by C. L. Hoang
We were under attack, and severely overmatched, by two North Vietnamese infantry battalions with heavy artillery and death-defying sappers. Under the cover of darkness and a barrage of rockets, mortars, and Bangalore tornadoes, the enemy punched through the perimeter fence line off the approach end of Runway 27, despite it being rigged with mines and concertina wire. From this vantage point, they set up machine guns and cut off access to the runway, effectively shutting down our air support. They appeared on the verge to overrun the base and pull off the big coup—the demolition of hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of aircraft.
That was until they crashed into a pivotal obstacle standing in their path: Bunker Hill 10, a concrete remnant from the French colonial days, defended by a small but tenacious contingent of security police. The enemy hurled everything they had at the bunker, yet the valiant SP hung on until ground reinforcements arrived and the Army gunship helicopters—Hueys and Cobras with their nighttime Firefly teams—had a chance to take to the air. A backup Spooky AC-47 was diverted from its off-base course to join the rescue.
The battle raged all night into the next day. A handful of North Vietnamese Army sappers managed to infiltrate the airbase and destroy several birds, but the bulk of enemy troops were stopped in their tracks outside Bunker Hill 10. Elsewhere, a storage tank at the Petroleum, Oil & Lubricants Dump had been hit and burned brightly in the night, casting a ghastly glow against the black sky. The fiery scene reminded me of the movie Gone with the Wind, a favorite of Lee Anne’s, and my thoughts flashed to her briefly.
Before dawn, just when the tide began turning in our favor, the buildings were shaken to their foundations by mammoth shockwaves both underground and in the air. Tweety, back from another search-and-rescue run around the base, burst into the dispensary with his latest update.
“Charlie just blew up the Long-Bình ammo depot,” he announced breathlessly. “Holy cow. Never seen anything like it in my life. Looked like an A-bomb went off.”
He said he had first glimpsed a blinding flash of light in the distance, followed by a giant mushroom cloud rolling soundlessly into the sky. A second or two later, the thunderous clap had caused him to almost drive off the road. It was reported later that the concussion had been felt miles away at the US Embassy in Sài-Gòn. A few choppers hovering in the depot’s vicinity almost got blown out of the air by the resulting windblast.
In bits and pieces, we learned that Biên-Hoà AFB was one of many targets under attack by the NVA in egregious violation of the holiday cease-fire. All major cities and townships across South Việt-Nam including the cultural and political capitals, Huế and Sài-Gòn, had come under communist assault, as had many American military bases. To support his primary objective of capturing Sài-Gòn, Charlie had pulled out all the stops against the capital’s first line of defense, namely the Army complex at Long-Bình and the airbases at Biên-Hoà and Tân-Sơn-Nhất. It was a gutsy move, the scope and intensity of which caught everyone completely off guard.
The dispensary was swamped with casualties throughout the night. Serious injuries required hospitalization, but all med-evac operations had been suspended since the nearest hospitals at Long-Bình and Tân-Sơn-Nhất remained inaccessible due to the developing situation. In the end, it boiled down to a desperate waiting game for the wounded, with life and death in the balance. Like my colleagues, I forced myself to stop worrying about things beyond our control and to focus on the tasks at hand. Even at full staff, we were critically short-handed and welcomed any help from able-bodied personnel, medical or not.
Toward daybreak, the stream of patients started to taper off. But before I could step out for a bathroom break, a Security Alert Team jeep, an M-60 machine gun riding atop its hood and a big coffee urn dangling from its rear, roared up to the front entrance in a swirl of dust. Out jumped two security policemen lugging the limp body of a comrade. Mired in mud, gunpowder, and dried blood, the men still had on their blue helmets with white stripes. Captain John Morgan, my new superior and a USAF flight surgeon, called my name as he rushed to lend the men a hand.
