My Senior Trip

By John Reeg

Howard Carson grew up in a small Indiana town. It was 1968, and after graduating from high school he wasn't sure what he wanted to do. He wasn't interested in college, not then. His job for the past year had been selling shoes. He had no skills to speak of, and he decided to go into the armed services. He became a Marine, and six months later was deployed to Vietnam.

This story's not about battle plans and strategies. How this battle was won and another lost. It's about feelings and emotions. It's about getting ready for war. The training, and the day-to-day experiences of a living hell. Friends shot or blown to pieces and being splattered with their blood. Carrying a wounded Marine to the helicopter while under heavy fire. Being on patrol during the monsoons. Leeches, tigers, mosquitoes, and snakes. Booby traps and guerilla warfare. A relentless and determined enemy. What Howard and others had to do, and how they dealt with the fear, the anger, and the pain.

It was the early 70's. Howard finished his military service and started college, where he was screamed at, spit on, pushed and hit for being in the military and serving his country. This story's about a different time and a different America. A different story of war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638605874

Book preview

One

Last Patrol

Never thought I’d make it out of here, but it’s been almost a year, and the last thing I wanted was another patrol. I’d had enough. I was at the mess hall finishing up what they called lunch when Lenny came over. That in itself was strange. Lenny wasn’t a people person. I asked him what’s up, and he said he’d heard the gunny and Sergeant Witt talking about a DMZ patrol, and he heard Mail Truck.

Mail Truck was the call-name for a six-man reconnaissance team that I’d been running patrols with the last month. There were around ten of these small teams in our recon company, and they had names like… Blue Duck, Black Bear, Zulu One, Starship, and Bad Dude. I served with them through all of 1969. There were some memorable times that year. Days of comradery and accomplishments, and days of pure hell.

I wanted to stay in until I got my orders for home; I didn’t want to go out again. I figured my luck would run out, and no more Howard Carson. Or I’d get hit in the head and end up a veggie. A grenade going off between my legs, and I’d be going home with nothing downstairs. So no, I didn’t want to go out again.

Lenny was an okay guy, but we weren’t close. He was pretty much a loner. He was also the Point-man for Mail Truck, and from what he’d just said, Mail Truck was headed back to the DMZ. DMZ is an acronym for the Demilitarized Zone. An established barrier between North and South Vietnam. It was fifty miles long and six miles wide, and ran east and west, from the coast of Vietnam and the South China Sea all the way to the Laotian border.

The Demilitarized-Zone? Yeah right…what a fucking joke.

The DMZ was a busy place and far from demilitarized. It’s where and how the North Vietnam Army (NVA) invaded South Vietnam. When trails and paths they used were discovered, they made new ones. Tunnels were found that ran for miles, and some were large enough to stand up in.

We called the enemy gooks—everyone did. It was like the Second World War when they called the Germans krauts and the Japanese slants or nips. During the Korean War, it was kinks and shovel heads. It’s just the way it was.

I was hoping this was not another B-52 mission patrol. These famous bombers flew round trips of three thousand miles from Guam, then dropped hundreds of bombs on designated targets. One bomb made a hole the size of your living room. You could hide a car in it. They were called Arc Lights, and we’d be inserted by helicopters into the bombed areas to report the outcome. Sometimes the planes were still bombing. There were times that Arc Lights failed due to misinformation. No bad guys in the area. Other times maybe a security flub, and the enemy was tipped off and got the hell out of Dodge. But when Arc Lights were successful, hell rained from the sky, and if you walked through that, you never forgot it.

Patrols I went on usually lasted five days. We’d be inserted by helicopter or dropped off by truck where enemy movement or buildup was suspected. We’d patrol selected areas in search of the enemy, and when we found them, we radioed our base with that information. If rockets or artillery were ordered, our job was to supply the coordinates and make needed adjustments, keeping the rounds on target. Infantry could be brought in to engage an enemy we’d found. Marine Corps infantry are called grunts.

We looked for the gunny and saw him coming out the of S-1 admin hut. Gunnery Sergeant J.D. Henderson looked to be maybe early forties, six four, two hundred and thirty pounds, and to say he was a force of nature would be an understatement. Gunny informed Lenny and me that we’d both be going out on patrol in the morning, and to be at the S-2 hut later today at 1600 for pre-brief. I told him I was going home in a month, so why couldn’t someone else go. I was ordered to man up, that I’d be home soon enough. That’s true. I just didn’t want it to be in a body bag.

