There wasn’t time to wash the grease paint from their faces; they looked like New Guinea cannibals as they walked quickly down the passageways looking for the chow hall.
After several attempts, the team found the mess decks. They took their place in the line, comprised mostly of sailors, and waited their turn to be served. The pungent smelling Recons failed to notice the seamen recoil at their presence. It had been ten days since any of them did anything about personal hygiene–and it showed. Ten minutes elapsed before the team climbed down the last few steps of the steep stairs and saw the mess decks–the Navy’s chow hall.
The grand aromas of properly prepared food assaulted their senses. It was over powering. After months of C-rations and cold chow, it was an emotional experience. Tears ran down Schmidt’ s face as he gazed around the serving area. No one spoke as they approached the head of the serving line. Exhaustion had taken its toll.
Though he was tired, Waldo showed his famous toothy smile as he gazed at the feast before him.
Eyes was the first of the team to snatch one of the stainless steel trays and start through the cafeteria style serving line. Roast beef, mashed potatoes with gravy, green beans, and fruit cocktail made up the menu. It was almost more than they could endure.
The polished tray slid noisily down the path in front of him, next to the heated containers of food; he was separated from the food servers by a continuous sheet of Plexiglas that went almost to the ceiling. At its base was an opening large enough for food to be dished on to the waiting trays. Eyes got his portion of beef and slid the tray along the stainless steel path. The next server, a skinny, small, bespeckled Navy seaman apprentice dressed all in white, was equipped with a large spoon, which he used to scoop mashed potatoes onto trays as they moved in front of him. The seaman gave Eyes the allotted single scoop and motioned him along. Eyes decided he wanted another scoop and gestured for the server to put more on the tray. The server shook his head “no” and Eyes grunted a sound that was supposed to suffice for “more,” although it had no real intelligible sound to it. The seaman shook his head again and motioned for Eyes to move along.
Something snapped inside Luke; he exploded through the Plexiglas, sending shattered pieces of the transparent material across the large room as he leaped over the serving line in a single blurred motion. Before anyone could stop him, Eyes was on top of the terrified food server. Eyes’s team was fast to follow. It took the strength of all five of them, and the firm coaxing of Sikes, to remove Eyes from the sailor.
Eyes’s nostrils flared and his neck engorged with blood, causing his veins to stick out horribly, as he jerked madly trying to get at the sailor. His comrades held him firm. With great effort they managed to drag him away from the sobbing, defenseless sailor, who now lay in a pool of blood and mashed potatoes.
The damage Eyes had done was extensive: four of the sailor’s teeth lay on the deck, a crushed left cheek, a compound broken right arm and several cracked ribs served as proof of Eyes’s rage. The sailor would live, but he would never forget the crazy Marine that almost ended his life over mashed potatoes. All of this happened so quickly, and so silently that most people in the mess decks had no clue something had happened. Schmidt and Waldo took Eyes back to his berth, soothing him as they went.
After he calmed down, Eyes and the others ate C-rations, took a hot shower and went to bed. When he woke, Eyes found he had been put “on report” for what had happened.
“Hey, Eyes,” said Waldo as the team finished cleaning up their berthing area the next morning. “I wonder if they will have mashed potatoes for chow again tonight?” Waldo’s face showed no expression. Everyone watched for Eyes’s reaction.
“I kind of hope so. I like them.”
“Yeah, we noticed last night,” continued Waldo. Sikes sat on his upper bunk and listened, but remained silent, knowing nothing he could say would change the situation.
“What the fuck. Over,” said Eyes with a shrug and a bit of a smirk. “What are they going to do? Send me to Vietnam?” Eyes chuckled. His teammates did too.
When he went to chow from then on, he accepted what he was given. The court-martial, two days later, took away his promotion to sergeant that had already been earned but not awarded–he was supposed to get his stripes in less than a week. Now he wouldn’t see them; in effect he had been busted to corporal. He also was put on probation. Breaking probation–any more fighting–and he would spend time in the stockade. Eyes accepted the punishment without a word.
