11–12 February 1968
The rest of the day was a blur. Throughout the remainder of that long and gloomy day, I felt as though we were all sleepwalking through the fringes of hell. Wherever we went that day, we were surrounded by scenes of madness and chaos, populated by other condemned souls equally intent on nothing but survival. Charlie One was on edge, nervous, constantly reminded of the defiant NVA battle flag flying over the Citadel and the fact that we would soon be inside, or trying to get inside, the Citadel, to confront. . . exactly what we would confront, no one knew for sure. All we knew was that it was our duty to cross the river, to enter the Citadel, and to root out the enemy who had taken Hue by force almost two weeks before. To the combat infantryman, two weeks was an eternity. Our enemy was, at the very least, a very determined bunch who were capable of just about anything, in spite of their distinct and obvious disadvantages in numbers and the firepower that they could bring to bear. They would be dug in and just as intent on keeping their ill-gotten holdings. That fact we knew for sure.
Part of the strange feeling of sleepwalking was caused, I was sure, by my bumbling act in the MACV compound. Part of it was knowing that our new battalion commander, from all indications, was a professional logistics officer who probably hadn’t a minute’s worth of combat command experience. Part of it was the simple act of walking through the suburbs of south Hue and not really believing my own eyes. For the first time since I had arrived in Vietnam, Charlie One was in a city. Not a flimsy, sprawling, insubstantial village to which we had become accustomed, but the closest thing to a roaring metropolis that I had seen since I set foot on Vietnam’s soil. The terrain was dominated by paved streets with curbs and sidewalks, with well-established shade trees sheltering the scene. The common structures in this area were two-story houses with glass windows, and a few even possessed TV antennae reaching angularly toward the sky. I wondered, briefly, if they were watching Vietnamese-dubbed reruns of “Father Knows Best.” . . . At this point, it wouldn’t have surprised me in the least.
After Scott Nelson had received Charlie Company’s orders, we moved quickly to comply. We were directed to proceed to the stadium about a click to the southeast, to top off our supply of beans, Band-Aids, and bullets, and then to move into some homes in that area for the night.
The stadium was really hard to believe, the ultimate incongruity. It was a miniature version of the Los Angeles Coliseum, complete with arched entryway, playing field, and enough seating to hold at least ten thousand spectators. At this moment, however, it was obvious that whatever games were being played were not at all sporting and that this gathering was deadly serious. The entire playing field, large enough to host the playing of American football or international soccer, was overwhelmed by stacks of C rations, huge piles of small-arms ammunition, and an incredible array of high explosives. Before the afternoon was over, most of 1/5 had entered the stadium and had partaken of the supplies until we were sufficiently weighted down with a week’s supply of the necessary implements of battle.
One item that we were issued caused me some initial concern. Every man in 1/5 was given a standard military gas mask. We had received some raw intelligence indicating that the NVA had a limited capability to engage in chemical warfare, and we weren’t going to take any chances.
Late that afternoon, after The Gunny and Scott Nelson were satisfied that we could carry no more, Charlie Company saddled up and moved out of the stadium into the nearby houses in southeast Hue, our rest stop for the night.
There was no question that we would simply take over whatever home we wanted, and although our occupation of several homes was accomplished with the combat Marine’s typical lack of military precision, the Vietnamese occupants simply moved aside and let us take over their homes. They seemed to accept our presence as a necessary evil, and they capitulated their homes and hearths without incident or struggle. The Vietnamese homeowners simply disappeared under beds, or squeezed into a single room, or left for parts unknown.
The home Charlie One’s CP group slept in that night was fairly unique in that it bragged of indoor plumbing, including running faucets, porcelain sinks, and an actual toilet, of sorts. Actually, the toilet was a hole in the concrete floor of a communal bathroom, which was positioned over a tributary of an ancient underground sewer system. There was one minor inconvenience for all the Americans present. The user of the toilet had nothing to sit on. For the Vietnamese, this was no problem, as we were accustomed to seeing a rural Vietnamese simply squatting beside a path or road and relieving himself or herself whenever and wherever the urge overtook them. Vietnamese men, in particular, were very skilled in urinating down their “pajama” pant legs without getting a drop on their pants. So, a Vietnamese using this very modern bathroom could simply squat over the hole and do his or her thing. The advantage of this particular evacuation point was that there was no concern for dealing with the feces; they dropped nicely into the sewer, never to be heard from again. No flushing was necessary, no heartache of clogged drains. This was not the case for the typical Marine, however. Most men in the Charlie One command post took their turns over the hole, and there were a few near misses. Marines were not accustomed to squatting in spite of our spending a lot of time in the bush. We were still definitely sitters. As a matter of fact, whenever we stopped for any length of time, a lot of time and ingenuity was always expended rigging up a seating area for even the most rudimentary outdoor toilet. Marines only squatted if necessary. To an American it seemed that the Vietnamese people spent half their life squatting.
