War Story #23 “Cheating Death”
This is the true story of an Infantry Platoon Leader in Vietnam who cheated death at least five times.
I grew up in a working-class section of Quincy, Massachusetts, south of Boston, in the late 1950s. I remember those being happy times.
I remember the thrills of getting my first bicycle, a Raleigh, and spending time with Dad watching black-and-white television. Our favorites included Jackie Gleason, I Love Lucy, and Ed Sullivan. My personal favorites included the TV shows Combat, Desert Rats, the Lone Ranger, and Hopalong Cassidy. John Wayne was my hero in war and westerns. Later, I would sit down to watch "Victory at Sea" weekly with my Dad. It had great visuals of WW II and the US Navy in action. The incredible music got me so excited.
My most memorable gift was a functional toy .50 Cal Machine Gun, over three feet long, on an aluminum tripod. It took eight D-size batteries to operate, making noise and lighting up with a moving red cone at the end of the barrel. I was about ten when I dug fox holes in the yard next door and plowed up for the new home under construction next to us.
In high school, we studied WW II. I loved history. In college, things changed. The Vietnam War was in full swing, but I wanted to get my necessary bachelor's degree to join the Army and enter Officer Candidate School (OCS). I was excited about joining the Army and fighting the enemy. I know it sounds crazy, but to me, it was more than being patriotic; it was my duty to show leadership, save soldier lives, and kill the enemy. I had no interest in the politics of it all. Inexplicably, I was not afraid when so many students around me panicked. They say war is for young men, full of energy and ignorance.
I would volunteer.
Why not the Navy? For me, I wanted the chance to face the enemy directly. My Dad was in the Navy in WW II in the North Atlantic and had one of his ships, USS Redwing, sunk by a German mine in Algiers harbor. Later on, his other ship, USS Baker, was part of a three-ship sub-hunter team in the North Atlantic that forced a German U-boat to surface when one of the ships rammed it behind the conning tower to sink it.
I wanted a different kind of experience, so after graduating from college, I enlisted in the Army in 1968 when all hell was breaking loose in Vietnam during the Tet Offensive and Mini-Tet. Hundreds of American soldiers – at times over 500 killed - were dying every week for months. It angered and depressed me. I wasn't going into the Peace Corps or Canada. I will admit I also wanted to know, on a personal level, if I dared to stand strong against the enemy. No bravado, just performance.
I wanted to fight the enemy and prevent the loss of American lives. I realize this sounds virtuous or magnanimous, but I truly wanted to save American lives and win the war. I felt patriotic and full of youthful energy.
After basic and advanced infantry training, I went to jump school to be a paratrooper, and finally, I started OCS. I graduated as a Second Lieutenant, and for the third time, I officially volunteered to go to Vietnam (not South Korea or Germany as was offered).
For some, I was crazy. But it was my adventure, destiny, commitment – and I was proud of my accomplishment.
Before going to Vietnam, I completed more training, got married, and was blessed with a son. When he was three months old, I went to Jungle School in the Panama Canal Zone and got my “Jungle Expert Badge.” After two years of constant training, I was more than ready.
It was a crazy busy time for me. In March 1970, at the age of 23, I was on the plane to Bien Hoa Air Base in Vietnam and then transferred to Chu Lai, in I Corps, the northern sector of South Vietnam. I was assigned to Bravo Company, the 2nd Bn, 1st Inf, of the 196th Light Infantry Brigade.
First Time…Minefield
It all started on my first day in the field, and after just two hours on my first patrol across rice paddies from Hill 251 near Hawk Hill, northwest of Chu Lai, I was told by the Company Commander to "look, listen, and learn" on a bright but hot, humid day. Following an experienced Lieutenant who was the platoon leader for the third platoon of Bravo Company, I looked forward to my first combat patrol.
Humping through rice paddies was tiresome with our heavy rucksacks, weapons, and ammo. The 23 soldiers walked single file across the knee-deep, leech-infested, putrid paddy waters. The order of march was the "point man" first, followed by the "cover man," the Lieutenant, his radio man (RTO), and me, with the others directly behind. With my jungle fatigues soaked with sweat, I was mesmerized by scanning the landscape and seeing Vietnamese rice farmers plowing the rice paddy with their large water buffalos. It was peaceful, worthy of a serene painting.
I said to myself, "I'm really here!" I have seen this on the Walter Cronkite newscasts for the last few years, with the body counts given each week. It was surreal. (Today, when I hear the Doors' song, "Riders on the Storm," I stop and reflect on this memory.)
