by Phil Ball
“Let’s burn the whole fuckin’ place down!” someone said.
“Yeah, let’s torch the hooch! Kill ’em all, goddamn it!” said another.
I noticed the man at the other end of my shotgun wore a shiny new Seiko watch on his wrist. This was the same style watch I brought back from Tokyo with me and had mysteriously disappeared into thin air after only a few nights in Mai Loc. I immediately assumed that this young man had stolen my watch, and much the same way I did the cowboy who stole my rain coat, I struck him in the face with the business end of the weapon. From then on things really got out of control. I started beating him ruthlessly with both the shotgun and my fists. Every time I knocked him down he would get right back up, never so much as lifting a finger to defend himself. I was hoping he would fight back so I could shoot him; as it stood then, I was prepared to beat him to death if that’s what it came down to.
I had crossed the line between self-control and insanity again. The more I struck him, the more outraged I grew, and the more blood I saw, the more I wanted. This was the point of no return that I always feared I would reach and be unable to recover from. I knew all along that my combat experience, the prolonged exposure to death and violence, and the effects it would inevitably have on me when this war was finally over, were things I would have to deal with someday. I always made an attempt to keep things relatively mellow and under control. I feared losing my sanity if I allowed the things I witnessed to get to me. Once I was aware that I had indeed crossed that line, I was too far gone to stop. Blind to everything around me, I was completely and totally consumed with murderous rage. I apparently had dropped my weapon so I could use both hands to seek my revenge on this kid. Revenge for Huey and for Schuck, Sal, Tex, and even the old gunny. Revenge for my own pain and suffering, and all the misery I had been through. I believed that by inflicting enough pain on this guy, I would alleviate some of my own.
The kid’s teeth were jagged and sharp, so my knuckles were quickly cut up and were bleeding profusely, which only added to the visual effect of this violent episode. The cuts on my hands and the sight of my own blood fed the violence and increased my rage. I grew exhausted, frustrated that I was not getting the satisfaction I wanted. I stopped beating him and grabbed the shotgun from Mike. Once again shouldering the powerful weapon, I aimed for his head. It was a very tense and dramatic moment, my chest heaving for air and blood all over everything, I prepared to finish what I had started. I could hear some of my squadmates cheering me on, “Do it! Blow his ass away! Kill that motherfucker! Do it for Huey!” Others, only two or three, pleaded with me to stop. “Don’t do it! Put the gun down! Enough is enough.” Both the mama-san and the papa-san were weeping, no longer screaming in panic.
Looking straight into his bloodshot eyes, I swear I saw the kid smile. There was no apparent fear in his expression whatsoever. It was as if he were mocking me, almost daring me to pull the trigger.
Atwood had been right by my side the whole time, letting me vent my anger and frustration while watching out for me and maintaining security. At this moment, he knew me better than even I knew myself. He was not going to let me murder this kid in cold blood in front of all these witnesses, and only he could stop me at this point. I could hear him whispering to me, but I could not understand what he was saying at first. His voice alone gradually calmed me down enough to regain some sense of what was going on. He told me it was all over and everything was all right. He said the lieutenant and Staff Sergeant Hamilton were going to be coming in a minute and we best get things cleaned up, meaning the blood all over my face and hands. I was coming back to my senses more now, and though I would never be the same after that night, I managed to pull myself back together enough to act like none of it ever happened.
When the lieutenant arrived with the rest of the platoon a more thorough search of the area was performed. Huey’s body was medevaced along with Barney and another Marine wounded in the ambush. The old mama-san was medevaced for wounds received; the papa-san and the young man were both taken into custody for extensive questioning, as was the teenage girl. All four were later determined to be VC and were put in prison. It was also determined a few days later when three NVA regulars were killed in the area that these four folks were not the gunmen in Huey’s death, but they were indirectly involved. The three NVA regulars’ corpses were put on display outside the main gate next door at the MACV compound as a gruesome reminder not to kill Marines. Those three corpses lay out there in the hot sun for nearly a week, decomposing and stinking up the whole area. Every day we watched villagers coming in from as far as Cam Lo to view the rotting bodies, apparently relatives and curiosity seekers who may have known NVA regulars personally, or had sons or brothers they hoped to identify. After a week or so all three corpses were gone, taken in the middle of the night, I assumed, for a proper burial.
The night Huey died, when I went off on that VC suspect, was another turning point for me. After that extraordinary outburst of rage I was never quite the same as far as my outlook on life and my attitude toward my fellow man. I started thinking too much about things I had intentionally tried to ignore the past several months, and my head became full of negative thoughts. I found myself thinking about Don, Tex, and Sal, and how easily I could be added to the growing list of KIAs in Vietnam. I saw grunts who had already served one 13-month tour coming back after a short leave in the world to serve a second tour. I knew that I, too, would have to serve a second tour because I had a four-year enlistment and that was the policy. At times I felt terribly overwhelmed with hopelessness and fear; knowing how difficult this first tour had been, a second 13 months in-country was incomprehensible. I was afraid that I was already coming unglued, and if I wasn’t killed first, I would probably lose my mind altogether. I was only 19 years old, but I felt like an old, worn-out man, physically as well as mentally exhausted. I did not know how to deal with these problems properly, so my normal instinct was to try to ignore everything I did not like.
