by Jack McLean
Charlie Company 1/4 was replacing Charlie Company 1/9. Two Charlie companies.
“This is going to be fun,” Fuller said, and laughed.
“It’s going to be a cluster fuck,” said Negron. “I hope the NVA aren’t watching.” The sun set shortly after the first position was relieved. Marines of Charlie Company 1/4 got off trucks, and marines of Charlie Company 1/9 got on trucks. Each marine knew that he was in Charlie Company and each knew that he was in the 1st Battalion as well. Several, however, were unsure about which regiment they were in, as they were replacement troops who had arrived only that day.
The following morning, the sun came over the eastern ridge, the two marine captains stood just east of the Ka Gia bridge, shook hands, and began laughing. Though it had been one hell of a night, there had been no enemy action—no probes, no mortars, no rockets. All six positions had been successfully remanned the previous evening. During the next six hours, however, forty-one marines from Charlie 1/4 and Charlie 1/9 discovered that they were with the wrong Charlie Company. An exchange was made before noon.
The 1st Battalion, 9th Marine Regiment that we replaced that evening had earned the moniker “the walking dead.” They had been in the center of every piece of heavy fighting for the last six months, from the Tet Offensive to the siege of Khe Sanh. Now it was our turn.
With the confusion resolved, the week providing road security along Route 9 became a productive time for Negron. Each morning the mail driver would pick him up and deliver him to one of the six scattered Charlie Company outposts. He would serve chow, deliver mail, and spend time with his marines one on one. Each outpost had its own personality and thereby gave the Skipper a rare opportunity to see small team units in action.
Early on the second day, Negron visited a position that was sited on a large hump-backed hill in the middle of a wide valley. The hill shot high out of the ground and, given its strategic position, probably had been constantly manned since the beginning of the war. Sergeant Munroe, a veteran on his second Vietnam tour, greeted Negron along the side of the road and walked him up the hill.
“No movement again last night, Skipper. All the bad guys must have gone home.” Munroe’s broad smile could not hide the devilish look in his eye. “You want a cold one, boss?”
“A cold one?”
“A cold beer?”
“Are you shitting me?” Negron was incredulous. “Where’d you get the ice? Where’d you get the beer?”
“Ice is no problem, sir. Cam Lo village is right up the road. For a few C rations, we get a lot of ice.” Munroe pushed back the poncho liner that served as the door to his bunker, reached into a hole in the dirt floor, and produced an ice-cold can of Budweiser.
They drank and laughed for several minutes and proceeded to tour the compound. Munroe was a proud host. Every hole was tied in with the next and they were mutually supporting. It was a textbook defensive position. Munroe was a good combat marine. He had his shit together.
“You know, Skipper, the last time I left Nam, I was a staff sergeant. Two years back in the States and I’m reduced to corporal. I come back here and, after a time, get my stripes back. If there’s a chance, I’d like to get my platoon back next.”
“Munroe, you know things change in a hurry over here. If a shot comes, you got it. Keep your ass down and take it easy.” With that, Negron returned to his jeep and headed to the next stop.
The “shot” that Negron referred to arrived several days later on the morning of June 6, 1968. Staff Sergeant Brazier, Munroe’s platoon sergeant, walked into an enemy ambush with a squad of marines. He was shot and killed instantly. Sergeant Munroe became the 3rd Platoon commander shortly thereafter.
21
OUR FINAL STOP BEFORE BEGINNING THE OFFENSIVE operation was again Camp Carroll, which was a large fortified supporting artillery position along Route 9. We had just received word that the choppers were on the way to move us out. Our target that day, June 4, 1968, was a remote dot on the map marked Hill 672 in the rugged hills south of Khe Sanh and hard on the Laotian border. It became known as Landing Zone Loon.
We were well aware that we were heading into what would be some of the heaviest fighting of the Vietnam War. We were ready.
