CUE: Born to Be Wild, STEPPENWOLF
The heavy rumble of the diesel engine vibrated through my whole body. The blacktop ribbon of Highway Six Alpha stretched out before us, filled with military vehicles and the occasional civilian scooter. It seemed that the entire population of Vietnam rode some form of motor scooter or other. They even had small pickup trucks that were actually three-wheeled motor scooters with large beds mounted on the back. These small vehicles putted proudly along the highway and then took to the ditch when confronted by huge, olive-drab military monsters, such as the fabled “deuce-and-a-half” truck, so called for its two-and-a-half-ton capacity. When combat vehicles took to the roads in numbers, everything gave way to them. Such was the case this morning as the entirety of C Company, 1st of the 5th, ran along the blacktop on its way to the Ho Bo Woods.
The company comprised 164 men and 21 armored personnel carriers (APCs), including a medic's APC, a command APC, and a mortar platoon APC, and sometimes an APC repair vehicle. A full mechanized company like ours was pretty impressive in firepower. It boasted twenty-one .50-caliber machine guns, twenty or more M-60 machine guns, mortars, grenade launchers, M-16 rifles, hand grenades, knives, axes, shovels, and an unknown number of personal weapons, such as snub-nosed pistols and Indian tomahawks. The mechanized infantry was the last remaining link with the old horse cavalry. As the army was changing its emphasis to Airmobile assault teams, the thoughts on cavalry tactics revolved more and more around helicopters and not ground-mounted troops, who rode APCs, tanks, or armored cars. This idea would be reversed as the United States faced ground warfare in the deserts of Iraq in the next century. In Vietnam, the APC-mounted soldier was a less-than-romantic figure when compared to the Air Cavalry of the day. The Airmobile boys were even allowed the luxury of jaunty cavalry hats right out of a John Ford movie.
The M113 armored personnel carrier was the backbone of the mechanized unit. The troops called it a “track” because it was a tracked vehicle, not unlike a tank. But tanks are heavily armored and support huge cannons for firepower. The armored personnel carrier is only “armored” on the back ramp. The rest is just a thick aluminum box that might deflect small-arms fire. It is armed with a Browning .50-caliber machine gun, which is nothing to sneeze at but is certainly no cannon.
During the Vietnam War, troops did not ride inside the tracks because of the danger of hitting land mines, which could breach the floor and kill or injure the troops inside. Instead, the soldiers rode on top of the track, on seats that were fashioned from hand-grenade crates or mortar-ammo boxes. The seats were actually a bit of a personal statement. Each man had his particular seat on the track, and he personalized it as he saw fit. I have seen everything from ammo crates to sawed-off desk chairs and even a helicopter seat. A man's place on the track was very important and had to be earned. If a man was wounded or killed, it was not unusual for his seat to go unfilled for a number of days out of respect, but then necessity and replacements came into play, and a new guy had to earn his spot on the top of the track. Every society has its rituals, I suppose.
The track was home, protection, and baggage cart to the mechanized soldier. Everything needed for battle and for existence was packed into or hung all over the track. To see a fully loaded mechanized company moving down the road must have been much like watching a Gypsy caravan in full flight. Guns, ammo, fence stakes, chain-link fencing, rolls of barbed wire, tarps, shovels, picks, sledgehammers, and water cans were visible all over the outside of the vehicle. The inside was stuffed with ammunition, explosives, C rations, and personal gear for the eight or so men who were riding on top. As I said, this was home to the mechanized soldier. We had no base camp barracks, nor did we get to go into the base camps much, except to get the tracks repaired. They shipped everything to us via helicopter, so we stayed out. We stayed out in places like the Ho Bo Woods or the Michelin rubber plantation. Our address was only a radio frequency, for we were constantly on the move.
A day in the Mech was long and often exhausting. That being said, it was still better than being in a straight leg unit. We were proud of the tracks and the fact that we could react to an enemy contact in only a few minutes, with tremendous power. Pride aside, it was still a long day.
The company was often called to reconnoiter certain areas that were suspected enemy strongholds. This meant long days, probing into forests or along river trails, looking for bunkers or signs of enemy movement. Generally such days turned up little and only burned another day off your tour of duty. Sometimes we turned up the enemy and were engaged in running gunfights until we either killed them or they slipped away. About four o'clock each afternoon, we circled the tracks up like a wagon train and began to build a mini-base camp of our own. We faced the tracks and their machine guns outward and stretched an eight-foot-high chain-link fence around the front of each track. This was done so that rocket-propelled grenades fired in our direction would explode on the wire and not on the track. We stretched two rows of concertina barbed wire around the entire encampment and then began digging fighting positions on either side of each track, filling sandbags to pile up around them. When all was ready, we had some time to rest and write letters and take care of personal necessities. During this down time, the platoon sergeant would come to us and pick the men who would go on ambush patrol that night. If you were picked, you got your gear ready and tried to sleep a little before it was time to go out. The longer you were in Vietnam, the easier it was to sleep on command.
