Working Draft: February 6, 2002

Thirteen Echo:

Field, Firebase, and Base Camp Vietnam, 1969-1970

By Lloyd C. Irland

 Lloyd C. Irland Page: 1

To the memory of the men of the 101st Airborne Division

who fell in Vietnam.

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Military Occupational Specialty (MOS)

13E Field Artillery Operations and Intelligence Assistant. Assists in Fire

Direction Center Operations and serves as RTO or Reconnaissance Sergeant with

Forward Observer parties attached to supported units.

______

Cover: Infantry securing perimeter on arrival at FSB Zon, November, 1969

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101st Airborne Division Area, 1969-70

(Contemporary Sketch by Lloyd C. Irland)

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Table of Contents

Preamble ...... 5

1. Arriving...... 17

2. To Battery B ...... 27

3. Sent to the Field...... 50

4. Monsoon...... 72

5. To the Edge of the A Shau and the DMZ...... 108

6. Back to the Battery ...... 130

7. Tet and After ...... 159

8. Finally a REMF...... 191

9. Back to the World ...... 212

10. What I Learned...... 217

Epilogue ...... 223

Note on Sources...... 229

The Author ...... 236

Footnotes...... 237

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Preamble

Every summer, July 20 brings newspaper filler clips and TV news blurbs recalling

the first time men ever landed on the moon. If the night is clear and the moon is bright, I

am often outside looking upward at it. After 32 years, looking up at a bright midsummer

moon on July 20 usually reminds me of where I was standing when we first learned that

the Apollo 11 landing had succeeded. The place was a tiny point of land known to the

Army in Summer 1969 as Fire Base Roy. This firebase looked out over a large lagoon,

the Dam Cau Hai, which was sheltered by a long barrier island beyond which lay the blue

South China Sea.

This is the story of how I learned what war is. It is the story of the treadmill we

were on. This short book emerges from a wish to recount and preserve my experience of war, illustrating it from my own recollections, letters, and photos taken at the time. My parents retained many of my letters home; I quote bits from these here and there. Most of my journal entries were rubbish, but I use a few excerpts here.

It is often said that war is weeks and weeks of drudgery and boredom punctuated by moments or hours of sheer terror. It is so. For me, the moments of sheer terror were

few and brief. So there is little in here would inspire a Hollywood movie. This memoir,

fortunately for me, recounts what was perhaps a more typical experience for many GIs,

even those in combat arms. This is not a diary, based on detailed notes of the time. It is

not a history of or commentary on the operations in which I participated. Those

operations and skirmishes would hardly be mentioned in even the most detailed histories

of this war. Obscurity is our lot, well deserved, one might say. There is no record to

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correct here, nor any commentary on the larger moral, policy, or political issues raised by

the war.

Things that happen to somebody else...

− somebody is hurt in a car accident;

− somebody drowns in a boating accident;

− somebody’s girlfriend gets pregnant;

− somebody dies young of a rare disease;

− somebody gets drafted;

− somebody gets sent to Vietnam;

− somebody gets killed in Vietnam.

These things happen to somebody else. You’re used to reading about them in the paper, or hearing them from a friend or relative.

Born in Chicago in 1946, I was a middle-class midwestern kid, an Eagle Scout with four summer’s service on Boy Scout camp staff. I was patriotic enough. During the late 1950’s and early 1960’s, most young men who would pass the physical would be likely to get drafted -- they had even drafted Elvis! I built plastic models of airplanes and had a huge collection of tiny model tanks. I read the books of the day about our nation’s military history; these naturally fanned a youthful patriotism further. The press coverage of the time gave us sympathy for the South Vietnamese and offered a favorable view of both our obligations to help and our prospects for succeeding. With our track record and technology, how could there be any doubt?

I entered college at Michigan State in September 1964, a month after Congress passed the Tonkin Gulf Resolution, to study forestry. I entered ROTC, making the usual

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 7 assumption for the time that later service was unavoidable. In the spring of my freshman year, 1965, I became more interested in pursuing graduate studies and dropped out of

ROTC, not wanting to consider even more distant commitments of my time. That spring, none of us guessed how vast the Vietnam War would become or how long it would last.

I did not drop out of ROTC as a result of sentiments of doubt about the war. I completed my studies at Michigan State and went to the University of Arizona to pursue doctoral work.

At MSU, several departments had provided training to South Vietnamese government agencies and police forces. A political science professor, Wesley Fishel, had been a personal advisor to Diem. He gave a short talk one evening at our dining hall.

Agriculture experts had been over to help develop Vietnamese agriculture. The student protests heated up fast, and with southern Michigan’s large defense-related industry, there were plants aplenty to picket. The “teach-ins” gathered strength and drew larger audiences. I ignored most of this, focusing on my studies but I avidly followed the news.

My views were strongly shaped by two books I read. Harrison Salisbury’s book reporting on his trip to Hanoi convinced me that we were being stalemated. Worse, our methods, so sanitized in TV news and in magazines, were causing considerably more hardship, death, and injury to innocent civilians than I had realized.

Jonathan Schell’s compelling and detailed reporting on operations in Vietnam became a book, “The Military Half,” which I devoured as soon as it was published.

Schell depicted a military machine that had lost the old fashioned soldierly ethic of shielding civilians from harm. With the VietCong infrastructure so fully woven into village society, the distinction between combatant and civilian became hard to follow.

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So, apparently, it was abandoned entirely. Schell’s ghastly depictions of civilian casualties and ruined villages, of indiscriminate use of firepower, persuaded me that however laudable the objective of South Vietnamese independence might be, our

methods were terribly wrong.

It became evident that Ho Chi Minh did not have a staff of PhD’s doing benefit-

cost analysis on the war. He was oblivious to casualties and property damage. I read his biography. To his leadership group, reunifying Vietnam and ejecting the U.S. was not

just one option on a spectrum of possibilities. It was the sole driving purpose of his

government and society. Plainly, we were not going to bend such men to our will by

“raising the cost” they would have to pay.

In September 1967, I started graduate work at the University of Arizona. After

Tet 1968, graduate student deferments were ended. I was ordered to my draft physical.

So I finished my Master’s work. I interrupted graduate school and left home to enter the

Army deeply disaffected with the war. I did feel an obligation to serve -- I was no better

than all those other guys already over there. But I was not obligated to agree with what

was being done. Was there a way out for us, a way to end the continued blasting of the

Vietnamese landscape? In summer 1969, as I was heading overseas, President Nixon

said, “Yes, there is.” He called it Vietnamization.

Service in the field artillery is an accidental tradition in my family. My great

grandfather, Louis E. Irland, served in Btry K, 3d New York Artillery during the Civil

War. He entered service at age 18, and was mustered out in 1865 from a Philadelphia

hospital, from wounds or illness we don’t know. My grandfather, Harry Barnum Irland,

served during the Spanish American War, but was in Florida when the Spanish sued for

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peace. In World War II, my father, John E. Irland, commanded a battery in the 7th

Armored Division. He earned a Silver Star in eastern France during an engagement that

went rather badly. The Division later earned a Presidential Unit Citation in the same

action as did the 101st Airborne -- the Battle of the Bulge.

Less for tradition than in hope of getting less time in the boonies, I went into the

artillery too. The chances of getting some cushy stateside office job were essentially nil.

Growing up, I had always assumed that if I had to serve, it would be as an officer, as did

many middle class kids.

After Tet 1968, they cancelled draft deferments. I was ordered for a draft

physical. That summer I finished my master’s work at the University of Arizona and went home to see the recruiter. I went through Basic Training at Fort Leonard Wood,

Missouri from December 1968 to February 1969.

We stayed a few nights at a bleak Reception Station while getting processed in. It was cold and breezy in the Ozark Hills. Early in the predawn hours we were up. We could hear the Basic Training companies, four abreast, jogging double-time, flanked by drill sergeants in their Smokey Bear hats. A hundred voices at a time would sing, “I want

to be an Airborne Ranger… one-two-three-four… I want to live a life of danger… one-

two-three-four…” Across the land, from Fort Dix to Fort Polk to Fort Wood to Ford Ord,

we jogged at the double-time “Airborne Shuffle” before breakfast. New troops getting on

to the Vietnam treadmill.

I had signed up for Artillery Officer Candidate School (OCS). At Fort Sill during

Advanced Individual Training (AIT), I didn’t mind close-order drill, but found myself

impatient with formations and “military chickenshit.” I did the technical work, scoring

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near the top of my class in gunnery. It was just geometry and applied math. I was

trained in fire direction – you worked in a tent or bunker calculating the data for the gun

crews to set on the guns and fuzes. Or, you helped a forward observer in the field. So, I

was what the Army called a “13 Echo” in its catalog of “military occupational

specialties” (MOS’s). Red was the field artillery color, used for the stripes worn on legs

of the pants in dress uniforms. So we’d be called “Redlegs.” Redleg became my

nickname while I was out with the infantry.

Every evening at 9:00 p.m., the OCS class would march past our barracks, in spit-

shined helmet liners with little cannons on them, shiny boots hitting the pavement in

unison, singing marching songs. In OCS it was considered a military necessity to always

be in clean, freshly starched fatigues. Guys often “broke starch” twice a day. Months of little sleep, chickenshit inspections, harassment by asshole training officers, and then marching around at 9:00 p.m. to top it off. I doubted that I could take 23 weeks of that.

Well, they gave us all a bayonet But I’d be willing to take a bet That we’ll all be dead by the Summer of ’69…

-- OCS Marching Song

At Fort Sill, I learned of the 180-day “early out.” The number of Vietnam

returnees was so huge that the Army ran out of places to put them, even though many

regular units had been stripped of people. They were also finding that Vietnam returnees

weren’t fitting in to garrison life “in the World,” and could be discipline problems. For

just four or five months of remaining service, it wasn’t worth it. So, they would “extend”

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 11 you so you’d have 180 days or less when you got back. Then they’d muster you out.

This changed the risk-reward ratio. The comparison was: 4 more weeks at Fort Sill, plus

23 weeks of Officer Candidates School, then two full years following commissioning.

This versus another 16 months or so, and I’d be out and back to graduate school. Either way, Vietnam was a near certainty. It was not a tough choice. I had read many books and articles about war, had seen the TV newsclips. Now I would see for myself.

How the Artillery Works

A brief description of how the artillery works may be useful.

An artillery battery is a group of 80 to 100 men whose task is to serve, move, maintain, and if need be, defend its complement of four to six guns. In the Airborne, we had no self-propelled guns, and no heavy guns (175mm and 8-inch), as these were too heavy to carry around by helicopter. Our Division had three battalions of light (105mm) howitzers. These were built with a single trail and designed especially for air mobility, though easily towed with a 5/4-ton truck. Each battalion consisted of three batteries, so that every infantry battalion could work regularly with its own assigned 105mm battery.

The artillery’s mission is to support these ground units. On operational matters we were under infantry command. The Division also had a battalion of 155 mm howitzers, so that each Brigade had at its disposal one “medium” battery. This was also a “towed” howitzer. They had a range only about 3 kilometers more than a 105, but fired a shell 3 times as heavy.

Each battery included four forward observer parties: a lieutenant, a recon sergeant, and a radioman (RTO). These parties traveled with the supported infantry companies and took orders from those commanders. The firing battery included the six

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guns and their crews, each overseen by a sergeant, the Gun Chief or “Chief of Section.”

A more senior sergeant, the Chief of Firing Battery, supervised all of them. The

Executive Officer oversaw all of this. A battery included a mess section, ammo section, a

medic, and a recorder. The First Sergeant assisted the Battery Commander (BC) in

overseeing the battery.

The Fire Direction (FDC) section maintained communications with the forward

observers in the field as well as with Battalion. Its principal task was to convert map grid locations for targets into data to be set on the guns to shoot the fire missions. The FDC maintained current unit locations and obtained all necessary target clearances as well. It was supervised by two second lieutenants, usually officers with experience as forward observers. Six to eight enlisted men served in the FDC.

At Fort Sill, we could see evidence of kind of caste system within the Artillery.

Most of us were being trained to be officers. Our training officers used to say, “If you don’t shape up, we’ll send you down to the Gun Bunnies, where you can lift ammo and clean guns all day.” They also referred to the gun crews as “cannon cockers.” Once in

Vietnam, though, caste system, rank, college degrees or otherwise, we were all in the same sun, rain, dust, and danger. I never heard those words used in Vietnam.

At Battalion, the Headquarters and Headquarters Battery (HHB) took care of supply, staff support, the usual Army paperwork, and first-echelon maintenance. The

Battalion Fire Direction Center (FDC) oversaw operational matters, double-checked firing data from the batteries, and handled communications to and from “Higher.”

Division Artillery (DivArty) was the senior artillery command within the Division. It

oversaw all divisional artillery, handled liaison with other artillery units, and maintained

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 13 a limited intelligence capability. It also had an Aviation Battery with light helicopters for getting its officers to and fro as well as three “batteries” of Aerial Rocket Artillery

(ARA), the evil-looking Cobra “gunbirds.”

Two or more Divisions are overseen by a Corps Headquarters, in our case XXIV

Corps. This headquarters controlled Army units in I Corps, which in summer 1969 included the 101st Airborne, the Americal Division (south of Da Nang), and 1st Brigade,

Fifth Mechanized Infantry up north (known as the “5th mech”). Corps Artillery supplied additional light and medium batteries, heavy artillery, and anti-aircraft weapons wherever the priorities of the moment dictated.

An artillery battery in a frontal war would lay out its guns on line, since they would typically fire to the unit’s front. In Vietnam, batteries were set up in a roughly circular pattern, with one piece staked down over the battery center. All guns could be manhandled around to point in any direction. The Gun Chief took data and instructions through a land line from the FDC. A gunner and assistant gunner set the quadrant

(controlling the tube’s elevation), and the gunsight (controlling its direction). The gunsight was set by reference to “aiming stakes,” which were surveyed in very precisely.

The stakes had tiny flashlights mounted on them so that the gunner could see them at night. A tiny error in deflection (direction of the tube) would magnify into a large error out at ten kilometers. Our 105’s had a maximum range of about 11.5 kilometers

(“klicks” in GI talk).

A distinct session of firing on a given target was a “fire mission.” Missions might come directly from our own observers, from other units or air observers, or from higher headquarters. Many missions would be fired by a single gun or a pair of them (a

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“platoon”). The amount of ammunition to be fired at a target would be specified by the observer or by the organization requesting fire.

A Fire Mission would arrive at the battery, and the guns to be assigned would be quickly alerted. The Gun Chief needed to know several things: the deflection (direction to point the gun), the elevation, the shell, the type of fuze, and if a time fuze, the time to set on the fuze. He also needed to know the “charge” to be used. Charge denoted which of seven charge increments to use, corresponding to the desired range. These were little white bags connected by a string. The crewman simply broke the string to leave the required charge. He would hold up the string to be discarded – so the Chief could glance over and see that the charge was correct. The Chief called these instructions to the crew who would prepare the ammunition and pass it forward to the No. 1 Cannoneer. The

Chief would often kneel down and personally check the gunsight. The No. 1 man opened the breach with a lever and slid the round in. He then locked the breech and awaited the command to fire. As the Chief shouted “FIRE,” he tugged the lanyard. The piece kicked back sharply with its recoil, emitting a loud, sharp bang, a slight ringing sound, and a thin wisp of smoke. The No. 1 man reopened the breech, and, wearing a quilted mitten for the purpose, would extract the hot canister and toss it to one side where it would make another ringing sound on impact.

The observer might then call an adjustment to bring the round closer to its intended target. The FDC would calculate new data, and send it again to the Gun Chief.

Gunner and Assistant would turn the wheels to adjust the tube ever so slightly, until the gunsight and quadrant were set to the new settings. Reload and fire. This would continue until the prescribed number of rounds had been fired, or “End of Mission” was

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received from the FDC. Between the FDC and the Battery on the land lines was a

Battery Recorder who kept a detailed log of everything sent to the guns. On a light day, a

battery might expend 100 rounds or less. On a very busy day, missions fired at all hours of the day could consume hundreds of rounds. Our Battery generally kept 1600 to 1800 rounds on the hill at all times.

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Newsclips – Events elsewhere in SE Asia or the World

May 1950 President Truman established military mission in Vietnam

August 1964 Congress passes Tonkin Gulf Resolution; first airstrikes against North Vietnam.

July 1965 1st BDE, 101ABN arrives in Vietnam

October 1967 Balance of 101st arrives in Vietnam

March 1969 First flight of Concorde Airliner

Feb 1968 Tet Offensive Camp Eagle opened

May 1968 Peace talks begin at Paris, without S. Vietnamese participation

August 1968 Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia

April 1969 Peak strength of US forces in Southeast Asia reached: 543,000 Russia/Chinese forces fight on Siberian border

May 1969 Fight for Hamburger Hill

June 1969 President Nixon announces “Vietnamization” and first withdrawals of US troops: 25,000. Life Magazine publishes famous issue with photos of one week’s KIA. National Liberation Front announces creation of Provisional Revolutionary Government of SVN

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1. Arriving

A ripple of conversation and movement works its way through the airplane. This cozy stretched 707 has carried us across the Pacific with a brief stop at Yokota Air Force

Base in Japan for fuel. At Yokota there were guys in faded fatigues taking breaks on their flights home. Seeing guys headed back somehow made our own situation seem that much more bleak. Now, all of a sudden, we are leaning against the windows, staring downward. There it is.

Vietnam.

The Vietnam of legend, of newspaper headlines, of TV clips... the Vietnam of foreboding and fear. The Vietnam the drill instructors came back from, the editorial writers wrote about, the teach-ins taught about, the politicians fought about.

There it is, right down there.

We see no rice fields, no villages. Just steep green hills, right down to narrow beaches at the shoreline. It looked so quiet and peaceful. My weary imagination supplied images of tracers flying, explosions, and noisy, bitter battle underway below the green canopy.

There it is, dark, menacing, green.

Going to Vietnam. It wasn’t happening to somebody. It was happening to me.

The shoreline and forests disappeared beneath the clouds and we spent the few remaining hours of the trip, quiet again, absorbed, I supposed, in our thoughts and fears.

I walked forward toward the bright light pouring in from the 707’s door. Turning to the left, I took a step out into the tropical sun. The brightness struck my eyes. The

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 18 intense heat and the brilliant light seemed to have a detectable weight. I paused a moment to scan the runway. In the mid afternoon sun, dark PSP steel strips of the airfield’s paving were broiling the entire scene. It felt like walking into a huge furnace.

In the distance, dark jagged mountains formed a circle around the huge harbor and base.

I was about to learn what war really is. I had just stepped onto the treadmill.

Consensus among guys who have been there before is that going to

Nam is much worse than actually being there...

(July 8 – in flight across Pacific)

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Source: Vietnam and Asian Continent maps 90th Cong. 1st Sess. House Doc. No. 147. July 17, 1967.

First Week: Bien Hoa to LZ Sally

After being issued more gear at Cam Ranh Bay, we were trucked over to the airport waiting room late at night. A large hangar was bustling with people, GI’s, pilots,

South Vietnamese soldiers, and even a group of saffron-robed Buddhist monks. Quite a cosmopolitan scene. We could try to sleep, heads on our duffel bags, on the PSP (GI

Slang for the steel sections joined together to surface a runway), but had to remain alert to the announcement of our flight out. Every hour or two the loudspeaker would announce another outbound flight. The Air Force guy announcing the flights told us to make sure and sign the manifest so that our next of kin could be advised ”in case of any unexpected stop.” If you “missed movement,” the sergeant said, “you were in big

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 20 trouble.” A short flight south by a four-engine C-130 took us to Bien Hoa, a sprawling base not far from Saigon that encompassed a busy airfield, division rear facilities for both the 101st Airborne and the First Air Cavalry Division, and apparently a good deal else.

The 101st Airborne’s First Brigade arrived in Vietnam in summer 1965. It was part of the earliest commitment of U.S. combat troops with a mission to seek out and pursue enemy units instead of just patrol the perimeter of base areas. The Brigade operated in several parts of the country. It was joined in October 1967 by the rest of the

Division. Over the years, the Division had no fixed area of operations. The Division had left pieces of itself behind on the trail. By summer 1969 the Division Rear was still at

Bien Hoa, and one battalion from the Third Brigade was operating along the coast at

Phan Thiet, near Cam Ranh Bay. The bulk of the Division had settled into a more static pattern of operations in Thua Thien Province up North, one province south of the DMZ.

A bus took us over to the Screaming Eagles Replacement Training School. I found myself having breakfast at a small table with a guy who told me I was lucky to be in the artillery -- “the redlegs get good chow,” he advised. This rang true -- the food at

Fort Sill was not bad in spite of the fact that the mess hall there fed a huge number of troops every day. Later experience proved him right.

GI beans and GI Gravy, Gee I wish I’d joined the Navy

-- GI marching song

Our “hootches” at Bien Hoa were on a low rise just next to a huge radar screen.

The radar’s job was to detect incoming rockets. One evening we had a false alarm.

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Sirens went off and we hit the dirt. If any “Incoming” actually came in, it was far away.

Five days or so of marches to the rifle range and simulated patrolling were more to get us used to the climate than anything.

One night we had bunker guard. A truck brought us around after supper to bunkers along a long berm line pushed up by bulldozers. They dropped off a team of three of us at every fourth bunker. We were forbidden to bring anything to eat, but I brought a can of scrounged C-ration peaches and some crackers anyway. I was already dodging the rules. We had an M-60 machine gun in the firing slit, our own rifles, a few grenades and hand flares. To our front was the wire with trip flares. Beyond was a road with vehicles passing and a small village. To show that we were still awake, we called in hourly sitreps over the landline. We took turns one at a time. Sleeping on the inner slope of the berm was almost impossible on the gravelly ground. The Air Force tested jet engines with an ear-piercing whine virtually all night long. By 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. the bushes beyond the wire seemed to move by themselves. In my fertile imagination -- first night of guard in Vietnam -- there were NVA (North Vietnamese Army) soldiers creeping up on us using them for camouflage. In the dim light of the early dawn we could see that the bushes hadn’t moved at all. Back to training.

Then we were off to the airfield again for the flight by C-130 to Camp Eagle, the

Division’s base up North. We bummed lunch at a chow hall next to the airstrip and waited for the afternoon air taxi. A twin-rotor “Chinook” helicopter did the milk run from base to base on a fixed schedule every day. The Hook took us up to Camp Evans, where we waited again to get down to LZ Sally. With a few hours to kill, we cleaned our rifles and loafed around. We felt a bit exposed out by ourselves by the airstrip. To the

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northwest, up against the dark mountains, we watched an A-37 jet fighter doing some

bombing runs. Could have been just practice, but it seemed to us that we were getting a

whole lot closer to the war. Finally the Hook showed up. We climbed aboard, and had our first low-level flight. We zoomed along over rich green rice paddies. My imagination was overheated again -- I imagined a farmer by his water buffalo pulling out

an AK (AK-47 automatic rifle, basic infantry weapon of enemy forces) and spraying

bullets at us as we rushed past. Finally, our ears ringing from the screeching of turbines

and thudding of rotors, we walked off the stern ramp at LZ (landing zone) Sally’s airstrip,

where I found myself right next to my destination -- the battalion rear. Sally had become

a sprawling brigade base camp, with 2 artillery batteries, the airstrip, an Air Cav base, our

Headquarters and Headquarters Battery (HHB), an infantry battalion rear, a maintenance

outfit, and whatever else. A pretty big Landing Zone. They later changed its name to

Camp Sally.

The first night at Sally we had an alert drill at sundown. Sirens went off, guys were shouting. We bailed out of the hootches and ran over to the bunker line. The

Battalion commander strode past making sure all was in order. I fell into conversation with a young sergeant in faded fatigues. He spoke quietly. He was going home within days. He said he’d been a recon sergeant with the infantry most of his tour. There was something about the way he looked over the fields across the dark mountains and on to the sunset. He seemed to see right through the mountains, all the way to the A Shau,

filled with memories that I didn’t ask about. There was no pain or emotion in his face –

but I’ll never forget that look in his eyes as long as I live.

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At Battalion, they processed us in and issued us more gear. We stayed in a transient hootch for a few nights. One of the guys in the personnel (S-1) shop said they tried to get all the college grads desk jobs at Sally. To this, I would hardly object.

Nothing came of it, so I was off to B Battery. By chance I encountered one of my former

Fort Sill gunnery instructors who was working in the Battalion Fire Direction Center.

“I’ve been against this war all along,” he said, “but at least now I know I’m not a coward.”

Charlie’s mission is to die for his country – your mission is to help Charlie accomplish his mission.

-- Sign at Ft. Leonard Wood

In midsummer 1969, U.S. forces were at their peak strength (543,000) and level of activity in Vietnam. Near the DMZ, the Marines had fought North Vietnamese mainforce units for several years to control strategic Route 9, the northerly extent of Route 1, and the province capital of Quang Tri. This area was seen as a strategic gateway toward Hue and Da Nang. Apart from seasonal cycles of activity driven by monsoon weather, a rough stalemate had been achieved. While the main arteries of the Ho Chi Minh Trail passed through nearby Laos, key branches of that trail reached toward the coastal plain and the strategic port of Da Nang.

Geography

In summer 1969, the Division’s Area of Operations (AO) consisted of Thua Thien

Province. To the north lay the northernmost province of South Vietnam, Quang Tri, whose northern boundary was the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ, “the Z“). Immediately to the south was Quang Nam Province, whose largest port was Da Nang, key population

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center and military logistics stockpile for the region. Measured along Highway Q L 1,

the province was some 50 miles (***check) north to south. Da Nang is 300 airline miles

from North Vietnam’s largest port, Haiphong, on the Red River. From the DMZ to the

country’s southern tip at the Ca Mau Peninsula is 585 miles according to a map published

by the Congress in 1967. This distance is about the same as a drive from (*** find

suitable example***). South Vietnam’s population at that time was about 16 million,

somewhat smaller than that of the North. Its total land area was roughly equal to that of

the state of Washington, or one third larger than New York State.

Thua Thien’s province capital was Hue, the ancient Imperial City -- abode of the emperors of the middle kingdoms of legend. From 1802 to 1945, Hue was formally the

capital of all Vietnam, North and South. Airmen would call Hue “the Square City” after

the shape of the large district surrounding the ancient Imperial Palace. A large base

complex had developed around the airport at Phu Bai, a few klicks southeast of Hue

along the highway. This included Camp Eagle, the Division’s major base and

headquarters.

Along the coast, sandy barrier islands shield broad lagoons from the blue waters

of the Gulf of Tonkin and the South China Sea. Narrow winding tidal creeks weave

through these islands and marshes, giving shelter to the southward movement of men and

supplies by Communist sampans. Small patrol boats of the US and South Vietnamese

navies attempted to interdict this arms trade. As the Ho Chi Minh trail through Laos had

developed, the significance of this shorewise movement declined. At the southerly end

of the Thua Thien coast is Hai Van Pass. Here the mountains reach the sea, with only

occasional pockets of flat tillable land, little villages and rice paddies. Around Hue, the

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coastal plain widens out considerably, but where it extends inland it takes the form of low hills with no farming potential. North of Hue the coastal plain widens out again around

Quang Tri.

Inland of the coastal plain stretch the mountains, penetrated by several broad slow moving rivers like the Perfume River and the Ben Hai into which drained the smaller mountain streams. At their eastern margin, the mountains appear in some places as a steep rank of peaks, in others as low foothills. Progressing to the west, the mountains grow taller, rounded at the top and steep of slope. Stretching from northwest to southeast along the Laotian border is the A Shau Valley, legendary battleground for four years already. Not far to the west of the A Shau, the waters drain into the mighty Mekong, which carries them through Cambodia and down to the China Sea through the marshes and delta south of Saigon.

