vietnamese flown to a
hospital. The two other fugitives were women, indistinguishable from men at a
distance. They were sullen and stolid and ignored their Marine captors.
The Marines searched the VC house, a two-room dwelling made of thatch and
bamboo. It was empty, as they had expected it to be after the firing started.
A squad split into fire teams and prodded the thickets near the house.
"Here's an entrance to one tunnel in this briar patch."
"Here's another near the gate."
38
"Don't touch that gate or the fence. It may be booby-trapped."
"Hey, Corporal Figgins, I'm no boot. I'm walking all the way around,
see?"
"O. K. big mouth, let's see how loud you can shout for somebody to come
out."
In Vietnamese, the Marine hollered several times and kicked dirt into the
tunnel opening.
"Nothing. I don't hear nothing. And it sure as hell isn't a family bomb
bunker."
"Right. Blow them both. And get back in case there's a secondary
explosion."
"Hey, corporal, how many times do I have to tell you I'm no ----."
"Shut up and get to work. Milton, you check for other entrances."
"Fire in the hole"<*> The muffled explosions of grenades followed the
shout.
The Marines waited for the smoke to clear, then explored the tunnels,
finding only a paper Viet Cong flag and a bag of cement mix. They burned the
house. The women began to cry, having finally realized the Marines did not
come on a random search. They knew they were suspect and would be taken in
for questioning.
The Marines ignored their tears. If the women had not run across the
open rice paddies, they might have taken the VC men by surprise. They were
hot, and sweaty, and tired. They had wounded or killed several VC by
artillery, but only one by small arms fire. That fact irritated them. They
spread out and trudged back to base camp. They would try again the next day.
* * * * * * * * * *
The platoon rested that afternoon. The next day the men cleaned their
equipment, drank beer, sang songs, dozed on their cots in the hot canvas squad
tents, and waited for nightfall.
At 1800 on 26 June, they blackened their faces, rechecked their
ammunition, and replotted compass courses on the maps. At 1900, Monroe
inspected them and went over a final time with the squad leaders the route,
length, and mission of the patrol
--------
<*>"Fire in the hole" - Marine slang for warning of an impending explosion
39
"O. K. We're the ambush slash observation slash blocking force for the sweep
tomorrow morning. How's that for a combo? The last time out it took eight
hours to get to that damn saddle. This hump out will last even longer. Any
questions?"
There were none. They were an old platoon, used to each other and to the
war, secretly proud of their ability to make long, silent night marches.
Within the battalion they were known as "Monroe's Nightcrawlers." They thought
the nickname was appropriate.
At 2000, the platoon approached the battalion's defensive wire. The
guide called softly to Lieutenant Monroe.
"How many?"
"38."
"O. K. Follow me."
"Huh?"
"You heard me. I'm not going to parade my people over that skyline just
before I leave the position. Go around the shoulder of the hill."
"Oh, sure, right."
The platoon started forward. A few hours earlier, it had rained, a
short, thick torrent. The damp ground and sopping bushes muffled the sounds
of the passing men. Someone belched loudly as they cleared the wire.
Robinson groaned. Monroe just shook his head.
The footing was treacherous and the cleats on the jungle boots clogged
with mud. After walking for 40 minutes, the point man waded across a swollen
stream and slipped twice scrambling up the far bank. The bank became more
slippery with the passage of every man. The crossing proved costly. Two
Marines near the end of the column twisted their ankles.
"Damn," hissed Monroe. "From now on I'm going to have all men with weak
ankles tape them before night patrols. This happens every time out."
"Sergeant Robinson, take a man from each squad and stay here with them.
Keep your radio on all night but don't speak unless it's an emergency. Fire
the red flare if you get in trouble. In the brush with your backs to the
paddy, you've got a good defensive position and I don't think you'll be
spotted. I'll have a med evac pick you up in the morning. See you."
40
"Sure, sir. Good hunting."
