Our Year of War

by Daniel P. Bolger

  Days later, Mr. Charles reintroduced himself as only he could.

  THEY BLEW THE SIREN for this one. The horn wailed, loud and long, warbling out from the green metal speaker mounted high on the thin wood pole over the 2-47th motor pool. Men scrambled to their M113s, like Spitfire pilots running to the flight line to meet a Luftwaffe raid on London. Lieutenant Colonel John Tower had insisted on this procedure, just in case the battalion was in the Bear Cat base camp when something really bad cropped up. At 12:20 p.m. on May 9, 1968, it did.

  Company A wasn’t there; they had the routine task twenty-five miles to the east at Gia Ray, of defending the engineer rock quarry and the radio site. Aware the battalion had to roll short one company, Companies B and C gathered up every man they could. Specialist 4 Jimmy Dye, a squad leader in 3rd Platoon, recalled: “All the tracks in the motor pool was up and runnin’ and people was jumpin’ on ’em.” Dye had a fever, but he went. Cooks and clerks came at the double, gripping rarely fired rifles.25 Chuck and Tom Hagel went, too. Light duty was over. That screaming siren meant all hands on deck.

  The urgent order to assemble and head out immediately came directly from Major General Ewell himself. The irascible division commander thought little of his mech guys, but even he recognized that nothing matched an M113 outfit for firepower and speed in an emergency. Just such a situation had boiled up in south Saigon.

  At 4 a.m. on May 5, those pesky VC battalions supposedly defeated in the Tet Offensive in January–February rose from the dead, thanks to a huge influx of North Vietnamese regulars. All the usual suspects emerged: the Phu Loi II Battalion, 2nd Independent Battalion, 5th Nha Be Battalion, 265th Battalion, 506th Battalion, even the slippery K-34 Artillery Battalion. That last bunch rained rockets and mortar rounds on Tan Son Nhut Air Base, to include the MACV headquarters compound. Two battalions (5th Nha Be and 506th) went after the Y-bridge, a key interchange in south Saigon. A third battalion (Phu Loi II) supported that effort, moving to block Highway 232 east of the Y-bridge.26 It wasn’t as big as Tet—a lot fewer communist troops, fewer targets, and a lot less follow-through. But it was big enough, especially in South Vietnam’s capital city. Troops called this major enemy push Phase II, the Second Wave, the May Offensive, May Tet, Little Tet, and most often, Mini-Tet.27

  For a day or so, MACV tried to let the ARVN deal with the attacks around Saigon. The South Vietnamese couldn’t pull it off. Even with substantial U.S. supporting fires, South Vietnam’s best troops—airborne, marines, and rangers—proved unequal to the challenge.28 So Americans went to work. Before 2-47th cranked up the siren, II Field Force had already sent two battalions (1-5th Mech Infantry and 3-4th Cavalry) from the 25th Infantry Division to sort out an attempted perimeter breach at Tan Son Nhut Air Base. Ewell’s 9th Infantry Division rolled an entire brigade-plus into south Saigon—5-60th Mech Infantry, 3-39th Infantry, 6-31st Infantry in the urban zone, and 4-39th Infantry into the arc of VC-infested villages southwest of the city.29 It wasn’t enough. Despite all of that troop strength, artillery, helicopter gunships, and air strikes, the enemy held on to the neighborhoods seized. The call went out to 2-47th: pile on.

  Captain Craig and Company B led, each M113’s bow decorated with a snarling black panther. It was time to live up to the nickname. In a cloud of rusty red dust—the dry season lingered—the long column of tracks left Bear Cat, en route to the Route 232-230 intersection in south Saigon. Over the radio, the commander received his orders. The good guys had the Phu Loi II Battalion pinned in Xom Ong Doi, a pro-government Catholic district of small shops and shabby houses, as well as a large number of temporary shacks inhabited by refugees driven into town by combat in the countryside. To the west stood the understrength 5th Battalion, Republic of Vietnam Marine Division, an outfit maybe the size of a U.S. rifle company. South of Xom Ong Doi, two companies of 6-31st Infantry tried to block VC exfiltration. A wide waterway made exit to the east unlikely. Craig’s Company B and the rest of 2-47th were supposed to seal off the north. Once that happened, U.S. firepower could pound away, to be followed by a sweep of what was left of the VC… and Xom Ong Doi.30

  When they neared the objective area about 1:30 p.m., the Americans slowed. The dirty dark-green M113s passed groups of civilians, maybe two hundred in all. The people trudged east, away from the fighting. Women and children and a few old men walked by slowly. The American vehicles’ throaty diesel engine noises blocked the sound, but looking at facial expressions, many Vietnamese were crying. A lot of the females, even the elderly ones, balanced bundles on their heads. Children lugged bags of clothing and brass pots tied by strings. These folks wanted out, and they were heading there. Company B was going in.

