Tanks for the Memory

You never know what you're gonna run into breakin bush in the middle of a war. One fine April day, the jungle was jungle. Then, presto mundo—a three-acre clearing.

A road ran through it. No bush on the sides of the road. No leaves on the trees. Somthin happnin here. When you see a turtle on top of a fence post you know it didn't get there all by itself.

Agent Orange was up to its old tricks. The entire area had been bladed to the ground and sprayed extensively. Busybody U.S. engineers had left a wasteland, except for a big pile of logs and brush on the far side of the road next to a termite mound.

As the lead elements of Charlie Company stepped into the clearing, Lt. Martinez shouted,

We're makin a combat assault on the road!

We glanced at each other.

Huh?

We formed up along the road in a hundred-yard line and began to cross like Civil War soldiers.

Someone said to Bob,

Look, over by the wood pile.

What are you talkin about?

The soldier pointed to a group of men next to the brush pile busy attaching leafy branches to their bodies. Light bulbs lit up—a camo party. No friends of ours!

Before they could get into costume, we emptied the punch bowl with our M16s and frags. Wood chips flew everywhere. They threw their gearshifts into reverse and vanished into the jungle. This'll keep 'em off the streets.

Bobby Parris, a fellow squad member from rural Georgia, had done a peck of bird hunting. He had a U.S. Army Remington 12-gauge special issue pump-action shotgun, a supply of 00 (double-aught) buckshot in a sack draped on his belt opposite a razor-sharp 6-inch buck knife from his mother.

Bobby approached the wood pile. Twenty feet away, he halted and blasted several rounds of buckshot at the logs. After the dust settled, we pulled out a dead NVA. A BB from one of Bobby's shells was trapped in the guy's canteen, making it sound like a toy rattle. Bobby still has it.

Charlie Company was still in the zone. We had escaped casualties twice—when we crossed the road all strung out and when Bobby got too close to the wood pile.

While the rest of us stood around, arms at the ready, a squad reconnoitered the area. After they returned, we gathered at the wood line on the far side, formed a column and followed the escapees into the jungle.

One dead monkey doesn't stop a circus.

The Mouse Trap

Later that day, we ran across another man-made feature, a path with an over-sized log lying across it. Instead of pushing deeper into the jungle, we stopped and camped thirty yards away (don’t ever sleep right next to a path).

While others set a standard security perimeter and dug foxholes, J.R.'s squad reckoned it was time to make donuts. They had trained with demolition and explosive experts and had been experimenting with ambushes all along. Like Wily E. Coyote eagerly opening his parcel from ACME Blasting Products, they were gonna lay a clever trap and beat Charlie at his own game.

A kill chain is intricate, sensitive work. Stressful. A trip wire is strung over a log and connected to a specially designed fuse, det cord and an array of Claymores mines set in series along the path, concealed with the utmost pains.

The plot was blood simple: the enemy point man would pause to climb over the log and his colleagues would pause behind him, lining everyone up with the mines. As he steps over the log and trips the wire, the fuse breaks, the det cord ignites, the mines blow and the entire patrol is dead bananas.

In any event, we built our nest, posted the usual guards at the perimeter and went to bed on pins and needles. Dawn finally arrived along with a rude blast from beyond the trees. The trap was sprung. Animal, vegetable or human? That was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

Our squad was closer, but the honor fell to J.R. His squad had set the trap. They knew the score. Too many cooks can kill the cooks.

J.R. approached the path with an M60 machine gun. Suddenly, a sniper bullet hit one of his men in the head. The squad immediately opened up and dove for cover, but J.R. ran along the path walking fire from his cock-high M60 like Rambo.

Mexican Standoff

Now that the pig was out of the python, neither Capt. Jackson nor anyone else knew exactly what we were dealing with. A few stragglers or an entire regiment? They weren’t talking.

Our soft-spoken captain wanted no more surprises—one seriously injured man out there was too many. The U.S. 11^th Armored Cav Division was just around the corner, so he ordered up a Big Boy.

If you could swing by, it would be greatly appreciated.

Patton Drops In

Just what the doctor ordered. Before long, the faint sound of a diesel in the distance grew louder. The ground began to shake. The sound of falling trees and a dull, angry roar echoed through the jungle until out came a monster from the deep—99,000 lbs. of 5th Cavalry steel grinding to a noisy halt in the dirt in front of us. We gazed up at the iron beast like grasshoppers, dumbstruck by an M48 Patton battle tank in the middle of the jungle.

These guys were notorious for running down NVA and tossing grenades at them from the turret—straight out of Kelley’s Heroes.

