by Phil Ball
This was the first time I had ever been locked up, and to be completely honest, it scared the shit out of me. This was mostly because the two or three white guys were strongly outnumbered by extremely militant blacks, who all seemed very hostile and blamed the white man in general for their present situation. There was no way I was going to make it through the night without receiving at least one ass-whipping. I felt intimidated.
There was not room enough to lie down, so I huddled with the other two white guys and slept as if I was in the bush, one eye open and my head protected at all times. There was a lot of arguing and loud talking all night long, and two guys got into a wrestling match at one point. I managed to steer clear of danger that first night and looked forward to being released when the sun came up.
I was told that as soon as my company commander’s office could be contacted and an NCO sent to pick me up, then I would be released, but it had to be a sergeant E-5 or better and they were in short supply in Fox Company. Communications were bad to begin with, but once Quang Tri was notified, the company clerk would still have to find an available sergeant to come get me; this could take days. I waited and waited, but no one came.
The routine was the same; every day the cell would empty out completely, but at night it would fill right back up with drunk Marines, squids (Navy) and dogfaces (Army). Whites were always out numbered ten to two, and race relations during this time were not good, anyway. Martin Luther King, Jr., was murdered and Malcolm X was becoming extremely popular back in the states; all this was carrying over to Vietnam. There were race riots in Da Nang, as well as other military installations throughout the country, and at the dreaded Long Binh Jail (L.B.J.) black prisoners had taken over, killing several white prisoners and guards. The whole world was a mess, and the Vietnamese New Year was approaching fast. Tet had been very bloody in 1968 and we all expected this year to be bad, too. Every night from the jail cell I heard small-arms fire outside and I was without a weapon. I feared the jail might be overrun. I was assured that I would get a weapon if the time came that I needed one, but for now I remained a prisoner. It worried me, knowing first-hand that when the shit hits the fan, there is little or no time to think about passing out weapons to a bunch of prisoners. My worst fear was being forgotten in the cell when the enemy came over the wall, and being trapped like a caged animal.
They let us out every morning to use the head and get our breakfast of corn flakes and coffee (no milk). One morning after an extraordinarily noisy night, the guard came to unlock the door. When he went to turn the key, he found that someone had stuffed a wad of chewing gun in the key hole, completely gumming up the inner workings of the ancient mechanism. He was irate and totally lost it. Yelling and screaming, he threatened to severely punish every single one of us if he did not find out who did this dirty deed. After some manipulation by a locksmith, the door was opened and we were all led outside. Without breakfast or coffee, a dozen or more stinky prisoners were pushed into a conex box in the courtyard.
For those who are not familiar with conex boxes, they are basically shipping containers made from heavy gauge steel sheeting. They vary in size; ours was much smaller than the cell: approximately six feet tall, six feet wide, and 10 feet long with no windows. Small, square holes about two inches square were cut in the walls for air. I think there were three holes on each of the four sides. Not a pleasant place to spend a hot day.
There were two, slightly more mature black grunts who had been brought in together and had been in the cell longer than anyone else except me. I was the only one who had been there longer than just a day or two, but because I was always there I got a little recognition from these two. We talked about where we were from, and since the three of us were from large cities, they seemed to feel something in common with me. They were generally in charge, and fortunately they accepted me. Perhaps more than the big city connection, the three of us were grunts, and although they were from a unit down South, they recognized the significance of me being from up North.
I gave them the same respect they gave me and we began to get along quite well. This seemed to anger one of the loudest black prisoners, who just happened to be the guy I suspected had put the gum in the lock. He was the only one who was chewing gum to my knowledge and he had been the closest one to the door when the incident took place. So when he got in my face simply for the fact that I was a white guy in a black man’s cell, I confronted him with my allegations of his being the culprit. “If you don’t fess up motherfucker, I’m gonna rat you out myself,” I growled with as much fierce antagonism as I could find, looking over at the pair of black grunts for support. They didn’t have to back me up on this, but as long as they did not interfere or let anyone else interfere, I figured I probably could take this guy, especially in such a small area. I didn’t feel that I could really get hurt too badly if no really big punches or kicks could be thrown.
