The sparse cover thickened as I advanced up the hill, jumping over logs and recklessly pushing bushes aside. I don’t know what drove me to move at such a dangerous pace because I could easily have stumbled into an enemy position without knowing it. At the edge of a bombed-out clearing I tripped and then scrambled to a fallen tree to rest. What a view opened up before me! I was on the summit watching the action below. “Below me?” I silently screamed. I had run past the left flank of our attacking force! I turned around to tell the others but no one was there. They hadn’t followed me. I was alone. I thought about going back down but realized I would risk our guys shooting me, so I stayed. Besides, exhaustion had suddenly taken command of my body and I could barely move. It became an effort just to turn my head to see if anyone was near, friend or foe.
Thirty paralyzing minutes passed while I watched the assault continue. The GIs made tremendous progress, killing the enemy in their bunkers where many had chosen to stay and die. Scores of other NVA ran off the western slope toward the Laotian border, a mile away. The fleeing enemy could easily be seen from the air where our helicopters directed a wall of artillery, mortars, air strikes, and automatic weapons fire on top of them.
As GIs swept past the front of me, I felt safe enough to stand up and be identified as one of their own. Then someone from behind called me by name, it was Howard Siner. Lennie Person was with him.
“Where’s the rest of the platoon?” I asked, looking past them.
“We are the platoon,” said Siner. “Nearly everyone was pinned down at the bottom but some of our guys are coming up now.”
“Were you two up here long?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes or so. We got separated but just now found each other. We stayed out of sight until more people showed up.”
We figured that the three of us were the first ones to the top. We must have been concealed within a hundred feet of each other without knowing it.
“See Lennie,” I said, encouraging him with a pat on the shoulder, “you made it to the top without a scratch. Ten years from now you can tell your kids all about this.”
“Yeah, right,” he responded faintly, then took two steps backward and stared at me. “What the hell happened to you? You look like shit.”
After everything that happened to me, I guessed that I probably did look bad. My face resembled a raccoon’s from rubbing the dirt out of my eyes. My bandoleers had caught fire and my shirt had a hole burnt in the middle of it. There was a mix of dried mud and urine stains on my pants, and some of Anderson’s blood had smeared on me. I had quite a tale to tell, so when more platoon members gathered around, they asked and I told it as dramatically as possible with a slight stretching of the truth. I figured my story would either endear me to them or be my final undoing.
“I look like shit,” I began, strutting back and forth and pointing angrily, “because I had to take this side of the hill by myself. Take a good look at me. I got shot in the face, shot in the chest, and I didn’t even take time out to piss. When I got into the tree line and called for you guys to follow me, nobody did. I was up here alone until Siner and Person showed up. Thanks for nothing guys. This is the last hill I’ll attack by myself.”
Everyone was dumbfounded. That little performance turned out to be one of the best things I could have done for myself. When word got around about what happened to me, I was regarded as one of the bravest men in the platoon. This respect may not have been exactly deserved, but as a squad leader it was welcome because the men under my command would be less likely to doubt my abilities and may even adopt my cautious approach to the war.
The fighting had dwindled to sporadic rifle fire and an occasional grenade explosion as our infantry continued swarming over the hill. Cobra gunships roamed the skies firing rockets, mini-guns, and grenades into the remaining enemy positions. The battle was ending. We had won. The final assault had lasted nearly six hours.
Tired, sweaty, and filthy soldiers straggled past us. Sergeant Krol was with them but he wasn’t tired. He wasn’t even dirty.
“Pork Chop Hill was tougher than this,” he said, referring to the famous Korean War fight. “That was a real battle.”
We all looked at Krol in disgust. “I’ll kill him,” grumbled Person.
“No, I’ll kill him,” I whispered, not sure I didn’t really mean it.
“Forget it,” said Siner. “He’s nothing but an asshole Lifer. He hopes you’ll try something. That’s his style. Don’t let him get to you.”
