The NVA had three distinct advantages over us: they knew the terrain, our troop strength, and our approximate location. Not wanting to walk into another ambush, we got off the trail to cut our own route into the jungle. That way, we hoped we could surprise the enemy instead of them surprising us.
To penetrate the undergrowth, our machete-wielding point man slashed at everything in his path. This new route was supposed to conceal us, but the steady chink of the machete advertised our location. To make matters worse, the thick vegetation slowed forward movement to a crawl, forcing us to rotate exhausted point men every fifteen minutes. As we snaked along, we soon realized how clumsy a loosely packed rucksack was. The hanging vines seemed to have claws, which snagged anything protruding from our packs. Canteens were pulled loose, M-60 ammo belts broke free and helmets were knocked off heads. Every so often, a branch let go by the man in front would slap me in the face. By the time I recovered, he had disappeared into the thick jungle and I had to play catch-up.
The foliage eventually became too thick to continue, so we set up for the night where we stood. It was impossible to form a perimeter defense, so we simply squeezed into a twisted line of three-man positions. No one bothered with claymore mines or trip flares because there was no way the enemy could get near us without being detected. The dense jungle proved to be more effective than concertina wire. Darkness came quickly under the thick canopy that obscured the sky. A light breeze kept us comfortable throughout the night. Phosphorescent fungi on the ground emitted an eerie green glow, providing enough scattered light to estimate the lay of the land. It was creepy as hell.
A few hours after we settled in, the men on guard woke everyone because they heard a strange noise in the distance. It sounded like a moronic NVA chanting a garbled “Fuck you,” but instead it came out as “Huk Hoo.” The shrill outcry became louder as it closed on our location. Did they actually know where we were? Everyone prepared for action. Suddenly, directly alongside us, a foot-long lizard scampered up a tree crying out several high-pitched shrieks: “Huk Hoo! Huk Hoo!” We laughed at our own fears. This peculiar creature sounded human as it scampered its way through the darkness in search of food and companionship. We enjoyed the almost nightly contact with the harmless reptiles, which we nicknamed the “Fuck You Lizards.”
The next morning we continued slashing our way until we broke out onto a different NVA trail. From that day on, we followed established trails because they were the easiest, quietest method of travel, though probably not the safest. Besides, in our search for the enemy, we had little other choice. The NVA would be found on or near the trails and paths, not in the middle of tangled undergrowth.
By now, our company traveled far enough from the LZ and deep enough into the jungle to where the NVA could no longer be sure of our location, losing their major advantage over us. That gave us the opportunity to employ our own style of trail warfare. As our main force slowly advanced, alternating squads remained behind for fifteen minutes. These men provided rear protection and early warning in case we were being followed. If we came upon a trail junction or knoll offering good fields of fire, we set up platoon-size ambushes for the day. At dusk, everyone regrouped into our company-size unit. Despite the soundness of these tactics we never saw an NVA soldier, which made us wonder if we really had eluded them.
As we pressed deeper into the jungle, the vegetation thinned and the terrain became more rugged. The trail followed a ridgeline with sides so steep that it was like walking on the peak of a barn roof. That forced us to set up oval-shaped night perimeters directly on the footpath. All our machine guns were placed on the trail to provide maximum firepower at the most likely avenue of enemy approach. Judging by the terrain, it seemed unlikely the enemy would come from any direction other than the trail. But to be safe, we also put out claymore mines and trip flares.
We moved into four-man positions on the steep slope with our heels dug into the ground. Lying practically vertical, we had no idea of how we were going to sleep without tumbling downhill. Noise discipline prevented us from digging in or leveling off the ground. The only thing to do was to brace our rucksacks against the butt of the trees and try to sleep curled around them.
The company CP didn’t have to worry about such problems because they set up their position in the center of the trail where the ground was flat and good for sleeping. However, their location had one major drawback. If we were attacked, the CP was most vulnerable to the enemy. Luckily, the nights were uneventful, although uncomfortable.