Along this narrow coastal plain, then, were the population centers, connected by the highway, QL 1, and the railroad. This was the strategic military corridor of old, the route of march for any army from the north seeking to secure the Imperial City, to command the great ports at Da Nang, Qui Nhon, Na Trang, and Cam Ranh Bay, and to control the fruitful ricelands farther south. The DMZ, then, was merely an arbitrary line cutting this strategic corridor at Latitude 17 North, not a point of any military, cultural, political, or economic importance. The DMZ was drawn on a map at Geneva in 1954, for temporary practical purposes only. Such temporary lines have a way of becoming permanent, and then becoming battlegrounds. I was later to gaze into the hills across the

DMZ myself, in yet another of those battles.

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LZ Sally

RR to QuangTri "Bunker Line"

2/94-8" 105 MM Area Artillary Various units 2d BDE Infantry TOC Area 801st Maintenance 1/321 -- HHB Area FDC Infantry Area A irstrip PK 17 Infantry Area "Gate" QL1

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 27

2. To Battery B

One sunny morning I piled into a jeep with a recon sergeant named Gallegos and a driver for the trip to Firebase Roy. Not knowing where we were going or what we might encounter, I naively asked, “Is it time to chamber a round?” They laughed and said it wasn’t. We drove out the front gate to the ville on QL 1.

Out by the front gate of Sally you would often see a bunch of Vietnamese women filling sandbags and tossing them onto a deuce and a half truck, under the watchful eye of a Military Policeman. They seemed so tiny in their pastel pants and tunics, under their conical straw hats. Maybe it wasn’t that difficult and they could use the money, but it grated on me to see women filling sandbags when Sally was so full of “chairborne rangers” who could use the exercise.

Off to the north stood the gray walls and towers of PK 17 -- an old French fort that was now an ARVN (South Vietnamese army) base. These French ruins from the early 1950’s had never been torn down. We often saw them as we flew by, bound for the

“triple canopy,” as we called the jungle hills. The Viet Minh had surrounded these posts, large and small, cut them off, and captured them one by one. It was always depressing passing these monuments to failure… the treadmill had a history.

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Cultivating rice with water buffalo -- view from QLI

Just south of Sally, we passed an impressive collection of tall radio aerials, surrounded by tall fences and wire. Some of these were 50 to 60 feet tall. The sign at the sentry-box by the gate said “such-and-such” Radio Research Unit. This was where the good guys eavesdropped on the bad guys, trying to guess what they’d be doing next.

Along QL 1, we passed rice paddies and little villages to my first Asian city --

Hue, the Imperial City. Along the road were little stands watched by women selling everything from cans of soda to sunglasses to charcoal. South Vietnamese soldiers rode along on little Honda mo-peds. I once saw a mo-ped with four passengers -- an ARVN soldier, his wife with babe in arms, and a youngster sitting on the guy’s knees.

Everywhere were tiny, rusty buses with people leaning out of windows, hanging on at the door, roofs piled high with bundles of who knows what.

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Hue

Hue glitters in

A ring of rice paddies

Draped in woods and groves

By the blue China Sea

(Journal)

At the occasional bridge there would be ARVN’s -- probably the local “Ruf n’

Pufs,*” but we didn’t know -- crashed in hammocks, supposedly guarding bridges. I muttered to the other guys, “There is no reason they should want to hustle out into the mountains and chase Charlie around if a bunch of Americans would come over and do it for them.” In the villes and on the outskirts of Hue were districts of tiny houses with bamboo and trees. Many of the houses used ammunition box lumber for siding. You could tell from the military logistics jargon stenciled on it.

Hue was a colorful small city with no tall buildings. Even a year and a half after

Tet 1968, a bridge still lay broken in the river. We passed occasional unrepaired ruins, and saw many marks from shellfire in the walls. Streets were filled with people, many

bicycles and pedicabs. One street by the river seemed to be the woodworkers’ quarter --

they were obviously doing a strong business in coffins.

We continued southward on QL 1, past more rice paddies and fields. The hills closed in on us from the West and we passed Firebase Anzio, a tall hill that seemed a

Rube Goldberg caricature of a firebase -- it was very steep and covered with a jumble of

* GI slang for Regional Forces and Popular Forces, a sort of local South Vietnamese militia.

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 30

barbed wire and bunkers. It was a major ARVN base for this area. Here and there work

parties of Navy Seabees were fixing bridges and laying pavement. They were winning

hearts and minds by public improvements and aiding U.S. mobility at the same time.

Farmers were busy with farming chores. Along the road were wide ditches, probably

borrow pits for the road and railroad grade. Often we saw fishermen with large square

nets suspended from long poles fishing for the small fish there. Once we stopped as a boy drove a large herd of ducks across the road.

Along the road was the railroad; the connection to the South for heavy freight needed this far north. I noticed this since my grandfather had been a locomotive engineer on the Chicago and Northwestern. Saigon and Hanoi did not have a rail connection until

1936. To the frustration of senior officers, there just weren’t enough troops to guard every bridge and culvert. Every so often the local Vietcong (VC) would blow one of them up. We could fly battalions with impunity into the A Shau Valley but couldn’t keep the trains running on schedule. Railroading was a tough business in this area.

Here and there we saw an ambush patrol eating C’s and taking it easy along the railway before moving into night ambush positions. These squads of locals, accompanied by a Marine adviser, were active in our area. Every night “Dark Wages” ambush locations came in to the Fire Direction Center (FDC) for plotting on our maps. Once every week or two, they would blow an ambush, kill North Vietnamese Army (NVA) soldier and capture an AK or two.

I knew from reading that Thua Thien Province was an area of heavy Catholic immigration by northern refugees after 1954. These people chose to come -- or were scared into coming – to the South after the 1954 partition at the Demilitarized Zone

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 31

(DMZ). Few of these people were likely to be Vietcong sympathizers, for which we

were thankful.

Dam Cau Hai from Roy, looking across roof of FDC

We rolled past a huge Seabee gravel operation on the left and then turned up a

steep gravel track up to Firebase Roy. As the road rose up the hill, the view across the lagoon became more impressive. We passed through the break in the wire and skirted the

Heavy battery lodged on the landward side of the hilltop. We were left with our rucksacks at the middle of the B Battery area. I was introduced to the First Sergeant, the

Fire Direction Officers, and the day crew in the FDC. I went on duty that evening for the

four to midnight shift, one of the three rolling shifts each day. Alternating shifts like this,

we got a normal night’s sleep every other day.

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We were at war in a scene of enchanting beauty. Years later, National

Geographic anointed the stretch of Vietnam’s coastline between Da Nang and Hue as one

of the top 50 most scenic trips in the world.1 This was the farthest from our minds at the

time, but there was no denying the magic of the place, especially for a man’s first look at

Asia. Our hilltop was admirably suited for both defense and observation, commanding a

sweeping view of the lagoon, the narrow flat coastal plain, and the mountains. To the

northeast was the long barrier island that sheltered the lagoon -- evocatively named Dam

Cau Hai -- from the distant China Sea.

Sitting atop the steep ridgeline to the west of us was Firebase Sledge -- a tiny

outpost with a half battery. At night they would often fire illumination (parachute flares)

that gave the place a ghostly glow.

Their mess hall was on Roy with ours and chow went up to them by

air for each meal. Sledge occupied a steep peak that towered over us at a

distance of 8 or 9 klicks (kilometers) inland. It will be shut down when

monsoon arrives, cuz will then be impossible to supply by air... Sledge was

an awesome sight in the middle of the night - perched on a high lonely

peak, hanging pale light of parachute flares... Sledge’s flares gave enough

light to give a faint illumination to our own position -- very helpful when

we had bunker guard.”

(September 4)

In the evenings, fishermen from Phu Loc and other villages were out on the Dam

Cau Hai, lanterns on their long boats to attract the fish. Watching these lanterns glowing

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in the fading light reminded me many times of the Haiku I had read in college. The

fishermen had a warning to never approach closer to Roy than a certain distance on pain

of being fired upon. Occasionally the white Hospital Ship could be seen on the horizon,

our nearby island of hope for anyone needing critical care not available here on land.

Some evenings, “Pistol Pete,” the Navy’s little hovercraft patrol boat, would be out on

the lagoon. Now and then Pistol Pete would be firing on some target on the distant hills

and we could watch the hot pink tracers pouring across the water.

The mountains pressed close to the Dam Cau Hai. Imposing, steep, and dark

green, after mid afternoon they seemed to turn in color to an ominous darkness. A colorful sunset over the jagged peaks was a sight for the tourist calendars. Our battery

often fired into stunningly rugged terrain. I felt sorry for the infantry platoons struggling

up and down the trails out there, though we had no contact fire missions and were aware

of little action out there.

At sunrise, the cool valleys behind the mountains would often fill with “ground

fog” rising from the rivers up there. The ground fog would spill down through passes

between the peaks and flow majestically downward, lit up to a brilliant white by the

morning sun. These white waterfalls would then fade by midmorning as the sun rose

higher in the sky.

July 1969 20th. Apollo 11 lands on moon, 21st astronaut Neil Armstrong walks on moon 9th Infantry Division pulls out (less 3d brigade)

The Seabees (Navy Construction Battalions) were the highway department for

this area, and needed a lot of raw material. Every week or so, a thunderous explosion

would be heard at their gravel plant across the road -- they had blasted another batch of

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rock for roadbuilding. A huge column of smoke would rise into the air and you could see

rocks and chunks of dirt flying in high arcs into the sky. The dust would settle and the

Seabees had another week’s gravel for their work.

Someone had thoughtfully arranged Roy so that the Heavy battery -- eight-inch

howitzers from Corps Artillery -- was at the westerly end of the hill so that they did not

shoot over our heads. Until arriving at Roy I had never seen the eight-inch howitzer in

action. Fortunately for our eardrums they were not very active while I was there. To one

side of a bunker facing the Dam Cau Hai, someone from the Heavy Battery occasionally

would put up a sheet over the ammo box wall and show movies right after dark. With the

film breaks on these old prints, and the creaky projectors, the audiences endured many

interruptions, but this was the only moviehouse in town. We occasionally spoke to them

on the landline -- we were “Little Bravo,” they were “Big Bravo.”

One morning a five-ton truck pulled up towing a long flatbed trailer stacked high

with ammunition on pallets. A man, wearing no shirt or booniehat, pulled himself up the

side of the truck, an axe in one hand. He stood atop this load of boxes, swung the axe

over his head, and proceeded to break the pallet strapping with the axe. I was momentarily horrified that anyone would treat so violently enough ammunition to blow this hilltop into dust. But then I realized that the shells are well packed, and the fuzes shipped separately. A group of gunners appeared and the truck was quickly unloaded, the ammunition packed away in low bunkers with sandbag roofs. What was needed right away was unpacked and stacked in the gunpits, also under cover.

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It was a curious thing that the Army didn’t think it useful to familiarize FDC

people with battery operations during training, so most of us “13 Echos” saw all this for

the first time after getting to a firing battery.

forthcoming

Firebase Roy – Air View

Our two FDO’s (Fire Direction Officers) were both short-timers. They had spent much of their tours out with the infantry as Forward Observers (FO’s). Their job was to

supervise the FDC and ensure quality control. They could alternate shifts like the rest of

us. One of them told us that right after commissioning he had served as a “family liaison officer” working out of Denver. If you got killed, an officer or senior noncom would appear at your door to tell your family the news. He would then be available to coordinate details of the funeral, a flag, and whatever. Before we went over, they told us to tell our next of kin about this. No telegrams. I remember telling my Dad about this just before I left. Lt J hated this job. He said the worst was going out to some place in a

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 36 poverty stricken Indian reservation to tell the parents their son was gone. Said he’d put in for Nam to get away from doing it anymore.

A few weeks before I arrived, Firebase Tomahawk, a small firebase to our South had been hit.2 It was a tiny hill with a battery of self-propelled 155’s from Corps

Artillery, guarded by a platoon. One morning our Battery Commander called the battery together. We sat on bunkers and leaned against sandbag walls as he read us the after action report. It had been a dark, rainy night. Too many guys on the perimeter had been trying to stay dry and out of the rain. NVA sapper companies train diligently for this.

They know how to work through wire and disable trip flares and claymore mines in the dark. (A claymore is a flat, portable mine about 6”x10” square. It sits on two folding legs a few inches above the ground. It is detonated by a tripwire or by a handheld firing device.) They make a model of the target firebase, study it carefully, and rehearse over and over like a basketball team learning plays. The sappers work their way into the wire.

At Bien Hoa they had a sapper demonstration by a “rallier,” a Vietcong defector, they told us. He wore nothing but a loincloth and carried a pouchful of charges. He crawled along, holding a blade of grass ahead of him. He could feel the grass move in his fingers when it encountered a trip wire. He would then edge sideways and tie it off or neutralise it. He then went right through a roll of nasty-looking “German concertina” barbed wire.

It was a sobering thing to watch.3

A burst of mortar fire gets everybody‘s head down. Then the sappers are up, across the last barriers, and into the firebase. Each one knows where they are going.

Most of them carry no small arms, only satchel charges and grenades. They toss these into the bunkers. The surviving sappers head back out through the breaks in the wire as

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quickly as they can. The GIs are left standing in a smoking ruin, counting their dead,

tending wounded, and frantically bringing in dustoff birds. If any gunbirds have arrived in time, they are pursuing the fleeing sappers into the surrounding hills. And it is still not

even daylight. The next day, newspapers report this as a battle we have won, since we still hold the hill. But it was never a battle for a hill. The hill is just a convenient place for a firebase, of no importance at all. It may not even be guarding anyplace of importance. The NVA knows better. He thinks he has won. He didn’t need the hill. He

has forced us to spend more troops and resources on defending static positions, and he

has inflicted casualties. The more spectacular examples would earn 60 seconds on

national television back in the world. Wherever we were on firebases, the fear of sappers

watching, waiting, was always with us.

The reason this war has lasted so long is, before they started it they made a rule that the loser had to take the country.

-- GI saying

The following June, Tomahawk was hit again. That night, though, an alert platoon sergeant was checking the perimeter and noticed movement in the wire. He started shooting and the NVA had to spring the attack prematurely. No sappers got inside. At dawn, there were 30 bodies scattered around the slopes. Cobra gunbirds were hunting the fleeing survivors. I was in the Battalion FDC at the time and heard the radio traffic. One GI was killed by, of all things, a wayward illumination canister from our own supporting fire. I thought someone had gotten sloppy... it’s standard practice to

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calculate canister impacts to ensure they clear friendlies... but it could have been from a mortar.

Just after sunset one evening, firing broke out in the ville below us across QL1.

We could hear the popping of M-16s and the thud-thud-thud of a machine gun. Looking out over our own wire, we could see tracers spraying across the ricefields and tumbling crazily every which way after bouncing into some obstacle. We got up a gun and began firing “illum” for them, which lit the scene in a harsh bright light. An illum round can light up an entire one kilometer grid square brightly enough that you can read the

newspaper. The light flickers as the flare rocks back and forth on its tiny parachute. A

small house in the ville began to burn. The firing died out, and we went about our

business. Next day, I bumped into a guy from the infantry who I had known at Bien Hoa.

I mentioned the firing, and he said “we just blew the ambush cuz we got bored and didn’t want to carry all the ammo back up the hill again. You can always say you saw movement.”

Seemed to me this wasn’t the way to treat civilians. As I wrote home afterward:

...What a bunch of trigger-happy idiots we’ve got down there.

(July 22 – Roy)

One day Battalion sent us what was probably the most insane fire mission in the entire history of the field artillery. Some genius had concocted the idea that if we fired enough illum rounds into the center of every grid square in a 10km x 10km area, we

should be able to start a helluva forest fire and put an end to whatever the NVA was up to out there. Battalion gave us the corners of the 100-square kilometer region and told us to

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begin working up data. We were amazed. We began fiddling with the charts to get the

grids, ranges, altitudes, and deflections. Here I was, professional forester turned citizen soldier, figuring out how to destroy 100 square kilometers of monsoon forest. I was

gathering my thoughts to call Battalion back and tell them why this was so crazy. Apart

from the senseless destruction of the forest (not a military concern apparently), this kind

of forest was not going to ignite on this basis anyway. Even if it did, how in hell were we

going to keep a forest fire like this inside the desired 10x10 box? It could burn all the

way to Hue. As I was gathering the gumption to tell them this, the word came down that

cooler heads had prevailed. We were to forget it.

So, what I was starting to learn of war was pretty unsettling.

As an Airborne outfit, our mobility meant that we were always on alert for a move

someplace. Between actual orders to prepare, and the ever-present rumors, it seemed that

we were forever on the verge of packing. More than once, we were packed for a move

that got cancelled the very morning of departure. After the monsoon set in, this “move of

the week” routine faded a good deal.

We were alerted for a two-gun raid about two days ago. Word

came down in middle of night. Cannoneers toiled mightily all night to

prepare guns and ammo pallets to move -- DivArty (Division Artillery)

and battalion commanders came in morning and then nothing happened.

Deal was postponed indefinitely. People seem a bit confused about what

they are doing. We were to support 2/17 Cav, but nobody knew when they

were coming (why not ask them?) So much sweat and toil for nothing.

(August 1 -- Roy)

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The following spring, on some trip from Los Banos to LZ Sally, the guy driving

was moved to visit Roy again. We drove up and found that the place had been totally remodeled. Under Vietnamization, it was occupied by an ARVN battery of split-trailed

105s. The heavies were gone. The gunpits and much of the area were rebuilt. The pits had neat circles of 105 mm shell canisters stuck in the ground and labeled with the azimuths, which we thought a nice touch. The whole area was very tidy. Apart from a gunner or two lounging in each pit, the place seemed almost deserted. Nobody approached us to ask what we wanted. We strode into their FDC like we owned the place. It was also deserted, but it was neat as a pin, the firing charts looking especially

tidy. I came away with a favorable impression of the professionalism indicated by what

we saw there. We ended up not speaking to anyone, drove back down to QL 1, and

continued on our way.

Tomorrow marks a month in country for me -- and I still haven’t

been shot at yet. Had bunker guard last night. You sit on top of a bunker

and look out over the wire and try to spot or hear Charlie before he gets

in. People have been falling asleep on guard... the BC was stomping mad.

Last night everybody was threatened with terrible punishment if caught

sleeping.

(August 8 – Roy)

At night, the cooks used to set up snacks. I suppose they hoped this would keep

us awake. They’d get them together after they had everything cleaned up for the night.

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So, from about midnight on, you could get some hot chicken soup, coffee, molasses

cookies, or sometimes sandwiches. So, we’d get a midnight snack to eat while watching

the flickering torches of the fishing boats spread out over the Dam Cau Hai. At later

locations, this custom fell away and we were on our own for snacks.

Rocket Season: Roy To Arrow

In August, it came time to leave Roy. The generals were concerned that batteries

sitting too long in one place lost moving skills, and generally lost their edge. So there

was a certain amount of moving us around for the sake of moving... to keep us in shape.

Hard to argue that. Anyway, this move brought us back to our normally supported unit,

the 2/501 infantry, which had a company at Panther II at the time.

The morning arrived and the gun crews were bundling up equipment,

ammunition, and everything else. The big twin-rotor birds, the Chinooks, were called

“Hooks” in GI slang. The first Hook came in low, and gently edged closer to the first

gun to move. The noise from the two engines was deafening. Rotorwash blasted sand

everywhere, blew people’s hats off, swept up the occasional bit of paper or empty

sandbag. You had to lean into the rotorwash to stand up. Rotorwash was powerful. The

First Sergeant lost his balance at one point and was blown 200 feet down the side of the

hill, suffering neck and back injuries. Another time, a “mule” was blown right off the hill

and had to be recovered by a helicopter.

A man held the nylon sling rig high over his head, and the Hook uneasily edged

into position. The sling was hooked up, and the roar of the engines deepened as the Hook

leaned forward, slowly rose, and eased off to the south, slowly picking up first the howitzer and then the additional sling with a pallet of ammunition and supplies beneath

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it. This ungainly rig dangled below the big brown helicopter as it gently turned to the

northwest toward the mountains. This scene was repeated five more times for the guns,

and several times more for the FDC’s pallet and other gear. You could see why a pilot

had to be a captain before they’d let him fly a Hook.

On the way to Panther II, the guns were dropped for a one-day raid at a remote

ridgetop firebase called Brick, where they fired about 400 rounds using target data we

had worked up the night before. The rest of us piled into 5/4 ton and “deuce and a half”

trucks for the ride to Panther II. We went back up QL I, past Anzio, past Eagle, and out

the road to the west to this low, dusty hill. Someone pointed out where Panther I had

been. After we arrived, they changed the hill’s name to Firebase Arrow. The work of

getting set up took longer than usual as we were short three guys who were on R&R.

Arrow was comfortable enough, but lacked the shorefront location, seabreezes, and water view. Away from the coast, it was far hotter here. Every afternoon, clouds

formed along the mountains, bringing brief showers there. It was so hot it was hard to

sleep at night. Most of our shooting was routine. Arrow sat in a wide expanse of wrinkly

low hills to the west of Camp Eagle, perhaps to provide a forward defense for the Camp

Eagle/Phu Bai base complex and airfield. The vegetation was distinctly non-tropical -- it

was low, brushy and grassy country, almost like out of a western movie. Must have been

something about soil or local rainfall conditions. A “rain shadow” from the mountains?

This aroused my curiosity but there was nobody around who could bring me up to speed

on the local vegetation. There was no land flat enough to grow rice, so there were no

villages or fields. Just hills and brush.

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This whole area was surrounded on three sides by low hills in the distance. To

the South we could see another low hill, its top stripped of vegetation. Staring closely

you could see vehicles at work down there. The “pick and shovel people,” the engineers, were at work on Firebase Arsenal, which was to be a modern, high-end firebase that would welcome us in about a month. To the southwest and west was a large area of former brushland that had been worked over by Rome Plows in the days when there was enthusiasm for stripping vast areas of vegetation in order to make it harder for the NVA to creep around in concealment.

The ancient emperors of the central empire of these parts had their tombs in this area. Tourist maps call it the “Valley of the Kings.” The tombs could be seen through binoculars, with impressive columns, arches, and dragons. One of them we used as an aiming stake to lay the battery. It was a perfect sight point for the surveying instrument that was used to recheck the proper settings on gunsights.

Bastogne Raid

Finally, it was time for the Bastogne Raid (August 17). Half the battery and a

small fire direction crew would go to Bastogne to provide artillery support for convoy

security along the road to the A Shau Valley. Highway 547 was a gravel road to Blaze

and into the floor of the A Shau. It crossed the Perfume River, and headed out through a wide valley into the hills, where it wound along until reaching the keystone base, Blaze,

at the northeast corner of the Valley. Bastogne had been used before; we would work

there for a few days to a week. No real construction, just a campout. Trucks showed up

at Arrow and we hooked up three guns and various ammo trailers. We climbed aboard

for the ride, heading back to Camp Eagle, and out across the river. There we met our

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armored escort, two dusty M60 tanks and several equally dusty APC’s (Armored

Personnel Carriers) – little boxes on tracks that bristled with machine guns on top with tiny little shields. Their presence was comforting, but recalled what my Dad had once told me: “A tank is just a rolling coffin.” Still, these rolling coffins looked as though they could be handy to have around. Eating dust, we went on past Fire Base Birmingham, an imposing hill just off the road, which watched over the route into Hue along this branch of the hills.

August 1969 7th: Vietcong Commandoes raid 6th Evac. Hospital at Cam Ranh Bay

Someone said that the previous year, a battalion moving by truck had been

ambushed right on this road in this very place. Considerable casualties were suffered.

The roadway had clearly had the Agent Orange herbicide treatment. For up to half a mile

on both sides, there were no living trees, only stubs of trunks. Instead, the slopes were

covered by brush and grass, much greener and denser than over by Arrow. The Agent

Orange treatment originated because the NVA/VC had an incredibly gutsy way of ambushing a convoy -- they would cover up with grass and camouflage, and sit in the ditch by the road. When you came by, they’d stand up and start shooting AKs and rocket-propelled grenades rocket-propelled grenades (RPG’s) at the vehicles. They’d get a lot of guys before they could even grab their rifles and chamber a round. Getting right up next to the convoy gave them surprise, deadly pointblank range, as well as shelter from our supporting Cobra gunships and artillery. The fear factor was up and I clutched my rifle, checked my bandolier of spare magazines, and stared at the treeline up the slope

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 45

looking for any sign of somebody watching us. I thought about how to get off the truck

and into a ditch if the shooting started.

We arrived at a dusty hill called Bastogne without incident. Quickly the guns were spiked down and ready. Infantrymen set up on the perimeter and got going on

foxholes. The “tracks” and the tank set up around the perimeter where they thought best.

I got the FDC section’s M60 machine gun and set it up on some sandbags next to our

little shelter where we kept the radio. I talked with the tank commander, a Sergeant who

was on the perimeter next to us... “What would you do if we get hit?” I asked. “Keep

shooting, back up toward the center of the hill if we need to, till we’re knocked out,” he

said matter-of-factly. One afternoon we went over to a tiny adjacent hill and did some

target practice shooting down the hill at beer cans and rocks, just for something to do.

BC on radio, Bastogne raid

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 46

A crummy little hill known as FSB Bastogne...

… We’re above ground on what amounts to a bare hilltop, littered

with steel engineer stakes, PSP, old sandbags, concertina, and ammo

boxes and cans... at night we have about 6 APC’s and 2 M60 tanks on our

perimeter. We got cold beer and water out here about noon -- what a

boost...

… We have about 7 mad minutes every night -- everybody on the

perimeter lets loose with everything they’ve got...

… We’ve got civilians cutting wood on the hills all around us,

mostly for firewood to Hue. It’s all dead timber probably killed to reduce

Charlie’s cover around this hill.

Short! 46 weeks to go!

(August 17 & 19 – Bastogne)

The convoys were impressive, truck after truck, often five-tons with long trailers laden with cargo of all kinds. Almost every convoy included one or two trailers hauling

175 mm tubes (barrels) out to Blaze. The 175 “Long Heavies” out there were obviously busy. A 175 could shoot more than 30 kilometers and had a very high muzzle velocity.

A tube could only stand something like 300 rounds at the top charge before wearing out.

So they replaced tubes regularly.

The routine was that a Forward Observer (FO) would fly over the convoy the whole way in a LOH (Light Observation Helicopter). The FO checked in with us and with battalion... “the wagon train is leaving.” In case of an ambush, the observer would

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call us to direct fire on the ambushers. Each time, to be ready, we would have a gun step

forward from one pre-planned target to the next along the way. On arrival at Blaze, he would advise “the wagon train has reached Fort Apache” and we could stand down.

There were no ambushes while we were out there. As we were in a bit of a gap between

Birmingham and Blaze there was other shooting for us to do.

Summer was “Rocket Season.” The NVA rocket teams would haul rockets into the hills to the southwest, which were known as “the Rocket Belt.” They could be

launched from something as simple as a steel engineer stake. They could be set with timed activators so that the crews could be long gone when the rockets were launched.

By the time our radars could calculate the locations of the launchers, the perpetrators were elsewhere. They didn’t try to rocket a firebase because they had no chance of hitting such a small target. So the rockets fell on Hue and Camp Eagle now and then, usually at night. Rocketing Hue was the NVA’s method of political campaigning - “see, those ARVNS and Yankee imperialists can’t protect you -- you’ll be better off with us.”

It was infuriating that we couldn’t do much about it.

Last night Hue and Phu Bai were hit, and countrywide total

shellings of allied installations were highest since May. There are lots of

fireworks at night out here... Still today is end of my fifth straight week

without getting shot at. We’re not worried -- we’ve got lots of wire, 100

grunts, our duster, good bunkers, mines, foogasse...

(August 20 [rcvd])

Every few evenings, parachute flares (illum) would be floating above Phu Bai or

Anzio in the distance. Illum was a great security blanket. When you took incoming, you

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 48 immediately lit up the sky. A continuous illum mission in the distance had a haunting appearance, especially as it hinted that nothing good was happening over there. We shot a fair amount of illum missions.

