St. Barbara

The Magic Mountain

Jutting thirty-two hundred feet above jungle and farmland, Núi Bà Đen (Black Virgin Mountain), a spectacular cone of solid granite honeycombed with caves, dominates Tay Ninh Province. It's not alone; floating around the dark mountain are two legends of Bà Đen:

Some say she married for love, not for the rich Mandarin who was hot for her. After her husband went away into the army, she would take the six hour climb to visit the magic Buddha at the peak. When kidnappers cornered her, she leapt off the nearest cliff to save her reputation. To this day, she haunts the mountain, recounting her story to anyone who'll listen.

Others say she was a devoted Buddhist, a virgin of tender age betrothed to a notable against her will. One day, she ran off and hid on the mountain. Searchers found a leg, but a Buddhist priest built a shrine to her at the top and afterward saw her walking around on both legs. I'll take this one. 

In addition to Bà Đen, a U.S. SIGINT (signal intelligence) operation and a Special Forces camp called The Rock, was planted on top. The radio antenna and nighttime lights, clearly visible from St. Barbara, made it a watchtower of sorts. The VC (Viet Cong) and (North Vietnamese Army) owned the rest of the mountain and the surrounding countryside. As long as we were up there, they weren't comfortable; they made numerous attempts to capture the summit, lobbing rockets up there until snakes (Cobra gunships) arrived to politely ask them to knock it off.

A French Fort

Fresh from humping the jungle, Charlie Co. arrived at FSB (fire support base) St. Barbara at the edge of the Black Virgin Mountain before Christmas, 1969. We are the Airmobile 1st Cavalry Division. We handle armor, artillery, infantry, or anything else they throw at us. What's for lunch?

'Round the mountain we came, six Huey helicopters at a time in tight formation, twenty yards apart, six grunts to a chopper. Aside from two pilots, a door gunner crouched behind a pig (M60 machine gun) at each of the two open side hatches. A grunt hung on next to each gunner, legs dangling out the door, 2000 feet in the air. The 100 lb pack on his back was a counterweight securing him in the chopper. Four other soldiers sat on a bench in the back with their packs on.

Six Hueys are bad company. They can bring a dozen pigs to bear on a buzzard, a water buffalo, a hot LZ (landing zone) or most anything. Ours were rarely attacked, although a thousand others were gunned down during the war.

The choppers landed on the barren ground outside the gate without incident. The soldiers wiggled and jumped out, struggling to stay upright, but low enough to avoid the blades. They hustled into the base through the gate, balancing their packs on their backs.

Between us and Tay Ninh, home of Charlie Company and the 1st Calvary stood the mountain. St. Barbara lay astride a major NVA infiltration route, twenty miles from the Cambodians, the people who created the legends of Bà Đen.

Built on the site of a French colonial fortress, the seven-acre gated community of men, machines and sandbags was ringed by a high earthen berm, an extensive minefield and angry concertina razor wire. Surrounding that was an Agent Orange wasteland, churned up by artillery, barren to the tree line, a full click away. No trees, no bush. Nobody went out there.

The unit we were replacing had already left. The bunker assigned to our squad formed part of the perimeter. It presented a seamless, windowless front to attackers; a portal in the rear opened to the interior of the fort and a great view of the mountain. Sandbag walls, steel plate roof, half underground, roomy enough, although my six-foot one-inch body could barely stand up straight. We slept on our air mattresses set on makeshift wooden bunk beds fashioned from ammo boxes. It was home for now.

Squad bunker

FBs (firebases) and FSBs grew from lessons of the Indochina War. The French hit on the idea of a mooring point for their forces, a tempting target for the enemy, but with enough firepower to knock down all ten pins. Why chase the enemy around the country if you could get them to come to papa? Unfortunately, it went badly for the French at Dien Bien Phu. Limited maneuverability, intelligence, troops and air support doomed them. Oh, add overconfidence, incompetence, isolation and poor communication.

U.S. strategists sought reversal. Helicopters would revolutionize warfare; telecommunication networks were all the rage. By the end of the Vietnam war, the U.S. had a network of a thousand interlocking sites for artillery batteries, air-land operations and jungle fortresses, not all permanent. Those sitting ducks were often attacked, yet seldom overrun like Dien Bien Phu.

