“Speaker John McCormack denounced Congressional critics of the Administration’s war policy, charging that they were giving comfort to North Vietnam. Rolling the newspaper in his hand and pounding it on a table, the speaker declared: “If I was one of those, my conscience would disturb me the rest of my life.”

—New York Times, October 12. 1967

9

Friendly Fire

October 10-16, 1967

Friends should never kill each other, but sometimes the tide of war rolls up unintended consequences. That’s war.

Following the battle at the Double Y our team made the usual pilgrimage to the Seminary, but this time hot showers could not wash away the stains. The excitement of a significant battle paled next to my distress. I considered the operation inadequately planned and badly executed. Above all, I was saddened by our own losses and troubled by the loss of Kiem, and distraught over dropping him headfirst in the mud. I focused my attention on cleaning my equipment, reading Bobby’s worn-out westerns, and completing the Infantry School’s correspondence courses. Dwelling on doubts about the war was depressing; trivial pursuits were mentally healthier. That defensive technique had been drilled into me as a boy.

On the morning of October 11, we boarded the old deuce-and-a-half trucks for a short ride to the My Tho wharf. The Vietnamese Navy waited to transport us on a mission in the River Assault Group (RAG). The ancient fleet consisted of discarded U.S. Army landing craft; it was the indigenous version of the U.S. Mobile Riverine Force, or MRF. We were bound for Ben Tre in Kien Hoa Province, birthplace of the National Liberation Front and a hotbed of Viet Cong activity and propaganda.

The boats thumped the docks upon their arrival at Ben Tre, and jeeps picked up our advisory team for a brief meeting with the U.S. advisors of the ARVN 10th Infantry Regiment. I learned that the U.S. 9th Infantry Division was conducting a search-and-destroy operation and had requested that the ARVN 7th Division provide a blocking force. The 10th Regiment was already committed to another mission, so we were substituted. We marched from Ben Tre to form an anvil for the U.S. Army’s hammer, a classic military operation: the U.S. forces were to maneuver against the Viet Cong and crush them against us.

We moved up the road several kilometers. I noticed that the peasants in Kien Hoa Province were far less friendly than those in Dinh Toung. Trenches had been dug to cut the paved road leading from town. Soldiers in our battalion apparently shared my assessment; their concerns were etched on their faces. I was sure they didn’t like being used as an anvil any more than I did. If the enemy didn’t smash into us, our friends might.

Our infantry left the main road and entered a forested area in a spread-out formation. The forest was a single canopy of hardwood trees about twelve to fifteen feet high. The ground was level and clear for easy movement and visibility. As we approached our designated blocking position, I was reassured by the distinct sounds of a U.S. Army helicopter passing overhead. When it circled around to return, I pressed the radio handset to my ear to hear if anyone was trying to contact us. I heard nothing, so I checked my radio by calling Bobby Hurst.

“Red Oak Owner Six, this is Red Oak Owner Five. Commo check. Over.”

“Five, this is Six. I hear you loud and clear.”

Lieutenant Vanh, the 2d Company commander, approached and asked through an interpreter if I could contact the helicopter. “No,” I replied, “but I’ll keep trying. Do you have a message?”

As we were talking the helicopter flew over again—low and fast. I could make out the faces of the crew fifty feet above me—especially the intense face of the door gunner, who was pointing his door-mounted M60 machine gun directly at us. My blood turned to ice. I jumped at the staccato burst from the muzzle as the machine gun fired into our ranks. Smoke flowed from the breach as bullets ripped through the thin canopy of hardwood trees. Hot 7.62mm shell cartridges dropped on us, as did limbs and leaves.

I yelled into the radio, “Cease fire! Cease firing! We’re friendlies! Cease fire, you assholes! You’re shooting us. Make him cease fire!”

No response.

The silence was horrible.

I heard the helicopter turn for a third pass then it came at us again with guns blazing. The radio was useless since we were not on the same frequency. I dropped it and pulled the maroon scarf from my neck, waving it wildly while yelling into the air. I ran to get under the helicopter so the door gunner could see me better.

“Stop firing, goddamn it! Cease firing! Cease fire!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

A soldier in front of me dropped to the ground and I heard yelling all around. I threw a red smoke grenade and kept my eyes on the sky for the bastard to return. I prepared to return fire at the U.S. helicopter with my puny carbine. It did not return, but the damage was already done.

I ran to a small cluster of men gathering about the fallen Vietnamese soldier. I recognized him as Lieutenant Vanh’s radio operator—the man I usually followed when we were moving. He had been hit twice in the chest. The sucking chest wound produced gurgling noises from his lungs and heavy bleeding from his chest, no doubt from a severed artery near his heart.

The medic was covered with blood but he had stopped working. He indicated with a shrug that there was nothing else he could do. Vanh requested a medical evacuation and I ordered Sergeant Rich to request one even though I knew it was already too late. The wounded soldier’s face was pale white, and his eyes were clouding over as I tried to penetrate them with mine. I wanted to read his thoughts. I took his wrist to check his pulse but could not detect one. He looked up, lips moving, trying to speak, his eyes filled with fear. His strength was fading fast; the poor man knew his life would end in a few moments. I held his hand as life slipped away. I was horrified by it all and furious at the helicopter crew for firing into us.

Instant hostility radiated among my former ARVN friends, including Corporal Thanh, the battalion communications chief. His clenched jaw and bleary eyes told me that he was angry enough to kill. The radio operator had been one of his communicators, part of his team. My hard work in helping Thanh gather sandbags and goodies for kids was erased by one senseless act of “friendly fire.”

Captain Xuan and Major Bouie rushed in and took charge of the situation. Bouie ordered soldiers to carry the dead and wounded back to the road for transport to Ben Tre. The column moved again, aimlessly.

I was angry as hell and frustrated that I couldn’t stop the slaughter even by putting my own life at risk. I wanted to reverse the entire day and start it over. I’ll never forget the faces of the M60 door gunner or the eyes of the terrified, dying radio operator. They are other phantoms that follow me still waiting for an opportunity to tell me something. What do they want to say? Why do they return with the same unspoken question: “Why?"

When I thought I had accepted the death of Lieutenant Kiem, the face of the radio operator staring into my eyes replaced it. This is the human cost of war.

An official investigation of the incident determined that the helicopter pilot had radioed the 10th Regiment CP and asked if any of their units was operating in the area. The reply had been negative: after all, we were not one of the 10th’s units. The stupidity of it all appalled me. The U.S. Army had requested our participation; the local advisors had briefed us; yet no one knew we were there? I was consumed by an enigma too difficult to fathom. I wondered what Peggy had seen on the flight to Vietnam. What had she seen that scared her away? Had she seen the future? I was not sure I was ready for the future, either. More lay in waiting.

The rest of the operation was a blur, my thoughts blunted by the experiences. The U.S. 9th Division killed some VC, primarily from air operations, but not against our fragile anvil. We encountered a few snipers, hostile villagers, and unforgiving terrain.

The weather punished us further; water was growing scarce but the bounty of Kien Hoa sugar cane, bananas, and cucumbers moistened our parched lips as we walked in the merciless sun. Eventually, we made our way back to the docks to cross the Mekong for home, but not for long.