Then we heard small arms fire, and the whole village started shooting at us. We got up to 1,000 feet and made a gun run on the village. It turned into a major war. We got low on fuel and returned to base. On the way back, I asked the Major why we didn’t call in our buddies from Oxwood to blow the village back into the Stone Age. He replied, “Do you boys remember the river we passed back there? That’s the Song Tra Bong River. All the good Vietnamese were evacuated from the village complex last year. You boys were just in a Free Fire Zone!” He added that everyone living in the area was a certified VC, and you could shoot to kill. I asked why had we been casually flying so low over a known trouble area. “No guts, no glory!” the Major replied. The dawn patrol was getting to be old hat. Our crew needed a shoot-’em-up to get our blood boiling. In short, he said, “Keep your mouth shut! If the Colonel gets wind of this I’ll be in a world of shit!”
Over the next year we crossed this river at many different locations, always with the same result. Thousands of tracers came up from abandoned villages now occupied by the enemy. It never got boring once you crossed the Song Tra Bong.
KING COBRA
During the monsoon season the weather in ’Nam got so foggy and rainy that most helicopters were grounded. Sometimes it rained so hard it was like someone throwing buckets of water at you all day and all night long. There was no moon because the clouds and the nights were so pitch black that you could hardly see your hand in front of your face. We sent our choppers out only on the most urgent of missions, and when they did go, they flew on instruments. Only our most experienced pilots attempted missions in such terrible weather.
The worst monsoon mission I can remember was to pick up a wounded Marine who was bitten by a snake. The grunts were out on patrol and took some small arms fire. One unlucky Marine jumped into an old foxhole the Marines had used on a previous operation. The VC always tried to figure out where a typical Marine would jump or crawl during a firefight, then they put booby traps just off the trail so when a Marine jumped for cover from a sniper, his leg would be blown off. In this case, the VC had somehow caught a King Cobra and tied it up in a hole.
It was a top priority mission to save the Marine. The usual CH-34 Med-Evac choppers were too slow. They asked for volunteers and Major Moose said, “No problem.” Lucky #7 would get the snake-bitten Marine back as soon as humanly possible. We launched two gun-birds back down the coast, 100 feet off the ground and ocean to the outskirts of Quang Ngai, then headed to the foothills to LZ Easy. We flew this mission at l1:00 AM through 80 percent foggy, cloudy skies. Visibility was 200 yards at best. Major Moose switched to instruments and we got within two miles of the grunts’ LZ, but couldn’t find it. We circled around so low that the skids on our chopper hit the top of a tree. This scared the shit out of Sergeant Cross and me. We pulled up higher and almost crashed into the side of a hill. It was very hairy.
Finally we saw a green smoke grenade and a very small LZ through a hole in the fog. We spotted the Marines and landed, and the Medic handed me a bottle of plasma to hold. The snake-bitten Marine was in a state of shock and paralyzed like a stick. He was shaking and stiff as a board, and white foam was coming out of his mouth, which I wiped off with a rag. I held the plasma bottle with one hand, patting his head with the other, and told him to hold on. I told him he was with Klondike and the best gunbird at Chu Lai, Lucky #7, but I don’t think he heard a word. I also said a million Hail Marys for him.
We took off and once again hit the top of a tree that became stuck in our skids, then raced full throttle up the coast like a Phantom jet and straight to the front door of 93rd Evacuation Hospital. We called ahead, and the hospital was having a slow day, so they had a gurney out by the landing zone with two doctors ready for him. At one point, his heart stopped and they actually shot a needle through it like a super-jolt to restart him. His fate was in the hands of God and five doctors at the trauma center. We all risked our lives to save him, but since we didn’t know his name, we never found out if he lived or not. This always pissed me off; you never got a straight answer to questions of this sort.
I often wonder what happened to him whenever I see a water snake at my paintball field, and how the VCs could catch a large King Cobra and tie it up without being bitten. When we taxied to park our gunbird, the top of the tree was still stuck to the skid. Major Moose took the tree to the Officers’ Club and bragged about low level flying by instruments. In short, it was a daring, death-defying mission that only four crazies from Klondike would ever have attempted. When you are a Marine in trouble, other Marines will come to rescue you, no matter the odds. We are a brotherhood in arms.