Then it happened.
BAM! The explosion blew me backward and submerged me in the brown, filthy water. As I raised my head, my ears were ringing. I saw soldiers running around and then heard the screaming. I slowly got up and tried to compose myself but immediately checked my body to see if I was missing anything…it seemed I was OK. While walking, the first three men walked right past the explosive trap when the RTO in front of me stepped on it and exploded. The explosive device apparently sank in the mud at an angle, and the blast went forward, took off the foot and mangled the legs of the RTO. It caught the Lieutenant in his back and legs. I understand both men lived (?) but were severely wounded and immediately evacuated by a Medivac Huey to Japan for hospitalization. I never heard about them again.
As I watched the Medivac come and take away the two wounded, a soldier called "Red" came to me and said, "What do we do now, Lieutenant?".
I asked myself how I would survive with a whole year to go. My God! I did not want to get killed by a lousy bobby trap.
I thought of the song, "There's a man over there with a gun"…(Buffalo Springfield).
(Note: 50 years later, during a routine MRI, I learned I had shrapnel in my lower leg bone. The razor-blade-like piece of metal sliced into my lower leg easily and without pain. I was too busy at the time to feel it and the paddy water washed away my blood. Worse, I learned from my former Company Commander at a reunion that he had warned the Lieutenant to stay out of the minefield he inadvertently took us into, which was marked on his map. It was a mistake that proved costly.)
Fortunately, I am a fast learner and made progress in leading the platoon as the old guy at 23 years of age and patrolling through rice paddies and across wooded areas and small villages. I relied on my training for land navigation using the old-style map and lensatic compass and my RTO, Robert Dunphy, for communication. In one case, we came early and quietly and surprised a few Viet Cong. I was approaching a grass hut at an angle to the doorway. Racing out of the hut, I was no more than 20 feet away from him. I saw fear in his eyes. He was the enemy who had an AK-47 and turned to run, but I opened fire. He was so young. Strangely, it happened so fast that I felt no fear or regret.
Second Time…Old Foxhole
My platoon patrolled with full gear daily in hot summer weather, always trying to stay alert. One could never let one's guard down. It was life or death. A great lesson for me was that I had to always – I mean always – anticipate, anticipate, anticipate everything: enemy location, what would be my immediate actions at any moment if shots rang out, where was my exact location, what direction to follow, and more. After bushwacking for a couple of days, I got orders for the platoon to join the entire company at a single-night logger position on a small hill overlooking the rice paddies.
Making our way towards the company's position, we came to a long stretch of thick bushes, creating a wall rising over 20 feet high. During this time, I was positioned farther back in the line of march since it was open territory, and I could more easily see how to maneuver in the event of contact with the enemy. My first squad sergeant stopped and searched left and right for a breach to move through the wall. As it happens, he picked the wrong point of entry, and a booby trap exploded, hitting his head and instantly killing him.
After the Medivac picked up his body, we solemnly continued to our rendezvous at dusk. The rest of the company of three platoons and a mortar squad had arrived well before us and were already in place when we reached them. I was directing my platoon to secure the one section of the circular perimeter we were assigned to complete the defensive position. Behind me, about 30 feet, my M-60 machine gunner, James Gibson, was pissed off, gripping loudly about the war and generally feeling frustrated. Hot, hungry, and exhausted, he dropped his M-60 and was upset to hear me order to dig foxholes. He refused. Instead, he saw an old, shallow hole I had not seen, and he jumped into it.
The world blew up. I remember being knocked face-down from behind and being pummeled by rocks and dirt. I was semi-conscious. With my ears ringing, I heard someone yelling and shaking me. "Lieutenant, are you OK?" I slowly sat up, turned, and saw Gibson's body with everything below his rib cage completely gone. His lungs had popped out of his exposed ribs and chest and were moving up and down like balloons. He was entirely blackened by the blast. The enormous explosion severely hurt eight other soldiers, including most of the mortar squad. With my arm bleeding and so dizzy I could hardly walk, I was helped onto a Medivac with others and taken back to Hawk Hill. I was suffering from heat exhaustion and so dehydrated that I passed out and woke up 23 hours later. Then I was off to Chu Lai at the Division headquarters hospital for minor surgery on my arm and recovery.
Two weeks later, I was on a Huey returning to the field.