After the uniqueness of the indoor plumbing had worn off, Charlie One bunked down for the night on whatever floor space we could find. A few of us commandeered a bed with a mattress, and we made good use of it that night.
The next morning, 12 February 1968, Charlie Company moved out of the homes of southeast Hue and moved back to the boat ramp on the south shore of the Perfume River near the MACV compound. Here we would load into Whiskey boats for our journey toward the Citadel of Hue.
Hue’s Citadel fortress may be accurately described as a diamond in the rough grasp of the Perfume River. Almost one and one-half miles square, the Citadel is bounded on its entire southern wall by the Perfume River, which then works north but doesn’t bend as rapidly as the ninety-degree corner of the fortress. The river wanders northward away from the Citadel walls for nearly two miles, then abruptly turns back southwest and rushes to attach itself to the northern corner of the fortress walls. Then, once again, the river turns back away from the Citadel to find its way northeast to the Gulf of Tonkin. The land mass caught inside the sharp bend of the river but outside the Citadel walls resembles a lazy snail stuck to the eastern wall of the fortress. This land mass, called Bach Dang, is effectively made an island community by the surrounding waters of the Perfume River and an intersecting canal called the Dong Ba canal. Based upon some sporadic stories filtering out of Hue since the night of 31 January, American intelligence then believed that the entire area of Bach Dang was completely controlled and occupied by the NVA. To get to the back door of the Citadel, we would have to go around the NVA, taking the scenic route provided by the Perfume River. Looking at my 1:10,000 map as we approached the boat ramp area, I could only hope that the NVA hanging out in Bach Dang weren’t paying too close attention to river traffic that morning.
Despite the organized bedlam that occupied the boat ramp area, Charlie Company managed to get aboard two large landing craft, the Whiskey boats we had seen the previous day. The loading parties had been very busy that morning, because we weren’t the only cargo on this voyage. As I realized what the rest of the cargo was, my testicles involuntarily slid up into their protective pockets, instinctively retreating into their safe havens.
The Whiskey boats were filled to the gunwales with supplies. In our case, however, the emphasis had been on high-explosive supplies, such as M-16 and M-60 ammunition, case after case of 81-mm and 60-mm mortar rounds, LAAWs rockets (light anti-armor weapons—the modern, disposable replacement for the bazooka), what appeared to be 90-mm tank rounds and 106-mm recoilless rifle ammo, and even some old 3.5-inch bazooka rocket rounds. We were directed by the shore party to pull up a crate and make ourselves as comfortable as possible. The water portion of our journey was about to get under way. The smoking lamp was definitely not lit. In the Marine Corps, that meant that smoking was not allowed. No one asked, and no one bitched.
There were so many crates lining the bottom of our Whiskey boat that its high gunwales offered very little protection. If a sniper opened up from the banks of the river, we’d be seriously exposed and men would get hurt. With that uplifting thought in mind, I sat down on a crate of 81-mm mortar rounds and silently determined to make the best of an entirely insane situation. As the boat’s front ramp began to noisily winch its way closed and its big diesel engines started to rev up, I looked back toward the bank of the river to see, for the first time, our new battalion commander.
Major Thompson was standing by himself, about fifty meters away from the nearest loading party, above and away from them, watching something on the sandy bank of the Perfume River, between the Whiskey boats and the staging areas where the loading parties started preparations for their next assignment. It was obviously him, even at this distance. His utility uniform was very green and looked almost brand-new. His green helmet cover was equally noticeable near a group of combat veterans, whose utilities and helmets were faded and rumpled and soiled by the vagaries of combat. Major Thompson stood out like a huge green thumb in a sea of faded Marine Corps-green utilities. I could even see his gold oak leaves, the insignia for the rank of major in the Marine Corps, glinting in the morning’s dampened sunlight. He’d learn soon enough to camouflage his insignia, if he survived long enough.
I was struck by his size and his stance. He was a large man by Marine Corps standards. The average Marine was well under six feet, and often the really short guys were the toughest fighters. Major Thompson was well over six feet, perhaps six three or six four even. He had a broad face and a long, lanky frame.
