A Shau Valor

by Thomas R. Yarborough

  Some Katu elders, however, when asked to explain why they had decided to side with the communist forces, stated that it was not so much because of any particular animosity against the French or Americans as it was due to the xenophobic policies of South Vietnam’s regime, first propped up by France, then by the United States. One village elder noted that, “The soldiers from the South would come here and ask the Katu to carry their luggage. But after the Katu had finished helping them, instead of paying them, the soldiers would shoot them.”8

  The North Vietnamese cadres also gained the sympathy of the Katu by supplying them with a new type of fast-ripening rice seed (the “three-moon rice”), significantly easing the labor burden of Katu men and women during the harvest period.9 And while the communist agenda clearly was not entirely altruistic—the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) and Viet Cong (VC) soldiers were no strangers to using violence to coerce villages to loyalty—it served to gain an ally, or at least a sympathetic party, in the escalating war along the western edges of Thua Thien Province. By all accounts the average Katu guide, tracker, and soldier, armed only with a crossbow, was a very efficient jungle fighter, indeed, and a force multiplier for the NVA. Their inherent value comes as no surprise given that the knowledge possessed by the indigenous Katu fighters of the imposing jungle and mountain terrain in their homelands was absolutely vital for the NVA’s and VC’s ability to control the mountainous inland and repeatedly repel the combined efforts of American and ARVN forces.10 By contrast, American units were never able to rally Katu villages to side with the South, but they were quite successful in recruiting other Montagnard tribes, especially the Bru. The best part of that alliance was the genuine rapport, respect, and even love that developed between the United States Special Forces and the Montagnards. They formed a unique brotherhood of warriors, willing to sacrifice and even die for each other.11

  Even though the A Shau Valley had probably been part of the human landscape for at least 5,000 years, its tactical and strategic importance did not really take root until 1959 when North Vietnam’s ruling Lao Dong Party adopted Resolution 15, calling for support of the National Liberation Front (NLF) movement in South Vietnam. With that watershed decision, PAVN Colonel Vo Bam inherited the monumental task of “organizing a special communication line to send supplies to the revolution in the South.” From that moment on the crux of the entire Vietnam War hinged on Hanoi’s efforts to sustain the vital logistics supply line down the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and American attempts to interdict and cut it.12 So, by a quirk of fate and the vagaries of geographic location, the A Shau was transformed into a massive logistical complex for infiltrating NVA supplies and soldiers into the I Corps Tactical Zone, referred to by most as “Eye” Corps. The stage was set. Between 1963 and late 1971, the Valley of Death became a bloody battleground and final resting place for thousands of American and Vietnamese soldiers locked in mortal combat in and around a remote valley—a place from the beginning of time.

  Just as the A Shau has evolved without much alteration over countless millennia, so too has the unique character of the military profession evolved, slowly, ponderously. At Saratoga, Antietam, the Argonne, Bataan, Bastogne, and Inchon, young American soldiers and Marines were prepared to face death out of love for friends, family, and country. In that same tradition many trudged into I Corps’ Valley of Death armed with a weapon, physical stamina, and personal valor, and far too many perished in the effort—a strange, fragmented effort that replicated itself each year for nine long years.

  While a few may have admired the tropical beauty of the A Shau, most American combat troops loathed the place. Over the years it became a frightening location to operate in, and its very name sent chills down the spines of even the most hardened warriors. To them, the A Shau probably represented the most NVA-infested area south of Hanoi, and it was not a place for the faint of heart. They saw it as a haunted jungle of impenetrable secrecy and spookiness, a forbidding, mythical place where death lurked and the mist never lifted. One Special Forces non-commissioned officer (NCO) captured the general attitude about the A Shau when he noted, “I’ve known about this place since Bragg in 1968. The bogeyman for us. The place they send you when you say ‘whatcha gonna do, send me to Nam?’ I’d rather go to Hell. At least once you’re there, you’re already dead. Somethin’ like 25 to 30 percent of all the teams that ever went in there didn’t come back.”13 Tagged with that sort of reputation and in the best traditions of wartime gallows humor, GIs early on began referring to it as “Ah Shit Valley.”

