Into No Man's Land

by Ellen Emerson White

  A medevac was called in right away. The chopper came sooner than I would have expected, since I figured all of the dust-offs must have been flying missions nonstop for the past few hours. The helicopter hovered over the landing zone and just as it touched down, the NVA fired a quick volley of mortars right in on top of it. A corpsman and one of the guys guiding the helicopter in were killed instantly, and we had eight or ten more guys badly wounded. The chopper took a bunch of hits, too, and it crash-landed just outside the perimeter. The copilot died in the crash, but the rest of the crew was able to scramble up the hill and inside our lines. It was just really — screwed up.

  When two more choppers came out to evacuate the casualties, our howitzers and mortars were firing out into the mountains to try and knock out the NVA guns. The skipper called in an artillery barrage from the main base, too. Plus, everyone who hadn’t volunteered to carry stretchers was on the line, firing their weapons out at the hills. I’m not sure if it did any good, but we had to try.

  Nobody wanted to go back out onto that LZ, but we didn’t have much choice — we had to get our people onto the medevac. Most of them were too badly injured to walk. Pugsley and I carried one of the stretchers and shoved the poor guy up into the first helicopter as fast as we could. Then we ran for the trenches, just in case. The chopper was able to take off before any more rockets came in, and the second one came in and out almost as quickly. The whole operation only took a few minutes, and the next round of rockets landed about thirty seconds too late to catch any of us on the landing zone.

  Lying down in the trench, trying to make myself as small as possible, all I could think was that there was no way that these trenches could possibly be deep enough to really protect us. I just wanted to start living underground from now on.

  So, in the space of less than an hour, we had lost another fifteen or twenty people.

  Like I said before, suddenly we had a war going.

  God help us.

  January 24, 1968

  An NVA soldier walked up to the perimeter today and surrendered. He was lucky that no one shot him, because it was really a shock to have him just show up like that. Especially since we’ve been taking so many casualties and spending so much time on alert that none of us are getting any sleep. It’s hard to think clearly when you’re so freakin’ tired.

  Once the guy was inside our lines, the executive officer from the command post went over to interrogate him. A couple of jets happened to fly by, on a bombing mission, and the NVA guy fell apart. No one ever touched him, but Tiger, one of the RTOs, told me that the guy started crying and everything. Apparently, he was a complete wreck. Looks like all of those bombing missions are having an effect, after all.

  Then, when some artillery happened to be fired nearby, he was on the ground, shaking like crazy and babbling to himself. Tiger says it was just pathetic. After that, I guess there wasn’t much point in trying to interrogate him. So a chopper came in to take him to the rear, where the intelligence team will probably have a crack at him. A bunch of antiaircraft fire hit the chopper on the way out, but even though we could see smoke coming from the engine, it kept flying, so I think they made it. Hope so, anyway.

  Part of me was glad to hear that the NVA soldier was so screwed up, since they’ve been hitting us so hard lately — but, another part of me felt sorry for the guy.

  I hate to admit it, but mostly, I was glad.

  January 29, 1968

  Man, my coach would flip if he saw me smoking cigarettes. But I’m doing it. A lot. So is Bebop. We might be new to smoking — but we’re fast learners. I don’t even care if it’s bad for me. Being in a war is bad for me.

  Someone on the hill gets hit just about every day. Sometimes, it’s not too serious. Sometimes, the guy gets killed. Sometimes, more than one of us gets hit. There’s a sniper out somewhere on 881N who might just be the best shot in the world. If you’re dumb enough to be walking around in the daylight, and he feels like zapping you — you’re gone. Everybody calls him “Luke the Gook.” I never used to use that word, but I do now. Just feel like it, I guess. The skipper can call in artillery, order an air strike, have napalm carpet the whole area — and Luke the Gook will pop up five minutes later and start picking us off again. We all hate him.

  Most of the time, the mortar and rocket attacks come in during the day — although you can’t count on it. We get hit at night, too. Usually, it’s a fast volley of five or six rounds, but other times, one will land, and then they’ll walk a whole series of rounds right across the hill. You can’t outrun them, so you just have to hope that you get lucky and they miss you.

  It’s all about luck. Or no luck. Nobody’s happy about it, but nobody’s crying, either. It is what it is, that’s all.

  Our bunkers are no good. Not if you want to live through this. Not that even ten or twelve layers of sandbags would do much good if a rocket makes a direct hit on your position. If that happens, just say your prayers — and say good-bye.

  Naturally, they still won’t send us up any decent building materials. They don’t even send us enough food, or water. And forget about mail; they sure have. It’s not safe to go out to the latrines, so we’re using empty artillery round cannisters inside our bunkers. Once they’re full, you seal them up, and throw them into a special garbage dump set aside for that. Which worked fine, until a mortar round hit directly on top of those cannisters the other day.

  Vietnam sucks.

  January 31, 1968

  The whole country’s gone crazy. There was supposed to be a truce for the Tet holiday, and what we’re hearing is that they attacked cities and rear areas all over the country last night. Nothing was different here — just the same artillery, mortars, rockets, and sniper rounds. Guys getting hurt, guys dying. You can’t help wondering if this war is just spinning out of control.

