11

WHEN DEATH RAINED DOWN

All of the following takes place on April 1, 1970, between 0319 and 0500.

Records have yet to surface as to who, specifically, ordered the 40 tons of extra 8-inch ammunition placed aboard FSB Illingworth on the afternoon of March 31. The (then) newly revised 2nd Field Force (Artillery) strategy of moving the guns forward, to take them out of hardened positions far behind the front lines and get them up with the troops, certainly had something to do with it. A June 1970 debriefing report written (or at least signed) by Brig. Gen. F. J. Roberts, commanding general of the 2nd Field Force, Vietnam (Artillery) from November 21, 1969, to May 9, 1970, addresses this. In the report, Brigadier General Roberts speaks to the perceived need to get his artillerists out from behind the lines and into more forward positions, up with the frontline troops. He sees this as a way to better train his men and as a tactic to improve the accuracy and effectiveness of his artillery.

The man who would execute this new strategy within the 1st Cavalry would be the division’s chief of artillery, the universally feared Col. Morris Brady.1 Did someone on his staff issue the orders to stockpile the 8-inch ammo at FSB Illingworth? Was all that ammo intended solely for Illingworth, or was it to be distributed to other forward bases? Did some supply clerk in the rear misinterpret or confuse a supply order for the ammo? It is impossible to determine. It is telling, however, that once the ammunition started to arrive, Colonel Conrad could not succeed in getting his boss, Colonel Ochs, to divert it, or at least some of it. Why would Colonel Ochs not listen to the sound advice of his best battalion commander?

0319, FSB Illingworth

The southwest corner of the fire base was obliterated. There was no more berm in that quadrant, not that it was much to begin with. The earth shook beneath the entire base, and the plume of fire and smoke could be seen several miles away. The concussion from the blast spread outward in a wide circle. What the detonation did not hurl into the air it slammed into the earth. There was so much dirt and dust in the air that paraflares, dropped from above, could not be seen from the ground. Raw earth swirled everywhere, and it continued to fall like dirty rain for several minutes. The air was so thick that men could barely breathe, and the atmosphere was so occluded that weapons ceased to function. Filth clogged every rifle and machine gun as if buckets of grime had been poured in every breech. Pieces of equipment, shredded sandbags, chunks of wood, shards of metal, unexploded ammunition, and pieces of bodies came tumbling down all over the base in an unholy storm of death and destruction.

Of those who died, some were ripped to shreds, including several Americans and an unknown number of NVA. Others who perished were literally pounded into the earth, punched deeply into the soil, every bone shattered, every orifice packed solid with dirt. Of those who survived, many were tossed into the air, some landing well, others not. Most men near the explosion had one or both eardrums blown out. Everyone still left alive was choking, fighting for breath, stunned, and stumbling in the dark.

After the last echoes of the blast reverberated away, the entire base and the surrounding jungle fell deeply, eerily quiet for almost ten minutes.

In a curiously ironic way, the detonation was the critical tipping point of the battle, and it tipped the scales in favor of the Americans. The huge blast stopped all combat activity cold. Certainly, the shock of the explosion itself was enough to get everyone’s attention and freeze them in place. The choking dust and dirt turned the simple, unconscious act of breathing into a major effort, forcing friend and foe alike to focus on survival instead of trying to kill each other. Weapons jammed all over the field of action. Guns simply would not function, AK-47s and M-16s alike. The momentum of the NVA attack was stalled. The ten to fifteen minutes of shock and awe after the explosion broke the back of the NVA attack. After this point in time, the fight devolved into clashes between isolated pockets of men and scattered attempts to reignite the action. The main thrust of the assault was over, however, and the bulk of the NVA began to withdraw. Stupid mistake or dumb luck, grievous tragedy or unintended consequence, the presence of that pile of 8-inch ammunition was a determining factor in the outcome of the fight.

0320, the TOC

Moments before the blast, Mike Conrad had finished a dash around the perimeter of the base, inspecting his lines. He had just ducked back into the TOC, intending to get on the radios and ask for more help, when the ammunition blew. The inside of the TOC turned into a giant blender, with radios and equipment flung in every direction. The single, puny incandescent bulb lighting the interior was instantly extinguished, plunging everything and everyone into total darkness. The space filled with choking clouds of dirt so thick it coated the insides of mouths and made breathing feel like being waterboarded. What antennas had remained above the TOC were turned into useless shreds of wire and twisted aluminum. Conrad figured the TOC had taken a direct hit, and he was amazed he was still alive. He and the radiomen groped for the exit. The atmosphere outside wasn’t much better, but at least they could get small lungfuls of filthy oxygen.