Each morning, our first task was to retrieve the trip flares and claymores. The devices were placed about fifty feet from the perimeter, so two men at a time went out to collect them. PFC Norman Keoka, a native Hawaiian who, at a glance could pass for a Vietnamese, got the feeling he was being watched. When he looked up, he spotted two armed NVA soldiers seventy-five feet away walking toward him. The Gooks must have thought our guy was on their side. It took Keoka a few seconds to catch on to what was happening because no one ever expects the NVA to walk right up to them. Suddenly, the enemy soldiers realized they were practically on top of a US Army position. The instant the NVA spun around to flee, Keoka opened fire on them. Behind him, a dozen GIs instinctively joined in. The one-sided hail of gunfire was intense but inaccurate. The shooters gave chase for several hundred feet but the enemy soldiers escaped.
Captain Hartwell gathered twenty men and prepared to continue the pursuit. Questioning the wisdom of us going up the trail, I asked our new Lieutenant to recommend a different tactic.
“Lieutenant Pizzuto,” I began, “those two Gooks may be the point for a larger enemy force, and since our shooting gave our position away, they’re probably expecting us to go looking for them. We could be walking into an ambush.”
“What do you suggest?” he asked in an almost uninterested fashion.
“I think the first thing we should do is fire some artillery up there. If not that, the vegetation looks thin enough so a couple of squads could parallel either side of the trail for a thousand feet or so. That way, we might be able to get an idea of what’s waiting for us.”
“I will not go to the Captain with dumb ideas like those,” he said in a snobbish tone. “I’ve been warned about you and how you feel it’s necessary to challenge our tactics. Unlike you, I’ve got every confidence in the Captain’s decision. He knows what he’s doing.” As the patrol moved out I didn’t say anything else, hoping that I was worried about nothing.
A few minutes after the last man left the perimeter there was a huge explosion at the point followed by a heavy exchange of AK-47 and M-16 rifle fire. The rest of the company sat helplessly behind while the short firefight died out. Minutes later, the patrol returned carrying the point man; he had a horrible face and neck wound. I was shocked to recognize him as one of the GIs who rubbed my mangled Hamburger Hill M-16 magazine over himself for good luck. A second GI was shot in the shoulder but could walk on his own.
Before I could tell Pizzuto “I told you so,” our platoon was ordered up the trail. We quickly headed out with Howard Siner, Stan Alcon, and myself at the point taking turns sidestepping the trail and ducking behind trees. We reached the ambush site with no resistance. Directly ahead was a small bunker at a trail junction. We cautiously crept forward until suddenly, Siner pulled the pin on a grenade and charged the position. He rolled on the ground and threw the frag into the bunker entrance. Seconds later, smoke and debris belched out of the opening. Then Siner sprayed a burst of rock n’ roll into it. Alcon and I rushed to assist Siner, but the bunker was empty. The Gooks had blown their ambush on the first patrol and ran off. An escape route behind the bunker allowed them to retreat unnoticed. There was no telling which way they had gone, so we left a squad behind to watch the trail junction while the rest of us returned to the company perimeter.
A medevac was called for the wounded men, but a thick and low bank of clouds prevented the chopper from locating our position. By the time the helicopter found us, an hour had p
assed and the point man was dead. As the chopper hovered above, we fired into the jungle to suppress any NVA close enough to take pot shots at it. At the same time, the dead point man and the wounded GI were winched up in a basket. I was so disgusted I took my frustrations out by shooting into a small tree until it fell over.
After the medevac flew away, our company continued up the trail. Our platoon was at the end of the line, so we quietly watched everyone file by. Lieutenant Pizzuto wandered over with a stupid grin on his face. “This is the same type of resistance the 3/187th encountered as they worked toward Hamburger Hill.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, unbelieving.
“I read the after-action report before coming out to the field.”
“Is that right?” I said in disgust. “Listen, most of us were on that hill, and we’re not ready to go through that again. Hell, you weren’t even there. You don’t know what it was like.”