We carried the wounded staff sergeant into a small room in the back. The shorter SP was near hysterics as he tried to recap what had taken place earlier. His SAT of four—the sergeant, also the team leader, a grenade launcher, a rifleman, and himself, the M-60 gunner—had been dispatched to the east perimeter as part of the reinforcements for Bunker Hill 10. They left their jeep to set up positions in a ditch north of the bunker, where the enemy was breaching through. More backups arrived shortly after, and together they held the invaders at bay through the night. During the entire time, the sergeant stayed on the horn with Central Security Control, shouting his reports over the din of live combat.
“Wasn’t until sunrise when we had a brief lull that I realized I ain’t hearing his voice no more,” the gunner said. Glancing over his shoulder, he had discovered the sergeant slumped over the radio, apparently struck in the back by a fragment from Charlie’s B-40 rockets. Armed with his M-60 and covered by friendly fire, he and the rifleman had scrambled to drag their sergeant back to the jeep and at once set out for help.
“I had my arm around his back. It was soaked with blood,” he went on, looking at us with wild eyes. “Please, Doc. Help him, please. Can you get him evac’ed right away?”
We eased the wounded man down on the cot. Even before Captain Morgan knelt down to check his carotid pulse, I knew it was too late. His eyes were half open, but lifeless, showing the white underside—the eyes of a dead man. Captain Morgan straightened the sergeant’s limbs, ran a hand over his eyes and closed them, then slowly got up. His face betrayed little emotion except for the clenched jaw muscles.
He turned to the two SPs and pronounced quietly, “I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”
A hush fell over the room. The haggard policemen stared at each other as if wondering what to do next. They seemed stunned by the swiftness and simplicity of death, probably never before this up close for either one. I felt them struggling to grapple with their sudden loss.
Finally, the gunner spoke up on both their behalf, his companion too dumbfounded for words. “Sir, may we stay here with Sarge? Till the chaplain arrives?”
Captain Morgan nodded. As we turned to leave, I caught a glint off the sergeant’s inert hand. A gold wedding band was on his finger. My chest swelled with emotions, as in my mind I saw his eyes again, half peeking just moments earlier. I wondered what loving images of his family had flashed in front of them, in the final instant before darkness fell.
Hastening to close the door behind us, I reminded myself I had yet to look in on Paul Nilsen.
As if on a timer, daylight switched on full bright around 0700 hours, robbing the assailants of their last shred of night cover. Then, to everyone’s immense relief, more reinforcements turned up as Armored Cavalry assault vehicles rumbled through the base’s front gate and Army slicks swooped in and unloaded paratroopers from the 101st Airborne. Teaming up with the 3rd SPS, the newcomers worked through the morning to expel the enemy from the base and eradicate remaining stragglers, including snipers hidden in the water tower outside the gate.
By early afternoon, the smoke of gunfire began to clear and the dust finally settled over Biên-Hoà, revealing close to one hundred and fifty bodies of enemy soldiers abandoned over the east perimeter. The majority of the dead looked quite young, even for Vietnamese, probably in their early to mid-teens. Subsequent tests of their blood samples indicated they’d been high on opium-laced wine, no doubt given before the battle to help overcome their fear and spur them to fight to the death. In the somber aftermath, their child-sized bodies were picked up by a bulldozer and interred in a common grave at the end of the runway, covered in lime.
By contrast, it seemed a miracle that we’d suffered only a handful of fatalities, injuries notwithstanding. This impression was strengthened as the day unfolded and we came to appreciate the gravity of the ov
erall situation. The night before, as rockets rained down on Biên-Hoà, Việt-Cộng sappers in black pajamas and red armbands had breached the outer wall of the US Embassy in Sài-Gòn and gained access to the inside grounds. For six tense hours, they laid siege to the Chancery building until American troops landed by helicopter on the roof and took them out. Elsewhere in the capital, VC also mounted an attack on General Westmoreland’s MACV headquarters at Tân-Sơn-Nhất and even made a run at the Presidential Palace in the city center. Although all of those suicidal missions ultimately failed, they nonetheless shocked the world with their sheer audacity.