0321, Charlie Company’s lines, along the berm

The Charlie Company command bunker—a hollow dug out of the ground and hastily covered with dirt-filled ammunition boxes, a few sandbags, and some spare pieces of PSP—had collapsed on top of Sergeant Beauchamp, Captain Hobson, and their radiomen. It had, nonetheless, probably saved their lives. Beauchamp and the radiomen frantically pushed the debris aside, clawing to escape their tomb. Captain Hobson was pinned in the wreckage. A heavy, dirt-filled ammo box had fallen across his chest. He was soon freed by his men, none the worse for wear except a few more scratches and bruises.

Beauchamp had his bell rung—badly—and one of his eardrums was definitely blown. He wasn’t sure yet about the other. As he stumbled out into the darkness, a group of redlegs tumbled down into the hole and piled on top of Beauchamp.

“What the fuck!” Beauchamp shouted, his good ear ringing loudly

One of the frightened artillerymen stared wide-eyed at the sergeant and said, “Gun’s gone, Sarge! Fucker blew up!”

Beauchamp recognized the man as one of the soldiers manning a 105 mm howitzer.

“Well, then, you bastards are infantry now.”

Beauchamp began pushing and shoving the men into position along the shattered berm, grabbing M-16s and thrusting them into their hands as he went.

Someone shouted, “Look, Sarge! Somebody’s out there!”

Through the swirling dust, Beauchamp could see a prone form, outside the berm, trying to crawl toward safety. The man must have been blown over the wall and wounded. Beauchamp ordered the two men closest to the soldier to scramble over the barrier and pull the guy back in. Beauchamp himself hopped over the berm to help—then suddenly froze. Twisting around, he grabbed an M-16 from the nearest grunt, aimed it at the figure on the ground, and fired a burst into his back. The man stopped moving.

“Sarge! What the…!”

“Not one of ours. Fuckin’ gook,” and he was right.

Beauchamp spun around and jumped back over the berm, secretly amazed the enemy soldier had come so close to penetrating his lines.

0322, Alpha Troop, 11th ACR Detachment, northwest corner

Sgt. J. C. Hughes figured the crater left by the thunderous detonation had to be 100 feet across. It was certainly impressive. He could dimly see figures running through the clouds of dirt and dust, and he hoped they were grunts and not the enemy.

When the blast erupted, Hughes and his men were hunkered down under their armored vehicles. No one wanted to repeat the unfortunate and fatal error committed by Hodge and Smith when they got trapped and blown away in their canvas-topped track.

Hughes was frustrated. There was little he could do to help. His vehicles were useless as fighting machines, and even at that they were low on fuel. What little ammunition the tanks had couldn’t be fired without power from the busted engines. The best he could do, and he was prepared to do it, was place his men somewhere along the berm with the infantry—if he could find them some serviceable weapons.

Hughes and his men cautiously crawled out from underneath their mechanized shelters. Out of the shadows, Hughes saw two figures dart by. He raised his .45 but was uncertain of what he was seeing. Were they grunts running for cover or NVA sappers headed for the center of the base? To this day, Hughes feels fairly certain that at least a handful of the enemy penetrated their lines. Nervously, the cavalrymen waited for the hammer to finally fall on their positions or for dawn to break, whichever came first.

0323, Capt. Joe Hogg, Blue Max, above Illingworth

When the 8-inch ammunition exploded, Capt. Joe Hogg was still circling above the base, about a half mile away, preparing for one more firing run. It would probably be his final pass. He was down to the last of his rockets, and his bullets were about gone as well.

“Just as I was lining up my run, that pile of ammo blew,” Hogg stated later. “The aircraft shook violently, and I felt as if the air had been sucked right out of my lungs. There was a huge ball of fire. As I glanced at it over my shoulder my first thought was, Oh my God, somebody dropped a nuke. It looked just like an atomic bomb. My very next thought was I hope I’m upwind. I don’t want to get caught in the radioactive fallout.”

As the fireball ebbed Hogg noted two very strange phenomena. It was weirdly quiet. He couldn’t even hear the usual whop-whop of the rotor blades a few inches above his head. Then it started to snow; at least, at first it looked like snow. The dust was so thick that it was obscuring pretty much everything, but flares were still trying to punch some light into the gloom—and it was snowing. As Hogg urged his craft in a little closer he realized that what he was looking at wasn’t snow after all. The blast had taken out the field kitchen. It was “snowing” glittery utensils and bits of pots and pans, thousands of pieces of shiny metal.

0325, Echo Recon, along the former berm

Lieutenant Peters had not joined the U.S. Army to fly in combat—but he did that night, through the air, along with a number of his men. He guessed he was tossed 30 to 40 feet, landing hard. He wasn’t sure if he had broken any bones, but he knew he was in rough shape. He did sustain a number of shrapnel punctures and more aches and bruises than he could count.