The infantry would sit out on the perimeter at supper, eating from paper plates a hot meal from our shared cookshack. The company medic would put on a medic’s light green smock and walk around the perimeter, issuing out the daily malaria pill. We had two malaria pills, one daily, and one monthly, for different types of malaria. The medic had to report to Battalion that the pills had been taken. I don’t recall our Battery’s medic doing such a report, but I still took my pills religiously. There were macho guys who tossed their pills into the bushes. Despite the pills, three years after getting home, a hospital turned me down when I went to donate blood on behalf of a sick neighbor.

These guys were known for a nighttime practice of tossing a frag (GI shorthand for “fragmentation grenade”) or shooting an M79 grenade launcher out into the wire every so often... “to keep Charlie honest.” That noise through the night was very comforting -- we knew it probably did help keep him honest. More importantly, it proved that someone was awake on the perimeter. Helped us sleep well.

At Arrow we worked with “Sluggah Novembah,” an Australian liaison officer based at the Pohl Bridge to our north. He worked with a small ARVN detachment guarding the bridge there on Hwy 547. He’d cheerfully come up on our radio frequency in the evening with the locations of patrols that were out that night, to ask for us to work up “defensive targets” around his location, or whatever other liaison business might come up.

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On the radio, we referred to the ARVN’s as “the little people.” Then the word came down that no more derisive or belittling terms were to be used for the South

Vietnamese – henceforth, they were simply “Allies.”

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3. Sent to the Field

Shortly after we returned to Arrow from Bastogne, I was told I would be going to

the field... I was to be RTO (radio-telephone operator or radioman) with B Company. I

should get my stuff together and get over to Birmingham the next day. So that was it.

The other job for 13 Echos was with the forward observers. The RTO was to carry the

radio. The recon sergeant was essentially an assistant FO, doing the same things but off with another platoon while the FO stayed with the infantry commander. I got my gear together, and bummed a ride over to Sally and then to Birmingham.

No more serene hilltops for a few months. I’m going out to the

field with the grunts to carry a radio for an FO

...RTO’ing isn’t so dangerous, just a lot of sweat. With some luck

I’ll be back in FDC in three months or so. I’ve been kind of curious to see

what this war is like out there so I’ll get a chance now... should have some

interesting things to report in next few months.

(August 23 – Sally)

Interlude at Birmingham

At Birmingham I found the Tactical Operations Center and reported to the

artillery liaison radio cubicle, where I met the Liaison Sergeant. His call sign was “2 -1-

Tango Yankee” on the radio; I knew his voice. I also met Captain Ford, the Liaison

Officer, and the other assistant, a fellow with quite a ghetto jive, “2-1-Tango Bravo” on

the radio. Could be a great radio disk jockey someday. There were no helicopters going

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 51 out to the company for a few days, so I loafed around “B’ham.” One morning we drove a jeep down to the river to wash out poncho liners and other stuff. In this heat, stuff hung on the barbed wire would dry fast.

I’m now sitting with my toes in the river by B’ham. Was supposed

to ride out to B Co this morn on the logbird (supply chopper), but they

didn’t have an LZ today so I’ll have to go tomorrow. Too Bad.

August 24

The Liaison Sergeant was a Staff Sergeant who had been with the First Cavalry

Division on his first tour. He was bored sitting in the liaison cubicle running a radio and wanted to get into the field. He wanted to be outside and into whatever action there was.

I thought this was an indication of at least mild insanity and would have been happy to trade places with him. Later that fall he got his wish and went to the field with one of the other companies. In quite a coincidence, he had studied for a time at Lake Forest

College, in the town next to where I grew up.

Captain Ford looked after the day-to-day working relations between the infantry battalion we supported and the observer teams from B battery that were out with the battalions four rifle companies. He generally coordinated artillery support, and was often the air observer on missions like “prepping LZ’s.” He was a pipesmoking officer, West

Point 1963, on his second tour, easy to talk to compared to many officers you’d meet. I let him know that at any time I wouldn’t mind coming in from the field to work in his liaison shop if he needed somebody. For several months my mailing address would be

“2/501 Arty Liaison” -- the only way anybody else in the Army would be able to find me.

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Out to Company B in the Rocket Belt

The morning came, August 25. After breakfast I met the bird that was going out

to Company B. I sat on the floor next to boxes of supplies and next to the door gunner.

My first ride in a “slick” as the UH-1 “Huey” troop-carrying helicopters were called. The

cool air rushed by the open side door as we rose into the sky and made our way south.

The view over the hills and toward the sea was peaceful. We began to descend and then landed on a small hill. I jumped out and helped unload the stuff. I was introduced to the

Forward Observer, Lieutenant Quick, and to Captain Jackson and the rest of the

Command Post (CP) group.

Company B’s FO party was running one man short -- we had no recon sergeant at

the time. This gave me the idea that if I did a good job I might move up to that slot --

leaving behind that heavy radio to a new RTO. One of the guys brought me my radio --

the Army PRC-25, and an extra battery. The radio was a small metal box with an

antenna protruding from one end. He helped me anchor it with D-rings to my packframe

under my rucksack. I was now an official artillery RTO. We moved off down the hill in

stifling heat. I felt the radio’s weight. It had been a long time since the exercise of

training at Ft. Sill. We stopped to “water up” at a bomb crater and then headed up a trail

to a steep ridgeline. I felt the weight of the radio even more.

The 2/501 Airborne Infantry called itself the “Drive On battalion”; its crest bore

this motto; its Commander used the call sign “Driver.” When saluting, instead of “Good

morning, Sir,” you said, “Drive On, Sir!,” or “Airborne, Sir!.” This was supposedly an indication of spirit and unit cohesion. Mostly, we went along with it. But in the field, you

didn’t salute. Partly, things were a lot more informal. Mainly, they said, when you

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 53 saluted an officer it enabled any watching enemy soldiers to see instantly who the officers were. In the field, we generally wore no insignia of rank at all. Those who did wear rank had black insignia on their collar and the front of their helmets that you could only see up close. Or they sometimes had a vertical stripe (lieutenant) or two (captain) on the backside of their helmet. For my later time in the field , I served in a slot that officially belonged to someone one grade up -- I was “recon sergeant” -- a buck sergeant, three- striper slot. I was Battalion computer back at Phu Bai, a Sp/5 slot. So wearing rank or not made little difference. I saw my status in my function and not in how many stripes I had. You could never trust nametags... for anyone in the field or on firebases, some in the rear as well. In the field, we’d get cleaned fatigues in huge bags, with no nametags at all, or with somebody else’s.

With us was Major M the battalion chaplain. A gregarious man, he was a

Lutheran from Wisconsin. He could have been at peace, minding the affairs of a congregation in a small Wisconsin town, but instead he was here with us, huffing and puffing up these steep ridges in 90o heat. I often think of him when the subject comes up of people going the extra mile, doing something they don’t have to, to help others.

The infantry’s daily routine was a big change. No more eight on eight off. Not only was it a heavy day of “humping the boonies,” but at night it was usually two hours on -- four hours off for radio watch. So, effort was multiplied many-fold, and effective sleep cut in half. At lunch we’d sometimes tie a poncho liner or poncho into the brush to get some shade. The hills were thickly forested. On the ridgeline, the shade was often thin, but there would be a bit of breeze. Just getting into the shade made it feel like a heavy weight was lifted from you. We’d sip some water, and munch canned C-rations

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and crackers. Strikingly, when you’re that hot and weary, you don’t really have a big appetite. After a moment of relief, it was back down the trail. With the CP group, at least we were never on point.

This was the “rocket belt.” We were here to make it more difficult for the NVA

rocket squads. One evening we sat on this ridgetop, looking out to the northeast toward

Camp Eagle and toward Hue. Illum rounds were afloat over one point. “We were

probably safer out here in the rocket belt than we would be down there at Camp Eagle

right now,” somebody observed. “I guess, I’d rather be out here than walking around

Central Park at 2:00 am,” I responded. “At least here I have a weapon!”

We spent a few days hiking up and down these hills along this ridgeline, with

steep slopes to both sides of us. At one point, we had a lunch break overlooking a steep

ravine with a large river that flowed northward. In the middle of the river stood a large

island, a steep hill with the river going around it on both sides. The top of the hill had

been bulldozed off and was light brown, with its bare dirt contrasting with the deep green forest along its slopes. I knew this one from the maps -- Fire Base Normandy, unoccupied at the moment.

One morning a slick met us with supplies and water in 155 mm powder canisters.

What a cocktail-- take the water from the Seabees water plant, with its chlorine, and add

the taste of gunpowder, then keep it nice and lukewarm. But it was wet. In this heat, we

went through plenty of water. There were two-quart canteens in addition to the old-

fashioned one-quart GI models. Many of us carried four quarts or more. I would often go through one quart at night on guard, slowly re-hydrating. Mom would send me

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 55 packets of Lipton’s Orange and Lemonade mix, which gave me some carbos and cut the taste of the gunpowder.

Once into the routine, my load would usually include C-rations for whatever period was needed, my Lipton’s juice mix and the odd goodie from home, a few frags, a few spare batteries, up to four quarts of water, the radio, a towel and shaving stuff, a spare sweater and T-shirt and dry socks, disinfectant for infected scratches, salt pills, 20 or so loaded magazines for my rifle, a few smoke grenades, and a claymore mine. At the beginning of an operation, one of the machine gunners would go around asking guys to put a 50-round belt on their backpack. I carried one; anyone asked was always glad to. I never weighed all this stuff. But my shoulders did. Fortunately I was always a hiker and in a few days I got used to the heat and the loads; luckily, GI jungle boots fit me well so I had no foot trouble.

The morning came to go back in to base. After rinsing off a bit in a cool stream, we trudged down the hill to a grassy open patch where we awaited the lift birds. Soon they came in, one at a time, and we hopped aboard. My first “operation” was over. No shots fired, no sign of bad guys or rocket launchers. Not even a Mad Minute. Not much hint that we had disturbed Charlie’s plans very much. To do that we’d have to camp there permanently.

Here was my introduction to the military geometry of vast mountainous spaces.

There was no front. U.S.-controlled territory was what a guy could see from where a squad was set up -- essentially nothing. Enemy territory was everything else. We could have walked right past large NVA bunker complexes or units relaxing on the slopes and never known it. To comb over all those slopes would have meant weeks of exhausting

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toil. We were one company in one corner of the Rocket Belt for one week. The rest of

the Division had fish to fry elsewhere. Airmobility, sensors, radar, intensive air Cavalry

reconnaissance, intelligence from captives and “chieu hois” (“returnees” from the VC or

NVA), and all the rest could do little to overcome the military geometry of space. One

look across those endless ranges of mountains from any ridgeline in the rocket belt could

show you that. Generations of generals had lectured American statesmen: “Never get involved in a land war in Asia.” A snapshot of the view to the West from the ridgeline in

the Rocket Belt would make a compelling case for that argument.

Just got care package-- much appreciated especially lime-orange

lemonade -- was exactly what I wanted. I needed it badly on this last

operation. I drank 8 or 9 quarts of water a day, either from local streams

or from 155 mm powder canisters.

... Being just short of 2 months in country it’s hard to avoid being

depressed at the vast stretch of time ahead -- of gray empty lost time of

sweat and exhaustion and C-rations and guns roaring in midnight and

tired faces and more helicopter flights over vast landscapes of ruined and

empty houses and bomb cratered hillside...

(August 31)

The geometry applied to the practicalities of defense as well. Officers are trained

to know how much “line” a squad, platoon, or battalion can hold. At “Fort Wood” we

had a demonstration. You spread a squad over a narrow front, and they could fill the area

downrange with a terrifying volume of tracers. But put that same squad on a tiny hill,

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and now they must cover 360 degrees. The volume of fire is much less impressive, and

their ability to watch closely is diluted by that much as well.

My letters home remind me of something I had totally forgotten. Even before I

went out to B Company, I had schemes for getting out of the field. Captain Ford, the

liaison officer, noted that he’d need a new man in due time, as his sergeant was likely to

go to the field, and his RTO would be heading home before long. He had acknowledged

that I might be qualified for such duty, especially after some time in the field. I took this

to mean that when the time came, I could go back to the firebase and have a job in the

Tactical Operations Center running a radio -- which would be good deal more

comfortable than carrying one over hill and dale seven days a week. I kept clinging to hope the entire time I was in the field. One time my Forward Observer reported that this was actually in the works. It never happened.

Not a pleasant occupation. We didn’t make contact at all the

whole time... just found some rocket parts, graves and AK-47 magazines.

.. .Now we are relaxing pulling security on B’ham. Feels good to

come in and get a shower, clean clothes, and a cold beer or two.

(September 6 [rcvd] – B’ham)

Take a Viet Cong to lunch today

-- Bumper sticker

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Working Out of LZ Sally

Early in September, we went back from B’ham to LZ Sally. I heard our battery was there. Just after dark, I went over to the battery area, next to Battalion, to visit. On arriving at the first gun pit, I saw the most astounding sight. The gunners on watch there were watching television! There were James Arness and Gunsmoke, right before my eyes. This was the first I had ever heard that AFVN (the radio network, Armed Forces

Vietnam) had a TV network as well. A TV network struck me as a hell of a way to spend the taxpayer’s money. And it was being spent on those who had the most sedentary existence... pretty hard for us to enjoy while out on operations.

We had a week or so of training. Which we badly needed, to tell the truth. But as was typical of Army training, the amount of skill improvement was pretty low for the time spent. There was to be some rifle range time for “snap-shooting,” a skill all of us could imagine using. But it amounted to an hour or so, taking turns. I know I didn’t get any better at it. Several times I heard stories about the patrol walking down the trail someplace. The point man comes over a rise in the trail, finds himself looking an NVA courier right in the eye at 20-meter range. Both parties are so surprised, for a moment they don‘t know what to do. The NVA knows very well that GI’s don’t wander around alone in the woods, so he turns and runs. The point man empties a magazine after him and one very lucky NVA has vanished into the hills.

The biggest adventure was a day of rapelling. We had seen photos in the Division newspaper of Rangers rapelling down ropes into the jungle. Up North, they inserted guys once using ladders out the rear door of Hooks. Today was our turn. We went over to a large open area where a slick sat waiting. A few of us at a time, it took us up to about 60

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feet. We’d tied on a “swiss seat” and D-ring for the rope. A duplicate safety rope was

mated with the main rope – the other end in the hands of a guy on the ground. You’d

scootch out and turn around, standing on the skid. The roaring of the engines, the vibration on the skid, and violent rotor downwash ratcheted up my anxiety. This was my first realization that a slick does not really “hover.” It actually wobbles around a bit with the breeze. The pilots’ skill is to make it look like it’s standing still. It’s not. The

Sergeant waved “bye-bye” with a smile and I jumped backwards out into space. My white knuckles held the rope to my back for friction to slowly descend. Boots touched ground -- a good feeling. And we did not have rucksacks, radios, or rifles. That would be a good deal tougher.

Infantry Area at Sally, looking West

Then we headed outside the wire for the next exercise – climbing out of the rear

end of a Hook. They rigged a rope ladder. It had aluminum rungs about three feet long

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 60 and maybe a foot or so apart. In the downwash of the rear rotor, you’d grip the rungs and very carefully ease down to the next one. Getting closer to the ground, you’d notice that the Hook had a disconcerting tendency to lurch upward four to six feet now and then. It was a huge relief to jump off of that bouncing ladder.

Somebody cooked up a theory that what we needed was “cordon” operations in the coastal plain. Our Battalion Commander took to this and we drilled on cordon operations for a few days. The idea was to instantly throw a ring of our troops around a village, and then the National Police and whoever would go in, check ID’s, look for weapons, and all this. We would be able to prevent any bad guys leaving through the back door. Driver gave us a little talk, saying this was the way to go and he had told

“Higher” that he wanted to train the 2/501 to be the “cordon battalion.” We thought this sounded great, since the terrain around here was flat, and it sounded like a lot less humping up and down those hills in 90 degree heat. Sounded like it could be a good deal safer, too. Driver had to be a military genius, we all agreed.

We went and rehearsed one once. We found ourselves sitting by the road in a vast field of rice paddies, right next to a farmer and his wife who were planting the fresh little seedlings in the water. They smiled at us and went about their work. One of our guys waded in, and gestured that he’d like to try it. So this GI tried rice agriculture for a few minutes, planting some rice. Looked to be hard on the back. I don’t recall that we ever did follow through and finish establishing that cordon. “Higher” apparently lost interest in cordons and the subject never came up again, at least with us.

(Midst of three-day ceasefire honoring Uncle Ho)

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First ambush… biggest problem was the mosquitoes and how to

stay awake

Seems that to make this work they are going to lighten the loads

we hump (I hope so). The GI in this war is so hopelessly overloaded (this

view is held by high ranking officers as well as by GIs) that most of the

time he is at the edge of exhaustion and hardly in shape to fight, much less

maintain alertness at night.4

Today we had rapelling. We rappelled out of slicks at 60 feet or

so in air. Just like mountain climbers do, only with nothing to plant feet

on. You have to gather your courage to hop off that skid, but it’s easy

after that and very safe. We also climbed up and down ladders out rear of

a Chinook.

Appreciated last Care Package...

Red letter day, last day of second month -- 10 to go.

(September 8 – Sally)

Soon I had my first ambush patrol, serving as forward security for Sally. We gathered a squad by our tents. It was about six guys, and both Lt Quick and I were along,

me to carry the radio. This was heavy artillery support -- one redleg for every three

infantrymen. We walked over to the bunker line to the little gate where the ambushes

would go out. I gazed out over fields and rice paddies to the treelines and bamboos beyond... a flat area that seemed to extend all the way to the foot of the mountains. To one side of the trail was a gash bulldozed in the earth, used as a dump for LZ Sally. All

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 62 sorts of miscellaneous rubbish went in there, sometimes burning. Every evening, a long line of local villagers could be seen walking over there, to pick the dump for cardboard, wood, or other things they could use. It felt rotten to see this, local people reduced to picking an army base’s dumps.

The evening was deepening. A colorful sunset hovered over the dark mountains on the horizon. Right then, that bit of farmland between us and those trees looked like the most dangerous, open, exposed, nightmare of a place I had ever seen. For my first time I walked out beyond the wire at evening with a small group. My nerves were taut, fear gripped me almost as if I knew were assaulting a prepared position. We walked along toward the treeline and I relaxed a bit. The others were – or seemed – nonchalant.

In just a few hundred meters, we entered the edge of a lightly wooded area, not far from a small ville. Along a trail, we set up claymores and settled into our ambush for the night.

We were still in mortar range of Sally. We checked commo with the battery and just waited. We were concealed by position and by the darkness. Nothing to do but wait.

We waited and waited, dozed at times, and finally a faint color of dawn broke in the east.

We wasted little time getting our stuff together and heading back. A hot breakfast was waiting for us. Someone said that sound tactics called for keeping ambushes in place till much later in the morning. The Vietcong and NVA knew that GI’s like a hot breakfast and would often wait to do their moving about until the ambushes were in. But we had no orders to stay and were hungry.

We went into a cycle of ambushing. This was the time of the rice harvest. We were to conduct intensive ambush patrolling in the villes to the west of Sally as part of a rice-denial program. Let the farmers keep their rice, stop the Vietcong from stealing it.

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Maybe win a few “hearts and minds.” Sounded like we’d be helping the farmers, hurting

the bad guys. Worth a try.

In an old Army joke, the Sergeant is introducing himself to a group of recruits. “I

am Sergeant Johnson,” he says. “My last name is Johnson and my first name is

Sergeant.” Partly reflecting that fact of Army culture, I can recall few if any first names

of the officers I served with -- though I certainly knew them at the time. Even officers

you worked with constantly and closely were addressed as “Sir.” Captain Jackson was a

serious second tour officer, who looked ahead to a full military career. On his first tour

he had been with the 1st Brigade in the bloody fighting at Dak To, where he was

wounded. He finished that tour in the Battalion personnel shop as a result of those

wounds. We respected his experience and the fact that he cared enough about us to be

tough with us. It made us a bit nervous that he was so aggressive and eager for a fight.

We were happy to patrol up and down hills with no contact for weeks at a time, but it clearly made him restless and frustrated.

Often the Captain conducted a formal inspection as we were getting organized. A little like the war movies. It was weapons and ammo, soft caps, tear off any colored patches (black only), electrical tape on dogtags so they wouldn’t rattle. RTO’s of course had their radios, otherwise no rucks. I remember the captain in a helicopter on the way to some operation or other. He happened to have colored airborne patches on his shirt and was ripping them off to get rid of the bright white dabs of color. Funny, often we’d hump in the boonies with our C-ration spoons stuck in those little pen slots in our shirt pockets.

Made a nice white dot right next to your heart. But, no white spoons on ambushes.

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One night our whole company was trucked in the big “cattle trucks” to Camp

Evans to ambush out there. Evans was a large base camp north of Hue where 3d Brigade

was headquartered. We turned past PK 17, which reminded me that QL1, the road north

of Hue to Quang Tri had been known to the French as “The Street Without Joy.” For

years, it had been a hornet’s nest of Viet Minh ambushes. For me, this cast a pall of

nervousness over an otherwise peaceful evening ride past ricefields and small villages.

September 1969 3rd: Ho Chi Minh dies; 3-day ceasefire 5th: Formal charges filed against Lt. Calley for Mylai atrocities

We jumped down off our cattle trucks and headed for the perimeter. The RTO’s

checked in to new radio frequencies. As the evening light faded, we walked out along the

high ground west of the bunker line. The country was low hills, covered with brush like

sagebrush, like the vegetation around Arrow. As we were walking along, enjoying the

evening, the thud-thud-thud of an M60 machine gun erupted on the bunker line. Tracers

zipped through the air over our heads. We hit the dirt. Captain Jackson grabbed the mike

and was screaming at Battalion to get those jerks to knock off, and quite a lot more

besides. This was the origin of Irland’s Law of War: “You haven’t been in combat until

you’ve been fired on by ‘friendly’ troops.” Actually, I don’t recall being fired on by any enemy troops up to that time. This bit of excitement kept us in place for a time, then we

moved out, split into platoons, and took up positions for the night. In the morning, it was

off to Sally again.

One of these evenings, at about sunset we were lounging around our tents, and we heard the distinctive crack of RPG’s going off nearby. Sally was taking incoming. We scooped up helmets, rifles, and ammunition bandoliers, and dashed for nearby

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sandbagged shelters. We looked out over the wire to see what was happening. Captain

Jackson appeared and began checking in with Battalion and getting us organized. The explosions stopped and we settled into waiting and watching. Shortly we heard the

Cobra gunbirds revving up over at the Cav and they took off, buzzing to and fro over the

lowlands to the west. They fired a few bursts here and there. The Cav was satisfied there

was nobody out there so we knocked off, put our stuff away, and turned in. Seems it was

only some “rice paddy rangers” getting rid of a few RPGs. In the morning we heard that

one of the RPG’s had hit Charlie Battery’s recorder shack and killed the recorder, who

had 16 days left. I went over to the area to look around. The base library was a tiny

shack stuffed with books and magazines. I had visited a few times. The corner of the

roof had taken a round, and the sheet metal was all torn up. Inside, a shelf full of books

was full of shrapnel.

We had a “Scout,” Sergeant Thong, assigned to us from the ARVNs. He would

frustrate the Captain by taking a bit of extra leave time now and then. But he always came back. He said he had been in the Army for seven years. To us two-year citizen soldiers, this was an unspeakable horror. For a time they sent us another , much younger

Scout, presumably to apprentice under Sgt. Thong. I often wonder what became of those two guys.

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Sgt. Thong, ARVN Scout w/B Co.

A few nights later, the whole company left Sally by another route. It was looking to be rainy, so we put on rainsuits. We waded through a rice paddy that was flooded almost to our waists. Oh well. Soaked before we even got underway. When we got through the water, our point squad was met by two Vietnamese civilians; one of them carrying an RPG launcher. We assumed that it was the one recently used to pop RPGs at us. Captain Jackson went up, and, with Sgt. Thong interpreting, spoke to them. He gave them some sort of receipt and we heard they would be able to get a reward for presenting us with this weapon.

We moved on to a spot where we took it easy for a bit till it was dark. Good practice, the Captain said, not to get into final position by light of day. On the way, we saw a “Ruf n’ Puf” ambush patrol go by. Two dozen or so guys. They were dressed in a miscellany of old fatigues and jeans, and carried a mix of old weapons. The last guys in line, incredibly, were carrying pots and pans -- maybe they’d have a barbecue while out

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there. At one point we walked past a few villagers who watched us suspiciously.

Seemed to me that they knew that if there was any shooting, they would be the losers in it all.

We split up by platoons and our group set up next to a small open area. It made me nervous that the treeline was so close that anybody could get close to us unobserved.

I set out a claymore to cover that possibility. After a few hours, over the radio came the news that a force of Bad Guys had walked right by one of our other platoons. We picked everything up and double-timed it over there. Made me a bit nervous that we were noisily bustling about in the dark -- ripe pickings for somebody to turn the tables and ambush us. After some dithering about we settled down again. It was said in the morning that it had probably been another “Ruf n’ Puf” patrol.

Another time, we stayed out a few nights. One night, we set up right in an abandoned little cluster of badly damaged shacks. We could see the damage everywhere, with occasional bomb craters in the rice paddies. We had no idea where the people went, but it was a ghost town. It started to rain hard about the middle of the night. We were soaked to the skin by morning when the rain trailed off. The commo sergeant had somehow managed to sleep in the open through all this, with water filling the low spots in his air mattress. His skin was white and wrinkly from being soaked so long.

Out Humpin’

We all carried little tubes of disinfectant for the scratches. From the “wait -a -

minute bushes” to all the other twigs and brush, you picked up little scratches on your

arms fast. These would often pick up a minor infection and get little dots of pus under

the scabs. We’d tap mercurochrome from these little tubes onto our scratches, just to feel

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like we were doing something about it. Sometimes when it was real hot, you’d get “heat

rashes.” This happened to me a few times. No one could tell me what it really was, just

a harsh prickly feeling over a patch of your leg. It usually went away in a while.

Before an operation, the big question was, “how many day’s log?” This depended

on how far out we would be, what the terrain was like, maybe the weather. What we

hated to hear was “5-day log.” This was about the maximum. Five days of canned

C-rations and freeze-dried LURPs made your rucksack bulge and your back ache for the

first few days out. More often, it was a 3-day log. Now and again, they would helicopter

hot chow out to us at lunch, but only if we had an LZ, which, out in the triple-canopy, we

usually didn’t. We’d get Chili Mac or something like that, fruit punch, bread and butter,

a few things. Not bad on a cold wet day.

On several occasions we had a “kick-out log.” We’d be out on some steep

ridgeline in the “triple canopy” at a lunch break. We’d hear the bird in the distance; the

radioman would talk him in. Somebody would pop smoke. Then the noise would get

louder and the leaves in the treetops would start shaking about with the downwash of the

rotors. We’d get out of the way and in a moment, cases of C’s and other stuff would

come tumbling down through the canopy to the ground. Often these occasions would

include big laundry bags of freshly cleaned fatigues. We’d rummage through these bags, handing them around to guys to match their sizes. Usually when it was really hot we wore no underwear, so those weren’t needed. The dirty stuff went back into the bags and was pulled up to the bird on a line. We would also get boxes called SP’s, containing cigarettes, candy, razors, and shaving cream, that kind of stuff. I would split the cigars, which were in little demand, with the First Sergeant. Often there would be mail, and a

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 69 bag of books, newspapers, and the Far East edition of Time. One time, down through the canopy came Gunter Grass’s The Tin Drum. I didn’t have to argue with anybody to get that one. Another time, I got JRR Tolkien’s Hobbit and Lord of the Rings trilogy.

Reading the whole series was wonderful escapism into a fantasy world.

Out in the hills we’d trudge up and down from one ridge to another, wading a creek on the way. Then we could restock with fresh cool water from a mountain creek each day. I now and then would wonder if there were any fish in those creeks. We never knew for certain you’d get to “water up,” so we still carry plenty.

