I stayed in my clustered hooch into the dark hours, whiling away the time it would take for the NVA to begin their own H&I fires. The concept of H&I (harassing and interdicting fire) created back at Fort Sill, had been used in Vietnam for years without any proven success. Another questionable strategy involved making totally random artillery drops. Since friendly units set up in supposedly known locations every night, the idea was that artillery could be dropped on paths, roads and intersections, limiting the enemy’s night operations and keeping them off balance, or from moving comfortably anywhere. But there had never been any results of such fire doing anything other than making sure no allied forces moved very far in the dark at all.
I also wanted to see if, even given the fear of snakes everyone seemed to share, Jurgens would send out a team to finally eliminate the lone officer problem standing in the unit’s way. I thought about the snakes, of which I’d seen none. It defied logic to believe that a specialized band of Vietnamese troops caught, and then strategically released, violently poisonous snakes, but rumors in combat raged everywhere about everything. The Bamboo Vipers that struck the two men earlier in the day were called “two-step” snakes. Anyone struck would supposedly get only two steps before falling over dead. The fact that both Marines bitten had been loaded onto a medevac Huey seemed to have blown right by the gossiping members of my scout team. After reviewing all the body bags that had been flown out during my short stay in country, I figured the snake dangers might be a bit overblown compared to other, more deadly threats. But I was still left to wonder what other poisonous snakes inhabited the hills or the dreaded valley ahead.
Two letters to send home. I clutched my pocket. What if the resupply chopper in the morning didn’t come in? How many letters would I get backed up? I hadn’t thought to date them. I pulled the envelopes out and then turned on my one-eyed flashlight. Using my black government (cheap) ballpoint pen, I carefully put dates on the back of the envelopes so my wife would know which order they’d been written. I wondered if they went on the same chopper whether that meant they’d arrive on the same day at her door.
just after I replaced the letters and put away my flashlight, Stevens pushed gently with one foot against my leaning elbow. I moved the few feet toward his prone figure. He was on Starlight Scope duty. The only area he could see was through the thin bit of vegetation we had between us and the big open area we’d walked across without incident. The area behind our hooches backed right up to the jungle, with only a small buffer zone laboriously cut for protection from snakes coming to get us in the night. I was thankful for the slight wind and cool temperature, but any relief the weather provided at higher altitudes came at the price of reduced security. An enemy coming at us from the jungle side wouldn’t be encountered before he arrived. And although it was unlikely that any NVA would be out on the mud surface of the open area, Stevens insisted on setting up the scope to cover it.
“Nine o’clock,” Stevens whispered, leaning away so I could stick my head behind the scope.
I liked the scope. It seemed so high tech. The science behind it, the sleekly different nature of its construction and the feel of it when I held it gave me confidence. I looked through the single lens, my eye pushed into the rubber grommet sticking out of the viewing end. A round green world came into existence.
Moonlight streamed down that I hadn’t really noticed above the scudding dark clouds. The scene through the scope looked brighter than day, and only two things moved across the mud surface. Jurgens, with one of his henchmen, or ‘shake and bake’ squad leaders. I could see the sheen from the Slavic slab sides of Jurgens face gleaming in the dark. The two Marines didn’t look like the last group that had come very slowly and low under ponchos. Both men crawled along at a good clip, able to move relatively unencumbered and not vertical enough to stand out against the jungle backdrop in relief. Neither Jurgens nor the man accompanying him sported M16 rifles, and that obvious fact surprised me. The company was deployed in the middle of a vicious pit of enemy occupation, probably surrounded on three sides, and that was only if the far side of the clearing wasn’t filled with NVA who’d filtered in after we’d crossed. Marines didn’t spend any time anywhere in such an environment without arms. The two crawling figures stopped their forward progress at what I thought was about twenty meters distant.
“Hey, Gunny,” Jurgens yelled in a suppressed voice, cupping both muddy hands over his mouth.
Zippo replied before I could adjust to the fact that Jurgens appeared to be wanting a visit with the Gunny instead of coming for me. “What’s the password?” he hissed back toward the men from his unseen position a few yards away.
My mouth formed a wry humorless smile. Password? There was no password. There’d never been any discussion about a password. I kept my eye glued to the eyepiece of the Starlight Scope.
