15 Months in SOG

by Thom Nicholson

  “Ray,” I said, “Put a three-sixty defensive perimeter around this spot.” He moved his troops out, and soon all I could see were my personal Yards and Sergeant White.

  “Come on,” I instructed White. “Let’s check the wreckage.” We carefully pushed our way through the smoldering debris. “There’s one,” I said, pointing to a blackened lump of what looked like a red and black pile of burned trash. The limbs were gone, either in the crash, or from the heat of the fire. As we got closer, the stench of burned flesh overwhelmed the smell of jet fuel and burned plastic. It was what was left of a man’s body, all right.

  White was retching into the pile of shredded metal as we scooped what we could of the remains into a body bag. I blew a breath of relief as we zipped it shut. That cloying smell, like burned bacon, is forever imbedded in my memory. Unfortunately, once smelled, it’s never forgotten.

  “Covey Two-two,” I whispered into the radio. “Recovered one KIA at the crash site. No sign of the other.”

  Covey replied, “Roger, Bravo Six. Move at a heading of nine-zero degrees from your location for about three hundred meters. A parachute is hanging from a tree.”

  “Roger, on our way. Keep an eye peeled for hostiles. I’m surprised they’re not all over us.”

  “The CAP has engaged a group about two klicks east of you. (That was the aircraft firing I was hearing). “They’re staying low, but the triple-A is starting to increase, so move it.”

  “Roger, Covey. On my way.” I got the platoon moving in the desired direction. I assigned Sergeant White and my two Yard bodyguards responsibility for the body bag. We’d want to take it with us when we extracted. I could hear White’s wheezing as he struggled to stay up while carrying the awkward load. His cussing never ceased except when he drew another breath of air into his lungs.

  Overhead, I counted half a dozen aircraft zooming in and out of the valley, dropping bombs, shooting their cannons and rockets at troops or AAA targets.

  As we reached the general location of the pilot’s parachute, mortar rounds started to impact ahead. Somebody had spotted us, and was laying a barrage in our direction.

  I called the spotter aircraft high above: “Mortar rounds headed our way. Get somebody on ’em ASAP. We’re gonna be in deep shit in just a few minutes.”

  “Roger, Bravo Six,” came the reassuring reply. “They’re on the way. Pop your smoke, now.”

  “Negative, Covey. That’ll just give the VC a clear idea of where we are. Just tell the planes to stay away from the parachute. We’re close to it.”

  “Roger, Bravo Six.”

  The jets roared over, and the leaves sifted down on us from the impact of bombs not far in front of us. The mortars shut up, and we moved forward, until one of my Yards pointed at the orange and white parachute dangling from a high tree to my front.

  “Damn it,” came the anguished voice of the Covey pilot. “One of the fast-movers just went in.” As he spoke, we heard the distant boom! of the jet slamming into the ground.

  I looked around the area where the chute was hanging. There was no sign of anyone, not even footprints. I don’t know if the mortars and bombs had dropped enough leaves and foliage to cover them, or if the pilot had covered his tracks as he moved away from the spot where he landed.

  “Covey, there’s no sign of anyone here. We’ll fan out and look, unless you want us to proceed to the crash site of the second plane.”

  “Don’t bother, Bravo Six. There were no chutes, and the plane went in nose first. They’re dead. See if you can find the first pilot.” The Covey pilot’s voice was matter-of-fact, as if he were ordering pizza.

  “Roger. Are you still receiving his rescue beeper?”

  “Negative, Bravo Six. It’s been quiet for the last one-five.”

  “Roger, Covey. Any signal from the plane that just went in?”

  “Negative.”

  I sent two squads on a circular search around the tree where the parachute was hanging. In a very few minutes, they called in with a negative result.

  “Okay,” I decided. “Fall back to the crash site. We’ll call for extraction.”

  I could see the relief on the faces of the troops as we pulled back. We were too damn close to way too many bad guys to be comfortable. We reached the crash site, and I put the three squads in a 360-degree defensive perimeter. Just as I started to call for the choppers, the first bullet snapped by my ear.

