I was wrong and I knew it by the time the company had proceeded less than an hour into its rain-flushed mud-slogging move into an impossibly dark night of trying to break through abusive jungle bracken while attempting to be careful not to set off any booby-traps. The move was not going to be a night move because there wasn’t going to be enough hours left in the night to make it. I moved with the company in slow syncopated motion, surging ahead and together, one Marine after another, in each other’s footsteps, while stopping frequently because the men in front stopped. There were no reasons given for stopping because nobody talked during the move, but it was apparent that getting to the abandoned landing zone was going to take a whole lot longer than I’d predicted, and that meant we’d lose the cover of darkness at some point before we made it.
The rain drowned out everything when it came to sound, and whatever very limited visibility that had been available up on the side of the hill was completely lost inside our jungle, paralleling the river. I moved into a near trance, and then stopped patiently and frequently to await advancing a few more yards. Running to daylight wasn’t going to have any running, or even moving quickly, as part of the plan I realized, and that obvious fact meant trouble. The enemy would be figuring out what we were up to, and then moving to parallel us across the river. The smaller force we’d hit earlier, now behind us, would serve as the ‘stopper’ in our metaphorical rear end, slowly moving with us but staying far enough back to prevent us from retreating, or evacuating, or whatever we might try in that direction.
Since it had become unlikely that the company would reach the objective before daylight there was, however, at least some hope of air support coming in to complement what Cunningham could offer in the way of fire support. Firebase Cunningham was off at a western angle from the northerly direction we were following up the valley. If we needed fire, along the length of almost our entire exposure, we’d be right near the gun target line, if not on it. Range was the most inaccurate measurement in artillery, so I would have to be fully aware of exactly where we were at all times, and that might prove difficult with a company on line in near single file stretched out and winding its way through a jumbled jungle for the entire distance.
At one of our ‘stop and rest for a few seconds along the way’ things, Fusner stepped close to where I leaned against a stand of unidentifiable stalks after trying to examine them to make sure no bamboo vipers were about, at least not at head or eye level.
“King Cobra,” Fusner said, his face not far from my left ear. “If you’re worried about the vipers you don’t have to. Not many down here. King Cobras are more likely to turn up, but at least they run from people.”
“Run?” I asked, not intending to be funny but realizing that Fusner’s statement that called for the question was funny indeed.
“The grenade,” Fusner said, changing the subject, as I tried to look down and around at the mud beneath my boots for any stray King Cobras, not that I knew anything about them or had ever seen one. “It must have been Rittenhouse. I heard you say his name to Nguyen before he took off.”
“Was it?” I said, not wanting to confirm what I didn’t know for certain. I was not sorry I’d done whatever I’d done with Nguyen, but in thinking about the affair I still wasn’t sure.
The Gunny had not come outright and stated that Rittenhouse had thrown the grenade. But the main problem I couldn’t get over was that there just were not any other suspects. But then, I thought, Rittenhouse hadn’t seemed to be a real suspect either at the time. Rittenhouse was going to the rear with the captain, and that spoke volumes. If the captain knew and was protecting him, then more trouble would be coming up on the horizon.
“Do you trust me, sir?” Fusner asked, his voice a whisper I could barely hear above the gently blowing rain.
I turned my head to look at the young man. Young kid, I thought, revising my snap judgment about his manhood. I was about to ask him why he’d asked that question or what bearing it had on anythin until I stopped myself. He was serious, and the question had merit and, given the grenade incident, it was applicable. I didn’t respond quickly enough, however.
“Why not, sir?” he went on, before I could reassure him.
“I trust you,” I finally said back. “Completely. I’m sorry I might not have let you know that. You’re like family. I thought you just knew. You trusted me first, when nobody else did. I won’t ever forget that.”
“Do you trust Stevens and Zippo?” Fusner asked, after half a moment of silence.
