Actions of 3rd Platoon

The following discussion of actions focuses on the 3^rd platoon, Fox Company, 2^nd Battalion 9^th Marines during the period of 26-30 March 1969.  One must consider that this account is being written some thirty-four years after the events of four fateful days. Consequently its accuracy must be judged in light of the considerable time past, but in many respects, still vivid memory.

Following Operation Dewey Canyon in the Ashau Valley most of the 9th Marines “stood down” and enjoyed some much deserved in country R+R for a few days  along the beaches near Cua Viet.  All of us recovered from the rigors of the past two and a half months that included the ubiquitous “jungle rot” that infected us all. Sometime thereafter, Fox Company was helolifted to Fire Support Base (FSB) Cates. The 3^rd platoon took over a small hill that overlooked the larger hill that was home to the actual FSB defended by the remainder of the company.

After a brief period at FSB Cates, Captain Sutton notified his platoon commanders that we would be moving out—to be “helolifted” via CH-46 to FSB Fuller situated atop Dong Ha Mt. (Ha meaning mountain in Vietnamese).  Our mission was to clear the vicinity of the FSB that had been subject to heavy automatic weapons fire that had been striking/endangering helicopters on their approach to that position.  As best as memory serves, the 3^rd platoon was the lead platoon into Fuller, and at least the lead helo  (and perhaps others) took several rounds on its final approach.  As it attempted to hover, with its ramp down ready to disgorge its Marines, it was struck and jerked violently into the air.  As it was struck, a Marine fully laden with “many pounds of equipment and ammunition who had been ready to jump from the helo found himself jumping, or better said, falling some 12-15 feet to the LZ below.  As one might expect, he sustained some injuries to his legs and or hips, he was subsequently “medevaced” never to return to the platoon.  As remaining helos approached and discharged Marines, F-4’s pounded nearly hilltops and suspected NVA positions with the familiar combination of “snake and nape”—250lb bombs and napalm.  (Note here: at least one helo made a forced landing on Route 9, unable to reach either Vandergrift or Quang Tri, secondly two members of the platoon recall our turning back on initial attempts to land on Fuller on the 25^th of March due to heavy fire. This may well be the case but not an event I can recall.)

Assembling the company on FSB Fuller, took some time, and indeed, a last minute helo arrived with mail and some new replacements for the company as we set off.  The 1^st platoon remained on FSB Fuller to provide enhanced security.  Moving down from FSB Fuller the going was rather difficult despite the fact that most of it was down hill.  Eventually establishing a position on a grassy knoll some 1200 (straight-line) meters south east of Dong Ha Mt., the company started to settle in and establish positions a little before dusk.  As darkness approached the 2nd platoon came under fire.  Almost simultaneously at one of 3^rd platoon’s machine gun positions that we had sited on the trial we had used to move into position a North Vietnamese blundered into the position and was promptly killed. I cannot recall exactly but a number of Marines from the 2^nd platoon were wounded, notable among them was to the best of my recollection, the platoon guide.  Whatever the case, the wounded were evacuated and the next morning the company swept around the position discovering several North Vietnamese machine gun positions (Circular holes-5-6 feet in diameter and perhaps 4 feet deep that could accommodate their 12.7 mm MG and tripod).  Policing up NVA equipment and dead took some time and it must have been late morning or early afternoon before the company struck off almost due east towards Dong Ma Mt., a large rounded hill mass covered in relatively short (12-18”) elephant grass.  The sky was relatively clear and the heat and humidity were absolutely oppressive—even for Vietnam.  Moving up to Dong Ma Mt. was no easy task and keeping the Marines on line and spread out for the last 500-600 meters, partially uphill, required a good deal of “moving” up and down the line as well as my most persuasive language.  Finally getting to the top of Dong Ma the company “dug-in” and tired to the bone settled in for the night.  During this evening of the 27^th after darkness fell some NVA, who must not have known of the company’s presence, carrying resupply that included a sack of rice were engaged by the platoon with grenades and limited rifle fire. The next morning three dead NVA were located 20-25 meters from our position. 

As we policed up the NVA dead, I’m a bit uncertain here but either and OV-10 or a helo “beat up” a small knob some 300 meters to the east, north east of our present position; we’d be moving across that knob as we moved towards Hill 126.  With the 1^st squad in the lead, the platoon led the company off of Dong Ma Mt. down a small draw, towards that unnamed small knob that had received “attention” from Marine air earlier that morning.

Initially moving parallel to that position the point man left the trail and moved straight up the hill towards the top of that small but deadly position.  As he approached the crest of the hill, a light machine gun opened up on him from very close range.  He must not have been killed immediately in that it was later discovered that he had a grenade in his hand with the pin pulled.  After he went down two other Marines rushed forward and both were killed almost instantly.  Both of these Marines had been with the platoon for several months and were well-liked “old hands” whose presence, along with that of the point man would be sadly missed.  I ordered the 2^nd squad on line to sweep the back side of the knob.  The squad immediately drew a heavy volume of automatic weapons fire as well as well as a number of Chicom grenades.  In all too brief a period of time they sustained several casualties.  Notified that “air” was on its way, I pulled the squad and platoon back down the small draw.  In this process we took some fire from a 12.7 MG from a hill mass some 600-800 meters to our immediate rear.  One of our alert machine gunners quickly returned deadly, telling fire on the enemy position. Somewhere in the course of all this I presume Captain Sutton worked the air into vicinity of our position.

Following the air strikes, we policed up the NVA position, searched the NVA dead for anything that might be of intelligence value and evacuated our dead and wounded and now excess equipment.  In the continuing oppressive heat of the early afternoon,  I recall during this period the only heat warning I ever received being relayed from battalion over the company net,  the company pressed on to a small ridge line south, south east of Hill 126.

Moving towards the ridge/hill, the platoon was moving in single file and descended into a deep and steep gully or small gorge.  About half way down this terrain feature, one of the nearby Marines motioned to me pointing to the top of the ridgeline. I immediately looked up and saw three of four NVA moving along the ridgeline.  Owing to our precarious and exposed position with the enemy moving about the hill or ridge to our immediate front, above us, I ordered our 60mm mortar team “up” and to commence engaging the ridge line, and simultaneously yelled for all to hear—to get to the top of the ridge line—NOW!! The mortar team found its mark quickly and after dropping packs the 3^rd platoon swept up to and over the objective without incident.  However, it was becoming obvious that there were NVA scattered all about the area and that the going was to get no easier. Since the platoon’s 60mm tube had been found to have a hair line crack in the tube after Operation Dewey Canyon, we were now using a Chicom 61mm mortar that filled the bill quite nicely, though its shorter tube deprived us of the maximum range we had been accustomed to—its max range with US ammunition was approximately 1500 meters.