One day we had a spectacular one-day operation, with the whole battalion. Early in the morning we walked out to the airstrip at Sally. A skyful of helicopters appeared and we loaded on. The engines revved up and we rose into the sky, welcoming the cool air rushing past. We could see farther and farther across the dark green fields and paddies, off toward the blue China Sea, and out across the waves of mountains rolling off to the West. Little villages passed by below us. The sound of the engines changed, the bird leaned back a bit, and we began to descend. We looked ahead as best we could to see a stunning hogback ridge, its bouldery summit stretching roughly east to west. As we got closer, we could see that there wasn’t anyplace to actually land a helicopter. The bird settled into a noisy, windy hover, and we hopped off, jumping two or three feet to the boulders. We’d scramble clear over the boulders and the bird would rev up, lean forward, and rush off. One after another they dropped us off. We waited awhile for the rest of the battalion to arrive, stretched out along the ridgeline. It was bright and sunny, but still cool up at this elevation at this time of day. The view from the ridge was spectacular. And just about every foot of it, save what we could see right in front of us --

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 70 was the NVA’s back yard. It was quite a sensation to go from the airstrip in the middle of familiar old LZ Sally to being left on our own on this ridge in the middle of noplace.

On trees near the ridgeline we saw that GI’s some previous year had carved initials in the bark, and one tree bore a First Cav patch carved into it. We were not the first white men here.

Someone had picked up intelligence that there was an NVA force in the valley that was overlooked by this ridge. We were to work our way down off this ridge into the valley and see if we could find them. When everyone had gotten organized, we began to move downhill. Seemed something big must be afoot to go to all the trouble of hauling an entire battalion way out here. This seemed likely to be the big day. We quietly, warily walked downhill, looking hard into the trees, wondering...

Partway down, we paused. Word came back up the trail that the scout dog team on point had picked up something. We knelt down to await what would happen next.

After a time, it seemed that this was a false alarm so we moved out once more. We had a lunch break and moved on again. Still nothing. Later in the afternoon, we arrived at the open valley floor, set out security, and spread out to await the helicopters again. It seemed too good to be true... in they came, swept us up and in less than an hour we hopped off again at the airstrip at Sally. One company, with the Battalion commander along, had been tied up in the bush at the westerly end of the valley and couldn’t get to an

LZ so they were picked up the following morning.

Captain Jackson saw to it that the Orderly room staff had scrounged what passed for “steak” -- some tough GI Swiss steak and charcoal. So in a while we all had steaks, baked potatoes and beer by twilight. We didn’t spend too much time thinking of our less

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fortunate comrades who were eating C’s and out on the ground for another night. We

had the luxury of large GI wall tents, hot chow and beer, and cots. Your scale for measuring luxury is adaptable.

Captain Jackson had no reluctance to keep the REMF’s up all night if that’s what it took. (The term REMF is an unflattering GI term for everybody with a “rear job.”) His view was that their job was to serve us in the field --even if that was a bit of extra trouble once in a while. It often seemed our CO was one of the few guys in the Army who looked at it this way. He would observe, “If the guys at Sally don’t want to do as I ask, I have about 80 guys out here -- and every one of them would jump at a chance for a rear job.”

... starting to cool off and rain more frequently-- early hints of

coming monsoon -- with luck I’ll be out of the boonies before monsoon

really closes in on us. Life is pretty miserable out there then, and it lasts

from October till about April.

(September 14 -- LZ Sally)

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4. Monsoon

Monsoon

The waiting is over

Grey monsoon has clutched

our piece of Asia

In foggy fingers

After some weeks of ambushing around Sally, one sunny September morning we loaded up the entire company on slicks and were off again. It takes a few slicks to haul that many guys four or five at a time. So it makes a pretty impressive sight. We’d hang our feet out the door and enjoy how cool it was up there. It was too noisy to talk or hear anything with turbines screaming and rotors flop-flop-flopping. We could look out over

PK 17, along the mountains to the north and the coastal plain. We looked out to the

South to the River and on to see Arrow and Camp Eagle. We went on by Birmingham and up the valley. Then, bird by bird, we were unloaded at Bastogne. We set up a perimeter and went to work re-building a firebase. This would be home for a while. It seemed odd to set up such a huge base with two substantial hills looking right down on it, one to the South and one straight to the West. Another small hill of equal height stood off half a klick north. Seemed a great way for the NVA to keep an eye on us, to move in on us unobserved, and hold high ground right next door. This was the price, I supposed, for being able to supply us by road when the monsoon arrived.

The monsoon rains and fog made it impossible to supply troops and hold on in the

A Shau for the rainy season. There were hardly any roads and those were too full of

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places where we could easily be ambushed. So the firebases out there were torn down,

various little camps evacuated. This cycle of campaigning in and out of the A Shau was

in its third or fourth year. The place belonged to Charlie again, watched occasionally by

our furtive Ranger teams, daily Air Cavalry reconnaissance, and various clever airborne

radars and sensors. Bastogne would now be the farthest out permanent firebase into this

hill country for some distance both north and south.

Building Bastogne

The company fell to on the perimeter; all kinds of equipment came along to help.

We had dozers on the perimeter smoothing fields of fire. For a few days, engineers were

blasting to clear boulders and stumps that might shelter sappers from view. Now and

then would come the shout “FIRE IN THE HOLE.” Everyone would duck, hold arms

over our heads. THUMP, a cloud of smoke and dust, and a gentle rain of sticks and

stones would fall everywhere. Any watching NVA must have been baffled at this

behavior. It must have looked to them like we were blowing up our own position. Men

spiked down tanglefoot and concertina, and installed tripflares and claymores. At several points, “Foogasse” was emplaced -- a barrel of napalm, with an igniter and a claymore behind it. This was how they improvised a land-based, fixed location napalm bomb.

King Dozer

A kid with a shock of dusty brown hair

Sits atop his roaring steel dinosaur

Shaping the earth with levers under his hands

King Dozer

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Lord of a muddy monster

He looks down on us miserable mortals

Who must move our dirt with shovels

(Journal)

In the evenings at dusk I fired some of my own fire missions for the first time. It

was considered good practice for the radioman to be able to call in a fire mission and

adjust fire when needed. Infantry officers knew enough to do this themselves, but

generally avoided it unless they had no redleg along. Lieutenant Quick made sure I knew

what to do, and let me fire in some designated “DeltaTangoes.” These were pre-planned

“defensive targets” (Delta Tangoes) set out in advance in case of need. The rule was no

first round was ever to be fired closer than 1000 meters proximity to troops. We would then walk the round in to 600 meters, and have it plotted as a target. If need be, you

could come closer, but we rarely did. This way, if you were being hit, you could get the

battery up right away on the firing data for that target, and adjust from there to where you thought the attackers were. I would often do one or two recon by fire missions as well, just working from the map to shoot up approach routes along streams. We had no direct visibility on these little valleys, but they would make excellent routes for Charlie to

approach us unobserved. Usually these missions would use one gun, three to six rounds

each. They gave us some preplanned support in case of need, and a psychological

security blanket as well.

The 155s at Birmingham shot these for us. A 155 round had a distinctive sound --

coming in at the 600-meter range, the 90-pound “joes” sounded like a freight train.

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When they went off they’d make a powerful blast. In contrast, our 105’s, with 33 pound

projectiles, sounded fairly tame by comparison, just a bit of a rustling whistle. Often, a gunner with the battery would never hear that whistle -- because he was never near the

target. As an RTO, it became a familiar sound for me. I’ll admit, it gave me a feeling of

power to talk some gibberish into a radio, wait a minute or two, and then hear a round

inbound and an explosion off in the jungle. Quickly we got used to adjusting by sound,

since there was no way we could see the round’s impact – it was too dark, or concealed in

the thick “triple canopy,” or it was masked by the hills. I actually saw the point of impact

of very few of the rounds I fired.

155’s up close

Firebases were located so that each was within range of another one, so that with

guns of the same caliber they could each support each other. At times, you could be in

range of two other firebases, though this did not apply at Bastogne. Bastogne could reach

Blaze with the 155s, but not with B Battery’s 105s.

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On the perimeter were bunkers of timber, PSP, and sandbags, with chainlink

fencing out front for RPG screens. These screens were supposed to detonate incoming

RPGs ahead of the bunker. Fortunately, I never got to see how these worked, though we

did get RPG’d once. After the disaster at Airborne in the A Shau the previous spring, and

the one at Rifle on the coast, somebody at Division had been doing some thinking.

Bastogne would not only be the farthest forward base for this monsoon season, it would hold a battalion Tactical Operations Center and three batteries of artillery. It was to be a

model of how a “modern major general” builds a firebase.

Sketchmap of FSB Bastogne Fall-Winter 1969-70

Chopper Pad

Infantry CP Pathfinder N "Heavies" bunker 175MM, 8" B/2/11 155MM

"Front Chow Hall Gate" Bunker Line B/1/321 Area TOC Tents & Wire 105MM

547 gham rmin to Bi East y "Road" Valle Shau nd A aze a to Bl West

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To keep an eye on things for us, every evening a “pink team” would conduct a

last light patrol of the surrounding area. A pink team was a Light Observation Helicopter

(LOH), a tiny egg-shaped bird, followed by a Cobra gunbird, which growled along above

and behind, ready to pounce on anybody that took a shot at the LOH. There were Blue

Teams and White teams, different mixes of these birds that I can’t recall, but the most

commonly used pair was the Pink Team. Some of the LOH crews would informally wire

up an M60 machine gun in the door. They carried boxes of smoke grenades to mark

targets for the Cobra pilots, and often frags, white phosphorous grenades, and other stuff

as well.

Over the first few days, the artillery batteries arrived. My own battery, B battery,

arrived from Arsenal. The guys said that this supposedly topnotch firebase had leaked

like a sieve once the monsoon started and was more like World War I movies with water

in the trenches. They were glad as hell to get out of there. The 155 battery came in from

Blaze, hauled in one gun at a time by huge Skycranes, which also ferried back and forth

many times with PSP, culvert sections, and ammo. The heavy battery, two 175s and two

8-inchers, came in from wherever it was on the ground, too heavy to airlift (by anything

smaller than a C130). These were all “self-propelled” on big flat tracked vehicles, so

they just drove right in one day. The 175s on Bastogne could shoot into Laos to the

West, and also into the China Sea to the east. We were right in the middle. Heavy

batteries belonged to XXIV Corps, because an airborne outfit can’t carry around any

heavy artillery of its own. Heavy batteries were often split between the long 175s and the

stubby, funny looking 8-inch howitzers. Funny as they looked, though, the 8-inchers were said to be the most accurate artillery piece in the Army’s inventory. Occasionally

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you’d see a heavy battery that included a pair of self-propelled 155’s. The noise these

guns made was impressive. Occasionally you’d see a 175 firing a mission that placed the

end of the tube close to a bunker -- the muzzle blast would knock sandbags into the air.

Sometimes they’d get a fire mission to the east of us and our piece of the hill would get

very noisy. Occasionally we could pick up the fiberglass bands from the shells that

would fall in our area.

The monsoon of fall 1969 broke records. It rained and rained and rained. I

learned later that the October rains in the Phu Bai area in 1969 were the heaviest recorded

at any Vietnam station in 30 years.5 Bastogne had mud and then more mud. Trucks

would get mired in it up to the axles and have to be pulled out by a tracked ammunition carrier or a dozer. I once watched while they actually dug a guy out who had gotten so deeply enmired in the mud that he couldn’t extract himself. Seemed like a metaphor for the situation we were all in.

Monsoon is here. Slowly crept up on us, now in full bloom-- has

nearly washed away our hill already. Today is about the third day of

more or less continuous rain... this goes on until about February or

March. We’re lucky in CP-- we have a tent and cots... guys on line sleep

in water filled bunkers and are wet 24 hours a day. Tomorrow a break... 2

days at Eagle Beach...

(October1 – Bastogne)

Monsoon has closed down on us. Thud! Continuous cold rain and

fog, ceiling so low that birds can’t get in... construction proceeding apace

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-- CP bunker framed and roofed - hole had 4 feet of water in it yesterday.

Rain has now washed a lot of the mud off the hill.

3d Bde is relieving Marines on DMZ... We’re on 2 hour alert to go

there if they need us; B Btry is on 30-minute alert. It’s entirely

meaningless to be on alert cuz there ‘s no way to get us up there if they

needed us... ‘cept shoe leather.

Bastogne Mud

Tomorrow is 13 weeks in this sorry place -- exactly 1/4 of the

business is over with.

(October 6)

We built the infantry CP bunker in the rain; the hole dug by the engineers for us had water in it. The good thing was, this motivated us to install drainage. When the

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 80 earth is wet, the labor of filling and installing sandbags on walls and roofs is much more arduous... I took to calling them “mudbags.” Midway through this construction project, my three-month-old jungle boots began falling apart, until one had its heel flopping around like a sandal. Within a day or so the company rear sent me out a replacement pair. All of this went on for several weeks, with huge quantities of construction material arriving by five-ton truck and helicopter.

Once Blaze was torn down, the convoy traffic out Rte. 547 ended. But Bastogne was an occasional stopoff point for the odd Marine helicopter headed west. Now and then an old Sikorsky would land at the pad, flown by a South Vietnamese pilot.

Somebody looking like a Ranger would hop out and walk briskly over to the TOC.

These birds were usually totally unmarked, giving them a bit of a sinister look. The

Ranger would stride back out to his Sikorsky, which would rev up and then fly out to the

West past the hills, pursuing some secret errand.

Infantry CP, Bastogne

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Slowly, Bastogne drew to completion. The rains settled down into the more usual

mist and endless light drizzle of the monsoon. The mud came under control and we

could move about again. We got used to the weather. Bastogne was a full-service

firebase. We had the Battalion Tactical Operations Center (TOC) right in the middle, its

roof covered with radio aerials. It seemed kind of foolish to me to clue the NVA to

where the TOC was... but what does a PFC know? Each battery had its own FDC, also

with aerials. There were a bunch of tents for various folks, and sandbag covered bunkers,

mostly underground, for the gun crews’ sleeping quarters. Perimeter bunkers had bunks for the infantry who guarded the hill. The infantry ran a large mess tent that provided hot chow; B Btry kept its own cookshack. The Infantry’s Battalion surgeon had a little aid station where we could get aspirin and stuff for jungle rot, and he could stand ready to

supply first aid for any casualties. We had our own Air Traffic Control operation as well.

Not only was there regular helicopter traffic on our chopper pad, but the Pathfinder

section, as they were called, had to supply artillery advisories to passing aircraft. An Air

Cav team passing by enroute to the West would check in with Pathfinder, to find that

Bastogne was firing at the moment on some azimuth, into a certain grid square. They

then knew how to avoid it. This was a regular FDC task for every fire mission. While at

the battery, we took it seriously. My dad had told me that once while his battery was

firing, an observation plane flew right into their line of fire and was hit.

Late that summer, Lt. Quick went back to be FDO at B Battery. He later went

north to be a liaison officer with an ARVN battery. He later told me that the Battery

Commander up there made a lot of money selling the wood from discarded ammo boxes

and pallets.

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Ambushing and RIF’s In the Hills Around Bastogne

After a few weeks of building bunkers and defenses, it was time to get out again.

At first it was squad-sized ambushes, out for two or three nights. Short ones because it was so god-awful wet out there. The ambushes would set up on a hill 2 klicks away and keep an eye on things out there -- as well as you can do in the dark, and on a hill from whose top you can see very little anyway. We learned the minor discomforts of days and nights out in the monsoon. The first ambush party came back with their lower legs covered with tree leeches. These made our blood run cold. Only a place especially accursed could have leeches that lived in the bushes. I went out as the redleg with a few of these ambushes, and got my share of leeches. If you waded for a time in water, the darn things would sometimes drown inside your pants. You’d open up the strings that

“bloused” your fatigues, and dead little leeches, rolled up in balls, would just drop out onto the ground. If they were still hanging on, a dab of bug juice, or a scorching with a cigarette, usually got them off. They left behind little red welts. On one of these ambush patrols we waded out down a pretty little creek in a deep valley. Then, we climbed out over the ridge to the east where we had a full view of Bastogne again. Six or seven guys alone deep in the jungle, with no help around. Definitely focuses your attention on what’s going on around you.

Lieutenant Quick was replaced by Lieutenant Lacy, who had served with an artillery unit at Ft. Lewis, Washington. He came straight into the “triple-canopy” with us with no time on a firebase to adjust. This was a typical way for forward observers. He later put his considerable gunnery knowledge to use as B Battery’s Exec.

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Later, our whole company went out...on foot this time. Larger operations just

looking for trouble were called Reconnaissance in Force (RIF). We walked down the

main entrance across the muddy area at the foot of the hill and found the trail up the

nearby hill to the West. We started struggling up that steep trail single file. Under heavy

packs, most of us were puffing pretty soon. Then a new guy simply fell out. For some

reason they give a brand new guy an M60 to carry, his first day into the field with the

company. We all got a break till this poor guy was fit to trudge up the hill again. At the

top of this hill, we had a good view down onto Bastogne, out the valley, and off to the

plain west of Camp Eagle. Seemed like we could see a patch of the China Sea way off

there. To the west, south, and north, hills were everywhere. Pretty quick we were off down one ridgeline until we set up for the night. At one of these points, we had the use of neat little square foxholes that the ARVNs had recently dug there. Another night position was spooky. The company had been there before. Doc Ayala told us that they had been attacked there one night. The company commander was hit, and died in

Ayala’s arms as he struggled to stanch the bleeding.

Hill 316

We toiled an afternoon up steep 316

Lungs bursting legs aching

The new man passed out under his machine gun plus 300 rounds

We stopped and drove on sweatsoaked and weary in a short cold

rain

Hauled our radios, guns, up the muddy blasted sides of 316.

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Then the top

We turned, looked down on muddy smoky Bastogne

And beyond the hills to the distant shimmering dunes by the soft

blue China Sea

At one point, we separated platoons and got disoriented a bit in the wrinkly, steep

hills. One platoon was to come back up to meet us at the ridgeline. But when they got

up, they couldn’t see us, and didn’t know if they were to the west or east of us. They

solved that by tossing a grenade down the ridge; the blast told us where they were. One

time we were struggling up a steep trail, and got a bit far apart. I got to the ridgeline,

looked both ways, and saw no one. I turned in what I thought was the right direction.

After walking a hundred meters or so, it started to feel very lonely. There was no one

behind me, so I turned around and rushed back to rejoin the platoon.

Made Recon Sgt a few days ago, though no stripe involved.

Some choppers got fired on yesterday along the A Shau road and

south of it. Had artillery, air strikes, and lots of fireworks. Bad guys seem

to be rising from the ground all of a sudden. No contact for us yet,

though.

... FSB Bastogne nearing completion. Perimeter wire and bunkers

almost done. Chopper pads and internal stuff about squared away. We

spent 3 weeks there building the place--a pretty good deal -- better than

humpin’.

(October 16 -- Boonies West of Bastogne)

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In this country it was easy to be standing on a little hill, covered with trees, and

not be sure which hill you were on. Two or three of us would stare at the map and argue about where we thought we were. We had a fire mission for that problem -- call up the battery and ask them to fire a white phosphorous marking round over some nearby grid intersection. These produced a large and brilliant puff of white smoke. According to proper phonetic alphabet, it was “Whiskey Papa.” Some radiomen would call WP

“Watermelon Pie, high in the sky”; others termed it “Wilson Pickett,” or “Willy Peter.”

These were usually done 1000 meters up from the ground level. You’d wait maybe two minutes, and hear a gentle explosion. You’d stare thru the canopy. Sometimes with three or four guys looking, you wouldn’t see it. You’d ask for another one, maybe higher up, or on a different grid intersection. When I was at the battery we fired these frequently.

Years later another veteran told me an old Army line: “the most dangerous creature in the world is a lieutenant with a map.”

This country was good for water. Cool clear streams were everywhere, you’d just fill up a canteen while wading through. You wouldn’t need as much to re-hydrate at night now that the days were cooler. One day we had just crossed a small stream and took a break on the other side. Lieutenant Lacy happened to remark, talking to himself, “boy, sure glad I brought an extra map...” Captain Jackson, hearing this, spun around and asked “ANOTHER MAP??? Why?” “Well” Lacy responded, “I just realized my map floated out of my pants pocket and it’s gone. But I always bring a spare for just these emergencies.” A map would float because we’d carry them inside an old battery bag to keep the rain off them. Well, the CO was a bit perturbed, because RTO’s and FO’s

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always write down radio frequencies, unit locations, call signs and miscellaneous stuff in

grease pencil on their maps for reference. Whatever was on that map had potentially

been compromised. Some NVA courier might find it by a trail some ways downstream

and be a hero with his CO. Right now, Lieutenant Lacy was not a hero with his. So

Captain Jackson, Lacy and I walked off down the stream for a few hundred meters to see

if we could find the map. I was watching the trees for whoever might be watching us.

Again, it started to feel very lonely. In a bit we gave up, and returned to the CP group,

having both of us learned a lesson about maps.

Somewhere at Camp Eagle there was a building full of busy Psychological

Operations (PsyOPs) people. College Psych classes had convinced these guys that if you sprinkled the jungles with leaflets, it would persuade hard-core NVA to surrender. I never heard how many bad guys picked these up and turned themselves in. But it was literally true that we never walked anywhere in the hills that we couldn’t pick up a few of these. They were dumped from airplanes, I guess. We had a special projectile that could be stuffed with these. A fuse would pop at a set time, and kick these out into the air to

float down on the selected target. We actually shot a mission with these once. This

projectile had some official name, but we called it “Shell Bravo Sierra” – BS.

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Contents of “Shell Bravo Sierra.” Looks like the 175 mm gun is labeled “Bastogne.”

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While we were working out of Bastogne the weather got colder and colder. You had to get used to staying out of the rain with a poncho, trying to keep your poncho liner dry as best you could at night. A GI poncho liner is a lightweight quilted blanket that could be tied inside a poncho to make something like a sleeping bag. Some of the GI field gear was very well designed, including the poncho, the poncho liner, the field jacket, the GI canteen/canteen cup combination, and of course the famous GI can opener.

The rainsuits we had were sturdy and worked well enough, but with the liability that any rainsuit has -- when you’re puffing up and down hills you get as wet from the trapped sweat as you would have from the rain.

On the cloudy, wet days, the clouds laid low over the hills. It might rain a light, misty drizzle occasionally. Wisps of mist would hang along the hills. They would drift in an invisible, undetectable breeze, changing shape and sometimes evaporating as you watched. New wisps would appear; even on this gray day they stood out strikingly against the ragged forest canopy that looked like a cross between dark green and black.

The mists gave the jungle hills a mysterious and menacing aspect.

On the way back from one of these operations, we had the CP group on top of the hill just west of Bastogne for a few nights, while the platoons prowled around nearby.

From being wet, sweaty and never getting to wash up, I found myself with a bit of jungle rot developing -- quite an infected blister on my chin, and another infection in the small of my back. I’d roll over one way and couldn’t sleep, roll over the other way and couldn’t sleep. Ever more exhausted after a night or two of this, I consulted Doc Ayala.

Doc was from California, a small wiry guy who was a conscientious objector. Medics could carry a personal weapon, but he never did -- he carried more plasma instead and all

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of our malaria pills. I never asked if Doc wanted to go into medicine. Doc affected his

own informal call sign, which was not in the Signal Operating Instructions (SOI) -- he

called himself “Witch Doctor.” I thought a CO who was a medic was a hero even if he

never heard a shot fired.

Doc said there was little he could do about this. He asked Lieutenant Lacy to

send me down to Bastogne on the next bird to have the Battalion surgeon take a look --

which we did. Someone else got to carry my radio, and I went down there. The Surgeon

took a quick look, and told me that I’d have to go to Sally where I’d get a few days of

antibiotic treatments and would be able to stay clean.

It was quite natural at the time, but in retrospect it seems extraordinary. All you

had to do in Vietnam to go anywhere was to hang out down by a busy chopper pad.

Where you landed a helicopter was always called a “chopper pad.” It was often carpeted

with PSP to keep down dust. The “birds” all had slang names or various alphabet soup

designations. A LOH would land and drop off a passenger or a parcel of something or

another, and you could ask the pilot, “going to Sally?” He’d say, “Sure, hop in.” If you had a real journey, you could do it, one chopper pad at a time. No orders, no manifest, no

forms. So that night I was in the sand-floored transient tent at Battalion. I went over to

say hello to acquaintances there, but not to the First Sergeant. First lesson of Army life --

if the First Sergeant doesn’t know who you are or where you are, that’s good. Rules were to check in so you could pull KP and guard duty. I’d just pretend I’d overlooked it. I was perfectly fit for both chores and should have pulled my weight I suppose. But I had learned a bit about the fine art of “ghosting.” You’d just “magic” as the field artillery term went – you disappeared. I’m not sure why the First Sergeant never looked in on the

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transient tent, but I got away with it. I got chow in the chow hall but they never took

official notice of my presence. I saw the Surgeon daily to get antibiotic on my jungle rot,

and got regular showers. This was as easy as Army life ever got.

October 1969 President Nixon visits Vietnam

I whiled away time in the little Library reading magazines and catalogs on

cameras and stereos, intently studying all the Japanese gear I would mail order to have sent home. Asian prices and PX discounts -- what a deal. They had a multi-service mail order operation called PACEX -- Pacific Exchange system. The military had a big economic problem, which was to soak up all those GI dollars so they wouldn’t generate runaway inflation and cause the South Vietnamese economy to blow itself up. They also had a savings program. You could put so much a month into it at 10% interest and get a check after you got home. I bought a used Triumph Spitfire with mine. After a week of ghosting, the infections had simmered down well and the Surgeon sent me back to duty.

I hitchhiked by helicopter back to Bastogne and out to the company again. In my absence they had bumped into an NVA courier, and after they filled the jungle with bullets he lay dead a ways from the trail. I guess they got some useful intelligence from his rucksack.

We had a trip to the Division’s own little R&R facility -- a clump of hootches called “Eagle Beach.” This took a long ride in cattle trucks through Hue and down the river, past the big petrol tank farm and out to the coast. It was a four-hour ride or so, a good way to see the sights. There was a nice beach there, where people could swim a bit,

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thought I don’t recall doing it. So, months after first looking down from the 707 at the

China Sea, I could wet my feet in it. At night we could drink beer in the EM club, where

they had a rock band of young Vietnamese women in tight pants. There was a “gook

shop” where you could get nametags, souvenirs, magazines, and stuff. I treated myself to

a pair of “Ho Chi Minh jump boots “ -- crude sandals made from truck tires. Handy for

letting your boots dry a bit while you trudge around at night in the “jump boots.” The beach was home to a population of ghost crabs -- tiny white guys who’d watch you warily from next to a tiny hole in the sand. As you approached within four or five feet, they would dart down their little foxholes -- seemed they could sense your feet making the moist sand vibrate. You would back off a few feet, and they’d reappear. After a bright dawn over the China Sea, we had breakfast, got back onto the cattle trucks, and headed out to Bastogne again.

Now and again somebody had to drive a dozer all the way out to Bastogne from

Birmingham. Sometimes they’d do it just with one buddy along as guard. I thought that a ride to Birmingham, all in the open, at about five miles an hour would be a very lonely trip indeed. Never heard anybody to get ambushed. But once they ambushed us. We were working our way up the gentle, brushy slope north of the road, when all of a sudden the crack of bullets over our head made us all hit the dirt. The CO was immediately standing half up, looking around to see where the bullets were coming from. Silence… then we saw what it was. Looked like the guys driving the bulldozer had just taken a potshot in our direction to check out their rifle. Hard to imagine they even saw us up there in the bushes. If they thought we were the bad guys it would not have been wise to call attention to their presence.

