B-52s were starting to prowl shortly after sunrise when a Sea Knight slipped in with what I assumed to be another load of prominents, among them Pappy Delong and a lean, fit-looking man wearing a green foreign field uniform and a black patch over his left eye. The two stood together talking at the crest of the hill where it fell off into the green expanse of Vietnam that lay below and toward the north and west.
“Who’s the Black Bart pirate?” I wondered as Gunny Janzen walked by carrying two tin canteen cups of coffee for Pappy and his guest.
“Moshe Dayan,” he said.
“Mushy Dianne?”
“Moshe Dayan. Don’t they teach you nothing in school?”
I was only fucking with the Gunny. Everybody knew the famous Israeli general, former Chief of Staff of the Israeli Defense Forces, hero of such campaigns as the Palestinian Arab Revolt, the 1948 Arab-Israeli War, the Suez Crisis. He lost his eye in 1941 when, during the early stages of World War II before the United States entered it, he was assigned to a small reconnaissance task force attached to the Australian 7th Division in preparation for the invasion of Syria and Lebanon. Wearing traditional Arab dress, the unit frequently infiltrated Vichy French Lebanon on covert surveillance missions.
On 7 June 1941, the night before the invasion of Syria, Dayan’s outfit captured a Vichy police station. He was on the roof of the building using binoculars to scan Vichy positions on the other side of the Litani River when a sniper bullet struck his binoculars, driving metal and glass fragments into his left eye, blinding it. The black eye patch became his trademark.
“He’s here to study the triad of ground, air, and naval warfare so he can use it in Israel’s fight against the Arab Muslims,” Gunny explained.
I thought about it. “Gunny, how many wars you reckon are going on in the world right at this moment?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe a dozen or so. The only one you got to worry about is this one.”
“Gunny, you ever think about why God made us like this—always killing each other?”
“That’s out of your pay grade, Maras. Your job is to shoot that machine gun when you’re told to shoot it. Now cut the bullshit.”
Gunny walked on, leaving me pondering on how everything seemed to be above my pay grade.
Speculatively, I watched from my distance while General Dayan and Colonel Delong sipped from their cups of bitter field coffee. Pappy gestured and pointed, explaining something. Both fell silent when an Arc Light opened a white gash on the western horizon. Moshe Dayan, I thought, would have made one hell of a US Marine.
Pappy intercepted Lieutenant Charles Chritton, who was preparing to lead a platoon-sized Foxtrot patrol into the bush. The battalion commander and the Israeli officer spoke with the lieutenant a few minutes, apparently concerning patrol procedures, before the platoon silently filed off the hill and the Marines one by one melted into morning fog that clung to the terrain’s lower recesses.
Better Foxtrot than Golf again. Yesterday, Lieutenant Mac’s 3rd Platoon with Tony and me once more attached to PFC Taylor’s squad had suffered a long, uneventful walk in the sweltering sunshine. My legs were still sore, and Tony limped back into the perimeter on his bad leg.
An hour or so after the Foxtrot patrol departed the wire, a chopper delivered resupply and picked up Pappy, General Dayan, their aides, and a Marine escort to deliver back to Khe Sanh. I expected maybe some mail from Mom and Linda. Tony hunched down into his thick shoulders and scowled. I knew what he was thinking.
“Piss on her.”
No mail came. Maybe tomorrow.
About noon as Foxtrot patrolled the lowlands, the stench of rotting flesh attracted Sergeant Chritton to a grassy clearing in a creek valley between the Evil Twin Sisters. Blood-soaked bandages, bloody web gear, scraps of clothing, bashed helmets, and other discarded or damaged items littered the clearing. The site appeared to be an abandoned NVA field hospital. Clashes with Marines and B-52 Arc Lights, along with arty barrages and air power, were obviously doing a bunch of damage to the NVA. How much longer could they possibly hang on?
Lieutenant Chritton radioed his find to Foxtrot’s commander, who ordered him to proceed toward the day’s final checkpoint. More bloody discards marked a track through the jungle leading toward Laos. The patrol followed it cautiously, climbing steadily out of the valley up one of the region’s many ridges.