A man popped out.

You rang?

Sure did.

While the nearest medical facility at Bien Hoa was receiving timely updates from the medic treating the wounded man, we explained the situation, emphasizing that J.R. and friends were still out there.

The armored knight slowly ambled up to J.R.'s squad, knocking down trees and running over eleven NVA bodies along the path. Were these clowns at the woodpile? Who knew? Who cared? Charlie Company had just set the ambush record.

J.R. suspected two had survived—one in a tree and one in a bush.

A tree? We worshiped the ground.

For the plat du jour, the master blaster recommended the Beehive (90 mm M377 canister) instead of the HE (high explosive). A Beehive round breaks apart when leaving the gun barrel, propelling 5,600 flechettes (little steel arrows) in a dispersal cone, like shot. Its melliferous name comes from the soothing sound the arrows make flying through the air, exenterating thickets of vegetation, dense foliage, and everything else with startling ease. Range, 1200 ft.

Flechettes

Flechettes were first used in Vietnam in December, 1966. A landing zone in the Kim Son valley had been overrun and had taken numerous casualties. The officer in charge ordered the last artillery piece to be loaded with Beehive ammo and aimed at ground level. He took out two hundred NVA with a couple of rounds, saving the day. After that, the popularity of flechettes soared and reports of enemy soldiers nailed to trees en plein air began to appear in the press.

The tank bowed and turned its turret before lowering its gun barrel to finish off the two stragglers. Swoosh!!—we had just been insured by the 5^th Armored Cav, funeral arrangements still pending.

Now God’s own lunatics could be brought in to airlift our injured comrade from hell. Charlie Co. prepared to move.

Not so fast. Earlier in the day, an M551 Sheridan light tank had lost a wheel to its mortal enemy, an AT (anti-tank mine) and a soldier riding on the rear with his legs dangling down lost both his. Our tank needed to rendezvous with the damaged tank and the rest of his group in a clearing only a click away.

Part-tee

We arrived at the encampment at the same time. Three M48 (Patton medium tanks) and four APCs (armored personnel carriers) had circled the damaged tank, like elephants do with their young. The APCs were for transporting ammo, parts, tools, food and supplies, not people.

Damaged M551 Sheridan in repair

While a repair crew worked on the tank, the rest of us partied to our transistor radios, sheltered by our combined arsenals. We didn't bother setting up a security perimeter or digging foxholes; nobody would be crazy enough to bring such massive firepower down on their heads. To prove it, a tank riddled the wood line with flechettes, cutting down a cloud of trees in one big whoosh.

We checked on our injured comrade throughout the day, built bonfires, slept alfresco, and pulled guard duty. Bob and I guarded the disabled tank and sacked out inside for the hell of it.

In the morning, tanks went their way, we went ours.

During the daily hump, we learned that our injured comrade hadn’t made it. Upsetting? Absolutely. Though we were all pulling for him, grieving would wait until evening camp. Diverting our minds and our senses in the jungle could be fatal.

Jay

Prince Norodom Sihanouk was living the life. He had ruled his fairy tale kingdom of Cambodia for twenty-nine years, first as an eighteen-year-old puppet-king, now as a forty-seven-year-old father-king. He was an adept, occasionally ruthless sovereign, a professional sax player, filmmaker, and actor. He spoke Khmer, French and English, kept a harem and entertained lavishly, infusing a Cambodian sensibility into all he did.

The prince played both sides of the Ho Chi Minh Trail—North Vietnam could build it and the U.S. could bomb it.

In March, 1970, while on a world tour, this cool cat was overthrown by a conservative faction led by Prime Minister Lon Nol and the military. They wanted the Vietnamese out—others weren't so sure—and just like that, Cambodia was on fire.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the grunts of Charlie Company were speculating on their next assignment. Capt. Jackson removed the contents of the manila envelope and flipped the switch on the tape player:

Good morning, gentlemen. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, involves the construction of firebase Jay, six miles from the Cambodian border which may result in certain death. As always, should any of you be caught or killed, the army will disavow any knowledge of you. This tape will self-destruct in ten seconds. Good luck.

Our first firebase! Jay would be one of ten temporary artillery camps hopscotched astride the Cambodian border infiltration routes—sure provocations and tempting targets for the 95-C North Vietnam Army Regiment now moving into the Dog Head.

It was a bit worrying. Our foes were experienced and capable, cunning as foxes and tough as nails. They could roar like the devil. Was the U.S. high command dangling live bait to entice the NVA into revealing their dispositions and strength? Goading them into unprofitable, suicidal attacks? Simply putting a thumb on them?