When the battalion payroll officer came out to Mai Loc to get our signatures, I saw that my original rotation date, May 24, 1969, had never been changed to make up for the four weeks I was AWOL in Tokyo. Whether it was just a mistake or if my sentence did not include bad time I don’t really know, but I wasn’t about to start asking questions. I did find out later from an office pogue that it was in fact an accurate date, and I was greatly relieved. Those extra 28 days had been a very big concern for me, but now I could be sure my days were indeed below the 100 mark. I started counting down religiously to the day I would finally board the freedom bird for the world. It was about the only thing that kept me going, knowing that I was finally getting short and the possibility that I might get to go home alive was becoming a reality. I was hanging on by a thread, but I was hanging on. I was grateful that I was alive; that fact alone was basically all that really mattered in the end. I thought if I could just make it home alive, I’d figure out a way to get a change in my Military Occupation Status, and when I came back to the Nam on my second tour, I could stay in the rear, in motor pool, supply, or even kitchen duty. I didn’t care as long as it wasn’t infantry. I served my time in hell—someone else would have to take over the next time. If I could just make it home, I thought, the rest of my entire life would be gravy. There could never in a million years be anything as tough as being a grunt in Vietnam. No matter what life dealt me after Nam, I knew I could handle it.
Shortly after Huey’s death we were pulled out of Mai Loc and sent to the notoriously hostile Ashau Valley region, but not before we let the people of Mai Loc know how we felt about them and how they had been playing both sides of the fence. Some of us grunts felt betrayed by the civilian population because we had trusted them far more than we should have, and we got burned. The four VC we arrested had been organizers of food resupply. The food came from many of the civilians who were VC sympathizers and had only pretended to be on our side. I’m not saying the whole village was Communist, but by not telling us about the
operation, those who weren’t Communist were just as guilty as far as we were concerned. There wasn’t supposed to be an ambush the night Huey was killed. The NVA were to slip in and out undetected with the rice, like they had done so many times before. It just so happened that we caught them off-guard that night and stumbled across them. The NVA must have known that Huey spotted them, otherwise I believe they would not have opened fire on him like that.
On our last patrol, one dark night near the end of February, 3-Alpha again went into the main village and turned left on Route 558 at the old schoolhouse. Ever since the night of the ambush, we were all a little more nervous than usual. When we reached the water buffalo pen at the edge of town, we decided that we had had enough. That water buffalo pen had been the source of many nervous reactions whenever we had to pass it in the darkness. The half-dozen or so animals made peculiar noises that sounded like human voices. That little stretch of road was by far the most terrifying 150 feet in the entire village, but in spite of our complaints and numerous requests to move the pen somewhere else, it remained where it was. Every time I passed it, I just knew those noises were an enemy ambush waiting to happen, and I was absolutely positive that it was only a matter of time before Marines would be killed in this spot.
We decided we had had enough that night, and we opened fire on the village’s prized possessions. The water buffalo was considered to be a great symbol of wealth; families saved their entire lives for one animal. Like the family car, truck, tractor, and pet all rolled into one, it cost the U.S. government $500 every time one was killed in the war, and there were a lot of them. We killed nearly all of them that night, and then burned down the adjacent hooch used to house certain equipment and supplies.
Although we all swore that it was an accident and the only reason we opened fire was because we saw what we believed to be enemy movement in there with the animals, the villagers did not seem to believe us. Fortunately for us, our commander accepted our explanation and no charges were filed. The people got paid, but from that point on, they did not even pretend to like us anymore. In fact, they showed outright hatred for us. It was a good thing we were pulling out, because the shit was definitely getting ready to hit the fan soon.
Near the end of February the rumors really began to fly. Ninth Marines were in the Ashau Valley on Operation Dewey Canyon, and were reportedly meeting very heavy resistance from a well-fortified, deeply entrenched, unusually large NVA force. Two companies from 2/3 were already attached and, along with our battalion CP group, were in the Ashau Valley with the 9th. We heard that we would be going when we left Mai Loc.
There was a great deal of fear and anxiety conjured up when Ashau Valley was mentioned around grunts in those days. This rugged, mountainous area near the Laotian border had been an enemy stronghold since the fall of the Special Forces Camp there in March 1966. The U.S. Army’s 1st Air Cavalry sent five battalions in on April 19, 1968, and along with three ARVN battalions, they suffered heavy losses. The Army’s 101st Airborne Division, with three battalions and an ARNV task force of three battalions, went in the same day, and they were cut up pretty badly, too. Actually, there were no large battles fought in this one-month operation, but there were many smaller contacts made with the NVA there. More importantly, a large number of enemy weapons and supplies were seized.
Of course, as soon as the Army pulled out, the NVA moved right back in. Our intelligence reports repeatedly claimed enemy activity, but it wasn’t until the early part of 1969 that they became so bold that something had to be done about their increased activity.