Before the explosion disrupted everything, Peters had been all too aware that they were in a bad spot. The redlegs of 2/32 had been yelling at him and his men to move, to get away, abandon their position because their ammo pit was on fire. Looking over his shoulder, Peters could see that plainly enough, but he could not order his men to fall back. The NVA were still there, right in front of them, and still coming in waves. If he and his men pulled back, the entire line would collapse, and whether the ammunition erupted or not, it would all be over.

Waller, he knew was dead; so was Brent Street. Cpl. Nathan Mann was missing, and someone said he had been killed. Lemon, after a heroic, superhuman effort, was somewhere back at the aid station. Lemon’s day was done. Sergeant Taylor was wounded but still at his post. The medics had Vaca stabilized, but he was in very bad shape and might not make it. Sergeant Richards was nearby, as was PFC Ken Vall de Juli.

Peters’s tough platoon of pros had been wrecked, and the battle still wasn’t over. Groggily, painfully, Peters shouted at his men to clear their weapons and get back on the line—wherever the line was.

0326, A Battery, 2nd Battalion, 32nd Field Artillery, forward positions

Ralph Jones was shaking—not from fear, but from the dehydration and the pounding his body had taken. He couldn’t believe he was still alive—not after all that. His CO, Major Magness, was missing. He hadn’t seen him since the beginning of the attacks. Someone had said they thought he was dead. Lassen and Schell, two of Jones’s buddies, certainly were. Torn apart—blown to bits. Gone.

Trying to wipe the dirt from his eyes, Jones crawled up and out of the hole he had been thrown down and into. He was sure if one of the big ammo carriers hadn’t been between him and the blast he would have become, like his dead battery mates, literal cannon fodder. One of the 10-ton ammo trucks had been blown on its side; the other was riddled with shrapnel holes. One of the big 8-inch howitzers looked to be mangled, maybe beyond repair. The rest of the men in A Battery who were still alive were nursing a variety of cuts, bruises, and broken bones. The few remaining men who could be remotely called effectives were being pushed and shoved by the sergeants onto what remained of the perimeter. The area used to be part of the berm but had become only a ragged mess of scattered bits of detritus, blowing bits of paper, and piles of sand. If the NVA had one more push within their capabilities, Jones believed, it would be the end.

0327, Charlie Company’s lines

After the gigantic explosion, Sergeant Beauchamp immediately realized that if the NVA had not quit the fight, they had a wide open space, off to his right, to pour through. He got to work plugging the holes with survivors, some of them wounded but still able to function.

Glancing to his left, Beauchamp was desperate to see what was going on with Echo Recon. If those guys collapsed, he thought with dread, we’re doomed.

It didn’t seem like there were many of them left, but they were holding. Beauchamp spotted Lieutenant Peters. He was bloodied, but Beauchamp couldn’t tell if the blood was Peters’s own or the blood of others. Peters’s shocking red hair was matted and dust colored, but his eyes were still gleaming bright. At that moment, Peters reminded Beauchamp of a young Errol Flynn, the swashbuckling actor, all grinning, wide-eyed motion. Beauchamp had only known Peters for a couple of days, but the veteran first sergeant could spot a “natural,” and Peters was all of that. His men idolized him—and emulated him. If Peters was a little irreverent with army protocol, so, too, were his men. If Peters was a little out of uniform any particular day, his men were out of uniform in the same fashion. All that mattered at that point, however, was that Peters fought like a demon; so his men, even though they went down one by one, fought like madmen, too.

Beauchamp could only hope that his grunts, especially the newbies, would hold up half as well. Refocusing on his own lines, he spotted two of the new men. One had taken shrapnel in the eyes and was blinded. Beauchamp didn’t know if it was temporary or permanent. The other had been wounded in both hands and couldn’t hold a weapon. The soldier with eyes shouted directions and firing orders for the man who had hands. Working as a team they continued to point and shoot.

Hell of a way to start your war, men, Beauchamp marveled to himself.

0328, near the 8-inch howitzers

When the ammo blew, Sergeant Weltha, just like many other men, found himself sailing through the air, then landing with a thump. His ears were ringing, his whole body was quivering, and he could still feel the ground shaking. His first thought was that somehow the NVA had unleashed one of their big cannons on Illingworth, probably from the safety of a Cambodian sanctuary a few miles away.

He looked up. “The sky [was] lit with white smoke and cluttered with thousands of flying objects; a jeep, ammo boxes, junk, dirt, clothing … and people, all floating up, apart, and away. Everything was dancing in the sky, dismembering in slow motion right before my eyes—bodies into limbs, into parts and beyond. I froze, unable to take my eyes away from this shockingly grotesque aerial ballet.”

