They counted eleven bunkers in total, and because of the camp’s overall size, it was highly unlikely that this was a staging area for ‘beaucoup men’. Well-camouflaged from above, it encompassed an area no more than one acre.
Traces of blood were evident throughout the area; some blood trails led away from the camp and to the west. As usual, they were not able to find one dead body in or near the staging area. They did find food supplies, but no weapons, papers, or anything else of value.
The platoon, using bricks of C-4 plastic explosive, destroyed the three remaining intact bunkers. Their sweep continued for another one-hundred meters beyond the bunker complex. Blood traces had ended, there were no signs of shallow graves, and nothing stood out in the green jungle vegetation.
Satisfied with the thoroughness of the sweep, Sixpack informed the captain of their accomplished mission - they were moving now to link up with Third Platoon on the main trail. The officer, in turn, informed Delta Company that First Platoon had completed its mission, thanking them for their help and wishing them well.
Captain Fowler received orders from battalion to move his company into the area west of the complex, to look for signs of the fleeing enemy soldiers.
They spent three days patrolling through the area - the search grid extended four kilometers beyond the complex. It was an exhausting and futile attempt to seek out an invisible and silent enemy.
Late in the afternoon of the fourth day, First Platoon changed direction and began humping toward the former bunker complex. The captain wanted the area booby trapped in the event of VC returning and rebuilding the camp. The plan was for the First Platoon to spend the night nearby, setting ambush teams on the approaches, then dispatching a squad first thing in the morning to set up a few mechanical ambushes within the complex. The task was not expected to take more than an hour; afterwards, the platoon would leave the area, and join up with the rest of the company later in the day.
In the morning, Third Squad left the NDP right after breakfast, heading toward the former enemy complex with enough supplies to build four booby traps; the rest of the platoon stayed put until their return. Many of the men accepted this potential hour-long pause as an opportunity to write letters, the first such chance in a week. It was very quiet and an appropriate setting to do so.
John was addressing an envelope to his girlfriend when the sound of gunfire, coming from the direction of the base camp, shattered the serenity. Without hesitation, the remaining members of the platoon snatched up web gear, ammunition, and weapons, then moved quickly in support of the eight soldiers fighting in the base camp.
Moments earlier, the Third Squad had entered the complex, moving almost to the center, before the point man noticed some of the bunkers already in a state of repair. He raised his arm, everyone taking a knee, before making them aware of his discovery. While scanning the area, another member noticed a small campfire not far away, a pot of boiling water and smoking food hanging above the flame.
“Guys, we’re not alone here and need to get the fuck out quickly,” the squad leader whispered to the others, pointing out the campfire.
Slowly, they began backing up across the complex, hoping the enemy did not spot them during their retreat. Their luck ran out when an enemy soldier exited a bunker near the campfire; surprise was exhibited by everyone. There was a slight hesitation on both sides, but the VC soldier was first to holler out a warning and then fired a burst from his AK-47 at them. Within seconds, other VC joined him, firing from different areas within the complex. All at once, as if receiving an identical mental suggestion, the eight Americans dove into the nearest bunker and returned fire on their attackers.
The reinforcements arrived within minutes, finding Third Squad pinned down between them and the enemy. Firing from this vantage point would be too much of a risk to the squad inside the bunker. The back-up support remained unnoticed, the enemy focusing on the single bunker with the Americans inside. Sixpack dispatched two squads through the surrounding underbrush in an attempt to flank the enemy soldiers and stop the siege. The men were almost in place when the VC caught sight of their movement and opened up on them as well.
Charlie was firing from four bunkers on the northern side of the complex. The trapped American soldiers, now aware of reinforcements arriving, began screaming hysterically from inside the bunker to let them know their location.
Gunships had responded to Sixpack’s call for support, but he learned they could not help because of the squad’s close proximity to the enemy. It seemed the only option available was to rescue the pinned down squad and then move to a safe distance, allowing the gunships to use their mini guns and rockets.
In between volleys, Sixpack communicated with the besieged men and coordinated a plan for getting them out. Two of the men in the bunker had wounds, but they were not serious and the soldiers could walk with some assistance.
The three machine gun teams spread out and found defendable positions, despite the intense incoming fire. On Sixpack’s signal, they opened fire, concentrating on the closest enemy bunkers. The platoon also fired their two remaining LAW’s, blowing large holes into two of the shelters, but failed to silence the guns inside. Now, the grunts fired through the large holes and into the small firing slots, hoping for a lucky shot or ricochet to silence them.
The Americans had been firing steadily for over two minutes, yet there was no movement from the Third Squad. They had ignored the signal to exit the bunker and join up with them.
“Don’t those fuckers know they’re supposed to be coming out during this cover fire? What the fuck’s their problem?” Wild Bill called loudly to John, who had already fired four magazines himself during the last few minutes.
“Goddammit, guys, we can’t keep this up forever!” He called out. “Un-ass that bunker, come on!”
Still there was no movement from the trapped men. The level of firing continued in hopes they would try to rush to safety. Suddenly, Wild Bill rose from behind his tree and ran, zigzagging toward the bunker, diving headfirst through the opening.