I asked if we’d be going out with Mail Truck, and he said, Confirmed. And that was good. Sergeant Witt was Mail Truck’s team leader, and his thing was to accomplish the mission and get his team back safe. On patrol, he stayed aware of everything. If we stopped, he’d be studying his map or checking out an area with binoculars. He never took anything for granted.

At the rear base, Sarge kept to himself. I don’t remember him getting loud and crazy the way some guys did, and he liked to read things besides comic books and Playboys. Something else about Sarge, it seemed like he thought about what he was going to say before he said it.

Lenny and I headed to our hut and started getting ready. I was still pissed about going out, but felt better that it’d be with Mail Truck. Lenny, as Point-man, would lead the patrol, and that was not a job just anyone could do. Or want to do.

When you consider the Vietnam jungle, with tigers, elephants, leeches, poisonous snakes, and mosquitoes large enough to fly off with you, and add to that picture leading a patrol into possible ambush, trip-wired booby traps, mines, and camouflaged snipers, you can begin to understand that walking Point was unimaginable stress. The epitome of Responsibility, with a capital R. Most guys wouldn’t do it—even battle-hardened Marines refused. Some tried and never tried again. Lenny was a good Point-man; we trusted him completely. But in my opinion, Zackary Diego was the best.

Zack had been In-Country five months when I came over, and I was scared. I don’t care how much training you’ve had, or how good it is, it’s not the real thing. Zack helped me to get ready. All new guys got In-Country training and help—it was company policy. Inexperience could wipe out a team, but Zack did more. He shared ideas on what he thought was important. Like how to walk when you need to be quiet. What to look for, and what to look out for. What the enemy can do, and how they do it. Zack helped so much that I’m not sure I’d be writing this if it weren’t for him. Another thing about Zack, he was a black Marine. And I say that because I’d never been around anyone but white folks before the service. I grew up in a small Indiana town, and there were no African Americans, Asians, or Hispanics, and from what I remember, it wasn’t that they weren’t welcomed, it was because there was no work. My dad owned a small used-car lot, and Mom was a stay-at-home mom, making extra money by baking and selling her pies. I never saw or communicated with Zack after he left Nam. I tried to, but I couldn’t find him. Semper Fi, Corporal Diego. I hope your life was good.

We met for mission pre-brief, and Lieutenant Stewart was in charge. Mail Truck was headed back to the DMZ, but not to check things out after an Arc Light, not this time. Heavy enemy movement was reported northeast of the Con Thien firebase. This important firebase was known as the Hill of Angles. And sadly, most appropriately so.

In July of 1967, the 9th Marines stationed at the Con Thien firebase came under heavy NVA rocket and mortar incoming, accompanied by ground attacks that lasted for weeks. Eighty-six Marines died, and nearly two hundred were wounded. The fighting was so intense, the Marines had to leave their dead behind to save what was left of their company. The enemy knew the Marines would be back, so they stripped the bodies and grossly mutilated and booby-trapped them, then waited in ambush. It had been exceptionally hot—the temperature reaching into the hundreds, and the fallen Marines’ skin had badly burned. More fighting occurred, but the 9th Marines were there to get their brothers, and they did.

The Con Thien firebase housed 105mm howitzers and the big 175mm cannons that supported friendly troops operating this far north. Americans died in that hellhole in 1967. But those big guns and brave men saved countless lives at a firebase known as the Hill of Angels. God bless them.

We’d be inserted by helicopter just south of the Bến Hải River, in between the Con Thien and Gio Linh firebases. This area, in the far northeast section of the DMZ, is a combination of rolling hills, moderate to medium vegetation, and sand dunes. It’s January, it’s not that hot, not yet, and neither is it raining. It’s just warm and muggy. The monsoons will start around April, and that means rain, lots of rain. I was on patrol one time during the monsoons, and it rained so hard I couldn’t see more than a couple feet in any direction. It rained twenty-four hours a day, and continued for almost two weeks. Not your rainy day in Indiana.