Third Time…The Cornfield
Our entire Battalion (2nd Bn/1st Inf) conducted a large operation to return to the site in 1968, where about 150-200 special forces and local militia were overrun during Mini-Tet. General Westmoreland ordered a massive effort to remove our forces under attack by between 3,000 to 5,000 enemies who wanted to capture and kill all of them as a symbol of victory for North Vietnam. In the hasty evacuation, 18 American bodies were left behind. In both 1968 and 1970, it was the "Valley of Death" on all sides.
(Note: you can Google "Kham Duc Battle, Vietnam" to learn more about the heroics and story of what happened.)
Our mission was to return for the first time, interdict the enemy using the nearby Ho Chi Minh Trail, and recover our KIA. I had no idea what we would encounter. Dozens of Hueys and Chinooks made a massive airlift of hundreds of troops, artillery, and other heavy weapons. It was a sight to behold.
(Note: The sound of a Huey is branded on our brains. We will always turn our heads at the sound of a Huey or Chinook. They carried us into and out of harm's way.)
On one mission, my platoon was loaded onto Hueys, flown about 10 miles from the Kham Duc airstrip, and inserted onto a "cornfield" in the middle of the jungle. Obviously, this was a food stop for NVA soldiers coming down the rugged trail to South Vietnam.
My platoon immediately moved inside a thick jungle woodline directly across from a rounded hill. Taking out my binoculars, I saw fully equipped NVA regulars setting up machine guns and preparing for the helicopter’s return.
Calling the Battalion Executive Officer, Major O'Connor, he confirmed they were enemies and that I was to attack! I then called in two Cobra gunships to rake the hill with 20 mm cannon and machine gun fire. During the gun runs, I maneuvered the platoon around the cornfield in the thick jungle and positioned it at the base of the hill. I could only pray that the size of the enemy unit was small and not double or more than our size.
With the last Cobra run, we then made the final assault, firing our M-16s and tossing grenades. It was reminiscent of a scene from a war movie. The adrenaline rush was incredible. It felt like electricity sparking between my fingers.
As we reached the top, my men fired point-blank into their foxholes. The Cobras had hurt many already, and we finished the job. When I reached the top, I was yelling and screaming expletives. It was an emotional outburst I had never experienced and reflected months of pent-up anger, emotion, and frustration.
(Note: Sergeant Doug Hampton, one of my squad leaders, was later awarded the Silver Star for attacking an enemy machine gun bunker.)
It was now late in the day. We rolled their bodies halfway down the hill and took over their foxholes. I was relieved that the attack plan was successful, as my platoon had no injuries!
The battalion command told me to hold the position and spend the night. That was not what I wanted to hear. I was very concerned that we would get overrun in the early morning. As exhausted physically and emotionally, no one slept easily, and the stench of death wafted over us that night.
The next day, another platoon was flown in to join my platoon; I was to take the lead and patrol around the area beyond the cornfield. Cutting through the jungle for hours was not easy, but then we broke through and onto a road – the Ho Chi Minh Trail itself. It was a scene right out of a training exercise in Panama. Putting a scout dog (a German Shepherd) on point with its handler (he was in-country just a couple of weeks on his first patrol when he was airlifted to my platoon) and followed by Private Larry Gatliff as cover, I walked third with the rest of my soldiers behind me. Remembering training in Panama, I put one squad on my right flank about 20 yards into the jungle to walk parallel to us. Soon, we came to a hill, dropping sharply off to our left. We continued up the trail, and all hell broke loose as we approached the top.
The enemies were lying in the road at the crest of the hill, and as we came into view, they saw the dog. It must have spooked them to fire too soon and shot the dog, then through both legs of the dog handler, and shot Larry in his head and killed him instantly as he fell backward to almost land on me. I felt the pressure of the bullets go past my head within inches. The enemy then ran on a path to hit us from the right flank, but my squad was waiting for them and killed two. It was a quick ambush - the only time I would be ambushed in the war.
We left grenades under their bodies with the pins pulled. Later that night, we heard the explosions.
Again, it all happened in seconds. I had no fear, but I was pissed that Larry got killed. I wanted revenge. Loading him into a chairlift from a Medivac hovering above, I yelled to him that I would never forget.
Fourth Time…Baggy Pants
The next day, we continued patrolling areas around the cornfield. Finally, we came upon several thatched-roof huts and one large one – at least 30 X 20 feet in size- located in the center of the huts. We approached cautiously; it was clear this was where they were based, but the place seemed vacant. Two soldiers entered the large hut and called to me. As I entered, I saw the backpacks hung on poles, cots, and a kitchen area. It had musty smells, a cooking fire smoldering, and a large dirt floor. One of them was happy to find a Chinese Pistol in one of the packs. As he loudly bragged about his treasure find, automatic machine gun fire sprayed the hut with at least ten rounds or more.