At about 6:00 p.m., the ambush patrols would leave and make their way by a circuitous route to a holding site, where they would hide until about thirty minutes after full dark. When the sky was dark and the night was quiet, the ambush patrol would move silently into the ambush site. The men would deploy in a straight line or large “L” shape, lying on the ground or against the side of a rice dike, where they could cover the trail with rifle or machine-gun fire if the moment called for it. Each man carried a blanket, which he laid out on the ground. He would place himself and his equipment on the blanket so as not to make any more noise than was necessary. Each of us carried two Claymore mines, which were designed to explode and spread steel ball bearings in the direction of the enemy when set off. We would crawl out in the darkness and set up the mines, then string a detonation wire back to our position and hook up the klackers, which were the detonator handles. They looked very much like large green clothespins, but once squeezed, they caused death to fly into the night.
Once all was set up, everybody on the ambush stayed awake until midnight or so. If there was no action by then, the men would pair off, with one asleep and one awake until morning. If the night did not provide death and destruction, the sun would herald the time to return to the company site. The Claymores were rolled back up, and the blankets, which were now wet with either dew or rain, were also rolled up, and we would make our way back to the tracks. Once back in, we would report our findings for the night and take a little time to eat something out of the green cans that had become the main source of food to us. If the order was given to saddle up and move out, we tore down everything we had put up the night before and packed it on the track. We emptied the sandbags, filled in the holes, and climbed into our seats atop the track. The day was about to start all over again. There would be one day after another like this, interrupted only by a difference in orders or the incidents in which the routine erupted into enemy contact. In those cases, the day was often punctuated with blood and the realization that this war was a long way from over.
The wind blew through my hair this particular morning. My helmet was hooked over the edge of the .50-caliber shield. I hesitated to wear its weight any more than I had to. From my seat, just to the right of the gunner's hatch, I always had a clear view of the road ahead. I gained that seat when Sergeant Murphy got the “million-dollar wound”—the one that sends a soldier home—the very day I had come to C Company. It was mine by default on that day, but it became mine by right as the weeks went by. My seat on track 20, called the Two Zero track, and my place as a viable member of the squad had been won, and I felt as if I belonged.
Charlie Dunn sat in the gunner's hatch, to my left. Sergeant Dunn was Sioux, from the Rosebud Reservation, and was considered by all to be blessed by the Great Spirit. When Dunn had been leading ambush patrols, it was considered good luck to go out with him. Now that he was getting close to going home, he was considered a short timer. Because of this, he was made the .50-caliber gunner and did not have to leave the track at night. Since Dunn had been the squad leader on the Two Zero track, nothing had happened to any of us. It was whispered among the company that Two Zero was a lucky track. It was a rumor we did not try to dispel.
The speed of the company along the blacktop slowed, and we all checked our weapons to make sure they were loaded and the safety was off. We were approaching Trang Bang, which was often called the Viet Cong capital of the central highlands. There were so many enemy families in the village of Trang Bang that they often fired at us as we drove through. We sometimes turned the .50-caliber machine guns to the side and fired into the houses in response to sniper fire, but it seemed to have no real effect. In later years, Trang Bang would be immortalized in a Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph of a little girl running naked down a highway after being burned in a napalm attack. On this day, we were running down the road and had no time for monkey business with the locals.
We reached the cutoff point, and the company turned off the blacktop onto a well-worn dirt road. The tracks all pulled up in line, and the lieutenants dismounted and walked over to the command track to confer with the company commander. I find that I have a great deal of sympathy for those who were sent into combat with gold bars on their collars. They were the men in charge and had to act that way, even though they could be “new guys” to the fight, just like any replacement. It was easy enough to tell whether a new lieutenant was going to be a decent platoon leader or not by the amount of respect he gave to the experienced platoon sergeants. These noncommissioned officers, or noncoms, were the men who had run the war at the squad and platoon levels and had gained their rank and their experience in combat. If a new lieutenant came into a platoon and paid no attention to the platoon sergeant, he was dismissed as a flake, and side bets were made on how long he would last before he got himself or someone else killed. Second platoon was lucky. We were fortunate enough to have had two really good platoon leaders while I was with them. Lieutenant Kent Clark was one.
His name was actually James Kent Clark. It wasn't long before we discovered that and made quite a few jokes, playing on the fact that his name, backward, was Clark Kent. The Superman innuendos ran rampant for a few weeks, but after we came to understand and rely on him, the Kryptonite comments disappeared. Lieutenant Clark had actually been a peacetime sergeant in Germany who went to OCS and ended up leading a combat platoon in the III Corps area of Vietnam. His wife was worried sick the whole time he was with us. As it turned out, her worry was not without foundation.
Clark walked back to the 2nd Platoon tracks and informed us that we were to “RIF” along the edge of the woods in search of a possible VC bunker complex. “RIF” stood for reconnaissance in force. I'm not sure how much force can be attributed to a single platoon with only four tracks, but those were our orders, and we started off. We had made similar ventures along this same area several times. This one would prove to be different.
