Last Man Out

by James E. Parker, Jr.

  Later in a briefing to the officers and senior NCOs, we heard that the 1st Cav had “gotten their noses bloodied,” which was an understatement. That afternoon we read that whole units were wiped out. All of the officers in one company were killed in the first few minutes of a firefight. The North Vietnamese had surrounded some units and attacked in waves. Weather was bad and air support limited. Under the jungle canopy, it was apparently difficult to fix exact positions of the ground forces and artillery fire support was imprecise. When it was on target, overhanging foliage often dissipated it. The battle evolved into hand-to-hand combat, and with the American units separated, the North Vietnamese moved against the smaller straggling units and decimated them.

  “So much for your opinion that the U.S. Navy, and the U.S. Air Force, and the U.S. Marines, and the U.S. Army can whip up on this little pipsqueak country,” I told Bratcher. “This doesn’t sound like any police action I’ve ever heard about. This sounds like combat. And I want to look at those men of ours again and think about who’s going to handle the heat, who’s going to get the job done, and who’s going to break and run.”

  “A lot’s going to depend on you, Lieutenant,” Bratcher said. “The men are getting the word about this 1st Cav thing through the grapevine and every soldier’s going to make it sound worse. Don’t let our men start off thinking they’re going to get their asses shot. You need to go down there and tell ’em the 1st Cav was suckered in them mountains. Tell ’em we ain’t going to walk into no traps. We’re going to keep our head on our shoulders and we’re going to kick some ass. Doesn’t matter exactly what you say, you just gotta say something with confidence. They’re down there now and don’t know what to think. You’ve got to step in and give them an attitude they can believe in, live by, fight by. First Cav fucked up, but we’re tough. Dinks attack us, we’re going to kick their asses. If you say it with enough conviction, they’ll believe you.”

  Bratcher wasn’t looking at me as he talked. He was looking out over the ocean. I’m thinking this guy is right, but hell oh mighty, Pete, who’s going to lead this platoon, me or him? I had told him not to give me advice when I didn’t ask for it. But then I’m thinking again, he’s right, the men need to be reassured. And it’s my job. We’d work out the command-and-control thing later.

  We walked down to the compartment where my platoon was bunked, and Bratcher called the men together. He moved aside, and I recounted the dispatches we had received on the 1st Cav. Then I started winging it.

  “We’re going to do just fine,” I told the men, “because we aren’t going to make the same mistakes. The 1st Cav screwed up, but we are going to cover our asses and we’re going to be tougher. And when you’re more determined, you’re luckier in battle. It’s a well-known fact, you can will victory. You can beat ’em with a tough attitude. And I ain’t just whistling through my teeth—the officers in the 1st Cav died faster than anyone else, and I personally am looking forward to my chances out there. You’all should be looking forward to what lies ahead. We are going to walk through the valley of death and, like the captain said when we left Fort Riley, we are going to kick some ass. You have nothing to worry about.”

  As I finished I looked around; Beck, Spencer, Castro, Manuel, Patrick, Lyons, and Ayers were standing close by, and I could see they believed me. Behind me, Bratcher told the men that he wanted every man to bring his weapon by his bunk for inspection before going to chow. On my way out, I noticed the poker game was still going in the latrine, the players nonplussed about the 1st Cav reports.

  After supper, Dunn, McCoy, Pete, and I went to the top deck and talked about the 1st Cav news. Without giving Bratcher any credit, I repeated parts of my speech about the probably clumsy execution of 1st Cav in the mountains, but that we were tougher and would survive.

  “Well, that’s just hogwash,” Dunn said. “You have no idea what went on out there. Fact is, people get killed in combat. You just accept the fact that it’s not going to be nice and live with it. Some of our men are going to live and some are going to die. Maybe one of us ain’t coming back. You just accept that and you don’t misrepresent the situation with some kind of double-talk.”