We dropped like rocks to the dirt, and others returned fire. But in two minutes, it was all over. Immediately, one of my troops standing beside me, Private Brendle, said, "My God! Look at this, LT!" He flared his jungle fatigue pants to show four bullet holes – two bullets entering and leaving his pant leg without touching him. How lucky was that! How lucky was I?
The next day, patrolling in a single file in the same area, I was walking in fourth place with my machine gunner in front of me and then "point" and "cover" men at the lead. In a silent jungle, the burst of gunfire was startling and ear-splitting. The enemy point man to his squad, which was coming at us on the same trail, saw my point man. The enemy fired six shots while my guy got off only one shot. The enemy took a round to the face and died. My guy took all six shots to his extremities. I remember he was smoking a cigarette when we loaded him on the Medivac. He yelled that he was going back to the "World."
Again, we put a grenade under the enemy body and heard it explode hours later at dusk.
A couple of weeks went by with local patrols, but then my company with three platoons was airlifted to the mountains, northeast, about 5-10 miles, from the Kham Duc dirt airstrip. Kham Duc's dirt airstrip was in a valley surrounded by mountains. C-130s, Chinooks, and other aircraft would fly in supplies, weapons, personnel, and more. However, they would have to pass over a long ridge line running perpendicular to the airstrip. The wreckage of a C-130, a fighter plane, and several helicopters were scattered along the sides of the airstrip from the 1968 battle.
Our mission was to patrol for possible enemy positions that would jeopardize the aircraft.
After jumping off the Huey's, we assembled, and with a new Company Commander, I was ordered to take point with my platoon and the rest of the company behind mine. Humping uphill through the thick jungle to the top of the ridge, we turned west, with the vegetation not so thick. We could see 50 feet ahead of us. We found an old trail, and with eyes wide, we slowly and silently marched forward in a single file. We were all alert. The ridge got more expansive, and the trail veered to the left. Then I got word from behind me. One of my soldiers caught a glimpse of an enemy soldier, so I had the platoon take a right face, and we slowly walked in unison in a broad line through the woods.
AK-47 fire burst at us. I motioned to run forward. Several of my guys were firing on the run and yelling, "They are getting away." We caught them by surprise.
We had stumbled upon a new base they were creating where they had bunkers and a large .30 Cal. anti-aircraft machine gun on a tall tripod with large, circular gun sights. It was something like the gun that Jane Fonda sat in during her infamous visit to North Vietnam. Capturing this anti-aircraft machine gun was a huge win.
When a soldier yelled to me to check out something, he showed how the vegetation had been cleared to create a perfect window to see the airstrip. It would have been a turkey shoot. Almost on key, a C-130 flew past us just a few hundred feet high off our location. My jaw dropped.
Again, we escaped with no one injured.
Fifth Time…LZ Judy
I wrote articles about this particular episode during my tour of duty in 1970. After two months of serious combat action, senior officers decided to pull out of Kham Duc. The combined American and ARVAN (Army of South Vietnam) forces killed hundreds of the enemy. At least 12 American bodies from 1968 were recovered. Our mission was complete. Withdrawal meant removing all the equipment, artillery, heavy weapons, destroying bunkers, and more. After a few days, we were down to the last two platoons providing security: mine and a platoon from Company D. The plan was to have two Chinook-47s come in to load us up and complete the evacuation.
This was a time to be alert and nervous. My platoon hustled under heavy rucksacks and loaded with controlled confusion, and we left immediately. The other helicopter was slightly delayed when the Lieutenant learned that some Claymore mines were accidentally left behind. Bravely, he took his RTO and told the Chinook to leave without them. He would catch up with the platoon by having a command helicopter in the air come down and pick them up. He did this knowing the enemy could easily attack and capture him.
About 20 minutes later, our huge, lumbering Chinook came in for a landing at LZ Judy, newly constructed on a narrow ridgeline that ran between two mountains with steep slopes on both sides. It was barely wide enough for a Chinook to land. When we did, I yelled as loud as possible over the deafening sound of the Chinook engines to get the hell off and up the steep climb to our line of foxholes. Without delay, with engines still running, the Chinook left immediately after the last man had been off.
I hated flying in a Chinook as I considered it a flying coffin for infantry, with no doors or windows. I feared getting shot down. I was nervous for the entire flight, which seemed like hours to me. To this day, helicopters make me nervous.