I intended on doing whatever I had to do to get out of the box. If that meant fighting this man and ratting him out, then so be it. I resented being locked up and I blamed the MPs for my dilemma. Yet this gum-chewing, nasty black man was the reason I’d been kicked out of my cell and thrown into the sweat box, and I hated him for it.
We exchanged a few insults at extremely close range before we both exploded on one another at the same time. He was quite a bit bigger than I and I wound up falling backwards over a couple guys on the floor, and then crashed into the steel bulkhead. I knew what I wanted to do and when I got the opportunity I held his head with my left arm and proceeded to push the thumb of my right hand into his eye socket, driving the sensitive eyeball deep into his skull. Screaming in pain, my opponent tried desperately to get me off him, punching and rolling around on the floor, but I was not about to let him go until he either stopped breathing or stopped fighting.
I did finally let him go when the MPs came and opened the door. The bright sunlight blinded me a moment, and then I saw all the blood. They let me return to the cell with the other prisoners, but the other guy was detained a while. Before taken to sick call he was charged with destruction of government property. Back in the cell I was given a whole new sense of respect by both guards and inmates, and was given the nickname “Killer.”
I stayed there a total of nine long days before I was finally released into the custody of none other than 3rd Platoon’s former sergeant, the 15-year veteran who bragged he’d never been busted. I was so glad to see him I could have kissed him on the lips, but I didn’t. All I wanted to do was get as far away from that station as possible. As we walked down the street to the airport admiring Da Nang’s beautiful women as they rode by on their bicycles, I asked sarge if the platoon was still at Mai Loc and if anything exciting had been happening since I’d been gone.
“Well, let’s see.” He rubbed his scruffy chin and looked as though thinking back a few weeks was extremely difficult for him, and maybe downright painful. “How long you been gone?” he asked.
“It’s been 46 or 47 days,” I answered.
Then he began to talk. “Were you here when two of our squads ambushed each other?”
“Oh man no, what happened? Was anybody killed? It wasn’t none of my guys, was it?” I asked nervously, fully aware of the fact that friendly fire incidents were sometimes the deadliest of all situations.
“I don’t think it was 3-Alpha,” the sarge continued. “It must have been Bravo and Charlie. Nobody was killed, but there were several medevacs.”
“Well, what happened?” I probed. “Somebody must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sandbagging,” I presume.
“That’s about it,” sarge continued with the story. “One squad was set up in an ambush, some 400 meters too close. They didn’t go out where they were supposed to. When the patrol came through, the assholes opened fire on them. So of course the patrol started shooting back. I guess when they realized they didn’t hear any AK-47s or see any green tracers, they finally figured it out.”
“I bet somebody caught
hell for that one, huh?” I asked, but the sarge either didn’t hear me or he chose to ignore me. “What else happened?” I asked.
The sarge blurted out matter-of-factly, “Atwood got shot.”
I immediately grabbed his arm and stopped, forcing him to look at me because I didn’t believe what I thought he just said. “Say what?”
Knowing we were tight, sarge tried to calm me down. “He’s all right, don’t worry, he was medevaced but came right back after only a couple days.”
“What happened?” I asked, feeling relieved, but still upset.
“I wasn’t there,” he said, “but I heard him and three or four other guys were partying late one night in the hooch over at 3-Alpha’s village. Apparently they were all sitting in a circle, goofing around with a .45 automatic, and it went off. The round hit Atwood square in the chest and knocked him over backwards, asshole over belly button.”
“Bullshit!” I exclaimed. I didn’t believe even the tough Texan could stand a .45 round to the chest and not get hurt, but it was true. For some reason, whether he had just come off guard duty or whatever, he had put on a flak jacket. The angle must have been just right to let the round ricochet off the armor plate; otherwise, he most certainly would have been killed.