Batteries Included

A mix of long range and short range artillery on a FSB could make artillery raids on distant bunkers, antiaircraft batteries, artillery and rocket positions, bridges, buildings, boats, vehicles, supply dumps, tunnels, foxholes, trenches, infiltration routes, and the enemy. Artillery could bail out maneuvering units in the field or other bases such as The Rock. It could even repel direct attacks on the base itself by firing the guns at ground level, like the Union in the Civil War against Pickett's Charge. An occasion to shoot down enemy aircraft never presented itself in this war.

Still, St. Barbara, the patron saint of artillerymen, had been attacked last September in a 3 am raid. Sappers made it as far as the top of the bunker line, but were repelled, leaving behind 21 NVA dead.

A resident company of soldiers enabled LRRPs (long range reconnaissance patrols) and raids, while providing adequate protection for the artillery, communication, engineering and other support personnel.

Our bunker was sandwiched between two noisy neighbors: A Quad-50 and a  Duster (M42 self-propelled antiaircraft gun).

The Duster looked like a fully tracked small tank, with automatic twin 40 mm guns firing alternately at the rate of 120 rounds per minute. The twin "pom-pom" guns are the same ones you've seen in old Victory at Sea footage, shooting down Kamikazes.

The fearsome Quad-50 was a modern, big-time Gatling gun: 4 x Browning M2 .50 caliber meat grinders mounted together on a deuce-and-a-half flatbed (M35 2 1/2-ton truck).

Both guns were secured in forward sandbagged emplacements, part of the perimeter, facing outwards. Each night after midnight they would let loose for a mad minute to establish our dominance, rip any attackers, and convince the rest that we were psychos. Rounds skipped and skimmed along the bare ground, ricocheting, and churning up the dirt until they cracked against the tree line. Once, when Bob fired his M16 during the mad minute, he accidentally blew a mine. Not funny like in the movies.

After ceasing fire, the Quad-50 had filled the deuce with brass shell casings. In the morning, the guys loaded the brass onto a M.U.L.E (military utility light equipment) and took it to the dump, two hundred yards beyond the gate.

Mortars, 105 mm howitzers (resembling Civil War guns), 155 mm big guns and many vehicles were also based in St. Barbara. However, none could compare with the awesome, self-propelled M107 175 mm gun. The 37-ft. barrel fired a 147 lb. high explosive round, heavier than most Vietnamese, at a speed of 3000 ft. per second up to twenty miles away.

Akin to a tank, it flew down the road like one, too. It took a crew of thirteen, even though the rounds were hydraulically loaded. It split your head and shook the ground under your feet when it fired. It could ruin your weekend. Thank God, this awful dragon only fired twice while I was there. I’ve never seen another before or since.

The big guns consecrated this grim little patch of real estate, policed the neighborhood, and butchered the enemy like flies. Each had received a presidential citation for killing five hundred or more foes. They put the love down on any provocation from enemy guns.

Periodically during the night, mortar crews shot off flares to illuminate the surrounding area bright as daylight. Whenever we found hand flares, we shot them off, too. MP (military police) types took over guard duty at night, after the gate closed.

The main assignment for our squad was guarding the gate for a few hours during the day, a respite between our jungle patrols. Pretty decent duty, three hot meals per day and enough free time to promote idleness. Instead, we pulled guard around our bunker, climbing a ladder to perch on the roof to relax, smoke and scope out the area. Some idiot could be creeping up. Always, you want to feel you're doing something. 

Choppers came and went all day long outside the gate on makeshift landing pads. There were no patrols for us, no trips on the seldom used access road, leading to the mountain and into Tay Ninh. Like the French, we held the strong points, even cities, but couldn't travel between them without armed guards or air support.

The village people came to us. They scavenged the dump, looking for unspoiled milk, bread, and other leftovers. They salvaged brass, turning it into souvenirs and perhaps even hostile rounds. Few adults loitered around the gate, except for prostitutes and vendors.

GI want soda?