Chapter 14
Ashau Valley, Sleepwalking
When we pulled out of Mai Loc I had less than 65 days left in the bush. Having heard all the rumors and scuttlebutt about an enemy coming in from Laos with trucks, tanks, and possibly even aircraft, the Ashau Valley was the last place on earth I wanted to go. The information a grunt in the field receives can be distorted, to say the least; with the space program back home and the space race with Russia starting to frighten folks, we even heard reports of UFOs and flying saucers. I would have done just about anything to get out of going, but in the end I had no say in the matter.
These last two months of my tour in Vietnam were perhaps the most stressful of all. My memory is hazy and the days seem to run together in a blur. I did not sleep well at all and the nightmares happened much more frequently. The fear of death hit me much harder than it had before, so much so that it began to affect my performance. Because I was getting so “short,” the rest of the guys began to cut me some slack, but I was still expected to do my part.
When we went to the Ashau there were several things going on at once; even the Army was back. LZs and FSBs (fire support bases) were being constructed on top of some of the tallest mountains in the country. Large numbers of artillery pieces were being brought in every day and tremendous air strikes continuously pounded away at enemy positions, yet it was still being reported that as many as 1,000 trucks a day were arriving from Laos. You would certainly think there was a very big battle brewing. In fact, the NVA were preparing for a major offensive—we thought perhaps a late sort of ’69 Tet.
The Walking Dead (9th Marines) went in first. They hit the shit but basically cleared the way for the rest of us to come in. There were still lots of NVA running around when we got to the Ashau, but most of them had already seen more combat than they liked with the 9th, and for the most part were not all that aggressive. They certainly did not come looking for us; we had to hunt them down in all that miserably tough terrain. When we did find a few, they didn’t stick around very long to fight. For the most part, those we did find had been left behind to guard the enormous cache of weapons and ammo that had been funneled in from Laos over the previous months.
The enemy had buried thousands of tons of weapons and ammo throughout this area. It was startling how much they had. In the bottoms of existing bomb craters, covered with only a thin layer of dirt, the largest caches of the war were discovered in the Ashau during Operation Dewey Canyon. Although the 9th Marines got most of the credit, we were right there with them most of the time, either attached Opcon (Operational Control) or on our own authority. Perhaps the first noteworthy find was the pair of 122-mm field guns, captured in mint condition by Charlie Company 1/9. (One of these artillery pieces is now on display at USMC Headquarters, Quantico, Virginia.)
It was Delta Company 1/9 who was credited with the largest find of the Vietnam War. After defeating the NVA unit guarding it, it took an entire week to haul the stuff out. Almost all the weapons were brand-new, still wrapped in oil cloth and coated with Cosmoline. The total take was over 900 individual and crew-served weapons, 200 tons of ammo, and 80 tons of foodstuffs. It was this find alone, I think, that virtually nullified any plans the enemy might have had to strike Quang Tri and Da Nang, but only temporarily.
Officially, Operation Dewey Canyon ended on March 5, 1969, and Operation Maine Crag began, but it was nothing we grunts even noticed. We continued our S&D efforts the same as always and continued moving west. We either walked or were given short helicopter rides from point to point, jumping from one mountain to the next, never knowing for sure if we were in Vietnam or Laos. We had always been told we were not allowed in Laos, but the rules had obviously changed now.
Our commanding officer summarized our efforts in the command chronology:
Battalion actions for March ’69 can be characterized by the consistent ability to move out on a minimum notice, by the exploitation of timely intelligence, and by the use of rapid movement and extensive patrolling, which has resulted in catching the enemy off-balance and the discovery of major arms and food caches. The enemy has been outfought, outmaneuvered, and outwalked. We have moved when the enemy least expected. Morale is at a peak. The troops are tired, but ready, willing, and able to close with and destroy the enemy at any time.
On one occasion we did move all night, to close on our objective at 1100 the next day. That was one of the worse nights in the h
istory of our battalion. Nobody got killed because there were no NVA in the area, but had there been even the smallest of NVA forces anywhere close by, I think they could have wiped out several hundred of us. The one thing we never attempted was these large-scale maneuvers in the dark. We knew we were not good at it, and inevitably someone came up missing, or there was at least one friendly fire incident where someone was killed.
It got so dark that night and the jungle was so thick that we wound up having to hang on to the guy in front of us so we wouldn’t get lost. They kept telling us to keep it spread out a few meters between each man, so if an enemy mortar round should hit close by, it wouldn’t wipe out an entire squad. Every time I dropped back more than a meter from the man in front of me, I lost visual contact with him, in spite of the tiny bits of light-reflecting tape on the back of our helmets. When you can’t see the guy right in front of you, you might as well be lost, because he certainly wasn’t thinking about you, and he would move out with or without you. It’s difficult enough to walk over, around, and through all the obstacles in the jungle when you are able to see everything, but it’s a whole other story when you are virtually blinded by darkness. Needle-sharp thorns and briars stabbed at faces and hands, and vines tangled around feet and rifles. It was sometimes impossible to get myself untangled, and I couldn’t tell if I was only making matters worse or moving in the right direction. Everybody was running into stuff, falling down, and getting hung up; we were making enough noise to be heard by any gook within a mile, yet we continued and were lucky.