We set up for  the evening on the ridge and the company commander called his platoon commanders together to look over the next day's immediate objective—Hill 126.   Some 600 or perhaps 800 meters almost due north.  There was virtually no cover or concealment in the approach to Hill 126l.  3^rd platoon would take the point in moving along the terrain -- rolling gently down and then up along broad, rounded fingers covered in short elephant grass.  I recall looking at Hill 126 from  that evening position on 28 March; its striking feature,  that remains with me to this day,  was several large boulders,  that for all the world looked to me like tombstones. This was an impression that for understandable reasons I kept to myself. The next morning dawned bright and hot.  Several artillery rounds struck on or near Hill 126, an OV-10 came on station and the artillery ceased. The 3^rd squad took the lead, a fire team as well as gun team on line with fire teams to either flank of the line, fire teams echeloned left and right respectively—some 16 Marines in all.  The remainder of the platoon moved at staggered column with attention to our flanks.  Moving deliberately the lead squad reached the base of the hill and moved past the “boulders” and into the tree line on Hill 126.  They proceeded on to the reverse slope (back side of the hill towards the north), where they were to set up a 180—defensive position covering Hill 126 from any enemy to our north.  As I got adjacent to the “boulders,” all hell broke loose, with fire from our front as well as left flank.  As I came to fully realize later, within that first 15 –20 seconds or perhaps less, two of my Marines were killed and several were wounded.  The remainder of the platoon moved forward -–suppressing enemy fire, attempting to reach our dead and wounded.  Attempts to recover wounded Marines brought more casualties to include a squad leader who was severely wounded in proximity to one of his wounded Marines, a Marine who was killed by the impact of what was then described as an RPG.  Fighting continued in some ferocity for an hour or so with more Marines wounded and one more 3^rd platoon Marine killed.  On this day by 1030 or so, the platoon suffered four killed and 10-12 wounded, and things were not going to get better any time soon. In the intervening time between the initial contact and 1000-1030, the company commander ordered the 2nd platoon with elements of a squad of third platoon to sweep the left rear (west side) of Hill 126.  An OV-10 was on station, and I imagine the observer requested that the two platoons mark their positions so he could judge how much room he had to employ air or artillery.  I ordered 3rd platoon Marines near me down to the right (east) side of the hill to get them under cover for the anticipated assault of the 2nd platoon that would be coming up the west side of the hill.   Smoke grenades were thrown in the direction of the other platoon, almost immediately the observer noted over the net that the smoke grenades had crossed in flight—the NVA and Marines of Fox Company was now “belly-to belly”—there was no room for the use of supporting arms. The strength of the NVA positions was substantial and the 2^nd platoon suffered a number of casualties in attempting to link up with the rest of the company on Hill 126. Some time after this the NVA made an unsuccessful bid to seize the crest of the hill.

Without the prospect of linking up with the 2nd platoon, we eventually shortened out lines on Hill 126, and the company commander coordinated efforts to medevac the most seriously wounded and get delivery of additional ammunition and medical supplies. The first effort at medevac was turned back due to heavy fire from several NVA machine gun positions that ringed Hill 126.  Getting on towards dusk an Army UH-I arrived on scene and “dumped” several crates of ammunition and took aboard our most seriously wounded. This pilot saved the life of at least one Marine, who surely would have bled to death.

As the day wore on sporadic fighting and jockeying for position took place and finally the “OV” was able to get off some well placed 2.75” rockets to the immediate north of our lines on Hill 126.   Probing by the NVA lasted well past midnight , and finally the heaviest of the fighting ended, but not before “PUFF” silenced at least one heavy machinegun position with its “minigun” shortly after midnight.  Dawn brought the quick realization that the NVA had broken contact. As we gathered our dead and treated our wounded Echo 2/9 moved into and reinforced our position.  With “our hill” policed up, late in the morning of the 30^th, the approximately 16 Marines of the 3^rd platoon (to include some with minor wounds) moved off in trace of the 2nd platoon towards Route 9.  Enroute the company passed over a hill from which we had taken fire on the 28th, around what obviously was a heavy machine gun position lay several NVA blood soaked battle dressings. Boarding trucks on Route 9, we traveled to Vandergrift Combat Base where we rejoined two of our number who had been on R&R.  It took them some time to come to grips with the fact that one six-by (truck) had delivered the entire 3^rd platoon to Vandergrift. The platoon that they had left a few short days before was no more.  A platoon that had been “golden” (free of combat casualties) for so long, had been decimated in every sense of the word. Two days after returning to Vandergrift a memorial service was held for the Marines of Fox Company killed in the course of two especially dreadful days of March, 1969. Days that changed all who were there; days that make every Memorial Day and every flag draped coffin, a time of vivid memory of Marines who gave their all 34 years ago in a far off land.

Four Miles West of Cam Lo

Remembering 25 to 31 March 1969

        This is just one remembrance of a long ago and far away time and place where lives were lost or forever changed. It is not the detailed strategic picture the then 3rd platoon Commander Walt Wood thoughtfully and thankfully drew for us several years ago. Nor is it the meaningful gift left to us by Steve Poundstone from the 3rd platoon with his photo essay documenting his courageous return to Dong Ma Mt. and Hill 126. The memory and perspective here are mine. Both can be dimmed not just by time but by circumstances; and that was a week filled with fatigue, dehydration and anxiety. Looking back I was amazed by what I could remember, and equally amazed by what I could not. I was a Lance Corporal then, language trained and not fully ITR prepared, carrying the M-79 grenade launcher in the 1st squad 2nd platoon led by Cpl. Paul “P.J.” Baker. That squad, and to a lesser extent the entire platoon and company, were my tiny yet entire universe. Every grunt, in any war, can relate to that curious intimacy. There it is.