“There’s a password?” Jurgens’ squad leader asked, his voice one of complete surprise.
“Are you nuts, or just an idiot?” Jurgens whispered to the man with him, grabbing him by the upper arm.
“This is Jurgens, from First Platoon,” Jurgens said, again directing his quieted words toward where my scout team lay.
“Okay, that’s the password, you can enter,” Zippo replied, instantly.
“What word?” the Marine with Jurgens said, crawling forward.
I watched Jurgens shaking his head in frustration, as he followed the smaller Marine in front of him.
“Jurgens is the password,” Zippo said.
I smiled again, knowing Zippo had his M16 locked, loaded and aimed at both of the moving men.
“Jurgens can’t be the password,” the Marine whispered, finally approaching close enough that I could pull away from the scope. “Nobody would make that a password,” he went on. “You’re making that up.”
The Gunny appeared from behind me, as I prepared to receive the men, my right hand naturally resting upon the heel of my .45, the click of the safety lever being moved down to the off position unheard over the noise being made by the men crawling forward. Just because the two men were not sporting M16 rifles didn’t mean they were unarmed.
“What are you doing here?” the Gunny asked, suddenly, taking full control of a situation I was too slow to react to.
“We have to talk,” Jurgens replied. “We’re unarmed so no idiot will shoot us without us saying so much as a word.”
The reference to killing the three men from his platoon earlier was obvious, as was the potential threat that went with it. Why Jurgens chose to make even the slightest reference to it made me wonder about his real motivation in coming here. I turned my flashlight on suddenly, making Stevens swear. The light, aimed at the downed knees of Jurgens and his squad leader, must have blanked out the phosphor screen of the scope, I realized. Good to know, though, that Stevens was still scoping out the open area even if the two men appeared to be the only ones coming. The scope would take a few minutes to reset, but only if I turned off the light.
“Turn it off,” the Gunny instructed, his mouth only inches from my right ear.
I followed his order, my mission accomplished. I knew right where both men were. If I drew and fired it would only take two shots to disable and two more after moving forward to finish the job.
“Talk about what?” the Gunny asked. “We’re going up the mountain in the morning and then along the ridge all the way to the A Shau just like Chesty did at the Frozen Chosin.”
“It’s about the two-steps,” Jurgens said, his voice indicating uncertainty.
A Prick 25 radio hashed twice and then clicked twice more. The radio was very close behind us. I half-turned in time to hear Pilson whisper into the Gunny’s ear.
“Battalion six-actual, Gunny,” he said, his voice low, while sticking the handset between the Gunny and me.
The Gunny looked at me, then took the mic and punched the button. “Six-actual,” he said, his eyes too dark for me to see, although I knew he was looking into my own while he was waiting for a reply. But he didn’t reply, instead holding out the handset toward me.
I took the microphone in my hand. The battalion commander, Colonel Bennet himself, wanted to talk to me, by name. He’d bypassed the Gunny completely.
“Six-actual,” I said, proudly, so everyone near could hear me.
And then I listened. I listened to the battalion commander berate me for demonstrated incompetence in avoiding a direct order by not attacking Hill 110 and then lying about it. I looked around at the Marines in my company. I could not see any of their eyes, but everyone waited. The colonel went on about how I could expect a bad fitness report on my next rotational review and an immediate entry into the daily report for my poor conduct. After ‘six-actual’ I never got to say a word, much less ask about any officers who might be assigned to the unit or what orders the battalion had for the A Shau, or anything. And then the line went dead. The man had not even said “over.” I held the handset in my hand. I knew that one day, if I lived, and that wasn’t real likely, that I would laugh at being told I would get a bad review when I was frightened to death of being killed in any of a variety of ways every minute of what was left of my life.
“Yes, sir,” I said into the dead microphone, “I’ll get right on it. We should be at the edge of the valley by late in the day unless we run into contact. I’ll tell the men about the support we’ll be getting.”
I handed the microphone back to Pilson without further comment, and brought my attention back around to my real world. Maybe, if I lived, one day I would meet the colonel in some private place back home. It would be a very short meeting.