Although it seemed like hours, Weltha’s spell was broken quickly as all the material spiraling above his head started to succumb to the laws of gravity. He dove beneath a deuce-and-a-half parked nearby. A very loud CLANG announced an object landing on the hood of the truck. There was a softer thud in the dirt a few feet away from Weltha’s face: It was a severed left hand, palm up. Horrifyingly, the fingers of the dead hand curled into a ball, revealing that the ring finger held a wedding band. Weltha had to turn away. As he did so, he found himself nose to nose with—a North Vietnamese!

Yelling, “Holy shit!” Weltha rolled out from underneath the truck, although objects of all types continued to rain down from the sky.

Weltha shouted at the man, “Lai dei!” Come out! “Lai dei right fucking now!”

The man, shaking both hands in a gesture of “don’t shoot,” did so, yelling back, “Chieu hoi! Chieu hoi!” I surrender!

Weltha was strung out on adrenaline and ready to shoot the gook anyway, but something gave him pause, and then he recognized the man. It was one of the battalion Kit Carson Scouts and not an enemy soldier. The man stood up, still holding his arms aloft. That was when Weltha realized that the man was seriously wounded. There was a large piece of shrapnel sticking out of the scout’s right foot, still sizzling hot.

Out of the corner of his eye Weltha also noticed what had landed so loudly on the hood of the truck. It was a 200-pound projectile used by the 8-inch guns. It could still be live, for all Weltha knew. Weltha slung his rifle over a shoulder and grabbed the scout around the waist and frog-walked him to the medical bunker as fast as he could.

“The medic’s bunker,” Weltha wrote years later, “was a surreal salvation army of carnage. The types of wounds were staggering. One medic’s face was covered with blood from his own scalp wound as he frantically bandaged a deep puncture wound pouring forth dark blood, the victim’s eyes glazed over. Many were crying, moaning, convulsing or lying still, staring at infinity. One guy sat against the bunker holding his own arm, his bandaged stump still twitching. The aroma of fresh lethal injuries remains with you forever. I put down the Kit Carson, and he hopped over and sat on some sandbags. I gave him a thumbs-up and he did the same and then I noticed the huge pile of bodies directly behind him. ‘Don’t even think about that now,’ I told myself. Only the living can identify the dead.”

Weltha noticed Father Boyle among the men. He, too, was frantically working the medical bunker. He had procured a waterproof cardboard container and filled it. He dipped his fingers in the water and anointed each wounded forehead as he went from man to man. Weltha noticed the .45 caliber pistol Boyle had sticking out of a hip pocket, thinking it both strange and appropriate.

Boyle glanced up, saw Weltha, recognized him, smiled, and said, “Bless you, too, my son.”

“Thanks, Father,” Weltha replied, “but sure is hell tonight, eh?”

“God is with us,” the priest reassured him.

“Yeah? Where?”

0330, 272nd NVA Regiment, forward lines facing FSB Illingworth

Colonel Lai was as shocked as anyone aboard FSB Illingworth when the tremendous explosion went off. He was half a klick away but still knocked to the ground by its power. Surprise turned to delight as he realized that probably one of his men had finally gotten through and had been responsible for the blast.

The gunships continued to circle the base, and their dreadful weapons constantly raked the edges of his jungle positions, but they were a minor annoyance to him. He was far more interested in what was happening after the explosion. Taking a huge risk, he ran to the very forward portion of the tree line just opposite the spot where the explosion had occurred. The trees there had been stripped to skeletons, but it was still dark, and he was desperate to see what was happening. If the destruction had been bad enough, maybe his men could finally take the base. He wished he had more troops, but there were none. He had no reserves. He had finally committed all his men, winner take all or die trying.

He peered through his field glasses. A pall of dust and smoke covered everything. He could see no movement. He stood rooted to the spot. Several minutes passed. Finally, men were stirring. His?

It took some time, but Lai finally began to see that the shapes were moving—backward. Toward him. His troops, what was left of them, were streaming back toward the jungle. Some carried other wounded men over their shoulders or between two men. Some fell to the ground again before they could get very far. A few were crawling. Small pops of renewed gunfire. Obviously, the Americans, some of them, had survived. The attack had failed.

Damn!

0345, FSB Illingworth Trash Pit

For reasons that will never be known—there were no survivors—about a dozen of the NVA who had charged the base near Charlie Company’s lines veered off to the left after the ammunition disaster and took refuge in the trash pit. Unfortunately for these survivors, the trash pit was very near where 1/77 had positioned its howitzers. The NVA began taking potshots at the surviving Americans, and it didn’t take long for the redlegs to figure out where the firing was coming from. With three of their five surviving guns, the artillerymen quickly slewed their weapons around and took dead aim, at zero elevation, on the trash pit. They blasted the bits of refuse and discarded junk into even smaller pieces, along with the unfortunate NVA.