        The month of March has come and gone more than 40 times since March 1969. Since then, eight different men have served as Commander in Chief presiding over our nation and the lives, and deaths, of other Marines. The number, if not always the quality, of major professional sports franchises has easily tripled. There are 100 million more Americans now than there were then; and even Raquel Welch, Tina Turner, and Ann Margaret have turned seventy. A remarkable invention called the Internet has brought us closer together and in some ways driven us further apart. If you’re like me, you are now confused by what is beneath the hood of your car but the inside is still filled with the sounds of Temps, Tops and Stones.

        I do not recall when, precisely, we began referring to those days as merely “Hill 126.” Perhaps in the immediate and lonely aftermath in the large billeting tents at Vandergrift. Tents that suddenly filled with so many new faces. Maybe it was some badge of honor, as in, “Hey boot, y’all get behind us in chow line… We were on Dewey Canyon and 126.” The title here, “Four Miles West of Cam Lo,” is taken from the 9th Marines unit diary and its casualty listing of that week, giving that location beside the names of each of the Fox Company Marines listed as KIA or WIA. That Unit Diary, pages badly worn and missing as they were, served as a forensic need to accurately remember much. So, too, did letters written home that had survived years and more; and a green and faded squad leader’s notebook, lovingly preserved in plastic. Still, my own memory would have been inadequate were it not for the four special voices of four very special men.

        Their names are Jim Dietz, Charlie Mikelonis, Ray Schreiber and Rob Drellich… Each of them lived these days and each has his own compelling story. Significantly, I barely knew any of them that week; yet in the necessary reshuffling of the 2nd platoon deck that followed, forged a close forever bond until rotation. Their contributions here were invaluable, drawn from countless emails over a period of months. Often, memories evolved or were compared in a lone sentence to, or from, New York, Cleveland, Baltimore, Illinois and Florida: “Didn’t Browning get hit on 126?” “Anybody remember which Corpsman patched up Sgt. Trunk the first day or the one who went into the tree line with us on 126?” “Who was the little Chicano in Fincher’s gun team” Anyone remember anything about the third night out?”

        We are alive, and with us the memories. I was nineteen then; a thought that is never lost when I watch my son, Paul, nineteen, when he studies, laughs or shares moments with his girlfriend. Some people go to war and lose everything. Some go to war and find that life, and God, have given them a second chance. Use it well. Semper Fi.

            The operation was never given a name. I know, because for a time I was obsessed with giving it one. After the success of, and attention given to, Operation Dewey Canyon, such formality seemed to lend a sense of history and purpose to the infantry routine of waiting for something to happen then hoping it would stop. Now I was asking my squad leader Paul Baker, again, if there was a name given to what we were about to do. Paul patiently shook his head, again, then resumed briefing his three fire team leaders, Charlie Mikelonis, Ray Johnson, and the one who smoked a pipe whose name I could never remember. The Company was to be choppered to Fire Support Base (FSB) Fuller, where, with the 1st platoon remaining behind in reserve and security, our platoon the 2nd and the 3rd platoon, would then sweep down into, and across, Dong Ha Valley. In the green radioman’s notebook, of which I was the temporary caretaker, I dutifully recorded each bit of necessary information Paul related to us. His expectations for what each squad member would carry in terms of ammunition, rations, and water. The additional responsibilities and logistics delegated to team leaders and the assigned M-60 machine gun team. The radio brevity codes and map coordinates. The names and medevac numbers of returning squad members and replacements. One of the returning squad members was Fast Frank, the radioman whose position I had inherited a month earlier when he was medevaced for a badly infected leg. Fast Frank was large, slow and a chain smoker and had been given the name Fast Frank, because that platoon already included a Big Frank and a Pall Malls Frank. His return meant I would inherit another position, the M-79 grenade launcher carried by Ray Johnson. As he departed the briefing Ray exchanged weapons with me. He, taking my M-16 and fifteen or more magazines; and I, his M-79, canvass bags and bandoleers of M-79 rounds, and the .45 pistol in its worn belt and holster. “Goodbye and good luck to that,” said Ray, kicking the heavy canvass bags. I checked the bag’s weight, lamenting immediately that I was now a former radioman instead of a present grenadier.

            From above, FSB Fuller appeared to be no more than a long, thin rock, peppered with bunkers, guns, and helicopter landing strips. As we circled and began our descent, a rumor that the preceding transport had taken hostile fire spread through the chopper as did the assorted false bravado calls of “Get some.” But we landed without incident, exited quickly, and were moved just as quickly to our positions on the lines. From those lines, on the high rugged fortress, the numerous shades of Vietnam green could be seen, near and far through the beginnings of late afternoon fog. Only the many strands of claymore wires leading from our positions, and over the steep edges of FSB Fuller, were an indication of what else was out there. When our Platoon Guide, and acting Platoon Sergeant, Sgt Mike Trunk, stopped by our position to give Paul the familiar red nylon bag containing the squad’s mail, I asked him if this operation had a name. Sgt. Trunk, noting, Paul’s exasperation with my question, winked at him and said, “P.J., you tell your new bloop man here, that if he gets himself killed tomorrow, we’re gonna call this The Operation Where Swiers Was Wasted.”  I never tired of dark Marine humor.

            He wanted to know about the sometime additional letters that followed the standard initials followed by four numbers. I explained that FTLSP meant Fire Team Leader Smokes Pipe and that the WGWG following the numbers of the recent replacements, mean White Guy With Glasses. Fast Frank disgustedly waved off any further explanations for my abbreviated reminders, then solemnly told me, “P.J. counts on this stuff.” I turned away and began counting the M-79 rounds in my canvass bags so that I could alternately complain, and boast, about how many I carried.

            In the remaining daylight Paul and I read our mail, trading newspaper clippings and stories from a world away. Although we had not met before the chance and circumstance of Vietnam cast us together our homes were twenty miles apart in upstate New York. In the world we now lived in I, alone, called him Paul, rather than P.J., and I think for him it was a welcome connection to home. Even in a Marine Corps rich in the tradition of selfless sacrifice and courage, Paul Baker was undeniably special. He had walked away, just walked away, from full academic and athletic scholarships to enlist for the infantry in Viet Nam. And he had done it, as he had matter of factly explained, because it was the right thing to do.