To ensure the Recons didn’t get “soft” from sleeping on mattresses and eating “gourmet” food, Lt. Macky had them exercise constantly during the days spent on the carrier. With the early summer temperatures soaring to the ninety’s, the flight deck temperature exceeded 120 degrees. The humidity hit the low 90% range as the men spent hours running around the empty, immense flight deck; anytime flight ops weren’t in progress, one or more Recon platoons could be found traversing the great open expanse. When not exercising on the flight deck, they could be found in the hanger bay with their rifles, exercising. Instead of counting by the numbers, the word “kill” echoed throughout the hanger bay. It sounded terrifying to the sailors as the Recons kept their bodies in shape.
In the lull of training, Lt. Macky had Waldo and Schmidt take their week of R&R. While they were gone Eyes and the others stood their regular guard duty and spent the rest of their time trying to stay in shape.
Johan and Waldo had been back three weeks when word came down that a major operation, Fortress Attack, would commence the next morning. The Mad Dogs’ joy quickly faded when they found out they would not to be part of it directly–at least not immediately. Late in the afternoon the Mad Dogs followed orders and left on their mission–the day before the major operation. They headed for a drop in North Vietnam way north of the AO (area of operation) chosen for the major push, a search and destroy operation that would involve the entire battalion. Their assignment was to see if the battalion’s target was getting supplies and support from the north, and to assist in vectoring aircraft to cut the supply lines once found.
Operation Fortress Attack commenced the next morning. The entire 2nd Battalion 4th Marines was committed–that was the battalion housed on the Iwo Jima. Success of the operation hinged on the correctness of a South Vietnamese intelligence report. S2 had reports from Vietnamese operatives less than twenty-four hours old that a North Vietnamese Regular Army unit–probably a couple of reinforced companies working together–was operating just north of the small town of Cua Viet, south of the Cua Viet River separating north and south Vietnam, in Quang Tri Province.
The Marine battalion’s assignment was to perform a routine “search and destroy” sweep through the area, which included the village, in preparation for a second “push” which would rid the entire sector of all VC and NVA, including the unit in question. In theory an easy operation.
No sooner had the battalion begun their sweep than they realized they were up against a larger force than they were prepared for. The enemy was in concrete bunkers, and as information came in from the field, it was estimated to be a much larger force yet. Maybe even an armored division in size–all crack, seasoned North Vietnamese Army troops. It was a set-up.
The Marine battalion was caught in a carefully designed trap with no escape. It was out gunned and out manned. Before anything could be done, the battalion was cut off. Every chopper attempting to assist was shot down by P-122 Soviet rockets, guided missile fire or received so much ground fire they had to abort their attempts. Heavy firefights were everywhere. All units were engaged. Some ground units ran out of ammo early and were cut to pieces within hours. Knowing how critical it was to get ammo to the stranded troops, several heroic pilots were shot down within yards of their objectives, leaving blazing infernos in their wake.
Back on board the carrier, deep within the Marine Command Center, the high-ranking Marine officers in charge of the Special Landing Force tried to sort out what was happening. Within h
ours the casualties numbered in the hundreds, with the majority being KIA. Before help could be mobilized, 2nd Battalion ceased being a fighting force and became isolated pockets of determined Marines fighting for their lives. The casualty count mounted hourly.
Meanwhile, the Army’s 1st Americal Division was mobilized, lending two reinforced battalions to the fight. The first wave of the reinforcements couldn’t get to the fighting until late afternoon of the first day of fighting; it would take several more days to mobilize the main force. A much smaller force, the 3rd ROK (Republic of Korea) Marines was immediately thrown into the fighting–they were the most feared by the NVA–and with good reason: they knew exactly how to terrify the oriental mind and seemed to enjoy doing it. The effect of the ROK Marines was impressive, but still the losses mounted.
The tide was yet to turn as the sun began to set at the end of the first day. No one knew how bad it was. Reports of causalities kept pouring in. By late afternoon, all Marine support staff on board the carrier, and the other support ships in the area, were thrust into the fighting; out of shape Marines who hadn’t commanded anything other than a typewriter since basic training–in some cases ten and fifteen years earlier–found themselves with a weapon in their hands headed to the beach to help save their comrades.
