Loon

by Jack McLean

  Our ammo supply was of particular concern. We were running out of what little we had been able to take with us from LZ Loon the night before. What we did have was being rationed around the lines. Frank McCormack, who had joined us just as we’d left Camp Carroll, occupied himself by identifying who had ammo and who needed it and running around the lines constantly passing it out or picking it up. He would later receive a Bronze Star for his efforts that day. A resupply chopper that had been able to get in around midmorning had been shot down on takeoff and had crashed on the side of the hill. Several of us ran up to retrieve the valuable cargo from the hulking shell, bringing cases and cases of 7.62 mm machine gun ammo, .223 caliber rifle shells, and 60 mm mortar rounds back down to the fight.

  “Skipper.” It was radio operator Tillery. “There’s a Trailblazer Six Actual on the battalion TAC-NET.”

  “Who the fuck is Trailblazer Six?” Negron wanted to know. “For shit’s sake, Tillery, can’t you keep even a few of these assholes off the line until we figure out how in the fuck we’re going to get out of this?” Negron was becoming uncharacteristically frustrated. “Jesus Christ, we got enough fuckin’ ‘Sixes’ clogging up this motherfuckin’ line.”

  Negron grabbed the extended handset, took a quick breath, and squeezed the handle. “This is Charlie Six Actual. Over.”

  “Charlie Six Actual, this is Trailblazer Six Actual. I know it’s hot up there; I know you’re in the shit. I know you think I’m another rear jockey pain in the ass, but we gotta get you all out of there and soon, so give me a sit rep.”

  “Trailblazer Six Actual, the bad guys are still here. We’re dug in and kicking ass. You want my opinion? Get us out of here and bomb the shit out of it. Over.”

  “Roger that, Charlie Six. I read you. Hold on to what you’ve got. Help is on the way. Over and out.”

  On the way, my ass, thought Negron. And who in the hell was Trailblazer Six Actual, anyway?

  Within minutes, a CH-46 helicopter and a protecting Huey gunship appeared on the horizon and banked toward LZ Loon across the ravine. We were ordered to lay down as much fire as we could in that direction but to avoid the LZ where Sergeant Brazier’s former squad and the 81 mm mortar squad were mustering for evacuation. The CH-46 banked in quickly and hovered just above the ground while the thirteen marines quickly climbed in.

  We kept up our covering fire, at once relieved and wistful to see them getting evacuated, and filled with hope that perhaps we would be next. At least we knew that we had someone’s attention in the rear.

  Our eyes were fixated on the chopper as it lifted and banked, but it didn’t seem able to gain altitude. We began to cheer for it.

  “Come on. Get up, get up, get up.”

  But it was not able to elevate.

  It had been shot.

  It was going down.

  It had reached the edge of the far side of the hill, but we watched in horror as the mortally wounded helicopter hit the treetops, began to roll, and then disappeared from sight. Seconds later the explosion came. There was smoke, and then there was silence. Incredibly and unbelievably, we were informed by a spotter plane a short time later that they had seen at least two survivors.

  One of the survivors was Corporal Sal Santangelo from Brooklyn.

  It had already been a horrifying two days for Santangelo. The day before, while we were under ground attack, he’d felt something hit the front of his helmet. Afraid of what he’d find, he moved his right hand up to feel the spot. There was a small hole the size of the end of his index finger.

  “Sal,” cried his hole mate, inches away. “Sal, you’ve been shot.”

  Santangelo feared that he must be dying and waited for the life to drain out of him. Seconds later, gathering his nerve, he ran his hand around the back of the helmet to find a much larger exit hole.

  Now he was certain that he was dead.

  Slowly bending down and taking off his helmet, he looked at the two aligned holes—front to back. Then he took his hand and slowly rubbed is scalp. It was still there. The bullet had gone right through without touching him.

  He was alive.

  Now Santangelo had a bigger problem.