            It was still dark, very dark, in the morning when the 1st platoon filled in our section of the lines so that we could begin walking off of, and down from, FSB Fuller. It was immediately clear that even in daylight, the walk down on the narrow rocky path would have been slow and difficult. The walk soon became a collective slow movement of stumbles and falls, with squads and fire teams and both platoons becoming entangled, feeling blindly about for support. There were loud whispers of “friendly” from below as trip flares were overlooked and stepped upon, and the clatter of weapons dropped brought frequent warnings to “check safeties.” The heavy canvass bags I carried on each shoulder gave me an impossible momentum causing me to sway right, then left, reaching for something or someone to steady my fall or tripping over anyone who had fallen in front of me. Daylight and bottom arrived simultaneously, and we fell into line behind Captain Sutton and his sizable Company Command Post, who had fallen into line behind the 3rd platoon who were following the trail ahead of them. From the start, it was one of those agonizing movements that grunts hate most. Walking very slowly, then, incredibly, even slower. A few short steps, a brief pause, and a few more steps. Standing for long minutes at a time, then beginning a quick pace that quickly became a pause. Packs grew heavier in the routine, the hot and humid little air more difficult to breathe. In three or four more long hours little ground had been covered. At noon, came the inevitable heat casualties. Directly in front of me Fast Frank staggered then collapsed heavily. He had been limping badly after falling several times during the descent from Fuller but this was more serious. Paul and Doc Tom, the Second Platoon corpsman immediately helped him from the radio frame pack, his helmet and flak jacket. Doc Tom felt for a pulse and emptied a canteen, then another over Fast Frank’s pale face and chest. “He’s got to go out, P.J.,” said Doc Tom, before turning toward Lt. Shaw and Sgt. Trunk. “Better tell the Skipper this is an emergency medevac…. And I got two more, in Foster’s and Liner’s squads in trouble too.” The terrain we were on did not necessitate much preparation for a landing zone and a helicopter landed then departed with Fast Frank and three others. Our respite continued as we were told to look for available shade and drink water. Nobody could recall a time in their tour when the day had been hotter or more humid; then somebody said they had overheard the Captain say the next few days were expected to be worse. I damned the two bulging canvass bags on the ground beside me and promised myself to tell Paul that evening I would be willing to carry the radio once again. As we prepared to move, there was an eerie omen off to our front. A helicopter, unseen and listing nearby, mounted with loudspeakers and speaking Vietnamese to an invisible enemy, encouraging surrender. A sobering reminder that heat was not our only foe.

            Late afternoon, and word that we were setting in for the night, were forever coming but, thankfully, had arrived. And, thankfully, the positions we were assigned in the perimeter’s night defense, would require little heavy digging or clearing of fields of fire. Where we dropped our packs and began to dig the ground was uncommonly fine and easily turned up. To our front, and to our left and right, there was nothing before us but grass for fifty feet, and, beyond that, a field of chest high grass rolling to a tree line one hundred years away. Just freeing myself of my pack and canvass bags had energized me and I dug quickly beside one of the white guys wearing glasses who had, for the moment, become a temporary radioman. Our squad was given responsibility for the Company’s Observation Post (O.P.) which Paul assigned to Charlie Mikelonis’s fire team. Charlie effortlessly lifted the squad’s radio up and onto his back and led his team down to the left, and outward until they disappeared into the tall grass.

 It began with a burst of M60 machine gun fire coming from the 3rd platoon’s lines. Then a pause and several explosions and gunfire from where Charlie had led the O.P. Then more gunfire from our direct front, the rounds zinging over our heads. Paul told me to fire my M-79 at the tree line far to our front and I quickly elevated the weapon slightly and sent a projectile precisely where I was told to. Pleased and surprised by my accuracy, I reloaded and fired and kept reloading and firing. Lieutenant Shaw told Paul that Charlie’s O.P. was not responding on its radio and Paul raced to the spot where Charlie had taken his team into the tall grass calling loudly all the while for Charlie to bring his team back to the perimeter. Within seconds Charlie’s familiar bush hat could be seen bobbing above the grass and moving toward our lines. Paul called for the other fire teams to give Charlie’s team covering fire and I moved forward to ten feet before the tall grass to continue firing at the tree line ahead. Then came Sgt. Trunk. He appeared close and on my left, as if written there by a Hollywood screenwriter, firing an M-60 machine gun from, first, his shoulder, and then his hip. The gun kicking and bucking as he poured burst after burst, long and short, into and above the waist high grass. Little Calvin Woods, from Woody Gamble’s gun team, ran to his side carrying another belt of M-60 ammunition, and it was then that the gun shots, so loud and close they seemed like explosions, slammed into Sgt. Trunk knocking him backward and to the ground. Little Calvin and I dropped to each of his sides where Sgt. Trunk was grimacing in pain, bleeding, from three wounds spaced across his chest; and each of us, hooking one of his arms, began dragging him from our stomachs back to the lines. When I raised my head, calling loudly for a corpsman, I saw the objects fluttering from the grass, the chicom grenades coming toward us end over end. I lowered my face, awaiting the explosions that followed. One, then a second, third, and fourth; at our feet, off to our sides, and another in the air above. Wondering if I had been hit, I looked across Sgt. Trunk’s body into little Calvin’s round, ebony face and saw the blood above his eye. We continued dragging Sgt. Trunk expecting more chicoms to follow but the squad had seen where, and how close, the chicoms had been thrown from, and were already throwing grenades back. I turned as a grenade coming from Charlie’s fire team, thrown by Stays Destasio from Toledo, so thin he always seemed transparent, traveled in a high arc and plopped a few feet into the grass. The resulting muffled explosion sent a pith helmet spinning five feet into the air and with it and end to the incoming fire.

The medevac chopper that came for Sgt. Trunk, still conscious, arrived quickly and was preceded by a helicopter gunship that passed over, into the tree line. Charlie returned the squad radio to our position where we had resumed digging and, mumbling, “broke,” set it before Hooper, the platoon radioman, who was waiting to examine it. Then, Charlie muttered a “bad day” turning to show us the seat of his pants, which were badly torn and spotted with blood. Paul told Charlie he would get a Purple Heart but that new trousers might be more difficult to request. “Hey, Charlie Baltimore,” said Hooper, “here’s your radio problem right here.” Hooper pointed out the bullet hole at dead center in the radio that Charlie had worn upon his back. “Wow,” was all that Charlie could say. It was all any of us could say.

