14 February 1968
Early the following morning, Scott Nelson visited the Charlie One CP group, or rather what was left of it. From the look on his face, it was immediately obvious that the news he was about to break was not good.
The numbness that had taken command of my mind and body after Estes had died was still firmly in control. I could hear and understand Nelson’s words, and I was cognizant of their meaning, but I couldn’t establish eye contact with him, and I’m positive that any responses I made to what he said that morning were, at best, totally conditioned responses.
Nelson said, “Charlie One is no longer an effective fighting unit, so we’re going to take the men you have left and split them up to reinforce Charlie Two and Charlie Three. Alpha Company has regrouped, and their new company commander, Second Lieutenant Pat Polk, will be bringing them into your area of responsibility and relieving you within the hour. As soon as they take over your positions, bring your remaining men and join me at the company CP. We’re a half block behind the center of Charlie Two’s positions, in a courtyard.”
I remember that a part of me felt an overwhelming sense of relief that we were being withdrawn from the hell that was phase line green, while another part of me felt a heavy measure of sorrow that Charlie One was dead. But all these emotions were muted. I felt as though I had been immersed in a vat of novocain. A disoriented feeling of unreality had taken hold of me, and my exterior self was completely numb and distinctly separated from my interior emotions.
About an hour later, Alpha Company’s Marines moved into our positions, eyes wide open in anticipation of the fighting that was ahead of them. Alpha Company had already been bloodied and had lost their company commander and much of the company CP group before the fighting had really started (was that really only yesterday?). Now they had the further shock of seeing what we looked like when they took over our positions. We must have looked like hell.
Just prior to Alpha Company’s arrival, I had ordered a head count and found out that there were twenty-three Marines remaining in Charlie One. Fifty-one of us had arrived at phase line green yesterday morning, and after one day of fighting, twenty-three remained.
After we joined up with the Charlie Company CP group, Charlie One was officially disbanded. Eleven of the Charlie One survivors, including Doc English and Benny Benware, were directed to join up with Charlie Two. The remaining ten were assigned to Charlie Three. Doc Louder-milk was reassigned to the company CP group and was made the Charlie Company corpsman. As the twenty-third survivor of Charlie One’s long and deadly day on phase line green, I reported to Scott Nelson at the Charlie Company CP. Charlie One was now officially deactivated; more appropriately, Charlie One was dead.
I was assigned to be the Charlie Company weapons platoon commander, a position that, on paper, was always part of the table of organization of a Marine rifle company. However, during this period of the Vietnam War, this leadership position was seldom actually staffed with a lieutenant because of the constant shortages of junior officers that plagued Marine units in early 1968. In fact, Charlie Company was fortunate in that we had three second lieutenants assigned as platoon commanders; it was not at all unusual to see staff NCOs assigned, at least temporarily, as platoon commanders. Since Charlie Company had been stranded in the Lang Co area when the Tet Offensive had exploded and we had seen very little combat during the previous two weeks and had taken no losses during that period, we were as close to fully staffed as we had ever been.
Because the machine gun teams had long since been attached to the rifle platoons, my only immediate responsibilities as the new weapons platoon commander were to “command” the sixty-millimeter mortar teams. I actually knew very little about the workings of a sixty-millimeter mortar team, and The Gunny seemed to already have everything well under control. Common sense therefore dictated that my duties as the Charlie Company weapons platoon commander eroded down to breaking open crates of sixty-millimeter mortar rounds and keeping the mortar teams supplied with ammo.
Scott Nelson eyeballed me a lot that morning. I think he was worried about me. The exterior numbness that had taken hold of me didn’t allow me to think about much of anything except Estes and the other Charlie One Marines who had lost their lives on phase line green. I simply could not shake off the feelings of frustration, futility, and loss, and I continued to play the terrible scenes over and over again in my mind: Our left flank is totally exposed; we have no heavy weapons in support; we are facing an entrenched enemy of superior size; and we are ordered three times to assault into this meat grinder. Morgan and many others down in the street; Sergeant Mullan gone; Sergeant Odum with his face blown off; Estes dying in my lap. I guess I just didn’t give a damn what Nelson thought about me at that point. He could eyeball me all he wanted; I was just simply numb. And then, in the middle of that long afternoon, Scott Nelson had come and asked me for some help.