I breathed in and out slowly, thinking. I noted that the rain was lessening for the first time in twenty-four hours. The Gunny was right. The rain was getting ready to give us a break. A break that would make us more visible, and just about end our ability to move along the wet and squishy jungle floor without being heard. The enemy would certainly be all over us before we reached the objective, I knew. I wondered what other combat units were like and whether they were hit all the time like we were. I tried to recall one of my earlier days on Gonoi Island when we had a few hours of peace during daylight hours, and couldn’t.
“Yes, I trust Zippo,” I finally replied, leaving Stevens out of the equation, and hoping Fusner would let it go.
The company began to move again, and I stepped away from the bamboo stalks.
“We know you trust Nguyen,” Fusner said, moving to catch up with me.
I didn’t have to avoid the subject or change it. A series of B-40 rockets did that, with much more effectiveness than I could conjure up.
The rockets roared across the river with their twizzling scream, reminiscent of Flash Gordon’s phony spaceship, but much louder. The explosions that followed were neither lessened in impact or shattering noise by the dying rain. We’d been hit hard on the left flank from across the river, I sensed even before the rockets struck. The explosions had occurred well up toward the point of the unit. Why Casey was up there at all I had wanted to ask the Gunny, but was afraid I’d get another of his “the boots need to be taken off and aired out” kind of story. Casey’s FNG status, in spite of his rank, was fully illustrated by the senseless and unknowing exposure his position at the point revealed.
There was no sense in waiting for an “arty up” cry to make its way back down the line after the rocket attack. The message had too far to travel and the point would have taken me too long to reach on foot, although I was surprised that the radio remained silent. I was not as afraid of more rocket fire nearly as much as I was of the fifty-caliber that had to be on the way to being set up somewhere across the river. The enemy had to know the company was on the move. That had taken place faster than I thought possible, and that meant the big gun was on the way. The only good news was that the attack made it less likely there was an ambush waiting at the objective. If the NVA had a force there waiting, then they would have allowed the company to quietly and easily walk right into it without any attacks along the way.
I reached out for Fusner’s handset. Without delay, it was snapped into the palm of my hand, like a scalpel provided to a surgeon in an operating theater.
I called in my fourth night defensive fire coordinate. I indicated in the call that we were in contact, although it was likely that the battery at Firebase Cunningham would be able to hear the explosions in the distance from their location high up on an ‘island-like’ ridge on the far side of the valley escarpment.
The river’s location was well illustrated on my map, so I pulled my poncho over me to get some light on it. I had to make sure where that first round was coming in because I’d be calling for the Willie Peter in its warhead to go off almost six hundred feet in the air. With the clouds beginning to lighten up I thought I’d be able to see the round go off. I could then drop high explosives along the far side of the river, just as I’d done to silence the fifty-caliber earlier. The river had to be at least a hundred meters across, as the valley floor was flattening out, so I knew the safety margins for the forward elements of the company should be acceptable.
The poncho pulled back a slight bit, and I saw Steven’s face reflected by my tiny light source, its glow getting dimmer by the minute, because I had no replacement batteries available.
“Do you want me to run forward to make sure of First Platoon’s position?” he asked.
I thought for a few seconds. First Platoon was likely hugging the crease near the bottom of the hill we’d all been near since leaving our previous location a few kilometers back. The river was a known feature running to our left on the move. The distance from the river to our hillside varied from about three hundred to six hundred meters. The six hundred, given the river was about a hundred wide, was a pretty safe margin for calling in fire. Knowing the captain’s and Jurgens’ exact position would be helpful but not really necessary. I waved Stevens off, and then called in the single spotting round. I climbed from under my poncho. I moved quickly toward the side of the hill and scrambled up a few meters, as best I could on the slippery surface. Fusner and Zippo stayed right with me.
“Where’s Stevens? I asked Fusner, wondering why the sergeant had taken off like a man on a mission after our short exchange. I prepared to attempt to see where the round I’d called in was going to go off. If my calculations were right, then the round would explode just across the river, and a few hundred meters beyond were First Platoon had to be down and waiting.