  And the NVA were not the only dangers lurking in Ah Shit Valley. One of the most bizarre war stories substantiating that point involved a young Marine whose rifle company had just begun operations along the northwest corner of the valley right on the Laotian border. That first night, a cold and rainy one, he was asleep wrapped in his poncho on the edge of the perimeter when he awoke to something grabbing his foot. “I start screamin’ and hollerin’ and this tiger is all over me. I mean it’s big as I am.” The other squad members heard the commotion but could not shoot “cause me ’n the tiger’s wrestlin’ around the tent tryin’ to kill each other, see?” At some point in the melee the big cat bolted away into the darkness, and the young Marine ended up with 63 stitches. His take on the A Shau? “I ain’t ever going out there again. Ever.”14

  No matter the threat, whether man or beast, the A Shau wasn’t the first valley of death in the Vietnam War. The original, a remote land-locked basin in the northwest corner of Vietnam encircling a place called Dien Bien Phu, gained world-wide attention in May 1954 when the French forces under Colonel Christian de Castries fell to a Viet Minh army commanded by General Vo Nguyen Giap. During the 56-day siege the French lost over 1,700 men killed, 5,000 wounded, 1,700 missing, and 11,700 prisoners. Viet Minh casualties included almost 8,000 killed and 15,000 wounded.15 The bloody battle in the deadly valley at Dien Bien Phu, while extremely costly to General Giap’s forces, nevertheless ended France’s colonial reign in Indochina, foretold American involvement in the region, and offered pointed lessons that were ultimately ignored. Prophetically, the war in 1954 Indochina in general and the battle at Dien Bien Phi in particular had become very unpopular with French citizenry; the indecisiveness of the Fourth Republic signaled that France was both politically and militarily unable to extract itself from the conflict.16 Yet the French experience in their war was significant to the United States if for no other reason than it somberly demonstrated the ominous reality that a Western colonial power could indeed be defeated by a third-world, indigenous revolutionary force, or that God forbid, a super power could be cowed by a peasant army.

  Eleven years later and some 650 miles to the south of Dien Bien Phu, the U.S. Army engaged in its own struggle in another valley of death; this time the scene was the Ia Drang Valley in II Corps’ Central Highlands, only a few miles east of the Cambodian border and 14 miles west of the Special Forces camp at Plei Me. From November 14–18, 1965, in the first major battle between U.S. and NVA forces, three battalions from the 1st Cavalry Division combat assaulted into the valley and engaged 2,500 soldiers of the NVA 320th, 33rd and 66th regiments. The 1st Cav troopers pioneered a brand new idea and rode into battle not on the horses suggested by the division’s name, but rather in UH-1 “Huey” helicopters; the concept was called Vertical Envelopment. In the savage fighting around the Ia Drang Valley, the Americans lost 234 killed and 242 wounded at landing zones (LZ) X-Ray and Albany. The NVA, in their first direct showdown with Americans, suffered an estimated 1,800 killed and many more wounded. At the end of the battle both sides claimed victory, and both sides ostensibly drew lessons from the encounter in their valley of death. In its wildest dreams, however, the United States never imagined that the war would drag on another ten long years.17

  But North Vietnam did. The Democratic Republic of Vietnam was in it for the long haul, and General Vo Nguyen Giap’s ‘peasant army,’ made up of dedicated followers bent on fighting a protracted war, was willing to absorb e
normous casualties to achieve its goals. As early as 1950, Giap served notice that the strategy for victory involved decades, not years. In Giap’s own words:

  The enemy will pass slowly from the offensive to the defensive. The blitzkrieg will transform itself into a war of long duration. Thus, the enemy will be caught in a dilemma: he has to drag out the war to win it and does not possess, on the other hand, the psychological and political means to fight a long drawn-out war.18

  Even though not mentioned specifically by name, the French were obviously the focus of his remarks, yet he paradoxically chose the word “enemy” rather than the name of a specific foe. Ironically, his prediction might just as easily have applied to American military policy 15 years later.

