Loon

by Jack McLean

  We cautiously emerged from our holes to look for confirmation that this had really happened. Instantly a third round came in. It whizzed inches over our heads, just missing the hill, and exploded with tremendous force in the valley below.

  Danny Burton and I watched it in awe.

  Even when we’d taken a direct hit on a bunker in Gio Linh, we had never heard such unbridled power or force. We snuck back into our holes and waited. The NVA had our complete and undivided attention. Charlie and Delta companies provided a big target on a small hill. The enemy had us in their sights.

  We had nowhere to go.

  We were pinned down.

  The bombardment continued for more than an hour. Several more fighting holes were directly hit. Not a single subsequent round missed the hill. The cries of “Corpsman!” were unending.

  The 2nd Platoon lines were particularly hard hit. Captain Negron passed the word for every available hand to get over there and start hauling the dead and wounded marines up to the LZ for evacuation.

  I froze.

  Was I an available hand?

  I was not.

  The ground attack would certainly come the second the last round hit. The NVA knew when that would be. We didn’t. I remained and kept a sharp eye out for NVA troop movement in the valley below. Like the others, I was a well-trained marine and well understood my role, even in the daunting chaos.

  The next incoming round was their exclamation point.

  It landed right on the LZ where the dead and wounded had been hauled. All of our available corpsmen were there treating the wounded, and all of our available volunteers were there attending to the bodies. The explosion was colossal. Dirt, shrapnel, and body parts flew by in all directions. Tiny pieces of searing metal lodged in my upper arms and shoulders outside of the protection of my flak jacket. I was completely covered with dirt.

  Thanks to our training, though, we were able to again secure the LZ and, miraculously, get one last Marine Corps medevac chopper in. The three most severely wounded were slid aboard: 2nd Platoon machine gunner Wayne Wood, 2nd Platoon fire team leader Ric Popp, and my dear friend navy corpsman Mac Mecham.

  Wood, from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, was so severely wounded that he would receive the last rites of the Catholic Church three times during the following week, but he would survive. Popp would recover from his wounds and later be returned to action. Mecham would lose his right thumb, which had been grotesquely mangled by shrapnel in the blast. He had been treating the wounded on the LZ.

  As he boarded the outgoing helicopter, Mecham passed a handful of dog tags to one of the few corpsmen who remained.

  “Here,” he said. “Don’t lose these.”

  With that, Mecham was hauled into the belly of the chopper, his legs dangling. The wheels lifted, the door gunner released a torrent of .50 caliber machine gun fire, and the bird banked off to the north and away.

  The dog tags that Mecham handed off were those of each of the dead marines. He had been collecting them all day.

  On our first morning on Parris Island, we were issued two dog tags. The first was to hang on a chain around our neck. The second was on a small chain hanging from the main chain. When a marine was killed, the second dog tag would be removed and kept with the unit for identification. The first remained on the body for final identification by the coroner in the rear.

  Once the medevac was safely out, the corpsman delivered the pile of dog tags to Terry Tillery, rightfully assuming that they belonged with the command group.

  “Here,” he began, “somebody’s got to be responsible for these because these guys are all dead.” With that he dropped the muddy collection of stamped tin into Tillery’s open palms.

  Tillery wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with them, but he did know that they demanded his immediate attention. Slowly lowering himself back into the security of his fighting hole, he began the excruciating process of, one by one, carefully rubbing the dirt, mud, and blood off of each with his right thumb.

  The dead came alive before his tearing eyes.

  Carbaugh, W F. Woody Carbaugh.

  Carbaugh had replaced Tillery as a squad leader in the 2nd Platoon when Tillery had become a radio operator. He was from Thurmont, Maryland, not far from where Tillery’s family had moved several years before. Barely twenty-one years old, Sergeant Carbaugh was dead. Tillery had thought that the first artillery round had landed near Carbaugh’s hole. That was now confirmed. It had, in fact, landed inside of his small hole. Tillery unbuttoned the right thigh pocket of his pants and carefully placed Carbaugh’s dog tag deep inside.

  His right thumb then slowly rubbed over the surface of the second dog tag, removing the mud and the blood.