I couldn’t tell from here if what I was seeing on Major Thompson’s face was aloof command presence or stunned concern. It didn’t matter. My most immediate concern right then was that I was resting my butt on about a million pounds of high explosives. Major Thompson’s combat experience factor seemed very insignificant right about then.
The bow ramp clanked into place, and the engines started to pull heavily in reverse, pulling the stern down and the bow up, with finally enough force to overcome the suction of the muddy bank. Charlie Company, packed like sardines inside two Whiskey boats loaded with death and destruction, cast off and turned downstream toward our objective, the ferry ramp just a few hundred meters north of the Citadel’s northern corner.
Although the northern tip of the Citadel’s walls was only a little over three kilometers away as the crow flies, our river voyage would be nearly six clicks due to our circuitous route. First we headed on a compass bearing of due north, downstream, following the middle of the river. Within a click or so, the river split into two channels, the outside or eastern channel, and the larger inside, or western channel. Our boat skipper opted for the larger channel in an obvious and welcome attempt to keep us as far away from any shore as possible. We had no idea who had control of the shoreline in this area.
The Whiskey boats proceeded at a throttle setting that seemed to be lacking. I couldn’t help but wonder, What the hell are they thinking, dawdling like this? We need to get there, like right now; this slowpoke ferry sucks.
No one else in Charlie Company, at least in the Whiskey boat I was in, was saying much of anything. I think we all had our collective breath held, and no one wanted to break the spell. One man unconsciously broke out a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth without thinking, and whipped out his Zippo lighter. He never even got close to lighting it, and no one had to say or do anything to prevent this act of utter stupidity. In the absolute silence, the Marine with the nicotine fit became slowly aware of the tension in the air surrounding him, and he quickly noticed that every man within eyesight was intently focused on him, sending him a vibrant message to wake up and smell the roses. He sheepishly tucked the cigarette inside his helmet, behind his right ear, and tried to look very small. No one gave him any shit. We all knew that this was not a good place to be, but we also knew that we were all in this together.
Five minutes into our voyage I found out that the Whiskey boat’s skipper had set the throttle to the maximum speed since we had left the shoreline. But despite the mind-numbing, terrifying pop heard over the rumble of the diesel engines that indicated the first enemy mortar round leaving its tube, aimed at us, the boat gained no additional speed. There was no question that the pedal was to the metal.
We were under mortar attack, rounds were in the air at this exact moment, and we had no holes to jump into. Not a man moved. There was no sense in dropping to the deck, because in this case the deck was the worst place to be. No matter whether this was a 60-mm or an 82-mm enemy mortar, if it struck its target—us—we were all history. My testicles impossibly rose higher in their protective nooks. We sat and waited and held our collective breath. A second round popped out of the enemy mortar tube, and a few seconds later, a third, just as the first round exploded. It shattered the relative quiet of the morning, which had only been broken before by the sound of the boat engines. Waiting for the second round to land and explode right between my feet, I finally realized that the first round had exploded harmlessly about fifty meters behind us in our wake. I still knew there were others in the air, however, falling down, ready to explode and take our lives away. As the second one exploded a hundred meters ahead of us—Oh God, they’ve got us bracketed—I felt a surging beneath our feet. It dawned on me that the boat skippers had started weaving erratically back and forth. And then the third round exploded between us—God, between the two Whiskey boats, oh God, they’ve got us pinpointed. I finally registered the fact that the .50-caliber machine guns mounted on the stern ramp of the Whiskey boats had been firing steadily at the shoreline, more harassing fire than anything else, and—Was there a fourth round?
Abruptly, the brief clash ended. No more explosions came, and the shattering sounds of battle died away, their fading echoes disappearing into the watery sounds of the Whiskey boats’ progress. A few more sporadic .50-caliber rounds belatedly sprayed down suspected mortar launch sites on the river’s shoreline, and then engine-muted silence took hold as the Whiskey boats and their passengers proceeded northward. No more mortar rounds were lobbed at us. It became just one more moment of survival, a moment when your entire being goes into slow motion and your sensory inputs go to levels never before experienced. Sights and sounds are extraordinary in their clarity and persistence; your minds scream out to run, run, get the hell out of town; and the body, the highly trained body resists, remains rigidly motionless, and then relaxes slightly as the slow motion speeds back up to normalcy and the breathing steadies once again. Just one more moment of survival in Vietnam, just one more day in the ’Nam.