Our company set up positions on the hilltop alongside several huge bomb craters, each deep enough to park a truck in. We were told Lieutenant Bruckner had been wounded and that Krol would take charge of the platoon until a new leader was assigned. It was just what we didn’t need; Krol having complete authority over us.
All shooting had ceased by mid-afternoon, but the area remained a flurry of activity. Misplaced GIs criss-crossed the summit trying to locate their units. Cobra gunships and agile Loach helicopters also remained on station to prevent an NVA counter attack. As the regrouping continued, Krol ordered me to help get the walking wounded down the hill for evacuation. Near the bottom was a small LZ from which Loaches flew casualties to firebases for transfer to medevac choppers.
As we headed down through the area were the 3/187th was first hit ten days earlier, I got a good look at the mountain. I estimated the main battlefield covered almost a half of a square mile, more if the draws and ridges were included. There was no trail to follow, just a desolate ridge lined with a dozen body bags, each containing the remains of a slain GI. The dead NVA, and pieces of them, were scattered on either side of the ridge. They were uncovered and some had begun decomposing. The stench of decaying flesh, the shriveled NVA corpses, the silent body bags, and the massive destruction would be my lasting memory of this hellish hill.
With no trees left to shade us, the late afternoon air became unbearably humid. We waited around the LZ just to feel the helicopter rotor wash from each landing and takeoff. After the last of the wounded had safely gone, I began to feel faint. Then, before I could sit down, I blacked out. I was quickly revived by the piercing scent of smelling salts. I looked up as a medic hovering over me joked, “Hey buddy, no one leaves here that easy.”
A few minutes later we started up the hill when I remembered the M-16 magazine that had saved my life and decided to go back for it. I found the magazine right where I had tossed it. It was twisted out of shape with a jagged tear across the middle. I knew the magazine was something unique, so I slipped it into my side pants pocket where it stayed for the next three months.
The mountain had become an anthill of soldiers. Everywhere, GIs were digging in. There were also a few souvenir hunters checking over the dead NVA and their bunkers. Interpreters later found evidence of the enemy’s determination with commands sewn onto their uniforms reading, “KILL AMERICANS” and “STAY AND FIGHT AND DON’T RUN.”
When I got back to the top, there was so much brass stumbling around that it looked like the Pentagon had opened a branch office, everyone wanting to be a part of the action. There was also a square cardboard sign pinned with a bayonet to a blackened tree trunk reading, “HAMBURGER HILL.” A weary Grunt trudged over and attached a note to the bottom that read, “Was it worth it?” I stood staring at the sign, contemplating the question, when an officer ran over and tore the note off. “Bastards,” I mumbled to myself, thinking that we at least deserved the right to express some feelings.
“Sergeant Wiknik!” Krol yelled, waving me to come over. “Pick three men to go with you to the bottom and bring back some C-rations.”
“C-rations at the bottom?” I questioned, as if I didn’t hear him right. “If the Brass could be flown up here, why can’t our food be flown up too?”
“Our rations are already at the bottom!” he yelled. “So don’t argue!”
Everyone within earshot stopped what they were doing and turned their attention on us. I have never hated anyone in my life but at that moment
Krol became an exception. His uncaring attitude for sitting on the GI in the body bag and his unwillingness to acknowledge our performance in the battle—especially after his lack of participation in it—was all I could stand.
“I was just down there!” I angrily shouted back at him. “Pick someone else for a change! I’m not going!”
“As your platoon leader, I am giving you a direct order! Now do it!”
The situation turned into a staring contest until Freddie Shaw and two other platoon members appeared between us.
“C’mon Wiknik, we’ll go down with you. Let’s get them C-rations. Everyone’s hungry.”
Their action may have saved Krol’s life. I had allowed my anger and frustration to get the best of me and was ready to blow him away because he was deliberately harassing me. We turned to go down the hill as a chopper hovering near the top dropped off our rucksacks. I moaned to myself, remembering how Siner and I had hidden our rucksacks in the bushes so they wouldn’t get mixed up with all the others. Now there is no worry about them getting mixed up because they’ll be hidden there forever.