  Having been thrown from the chopper on impact with one other marine that he could see, he was down in the jungle with a smashed right leg, well outside of our lines, and in all likelihood living the last moments of his life. When later asked what he did, he said, “I held my breath for as long as I could, trying to kill myself. That didn’t work out too well, so I crawled over to this other guy who was in pretty bad shape to see if we could figure something out.”

  Two marines together can always figure something out.

  Those of us from Charlie and Delta companies that remained on the hill could now hear the sound of the approaching jet fighters.

  “On the way!” came the now familiar cry. Those who were exposed ran back into their holes. The first pass brought two Phantoms. What a sight. They passed, one after the other, no more than fifty yards in front of my position. It was the most awesome display of raw power I had ever seen. Behind the deafening roar, I could hear the cracks of AK-47 rifle fire from the ravine directly beneath the planes. The dumb-ass gooks, facing certain death, were firing up at the jets.

  You couldn’t blame them for trying. That day alone, the NVA had shot down two CH-46 helicopters, the one fully loaded with marines being evacuated, and the other with desperately needed ammo and water.

  Negron, watching the awesome spectacle, quietly wondered again about the identity of Trailblazer Six. Whoever he was, it was clear that we finally had the attention of someone in authority.

  The two jets, back at full altitude, took a long turn from the south, banked east, headed north, and banked west to south to commence another run. Minutes later, down they came again at the same target, with me yards away watching in awed appreciation. Shortly before reaching its low point on this pass, the lead jet released two oblong silver canisters one after the other. The canisters tumbled forward and down.

  Hoooleee shit. Napalm.

  I watched with horror and disbelief. My face was frozen to the target as the canisters hit the treetops, opened, and exploded, making my face and eyebrows instantly hot with the torrent of otherworldly flame. The sound was that of an eerie whooossshhh as the jellied wall of flame, heat, and horror consumed and sucked oxygen from all that was in, and tunneled below, its path. There were some screams, but muffled.

  The second Phantom followed on an identical run. No AK-47S were heard. I put my head down as the second payload of canisters was dropped, and listened for the screams.

  There were none.

  The target had been annihilated.

  The fighting continued sporadically for the rest of the afternoon. The two remaining corpsmen had their hands full as they crawled from one wounded marine to another to stop the bleeding and administer immediate triage. One corpsman was working fruitlessly on Mel Langston, a nineteen-year-old private first class from Valentine, Nebraska. Langston had been shot through the helmet and had a bullet lodged in his skull. The round was clearly visible in his head. He died an hour later.

  The sky remained filled with rocket-laden Huey gunships that were making regular assaults on the enemy positions. High above, there was a spotter plane directing fire, but the NVA kept coming. We continued to take wounded and continued to contract our perimeter up the hill to compensate for the increasing manpower shortage.

  As the afternoon wore on, Bill Negron was becoming concerned about the two reported helicopter crash survivors that were out there somewhere. They were probably lost, certainly disoriented, and would have no way, in all the confusion, of knowing where we were.

  So, he hatched another plan.

  Gathering most of us who were on that side of the hill, he had us stand in loose formation and, with every ounce of breath that we could muster, sing “The Marines’ Hymn.”

  From the Halls of Montezuma,

  To the Shores of Tripoli;

>   We fight our country’s battles

  In the air, on land, and sea …

  I am not kidding.

  At the time, I thought that we were just giving a big fuck-you to the enemy, but the Skipper would never have needlessly put us in harm’s way. Instead, he was trying to signal to the two lost marines so that they would know where we were.

  Minutes later, the familiar sound of rotors rose behind us as two marine helicopters flew over to survey the crash site for survivors. The sound of the AK-47 fire directed at them again became deafening. The pilot spotted several hundred uniformed NVA soldiers several hundred meters east of the downed chopper. Incredibly, over the next twenty minutes, with covering fire from the air and the ground, the rescue chopper was able to extract Corporal Santangelo and three other marines—two had been part of the downed chopper’s crew.