  Although the battles at Dien Bien Phu lasted about two months and Ia Drang only five days, the slugfests in the A Shau Valley intermittently spanned nine years and more nearly characterized Giap’s prediction of “a long drawn-out war.” This book does not pretend to provide a day-by-day, comprehensive account of those nine years, but rather it is episodic, singling out for special attention a series of American combat operations encompassing the entire length of the valley and a 15-mile radius around it. Beginning in 1963, Special Forces A-teams established camps along the valley floor, followed by a number of top-secret Project Delta missions through 1967. Then, U.S. Army and Marine Corps maneuver battalions engaged in a series of temporary and sometimes controversial thrusts into the A Shau designed to disrupt NVA infiltration into I Corps and to kill enemy soldiers, part of what came to be known as Westmoreland’s ‘war of attrition’ strategy. The various campaigns included Operations Prairie Fire and Pirous in 1967, 1968’s Operations Grand Canyon, Delaware, and Somerset Plain, 1969’s Operations Dewey Canyon, Massachusetts Striker, and Apache Snow with the infamous battle of Hamburger Hill, culminating with Operation Texas Star and the vicious fight for and the humiliating evacuation of Fire Support Base Ripcord in the summer of 1970. By 1971 the fighting had once again shifted to the realm of small Special Forces reconnaissance teams assigned to the ultra-secret Studies and Observations Group—SOG. This book, then, chronicles a frustrating military involvement, the battles, and most of all, the associated courage, sacrifice, and valor in and around the remote and lethal A Shau Valley.

  In presenting this story, I struggled with a perennial dilemma faced by virtually every author who tries his/her hand at writing military history: how to fashion a comprehensive account of the facts without getting bogged down in minutiae and repetitious details. In the end I settled on a relatively innocuous literary device—I combed numerous military archives for individual cases of conspicuous gallantry in action, to include Medal of Honor, Distinguished Service Cross, Navy Cross, and Air Force Cross citations. A total of 15 Medals of Honor were awarded for deeds in and around the A Shau—more than any other single location in the Vietnam War. In effect those heroic actions, those incredible acts of bravery, provided the framework for the story I wanted to tell. That methodology ultimately suggested the title for the book: A Shau Valor.

  I have also attempted to convey the distinctively tropical character of a conflict in a location that if not unique was certainly extraordinary. The A Shau spawned its own peculiar war without fronts where terrain, weather, and people triumphed over technology. For me, the challenge was to communicate not only the essential elements of the battles but also to supply a sense of the sights, sounds, and even the smells of the battlefield so that the reader feels engaged and, at least figuratively, experiences the mosquitoes, the mud, the oppressive heat, the leeches, the agony, the frustration, the fear.

  In addition, I feel compelled to point out that the nine-year struggle around the A Shau Valley did not occur in a vacuum and cannot be understood or viewed as a series of stand-alone battles devoid of historical and societal context. Other political and military events—large and small—impacted the battles and strategies associated with the Valley of Death. For that reason it was necessary to at least touch on other consequential episodes and decisions. Therefore, I have attempted to expand the story by including relevant background information, newly declassified facts, and bits of pertinent historical perspective from key players such as Presidents Johnson and Nixon, Robert McNamara, and General William Westmoreland. I hope that discerning readers will find these historical detours presented responsibly, with care, and as essential digressions.

  Any book that includes factual accounts of a war is by necessity a collective endeavor. Numerous books and articles have been written by key participants and scholars on various aspects of the Vietnam War, many of which I have been able to consult in the course of my research. They are listed in the bibliography at the end of A Shau Valor. But as a compulsory underpinning for understanding the individual unit operational summaries and after action reports, each filled with hour-by-hour accounts of missions and firefights, perhaps the most indispensable documentary sources are the inspiring valor citations themselves, riveting accounts of the heroes who defined the battles. The best documents, however, cannot replace direct accounts of men in battle. Consequently, in order to flesh out the story I felt obliged to include recollections and interviews with some of the warriors, for as author Herman Wouk so eloquently observed, “The beginning of the end of War lies in Remembrance.”

