by Jack McLean
Nukes?
Good God.
The battle proved little. We abandoned the base after one hundred twenty days, and the North Vietnamese immediately directed their efforts elsewhere. Elsewhere, this particular day, was to be the area around LZ Loon into which we were now headed. As quickly as it had come into view, Khe Sanh was behind us. Our chopper banked hard to the port side and rose to meet the looming foothills to the southwest.
“Thirty seconds, gentlemen. Thirty seconds.”
The voice of the pilot snapped us back to our reality.
We were lowering fast and banking hard. We began to hear the ground fire directed at us, each a small explosion or a metallic ding. As the ramp began to lower, we again heard the voice of the pilot.
“This is a hot landing, marines. A hot landing. Wish I could stick around and have a few laughs with you, but I’m getting the fuck out of here. We will not be landing. Do you understand me? The wheels will not hit the ground, but each of you will. I’m leaving in fifteen seconds whether you are off or not. Semper Fi, brothers. Go now. Go. Go. Go.”
Go?
Go where?
Still above the treetops, we unharnessed and moved swiftly to the rear, waiting for one brave soul to make the decision that we were low enough to jump without breaking a leg.
The ramp lowered still farther.
We were each weighted down with fifty to seventy-five pounds of gear and uncertain about what a safe jumping height might be. But the first marine did jump, and the rest of us followed—landing hard, rolling—often onto one another. Loose mortar base plates fell around us, a .50 caliber machine gun tripod bounced across our packs, and cans of .223 caliber rifle ammo simply fell like rain. All had been kicked out rather than carried.
But for the sporadic rifle fire aimed in our direction, we were on our own. The rifle fire was, in fact, good news, because at least it gave us some indication as to where the NVA were. Otherwise, we were momentarily lost. We were on the slope of a steep hill enveloped in six-foot-high elephant grass that made visual directive impossible. We did hear voices.
“Miller’s fire team, 3rd Platoon, hustle up, sound off.”
Disparate responses followed.
“60 mm mortars—who has the second fire team tube?”
“Corpsman! Corpsman!” The call echoed across the side of the hill from several directions. Broken legs? Bullet wounds? Impossible to tell.
“Corpsman!”
All around us the other choppers hovered, discharged their human cargo, and left. Each wave of newcomers flattened themselves in the tall elephant grass while getting their bearings.
Then there was calm. The last of the choppers left, the shooting stopped, and we were left momentarily alone to gather our gear, our comrades, and ourselves. Lost children were reunited with parents. Lost luggage was reunited with passengers.
The hill we were on went up in one direction and down in the other. Taking out neither compass nor map, we headed up the hill. If we weren’t the current occupiers, then we would be shortly.
When I reached the top of the hill, I had an unexpected encounter with Leeland Johnson, a friend from my time stationed in Barstow, California. Leeland was a squad leader with the 2nd Battalion, 4th Marines that we were replacing.
“Hey, Jackson,” he said, and smiled. We briefly hugged, although we were so loaded down with gear that we were barely able to touch hands.
“How’s it look, Lee?” I asked.
“Jackson, in a word, you’re fucked. It’s the hottest hill I’ve seen in country. We have succeeded in getting the gooks good and pissed for you … and I mean pissed. Word is there’s a regimental headquarters under us.” He pointed a finger directly downward for emphasis. “Like, down there.”
Down there meant that the NVA were tunneled in directly under our position. With that and a quick wave, Corporal Leeland Johnson led his squad into the welcoming belly of one of the hovering choppers, which were now circling back to evacuate the forces we were relieving.
Our assignment was to replace the 2nd Battalion, 4th Marines who were already on the hill. It wasn’t lost on us that Charlie and Delta companies were replacing four companies on a position designed for at least four companies. Bill Negron, radio operator Tillery, and the balance of the company command were the first to land. They were met by a young marine who escorted them along the ridge to a hastily fortified position. The rest of us ultimately got our bearings and made our way from more than a dozen separate drop points. We crossed the perimeter and quickly saw that the defenses were set for a battalion. Our two reinforced companies were half that size.