The point Marine avoided the trails and hamlets, setting a course through
scrub brush and around rice paddies. At the edge of one open field, he heard
a snorting noise. Lying down, he bobbed his head back and forth like a boxer,
trying to silhouette some object against the skyline. He succeeded and
whispered: "Water buffalos. Watch yourselves."
The Marines cautiously filed around the side of the field opposite the
powerful, horned animals, taking care not to disturb them, lest they charge.
The undergrowth became thicker, reaching shoulder height. Near the middle
of the column there was a sudden thrashing in the bushes. The Marines
stopped. The bushes danced wildly as some swift animal wheeled back and forth
beside the still column. A low growl was heard, followed by a short burst
from an automatic rifle.
A Marine spoke, lowly but distinctly. "No, no, no, you clown. If that
was a tiger, he was just trying to make it."
Since his position had been compromised, Monroe changed the patrol route
and the point set off at a fast pace in another direction. The platoon
followed. The brush thickened into heavy secondary jungle growth. Those who
thought to bring them put on gloves, since many trees and vines were covered
with thorns. The leaves and thickets cut off all light from the sky, and so
dark was it that it made no difference whether the Marines opened or shut
their eyes. The interval between men closed completely. The vines and thorns
formed solid fences and forced the men to grope for any small openings. Often
they crawled on their hands and knees. Sometimes they doubled back or cut at
right angles to their compass heading. In one hour they moved 200 yards.
When they did emerge from the jungle they were faced by a river. The
point squad fanned out up and down stream to find a fording place. Finding
such a spot, a fire team waded through the neck-deep water and entered the
tree line on the other side. Ten minutes later, one Marine waded back across
and spoke to the lieutenant. "Clear." Two men at a time, the platoon crossed.
At 0500, the platoon arrived at the objective. Monroe sent one squad
with Ellis to a hill overlooking the flat land to the north. He set the rest
of the platoon in an L-shaped ambush along the main trail leading from the
village which was to be searched at 0600 by Bravo and Charlie Companies.
41
By 0545, it was light enough to recognize a man at 20 meters. The
platoon moved north down the trail. Monroe had orders to proceed to a hill
selected by map reconnaissance. He radioed back that the hill provided no
observation of the village and requested permission to move forward to a
better vantage point. Permission was granted.
Ten minutes later, while the platoon was still on the move, a jet
screamed in from the south and passed low over the selected landing zone, an
open rice paddy 400 meters northeast of the village. As the Marines watched,
the bright orange of napalm was splashed against the red dawn. In common
fascination, the entire column halted and stared. "Almost makes you forget
you're fighting a war," murmured one Marine.
"Sir, there they are!"
A half a mile away to the Marines' left front, a group of 30 Vietnamese
was crossing a rice paddy.
"Are they carrying weapons?" The binoculars were uncased. "There's not
enough light to see, sir. But they have kids walking on their flanks."
The Marines just looked at each other. They were reasonably sure it was
a band of fleeing Viet Cong. But they were not positive. And there were
children.
In a few minutes, the band would be on the other side of a hill to the
Marines' left.
"Nuts. Let's get up that hill and scope them out."
"Sir, there are two more--on the hill."
Peering down over the tops of the bushes were two Vietnamese. The
Marines could see no weapons.
"Should we cut them down?"
"No--it might be just some scared farmer--though I doubt it. Figgins--get
your squad up that hill on the double."
The Vietnamese ducked from view. Forming a skirmish line, the squad
raced up the hill and peered down into the draw on the other side.
"There they go--three of them, around the side of the next hill. One of
them is carrying a rifle."
The squad leader estimated the range at 600 yards. The Marines adjusted
their sights, knelt down, and began firing.
42
"Hold them and squeeze them--hold them and squeeze them. At that range
you're not going to hit nothing if you just crank them off."