You want beaucoup boom, boom?

I splashed the cash and bought a necklace with a peace symbol and a bracelet with Vietnamese characters from one of the vendors hanging around the gate. They protected me from negative vibes, so I never took the talisman off while I was in country.

One of the hookers was a sixteen-year-old French-Vietnamese knockout. The guys went nuts over her, lining up for sex. But like the other girls, she'd rather go out in the weeds with our blond, good-looking RTO (radio operator). When the helicopter pilots caught them in flagrante, they would hover over the pair, knocking down the weeds to expose them. He retaliated by standing up, shaking his fist and screaming profanities.

Linda

Kids also came to the gate. Among them were two curious twelve-year-olds, Linda and her best friend Kennedy, after John F. Kennedy. Linda and Kennedy in her conical rice hat hiked in from their village after school every day in their sandals, looking for Bob and me. They loved Americana and they pumped us endlessly. We gave them all we had as well as candy and gum. One day, they brought us a treat that tasted like unleavened Italian bread.

We looked forward to the girls because it was fun, even after that crazy little seven-year-old boy, who usually came with, punched Bob in the nuts. They spoke perfect English. Linda, who had the best gift for gab, kept wondering,

Why don't you speak Vietnamese?

Some kids made a habit of catching minnows in the dirty ditch water by hand and squeezing the eggs out of them for a quick caviar snack. Yum!

A buddy who means the world to you but who you
Sometimes despise and is a pain in the Ass to have around
Small children in rags, filthy who you have pity for
But in defense of your life could kill easily with
Anger at a turn and still hold pity and feel sorrow for

—SP4 Bob Jackson (1970)

For Christmas, we put a three-foot tree in the bunker and feasted in the mess hall. Two lucky guys were plucked out to see Bob Hope at Long Binh, seventeen miles from Saigon, not far from us. For New Years, the homesick guys threw enough multi-colored smoke grenades to envelope the entire base in smoke. The beautiful, Technicolor sight brought the base commander down on our backs.

For chrissake, the enemy could walk right in here!

One morning, after New Year's and before Tết, the great Tết Nguyên Đán Vietnamese New Year celebration, we marched out of the French Fort on foot. Upon reaching the tree line, we left the access road and St. Barbara forever.

We were home, home again, humping the jungle.

What's the point?

Formations come in all shapes and sizes. Geese fly in a V. Elephants walk trunk to tail in single file with their calves in the middle. Wildebeests rest at night in linear bedding phalanxes, ten to twenty animals deep with a clear aisle between their ranks.

Soldiers goose-step past the reviewing stand. The Greeks used the wedge and the phalanx in battle. Roman legions fought in three parallel lines consisting of widely separated maniples (blocks) of 120.

In the jungle, a single file, three feet apart, is appropriate. A nervous point man leads. If he screws up, he could get a hundred guys killed. Our CO travels in the middle of our column with the 1st Sergeant and an RTO (radio operator).

Our senses are tuned to the jungle. The point watches for tigers, snakes and alligators. He checks trees; looks forward, right, left, up, down, like in the cowboy and Indian movies you saw as a kid. A detective in motion, wary as a cat, he has no idea what's about to go down. He interprets ambiguity.

When he's forced to hack through thick bamboo with a machete, the column slows to a snail's pace. Unusual movement, smells, sounds, broken branches or footprints are tell-tale signs in virgin jungle. A cough, a sneeze, a click, a snap. He freezes.

Man-by-man the column halts, coiling behind him like a snake about to strike. The CO has no clue why the column stopped until someone at the front radios back. We stay on our feet because it's an ordeal to get back up again with a ninety-pound pack on your back. When the point starts again, the snake uncoils.

If the column stops for a ten-minute break, then we drop to relax. A few of us stay alert.

If the point spots debris, a trail, a village, an old campsite or any other man made sign, our CO sends out a patrol before moving on. If the point finds a booby trap, we mark it with a stake and pass the word back. Usually they were old, out of commission.

Our Kit Carson scouts usually fell in with the point squad, near the front, not quite on point. They kept to the background, searching for bad situations, booby traps, anything out of place, volunteering information only when necessary. One actually claimed he could smell the enemy.