  Black smoke towered like a thunderhead over Xom Ong Doi. Somebody had been busy making a mess. Now it fell to Captain Craig’s Company B to slam the door to the north. Route 232 beckoned. To the right of the idling tracks, a single line of dilapidated market stands and small sheds to the north fronted a canal. To the south loomed quite a few two-story buildings, some of stone and brick dating back to the French era. Between the aging colonial structures, one-story hovels filled the gaps. The four-lane road between the canal- side shacks and the taller buildings stood as empty as a street in a Hollywood western, high noon indeed.31

  The word went down the column. Dismount. Get the riflemen out and forward. Second Platoon led, with both Hagels out on the ground, Chuck with his squad, Tom as a fire team leader. This time, they did not go first. Sergeant First Class Smith pushed another squad up. The M113s followed, one to the right, another echeloned to the left, freeing two .50 caliber gunners to fire as necessary.

  A point team of two riflemen moved out, shaded to the south side, toward the old French buildings. Behind them, one squad picked along, sliding from doorway to doorway right near the walls. Nobody messed with the flimsy wood, canvas, and sheet metal shanties on the north side, near the canal. No cover there—bullets would rip right through that light stuff. And for God’s sake, stay out of the road. The veterans, those like Chuck Hagel who’d fought at Widows Village, knew that deal. They warned the rookies.32

  Trailing the foot troops came the four tracks, creeping up at walking speed. A squad of riflemen followed each of the lead tracks, with a drag team of two soldiers behind the fourth one. The rest of Company B followed, riflemen on the road surface, gunners and drivers mounted.

  Nobody saw any more civilians, at least no live ones. Here and there, a stiff corpse sprawled against a building. Bloated dark-gray pigs and limp, tattered ducks littered the road on the canal side. Slain chickens dotted the cracked pavement, feathers moving, but nothing else. You smelled all of them before you saw them. And they smelled bad in a way only dead things can.

  It reminded Tom Hagel of a “World War II style of fighting,” like Aachen or Manila. Both Hagels knew this would be intense. Although 2-47th occasionally patrolled just outside this end of Saigon, the troops had never been in or around congested Xom Ong Doi. One thing for sure—nobody wanted to be on the tracks, sure magnets for trouble and trundling along exactly where not to be, in that open street.33 Guys scrunched down in their bulky flak vests. Take it slow. Stay ready.

  Up in the cupola of the first M113, Specialist 4 Philip Streuding watched with his hands on the grips of the M2HB .50-caliber machine gun. He saw the point duo gingerly approach an overturned jeep. Two South Vietnamese national policemen, the ones the Americans called “White Mice” after the color of their helmets and gloves, lay facedown on the street. Back in the column, Specialist 4 Dye saw “a guy in a ditch who looked like he’d been hacked to death with a machete.”34 Wafting in the hot, humid air, the stench from all the remains, human and animal, made Americans gag. Even the old-timers felt it.

  At 2:20 p.m., the point team crossed carefully to the far side of the Route 320 intersection. So far, so good.

  Then it wasn’t.

  Cracking and barking with a purpose, dozens of AK-47s opened up. The point man and slack man, Specialist 4 George W. Da
rnell and Private First Class Larry G. Caldwell, both collapsed to the stained pavement. Caldwell came from Omaha, Nebraska.35 He wouldn’t see it again.

  Streuding opened up, working the big .50 caliber up and down the building that he thought held the VC guerrillas who’d shot the two soldiers. Plaster and underlying brick flew away in chunks. In one doorway, a 55-gallon drum of gasoline exploded in an orange fireball. Right out of the movies, a few guys thought. Then the riflemen kept right on shooting.