In late May, intelligence had confirmed that the North Vietnamese Army had infiltrated the 88th and 102nd regiments of the 308th Division into northwestern Quang Tri province. Aerial photographs clearly showed a new road under construction in the jungle south of Khe Sanh. It entered Vietnam through Laos and ran parallel to Route 9 about twelve miles to the south. At the time of its discovery, the road had already penetrated nearly twenty-five miles into South Vietnam and was on a direct path to the city of Hue. An NVA tank battalion could be seen staging while waiting for the road’s completion.
The plan was to have us dropped onto a hill, have us secure it on the first day, bring in artillery on the second day, blow the shit out of the area for several more days, and then abandon the position and move on to another hill to repeat the process. The objective was to frustrate the enemy, keep them on the move, and kill as many of them as we possibly could.
It was dubbed Operation Robin.
The first phase had us running road security along Route 9. We now were staged, with the rest of the 4th Marine Regiment, to begin the second phase in which General Davis’s planned airmobile operations would be conducted south of Route 9 to destroy the enemy road. There was no question that we would be dropped into very hostile territory. The NVA had moved freely about this corner of South Vietnam for months and had built up significant troop strength and supplies.
Our reconnaissance had showed that they were everywhere above and, presumably, below the ground as well.
“After this operation, we’re all going to be heroes and this fucking war is going to be over,” crowed company radioman Terry Tillery.
The boast was aimed at Skipper Bill Negron, who was kneeling nearby in silent prayer. Terry Tillery was a nineteen-year-old lance corporal from Canfield, Ohio—a small farming community near Youngstown. He had signed up for a four-year enlistment in the United States Marine Corps exactly a year earlier. After five months of training, he was sent directly to Vietnam. He and I reported to Charlie Company on the same day in November 1967 and were both assigned to the 2nd Platoon. Tillery was a marine’s marine—well trained, disciplined, and eager to take on any task that was thrown his way. He was quick to obey orders, but he also possessed the unique ability to think creatively and provide tactical solutions where others saw none.
Shortly after Negron’s arrival in country, Benny Lerma, the company radio operator, rotated back to the States with his thirteen-month tour completed. Lerma suggested that Tillery succeed him. Negron agreed. Tillery turned out to be an outstanding choice.
This day marked only his fourth as Negron’s right arm.
“Heroes, man, heroes,” Tillery continued. “There’s going to be a parade down Broad Street in Canfield. Me? I’m going to be in the lead Cadillac, and all the girls are gonna be screamin’ and grabbin’ at me. It’s gonna be the biggest party ever. Mrs. Tillery’s little boy will be set for life.”
Even Negron, now engaged, was smiling.
“Oh, yeah,” Tillery went on, noting the Skipper’s attention, “the Skipper is going to be in the second Cadillac. After all, he is our leader. They’ll probably make him a general and give him the Navy Cross. But—don’t forget—the party’s for me, and I get all the girls.”
D-Day was June 4, 1968.
Our waiting at Camp Carroll was filled with the cockiness and bravado of a hundred eighty mostly teenage boys.
We were in good spirits, joking, nervous, and apprehensive.
“As bad as the shit’s gonna be up there, the only cross we’re gonna get is a big white one at Arlington,” our artillery forward observer said. He was a realist. Still, we laughed, prayed, cried, were scared to death—every one of us—but kept up the bravado.
We believed in the cause and knew we would
win.
We’d all come to fight.
None of us had come to die.
I was numb, feeling once again that circumstances were outstripping my ability to process them.
Arriving at Parris Island nearly two years earlier had been frightening, but I’d gotten through it.
Arriving in Vietnam eight months ago had been surreal, but it had evolved into an edgy, but relatively safe, reality.
Now combat.
Real combat for the first time.
Like my fellow marines, I could only focus on the moment, keep morale up, and be certain that I was prepared. To that end, I cleaned my M16 rifle and filled each ammo magazine with twenty clean rounds. Two were then removed. The rifle seemed to jam less with the lighter load. I slammed one readied magazine into the rifle and evenly secured the others in pouches around my waist. The safety was clicked on, the action switched to semiautomatic. I cleaned my .45 caliber pistol; emptied, oiled, and refilled four magazines; and loaded one into the pistol. I chambered a round, clicked on the safety, and slid the weapon into the holster on my waist. I filled four canteens with fresh water and secured them in their pouches on my waist, next to the small pouch that contained a compression bandage and a bayonet, and the large pouch that contained a gas mask.