  Additionally, I have had the unique opportunity to study the battle for the A Shau through several disparate lenses: from a detached status as a college faculty member; from an inquiring position as a graduate student; from the viewpoint of a young Air Force forward air controller supporting SOG teams in the A Shau. I gained a unique perspective by flying daily over the Valley of Death—we FACs had a god’s-eye view of the action. And working with the men who were engaged in life or death battles on the ground, I came to know and admire them: warriors, human beings on two feet, soldiers, crawling on their bellies up the steep slopes of the primordial A Shau, with racing minds and fearful thoughts and short futures. They were the finest men I have ever met, and I am proud to count these warrior-friends as my knights in shining armor—forever the quintessential heroes of my memory.

  The guiding principle in my research, no matter how painful the process might be to national pride or to widely held prejudices, has been to present the facts and data as they are and not as one wishes them to be. Any conclusions stated are based on meticulous examination of the historical evidence, not on widely circulated popular myths or preconceptions. Moreover, the persons and events depicted in this book are in all cases true and authentic to the best of my knowledge. And while I had access to a mindboggling number of official primary sources and records at the National Archives, the U.S. Army Center of Military History, the United States Marine Corps History Division, the Air Force Historical Research Agency, the U.S. Army Military History Institute, and the Texas Tech University Vietnam Center and Archive, any mistakes or misinterpretations that remain are my responsibility alone.

  chapter

  1

  INTO THE VALLEY OF DEATH

  Act in the valley so that you need not

  fear those who stand on the hill.

  —DANISH PROVERB

  Beginning in 1963, ARVN units and American military advisors essentially ignored Machiavelli’s celebrated admonition to always control the high ground. Instead, they focused more or less exclusively on several small settlements along a remote valley floor. A nearly deserted Katu village, namesake for the entire area, was positioned at the southeastern end of a valley measuring roughly 40 kilometers in length and only several kilometers across at its widest point. On each side of the valley, steep, jungle-covered mountains rose thousands of feet and offered a spectacular view of the basin below. From the heights VC and NVA lookouts kept a watchful surveillance over all activities. A small river, the Rao Lao, ran past the village, and a single lane dirt road paralleled the stream, providing the only travel route through the tall elephant grass. The Katu inhabitants called the place A Sap. To the Vietnamese and Americans, it was
known as A Shau.

  All participants in the war—NVA, Viet Cong, ARVN, and American military advisors—recognized that the valley was indeed strategically positioned. The Laotian border, running along the peaks of the A Shau’s west wall, was only several kilometers away, the narrow ravine representing the only passage through the largely impassable mountain region. The valley also served as the junction of three routes: Route 548 running the length of the A Shau; Route 547 running east toward Hue; and Route 922, snaking its way west from the Ho Chi Minh Trail to the north end of the valley. Whoever controlled the valley, so the thinking went, controlled the region and the entry from Laos into Thua Thien Province and Hue; whoever owned the A Shau Valley could set the terms of battle. A major clash was inevitable.

  Due to 1,000 years of Chinese rule, Vietnamese traditions had been strongly influenced by Chinese culture in terms of politics, government, and Confucian social and moral beliefs. As an example of that cultural sway, according to the Chinese calendar—revered in both North and South Vietnam—the year 1963 did not herald a particularly propitious time: it was the Year of the Rabbit, celebrated by some Vietnamese as the Year of the Cat. In Chinese lore the Rabbit did poorly in conflict, as it was often overly sensitive in times of confrontation. Likewise, those born under the Rabbit sign had a tendency to dwell on negative events in the past, at times to an obsessive extent. Given over to cultural bias, an assortment of fortune-tellers, Buddhist priests, and shamans employed the Chinese zodiac calendar to interpret events and personalities in 1963. In Saigon they made much of the fact that South Vietnam’s president, Ngo Dinh Diem, was born in the Year of the Rat, and that President John F. Kennedy had been born in the Year of the Snake. More auspiciously, soothsayers in Hanoi crowed that Ho Chi Minh was born under the sign of the Dragon.1