The fighting raged heavily all night. The sounds of war rumbled throughout the night, reaching the ears of those abroad ship with painful clarity. Tremendous flashes of red and yellow could be seen ashore from the flight deck; the ship moved in as close as possible to aid in re-supplying the stranded Marines. The huge ship was almost up the mouth of the river with only a few feet of water beneath her keel. And still the fighting continued.
The first major stream of casualties began to pour back to the carrier during the darkest hours before dawn early on the second day. The 250-plus bed hospital, housed in the aft section of the huge carrier, was quickly filling. The two operating rooms were busy round the clock. Special Surgical Team Alpha, a team of fifteen specialized surgeons and support staff stationed on board the huge ship, worked throughout the night non-stop in an effort to mend the wounded and save lives.
After sunrise on the second day, the 4th Battalion 3rd Marines attacked the NVA with all they had, trying desperately to save their comrades. Heavy fighting ensued. Firefights everywhere. No longer was the objective “search and destroy,” it was now an all out mission to save their brother Marines, most of whom were totally cut off now. The death toll was rising.
During the night, the NVA moved T-24 tanks into the area. At first light, F4 Phantom jets, from the carrier Kitty Hawk were vectored toward this new threat. The jets screamed in low from seaward, dropping their bombs and napalm, and shooting their rockets. Still the NVA advanced, over-running nearly all 2nd Battalion positions. The death toll continued to climb, now into the many hundreds.
It was at the end of the third day of heavy fighting before a chopper was spared to recall the Mad Dogs. Until the team reached the flight deck, none of them had any idea as to why they had been pulled out early. What they saw when they walked across the flight deck made them sick. In the approaching twilight, Eyes saw several twin-bladed choppers sitting on the aft section of the flight deck, their rotors still turning, as they unloaded the wounded.
From what he saw, Eyes guessed that the starboard elevator, located just behind the superstructure, must have well over a hundred body bags, each containing a body, stacked like cord wood. The team stood silently watching the elevator as it descended to the hanger deck.
It didn’t take long for the team to hear what had happened. No sooner had they reached the Ready Room, than they were put to work.
“Store your gear, then report back here. We need help handling all these,” said a Marine captain in charge of the effort.
Sikes nodded. “You heard him. Let’s get moving.” The men returned minutes later and began their somber task. All were assigned to carry stretchers containing body bags; they helped unload the arriving choppers. Eyes and Johan worked as a team carrying the gruesome stretchers. The rest of the team paired up doing the same.
It seemed odd to Eyes that there was a technique to the task, a rhythm. He found it worked best to let the body bag sort of bounce on the stretcher to the rhythm of his walk. Johan seemed to not notice or care–he carried the leading end and Eyes followed, watching as the bodies bounced. In a lull between chopper flights, Eyes and Johan were sent to the hanger bay to help, riding the huge aircraft elevator down with yet another load of body bags.
When they first viewed the hanger bay, it was a shock. “Oh my god!” said Johan as tears flooded down his face. His body shook violently as he stood transfixed, staring. “Oh look!” he cried. The pain in Johan’s voice screeched down the blackboard of Eyes’s soul, causing Luke to nearly collapse. “The whole back section of the hanger bay is nearly full!” he yelled as his mind tried to comprehend what his eyes saw. Sorrow rung from every word. He stood still, sobbing until he was interrupted.
“Hey, you two. Bring that stretcher over here,” said an unemotional Marine directing the activity. “Just start another row here,” he said pointing to a spot on the deck.
“Just look at this, Eyes,” said Johan in heaves, crying as he spoke. In the semi-darkness of the rear hanger bay, bodies were stacked five and six and seven high, in rows fifty feet long or longer, row after row after row. “There must be hundreds of them.” The truth was there were well over a thousand, and the total was climbing hourly.