I rechecked the inside of my pack—four C ration meals, halazone water purification tablets, one claymore mine with detonator and wire, a clean pair of socks, two packs of cigarettes, four rolls of 35 mm film, a block of C-4 plastic explosive, two blasting caps, a fuse, bags of loose candy left over from my twenty-first birthday the week before, and a fresh box of .223 caliber rifle ammo. In the large outside pockets were stuffed four 60 mm mortar rounds. I tightened the straps, readjusted the harness for a clean fit, and buckled an entrenching tool to the back.
The chin strap on my helmet was rechecked to be certain it would hold through a rough landing. I placed a new plastic bottle of insect repellent securely inside the black rubber tire band that circled my helmet, and added a dirty little Harvard pennant to the other side. The helmet pennant had been my visible logo since returning from R & R.
My nylon pants contained a camera in the right thigh pocket. Two more packs of cigarettes were in the left pocket, along with a small roll of toilet paper. Other pockets contained a Zippo lighter and a five-dollar bill from my grandmother. She always sent five dollars on my birthday. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I kept it in my pocket, where it wouldn’t get lost.
Finally, I rechecked my flak jacket. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven hand grenades—four high explosive, one yellow smoke, one red smoke, and one willy peter (white phosphorus). The pins were securely intact.
On the ground, next to my pack, lay the four final components to my gear that would go on after I saddled up. They included my rifle, a 60 mm mortar tube, four bandoliers of machine gun ammo, and a LAW (light antitank weapon) portable rocket. All grunts shared the burden of transporting machine gun ammo, 60 mm mortar rounds, and rockets.
Satisfied that I had everything, I saddled up—web gear harness over each shoulder and secured in front; flak jacket vest slid on, zippered, and snapped. My pack was swung around and secured one arm at a time. I hung bandoliers, mortar, and rocket around the outside. My rifle was slung over my shoulder. I stood tall, stretched, felt the full weight, jumped, and wiggled several times to be certain all was secure, then slowly sank to the ground, knees first, while executing a carefully calculated roll that left me sitting—comfortably—propped up by my pack. I could sit like that forever.
I untied and retied my boot laces with double knots.
I was ready.
During the previous month, my thoughts at idle times like this had turned to my coming college life. While on a late-night watch, or filling sandbags, or burning shitters, I’d think of walking to class on a crisp fall day across Harvard Yard. I’d fantasize about meeting girls and going to football games. Occasionally I’d feel concern about competing academically, but since graduating from Parris Island, I knew that I could achieve anything that I put my mind to. I’d be sure to avoid math, however, just in case. As late May turned to June, most of my incoming classmates were just now graduating from high school.
There were no such daydreams this afternoon. The next hour would be the most critical of my life. The little free space in my brain was focused on the coming assault, setting up the perimeter, getting holes dug, securing ammo, and—well—surviving.
Harvard was a universe away and would remain so for the next six weeks.
22
LATE ON THE AFTERNOON OF JUNE 4, 1968, WE heard the faraway sound of multiple rotors and knew that our moment had come. Without a command or a single word, the one hundred eighty boys of Charlie Company rose to their feet. The only sound was that of groaning packs and straps. We readjusted to the standing position. Although choppers had been flying in and out of Camp Carroll all day, they normally came in ones and twos, bringing supplies and mail from the rear, and the wounded and the dead from the front.
This was different.
First came the familiar sound of one rotor, then two. Within an instant the air was filled with a dozen well-spaced CH-46 combat helicopters. To the ear, it was a single near-deafening noise as they lowered themselves to us.
“Charlie Company, 1st Squad, 2nd Platoon, I want two fire teams in that first chopper with me. Tillery, Camacho, Rodriguez—let’s go.
“Move.”
“Move.”
“Move.”
There was a smooth urgency to Bill Negron’s voice that both calmed us and told us that this was it. As the first chopper settled down, its rear ramp lowered to accept our command group. Negron always made it a point to be the first person in the first chopper going into battle and the last person in the last chopper going out.