The Whiskey boats continued their winding pattern, as we followed the winding river back toward the west. The boats maintained their ponderous maximum speed until the ferry ramp was spotted a few minutes later, when they cut their speed in preparation for landing on the ferry ramp, slowed, and then bumped into the shoreline. The craft dropped their front ramps on the ferry ramp and dumped their loads, namely, us. Although at that point in my young life I considered myself a true infantryman, one who would always opt for any mode of transportation other than walking, or humping, as we called it, whenever it was available, this was one trip that I would not look back upon with fondness. I had to physically make an effort not to soil myself as I stepped off the front ramp of the boat and back onto good old terra firma, and my body slowly shed an incredible amount of tension and relaxed for the first time in nearly a half hour.
Charlie Company moved into temporary defensive positions surrounding the ferry ramp and remained in place while the other companies, Delta and Alpha, and the battalion command group were delivered by ensuing waves of Whiskey boats. We didn’t mind the wait. We seemed to be alone over here, with the few nearby houses or hooches either being deserted or having their occupants hidden deep within their bomb shelters. And, since our next objective was to enter the Citadel via the back door, no one around here was in any particular hurry.
While we waited for the rest of 1/5 to arrive, I called the squad leaders up for a quick powwow. I reviewed our situation, pinpointing positions and landmarks on my map, and traced the route of march that we would be taking when the rest of the battalion arrived. A narrow, shady road followed the west bank of the river where the ferry ramp integrated river traffic with foot traffic and vehicles of every type. The road went north into the countryside, and south toward the Citadel, now only a few hundred meters away.
When the squad leaders huddled, I said, “All right, listen up. When the rest of the battalion arrives, we’ll be moving out. We’re not the point element, but we’re second in line, and I want to make sure you are all aware of the route in case we get separated or we have to take over point. We take this road southeast, across the canal via this bridge, and then look for a sharp hairpin turn back to the right, or northwest. Take note of the intersection in the road where we either have to go straight ahead, into this snail-like area here called Bach Dang, or we take this hairpin-shaped turn back hard to the right, which will put us on this access road.” I was pointing to the road that ran along a strip of land lying between the large canal that surrounded the Citadel complex, the moat that protected the fortress walls, and the walls themselves. “Then, if all went well last night and the First ARVN Division still holds this section of the Citadel, we take the access road about a click to the first moat bridge and gate entrance we come to and go into the Citadel through the back door. Any questions?”
The only question was off the subject and nearly insubordinate, and I chose to ignore it. I dismissed the squad leaders so they could get back with their men. It was just like Estes to ask the stupid question in the first place, and it was just like the squad leaders to laugh quietly with their eyes at the joke-slash-question. Estes had looked up at me from his squatting position and had asked with all seriousness, “Do they expect us to get back in them fucking boats after we’re done in here? Like shit, ain’t no way I’m getting back in one of them fucking boats, even if I have to swim across that fucking river and hump all the way back to Phu Bai all by myself. No sir, I ain’t getting back in one of them Whiskey boats.”
Later that morning, the remaining elements of 1/5 were assembled and mounted up. Scott Nelson came over to our position and took me aside for a quiet chat. I could tell from the look on his face that he wasn’t comfortable with the news he was about to give me.
Nelson looked at me and said, “The battalion CP group is taking point.” There was no use in beating around the bush. His delivery was blunt, as if there was no way to lessen the blow.
Incredulous, I asked, “The battalion CP group is taking point?” I couldn’t help my repetitive question, it was compulsive and out before I could shut my mouth. Nelson was clearly not amused.
He said, bluntly, “Yes, Charlie One, the battalion CP group is on point, and Charlie Company will follow them. Alpha and Delta will be behind us. You got the route down? You’re on point for Charlie Company, and I don’t want you getting lost or taking a wrong turn.” I couldn’t tell if he was jerking me around or serious, so I decided to take no more risks and simply acknowledged him with an “Aye, aye, sir.”
The battalion CP group, along with our new battalion commander, Major Thompson, was comprised of a group of about thirty-five Marines. It seemed that half of them were the proud bearers of the fifteen-foot-tall whip antennae connecting their Prick-25s with the airwaves. They stumbled by in a cloud of dust, so to speak, and headed down the road toward the Citadel of Hue. Perfectly finishing the picture was the cluster of “aiming stakes” that the whip antennae represented, gently swaying in the cool but sweaty air, above the heads of Major Thompson and his staff. The battalion CP group was on point. They were our leaders. It was our duty to follow them, and we did. Keeping our distance and spacing to at least ten meters between men, one of Estes’s fire teams moved out on point, followed by Benny and me and then the rest of Charlie One and Charlie Company and the rest of the First Battalion, Fifth Marine Regiment. The battalion CP group was on the point, and 1/5 was on the move.