Again I passed where the body bags had been. The slain GIs were gone now, airlifted to Graves Registration to be prepared for their final journey home. The dead NVA were still lying where they fell and would be left there to rot.
We passed other GIs carrying C-ration cases up the hill, looking more like safari porters than victorious warriors. We went to the same LZ the wounded were flown out of, only now it looked more like a miniature supply depot with stacks of ammunition boxes, dozens of C-ration cases, medical supplies, and water canisters. Hoisting a case onto my shoulder, I gazed at what would be my third trip up the hill, wondering if the day would ever end.
It was nearly dusk when we dropped the C-rations at the platoon CP. When I returned to my position, I was encouraged to find that Siner and Person had finished digging in. They had also leveled a place for me to sleep.
We finally got the chance to talk about the events of the day.
“Man, look at this place,” commented Person, “Talk about destruction. How did the Gooks survive such a pounding?”
“They didn’t,” answered Siner solemnly. “There’s body parts all over this hill. I think the NVA decided to make a stand here to prove they weren’t afraid to pour their people into it.”
“I guess you guys know that Anderson got wounded,” I added, “but he should be okay.”
“Did you hear how Lieutenant Bruckner got wounded?” Person asked. We hadn’t, so he continued. “Apparently he was pinned down behind some rocks, so when he returned fire, he didn’t look to see what he was aiming at. The stupid jerk shot into the rocks and one of the bullets ricocheted back into his leg.”
“Theoretically,” Siner surmised, “Bruckner has a self-inflicted wound. He can get court-martialed for that, maybe even lose his commission.”
“And to think the bastard yelled at me for shooting that bush back at Phong Dien,” I joked. It was the first time we had laughed all day and it felt good.
I had just begun to relax when a supply chopper began dropping cases of C-rations and canisters of water at our company CP. After all our humping up and down the hill, our supplies were finally brought to us like they should have been in the first place. I didn’t react. I couldn’t. I was so frustrated that my brain went numb along with the rest of me. I was truly thankful to be alive, but so emotionally drained that I felt closer to dead.
Some positions didn’t bother pulling any guard duty that night. With so many GIs crowded on the hill we would have been just guarding each other. However, we were advised to stay in our positions and not move around because it was possible a few NVA could still be alive in tunnels beneath us.
I felt safe with Siner and Person nearby so sleep came easier than expected. During the night I dreamed I had lost my entrenching tool and needed to find it to dig a fighting position. At the same time, Person was having a nightmare that the NVA were coming out of the ground to kill us as we slept. I began fumbling around Person’s body, touching him several times until he awoke with a blood-curdling scream. When he grabbed me around the chest, I shrieked too. Neither of us knew what was going on as we tumbled into a bomb crater locked together. The entire hilltop woke up to the clamor. I think Person was on the verge of killing me when Siner jumped in to pull us apart.
At first light, more rucksacks were choppered in. I told the door-gunner where mine and Siner’s were hidden and asked if he could have someone find them. Eventually, our rucksacks were located, but as they were being flown back, the helicopter began to take enemy ground-fire. To avoid getting hit, the pilot steered the chopper into a steep bank. That’s when our rucksacks slid out the door, disappearing into the jungle. If some lucky Gook finds them, he’ll be taking pictures with my camera and reading my letters from home.
At mid morning, our company was airlifted off the hill. As each chopper rose above the disfigured mountain, the survivors glanced down to a nightmare that had come to life. A Presidential Unit Citation for extraordinary heroism was awarded to the twenty-one infantry, medical, artillery, and aviation units that took part in the battle. The entire operation claimed sixty American lives and 480 wounded. Another twenty-five were missing and presumed dead. My company lost one man killed and eight wounded. The 29th NVA Regiment lost an estimated 600 killed. Though we didn’t know it at the time, Hill 937 was not regarded as a piece of real estate worth keeping. Within a few days it was deserted by American troops.