Fusner wondered aloud about whether the high explosive shells would be effective if they hit the water. I spent a few seconds explaining how the new ‘super-quick’ fuses worked. Two surfaces, of what was essentially tin foil, were stretched a millimeter apart, like two very thin wafers, and set into the tip of the round. A small and thin plastic cover was placed over them. When the round spin-armed and hit something it would explode because one of the tin foil sheets touched the other. Water wasn’t a negative factor. The round spinning in would go off with only one inch of its body penetrating the water instead of having to go through only half an inch of solid ground. Either way, the shrapnel would be devastating to anyone nearby, unless they were deeply dug in. I doubted if the enemy had had time to do much digging into the awful slimy mud before they launched their rocket attack. But they had to know artillery would be on the way. They’d dealt with our company for some time and they’d been decimated more than once. Why draw our fire over a few rockets delivered into a jungle setting that would absorb ninety percent of their killing effect before possibly reaching any sensitive target? I didn’t know and was left to wonder.
The Willie Peter round went off, and the show was distantly beautiful, as usual. The umbrella of particles showered down in almost exactly the place I predicted. That was possibly half a click south, but within tolerable parameters.
I went back to my map under the poncho and used the grease pencil to check my work. Firing for effect would drop the rounds near the far side of the river, allowing plenty of room for any deflection error. Being on the gun target line didn’t matter in our case this time because ranging errors would be easily absorbed by how stretched out the unit was and by the distance involved.
“Call Pilson and ask him if the Willie Peter round came down far enough across the river from them for me to fire H.E.” I ordered Fusner. It took only seconds for him to report back that there was no response on the command net. It took a few more seconds for Jurgens’ RTO to respond when Fusner diverted to First Platoon’s radio.
“The spotting round came in directly east of their position,” Fusner reported, holding the handset to his ear. “They didn’t take any casualties from the rockets, but they’re not moving anymore.”
“What’s wrong with Pilson’s radio?” I asked.
Fusner talked some more before reporting that nobody at the other end knew, which seemed odd to me but I let it go, intending to check later. I used the artillery net to call Cunningham and asked for a battery of six. Cunningham accepted the mission. From where the rounds in the full battery spread impacted I’d adjust up and down the other side of the river like I’d done before, by sound if necessary. As long as all elements of the company were far enough away from the river the impacting rounds wouldn’t have to be adjusted with pinpoint accuracy.
Steven’s came plunging through the night to land in heap between Fusner and I.
“Don’t shoot!” he hissed out, between labored breaths.
“Shoot?” Fusner and I asked, at the same time.
“Shot over,” came from the Prick 25 radio, as if to answer our question.
“Shit,” Stevens breathed out slowly.
“Splash,” came from the radio, as it dawned on me that Stevens was talking about stopping the fire mission.
There was no checking fire once the rounds were in the air, however, so I didn’t bother to make the attempt. Cunningham would not fire a second volley unless ordered.
The explosions from the fire rippled through the sprinkling night air like small distant and closely spaced links of thunder.
“What happened?” I asked, knowing I wasn’t going to like whatever it was my scout sergeant was going to tell me.
“Casey, Pilson and a squad headed west to the river,” Stevens said, still breathing hard from his run back through the thick mess of jungle he’d beaten his way through to get to us as fast as possible. “The river moved its course eastward with the heavy rain, and they went to see if it might be easier to approach the objective by using the empty riverbed.”
“Shit,” I said, repeating Steven’s comment.
“Now why in hell would they do something basically that stupid?” was all I could think to follow up with, my mind racing over the probabilities while I climbed out of the mud and got ready to move out as quickly as I could. I’d adjusted the fire of the battery of six to impact close to the eastern bank of the river, and I knew that some of the rounds would likely have landed on the water, as well. But the river had moved out from under my fire, and apparently the captain, along with Pilson and a squad from First Platoon, might have walked right into it.