“That doesn’t matter. Our job is to find and kill the enemy. If it takes another Hamburger Hill, we’ll just do it again.” There was no sense reasoning with Pizzuto. He’s just as narrow-minded as the rest of the Lifers.
Late that afternoon we set up for the night on a hilltop where three minor footpaths converged onto the main trail. The area was ideal for a defensive position with gentle slopes, sparse brush, and easy foxhole digging. About an hour before dark a soaking rain fell and a thick fog rolled in behind it. Visibility was nearly zero and the heavy rain falling on the leaves made it impossible to detect any movement outside our positions. The weather forced us to stay on 50% alert throughout the night.
The rain and fog continued in the morning. Each man had a poncho, but after a night of steady rain nearly everyone was cold, wet, and miserable. A few men set up poncho tents during the night, but Captain Hartwell made us take them down because the water reflecting on wet rubber could be spotted by the NVA. He also believed we were not on our best guard if we worried too much about keeping dry. However, the anti-tent rules only applied to the perimeter positions. Our superiors erected their own poncho tents, saying they were necessary to keep maps and radios dry. That was probably true, but the obvious double standard was frustrating—especially when Lieutenant Pizzuto and his RTO only ventured into the rain when they absolutely had too. The real clincher was when Krol set up a hammock under his tent so he wouldn’t have to lay on the damp ground like the rest of us.
The wet weather also increased the local wildlife activity. Two-inch long blood-sucking leeches were everywhere. The ugly little nocturnal worms are masters at attaching themselves to exposed flesh without being noticed until morning. The only way to get a leech to release its grip was to burn it with a cigarette or douse it with bug juice. Hidden leeches gorged with blood swelled to twice their size before eventually dropping off. The only evidence of their attack was a harmless pea-sized hickey that disappeared in a few days. For protection, shirt and pants legs were tucked in and sleeves were rolled down and buttoned. The funniest leech encounter occurred when one attached itself under Lennie Person’s lower lip while he was sleeping. When Lennie found it, he panicked and jumped around trying to pull off the slimy creature. Whenever Lennie yanked on the leech, his lower lip stretched out as far as it would go. It was hysterical to watch, but Lennie was petrified by what he called a “vampire leech.” A well-placed squirt of bug juice finally ended the episode.
As wet as it was, we continued to send out patrols two or three times a day. One platoon ambushed three enemy soldiers, killing two and wounding the third. The wounded NVA was shot in the back and could not move his legs. To administer first aid, the medic cut his pants off. When the medic finished, there wasn’t enough left of the pants to put back on, so the NVA was left naked from the waist down. The enemy soldier was young, possibly a teenager, and totally helpless. He was scared to death at being surrounded by so many Americans. Our Kit Carson scout interpreter was unable to get any information from him except that he didn’t know where he was or why his buddies left him behind. He must not have known his companions were dead. Nervous, wounded, and half-naked, the NVA could have been a candidate for a cruel attack, but no one bothered him. The young soldier was simply a prisoner of war who required a 24-hour guard.
The weather conditions made for long dull hours. When a platoon was out on patrol, the rest of the company just hung around. Everything was wet, so we could not play cards or write letters. Most guys made hot chocolate or coffee and snacked on C-rations. We didn’t bother rationing ourselves because we thought the weather would clear in time for the normal three-day re-supply. As the days passed, nearly everyone ran out of food. The first day without a meal wasn’t bad, but on the second day the hunger began in earnest. For the first time I realized what a powerful force an empty stomach is. The coffee and chocolate mix were long gone and our cravings were not satisfied by plain water. There were probably edible plants in the area, but no one knew what they were. The need for food reduced us to chewing and swallowing gum, lapping up teaspoon-size packets of sugar and, as a last resort, eating toothpaste. To keep our spirits up, we guessed which toothpaste had the highest nutritional value, the fluoride brand or the mint-flavored brand. After eating half a tube, no one cared if they ever brushed their teeth again. Our hunger problem brought out the worst in some people. One enterprising GI sold his hoarded C-rations to the highest bidder. He made some money, but lost a few friends in the process.