LZ Judy was a mountaintop firebase for artillery – 105 and 155 Howitzers. We were the infantry surrounding the firebase for protection.
Within ten minutes or so, the last Chinook with Delta Company's platoon came in slowly for the same landing. I had reached my foxhole, dropped my rucksack, and turned to watch it land. As it approached, the unmistakable rat-tat-tat sound of an AK-47 on full automatic fired point blank into the helicopter from the opposite mountain that was covered in trees. The bullets sliced into the hydraulic system by chance, and it quickly lost power. The enormous Chinook stumbled going forward, then slid backward and rolled to the left side. It fell and hit the treetops before exploding in a massive ball of fire and smoke. It went down through the tree tops on the steep slope. Explosions continued to rock the mountain.
I couldn’t believe it. I stared in disbelief. My God!
Moments later, our artillery just a few feet behind me up the hill opened fire, blasting the side of the mountain. But it was futile.
Twenty-eight fully equipped soldiers, including a mortar squad with munitions, plus two crew members and one soldier on the landing pad, were killed. It would be the worst combat loss of an Army aircraft in the Vietnam War.
Minutes after the Chinook exploded, the Lieutenant and his RTO in the small helicopter flew over the remains and did not land but continued to Battalion headquarters. Fate and courage had saved them.
My entire platoon had escaped certain death by ten minutes. We could not touch the site for two days due to the explosions and hot flames that left nothing but a burn spot on the side of the mountain. Grave Registration (GR) personnel were flown in and collected the remains in body bags – carefully sifting through the wreckage; they could only fill about 16 body bags with bones/parts. In a heart-wrenching task, my platoon carried those bags up the mountainside for airlift back to division headquarters in Chu Lai.
One of the troops had a portable radio with the popular song, "Julie, Julie, Do You Love Me?" I thought it was saying Judy, Judy. There was no love on that mountain that day.
(Note: you can Google LZ Judy Vietnam to learn more.)
A few days after recovering the bodies, my platoon was sent down the mountain's east side to patrol. Other platoons had made contact with the enemy on the north side and killed several enemy soldiers. It was another hot, grinding march down the mountain, then more jungle, and then we reached a clearing. Exhausted with our packs, and at mid-afternoon, I ordered a rest and created a circular perimeter. My RTO, my young new Medic, and a couple of others joined me near the center of the platoon.
Several guys started a poker game no more than a few minutes after settling down. Our Medic stood up to get some money out of his pocket, and then we heard a single sniper round. It hit the Medic in his hip and traversed across and tore up his abdomen, which put him into shock. He died before I could get him on a Medivac.
Relief…After Six Months
So this marked five episodes in my first six months in Vietnam when death lurked within inches or minutes of my existence. As the Lord blessed me, I was promoted to Company Commander for the Battalion's Headquarters Company on Hawk Hill. I would support logistics for the combat line companies while ensuring security for a large section of the sprawling Firebase. I was mostly out of direct harm's way, even though a few enemy rockets landed inside the perimeter within 50 feet of my bunker.
My time in Vietnam included five more months of day and night activity. One of the few times I will admit being scared was the Huey flight from Hawk Hill to Danang AFB to catch my flight back to the United States with my tour of duty complete. I feared getting shot down. The crew knew I was leaving, so they had fun racing just feet over the paddies and then jamming into a vertical climb that strained every nut and bolt of that rickety flying junk. I thought for sure we were going to crash with these jack-ass jockeys playing games.
Such was life or the end of life in an ugly war that lasted for many years. It was the end of my commitment, and now I had to focus on the future with my family and career. I felt I paid my dues as an American.
Before and after Vietnam, I got educated, sought all the training I could get, made a lifelong commitment to education, took many risks, accepted failure as nothing more than education, relished my wins, pursued a high-risk/high-reward career, served my country, my town, and my family, and retired to Florida to value every day God gifted me.
May God rest those souls who fought for America and sacrificed everything they had and the life they never got to live.
I give a slow salute to those harmed and a sharp salute to those who served and survived. I am blessed to know true heroes.
I value life as few will ever understand. And, yes, I have exceptional respect for the U.S. Constitution. Having traveled the world on business to over 45 countries, I have personally witnessed the perspectives of so many people.
God bless America, my family, and all those who serve in the military.
P.S. I give an eternal sharp salute to all the members of the Third Platoon, Bravo Company, and other companies, especially Delta Company, Second Battalion, First Infantry, of the 196th Light Infantry Brigade in the Americal Division.