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We continued to ambush in the rainy days of autumn around Bastogne. On one of these operations we just loafed around a LZ most of the day and then headed out into the hills for ambushes by platoons in the evening. The CP group would stay on the hill and keep in touch with the others. On one of these near-in operations we were so close to

Bastogne that we walked in when the time came to return. It had been rainy, and we were soaked. We waded a number of creeks on the way in. On arrival at Bastogne, we undid our pantleg blousing laces and dumped out the drowned leeches. We were used to them by then. As revolting as those little guys were, you really didn’t notice them while they were settling in and sucking out your blood.

One afternoon as we were moving into a position for the night, we came upon a spooky scene. We had stumbled upon an old NVA camp, complete with foxholes around it and a few little picnic tables made from sticks tightly lashed together. Vietnamese -- on both sides -- were very good at lashing things together using vines or whatever they could find around the jungle. We saw this many times. We set up not far from this little

NVA ghost town, and began to notice AK rounds, machine gun belt links, and such litter scattered everywhere. Some of the AK rounds were live. We realized that we were camping on the very spot from which the NVA had ambushed our sister battalion a year or two previously. I carried one of the live AK rounds around with me for quite a while, intending to get it bored out, drain the powder, and make it into a little amulet for my dog tag chain. It would hang next to my little metal peace sign. But I never got around to turning this bit of abandoned ammunition into jewelry.

On one operation while we were beating the bushes east of Bastogne, an alert fellow spotted something unusual near a trail. This turned out to be a crude cache, which

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 93 contained a few Chinese SKS carbines. Captain Jackson was delighted. This was at least a tangible result of all this futile trudging about that had been so frustrating. He tried to see to it that the guys who found the SKS’s would get to keep them as souvenirs, and they wouldn’t be toted off by some starched staff officer for his office. The SKS’s weren’t even first class weapons, and they were pretty rusty, but they made Captain

Jackson’s day. They had probably been abandoned by their owners during the confusion of their withdrawal from the area after Tet 1968. Or perhaps their owners had not survived to return and pick them up.

One night, very late, a message came out from Battalion. “Tell SP/4, last name first initial Juliet, last four digits 3914, that his wife had the baby and they’re both doing fine.” I answered, “Roger,” and did the readback. It was procedure that names were never used over the radio in the clear, so people were identified in this way. We’d figure out which platoon “last name first initial Juliet” was in, and get the word over to them.

Even as a young fellow basically innocent of such matters, I sensed the pain in this. Here was a young girl of 18 or 19 or 20, back in the World, having her first child by herself.

She knew the baby’s daddy was out in the damn jungle somewhere, and he wouldn’t see the child for months. It was great to bring the new Dad this good news, but the situation felt awful. I recall passing along this message at least twice over my tour. I knew one guy in B Company whose wife was due about the same week he was to report to Ft.

Lewis for ‘Nam. He missed movement by almost two weeks, and she still would not have the baby. Finally he took off, where he got an “Article 15” and they took away a stripe. The baby arrived within days of his departure across the Pacific. Here I learned one of the cruelties of war that I hadn’t read in all the books.

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If I die in a combat zone, honey, honey… If I die in a combat zone, babe, babe… If I die in a combat zone, Just box me up and send me home Honey, oh baby, mine…

-- GI Marching Song

Co B had been on Hamburger. This was two months before I came. There were occasional Hamburger Hill remembrances in our little knots of guys eating C’s at suppertime in the jungle. I didn’t get clear whether the commander of the 3/187, one Col

Honeycutt, was nicknamed “Hamburger” Honeycutt after the Hill, or if the Hill was named after him. Anyway, the Colonel was an unusually aggressive commander and the name “Hamburger” came from all the mangling of men that took place there...some 50 guys killed, more than 100 wounded in 9 days. Co B had not been in the meatgrinder that badly.

The NVA themselves were the Highway Department out in the Valley. It was a major supply and storage corridor for freight from the Ho Chi Minh Trail to move toward the Coast, Da Nang and south. Of no importance for itself, it was a place to store stuff and a way to get someplace else. At the southerly end of the A Shau was a stretch of road someone had dubbed the “Yellow Brick Road.”

While out there, the battalion often moved as a unit, and Driver camped out in the field with them. There were A Shau tales of ambushing on the steep slopes of Firebase

Whip, where B Battery had been. There was one unlucky guy who was out on the chopper pad when a lightning storm arrived, and he got electrocuted. Imagine that – go

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 95 all the way to the A Shau, where you can look into Laos, and then get done in by a lightning storm. Another tale was often retold. A watering party had been sent to a creek to fill a bunch of canteens. They encountered a few NVA, and a brief shootout ensued.

Nobody was hit, but there was awe in the voices of the guys who reported that some of the canteens strapped to their rucksacks had bullet holes in them.

Airborne was a firebase in the A Shau that was built as part of the spring 1969 operations there. It became a key base for the move on Hamburger. It was not built very carefully, and was sloppily guarded. Late one night, sappers hit Airborne hard, got through the wire, and when dawn broke, there were about 15 GI s killed and many more wounded. The recon sergeant with A Company had been there that night, and for some reason he got lost in the shuffle afterward. Word somehow got back that he had been one of the victims. When he appeared at the Liaison shop at Birmingham, people looked at him as if seeing a ghost; he relished explaining that he was still very much alive. He headed home not long after I met him.

No company-sized units are being permitted to operate west of a

line several klicks west of Bastogne -- the word from Division Cmdr. So it

looks like high-level policies of low pressure and self-defense are slowly

being put into force...

(October 21 -- LZ Sally)

... we’re just pawns in a political poker game. And Gen

Westmoreland piously berates the Moratorium people for undermining

morale over here -- what a lot of rubbish -- we don’t have any morale

anyway -- the situation as it is doesn’t give us much to be happy about...

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I am delighted that Moratorium Day took place, cuz it shows that

some people are finally waking up and getting angry about this filthy

business. And Congress looks like the monkey house at the Brookfield

Zoo...

(October 26 -- LZ Sally)

During October, while we were taking a midday break on some jungle hillside, the radio traffic started to bustle with a grim conversation. The 2/502d, working some

distance away, had moved up a valley and found themselves on the site of a large

makeshift graveyard. It turned out to be the burial site of the civilians, South Vietnamese soldiers, and students executed by the NVA during the time they held Hue during the

1968 Tet offensive. The NVA political officers were working from lists prepared by their agents. They went from house to house, rounding up the people they wanted. The people were marched out into this valley, executed, and buried. Those at this site were only a fraction of the total number of victims. Much was made of this later as a prediction for what would happen after any future NVA takeover of South Vietnam6.

One afternoon that fall, while A Battery was moving by air from Evans to Sally, a

sling broke and a pallet of ammo was lost. Lieutenant Lacy, fresh in-country, climbed

into a LOH and they spent a day hunting for it. We never found it. The enemy did. Next

spring, Sgt. Mast, our recon Sergeant with D company, stepped on a booby-trapped 105

round in a trail near there and was killed.

I got to take a trip to Camp Evans yesterday about 5 mi. north of

Sally on Hwy 1. I went with this guy who is Brigade chaplain’s assistant.

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Got to take some interesting pics of Vietnamese countryside. … I’m very

pleased with my camera -- I like it a lot. Camera bugging supplies a

diverting pastime...

Another favorite diversion is planning my stereo system...

... I’ve got ringworm that won’t go away, but as we say, it don’t

mean nuthin’. Gotta run or I’ll miss chow-- guys at HHB mess hall do a

good job.

(October 27 -- LZ Sally)

President Nixon came to Vietnam in October to see the troops and offer

encouragement. He had campaigned on bringing the War to an honorable end. In my

first election (1968), I had voted against him. Up until this point, we weren’t seeing

much honor or much of an end either. The diplomats in Paris had been talking for a year,

arguing about the shape of the table and exchanging the same tired platitudes. When we

heard about the President’s forthcoming visit, it was accompanied by a rumor that he was going to announce a really big troop pullout. Well, when the flashbulbs stopped popping, and he got back on Air Force One, there was no announcement, no pullout, no honor, no end. Back to work. The old wishful thinking of the Army rumor mill was at it again.

Occasionally in the field I would be visited by an entertaining fantasy. In this fantasy, I was just having a nightmare. In my nightmare, I was sitting in the rain in the

night, or trudging through some rice paddy. But I would just wake up, and find myself

back in my little apartment in Tucson, which overlooked a nice swimming pool. I’d then

say to myself, “Wow! I had this awful nightmare… I was out in the jungle in Vietnam.

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But that’s something that only happens to somebody else. I’d then drift back to sleep and in the morning continue with my familiar graduate student routine. It was a good fantasy.

This is a rotten, lousy war, son, but it’s the Only War We Got.

-- Anonymous platoon sergeant

Some time in October, Captain Jackson’s time in the field was up, our new CO,

Captain Dexter, appeared one day and he was with us for a week or so to settle in before

Captain Jackson left. Captain Dexter was a West Point man, on his second tour. He had previously served with the First Infantry Division – the so-called “Big Red One.” He told us once that in that outfit they still used all the radio call signs that they had used that awful “Longest Day” in 1944 when they were in the first wave of the D-Day landings in

Normandy.

A Day With the Infantry

Morning always arrived too soon for GI’s sleeping on the ground. We would carry short little air mattresses that helped a lot, but doing 2 on, 2 off, or maybe four off if we were lucky, on guard or radio watch, we got little rest.

We were young and in decent shape, and seemed to take this modest dose of sleep fairly well – if you didn’t count difficulty staying alert at night. If you weren’t already up for radio watch, somebody would come along and kick your feet at maybe 6:00 or 6:30.

Somebody would always ask the First Sergeant for the day off, and would get the usual

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 99 reply, “Sorry, buddy, you’re in the wrong line of work.” People would rummage in rucksacks and pull out C’s and eat breakfast. We would heat some water for C-ration cocoa, which was actually very good. I’d often mix in some instant coffee for high-class jungle mocha. We were expected to shave daily, so we heated water for that and shaved.

This was a big point of daily routine. I suspect officers got chewed out if their men were unshaven. We resented carrying water on our backs up some ridgeline and then having to use it to shave.

Gear ready to go out; Bastogne, September 1969

Everybody would get their stuff together, bring in claymores, and pack up. The radiomen had a few light chores. Whenever possible, we carried extra batteries so we could change them each day. Heat was hell on batteries and you didn’t want dead batteries in your radio when in a tight spot. In the morning we’d pull a new battery out of

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our rucksack, a flat brick-shaped thing covered in a kind of gray cardboard. We’d turn

the radio upside down, unbuckle the clamps holding the cover for the battery well, and

drop out the old battery. We’d then chop up the old battery so “Chuck” couldn’t use it to

detonate one of his perverse booby traps. We’d go over the radio quickly to check

connections -- an old radioman’s trick is to rub off any corrosion on the connections with

the eraser of a pencil. Then make a commo check with the Battery to see that the new

battery works. You’d pull out the “KAC Code” booklet and destroy the sheet bearing the

previous day’s code.

Working on various rear job deals.

Don’t be surprised if I don’t write for nine days at a time... our

schedule in the field could make it hard to write if it’s rainy. It’s nearly

impossible to keep paper etc. dry out here. Thanx for birthday cards...

Gotta wrap this up to get it out on the logbird.

(November 3 -- No location given)

We had a secure radio, called a Delta-One. The CP group had one guy whose whole job was to carry this radio. It looked about like the old PRC-25s. The Delta-One hooked to a PRC-25 and “scrambled” your transmission so that it was total nonsense to anyone listening in. The scrambling system was changed daily as well just to make sure.

The Delta-One man carried a funny little device called a “Punch” that reset the scrambling mechanism every time. There was a little codebook. It took two guys a few minutes to reset the punch. You opened it up like a book, and in there were about 20 or

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 101 so little rods, each with a letter on it. For each rod, you had to move it to a certain setting indicated by a number in the book. You set all these rods to the new settings, closed the punch back up, and inserted it into the Delta One. This reset the radio to the new settings. You’d call Battalion on the regular Command frequency and say, “come up

Delta One,” and they’d turn on their own Delta One, which was reset daily in the same way. Then the CO could talk all day to anyone else with a Delta One “in the clear” and supposedly nobody could listen in -- unless they had their own Delta One, a punch, and a current codebook. To make sure this didn’t happen, the Delta One Man carried a heavy

White Phosphorous grenade that he was to use to burn up the Delta One if any danger arose that it might be captured. That was the theory; we suspected that if things got that desperate, all of us might have other things on our minds.

Now and again, there would be a morning “log” run (log is GI slang for

“supplies”) if you were next to a convenient LZ. You could get resupply, water, mail, inbound and outbound passengers, and whatever else out of the way. Then it was sling that rucksack, with radio, C’s, batteries, and all onto your back and move out down the trail. Usually at the beginning you were on the ridgeline or heading downhill -- the hard work came later.

The NVA were surely out there, maybe watching. But we saw them rarely. The weather was the enemy almost every day. In summertime, the heat and humidity were brutal. By midmorning it was hot, and by midday it was roasting. They told us that salt pills did no good, but I’d take one now and then just to feel like I was doing something for my discomfort. They said not to drink water too fast, but when I could, I’d down quite a bit so I wouldn’t have to carry it. What a welcome pleasure to get to the bottom

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of the hill and wade through a clear cool creek and splash water all over yourself.

Sometimes we could even stop, pull off shirts, and wash up a bit. Then the hard part --

grinding our way back up the next hill. Your lungs would start to hurt, your legs would

hurt, your heart would pound, and gasping for breath you’d get hot, humid air that

seemed to contain no oxygen. Finally, about mid-day, we’d get a lunch break. More C’s

and maybe some snack from your last package from home. Then some more commo

checks, updates on locations to the battery and to battalion, the CO checking in with the

other platoons if they were working at a distance. Then rucksacks back on and off down

the trail again.

With the CP group we never walked point. Now and again we’d be reaching the

brow of a hill, and on both sides of the trail would be a skillfully built little “spider hole”

left behind by the NVA. These were tiny foxholes, with nothing visible above the ground

from a distance. The back of the hole was roofed over with wood and dirt, leaving an

opening maybe two feet square. Looking out from this spider hole downhill, you had

observation and field of fire over anyone coming up the trail. It was almost impossible

for attackers to hit you, even with artillery or airstrikes. There were stories of spider-hole

defenders surviving cannon fire and bombing... they just made such a tiny target they

were almost impossible to hit. Back under their little roof, they were in a virtual fortress.

Walking by one of these, a cold feeling would come over you, thinking about the next

time, when maybe the hole would be occupied and vigorously defended.

The air grew cooler under the high forest canopy as the afternoon progressed. If we were lucky, the captain or platoon leader would decide to knock off a bit early to take advantage of a suitable NDP -- Night Defensive Position. We’d get whatever we could in

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the way of a poncho shelter going if it was raining, check in with unit locations at

Battalion, and call in locations to the Battery. We’d plan our evening’s Delta Tangoes

and call them in. Then, maybe heat water for some freeze-dried LURP’s or warm some

C’s. Sometimes the First Sergeant would scrounge some onions and hot sauce and pass

those out back at base. Then you could dress up your C’s or LURPs. The LURPS were

barely edible, but they were lightweight and gave you a chance to vary your menu a bit. I

didn’t really mind them. Toward dark, those not on guard would knock off to get some

rest, wrapping up in poncho liners if it was cool. For good reasons, we were not

supposed to take off our boots, but I usually did. I’d put on my “Ho Chi Minh jump

boots” and this would let my feet and socks dry off a bit as well as the boots.

Everywhere in Vietnam you counted days. Guys crossed them off on their

helmets. You knew your days each and every day. Short-timers would delight in asking

some new guy, “How many days?” On hearing, “320,” they’d laugh and howl, declaring,

“If I had that many days I’d kill myself!” Another line was, “Who’d you have to kill to

get that many days?”

But in the field you didn’t focus on that vast span of days out ahead. You just

hoped it wouldn’t rain, wouldn’t be really cold and windy tonight, and the weather

wouldn’t strand you there by getting foggy and misty for days on end. You looked ahead

to the next meal break, looked ahead to the evening halt for a chance to sit down awhile,

warm some C’s and dry out your tired feet. You looked forward to a bit of sleep,

depending on how many guys there were to share guard.

After eating something, you’d call up the battery and fire in the Delta Tango’s.

Sometimes they’d call you when they were ready. It would take 20 or 30 minutes to

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 104 shoot in 3 or 4 of them. There was a comfort to it, just being in radio contact with people who could help you like that -- light up the sky all night with illum if necessary, blast the hillside to bits if necessary, burn it with white phosphorous, or scatter it with bomblets from “firecracker rounds.” It helped you feel less exposed, less lonely, less helpless out there in the hills in the quiet, humid night.

The night was Charlie’s. He could move about unseen from above, not worrying about our air reconnaissance. He knew the hills, creeks, and trails. For generations, the attack at dawn was the standard method. Now, an attack might come well before dawn, and action be broken off before daylight. Charlie might watch you and let you go by, but he was paying attention -- if he couldn’t ambush you while you were on the move, he’d be likely to go after you after dark. That’s if he was around and interested. While I was out, our unit was never attacked like that. But we only knew that afterwards. Every night was a new one -- every night a time for wondering... is he out there tonight?

Night…

The time of the mosquito silently arising from unknown wells of

darkness deep in forests and waters and earth. And buzzing in ears and

bug juice and futile defenses against the supreme enemy of all travelers in

the jungle night

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Night…

Of guard struggles against exhaustion – sleep against tricks of eye

– bushes walking about against whimsical tricks of ear played by ominous

silence and random jungle cracks and drips and rustlings. Of wire and

claymores and trip flares of Radio watch sitreps and wishing for two

more frags wondering… tonight?

Of ambush – lying on trail in bush struggling for watchfulness

to do in the prowlers of the jungle night

Of Dawn over the hills welcome for light and safety and

unwelcome for rising from stiff hard ground sleep, shouldering rucks and

pushing on past the day to another jungle night.

(Journal)

Problem was, we would go for weeks without bumping into the NVA at all, or even seeing a trifling sign of his presence. After a day of struggling up and down the hills, and being awakened every few hours for guard night after night, guys got tired.

And more tired. In retrospect I can hardly believe we would keep this up for a week to ten days at a time. Even back on a firebase there was still guard. Tired GIs, no sign of enemy activity, maybe even the security blanket of hearing the rounds for the defensive targets banging out there in the treetops at dusk. All ingredients for the most dangerous military infraction of all -- falling asleep on guard.

From the first night at Reception in Basic, they drilled guard into us. They’d call it “Fire Guard.” We had World War II relic two-story wood barracks, which probably

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were tinder firetraps -- “fireguard” was no mere fantasy. But the issue was really not fire.

It was getting everybody used to Guard Duty. Used to the dependence of your platoon, your company -- your buddies -- on you being awake to see what was coming. A few guys drew the outside shifts for walking patrol, which was to walk around the area with flashlights. On each floor a “fire guard” stood in two-hour shifts. You’d signal with a flashlight to the guys walking by so they knew you were awake.

After Reception we didn’t have regular Guard. At Fort Sill, we drew guard a few nights spread over the cycle. There were motor pools and ammo storage areas that needed watching, even out in the plains of Oklahoma. There were stories that on occasion thugs from town would sneak in after payday, knock a guy on the head and steal his wallet. Maybe they spread those stories to keep us alert. I drove the “deuce-and-a- half” truck to drop people off and bring them back at each shift change.

People fell asleep on guard. I almost never did, but even in the face of the NVA at the DMZ, when we were supposed to be on 100% alert, I took a snooze early in the evening figuring that was the least dangerous time. I snored and other guys had to wake me up. Another time we were just sort of camped out a few klicks from Bastogne and hadn’t seen a thing for weeks. It was cold and often rainy. I’d ask for the second or third shift, confident that the guy ahead of me would fall asleep and I’d get some extra rest as a result. And I’d have the excuse that nobody woke me up. Usually, though, I was on radio watch on shifts with other guys in the CP group. We had hourly sitreps back to

Battalion, a good practice, probably half motivated by a desire just to make sure we stayed awake.

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One night near Bastogne, I was on radio watch at 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. One of the platoons out on ambush nearby came up on the radio to tell me there was a tiger in the

kill zone right in front of them -- what should they do? They were probably pulling my

leg, but I didn’t know and anyway had no good ideas. I just said, “Say, nice kitty, nice

kitty...”

The Paris Peace talks were going great -- and then the North Vietnamese showed up

-- Bob Hope

Finally got my badge of authority as Recon Sgt today-- my map

and compass. Last 2 nights I worked off the CO’s map. A hassle. My FO

went over to the Btry today to be XO so I’m FO for a day or two till his

replacement comes out.

(November 7 -- Bastogne)

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5. To the Edge of the A Shau and the DMZ

In early November, I got a birthday cake – my 23rd birthday. My mother had

gained skill in shipping cakes that stayed moist for the long trip. She’d send carrot cakes,

with a separate container of frosting. I got my cake and we shared half of it around the

CP that evening.

… cake excellent and well received by all.. was faintly mildewed in

some spots due to long travel time and fact that I didn’t get out of the field

till yesterday. No sweat.

Newspapers today talk of a bunch of attacks last day or two.,.

didn’t see any of that stuff out here tho...

Was hoping that Tricky Dick was going to announce another

troop withdrawal for my birthday but no go...

(November 8 -- Bastogne)

The following morning, we got the word that we were headed to the edge of the A

Shau for another raid. We packed up, and got out to the nearby chopper pad. We were

taking one of the platoons guarding Bastogne along with us; the rest would stay. For

guns, we’d take three from B Battery and three 155s from the mediums next door. So,

two half-batteries. I would be the “redleg,” as our FO was elsewhere at the time.

We lifted off from the Bastogne pad, and headed west, watching the hills go by

beneath us, past the muddy bulldozed hill that had been Blaze, down the road to the A

Shau. We turned off into the steep green mist-draped mountains, and soon enough a

steep ridgeline with a bulldozed crest appeared. The Cobras had just finished prepping it,

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and they orbited around nearby in case they would be needed. One at a time, the slicks

dropped us off, took off, turned gently to the northeast, and headed home. There was

quite an airshow, with Silver Eagle (Division Commander, known by his call sign) way

high above watching us, below him Driver in his bird, and below them our layer of

liftbirds and the waiting gunbirds. Quickly the noise was over. It was pretty quiet. Our guys fanned out along the ridgeline to form a perimeter. A team of engineers with minesweeping gear systematically swept the top of the hill for mines. I remembered that the remains of my birthday cake were back at Bastogne -- the guys who moved in after us to take care of things in the CP finished it off.

Shortly the Hooks arrived with the guns, ammunition, and gun crews. They quickly got the guns spiked down, surveyed in, and all the aiming stakes and radios in operation. In an hour or two we had a fully functioning firebase.

Hook delivers 105 to Zon, November 1969

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This seemed a comforting situation -- it was hard to imagine that any NVA would

be in this desolate neighborhood. It would take them some time get up here once they

realized we were here. I had not been given a map before leaving, but quickly found out

that we were beyond 105 range from Bastogne. I got a map and talked with the Battery

Commander, who had come along on the raid. It developed that the Bastogne 175s were

available to shoot for us. I almost got a chance to observe for 175s, which would have

been something different. But the BC had never done that either, so he took care of that

part of it. It was decided that I would join the mortar section and observe for them. I had

never worked with mortars before either. I studied my map, and as was our habit, talked

over suggested Delta Tango’s with Captain Dexter. After his approval, we shot them in and recorded them. The mortar guys then got busy on sandbags and getting some ammo under shelter. We got busy on foxholes and tried improvising overhead shelter from bits

of branches lying about. The stumps and branches had nasty little flechettes sticking out

of them from the Cobra’s rockets.

The scene was grim and awe-inspiring, when the fog lifted so that we could see

any of it. Zon was an incredibly steep, elongated ridge surrounded by similarly steep

peaks as far as the eye could see in all directions. Most of the peaks were about the same

height. Rarely is warfare pursued in such a scenic and wild setting. The A Shau lay to

our Southwest, just beyond the ridgeline on the horizon. Our targets would be out there.

The guns set to firing from time to time, working both from prepared target lists

assembled by DivArty and from missions called in by the Cav, who had our Artillery

Battalion commander along. His call sign was Red Raider. They would turn up things

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here and there that they thought would make targets. I once saw an after-action report on

one of these operations. It was full of unimpressive things like, “3 hootches destroyed,”

“13 intelligence targets attacked,” and “trail junctions shelled.” Which amounted to

admitting that we really didn’t have any very rewarding targets. With the fog and

Charlie’s skill at camouflage, this was not too surprising. Could also be that he just didn’t have much going in the A Shau this fall. Or, maybe this raid was just to keep us in practice. There were good gravel roads out there. The previous summer, NVA trucks had been captured here and there.

Now and then the fog would get so dense we could hardly see anything. At those times we felt a very long way from home. A few of us began to worry that we could be stuck out here for a week with a three-day log. The commander of the 155s was along with his people and he called in a “combat emergency” to get us water and extra C’s.

That afternoon, out of the mist there arose a fearful roar, and a Hook burst into view just about on top of us. It was carrying beneath it a blivet of water, and I guess had cases of

C’s. How he found us in that pea soup, I can’t imagine. At least our supply situation was secure. For these few days we were about the farthest forward element of the Division in this region, except perhaps for a few Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol (LRRP) teams out in the Valley itself.

Came time to go, and the weather cooperated on schedule. In came the Hooks, picked up all the guns, the crews, and their equipment, and headed off back to Bastogne.

I was with the Captain Dexter on the last bird out. Many infantry commanders followed the custom of taking the last bird out. As we lifted off, I dropped the red smoke grenade

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 112 that let everyone else in the air know that all of our troops and equipment were airborne.

Zon was Charlie’s again, if he wanted it.

November 1969 3d Marine Division pulled out from DMZ and withdrawn from VN Moratorium Day marches in Washington DC and other cities

North To the DMZ

Not long after the Zon raid, we were at Sally again. One morning it went around that we were off again. This time up north. Every once in a while a move to Quang Tri or somewhere up there went around the rumor mill. They had collected the entire battalion from all around the AO. This time it looked real. Shortly we would see our enemy right up close.

On the morning of November 13th, we packed up and headed out to the runway, where we strung out for loading on a morning that was warming up pretty well. Hooks appeared, and we climbed aboard, some 20 fully loaded guys per Hook. Sitting on nylon seats against the side, there wasn’t much chance to watch the scenery go by below. In about an hour, we began to descend, landed, and the rear door went down. There we were at the Quang Tri airbase. This was a huge expanse of PSP runway and aprons, with occasional PSP revetments here and there along the edge. It was hot now. We went in to a huge hangar to get out of the sun. Guys munched on C-rations and waited. Rumors flew. The 5th Mech had gotten beat up nearby, we would go out there and follow up.

No, we would secure firebases, while the 5th Mech went out. Before long, the slicks began arriving, a half dozen at a time. We would be waiting in groups of five or so, spread along the apron so that an entire group of birds could land and load at once and

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then take off together. We scrambled aboard and the birds began to crank up to take off.

In a slick you just sit on the floor. The door gunner pulled off his throat mike and leaned over, yelling to us, “The LZ has taken some incoming this afternoon, so we’ll just touch skids fast --we’ll want you off quick so we can get the hell out of there.” We nodded,

OK. Well, maybe not another routine trip this time.

We are so far north, we have an NVA liaison officer

-- Cartoon about 5th Mech.

The birds rose into the sky and gently turned into the southwest. We looked out

across a broad plain, low and grassy, with modest relief. A curious sort of place for a tropical country -- like the area around Camp Eagle, only flatter. Along one river, a village was strung along the banks, with rice paddies clustered around it. You could see places where repeated passage by the 5th Mech’s vehicles had created trails across the

landscape. We looked down at one outpost where the Mech had set into a night position

early. A cluster of Armored Personnel Carriers and a tank. They could set up barbed

wire, carried along atop their tracks, and dig themselves foxholes if they thought

necessary. A sort of circle the wagons thing. We could envy all the firepower they had

atop the tracks. But those things stood out against the night sky and were good targets for

RPGs. Rolling coffins.