 The night passed without tension or incident. Perhaps because we convinced ourselves that the NVA were all dead or gone, or perhaps they were. An hour into morning there was no word as to when we would be leaving and where. Another hour into the morning it was already uncomfortably hot as the sound of artillery could be heard at a distance. In the tree line before us, where I had fired the afternoon before, there was a crash and puff of white smoke then two much louder crashes as high explosive rounds followed. Perhaps the daily routine of FSB Fuller; perhaps an indication that we were about to patrol there. Now, directly below our position, one of the other platoon’s squads, either Corporal Foster’s or Sgt. Liner’s, began walking through and around the grass from where the NVA had fired upon us. Clearing a wide semi-circle using machetes or their rifles to cut or flatten the grass as objects upon the ground began to take shape. Lieutenant Shaw escorted Captain Sutton, the Gunny, and others down to the area. Bodies, dressed in khaki, were pulled up from the ground; weapons were brought into view then tagged by someone. Pockets were turned inside out by others, the contents bagged, and photographs taken. Two AK-47 rifles, and a machine gun on a tripod were carried away.

Doc Tom and the senior Company Corpsman came to our squad’s position to re-examine the chicom wounds they had treated and cleaned they day before and again, hours earlier. Each of the wounds, to five members of the squad, had initially been designated as a non-priority medevac, and now, with a helicopter available within an hour, there was no need to risk infection to the wounds. Four squad members, Little Calvin, the team leader who smoked a pipe, Stays, and one of the white guys who wore glasses would be leaving us; Charlie, and his torn trousers, would remain with us. Some of the wounds, the Company Corpsman observed, had come from chicoms that were of the concussion variety, a fact that should be brought to the attention of the intelligence officer assigned to the company for the operation. When I asked him why that was important he acted stunned by my ignorance. “They use them at night when they overrun chumps like us who are wandering around out here,” he said. I was sorry I had asked.

Paul knelt beside the fire team leader, who was attempting to pack his pipe with a bandaged hand. He asked him to collect all of the full canteens, rifle magazines, grenades and c-rations from those who were being medevaced and, as a special favor, asked him to exchange trousers with Charlie. Then he thanked him, shook his hand, and said goodbye. Our squad, which had been dramatically increased in size when the operation began, was now, less than twenty four hours later, dramatically reduced.

Noon came, and when it seemed it could not get hotter it did. Noon came, and with it rumors that we were moving out shortly, or not moving at all because of the heat. A helicopter arrived with a resupply behind us, and departed with our medevacs and the captured NVA weapons and documents. All along the lines minimal watches were set up in positions exposed to the sun so that others could rest in the shaded areas further inside the perimeter. Paul bounced about with uncommon energy and using a collection of sticks, rifles, poncho liners and bootlaces, and all the creativity of an Eagle Scout, fashioned an impressive overhead for our hole that would accommodate three or four with shade. So impressed was he with his creation that he invited Charlie and Ray over for Kool-Aid and a discussion on re-aligning the squad personnel.

I walked down to look at the NVA positions. Perhaps ten feet from where the ground was littered with the casings from my M-79 rounds, and the casings from the rounds fired by Sgt. Trunk, I saw the first hole. In it were two dead NVA, one on top of the other, a leg sticking straight up. I wondered if they had shot Sgt. Trunk, wondered if they had even seen what they were shooting at from the high grass, wondered how long they had waited there. The second hole was an almost perfect circle, perhaps four feet in diameter, and nearly as deep. There was heavy cardboard flooring, stained with blood and bloody clothing, shell casings scattered about. As I stood there two Marines, from the Third Platoon, shirtless, one black, one white, walked up and peered down as well. “Ever notice how we never find any of their tools?” said the first Marine. “How do they make those things?” “Go talk to the dude from intelligence,” said the second. “They must know somethin’ ‘bout somethin’.” 

“P.J. told me to check you.” It was Doc Tom kneeling beside me. I sat up, looked around me, and fell back again taking a deep breath of what now seemed like air.

“Too much for you northern boys?” laughed Doc Tom. “Gunny says we all got soft after Dewey canyon.”

I picked up my bags and pack then dragged and kicked them down and to the left where Paul and Ray Johnson’s fire team were completing two positions.

“Hey Sleeping Beauty,” said Paul, “we got some good news while you were out… Mike Trunk is okay and doing well.”

Mumbling an apology I took the entrenching tool from Paul’s hand and half-heartedly began to scoop the dirt and bank it. The squad’s radio had not been replaced and Paul had wanted a position joining that of a 3rd platoon squad leader where a radio would be close. There was the sound of laughter and the smell of cooking c-rations coming from the position of the Third Platoon’s fire team at our left. I had neither a sense of humor nor an appetite and wanted only to go back to sleep.

I had just been awakened for my watch when I heard the voice at my left. Speaking softly at first and then louder. Then the crackling and whooshing of the nearby radio and a much louder voice. I crawled quickly into a hole where one of Ray Johnson’s men was poised, claymore detonator in hand. Then the familiar pinging sounds to the left, spoons flying from grenades in flight. From below us explosions, and more explosions. Now Paul squeezed into the position beside me and we pulled pins from grenades and threw them out into the dark. More grenades thrown from our left and more explosions from below. Then silence. Nobody moved or spoke. Nobody went back to sleep for what seemed the longest time.

At first light, two fire teams from the 3rd platoon moved down the hill, their rifles at the ready. Someone called back up to the perimeter that a dead NVA had been found. Then another was found. And a third one. We sat at and around our positions while the routine from the morning before was repeated and a delegation from the Company C.P. went below. Paul prepared, and offered me, some c-ration cocoa while we waited. Other squad members came by to wait with us. Charlie said it was getting close now to opening day and that his Orioles would do better than his Colts had done. Somebody from Woody’s gun team said that opening day was only for fishing and someone from Ray’s team said that Easter was a few days away. Paul prepared more cocoa and passed the canteen cup to someone. We waited. I asked Paul to explain the game of lacrosse to me. Someone asked if this was Good Friday.

At a distance, where the elements of the 3rd platoon were patrolling came the sharp intermingled sounds of brr-ahp, ke-keh, brr-ahp, a deadly dance of M-16s and AK-47s. Then the     long rhythmic bursts from and M-60 machine gun. The firing grew, stopped, resumed, then stopped completely.

We were up and moving again. A short crisp walk to where we were joined by the returning patrol, then further on to where we would remain for the night.