“The two men were medevaced, I said to Jurgens,” speaking before the Gunny could. “The snake bites are painful but not fatal,” I lied. “Both men are doing fine at the First Med Station in Da Nang.”
“Once we get off the beaten trail we’re going to be in the forested shit, and that crap is going to be full of snakes,” Jurgens said.
I didn’t know what else to say. I’d invented what I could. My hand fell back atop my Colt. Killing the men might be the best solution to a number of problems. I thought about imagining they were the colonel and his major executive officer. The Gunny finally filled the silence that hung over us like a little thick cloud.
“Tell your men the truth about the vipers,” the Gunny said. “If they get bitten they get a free ticket home after a bit of pain. And we’ve got plenty of morphine. They get to go home.”
I turned my head to look at the Gunny in wonder. He’d picked up the phony ball I’d metaphorically thrown and run right down the field with it. His tone and command ability impressed me even though I knew it was all based on a lie.
“What about Sugar Daddy?” Jurgens asked, surprising me again. The inter-company rivalry or war, take your pick, was ever on top of the table and never to be overlooked or forgotten.
“They’re not afraid of snakes,” the Gunny informed him. “They’re afraid of the enemy. They’ll take the point and clear our way to the top.”
The two Marines said nothing further, not even goodbye, and certainly not “yes, sir.” And they didn’t ask permission to be dismissed, as even field protocol required. They simply backed up and disappeared the way they’d come. I was sure that Stevens could see them in the scope but their departure wasn’t important enough to bother watching.
Neither the Gunny nor I moved for a couple of minutes. I waited for him to ask me what the colonel had said but he didn’t speak. Finally, I decided to say something.
“Sugar Daddy’s men aren’t afraid of snakes and they’re going to take the point tomorrow?” I asked, my tone more one of wonder than disbelief.
The Gunny did not reply, but he didn’t move away either.
“Let’s have a cup,” he said, moving to take his canteen out of its cover.
“Aren’t you a bit concerned with the light the fire will cause?” I asked, determined to come back to the Fourth Platoon issue in a few minutes, since the Gunny wasn’t crawling back to his own hooch right away.
“You weren’t going to be able to keep the flashlight on,” the Gunny said, softly, lighting some Composition B to heat his water. “The NVA are out there and I’m sure they’ll be a pain in the ass but not right here and right now because we’ve got a pretty good perimeter and they’re not going out into the open.”
“I just wanted to place exactly where they were,” I explained.
“People move in the dark and it’s very subtle,” he replied, in a tone that made it sound like he was talking to a child. “From the second you turned on the light and for a few minutes, we were both night blind. The trade-off wasn’t worth it. You can do a better job at measuring risk when both of our lives may be on the line.”
I knew he was right. I knew it by the time he got to his second sentence. I’d risked us both needlessly. There was little question where the men were in front of us. Their shapes were visible, even if their features weren’t. I should not have needed confirmation of anything, and I’d given up advantage in getting it.
The Gunny’s water boiled after only a few minutes. He mixed in the coffee and then began sipping, slowly and lightly.
“So he found out already,” he said, between sips.
The Gunny had figured out the substance of the colonel’s call without even being able to see my reaction while the man had been on the handset. I thought about the shitty, unjust and truly outrageous radio call.
“Why didn’t he talk to you?” I asked, finally.
“He needs me,” the Gunny replied.
“To do what?” I said, knowing I was not thinking anything through but still upset by the call from our commanding officer.
“To train the next officer they send,” he replied.
“After me,” I whispered, not wanting to give that answer.
“After you.”
The night erupted in small arms fire. The Gunny tossed his coffee and crawled away. I reached for the artillery net handset that I knew would be there, sticking out in the dark. It was. It was time to use what night defensive fires we had available to beat the enemy back again.
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Jim,I SERVED WITH 2/5 IN 69-70 You bring back a lot of memories some good some bad . Each of us fight our demon’s in our own way , I hope by you writing your story that it helps you fight yours. It sound like you had a hard time when you came home . I enjoy your writings and wish you the best and hope all is well now.
Thank you Jim. There were a whole lot of us running through the place in that 67 to 70 time when things were going nuts.