  McCoy agreed. He said, “War isn’t so difficult to deal with really when it comes down to the basics. You make the best of it day to day. Learn as you go. What can happen? One, the worst is you get killed. But hell, you get killed, you’re dead. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Somebody else has a problem with that, then it’s their problem. You’re dead. You’re at peace. And the next worst, what’s that, you get wounded and you get sent back home. Not too bad there, getting sent back home. Hell, you can get on with your life. What does that leave? You don’t get wounded or killed. You finish your tour, you go home. It’s that simple. One, you die, but dead you’re in no pain. Two, you get wounded, you go home. Or three, you don’t get wounded. But no matter what happens, it’s okay.”

  “The important thing isn’t living or dying,” Pete said. “None of us think we’re going to die anyway. The important thing is how we handle ourselves over there. We platoon leaders are the ones who have to get the men moving when bullets are flying and bombs are going off, when there is noise and confusion. That’s the time. Right then. Will we have the presence of mind, the good judgment, the courage, and the luck to do the job? Or will we freeze and hug the ground? Can we hold ourselves responsible for the death of our people and keep on going? What’s it like, really, to get shot at? To give orders that get people killed?”

  We were lost in thought. I looked up at the stars and thought about freezing in the door of that airplane during jump training. Would combat be different? I had started this conversation by saying we were going to get through the next year’s walk through the valley of death by just being tough, but I worried about my personal courage.

  “You know what?” McCoy finally said. “I think the worst here is not knowing exactly what to expect. I think we’re going to be okay. What we should hope for—and there ain’t nothing more to do right now but hope, ’cause we can’t change shit—we should hope that we got what it takes to be strong and that we are courageous in front of our men and that we have good judgment. That we just get it right, regardless of the consequences.” He turned to Dunn. “But as for who’s going die—since we don’t know—you want to flip a coin and see who might likely be first.”

  We laughed, even Dunn, and lapsed back in silence.

  As I sat there I could see clearly in my mind’s eye some of the skirmishes I had read about in the dispatches. I tried to imagine what I would do, what my platoon would do, if we were surrounded by drum-beating, whistle-blowing, Oriental fanatics crawling forward in the jungle. No air force, no artillery, no mortars—us and them in dense jungle at night. My stomach tightened and began to hurt. Don’t get in the fix in the first place, I thought. Think tough. Cover your ass. I was right to start with. We can will victory here. Tough is a state of mind. Stay tough. Think tough. And hope, like George said, that we’re lucky.

  Nine days out from Oakland we passed near Midway Island. Rumors began to circulate that we would stop at Guam to refuel, be allowed off the ship for a day on the beach, and that the Guam National Guard was going to host a beach party for the ship. Snorkeling, Polynesian girls, bonfires, free beer, clean air. Vietnam could wait. Guam was ahead.

  The mood below deck was jubilant, but the poker players were unaffected. Guam came into sight off the starboard bow early on the morning of Sunday, 3 October. Men abandoned the chow line in a rush up to the deck for a glimpse of the approaching island, green and lush in the distance. Native fishermen in fishing boats passed close by the ship and the men on deck waved. Some yelled, “Where’re your sisters?”

  The port was now in sight and tugs had come out to guide the Mann to the dock.

  The commandant of troops, speaking over the PA system, said that, despite the rumors, we would be allowed no shore leave. Repeat, he said, no shore leave. The ship was docking only to take on fuel and supplie
s, and we would be on our way the following morning.

  I was on deck watching the tugs work and did not turn when the commandant spoke. What he said was not surprising. It seemed improbable that the thousands of men on board could be allowed onto the small island, entertained, and returned to the ship in any reasonable amount of time. They would overwhelm the island.

  The men, however, were not understanding. The rumors about shore leave had been detailed, some aspects even discussed by the Navy crew. The troops thought army brass had decided among themselves against letting them off. An angry rumble drifted up from the hold and grew louder. Men ran up the steps from the troop compartments. Clusters of soldiers stood on the deck and talked conspiratorially. Somewhere below, a soldier slammed the butt of his M-14 into the side of the ship. The noise increased as more and more men grabbed their weapons and started thumping the bulkheads.