  As Streuding fired, the gunner in the next track back began to tear up other suspicious buildings. They taught you back at Fort Ord to engage known, likely, and suspected targets. This afternoon, that amounted to pretty much everything.

  As the lead element exchanged fire, VC all along the column also opened fire. Shadows flitted in doorways and second-story windows. Other VC crouched on the rooftops. AK-47s and RPD machine guns stuttered away. Nobody fired RPGs. They were too close; the warheads wouldn’t even arm. The enemy couldn’t be more than ten yards away, sometimes closer. But you still couldn’t really see them—you hardly ever did. But you saw movement. And muzzle flashes. Lots of those.

  Company B’s tracks pivoted left. Dismounted U.S. soldiers sought cover near doorposts, ditches, wall corners, and on the sheltered sides of the stationary tracks. All of that training back in the States, and all of the hard-won field experience—this is why it mattered. Officers and NCOs didn’t have to say or do anything. The American rifle company convulsed with fire, a wounded, cornered carnivore lashing back. Riflemen, pig gunners, and M79 grenadiers banged away. As Jimmy Dye said, “You’re not thinking, you’re just reacting.”36

  Captain Craig had slid behind his track on the north, the canal side. AK rounds pinged off the exposed flank of the M113. With one radio, Craig talked to his embattled platoons. With the other he reported to Tower, circling overhead in a bubble-top chopper. Over him orbited the brigade commander. And another layer up, Ewell watched. It sounded like even Major General Fred Weyand from II Field Force was up there somewhere. And they were all on his communications net, “helping.”37 Good Lord.

  Fortunately, the artillery had their own radio frequencies, and spectating great men didn’t talk on them. On his own initiative, forward observer Lieutenant Paul H. Bowman called in artillery, starting a way out. He opened with a white phosphorus round to mark. The projectile smacked in just south and west of the front of Company B’s column. A brilliant white cloud rose up. Good enough—Bowman told the battery to fire for effect.38 Bowman sure hoped those South Vietnamese marines had their heads down.

  Company B’s soldiers ducked as the artillery began blowing into the south side of the row of old French buildings. Unwilling to endure the pounding, the VC backed off. Their shooting died away, and by twos and threes, the guerrillas began slithering south, squirreling themselves into the center of the ramshackle hootches of Xom Ong Doi. They’d have to be blown out or dug out, probably both. But for now, Charlie had had enough.39

  About an hour into the fight, as the VC tried to pull away to the south, Company B started to take fire from the north, across the canal. A keyed-up pig gunner shot right back, zipping through a belt of 7.62mm ball and tracers, and joined by some riflemen. It took a few minutes of back and forth on the radio, and tossing out colored smoke grenades, to figure out that those were probably ARVN over there, although some Americans thought they saw NVA uniforms. Anyway, Craig made his men cease fire.40

  Specialist 5 Phillip Rogers and his medics had already been carrying out their usual heroic work. He did what he could for poor Darnell and Caldwell, but they were too far gone. Doc Rogers and the rest of the medics helped the other eleven wounded men.41 For a change, that number did not include Chuck and Tom Hagel. It had been a vicious close-quarters firefight, but this time, both brothers came through fine.

  Company B’s street clash attracted plenty of attention from the high-ranking gallery in the helicopters overhead. Tower exerted his authority to clear the command net, and to their credit, the higher- ranking officers backed off, hopefully a bit chastened. Seeing the good done by Bowman’s artillery fire mission, the 2-47th commander worked to get helicopter gunships into action. He also requested fighter-bombers. The proper headquarters acknowledged Tower’s transmissions. Then… nothing.42

  These steps, calling in helicopter gunships and close air support, amounted to standard U.S. tactics out in the countryside. Inside populous Saigon, even days into Mini-Tet, the use of such violent means generated lengthy consultations with Saigon city officials, ARVN generals, MACV staff types, and even senior figures at the U.S. embassy. On a good day, South Vietnam couldn’t locate most of its own police elements and ARVN units, let alone thousands of random civilians. The cross-canal dust-up typified the confusion. Firepower looked sure to kill friendlies. How much of that could be tolerated? The big guys debated. Minutes ticked away: ten, twenty, thirty, forty. Americans on the ground bled. Some died.