68 and 69 were probably the worst for our casualties but I’ve never done the research.
Thanks for the kind words and reading the story.
Semper fi,
Jim
Wow Jim, your stories are like the exposure therapy I’m taking right now for crap that happened in 69-70. Takes you right back to the terror and lets you down a little easier on the other side. Keep it up.
Thanks Bryan. Kind words that help me keep on going. Really appreciate any help I can be.
Semper fi,
Jim
I appreciate that you write without trying to soften the story. I was in country from Oct ’66 to 1 Mar ’68, on 23 named ops from Quang Ngai to the Qua Viet River where I was hit by mortar fire. I find myself so tense after reading each episode that I have to use deep breathing exercises to relax.
Semper Fi,
Ron.
Gosh Ron, you sound like me!
I had to stop a few minutes ago to get myself straight.
I had dived in and man I was there again.
I want to write it not live it and I find the two
are hard to keep apart.
I know why I drank and took drugs until I figured out how to handle being
alive with this.
Now I am okay, but may family worries that I will dive in and not come back this time.
I will keep at it though mostly because of what all the other guys are saying and because so many can’t write it.
Semper fi,
Jim
Similar incidents are the reason I never completed 2 books,truth may have broad and personal reprocussions, I don’t produce fiction. I appreciate your candor and ability to project your experiences. I can feel your sincerity, and it reminds me of some of my Lt’s that I served with and lost in the nov 67 – nov 68 as a Grunt Doc – G 2/7 in AO DaNang Rocket Belt from An Hoa, Elephant Valley, Hai Van and Phu Bai; then “Afloat” with BLT 2/7 from USS Tripoli. My outlines are from the dated letters sent to family, would have to have some gaps between what I omit, and the now unprotected narrative that I did not wish to burden the worries of loved ones at that time. Time since then with GI Bill helped with return to a degree, and 28 yrs in Army Nurse Corps following the 4 yrs with Navy/ MC enlistment. The Gulf experience was an entirely different gig. Edit this or trash it, but I’m admitting that I will be reading your writings to allay a peace that takes away the vacuum of questioning some of my own observations. Thanks James
Thank you for that long meaningful comment.
If you ever want to share your material then you know where I am.
The patina of truth flows through my work because I am reassembling something that really happened and that resonates.
Unfortunately, it also means that there will be a lot of outrage and anger.
I finally simply said “so be it” to myself.
Either I tell it or it dies with me, finally, since it is like a living thing.
I know you know.
Once you go through that, if you live
then it lives inside you until you die.
I understand the nuance of every word you wrote in that comment and I am proud to have been with you in my way’
over there.
Semper fi,
Jim
Semper Fi Jim, we had 13 marines and a corpsman in Indian country. 10 click or so south of Chu Lai cap 1-3-5 first cag.
we fought mostly local vc,
though we killed a NVA captain with a Remington .45 on him.
Way different than a line company.
We lived in the village, did our best to get the popular forces up to speed.
They were carrying bars, garands, carbines mostly. Found a pf asleep on post one night, took his rifle let him sleep.
Next morning during rifle inspection he couldn’t explain where his rifle was.
That afternoon a chopper came a took him away.
Never had a problem with pf’s…sleeping on post after that
Were you guys a CAG? Civil Affairs Group? Sounds like you held together just fine
out there in that village. I wonder what it would have been like if I hadn’t gone over
straight into a line company in a lot of trouble? You can never go back. One way in and
several ways out, mostly not so good.
Semper fi, and thanks,
Jim
Our fire support Batt. 1st. Bn./7th.Arty. 1st. Inf. Div. Would Goodrich two or three of their guns (105’s) fly in by Chinook to keep pace with the infantry, therefore always keeping in range.
The guns are great Russell but without a full blown FDC they are mostly used as direct fire support.
I heard that they put 105s on boats and would take them up the rivers too.
Thanks for the interesting comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Our fire support Batt. 1st. Bn./7th.Arty. 1st. Inf. Div. Would Goodrich two or three of their guns (105’s) fly in by Chinook to keep pace with the infantry, therefore always keeping in range.
Plan B ???
Perhaps Plan C ?
Caught a news story last night on Fox concerning Major Mathew Golsteyn.
