by Dale A. Dye
Waiting for the sutures takes a couple of hours and talking Senior Corpsman out of tagging me for evacuation occupies a little extra time while Steve searches out the battalion CP and tries to get a line on what happens next. By the time he returns I’m standing outside with the Docs and corpsmen watching a magnificent air show. Marine Skyhawks and Navy Crusaders from the bird farms out in the Tonkin Gulf are striking long sections of the Citadel walls. The roiling napalm strikes are luridly spectacular in the muggy air over Hue.
It’s on for tomorrow morning, Steve reports. ARVN Rangers and Marines are arriving in the city to support a general advance with two objectives in mind. We push in a southerly direction, clearing NVA along the route and sweeping them off the walls. And while we’re handling that risky chore, the ARVN will advance with the aim of surrounding the Imperial Palace at the heart of the Citadel complex. On the way back to the battalion, we spot Marines and sailors carrying huge radios and optics to direct naval gunfire as required during the push. Apparently, MACV is through fucking around with the stubborn gooks in Hue.
There’s not much to do back at Delta Company. Most of the grunts are resting, re-fitting, and re-packing for the big push. There’s some time to check my notebooks and ask around about a few follow-up interviews with some of the guys I’d noted for possible stories. About half of them are dead or evacuated. The remainder doesn’t feel much like talking. Spend a few hours obtaining a new rifle and fumbling around trying to clean it with a bandaged hand. Steve digs around in his pack for spices and cooks up a tasty C-ration meal that we share in little tastes and bites like an old married couple.
Spitting rain at dawn as the grunts go through the familiar ritual of donning their gear, testing its fit and feel. There will be little time for adjustments when the word comes to move. We watch small clutches of enlisted leaders being briefed and try to decide who might be best to accompany when the order comes. It won’t be long. We are hearing the weird Doppler shuffle of naval gunfire rounds headed for targets on the walls. We pull on two-piece rain suits and shimmy into our own gear. A flip of a Vietnamese coin decides the attachment issue. Steve will go with the first unit that moves, whatever that may be. I follow with the next one in trace.
Radios squawk and orders are barked: Time to get out there on the street and form up the assault line. Steve shuffles out into the misty air with the lead squad of the first platoon. By the time I move with a following unit, he’s nowhere in sight. At an intersection, my outfit makes a hard right which tells me we are headed for the walls. We are on line as they come into view and it’s heartening to see white phosphorous rounds—what everyone calls Willy Pete—impacting ahead of us, sending huge smoking, sparkling spears of burning chemical into the damp air. The assault line slows measurably as the shells crump and crack into long sections of the walls. We are walking on the gun-target line and everyone knows big shells from big guns have been known to fall short. Code of the Grunt. When it comes to fire support, more is always better…until some of that shit falls short…at which point none is best.
Word comes from the Naval Gunfire Party controlling the barrage: Rounds complete. We begin to spread out on line but the advance is held up by a firefight that breaks out on the left flank. A platoon moving parallel has hit a nest of NVA in some houses. We hold on a knee, leaning on our rifles, soaking in a warm, mild mist and staring at the walls now about a block away at the end of our street. Over on my right, Delta Six is going over a sketchy plan with Company Gunny and a clutch of platoon leaders.
“We’re now the right flank of the assault line.” He jabs a grimy finger at a drawing he’s made and covered against the wet with plastic from a radio battery. “We sweep and clear all the houses along this line then form up for a move on the southeast sector of the wall. ARVN Rangers are to our rear moving in the other direction. There’s supposed to be some Vietnamese Marines arriving on our right but nobody’s seen anything of them yet. Don’t let your people get hung up in the houses. Sweep through that shit and get ’em on line ASAP. We want a section of the eastern wall for leverage. Once we’ve got that, we hold and reorganize. On order, we push for the tower over this gate area right here.”