  Given the crash of the two helicopters and the near-impossible evacuation that he had just witnessed, Bill Negron knew now that our chances of being evacuated were remote at best. He could barely imagine that even a marine helicopter pilot would take such a suicidal risk. We were surrounded by a vastly superior force and were low on ammo. Nightfall was coming.

  Negron needed a new plan.

  If we stayed on the hill, we would in all likelihood die.

  It would be one hell of a fight, and we would take legions of them with us, but losing the balance of an entire Marine Corps rifle company was not an option. He passed the word that we should gather every compass and map that we could find. We had already taken all of the serviceable equipment from the dead. Any of the wounded who had been evacuated had left their compasses, maps, water, and ammo behind.

  We were in better shape than Negron might have thought. There were maps and compasses for nearly every marine who was left.

  Negron then passed the word that we would most likely be leaving by foot shortly after dark. We would be in three-man teams, quietly abandon the hill, and head due north through the jungle using our escape and evasion training and skills.

  Several miles due north was Route 9. It was open and secure during daylight hours. All we had to do was keep heading due north all night. Some of us would make it; most of us probably would not. That being said, we would all live or die like marines—on the offensive. No question that we would take out a mess of gooks along the way.

  If we stayed, we would die.

  If we left, we had a chance.

  We gathered our gear.

  I was scared, but well understood that it was our only chance. Compass reading had not been my strong suit, but even I could follow a north-facing arrow. As our moment grew closer, I became increasingly excited. We’d been defensive sitting ducks for almost three days. If I was going to die, as seemed likely, I wanted to be on the attack like the United States Marine that I was.

  All felt as I did.

  Fuck ’em.

  Fuck ’em all.

  We were going to take as many of those little motherfuckers down with us as we could.

  The moment never came.

  Within the hour, several helicopters, against all odds and through heavy ground fire, came in and began to pull us out. It was a dream. As each successive chopper loaded, we shrank the perimeter and moved uphill. I was on the third chopper out. I ran for the raising ramp and was pulled in by as many hands as were already on the helicopter. We lifted, banked, and heard small-arms fire ding off the chopper’s belly. The two .50 caliber door gunners at once laid down a massive wall of suppressive fire. Minutes later when we saw the craters of Khe Sanh outside the shattered windows, we knew that we were safe for the first time in three days.

  As there had been no formal plan for our evacuation, the pilots off-loaded us to several of the secured rear bases along Route 9. Most of us ended up at the Vandergrift Combat Base. In the two-hundred-year history of the U.S. Marine Corps, there was not a single marine who felt more tested and battle hardened than we did that evening.

  Captain Negron, last to disembark, directed our staggering beleaguered lot to a nearby mess tent where hot chow and water were in abundance. We mustered forward in dazed disbelief, hugging, touching, crying, and looking about for friends, knowing that more than a few remained on the hill.

  Dead.

  Then a voice came from behind.

  “Charlie Six Actual, I presume?”

  Negron snapped around to see a familiar-looking stranger walking slowly toward him across the tarmac, arm and hand outstretched. “Good job, Captain. I’m proud of you and proud of your company.

  “Trailblazer here. Trailblazer Six Actual.”

  Only then did Negron recognize the familiar face. It was that of Raymond G. Davis, the new commanding general of the entire 3rd Marine Division. During those final hours, the besieged boys of Charlie Company were given the full attention and resources of the entire 3rd Division of the United States Marine Corps.

  For those three days in June 1968, Charlie and Delta companies 1/4 were the war in Vietnam.

  25

  THE NEXT MORNING WE BEGAN TO GATHER UP THE disparate elements of Charlie Company that had been evacuated from LZ Loon to various bases along Route 9. Captain Negron decided that we would consolidate there at the Vandergrift Combat Base, so one by one throughout the morning, we were reunited with our lost comrades. Each person carried a valuable piece of information about the casualties. These guys were at Delta Med in Dong Ha, some other guys were in Da Nang. A bunch, including Wayne Wood and Michael Kilderry, were on the hospital ship Repose offshore. And, finally, all these guys—the long list that we were soon all able to recite by rote—were dead.