His request had led me to this place, hiding behind this wall, having weird conversations with a dead dog, and thinking about the terrible fate of Charlie One. With my Prick-25 sometimes tuned into the battalion frequency, sometimes the Charlie Company frequency just to stay in touch, and sometimes the Alpha Company frequency to monitor the progress of their assault, I had a play-by-play radio dialogue of the fighting. With and without the aid of the Prick-25,1 could hear the screaming of the wounded and dying. From my grandstand seat behind that low wall, I was within a hundred meters of most of the fighting. It was plenty close to hear the agony of a young Marine’s last few seconds of life or the terror of another who had been knocked down in the street by machine gun fire from the tower and who was now a stationary and doomed target for the NVA gunners in the second stories of their houses across the street.
No one ever called me over that radio that afternoon; I was superfluous; I was forgotten. It was just as well, because if anyone had asked my advice at that point, I’m certain that I would have been immediately charged with cowardice in the face of the enemy. I would have advised them all to withdraw, to leave this city in the hands of the enemy who obviously wanted it so badly, and to tell the goddamned politicians who had gotten us into this mess and had then tied our hands behind our backs so securely to go fuck themselves. The rules of engagement that they had used as rope the day before were still in effect. We were even violating them by dropping the sixty-mike-mikes on the enemy positions, but I guess Scott Nelson had asked himself what would be the worst thing they could do to him for allowing the sixty-millimeter mortar crews to earn their pay. A question we all asked ourselves at one time or another during our tours in Vietnam was, What the hell can they do to me, draft me and send me to Vietnam? I guess he had decided the hell with it, at least we could keep down the heads of the NVA across the street during Alpha Company’s assault, and to hell with the consequences. The sixty-mike-mikes were one asset that we didn’t have to request through battalion, who would most certainly at that point have denied our request.
This insanity, these damnable rules of engagement that prevented American fighting men from using the only tactical assets that gave us an advantage during firefights—that of our vastly superior firepower represented by air strikes, artillery, and naval gunfire—these orders continued to remain in force and hinder, wound, and kill 1/5 Marines until the fourth day of fighting inside the Citadel of Hue. In fact, after the initial rules of engagement were rescinded and 1/5’s frantic requests for heavy support were finally approved on the fourth day, it took another three days of heavy fighting, including many artillery missions; round after round of 90-mm cannon from the tanks and 106-mm recoilless rifles from the Ontos; many sorties of napalm, 250-pound, and 500-pound high-explosive bombs from F-4s; and even some naval gunfire, combined with the small arms and M-79 grenades of two Marine rifle companies (Alpha and Bravo) before the first block directly across phase line green opposite Charlie One’s original area of operations on that first day was finally secured. In the process, all the two-story buildings lining the southern, enemy side of phase line green were flattened. So much for trying to protect this valuable real estate.
During the long afternoon of fighting on the second day, though, Alpha Company somehow managed to establish a tenuous toehold on the enemy side of phase line green. Although Alpha Company was also hindered by the same rules of engagement that Charlie One had been hindered by the day before, the Marines bravely charged into the face of the prepared enemy soldier’s positions three separate times. As with Charlie One’s experiences from the previous day, and although Alpha Company had three times more Marines to thrust into the battle than Charlie One, Alpha was thrown back the first two times with a terrible loss of life and many wounded who had to be evacuated. Dead Marine bodies once again littered the pavement on phase line green.
Alpha Company was now being led by 2nd Lt. Pat Polk, who had been a platoon commander with Charlie Company when I joined the company at Hoi An. I quickly learned that Pat really had his act together and, I am sure, had the complete respect of his men. Pat had sort of taken me under his wing when I had first joined Charlie Company, and he had helped me learn a lot in those critical early days. But Pat was not a superman, and he was handicapped by the same limiting rules of engagement that had killed Charlie One the day before.
Meanwhile, Delta Company had made no progress whatsoever in trying to take over the dominating tower at the east end of phase line green. The NVA occupying the tower had terrific fields of fire down the street, and since they were no more than two hundred meters from the furthest Alpha Company position, their cross fire was devastating to the Marines who charged across the street into the NVA positions on the south side of Mai Thuc Loan. Twice Alpha charged, and twice they were turned back, getting absolutely nowhere, at a terrible loss of life.
As I numbly monitored the radio nets, I continued my conversation with the dead dog. “I told them bastards, dog. They gotta take out the NVA on the tower, and that’s going to take heavy weapons. They’re just going to have to start bringing in air strikes and arty. They’re going to get Alpha Company wiped out just like they got Charlie One wiped out. Dog, have you ever seen such a stupid clusterfuck as this one? Shit.”
I was tempted many times to just turn off the Prick-25, but it wouldn’t have done much good. I could still hear the shooting clearly without the help of the radio, and I could hear the results of the stupidity—the screams and the agony of the last moments of the dead and the curses of those who lay dying in the street. And, like someone who can’t leave a sore tooth alone, a deeply perverse part of me wanted to listen to this tragedy unfold. So, I sat safely behind the wall and listened and talked to the dead dog.