Negron was greeted by Lieutenant Colonel “Stub” Barrow, outgoing commander of the 2nd Battalion, 4th Marines. They shook hands as Barrow gave Negron a quick briefing. Barrow said that two of his rifle companies had been probed heavily the previous two nights. He pointed the way to the general location. His other two companies on the high ground to the southwest had received moderate probing. At that moment, the first enemy mortar landed nearby. Barrow stuffed the map into Negron’s hand, wished him luck, and, with his radio operator scurrying behind, boarded the last chopper.
“It’s all yours,” he shouted to Negron as the bird lifted off, but the rest of his words were lost in the prop wash of the chopper.
LZ Loon was a long knoll, about thirty yards by seventy yards. It was covered with mostly low scrub vegetation that provided little relief from the pounding sun, and no cover from the lurking enemy. The ground cover on the lower elevations included eye-high elephant grass that made the hill’s defense difficult. But for the freshly dug marine fighting holes along the perimeter, LZ Loon appeared to be untouched by the ravages of the war. It was a beautiful spot. Given our elevation, the air was cooler than it had been at Camp Carroll, and the views over the top of the jungle were breathtaking.
Delta Company had landed on an adjacent knoll one hundred yards to our north. Although separated by a deep ravine, we were in easy eyesight of each other. To the south, large rolling hills stretched for miles. To the east, the landscape dropped off steeply into jungle. Our principal concern, however, was to the west—the sharp ridges that protected the feared NVA artillery and rocket emplacements in Co Roc, Laos. Although twelve miles away, these were the same big North Vietnamese guns that had held nearby Khe Sanh under siege the previous winter.
The landing had brought confusion. We had departed later than planned, and so nightfall arrived before our 3rd Platoon could get in. We struggled to determine how the lines should be manned with our limited resources. Over the following hour, the troops were set in, lines of fire were established, holes were redug, and claymore mines were set out. Charlie Company occupied the low ground that two companies had previously manned. That meant we had roughly one position for every two holes. Although we were able to arrange overlapping lines of fire, we knew that if one of the holes was taken out, we would be extremely vulnerable to a ground attack.
Delta Company, led by the former Charlie Company executive officer, Lieutenant Mike Jackson, took the high ground to the north and faced the same manpower challenge. We had a 106 mm recoilless rifle in place—a devastating low-trajectory artillery weapon that was ideal for this situation. We also were supplied with a .50 caliber machine gun, perhaps the most awesome of all small arms.
The expected artillery rounds from Co Roc flew over us for most of the late afternoon of June fourth, missing their mark and exploding harmlessly in the valley beyond. We all laughed, of course. We recalled our recent experience on the flat plain of Gio Linh, where the NVA forward artillery observers who called in the rounds could rarely get one inside the wire. The idea of hitting a tiny hilltop from twelve miles away was, thereby, nearly unimaginable.
Still, they continued to try.
The mortars and guns quieted long enough for Negron and Tillery to make their way over to the Delta Company position to compare notes with Lieutenant Jackson. It was nearly impossible for them to navigate their wa
y around the hill because they were blinded by the tall elephant grass. On their way, they saw two CH-46 helicopters laboring under the weight of several pallets of 105 mm artillery ammo that were being delivered.
“This must have been a major NVA position,” remarked Jackson. “We’ve got log bunkers with connecting trenches leading over to your position.” He seemed overjoyed. The NVA had done a good job, which would make our job that much easier.
Charlie Company, positioned on the lower ground, had evidence of a prior NVA presence, but our position was not nearly as fortified as Jackson’s. The fields of fire were inadequate, with the elephant grass and scrub bushes coming right up to the fighting holes on several sides. The battalion had not designated a command group for the two companies together, so Negron and Jackson felt their way through it—“The artillery forward observer will go up here, the landing zone will be over there, and let’s both keep a radio tuned to the battalion net so we don’t lose anything.”