Sarge and I flew north to Quang Tri and checked in with the first sergeant. I expected him to read me the riot act, but he simply said, “Welcome back, Marine, get your ass back to your unit ASAP and we’ll send someone to the field to conduct the office hours hearing.”
At least there would not be a court-martial. Office hours were used for less serious offenses, but I could still expect to be busted back down to PFC and a fine.
“Too bad,” said the first sergeant. “Your promotion papers to corporal E-4 just came through, but now they are null and void.”
I never thought I’d be glad to get back, but it felt great to see the guys again when we rolled into Mai Loc. Everybody wanted to hear about my extended R&R and I was eager to tell them about it. Lieutenant Schoolboy put me right back in 3-Alpha in the refugee village and acted as though nothing had happened. He told me he had been informed of the office hours hearing, but as far as he was concerned they wouldn’t change anything. I was to pick up where I left off and assume the same responsibilities that I had had as a fire team leader.
A corporal called “Snake” was now squad leader, but other than that paper title, nothing else changed. I wanted to know how Snake became squad leader. He seemed to have risen from obscurity, not that he didn’t necessarily deserve the opportunity. He had as much time in-country as the rest of us, but he was not exactly well-liked by the men. Snake was a little too prejudiced to be a leader in my view, but he deserved a fair shake as long as he didn’t try to tell me what to do.
The office hours personnel showed up one day at the MACV compound and I was summoned over for my hearing. It was short, sweet, and to the point. I walked out busted to PFC and fined one month’s pay. I was also ordered to perform a certain amount of extra work to be determined by my platoon commander. But the thing that hurt the worst was I was ordered to make up lost time by staying in Vietnam past my original rotation date. The 29 days I was AWOL were to be tacked on to the end of my 13-month tour, which extended my rotation dated from May 24, 1969, to June 25, 1969; this extra month was unacceptable as far as I was concerned, and could very well mean the difference between life and death. I didn’t mention this “bad time” I was expected to serve when Schoolboy asked me what the ruling was. I told him about the extra work assignment and everything else but not the extension of my tour, hoping that if I kept it a secret by the time my 12-and-20 rolled around I could leave the bush and get back to the rear before anyone caught on. The extra work detail did not matter much. 3-Alpha was in the process of digging a platoon-size latrine at the compound and I simply pitched in to help.
On February 9, 1969, 3-Alpha took a half-dozen local PFs and patrolled the main village. It was a routine we had followed many times, leaving our refugee village shortly after dark to walk slowly down the road and turn north on Route 558. We had a bright moon and visibility was excellent; unfortunately, when you can see well, so can the enemy. On this particular patrol, Atwood and I walked point in a staggered column. He was on one side of the road and I on the other. The PFs included our friend Little John, and he was right there with us somewhere up front. Although this was routine, we took every patrol, especially at night, very seriously, well aware the enemy could and would show up when we least expected them to.
We marched down to the village past the marketplace and turned left on Route 558. The partially ruined schoolhouse stood dark and silent on our right, and as we passed by we took extra caution. We continued another 75 meters north on Route 558, paying close attention to the shadowy brush on both sides of the narrow dirt road, trying to stay vigilant and ready for anything.
We came to a dark, shadowy place in the road where the trees grew very tall on one side, giving us an excellent, concealed position. It was as if we were the only ones outside and the entire area around us was a well-lit room. A perfect spot for an ambush, I thought. I was just getting ready to tell Little John to move out from the middle of the road because we were coming to the edge of this shadowy area, when he suddenly dropped to his knees and shouldered his carbine. The young Vietnamese PF certainly had good night vision.
Down the road, about 65 meters in front of us, a small, shadowy figure hurriedly scampered across the most narrow spot in the road. A second or two later another figure moved across the same spot in the same way. I heard Little John whisper, “VC. Bookoo VC.”