We packed for a combat assault and they lifted us to a scratch patch of virgin prairie in the jungle, a big open space the size of two or three football fields, seventy miles northwest of Saigon. The usual half dozen to a dozen 105/155 mm high explosive rounds had softened our LZ (landing zone), but what if the bush was hot?

We had a lot to do before nightfall.

What if they attacked before Jay was hardened?

Chinook

Shortly, a giant twin-rotor Chinook helicopter buzzed in, dangling a bulldozer from a heavy chain. The dozer dropped and the fun began—an oval perimeter fashioned from a dirt berm three to four feet high; a fire pit scooped out of the center; a trench for an ammo dump dug four to five feet deep at the far end of the enclosure, in the general area of the CP. The iron bull did all this while the Chinook came and went like an enormous bird building a nest, dropping a Mule (motorized cart), coils of concertina wire, mortars, five artillery pieces and beaucoup ammo.

The jungle heat came at us hard. Shirts came off in the hundred-degree heat and humidity. We filled sandbags and collected empty ammo crates for our bunkers. The air was hot and so was the ground. The sweat dripping down from our head and torsos soaked our pants. We dug foxholes—a steel sheet placed on top made a roof. The 23^rd artillery group arrived to man the mortars and the five-gun battery in the pit. Our M60 machine guns lay moored on the berm, their seasoned barrels pointed at the wood line.

The four-wheel mule dragged shiny coils of concertina razor wire outside the perimeter, releasing them in strategic locations between the berm and the forest; grunts unrolled these barbed Slinkys into seamless entanglements.

The brass arrived. No big deal. We followed instructions and took care of business.

After the last-light patrol sallied forth, battalion CO Lt. Col. Hannas, who was overseeing most of the activity, walked the perimeter of our rude fortress, to check everyone's night readiness.

Like a good neighbor, he would approach an infantryman,

Do you need anything?

Are you ready to go? 

Notice anything in the bush?

He had some guys fire their weapon. No jams allowed. When Hannas got to me, he pointed to a four-inch, fifteen-foot tree, a hundred yards away.

See that tree out there by the wood line. Try to get as close as you can.

M79 Grenade Launcher

I had removed the M79 grenade launcher’s sight system long ago because it was cumbersome and sure to get tangled in the jungle. Using nothing but dead reckoning, I calmly aimed and pulled the trigger. A direct hit ripped out a chunk of the tree, sending bark and wood high into the air.

Applause from the back row.

I guess you can't get any closer than that!

Or luckier.

Later, it was business as usual. As night cloaked the camp, we seeded trip flares and Claymore mines into the wire—at least 95-C  couldn’t be taking notes.

Next came the christening wild west show: big guns and little guns firing randomly at the trees; flares lighting up the night. Jay was alive!

As the cool night air crept in, we set out air mattresses by our bunker, pulled poncho liners over us, lay back and shot the shit. Hannas slept in a cot on the sheet metal roof over the CP. Weather nice, no rain on our private island in the middle of nowhere.

Our squad pulled guard throughout the night, rotating every hour. It was time to use our night vision training. When something moved, we radioed the mortar platoon to pop a flare.

At the break of day, our squad went on first-light patrol, beyond the wire into the tree line, tracing the same path as the last-light patrol had. Bob and I stirred up a hornet’s nest. And I don’t mean that in the metaphorical sense—we both got stung in the eye and they swelled shut. Using our good eye, we made our way back and tracked down the medic. His treatment took two or three days.

We earned the purple eye.

The following week, we had beaucoup down time between patrols and day to day activities. No humping. A chance to write letters home, listen to music and read books. Bob composed poems; I taped the mad minute. We had grown accustomed to Jay, but don’t get me wrong; Vietnam is not Disneyland. Most of us had no use for the army. We were just putting in time to get the hell out.

Still, what was next was straight out of somewhere.

First, Capt. Jackson woke up with heart attack symptoms. Before he left to be checked out, he shook hands with each of us. Nobody was happy that our beloved leader was leaving—Charlie Company had only two KIA during his entire five months.

Next, Alpha Company arrived—the poor souls man-handling a .50 caliber machine gun through the jungle—and our job here was over. After chow on 28 March, Charlie Company squeezed through a gap in the wire to an assembly spot and hiked into the woods under our new CO, Capt. Rice. 