A giant flying crane helicopter appeared carrying a backhoe and several U.S. Army engineers. It looked like a praying mantis. The backhoe was to be used to dig 105 mm artillery emplacements. Our job was to protect the base while they dug the holes and brought in the guns the following day. Once the artillery battalion arrived, we could begin our regular patrols around the perimeter.
As Negron and Tillery headed back across the ridge to the Charlie Company position, the mortar tubing began again. No rounds had fallen inside the perimeter as yet, but it was only a matter of time. Unlike the long-range artillery, the mortars were being launched from the woods nearby and, although not as devastating as artillery, could be made deadly accurate more quickly. By the time Negron and Tillery returned, the company gunnery sergeant had set up a company command post just under the crest of the hill and next to the only standing tree.
Within seconds, the first mortar round landed inside the Charlie Company lines about thirty yards from where Negron and Tillery were standing. The next round fell about thirty yards past the position. They glanced at each other with tacit mutual understanding.
The gooks were bracketing in on the tree.
If they didn’t move, the next round would be on their heads. So they simultaneously screamed “Incoming!” and, grabbing every marine in their path, fled to a nearby hole. Seconds later it came—KABOOM—right on the tree. Then came another, and then another all on exactly the same spot.
It was now apparent that the NVA forward observer had been using the tree as a focused target for the mortars, so that he could triangulate the grid for the artillery, twelve miles away. The mortars were meant to be little more than spotter rounds to determine precise coordinates.
I thought I had seen the mortar setup. Dan Burton and I were taking a breather while digging our holes and looked out across to the adjacent wooded ridge several hundred yards away. We noticed two men entering a small clearing. Was it the NVA? If it was, it was the first time in my tour that I had seen an NVA soldier in the open. Not a good sign. If they were in the open, it meant there was no room in the woods. Wasn’t Delta over there? We were still becoming oriented to our new position. Moments later we saw a puff of smoke followed seconds later by the tubing sound. The first round landed just outside the perimeter directly in front of us.
We scampered to grab a 60 mm mortar and some ammo. Danny put it between his legs without a tripod or a scope and began lobbing rounds in their direction while I fed him the ammo and stripped off the explosive increments. The next incoming mortar round landed well behind us.
The 106 mm recoilless rifle was positioned right next to us.
The operator turned the six-foot cannon 90 degrees on its tripod, chambered a round, and let go. As the final incoming mortar round came in, the NVA mortar emplacement across the ridge evaporated in a cloud of smoke, dust, and flesh.
Score one for the good guys.
The evening of June 4, 1968, our first night on LZ Loon, was relatively quiet. There was some probing of the lines, several grenades were thrown, and there was occasional small-arms fire.
All ours.
We heard the detonation of one claymore mine. Not a good sign. We slept—for the most part—stood regular watches, and sent out patrols and listening posts.
It was to be our last calm. One of the biggest battles of the Vietnam War was about to be joined.
By dawn of the third day, most of the marines of Charlie and Delta companies would be dead or wounded.
23
ON THE MORNING OF JUNE FIFTH, THE SUN ROSE TO inaugurate a spectacular spring day. But for the intense smell of cordite from the previous day’s incoming mortars, the air was cool and fresh.
Several supply choppers came in early, bringing C rations, fresh fruit—unheard of in the field—pallets of ammo, and mail. We could hear the backhoe beginning to dig the 105 mm howitzer emplacements on the other side of our hill. As planned, the actual guns were to be dropped in by flying crane later in the morning. We would then commence our artillery assault on the encroaching enemy.
General Davis’s plan was being implemented.
Our artillery would fire for two days and then be lifted out along with the rest of us to move on to another hill.
We all took a deep breath. Captain Negron, relieved by the absence of an incoming attack, sent out two squad-size patrols to look around just outside the lines for signs of enemy activity.