Firing intensified as some of the men switched to full automatic and increased the rate of fire toward their aggressors. Seconds later, one by one, seven men emerged from the bunker, running wildly out of the complex and into the concealment of the jungle. Wild Bill then stepped out of the bunker with a man across his shoulders like a fire fighter; he was firing at the enemy with one hand, while racing across the thirty feet of open ground. The men watching this rescue were in awe of his bravery and focused on keeping the enemy’s head down until Wild Bill reached safety. Once clear, Sixpack tossed a red smoke grenade as close to the four bunkers as possible, then withdrew with the rest of his men to the main trail.
The gunships had an all clear and began their runs on the bunker complex using the red smoke as a beacon. As the rockets and mini-guns fired, the platoon members retreated to their NDP, where Sixpack requested a Medevac for the two wounded soldiers, and a resupply of ammo.
Captain Fowler already had the rest of the company moving to reinforce and support the First Platoon; his estimated time of arrival was in a little more than an hour.
When the gunships exhausted their ammo and fuel, artillery took over in the interim, pounding at the complex until the gunships returned with a fresh load of ordinance to expend.
The assault on the base camp continued for an hour, the gunships and artillery alternating their fire. Nung was the first to spot the rest of Alpha Company and CP jogging on the trail toward their NDP. Once together, the men took a knee, catching their breath while the officers formulated a plan. Twenty minutes later, they were in position and preparing to sweep through the camp once again.
Prior to entering the complex, one platoon fired their weapons into the general direction of the bunkers for thirty seconds. There was no return fire and the men moved cautiously toward their objective. The First Platoon, especially those in the Third Squad, was hoping the VC had vacated the complex as before; one narrow escap
e already was enough for the day.
Once inside the camp perimeter, the men found it extremely cramped, forcing the troops to bunch up. The Platoon Leaders immediately dispatched half of their men into the surrounding jungle, securing the perimeter, while the rest of the men searched through the complex.
The damage was much more intense than the first time. Once again, they found no resistance, but the results were much different. This time, they counted sixteen bodies - most found in the destroyed bunkers and four discovered outside of the perimeter, killed during their attempt to flee. The four killed outside of the perimeter wore NVA uniforms, and the remaining corpses sported typical VC black pajamas and Ho Chi Minh sandals; an AK-47 rifle lay within an arm’s reach of each body.
The only American casualties were the two men from Third Squad. The battle was a surprise to both sides, but for a change, the men of Alpha Company were victorious and satisfied–at least for the moment.
~~~~~
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
By mid-February, major changes within First Squad had taken place. Most prominently, Frenchie, Wild Bill, and Scout finished their tours and went home in one piece.
Their last night in the bush together turned out to be a pleasant experience. Wild Bill managed to get his hands on some LRRP meals - lightweight, dehydrated meals primarily used by the long-range recon patrols. The dry and powdery food mixture came in vacuum-packed aluminum foil pouches. After tearing off the perforated top, simply adding hot water and stirring the mixture created a unique and tasty meal. He had enough packs for the whole First Squad, thus providing them with an entirely new eating experience in the bush. Every meal included beef with rice, noodles, or cubed potatoes, in a rich, creamy sauce. John and the others especially enjoyed the spaghetti and meatball dinner. The ration packs also included a chocolate bar with a slight cookie-like texture. It, too, was a special treat and very much appreciated. The men saved cans of pound cake and fruit cocktail for the celebration dinner. It turned out to be one hell of a party considering the circumstances.
After dinner, the men proposed toasts of hot chocolate to celebrate their friendship and to a successful future. They exchanged addresses, promising to keep in touch and possibly visit one another back in the world at some future date.
In the morning, as the three of them readied themselves for their final chopper ride out of the jungle, the men all hugged and some shed tears. Although promising to keep in touch, unfortunately, this would be the last time any of them heard or saw one another again.
Doc was supposed to leave two weeks earlier than the trio did, but he extended his tour for six more months so he could get an early discharge from the Army. After what he had experienced in Vietnam so far, he did not want to serve his remaining year of military obligation at some stateside post. Although this choice placed him in a more dangerous position, Doc no longer had the temperament or patience to spit shine boots and take orders from officers fresh out of ROTC. Most had never been to Vietnam and he did not want to have to listen to them preach about how to fight a war. His goal was to continue in medicine, and he wanted to achieve that goal at his own pace as a civilian.
Wild Bill received the Bronze Star with a “V” device for Valor for his action during the ambush at the enemy base camp. His snap decision to rescue the Third Squad from that bunker had potentially saved many lives. He later said that he did it so they could all get the hell out of there. He insisted that he did not intend for his actions to be heroic; he was merely “impatient”.
Sixpack, Doc, and John were the “old timers” now, with BJ not far behind. Cherries would be looking to them for guidance and direction. In the last week alone, the platoon had received four replacements, one being a lieutenant. Sergeant Holmes spent most of his spare time with the new L-T and the other three men went to the First Squad.