  Klein, J. Joe Klein.

  Tillery had noticed earlier that Klein and Carbaugh had been sharing a fighting hole. They must have died together, instantly. Joe Klein, a 2nd Platoon machine gunner from Highland Park, New Jersey, had just celebrated his nineteenth birthday. Tillery opened his pocket and carefully slid Joe Klein’s dog tag inside.

  Tillery was now becoming numb and disoriented. He still held a handful of dog tags.

  Eaton, C. L.

  Cliff Eaton from Cortland, New York, was a PFC grunt and another member of Tillery’s and my former 2nd Platoon. He was twenty-one years old, and now dead.

  Barbour, J. W.

  Jim Barbour was a nineteen-year-old PFC from New Rochelle, New York.

  Tillery was now in a fog. Tears rolled down his face, making it difficult to focus on the names as they appeared.

  King, G. L., Jr.

  George King, a nineteen-year-old PFC from Clatskanie, Oregon. King was a 2nd Platoon machine gunner. Tillery had last seen him, seconds before the final rocket, bravely hauling dead and wounded marines up the hill to the LZ under heavy incoming fire.

  Morrissey, T. J., Jr.

  Tom Morrissey. “Oh my God, no,” said Tillery out loud. “Not Tom. Please not Tom.” Morrissey, the yo-yo throwing, Ray-Ban shaded machine gunner, had been the soul of the 2nd Platoon. We all wanted to be like Tom—as a marine and as a person. He was the personification of a totally cool professional. He was a treasure, and now he was dead. Tom was married and had a young son, Tom the third, who was his pride and joy. He had barely seen the baby before he’d left for Vietnam from their home in Dover, New Hampshire. Corporal Tom Morrissey was five weeks shy of his twenty-first birthday.

  Placing the rest of the dog tags in his pocket, Tillery took a deep breath, wiped his eyes, and crawled out of his hole to rejoin the Skipper.

  The incoming artillery rounds were now walking their way back toward the Delta Company lines and away from us. Negron was desperately trying to get Marine Corps artillery and air support directed back to the guns in Co Roc. He was finally informed by John Camacho, his artillery forward observer, that our gunners were not permitted to fire on coordinates that were located inside of Laos.

  “Fuck that shit,” said Negron.

  Negron pulled out his map and compass. He gave Camacho grid coordinates that were just inside the Vietnam border from Laos.

  “Tell them to fire on these coordinates,” said Negron. “After the first round, tell them to adjust outward on the next round. After the second round, tell them to adjust outward again on the third round.”

  Negron had been around. He knew that the artillery gunners had to report the requested grid coordinates but did not have to report on subsequent adjustments. With three of four adjustments, Camacho was able to move our artillery fire from safely within South Vietnam to directly on top of Co Roc, Laos.

  Our defensive perimeter was now so thin that I could not see the manned holes on either side of me. Unless we did something fast, we’d be fucked—just as surely as if we were sitting in Khe Sanh or Con Thien. We were sitting ducks for their artillery, we were completely surrounded by a significantly superior force of ground troops, and night was falling. The guns had our coordinates perfectly. When dawn came, they’d begin again and finish us, assu
ming we survived the coming ground attack.

  After dark, Negron hatched a plan.

  Without telling battalion, he ordered those of us who remained to gather all of the ammo, ordnance, and water that we could carry and follow him across the ravine to the neighboring hill that was being tenuously held by Delta Company. He knew that the NVA had our precise coordinates on LZ Loon and that the barrage would, in all likelihood, begin again at dawn.

  He hoped that by moving several hundred yards away from LZ Loon we could buy the necessary moments to evacuate the next morning before the NVA were able to recalibrate their guns onto the new position across the ravine.

  Although many of the severely wounded had been evacuated, all of the dead marines remained on LZ Loon. Negron left Sergeant Brazier, half of the 3rd Platoon, and all of an 81 mm mortar squad to remain behind as a rear guard for the dead and the remaining ammo. Barring a nighttime ground assault, Negron hoped that he could get Brazier, his team, and the dead marines evacuated at first light the following morning before the artillery began anew. Negron also planned a brief return to LZ Loon the following morning to blow the backhoe and the pallet of artillery ammo that had been brought in the previous day.

