Pop Smoke: The Story of One Marine Rifle Platoon in Vietnam; Who They Were, What They Did, What They Learned

By Bill Lindsay

In this gritty memoir, Vietnam combat veteran Second Lieutenant Bill Lindsay presents an uncensored, straightforward, hard-hitting account of his experiences in the Marine Corps 3rd Battalion, 7th Marine Regiment during the Vietnam War, where he served as a Marine rifle platoon commander in 1970.

Lindsay walks the reader through the danger,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Dec 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781641119788

Book preview

Preface

W

e were pinned down. Our point man and one other were gravely wounded. I called for an emergency medevac and Scar Face came up on the net immediately. Scar Face 1‑4 was a Cobra gunship pilot. This day he and another Cobra were ­escorting a larger CH-46 medevac helicopter.

Scar Face 1‑4, this is India 2, requesting emergency medevac. Two critical WIA; they are in bad shape, over.

India 2, on our way with Rescue One. Estimate ten mikes to your POS. Over.

Scar Face 1‑4, Roger. Out.

Scar Face 1‑4, India 2, we have you at our one o’clock. Popping smoke now, Over.

India 2, Scar Face 1‑4 with Rescue One. We have a problem. I have two yellow smokes. Which is you?

Rescue One, we are north of the other smoke. Say again, we are north of the other yellow smoke. That one is an ambush. Move to our position. Unsure if LZ will be hot. Request you do not flare on landing. Do not want to set off booby traps in the bushes. Over.

India 2. Understand. Rescue One out.

India 2, Scar Face 1‑4. I am going to hit the area of the first smoke. Where are the friendlies?

Scar Face 1‑4, we are in a hasty perimeter within twenty meters of the second yellow smoke. Blast away.

Roger that, keep your heads down.

With that, the two Cobra helicopters rolled on the target, firing their 20-millimeter guns, gun pods and rockets. The ground shook and our ears rang as these marvelous weapons systems sliced into the enemy's position. What was to be a trap to lure the rescue helicopters to their destruction had turned dramatically.

The Cobra gunship was designed entirely as a gun platform—a true weapon of destruction. Its only mission was to attack the enemy. Only thirty-six inches wide it made for a difficult target to hit. The main Cobra pilot sits up above and behind the copilot who acts as the gunner. The copilot's seat is at the very front of the helicopter. His cockpit is plexiglass almost all the way around, giving him a 280-degree view. Directly beneath the copilot is a turret with two 20-millimeter machine guns that move up and down, left and right, as the gunner moves his head. Thus, as he sees movement or targets of opportunity the guns automatically track the target. The body of the helicopter has two small wing tanks that protrude three feet from each side. Under these are mounted additional 20-millimeter gun pods, or rockets, or both, one on each side of the helicopter. The machine guns have such a high rate of fire that when they shoot the sound is a loud purr, or buzzing noise, unlike the machine guns that the infantry carried. Cobras are light and therefore fast and maneuverable.

As we followed the flight of the Cobras with our eyes, we could see that the area around the target was ripped apart—palm trees had their fronds shredded, banana trees were stripped of their leaves and the air smelled of cordite from the rockets. Although a yellow haze from the smoke grenade was still visible it was now mixed with dust. It filled the air over the area, but we noted no return fire against the Cobras.

Rescue One finished his approach. We loaded the two casualties aboard and then it lifted up taking the injured to the medevac hospital in Da Nang. As Rescue One departed we quickly moved forward to the site of the first smoke grenade. The destruction from the Cobras was significant, and we found several blood trails leading away from their position, but there were no casualties to be seen.

*Text of an actual radio transmission, 1970, Happy Valley, Quang Nam Province, South Vietnam

Chapter One—My Arrival

I

t was February 6, 1970. The plane's captain came on the ­overhead speaker, Gentlemen, we have now entered the airspace of the Republic of South Vietnam. From this point on it is important that you pay close attention to the stewardess’ instructions. This will be a hard landing. It is a clear day with little wind, but we never really know what to expect when we land in Da Nang. We all wish you the best and look forward to bringing you home when your tours are done. God bless you all. Be safe.

The stewardess then picked up the microphone in the cabin and said, You just heard that this will be a hard landing. We are required to move around a lot as we approach and then take a steep descent onto the landing field. So, don’t be surprised if we experience some bouncing around and a lot of noise from the engines. The stewardesses will also have to buckle into our jump seats for the landing so if you have questions or need assistance that will have to wait until we are on the ground. You each have an air sickness bag in the pouch in front of your seat, should you need it.

