“The former deputy commander of Air Force operations in Vietnam told Congress that many American pilots were killed because of restrictions on the bombing of North Vietnam.”
—New York Times, October 24, 1967
October 24, 1967
We were being propelled headlong into trouble again. We could sense it, but when an operation order quickly followed we knew it. Our battalion was trucked back to the wharf for a nighttime trip up the Mekong River to Cai Be. The RAG pressed slowly ahead with diesel engines straining against the strong current. Two Viet Cong battalions, the 261st and 263d, of the 1st Main Force Regiment were known to be in the region we were entering. Both battalions were skilled and tenacious. The Vietnamese soldiers clearly were not thrilled with the prospects. Body language and dubious expressions spoke volumes about their serious concerns.
I asked Captain Xuan about the operation. He spit out the words, “Snoopy’s Nose!” The reference was to a bend in a tributary that made a 280-degree loop resembling the comic-strip character Snoopy’s nose. Everyone, Vietnamese and Americans, knew this hostile place by its lovable namesake.
The landing craft docked at Cai Be at 8:00 a.m., just as indigenous traffic into the town market peaked. A long night on the river had heightened our edginess to get on with the mission, yet we idled on the dock for an hour before trucks could get through the crowds in the market to the wharf. I was certain that reports of our presence had already been sent to our adversaries in Snoopy’s Nose. Instigators in the market could well have deliberately extended our delay at the wharf, allowing spies to tally and identify our organization. A sense of danger settled over us.
Transportation finally arrived and we trucked north to an intersection with Highway 4. From the junction of Highway 4 and an old dirt road branching to the west, we walked into the unknown. Determination froze our faces into war masks.
This heavily populated region sprouted small hamlets about every kilometer. Our soldiers questioned the local peasants, who were nervous in our presence. Their attitude indicated that VC were nearby and probably had informants among them. Peasants were generally not partisan, favoring neither the ARVN troops nor the Viet Cong, but they were especially unnerved when both were nearby at the same time. That meant one thing: battle. And people would get hurt when the shooting started.
We proceeded one kilometer north from our dismount point and were engaged by snipers as we continued our approach march. Two soldiers were hit right away and were evacuated back to Highway 4. I calculated that the two soldiers’ actually having been hit by snipers indicated that the shooters were disciplined main force soldiers, not nervous hamlet guerillas. Local force guerillas were more concerned with firing a few shots and escaping than actually hitting a target. Main-forces troops understood that it was easier to escape if the other side had wounded soldiers to delay it. So we paused to tend our wounded.
Major Neely interrupted the silence on the radio. “Red Oak Five, pop smoke. I’m inbound with passengers.”
“Roger that. Smoke’s out,” I replied.
“I see violet smoke.”
“Roger. You’re cleared to land.”
Neely did not say who the passengers were. I expected an artillery forward observer or someone else who could help in the battle ahead. I was surprised and disappointed as the passengers disembarked from the helicopter. One was an army specialist fourth class with a notebook and camera, an official army photographer from the press office in Can Tho; a Japanese photojournalist preparing a special report for Tokyo followed him. Both were unwelcome guests as far as I was concerned.
At the moment of their arrival, Vietnamese soldiers had detained several prisoners, and I could see they were treating them roughly during interrogation. I certainly did not want any incidents of abuse recorded on film, but the Japanese photographer seemed unconcerned with the rough handling. But the prisoners’ treatment bothered me, and I wondered about his nonchalance. He seemed to be overlooking a story, so either his cultural background or the war had hardened his outlook. Frankly I didn’t believe it was a newsworthy story, either, but the liberal U.S. press had conditioned me to expect the worst.
The photographer asked a series of questions in excellent English. In my first experience with a reporter, I tried to be honest, but I certainly volunteered no more than I was asked. The “spec four” was there to escort him and ensure that he had our full cooperation, also serving as a witness in the event that anything happened that might be disputed later.
Under duress the prisoners admitted that the 263d Main Force Battalion had been there. Snipers had covered the battalion’s withdrawal into Snoopy’s Nose. We packed up quickly and took off in hot pursuit of the escaping enemy unit. Our unwanted visitors tagged along behind me, cameras clicking. When we were on our feet, offering targets in the open fields, the sniper fire resumed and several soldiers were hit immediately. One was hit in his face, which was turned into a bloody mess. We stopped once more to evacuate our wounded. The Viet Cong tactic of delaying us with sniper fire worked: we slowed down while we used cover as much as possible. Each casualty that required a litter cost us five men—the victim plus four litter bearers. Walking wounded accompanied the litter details on foot.
I lay on the ground with the spec four and the Japanese photographer, talking about the operation while the evacuation was organized. The reporter was nonchalant about the firing around us, fueling my fears that he would stay with us for the rest of the day. I marveled at his attitude toward the imminent danger; either he was unaware of what lay ahead or he simply didn’t care.
A medevac helicopter approached to recover the soldier with the face wound. Much to my relief the two visitors climbed aboard. As a more accurate reflection of our misguided priorities, I suspected that the helicopter had come for the journalists and that the wounded man luckily had caught a ride.