We moved into the partial shade of the trees, circling widely as we moved to begin forming the night’s perimeter. The perimeter size and shape defined, Paul told us to sit then moved off to the squad leaders meeting. None of us sat in any sense of the word; we performed the weary grunt maneuver of a half pirouette, a slight crouch, and a collapse backward allowing our packs to absorb the fall. Mosquitoes, oddly absent for the operation until now, were thick and everywhere, because, as someone observed, until this moment it had been too miserable and hot even for them. When Paul returned he paced off and marked the four positions that would be our squad’s responsibility that night. We dug in, and as entrenching tools thumped into, and scooped the earth, machetes thwacked out, and trimmed, fields of fire. Positions satisfactorily prepared, we sat at or behind them while Doc Tom came by to check on everything from old wounds to new blisters, from water consumption to jungle rot, from one pill for this to two pills for that. Then, while some placed claymore mines and trip flares deep in the field of fire, others ate c-rations, cleaned weapons, re-read old letters, smoked, or napped.

I was pleased at dark to draw the coveted first watch at my position but much too quickly found myself fighting sleep. It was the enduring riddle of any watch; the struggle to stay awake, then, once relieved, the impossibility of falling immediately asleep. I fidgeted about the hole, moving from side to side, back to front. Listening for sounds or the absence of sounds; emboldening myself by touching the claymore detonator and row of grenades before me on the hole’s rim. Over and over I held the wristwatch close to my eyes studying the grimy face, convinced the hands weren’t moving fast enough or not at all. Paul startled me when he dropped into the hole beside me, and instinctively I told him I was awake, though I wondered if I had been. I sat with him as he prepared to begin his own watch then asked him if tomorrow would be as bad as everyone seemed to think it would be. After a long pause he said, “Stay close tomorrow.” Then, perhaps sensing I was not comforted, said it again. I asked him if he wanted me to sit for a while, shamelessly hoping he would, instead, tell me to get some sleep. “Get some sleep,” he said.

On the morning of March 29^th, 1969, in Quang Tri Provence, the 3rd platoon moved through our position, to begin to walk to the day’s objective. They moved casually, some joking, others taking the final drags from cigarettes or canteens. One was especially casual, wearing sunglasses, cap at an angle, a toothbrush in his mouth. I turned uncomfortably away, mindful that since the operation began the 3rd platoon had spent disproportionate time on point and at risk. We followed behind them, leaving the sanctuary of the evening perimeter for the hot, bright uncertain day. We would be walking, we were told, to a nearby hill, to await an afternoon re-supply of, most importantly, water, and most probably, remaining there for the evening in deference to the heat. It became clear immediately that the heat this day would be at least as unforgiving as the previous days. We crossed open terrain, thick with waist high elephant grass; terrain so open and elevated that the helmeted head of the point man was visible at a distance. Then turns to the left, to the right, and to the left once again, to navigate a series of ridges, before two large rocks came into view at the left front. And, beyond those rocks, trees. We paused, moving closer together, while the 3rd platoon advanced up to, and into, the trees; collapsing as we paused, hands pulling canteens from pockets, belts and from around and inside of packs.The intense gunfire seemed to come from everywhere. I lifted my eyes from the ground where I lay and could see Lieutenant Shaw calling for the Platoon’s squad leaders to come forward, his radio operator, Hooper, holding the crackling handset to his face. “Third’s catchin’ it real bad,” said Hooper. I thought of the Marine in the sunglasses who had been brushing his teeth.

           Paul Baker gathered his squad in a half circle and, kneeling before us, seemed at once, the accomplished athlete he was, a quarterback calmly announcing a play. We would be following Foster’s squad into the chest high razor sharp elephant grass, crawling until we reached the other side of the hill. The remaining squad and the mortar team would, for now, remain behind. Then, looking each of us in the eye, one after the other, Paul told us to leave our packs behind and bring nothing other than our fighting gear. Packs were dropped, bandoleers draped, and grenades jammed into pockets. I put a canteen into each of my thigh pockets and, noticing that Paul had removed and tossed aside his flak jacket, did the same. As we plunged into the grass, crawling on our stomachs in the wake of the narrow path that Foster’s squad had left we could hear the sound of constant gunfire growing louder off to our right. The air below the grass seemed on fire, impossible to breathe and the blades sliced at any exposed skin. We crawled on, stopping only briefly when gunfire above our heads neatly cut the stalks, harmlessly dropping them upon us. Finally, we moved down and into a rocky, dry stream bed, gasping at the hot and humid air that, still, was a welcome change from the oven that had been the tall grass.

          The gunfire above was louder and more intense now where the 3rd platoon was engaged. I removed a canteen from my pocket, opened it, and offered it to Woody the tall black machine gunner from Baltimore. Woody drank, then gagged and nodded his gratitude for what turned out to be hot, vile, orange Kool-Aid. It was Ray Johnson’s fire team that was dispatched along the stream bed, as a reconnaissance for what was ahead. Within a few minutes there was the sound of gunfire from the direction he had gone; and within another minute Ray and his fire team returned. He told Lieutenant Shaw and Paul that they had come upon a number of NVA running across the stream bed and moving up the hill. With Foster’s squad filing by us to take the point, we fell in line behind them and moved at intervals along the stream bed looking off to our right and the sounds of gunfire. When the Lieutenant halted us, he faced us to our right, and the hill with foliage, thick at spots, took shape. On the left and on to the front there was the familiar pop of a smoke grenade and it was then, the Lieutenant, who spoke. “On line… Watch for friendlies.” The words were repeated in loud whispers along the formation. And then, from above, came the absolutely deafening sound of absolute silence.

          Paul was on my left as we began to slowly move up to the slight grade. He looked at me and repeated the words he had spoken to me the night before. “Stay close,” he said before adding, “We’re gonna get our asses kicked.” He moved in front of me and to my right, and was there when the khaki blur suddenly appeared and fired two quick shots into his heart. I fired my M-79 into the mound from where the NVA had fired, the projectile bouncing and then moving onward to explode harmlessly. Inches from my right ear there were a half dozen cracks from the rifle of Hooper, the radioman, and the movement at the mound stopped. Then, the entire hill violently exploded to the left, and right, and front.