Anyone not on patrol, or doing something else required, like guard duty, or working at the mess hall or supply, attended training classes. These classes covered a variety of subjects, like patrol technique, enemy tactics, different weapons, and first aid.

I’d been carrying the M60 machine gun for the past three patrols. Some guys hated it. With the gun and long ammo belts, you carried an extra twenty-five pounds, but I didn’t mind—I’d gotten used to the weight and loved the firepower. For a five-day patrol, we usually carried around sixty-five pounds. Six full canteens, six days of foods (C-rations and packaged dried stuff). A poncho and poncho liner, grenades, ammo, first-aid kit, binoculars, maps, compass, Ka-Bar (the combat knife), extra clothes, socks, and stuff I can’t remember.

The negative about the M60 was that, because of its weight, it was impossible to move it quickly. If you were prone and had to turn quick, you couldn’t, not like you could with a lighter weapon. The M16 assault rifle, which was carried by most of our guys, fully loaded, weighed seven pounds.

There were always two Marines assigned to the machine gun. One to carry and fire, and another called the AG (Assistant Gunner, or sometimes called the Second) to haul extra ammunition belts and a replaceable gun barrel. The 60 barrel would melt if it was fired for too long. My Second was Jake Reed. If I was lying down and firing, he’d be lying next to me, holding the belt of rounds off the ground. This weapon jammed fairly easily with dirty ammo.

Jake also carried the M79 grenade launcher, known as the blooper because of the sound it made when fired. It was two feet long with a short, fat barrel. It fired one round at a time, and you broke it open in half to reload. The round was as big as your fist, and could hit a target at four hundred meters…bloop.

For this patrol, Manny Leon would cover the rear. He was Mail Truck’s Tail-end Charlie. Manny’s job was to make sure no one came up on the back of the patrol. There were times he’d squat down, letting the patrol pass while he waited by himself, making sure we weren’t being followed. He walked backward sometimes, and when we paused, he’d be turned around and watching our six o’clock.

Sergeant Witt’s radioman was Bert Polatkis. He was a radio specialist, and they worked together well. Squad leaders need a radio close by. We used the PRC-25, referred to as the Prick 25. It weighed twenty pounds and was carried on the radioman’s back.

This was to be a seven-man patrol because it was Matt Young’s first patrol. He’d been In-Country only six weeks. He was tall and lean, and seemed like a good Marine. I wouldn’t have the honor of knowing him better. None of us would. He was KIA on this patrol. Killed in Action.

He was second in line, and walking in front of Jake and me when a sniper got him. Marines never leave a Marine behind is a famous saying in the Corps. As a Marine fighting in a jungle ten thousand miles from home, the idea of not being left to rot, or hung upside down as a trophy, naked and mutilated, was much appreciated. Throughout the history of the Corps, this has been their policy, and whenever possible, it was accomplished.

Before every patrol, we spent hours going over information concerning the mission. Studying maps and identifying terrain. Part of each brief included why this mission was important, and what was expected to be accomplished. We marked our maps, and were told we’d be in the field five, maybe six days. We finished the briefing, and the major came in and spoke of the importance of this patrol in respect to the 3rd Marine Division’s recent move out of Vietnam. Our company of only a hundred and sixty Marines was the only Marine unit left in this most northern part of South Vietnam. The war was winding down, and I knew this would be my last patrol. I’d do my job, but I was going to be careful. Extra careful. It’d been a tough year, to say the least, and in less than one month, with a little luck, I’d leave this hellhole for good.

We were released, and ordered to test-fire weapons, look to our gear, and be ready for final inspection and briefing at 0700 tomorrow morning. We came to Attention and the major saluted.

Thank you, Marines, he said. Good luck and good hunting. Semper Fi—dismissed.

And we responded as usual. OooRaaw!

TWO

Getting Ready

Lenny, Jake, and I went to evening mess. Nothing to write home about, but better than C-rations. Our rear area was remote. There was no electricity or running water. Generators were used for power, and fifty-five-gallon water barrels were flown in weekly. Mom sent a box every couple of months with dozens of her Toll House cookies along with a variety of other stuff for use or trade. Things like Jiffy popcorn, licorice, peanuts, cigarettes, playing cards, hard candy, heavy socks, paperbacks, and sheets for my rack. When I got over here, I was provided with an old fold-out cot and a brown wool blanket, and that was it. So those sheets from home felt great. It was always special opening up that box from Mom.