Less Traveled

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 

—Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken (1920)

Our main opponents were the NVA (North Vietnamese Army). They were legit—didn't want to get zapped by their own traps, much wiser than the nut-case VC (Viet Cong).

We never followed old trails, new trails or middle-aged trails, always breaking new ground to avoid booby traps and ambushes. If we came upon a trail, we passed the word back. We didn’t cross rivers unless we had no choice, only followed them. We never visited the same area twice, never operated at night, always skirted villages. So, we avoided snipers.

Sometimes it seemed like we were roaming the countryside looking for a lost civilization or buried treasure.

We advanced in a straight line, blazing a trail through rain forest, grassy plains, bamboo and elephant grass, rivers, swamps and mountains. We didn't listen to transistors (radios), talk or joke; our time was spent concentrating on who we were, where we were and what we had to do, maintaining silence despite our heavy loads. This was a WAR zone for God's sake! Those who forgot could become casualties. No screw-balling either, surprising in a company with an average age of nineteen.

In the bush, I had to figure it out for myself because I came with no point training. Unless I was using a machete, I talked to the guys back of me, especially if they were experienced. I wasn’t alone in the world, but I wasn’t used to looking for signs either. The slackman training me a few steps behind was old boots—a vet experienced in country.

The more point I took, the more prepared I became, like a Boy Scout.

The Boogie Man

The first time Bob took point, he missed an NVA coming out of a bomb crater. The man got clean away. Pissed off the vet behind him.

Another time, Bob spied a land mine. He dropped to one knee to present a smaller target. The column came screeching to a halt. The vet behind chastised him for reacting as if it was the enemy, came up to look for himself and dropped to one knee for the same reason. Panic at the disco.

After they informed the CO, a small squad, with its own point man, sallied forth to investigate. The mine was ancient, so they marked it, passed the word back, and on we went.

Prof. Dennis H. Mahan, who taught most of the top officers in the Civil War, introduced the idea of the point to West Point (no pun intended):

The apex, or most advanced point, may be formed of a staff, or other intelligent officer, under the escort of a few horsemen . . . —Elementary Treatise on Advanced-Guard, Out-Post and Detachment Service of Troops (1861)

The first time I walked point, I got yelled at for my excess caution in open grass. Fine! I kicked it into high gear. The column behind me could barely keep up but at least I stopped their bitching.

I never came face-to-face with the enemy, but point was too stressful, layered on top of my other constant worries; life, family, and comrades.

The M-79 grenade launcher was a specialized weapon, ineffective for the point and exempted those who carried it. After I had been on point a couple of times, a guy with the M-79 grenade launcher went back to the world. I jumped at the chance to trade my M-16 and point for the clumsy M-79, despite the weight of the fifty grenades that came with it. In no time, I became an expert with it. Yesactly!

Who's Point?

Point is an unpopular position filled by rotation during the CO’s morning meeting.

Who had point last?

In turn, the leader of the lucky squad christened one of his guys point—often a disposable FNG (fucking new guy).

The officers used compasses and read maps and map coordinates, but the point followed a stream of simple orders from the CO which made its way up the line by radio or word of mouth.

See that big tree 1000 mikes (meters) down there? Head for it.

Roger that.

Point also sent his notable observations back down the line, but he didn't communicate with the CO every time he stopped.

It could be heavy going. We had a famous case in elephant grass. PFC Puget had been breaking bush with his machete in the one-hundred plus degree heat for a couple of hours when he collapsed. We waited while Doc Howe re-hydrated him. Just add water. Captain Rice called the meat wagon (helicopter ambulance) and we continued.

Everything seemed hunky-dory until we found out that CBS had rushed the tape to New York. His mother freaked when she saw her son on the nightly news with his tongue hanging out. The army had been taking the browns to the Superbowl and hadn’t got around to her. That’s how you start a congressional investigation.

Meanwhile, the meat factory (hospital) gave Puget a clean bill of health, informed his mother and he was back in field after his two-day vacation.

Point was not a fan favorite, but neither is suicide.

No one wants to be the kink in the band of brothers.