The urgency of diarrhea compelled me to take a walk alone in the jungle, so I grabbed an entrenching tool and my .45-caliber pistol. I looked around before digging a slit trench to complete my business. My stomach was a raging inferno but, despite the cramps, I had a worse feeling on the back of my neck. I positively knew someone was watching me—and it was not Bravo Company’s security. Nerve endings bristled as I walked slowly back to the perimeter, trying to listen as I trod the soft jungle floor. I stopped once to look back, so strong was the sensation that I was being followed. When I arrived at the radios, I made communication checks with battalion headquarters and the platoons. I called to Pfc Wayne Czajka, the acting artillery forward observer, to ensure that he had radio contact as well.

Before Wayne could make the call, an ear-splitting blast erupted ten meters from where I had been in the jungle. As soon as I fell to the ground, another blast from the same place blew steel pellets through low trees around us, peeling bark and leaves away. Two large round Chinese antipersonnel mines had been command-activated at our perimeter. VC had crawled to place them while I had been there a few minutes before. Perhaps my presence had caused them to aim the first mine poorly, because it was low. Bad aim on the first blast gave us time to fall to the ground before the killer mine was activated. Had we been standing when the second mine erupted toward our position, we would have been mowed down with the small trees around us.

All our radios crackled. Jim Johnson, on the battalion radio net, tried to report our situation and call for helicopter support, while Don Verruchi kept the company net active as the platoons tried to ascertain the situation. Wayne attempted to call an artillery fire mission. I observed him behind a tree trunk two inches in diameter. The tree looked as if it had been attacked with a chain saw. His long antenna was shot off. I told him to replace it. My heart pounded and I felt light-headed as I struggled to maintain a calm exterior to reassure others. Only ten seconds had elapsed since I’d first asked Wayne to make a radio check.

Don had communications with the platoons, but the battalion net Jim Johnson handled had also lost its long whip antenna when steel pellets blasted it away. I told Jim to exchange his broken antenna for the short whip. Precious time was being lost. Rifles around the perimeter fired protective fires into the jungle to discourage a ground attack. I didn’t see any enemy targets but I was reassured by the sound of firing.

Operators frantically removed broken antennas and were replacing them with short ones when the hollow plunking sounds of 60mm mortars came like a second wave. Based on the tempo, I estimated that two mortars were firing. We could hear them being fired, yet we had to wait for the rounds to make their high trajectory before they struck. The rounds would hit in only a few seconds. There was nothing we could do but wait to see if we would die. The wait was “high-angle hell,” not unlike the pause between a tornado siren and the storm.

We stayed flat on the ground in case enemy riflemen were hidden in the jungle around us. With only twenty-four men in the platoon and five in the command group, I directed the other three platoons to carefully close on our position. Wayne was still unable to contact artillery, but Jim finally reached battalion to report our trouble. Labrozzi would get his chopper airborne as soon as possible, but meanwhile we had no fire support on station and nothing on order.

The initial crash of a 60mm mortar round erupted in the air over our heads. The round had hit a tree limb and burst in the air, sending fragments through our ranks. I had momentarily forgotten about in-bound mortar rounds in my haste to establish radio contact, but I was certainly aware of it now. Noise on the radio was drowned out by the next round, which struck a few feet away. Sounds of men shouting that they had been hit, or calling for a medic, overshadowed everything else.

I estimated twenty mortar rounds had been arced in our direction. The sounds of mortars firing stopped as the first round hit. I knew eighteen more rounds were coming in, and all we and could do was wait out high-angle hell. The mortars pounded us then stopped, but the shouting continued. Our medics heroically rushed about, administering life-saving first aid and assessing the situation. It seemed that everyone was calling “Medic!” at once.

My immediate concern was security. We were too few in the bull’s eye. I ordered platoons to approach as quickly as possible. I informed the trigger-happy troops on the perimeter that help was coming in—no more friendly fires. Shouts for “medic” blended with cries of pain. My stomach turned at the sound of my men in agony. I was sickened, and angry as hell that there was little we could do to take the initiative.

When the explosions ceased, the commotion of men making adjustments replaced the momentary silence. Radio operators worked frantically to report, wounded men cried out, troopers shifted to fill gaps, and medics worked rapidly in triage. I wanted to see to the wounded men, but my overriding concern was still security. A ground attack was not likely, but I needed to consolidate the company safely.

Silence extending from the jungle floor into the air was not welcome, either. When a unit is in contact with the enemy, helicopters are on the scene quickly to establish communications and help control fire support. This time there was nothing. The absence of help was due mainly to the second antipersonnel mine knocking out our communications with battalion and direct-support artillery. In addition, the command-and-control chopper was out of the area for refueling. A medevac helicopter was the first on the scene, thank God.