It’s called the Dong Ba Tower but “this gate area right here” will do for the grunts that have to take it. What most of them want to do is head south toward the Imperial Palace where the NVA flag flaps and taunts over the Citadel. It’s still up there, listlessly sagging, wet and ripped by bullets from anyone close enough to take a shot at it. Word is that symbolic mission will go to the Vietnamese who are supposedly somewhere with us inside the walls. The CO mentioned that in his briefing but it was fairly clear to all involved that if we just happened to get near enough and if the situation arises, he wants that flag replaced with ours. If 2/5 got away with it on the southside, there’s no reason 1/5 can’t get the Stars and Stripes flying over the Imperial Palace—at least for a while so everyone can see it before the ARVN haul it down and replace it with their own colors. Everyone gets the hint, but that objective lies to the south of us and we’ve got to deal with a pocket of hard-core defenders along the eastern stretch of the walls first. That’s the plan with Bravo Company closing from one direction and Delta from another.
What interested me most was the arithmetic. The Intelligence Officer related that there was still a major portion of the 6th NVA Regiment operating on the northside of Hue. Scratch a couple of battalions blown away on the southside. Figure the better part of at least two battalions still scrambling around over here; that comes to around 800 or so minus the ones we’ve killed so far—and nobody knows for sure how many that is. Draw a line, carry the two—best estimate is about a shit-pot full. And most of them are waiting for us somewhere up ahead.
While we wait for word on the Vietnamese Marines, the Navy sends a few more flights of aircraft to drop Snake Eye bombs followed by napalm canisters along a line to our front. It’s turning into a fire-support circus; the greatest show on earth unless you’re the geek that has to stick his head in the lion’s mouth. There’s a whole sector of the wall to our front full of roiling napalm flames. Some desultory cheers and get-somes from nervous grunts. Saltier guys with more time in The Nam just watch silently. They’ve seen gooks pop up after Arc Light strikes from high-flying B-52s. Gooks are veteran survivors. They’ve been doing that shit for 20 years.
“Stand by on the line…don’t be eyeballin’!” Company Gunny moves past me to alert the leading elements. There’s a flight of two Skyraiders inbound and ready to drop some really heavy ordnance in hopes of blowing a few chunks out of the walls. If they can do that, we will have a lot more ramps available to get up and into the fight. The prop-planes appear with a groaning buzz and make a dummy pass perpendicular to our line of advance. Despite being told to keep their heads down, everyone is rubber-necking to see if the big black shapes hung under the belly of the aircraft will do any helpful damage.
The next pass is the real deal. The Skyraiders dive with piston engines snarling. There’s a shattering roar and several of the closest grunts have their helmets blown off by the shock-wave. Windows in surrounding houses shatter, sending shards of glass flying everywhere. That gets our attention and everyone has stopped eye-balling by the time the second aircraft makes its pass.
Delta is on the move now and there are reports that Bravo Company to our left is approaching their sector of the eastern wall. While one platoon from Delta dives into the row of houses fronting the street that separates the wall from the interior, my platoon starts directly for a huge rent torn in the interior wall by the air-strike. A shower of rubble has fallen into the street and that’s the route we’ll take to climb the walls and kill the gooks. Assuming the flanking platoon eliminates resistance in the block of structures, and assuming we can all make it across the street, we should be up there shortly. And that’s when the Hue City mojo strikes.
The lead squad sprints across the street led by a little Puerto Rican guy named Rodrigue
s. He’s a couple of pages in my notebook and known to be both fearless and a bull-goose loony. The walls may have been significantly damaged by the air and naval gunfire strikes, but the NVA defending this sector were not. Two Marines go down hard and must be dragged to the rear as fire sweeps the streets. The only one left out there in defilade, just underneath the wall and hugging it tightly, is little Rodrigues and he’s putting on a show for the rest of us. He knows the NVA can’t hit him as long as he stays close to the wall and he’s paying no attention to Company Gunny who is yelling for him to get his ass back over to the other side of the street.
Rodrigues leans back to eyeball the enemy guns winking and blasting from bunkered positions on the wall above his position. Then he turns to look back at us with a huge grin and flips the bird to the enemy gunners. They can’t see the insult so they just keep pumping rounds at the rest of us hunkered down across the street. The next act in the Rodrigues Revue involves a couple of grenades which he pulls out of a pocket and arms. He’s standing there with his back to the wall and two live grenades in his hands. His grin widens and his dark eyebrows flash up and down calling our attention to his ballsy plan. With an underhand pitch he heaves both grenades up and over the wall. When he turns to view the results, he’s shocked to see both of his frags reappear accompanied by two Chicom grenades in a sizzling shower of high-explosive. Rodrigues just has time to leap for cover on the other side of the rubble when all four grenades burst in the air. Multiplication is the name of this game.