          On my left, ten feet to my front, Woody had advanced his M-60, firing long bursts. I moved beside him, hoping, looking, for a place, anywhere, to fire my M-79. There were too many obstructions, and the rounds flying over our heads and tearing up the ground feet in front of us indicated that we were the targets of more than a few. We inched backward on our stomachs, away from the rounds coming from our left, Woody continuing all the while, to fire above. Now, one, two, three or more chicoms came fluttering down at us, bouncing off trees and bushes and exploding loudly but ineffectively. “Need ya ta feed me,” said Woody, flipping the cover of his M-60 and inserting a belt of rounds. “Like that, man.”

          On and on it went. When Woody’s ammo was nearly spent I located a can behind us and when I returned with it, the hot casings from his bursts slammed into my face, momentarily convincing me I had been hit from a chicoms. There came a quick and silent pause, and we looked about and behind us searching for a friendly face. Back and to the left, Lieutenant Shaw was speaking into the radio handset, back and to the right lay Paul Baker, his eyes open and fixed. Then the firing resumed. Again. 

          At the next pause, it seemed much later. I opened a canteen and handed it to Woody. “Ain’t that Koo-Aid boo-sheet is it?” he seemed to almost laugh.

          The first voice sounded like Charlie Mikelonis, “Hey guys we’re leaving.” The second, like Hooper’s drawl, “Hey, Y’all up there, c’mon.” But the third voice, was Lieutenant Shaw’s,     calling up and to my right, where Paul lay motionless, “Baker… Baker.” Then, I heard my own voice say, “He’s dead, Sir.”

          Woody and I moved at a crouch, down and to the left, following the tiny staggering procession of what had been our squad, careful to look for hostile movement from above and from over our shoulders. There, to our right front, lay the bodies of Charlie Martin and Mike Kelly, from Ray Johnson’s fire team. I recalled, a week before at FSB Cates, how Charlie, Alabama born and bred, had learned from home that he had become a father and sang over and over an insufferable country song with the insufferable lyric, “Big daddy’s Ala-bammy bound.” Sang it over and over until Kelly, raised in the shadow of Motown, offered him a precious c-ration pecan cake roll if he would only stop. But Charlie kept singing. They had apparently died together; both were nineteen. A few yards farther along, nearly covered by bloodied battle dressings was an M-16, which I took in tow by its nylon jungle sling. Now, ahead of us, where the grade flattened, a linear defense was being hastily formed. Behind it, Doc Tom was tending to a pocket of wounded whose faces I couldn’t see. Woody was ushered to a position further along the line and I was left to anchor the line at the right. The suffocating heat which had been our unforgiving enemy for hours had subsided for now as the sun dropped into and among the trees above. Off to our left front, somewhere beyond the clusters of trees there were sporadic exchanges of rifle fire and the explosions from what were probably LAAWs or RPGs. To our direct front and above, now and again , were the sounds of whirring, thudding helicopter blades. And that was how time was measured. Not by minutes or hours but by sounds and long periods of no sound at all. I tried drinking from my canteen but found my mouth and throat too dry to swallow. I arranged and rearranged my arsenal; the M-16, my M-79 and two bandoleers, one grenade, and a .45 I had never fired. As dusk began to absorb us, Lieutenant Shaw stopped briefly at my position and dropped two magazines, sticky with someone’s blood, beside me. I had hoped he would tell me what was happening and why; or who was alive and where. Instead he waved his hand across the field of fire all about me and said ominously or, perhaps, sarcastically, “Ya’ll see anybody don’t challenge ‘em… kill ‘em.”

           I stared into the night until my eyes ached. I tried to imagine, but not for long, the Marine Corps Casualty Officer going to the home of where Marion and John Baker had raised their son, Paul. I tried to imagine, but not for long, my parents learning of Paul’s death, and, knowing that I served with him, worrying about me. Then I crawled into my memories to hide from it all. It was my eleventh birthday and my father took me to Yankee Stadium to see our beloved Red Sox and our mutual hero Ted Williams play the Yankees. The outfield and infield grass were a magnificent shade of greener than green. That marvelously concocted aroma of cigar smoke, beer and hot dogs filled the air. On the field my baseball cards had come to life. My father nudged me happily and pointed toward the lineup posting that finally listed the familiar “9” in “LF” for Boston. But Ted, who was playing his final year, and recently off the disabled list, looked badly in his first two plate appearances and struck out both times. My father winked at me and assured me it would not happen again. By the fifth inning the dismal Sox trailed 5-0, as both Mantle and Maris had homered off Boston pitcher Tom Brewer, and there were two out as Ted came to the plate. He hit a hard line drive into the right field corner, ran into second base in that familiar gait, and stooped slightly as he arrived there, showing all his years. My father celebrated by stopping a passing vendor, ordering us another round of hot dogs, and laughing as I dropped the thick mustard delicacy onto the bill of my new Red Sox Cap. 

           As darkness fell, Charlie Mikelonis counted his remaining magazines and grenades for what surely seemed the hundredth time. Close, on his right, was Fincher, the big machine gunner from Foster’s squad; to Charlie’s left, the grenadier from Foster’s squad, Reeson, an AK rifle round lodged in the stock of his M-79. Long, painfully long, hours had passed since Charlie had last seen his own squad’s machine gunner and grenadier when the linear defense had initially been formed. He thought of Paul Baker, and how this instant, his calming influence and spirit were genuinely missed. Charlie had become the acting squad leader when P.J. went down, and the Lieutenant had told Charlie to advance a fire team forward and to the left in search of Foster’s squad and elements of the Third Platoon. It had been Ray Johnson’s fire team that Charlie maneuvered and all of them were instantly hit. Now Johnson, his friend, lay badly wounded behind him in the dark, suffering silently so as not to betray the platoon’s position. At FSB Cates, a week ago, Baker had taken Charlie aside and quietly, uncomfortably, told him the squad had far too many new people and asked him to, please, take care of himself but to take care of his new people as well. Now it seemed to Charlie as if the new people, the old people, everyone aside from he and Johnson were gone. He wondered about one of the new people, Drellich, and if he had, because of a gesture of kindness, put him at grave risk. When the envelopment of the hill had begun, Charlie was told to assign one of his people to what seemed like a small crater perhaps 15 feet in diameter, where three other Marines, slightly wounded or heat casualties, were positioned. Drellich, exhausted and rapidly dehydrating, seemed the obvious choice to Charlie, who worried he would not survive the envelopment, or worse, what waited the envelopment’s end. Drellich, Charlie thought, his name was Robb Drellich. 