But even as the firestorm was contained around military bases and airports a mere twelve hours after its initial eruption, fierce fighting raged on inside cities and population centers. It was later discovered that communist guerillas had slipped past security checkpoints disguised as civilians traveling to town to visit their families during Tết. Once blended with the citizenry on the inside, they were almost impossible to dislodge and eliminate without also endangering the population at large. Under such circumstances, the South Vietnamese Army and the Allies were forced to engage the enemy in house-to-house combat that would drag on for days or weeks, reducing much of the contested sites to smoldering rubble. For a while at the base, we could see the flames and smoke from burning buildings in downtown Biên-Hoà, just blocks away.
As news and updates streamed in through the day, my concern grew for the security and safety of my Vietnamese friends in Sài-Gòn. There were reports of heavy casualties and damages from Charlie’s mortars and rockets—the same lethal weapons aimed at us on base, now trained at innocent civilians in populated areas. Equally disturbing were details of atrocities committed by the Revolutionary Army on its own people. The barbaric cruelty the Việt-Cộng routinely dispensed with their brand of social and political “justice” was meant to strike fear into people’s hearts, to warn them against cooperating with the South Vietnamese government and the Allies. During the Tết Offensive, VC more than lived up to their ghoulish reputation, leaving behind a long trail of gory evidence that would take months to unearth.
Captain Morgan couldn’t help notice my increased restlessness. Attributing it to fatigue, he finally suggested I take a break and catch some shut-eye. “I’d keep my gear on if I were you, and sleep in the bunker. Just in case,” he said matter-of-factly before returning to his patient.
I took him up on the offer, but decided to head back to my hooch. You can flee, but you can never hide, I told myself in resignation. After the past fifteen hours, all I wanted was to crash in my own bed, come hell or high water. Or even rockets.
But as exhausted as I felt, the anxiety about my friends’ unknown fates kept me awake, staring at the tin roof above my cot. What a way to usher in their New Year. Then again, what a crazy way to live. Always on the hustle to stay one step ahead of danger. It gnawed at me that I could do nothing to help them during these perilous times but pray for their and their families’ safety. Turning away from such dark broodings, I rolled over on my side and looked at Bob’s empty cot across the way.
“Some fireworks you ducked out on, big guy,” I said, speaking to him for the first time since last week’s memorial service. “Lucky you. No more breaking your neck scrambling for shelter in the middle of the night. I’m glad you’re in a safe place now, my friend.”
Somehow, I could glean no joy or comfort from the thought.
Chapter Fifteen
Biên-Hoà AFB, 4 Feb 1968, 2100 hrs
Dear Debbie,
How are you and the family doing? You all must have been following the news on TV, so I’ll cut to the chase. But I’ve no idea how soon this letter will get to you. Our mail service has been interrupted since Tết, probably backlogged at Tân-Sơn-Nhất or in San Francisco APO due to recent events.
I’m doing fine, knock on wood, except for a little sleep deficit since early morning Jan 31st. You’ve no doubt seen some footage of the fighting on the news, so suffice it to say it was rough going here for a while. For many of us in the rear, it was by far the most intense combat exposure to date, but with luck and teamwork we pulled through in flying colors. The Battle of Biên-Hoà lasted over twelve hours, though at no time were we at serious risk of losing control of the base. But even in the aftermath, with other active fronts still counting on us for air support, life remains a long way from its pre-Tết routine. The pilots have been pulling twenty-hour shifts, while ground crews and medical staff are working around the clock. My scheduled R&R trip to Penang, Malaysia, was cancelled. No big deal. It surely can wait.
Due to demand for combat personnel, everyone including cooks and company clerks now has the chance to apply their basic infantry training and fill in as helicopter door-gunners or Security Police augmentees. So guess what, dear heart. No more hot meals in the mess halls. Just plain old C-rats for one and all, which aren’t really all that bad. It’s about time us brats get a taste of what it’s like living out in the weeds.
As you might have heard the President say in his recent press conference, and notwithstanding the near-panic reaction from some in the media, our enemy has been dealt a major setback in their latest gamble. It may take some time to clean up the mess, but by all accounts the worst of the Tết Offensive is already behind us. Hopefully we can return to standard operating procedure before long.
Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for the local folks who got caught in the crossfire. Many did perish, used as human shields by the Việt-Cộng, while a great many more were forced to abandon their homes and flee for their lives. Remember Bà Bảy, the Mama-san who cleans our hooches? She showed up for work today with her five-year-old boy in tow, the first time I’d seen them since before Tết. Came to find out that their little shack in the village had been burned down by VC during their retreat, and she and her brood of seven are now taking shelter with relatives in a thatched-roof house on the outskirts of town. No tears. No pity party. Just a sad, resigned smile, as if their misfortune had simply been an act of nature, a part of life. I gave her a few extra Ðồng for her work and my C-rat lunch to Cu Bόng because the boy looked famished. Besides, I lost my appetite after hearing what had happened to them.
Know something else, Deb? I’ve wanted real bad to dream about you taking your lunch break in the park near your office, or the two of us hiking the trails over Mammoth Lakes like we used to, but every time I close my eyes lately, it’s been either dead sleep with no dreams, or a lot of tossing and turning with jumbled images of war churning round in my head. Seems a lifetime ago when life was simple and unambiguous and sleep came easy—until I got lost in a time warp in this tropical Twilight Zone. You can tell, can’t you, it’s my fatigue-induced neurosis talking now. So please ignore all this rambling.
I better wrap it up here and catch some rest while I can, before any emergency arises. Take real good care of yourself, Deb, and don’t worry about me. I promise to be extra cautious and not play hero for the sake of it. My love and big hugs to everyone,
Love, R.C.
I came to realize it served no helpful purpose to share every detail of my life in Việt-Nam with Debbie or my family. What good would it do them to know that since his failed attempt to seize the airbase, Charlie had kept on badgering us night after night with killer rockets? Or that death and destruction had become as commonplace around here as at the frontline? Gradually over the remainder of my tour, my letters home grew shorter as well as less frequent even as life on base continued to evolve at accelerated pace.
With increased rocket attacks, the Red Horse squadrons of civil engineers were engaged full time in demolition and rebuild projects. The morning after an attack, they rolled up in bulldozers and with disconcerting efficiency proceeded to raze the damaged structures and fill in the craters in the ground, converting the eyesores into parking lots. Concurrently, on a nearby site, civilian contractors from RMK-BRJ raced against the clock in their oc
hre-colored trucks and oversized equipment to erect new barracks and hooches. It was indeed a rare occurrence that we’d awaken to the same landscape from one morning to the next.
Meanwhile, a rumor circulated that had many short-timers up in arms. It was said that due to recent developments coupled with spiking air traffic at the AFBs, all Freedom Flights had been suspended indefinitely and all service personnel in country would be extended an extra three months. Since my DEROS was still half a year away, I didn’t want to get my family all in knots over this possibility, so I never breathed a word of it to them.
Likewise, I decided to keep mum about my hooch mate’s death. It would have struck too close to home for my folks and needlessly added to their worries. Besides, the pain of it was still raw and I couldn’t yet bring myself to discuss it with anyone. The best thing to do, I thought, was to bear up and let time work its healing magic, a little each day.
But weighing most heavily on my mind was the fact I was totally in the dark regarding the safety of my friends in Sài-Gòn. In addition to grim updates of continued fighting inside the city, a sense of foreboding kept nagging at me, even in my sleep. In my dreams, I’d see the girls—Lee Anne, Vivienne, and Elise, with Mme Yvonne sometimes—swept along a river of refugees fleeing on foot from danger and death, the horizon on fire behind them. They stampeded toward us, faces etched with terror and arms extended in silent screams for help. As fierce enemy fire cut them off from us and the flames began to engulf them, I would spring awake in a cold sweat. The same scene of horror with varying details haunted my nights in the weeks after Tết, crowding out the last sweet memories from home.
In many ways, this short, eventful period precipitated a sharp break with the past, shattering the status quo once and for all. I felt the war heading into a new, critical phase and that life in country would never be the same again. With a mix of puzzlement and nostalgia, I realized that a part of my old self had slipped away, lost forever. Should I be fortunate enough to return home safely one day, I’d go back a different man, a stranger, perhaps, even to my loving family.