On my platoon’s turn to go on patrol, Lieutenant Pizzuto decided to follow one of the small paths that veered off the main trail. The path led to a steep overlook where the NVA could post an observer to watch activity on the next ridge. There was no one at the overlook because it was too foggy to even see the ridge. We followed the path diagonally down the hill until the slope leveled off. As we neared the bottom, we found ourselves on the edge of a small NVA bunker complex. We quickly spread out to search the area when Freddie Shaw found a spilled bowl of rice near a bunker entrance. On the chance an NVA was hiding there, a hand grenade was pitched inside. After the explosion, Shaw checked it out. The bunker was empty.
Each bunker was approached in the same manner: sneak up carefully, toss in a grenade, wait for the explosion, and check it out. There were no NVA. They must have seen or heard us coming and bugged out. We finished examining the area but turned up nothing worth reporting.
We headed back up the path but as the slope got steeper it became impossible to walk. The soaked ground and our foot traffic had turned the path into a slippery mess. Without any traction, everyone kept falling. The only way to climb the slope was by grabbing onto shrubs and vines and pulling ourselves up.
Dennis Silig, the new guy from New York, took a spill that ripped out the rear of his pants. He was about ten feet ahead of me, but because of the slope, his butt stayed at eye level. Whenever he leaned forward to grab a branch, his testicles swung into view. I thought it was funny and was smirking about it when Silig happened to look back at me. He seemed a little rattled, probably worried that I had been out in the bush too long and was beginning to think his ass looked good to me.
We returned to the company perimeter exhausted, covered with mud, and with our hands wrinkled from the rain. I wondered how the Gooks could stand it out there like this. When I got to my position, Howard Siner pulled me aside.
“Hey Sarge,” he whispered, “I think you should know that while we were out there today, Pizzuto had his M-16 set on rock n’ roll.”
“Are you sure?” I asked in disbelief. “He can’t be that stupid.”
“Maybe he was scared.”
“I don’t give a shit. What if he took a header in the mud? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I didn’t notice until we were almost back.”
I went to the platoon CP to check it out. His rifle was leaning against a tree and it was still set on full automatic. Whether he knew the weapon was off safe or not, he had violated everyone’s trust, which was just too important to ignore.
“
Lieutenant Pizzuto,” I said, trying to be diplomatic, “were you aware that your weapon was on full-auto while we were out?”
“Yes,” he admitted casually, walking over to switch it back onto safe. “I must have forgotten about it.”
“Sir, it was pretty greasy out there and you fell a couple of times. What if your weapon went off? You risked everyone’s safety.”
I was hoping Pizzuto would say I was right and that he would be more careful in the future. Instead, he glanced at Krol before chastising me.
“Look young man, I know what I’m doing out there.”
“Sir,” I began, just before he cut me off.
“Shut-up, Wiknik!” he shouted. Krol grinned with approval as Pizzuto continued. “Who are you to question me? I’m in charge of this platoon. I decide the tactics and how they are carried out. And just for your information, I had my weapon on full-auto so I could provide immediate return fire in case we were ambushed.”
“Lieutenant,” I groaned, “if we were ambushed, you would be needed to assess the situation, organize our defenses, and call in fire support. The men will shoot back.”
“NCOs like you are a disgrace,” he blurted, steering away from the subject. “If you don’t shape up, I’ll start proceedings to get you busted down to a Private. You got that?”
“I hear you, sir,” I sighed, knowing that if I ever got busted I would not be in any position to help the men.
“Good. Now get back to your squad and don’t bother me unless it’s for something important.”
Pizzuto and Krol were meant for each other. Regular Army all the way, except in their case, the initials R.A. stood for “Real Assholes.” With people like Pizzuto around we wouldn’t need the enemy attacking us. We could kill our own men just by being stupid and arrogant.
At least something good finally happened. During the night the sky cleared, ending six days of rain and fog. I never thought a star-filled night in Vietnam could be so beautiful. It meant we would soon get re-supplied.
Nam Sense Page 9