The dust-off helicopter checked in: “Gator Six, this is Dust Off Four-seven-seven. Over.”

“Four-seven-seven, this is Gator Six, good to have you on station. Over.”

“Gator, is the area clear?”

“We’ve had no contact for five minutes. Two platoons are still closing on our position, but it seems to be over. We have a clearing to touch down one bird. We’ll pop smoke when you’re ready.”

“What you got there, Gator?”

“About sixteen wounded, but no KIAs. All the wounds are from mortars, no gunshots. Four are serious head wounds. I figure you’ll have to make two trips. We’ll put the most serious on the first run, over.”

“Roger, Gator. Pop smoke now.”

As soon as the first evacuation was out I investigated the area of the attack. A quick check revealed that green wires that had been connected to the mines, having been set up during heavy rain. When I went out of the perimeter to relieve my cramps, the VC who set them were probably crawling back to connect the wires to the generator.

Next I called for a report on casualties and ammunition status. Ammunition was okay; we had not fired that much, but I was wondering whether we had the right ammunition. The casualty report revealed the entire command group had been wounded, except for the artillery forward observer, Czajka, and me. I asked Wayne to carry his own radio for Joe Sauble because I didn’t want to pull another rifleman off the line. I carried the company radio myself to control the platoons, for the same reason. I recruited another rifleman to carry the battalion radio set.

I believed we had been scouted during the company exchange the day before. They had followed us, waiting for an opportunity to strike. With the mortars it was easy. Adding antipersonnel mines had been brilliant and courageous on their part. If the first one had been aimed properly, we would have been decimated instead of badly hurt.

I was worried. I called a meeting of platoon leaders to discuss our options. First I asked for ideas, but no one offered any. I waited, but no one wanted to talk, as if they were all in shock. I had to shake them out of that quickly.

So I began: “I’m worried about the intensity of this attack and lack of support. I expect more. We need a plan of our own. We don’t have mortars for counterfire, and artillery is too damn slow. We can’t keep gunships on station all the time. We can’t reach to the 60mm mortars with what we have, and they know it. We had commo problems due to the loss of radios in the first blast. Here are my ideas; I want your comments.”

I tried to read their thoughts, but saw only vacant stares.

After a moment, I continued: “I think we should designate a “killer team” in each platoon. The killer team is two riflemen and two M79 gunners. The mortars are fired from about four hundred meters away. The range of the M79 is only two hundred meters.” I took an M79 grenade launcher and held it while I talked.

“At the first sound of mortars, the killer team charges straight toward the mortars for two hundred meters, then fires M-79 rounds in that direction. Radio operators will get on the air at the first sound to call for gunships and pre-planned artillery. This is risky, but we need to be aggressive and react quickly next time, or they’ll make hamburger of us. What do you think?"

I could read their faces. They didn’t love my idea, but no one had a better one, either. I handed the M79 to Sergeant Rogers and said, “At least the killer team will be outside the impact zone of the mortars.”

That seemed to dispel concern for the reaction teams and their resistance. Sergeant Rogers, the platoon leader who had conducted the successful ambush, replied, “I’ll personally lead my killer team. We need more ammunition,” he said tapping the grenade launcher. “And we’ll recon-by-fire with M79s as we move.”

With Rogers’s words of support the others agreed to the plan. It seemed to take the edge off our sense of helplessness.

“Take a few minutes to brief your men and get organized. I’ll request additional grenades for our M79s tomorrow. I’ll talk to Battalion about getting air or artillery here faster. We’ll move in ten minutes and go until it gets dark. We’ll stay together tonight. Spread the perimeter out so we aren’t bunched up. Let’s go.”

We stayed on the trail. I figured the mortar crew was long gone, but I suspected they might have been trying to entice us to chase them. Wayne gave advance notice that I wanted artillery spotted around us overnight, and harassing-and-interdicting fires throughout the night. I worked with him on coordinates after we stopped. We planned targets on key terrain features as we moved, to keep the guns pointed in the right direction. I told him to fire white-phosphorus marking rounds ahead or behind us, at least once each hour, to maintain registration points for the big guns.

This was the lowest point of my command. Sixteen men had been wounded in one attack, and the prospects of continued attacks were strong. Slow and inadequate support was an ill omen. I didn’t have much confidence in the effectiveness of our killer teams, but I didn’t have a better idea and we needed something positive to hold on to. I certainly did not want anyone else to sense my doubts and fears.

Dearest Darling Wife,

I’m terribly sorry about not being able to write for so long. Believe me, it hasn’t been because I haven’t wanted to. The events of the past two weeks have been almost overwhelming.