Eyes didn’t answer; he felt nothing as he stared at the countless, shapeless black bags. Listening to the tone of Johan’s voice sent a shattering reverberation throughout his entire being. The pain caused him to almost drop the wooden handles of the stretcher before him. Tears ran down his cheeks, not for his fallen comrades, but for Johan and the anguish he felt. For the dead men he carried, he had nothing.
The rows of body bags kept growing hour after hour as brave chopper pilots retrieved their fallen comrades. Every available person helped in the rescue. Without rest, the men hauled body bags for the next fourteen hours–all through the night and into the next day.
The intense heat and humidity of the jungle caused bodies to bloat and decompose quickly. The stench of death was everywhere. It hung in the hanger bay like a curse and hung on the men’s clothing as they performed their grisly task.
On day six the team was assigned an even more gruesome task. They had to go into the recovered areas in the field and help remove casualties–all KIAs. Slowly as American forces recovered the lost ground, and the Marine bodies found there, the tired Mad Dogs and any other men available labored at putting the bodies into body bags prior to their being sent out to the carrier. They provided the physical labor because the men that would have normally done it were at the front lines still engaging the enemy just over a mile to the north.
By the time the casualties were retrieved, maggots had already started to work in their open wounds. Isolated men who might have lived had quickly died of tropical infections and lack of medical attention. The smell of death hung on the Recon Team’s clothes for days as they labored at their nauseating task. They had to force themselves to eat and then it often came back up.
When the bodies were reclaimed, and brought on board ship, some were found to have been booby trapped by the enemy, as were some of the seriously wounded Marines. After pulling the pins, grenades were sometimes stuffed into body cavities of fallen soldiers by the NVA. If they went off immediately so what. If, however, they were lodged tightly enough so that they didn’t release until the bodies were moved, then several Marines were hurt or killed. Many booby traps weren’t found until the bodies were cleaned up on the carrier, prior to their trip Stateside.
So many booby traps existed that finally a portable X-ray machine had to be set up in the temporary morgue in the aft hanger bay. All bodies with cavity wounds were checked. Many devices were found. Luckily, none of them exploded on board ship.
The shipboard hospital
had its problems too. One wounded Marine was wheeled into the operating room. Several surgeons stood over the injured man, examining the external damage caused by shrapnel to a Marine’s mid-section. The door to the operating room flew open. A medical technician ran into the room waving a large sheet of X-ray film, yelling. “Everyone stop. Don’t touch him.”
The doctor in charge looked up. “What’s going on here?”
“Look at this, sir.” The technician inserted the X-ray film, taken only minutes earlier, in the viewing panel and turned on the lights. There in the X-ray was the man’s abdominal cavity as well as the silhouette of an American-made hand grenade up near the man’s rib cage.
“Oh my god!” exclaimed the surgeon. “Everyone out. Move it. I mean everyone!” The wounded man, who had been semiconscious until that point, fainted. All unnecessary personnel left the room in a blur. Only the surgeon remained. He studied the X-ray carefully, and then sat silently staring at the unconscious man before him. As resolve took hold, he bravely stuck his hand up into the cavity and grabbed the grenade. Without moving his hand once he held the explosive device firmly, clutching it tight for what seemed like hours. Then, carefully holding the grenade, he removed his hand in a slow steady motion. He looked at it briefly once it was clear of the soldier, then casually walked down the passageway to an outside door and threw the live grenade into the sea. He watched it explode just below the surface of the water. With nerves of steel, and knees almost too weak to carry him, he walked back in and completed the operation. The rest of the procedure was successful and the man was sent the next day to the hospital ship Repose to convalesce.
The Mad Dogs’ orders remained unchanged. They remained in the field for the duration of the operation, helping fill body bags. It seemed to Eyes like the stream of body bags was never ending–day after day they came. Some of the body bags themselves were torn from shrapnel from enemy mortar and grenades, which occurred while men were trying to retrieve bodies. Eyes and his teammates carried bags with torn and twisted limbs hanging from them, or falling out of them.
By What is Sure to Follow Page 23