Mike moved over with me and Little John on the right side of the road and together we lay there in the brush counting men with rifles and oversized backpacks cross over into Mai Loc one at a time. It looked like an estimated company-size NVA unit, not VC. If we had been one minute earlier we most certainly would have run head-on with them; as things stood at the moment, we could see them, but they couldn’t see us. It was an unbelievable feeling, because as long as I could remember, the situation had always been reversed, but we definitely had the advantage for once in our lives.
Due to the fact that our squad was in-line perpendicular to the enemy force, we were not in position to trigger an ambush. We could get our guys on-line quick enough, but our targets would be very limited because we could only see one of them at a time. I desperately wanted to do something; to let this opportunity slip through our fingers without so much as firing a weapon certainly seemed like a waste. The only thing I was concerned with was the PFs; if they should panic and start shooting prematurely, they might get us all killed. So we did nothing, calling Hamilton on the radio instead, hoping maybe he had some tactical advice.
“3, 3-Alpha, be advised we’ve got bookoo gooks entering the village from the main road, over.”
“Roger 3-Alpha, how many are there? Over.”
“3, 3-Alpha, looks to be about 50 or 60 so far, but they’re still crossing one at a time, over.”
“Roger 3-Alpha, what is your location, over?”
“3, 3-Alpha, we are halfway between checkpoints Bravo and Charlie, on the east side of the brown line, over.”
“Roger 3-Alpha, and exactly where are the bad guys now, over?”
I could tell Hamilton was trying to get a mental image of our situation, and if anyone would know how to best utilize our forces against this enemy it was he. The longer we talked, the more NVA arrived, and God only knew what they were doing or where they were going once they crossed the road and disappeared from our line of sight. I wondered if they would possibly circle around and stumble across us, or decide to come back a different way when they left the village, also possibly stumbling upon us huddled in the bushes there. I needed a plan of some sort immediately; otherwise, we would at least have to set up a small, 360-degree defensive perimeter right where we were.
“3, 3-Alpha, they are entering the village at checkpoint Charlie and then disappearing into thin air, over.”
I don’t doubt Hamilton sensed my impatience. He told me to just sit tight until he got there with reinforcements. We were all a little disappointed, because we knew it would be too late to get some by the time the rest of 3rd Platoon got there, but we set up a 360 and waited, counting at least 65 NVA total.
Mike Atwood and I were not what anyone would call gung-ho Marines. We were actually pretty much against this whole war, but when we were faced with this seemingly beautiful opportunity to seek a little revenge against our enemy, we found ourselves more than a little eager to do so. We both had enough experience to know that these gooks were not about to stay and fight. They probably just wanted food and supplies, and if we didn’t learn anything else from this, we figured they probably had a few friends living in Mai Loc.
We heard the tanks at the MACV compound start up and head our way. Sergeant Hamilton and one 3rd Platoon squad arrived on the top of one tank; schoolboy and another squad pulled up on the second. They had to yell loudly to be heard over all the engine noise. Mike and I looked at each other shaking our heads in disgust, feeling we’d just blown a great opportunity.
The plan was to sweep the village on foot with Bravo and Charlie squads, while 3-Alpha, the two tanks, and Sergeant Hamilton set up a blocking force at the north end of the village. The exercise took most of the night to complete, and when it was over not a single sign of enemy presence was found.
We received bogus intelligence reports of enemy activity in the area all the time; more often than not they were wrong or outdated. There had been no such reports of this NVA company until about a week later, when we heard there was a large NVA unit headed our way. The report came in late in the afternoon of February 14, 1969, a day which 3-Alpha was scheduled to be off. Most of us had been drinking and smoking pretty heavily all afternoon at mama-san’s hooch when we got word that we had to go on patrol that night. Nobody was falling down drunk by any standard; in fact, the buzz I had gave me more courage and made me more aggressive, if anything. The memory of that NVA company crossing the road was still fresh in my mind and I did not want to go on this particular patrol at all. I had a very bad feeling about this one. My gut instinct said we were going to hit the shit this time. We were way too lucky last week to have come away with no shots fired, and good luck was in awfully short supply lately.