Our maintenance guys made a shower from a discarded empty jet fuel cylinder. They built a rack with two-by-fours, made a pull-down release valve, and hung it up. We took a truck every week and filled buckets from a creek, and when you got back from patrol, after living in the dirt and mud for a week, nothing felt better.

Jake and I headed to the armory to pick up our weapons. Everyone kept their 16s near their rack, but other weapons were kept at the armory. The M60 machine gun fired a 7.62-millimeter round. It was belt fed with a five-hundred-round-per-minute rate of fire. Belt fed simply means that the bullets attach in line on a belt that feeds into the gun’s chamber. Jake got his blooper, plus the ammo he’d need, and helped carry the machine gun rounds back to our hooch. On patrol, everyone carried extra belts for the machine gun. Each belt held a hundred rounds, and were carried in your pack or around your neck.

Manny joined us, and we walked to the range and test-fired weapons. It was company policy to do that before every patrol. A-okay, everything good. We headed back to our hooch, cleaned and oiled the guns, and finished getting ready.

I could never sleep very well the night before a patrol. My brain would get carried away with different scenarios. Like, what if I got killed or wounded? What if everyone else got killed? What if I was captured and tortured? What if I made a mistake and caused someone else to die? All this crap rolling around in my head. What if? What if? I got it shut off and asked God to look after me, and if he couldn’t do that, then look after the other guys. And please, Lord, don’t let me do anything stupid. Amen.

Early next morning, Sarge woke Lenny, Jake, and me. Eight guys lived in our hooch, but only three were going out on this patrol. Others were already out, or going out soon. Sarge didn’t do anything stupid like walk up and shake your shoulder. Doing that could get someone seriously hurt. Everyone, except maybe new guys, were light sleepers, and extremely reactive to an unexpected stimulus. Weapons were close by. Most guys had a .45 pistol or a knife under what they used for a pillow. Your M16 was within reach. Even hand grenades were close by, attached to the web belt of your harness.

You wouldn’t hear Sarge come in. I was awake one time and watched him. He walked in quietly, approached the middle of the hut, and in a regular voice said, Hey, men, time to go. Let’s go, Marines—up and at ’em. Be at mess in ten. That was it, and that’s all it took. We were ready in minutes because of what we’d done the day before. We met at the mess hall to put away some cereal or toast and coffee. Lieutenant Stewart was there, but didn’t say anything about the mission; it’d been gone over enough. He was there for support.

After breakfast, we collected our gear, then camouflaged our faces and hands with roll-on sticks of a different-colored green paste called cammy. It stayed on well, and we re-cammied a couple times a day in the bush. We were camouflaged from head to toe. On patrol we wore soft camouflaged bush hats, never helmets. We were not infantry, we were reconnaissance. Our job was to sneak around and find stuff out. We moved quietly and carefully. Our job was to find the enemy. We didn’t want them to find us.

Throughout Vietnam, there was a grass called elephant grass. It grew ten feet tall with four-inch-wide razor-sharp blades, and when walking through it, the blades cut your face and hands. We wore long sleeves, even when it was hot, to protect our arms from cuts, bruises, bugs, and the sun. We had special olive drab gloves with the fingers cut out, and dark green socks and underwear. If your pants got ripped, or you had to take a dump, you didn’t want to provide a target. A flash of white in the green? No way.

On our feet we wore the new combat boot, called jungle boots. They had a dark green porous and flexible material around the upper part. In early Nam, they issued the same old heavy leather boots that were worn in WWII and Korea, and soldiers’ feet stayed wet so long it caused health problems—they would rot. During the monsoons, it didn’t matter what was on your feet; they stayed soaked. Everything stayed soaked. Some guys were medevacked to sick bay, or flown to hospital ships with rotting feet. It was called Trench Foot.

We taped the bottom of our pants around our boot tops, tight, to help keep out water, leeches, and bugs. On patrol we never took our boots off. Even at night, unless it was absolutely necessary.