Thirty years later, I was viewing a photographic display of the works of international journalists killed in Vietnam, and found photographs that a Japanese journalist had taken just hours before he was killed. Studying his picture, I recognized him as my visitor. Some time after his visit with us, the photojournalist had been killed while covering another battle. A description of his death accompanied his photographs, confirming my assessment that he carried his cavalier attitude to his eventual end.
When the journalists were gone Captain Xuan impatiently signaled me to join him. Slick pointed toward a large six-foot-wide track recently trampled through a swampy field. The grass was about two feet high, with six inches of water on the surface of the ground. The grass was freshly bent, indicating the direction a large number of people had recently trekked.
“What is it?” I asked. “Did one of our companies go this way?” I thought I had missed something while tending to the journalists.
“VC,” said Slick. “263d Main Force Battalion.” His tone was solemn.
My heart froze for a couple of seconds, and I felt the blood leaving my face. We were literally right behind an enemy force of a size equal to our own.
“We’re one hour behind them,” Captain Xuan said, holding up one finger for emphasis. “They prepare defenses now to fight. Snoopy’s Nose is just ahead. They are protected by the river on three sides, and we must go into his nose!” The implication of this news was suffocating.
Xuan said, “If you can get help from Americans—do it now, please!”
I could clearly hear sounds of digging in front of us and I called Bobby for help. “Red Oak Six, this is Red Oak Five. Over.”
“This is Red Oak Six. Over.”
“Six, my counterpart advises me we’re in for a big one, and from what I see, he’s right. Can you line up support now? It’ll start pretty soon.”
As I waited for his reply, I heard the first mortar round pop when it left the 82mm tube 200 meters away. Other shots quickly followed the first, and firing continued until rounds hit nearby, exploding into the tree line and muddy fields around us. Each explosion fell closer until the bursts coughed up mud that dropped on us as shell fragments whistled close overhead. The VC gunners walked mortar rounds toward us in a classic artillery technique.
I did not like the terrain we were in—an open field with a few two-foot-high dikes for protection. The 263d was dug into the banks of a tree-covered canal, well concealed and protected. Rows of trees on our flanks provided excellent cover for the enemy to maneuver around us. Our enemy had favorable terrain, time to prepare defenses, and numbers equal to our own. He had chosen the time and place for battle. The only advantage we had was firepower, but not even that materialized when we needed it most.
Reinforcements were requested by the ARVN, but no one expected them to arrive in time to make a difference. We were on our own, at least for the time being. This battle was to be us against them, using only what we had brought with us to the fight. And it did seem that we were going have a hell of a fight very soon!
Bobby had trouble arranging U.S. fire support. “No American artillery or air support is available,” he informed me. “Tell Slick there’s a large American operation underway and everything is committed already.” Fire support was our best hope for victory in this engagement, and our only advantage. Now we had no advantage.
I passed the bad news to Xuan. “Can’t you get artillery from Cai Be?” I asked.
Xuan reluctantly agreed to get the ARVN artillery cranked up, but I could see he wasn’t happy about it.
After ten long minutes we heard ARVN artillery fire from the district capital of Cai Be. Within two minutes the artillery rounds burst, directly behind our own position. Viet Cong 60mm and 82mm mortar rounds were intimidating, but our own 105mm artillery shells were absolutely terrifying. The rounds could be heard whirring into our midst, then a second of silence, then the crack and blast of high-explosive energy. Zings from large shards of shrapnel sliced through the air like jagged knives, ready to slice off a head or an arm. Artillery rounds first exploded in the trees to our rear, near the battalion CP, and then made a trail across the open field toward our forward position. The artillery fire passed right through our ranks, halting before it reached the dug-in VC. Cries of wounded men and medics rose all around us. We were killing ourselves again.
Xuan was furious. “They will never fire for me again!” He spit the words in my direction.
“But, Dai-uy [Captain]—we need them! This is the only support we have. Adjust and have them fire again,” I urged.
“Never! I will never let them fire again, not even if the VC attack. You must get American artillery!” he demanded.
“Dai-Uy, we’re trying, but there’s a big operation somewhere else. No artillery is in position to fire for us.”
“Convince them to move! This is an important operation, and we have a very dangerous enemy here. We need to attack now—before he attacks us!” I could see that Slick was afraid, and that didn’t make me feel any better.
We had once again taken more casualties from our own fire than from the enemy fire directed at us. The VC obviously observed our plight and saved their ammunition.
Then a prayer was answered when a pair of Cobra gunships checked in. Bobby Hurst turned their control over to me, since I was at the closest point to the enemy-held river line; he was fifty meters farther back with Major Bouie. I eased over the dike into the open field and crawled a little closer to the river, stopping at the next dike. I wanted to get the helicopter fires directly on the 263d. As I lay in the open, trying to give direction to the gunships, I popped a purple smoke grenade to mark our front lines. Huge mistake! Not only did the gunship know exactly where I was, but so did the riflemen of the 263d.