Every man felt an unseen malevolent presence. Hills seemed to have eyes. The disciplined Marines kept down noise as they walked, careful to avoid equipment rattles, their weapons ready, fingers next to triggers, expecting contact. The enemy would pick the time and place.
The patrol pushed another five klicks to the day’s checkpoint without encountering opposition before it circled wide to return to 881N. A relieved platoon of Foxtrot Marines topped the hill ahead of the dark and passed through into the perimeter and the welcoming hearth of our mountain home.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Ridge Finger
Captain Merle Sorensen, a thirty-one-year-old Kansan and the commander of Foxtrot Company, was a man of few words—but when he spoke, people listened. He looked beat down from the day-after-day pace when Foxtrot went up on the patrol board for the third day in a row.
Foxtrot was not his first command. Two years ago, he had led Marine Alpha 1/6 ashore in the Dominican Republic to help put down a communist-inspired rebellion. Then, as now, he led from the front, a habit his Marines deeply respected. He refused to stay behind. From his viewpoint, a CO belonged with his troops.
After laying out the route and checkpoints, Sorensen, a small CP group, and two platoons of about seventy Marines departed the 2/3 Battalion wire at daybreak underneath a clear sky already heating up, and set out in tactical combat formation for the day’s objective, the abandoned Nung village of Lang Xoa. Laid out on the map, the distance was less than three miles as the green parrot flies, but factoring in the terrain probably made it twice that far.
Order of march put Lieutenant Pat Carroll’s Third Platoon on point, trailed by Lieutenant Jack Schworm’s First Platoon, with Sorensen and his CP pulling drag. Due to the lay of the land, Foxtrot had to move slower than expected. Battalion Ops kept radioing Captain Sorensen to pick up the pace.
While Foxtrot cut across toward Lang Xoa, Lieutenant John Adinolfi led two Echo Company platoons on the day’s second patrol, which roughly paralleled Foxtrot’s to the southwest. Echo’s checkpoint objective for the day was one of the lower hills, Hill 803 that lay south of the Nung village.
Shortly after noon, Foxtrot came upon a trail that led off the steep southwestern slope of Hill 778 in the direction of Lang Xoa. Prodded by Battalion Ops, Sorensen chose to save time by following the track, even though it was against his better judgment. He cautioned Lieutenant Carroll to keep point alert for enemy activity. The purpose of his patrol was to determine the numbers of NVA that remained present and viable in the AO and what their intent might be. That didn’t mean you had to get among them and count heads.
Descending 778, Lieutenant Carroll’s platoon entered a wide, flat ravine where his point squad led by a lance corporal shot up an “enemy near” sign that halted progress. The patrol went to its knee, weapons bristling and ready, while Carroll made his way to the front. The lance corporal indicated a fresh sneaker footprint imbedded in the soft soil of the ravine. He also pointed out a fresh pile of bodily wastes.
A short distance ahead, a second, smaller ravine intersected the first at a right angle. To one side rose a ridge finger that ran down from a larger ridge off 778. Carroll’s survival instinct kicked in like a pounding hammer in his chest—a sudden premonition of impending disaster. He realized his platoon may have walked into an ambush kill zone. The high ground of the ridge ahead provided the enemy a perfect opportunity to catch the entire patrol in the open. If his feeling was right, the NVA were only waiting to trigger until the entire patrol
ventured into the ravine.
Too late to turn back.
“Up there!” he suddenly shouted, acting on his instinct and pointing to the ridge finger, his training automatically seeking high ground. If he were wrong, he could live with his decision. But if he were right. . . .
“Get up the finger!” the lieutenant bellowed. “Don’t let them get on the other ridge above us!”
Marines, recognizing the urgency in the platoon leader’s voice, raced headlong across the wide ravine to scramble out and up. As they neared the finger’s backbone, NVA soldiers hiding behind rocks and trees opened fire in a blistering barrage that filled the air with shrieking steel. Glancing back, Carroll spotted a large group of NVA charging out of the intersecting ravine to the right in an obvious maneuver to cut off and divide the Marine platoon.
He fired his .45 pistol as fast as he could squeeze the trigger. At least one of the gooks bit the dust; the others disappeared around a bend out of sight, still heading for Captain Sorensen and First Platoon bringing up drag.