Another small group of three NVA dove into the latrine area. They tried to hide behind the 55-gallon drums that were currently serving as makeshift toilets. They didn’t offer much cover, and they surely must have been foul-smelling shelters. Several of the Americans spied the enemy soldiers and opened up on the barrels with their M-16s and an M-60. This was one time when the phrase “shit flew everywhere” was pungently accurate. The unfortunate NVA infantrymen were soon stilled. In typical battle-hardened and pun-loving American soldier style, the men who had done the killing were instantly dubbed the “Crapper Zappers.”

0350, the crater

Right after Sergeant Weltha deposited the wounded Kit Carson Scout at the medic bunker, he walked over to the crater caused by the ammunition explosion. Even though the battle was still moving forward, in fits and starts, Weltha couldn’t help himself. He had to see the huge hole.

What kind of enemy round could have dug this monstrous pit? he wondered. It looked to him like the craters he had seen left behind by the blockbuster 1,000-pound bombs the air force used.

He then asked himself, Where’s that huge pile of ammo that was sitting here yesterday? They couldn’t have used it up already, could they?

Finally, his shell-shocked brain was able to put it all together. Oh, no …

He stepped up to the lip of the crater and crouched down. Bullets were, after all, still flying around. At his feet he found a flak jacket. It took a couple of seconds for him to realize that there was something in the flak jacket. When he did, he jumped back in revulsion. The flak jacket contained a torso, and only that; no head, arms, or legs.

Someone started yelling, “Gooks! Gooks!” Dirt flicked up around Weltha’s feet. He spun around to find four NVA rushing toward him. Weltha dropped to his knees to present a smaller target and raised his weapon, carefully squeezing off several bursts. Three of the enemy went down, but the fourth kept rushing forward.

This man, for some reason, did not have a gun, only a machete, and it was already raised over his head, in the hopes that he could make it come down on Weltha’s skull.

Weltha’s clip was empty. The man lunged, but Weltha rolled to his left, already grasping for another clip. As the NVA scrambled to his feet again, Weltha, in record time, ejected the empty clip, slammed a fresh one home, raised his weapon, and fired. The enemy soldier’s head exploded, his lifeless body slamming to the ground, still clutching the machete.

Weltha decided that the lip of the crater was not a safe place to be. He turned away from it and started to move toward some of his wounded comrades. At that second, a large piece of shrapnel struck the stock of his M-16 and blew him backward. He found himself on his back and sliding down the inside wall of the slippery crater.

He checked his slide and sat up. He was stunned but otherwise unhurt. His M-16 was almost sliced in half and useless. An NVA soldier came racing over the lip of the crater. This man had a metal engineering stake in his hands, and his intent, apparently, was to drive it through Weltha. The sergeant scrambled to his feet just as the man lunged at him, the ugly spike being aimed for Weltha’s face. Weltha drove the barrel of his gun into the man’s throat just as the spike hit Weltha’s scalp and shoulder a glancing blow.

The enemy soldier went down in a heap, gurgling, choking for breath, mortally wounded, his throat smashed. Warm blood poured down Weltha’s back and neck. His shoulder started to throb from the pain of the blow. Enraged, Weltha used his rifle as a club, repeatedly smashing the dying soldier in the head and neck, although it was hardly necessary.

Moments later, Weltha sank to the ground, spent. He knew he couldn’t fight anymore. “So, I opened a can of pecan roll and prepared to enjoy my final meal for this lifetime.”

0400, FSB Illingworth

The first, dull rays of incipient dawn began to loom on the horizon. It was far from light, but the deepest, darkest part of the night was finally over, figuratively and literally. A number of the enemy were still outside the perimeter, and firing at the Americans, but there was no longer any great substance or consistency to their attacks.

Two Blue Max Cobras still circled overhead, protectively. All flights were being carefully choreographed so that refueling cycles would not leave the base unprotected for even a minute. The controllers had also crafted an approach toward the base, a flight corridor where enemy antiaircraft activity was nonexistent and the chances of friendly fire were very low.

The artillery fire programmed to support Illingworth from FSB Hannas, FSB St. Barbara, and Camp Hazard began to ebb. After the night was finally over, someone calculated that the off-site artillery pieces had pumped well over 3,300 rounds of fire into the environs surrounding Illingworth—and not a single one of those rounds had been errant or turned into a friendly fire incident.

0410, Echo Recon, original position on the berm

The first one was already detached, probably due to some explosive shard of hot metal flying through the air, or the disruptive force of a hand grenade. Lieutenant Peters picked up the severed head of the enemy soldier and plopped it on top of a pile of sand, near the platoon’s original position along the berm, twisting the skull around to face the man’s former regimental mates. Peters wanted the skull’s dead but still-open eyes to warn the other NVA that doom lay ahead. That’s when the idea probably came to him, and he decided more heads might be a fitting touch. He pulled out the razor sharp Ka-bar he carried strapped to his hip.