  Pete came up and we stood together waiting, listening. It was mutinous. The banging of weapons continued as the tugs pushed the ship into place beside a long concrete pier.

  A gangplank was lowered from the ship. We watched the commandant and Sergeant Major Bainbridge leave with an entourage of staff officers. When some of the men on deck saw them leave, they yelled that the top dogs were going ashore, leaving the troops to rot on the ship. Men ran below to spread the word. The banging got louder.

  The sergeant major soon returned and a meeting of all officers was called in the officers mess.

  The banging stopped.

  An officious lieutenant colonel addressed the group. Without reference to the previous message over the PA system, he said that the port authority had offered some old dry docks a few miles from the pier so the men could stretch their legs and drink some beer. But he said everyone had to be back on board by midnight because we sailed for Vietnam at first light. It was then almost 1300. As he was giving instructions for off-loading, we heard a roar from below. The men apparently had heard through their own sources that they were going ashore.

  Disembarking by companies, almost three thousand soldiers marched off the pier and down the island road toward the dry docks. Four abreast, they sang, waved their arms, and clapped their hands as they marched.

  The dry docks, four large wooden bulwarks three stories high and in varying degrees of disrepair, stood amid a variety of smaller buildings. Once inside the gates, the men fell out from the column to explore or stood around in groups and talked. An officer climbed on top of a shed near the gate and announced that the Guam National Guard would arrive in a few minutes with beer on the back of flatbed trucks. The beer was ten cents a can, and each man could buy twelve, no more. After giving further instructions about what the men could not do, he said that the opportunity for the men to stretch their legs was done on the authority of the troop commander, who wanted the men to form up at 2200 and march, by companies, back to the ship.

  The men were milling around as he spoke. Peterson opined that not everyone had paid attention. He guessed that before the day was out there would be a few violations of the rules.

  Captain Woolley gathered his platoon leaders—Peterson, Duckett, Ernst, and me—and said that two of us had to stay with the men at all times. The others were allowed to go to a nearby officers club. Duckett and Ernst agreed to take the first shift. Pete and I would return by nightfall.

  As we walked out the gate, two dump trucks laden with beer pulled into the compound. The men behind us let out a roar and began to form up in lines. McCoy and Dunn were in the officers club when we arrived. They had staked out an area overlooking the beach and had their drinks on a side table. Pete and I downed a starter set of drinks quickly before settling down to more reasonable drinking. We became boisterously happy and made preposterous toasts. “Larry Moubry” [alias], the battalion supply and transportation platoon leader, came over and loudly joined us in making toasts. He had a reputation for being very religious and we found his drunken behavior unseemly, maybe because he was a little drunker than the rest or because he wasn’t funny or clever or invited. He was, in fact, obnoxious and his mood turned morose quickly after we had gone through a series of toasts. He imagined that many of us would die in Vietnam, a sweltering, Oriental hellhole. He said the Viet Cong were godless demons who killed without mercy, had no regard for life, and ate their dead.

  He finally stumbled off, and after watching him barge into another group Dunn commented that he was a righteous son of a bitch.

  Dunn noticed Woolley, carrying several drinks, across the room and called to him to join us. Woolley made his way through the crowd and placed his drinks on a nearby piano. Dunn said it was fair to tell him that Parker and Peterson didn’t think much of him. Dunn said the good captain looked pretty damn good in his uniform and everything, and Dunn liked him a lot personally, and that was why Dunn was going to tell him something in confidence. “Keep your eye on Parker,” Dunn said, “especially when we get live bullets.”

  Woolley threw back his head and laughed. Dunn reached over and got one of Woolley’s drinks from the piano.

  “Mr. Parker’s going to be in front of me most of the time, pulling point, I think,” Woolley said.

  “Pulling point?” I asked. “Odd-sounding phrase.”

  Suddenly Ernst burst into the room and ran over to Woolley. “They’re rioting at the docks!” he yelled. “They are out of control. They’ve turned trucks over, burnt buildings. They’ve gone crazy. Crazy, Captain, crazy. It’s a riot.”