When Rodrigues reappears unhurt, we can see he’s really pissed. Waving at us and making a pistol sign with his hand, he points at the machinegun blazing away just to right of the ramp. Rodrigues wants covering fire for his next act. We get the picture when he pulls a LAAW rocket off his back and extends the tube getting it ready for firing. Apparently, he wants us to suppress the machinegunners so he can crawl up there with a LAAW and blast the bunker. If he succeeds the rest of us can probably make it across the street. The assault line opens up and a steady stream of fire impacts all around the bunker. Rodrigues starts to make his move and squad leaders are screaming to make sure none of us firing support accidentally hit him. It’s a tremendous display of marksmanship and fire discipline. And apparently Rodrigues trusts it as he begins to slowly crawl up the ramp on his belly.
None of us has ever seen a LAAW employed against a target that was less than five or ten meters from the muzzle but then none of us have ever seen a lot of things that are happening in Hue. Not trusting my aim with a damaged hand, I just watch as Rodrigues makes it up the ramp to a point directly under the bunker. He sneaks a quick peek and then raises the LAAW over his head. It’s a matter of point rather than aim. He wiggles around a little trying to get his legs and butt out of the back-blast area and then presses the firing switch.
The rocket roars right into the NVA bunker and blows out the back in a huge cloud of dust and debris. There is a moment of stunned silence and then a squad is sprinting across the street. All of them make it, so Company Gunny leads the remaining squad there to join them. If I live through whatever comes next, I will write something about the Puerto Rican lunatic that cleared the way for us. But that will have to come later. Right now Rodrigues is busy with Company Gunny who is loudly trying to decide on a decoration or a court-martial for the hero of the hour.
So Delta—and by extension everyone else in Hue City beside the NVA—now owns a chunk of the massive walls that surround the Citadel thanks to an admirable set of cojones on a little lance corporal from San Juan. All we’ve got to do now is fight our way along that wall until we reach the tower over the Dong Ba Gate. Radio reports we’ve done a little better on our end than Bravo Company over on the left. The move from here is on hold until battalion gets a couple of tanks up to support our advance. Nobody’s bitching much about the delay. Company Gunny is pushing more grunts up onto the wall to check and clear bunkers while he waits for word on the rest of the company clearing houses across the street. There is a line of NVA fighting positions to the rear of this area, so I decide to explore. That’s where I run into Philly Dog and Willis.
“Reporter Man! What in the fuck you doin’ up in this bad-ass town?” Philly Dog is just ducking out of an NVA bunker. The two gold teeth he’s so proud of glint from the shadows. He’s got his ever-present pearl-handled straight razor in one massive paw and an NVA officer’s pistol belt in the other. “Willis, get de fuck out here and drop a focal on dis shit!”
Dog’s best buddy, a skinny little black dude from Newark with hard, dark eyes and a pencil-thin mustache, ducks out of a nearby bunker where the rest of their squad is gathered. His eyes light up when he sees me and we do a little hand dance called The Dap. He’d taught me the intricate moves on an earlier op down in the An Hoa Basin. “I owe you one, Reporter Man!” Willis hands over an NVA belt featuring a buckle embossed with a Red Star that he’s just cut off a dead gook. “My old lady seen that story you wrote about me and Dog in the Newark News. You made me famous, motherfucker!”
Philly Dog pulls a pack of Kools out of his helmet band and we light up all around. Dog and Willis never change and somehow that’s reassuring in Hue were nothing seems standard or familiar. They are arguably two of the biggest bad-asses in the battalion and although each of them has a couple of Purple Hearts in their sketchy service records, the theory in 1/5 is that nothing can kill Philly Dog or Willis. Dog smokes and jokes, stropping his razor across a calloused palm and lets me know he digs the action in Hue City. “Dis here is my turf. Fuck all that jungle and rice paddy shit, my man. Dis be just like gang-bangin’ back on the block. Hue City or South Philly, dude, it be all the same shit to the Dog.” He sticks his razor back into the top of his size 13 jungle boot and leans back to suck a lungful of menthol smoke. “These dudes,” Dog motions at the other grunts, “they all got the wind up they ass, but me and Willis, my man, me and Willis be right at home in this fuckin’ Hue City.”
