Ghosts and Shadows

by Phil Ball

  We were beginning to get bunched up as we approached an area of trees and scrubs sprouting from the desert. I knew if there were enemy soldiers out here, this would probably be where they were. There was a little shade, but nothing that looked like it could have any great water source, just a cluster of dry-looking vegetation that might conceal a bunker or two.

  The word to keep it spread out was being passed down the line when all of a sudden the high-pitched scream of an incoming artillery round came whistling through the hot afternoon air. It was a big one; I could tell by the sound as it traveled overhead, coming toward us at a steep angle to the north. Boom! It exploded in the area of our point squad near the front of the column.

  “Oh shit,” I said out loud. We needed to find some cover, but once again, there was none. There was nothing but wide-open spaces, not even a dune in sight. I took a couple steps forward and hit the ground next to Chico. “That’s not ours, is it?” I asked excitedly.

  “Hell no it ain’t ours, not coming from that direction,” he said pointing north with a nod of his head.

  Within a minute of the first round, the enemy adjusted fire and began systematically “walking” one round after the other, 20 meters apart, directly toward us. They obviously must have had a forward observer in the cluster of trees radioing back some very accurate coordinates, because this big 130-mm gun was right on target and getting closer and closer with each shell.

  The way it looked, these SOBs were going to walk right over us. Without any cover, we would surely be blown away. I believe the captain gave the only order he could at that point, to execute an about face, and then a strategic advance to the rear. In other words, turn around and run like hell.

  I must have been in dire need of a good laugh, because when I saw 130 macho Marines trying to run for their lives with upwards of 100-pound pack on, tripping over themselves and falling flat on their faces, I couldn’t help but crack up. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t run. I tripped and fell repeatedly, scared to death on one hand, yet laughing uncontrollably at the same time. It was an experience I’ll never forget. Luckily, no one was killed. We then called in jet air strikes on the NVA FO’s position, literally leveling that cluster of trees and scrubs.

  Golf 2/3 hit the shit on July 6 in a village north of us. Four Marines were killed. When we moved forward to help them, we received a lot of small arms fire and RPG rounds too, but suffered no casualties as far as I know. Hotel 2/3 engaged an NVA platoon at Gio Linh on July 7, suffering two KIAs and two WIAs.

  The same time that Hotel Company was fighting a bloody battle at Gio Linh, we engaged a smaller NVA unit in a nearby village. Our point team spotted the enemy running and as we spread ourselves out to sweep through the tiny village, they opened fire. We hit them with everything we had and burned the place down. When it was over we counted 17 dead NVA.

  On July 10 our participation in Napoleon/Saline ended and we were trucked to the infamous Rockpile. Located more than five miles west of Cam Lo, where Route #9 turned sharply south toward Ca Lu, the Rock was a well-fortified artillery base essential to Marine operations in the DMZ, which loomed just a few miles to the north. The Rockpile got its name for the strange rock formations in the area. I believe the firebase itself was carved out of several acres of a hard, rocky mound just slightly higher than the surrounding lowlands. The foothills to the north of the base were the beginning of the mountain range that stretched west into Laos, and bordered North and South Vietnam. The natural barrier was also the DMZ, and the most dreaded place a grunt could ever go.

  I’d heard a lot about the Rockpile and the DMZ; their reputations preceded them. I’d heard that the NVA had training camps, R&R centers, underground hospitals, and all sorts of hidden road and facilities in the DMZ, but up until recently, Marines had not been going after those positions on a large scale. When we arrived at the Rockpile, I saw a Marine unit leaving that looked to have been in some serious fighting. That was when I first heard the name Mutter’s Ridge. Rumors circulated about Marine outfits being wiped out on Mutter’s Ridge, and we were in line to go help out. A feeling of resignation seemed to dominate our attitudes; the whole idea of not having long to live made for a general feeling of indifference. The term “fuck it” was heard a lot, and not much mattered past the immediate present.