The patrols had neither NVA sightings nor contact, but did find an enemy canteen with blood trails nearby. The NVA had certainly been out there the night before. The morning passed uneventfully. We dug our holes deeper, cleaned our rifles, read our mail, and ate fresh fruit.
Early in the afternoon of June 5, choppers brought in Charlie Company’s 3rd Platoon, which had been unable to land the previous day. Although we now had our full company, we were still severely undermanned. The promised replacement troops remained in the rear for the time being. An hour later, Lieutenant Colonel James MacLean, our battalion commander, accompanied by the artillery battalion commander, flew in by helicopter to inspect our emplacement. The two battalion commanders had been present with Alpha and Bravo companies during their heavy fighting the day before and they were concerned that we may have become vulnerable to a major NVA assault.
There was no question that we were dealing with hard-core NVA. In the southern regions of South Vietnam, a bad guy was called “Charlie.” Here in the far northern reaches, we called him “Sir Charles.”
He was worthy of our respect.
Alpha and Bravo companies had sustained four dead and twelve wounded from the attack on their nearby position the previous afternoon. For the first time since I’d arrived in country, all four companies of the 1st Battalion of the 4th Marine Regiment were in the shit at the same time.
Their mission accomplished, the two colonels boarded their helicopter. They had assured us that the promised artillery battery was on its way, would be dropped into place shortly, and would be ready to commence firing within the hour.
The artillery pieces never arrived.
With the colonels’ helicopter still in plain view, the first deadly accurate incoming artillery and rockets from Co Roc, Laos, landed within our perimeter.
The battle for LZ Loon had commenced.
The cry of “Corpsman!” instantly rang out from near the 2nd Platoon’s lines. There were injuries. This was serious. Several marines were wounded on the first round. The second round landed near an incoming supply chopper farther down the hill. Unharmed, it immediately lifted off and fled from the hill, but not before several off-loaded marines were injured. Terry Tillery received a pleading radio call from the 3rd Platoon radio operator, who, along with his platoon commander, Lieutenant Lloyd, had just jumped from the departing chopper.
“Charlie Six, this is Charlie Three. Over.”
“Three, this is Six. Go,” responded Tillery.
“Six, we got wounded down here. Lieutenant Lloyd is down. Looks like he got it in both legs. It’s a fuckin’ m
ess. Get some help down here. Now. Over.”
“Roger, Three. Over and out.”
Tillery released the handset, stood up, and yelled across the perimeter.
“We got wounded outside the lines that need help. Let’s get down there. Come on.”
Tillery ran down the hill, found Lieutenant Lloyd, and dragged him back up the hill. Several other marines scrambled down to guide the others up to safety.
While dealing with the incoming mortar and artillery fire, Negron kept an eye out on the horizon for the choppers with the artillery pieces. They never came. More alarming still, early that morning an army Huey helicopter had come in and removed the four engineers.
Great, thought Negron. That’s just fuckin’ great. I’ve got two fuckin’ pallets of howitzer ammo that will blow to kingdom come if they get hit with incoming artillery, and a huge fuckin’ backhoe that the gooks will play target practice with. It has a full tank of gas, so it will probably blow as well.
Just fuckin’ great.
Like he didn’t have enough on his mind already.
With sudden force, a deafening scream announced another incoming round. There had been no discernible muzzle blast. Like the other two, it came right at us and exploded with enormous force directly on top of a 2nd Platoon fighting hole. The cry went out for a corpsman, but the first corpsman to arrive saw no need. The hole, now four times its original size, contained an unidentifiable mélange of blood, hair, bones, and viscera.
We tried to remember who had been in the hole but were permitted little time to think.
The next round screamed in seconds later and landed in another hole on the 2nd Platoon lines. The force of both blasts was enormous and filled the air with the eerie sound of a million pieces of shrapnel fanning in all directions. We were being shelled with 122 mm artillery from Co Roc, Laos. This time, however, they had an excellent artillery forward observer. We had not heard such a sound since the previous December sixth, when the errant friendly bomb had landed on our position.