Wow. I couldn’t believe I was really flying Continental Airlines, with American stewardesses, into Da Nang, South Vietnam. This only added to how bizarre this trip had been. We took off at midnight from Travis Air Force Base in California, and then stopped in Anchorage, Alaska, to refuel. Now, over thirteen hours later, we were finally landing in Da Nang.

After we landed, we were hustled off the plane and into a nearby hanger to wait for our sea bags to be unloaded. Unlike wars of the past, we did not travel with a unit, and we had no ­equipment assigned to us. That would occur when we arrived at our units. The 120 men on the plane were a combination of all of the possible military personnel: Air Force, Army, Marines and a few civilians that we suspected were CIA. Some were dressed in our standard green utilities or field uniforms with our green covers (hats). Others had on starched khaki slacks and corresponding shirts with soft military fore and aft (piss ­cutter) caps. The nonmilitary folks wore blue jeans, golf shirts and ­baseball caps. On the military side, there were a few ­veterans. You could tell them by their age and the look on their faces. The rest of us were first-timers. We all were young, pale faced and full of amazement.

The heat of the day was oppressive, and the humidity made it ten times worse. Within minutes, all of our uniforms were soaked with sweat without any physical exertion. It was just damn hot! We also noted the smell of aviation fuel which was so strong that you could almost taste the fuel in the air that we were breathing. Av Gas has its own peculiar smell, and one you don’t forget even after a limited encounter.

Across from us, in another hanger, was a group of men preparing to board the plane we had just exited. This was their ride home. They were tanned but very thin. Most had large bags under their eyes. They looked exhausted. They needed haircuts. Their uniforms were crumpled and dirty and their boots were scuffed to the degree that the toes and heels were actually white, the natural leather showing through the dark stain because of wear.

I realized that these men were not looking at us. They were entirely focused on the Continental Airlines plane that had just delivered us to this forlorn place. Then we heard the ground crew telling these departing troops to hustle onto the plane. No time to waste unless you want to leave in a body bag. We got to get this bird in the air before the gooks decide to rocket us again. And on they went, straight up the stairs to the open cabin.

As we waited, we watched the Marine Air Wing's F-4 Phantom jets, painted with green and brown camouflage paint, and the grey A-4 Skyhawk fighters taking off for bombing runs. They made a huge racket as they hit their afterburners, propelling them up and into the air. It was as though you could feel the heat from their engines, although that was not likely at this distance. The airspace was also filled with Marine helicopters landing and taking off. Most of these were the CH-46 Sea Knight twin-rotor troop carrier models as opposed to the Army's CH-47. The CH-47 Chinook was larger than the Marine counterpart and had the capability of carrying heavier loads. The Marines needed birds that could fit on an aircraft carrier and ones whose rotor blade assemblies could fold, so that more birds could be stored aboard a ship. As we watched the choppers land and take off we could not but wonder if any collisions ever occurred. The activity level in the air seemed so chaotic, and the noise was overwhelming.

It was surprising that the helicopter traffic did not include any Hueys (the smaller and more maneuverable helicopter that was the main workhorse of the Army's Air Cav Division, a staple in so many pictures of the war that we had all seen in the States). The Marines preferred larger, wide-bodied choppers to get more men on the ground and into contact with the enemy at one time (the CH-46 carried up to twenty-five fully equipped Marine infantry) rather than relying on several birds to deliver the same number. In fact, the Marines also utilized the even larger CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopter at this time in the war because these birds carried even more Marines (up to fifty-five) at one time. This was one of many differences in the battle strategies between the two military branches.

All of that made sense from a tactical standpoint. For me, I would have preferred the smaller and more agile Huey choppers of the Army because they made a smaller target. The birds we flew were large, slow targets. There was no way to hide your approach or intention when you were in one of these. But then again, no one asked for my opinion.

While watching the choppers land and take off, I noted that they had all of their windows removed so that the occupants could have more visibility, and could return fire through the window portals, if needed. This was another stark recognition that we were, in fact, in a combat zone. This wasn’t a drill.

We were now separated by branch of the military. The Marines were shuttled to the Induction Center where a copy of our orders was taken and stamped, and we were then assigned to a regiment. Prior to our departure from the States, each man was given a two-inch-thick set of orders. Each page was the same, because in each place that we went, and when equipment was provided, we had to provide that person with a copy of our orders. That way the military had a paper trail for each man. The actual assignment process appeared arbitrary and very mechanical. You go to the Fifth Marines. You go to the Seventh Marines, and so on. Officers were then separated from the rest of the group and sent to a waiting Jeep.