“See you’re still packing that razor, Dog. Get much chance to use it?”
“Fuckin’ A, Skippy!” Dog pats the razor and grins. “You know the rap, Reporter Man. “Philly Dog be cuttin’ these fuckin’ gooks three ways—long, deep and con-tin-u-ously.”
“Dog be a fuckin’ squad leader now, my man.” Willis sweeps his hand around the circle of grunts. “All these chuck-dudes be alive right now because me and Dog be runnin’ the show.” Looking around at the filthy faces of Dog’s under-strength rifle squad, it’s clear that no one is likely to argue with that.
“Lemme show you some shit you ain’t gonna believe, Reporter Man.” Philly Dog crushes his smoke and motions for me to follow him into the NVA bunker. By the faint glow of my map light, I see both of the previous occupants are dead but neither of them seems to have any bullet holes or other obvious damage. Dog digs around in a corner of the bunker and holds up something for me to examine. “We was supposed to be checkin’ for maps and papers and S-2 shit, but I found this.” It‘s a little plastic baggie that seems to contain some kind of granulated powder.
“Looks like sugar or salt or something.”
Dog tears open the baggie and dips his little finger into the substance. He grins and takes a little lick at the stuff. “Ain’t no fuckin’ salt, Reporter Man. This here is Horse, the Big H. These fuckin’ gooks been shootin’ smack.” He tosses the baggie into the dirt and retrieves a battered tin cup containing a flame-charred spoon and a cheap little eyedropper type syringe. “We been fightin’ a bunch of fuckin’ junkies! Believe it, Reporter Man. I seen enough of this shit to know what I’m sayin’. Can you dig it?”
Guess I can. And no wonder the two dead ones in this bunker look so peaceful and unharmed. Mostly likely dead of a heroin OD. It sets me to wondering how many other gooks in the city might be chasing the dragon. It’s just more of the jaw-dropping strangeness that seems to permeate everything in Hue. They keep telling us that the bad-ass NVA are all gut-check motivated, born in the north to die in the south and all that.
Not the kind of dudes you’d expect to be tripping on heroin in the midst of a big fight with the evil American Imperialists.
Dog just grins and leads me back into the light where his grunts are shouldering their gear. Willis is haranguing one of them, a stocky white guy with a matted thatch of blond fuzz on his cheeks and chin. “I done tole you what that shit was, you fuckin’ cracker!”
“What’s up?” Philly Dog picks up his pack and cuts a mean look at the assembled grunts. “Fuckin, Tyler…man. I done tole him not to be fuckin’ with that shit!” Willis clips the blond Marine on the helmet. “The dude done dumped smack into his motherfuckin’ coffee!”
“I looked like sugar, man! I thought you was just jivin’ us about heroin and shit.”
Dog grabs the C-ration can of coffee from the blonde kid and tosses the liquid. “You fucked up big time now, Tyler. You gonna be a stone-ass junkie, my man.” Tyler is the only one not laughing. He looks like he might faint. The laughter stops when we hear the clank and creak of tanks approaching from the other end of the street that runs parallel to the walls.
Hard-shell Crabs
We can feel the rumble in our bodies as we hunker in covered positions up on the wall watching two Marine M-48 tanks approach like a pair of circus elephants lumbering along nose to tail. The trailing tank brakes to a halt near a distant intersection while the leading vehicle grinds toward us. As it passes a closer intersection, a clutch of grunts sprints from cover and falls in behind it. There’s a lieutenant among them and Steve is following close on his heels. Company Gunny is shouting over the roar of the diesel and the whine of the transmission as the tank advances in ultra-low gear to keep from outrunning the infantry.
“We move when the tank gets just ahead of us. Stand by!” Gunny waves at Tank Lieutenant who waves back. Across the street and through the alleyways on the other side we can see other grunts moving. It looks like three elements involved in this deal, the guys moving through the houses on our left, the guys following the tank and the rest of us up on the wall. It bothers me to see Steve hugging the tank. We’ve seen more than a few grunts dinged when small arms fire ricochets off a tank’s armor and everyone shoots at a tank. Rifles and machineguns won’t hurt the damn thing, everyone knows that but no one seems able to resist shooting at a big, fat target. Its battlefield mojo and the gooks are suckers for it.