To the south and west were the mountains, tall and steep. We could see a tiny firebase atop an impressive peak, looking out of place and lost in this scene. Turned out to be Dong Ha Mountain. We then began descending. We could see the LZ area, other guys in shellholes already. The bird slowed, the dust rolled upward, she leaned back, and

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 114 barely touched skids. We were off, and the slick leaned forward, gunned it, and roared off, blasting dust and sand all over us. We needed no encouragement to hop into a nearby shellhole. Nobody was crowded -- there were plenty of them. An old infantry axiom holds that a shellhole is safe because “no shell ever falls in the same place twice.”

Arriving at LZ, slopes of Hill 162

A few more groups of slicks arrived and departed and then it was silent. Co B was on the ground. No sign of incoming. Officers began getting us organized, and we moved out. We headed south and west off the crest. We went by some evidence of busy fighting, a few ARVN helmets, empty ammo packaging, and such litter. You could tell

ARVN helmets by the spray-painted markings in yellow and other colors they had.

We were on the flanks of Hill 162. Other companies had been landed nearby, roughly surrounding the place. We found a small knoll and began to dig in. We called in some Delta Tango’s but did not plan to fire them in. We got chewed out by Captain Ford for not monitoring our radio. He had been trying to get ahold of us. It was as much my

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 115 fault as the new RTO’s. As we were sitting on the hilltop eating C’s, an NVA in the trees across the valley emptied a magazine at us. Bullets cracked just over our heads as we dove for the dirt and grabbed weapons. A few guys downslope on our perimeter opened up and blew a magazine in his direction. The machine gunner fired a few bursts out there, though nobody had the faintest idea where the NVA was. A platoon leader yelled

“cease fire.” Then silence. The Lieutenant admonished the gunner that the bad guys want us to give away the locations of our heavy weapons... now the gun had to be moved. I was assigned to perimeter guard and joined a few guys by a foxhole for that duty. The night was uneventful.

In the morning we moved on, and found unopened boxes of M16 ammo at one spot where there had been an informal LZ. The events of the previous night had us all interested in stocking up on a little extra ammo. Shrugging off Captain Dexter’s worries that the stuff might be booby trapped, we opened it up and passed it around. I usually carried 20 magazines, at 18 rounds each, almost 400 rounds. I loaded up this time with another 10 or 15 magazines worth. This was the real beauty of the M16 rifle -- the ammo didn’t weigh much so you could carry a hell of a lot of it. The problem -- our magazines had 18 rounds, Charlie’s AKs had 30.

Late that afternoon we set up on the flat at the outlet of the valley. Well after dark, it seemed that someone had finally figured out what was really going on. A

“Spooky” gunship was orbiting up there. You could see his strobe flashing. Every time

Spooky hit the westward edge of his orbit, a torrent of tracers would pour out, followed by a ripping grating noise something like a chainsaw. Spooky’s Gatling guns were working out. Spooky could light up his own targets with parachute flares so even where

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 116 we were you could almost read a newspaper at midnight. We watched this terrifying lightshow for an hour or so.

Then another dawn. We looked around. I went along with a few guys to the northwest, along the flat at the edge of the hill. Someone shouted, “Look over here!” I went over, and here was a 107mm rocket, Russian lettering all over it. First one I had ever seen. It sat on a small launching pad of packed earth, steadied against 2 little sticks.

A wire hooked to a post on the back of the rocket wandered over the ground. I cautiously followed the wire to a point where it ended next to a little foxhole. Here we were, right in Charlie’s Rocket belt. I unhooked the wire and carried the rocket over to show it to the

CO. So we had actually captured some of Charlie’s ordinance. After lunch, I dumped it into a huge hole the 5th Mech had left behind, which had been used to change an engine in a track. Thinking back, I’ve thought many times we should have blown the thing with a frag, but we just left it there. I went along on another little squad-sized patrol to see what was out there on the grassy area across a small stream. I felt a little exposed and nervous out in the open like that. I called in a preplanned target in case we’d need it.

Fortunately, we didn’t.

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107 mm rockets on “launchers”

Then the word came, and we were moving again. Slicks showed up. Part of the company was flown to the top of the valley, above the area that Spooky had been working over the previous night. I went with Second Platoon. We were dropped off on a small knoll in the middle of the valley. We dropped our rucksacks there, grabbed canteens and stuffed a can of C’s into our pockets. A horrific noise burst out right overhead. I looked upward, and there was a Cobra, blasting away with its guns. I’d never been closer to a Cobra in action. This was pretty scary because of all the incidents we knew of misdirected gunship fire. Delta Co had lost its CO to our own gunship fire.

At this moment, several platoons were marking their locations with smoke, you could see a wisp of purple --”goofy grape” -- on the brow of the ridge to the west of us. True to form, a few guys from another company were wounded by our own gunship fire on this operation as well.

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We could now see the object of all this attention -- why we had traveled so far so fast, and why all the work for Spooky. Along the slope of the valley above us, was a

bunker complex -- still, probably 600-800 meters off. We could see a few NVA dashing

around up there. The machine gunner in front of me told folks ahead of him to get down,

and fired a few bursts at the bunker complex. The tracers arced over there and bounced every which way after hitting the ground. The platoon leader halted this, as it was plainly out of range for us to do any good. I was pulling “rear security” now. Without a radio, I was not much help as a redleg. We were now too close to the bunker complex and to our

fellow companies to do any shooting anyway. The FO, up there with the CO and the rest

of the company, would handle whatever they decided to do. So, now I’m an infantryman.

My job was to wait now and then and watch the trail behind us to see that we weren’t

being followed. Far as I could tell, we weren’t.

At times I had shared guard on the perimeter at night. But this was the first time

that I was really in the infantry. I was not accompanying the senior officer present, as the redleg necessarily does. I was not accompanying anybody -- I was last in line. No longer was I in the middle of a group. There was nobody between me and any NVA who might be watching us from behind. I knew very well that somebody could be watching us and I might not see them. Charlie had his Ph.D. in camouflage.

I experienced a powerful sinking feeling. Contrary to all reality, in my head I felt far more exposed, more in danger than I had been minutes before. Because I was not the redleg anymore. I was another rifleman. I realized that my role as the redleg had given me a sense of being set apart from the risks and discomforts the rest of the platoon felt every minute, every day. This was plainly an illusion, but when the slender basis for the

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illusion fell away I felt a jolt. This was not in the least a question of status, that I had

been demoted or anything. My previous mental picture of my role in the field had brought with it a sense of security that was totally false. I hadn’t realized this until my

role was formally changed.

At dusk we arrived at another little knoll, where we set up for the night. I told the

platoon leader that if we stayed up here, the NVA would just slip out the ravine below us

and be gone in the morning. The Lieutenant said that was fine with him. We were

supposed to be on 100% alert, which made a lot of sense under the circumstances, but

right away I curled up for a quick nap. Somebody had to shake me awake when I started

snoring. I don’t know how I got away with that.

Through the morning we just sat there, getting hungrier and hungrier, while

nothing at all seemed to be happening. It was sunny and warm. Then we could see some

guys coming down from the brow of the ridgeline, cautiously working their way through

the bunker complex. But that was all. Apparently there was no one home anymore. By

mid afternoon we got the word to hike up there, join the company, and meet our

rucksacks which were helicoptered up there for us. Along the trail up the ravine were

occasional little fighting holes or shelters, some dug out of the steep wall of the ravine.

Along the way I found a tiny metal shovel. Something like you would use in a garden or

a kid would have in a sandbox. I marveled that so much construction had been done by

these guys with toy tools.

The trail brought us to the lower end of the bunker complex. Somebody had

dragged about five dead NVA out into a row along there. One was missing a foot. We

slogged our way up past the hillside of spider holes and dirt and finally got to the top. A

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 120 few guys were finishing off ice cream, almost melted by now, from big quart-sized canisters. We got a few bites of that, found our rucks, and tore into whatever C’s we could find, having had nothing to eat but a few C-ration crackers for a day. A slick was coming in. Looking up to the cluster of guys waiting there, I could see a tall intelligence officer who was carrying a very sick-looking NVA in his arms like a child. The officer and NVA got aboard the slick and it roared off to the east, leaving behind a cloud of dust.

We picked up bits of what had happened up here. On arrival up here, our company got organized and began to move downhill into the bunker complex. The remaining defenders showed some unexpected fight, and a sharp firefight broke out. We quickly had two guys hit, one, they said, possibly by our own fire. The Captain decided to get the wounded out and saw that it was not a good time to get enmeshed in a melee with darkness almost upon us. One of the guys later died. In the morning, Charlie Co. had gone down into the complex to clean up -- those were the guys we had seen from below.

We had captured a real prize -- a large box of a radio, which seemed to indicate that this had been a battalion headquarters. This was backhauled and must have been a source of some interest and congratulations back wherever it went. We also got an 82 mm mortar – probably the very one that had been popping the occasional round on the

LZ when we were coming in. We also got the little TFT -- tabular firing table -- they used for fire direction. It was a set of tables that told you what elevation to set on the mortar tube for a given range. There was a machine gun or two. One of them was made in Czechoslovakia. We had an infantryman who had come to the U.S. from

Czechoslovakia and found himself quickly drafted. He studied this machine gun with

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 121 some interest, and we commented on the irony of his coming this far to be shot at by a machine gun made back in his own homeland. Other stuff they hauled out of the complex included various kinds of ammo, RPGs, and AK-4 rifles.

Captured RPGs

A few guys had searched the pockets of one of the dead NVA. They had his wallet. It had a picture of his girlfriend. I thought if this had gone the other way, there would be NVA going through our wallets.

We got organized and headed off to the broad top of Hill 162. This was a scene of desolation, with broken trees whose gray weathered trunks told us they had been killed years before. The shell holes scattered everywhere and extensive bare dirt testified to the repeated battering this landscape had taken. The treadmill had been in high gear up here.

We spent a day going over the captured stuff and loafing around. Across the ravine, on an open grassy south-facing slope, was a LOH that had been shot down. That is, if you

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knew what a LOH looked like in one piece you could tell. It was pretty well bashed up,

and didn’t look much like it had once been a helicopter. A slick was down on the slope

below us. A squad went down to check it out. They came back with the two M60s from

the door gunners’ stations. This told us that the NVA had not made it over there. They found one of the crewmen dead down there. Four guys put him in a poncho and carried him up the trail. They came right by where I was sitting.

Chopper

The helicopter poises above the ground

Like a mosquito alighting to bite

Dust blasts the eyes

Engines scream in the ears

Helmeted kids sit behind the windshield a little bored

As men frantically tear cases and satchels from

amidships flinging them to the ground

A mustachioed door gunner sits behind his black machine gun

with the tough look of a gunslinger or a mafia hatchetman

And they hand him red and blue rimmed letters

Postman of the boonies.

(Journal)

Guys dug foxholes around the perimeter. Some of them encountered NVA dead in shallow graves. As you walked around the flat hilltop, you’d occasionally encounter a

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sick, sweet, ghastly odor. We’d never smelled it before, but knew what it was. It was

unforgettable.

The weather turned dark and rainy at evening. I was assigned to perimeter guard

with the infantry again, huddling in a poncho to try and keep the rain off. We were

worried about a night counterattack. The morning was cold. The CO told us it was time

to go. By about mid-day the slicks showed up and brought us over to an airstrip next to

Firebase Charlie 2. For some reason the firebases up in the 5th Mech area got letters and

numbers instead of names. Then along came our Hooks and brought us back to Sally,

where we could get a shower, some hot chow and a beer.

Guiding a slick down, Bastogne chopper pad

After our return, Driver gave a brief pep talk, he was proud of us, we had really

done something. The kill ratio was supposedly 30 to 1. The famous kill ratios. But who

knows whether the NVA were killed by the 5th Mech, by the saturation strafing from the

Spooky, or by ourselves. How many different units claimed those same dead? Of

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course, the “one” in the ratio had been our buddy. Captain Dexter mentioned with some

disgust that the CO of Charlie Co had called him to discuss how to divide up credit for the dead that had been counted. Our CO said he refused to discuss it. He was deeply affected by the loss of our guy. I’ll never forget seeing him sitting there up on Hill 162 in the sun, writing on a little pad on his knee. The letter to the next of kin, and a recommendation for a medal for the guy who was wounded. Heard later it didn’t come through.

... care packages have been arriving regularly and in good

condition . They are much appreciated. When we returned from the Z

everybody had packages waiting and we had a horrendous feast. Please

keep ‘em coming as in the past. They make life a lot more enjoyable over

here...

The line between being resigned to the Army and hating it is a thin

one, especially over here...

PS: We’ll be at Sally for Thanksgiving dinner and head for the

woods the following day...

(November 21)

The Division newspaper made quite something of this operation, as there were fewer and fewer battalion sized movements over this kind of distance, and we had actually captured some valuable stuff. A few photos of the operation appeared in our

Division yearbook.

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One evening at Sally afterward, I chanced by the Tactical Operations Center and

leaned in a ways to see if anybody I knew would be there. On a table by the door was a

pile of maps -- they depicted Khe Sanh. A deep, uncontrollable chill ran down my spine.

“We just get back from the DMZ and our headquarters is already studying maps of Khe

Sanh,” I thought. I headed out of there, very troubled. Shortly after, my eye caught blinking red strobe lights in the sky to the south. It was a string of about six Hooks, flying high, dark shadows in the deepening dusk. If they stop here, I thought, they’re for us -- and probably for an errand connected with those maps. As they came northward, I stared... “don’t stop here... don’t stop here... don’t stop here,” I thought. They proceeded to the north, and I could relax for a moment.

I Look for a New Job at MACV

In November, somehow I heard that there was a MACV (Military Assistance

Command – Vietnam) Advisory Team in Hue that was involved in various sorts of

projects to improve farming practices and in that way help “win hearts and minds” for the

government. Since I had seen many log trucks and wood cutting activities, I wondered if there was anything going on related to forests or wood products. We were at Sally between operations, and one morning I found the First Sergeant and asked if it was okay to go into Hue for the day to check this out. He had no objections. This was the good thing about being “attached.” It could be that if I had been one of the company’s own men he would have had something else for me to do. Since I really belonged to somebody else’s command, and there is not a lot for a redleg to do at base camp, he let me go. So, as you do when you want to go anywhere, I walked out toward the front gate and hitched a ride on a deuce and a half heading south.

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Thinking back on this, I am a bit surprised. There was no way to call ahead for an appointment -- at least that was available to an ordinary GI. And I hadn’t the faintest notion where the Advisory Team was based. I just figured I’d jump off the truck and ask a few people. Sure enough, a few inquiries and I had an idea where to find the MACV compound. This involved a nice walk through the streets of Hue, and a stroll across the bridge over the wide, slow-flowing Perfume River. I had a bit of a view of the famous

Citadel, the former Imperial Palace of the middle empire of Annam. The French had taken this place in the 1860’s; this enabled them to make the outrageous claim that they owned the whole damn country and a few of its neighbors besides. Nobody else objected, so they could make it stick. The Citadel had been a focal point of fighting during Tet 1968. On this day it flew a striped Vietnamese flag. As I was taking a picture of a monument by the River, a Vietnamese Ranger in gray tiger-striped fatigues motioned to me to invite me to take his picture by the monument. I did this, but my photo collection does not contain the picture; perhaps that roll was lost.

A walk down a leafy street brought me to what I recall as a fairly drab four-story building resembling nothing so much as a cheap motel. I walked down the side street, found the entrance, and inquired as to the Advisory team. I stuck my head into the office of the personnel officer, a young captain from Minnesota named Berglund. Instead of being irritated by this unexpected interruption by an ordinary GI, Captain Berglund welcomed me to have a seat and we talked. He spoke of several programs his operation had going, including a program to introduce small Kubota tractors into rice farming in this area, and something to do with the local logging and wood products industry. He was interested in the fact that I held a master’s degree and had a background in forestry.

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He left the office for a moment to confer with another officer, and returned saying that he wanted me to join his operation. Simple as that. He sat at his typewriter and banged out a letter to my Battalion saying that they’d like to have me attached to their Team. I must have had an honest face because he didn’t seem to find it necessary to write away for transcripts or letters of recommendation. Or perhaps he just thought it was a waste of talent to have the most educated Recon Sergeant in the Division trudging around out there any longer.

I still have the carbon copy of the letter that Captain Berglund gave me. He wrote, “there is a continuing demand for personnel with PFC Irland’s background in

Thua Thien Province and his education and experience could be put to use in pacification and revolutionary development plans for 1969 and 1970.” The captain said he’d send a request to Division as well to make this official.

I shook hands with the Captain and walked out and back up the street toward the river. I was in a state combining disbelief and excitement. Here I was... I had talked my way into a chance to use my knowledge to work on something that at least resembled an effort to improve the lives of ordinary people in a strange foreign land. This was a notion

I had entertained at times during my college days -- a number of my professors at

Michigan State and Arizona had served on agricultural or forestry advising groups sent to foreign countries. The whole Peace Corps idea -- with eager straight arrows like myself sharing the bounty of technology, science, and good advice pouring forth from America’s land grant colleges -- was enticing to me. Experience? Right out of my graduate program and into the Army -- what experience did I have? Well, none at all. Well, in the eagerness of youth, we are inclined to feel that experience counts for very little anyway.

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So, my imagination was bursting with guesses about what I’d be doing. Over and

over again I told myself that in effect I had hammered my sword into a plowshare. I was

bursting with self-congratulation over this little coup. I had stepped off the military treadmill. I’d be out of the daily grind of soldiering, I‘d be out in the countryside, would actually meet Vietnamese people, would actually learn something, might actually make a

difference. It was intoxicating. I had read that there was cynicism about “winning hearts

and minds,” and about the general U.S. rural development program in Vietnam. Sure, there was a growing suspicion that our Land Grant college notions of how to farm better might need a bit of tailoring and proof by experience that was often missed in quick one- month or six-month advisory visits. But I could do nothing about that. I had a new job.

But for today, it was time to hitch a ride back to Sally. This was easy, as a steady

stream of military vehicles rolled through Hue all day long. At Sally, it was back to

routine. I expected to hear any day about my newfound status, where I’d set aside my

identity as an artilleryman and assume a new one as a trained professional trying to assist

farmers or wood products people with their day-to-day problems.

Promoted to SP/4 -- which is nice cuz it adds a hefty chunk to my

pay each month and it came a few months earlier than I expected.

BC says he’ll bring me in to the battery in a week or so, as soon as

he can send out a new man to be RTO. ... I’ll make sure Lt Lacy

remembers when we’re on Bastogne tomorrow.

We were on alert for Khe Sanh (that’s right!) for a while but it

seemed that troubles up there may be blowing over.

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We’ll probably be hearing more about that part of the country.

That’s what we get for chasing the gooks out of our own AO -- except for

the A Shau, which the bad guys completely re-occupied since we pulled

out in Sept. The Generals seem eager to go back out there next Feb. or

March. They’ll get a lot of guys hurt...

We’ll have Thanksgiving dinner in a short while and then start

packing to move out tomorrow.

(November 27 -- LZ Sally)

Monument – Hue

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6. Back to the Battery

Hello-

Days as a boonierat are over. I’m back in the battery working in

the FDC. Started at 2AM this morning. Last operation was easy but cold

and wet. Glad all that stuff is over. ... With the infantry I saw a lot of

things I couldn’t otherwise have seen -- new places, experiences... found

out what this war is like to the guys who really fight it... got a lot of

helicopter rides.. got shot at (tho never was in a real knock-down drag -

out firefight)

No news yet on the MACV post yet -- still hoping... anyway it’s

good to be back in the artillery again -- I never thought 105s shooting

would be music to my ears...

Had a dash of cognac with the XO (Executive Officer) to celebrate

return from the bushes.

(December 4)

What had I learned out in the “triple canopy?” At the time, I didn’t look at it that way -- I was glad to cross off the days and get back with no holes in me.

Not long after our return from the DMZ, I got the long-awaited word that I was going back to the battery. So in the first days of December, I took my leave of Co. B and

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hitched a ride out to Bastogne. I went back to work as “chart man” and began re-learning

the FADAC, the gun direction computer. It was nicknamed “Freddie.”

One afternoon, the Battery Commander pulled me aside and told me that he’d

heard from Battalion that they weren’t going to let me go to the Advisory team. It was the anniversary of the arrival of the full division in-country. We were already running below authorized strength everywhere. And during this anniversary period, more guys were heading home (DEROSING, in GI terminology). Battalion just wasn’t going to let any men go. The BC observed that in he thought I would do the Army and Vietnam a good deal more good by going to the Advisory Team than staying with the Battery. But it was out of his hands.

December 1969 First draft lottery since World War II held. Results published in Stars and Stripes US Strength end of month: 475,200

My dream of being an agricultural advisor came to an end because the force was

understrength. It was quite a disappointment, but I guess I consoled myself with the feeling that it had all been too easy anyway -- getting a new job and role in life just by hitchhiking into town. Still, I’ll always appreciate that Captain, who did what he could for a GI he didn’t even know. By rights he probably should have sent me packing right back to Sally. It was a great dream while it lasted.

But it was over, and it was monsoon season. It was a good time to be out of the field. It got cold enough at night that we needed sleeping bags at Bastogne, which of course they couldn’t carry in the field. The bunkers kept the rain off our heads. I often felt sorry for the poor guys still out there.

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It is difficult to tell just what the war has done to the economy. A

helicopter ride from Sally to B’ham or Bastogne allows you to look down

on acres and acres of abandoned fields and burned out hamlets. Some of

this is left over from the Marines, who had this AO before us and were

notoriously heavy-handed. Some is from Tet ‘68 (Hue still has ruins from

then). On the other hand, the areas near the coast seem to be prosperous

and bustling with activity and agriculture proceeds as normal (as slides

show). ... What I saw from the air ...No. of Quang Tri showed neat

villages and cultivated fields with very little evidence of destruction.

(December 8 -- Bastogne)

The FDO Keeps Us Straight

We were down to one fire direction officer, Lieutenant Ellenardo, who had been

in the field for some months with Charlie Co. He had seen some action out there and once observed that, “back then an LZ was not considered ‘hot’ unless there was a slick burning on it.” Now, even though the force in-country was slowly shrinking, they didn’t

have two FDO’s for us anymore. In the FDC we had detailed procedures to ensure

accurate firing data, ensure safety for the troops we supported, and ensure proper

clearances near settled areas. What you see in the movies is cannons blasting. What we did was not so dramatic – we were the “back office” of the battery. Lieutenant E. had to cover it all. He insisted on being awakened at night for any fire mission, no matter how trivial. He checked all data himself, looking at the plots on the firing charts, and holding a GFT (a slide rule used to compute the elevation to set on the guns) in his hand to check

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the quadrants as well. That way, everything was calculated three times -- once on

FADAC, once at Battalion for the usual double-check, and then by hand.

Village along river – near Quang Tri

There was a one-kilometer buffer around settled areas. Inside this line, we needed

Province Clearance to shoot. There were also “woodcutter boxes” in the jungle where loggers worked by day. Outside these areas was the “SSZ” or Specified Strike Zone.

This was a new name for the infamous “Free Fire Zones” of the past. I never saw a SSZ that included settled areas.

All friendly locations were periodically updated during the day and plotted on maps and firing charts. No mission could be fired without “clearance.” Generally this meant clearance initials, entered in the log, from Battalion, where the same set of unit locations was also plotted. Seeing to this was one of the liaison officer’s responsibilities.

There were still occasional slip-ups, though we kept them to a minimum, largely as a result of Lieutenant E’s supervision. There were things that could go wrong. Once we

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found that we had been shooting the wrong “defensive target.” It was cleared, data were okay, and the observer, out in steep hills, was “observing” by ear as you had to do. We were shooting the wrong target and none of us noticed. It often happened that the infantrymen had not correctly judged their location. More than a few “friendly fire incidents” resulted. Location errors were expected to occur, and was one of the reasons for the 1000 meter proximity policy for first rounds. In the Battery FDC crew, usually one or more us had been a forward observer and/or a recon sergeant, so we understood.

During my time I was familiar with a small number of incidents.7 There were

extensive procedures, and detailed records were kept to make sure they were followed. I

have described the checks conducted in the FDC. In the field, observers were to use safe

practice in setting out Delta Tangoes and conducting all other missions. The marking

round fired before any HE (High Explosive) was one such practice. We also set out

targets to avoid having any friendlies on the gun target line. The FO and I always

checked planned Delta Tangoes with the platoon leader or CO, as a routine practice to see

what they wanted and get their approval. I took it that everybody did this.

The “Computer” would read the data to the guns off a sheet that showed all the

fire mission data and all the gun data for every single adjustment, recorded as calculated

at each step. It was possible late at night to misread the sheet, and to shoot the range instead of the deflection. The gunsights and quadrants had nylon gearing in them. Every once in a while these would get loose or get stuck. A “100-mil error” could happen that way, and the gun crew could not detect it. Now and again a gun had to be backhauled for a broken sight or a broken recoil mechanism. Sometimes there was no “float” available so we made do with five guns.

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A classic artillery blunder was hitting troops on an intervening crest. If you had a target at the bottom of a valley, you had to check to make sure that the rounds would not strike friendlies on a ridge overlooking that valley. Easiest was to make sure they were not on the gun-target line... you could tell this from the firing chart. You could also do some simple arithmetic that would tell you if the trajectory would intersect with the crest or not.

105 in full recoil, Bastogne

One day, a new Deputy Division Commander was visiting and saw us firing a mission. He announced something that appeared nowhere in our training, nor in our

Division or Corps Artillery Standard Operating Procedures. This was the notion, novel to all of us, that “Airborne Divisions fire all missions High Angle.” Every artilleryman knows that high angle gives you a sacrifice in accuracy -- the rounds may be in flight 65 seconds, and they reach 50,000 feet into the sky on the way. This new “airborne way”

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 136 became standard procedure, accuracy or not, and pretty much made the intervening crest problem go away.

Got care package other day with goodies -- was excellent and

much appreciated.

Been busy building all kinds of stuff last few days -- bookshelf for

our hootch, door for FDC, generator shed, etc.

(December 15 – Bastogne)

We had a very safety-conscious Battery Executive Officer (XO). He insisted on being awakened for every night fire mission. When a pair of guns was firing together, as was often the practice, he would try and see that the tubes were precisely aligned, as a way to be sure things were being done properly. If there was an “incident,” a casualty from friendly fire, the Battery Exec would usually be relieved, as the officer directly responsible for ensuring day to day compliance with procedure.

Air medal orders, dtd December 12. Second award. Annotated:

Got first one for Zon raid. This one from Infantry for DMZ operation.

Didn’t earn either one

Hard to believe it’s almost Xmas already... hard to really imagine.

Rain, mist, fog and hills covered with dead trees and mud everywhere and

guns crashing away all night. Miss snow, glogg, Swedish-type goodies,

etc.

Couple guys going to see Bob Hope at Phu Bai -- none for FDC.

He was going to come out and shoot the Battalion’s 60,000th round in

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‘Nam, but they decided against that so they’ll take our #5 piece in to

Camp Eagle to do the honors.

So Calley is going to be hanged to ease our consciences? Qui

tollis peccata mundi.

People over here not much surprised by revelations. Has been our

division SOP (don’t know if it still is) that whenever arms are found in a

village, the place is razed and the livestock slaughtered. I know people

who have watched this happen. I’ve never worked in an area where that

was a problem -- was always way out in the boonies where your only

company is the NVA.

You’ve probably read about the dink complex -- it’s real.

Everybody calls the Vietnamese just gooks. Term applies to friends or

foes, military or civilian. And a lot of GI’s don’t like gooks much at all.

It’s surprising how fast it happens. Many guys are settled into a thorough

dislike for Vietnamese after only a week in country.

Time’s rolling along really well now... in less than 3 weeks it’ll be

half over.