The rapid abandonment of such hard-won territory continued to fuel the growing lack of support for the war, which in turn caused President Nixon to accelerate his plans for systematic troop withdrawals from South Vietnam. Ironically, only one month after the battle, NVA forces were reported to be moving back onto Hamburger Hill.
“The A Shau is a very bad place.”
CHAPTER 4
The A Shau Valley
US ground troop operations in the A Shau Valley were strengthened by fire support bases strategically located throughout the area. Firebase names like Eagle’s Nest, Berchtesgaden, and Currahee evoked connections to the 101st Airborne’s storied past during WWII. To us Grunts, the names had little effect in stirring our pride. Instead, the bases were nothing more than tiny safety islands by day and mortar magnets by night. Our assignment after Hamburger Hill was at Firebase Airborne.
Perched high atop a mountain overlooking the valley, Firebase Airborne was about the size of a football field. It was encircled by irregular rows of concertina wire, sandbagged bunkers, trenches, and fighting positions. The firebase housed batteries of 60mm and 81mm mortars, as well as 105mm and 155mm artillery pieces manned by units of the the 211th and 319th Field Artillery. Every fire mission was coordinated through a tactical operations center, which was located in the command bunker. When at maximum strength, 150 men defended Airborne. There were no comforts there—no bunks, no showers, and no hot food. A rarely used generator provided electricity only to the command bunker when necessary. As with most firebases, Airborne was accessible only by helicopter or foot.
Our arrival at Airborne brought congratulatory handshakes from the artillerymen who monitored and provided some of the fire support for the Hamburger Hill battle. Some said they felt safer knowing we would be guarding them. The battle was a bigger deal than we thought, and several Cherry replacements were in awe of us and what we had done there. Their respect was evident in how they kept their distance, but we didn’t want to be treated differently. The real heroes were found in the 3/187th Infantry who suffered through the siege for the entire ten days.
I did delight in the special attention I received when word got around about the M-16 magazine that had saved my life. A group of unknown GIs had sought me out to get a look at it.
“Hey Sergeant,” one of them asked. “Can we see that M-16 magazine that everyone’s talking about?”
“Sure,” I proudly answered, offering it for all to see.
Each man carefully examined
the magazine as they passed it around.
Then one of them rubbed it over his body as if it were a talisman.
“Will you take fifty bucks for it?” he asked, hesitating to give it back.
“Thanks, but it’s not for sale.”
“I’ll give you a hundred,” he insisted.
“No,” I sternly answered. “It’s a special souvenir I plan to take home. Besides, the power of the magazine can’t be bought. It has to be a gift or a blessing.”
He looked at me in a funny way, as if I made sense, then handed it back. My guys knew I was kidding, but if a superstitious GI thought he could buy good luck, then he might get careless and put himself in danger.
Shortly after our company settled in, the long arm of the military law caught up with me. The Article 15 I received for sleeping on guard duty when we were in the flatlands needed my signature to make it part of the official record. Captain Hartwell waved the document in my face demanding that I sign the admission of guilt.
“I’m not signing that,” I said, glancing away. “No one woke me up so how could I have crashed?”
“Everyone else involved already signed because they knew they were wrong,” he scolded me. “If you refuse, I’ll personally see that this is elevated to a court-martial.”
“But no one woke me up,” I pleaded, knowing he only wanted to intimidate me into signing.
“Sleeping on guard duty in a war zone is a serious offense. If you don’t want any bad-time, you’d better sign it.”
“Bad-time” was the magic word. If I ended up in the stockade, I’d have to make up the time lost to a jail sentence to complete my tour of duty. Not wanting one extra minute in Vietnam, I signed the paper. A few yards away, Sergeant Krol gave me an evil smile, just to let me know how things are done in the Army. I was disgusted with myself for allowing Krol such satisfaction.
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