Direct rifle and machine gun fire struck within inches of me. I couldn’t discern exactly where the fire was coming from, but I suspected riflemen had used the cover of vegetation on our flanks to maneuver around us. I was apparently now their main target! I realized I was alone, between the enemy and my own soldiers; I also couldn’t believe I was in such a stupid predicament. Rifle shots snapped overhead and thudded into the ground around me.
I vaulted over the dike to seek cover on the reverse side, but that didn’t improve my situation either. The rounds were still striking all around and very close. Even a bad marksman would surely get lucky soon. The odds weren’t in my favor. I had to do something to drastically change the situation, and fast.
I low-crawled toward a hedgerow that ran in a different direction but stopped when I realized that the rifle shots were still following me. I was giving the Viet Cong far too much time to get lucky. I knew that if I was hit, I was too far away from the others to expect any help. If shot, I would have to stay and continue to take hits. To help me, someone would have to expose himself to crawl to where I was, but I didn’t even see how anyone else could help me, anyway. Even worse, I might be captured!
I was as as close to the enemy as to my own soldiers. It struck me like a bolt of lightning: the VC were trying to capture an American. That was why I had not been hit yet. The VC had maneuvered around my flank and had me pinned down with close rifle fire but never hit me. I remembered how their snipers were able to strike our soldiers with considerable accuracy only a few hours earlier. They were saving me for captivity.
It became very clear to me that I would rather die running than be taken prisoner. I stood up suddenly and ran, leaning low, toward the hedgerow in which the friendly front line was concealed. VC rifle fire followed me with bullets whizzing past on both sides and with increased intensity as I sprinted faster. Then I realized the Viet Cong were indeed trying to hit me. But I was escaping. Halfway to safety, my legs collapsed and I fell face-first into the mud: I just knew that I’d been hit.
I quickly checked myself and realized that my legs had become cramped from running in the mud. The VC were still firing, but finally the ARVN troops returned fire over my head. I quickly rubbed out the cramp, gathered my strength, struggled to my feet again, and ran as fast as I could, stooped over, for the additional twenty meters back to the hedgerow. I plopped down behind the dike and saw Captain Xuan casually lying on the ground. I lay beside him, breathing heavily.
Slick looked at me and smiled. “The gunships are working well!”
I didn’t even try to answer. I didn’t know if I would ever be able to get back on my feet again.
Cobra gunships did great work for a while on their own, hosing down the trees along the river with machine guns and rockets. Slowly I recovered.
I was informed by a radio call from the 11th Regiment that the U.S. 9th Division Mobile Riverine Force (MRF) had moved 105mm howitzers up the river on barges that were now anchored to the shore, ready to fire in our support. All the MRF needed was fire direction. I had never excelled in adjusting artillery fire in officer basic training, but this was a do-or-die situation. Regiment gave me the frequency to contact the artillery. I was glad I had studied the artillery correspondence courses while resting at Binh Duc.
With fresh memories of the ARVN 105s exploding on us, I looked at Captain Xuan. “Do you want me to bring American 105s on the Viet Cong position?”
“Yes, of course,” he responded, much more confident than I felt.
“Remember what happened with the ARVN artillery?” I asked.
“I’ll die before I have them fire again,” he said. “You can do it!”
And so I did. I called in the first volleys, and they seemed to be generally in the target area. More important, the high-explosive rounds were not falling on us.
Captain Xuan’s confidence was rising; he directed the cooks to move farther back and prepare rice. I knew we would spend the rest of the day directing fire into the river line instead of making an infantry assault, which was fine with me. My knees were still weak from my earlier exertion, so I was not sure I could even walk into Snoopy’s Nose in my present condition, much less attack.
Just before nightfall Captain Xuan asked me to join him. We moved fifty meters to the rear, toward the battalion CP where I found Bobby and Master Sergeant Mendenhall. We all took turns eating C-rations and adjusting artillery fire. I was happy to have help with the artillery, and we spent most of the night pouring it into Snoopy’s Nose.
By the next day the 263d Main Force Battalion was gone. The enemy, dug in along the river, had three avenues of escape. He could wait until night and cross the river directly behind them and continue north or follow the river east or west. Two additional battalions would have been required to completely seal off the Viet Cong positions until they could be destroyed. There had been sufficient time to bring in reinforcements in daylight to seal them off, but it was not done, for whatever reason, and another opportunity for success was lost. After all, it was not enough to find the enemy—victory meant defeating him on the battlefield.
With the 263d gone, we were left empty-handed. I was still puzzled by the same questions as before. Why were Viet Cong main force battalions engaging us so close to the populated areas? Why were they stockpiling large supplies of ammunition so close to the cities? Why did we consistently find them, engage them, and allow them to escape to fight again another day? Because of my narrow escape in Snoopy’s Nose, I was puzzled about what the recent fights really meant. There had to be a larger purpose: everything happens within a grand design, a framework. Where was the pattern?
There obviously was one, but why couldn’t I see it more clearly?