(December 20 – Bastogne)

This is the first reference in my letters to the revelations on the infamous My Lai massacre, which became public in November. My words seem callous and matter-of- fact, but I know as more revelations emerged many of us were appalled that such a thing could happen. What is most appalling is that I can ask myself: if I had been through all

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 138 that those same guys had experienced -- would I have done anything different? I don’t know. That’s a terrible thing to admit to myself.

Holidays

Wartime at the holidays... wondering how things are at home. Memories of the

Christmas lights, trees, snow, and presents. New Years’ Eve parties. A week off school.

The big family turkey dinners with cooking starting the night before.

This year, I got two Thanksgiving dinners. While I was on some errand or other back at Sally, the cooks at Headquarters Battery had scrounged the turkey loaf and other trimmings to do a dry run on Thanksgiving dinner, a month or so early. I was never sure if it was solicitude for our morale, or the clout of the farm lobby in Appropriations committees - or both -- but we enjoyed the fresh items like eggs, bread baked at Camp

Eagle, reconstituted milk, and even Turkey loaf and cranberry sauce at holidays. At Sally on the real Thanksgiving, we had it again. I’ll never look down on turkey loaf again, it was such a break from the usual mess hall fare.

Was delighted to receive Dec. 10 package containing Dry Sack.

Many thanks.

We’re shooting 50 suspect VC locations a night. a sure sign that

things are dragging. Suspect VC means that some major with his feet on

a desk suspects that there might be bad guys at those grids. It really

means that the S-3 thinks that we’ve got too much ammo. People

irreverently call these suspected crabgrass locations, or trees in the open

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Peace, and Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, and Happy Tet,

etc. Lloyd

(December 23 -- Bastogne, graveyard shift)

There was a brief Christmas ceasefire. We welcomed ceasefires, even though

they were often so brief there was no way to pull people in from the field. Wherever they

could, they’d at least get the companies out to an LZ where they could fly them out some

Christmas dinner. We would joke --”ceasefire coming -- make sure you have extra

ammunition.” Despite the joke, I don’t recall actually shooting during a ceasefire. But

you had to be ready in case there was a violation and somebody had to have fire support.

So for us in the FDC it was duty as usual, just no fire missions.

Mom would send a package now and then, and Dad would put a bottle of Dry

Sack sherry in it. That was always a nice bit of refreshment to look forward to after getting off duty. Alcohol was strictly prohibited on firebases, but the rule was widely ignored. You’d be in real trouble though, if overindulgence got in the way of duty. I would get to catch up on the Christian Science Monitor and other magazines and bits they’d send along.

We had a good Christmas dinner. Both Christmas night and New Year’s Eve, the infantry on the perimeter put on quite a fireworks show with handheld flares. Our center piece would fire a few illum rounds up high and we’d enjoy the noise and bright lights. Then it went dark again and we were back to the familiar tedium.

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Hello and Merry Xmas, a little late.

Been busy lately. Day before Xmas went to Sally to get some

paperwork squared away for a CMMI (Command Maintenance and

Management Inspection) . Was there for Xmas and another day. Alpha

Battery got torn up pretty badly... Nobody has kept records and

maintenance up to date and now the Army’s trying to pull things back into

shape. Got your two Xmas packages today, appreciated lots...

We’ve got beaucoup abandoned firebases sprinkled over the

countryside, especially in the Valley. Almost everywhere you go you see a

few flattened brown bare hilltops sticking out of the jungle.

I was disappointed to miss Xmas with the Btry (can you believe it?)

...we had free beer, a big dinner, a division band and Red Cross girls --

Donut dollies out here and we have a 3 ft Xmas tree (artificial) with lights

and all...

(December 29 – Bastogne)

The monsoon season caused a slowdown in operations with the fog and poor visibility and the difficulty of getting vehicles around. There was a lot of near-in ambushing and reconnaissance in force that turned out, after the fact, to be mostly make- work because it rarely turned up anything. But it was still necessary to ensure security not only for Bastogne and B’ham, but for the route along Hwy 547 that let straight to

Hue. We were happy that the NVA seemed to have their attention focused elsewhere.

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It’s a certainty that the NVA had looked over our perimeter carefully more than once.

It’s likely that attacking Bastogne didn’t look like a very promising idea.

I got kind notes at Xmas from a lot of people...

One year ago today (almost to the hour) I got up early at Ft

Leonard Wood and spent the day pulling KP for 14 hours-- and there is no

more revolting experience than doing KP in a BCT mess hall run by a

bunch of ignorant barbarians. So 1969 ends in a bunker in the Big Nam.

The year looks like a total loss... can chalk it up to experience.

Strategic outlook... hazy... may or may not go back to the Valley in

Feb-March. The lifers -- colonels and generals -- want to go back out

there and wallow in blood... whether we do depends on “higher-higher.”

I observe that the road to the Valley is being maintained by engineers, but

don’t know precisely that that means.

Seems that the 1st Cav and the 101st will be the last to leave here,

since they are fully airmobile...

Funny thing is that apart from what I can see with my own eyes, I

don’t know much more about what’s cooking here than you do. What I

know I get the same way you do -- from newspapers, Time, Newsweek,

only I don’t have Huntley-Brinkley.

In 8 days I’m halfway through over here -- I thought it would never

come. I’ll get a certain grim satisfaction out of burning my 1969

calendars.

(I find my brother has low draft lottery number)

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I’d do anything to be able to trade numbers with him - mine’s

about 270 and can’t help me anymore.

I don’t know what’s made me so garrulous tonight... (5 small

sheets both sides)

(December 31 -- 0200 Bastogne)

By year end 1969, the departure of the Marines had weakened our control over the immediate DMZ area and ARVN capabilities this far north had not built up to compensate. The usual monsoon season slowdown in operations, and the seasonal NVA focus on re-supply and rebuilding of infrastructure, masked the effects. Only about 479,000 U.S. service people celebrated New Year’s 1969 in Vietnam. This was the lowest number in 2 years, a huge drop since the peak strength exceeding 540,000 last spring. Despite the less aggressive operational posture of the season, there was clearly going to be a lot of work to go around this coming spring. Back at Fort Wood, though, the recruits were marching at dawn, four abreast… As we had in the summer and fall, we looked to the New Year with uncertainty. We learned to live with not knowing – not knowing where we’d go next, whether we’d get mortared, how easy or how rough it might be. We learned to keep counting days.

New Year -- 1970

We had a good New Year’s.. at midnight 31 Dec all the grunts on

the perimeter shot hand flares and the mortars fired illum and had a great

fireworks display. New Year’s ceasefire started at 6:00 that night, ended

6:00 today. Had turkey dinner w. shrimp last night and everyone’s

eagerly awaiting the big football games on the radio.

(Response to Question on air medal...)

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We all got Airs at the Z cuz all the LZ’s were officially hot. But I

don’t remember being fired up on an LZ. In the 101st they pass out

medals just about like frags or C’s. ... they say that for an Air Medal and

10 cents you can get a cup of coffee anyplace in Vietnam.

I used to think firebases got assaulted every week and mortared

every night. And the infantry had contact and pitched battles every day.

Not so.

(January 2-- Bastogne)

A Day in the FDC

Days blended into days, a condition fostered by our eight-hour shifts. An FDC had two crews of about four men each, though three could do it and often did. A

Computer, two chartmen, and a Freddie man. The “Computer” was the senior sergeant, usually a Spec/5. He didn’t really “compute” any more -- though he was capable of running a fire mission himself, if need be. The computing was done by the Freddie man.

He would enter the 7-digit map grid coordinates and get the “altitude” (elevation) of the target from the chartman who plotted the target’s grid on a firing chart and again on a topographic map. Usually the FDO would glance at the charts to check the gun-target line and double-check the plot. The Freddie man would read the Quadrant and

Deflection from the Freddie’s tiny little screen to the Computer, who recorded it on the mission log sheet. The Computer then would call the firing data to the guncrew by land- line, wait to hear the howitzer fire, and then report “Alpha 2, shot, over” to the observer.

That let the observer know his rounds were on the way. Firing high angle, we’d use a

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stopwatch for the time of flight (Freddie produced that for us) and would report, “Alpha

2, splash,” which alerted him that he had five seconds before his next rounds would burst.

With a seasoned observer, they could often do defensive targets two at a time. Or,

we’d fire one target each for two separate observers. This would take a little care in the

FDC so as not to mix things up. We’d have two guns, one for each mission. The

Computer would have his hands full, and one of us would take the mike to talk to the

observer. I would hold two stopwatches, one for each gun, and punch the button and

report shot to the first observer. Then, the second piece would fire, and I’d do the same

with the other watch, and check the first watch for the time to report “splash.” We prided

ourselves on the skill it took to do this. We were just interested in getting the targets

done for the night -- so were the observers. But we never knew when it might be

necessary to run two contact missions at once.

Midnight to 0800, 0800 to 1600, 1600 to midnight, on and on, week after week.

It didn’t take too long to get used to it. Daytime off was harder, since during the hottest part of the year it was pretty hard to sleep during the day. Every morning, Battalion would call for a weather report. During the worst of the monsoon this amused us. We’d just say, “zero-zero,” meaning zero ceiling, zero visibility. After the weather report, we’d report our ammo status, and receive the odd bit of news or instructions for the day. At breakfast time things were quiet -- even the enemy was probably getting breakfast. We’d go one or two at a time over to the mess tent to get scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee.

Then the shift would change at 8.

One of the first tasks was, the “met message.” This was a set of measurements from a weather station, giving windspeed and direction at, as I recall, 5,000-foot intervals

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up to about 60,000 feet. Since high angle fire at long range would reach that high in the sky, we had to account for it to be sure of first round hits on unobserved missions.

Battalion had a “met” section that did these measurements, often twice a day.

Unfortunately, this was mostly procedure, since the met was taken at some distance from

Bastogne. In the past there had been a “coast met” for the lowlands, and a “mountain

met” for the mountains. Anyway, we entered the weather data from somewhere else

religiously every day.

At midmorning we’d often fire a registration. This would be announced by the observer, coming up on our push, “Alpha 64, Catkiller 55, over” and we’d acknowledge

“… proceeding to the Registration Point.” A registration was a procedure that would enable us to calculate, in a kind of backwards way, how the muzzle velocity of our center

piece had changed as the tube wear slowly eroded the fit between the shell and the tube.

Our own guys couldn’t observe registrations for us because in the hills and the jungle

they couldn’t actually see the fall of shot. So out flew “Catkiller 55,” an “AO” (aerial

observer) flying in a twin-prop “mixmaster” observation aircraft that had a high wing to

make it easy to observe fire missions or airstrikes. Some mornings, the groundfog filled

all the valleys around Bastogne, with just the nearby hilltops showing through. The fog filling the valleys glowed a brilliant white. Sometimes it took a long while to burn off and Catkiller had to cancel the Registration for being unable to see the target. The target was usually a stream junction.

Just finished working up suspect crabgrass locations to fire up this

morning... 175s and 155s got a four grid square box to pick 6 grids in and

shoot a platoon 1 on... obviously based on hard intelligence.

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Section Chief just told me I’ve got an in-country R&R in middle of

February...

We had a little shock the other day. Charlie Company killed a

gook the other day about 8 klicks from NW of here. They found his hootch

-- in his ruck was a map of a firebase complete from outer wire to

secondary wire inside and gun positions and bunkers. They sent in that it

was Bastogne. Found out today it was B’ham. Relief... still, there’s

probably a gook walking around out there with a map of Bastogne in his

pocket... hope somebody knocks him off too.

Lost our mess sergeant...

He knows the black market like the back of his hand, and he had

connections everywhere in the Division, where a bottle of scotch would get

anything he wanted. ... since he got so much stuff for us, people were

willing to overlook the fact that he was making beaucoup $ dealing on his

own account with the Vietnamese civilians in cigarettes etc. ... corruption

seems to be built into the system over here., If the mess sergeant didn’t

know all these people, we wouldn’t eat worth a damn out here.

Weather closed in again... rainy, misty... they’ve called off a raid

to Blaze (A Btry and 155s) for 3 days now... B Company was supposed to

come in 3 days ago but weather made it impossible to get ‘em in.

We’re getting a new BC and battalion commander before long so

we’re hoping for good luck on both counts. Present BC played football

for Army -- he’s hard on us but a good officer and very intelligent. He’s

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had nothing but hell trying to square the battery away in the supply and

equipment area. When he took over, the Btry was missing six M16 rifles!

(January 8 – Bastogne)

So we’d get the registration point cleared at Battalion and get up the center piece guncrew. A registration is conducted somewhat differently from a normal fire mission, but usually it was done in just a few minutes. We’d enter the data into FADAC, which would calculate the new muzzle velocity for us. We also had a form for doing the

computations by hand. Later, when we were doing the prep for the move to Normandy, I

mis-entered a muzzle velocity. After many tries, we couldn’t get the firing data to check

with Battalion, until one of the other guys suspected what was up and we looked -- so it

was, my typo.

January 1970 President Nixon creates Environmental Protection Agency

Once on Normandy we fired a few “radar registrations.” This was supposed to be

quite something, when you didn’t have maps or didn’t have a good identifiable

Registration Point. You would fire rounds to burst in the air above a certain grid, and the

radar at Camp Eagle would get a precise fix on each round as it burst. They would call

these back to you and you’d compute the registration from that information. Trouble

was, the radar could not measure the height of the burst in the air, so we were missing

one variable needed for a precise three-dimensional fix on the burst. So it wasn’t all that accurate. But it was interesting to try.

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All the pieces had different numbers of rounds on them and different muzzle

velocities. A log was kept on rounds fired by charge, since high charges caused more

tube wear. When a tube had reached its limit, the piece was backhauled and the tube replaced at 801st Maintenance. A slick could usually do it.

By late morning, there might be somebody wanting a Recon by fire -- just a few rounds walked up a trail ahead of them if they thought they might have somebody

waiting for them. In my last month or two the word came down to make periodic Recon by fire standard procedure. Units on the move had to fire one, worried or not, every so often. This kept the FDC’s and the direct support batteries busy much of the day, and cut into what had previously been good reading time. We’d rotate going off to a lunch break.

If weather was good, you could enjoy the sun and eat sitting on a sandbag somewhere.

Now and again an observer would call in sheepishly asking for a marking round. I did

this myself a few times.

Had our first artillery incident since I arrived today. Bad news.

We shot 240 rounds at some gooks in the open that Delta Co. had. At end,

155s came into the deal and right as the FO gave us end of mission a short

round hit an intervening crest and burst in the trees, wounding one man

(lightly, fortunately). We think it was the 155s, cuz they were shooting low

angle and we were shooting high angle and weren’t likely to hit the crest.

Still, we were firing about 500-600 meters from friendlies and out of 240 a

short round is possible so it may have been ours...

(Letter also notes my brother’s wedding)

(January 16)

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In the afternoon, Red Raider liked to fly out and run a mission himself -- often a

“sheaf check.” This was partly to see how fast we could get the entire battery of six guns

up and ready to fire. These were usually timed, from receipt of the mission to “ the report

of shot.” They were also to calibrate the battery for the “sheaf -- which was the pattern

the rounds make on impact. This pattern should look exactly like the layout of the guns

in the battery area-- just out somewhere six or eight klicks away. A tight sheaf would

enable a “battery one round” to fill a sizable area with shrapnel in overlapping blasts that

burst all at once. A sheaf check enabled you to adjust a bit for any pieces whose muzzle

velocities were way off the average for the others. It also was a check on the battery’s

gunnery. If one round fell way off from the other five, it was a sign that someone had slipped setting the firing data. Every once in a while this would happen, and we’d shoot again, one at a time this time, “right by piece,” so that the offending piece could be positively identified. Battalion tried to be coy about this, getting a grid for the exercise cleared in advance. They’d ask the battery for a grid. This always gave away the surprise, as the battery would have the firing data all calculated and ready for when Red

Raider came up on the radio and called them the mission.

Artillery battalion commanders during slow periods like this had little to do. The

Exec took care of most of the paperwork and administration. The FDOs (assistant S3s) ran the Battalion FDC; the Operations Officer (S3) had an office there but was rarely in.

There would be meetings and briefings at DivArty and elsewhere. There would be some pointless, meticulously scripted visit from a new Assistant Division Commander, XXIVth

Corps Dignitary, Washington junketeer, or some other high-ranking visitor. But much of

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 150 the time the average artillery battalion commander was just fidgeting, looking around for something to do. Getting out to visit the batteries, and running on occasional “sheaf check,” helped keep these light colonels busy.

There were a lot of officers back at DivArty with little real work. Shortly after I arrived, I read in the Division paper that a ceremony had been held to commemorate the firing of DivArty’s 2 millionth round in Vietnam. The projectile had been diligently

Brasso’d to a high polish, and there was a photo in the paper. They had a ceremony for the 2-1/2 millionth round that January, and the 3 millionth the following April. So

DivArty alone blew a million rounds in six months. The gunners, the ammo sections, and the truckers re-supplying us were busy enough. Someone at DivArty had the time not only to count to which was the 2 millionth round, but to organize a ceremony and Photo

Op to fire it. I guess being so busy with stuff like that was why they got Sundays off back at Headquarters Battery.8

A million rounds in 6 months is some 5000 rounds a day, and that was just divisional batteries, not all of our General Support from XXIV Corps artillery. And there were probably almost as many General support batteries with us as our own. I often wondered if Artillery officers got promoted on the basis of their achievements in expending ammunition.

... a little new excitement... a few small contacts lately, a gook here

and there and last night A Co. got hit in night position way west north of

Blaze. Big people noticed all this, and are mounting a horrendous 4-

battalion operation, sweeping on line from the Song Bo River N. of Blaze

all the way past Bastogne up toward Hue. Since there’s an ARVN

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battalion in on it the NVA probably know about it and won’t get caught--

at least this’ll keep ‘em off balance and on the run before Tet.

(January 18 -- Graveyard shift)

Every week or so, we’d get a “prep,” often announced the previous day. A prep

was an elaborate exercise in gunnery and coordination. This was scheduled to “prep” an

LZ prior to inserting troops by air. It was designed to see to it that the immediate area

was clear of NVA. The hope was that it might trip any booby traps as well. It wasn’t

much of a surprise, as the liaison officer would fly out a few hours before to shoot us in

onto the target. A prep was often a multi-battery mission, with every light and medium

battery in range participating, which sometimes meant three batteries. The real art of a

prep was that it was to be a so-called “TOT” mission -- Time on Target. Each battery calculated its time of flight and reported it to the battalion FDC that was running the prep,

usually the unit with direct support responsibility. So-called “Hotel Hour” was

announced in advance, an we would get the entire battery up well ahead. The crews

would have the necessary ammunition all set up and ready charges cut and fuzes set. The

recorder would report, “Number one is ready; number 4 is ready…” then, “The battery is ready.” As prep time came closer, Battalion would announce, “Hotel minus one-zero;

Hotel minus five.” The Computer would instruct the guns to load and the countdown from two minutes would proceed. Each battery would order “fire” at the point on the countdown corresponding to its own time of flight, and report “Shot” to Battalion. The

guns would usually continue firing at their maximum rate, about 6-8 per minute, for the

first 60 seconds. They would fire at a slower rate for another minute. Then there would

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 152 be ceasefire, report of expenditures, and the crews would clean up the canisters, collect the unused powder bags, and tidy up. They might then set about replacing the expenditures with fresh ammunition from the ammo bunker away from the pits.

Meanwhile, at the distant Landing Zone…

By pre-arrangement, one battery would have its center piece fire a colored smoke round, “Hotel Charlie” that would indicate to the inbound pilots that the artillery fire was ceasing. Orbiting gunbirds would watch for a moment to ensure that the Hotel Charlie was in fact the last round, and then wheel in to work the LZ over with flechette rockets and gunfire. Every once in a rare while, another high explosive round would go out after the colored smoke, which would lead to an investigation and a chewing out of the offending battery’s Executive Officer This was hardly a safety issue, as the pilots were cautious enough not to trust entirely to the field artillery’s adherence to procedure. But it was a matter of making damn well sure everything was done right in an activity that could get people killed if gun crews, fire direction crews, or observers got sloppy.

Toward evening it would cool off. The shift getting off could look forward to a shower. One of us had scrounged a big electric heater kind of like the little gizmos that heat a cup of water for instant coffee. We had a 55 gallon drum, fitted with a little valve to release the water. The drum stood on two timbers over a space between two bunkers.

We’d rotate on this -- one guy could go over early and fill the drum, using a jerry can and hauling from the big black rubber “blivet” on top of the hill. Then hook up the heater. In

45 minutes or so, warm water. An outdoor shower on a hot day. Then get supper at the mess tent again, take a break, and turn in early to be awakened at quarter to midnight, and start the daily routine again.

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Big operation rolling along... just shot 100 rounds for some 1/327

people in contact at 3:00 in the morning... hell of a time for a gunfight.

Very cold windy, misty... glad I’m not out there. Their battalion

commander is a tough cookie --he’s out on the ground with them.

(January 20)

... chew up 600-800 rounds a day (back at Roy 100-200/day) first

time we’ve been doing a real artillery job since I’ve been here...

supporting several battalions at once is hell cuz of all the FO’s in the field

and all the locations. Tonight we didn’t have clearance for our delta

tangos till almost midnight...

So far the whole business hasn’t been worth the trouble but it’s

good practice for the generals and their staffs... stay in practice for the

next war.

XXIV Corp Cmdr and Silver Eagle and all their lackeys and

retainers were here today getting the mud of Bastogne on their spitshined

boots -- war is hard on generals too. If nothing else this operation will

prevent bad guys from massing lots of troops and material to work over

Hue-Sally Eagle -Phu Bai and firebases during Tet, as they are fond of

doing (after all, everybody deserves a little fun once in a while but we’re

spoiling it for ‘em this year).

(January 22)

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175 mm “Long heavy” at work, Bastogne

With our eight-on eight-off schedule we were sort of social isolates within the battery. We had our own hootch and our own schedule. We’d often get chow and bring

it back down to the FDC to eat if it was rainy. The daily cycle of FDC activity was our

life and when we got off we only took bits of time to chat with the other guys, then we

needed to turn in to get some rest. Our schedule had the benefit that we never pulled

guard or had to do KP. I don’t know if the guys in the gun crews resented us getting off

with less of the dirty work. When time came, we filled sandbags, built bunkers, and did

other chores related to our own immediate area.

About suppertime, the observers would be calling in their unit locations and Delta

Tangoes. Depending on whether they were split up by platoons or all together, they

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 155 might have only two or three, or quite a few more. They would usually ask for an illum grid as well. We would get them cleared, work up the data, and get it checked.

Unit locations and Delta Tangoes were coded using simple codes before being sent “in the clear.” We had little code wheels that you could use to turn a number into a letter. The observer would take his unit’s grid location, say YD 890 875. This might code into XLQ BDZ using the wheel. We’d take these down, de-code them, and plot them on our maps and charts. We’d also report locations to Battalion for their charts.

Once we knew where everybody was, and had all the homework done, we’d get up a gun and begin. We’d get the first observer “on the horn” and let him know were ready. Since it was usually dark, we’d dispense with the usual colored smoke that was used for a first round during the day, though the first round would usually be set to burst in the air. This would be at 1000 meters from the position, and without further clearance the observer could fire in to 600 meters. The unit leader had to clear anything closer. Usually 600 m. was enough, and we’d move on to the next targets, and then work through the other observers waiting. It might take 2 hours to finish all this shooting for the evening. When done, we had valid firing data for the night which could be put right on a gun and fired giving an observer quick response in case of need. If anyone was especially nervous, we could leave one gun set on data for one of their targets.

Somebody told me that every acre of Vietnam was in range of U.S. artillery, at least at some time or another if not simultaneously. It was a serious matter for units other than Rangers to be out of range of light or medium artillery for any length of time. A need for such a trip might trigger a “raid” by a half-battery to support them.

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Radiomen knew that there was an unused “push” (frequency) at the highest setting on our radios. We’d say, “Meet me up top,” and could chat with other guys on our own private frequency. The guys on Birmingham would sometimes play music on this push, calling it “Radio Free Birmingham.”

Once in the middle of the night we got an urgent call for illumination and a gun for high explosive. A platoon on a hilltop had taken some incoming. About the time we got the first illum round out, a sheepish voice came on giving us “end of mission.” Some guy had rolled over in his sleep onto his Claymore firing device and set it off. The explosion woke everybody up and convinced them they were under fire.

Another time, one of our observers took a LOH out to his company, arriving at about suppertime. After he hopped off, for some reason it struck him to toss an extra smoke grenade back to the co-pilot. Instead of falling into the co-pilot’s lap, the smoke hit the turning rotor, apparently scratching it a bit. The pilot was unwilling to fly with a damaged rotor, so the crew spent the night on the hill. Probably did them some good to see how the other half lives, but we got the impression they did not appreciate the outing.

Some evenings, the cooks would work up donuts for us. The rich tasty aroma would float over the hill. They had to hide them, or none of the donuts would survive to breakfast. Just after dark, rockets would occasionally get launched at Hue, or someplace would take an RPG or two. Then, Battalion would call and direct us to “fire the Orange

Plan.” The Color Plans were worked up and checked with Battalion each night as well.

These were arbitrary grids at locations where somebody thought the NVA might set up rocket launchers. They never changed. So that after six months, there must have been a lot of bare dirt and broken trees at each target. Since we had little reason to believe

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 157

anybody was still there, it’s not clear why we needed first round accuracy. They had a

radar at Eagle that was supposed to be able to detect an incoming rocket or mortar round

and compute where it was launched. I don’t recall getting many targets from them, so it

didn’t seem to work all that well. Maybe it was a security blanket for the REMFs.

Later still in the evening, Battalion would often call us a short list of “intell” targets” or “H&I”s. Intell targets came to DivArty from a variety of sources. These might be observations by Air Cav reconnaissance, information from prisoner interrogations, or some high-tech sensor or other. Sometimes we suspected they came from somebody’s imagination.

H&I’s were “harassment and interdiction” just designed to “keep Charlie honest”

by lobbing a round or two on known trails where a squad or a courier might be out and

around by night. These were accompanied by instructions as to timing and expenditures

to be made on each. Usually it was one gun two rounds. Sometimes they directed us to

fire a target twice, or to spread the firing out over the night. There was usually no rush

about the H&Is or the Intell targets, so they got attended to when everything else was

done, often after midnight.

... a move is a 90% certainty in the next 5-6 weeks. these sunny

breaks in the weather have been giving the generals the wanderlust... Our

btry is going on 5-1/2 months at Bastogne-- which is a mighty long stay

for an airmobile btry (we don’t mind tho). The BC bugs Battalion and

DivArty to move us cuz he says we need it with all our new people and all.

He’s right but we disapprove of having our comforts so lightly flung away.

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...we’re not in a hurry to start over --digging and filling sandbags and

eating C’s in the rain (it ALWAYS rains when you’re building a firebase).

(January 30)

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7. Tet and After

The next Holiday was Tet. Everybody knew about Tet -- the lunar New Year.

Tet was the favorite time for the NVA/VC to go after us, hoping that the South

Vietnamese forces would have their guard down for the Tet festivities. We all knew about Tet 68 and how Charlie took our Embassy in Saigon away from us and pretty much had us on the run for 2 months. We knew how horrendous the losses had been. We all knew when Tet 1970 would be. It was there on the calendar, a brooding presence, no matter how hard you were counting the days, nobody wanted that one coming up too soon. I was surprised that they didn’t cancel R&Rs during Tet... one guy went at that time, which seemed to me somehow inappropriate.

Tet starts in 3 days... still wondering what mischief the bad guys

have in mind...

Comments on Newsweek article on attitude among troops...

Tendency for people in combat units to adopt hippie lifestyles and

slang. The 1st Cav people sport great manes of hair and handlebar

mustaches, which aren’t permitted up here... (other units) also look pretty

hairy -- they look warlike and fierce astride their tracks bristling with

machine guns, long hair waving in the breeze, covered with pale dust, like

something out of General Custer -- or Attila the Hun.