  We had a two-day stand-down July 10 and 11 before we were to move out again on the 12th. No one knew where we were going, but a lot of us assumed it would be the DMZ. We got some warm beer and extra rations and commenced to getting a buzz. I got drunk the first night and woke up feeling like shit. Atwood and I laid around all day doing nothing, but as it began to get dark, somebody invited us to come down to a bunker on the perimeter and smoke some pot. I was reluctant at first, not knowing what marijuana would really do to me, but Mike assured me he had tried it before and was sure that I would like it.

  I was 18 years old and had been in-country nearly four months. I had seen a lot of grunts smoke pot and laughed at them on occasion, but for whatever reasons I had not tried it myself. Perhaps the main reason I had not smoked yet was Chico; although he indulged regularly, he told me to wait until I had some time in before I got involved with it, and I always listened to Chico.

  It was dark inside the small bunker, but a small candle was burning on the ground in front and I could see a few grunts already passing a joint between them. Mike and I sat down with them and took turns toking from the perfectly rolled, cigarette-sized joint. Somebody had a tiny, transistor radio dialed to the Armed Forces Radio Network. Every night at 2100 they would play the latest rock ’n roll hits for a few hours and GIs all over South Vietnam would tune in. Jamming to Eric Clapton’s “White Room” and “Paint It Black” by the Rolling Stones, it wasn’t long until I completely forgot where I was. The only thing that mattered was that for the first time in as long as I could remember, not only was I having fun, but I wasn’t scared of anything. My mind was not overwhelmed with those terrifying feelings of impending doom, and once again I felt like maybe there was hope. Hope for the future, hope that I would someday go home in one piece and live to do this partying in the world.

  The opium-treated marijuana we found so easy to obtain was some of the strongest in the world, unlike the weed smoked by hippies and students in the world. It would sometimes cause hallucinations. It could create an overwhelming sense of well-being and let you temporarily forget about the rigors of war with just one or two tokes. I would never get high when I was in the bush or in a position when I needed to be alert and on guard. It was strictly an activity reserved for when we were fortunate enough to spend time at LZs and artillery bases like the Rockpile, LZ Stud, Khe Sanh, or Ca Lu.

  I never saw any of the hard drugs, the heroin and speed that so many U.S. servicemen were injecting and smoking. Those were found mostly down south in 1968 and 1969, places like Da Nang, Saigon, Chu Lai, Pleiju, and Da Lat. I’m sure the hard stuff was in Phu Bai and probably Dong Ha, but I never saw it or heard anyone talk about it. It’s probably a good thing, too, because if I would have had the opportunity, I’m sure I would have tried it.

  I felt as though I had some kind of spiritual awakening inside that bunker, and my entire way of life was changing. It was as if my mind had been opened up to new, positive thought processes I had never known before. Smoking pot was much, much more than a way to get buzzed. That juvenile phrase “where there’s dope, there’s hope” became a reality for me and a lot of other grunts fighting the war. We potheads became a brotherhood within a brotherhood. Known simply as “heads,” we stuck together tighter than our countergroup the “juicers.” I’m not saying that drugs made any of us better warriors (they did not), but the pot gave some of us an extra incentive in some way.

  The next morning, July 12, we saddled up bright and early and moved out, the previous night’s experience in my mind. It was already dark that night when we trudged up the steep slope to our objective. At the top of the mountain I was surprised to see a newly constructed, well-fortifie
d firebase. Our company column passed through the perimeter and a gauntlet of onlookers all hoping for a glimpse of a familiar face. This sort of greeting was very common whenever two or more outfits ran into each other, and inevitably acquaintances were always met.

  There seemed to be a lot of people on this remote hilltop in the middle of nowhere, and our arrival added to the crowded conditions. We were instructed to find a spot and crap out for the night. There would be no guard duty or standing perimeter watch. Whenever we were given the uncommon privilege of a full night’s sleep we never asked questions.

  PFC Holt was filling in as squad leader while Chico was in the rear. Holt did not like the idea of everybody not having holes of their own in case of an enemy attack. When he brought the subject up to our platoon commander, he was told there was plenty of room further back inside the 360 for us should we need to seek cover and it was not advised for any of our people to start digging in this late at night. Bruce was not completely satisfied with that answer, but he let it slide, knowing if we did get hit there would not be enough time to search for cover.