Peters found another mangled NVA soldier, his head still attached. He grabbed the dead man’s hair and jerked the body up, Ka-bar at the man’s throat. An iron vise grabbed the forearm of Peters’s knife-wielding hand before the young officer could hack away at the corpse.

“Lieutenant,” Staff Sergeant Taylor shouted above the din, directly into Peters’s ear, “not a good idea, sir.”

Peters looked up into the big sergeant’s face. Taylor saw Peters grinning like a jack-o’-lantern, a bit of madness in his eyes. The two men stood there, locked together, for a few seconds until Taylor felt the tenseness in the other man’s arm relax. The spell was broken. Peters yanked his arm away and sheathed his blade. He said nothing to Taylor, but the veteran noncom knew, in that moment, that something very dark and disturbing had taken hold of his lieutenant during that hellacious and deeply troubled night.

0415, Echo Recon, new position, on the firing line

Someone shouted, “There’s one! There’s one!”

PFC Ken Vall de Juli leapt up from behind Echo Recon’s secondary line, swiftly putting his M-16’s stock to his right shoulder. In the strengthening light of the new day, he aimed and squeezed off a shot. The running figure flopped to the ground.

The attack had finally petered out. The once superbly coordinated and well-executed dash toward the American lines had devolved into a few pockets of resistance and desultory firing.

Vall de Juli lowered his weapon. He looked around. There were five men left standing, all that was left of Echo Recon platoon. Five. All the others were dead or being treated for their wounds back at the aid station. Lieutenant Peters was among the wounded. Staff Sergeant Taylor was in command of what was barely a squad.

0422, Capt. Joe Hogg, Blue Max, circling above Illingworth

The alarm was about ready to explode in his ears, the Klaxon that would tell him he was dangerously close to being out of fuel. His gauge was bouncing on empty. He’d been out of bullets and rockets for some time, but he was still useful as a radio relay station, so he had stayed. It was clearly time to go.

Hogg signed off with Ahearn and headed for home plate. He was looking forward to the hot breakfast he knew was waiting. Then he thought about the poor bastards he had just left behind. He doubted they were looking at bacon, eggs, and toast anytime soon.

0430, Charlie Company positions

SP4 Cliff Rhodes was still digging the dirt out of his mouth as dawn broke. Ever since the 8-inch ammo dump had gone up he had been trying to clear the filth from his eyes, ears, nostrils, and weapons. It had been a constant battle. The cowering FNG had disappeared. Rhodes didn’t know if he was dead or had simply di di maued to the rear—wherever the rear might be. His buddy Billy Carlisle was still there, what was left of him. There was another body a few feet away, too. Rhodes stared at the corpse. It was clearly inside the berm; in fact, it was partially draped over his bunker. It was a dead NVA soldier, dressed only in his underwear and sandals. Rhodes started to laugh—and cry at the same time.

0440, the tree line, 272nd NVA Regiment

Colonel Lai was apoplectic, yet at the same time drained. His men had come so close to capturing the detested American compound. They had given it their all, but they had failed. All he could do was gather up what remained of his shattered regiment and slink away into the jungle once more, dash across the border and into Cambodia. He could already hear the rumble of tanks in the trees not far away. He felt like screaming at his men, berating them for their failure, but it was not all their fault. He had failed as well, and he knew it.

Col. Nguyen Tuong Lai’s dispositions at Illingworth totaled somewhere in the vicinity of 450 troops under his command. Some of these troops were used in support roles, manning the antiaircraft guns, the mortars, and the artillery field pieces. The balance of the regiment was available to charge the fortifications. The 272nd Regiment was a battle-tested and experienced force. Similar to the typical American company, an NVA company had roughly one hundred men, was commanded by a senior lieutenant or a captain, and had two or three platoons. Not all companies were at their full complement due to casualties (just like the American companies they faced), and there were eyewitness reports from the Illingworth survivors that not all the NVA were fit to be in the fight to begin with. At least one dead NVA soldier who charged with his comrades was discovered, after the fight, to have lost an arm at the shoulder in a previous battle (possibly the tangle with the 11th Armored on March 26). His horrific wound had been stanched and bandaged for several days.

