CUE: The Party's Over, WILLIE NELSON
The company was moving, once again, through an area not well suited for APCs. The woods were thick all about us, and our ability to maneuver was severely restricted. We had been sent on a search for enemy troops who were reported hiding just beyond the veil of forest. The higher-ups had detected radio signals coming from that area and had dispatched C Company to sniff it out.
Everyone was nervous about moving through the wooded area. Captain Meilstrup had thrown out flankers into the thickets to alert us to possible trouble in the making. This paid off in the long run. Word came to us from these hidden scouts that we were being followed. An ambush group was set up from our lead platoon, and they lay in wait as the company passed by. Sure enough, after the last tracks had passed the hidden ambush troops, a group of four NVA came along pushing bicycles in the ruts left by our tracked vehicles. A short skirmish ensued that killed all four of the enemy. This was unfortunate. We had hoped that at least one of them could have been taken alive. Such a captive might have provided us with valuable intelligence about what we were walking into. As it turned out, it might have made a difference to me personally.
While we stopped to report on the ambush results, a stranger walked up to the command track. His was a face I had never seen before. His fatigues were pretty clean, and he had camera equipment hung all over his body. He introduced himself as an army photographer, and as it turned out, he had been hitchhiking on one of the platoon tracks for a day or so. He had evidently been recording the invasion on film, by means of portraits taken of combat troops in the field. He talked with Meilstrup for a moment or so and was given permission to ride with us. He climbed onboard and set about taking all sorts of shots of Carnes, Meilstrup, 1st Sergeant Strain, and even some of me. I was kind of flattered that he was giving me so much attention, until I realized it wasn't me he was so fascinated with. I was still wearing the battered helmet Joe Raber had on the night an enemy round put a hole in it. The photographer took the helmet and began to hang it on first this thing and then that, trying to get the perfect framing for a wartime photograph with the tracks in the background. He was completely absorbed in getting just the right picture. I don't think he had any real appreciation of what a truly dangerous situation he had walked into. I don't think he ever did.
The knowledge that we were being tracked by the enemy changed the tactics somewhat. Meilstrup looked at the maps of the area and decided to get clear of the trees as fast as possible so we could operate to our best advantage if push came to shove. We began to move cautiously toward that aim when a huge explosion shook the ground ahead of us.
One of the APCs traveling with us was a “flame track.” On it was mounted a huge flame thrower that could spit fire for hundreds of yards. It was the flame track that had blown up, several tracks ahead of us. The entire company went into combat mode. We thought, at first, that a rocket had taken out the flame track, and we spun to face either side of the trail and bring our guns to bear. I could hear the medics yelling as they assessed the human damage, and then I heard silence. For what seemed like a painfully long time, the entire company waited, with fingers on triggers, for the rest of the attack. Nothing happened. Meilstrup ordered men to penetrate the wood line on either side of the trail. They found no sign of an enemy. They did find the cable and detonator of a mine.
Once we realized that the flame track had been destroyed by a mine, rather than an RPG, it was understood what we needed to do. We blew up what was left of the flame track, loaded the wounded onto the medic's track, and started once again for the area outside of the trees. As we moved along, watching the wood line for enemy activity, I remember looking over the side of the track at the scorched hole where the flame track had been destroyed by the enemy mine. It was the last conscious memory I would have for more than twenty-four hours.
From this point on, the narrative of what happened the rest of that day will not be from my own recollections but rather from the recountings of a number of others who were present and involved. My memories of what happened, so long ago, have never returned.
The command track was completely disabled in one large explosion. Inspection after the fact discovered that the APC had been the victim of a Russian-made antitank mine that had been command detonated. That simply means someone saw us coming and had pulled the trigger. We were actually very lucky. The track was a complete combat loss, but there was only one fatality. It was the photographer who had so innocently hitched a ride with us to get close pictures of the war. The rest of the crew members, however, were pretty banged up. I was in that banged up category but evidently was not aware of it.
One of the other APCs hooked onto the immobilized hulk of the command track with chains and began to drag it from the wooded area. The rest of us walked out of the forest. The guys from the 2nd Platoon came over and picked me up. They have since told me that I was stiff and unable to crawl up onto the track but didn't complain of anything more than that. This surprised them a bit, since they had seen both me and Carnes fly high into the air from the force of the blast.
When the company cleared the woods, it went into a defensive circle. The command track had been dragged to the center of the circle but was pretty much useless. Even the radios were not working. I must have shown up there, for according to 1st Sergeant Strain, I was sent over to the medic's track to call in resupply and dustoff helicopters for the wounded. In the middle of transmitting the information to battalion, I evidently put the microphone down and climbed outside the track to relieve myself. When the disgruntled first sergeant stormed over to find out what the hell I was doing, he discovered that the stream of liquid coming from my body was bright red with blood. When he asked me if I was all right, I must have given him an empty-eyed stare and told him I was fine. He took me to the medics, and they began to peel my clothes back, finding that I was pretty banged up after all.
I was out of the game of transmitting radio calls, or anything else. I was making almost no sense at all, so they sat me down on the ramp of the medic's track and put a tag on me that described my injuries. When the dustoff choppers finally got there, I was loaded on. I have only one memory from that afternoon—at least I think it is a memory. It may only be a dream or a trick of my subconscious. I can remember the feel of the helicopter as its prop bit into the heavy air and began to lift us from the ground. I can hear the blades even now, as the flat slapping sound raised us higher and higher and then swung us over in a graceful arc above the trees. I seem to remember looking down on the defensive circle of the tracks and the strained faces of those I had served with as they looked up at the medevac bird. Then the chopper leveled off and I could see them no more. I cannot be sure it is a memory, but if it is, it was my last look at C Company, 1st of the 5th, as a combat unit in the field. What had happened to me would change my course as a soldier. What happened to them, the next morning, would change C Company.