“From Tucson came a check for $11.03, the contribution of a Sunday school class. Another check came from a child, along with this note: “I would like to give up a Christmas present from my parents and send $5. It is very little for what the guys in Vietnam are doing for us.”

—New York Times, December 23, 1967

14

East of the Sun

Early December 1967

As a result of successes in the Double Y, Viet Cong main forces had been pushed farther away from My Tho and prepared to defend their supplies. Government troops used the opportunity to operate in traditional zones farther away from the cities.

We soon found ourselves bouncing on the flatbeds of the rattletrap trucks along Highway 4 en route back to the Double Y for the umpteenth time. ARVN units were pushing into VC strongholds to take the initiative from the enemy before the Tet holidays. We were aware that active U.S. Army Special Forces operations were aimed at detecting and reducing the flow of supplies from the Plain of Reeds.

From LZ Springfield we trudged north through familiar Ap Bac hamlets and dry rice fields. While on the march, we received an urgent change of orders. A Civilian Irregular Defense Group (CIDG) company, under command of U.S. Army Green Berets, had run directly into a battalion L-shaped ambush and was in serious trouble. It requested assistance or reinforcements. The CIDG company was somewhere west of the Double Y, near My Phouc Tay, a Special Forces camp established to monitor and intercept infiltration routes from Cambodia through the Plain of Reeds. Green Berets recruited and trained their own local troops from the civilian population.

We marched quickly through dry paddies in the direction of the CIDG company to reinforce and relieve it, but we were careful not to rush into another ambush ourselves. I changed the radio frequency to the Special Forces advisory net as we marched, to establish contact with the endangered troops. As soon as I called, a soldier shouted into the radio that he was behind a rice paddy dike, pinned down by enemy fire.

“Marble Four, this is Red Oak Five. Over,” I responded, keeping my voice calm to reassure him.

“This is Marble Four. Over!” He shouted into his handset. His voice was almost drowned out by background noise.

“Situation report?” I requested.

“We walked into an ambush! A VC battalion! Heavy casualties. We’re under heavy fire. I don’t know how long I can hold out.” I heard his bleak assessment through crackling rifle fire in the background.

“I’m near the front of an ARVN company. We’re approaching from your rear. The rest of the battalion is behind us. Tell your people not to shoot if they see us coming up. We’re wearing green uniforms and maroon scarves.” I wanted to prevent another friendly-fire incident, especially since he was rattled.

“I can’t tell them anything! We’re spread all over and we’ve been shot to hell. Everyone around me is dead, even the captain,” he sobbed.

“Are you talking about the CIDG company commander?” I asked, hoping for clarification.

“No! Captain O’Malley. He was in front of me when he got hit. I crawled here before we were overrun. I left him, but I still see him,” he sobbed again.

“Where are you now?” I asked.

“I don’t know where the hell I am! I don’t have a map or compass. Can you hear the shooting? They’re shooting at me. Hurry up and get here! I can’t hold out. I’m almost out of ammo, but I’m not shooting. Maybe they’ll think I’m dead, too.”

He was panicked, but I needed him to help us find them. “Give me some help! Can you see a reference point? Give me something to guide on.”

“I’m flat on my back. The only thing I can see is the sun. I’m east of the sun. Just go east of the sun,” he kept shouting over and over.

“You have to do better than that. Everyone in Vietnam is east of the sun. Help us find you,” I pleaded.

We never linked up with the Special Forces soldier and his troops. His last report indicated that the Viet Cong had started to withdraw as we approached; they didn’t want to engage a unit near the size of their own. The remnants of the Green Beret’s ragged company pulled themselves together and got home to My Phuoc Tay.

Late in the afternoon we reached the ambush site. We marched east—into the sun—until we found Captain O’Malley. He was a young redheaded all-American boy who had been killed instantly in the first onslaught. The back of his head was blown off, but his face was undamaged and his eyes stared up into the sun. I gagged at the sight of his brains spread over the dry rice paddy. His surprised expression burned itself into my memory. I blinked my eyes to erase his stare, but it remained there even when I closed my eyes.

Other warriors from both sides were sprawled about the killing field joining O’Malley in his final morning report. I went from body to body, looking at each of the dead, trying to erase the image of him from my memory—without success.

Nothing worked.

Another prodigal son had registered for roll call.

Much farther east O’Malley appeared sooner than I expected. Almost exactly one year later, I was dining at the 82d Airborne Division commanding general’s mess at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Several young officers came through the serving line and settled at my table. As we gazed at one another, I was shocked by the appearance of one redheaded first lieutenant who took a seat adjacent to me. Even though I already knew the answer, I asked the young officer if he had an older brother. First Lieutenant O’Malley told me his brother had been killed in Vietnam.

I remained silent.

Sweden granted asylum to seven more American GIs who said they deserted to escape war service in Vietnam.¹