Outside the mess hall, a deuce and a half (nickname for the two-and-a-half-ton military cargo truck) was waiting. We loaded up with Lt. Stewart, and were on the tarmac airfield in less than ten. The gunny was there and waiting, and he and the lieutenant wished us good luck and good hunting, while we squatted down and tried to listen. Close by was a Huey helicopter and a Cobra gunship, and they’d started their props. I was trying to relax and get my head in the right place. Our equipment was checked one more time. We were good to go.

The Vietnam War made the AH-1 Huey helicopter a legend and changed American warfare. There were helicopters used in Korea, but the Vietnam War saw the helicopter used and relied on as never before. They rapidly transported personnel in and out of situations not possible by motor vehicles. The Huey was used to move needed supplies, medevac wounded, and carry troops in and out of combat zones. They could also be set up with rockets, machine guns, cannons, and missiles.

The UH-1 Cobra helicopter was one of a kind. It was an attack helicopter with an array of different weapons. Gatling guns, automatic grenade launchers, 20mm cannons, Sidewinder missiles, and rockets, to name a few. It had a sleek, menacing appearance, and was often painted up front with a snarling depiction of large sharp teeth and snake eyes. The Cobra.

Sarge got the thumbs-up from the pilot, and we started off in a bent-over shuffle to the choppers. You learned to approach or leave a helicopter bent over, and that point was driven home one time. A team from Charlie Company was under heavy fire while running to their bird. One of the team members was new, and probably scared and not thinking. He wasn’t bent over. A blade dipped and he lost the top part of his head. The cut was so clean he actually ran a few more steps. Yes, you learned to approach and leave the helicopter bent over.

These Hueys were made for carrying troops. The side doors and middle seats were removed, the floor was bare steel, and both side openings had machine guns on cable systems manned by Huey gunners. These gunners and pilots flew in and out of hell, and God knows too many of them didn’t make it home.

I remember looking into the faces of teammates en route to a mission and wondering what they were thinking. I was usually scared and nervous, but once on the ground I was okay. But for me, sitting on the floor of a chopper, the blade noise so loud a shouted voice could barely be heard, and knowing this could be your last day alive, was always tough to handle.

On my first insertion, I was so stressed I could hardly breathe. I was about to lose it, when Ernie Washington, across from me, started kicking me. I looked at him and he made a funny face and gave me a thumbs-up. When the chopper set down and we started the patrol, I was okay, but he kept turning around and giving me that raised-eyebrow look. It got better from those first insertions, but the ride in was never easy. The dominant thought became, don’t let the team down, and don’t die.

The chopper came in and set down quick, and we were jumping out as she was touching down. We moved a short distance away and spread out, and stayed that way for ten minutes, letting our hearing return to normal. The Cobra stayed awhile, in case there was trouble.

A-okay, she flew back to base, and I began my last patrol. Number twelve.

Lenny led us to better cover, a rocky hillside a short distance away. We went down again facing out, scanning the terrain looking for anything out of the ordinary. Jake was lying next to me, holding the belt of rounds for my machine gun off the ground. There’d be no talking; even whispering would be at a minimum. We read facial expressions and used hand signals.

After ten minutes, Sarge signaled to move and in what direction, and Lenny led us off. Matt was next, with Jake and me behind him, then Sarge and Burt. Manny brought up the rear. The land to our left was too open, so we headed east, into shoulder-height brush. We progressed carefully using good cover, keeping visible to at least the person behind you. All our gear was tightly secured and made no noise.

A patrol line is staggered when possible. One Marine directly behind another affects fields of fire, vision, and safety. As we walked, each Marine had their area of responsibility. Point-man was first, and determined the direction. Because of the pre-brief, everyone knew the area and the direction we’d be going in, but Point-man’s job was to get us there. Each Marine behind him had their area to cover, and Tail-end made sure there were no surprises from the rear.

We’d been walking maybe an hour when Sarge stopped and looked at us, then signaled we had five klicks to our first op. Klick is short for kilometer; op means observation post. We had two and a half miles to our first op, where we’d stop and watch for the enemy. I appreciated how Sarge ran his patrols; walk, stop, look, and listen, and do it again, and again, and keep doing it.