Two Armies, One Firebase

We had gone only a few clicks when it was time to look for a RON (remain overnight position) and camp-out for the evening. Then, an hour before daylight, faint sounds of gunfire disturbed the relaxing sounds of the nighttime jungle air. Dark red clouds rolled over Jay, the baby built with our sweat equity.

At the onset of the assault, a mortar probably intended for the ammo dump landed right between Hannas’ legs. "Lost everything," according to the air waves. Quick work by the medics saved his life—not his legs.

The same round also took out the CP and fire control antennas, disabling Jay’s communications and artillery except for direct fire. Consequently, support from Cobra gunships, tactical air and supporting artillery were delayed until FSB Illingsworth noticed the red glow and contacted Brigade and Division.

Jay was under heavy attack. Rockets, mortars, recoilless rifles and RPGs rained down. Six hundred NVA swarmed out of the woods, blew gaps in the wire and threw themselves at the perimeter.

We prayed that we would not be sent to the rescue, which would mean walking back to Jay through pitch-black jungle, blind and vulnerable to ambush. I didn't know any guys there, but I hoped desperately that they would fight off the invaders and we would be left alone. The call never came. The brass probably figured Jay could handle the fight.

Jay defended with beehives, small arms, and grenades. Some of the insurgents managed to get inside, but all the raiders withdrew at first-light, leaving a whopping 74 unburied, three captured, at the charred and bloody scene. Jay's casualties were 14 killed, 52 wounded. The bunker we built took a direct hit from an RPG, killing two—that could have been us.

A strange mixture of relief and regret surged through me. A thousand eyes had been taking the measure of Jay that day, watching our eight-man squad patrolling out by the tree line, silently holding their fire.

Alpha Company was devastated, but our our Lucky Charms were still working.

Happy Easter.

Jamie

The great question is: How can we win America's peace? 

—Richard Milhous Nixon, Address to the Nation on the War (November 3, 1969)

Strangers in a Strange Land

November 19, 1969. J. R. and I took a small step onto the world stage when we hopped off a Flying Tiger 707 at Cam Ranh Bay, 180 miles North East of Saigon, on a bright sunshiny day.

The communists weren't coming for us; we were coming for them. Neither poets nor conquerors, we were gonna make a statement, even a bad one. We weren't exactly gung ho, but we had been tasked to stop communism here and now, before it spread. At least the weather was nice.

They directed us to a two-story barracks, home until new orders came; you can't go anywhere in the army without orders. We shared a floor with fifty guys and picked out beds from the many empties scattered around. Our clothes and equipment were stashed in duffel bags because lockers were nonexistent. Replacements like us checked in and out every day.

Every morning after chow, the guys in the barracks lined up outside in roll call formation while a bitch box (bullhorn) called out 10-15 names. If you didn't hear your name, you were done for the day.

We lazed around, swam in the South China Sea at the beautiful white sandy beach. Old concrete pillboxes (emplacements) on the beach stared out at the ocean like the heads on Easter Island.

Cam Ranh's military history goes way back. The French used it as a naval base during colonial days. The Russian fleet operated it in 1905. The Japanese Navy used Cam in WWII. The U.S. destroyed most of the Japanese facilities in 1944 and didn't return until 1964 to redevelop the site as a humongous air, army and naval base – the main base in Viet Nam.

The Bay's two ten-thousand foot runways, deep-water port and large stores of ammo and petroleum were open invitations to the enemy. They accepted our offer to die often, without any effect on us.

Ah, let's go to the hop—Danny and the Juniors

At the afternoon rock concerts on the base, the Asian cats and half-naked foxes did a decent job covering American songs like Leaving on a Jet Plane or Green, Green Grass of Home, despite their accents. How they picked the very songs that made us homesick, I'll never know.

Nighttime, we pulled a couple of hours of guard duty in one of the fifty-foot high guard towers. We had guns in our hands again, but no ammo! They didn't trust us.

What use is guard duty without ammo?

Even the traditional Thanksgiving feast with turkey and all the trimmings was very, very good.

Was this a war zone or The Twilight Zone?

After two weeks, our names were called at the morning formation,

You are assigned to Charlie Company, 2nd Battalion, 7th Cavalry of the 1st Cavalry Division currently situated at Fire Support Base Jamie. Get your gear and report back at 1400 hours. May God rest your souls.

May God rest our souls? WTF?

J. R. and I were picked up in a jeep, driven to a chopper and flown west to 1st Cavalry Division in Bien Hoa for a day of indoctrination. To practice abseil (bailing out of a chopper by rope in a combat assault), we climbed up a fifty-foot tower and rappelled down. My harness was attached to a rope with a D-ring. The harness squeezed my gut so tightly I thought I would die. Afterwards, I stashed the D-ring in my backpack. Never needed it again, thank God.