  Ewell had already permitted artillery. He owned it, and he cleared its use. The notoriously impatient division commander also got tired of waiting and soon unleashed his armed helicopters, too. But to get air force jets took MACV approval. The general ensured John Tower got the word. It would be hours before the heavy stuff arrived.43

  That meant 2-47th had to use its own resources. Accordingly, while arranging the big hammers and awaiting the pleasure of the high command, Tower told Company C to move up to close off the north side between Company B and the river. Once that defensive array was set, then 2-47th could really bring in the firepower and powder the VC stuck in the noose.44

  Old soldiers recognize that friction, confusion, and misunderstandings characterize combat, especially in close quarters. Bad things happen. Late on the afternoon of May 9, one of those problems occurred. Tired, keyed-up, and trying to hear over a roaring engine and rampant explosions, the Company C commander misunderstood his orders. Lieutenant Colonel Tower wanted him to block, facing south. That captain heard attack south. He did.

  It did not turn out well at all.

  Company C’s tracks faced south, came on line, and charged into a grassy field on the northeast quarter of Xom Ong Doi. Some bogged down. Others backed away. American riflemen piled out of the stuck vehicles, trying to work their way toward the buildings. Offered this opportunity, the VC opened up with a vengeance: RPD machine guns, AK-47s, and rocket-propelled grenades. Out on that wet grass, the RPG gunners had plenty of range. The fat rockets slammed into the aluminum tracks.

  A squad or so of fast-moving Company C soldiers sprinted through the gunfire and somehow made it into the first row of structures in Xom Ong Doi. Others pulled back to the tracks, crouched down behind the inert aluminum boxes as bullets ricocheted off the bows and sides. Casualties piled up—two dead, twenty-two wounded, an entire platoon knocked out, and more to come if something didn’t change.45

  Right on time, right overhead, a team of two UH-1C Huey gunships clattered past, top cover for the floundering rifle company. The choppers’ rasping mini-guns quelled the VC fire. Then the aviators switched to rockets. Pods of flashing 2.75-inch munitions blew off sheet metal roofs and started fires in the rows of huts that made up Xom Ong Doi. Under this pummeling, the VC finally quit shooting.

  One rocket went awry. It slammed into a stalled Company C M113, killing two American soldiers and wounding a third. As their mates attempted to recover the stricken troops, U.S. artillery landed in their midst. More confusion—maybe a mistake by the distant howitzer crews, or transposed numbers, or perhaps misreading the military map, where an inch on paper equaled ten football fields of jumbled shacks and smoking buildings. Who could be sure at this point? Thankfully, the errant 105mm rounds did no additional damage. Company C consolidated its position, some tracks out in the open grassy field, anchored by the squad with a foothold in the town. They lost two more killed and another wounded in so doing. 46 It had been expensive, but the Americans now held that stretch of the ring.

  To their west, C
ompany B also settled in, holding on to their dearly won string of shot-up houses and stores along Route 232. Track machine gunners and individual soldiers with M16s traded shots with VC marksmen. Radio reports titled these hostiles as “snipers,” the common way to refer to any lone enemy banging away.47 Had any of the VC been real trained snipers, Company B’s casualty list would have been much longer. And it was already long enough.

  With both companies in position, the lengthy discussions about close air support finally wrapped up. Emphasizing the mounting U.S. infantry losses in Xom Ong Doi, Major General Ewell prevailed. That released the aerial hounds. At about 5:45 p.m. on the battalion command radio net, a warning went out. The air force jets were inbound. Captain Jim Craig told the men of Company B to take cover.

  Two F-4 Phantoms roared overhead, confirming the designated target, and low enough that as they streaked past, the riflemen on the ground could see the two bright orange circles of their jet engines. It had been more than three hours since Lieutenant Colonel Tower asked for them. Better late than never. They did the job, and then a second set of screaming Phantom fighter-bombers overdid it. The two pairs of aircraft dropped high-explosive 250-pound Snakeye bombs and unloaded napalm canisters—snakes and nape, shake ’em and bake ’em. Xom Ong Loi, already smoldering, erupted in awful black clouds and raging fires. Each set of jets then strafed the streets of Xom Ong Loi, punching 20mm slugs all through the shantytown.48 That pretty much did it for Charlie.