We continued another hour when Bert, who was in front of me, raised a hand, then signaled down. We got down quick, and the silence soon changed to voices speaking Vietnamese, and the voices were moving toward us. My M60 was not pointed toward the noise, but I was not going to move unless I had to, which meant one of two things.

Everything worked out okay, and it was time to resume the patrol, or

The shit had hit the fan, and we were in big trouble.

They walked by us, some not ten meters away. They weren’t looking for us, or knew we were in the area, because if they had, they’d have been quiet and searching. I took a deep breath and blew it out. We weren’t seen—just more green soaking up the sun.

An enemy patrol of over twenty was estimated. We waited quietly, not moving, and when Sarge felt the time was right, we rose and moved out. A few minutes later, we stopped, and he called our base to report the enemy patrol. We started again, and it wasn’t long before we heard artillery rounds coming in and exploding. The fire mission continued for ten minutes, hitting an area where he’d reported the enemy could be, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one hoping those rounds found the target.

We kept moving with pauses to look and listen, and later, one at a time, we opened cans of C-rats and drank warm water. It was early afternoon, and Lenny did his job. We were at our first op.

After Viet Nam, I ran into Lenny at Camp Pendleton, in California. We were stationed around the same area, and saw each other at the cafeteria. We hung out some and got to know each other a little better. In Vietnam, Lenny kept to himself. He’d answer if you asked him something, but I don’t remember him starting too many conversations. One time between patrols, I was coming up behind him and jokingly pushed him in the back. In seconds, I was on my back, his knees straddling my chest, his hands around my neck choking me. After I hit his arms several times, he stopped, then walked away without saying a word.

Lenny invited me for a weekend stay at his parents’ house, somewhere around LA. After a two-hour bus ride, and a pickup by his brother, there was quite the shock when we walked in. Lenny forgot to tell them that his Vietnam buddy was a white guy. It was a great weekend with excellent food, but it took a while for some to recover. We were in Watts, California, and it was 1970.

The city of Watts had erupted into racial violence, with rioting and destruction, in the summer of 1965. It was called the Watts riots. In the following years, the city improved, but tension remained high. In the late ’60s and ’70s, violent gangs made the city extremely dangerous, and life for those who wanted peace and normalcy was a daily nightmare.

THREE

Man Down

Arriving at our first op, we sought higher ground for better viewing. This area was thought to be a new pathway for enemy troops moving south. We settled in, but by late afternoon it was decided to move. There was nothing happening here now, but by the trampled brush and disturbed ground, there had been.

We walked for an hour, then selected a spot for our harbor site (term used for a military night camp), and one at a time we ate C-ration cans of whatever. C-rats held three ounces of assorted foods like spaghetti, meatloaf, chili, and fruit. Also included were small packages of crackers, cookies, and a pack of four cigarettes, which you wouldn’t smoke unless in a secure area. The cookies were the favorite, the ham and lima beans the worst. There was always someone who wanted to trade to get your cookies or cigarettes.

There was a Marine awake and sitting up throughout the night for security. We would rotate every two hours. We also set out perimeter devices for security purposes, such as Claymore mines, which were used every night or if we were to be in an area for a while. These were ten-inch curved plaques with simple fold-out stakes that were pushed into the ground. Each mine held five hundred small metal pellets with a C-4 explosive band behind them. Claymores were detonated by a push button device, attached by a long cord, and held by the Marine on watch. Location was crucial because of the intense back blast. On the back of these small mines, the words Front Toward Enemy were imprinted.

I’d heard stories about the Viet Cong sneaking into night camps and turning the Claymores around, then making a disturbance, hoping they’d be detonated. I don’t think it happened a lot, but it did happen. Motion detectors were also used, and could alert a team if people or vehicles were approaching.

Someone on duty at a relay station, or the rear base, checked the team’s status every hour through the night. They would ask the Marine on watch if all was secure. He’d respond by pressing the radio handset button once for all secure or twice for we have a problem. At first light, we were awake with new friends. Bugs, ticks, and leeches. We checked ourselves and each other’s backs, took care of any personal business, packed our gear, oiled rifles, and ate.