  Darkness fell. Exhausted, hungry, scared, and thirsty beyond all imagination, we grabbed every single item that we could carry and headed into the ravine. We were each loaded with more than a hundred pounds of ammo, mortars, .50 caliber machine guns, tripods, base plates, and as many mortar rounds as we could balance on top of everything else. Negron asked Lieutenant Jackson, the Delta Company commander, to send guides across to lead Charlie Company through the eye-high elephant grass. We silently plowed down the hill, crossed a small stream, and trudged up the other side. We set up our lines on the south side of the perimeter that faced back toward LZ Loon while Delta Company took their remaining marines to tighten the lines around the other side of the hill. Lieutenant Jackson met Negron upon arrival.

  “Why’d you abandon the position?” Jackson whispered in a barely audible voice.

  Negron replied, “I have a feeling that this whole fuckin’ area is going to turn to shit real soon.”

  There was no way that Jackson, or anyone else for that matter, could disagree with the decision.

  We silently moved around our side of the new perimeter, found our holes, set up lines of fire, and armed the claymore mines in front of us. We sent out neither ambushes nor listening posts. Nor did we establish watch schedules. There would be no sleep for Charlie Company tonight. We did, however, say our prayers.

  All night long, we heard the movement of NVA soldiers just outside the lines, with the squeak of their gear and the soft snap of an occasional stick. We heard the snipers climb up into the trees and even heard whispers.

  It was eerie and scary beyond all imagination.

  Once all of the necessary tasks were completed, there was nothing to do but collapse into our holes and wait. We knew where they were, and they knew where we were.

  24

  IT BECAME APPARENT WITH THE EARLIEST LIGHT OF dawn that the NVA plan had been to wear us down with the artillery attack the previous day and assault us with ground troops that morning. We knew they were in place; we’d been listening to them all night. Although short on ammo and manpower, we were ready too.

  Neither side could now make a move without its registering on the other.

  It was time.

  The uneasy silence was broken with a roar of rifle fire. At first, all of the shots were from the distinctive-sounding Russian-built AK-47S that were the weapon of choice for the North Vietnamese Army. An instant later, we heard some light returning fire from the American MI6 rifles. It was over in less than a minute, and then there was no sound at all. The shots had been coming from the direction of the ravine between the two hills—the same ravine that we had crossed the previous evening on our way to our current position. We were unable to see a thing, but we quickly assumed that the return fire must have been from Sergeant Brazier’s squad that had been left behind to guard LZ Loon. They were the only marines outside of our lines. At once Tillery’s radio crackled.

  “Charlie Six, this is Charlie Three. Over.” Tillery recognized the voice of Eddie Mitchell, the 3rd Platoon radio operator.

  “Go ahead, Three,” Tillery responded.

  “Six,” Mitchell was yelling into his handset. “Six, Brazier’s down, he’s dead. It’s a fuckin’ mess. We’re headed back over to LZ Loon. Over and out.”

  At daybreak, Sergeant Brazier had begun to lead his squad over to our new hill from LZ Loon. The dead had been gathered and prepared for later evacuation, and the explosive charges had been set on the backhoe and the ammo pallet. At the base of the ravine between the two adjacent hills, Brazier’s squad of marines had walked right into a well-set NVA ambush. Brazier, walking point, had never had a chance. He was instantly killed with five rounds into his chest. Dragging their leader behind, the rest of the squad beat a hasty retreat back to the tenuous safety of LZ Loon and dug back in.

  Seconds after Mitchell’s radio transmission, all hell broke loose.

  The AK-47 fire began coming from every point around the perimeter. Several bullets exploded inches over my helmet; others whizzed past my ears. Marines are fond of saying that you never hear the one that hits you. In that I took some comfort. As long as I could hear the crack of the rounds on their way by, I knew that I was still alive. The rifle fire was followed in succession by rocket-propelled grenades and mortars.

  There was no place to hide.

  The NVA were everywhere.