  “Second Squad, we’re taking fire,” I shouted at the men to my front. “Do you see them?”

  I moved to where the American platoon sergeant, named Crowley, had his little hole scooped out behind a splintered tree stump. He was as quiet and unassuming a man as I would ever want to meet back in camp at CCN. Here, under heavy fire from the hidden enemy, he was cool as a cucumber. As I flopped down beside him, an automatic weapon sprayed the ground beside me with a dozen bullets. They screamed away, whining just like the ricochets you heard in the movies.

  “A bunch of gooks moving over there, Captain. On that little hill there.” He pointed at a small bump in the landscape about three hundred meters away. His face was calm, his voice sounding as if he were telling me the time of day. But I noticed his dark brown eyes never left the spot from where the enemy fire was coming.

  “They moving in on us?” I gasped as I caught my breath. I eased up just enough to look at the offending spot of real estate. What I really wanted to do was bury my head in the dirt and hope the NVA would go away.

  “Nope, looks like they’re diggin’ in.”

  “Goddamn the bastards. They know they don’t have to rush us. All they got to do is keep the choppers away until dark, and they’ll have us by the short hairs.” Another bullet whizzed by my head, warning me it was time to duck down again.

  I gulped down the fear that was trying to boil out of my throat and forced myself to scoot around the defensive circle to where Lieutenant Lawrence was located. I found him, well hidden in a fold of earth, trying to call me on the platoon radio.

  “Ray, we’re in the deep shit. The NVA have set up on that hill there, and we’re under sniper fire. Keep your men alert in all directions. They may try and rush us from somewhere else while they distract us from the hill.”

  “Roger, Dai Uy. Want me to take some men and flank the bastards?”

  “Jesus, no. That’s just what the little cruds want. Get us divided up and then wipe our asses out. Just stay down and watch your front. I’ll sic the air force on them. Maybe they can blast them out, at least long enough for the choppers to get in and pick us up.”

  I left the fire-eating lieutenant and moved across the burned area in a jerky, scuttling run. A couple of quick shots drove me behind a large rock where Sergeant White was frantically digging a fighting hole. With every breath, he cursed his decision to come along.

  It was a good place to hide while I was on the radio to the air force, so I motioned Pham over with my radio.

  “Christ, Captain Nick,” White complained. “That radio antenna will draw the fire of every gook within five miles. Why don’t you go find your own rock?”

  “Sorry, Sergeant. Haven’t got the time. Besides, if they get you I’ll put you in for a medal, posthumously.”

  “Not funny, goddammit. Them little mutherfuckers mean to kill me.”

  “That they do, Sergeant. Don’t sweat it. You’re doing just fine. I’ll bring you with me the next time we come.”

  “The hell you will. Don’t even think about it. I got more sense than to put this black ass on the choppin’ block more than once. I’m a-stayin’ behind my desk in supply from now on.”

  I was grinning as I explained the situation to the Covey pilot, still circling high overhead. I glanced at my watch. The choppers would be coming soon. We had to get something done, and quick. I called the air force for a bomb drop on the hillside.

  “Okay, Bravo Six. I’ll run a bomb drop on the hill at your one-three-five, distance three hundred. See what it does to the locals camped there.”

&
nbsp; “Just what we need,” I muttered. “A comedian running our air support.”

  Two fast-movers swooped down over the hill, and I watched four dark shapes detach themselves from the underside of the wings and arc toward the earth. They hit with a mighty kaboom! in four-four time, and four fountains of dirt, smoke, and greenery rose up as if in slow motion. As the shock wave passed, I got up and ran to the spot where Sergeant Crowley was lying.

  “Keep your eyes peeled. I’m gonna call in the evac choppers now. If the NVA get dug in over there, they can keep our ride home from landing.”

  “Gotcha, Dai Uy. Send over all the M-79 gunners, and we’ll pop a few rounds to keep their minds occupied.” The calm demeanor of the man was steadying even to my frazzled state of mind.

  The single-shot, 40mm grenade launcher would be straining to reach the little hill with any accuracy, but the nasty warhead did a good job of discouraging troops from getting too visible.