The patrol’s best chance lay in taking over the ridge finger and then the higher ridge beyond. Driven by desperation, Carroll urged his men forward.
“Go! Go!”
He grabbed his radio operator. “Contact Echo Six [Sorensen]. Tell him he’s got gooks heading his way.”
Sorensen would have to handle that part of the fight himself.
Marines fought valiantly, shouting back at the NVA and blazing away with everything they had in a mad race up the steep slope infested by enemy soldiers hurling grenades and firing their AKs. Wounded and dying men dropped on both sides. Corpsmen dashed through the confusion tending casualties and wrestling them to cover.
One corpsman came upon a Marine sprawled behind a rock and cursing with feeling as he worked frantically to clear his malfunctioning weapon. He was one of every four in the battalion that had actually been issued a cleaning rod. He rolled over on his back, cradling his M-16 against his chest while he hammered the rod down the muzzle.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . . .!” he chanted.
The corpsman dropped next to him. “Here,” he said, handing his pistol to the Marine. “Take it. I got too many wounded Marines to worry about.”
The fight raged so intensely that Lieutenant Carroll failed to realize his .45 was empty. A gook armed with a bayonetted rifle lunged from a copse of trees. Carroll’s pistol clicked.
From the corner of his eye he spotted a discarded M-16. He hit the ground and rolled, snatching up the rifle. It better work, it better work . . . chorused through his mind. The gook was almost upon him, his weapon poised to ram its bayonet into the Marine’s chest.
The M-16 worked. The enemy soldier fell not six feet away.
In the meantime, off to the lieutenant’s left flank, howling Vietnamese overran a Marine fire team, swarming over the Americans like a pack of wolves, shooting wounded and able alike point-blank.
Up and down the ridge Marines were running out of ammo and desperately yelling for more. Lieutenant Carroll had got separated from his radioman. He came upon him now where a bullet had dumped him frightened and lapsing in and out of consciousness on the ground, his utilities blood-soaked. The radio he carried on his back still functioned. The lieutenant slung his commandeered rifle and the RTO’s commo on his back and dragged the wounded man through a hailstorm of enemy fire toward the safety of a nearby tree.
A bullet slapped Carroll’s thigh, knocking his leg out from underneath him and collapsing him on top of his RTO. Another slug plucked off his left thumb.
Things got worse, much worse. The two Marines were left fully exposed. The RTO lay unmoving, either dead or passed out from shock. Carroll refused to leave him. Though seriously wounded himself, he continued to try to drag his RTO to the tree.
He screamed out in pain as yet a third enemy round found its mark. This one shattered his lower leg and left his boot flopping with his foot still in it, all but detached from his leg. Now bleeding badly and unable to help himself, much less his radioman, he dragged his bullet-riddled body along by his elbows, struggling to gain the advantage of height while fusillades of enemy fire scorched the air around him.
He broke free of the kill zone by rolling into a shallow depression already occupied by several other walking wounded. Outside the sinkhole, Marines fought hand-to-hand with NVA infantry. Lieutenant Carroll and the others too badly injured to participate huddled together and prepared to fight to the end.
As the insane carnage continued, Captain Sorensen farther back fought through the enemy detached to stop him and drove the rest of the patrol straight up the side of the finger to join in the battle. A 30-caliber slug slammed into his right hip, dropping him to the ground where he found himself semi-paralyzed and unable to move. His RTO dragged him to safety in a clump of trees.
Foxtrot’s attempt to secure the ridge finger and its adjoining high ground bogged down against stiff NVA resistance. All along the up side of the finger, individual groups of Marines sought cover and continued private and isolated little static wars of their own against enemy strongholds. It quickly became clear to the Marines that they were outnumbered. The tables had turned. Marines went on the defense as NVA swarmed and surged like big green shit flies over a carcass, stabbing and shooting wounded Americans.
Not far away, Echo’s two-platoon patrol was approaching Hill 803, its checkpoint objective, when heavy shooting broke out on Foxtrot’s route. To the Marines of Echo Company, it sounded like Foxtrot may have stumbled upon the entire NVA 325th Regiment.
Lieutenant Adinolfi picked up the distressed patrol’s radio transmissions to Battalion: “Pygmalion Six, this is Foxtrot Six. . . . We’ve got seven kangaroos and ten wolves. . . .”