Corporal Bierwirth brought up his squad. He adjusted the sights on his
stubby M79 grenade launcher, pointed the muzzle high, and fired. A burst of
smoke appeared in front of one of the Viet Cong and the man fell. His two
companions ducked into the brush.
Lieutenant Monroe checked the terrain. "Bierwirth--you stay here.
Figgins--your squad comes with me up the next hill. That band might be hiding
on the other side. Bielecki--tell Ellis to come down the trail."
The lieutenant left and Bierwirth put lookouts on each side of the hill.
"Corporal--one of them's circled behind us and is hitting it across the
paddy."
The squad leader called for two riflemen. The fleeing Viet Cong could be
seen clearly through binoculars, 1,000 years away. The riflemen raised their
sights as high as they could and sat down where they could see over the brush.
They began firing, every fifth round a tracer. The Marine with the binoculars
watched the strike of the bullets and called corrections.
The Viet Cong zigzagged, running as fast as he could. A bullet struck
him and he went down. Then he regained his feet and staggered off. He was
not hit again.
"Probably only grazed him. Lucky to do that at that distance," said one
Marine.
Another lookout ran up to Bierwirth.
"They're behind us--where we just came from. A whole squad of 'em."
"Sure it's not Sergeant Ellis' squad?"
"Naw--they're too well camouflaged to be Marines."
Bierwirth looked down through the binoculars. On the trail heading south
he saw a line of figures in Khaki uniforms, covered with leaves and braches.
In the lead was a Viet Cong dressed in black peasant garb and wearing a straw
hat. All were carrying weapons.
As Bierwirth watched, they ducked into the bushes. "Must have seen Ellis
coming. Quick, slam them with a LAAW and get
43
that gun working."
A machine gunner started firing from the hip. The bullets sprayed the
area. "No. Get down and use it."
"I can't see down there."
"Clear a field of fire and use your tripod."
"I don't have no machete or entrenching tool. And we didn't bring the
pod."
"They're gonna make it if Ellis doesn't nail them. Fire that damn LAAW."
The high explosive shell burst short of the brush.
"Missed. But Ellis will know where they are."
The Marines heard a slight swishing sound above their heads. Three
pounding flashes erupted on the hill behind them.
"God! The lieutenant!"
Fifty meters to the right of the artillery bursts, a group of Marines
jumped out of the brush and waved their arms frantically. Monroe was roaring
into the radio, his voice carrying distinctly to Bierwirth's hill. The
Marines laughed nervously with relief.
"Boy, is he giving them hell. It'll be a long time before that artillery
observer shoots at an unidentified target again."
Sergeant Ellis came up the trail. Over the radio Monroe directed him to
fire into the brush to his right and then search it for the enemy squad.
Ellis did so, but his men found only trails of flattened grass; the Viet Cong
had slipped away in the confusion which followed the misdirected artillery
fire.
A fire team moved down the draw to recover the body of the VC Bierwirth
killed with his grenade launcher. The body was gone.
Another fire team checked the trail the first large group of Vietnamese
followed. It was plainly marked every ten or twenty meters by three stones
set like triangles with the point toward the trail--Viet Cong markings for an
unmined path.
Monroe gathered his force and reluctantly headed back to the base camp.
As they walked tiredly along, two Marines looked at each other.
44
"Next time," one said.
"Yeh--next time."
NOTE: The next time did come for the 3d Platoon, and on 10 August 1966,
they distinguished themselves in a pitched battle described in the last
chapter of this narrative.
45
NIGHT ACTION
Preface: The author spent 10 days with these Marines
from Charlie Company, 7th Marines, who were training and
fighting with some Vietnamese militia in the village of Binh
Yen No (1), about seven miles southwest of the 1st Marine
Division Headquarters at Chulai. In addition to participating
in the patrols as an extra rifleman, he taped a few of the
actual ambushes, as well as the comments of the men concerning
their combined action work.
This is not one story. It is a diary relating several night patrols.