THE ZIP I CUT IN HALF
Most of the time, we never got briefed on the name of our mission or its military objective. They all seemed to be the same. This one was LZ preparation—we shoot the hell out of an area, then the Marines land. It was just another day, another mission, and everything was going as planned, when suddenly the LZ came under intense enemy fire. Marines fell like toy soldiers knocked off a kitchen table by a boy playing war.
The local VCs didn’t have this much firepower, so we figured they were NVA regulars. Once again, they were dug in very well and camouflaged. We saw only their muzzle flashes. We made countless gun runs against their positions with little effect. We needed to get the CH-34D Med-Evac chopper into the LZ to pick up the severely wounded.
The sunny day turned into a nasty gun battle with both our birds blasting the enemy positions. The fearless pilot of the CH-34D landed and quickly picked up the wounded. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an NVA regular running toward the LZ with an RPG—a Soviet-bloc front-loading anti-tank rocket launcher used effectively against US bunkers, armor and infantry. If he shot it off, the whole LZ would be dead meat, including the Med-Evac chopper. I opened up on him and wasted a belt of tracers. I not only hit him, but got lucky and hit the rocket on his shoulders. It completely blew the top of his body off in a big, red tomato soup explosion. His adrenaline was so high that his lower body kept running a few yards before it realized it had no torso or head.
I tapped Sergeant Cross on his shoulder to tell him I had cut a gook in half who was still running, but he had his own NVA to shoot at, and was too busy to hear my tale of glory. I figured I’d get a Bronze Star for this one, but nobody saw it but me. Damn, there went another medal! I wished I had a special movie camera hooked onto my M-60 like a fighter pilot so I could get credit for things that nobody saw but me.
It’s funny when I look back at it all to see the people who got medals that they did not deserve. There were endless shoot-outs and hand-to-hand fighting where everyone got killed or wounded and their stories never got told. Major Moose once said that sooner or later, every Marine would get all his medals and glory. I replied that I would like to get them in this lifetime if possible. In reality, I saw countless deeds of daring men that often went unrewarded. Their claim to fame slowly leaked out of their veins as they lay dying in the hot sun. Only God and Odin knew what gallant deeds they had done.
GROUNDHOG DAY
Third Battalion/3rd Marines, better known as 3/3 M Company, went down one day to the village complex of Van Tuong, which was about nine miles below Chu Lai. Their objective was to do a search and destroy mission and wipe out any major enemy massing for an attack on Chu Lai Air Base. Klondike received a message to pick up a small generator and cases of CS tear gas from their grunt base camp. After we picked up the supplies, we went over to LZ Red, where we landed and met First Lieutenant Hunter of 3/3 M Company.
He told us they’d found a tunnel complex and were going to pump CS tear gas into it with a blower motor. “Don’t run off,” he said. “Stay around for the show. I’m sure you’ll be amused.” Normally we never parked gunbirds and screwed around on the ground, but Major Moose had once been a grunt and wanted to see what the CS gas would do.
The 3rd Marines had just lost two men KIA and four WIA to snipers in hills and tunnels. They were pissed off and wanted revenge
, so they set up the blower motor with a diesel generator and pumped CS gas into the tunnel complex. The 3rd Marines put their bayonets on their rifles, something rarely seen in ’Nam, and spread out to see where the smoke escaped through the secret holes and escape routes of the tunnel system.
We watched as these eager-beaver groundhog hunters waited for their prey. Smoke poured out of a hootch from a secret hole, and out popped a VC coughing his head off. A Marine grabbed him, pulled him out of the hole, struck him with his M-14, then shot him dead. The VC had a 7.62 x 39 bolt-action short Model 44 Russian Mosin-Nagant rifle and a canteen. Scratch one zip.
Next, smoke started coming out of the pigpen in the middle of the village. A VC jumped out with an SKS carbine ready to shoot, and a Staff Sergeant with a .45 standing behind the secret hole blew him away. The CS gas irritated our eyes, but we still stayed for the rest of the show.