The driver took the four of us (all second lieutenants) to the Division Headquarters. This was the Western Pacific Command for the Marine Corps, or WestPac as it was known. One component of the command in WestPac was the First Marine Division. For most of the war the Marines had the First and Third Marine divisions (approximately ten thousand men each) and part of the Sixth Marine Division which was represented by the Twenty-Ninth Marine Regiment, stationed in the northernmost tip of South Vietnam.

We were all being assigned to First Marine Division whose headquarters was across the airfield from where we landed. The ­headquarters area was heavily sandbagged and sat on a small hill. We were hustled to the G-1 (personnel) office where a major took more copies of our orders and directed us to a barracks structure to secure our gear. Each of us had the traditional Marine sea bag which held our stateside uniforms and personal effects. This green canvas bag weighed between sixty and seventy pounds.

After dropping our gear, we met back at the G-1 office where we were addressed by another senior officer, this time a lieutenant colonel, who was the division assistant G-3, or operations officer. He had us follow him to a large bunker in the center of the compound. That is where he briefed us, using multiple maps, on the location of the various regiments, and their areas of operation or AOs. Since I was assigned to Seventh Marine Regiment, I listened attentively to the actions my new regiment was undertaking, and the amount of contact or combat it was engaged in currently. Things seemed very active, which excited me.

After our briefing, we went to chow. The headquarters had a separate chow hall for officers, and we filed into line to get our warm meal of ham, potatoes, green beans, a small roll and a scoop of green Jell-O. As we went through the serving line, I wondered how the Marines stationed here, at headquarters, viewed their Vietnam tour. None of these rear-echelon people looked the worse for wear, and none exhibited the characteristics we had just witnessed at the airfield among the departing troops. In fact, all appeared rested and well fed. None had worn, torn or dirty utilities and their boots were all shined.

After our dinner, we returned to the command bunker for a briefing by the assistant division commander, a full colonel. His words were of caution and advice. I recall him telling us that this was going to be the most impactful leadership experience that anyone could have. It was what we signed up for and trained for. Now it was time to put that practice into action. He also encouraged all of us to listen first and act second. He admonished us by saying that our platoon sergeants, and other senior enlisted, had all been here longer and knew how things should be done. He advised us to listen to these senior enlisted, noncommissioned officers (NCOs) and to learn from what they were saying. He reminded us all that this was the real thing, and we would learn to measure our accomplishments by how well we led our troops. Finally, he closed by saying They say war is hell for a reason. Don’t forget your obligation to your men and the Corps. We are going to rely on you to carry out your mission, regardless of the cost. You are each a leader of United States Marines, the greatest fighting force in the world.

Now we were off to the rack, to sleep. At this point, we had been traveling and awake for over twenty hours and the heat and humidity were exhausting all of us. Our Officers’ Quarters was a simple rectangular hut, made of plywood and painted military green, with walls that went two-thirds of the way up the side, and open sides above that to act as windows. The windows were covered with heavy screens, as were the doors on either end. The roof was also plywood, with sandbags on top to absorb rocket or mortar explosions. Our hooch, as it was referred to, was just down the hill from the Division Artillery Battery operated by the Eleventh Marine Regiment. Our racks for sleeping were the old canvas military cots which were holdovers from World War II. They were small, hard and barely held one person.

There was no surprise that we all fell fast asleep as soon as we put our heads down. However, around 2300 hours (11:00 p.m.) I was awakened by a series of large explosions. Not only did they startle me, but I felt the ground shake as each explosion occurred. I sat straight up and noticed that I had just broken into a heavy sweat. I was about to yell incoming which was the command to get face down immediately because you were being shelled. But as I was about to yell it, to warn my peers, I noticed that none of them had begun to stir. Moreover, the traffic outside our hooch was proceeding as normal. It was then that I realized what I was experiencing was outgoing fire. I laid back down and looked at the ceiling as I listened to the artillery fire continue. I tried to sleep but I could not, and any time I started to doze off the artillery would begin a new fire mission. Boy, did I ever feel relieved that I resisted the urge to yell incoming to the other officers with me. I would certainly have made a fool out of myself, but this would not be the last time I was saved from myself.

Bright and early the next morning, we were hustled back to the airfield but this time to the building that coordinated helicopter missions. Each of us was told what time to catch our first ride to our respective Regimental Headquarters. Mine was the first bird to land, so I was off early, joining a group of troops and supplies on my way to