The participants are 13 Marines, numerous Vietnamese villagers and militia,
and Viet Cong. The Marines lived with and trained the Popular Forces (PF), a
few dozen local farmers who had agreed with the central government to protect
their village in return for exemption from draft into the regular army. The
Marines had volunteered for the job because it promised action and an escape
from company routine. They found the action.
In one week, from 7-13 July 1966, the 13 Marines killed 31 guerrillas.
They set 16 ambushes and made contact 9 times. On three occasions, the VC
ambushed the Marines; each time the Marines seized the offensive within a few
minutes, forcing the VC to break contact. In many engagements the Marines
were outnumbered; but fire discipline, shooting accuracy, and aggressiveness
compensated for numbers.
The ultimate goal of the Marines was to train and develop the PF forces
so that the Marines would no longer be needed to protect the village. The men
did not deceive themselves; they knew that goal would not be reached in a few
short months. And until the PFs were a competent fighting force, the Marines
would carry the main burden of combat around the village.
This is an attempt to describe how the Marines and PF operated.
13 July 1966. Six Marines assembled in the small courtyard of the
Popular Forces fort. The squad leader, Sergeant Joseph Sullivan, wore jungle
utilities and a Marine utility cover. He carried an M14 automatic, seven
magazines, two green star cluster flares, one red star cluster, and a
flashlight. The uniforms of the other were less according to regulation. One
wore a Swiss alpine hat, another a beret, a third was clad in black utilities,
a fourth Marine wore no cover. Three
46
carried M14 automatics; the fourth an M79 grenade launcher. Each had a LAAW
slung across his shoulder. The radio operator also carried an M14 automatic
and had a PRC-10 strapped to his back.
Two PFs joined the patrol after Sullivan had inspected his men. They
were dressed in green utilities and bush hats. One carried a carbine, the
other a Thompson submachine gun. One was placed at the point of the column,
the other a few men back. (It was the belief of the Marines at that time that
the PFs could spot a VC in that locale at night before a Marine could. They
subsequently changed their minds.)
Few words were exchanged. Nothing was new to the Marines about the
patrol. They knew the area and the mission well; go down to the river and
ambush the VCs who tried to cross. G-2 had warned that day that a hard-core
battalion was operating in the vicinity. The news was accepted skeptically.
There were so many warnings from so many sources received each day.
After curfew, the patrol filed out of the fort, passing across a stagnant
moat studded with bamboo stakes and through a tall bamboo fence designed to
stop grenades. In theory, recoilless rifle shells would also explode against
it and not against the long sand-plaster building in the fort.
The PF at point turned left and walked a hundred meters to an outer
fence. Three unarmed villagers, serving as gate-openers and sentries, looked
at them blankly for a moment. Then one noisily pushed open the gate; another
lifted a wooden mallet and began tapping against a bamboo pole, tap..tap..tap
tap..tap..tap..tap. Supposedly this was the villagers' signal that the VC
were on the prowl. The Marines looked at each other uneasily. They didn't
like having their exit announced, but the PFs seemed unbothered.
In column they moved east across the rice paddies and entered the main
street of Binh Yen No (1). The street was a straight, narrow dirt path
leading northeast, overshadowed by palm trees and thick brush and lined with
thatched huts. Although it was not yet 2030, the street was pitch dark. Only
by shifting glances and looking at various angles could each Marine
distinguish the outline of the man in front of him. The villagers were still
awake and the Marines heard chatter from many houses. Lights shone from some
doorways and fell across the street. The Marines hurried across these lighted
patches.
The villagers knew a patrol was passing. Some warned the VC by signals.
In one house a man coughed loudly and falsely. Farther on, an old lady shifted
her lantern from one room to another as the Marines slipped by.