  “Good idea. I’ll get ’em over ASAP.” Shortly thereafter, the three strikers who had M-79s as their main armament were crouched behind the broken trees, thumping their snub-nosed grenades in the general direction of the knob of ground. I could see the dirty gray puffs of explosion every time one hit the ground.

  The air-ground battle at the far end of the valley was dying down as the planes expended their ordnance against the few targets located by the airborne controllers.

  I called for the evacuation choppers just about the same time they decided to alert me their fuel was running low.

  “We’re inbound, Bravo Six. Be at your location in five. What’s the situation at your LZ?”

  I hesitated, afraid the chopper pilots would chicken out if I told them just how bad it might be when they showed up, but decided they deserved the truth. These were 101st Airborne helicopter crews, and there were none better.

  “It’s liable to be hotter than hell, Eagle Three-six. We’ve seen several NVA moving our way. We’re trying to pin them down, but be on your toes. They’re on a little knob about three hundred meters to my one-three-five direction.”

  “Roger,” was the laconic reply. “I’ll have the door gunners alerted. You have any casualties?”

  “Negative, just one AF KIA that we recovered from the crash scene. Couldn’t find the other pilot.”

  “Damn, too bad. Well, here we come. Be ready to enplane as soon as we touch down.”

  “Roger. You don’t have to worry about that,” I answered. That was no exaggeration. You couldn’t believe how fast scared men could scramble onto a waiting chopper when it was their only way home.

  Just as I spotted the first chopper darting over the hills behind us, a sniper round pinged off the ground at my feet.

  “Covey,” I screamed into the radio, “those bastards are at it again. You’ve got to put their heads down for couple of minutes so we can get out of here.”

  “Roger, Bravo Six. I’ve got a couple of slow-movers with me carrying fire. I’ll lay ’em on a north-south pass, and the flames and smoke should cover you.”

  “Roger, Covey. Sounds good.” Slow-movers were propeller-driven airplanes, as opposed to jets, or fast-movers. Carrying fire meant they had napalm to drop on the target. The jellied gasoline was a fearsome weapon, burning everything it touched. The NVA hated it; I loved it.

  The two A-1Es came lumbering in, low and slow, dropping four silver tanks that blossomed into a massive fireball of black and orange, swirling around the rising, expanding demon of fire in the center of the maelstrom. There would not be a peep from anybody on the hill the rest of the time we were on the ground.

  “Way to go, Covey,” I said into the mike. “You creamed ’em good. Give a well done to the Spad drivers (A-1E pilots).”

  I was watching the two airplanes turn to the right, in perfect tandem, as I talked to the overhead controller.

  Suddenly, the trailing A-1E spouted a long streamer of black smoke and nosed upside down, straight for the ground.

  My heart lodged itself in my throat. I couldn’t speak or move. All my focus was on the diving plane. It looked like a toy, falling back after being thrown in the air by a child. Tragically, it was real. The terrified crew was riding it down to a shattering, fiery death.

  I tried to reach out with my mind and hold it up. I really tried, but to no avail. The plane smashed into the ground and exploded much like the bombs it had just dropped.

  With heavy heart, I reported to the spotter. “Covey, one of the A-1s just bought the farm. About three klicks north of the drop zone.”

  “Roger, Bravo Six. Any sign of a parachute?” The voice was as calm as if he were directing Sunday traffic at church.

  “Negative, Covey. He rode it in. The plane exploded in a million pieces.”

  “Roger. I’ll make a pass and check it out. Call as soon as you’re all picked up or if you get any more ground fire.”

  “Roger, Covey. And thanks.”

  “No sweat, Bravo Six. All in a day’s work.”

  We scrambled on the hovering choppers and pulled away from the crash site. In the distance, two slender spirals of smoke marked where two brave men had died that afternoon while trying to save a man they didn’t know, had never met, or even seen.