Some smoke came out of the well in the middle of the village. The VC had dug a tunnel system to the top wall of their well. This must have been an emergency exit, for I couldn’t see how they rebuilt the wall every time they went in or out. We heard stones falling into the deep well, and then I saw a Gunny Sergeant from the 3rd Marines yell, “Fire in the hole!” He dropped an M-26 frag grenade into the well that made lunch meat out of the escaping VC. I rather enjoyed that one.
Next a VC kid about 14 years old hopped out of the bottom of a chicken coop and pretended he had been hiding because he was afraid of the Marines. Sure! The Marines looked down the hole he had just left, and realized he was lying when they discovered boxes of mines. Everyone argued about saving him or killing him, but then a Med-Evac CH-34 chopper landed to pick up the four wounded Marines, and the wind from the chopper blew the ponchos off the two dead Marines.
Everyone was pissed off when they saw the two dead guys with flies on them being loaded into the Med-Evac chopper, so they told the kid to run as fast as he could. If he made it to the tree line he lived, if he tripped a mine or wasn’t fast enough, he died. The zip kid refused to move, so a Staff Sergeant shot his .45-automatic at his feet to get him motivated. Finally he dee-dee’d across a large dike path. The kid knew where every land mine was and ran around them. A PFC grabbed his M-79 grenade launcher and the Marines start taking bets on how many shots it would take to kill the kid. The M-79 guy got him in three shots. Later a Marine with a mine detector found six live mines on the dike walk where the kid ran for his life. He was guilty as sin.
All and all, the 3rd Marines killed about 12 VCs on the groundhog hunting expedition. It was amazing to watch the grunts do their thing, but it was even better when we were back up in the cool air, once again headed home and talking about what we had just witnessed.
NUMBER 8 DISINTEGRATE
The 1st and 5th Marines decided in the spring of 1966 to clean out all the VC from Da Nang Air Base down the coast to Tam Ky in a series of search and destroy missions, which I believe they called “Operation Union.” Sometimes the zips would fight, and sometimes they would hide in their rat holes. Since this operation was about ten miles north of Chu Lai, my outfit helped out. We flew LZ preparation missions and armed escorts for CH-34 Med-Evac choppers in and out of the LZs. The Marines worked their way down Route 1 toward us. It was a wet dream to think they could get all the VCs in this coastal area.
On one very unlucky day, we launched two gunbirds to assist a Marine landing on Hill 110. This simple landing turned into a two-day battle. The zips were dug in and were not about to give up this piece of real estate. We called in fixed-wing jets and bombed the hill, and finally the Marines took it, killing about 150 enemy. The Marines laid out their wounded and called for a Med-Evac chopper to take them out. Our two birds flew escort around the top of the hill and laid out suppressive fire to keep the zips from shooting at the Med-Evac choppers. All were clearly marked with big red crosses.
On this day, there was an extra Marine who had just stepped on a land mine and blown his left foot off. The CH-34 choppers were airborne and headed for the Army 93rd Evacuation Hospital, so our Gunbird #8 landed in the LZ on top of the hill to pick up the extra injured Marine.
It was very rare that a gunbird ever landed on the ground. Our mission was to attack, not to pick up passengers. Most gunbirds were loaded down with a crew of four, rockets and machine gun ammo, and it was often a miracle that we made it off the ground. This particular day the pilot, Captain Turner, felt it was his duty to save this unlucky Marine’s life. The Medics loaded the wounded Marine on the floor of the UH-IE, and just as they were about to take off, the zips exploded a 500-pound bomb. It blew a crater into the top of the hill and completely destroyed Gunbird #8. The crew of the second gunbird flying overhead was in shock on seeing this disaster. A simple act of kindness resulted in the death of a four-man crew plus the wounded Marine and dozens of other people in the LZ, including the Medics.
My outfit had never before lost a complete bird blown up into little pieces. Body parts were all over the place, even in the nearby trees. The biggest part they found of #8 was the engine. A call went out for volunteers to pick up pieces of flesh and bones that were once proud, brave Marines. One of the new guys in my hootch volunteered and later told me all they found of Captain Tuner was his left arm, which they identified by his tattoo. He had nightmares for weeks after that. I am very glad I didn’t witness that disaster.
