Surviving War and Crime

Not Here! It was late Spring or early Summer, 1970, and I was the acting Platoon Leader, guiding a group of 25 men up a trail that followed a small hillside finger, in Central South Vietnam, outside An Khe. The terrain resembled that of the Appalachian Mountains, except the canopy was much heavier. The point man walked ahead of me, as I was number two in the line. We both had rounds in the chambers of our M-16’s. Those further back had not yet chambered a round for safety reasons. We continuously scanned up and down, and to the left and right, for signs of snipers or punji stakes (sharpened bamboo dipped in urine and feces and then stuck into the ground at an angle to puncture our legs). One of our machine gun teams followed directly behind my RTO (Radio man) who kept close to my side. We had just come off a stand-down (time in our base camp to rest and clean our gear), one of just three we had the entire year. For some reason, I was carrying a very light rucksack. My total gear weight usually averaged between 80 and 100 pounds, but this day I elected to carry a lot less. Our mission was to locate and destroy an enemy NVA (North Vietnamese Army) battalion base camp, infused in the hillsides, with bunkers. A LRRP (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol) Unit located the base camp just weeks prior. As we plodded along in the heat amidst a moderate tree canopy, my RTO whispered, “I think the men are getting tired. Maybe we should stop for a bit.” I agreed and, as I turned around, I observed a few of them starting to sit down along the trail, some leaning their heavy, bulky gear against trees. Once down, our heavy rucksacks and other gear kept us from getting up without help. I made a hand motion to them not to sit down and whispered back, “Not Here! It’s too much in the open. Let’s go ahead a little ways where there’s more cover.” We continued ahead, maybe ten steps, when the unmistakable sound of machine gun fire erupted from 11 o'’clock. While dropping down to a prone position to return fire, I saw the point man go down face first without moving. I hit the dirt and took off my safety. Immediately, I was shocked by a continuing row of bullets hitting the ground and trailing directly toward me. As the dirt flared up toward my face, I instinctively rolled onto my right side and watched the menacing ground hits run past my legs. With nothing but a six-inch high, decayed log to lie behind, I returned fire at the shadowy movement in the undergrowth. Suddenly, to my left, I heard the close sound of machine gun fire as my machine gun team quickly advanced toward the enemy till their leader (short belt of maybe 100 rounds) ran out. As they hit the dirt, the machine gun number two man immediately opened the top cover to the M60 machine gun and inserted the lengthy belt of bullets; they then continued firing till the threat was over. I crawled over to the point-man and asked, “Where are you hit?” He stated, “In the face!” as he held his hands over his bleeding nose. The medic came up to assess and treat his injury. The AK 47 round made a through and through wound to his nose, in the left and out the right. He was helped down the hill to an arriving medevac helicopter. A week later he was back “humping the boonies.” As we continued up the trail, we attempted to use the intermittent trees as cover. With a subsequent loud ringing in both of my ears, we had to shout at each other to communicate. To this day I have that loud ringing in both ears, more pronounced in the left. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about this incident and the dirt kicking up, as the bullets hit the ground, with me rolling out of the way, watching the hits go past my legs. I have no doubt that divine intervention influenced my decision to carry an extra light “ruck” (rucksack) that day. If not, I would not have been able to roll over to save myself. And I am forever grateful to the machine gun team that used the “Quick Kill” technique we were trained in, to immediately advance on the enemy with suppressive fire to secure our survival. This is but one of many PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) evoking incidents – one of many fire fights. There! Finally, I am able to write about this incident without suffering as much of the usual trepidation – part of a chapter in my life I’ve told but a handful of people, mostly other vets, or those in the medical field.