Lieutenant Alphonso Rodriguez was not a Cherry, having spent five months in county with another Army unit. He transferred to the Wolfhounds from the First Cavalry; the division was pulling out of Vietnam per Nixon’s early withdrawal program to end the war. The L-T preferred to be called Rod unless in the company of other officers. He was bitter about not going home with the men in his unit, but everyone with less than seven months in country - regardless of rank - remained in Vietnam and transferred to other units.
Jim Mitchum hailed from Dallas, Texas. A big, robust fellow with sandy blond hair, he was a perfect fit for the machine gun team, and the squad promptly nicknamed him Tex.
Danny Jigelewski hailed from Atlantic City, New Jersey; the others quickly dubbed him ‘Ski’. He was a former gang member and tried to look tough in front of everyone. Ski told them – in his heavy New Jersey accent - that prior to coming to the Army, it was common for him and his gang to be involved in street fights at least once a week. Back then, he said, it was always about protecting your turf - similar to what the Americans were doing in Vietnam. He was ready to start all over again with this group, his “new gang.” John and Doc looked at one other and rolled their eyes. “Let’s see how he does under fire,” John whispered.
“Yeah, I bet he just can’t wait.”
Malcolm Dupree was a black man from Jackson, Mississippi; his wrists and neck were already adorned with several shoelace braids and crosses. The first person he approached was Doc. Although he was also black, Doc did not share in any of the extreme so-called “black power” attitudes or rituals. Others with the same skin color would have certainly labeled him an "Uncle Tom.” When Malcolm approached him for some dap, he was surprised when Doc simply offered his hand for a traditional handshake. Taken aback and unsure of his next move, he reached out and clasped Doc’s hand anyway, shaking it warmly. Back in the rear, Top had already outfitted him with an M-79 and ammo vest.
The First Squad was complete again, but now mostly comprised of Cherries. It was not the best of all worlds, but at least the extra bodies would help share in the daily tasks.
On their first four patrols, there was no contact with the enemy. The new Cherries were trying hard to learn the ropes, their confidence growing with each patrol.
After the next resupply, the L-T and Sixpack approached John with a piece of paper. He suspected something was up and sat upright in his hammock.
“Congratulations, Polack! You are now a Specialist Fourth Class (Spec 4), officially promoted this past Monday. Here are your orders confirming it.” Rod handed the official document to John and then offered his hand to shake.
“Jeez, you’re gonna be rich now. What are you going to do with all that power and money?” Sixpack cajoled.
John, surprised by this, quickly scanned the document. His highlighted name stood out from the others on the filled page. All the names listed were Wolfhounds; he would have to take a closer look at the other fifty names later.
He looked at the men, “Thanks, guys! This really is a surprise. I sure can use the extra money every month, and don’t worry, I won’t let the power go to my head and start abusing the Cherries.”
They laughed, happy for the recognition shown to their fellow Wolfhound.
For two weeks, First Platoon patrolled through the Boi Loi Woods. The area once had a reputation of being as treacherous and notorious as the Iron Triangle, but nothing had happened of late to justify its reputation. The men returned to their ritual of never-ending patrols over the same terrain, repeatedly.
Ski was John’s new slack man whenever walking point. John had this job for over four months and felt comfortable in the position; he was also good at his job. During that time, he had personally uncovered several booby traps, thus saving many from getting hurt. His new slack man had taken to the role in earnest and assured John that he would always have his back.
The two men were leading the First Squad down a well-used trail when John suddenly raised his fist in the air to stop the file. He squatted, examining fresh Ho Chi Minh sandal prints crossing the trail. Nung and Sixpack came forward to join John in the evaluation of the footprints in the mud.
Nung was the first to voice his opinion, “Only one VC cross trail no more than maybe one hour before.”
“I agree. What do you think, Polack, want to track him?”
“Yeah. It looks like the path he made through the jungle will be easy enough to follow.”
John led the way, looking for broken twigs and leaves that may have fallen to the ground when the VC had passed earlier. A few steps close behind, Ski watched for signs of movement to John’s front and to their sides. The extra set of eyes was a big help as John primarily focused on the ground. Occasionally, he came upon another fresh set of footprints on the soft ground. However, the further they traveled, the wider the spacing of the footprints became, hinting that the VC was starting to run.
John signaled for another stop and then waited for Sixpack.
“He’s running now, and probably knows we’re on his tail.”
“You can never tell, Polack. He may also be setting us up.”
“I see a clearing up ahead. Stay here and I’ll go up and have a look around.”
“Okay, but don’t get too far ahead of us. I want you back in no more than five minutes.”
“See you in a short.” John rose and moved cautiously up the trail toward the clearing. When he reached the edge of it, he noted that a dropped bomb was responsible for creating the small open area. The twenty-foot wide crater, filled to the top with water, sat directly in the center of the clearing; waist-high swaying grass encircled it and extended out for several feet to the jungle’s edge. Scanning the area, a sudden and quick movement on the other side of the pond caught his eye, surprising him. The rustling was roughly at the eleven o’clock position from where he stood. John’s heart skipped a beat and he froze in place, his eyes locked onto that specific area. Just then, a young VC soldier stood up with a canteen held to his lips. He took a long drink of water, not realizing somebody was watching him.
Cherries - A Vietnam War Novel - Revised Edition Page 31