I started moving faster, bumping aside Marines in front of me, losing all regard for moving silently or gently through the jungle. The rain had turned into a mist and the first light of morning was already beginning to eat its way through the canopy branches above and the spindly but heavy brush below. I could not get the images of Pilson’s and Casey’s likely mangled bodies out of my head. I looked back to see my scout team following close in trace down the path the rest of the company ahead had forged through the bottom of the jungle.
Why would Casey, Pilson and the squad from First Platoon have moved and, worse yet, why would they have moved without consulting me? Casey knew he might need the only supporting fires he had available, and that meant he would need me.
“Try Casey on command again,” I said to Fusner.
Stevens bumped into my right shoulder, as I tried to listen to Fusner’s call over my left.
“He wanted you to have this, sir,” he said.
It took several seconds for Stevens words to penetrate my feverish mind. “He?” I asked, turning my full attention to him. “Who the hell is ‘he’ and why would he want me to have anything?”
I stopped abruptly when Stevens bent down to rummage in his pack. I moved closer to him, with the rest of the team gathering around me. Stevens pulled a dark canvas case, about the size of child’s football, from his pack and handed it to me. I carefully began to open the snap and raise the cover of the small package.
“Nguyen, sir,” Stevens said.
I stopped again, my fingers going numb. I stared down at the gaping flap, holding the body of the case in my right hand. I pulled out a rounded object with a small tail hanging from it.
My eyes went round and my ears back. I looked at Stevens but his own eyes were blank, staring down at the object. I held the thing out to rest on my palm. I wanted to drop it into the mud but my hand wouldn’t turn or let it go.
The object Nguyen wanted me to have was a radio handset.
<<<<<< The Beginning | Next Chapter >>>>>>
Thirty days has September April, June and November. All the rest have 31 Except February, it’s a different one It has 28 days clear, and 29 each leap year.
Well….yes, you indeed have the order and count properly down….
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim, these 2 are tiny tiny nits. I read it twice. Dave.
Running to daylight wasn’t going to have any running, => capitalize Daylight as part of the plan name?
“Casey, Pilson and a squad headed west to the river,” Stevens said, => perhaps add the oxford comma after Pilson
Thanks Dave, for the help with editing.
and for the support of putting the corrections up on here, as well…
Semper fi,
Jim
Thanks for this writing.
It has gripped my heart, I’ve cried more than enough, and somehow the words are helping me build the house my soul has desired for so long.
I think you know something more.
Thanks again, so much,
Karl
Yes, I do know something more, as you put it.
This ‘fictional’ work is going to get me in enough trouble already Karl.
The real secrets of what goes out in the field of combat are not discussable.
It’s like talking about UFOs. You can only really do it with other people who’ve had the experience.
And so we continue.
Thank you for both the compliment and the courage to write on here about you and that damned war.
Semper fi, brother,
Jim
At the FDC (Fire Direction Center) in that Artillery Battery, there where Kid marines doing that math for the fire mission.I think the Sargent was 19 years old and the rest of us were 17 and 18. Our LT was always back at Monkey Mountain as he didn’t like the the bush. we were on our own as far as supporting the Marines in the field. No adult supervision but we got the job done and we had plenty of WP and firecracker rounds. Always Faithful
Those giant wooden slide rules were something at Fort Sill. I never saw or worked inside a real FDC or a battery, for that matter.
Thanks to all those kids the accuracy and availability of supporting fires in the Nam was so dependable it was unbelievable.
I got so used to it that I stopped considering I might not get fire. Thanks Cpl for your work. Unsung heroes one and all…
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim, Did you have a backup, such as Fusner, to work with Cunningham in case you were incapacitated?
No backup Pete. Field training a forward observe on the fly in combat
is not part of the game when he’s sixteen and everyone’s lives are on the line
when he’s about to call in that kind of hell. Good forward observers are a whole lot more
rare that I would ever have guessed prior to performing that function under pressure in combat.
