Throughout the night, I could hear explosions as someone on watch would hear a noise, get nervous, and throw a grenade. One of those nights, I could not have cared less. I was so sick, I literally couldn’t move. I lay on the muddy ground in the rain, in the middle of the base camp, wracked with spasms of vomiting and diarrhea. I was filthy. Fortunately by morning, I felt okay. I made use of the small stream running through the base camp to thoroughly scrub my clothes and myself.
The CO finally told me to take my platoon back to the stream where we had bathed a few days before. By this time, the dead enemy soldier who had been on the trail near the stream was quite ripe. I thought it prudent to send a squad ahead to bury him. The selected squad really sent up some moaning and wailing when I told them. It was the ultimate blow to their ego to have to bury an enemy soldier. One they hadn’t even killed, at that. It took some time afterward for them to regain their composure. One sniff, and anyone within two hundred yards could tell that he did need burying.
We stayed by the stream that night. The next morning, the rest of the company moved out of the base camp and blew it up. Later, Captain Stanat told me to send someone back to the base camp to make sure it had been destroyed. I sent a fire team. They walked right up on three NVA looking through the camp. The fire team killed two of them and wounded another who later died while waiting to be medevaced.
That evening we started an arduous all night march back to LZ Baldy for a 24-hour rest period. It was very confusing. Part of the time the company was lost. My platoon, in the rear of the column, constantly scrambling to keep up with the rest as the column expanded and contracted. I was worried we would lose someone in the pitch-black night. While the other platoons stopped for rest breaks, my platoon spent the time closing up and counting off to make sure everyone was accounted for. Rumor had it that on a previous all-night march, a Marine who had fallen asleep during a rest stop had been left. His mutilated body was found the next day. It wasn’t just a rumor, it happened. It was a corpsman, I think. I wanted to make sure that didn’t happen to one of us. By the time we arrived at LZ Baldy, I was exhausted. I would have much preferred to remain in the mountains.
September 11, 1969
After a twenty-four-hour rest period, we were alerted for another mission. This involved being lifted by helicopter from LZ Ross into an area where we were to set up a blocking force. Another unit was detailed to sweep the enemy toward us.
We moved by truck from LZ Baldy to LZ Ross, which was smaller than LZ Baldy. The Marines had occupied it after the Army left. The 7th Marines patrolled aggressively around LZ Ross, which resulted in numerous enemy contacts. Actually, those were the casualties I saw posted on the board at 1st Marines Division headquarters when I arrived in the country.
I was in the back of a truck with other members of my platoon in a convoy, speeding toward LZ Ross. Horn blowing, we were flying down a narrow road lined with foot traffic, bicycles, motorbikes, and vehicles going in the other direction. I don’t know how we avoided hitting one of them.
A truck somewhere ahead hit a mine. I could see pillars of smoke and flames from the crippled vehicles. Medevac choppers (helicopters) with casualties were zinging by us heading for First Med (hospital). As we passed the burned-out trucks, I sat anxiously expecting another mine to blow at any time. The anxiety added to the general discomfort of riding in the back of the truck and wondering which part of my anatomy would be most impacted by an explosion coming through the bed of the truck. I removed my flak jacket and sat on it.
The air assault was a new experience. It all seemed to happen in a rush. There was no opportunity to plan. As the birds (helicopters) came in, I was trying to divide the leadership of my platoon into different groups. That was what we were taught to do at The Basic School. The whole leadership wouldn’t all be killed at once if a bird crashed. Captain Stanat was in too much of a hurry for that to be relevant. He shoved us all onto the same bird. Luckily, it was not a contested landing. I got my platoon out of the helicopter and set up a perimeter. We were the first platoon into the LZ; hence, my concern with dividing the leadership. As the rest of the company landed, we consolidated the perimeter and then moved to our assigned areas.
September 13, 1969
So far, this week has been easy. My platoon is set up around the company CP. We run a patrol in the morning and a squad ambush at night. A little river flows near us. Everyone strips and lies in it during the heat of the day. It is hot! Good thing we have the stream because the area is mostly sandy soil and low scrub brush. There are no shade trees, and the ponchos the men have rigged up to provide some shade trap the heat. Sitting under the poncho feels like being in an oven.
The Vietnamese countryside is beautiful. Rice paddies with the occasional water buffalo set against a verdant background. It certainly belies the violence. So far, the regiment has been keeping us clear away from any civilization. We are a couple of miles southeast of the Song Thu Bon River.
The Marines over here, mainly nineteen- to twenty-year-olds, are amazing, smart, brave, and extremely mature. I don’t believe the critics of our youth could ever have seen these young men. I don’t think our college hippy or frat rats can compare. They are all children in comparison. War will quickly turn a boy into a man.
Presweetened Kool-Aid and candy are hot items from home. The Kool-Aid flavors our canteen water. Between the taste of the plastic canteen and the purifying Halazone tablets, the water tastes terrible. It needs a little flavor.
It seems to me that this war is a big waste. People are being killed, and nothing is being accomplished. I suppose that can be said for a lot in life. No one can say this is a civilized world because people are fighting each other all over it and for the damnedest reasons.
Boy, I became a veteran fast. I got shot at the first day, jungle rot the second day, and the runs on the third day. What a record!
September 14, 1969
I just got back from my first-night ambush. It was a can of worms! The first thing that went wrong was when I tried to register firing points for the artillery. The mortar squad said we were one place on the map, and I said we were another. I tried to call a fire mission using mills, as we were taught. The mortar squad had no idea what I was talking about. Consequently, when they fired for us to register a target, we couldn’t see where the rounds were landing. Not knowing where a round would land made me increasingly reluctant to call for more rounds. As it continued to get darker, I told the mortars they were close enough and let it go at that.
Next, I waited till it got too dark to move into the ambush site. We went right past it and had to turn around and backtrack. By then, it was really dark, so everyone jumped into the weeds, not knowing where everyone else was. I wasn’t going to get up and go wandering around in the dark to find out.
To top it off, we ended up on the wrong side of about a thirty-degree slope. We spent the whole night slipping down and crawling back up again. I don’t know how that happened because we were supposed to be lying above the trail instead of below it.
The mosquitoes provided the finishing touch. I swear they rode horses and traveled in herds. They were unrelentingly vicious.
From the noise level, I thought I was in the Los Angeles Airport. Marines snored on my left and right. The guy next to me rattled the bushes all night, swatting mosquitoes and cussing. Every three minutes someone on the radio asked, “Mike three, are you secure?” which I am sure could be heard for miles. I felt like telling him we would be more secure if he would just shut up. Then, of course, the rains came amidst a chorus of curses from everyone.
The ambush was back from the trail and in the weeds far enough so that had the enemy come, we would have never known it. The enemy had to have been deaf, dumb, blind, and half dead not to know we were there. It wasn’t one of my finer operations!
September 16, 1969
We set up an ambush last night that was perfect in all respects, except no one walked into it, and I got hurt moving