Wasn’t aware of his circumstances.
Assuming you are.
Hope you have some excellent legal advisers and maybe they are vets with their own spotlights.
I was wondering how long it would take for someone to mention the legal issues
of telling stories about what really happened over there. I am sure that they will come
for me in some way if this story becomes something of significance. They cannot have these
kinds of truths circulating out here and it is the legal aspects that they will use
to attempt to muzzle me. I have a good team though and plenty of backing. And what are they going
to do, besides call me a phony, lock me up and take back my medals?
I’ve already considered a phony by many and I don’t mind the lockup as those places
aren’t so bad (no cell phones and plenty of time to read and write) and they
can stick their medals up their butt.
Nobody ever did anything about my medals other than resent me for having them
and then questioning the reality of those too.
Thanks for your concern and thanks for reading the work Steve….
Semper fi,
Jim
Or as we used to say. “What are they going to do. Send you to Vietnam?”
Exactly, Dan. We live in fake news times, even from the mass media.
The truth becomes so bizarre that even my newspaper, the Geneva Shore Report,
when reporting as close to the truth as possible, is taken as utter fable
next to the fake stuff. Life today.
Thanks for the comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Probably going to bust you too.
And take back all that funny money.
No disrespect, sir, but what do they bust a 2nd Lt. to?
I keep seeing Cruise and Nicholson. I got their point, but I was more than a little conflicted.
Hilarious Steve!!! I really do have some of the MPC in my little suitcase collection of junk. I should look it up to see if it is worth something to collectors, I mean before they come for it. I have one of those Chieu Hoi passes with a bag that floated down on us one day too. No, they can’t bust you below 2nd Lieutenant, which is really the lowest real rank in the corps! I will always be a 2nd Lieutenant, as my promotions never did catch up with me stateside. Later, after the CIA years, they credited me with a lot of time and more rank but I didn’t care anymore. 2nd Lieutenant is fine. Cruise and Nicholson. I’m conflicted too!
Semper fi,
Jim
Having been Army and Armor my war was totally different. I am not really surprised at what went on with your unit. It just really wasn’t possible with our unit. We had knuckle knockers but they were never the problem they were for you. I am fascinated by your account, some things ring a bell. Write faster I hate having to wait on each new installment. Seriously, I am interested in your story as I think most of us are compelled to go back to the jungle if only in our minds. My platoon Lt. was a ring knocker and one of the best men I’ve ever known. G-Troop 2nd/11th ACR 70-71 Blackhorse
All right, you’ve got me hooked. I want more. I’ve caught up to the seventh night. I was in country 11/68- 10/69, but was one of the lucky wing wipers. Never faced the hard stuff you guys went through. Semper Fi.
Thank you very much Jim. I shall endeavor to persevere with the Eight Day I am working on
right this minute. Glad you had a better tour. I heard working with the wing back at the bases wasn’t
so bad although working in the air flying could quickly turn into deadly misery. You probably lost a few
friends flying, I would presume.
Semper fi,
Jim
Keep em coming. Waiting for more.
Riveting! S/F Jim Hatch, UH-34D Pilot Jul 66 to Jul 67, KC-130F Pilot Aug 69 to Aug 70.
Thank you Jim…Looking forward to your sharing your experiences. Comment freely!
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I knowingly spent one night sleeping with a two stepper. I saw it briefly and then it disappeared into my gear. After digging through my stuff and not finding it I gave up and went to sleep. I was too tired to really care and I took some comfort in thinking that if it only took two steps to die it wouldn’t hurt for very long. It was gone in the morning.
Did it again, grabbed the back of my neck, drug me through the shit and slammed me down on the other side, thanks.
Yeah, Walt. He’s good like that. That pile of shit squirming behind you. That’s me. Been here the whole time. Too damned scared to stand up.
Thanks Walt. It was a strange time that I think, through the writing, I am only really coming to understand.
Was afraid to talk in group at the VA because a lot of the other guys needed the time and needed to have their stories appreciated.
And the counselors are to be afraid of because they can turn you in at any time if they think you did something illegal at that time.
But here I am, hard at it as we enter the 8th day.
Semper fi,
Jim