As mentioned, late that afternoon, Alpha Company finally succeeded in getting a squad across phase line green, establishing a tenuous toehold in the corner house for the first time. Listening to the events of that long afternoon, I’m convinced that this squad would have also been wiped out except for the unbelievable bravery, or perhaps the utter frustration, of an Alpha Company sixty-millimeter mortarman.
This particular Alpha Company mortarman, L. Cpl. Paul R. Cheat-wood, had also been monitoring the Alpha Company radio frequency, waiting for a fire mission that had never come, and he had probably momentarily lost his mind. Alpha Company’s third assault across phase line green had concentrated a squad of Marines in the corner courtyard where Staff Sergeant Odum had lost his face and Doc English had lost his youth. Alpha had rushed across the street en masse into the corner house. Only one of them had been hit during the rush, and he had fortunately not been hit so bad as to fall down in the street, having made it across the street with the rest of his squad. Unfortunately, the squad had immediately come under fire as the NVA on the second floor of the house shot at them down the stairway, and two more Alpha Company Marines were seriously wounded before the NVA on the second floor were killed by the Alpha Company Marines. At the same time, the Alpha squad leader was hit by a machine gun that raked the first floor from the back yard of the house next door, and two more Marines were hit by fire from yet another machine gun shooting at them from directly behind the house. The Alpha Company squad, the first to establish any kind of position on the south side of the street, was being systematically destroyed by the deadly cross fire of a well-prepared ambush.
The frantic cries of the squad’s radio operator were trying to sear my mind and destroy my soul. Only my state of numbness saved me from insanity. I sat and listened, looked over at the dog, and said, “I told them so, dog. I told them dumb bastards that we should just get out of Dodge and leave this damnable Citadel to the gooks. Now look where it’s gotten Alpha Company. Those guys are in big trouble, dog.”
The frustrated Alpha Company mortarman was obviously not sufficiently anesthetized, because he just simply lost his cool. Of course, I had no way of knowing that this subplot to the drama was starting to unfold, but based upon the eyewitness accounts of the Alpha Company Marines who survived that deadly cross fire, this is what happened:
The Alpha Company mortarman, hearing the crazed calls for help from the pinned-down squad’s radio operator, just took off running for phase line green, and with no thoughts for his own safety, ran across Mai Thuc Loan through a hail of fire from the tower before anyone could stop him. He made it into the death trap that was the corner house. The mortarman immediately took control of the situation, yelling at one of the most coherent Marines to tell him where the enemy positions were, and in what strength.
At least one of the Alpha Company Marines was coherent enough to give the mortarman a situation report of sorts. He reported that all the NVA on the second floor were dead, or at least the Marines were no longer taking fire from upstairs, but there were two machine guns raking the house in a deadly cross fire. One machine gun nest, out the side door and about fifty feet away, was manned by at least five NVA soldiers, and the other machine gun had two or three enemy soldiers. This lance corporal mortarman, who had no business being there in the first place, calmly gathered up as many M-26 grenades from the dead and wounded Marines cringing in that corner house as he could carry and, without looking back or saying anything, charged out the side door and assaulted the main machine gun nest. The mortarman ran right up to within a few feet of it, tossing two M-26 grenades into the enemy position as he dived forward and hit the dirt. Both grenades hit their marks, and the first enemy machine gun nest was wiped out and silent for the first time in nearly a half hour. The mortarman didn’t even stop to catch his breath. Scrambling back into the corner house, he grabbed some more grenades and charged out the back door into the teeth of the second enemy position’s fire. He took the second machine gun position out in the same way as the first. The sudden silence on that corner, my first indication that something remarkable had happened, was almost deafening.
When Lance Corporal Cheatwood returned into the corner house, he noticed for the first time that he had been wounded four times from machine gun fire. All the wounds were minor, but he was definitely going to be awarded multiple Purple Hearts.
Using the twenty-twenty vision of hindsight, I am certain that Lance Corporal Cheatwood’s heroic act was the turning point of the battle for Hue’s Citadel fortress because it gave 1/5 its first “beachhead” across phase line green. I am also certain that if that mortarman had not done what he did, many more lives would have been lost on that damnable street.