We usually ate MREs in the morning—Meals Ready to Eat. They were small bags of dehydrated food that you added water to. They weren’t great, but better than the C-rats, and if in a secure area, we’d warm them with a heat tab.

After walking most of the morning, I saw a hand signal from Lenny, indicating we were close to our second op. Mosquitoes and bugs were bad, flying around our faces, biting and stinging. We carried repellent, but you had to be careful using it. The smell was strong enough to bring in some really unwanted pests.

We were almost there when Lenny raised his hand. We froze, and then I heard it: the sound of vehicles. We continued carefully and quietly. A secure elevated spot was needed with good visual to the noise, and Lenny found it. We were a quarter mile away.

We carried small dark green binoculars, and watched as two jeeps, a small truck, and troops pulling carts and carrying supplies headed south. It was a large contingency, an excellent find, but unusual. Large moves like this were usually done at night, reducing the chance of discovery. Sarge looked at his map, then whispered into the radio. We watched and waited. I felt good about our position. We were far enough away that if there were air strikes or artillery ordered we’d be safe, and if the enemy started looking for who called in the big guns, we’d not be easily found.

Sarge signaled—fire mission—and I knew the rounds would be coming from the Gio Linh firebase, four miles east of our position. We wouldn’t hear them fired, but you’d hear them coming in. A sound you’d never hear again after you left this place, but one you’d never forget. Sarge signaled to be ready, and it wasn’t long before we heard them.

The explosions sounded and looked like they were the 105-millimeter rounds. The barrage lasted ten minutes, with Bert on the radio directing the artillery. The hit was a good one. The rounds blanketed the area, and we watched as men and vehicles were blown to bits. After the last round, he relayed a damage assessment to our base, then we moved out in a westerly direction.

Being careful, but moving as quickly as possible, we tried to put as much distance between us and what had just happened as possible. An hour later, Sarge called a halt, and spent a short time on the radio. We started again, and were almost to our next op, when the sound of an AK-47* erupted in front of us.

There was a short burst, then silence. I moved to my right, and was down on one knee looking for a target. I couldn’t see anything—the brush was thick—when an M16 opened up in front of me, and I heard Lenny yelling. I wasn’t sure who was firing, but I knew it was either Lenny or Matt; everyone else was behind me. It doesn’t take long before you recognize the sound of different weapons—what’s ours and what’s theirs. I had zero target, and was not about to open up where other team members could be.

Then I heard Lenny screaming, Man down! Man down!

I looked back, and Sarge and Bert were kneeling together. Bert was holding the radio handset and Sarge was looking at his map. Jake and I had just started forward when the air in front of us exploded from a grenade, and chunks of dirt and debris hit our chests and faces.

We dived down, as Lenny broke through the thicket in front of us pulling a laid-out Matt by his shoulder harness. We ran to help. Matt’s upper body and face were covered in blood, and he wasn’t moving. Jake shouldered the 79 and helped. I had the 60 up and was looking past them, looking for a target, and I began spraying the area.

There’d been just one short burst of enemy fire. I worked the area until I was out of ammo, reloaded, and started again, all the time walking backward. Everyone was heading back in the direction we’d come from. I was Tail-end now and Lenny was carrying Matt over his shoulder. We soon stopped at a rocky outcropping that protected one flank. I watched around us while Sarge checked Matt. Lenny told us that he didn’t see the sniper, but knew where the rounds had come from, so he threw the grenade.

We needed to get to somewhere accessible by chopper. We were in tall brush, surrounded by trees, and the terrain was hilly. Sarge was looking at his map, yelling into the handset, then told us of a possible LZ (landing zone) that would take maybe twenty minutes to get there with Matt. He ordered the medevac, and the birds would soon be on their way.

We knew Matt was gone. If he’d been alive, Sarge would be helping him. I was pissed, and remember hoping I’d see someone to shoot. We didn’t get into contact every patrol, so when someone got hurt it was tough. Six guys sneaking around in the bush, living in the mud, eating shitty food, and picking leeches off each other’s backs. Yeah, it was personal.