  “Grasshopper Charlie Six, this is Grasshopper Six Actual. Things sound kinda rough up there for you. Give me a sit rep. Over.” Lieutenant Colonel James MacLean, our visitor from the previous day, was on the radio checking in.

  “Grasshopper Six, this is Charlie Six Actual. We are in the V ring. Surrounded by unhappy gooks. Send water, ammo, air, and arty. Now. Over.” Bill Negron was totally focused on our immediate survival.

  “Charlie Six, this is Grasshopper Six. I read you loud and clear. What’s your body count? Over.”

  “Grasshopper Six, be advised that I’ve lost an entire offensive football team and one baseball team. I’m too busy killing ’em to count ’em. I’ll be back when it’s quieter. Over.” Negron signed off.

  “Roger that, Charlie Six. Groceries and goodies are on the way. Over and out.”

  A brief radio silence was followed by an urgent whisper on another radio that was barely audible.

  “Charlie Six, this is Charlie Three. Over.”

  It was the voice of 3rd Platoon radio operator Mitchell calling again from LZ Loon across the ravine.

  “This is Six. Go,” replied Tillery.

  “Six, they’re coming at you. We can see it from here. They’re all over your fuckin’ perimeter and they are coming at you. Over.”

  Negron grabbed the handset from Tillery.

  “Three, this is Six Actual, do you read me? Over.”

  “Roger that, Skipper.” Mitchell was out of breath and scared.

  “Three, can you give me their grid coordinates. Give me some numbers so I can lay some lumber on them.”

  With that, two more 122 mm rockets screamed over the perimeter, followed by a volley of incoming grenades, mortars, and small-arms fire. The ground attack had begun.

  “Here they come!” someone screamed.

  “Gooks in the perimeter!” came the cry from the 2nd Platoon lines.

  “Gooks in the perimeter!” came the cry again, now from the Delta Company lines. Delta marines were engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the enemy.

  Negron, observing the assault, looked calmly to John Camacho, the artillery forward observer, and gave a sullen nod.

  “Do it. Do it now.”

  Camacho picked up his handset and called the rear. Negron then turned to Terry Tillery and said, “Pass the word. Get everybody in a hole. Now.”

  “All stations on this net, this is Charlie Six,” Tillery advised. “Be a
dvised we are calling them in on us. Repeat, calling them in on us. Pass the word. Get down. Now. Over.”

  Negron, Camacho, and Tillery slid into a small command bunker they’d dug out the night before. Had there been time, they’d have dug it a mile deeper.

  Minutes passed.

  Camacho got final confirmation of the coming artillery bombardment from the rear and, eschewing the radio, yelled “ON THE WAY!” and leapt back into the bunker. Around the perimeter, from hole to hole, came the cries of “ON THE WAY!” and “FIRE IN THE HOLE!” At once, we all got small.

  Camacho, on Negron’s order, had instructed our supporting artillery to fire directly onto our position, and we prayed like hell that none of the rounds fell directly into any of our fighting holes. We had little choice. The NVA had broken through our lines in several places and were now inside our perimeter.

  The following seconds passed in near silence but for the sporadic crack of an AK-47 rifle. Then it came. The air at once was filled with exploding artillery, flying shrapnel, and screaming boys.

  Their boys.

  The artillery air bursts, ordered by Camacho, had caught the enemy in the open. Instead of exploding on impact, the artillery had been fused to ignite in the air above the battlefield. It was a slaughter.

  With the last explosion, we leapt from the safety of our holes to reinforce the lines and ensure that every NVA soldier who had penetrated the perimeter was dead.

  They were scattered everywhere, and they were all very dead.

  June 6, 1968.

  It had felt like a lifetime, and the morning was only half over.

  Since the opening assault on Sergeant Brazier’s squad at dawn, we had lost twenty-seven men. Three of our four hospital corpsmen were wounded, and, except for Negron, we were out of officers—all were dead or wounded. We were tired, thirsty, scared, and trapped. We were low on ammo, water, and men. There were perhaps eighty of us left out of the one hundred eighty who had made the original landing, trying desperately to man an ever shrinking perimeter.