  We were all dog tired from the long, hot hump and everyone crapped out on the side of the hill behind the lines. I had something else on my agenda that I had to do first, and that was to search the engineer’s area for my schoolmate PFC Richie Stuerenberg. I hadn’t seen him since boot camp, but we had been writing letters regularly. Just recently, he had said his unit was coming north to build some firebases. I saw that the bulldozers were still there, so I knew I had to look for Richie. To be this close and miss him would be a terrible mistake on my part, especially since I didn’t know if I’d ever see my buddy again.

  I searched high and low and found some engineers who said they were an Army unit out of Quang Tri. They had more heavy weapons on top of that hill than you could shake a stick at. They had 105 and 155 howitzers, 8-inchers, and 106 recoilless rifles. They had 81-mm and four-deuce mortars; there was even a tank and a couple of dusters. I couldn’t believe it all. I didn’t find Richie, so I headed back.

  I had a little trouble finding my way through the dark back to our area. I wound up having to step over sleeping grunts, and I was thoroughly cursed when I stepped on someone. When I did find Holt and my gear, there was no room for me to lie down. Since we had no radio watch, I just grabbed my gear and found an area where no one else was sleeping, further around the hillside. I wrapped myself up in my poncho liner and fell right to sleep.

  Around 2300 I was brutally awakened by a tremendous explosion which I first believed had severely wounded me. I was picked up at least a foot off the ground and slammed back down with stunning force. Instinctively I put on my helmet and tried to protect my head with my arms. Lying flat on my stomach, I desperately struggled to focus my thoughts. Seconds later I faintly heard someone yell “fire in the hole,” immediately followed by another one of those bone-jarring explosions. These cannon cockers were firing a fire mission, and I must have been right under one of the big 8-inchers. Suddenly it was as if every gun in the battery was going off at the same time; in fact, they were. Someone had spotted movement with a starlight scope several hundred meters north of our position and the pieces in the battery were going after it with great enthusiasm.

  I was scared more than anything else, having been so rudely awakened and my ears blown out once again. The ringing was more severe this time and the temporary hearing loss was about 25 percent. Actually, I had never regained my hearing completely from Foxtrot Ridge, and this incident made it worse.

  I tried hard to get medevaced, but Doc still wasn’t having it. I learned that we were scheduled to begin a big operation in a couple of days and every able-bodied man was going on it.

  We joined the rest of the battalion at LZ Stud on July 13 and began preparing for this extended operation. We were told we would only need two days’ supply of food and water, but were given more ammo than we could carry. A big resupply was expected on the second day out. At first it was hush-hush about the location of this extremely sensitive operation, but we soon learned it would indeed be the DMZ. It was to be the largest number of Marines participating in a single effort in any of our experiences, and it was also going to be the longest. Two days would pass before our first resupply, and the entire operation was expected to last more than 30 days.

  Although they were kicking everyone out of the rear and making every grunt available for this operation, Chico managed to sit this one out. He later told me, “I just had a bad feeling about this one.” Atwood also managed to dodge it: he got medevaced when no one else could by using original excuses.

  This operation, Lancaster II, was a three-regiment attack to land on the southern boundary line of the DMZ and then push south against Route #9. With 9th Marines on our east flank and the 2nd ARVN Regiment to our west, our commanding officers could not really tell us what to expect. The one idea that was constantly reinforced was that we could expect to land in a hot LZ. The size and strength of the NVA unit we were to engage was unclear, but it was known that there would be massive bunker and tunnel complexes that had been there for years. No U.S. or allied troops had ever been in this area, and it was believed to be a part of the NVA’s rear area as far as staging troops and supplies were concerned. Images of underground hospitals and training facilities haunted my fitful sleep the night before we left, and the terrifying notion of jumping into a hot LZ had me wondering if I would live through this one.

  * Pseudonym.

