War Story 9: At the Point of the Spear

It was another searing hot, humid day with no wind, and the pungent smell was familiar.

Fortunately, on July 1970, we were out of the rice paddies where the water was putrid, mixed with all types of animal and human waste, disgusting leeches, and mud deep enough to suck the energy out of your legs.

My infantry platoon of 23 young souls patrolled for weeks southwest of Da Nang in known enemy territory, but it was not a Free Fire Zone. Worse, this area had many booby traps wounding too many of my soldiers.

We were on the dry ground a few feet above the paddies with tall vegetation and wooded areas. Still, our half-dried jungle fatigues had the unmistakable stench from days in the paddies.

I could see we were approaching a small village of grass huts. Smoke from cooking fires drifted past us. It was late in the day, and we would disturb their meal.

Our platoon always walked single file, one directly behind the other, as booby traps were a constant menace. You learn to reduce the chances as much as possible and not to make a wrong step by following the soldier before you.

However, that meant someone had to walk first. Whoever walks first would be the “Point Man,” followed by the “Cover Man,” and then me as the Lieutenant with my M-60 machine gunner next behind me. Walking third allowed me to see what was happening at any given moment, especially when we made “contact” with the enemy. As the Platoon Leader, quick decisions had to be made for response and maneuver actions.

The Point Man would look closely for trip wires, booby traps, and suspicious signs. The Cover Man’s role was also critical to the team, looking further out in front for enemy movement or potential ambushes.

The Point Man was in a super high-risk position, so we rotated this among the platoon members.

On this day, as we silently approached the dozen or more grass huts, we met with women and children. They were scared as we startled them and quickly enveloped them. They seemed to be especially agitated and nervous. An inspection of the area was slow, and darkness was coming fast.

We found nothing, but something wasn’t right. There were no men. The women seemed worried.

We moved on slowly.

Days earlier, we lost a soldier to a booby trap that killed him instantly. Then, while crossing a small rice paddy, we got fired upon from a distance, forcing us to dive head-first into the brown water. We could see the bullets hit the water.

We also had come into a similar collection of larger thatched hootches when several NVA jumped up and ran, totally surprised by our approach. We killed two of them instantly. We searched around and found nothing of importance, except their AK-47s.

As nightfall approached, the Company Commander called me on the radio and ordered me to join them for a combined night position or defensive laager with several other platoons.

Tension was high. It got worse knowing it would take an hour or more to reach the company, and it was already dark.

The “Point Man” to lead us refused to go, cursing the situation. Others reacted negatively and were scared. I was faced with the dilemma of young boys too frightened to move in the darkness.

And we could not stay where we were in this impoverished village.

My platoon had no veteran soldiers or sergeants to rely on. I wanted to avoid conflict.

I decided to walk “Point” myself, even though I knew none could effectively read a map and perform land navigation with a lensatic compass at night or day. This was the era before any electronic devices with GPS or satellite coordinates or cellular communications. If something happened to me, they would be challenged.

I also wanted to learn what it was like to be the “Point Man.”

We often made “contact” with the enemy when bullets were flying all around. Quixotically, during contact, I felt excited, not “fearful,” as the adrenaline kicked in. But this time was very different. I was really scared. While I could not show it, I felt it.

It was a terror with each step. The anticipation was brutal. No flashlights allowed, of course; my eyes bugged out of my head in the darkness, trying to see a tripwire or enemy hiding in the bushes.

Minutes passed like hours. I stopped as we emerged from trees and had to cross an open field. It was nearly dark, but at one point, I stopped. I saw the silhouette to my right. Taking no chances, I crouched and fired two rounds from my M-16.

Nothing moved. I waited. Behind me, my platoon was frozen, waiting for my signal.

Instead, I stood up, wiped the sweat dripping into my eyes, and moved on.

We eventually made it to Bravo Company, and relief came over everyone.

I was exhausted, mentally and physcially.

The next day, I learned my platoon would not be “point” this time for the company’s march to a new position not far from the hootches we left.

This time it would be easy for us and safer.

As the last platoon to enter the perimeter on a slight hill overlooking a collection of grass huts a mile away, I was directed to take my platoon to the one section that would complete the defensive circle.

I coordinated movement to their positions for the night and gave the order to dig foxholes. My M-60 machine gunner was exhausted, hot, and generally upset about everything, swearing about life in the ‘Nam. To avoid digging a new foxhole from scratch, he found an old, half-dug foxhole and jumped in it.

It is the mistake that changes everything. The foxhole was booby-trapped with a U.S.-type artillery round.

The huge explosion was horrific.

Specialist James Gibson was killed instantly, and nine of us were soon on Medivacs to medical aid stations and Division hospitals. Some would not make it.

The sound of my Huey taking off is recorded forever in my brain, even as I was dazed, bleeding, dehydrated, exhausted, and with constant ringing in my ears.

I woke up two days later in the aid station at Hawk Hill, wondering if it was all a dream.

I also wondered who was walking “Point” that day.