           It was perhaps midnight, but no way of knowing, when the sky directly above us filled with dozens of red flares. Dropping among us on tiny creaking parachutes, illuminating us for anyone to see, for any reason, good or bad.  I peeked over my shoulder, back to where our wounded still lay, and saw Lieutenant Shaw, his radioman Hooper beside him, speaking softly into the handset. I wanted to hear what he was saying, then told myself that I did not.             

           PFC Robb Drellich, from Ohio, and the son of a career Marine, had now occupied the crater where he had been assigned, for a long late morning, a longer afternoon, and an even longer half of a night. If the strangers who shared the crater with him had told him their names he had forgotten them, but he could not forget his squad and wonder what had happened to it, and where. He said a prayer, and then another. His entire body ached with thirst, with fatigue, and an uncertainty that was crushing. The day, beneath a sun so intense it seemed to boil the air, was filled with the sounds of scores of firefights from the tree-lined hill, and the comings and goings of helicopters under fire. At one point a Bronco flew over the crater then on and over the hill before turning, circling and repeating the route. The Marine beside Drellich, called to the others for someone to throw a smoke grenade to identify themselves quickly, but the black Marine next to him calmly produced an air panel and Drellich spread it at the rim of the crater, after waving it at the diving aircraft. The Bronco did not return. At night he drifted between minutes of sleep awaking at the slightest noise or movement. A Marine crawled out of the darkness and slipped into the crater. He asked Drellich and the others if they were hungry then handed each a can of c-rations. As Drellich opened his can of normally inedible “beef and rocks,” scooped the nauseating grease from the top, and devoured it with his fingers, he and the others peppered their benefactor with questions as to what was happening, who it was happening to, and where. “Overrun…everywhere… shoot everything that ain’t talkin’ English,” said their benefactor. Then he was gone, leaving only his chilling words behind. It was not long afterward, when Drellich and the others could hear, but could not see, the movement all around them. The clear and distinct voices speaking Vietnamese. Drellich though of his family at home, his other family somewhere off on the hill, then prayed again.            

           From the left, in the dark, came the sounds of a long burst from an M-60 and the simultaneous cracking of an M-16. And then silence. I wondered, feared, it was Woody. 

          Charlie Mikelonis and Fincher had fired immediately when the forms suddenly appeared mere feet from Fincher’s machine gun. The NVA, there by accident or deliberately, were shredded by the gunfire. Charlie looked over his shoulder, as if protectively, looking for Ray Johnson below. He wondered if his friend was still alive having last seen him at dusk where Johnson lay, bandaged gunshot wounds in each thigh and in his chin. Unable to speak, Johnson fumbled in his pocket and retrieved a small camera, placed it in Charlie’s hand. “I’ll make sure you get it back,” Charlie had promised him. Charlie instinctively touched, and counted again, the magazines and grenades at his side. He thought of home in Baltimore, his mom, his Orioles and Colts. He wondered if morning would ever come.  

           I was beside my father again in our mezzanine seats at Yankee Stadium between home plate and first base. The Red Sox trailed 5-2 in the seventh inning and after Pete Runnels singled Ted Williams came to the plate. That perfect swing, the unforgettable sound and there was the ball in flight, sailing high and far toward right centerfield. To my left, at the nearby Red Sox broadcasting booth, I could hear announcer Curt Gowdy excitedly describe the flight of the ball as it kept going, over the auxiliary scoreboard and into the bleachers beyond. May father was on his feet wildly cheering, and I joined him, looking down as Ted circled the bases below, and then looking at my father. He had been badly disabled as an infantryman in the Pacific, and now I was sharing this special moment, of one old warrior saluting another. When he finished applauding, he put his hand on my shoulder, and gave me a wonderful wink. Jesus, I wanted to cry. 

          Morning did not evolve, it was just suddenly there. With the morning came a courage to breathe and to speak out loud. To stand and move about, and to furiously look for familiar faces. We were told that Echo Company was somewhere in front us moving about and securing the hill. But the NVA were all dead or gone. Someone handed me a canteen cup filled with water which I drank from, and returned. I hope I thanked him. We finally moved, with our wounded, up and across the hill to a perimeter being very formally fashioned on the other side. Already, there was a row of poncho-covered bodies, in a neat procession. I wondered if Paul was among them yet, and felt ashamed that I had not helped to carry him there. Throughout the day, there were working parties to locate and stack NVA weapons and gear, prepare the coming evening’s defensive positions, and to load and unload helicopters. There was no longer a “Paul Baker’s squad,” and Charlie Mikelonis and Robb Drellich were introduced to their new squad leader named Jim Dietz. I was introduced to my new squad leader Sgt. Liner, and to the members of his squad which included Ray Schreiber. Nobody, anywhere, wished to talk about what had happened to either our platoon or Third Platoon, whose members awaiting medevac seemed considerable. Nor did anyone question how two such badly depleted platoons could remain in the Field, unless our 1st platoon would be joining us from FSB Fuller. It was a question, why we remained so small a unit in the field, I asked myself that evening as I stood watch at a position with my new squad. At a distance before me, presumably atop or within a ridge line, there appeared an erratically formed line of eerie lights. Sgt. Liner, carrying his preferred M-14, stopped by my position, told me the lights were NVA and that a fire mission was being called upon them. I nodded, and said nothing, though I questioned why the NVA would have been so careless and undisciplined. The fire mission moments later, in fact, caused the lights to vanish. And with that, gave me a chill. Moments later Sgt. Liner returned and told me and two other members of his squad, that the Company would be leaving in the morning. We would, he told us, be walking to where trucks would be waiting to transport us to Vandegrift. I was still too tired, too overwhelmed, to feel relieved by his news. Too drained from the events to fully appreciate we would be reprieved, for now, from death and danger.

           By morning I do not recall feeling differently but I found the energy to take the letter writing gear from my pack and keep a promise I had made to myself when I was a different person. “Dear Dad, By now you have heard that Paul Baker was killed not far from me here in a place that I think is called Dong Ha Valley. Please tell Mom I am safe and well. I want you to know that I got through the very worst time of my life by thinking about you and the very best time of my life. Love to all…

Semper Fi,