  Maj. Robert J. Allee, the battalion executive officer, came in and talked with the troop commander. The commander stood up and said everyone was to return to the dry docks and begin policing up the men. He was canceling shore leave as of that moment.

  Not far from the officers club, groups of men were wandering off in all directions. The gate to the dry docks was clogged with people trying to get out. Most were heading toward the ship, but many hundreds were making their way inland. In the half light of dusk we could see some small buildings on fire inside the dock area. I found a few of my men and told them to go back to the ship. Down by the gate, Moubry was telling men who appeared to him to be heading away from the ship to drop and give him fifty push-ups and then go on to the ship. To their credit, most told him to fuck himself and walked away as he screamed, “Give me fifty, give me fifty, soldier!” Dunn told Moubry to go to the ship or he was going to break his nose because he was giving all the officers a bad name.

  Sergeants Bratcher and King were sitting on top of some lumber inside the gate, a couple of cases of beer between them.

  “I thought twelve beers a person was the limit,” I told them.

  “King can’t count good.” Bratcher said. “Want a beer, Lieutenant?”

  I sat down beside them and opened a beer. The scene resembled Sherman’s sacking of Atlanta. Some buildings were on fire and others had been torn down. King said that too many men were standing on the roof of one building and it just collapsed, so the men built a bonfire.

  High up on the off-limits bulwarks, men were happily walking about. Others were sitting with their legs hanging over the side and drinking. Some men were swimming in the lagoon. Hundreds of beer cans were floating in the still water.

  Bratcher said, “It was the lines. They made the men form up in lines and they weren’t that interested in more lines. Plus it was the ten-cent beer and the twelve-beer limit and the fact that not everyone had the right change and it took a long time sometimes for one person to get his beer and get his change and then, maybe the most important, was the fuck-you attitude of the National Guardsmen, who weren’t hardly going on to Vietnam themselves. They didn’t show enough respect. Not necessarily smart on their part, when you consider that they were inside a barbed-wire enclosure, outnumbered a thousand to one or more.”

  I told Bratcher and King to stay behind at the dry docks while I went to the ship and made a head count. They were to send any stragglers from the platoon down and come back themselves when they were convinced that none of our people remained at
the dry docks.

  King said, “Good plan, Lieutenant.” He opened another beer.

  By midnight, my men were all back on the ship. That was not the case everywhere; men staggered back all night. Two swam up to the ship from the sea side. Several got on the wrong ship. One group tried to board a submarine. The local police returned another group that had crashed a local high school football game, run out on the field, and stolen the game ball. Policemen also found 1st Infantry Division soldiers on people’s roofs, under cars, and in churches.

  The ship slipped her mooring at midmorning the next day and the tugs pulled her to sea. Under her own power, the Mann continued her westward journey toward Vietnam. As Guam disappeared behind us, the holds were awash with puke. The Navy stopped issuing sheets. Everyone stayed on deck as long as they could.

  By the second day out the platoons began to organize their equipment. That night battalion officers met for a briefing on what lay ahead. After landing at the port city of Vung Tau we would move to a staging area north of Saigon for outfitting and then overland to an area farther north where we would set up a battalion-size base camp. When that was built, our battalion would join other division units securing the area north and northwest of Saigon. We received maps and intelligence briefings about known or suspected enemy activities in our tactical area of responsibility (TAOR). Small Viet Cong units were active in the coastal and central regions, mainline North Vietnamese units were on the Cambodian border. Some friendly Army of (South) Vietnam (ARVN) units were scattered throughout our TAOR, although irregular forces that had U.S. Special Forces advisers comprised the principal Government of South Vietnam (GVN) presence along the Cambodian border. Our area was primarily jungle, but it included a number of rice fields and rubber plantations. We would go ashore on U.S. Navy landing craft. The beach area was reported to be secure, and no hostilities were anticipated.

  “Reported to be?” I whispered to Pete. “Anticipated? Sorta vague, don’t you think? You reckon we ought to call him on it?”