  For us, it’s turning into World War I. We live in our trenches, and more and more, we’re moving underground. We’ve had to create a whole new routine. At night, and early in the morning, if it’s foggy enough, we can walk around and do whatever we need to do. Fill sandbags, improve our positions, go collect more ammo, check and repair our perimeter defenses and string new comm wire for the radios. But if the sun comes out, or there’s any kind of visibility, we don’t leave the trenches unless it’s absolutely necessary.

  Since we’ve all seen too many bunkers taking direct hits by now, it was time to come up with another form of shelter. So what we’re doing is digging “bunny holes.” First, we were just digging little shallow holes in the sides of the trenches where we could take cover during rocket and mortar attacks. It’s an old infantry strategy, and they’re called “roll-outs,” because you can just roll right into them in about half a second.

  But then someone got the bright idea to make our roll-outs bigger. You have to dig carefully, so that tons of dirt don’t collapse down on top of you. But if you do it right, you can make nice, safe holes where you can actually get a little sleep during the day. And as time passes, we’re making them large enough so that we can pretty much live in them. I guess they look like human-sized burrows or gopher holes, but we call them bunny holes.

  So far, the holes are working out okay. That far underground you can take a direct hit, and still have a good chance of surviving. They’re really dark, but we use flashlights or candles, if we can scrounge them from other guys. If not, you can actually make a crummy little candle out of C ration peanut butter. You roll up a little piece of cloth for a wick, stick it in the peanut butter, and light up. Because of the oil, it’ll actually burn for a while, and give off enough light so that you can write letters and play cards and stuff.

  We still send out LPs every night, but we aren’t doing any patrolling. For one thing, there are so many air strikes every day that if we left the hill, we’d probably get killed by our own bombs. For another, it’s absolutely vital that we keep this position s
ecure. If the NVA could run us off here, they would have a perfect view of the main base and could blow it all to pieces whenever they wanted. As long as we’re up here, we can make it a little harder for them. Our job is to be “the eyes and ears of Khe Sanh.” When we hear the little pops of rockets and mortars being fired, we have fifteen or twenty seconds to warn the main base that they’re on their way. There’s always a guy posted with a radio to call it down to them, so they can turn on the alert sirens right away. Maybe it saves some lives. Can’t hurt, anyway.

  When the weather’s clear enough, there are air strikes and bombing missions all day long. Someone told me it’s called Operation Niagra, because the bombs just keep falling in a stream that never stops.

  The B-52 strikes are just awesome. Their bombing missions are called Arc Lights. The B-52s are huge jets which fly so high that you usually can’t see them or hear them. But then, out of nowhere, the ground starts shaking underneath you and some huge portion of the jungle — maybe a quarter of a mile or more — just blows up. Those bombs land miles away, and the force is still strong enough to bounce us right up off the ground here on the hill. The first time I saw one, the explosions were so massive and bright that I honestly thought President Johnson had lost his mind and decided to use nuclear weapons. The flash from the bombs was really blinding, and I was sure that we were all going to die from the radiation. I felt stupid when the Professor told me they were only bombs. Just really big bombs.

  I can’t imagine what it would be like to be out there when one of those B-52 strikes hits the ground. Everything nearby disintegrates, and you don’t have any warning at all that it’s even coming. Your world just suddenly disappears. I’m glad I’m not NVA; it must be completely terrifying to be on the receiving end of all those air strikes. The truth is, anyone who can fight through that without falling apart is someone whose hand I want to shake. A guy like that is damned tough.

  The main base gets hit with mortars and rockets, on and off, all day, every day. By now, I assume they must just stay underground, too. And if they don’t — they’re morons. But as far as we can tell from here, they have trenches and everything now. Forget Khe Sanh; the whole place should just be called Sandbag City.

  I wish the NVA would just attack us, and be done with it. What are they waiting for? Or, better yet, I wish we’d get sent out there to find them. You want guys to sit around like lumps all day and be target practice for the enemy, why not bring the Army up here? You shouldn’t waste Marines in defensive positions. We’re a fighting force, not a sit-around-and-get-picked-off-one-by-one force. Seems like a real waste of resources, to me.

  Not that anyone asked.

  I haven’t been writing any letters lately, because I can’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound bad. Besides, we’re not getting too many chances to send mail out. Three choppers have already been shot down around the hill, so I don’t guess those pilots like coming out here much. Especially not when it’s just to pick up mail. I should write some, anyway.

  Of course, I could also try to get some sleep.

  Yeah. Sleep sounds good.

  February 5, 1968

  Hill 861A almost got overrun last night. I thought we might be attacked, too, because we took a lot more mortar rounds than usual, and even some rockets. But we fired missions of our own, and on the lines, we threw grenades at every single sound we heard out past the perimeter. Before the night was over, we all had another long session of lining up to help the mortar guys “cool down” their guns. Right before I left, my father said, “do what you have to do.” He was definitely right about that one. Live in dirt holes, go without food and water, wear the same clothes for weeks, fire your weapon at complete strangers and try to kill them. So, that’s what I do. At this point, I just want to survive long enough to make it back home.