We dismounted and spread out in a loose line near the edge of the woods. The tracks drove in a slow line about fifty yards behind us, with only the driver and the gunner onboard. The rest of us began probing slightly into the wood line, looking for telltale signs of digging or tunnels. Three hundred yards along our path of search, Oscar Solis held up a hand and we all dropped low, watching him for signals. He moved slightly forward and peered into the dense underbrush, then made a signal by cupping one hand and running the index finger of his other hand through it. It was the silent language meaning he had found the entrance to a tunnel. Oscar stayed in place and Lieutenant Clark moved to his side. They spoke in hushed tones for a moment, and the lieutenant motioned for Lester and me to come forward. At that moment, the quick snapping sound of bullets passing overhead let us know that someone was shooting at us. We hugged the ground and tried to get a fix on where the shots were coming from. It was obvious that the fire had not originated from the entrance to the tunnel.
The heavy thumping sounds of the .50-caliber machine guns on the tracks suddenly began tearing up the wood line about fifty yards from our position. The track gunners had discovered the enemy, just as they were about to open up on us, and were pouring fire on them, giving us time to run from the wood line and take shelter behind the tracks. We began to make a steady withdrawal, keeping the VC pinned down with our machine guns until we were out of their rifle range. At that distance, our heavy .50-caliber guns could still keep them pinned down. A call was made, and within minutes, the shriek of jet fighters could be heard overhead. The jets made a sighting run, marking their targets with smoke rockets, then they turned around and came in low, dropping the oblong silver objects we recognized as napalm bombs.
As the jets screamed overhead, the woods suddenly erupted into a ball of fire. It was a fire that would grow on itself and feed on its own intensity. The pure horror of napalm is that it is a jellied gasoline. It sticks to whatever it touches and burns until the jellied substance is consumed or the oxygen is shut off from the fire. When dropped over tunnels or bunkers, the fire sucks all the oxygen out of the air to feed the fire. When dropped directly on any living thing, it sticks to the skin and cannot be removed until put out. Just the thought of it brings fear to the hearts of the bravest warrior, and yet its powerful results in stopping an enemy make it the weapon of choice in many situations. We had seen it save us on more than one occasion, and as we watched the woods burn with that hellish orange and black fire, we knew what would come next.
Enemy fire from the wood line had ceased. We remained at a distance with our machine guns trained on the far edges of the fire but expected no resistance. All we could do was wait for the fire to burn itself out and then check to see what was left. While we were waiting, a radio message from the company commander told us that one of the jets that had come to our rescue had been downed. The pilot had ejected safely, and we needed to pick him up. This was something new.
None of us had ever heard of a jet crashing anywhere near us. We thought it must have been some kind of mechanical malfunction. It seemed impossible that a few VC with only rifles could shoot down a Phantom jet. Whatever had caused it, there was a pilot on the ground, and the Two Zero track was sent to get him.
We first saw the bright color of the parachute. It was splayed out and rippling in the wind. The pilot was standing a few yards away, waving in our direction. We drove over and hauled him up onto the track. His eyes were wide open in a sort of adrenaline-induced euphoria, and he could not stop talking. It seemed something did hit his plane and cause it to flame out. Whether it was a stray bullet or a piece of his own ordnance, we would never know. He was so hyped up by the experience that he could hardly sit still. We radioed back to the company that we had picked him up and that he seemed none the worse for wear. Orders came back from the captain that we were to hang onto him and bring him in with us after we had finished checking the bunker site. He could go back in on the resupply chopper before dark. The thought of staying on the ground with us for a few hours seemed to excite the downed pilot even more.
When we got back to the rest of the platoon, the napalm fire was out. The first sergeant shook hands with the young pilot and then set up the group to go into the burn area to check for bodies. As we dismounted and checked our weapons in preparation, the pilot jumped down from the track and asked if he could go with us. The first sergeant shrugged and told us to get him a weapon and a helmet. In a few minutes we were making our way through the black ash, toward the place from where the enemy rifle fire had come. What would happen had become a matter of routine for us in the aftermath of napalm attacks. The area would be swept, looking for traces of the enemy who might have lived through the attack. Bodies that had burned were to be checked to make sure they were dead. If any survived and were still able to fight, they were to be taken or killed, whichever was their choice. The dead were never much more than crispy critters, and those who survived the fire were often so burned that they were hard to look upon. As we made our way through the burn site, the pilot fell quiet and eventually refused to speak at all. By the time we returned to the tracks, his face was ashen and he seemed almost incapable of communication. We gave him some water and helped him up onto the track, where he just sat and stared off into space.
That afternoon, when the resupply chopper came, the pilot was loaded onboard with two of our guys who were going home that day. They were excited and talking a mile a minute about home and what they were going to do, but as far as I could tell, the pilot never exchanged a word with them. As the helicopter lifted up and hovered there for a moment, I could see his face as he looked down on us. It was not the face of the daring young man who had fallen out of the sky. It was the face of a man who had seen, for the first time, what his contribution to the war actually caused on the ground. He had seen it, and he would never be the same again. As the helicopter blades bit into the air and turned toward the south, I realized for the first time the changes that had slowly overtaken me. It was not until that moment that I came to understand how desensitized I had become.