47
The patrol reached the far end of the town without drawing fire and left
the tree line. For a quarter of a mile, they followed the dikes between open
rice paddies, then they turned right and walked about fifty meters to the
river. The bank was sprinkled with skimpy shrubbery and carpeted with human
waste. The Marines called the ambush site "The Head." It provided excellent
fields of fire over the river, but it took a strong man to withstand the
smell.
The Marines lay down and slowly took off their cartridge belts and placed
them beside their weapons. The bipods for the M14s were extended gently.
There was no wind and a slight sound would carry to the opposite bank.
At each end of the line a Marine was stationed to watch the rear and
outboard flanks. The river was 100 meters wide at the ambush point. Many
nights the VC came down the river to get supplies and visit their families who
lived in Binh Yen No (1). Sometimes they paddled downstream in small boats;
sometimes they crept along the far bank and waded across at fording points.
The Marines settled down to wait. Droves of mosquitoes descended on the
men. They didn't dare slap them away. A few unfortunates disturbed some red
ants. They crept to other positions, cursing under their breaths and praying
the ambush would be soon sprung.
The Viet Cong tried to accommodate the wish. No sooner were the Marines
in position and being bitten than firing broke out to their right, coming from
the village. Red tracers streaked high over the Marines' heads. Sergeant
Sullivan identified the weapons. "Automatic carbine. Two Russian blowbacks,
maybe M1s. Lie still. Don't return fire. They're trying to get us to give
away our position," he whispered. The VC fired three bursts in the general
direction of the patrol, then stopped.
One hour passed. The Marines heard a few splashes near the far bank but
saw no movement. A second hour went by. More scattered probing fire came
from the VC. Sullivan suspected the patrol might have passed an enemy
outpost, which was now trying to locate the Marine position so their main
force could avoid it. The sergeant whispered to his men to be still. They
would play a waiting game and force the VCs to move first.
During the next hour, the Marines heard a few splashes down river and saw
a dull light bobbing along the far bank. It appeared that the VC were
portaging supplies inland after crossing farther down river.
By midnight, when the patrol still had not fired, the enemy lost caution
and started to move freely. Frequent
48
SCHEMATIC SKETCH TO ACCOMPANY "NIGHT ACTION"
48a
splashes and the mutter of low voices carried clearly to the Marines. There
came the distinct clank of a heavy bundle striking the bottom of a boat.
Corporal Leland Riley, who had the eyes of a hawk, whispered, "I see
them. Two-three boats...and a bunch of them on the bank--right across from
us."
"Yeh, LAAWs up."
Two Marines slowly extended two rocket tubes.
"See them?"
"No. Wait. Now I do."
"Fire when ready."
The sharp explosions of the recoilless weapons rang the ears of all the
Marines. Momentarily deaf, they could not even hear the blasts from their own
automatic weapons. But the six Marines were blazing away, holding down their
rifles, the bipods enabling them to keep their bursts low. With every other
round in the magazines a tracer, they placed their shot groups where they
thought they saw or heard the enemy. Hundreds of bullets skimmed across the
river and swept the opposite bank.
Water splashed some Marines in the face. "What the hell?" yelled Private
First Class Kenneth Lerch. "Hey, we're getting some incoming." The fire fight
was 15 seconds old.
"Cease fire! Shut up and listen up," Sullivan shouted.
Silence. A few seconds went by. Then a distinct splashing was heard
near the other bank. Someone was wading out of the water, trying to climb the
bank.
Two Marines fired, their tracers converged, then swept back and forth.
Again there was silence. It was anybody's guess whether they had hit the
enemy or if he were just standing still in the water, waiting until the
Marines went away.
Next there came through the air a sound like someone ripping paper,
followed by a loud pop. An 81mm mortar flare burst over the river, and began
its squeaking, dangling descent beneath its small parachute.