  The only reason I haven’t lost it is the other guys. If one of us gets down, the rest of us pick him up. We try to, anyway. And when you’re crammed into such close quarters, you’d better get along. But that makes it worse when you lose a guy. I didn’t know him that well, but Twerp got hit yesterday and I feel lousy about it. He was a nice kid, really into cars, always carried these ragged old issues of Popular Mechanics around. He was going down the line to see some of his buddies in the second squad and got taken out by a 120mm mortar round. We got him onto a medevac, but he had a really bad head wound, so I doubt that he made it.

  Which stinks.

  It stinks more that the two helicopter support guys who were guiding the chopper in got caught by a mortar the NVA fired onto the LZ. It was five hours before another medevac came in to get them, and one of them was in such bad shape that he spent most of that time screaming.

  In the last few days, we got about eight new replacements, and half of them have already been medevaced out. One of them didn’t even make it off the chopper. Because he was a new guy, he didn’t know that you have to keep your flak jacket zipped and fastened all the way up, so he got the full force of the blast right in the chest. It was really terrible. We just had to wrap him in a poncho, and leave him near the LZ. Medevacs will only come in for emergency cases now, and sometimes priority cases. KIAs are considered routine.

  The new lieutenant who came in with the replacements took it really hard. I guess he had different ideas about what being in a war zone was like. No wonder salts always just give new guys that grim grin and say, “Welcome to the war, boot!”

  Bebop and I were lying in our bunny hole this morning and splitting a can of fruit cocktail. We’re so short on food and water right now that everything is being strictly rationed, so we always share. We get about half a canteen to drink every day — if we’re lucky enough to get that much. Anyway, we were just lying around in there, waiting for the latest mortar attack to end. I had my arm over my eyes, because every time a round hit too close, dirt would come showering down into my face. We had our boots off, because the skipper wants us to air our feet out whenever we can, to protect against getting trench foot. I don’t even want to describe how my feet look after wearing the same boots — and socks — for weeks on end. And my head itches all the time, so I’m afraid I might have lice or something.

  “You know, Mighty Mouse,” Bebop said, sounding very serious, “Vietnam just really isn’t good for your health.”

  I know it’s not funny — but I laughed my head off. Just something about the way he said it, I guess.

  Being in Vietnam? Unhealthy? Go figure.

  February 8, 1968

  We lost Lang Vei last night. From up here, we could see — and hear — most of it. I think the main base was supposed to send reinforcements out to them, but we never heard any choppers or anything heading that way. And the jungle’s too thick between them and the base for any infantry to be able to walk it in enough time to help out.

  The same’s true for us on the hill. If we ever get attacked, we’re on our own. No one talks about it — but we all know that we’ve been written off before it even happens.

  I don’t know how many of those Special Forces guys and CIDG troops (mostly Montagnards) survived — but the scuttlebutt around here is that more than half of them were killed. The civilians around there must have been caught up in it, too. Can you imagine someone fighting a war right in the middle of your hometown? Maybe we are doing the right thing, by being here and trying to help get the NVA out of here.

  Or maybe we’re just making it worse. If we weren’t here, the NVA might just leave all of those poor people alone. I don’t know — I don’t really understand any of it. Before I got here, I just assumed that the generals and the government knew what they were doing. But now that I’m right in the middle of it? None of this makes any sense. We lose at least one guy almost every single day on this hill — and, for what?

  If I thought we were actually accomplishing something, okay. But — I don’t see it. The Professor says we’re just cannon fo
dder while the White House hopes that Hanoi gets tired of all this and goes away. Hanoi is waiting for the same thing. In the meantime, lots of big defense contractors make a bunch of money building weapons that don’t work right, military officers get to award themselves a bunch of medals and get promoted a lot, and back at home, most people are just sitting around watching Bonanza and complaining that their taxes are too high.

  Wish I didn’t agree with him.

  But I do.

  February 9, 1968

  A lot of guys were feeling really down today, because two of our gunny sergeants got killed today. One mortar took out both of them. They did everything right — heard the pop, ducked, and ran for the nearest hole, but a round landed right on top of them. Nothing you can do to prevent it. Bad luck, Vietnam-style. Those two men had more time combined in the Marines than most of the rest of us put together, so I guess that makes us all feel extra shook-up about it. And the cloud cover is so heavy that no one’s even going to fly up here to take them away today. Maybe tomorrow, they said. Or the next day. If nothing more important comes up in the meantime.

  Shows the respect you get for devoting your whole adult life to serving your country.

  All I want to do is go home — and I’ve got eleven months to go.

  February 11, 1968

  Bad day. Even worse than usual.

  Mooch took a sniper’s bullet in the stomach yesterday. He had his flak jacket on, but they only protect us from shrapnel. It was a really serious wound, but the new corpsman said he’d be okay if we could get him evacuated right away.