  All dead.

  There were fresh tears, breathless reunions, and the early telling and retelling of the hundreds of stories that emerged from the three-day battle. We had to keep talking to one another to be certain it had not been a nightmare.

  “How did you make it out?”

  “Did Santangelo make it back?”

  “What happened to the pilot of the ammo chopper that got shot down?”

  “How bad was Doc Mac hurt? Did anyone see where he got hit?”

  “What’s Snowball doing on the Repose; it didn’t look like he got hit too bad.”

  “Is Woody still alive? It didn’t look like there was anything left of him when we threw him on the chopper.”

  And so it went, all day and through the night, and into the next day. Fragments of information came in, and rumors abounded. What we all knew to be true was that of our already understaffed company of one hundred eighty marines who’d landed on LZ Loon, only sixty of us came off the hill in the end. At least twenty-two of the dead were left behind. That was the nightmarish reality for all of us. We had left them there. We desperately wanted to go right back to LZ Loon and get them, but it was not to be for at least another week.

  We were all confident that it would be a long time before we got sent back into the shit. It would take weeks to reman the company and weeks more to bring the new guys up to speed. There was talk of a “float phase.” Occasionally, undermanned companies such as ours were sent onto ships offshore to regroup, practice amphibious landings, and, of particular interest to us, get leave in the squalid Philippine liberty port of Olongapo. I figured that I had about six weeks left in the field before going home. I was safe. The war was over for me.

  Soon enough, new guys poured in, all as green as grass. They looked at us as though we’d just stepped out of some war movie. Their eyes were as big as globes as they heard us recount our stories. Some were scared; most were pissed that they had missed the action. As had become his custom, Bill Negron took each one aside, welcomed him, and passed on his wisdom of the ages.

  “This is serious business,” he’d begin. “When your squad leader tells you to do something, do it. Move on command. Don’t ask questions. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” would come the obedient reply.

  “I’m not ‘sir’ out here, son. I’m Bill or I’m Skipper. Gooks hear someone call
me sir, I’m a dead man. Get it?” Negron was always clear about this.

  “Yes … ah … Skipper,” would come the uncertain reply.

  “Good man. Good man. Look, you want to stay alive, listen to the old guys, the veterans who’ve been in the shit. They’ll get you through it.”

  This would be followed by a warm arm on the shoulder and an encouraging word. “You’re going to be fine, Marine.”

  With that, Negron would call Tillery and have him escort the new guy to his assigned platoon, squad, and fire team.

  “Tillery,” he’d call.

  The radio man would obediently run right over.

  “Sir. Yes, sir?” Tillery couldn’t resist. He loved to give the Skipper shit.

  And Negron would laugh.

  “Get this marine over to 2nd Platoon on the double.”

  Bill Negron could be an intimidating person when you first met him. He was as tough as nails, had a big brown square jaw, and appeared wired to blow—he was that intense. But he also was as personable and as nice a man as any of us had ever met.

  He cared.

  He talked to his men.

  He never pulled a punch. He taught us everything he knew—and he knew a lot.

  He was the best.

  The fresh marines brought one piece of news from home that felt like the last straw. Bobby Kennedy, New York senator Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., brother of the slain President John F. Kennedy, candidate for the presidency of the United States, had been killed days before, while we were on LZ Loon.

  What the fuck was going on back home? Jesus.

  Our days of comfort were short-lived. We were ordered to saddle up with full packs, helmets, and flak jackets. We were issued chow, water, and fresh ammo.

  The choppers came and we headed back out into the shit.

  Consistent with Ray Davis’s new policy, we were choppered into LZ Robin. Like LZ Loon, it too was hard on the Laotian border. The artillery was already in place this time. It was an impressive battery of 105 mm howitzers—what might have been at LZ Loon had we gotten them in. Alpha Company was already in place as well and showed no signs of departing. Temporarily homeless, we took our small band of marines and climbed all the way down the hill and all the way up the next one. We dug out holes. If some were already there, we dug them deeper.