  Chapter 10

  Hot LZ, Friendly Fire

  Early morning on July 17, 1968, the troop lift began. As we nervously awaited our turn, I saw young Marines writing letters home as if it might be their last. The fear of the unknown had our imaginations getting the best of us; the mere mention of a hot LZ has the ability to create terror. The thought of being blown out of the sky or gunned down trying to get away from a chopper on the ground is one of the worst scenarios in a grunt’s nightmares. Compared to what some of our sister companies and battalions had been going through recently, I felt that Fox Company had been relatively lucky, having escaped being overrun and wiped out the past six weeks. I couldn’t help but think it was our turn.

  PFC Bruce Holt was one of the few grunts around me who remained genuinely cool and calm under this immense pressure. He was perhaps the only one of us who had been through it before. I stuck to him like glue, hoping some of his luck and good fortune would rub off on me. He certainly knew what he was doing. He told me to stick with him and I wouldn’t have anything to worry about, either.

  The 9th Marines and the ARVNs went in separate from us, and from different LZs. I think the 9th left from Camp Carroll and the ARVNs from Cam Lo. Right away, 3/9 engaged when they landed close to a company-size NVA unit who were dug in on a ridge line. Fox Company lucked out again; we were one of the last waves to go in. Due to the lack of helicopters available, we waited most of the day at LZ Stud, listening to terrifying stories about what was going on at the site.

  The mountains on the DMZ were more rugged than any I had seen around Khe Sanh, and the jungle was much thicker, too. As we flew low over the jagged peaks approaching our LZ, our chopper began receiving a heavy volume of automatic small arms fire from the ground. The crew chief grabbed Holt and me and directed us to return fire out the rear ramp. While a couple of guys held our ankles, we lay down and fired at the source of the green tracers coming up at us. There were NVA in a big bomb crater and several more running away from it. I couldn’t tell if I hit any of them, but we weren’t hit ourselves.

  I was taken aback somewhat by the complete destruction and total devastation of this area as our chopper swooped in low to land behind a large ridge line. Several days, if not weeks, of bombings and artillery prep fire had just about reduced this place to a pile of rubble. Twisted, broken trees and mounds of brush and debris were all that was left of this once-thriving rain forest. It had been a healthy, triple-canopy jungle that concealed the NVA’s backyard, so to speak. For the first time, everything was vi
sible from the air.

  We were running full-speed down the rear ramp before the chopper even touched the ground. The sound of gunfire and explosions could be heard from the not-too-distant hillside. I followed closely behind Holt as he zigzagged his way toward a ravine at the base of the hill where the enemy was. I don’t know if he had been ordered to lead us directly at the enemy, or if it was his own initiative. Whatever the case it was certainly his style to go right after the enemy, whether anyone followed him or not.

  This had apparently been a hot LZ off and on all day, although it was not the only one. Choppers had been landing in various places throughout the day and they had been hit at nearly every LZ. To my limited knowledge, not one man was killed or one chopper lost.

  We established and maintained a 360-degree defensive perimeter around our particular LZ at the order of our skipper, Fox 2/3’s commanding officer. Every time one of our choppers approached they were fired on by the dwindling NVA force hiding in the surrounding hills. We could only return fire and hope to quiet them somewhat. By the time the landing was complete and we had all gathered to move out, it was already getting dark. We were behind schedule and there was some confusion as to our exact location. It turned out we were still 300 meters away from the hilltop where we were supposed to dig in for the night. Instead of risking danger and more confusion by moving in the dark, it was decided that the whole company would spend the night where we were. Stretched out in a long, single-column formation on the side of a big ridge line was not the best defensive position to be in. Knowing that the enemy was in the immediate area and the DMZ was their own backyard, some of us lowly peons questioned the CO’s judgment. We were told to crap out right on the trail, but set up radio watches using the entire squad. With approximately 10 men in 3-Alpha, that figured out to be less than one hour per man. Even though it meant we would get more sleep, we still didn’t like this overnight position, especially when it was inferred that we not dig holes.