Always.
Within minutes, one by one, all twelve choppers had landed and scooped up an entire reinforced company of United States Marines who were headed to the last place on earth that many would ever see.
Those who did return would never be the same.
It was a prophetic beginning for the freshly minted offensive strategy of General Ray Davis. No more Dien Bien Phus. We were going after them where they lived. On this day, that meant west into the mountainous highlands that formed the corner of Laos, North Vietnam, and South Vietnam.
This would be the first hot landing that most of us had experienced.
We knew that the choppers would come under fire as soon as we were within rifle range, and that each of us would have rifles aimed at our heads the moment we disembarked. This was it—just like in the movies, except this wasn’t a movie. As Staff Sergeant Hilton used to say, “This is as real as a hand grenade.”
When our turn came to board, twelve of us ran up the ramp. We seated ourselves against the bulkheads across from one another on nylon mesh seats that were caked with the dried blood of previous missions. The crew chief and door machine gunner were eager to go. Chopper crews rarely were happy on the ground. The landing zone was hot. They needed us to bail out the instant the rear ramp was down.
After only seconds, the bird lifted and banked hard to starboard. Incredibly, I remained detached from what lay beyond. It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun was shining and the air was cool. We were well fed and rested. The countryside, from what I could see through the broken portal across the cabin, was lovely, green and lush. It might well have been New Hampshire on a June afternoon. Soon, though, emerging into view from the same portal came an otherworldly landscape, one that belonged on the surface of the moon. There were craters upon craters with no life, human or vegetative. The absence of vegetation had become a common sight along the demilitarized zone between North and South Vietnam because the region had been so thoroughly saturated with Agent Orange. Nothing could grow there even if it wanted to.
But the craters?
This was Khe Sanh.
America’s Dien Bien Phu.
For as far as the eye coul
d see, there spread before us cratered red earth. Some craters from the B-52 bombs were large enough to hold lakes, filled by the spring rains. The afternoon light glistened in the silver gleam as I watched the flashing shadow of our helicopter dart across the landscape.
Khe Sanh.
Five months earlier, on January 6, 1968, General William Westmoreland had initiated Operation Niagara to find enemy units dug in around the lightly fortified Khe Sanh base and to eliminate them with superior firepower. Eight French generals, some veterans of Dien Bien Phu, were brought in to assist.
A week later, the North began an unprecedented artillery barrage on Khe Sanh. It was the beginning of a siege that was to last seventy-seven days. An early round set off an explosion in the Americans’ main ammunition dump. Enormous numbers of artillery and mortar rounds stored in the dump were thrown into the air and detonated on impact within the base. Another enemy rocket scored a direct hit on a cache of CS tear gas that saturated the entire base.
During that period, North Vietnamese gunners landed more than a thousand rounds a day on Khe Sanh. American gunners returned fire with an estimated 160,000 rounds of artillery during the siege. The U.S. bomb tonnage directed around Khe Sanh was staggering. Air force jets had flown 9,691 tactical sorties and dropped 14,223 tons. Marine Corps pilots flew 7,098 missions and released 17,015 tons. Carrier-based navy jets, some redirected from missions over North Vietnam, flew 5,337 sorties and dropped 7,941 tons. Air force B-52S flew 2,548 sorties and released an additional 59,542 tons. The total tonnage dropped around Khe Sanh was the equivalent of a 1.3-kiloton nuclear device every day of the siege. With the enemy strength estimated at about thirty thousand, we expended more than five tons of artillery and aerial munitions for every NVA soldier who surrounded Khe Sanh.
Not even this amount of unleashed firepower was enough to calm the anxiety of American leaders in Washington. On February 1, 1968, General Earle G. Wheeler, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, raised the issue with Westmoreland of “whether tactical nuclear weapons should be used if the situation at Khe Sanh should become that desperate.” Westmoreland replied that their use would probably not be required. However, he added that if the situation did change dramatically, “I visualize that either tactical nuclear weapons or chemical agents would be active candidates for employment.”