Who would ever have thought that the zips would take a 500-pound bomb and carry it through the jungle, up a large hill and bury it right dab in the center of the LZ the Marines had made on top of the hill? It was command detonated by a zip hiding in a hole somewhere, who also probably got blown up. I can’t even imagine how they moved a 500-pound bomb with no trucks or jeeps. It was all done by back-breaking human labor.
Our outfit was in shock for a couple of days over the whole unfortunate incident. Captain Turner broke the rules and paid the ultimate price, his life. I’m sure the whole crew was in Valhalla drinking mead with Odin and other Marine Viking heroes watching down, very happy that the war was over for them.
THE ROKs
The ROKs were South Korean troops sent to ’Nam to help fight the war. There was a ROK compound west of Chu Lai on top of a small hill covered with barbed wire, concertina wire and Claymore mines. I believe it held 50 troops armed with World War II and Korean War weapons: M-1 rifles, BARs and M-1 carbines.
Since no one ever volunteered for VIP transport missions, one day Lucky #7 gunbird got chosen to fly General Lim from III MAF Marine Headquarters in Da Nang to this outpost, which had been hit the night before by a company of VCs. We all figured it would be a boring sightseeing trip, but how wrong we were. When we arrived, we saw about 200 dead VCs all over the small hill, although some were still alive. We figured the CO should get a medal. Fifty men had killed 200 dinks—that was good shooting. The VC even had four US-made flamethrowers that they’d used in the attack. The ROKs had lost about four men KIA and 20 WIA. It must have been one hell of a battle. But General Lim was pissed and slapped the CO of the outpost in the face because the ROKs hadn’t followed the retreating VCs to finish them all off.
The ROK soldiers were brutal. We saw a Sergeant take his M-1 bayonet and hack off the arms of a wounded VC. The Marines shot wounded zips in the head, but we never wasted time torturing them. It was too hot and bloody—we were LBJ’s hired guns, not sadistic butchers. Major Moose looked on in total disgust. We had to admire the VC and NVA for their bravery, and to watch them being butchered left a bad taste in our mouths. We had never before seen the ROKs in action. After this show we admired them for their bravery and hated them at the same time for their over-zealous cruelty. As gunners, a half belt of M-60s usually sent our enemies to Buddhist heaven or wherever bad zips go. We in the Marines hoped it was zip hell!
General Lim got back in Lucky #7 and we drove him back in total silence to Da Nang. He realized we were pissed at his men for cutting up live VCs, so he delivered these words of wisdom: “Korean troops fight terror with terror. When the loca
l villagers see their VC neighbors with no arms or legs, they will think twice about attacking my outpost again. I ordered the dead, mutilated bodies to be dumped near a public road for all to see while the rats ate the flesh off what was left of their bodies.” We later learned from a Marine Recon team that the Koreans trailed the retreating VCs and killed all those who helped them, leaving a trail of dead bodies right up to their tunnel openings.
Since the ROKs were so good, I wondered why they hadn’t won the Korean War. Major Moose replied that it was a very complex story and I should read up on it at a local library when I returned home. Major Moose wasn’t very talkative about his days in Korea. He must have had a real hard time staying alive there.
THE BUCKET OF BLOOD
For the most part, gunners and crew chiefs wanted no part of blood and guts. We were hardened, ruthless killing machines devoid of mercy or pity. Thus we let the CH-34 crews deal with the daily bloody Med-Evacs while we shot-up the LZs and escorted them in and out.
Some people tried being gunners but simply didn’t have the stomach for it. They felt sorry for the dinks and considered them human beings. These types of people usually got shot or quit after their first air medal or twenty missions. The Marine Corps taught me well. All I had to do was hear The National Anthem and The Marine Corps Hymn, and they could give me a rifle and point to a hill they wanted taken. As a child, I was afraid of roller-coaster rides. The first one I took scared the hell out of me, and I never went on another. Yet I went out on the skids to clear jammed guns and did other amazing things while attached to my gunner belt on Major Moose’s roller coaster. In two years’ time we picked up only two Marines: the snakebite guy, where there was no blood, and the guy who got his chin shot off and was a bloody mess.
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