Semper fi,
Jim
Since Stevens left without your knowledge It would seem Stevens knew something was going up up front and you had not been included in the detail. Once he had confirmed his suspensions he should have gone to the first platoon “Jurgens might not let him” and radioed back or one of the other platoon RTO’s. It would have been quicker than running the full length of the company. With the river raging and shifting east how in the hell did the squad get to the west side of the river? Also that’s where Charlie is waiting for the kill. After all the raging river is your best friend for now.
The river shifted to the west, as the bank there was eaten away in the curve. Directions can get screwed up in my
head though and going back to fix it takes more time right now than I have. I will get to it to make sure my
statement of directions is true. Also, the second book will have a map of the A Shau. The first book occurred mostly
before we went down into the valley.
Thank you!
Semper fi,
Jim
Thanks for clearing that up Jim. Keep stomping we all love the story.
thanks JT I am all over it putting up another segment this night…
Semper fi,
Jim
Comment re a comment: I bet that the river changed course not because of flooding banks but because of avulsion. Fast floodwater on the outside curve erodes the bank. Slow floodwater on the inside curve deposits sand, as a curve bar. Snake-shape rivers change course all the time when the water runs high. Noticed that on the rivers of Georgia, then Quang Tri.
You are absolutely correct Fred. I did not know of the word ‘avulsion’ before but you are correct. It was exactly
that way. The water ate the bank away in the outside of the curve. Thanks for the help and analysis…
Semper fi,
Jim
The comments here have become as interesting and important as your story. As I read the comments about the disgraceful reception that you and your fellow Nam vets received upon your return I was reminded of my own reception and that of my fellow Seabees upon our return from Desert Storm.We and other service members were honored at a public celebration featuring the usual politicians and entertainers. As we entered the large auditorium I noticed a Vet in a wheelchair near the door who welcomed us with a smile. There were a number of Nam vets there in that crowd and all I could think about was the grace and generosity of spirit that they displayed in honoring us. Those men and women deserved that welcome home which they did not get. As you well know, DS was a conventional war in every respect, the culmination of all of our training to counter the Soviet threat. It pales in comparison to the war in Nam and the shit that you endured. All I can say is that you and the rest of the Nam vets have my utmost respect. Can’t wait to buy your books and continue reading your story and the comments posted here.
The Viet Vets, by absorbing a huge body of negative emotion on the part of the country’s population,
paved the way for other veterans coming back having a better time of it.
Thanks for what you’ve done and thanks for liking the story and commenting here. You have made yourself a
part of all what this is…if we can just figure it out…
Semper fi,
Jim
Im Still here reading and still enjoying and healing in my slow way, I put what happened in country to sleep mostly but not always for 40 years. Then got Bladder cancer 11 years ago at 57, and that makes a man reflect back on all things done in a lifetime, mostly things we wish we could have done better and changed. but that would change the coarse of our life’s. So because of that I live with and accept what had to be done good or bad. I am mostly happy I am where I am, and try to help and do good for others. this is my way I guess of trying to ask forgiveness. Because I to wonder if someone died because of something I did or did not do. Dam I wish that war would have never been. I just can not see any good that came out of it. But I love my my wife of 45 years, children, grand kids and I made it this far and without what I done they would not be. Sorry for rambling on. Jim if you do not want to post this I understand I’m just perplexed at what you and your company had to endure. My experience was not nearly that bad. Or you can edit out or thou it away.
Now why would I not post this interesting soul-searching odyssey? I had to reread it a few times to really get it.
Reflection. Self-analysis. Contemplation. Consideration. All things you are constantly involved with and all things
that really are the province of people who’ve been around on the planet for awhile and have been involved with real shit.
Combat is one of those things, but not the only means of coming up against harsh reality and having to deal with it…before
returning back into the cultural wombs all of us seek to build inside the perimeter of our tribes. You have, obviously from your writing,
one of those tribes and I compliment you on that. Solace. Acceptance. Participation. Meaning. Again these things that come with a bit
of age and life experience. Thanks your for caring what happened to me and the members of my company. It says as much about you as it does, or did, us.