[Author’s note: There has been some speculation that Colonel Lai’s forces were augmented by an unknown number of Chinese Communist regular army soldiers. One or two of the NVA KIA at FSB Illingworth seemed “bigger” than the “normal” skinny, underfed, poorly nourished ethnic PAVN warriors. Some veterans even recall that, postbattle, “some of the G-2 [intelligence] types” were actually measuring and examining the “unusual” casualties. If so, and if the assertions were accurate, none of this intel ever made it into any of the postbattle reports that have surfaced to date. It would not be totally unusual or even surprising if the Chinese had inserted some men in the regiment; after all, they, like the Americans and the Russians, had a constant stream of advisers filtering in and out of the fighting forces. It’s also possible that some of the NVA troops were ethnic Chinese from the North; if so, they would have a different physiognomy than some of their ethnic Vietnamese counterparts. If Colonel Lai is to be believed, however, he has denied that any Chinese Army troops were in his regiment at the time of these events.]

The NVA came at the base in waves, probably a platoon or two in each wave, or roughly thirty to forty men at a time. Each wave had a different objective, apparently, but most of the attacks came at the western and southwestern areas of the berm. Colonel Lai did not commit his forces to one all-out, sustained charge; he fed his men into the fight one group at a time. This was, in all likelihood, a fatal mistake. Each time a group of thirty to forty men assaulted the strong points of Illingworth they were faced with about an equal number of determined defenders.

If, on the other hand, Colonel Lai had sent one hundred or two hundred troops at once at a single point of concentration along the berm, it is possible, though not certain, of course, that his men could have been successful in cracking the American lines and getting a real foothold inside the base. The reasons why Lai did not rush his entire force forward at once seem to have been focused on the following circumstances: (a) He was still unsure of the actual dispositions of his opponents from a manpower standpoint. He was looking for a weak spot in the initial stages of the battle. If he found one, he would pour it on. He never did find a weak spot. (b) Colonel Lai’s regiment was only at two-thirds strength and had not been reconstituted after the March 26 battle. He had no reserve. He needed to make a good choice about where to totally focus his forces before committing them. (c) Before he could decide where to pile on, the 8-inch ammunition blew, changing everything. Lai’s ultimate caution, as he hinted at during the course of the interviews conducted, was part of the undoing of the NVA attack.

0458, D Company, 1st Squadron, 11th ACR, on the perimeter

After two and a half hours of hard-charging and tough jungle busting, Capt. Jerry Hensley and his tracks finally blew through the jungle’s perimeter opposite Illingworth. Hensley immediately ordered his Pattons to throw a perimeter around the base.

First Lt. Tim Brooks, CO of 2nd Platoon, less than a month in country, recalls the macabre sights greeting his men. “We had been hearing the sounds of the battle the entire time we were busting through the jungle. By the time we got there, it was pretty much winding down, however. Dawn was breaking and there was still a great deal of smoke and dirt lingering in the air. As our tanks began to encircle the base, I saw them, the bodies, in the early morning light. Lots of dead NVA hung up in the wire atop the berm, especially in the southwest corner where the attack had been the heaviest. That really got my attention.”

Brooks also saw many blood trails snaking off into the jungle. Whether the blood was from the wounded or the NVA hauling off their dead could not be ascertained, but Brooks speculated it was probably some of each. It seemed pretty obvious to Brooks that it had been a hell of a fight.

Brooks’s tank drove up to a spindly little tree—the only one still standing in the middle of the clearing, stark in its loneliness. An NVA soldier sat at the base of the tree, his back up against the trunk. He was not showing any obvious signs of trauma: no blood-soaked clothing, no distinctive wounds. He was just sitting there, rifle on the ground by his side. He did not move. Brooks could not tell if he was dead or alive.

“I told my gunner to put a round in him if he moved or reached for his weapon. Apparently the man did because as soon as I said it, my gunner fired squarely into the man’s chest.”

0458, Alpha Troop detachment, on the perimeter

They might be a little late, but they sure are a beautiful sight, S. Sgt. J. C. Hughes said to himself.

Hughes was standing atop the berm watching D Company charge out of the jungle. His cavalry heart swelled with pride as the tanks came storming up to the fire base, in a column of twos. As the columns peeled apart, left and right, to establish a protective circle around Illingworth, he knew that he and his men were finally safe. Their long night of darkness and terror was over.

A few feet away SP4 George Burks stood shakily by the side of his Sheridan watching the parade of tanks course into view. His ears were still ringing, and he was quaking all over. He couldn’t help it—nor could he stop it. He was there … and he wasn’t. He was watching himself from somewhere else, maybe above, and then he was standing there, looking at the wreckage. He could talk … then he couldn’t. He realized he was in deep, serious trouble.

[Author’s note: Years later, and after much counseling, Burks realized that the moments described above were the beginning of the rest of his life with PTSD. It would be a life wherein, as he says today, “no amount of therapy will ever take Fire Support Base Illingworth away from me.” He has, however, decided to live with it; actually, he no longer wants Illingworth taken from him. “It’s just too much a part of me.” Other former soldiers told me pretty much the same thing.]