Huey (Doug Howe MP 146th Aviation Company RR)

Jamie

The next day we piled into the back of a Huey with a gunner manning a free gun (a modified M60 machine gun attached to overhead with bungee) at each door. When it landed, we were members of Charlie Company, 2nd Battalion, 7th Cavalry Regiment, twenty miles north of Tay Ninh in the middle of the jungle, five miles from the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

I eyed Jamie, my new home away from home. The hundred-yard oval was enclosed with concertina wire. No gate, no structures, nothing but a mess tent. Everything dusty and dirty from chopper blowby. Far off in the west, Black Virgin Mountain was barely visible.

This is where we split. I went to 2nd platoon and J. R. to 3rd. Until now, the war had been a curiosity, an unknown, a head trip. No longer. The lights were on now.

After introductions to Bob Jackson, Sam Kuehn and the rest of my squad, I ventured,

Can you use a hand like me on the ranch?

Still shittin stateside chow, Jody? 

No, I've been here two weeks.

Sgt. Dunnuck came over—"Killer," for tossing grenades and pumping 16 into NVA taking a bath in a bomb crater.

Gooks won't bother you none. Let's find some gooks and we'll kill 'em. 

 Everybody listened to Dunnuck,

Guess you could say it's a job to do, that's all. Don't mean nuthin. Maybe you get killed or kill him. Better off him than me, any day. You see a dead gook, it don't mean nuthin. Only time you really feel anything is when you see a G.I. messed up. Then it sorta hurts you. 

Favorite phrase?

It don't mean nuthin.

No beads and sandals for this one and—don't, don't, don't take baths in the bush. 

Me in a B-52 bomb crater

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for I am the baddest motherfucker in the valley.—Anonymous

I was the FNG (fucking new guy), an old geezer at twenty-two. The guys explained what to watch out for, how not to get shot or better yet, how not to get someone else shot. They did the talking and were so pleased about me sharing point that I imagined myself in the middle of a highway with a bulls-eye painted on my chest.

Our squad slept in the open or under curved corrugated steel sections covered with sandbags until we built a decent bunker out of ammo boxes and runway steel plates. A firing hole in front faced the wire. Stairs led down to three bunk beds we had made from ammo box wood. But it wasn't completely satisfactory. At night, I could hear pitter-patter and feel rats running over my body like miniature Chihuahuas. It took my breath away. Bob took the hint and slept outside.

We jerry-rigged a can with holes as a shower head. Our showers were warm, courtesy of ol' Sol.

A fire support base is home to artillerists and they counted on a company like ours to provide twenty-four/seven security. A battery of 105 mm and 155 mm howitzers and a mortar section sat in the center of the compound, surrounded by piles of sandbags and ammo boxes filled with dirt. I overheard that Agent Orange (a dangerous herbicide) had been used to clear the base and keep the jungle back.

We made gaps in the concertina wire during the day to let our patrols come and go. The formidable-looking wire was not so secure because the enemy's favorite method of breaching the wire and penetrating the base was to throw ladders or woven mates over the wire or throw themselves on the wire and let their buddies climb over them.

I didn't join the poker games because I didn't want to be broke. Some guys wrote home, others shot the shit, but we all cleaned our weapons assiduously, especially the M60 gunners. The M60 had gobs of parts and fired tons of bullets. During contact, we were more dependent on it than on our M16s. We could not chance it jamming.

The dark silhouette of the Black Virgin Mountain stood out clearly in the blood red sunset. For the evening's entertainment, we took the cheese out of our C rations, smeared it on blasting caps and stuck them in the concertina wire. We hooked up wires to the blasting caps with a clacker (detonator). When the base shot off flares to illuminate the area at night; you hit the clacker and blew away the rats eating the cheese—don't tell PETA.

A small support crew stayed at Jamie. CS Mike was a real joker, driving around in a junky minigun jeep before dark, firing random bursts from his M134 Gatling gun into the woods at 4000 rounds a minute with a great sense of style or dispensing CS (tear) gas into the distant tree line so it would blow through the woods. I always kept track of him because I couldn't handle the blowback. Whenever he got upwind, I scurried away.

We pulled first light and last light patrols at Jamie for the next five or six days. On one of my first patrols, somebody pointed out that the skeletons piled up at the wood line were the remains of human wave attacks against Jamie. They had been doused in diesel, burned, and bulldozed into this appalling mass grave.