Several weeks later, Scott Nelson asked me to write up some recommendations for medals and awards for Marines who had distinguished themselves during the battle for Hue. I immediately thought of this young Marine, the Alpha Company mortarman, who had risked his life for his fellow Marines even though his job was to stay in the relative safety of the rear area and lob sixty-mike-mikes on the enemy. In my opinion, this man’s heroism had turned the tide of battle and had saved many other lives. I spent a few hours interviewing a few Marines from Alpha Company who had survived the battle inside the Citadel, including his fellow members of the mortar crews and one Marine who had been pinned down in that corner house that afternoon. I was given his name and the facts necessary to recommend him for the Congressional Medal of Honor. I felt very strongly that his efforts met all the criteria to be awarded his nation’s highest award for valor.
About three months later, I heard from Scott Nelson, now the Alpha Company commander, that this young hero had received the Navy Cross and that my request for the Medal of Honor had been denied. The main reasons stated for this downgrading were that the mortarman had not died during his acts of heroism and that the request “had not been well written.” It is to my everlasting shame that I accept full responsibility for this travesty. Of all the heroic acts that I witnessed and heard about during my tour in Vietnam, in my opinion this was by far the most heroic and the most significant. The Alpha Company mortarman hopefully knows just how crazy and heroic his efforts were on that day, and if he is anything like most of our American fighting men, he probably doesn’t really care too much about not getting the Medal of Honor. He is probably very proud of his Navy Cross, so my poor efforts went unnoticed. Were I to meet him today, I would thank him to the best of my ability, and I would tell him that what he did that day did not go unnoticed and that his acts of heroism will always be remembered. L. Cpl. Paul R. Cheatwood was a true American combat hero.
As I think the reader might understand, I became very cynical about awards after that. The only award that I received during my tour in Vietnam that I have any pride in whatsoever was the Presidential Unit Citation awarded to the First Battalion, Fifth Marine Regiment for our part in the battle for Hue during the Tet Offensive of 1968.
Perhaps Lance Corporal Cheatwood had not been considered a model Marine, and therefore his chain of command had not gone to bat for him. Most of the enlisted men, the combat Marines who did all the dirty work in this, the dirtiest of wars, had experienced that same problem at one time or another. What some of the upper echelon considered being a model Marine, the grunts considered just plain bullshit. It became really difficult for the lifers to give distinguished awards to these “crazies,” these “misfits.” And yet these “misfits” and “crazies” were the ones the higher-ups counted on to walk point or to assault machine gun positions.
As the pale afternoon sun faded on 14 February 1968—the second day inside the Citadel of Hue—the dead dog and I continued to monitor Alpha Company’s radio net. Two more squads from Alpha Company had rushed across phase line green and reinforced the beleaguered squad who had just barely escaped death, thanks to the lone mortarman. The dead and wounded, including the heroic young mortarman, were helped back across the street under cover of the darkening sky, and the seriously wounded were carried back to the First ARVN Division compound to wait for a medevac chopper. The reinforcing Alpha Company squads took firm control of the two-story house on the corner and held their position through the long night with no further incidents.
The dead dog had been a perfect companion throughout that long afternoon, as he had never given me any problems or even made one smart-ass remark, although I am sure that much of what I said to him that afternoon deserved serious rebuttal.
Cringing behind the low wall that afternoon, I had at one point decided to take yet another chance with a C ration meal, in spite of the mute warning from the spoon in the dead dog’s mouth. I opened my pack to see what delectable delights awaited me in the form of yet another C ration experience. We had been fully resupplied with six C ration meals each during our brief stay in Phu Bai, and as I had only eaten a couple of times since then, there should have been several choices. There were, but one of the best choices, a large can of Beans and Weenies, had been rendered inedible by the NVA snipers. This disgusting discovery solved the mystery of why I had been knocked off my feet at the end of my sprint to the wall earlier that afternoon. Upon further investigation, I found that there was a bullet hole through the right side of my pack. The can of Beans and Weenies was a mess of crumpled tin, with beans and weenies interspersed throughout the interior of my pack. A large, shredded hole on the left side of my pack clearly identified my pack’s exit wound. I immediately lost my appetite.
I knew now that the fit of giggles that had seized me during the slow-motion sprint to the wall had probably saved my life, bending me over at the precise moment that the NVA sniper had squeezed his trigger. The impact of the bullet, while wiping out the Beans and Weenies, had provided enough force to knock me off balance. Fortunately the bullet had missed the Prick-25 by at least two inches and my body by at least four, but it had destroyed my favorite C ration meal and my appetite for the rest of that day. It had also given me one more thing to complain about to the dead dog, who stoically ignored my indignant complaints.
Just after full darkness, I said a fond farewell to my canine companion, muttering some futile advice to stay away from Ham and Muther-fuckers, and crawled away from my hidden position in the darkness.