  I thought of the Biblical saying: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

  I should have been filled with bitterness at the deaths of fine men, highly skilled, superbly trained warriors, loved and missed by their families at home, families that would never see them again, except in photographs. Thankfully, all I felt was admiration and pride at their unselfish bravery, their dedication to saving others regardless of the risk to themselves. What magnificent beings American soldiers can be when the chips are down.

  I honor their memory still today.

  12

  Bomb Damage Assessments

  or

  Run for Your Life, Charlie Brown

  “Nick, I’m sending you back up to FOB One.” Major Skelton held up his hand to stop my protest. “I know, I know, you just got back. Sorry, but something else has come up.” He flashed his most easygoing grin at me. “I hear you had a pretty easy time of it last trip, anyway.”

  I grinned back. “Guilty as charged, I guess. Still, it’s just tough to live up there in such close quarters. Life here has softened me. What’s up?”

  The major tapped his fancy pointer at an area of the map showing northern Laos. We had already nicknamed the region “the Bottleneck.” It was one of the exit points of the Ho Chi Minh trail from Laos into the northern section of South Vietnam. What the newspapers called the Ho Chi Minh trail was in reality a spiderweb of trails and rough-cut roads leading down from the western side of North Vietnam through eastern Laos and Cambodia. There the trails branched out into western South Vietnam, from the border between North and South clear to the South China Sea. Dealing with NVA infiltration would have been much easier if there had been just a single trail to plug.

  “Air force HQ has informed us that they have programmed a series of B-52 Arc Light (the code name for B-52 bombing missions) strikes on suspected supply caches and truck parks in this area, and they want us to run some BDAs on the results.” BDA is the abbreviation for bomb-damage assessment. For reasons I’ll soon explain, nobody liked doing them.

  “Oh shit,” I groused. “Major, you sure know how to make my day, don’t you?” I gave him my most appealing grin, but it did not work. He had made his mind up and, once the major had done that, no baby-faced captain was going to whine his way out of the job.

  The mighty bombers, usually flying all the way from Guam, or perhaps Udorn, in the southern tip of Thailand, could drop fifty thousand pounds of bombs per plane. The impact zone would be several hundred yards wide and two to three miles long. The damage done was incredible, and causing it was quite an expensive undertaking.

  Since the bombing campaign started, the army had been tasked with providing teams of men to run BDAs through the impact zone, evaluating the e
ffects of the bombing strike.

  In theory, it should have been an easy and relatively safe operation. A team of men would be waiting in helicopters, orbiting a few klicks away from the bomb run. They would swoop down on the target right after the bombers made their strike and offload at one end of the impact zone. The helicopters would then fly to the far end of the drop site and orbit, awaiting the BDA team’s arrival.

  The men on the BDA would run a zigzag course through the bombed area, looking at the damage and attempting to get an idea of the effects of the bombing mission. The idea was to get in and get out before whatever dazed enemy was left alive nearby had time to react.

  A five-hundred- to thousand-pound bomb going off in your face or right over your head was enough to leave a person groggy, if not very dead. Factor in the effect of a hundred and fifty or more striking all around, and you see that Arc Light strikes were a first-class example of high-tech carnage—which is what the big shots somewhere way to the rear were thinking when they pronounced the Arc Light BDA mission a safe one. But all things dreamed up by thinkers instead of doers usually have a slight flaw in the “best laid plans,” and the BDA operation had a beauty: Although it was true that anyone caught in the blast zone was too busy counting his fingers and toes to be much of a problem, anyone just far enough away not to be affected yet close enough to get there in a reasonable amount of time came a-running to see if there was anything he could do to help those caught in the blast zone.

  As people who were on the same side of the SOBs who had just dumped the deadly explosives on their heads, the assessment team was not going to be received in a friendly manner by the NVA. Thus, the BDA missions became a dash to get in and get out before the NVA rescuers arrived in numbers far greater than the four men involved by our side.

  For some reason, that never occurred to the bright boys who dreamed up the BDA assignment originally. Nobody really wanted to do the damned job, and nearly everyone who did complained about the dash to the far end of the drop zone. The unofficial name for a BDA job became “Run for your life, Charlie Brown.”