In the haze before sunset, on the first day of the siege, an enemy rocket destroyed the last building still standing in the village of Dak Seang. He saw it explode in a chaos of splinters and nails while bullets whizzed overhead and mortars from the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) shook the ground. The smell of sulfur and burning bodies filled the air. Still, he knew the assault wasn’t over yet.
It was April 1, 1970. Army Green Beret medic Gary Beikirch, age twenty-two, lay in a two-foot-deep bomb crater on a stretcher, paralyzed from the waist down, watching the battle continue to rage while he drifted in and out of consciousness. Blood seeped from three wounds in his stomach and back. He’d done all he could to help, even after being paralyzed. He’d cared for the wounded until he collapsed. In one hand he still clutched a short CAR-15 snub-nose assault rifle, a protector of the innocent lives in his charge. But now even the strength to keep his eyes open was nearly gone.
Breathing hard next to him, dressed in baggy jungle fatigues, a T-shirt, and unlaced boots, lay a young Montagnard medical assistant named Tot. He held an old Korean-era M2 carbine, but with his bandolier of ammo spent, the only bullets left were in his magazine. This was his village, located in the Central Highlands region of Vietnam, about twelve kilometers from the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
To Gary’s other side lay another Green Beret—one of the best-trained specialists in the military. Short, muscular, chewing the stump of an unlit cigar, Dizzine was his last name. Everybody called him Dizzy. He had his communications radio pressed against his ear so he could discern the commands through the static. He was nearly out of ammo too.
The three men saw silhouettes in the distance. NVA troops were already inside the wire. Running. Shooting. The murk of smoke and gunpowder in the air made visibility tricky. Two soldiers emerged, sprinting toward the crater. At first, it was hard to tell whose side they were on. They charged closer. Gary guessed what Dizzy and Tot were thinking: Make sure of your target. Be accurate. Don’t go crazy. They spotted black and green pajamas. Pith helmets. Tot took down the first. Dizzy fired a short burst from his M16 and leveled the second.
“Chopper’s coming,” Dizzy said. “Get him ready.”
Tot glanced at Gary. “Bac Si [the Vietnamese word for “doctor”], you must go now.”
Gary raised his hand in protest, then gave a slight nod.
American fighter jets streaked overhead and unleashed rockets and bombs. Gunships—aircraft that provide support for ground troops—rained machine-gun fire. As a last resort to prevent the Special Forces camp from being overrun, the Green Berets had directed air support to fire directly onto their position. But the plan to combat the assault wasn’t working.
Earlier in secret, at dawn on the same day, some ten thousand NVA soldiers had encircled the camp. The enemy barrage had begun in darkness. Hours of incessant shelling had destroyed every big gun that protected Dak Seang, knocked out the Special Forces observation tower and antennae, ruined the generator houses, and now hit and flattened every building above ground. After five hours NVA had started infiltrating the camp from hidden underground tunnels. Simultaneously, above ground, multiple groups of enemy soldiers led charge after charge. Tied together two by two at the wrist, each pair of soldiers advanced side by side. They were drugged up and glassy eyed, and when they reached the protective concertina wire surrounding the camp, they detonated explosives strapped to their bodies. Suicide runs. This enabled other NVA soldiers to run over the corpses and up inside the wire.
Gary scanned the skies. Choppers were usually a welcome sight at the camp. They brought in mail and supplies. Medicine. Word from home. But the skies this evening exploded like a hellish version of the Fourth of July.
“There it is.” Tot motioned with his chin. “You will make it, Bac Si.”
Gary heard the whoomp, whoomp, whoomp of a medevac helicopter. He tensed. Because of the heavy enemy fire, the evacuation could last only seconds. Dizzy and Tot grabbed the ends of Gary’s stretcher and poised, waiting. The chopper hovered and descended. Gary lifted his head and spotted the faces of the door gunner and pilot. Three more crewmen were inside. He laid down his head and braced himself, anticipating the sprint over rough ground. He heard a pop, pop, pop and raised his head again.
The chopper was smoking, leaking fuel, its side riddled with bullet holes. The pilot reversed course and lifted the craft up and out of harm’s way, limping toward safety at the next camp a few miles away.
“Don’t worry,” Dizzy said. “Another will get here.”
Gary lifted his free hand from his side. It dripped blood. Although he’d done it earlier, again he took stock of his wounds: Shrapnel in his spine. Small-arms fire through his back and right hip. Either shrapnel or small-arms fire in his abdomen—hard to tell which. Under the makeshift bandage on his belly, his internal organs lay exposed and hung to one side. He closed his eyes. Maybe he drifted into unconsciousness. Maybe not. Half an hour passed. Maybe an hour. He heard shouts. Screams. Explosions. Dizzy firing his rifle. Then Tot’s voice again:
“This one’s yours, Bac Si. Get ready.”
Again Gary heard a whoomp, whoomp, whoomp. Again he tensed. Again he lifted his head and spotted the faces of the door gunner and pilot. He lowered his head and braced himself. Then he heard a distinct hiss, felt the thud of two small explosions. Then one huge explosion. His body jolted. Gary lifted his head to look. Flames engulfed the chopper. It plunged to the ground like a rock.
A low groan escaped his lips. All his remaining strength melted away. All reserves of will. He’d lost too much blood. The fighting had proved too desperate. As much as Gary longed for rescue, he didn’t want a third chopper even to try. Why risk the lives of another five men?
Two more silhouettes charged through the dusk toward the crater. At thirty meters, one cocked his arm to throw a hand grenade. Frenzied eyes. Sweaty brow. Dizzy aimed and brought him down. Tot wasn’t far behind in taking out the second. But their ammo couldn’t hold out much longer.
Dizzy’s radio crackled. “Support the north wall. Now! Move!” Another breach of defense. More enemy soldiers were overrunning the village. Gary sensed unconsciousness overtaking him again. As the cacophony around him faded, Gary found himself staring far off at the blackened jungle. He wanted to live, but he didn’t sense anger anymore. Nor did he feel fear. Death was inevitable. He knew that now. He sensed only sadness, the lament a warrior feels when unable to return to battle. Death beckoned all lives. All Green Berets. All allied Montagnard fighters. All villagers. The defenders’ situation was hopeless…
And Gary knew he could do nothing more to help.