Thanks your for the great depth and your willingness to lay it all out on here.
Semper fi,
Jim
You make decisions with available information. Then you find out later information that would have lead you to make a different decision. LT’s who have been in heavy combat never make general because they have made decisions that were later deemed wrong. Only politicians make general because they never make decisions that could ever be wrong.
It’s how we elect people too. They have to have a spotless record, which means they
never did anything at all in life. So, in being spotless, they come to a leadership position
clueless. We get one FNG after another. You are most correct
and thanks for that analysis and comment here on this site.
Semper fi,
Jim
We survived the reality but its the what ifs that drive us crazy.
Yes, we did survive that reality. It is also that others did not and have no clue.
They won’t believe because the reality is too harsh and too guilt-inducing for them.
And that is what is the toughest part. Thanks for this short but penetrating comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim, boy you are drawing a bunch into this!! Starting to take longer to read the comments than the script!! But keep it coming you are a great writer! I feel as I am there with you. Glad to read in your replies that it is
HELPING YOU as much as it seems to HELP a lot of your readers.
Thanks Harold. I try. I mean in the replies. I don’t really try that hard int he story
other than to get the time and stuff that happened organized and then connected together as best I can.
thanks for writing and the reading in the first place..
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim, this is not my first letter to you. I know it will not be my last. I don’t know how you keep it organized in your head. Working as a private contractor, mostly in recovery, I spent five years and eight months in the Sand box and it all runs together for me. The Nam is a cluster of fragmented memories. I sometimes find myself wondering what happened when? In 1964 it was a very different situation. We were alone in our world. HC 34s were our transport. If you saw a Huey it had brass in it.
I have spent some time on your comment that you, mostly worked on forgiving yourself. I have, mostly, done that but still, the tears won’t stop.
I look forward with anticipation to each new posting. There are fewer and fewer of us every day and no one but us remembers the smell of the jungle. If you will check out my face book and look at the photos Note the hole in that T 72 over my right shoulder. That one was up close and personal and I find myself remembering it in different ways.Keep it coming Brother.
I have trouble with the organization in my head thing. This particular segment I am just finishing, the arrival at the old destroyed
landing zone, is particularly hard because of that problem. I woke up this morning and realized I had something backwards in development
and changing that changed the whole damned thing. So I am rewriting just now.
Thanks for pointing out the difficulty.
Semper fi
Jim
Does one ever really sleep in those situations? You might close your eyes but the other senses never stop their vigilance. Keep them coming I’m addicted now and hanging onto every word. When available I will purchase for re-read and to share.
Blessings, AL
Tomorrow afternoon is final final edit of the first book. I will not let it go to print
without one last edit by me. And I have to work to make it appear exactly as it was coming from
a major publisher. The type and font and spacing and dialogue and entry have to all be correct or
my effort will fall on fallow ground. At least the way I see it. But man, what a job! You don’t sleep
as we know it back here. You sleep like a cat….on and off and on and off with one eye cracked open.
Back here sleep changes too…with the alert phenomenon always there and instant wakefulness right available.
Thanks for the comment and I am working away…
Semper fi,
Jim
Took me 30 years to finally sleep a full night, Still have not achieved a full week of nights with out waking up to check the perimeter security, guard mount, and vibes …… Hot humid rainy nights are the worst….
Semper fi….This We Defend! Bob
I am there with you Robert in the sleep department. I will never go back to those young days
as a kid and even in college. Fitful and sporadic. The sleep of a predator. Thanks for the revealing comment, as usual.
Semper fi,
Jim
James, your first book is already is a success in that it has reached so many of us, I hope that in print it extends to so many more, you know you’ll never be happy with the final cut though, we, who have been there are always thinking, “If only”, just remember that we did our best with what we had and that all that anyone can ask for, semper fi, Lt, carry on!