0459, the crater

The pecan roll stuck in Sergeant Weltha’s throat. From the tree line he could hear the throaty rumbling of very big engines. The trees along the perimeter started shaking.

No … no … no … Weltha moaned to himself. To come all this way … to survive this night … to be finally blown away by Chinese tanks!

They weren’t Chinese, of course. “The first track lurched into view, and it was the 11th Armored Cav! I jumped up and screamed, ‘Fuckin’ A!’ Others were yelling and jumping for joy as more than twenty tracks thunderously emerged from the wood line, bouncing and rocking at high speed, and proceeded to surround the entire [base]. When they had completed the circle, they came to a stop and each turret slowly slewed outward, their barrels facing the jungle. We were safe! I stood there and wept the deepest, hottest tears of my life.”

0500, FSB Illingworth

By 0500, the battle was over. Those NVA still mobile enough to get away had slipped back into the jungle. They had left dozens of their dead behind, which was something the NVA tried hard to avoid. Just like the Americans, the NVA preferred to take their dead off the field—no man left behind. With Americans this dictum was a matter of honor. With the NVA it was more likely a matter of not allowing the Americans to know how much damage they had inflicted. Once the NVA had realized the American commanders were obsessed with body counts they had started making a concerted effort to deny the Americans this gruesome measure of achievement.

With the first light of dawn, the dust-offs had begun. Those that could help were making every possible effort to get the wounded to the rear for medical attention. The worst cases went out first, as prioritized by the medics. A handful with minor wounds slipped aboard the slicks (the unarmed medevac helicopters), these men more concerned about getting the hell away from that scary cauldron of death and destruction than any taint of shame.

Peter Lemon was not one of those men. He was seriously banged up and had more wounds than just about any other man, but he insisted that all those more seriously wounded than he were going to get aboard first. No amount of cajoling would dissuade him.

Ralph Jones and his comrades managed to cut down a sapling that had survived the bombardment. They stuck a small American flag atop the makeshift flagpole and raised it, just like the survivors of FSB Jay had done several days prior. Many of the veterans of this battle remarked later that this tiny pennant was not only a symbol of perseverance but also one of the few stark bits of color remaining in the drab and shattered landscape.

The destruction was nearly total, biblical in scope, as in the passage from the Book of Matthew, chapter 24, verses 12: ““Not one stone here will be left on another; every one will be thrown down.” Culverts were blasted, the TOC was a smoking mess, and the berm was flattened in several places, obliterated in others. The quad .50 truck was destroyed, the searchlight jeep was a burned-out hulk, a 10-ton ammo carrier was blown over on its side, and a 30,000-pound howitzer was damaged. Dust and dirt particles were still stubbornly clinging to the air, and bits of paper skittered across the ground everywhere, fleeing on the breeze.

Many men were in shock. Some could no longer function. A small handful were discovered hiding in deep recesses or the remaining culverts, still too frightened to emerge. Several asses were kicked. A dozen or so men wandered the compound aimlessly.

The other survivors began to return to reality. Urged on by the remaining NCOs and officers, who understood the need to get the men refocused, the effectives started policing up what was left. Some began cleaning their weapons. Others moved to assist with the wounded. The artillerymen began to attend to their weapons and assess the damage. After all, no one was altogether convinced that the NVA wouldn’t try to mount another attack.

Then the parade began. Soon after dawn, a steady stream of visitors descended on Illingworth. The arrivals became more and more senior in rank as the morning progressed. Assessments would begin immediately. Some would involve recognition for valor; others would allocate criticism or blame. Illingworth had been either an unmitigated disaster or a brilliant success depending on who was speaking and what sort of skin they had in the game. What could not be disputed was that twenty-five Americans were dead and another fifty-eight wounded seriously enough to require evacuation. The enemy body count was eighty-eight; at least that was the number of corpses or partial corpses recovered on-site. No one knew how many more KIAs had been spirited away by the NVA as they retreated.

[On this point, former SP4 George Burks tells a remarkable tale of something he observed as he crossed the base seeking treatment from the medics. Several of the newly arriving soldiers, directed by a couple of newly arrived officers, were pulling bodies of the dead NVA back across the berm, from the inside to the outside. At the time, he viewed that as curious, but he had other things on his mind and didn’t really dwell on that observation until many years later.]

The Americans had held, and overcome, but there was no question that the ratios of friendly and enemy KIAs were badly skewed, and not in favor of the Americans. When added to the KIAs at FSB Jay, the total of 1st Cav killed over the last five days in one small corner of the operations area was going to raise a few eyebrows, a passel of questions, and a lot of ire higher up the chain of command. One general’s aide, walking the compound and shaking his head, was overheard to say, “Someone is going to catch some serious shit for this.” By 0530 on April 1, 1970, the scramble to avoid the excrement was already under way.