We knew that since there’d been contact, the enemy knew where we were, and they’d come looking for us. Especially since it’d be obvious that we were the ones that called in the big guns on them earlier. Everyone knew we had to move. We couldn’t hold up here—we’d be found and it’d be over. Sarge got the extraction call completed and signaled to move out. Lenny had his poncho out and tucked it under Matt’s upper body, and he and Jake lifted Matt, while Manny took his legs. Sarge took over Point, and I was Tail-end. Ten minutes later, I gave the 60 to Manny and took Matt’s legs. It took longer than we thought, but we got to where Sarge wanted without more problems. We dug in and covered. The birds were still about ten minutes out. I’d come down some, and just wanted to get the hell out of there. We needed to get back to base without anyone else getting hurt.

We knew the enemy, and knew that sometimes they’d initiate contact, then follow you and wait for the helicopters. Even if they could wipe out a team, they wouldn’t. They’d use you for bait. They wanted the birds that were coming in, and if they got them, then they had you too.

We heard the choppers before we saw them. The Hueys made a distinct loud wop, wop, wop noise, and it was coming in first with a Cobra gunship behind it. As the Huey got closer, it started taking fire. The Cobra came around then and opened up with her mini-guns while the Huey backed off, letting the Cobra do her thing.

We were crouched and ready, and I knew that if the Huey was taking fire, then we’d have just seconds to get on board. They wouldn’t sit there being a target. The Cobra came in with mini-guns blasting and opened up with an automatic grenade launcher. All hell was breaking loose, and I hoped they were doing a job on those NVA sons of bitches. We were ready, and the Huey was coming around and coming in. We rose to meet it, running bent over and carrying Matt. Lenny and Jake got there first and pushed Matt in, then they followed. The door gunner was blasting away, but stopped and helped with Matt.

The Huey was taking fire. I saw bullets hitting around the back. She had lifted some, hovering a couple feet off the ground. A rifle grenade was launched, but it hit far enough away that everyone was okay. I put in a new belt and was blasting away where I thought the grenade had come from when my shoulder was grabbed, and Sarge was yelling in my face, pushing me toward the chopper. The bird was moving now, the back end three feet off the ground. I could hear the Cobra working out behind me, as I handed the machine gun to Manny, who was lying out the doorway, and I jumped up and in the best I could. The extra sixty pounds felt like a hundred and sixty now. It was tough, but hands grabbed me and I was in. The helicopter’s machine gunners kept blasting away. I turned and saw Sarge’s head and arms in the opening, with Manny and Bert trying to help him. The Huey was rising more, and slanted to the port side, away from Sarge, and he slipped as the bird continued to rise. He ended up with both arms around the landing skid, his body dangling underneath, and his 16 falling to the ground.

Bert was yelling at the copilot, trying to get close enough to grab his arm, when the door gunner radioed up front what was happening. The pilot thought everyone was on board. The bird straightened out, but continued flying another thirty seconds before descending. He told us later that he couldn’t put her down right then—they were taking too much fire. He saw a safe place to set down; he did, and we got Sarge up and in.

As we flew back, the Cobra stayed behind and worked that area some more, and as good it felt to be heading back, not all of us had made it. The door gunner gave us an Army blanket to cover Matt, and we headed back to our base at Quang Tri. We pushed Sarge to the back, where he could be sitting up and supported. He must have gotten tired of us looking at him, and raised his hand and gave us the two-finger peace sign. Yeah, right—peace and love.

I was relieved I’d made it out of there, but I felt terrible about Matt, and wished things were different. My last patrol was over. I was done, and I’d be headed home soon. It was January 16, 1970, and it was my birthday. I turned twenty years old that day.

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* The AK-47 is a Russian-made 7.62-millimeter automatic assault rifle with a distinct sound when fired. It was the dominant firearm used by the NVA from 1968 to the end of the war.

FOUR

Going Home

Medical people and a truck were on-site when we landed, and we watched as Matt was zipped up into a black bag and taken away. We bumped fists with the door gunners and waved to the pilots. Captain Kaughman and Gunny were waiting on the tarmac, and greeted us with shoulder slaps and grim faces. We walked to the waiting truck, but before we piled in, the captain stopped and motioned us together. Shouting over the noise, he told us there was nothing more we could have done, that we did our job. And I remember thinking, Yeah…our job. We climbed up and in and headed to the rear area for Marine Corps 3rd Force Recon. We arrived, and Gunny told us to clean