The illumination had been provided in accordance with a preplanned
system. When the LAAWs went off, the Marine radio watch back at the fort
heard and took a compass bearing on the noise. There were three patrols out
but each had gone in a widely different direction, so the Marine could easily
identify
49
the patrol. He called the command post at Charlie Company and said simply,
"Andy Capp 68," thus identifying the patrol by a prearranged code. From the
C.P. the word was shouted to the stand-by mortar crew lounging 50 feet away.
"81s--illum--68."
Sergeant Martin, the mortar section leader, had preplotted the firing
data for the ambush sites of all the night patrols. He checked his card for
#68 and called:
"Deflection--2650. Elevation--0800. Charge 6. Fire when up." Less than
10 seconds after the call reached Charlie Company the first of three
illumination rounds was on its way.
Under its glare, the Marines could see the other river bank clearly.
Nothing was moving. The tall sawgrass was still.
"Check those boats," Riley said.
Pulled up on the bank were two dark, canoelike shapes.
"Check them, hell. Blast them," Sullivan replied.
The other two LAAWs were quickly opened and fired. The first hit to the
left but the second one exploded dead on. Short bursts from the automatic
rifles further splintered the hulls.
The last flare died out. It was 20 minutes past midnight.
"We put a hurting on some of them," an anonymous voice said.
"Maybe tomorrow night we can catch them on our side of the river. Let's
head back in," Sullivan said.
During the next day, the villagers brought news to the fort that one of
the patrols the night before had fired upon a VC company who had come north on
a resupply mission. The villagers--and the PFs--thought the Marines were
slightly crazy to open fire on a VC force of unknown size. The Marines were
disappointed. They would have called in a priority artillery mission if they
had known there were so many Viet Cong.
14 July 1966. The patrols left the fort at 2000. It was just dark.
"We're gonna get some more tonight," Private First Class Lerch yelled to
the PFs and village chiefs who were milling around inside the fort.
The same patrol returned to the river. They set in near a group of
bamboo fish traps, a mile downstream from "The Head."
50
Three kerosene lights marked a channel through the traps. Night lights on the
river were officially forbidden since they served as beacons for the VC. But
some stubborn fishermen ignored the order night after night. The Marines, as
advisors, could not make the PFs enforce the order.
The patrol hid behind some dirt mounds along the bank and waited. To go
down river, the VCs would have to pass through the fishermens' channels. The
enemy were not long in coming.
The disturbed squawkings of ducks and geese alerted the patrol. The VC
were paddling down river. It was next to impossible to pass a raft of
waterfowl at night without scaring them up. The VCs, however, would sometimes
tie geese to their boats and try to pass as a raft of birds, hoping the
Marines would fire behind them.
A light shone through a clump of bushes on the far bank. The Marines
heard the dull sound of wood scraping against wood.
"They're carrying a boat over the fish traps," Sullivan whispered.
Corporal Riley, ignoring the activity on the river, had been watching to
the rear. "There's someone moving in on our right flank," he whispered.
Riley and another Marine moved down the bank to prevent an enemy probe.
Lance Corporal Gerald Faircloth, the squad's best shot with a LAAW, heard
paddle splashes near the fish traps. "I think I can hit that next boat when
they climb the traps," he whispered.
"O. K., blast them," Sullivan replied.
Faircloth knelt on his left knee. He placed the short fiberglass tube on
his right shoulder. The tube wavered up and down, then steadied. Flame
spurted from both ends. One hundred yards away there was a bright flash. The
Marines started sweeping the river with automatic rifle fire. Riley emptied a
magazine into the bushes along the bank to his right.
Overhead, a mortar flare blossomed. "There they are!" Riley shouted.
The firing caught two Viet Cong in a round wicker basket boat trying to
cross the river behind the fish traps. In the sudden light they were easy
targets. They dove overboard just as Riley and another Marine opened fire.
The tracers ripped through the boat and whipped the water. Standing on the
bank the two Marines changed magazines and waited to see if the head of either
Viet Cong resurfaced. They did not. The light boat rocked to and fro. The
surface of the river was calm and
51
s