Seven dead, ten wounded. So far.
Adinolfi’s platoons scurried up Hill 803, which looked down across a wooded draw to 788 and the ridgeline where the embattled Marines of Foxtrot fought for their lives. Adinolfi and Platoon Leader Lieutenant James Cannon gazed down in horror upon a scene of smoke and dueling tracers, heard screams of pain and fierce rage, glimpsed men of opposing sides fighting at each other’s throats.
Cannon pointed out a giant tree on the ridge finger that appeared to mark the boundary between NVA forces and Captain Sorensen’s Marines. Everything to the left of the tree was either NVA or dead Marines, while live Marines and dead gooks populated the right side of the tree. The distance across the draw was nearly a thousand meters, out of effective range for M-16s. Certainly grenades were out of the question. It would be suicide for Echo to try to cross the draw to relieve Foxtrot and make itself vulnerable in the low ground.
Lieutenant Adinolfi and Echo’s Weapons Platoon sergeant hurriedly set up a pair of M-60 machine guns and opened up on terrain to the left of the big tree, raking NVA positions from the tree to the ridge crown with heavy 7.62 bullets, cutting a swath through the surprised NVA that promptly drove them back. After a few minutes of being hammered, the Vietnamese withdrew like ghosts into the jungle on the far side of the ridge.
Silence fell, eerie in contrast to the bedlam that preceded, punctuated only by the wailing and screaming of the wounded.
Battle over, Echo traversed to the ridge finger to help able-bodied Marines in the grisly task of policing up the dead and wounded. Some of the men who had been shot in the head execution-style at close range were unrecognizable.
While this was transpiring, a Marine detail sent to find a clearing in the trees that could be used as a medevac LZ discovered an enemy field cemetery that contained 203 fresh graves, mute testimony to the impact Marines and US artillery and airpower were exerting on the battle environment.
By 1700, helicopters had evacuated Foxtrot’s dead and wounded to the Combat Base at Khe Sanh. Other birds lifted out the survivors to 881N, where those of us manning the perimeter watched the Sea Knights approach. We had listened since about noon with growing anxi
ety as sounds of the distant battle rambled and bounced among the surrounding hills.
A handful of dazed and bloody Foxtrot Marines exited the pair of choppers when they set down. Their utilities were ripped and tattered, red dirt ground into them, helmets and gear missing, eyes dull and sunken into their heads. They were quiet and withdrawn, as though not yet convinced they had actually made it back.
“Where’s the rest of the patrol?” someone asked.
“This is it,” came the terse response.
Twenty-four of their number died out there that day, and nineteen others were wounded, including Foxtrot’s CO, Captain Sorensen, and one of his platoon leaders, Lieutenant Carroll, both of whom were in serious condition.
Tony and I watched stunned as the returning warriors milled about, not celebrating their salvation, simply staring at the ground, at the sky, at each other. Very quiet, withdrawn, like empty husks. We watched the helicopters take off again and whirlybird toward Khe Sanh. Watched them diminish in the sky until they disappeared. Said nothing to each other while we leaned on our elbows on the lip of our hole and watched the sun slowly sink into Laos.
Chapter Forty
Body Count
Viet fighters seemed to lose momentum after their big brawl with Foxtrot near Lang Xoa. B-52s expanded their bombing patterns up toward—and perhaps over—the Laotian border and north along the DMZ. They flew high above, specks against the tropical sky, dropping their loads farther away. The sound was like distant thunder rather than the approaching crash of an electrical storm.
Conditions on 881N—and probably 881S as well—got downright luxurious once resupply choppers were no longer subject to mortar attacks every time they skipped in for a visit. We ate better, although the menu consisted of the same old tin-can C-rats (only more of them); drank fresh water (but out of the same old canteens); and began to receive mail and care packages (without the doggie treats included). The stench of death faded gradually. If Tony whiffed something on an errant wind, he accused me of passing gas. I did the same to him. We took our morning piss together—“Good morning, Vietnam!”—without having to duck sniper shots or mortar shells. We dared to think the Hill Fights might be over and that we had won, although OP/LPs still had to be manned, perimeter watches maintained, weapons and gear cleaned, daily patrols run.
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