People wear love beads -- sometimes in great long strings -- and

peace medallions on their dog tag chain or on helmets. I used to wear a

peace medal until I threw away the chain, dog tags and all, cuz it got in

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the way when I was in the boonies. Everybody on firebases and in the

rear latches onto a tape recorder and listens to hairy acid rock. Elements

of hippie culture are much more widely distributed than in the world or in

the Army as a whole.

I don’t know how many people smoke pot over here, but it’s widely

available. Officers assume naively that EM don’t smoke; EM naively

assume that everybody smokes it.

A buddy of mine from AIT who has a soft clerk’s job in HHB

1/27th arty at Dau Tieng (Rocket City) north of Saigon sez he’s become a

“head” to escape the horrors of war. I feel sorry for him... people in the

softest jobs over here seem to suffer the most...

The Culture is part of hatred by a drafted army of the Army itself,

the war, Vietnam, the dull, conformist mindless lifers who are obsessed

with police calls, haircuts, shaves, and body counts, who are worried

about scraps of paper in the barbed wire and indifferent to wasted lives

and senseless destruction...

People over here know that they are cannon fodder -- raw material

for schemes of generals and politicians so they construct their own little

culture-world that leaves the lifers and generals and politicians and pious

platitude-servers out. This underground culture with its visible tokens and

underlying feeling of comradeship in a lost cause is the basic

underpinning of the remarkably high morale that is left over here...

(February 3)

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We were not going to get caught flat-footed at Tet again. They sent platoons up

to two of the little nearby hills. One was 316 -- the same one we had sat on the previous

fall. I remember they “prepped” the small one, to the North. It was only two klicks off

and they did it with mortars. They fired so fast that they’d splash a mix of oil and water

on the tube to cool it down. They built little bunkers and fighting positions up there so

the NVA wouldn’t be able to shoot down on us from up there. The taller one to the

Southwest, they sent out patrols and hunted all over out there. The last-light Air Cav

patrols were more thorough.

One evening at dusk I had just turned in. I was awakened by explosions right

outside-- I sat upright immediately and recognized them as RPGs. Pulling on my boots

and shirt, I dashed outside, yelling INCOMING and heading for the FDC. Since I had

been with the infantry, on my return they had presented me with the section’s M-60

machine gun. Of course I knew nothing about an M-60, but I figured out how to clean it,

and would sit on the roof of a bunker for a bit every few weeks taking it apart and

cleaning it. Once or twice we had target practice with it. It is undeniable that firing a

few bursts with an M-60 gives you a special feeling of power. It’s also true that on an

open hill an M-60 would be an RPG magnet, its location revealed by its tracers.

I raced down the stairs into the FDC, the assistant gunner was right behind me.

We headed back out and jumped into our little two-man foxhole out back of the

generators. I guess the incoming was over by the time we were back outside. The foxhole looked out across the open, graded area to the west and could defend the gate on the road down the hill. Everything was quiet as could be out there. In 10 or 15 minutes a

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Pink Team arrived to check things out. Flying low, they worked their way back and forth along the ridgelines surrounding Bastogne for almost an hour and, finding nothing, roared off into the darkness, strobes blinking, eastward down Route 547 to Camp Eagle. As it got darker, we began firing illum to keep things lit up. This was a 100% alert night. In the morning we found that an aiming stake wire in our battery had been cut by one of the

RPGs. It had been an exciting moment, but nobody was even scratched.

We got our Tet greetings from Chuck last eve -- in the form of

about a dozen RPG’s which went off -- mostly in the air -- on the south

side of our perimeter at about 7:30. …about 3 fell in our btry but nobody

got hurt. I’ve got a stem from an RPG leaning against the wall in front of

me. ... while I was in my fighting hole behind my machine gun I thought I

was pretty relaxed, but when I tried to get to sleep a little later, I found out

that I wasn’t. Something about incoming wakes you up good. If this is all

we get out of Tet we’ll get off easy.

People get sloppy when they don’t get shot at once in a while.

... a lot of places in this country people are getting worked over

pretty hard right now...

(February 7 0200)

A patrol on the mountain across the road was not so lucky. They bumped into a trailwatcher who ambushed them and killed their platoon leader. I knew him a bit from when he came to the company just before I came in from the field, though I never worked directly with him. He was our only Tet casualty.

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Happy Tet!

-- General Giap, Defense Minister,

Democratic Republic of Vietnam

(February 5)

7 months in country on Saturday!

1800 tonight starts Tet ceasefire.. my shift will be on duty.. we’ll

get over --- no delta tangos to shoot (we still work ‘em up).

I should depart Vietnam about 15 July (happy day). Take a few

days to process out and be home around July 20th or so... some guys don’t

tell people at home when they’re comin’ home -- say it’s bad luck... Last

September when Sally was hit, a kid from Charlie Btry was killed with 16

days left -- very nasty...

Please enclose some non-habit forming stuff to help me get to

sleep. I have a lot of trouble getting to sleep with a cold, 3 batteries

blasting away, etc.

(February 5 -- Second letter)

Soon after Tet things remained quiet. They tore down the little mini-bunkers nearby and things were back to normal. The evening of the RPG’s had produced a salutary amount of attention to the state of the defenses. The Heavy battery dug out a 50- cal machine gun and built a covered emplacement for it looking out over the road and the main gate. These were standard issue with their little tracked ammo carriers but this one had been dumped in a corner someplace. There was a lot of other sprucing up of

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 164 sandbags and foxholes and double-checking of concertina. Enough to gladden the heart of the toughest old sergeant, I thought.

After Tet

Sometime that season Division decided that we needed more overhead cover on bunkers. There were instances of rockets penetrating through sandbag roofs. We were to toughen them up with an extra two layers of sandbags. We spent a few warm afternoons getting some exercise to bring the FDC bunker up to code. Hating sandbags as I did, I was able to convince the FDO to let us do one layer by setting ammo boxes across the whole roof, then filling those with dirt with a wheelbarrow. We then topped that with a layer of sandbags and replaced the concertina and antennas.

Tet officially over today... Hue took rockets last night.

Blasted general came around today -- Asst Div Cmdr for Opns.

and he’s got the whole damn battery on 50% alert all night from now on...

nothing good ever comes of visits by generals.

... they’re winning the war with their silly charts and statistics

while we’re losing it on the ground and in the minds of the people here

and at home...

(February 13-- 151 Days!)

I don’t know how I stay sane rotting on this blasted hill when in the

World I think nothing of going 400 miles in a day just to see someplace

new or look at fall color...

(February 17)

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February 1970 Beatles last album -- Abbey Road released

In February, I got to go to China Beach for an in-country R&R. I hitchhiked

down to Camp Eagle by helicopter. I remember marveling at eating a meal in an actual

mess hall. This seemed so strange -- there was a whole building with tables and chairs

just for eating. After so much time at firebases and in the field, this seemed an

extraordinary luxury. I savored it. I hopped the daily shuttle to Red Beach Army

Airfield at Da Nang. From there, a bus got us over to China Beach. This was a set of

plain masonry barracks with bunkbeds, and a few low buildings, shaded by palm trees

and overlooking a spectacular beach. This wide sand beach looked over the harbor and

across to the mountains that fringed the Da Nang area. This was a great change of scene,

sunny and bright, an expanse of blue water. The monsoon, the war, and Bastogne seemed

a long ways a way. There was a little chow hall, a bar and a band at night. Two days or

so of loafing, walking the beach and reading passed quickly and then it was back to Red

Beach on the bus. I walked around the airfield while waiting for the Hook shuttle. There

was a civilian contractor avionics repair operation there. Civilian technicians were

walking around. It rankled a bit to think of the money they were making while exposed to far less hazard and discomfort than we lived with out on Bastogne. The Army needed

the technical skills, and probably the contracting helped them get under the personnel

ceilings Congress set for Southeast Asia. We heard a lot about guys in on temporary duty and other ways they had to fudge those numbers.

Busy loafing around China Beach -- no lifers, no formations, no

details, and no schedule -- it’s AMAZING!

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DN a vast military city that covers miles and miles

We just got off a firebase in the boonies and felt like country boys

making our first visit to the city...

(February 20 -- China Beach, Da Nang)

Chatting with the guys from other parts of the Division, I was struck by the slang

they used. I had noticed this among battalions I had worked with over the radio. The

differences in slang and double-talk between units got so bad that later that spring firm

orders came down from Division that the double-talk had to go. Battalions and brigades

in the same Division could hardly understand each other anymore. Some time that

winter, my brother wrote me and told me to do likewise – he said with all the

abbreviations and GI slang they could hardly understand my letters anymore.

At Red Beach was a helicopter boneyard. Just a huge area with helicopters in

various stages of wreckage laid out in rows, piled on top of one another. Scavenged for parts, we supposed, but there was nobody out and around. Quite a forlorn sight; you thought of the guys killed and wounded when those birds went down. Our Hook appeared, we loaded up, strapped in, and roared off into a clear blue sky. I could watch

out the side window past the door gunner. All of a sudden we turned right around and

headed back to Red Beach. Some mechanical problem. We waited around a while and

then were off again.

Starting to sweat out grad school applications now with just a

month left before admittances and fellowship offers come out.

7 days and my 8th month is finished!

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 167

(March 1)

Back to Camp Eagle and then to Bastogne, where I had a letter from Harvard

waiting for me. I did not get admitted... not that I was too surprised. I was up against the toughest competition in the country and every one of the other applicants would be at

least twice as good at math as I was. I recalled my short visit to Cambridge with my high

school friend Rich. Rich was the smartest math whiz I had ever known, at the time an

MIT graduate student. Cambridge was the opposite of the dull Chicago suburb where

Rich and I grew up. Young people everywhere, the “T,” famous from the Kingston Trio

song, and the old buildings. Goofy stores, little restaurants, the kitsch and bustle and

appeal of a 60s college town. Off to the North were the lakes and woods of the White

Mountains and of Maine. Graduate work with leading economists was just the icing on

that cake. I had walked in to the grand old building where the Kennedy School was then,

and the Department head, Dr. Richard Caves, graciously chatted with me for a moment

even though I was a total nobody. By chance a famous economist, Alvin Hansen,

dropped in at that moment. I got to shake his hand. I had read some of his work. What a

place! Well, it was not to be, but at least it was settled.

For my grad school applications, my old Grad Record Exams had expired. Had to

be done again, they said. Well, that was a challenge, sitting where I was in Vietnam. But

the Army thought of everything. A huge worldwide effort run by the University of

Maryland offered extension courses on almost anything for service people. To my

surprise, I found out that you could even take the Graduate Records there. I’d just have

to hop a helicopter ride over to Phu Bai on a certain day, and I’d be in business. As it

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 168 happened, that was the day I was sitting on Firebase Zon in the mist out at the edge of the

A Shau. Luckily, the admissions offices understood.

As the monsoon season wore off, the weather improved. Fewer fogbound, dark, drizzly days -- more sun. The place slowly dried out. After a shower in the afternoon, a walk around the perimeter with a camera to take snapshots was one diversion.

Bluelegs accidentally blew some CS -- tear gas -- on perimeter so

we’ve got 4 guys playing bridge with gas masks down here. The FDO,

LNO, computer, and FADAC man -- an amusing sight.

We’ve had sporadic contact by small units since Tet. 1/501 on

Veghel is walking into ambushes and booby traps and getting no bad

guys... been beaucoup activity.. 10 day raids to Spear and Normandy and

now Veghel, but no real results yet.

(March 2)

We’re starting to get ready for moving when the word comes

down...

(March 9)

Battalion moves to Phu Bai this week.

(March 11)

Old Charles tried to do us in again last night -- but he blew it

again. 82 mm mortar and 60 mm mortars missed us by 100 to 300 meters.

Some pretty sorry gunnery. It’s amazing they don’t try it more often --

they could get away with it so easily.

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(March 15)

Supposed to move to Normandy tomorrow (our highers are a

veritable snowstorm of fancy new plans, most of which are totally without

substance and end by being forgotten)

So I don’t know when I’ll be able to write again...

(March 16)

One afternoon a team of C123s flew by, low in the sky, a swath of pale mist behind them. The Agent Orange treatment again, to knock back the brush along Route

547 to the A Shau.

March 1970 Lon Nol expels NVA troops from Cambodia South Vietnamese troops enter Cambodia

Normandy Raid

It was time for another move. To keep us in practice, or whatever. Turned out we were headed for a place called Los Banos down on the coast. On the way, maybe a raid.

The first sergeant was Puerto Rican; I asked him what Los Banos meant and he said “The

Showers.” Which seemed kind of curious to me. Later I learned that there was a prison camp named Los Banos in the Philippines during World War II where the Japanese had kept U.S. prisoners. The First Cav had liberated this camp and it was a big event at the time.

Old soldiers never die... young ones do

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Rumors about where we were going were continuous. Major operations would be announced and then cancelled. Other possibilities would dangle for weeks and then finally happen. A day or so ahead, we got orders to get set to move. Our stop would be at Normandy, which was in range for us. This was the only time I remember when we actually helped fire the prep on our own LZ. We worked everything up, got most things packed, and did the prep. Then we knocked the last stuff down and hauled everything out into the open. We climbed aboard the Hooks at the chopper pad. The big birds then sidled over to just above the battery to pick up the slings of cargo and the guns. In this noise and dust, you could look downward at the battery area through a hatch in the floor as the gunner latched the rigging to the underside of the Hook. The Hook would lean forward and rev its engines mightily, and slowly lift off. The gun and ammo pallet dangling below would start to set up a funny rocking motion that was somewhat disturbing. Not enough to make you seasick, but it seemed unfamiliar and mildly threatening.

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LOH at LZ Sally

We unloaded at Normandy and began setting up. The hilltop had been well used over the years. We were brought huge sections of culvert, which we used for improvised

shelters, putting sandbags atop them as we could. There was quite a hole in the ground,

which we claimed for the FDC. We set up a tent in the hole, moved all of our gear in

there, and quickly had a fairly low-end but cozy little workspace. Setting up antennas,

generators, and all the rest took little time. Soon, our radios were running and we could

run the battery again.

FSB Normandy at Last!

Not shooting much... all the bad guys the infantry wanted to find

are eluding them at the moment.

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Be here 6 more days and nobody knows where next. Place called

FB Granite about 20 km NW of Bastogne got hit with sapper attack a week

ago 10 GIs and 20 gooks killed. And Rifle a month and a half ago... we’re

pretty lucky where we are.

(March 21)

Normandy was a steep 460-meter hill, an island in the middle of a large river.

The sense of security this granted us was probably illusory but felt good anyway. Mists came and went, this being the tail end of the winter monsoon in this part of the country.

We were in another scenic setting for warfare, bright green hills under sunny skies, grim and dark when shrouded by mists.

Spread over the hill were groups of men stacking ammunition, getting it under cover, laying the guns and setting up aiming stakes, getting fighting positions together on the perimeter with a few sandbags, and all the other chores. Soon there was an enlisted men’s latrine and an officers’ latrine -- this military distinction could not be dispensed with even here. There was even a guy giving haircuts. One afternoon the center piece crew was doing direct-fire target practice, shooting at a dead stub of a tree on the hillside a few klicks away.

In ten days I’m a two-digit midget ... keep the coffee hot.

This operation has been a spectacular waste of time. Haven’t

found any bad guys in 6 days. We’re 460 meters high, in clouds all the

time... when it is clear we can see the China Sea off to the Northeast -- and

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the lights of Hue 15 mi. to the northeast on clear nights. Old Silver Eagle

was here today (Div Cmdr). He looks the part tall, hawklike face, and

silvery gray hair. He let it be known that old muddy Battery B was to go

to Fire Base Los Banos for a while. A nice spot on the coast... We’ll raid

out of Los Banos for a while but raids are no sweat if you have a home to

come back to.

(March 27)

Our mission here was to support several Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol

teams working way off in these forbidding steep hills. The teams had names like

“Saturn” and “Uranus.” These were the real elites – teams of half a dozen tough guys

wandering around for days in the enemy’s backyard, trying to find him and his

encampments. The Battalion’s recon platoon was wandering about somewhere out there

too. One night, we overheard on our radio somebody in a deep voice talking in some foreign language. Sounded Russian to me, certainly not Vietnamese. There were occasions when radio transmissions traveled great distances in freak conditions. One night we were interrupted by some guy who ordered us off his push. We ordered him off

of ours, and after a bit of this back and forth, found that he was in Chu Lai, way the other

side of Da Nang. One guy said he’d heard of picking up a transmission from Korea once.

These radios were supposed to be line of sight, but the radios didn’t know that and we

talked straight through hills many times.

One night they orchestrated a hand grenade “mad minute.” Now and again at

Bastogne they had pulled off rousing noisy mad minutes. This was a new one. A few of

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us joined in at the perimeter. Though I had carried a pocketful of frags in the field,

holding one with the pin pulled terrified me. It had terrified me when we tossed a single

grenade for training in Basic, and it terrified me now. I would imagine somebody

sneezing and dropping one of the damn things and somebody getting painfully wounded.

Or somebody getting jittery - like I already was -- and doing something stupid. Anyway,

a mad minute begins on a signal sent around by radio. The idea is to have an instant burst of fire so that nobody out there has any chance to duck. The signal came. We flung our

frags downhill. After a moment of silence, a continuous blast encircled the hill as

shrapnel from dozens of frags overlapped, creating a belt of hot steel all around us. We

hoped that this might discourage any NVA out there from proceeding any farther.

It’s been pretty foggy up here. One morning the XO couldn’t check

the lay of the battery because he couldn’t see the azimuth marker... people

can never see their aiming stakes.

(March 27 -- Normandy)

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FSB Normandy, March 1970

One day they put in an airstrike. We could barely see the jets diving off in the distance. The targets were 2 to 3 klicks off in dense jungle hillsides. At the instant you heard the burst of the bombs -- a sharp blasting sound with no time dimension to it -- it seemed the earth under your feet bounced just a bit. We were not eager to experience

500 pound bombs any closer than that.

One afternoon there was a big staff meeting. Several simonized slicks dropped off officers in starched fatigues, carrying rolls of maps and clipboards full of stuff. These staff officers made separate pull-on sleeves for their shirts. They could put these on while in the air, so they wouldn’t have to wrinkle their carefully pressed rolled up sleeves. They marched briskly through our muddy area. We never heard what was discussed, but it seemed not to affect us, as nothing we could tell changed in our plans.

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Los Banos... BC and FDO flew down past few days to check the

place out... small, just a 105 hill -- that’s a more pleasant setup than

having heavies and 155s shooting over your head... a bit more vulnerable

but that’s life. Beats the A Shau... but we may make it out there yet. It’ll

be nice to be out of the shadow of the bloody A Shau -- from Bastogne the

mountain ramparts of the valley glowered down on us, dark and

menacing... thinking of what’s gone on out there looking at those misty

gray peaks makes your blood run cold and when the cobras make their

lonely runs out there...

(March 29)

It is good practice to set out ambushes on approaches to a hill if you expect to be there very long. One morning I was out and about at dawn when one of the ambushes came in. About five guys. They looked very tired. And so God-awful young. They looked barely out of high school and, to me, even too young for that. Watching them made me feel that there was something extra terrible about war to inflict it on those so young. Having passed my 23d birthday out there, I was an old man.

On our last night, it was decided that our illum was too old, not worth hauling to the next hill, and should be disposed of. So we had an extended illum mission over some grid intersection out there, where we lit the place up for about 45 minutes.

It was Easter. The Bob Hope show was coming up to Camp Eagle. It was the custom to check with all the companies and batteries and find the youngest soldier in

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each one. A slick appeared to pick our guys up and bring them in to Camp Eagle to see

Bob Hope, ogle the gorgeous actresses he always brought along, and laugh at his jokes.

One night, around midnight, I heard a familiar whistle nearby, loud and

uncomfortably close. I was about to mention to Lieutenant Ellenardo, “We’ve got an

incoming 105 round... probably the battery on Birmingham shot out.” Of course, as an

experienced forward observer, he knew this already.

The round burst right next door. Somehow I sensed that this was a single blunder

that would be picked up right away. We knew it was a 105, but out of an abundance of

caution we were shooed out to the perimeter, clutching our rifles, to await events. But

there were none -- only the quiet jungle night. Before breakfast they told us that that a

kid on guard on the perimeter had been killed by the shrapnel; a few guys were wounded.

Last night on Normandy was marred by a nasty tragedy-- one of

our sister batteries -- probably A Btry on B’Ham shot out and dumped a

round right on our perimeter -- killed one infantryman and wounded three

-- burst was less than 100 meters from where we were sitting in the FDC.

Little different wind could have put that round on top of the hill where it

could have taken 20 people with it including the infantry battalion

commander... That’s a most unhappy feeling seeing people die over here

and even worse when we kill ‘em ourselves.

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Heard on the radio that Chuck mortared about 100 places last

night, kicking off the spring season with a bang... mostly these big

offensives you read about don’t cause much stir up here...

(April 2-- Los Banos)

Back to the Coast: Los Banos

Late in our Normandy stay, it was confirmed that our next stop was Los Banos.

We left the first day or so of May. The move went smoothly. Los Banos was a perfect defensive position, a steep hill with excellent observation along QL I and the narrow coastal plain in both directions. It looked out over a broad lagoon, the Dam Lap An. As at Roy, at the edge of the coastal plain ran the railroad, and the steep mountains loomed upward.

Large culvert sections covered with sandbags made our “hootches” on Los Banos

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We arrived at Los Banos in the morning. Top priority was to get things roughly

set up, get generators running, and radios up so that we could communicate and be ready

to shoot at any moment. This took a few hours, and when things were set, a few of us

could knock off to take a nap. I was awakened mid-morning by a guy from the FDC who

told me I had been admitted to Yale with a fellowship and they had to have an answer

back immediately. I tried to shake off sleep and think. No from Harvard; several other

schools remained to be heard from. I’d take the bird in the hand. “Tell ‘em I’ll take it,” I

mumbled wearily, and dropped back off to sleep. The message was sent back via

Battalion through a radio system they had set up that used civilian Ham radio operators to

get messages to the guys in the field. In this instance, the operator was a neighbor of ours

from just down the street back in Highland Park.

April 1970 13-17th: Apollo 13 22nd: First Earth Day 29th: Invasion of Cambodia

Los Banos had been occupied by the French… more reminders of futility. All

around the hillside were rusting remains of 1950s era barbed wire, and they said that old

mines were still left scattered around there. Which was fine with us... all the more

inconvenience to anybody attempting to get to our wire. Los Banos seemed such a tiny

place after Bastogne -- it only accommodated one 105 battery. It had not seen recent use

before our arrival, so we had to do a lot of construction work. On April 6, I became a

“two-digit midget.” with less than 100 days to go. We all looked forward to this status,

but then realized that 99 days is still a long time...

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Cold rainy windy on the China Sea these past few days, far cry

from the balmy sunny seaside we dreamed of in the clouds and mud of

Normandy.

Put in for R&R to Hong Kong for 16 May.

(April 4-- Los Banos)

I’m a two-digit midget!

I notice that a General, Cmdr of the 196th Lite Inf Bde, got killed...

I’m of the opinion that... if we can afford to lose a PFC we can afford a

general...

(April 6 -- Los Banos)

Something was unlucky about Los Banos. One afternoon they had a memorial service for one of the infantrymen who had been guarding us. M16 rifle stuck in the ground, boots and all. Seems he and a buddy got bored at nights, and began cooking up various clever fireworks that they shot off out of the perimeter. One of them got out of hand, got dropped, and the poor kid was killed. Later, a fellow was supposedly cleaning his rifle sitting on a 5/4-ton truck, when it went off. Of all the places it could have gone, the round went through the shower, killing a guy in the middle of his shower. My Dad had always said that there would be no guns in our house -- no matter how much we wanted one for target shooting. He said he saw too many stupid accidents while he was in the Army. I finally understood how he felt about that.

Everybody needs a patron saint. For a long time the Artillery had one. Saint

Barbara is depicted as a valiant woman helping a crew serve a cannon on the ramparts of

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 181 some town threatened by the Turks coming over the walls. Sometime that winter, however, the Pope thought better of the evidence originally used in canonizing Barbara, and along with some 200 others, she was “busted” and stripped of her rank as a saint.

The weather improved, the mist was more frequently interrupted by sunny, warm days. Our mission was to support troops trying to guard QL1, the railroad and its bridges, and the bridge at Lang Co that carried the highway over the lagoon’s outlet to the China Sea. We supported anybody else who was up to anything in the area. Off on the horizon to the southeast we could see Hai Van Pass, on the high ground where the

Province boundary between Thua Thien and Quang Nam provinces ran. South of the

Province line was the Marine “Jarhead” Area of Operation. Every once in a while

Marines would come up on our radio and request that we prepare defensive targets for a patrol working the ridge along the boundary. It was incredibly steep country; we didn’t envy them a bit being out there.

We had air support from a Marine Air Wing based at Da Nang. Their route north was right along the coast. Now and then a hotdog pilot would buzz Los Banos, switching on his afterburner. We’d hear a tremendous roar, and look up to see an F4 rapidly disappearing into the distance.

The time at Los Banos, once construction and remodeling were finished, was ordinary routine, with less shooting than we had at Bastogne. We had a radar on the perimeter that was supposed to spot NVA patrols hiking around in the open at night.

There were also sensor strings for the same purpose. Every night or so the radar picked something up and we shot the target. More than once the word came back that we had gotten some farmer’s water buffalo. It was like we had blown up a farmer’s tractor - the

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 182 guy’s water buffalo was his biggest capital asset. There was a program to compensate farmers for this sort of damage.

…carrying on business as usual... we work up illumination and

defensive targets and we have 2 sensor strings -- series of electronic

devices, which report disturbances by radio -- which we work up every

day. We had ground radars, which pick up movement now and then and

occasionally the FO’s spot bad guys... but it’s a pretty low-temperature

war...

1st Division going home, but all the troops are reassigned. At Phu

Bai they say it’s wall-to-wall Big Red One patches.

Were you guys lucky to not have helicopters! We’ve got the bn

commander and assorted cols and generals all over us every day... and

people from DivArty bringing smoke...

I wonder what these clowns would do if they didn’t have

helicopters to fly around in all day and had to actually work on problems

of command?

(April 10)

One day Captain Jackson from B Company appeared at Los Banos with an inspection party, and we had a cordial chat. He had a staff job at Battalion and they were taking a close look at all firebases to make sure defenses were in proper order.

That spring was the Black Panther trial in New Haven. It made the news a lot in the magazines and on the radio. I was stunned that so many people back there were in

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graduate school -- where I wanted to be -- and almost in riots over this issue. There was

worry that it could get very bad. They had the National Guard out and everything. I just

wanted to go back to quiet academia and get on with my education, and here my chosen

school was a hotbed of conflict and potential violence.

Watching all this news, the college student protest bug bit me. I put a little

antiwar protest poster from someplace on the wood door of our little sleeping bunker.

The Battery Commander spotted it in a few days. I got a brief but stern lecture. “We’re

not having stuff around here protesting Army policy,” he said. As they say the enlisted

man always has the last word. “Yes, sir,” I responded.

In April, one of the Division’s Battalions was part of the invasion of Cambodia.

This outfit was operating by itself far to the south providing security for an airbase. They were scooped up and sent in to hit the Ho Chi Minh trail in Laos. We were watching the news closely, as there was plenty of reading time. My letters indicate some concern over

this escalation of things:

I might extend over here to be safe from the nuclear war we’re

getting into over Laos and Cambodia and the whole mess over here --

that’d be irony -- the only survivors of World War III are in Vietnam!...

Ugh! What a week!

(April 16 -- Los Banos)

I heard from FO’s who came through and from the radio traffic that things were heating up out at the edge of the A Shau. The mountains bordering Laos were beckoning to the generals, as they did each spring when the mists began to clear. Roads, supply

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dumps, and bases out there had to be located and destroyed, especially so as U.S. forces

in-country were dwindling. This had to be done or “Vietnamization” would not have a

chance. The defensive posture of the monsoon season evaporated along with the drizzle

and the mists. B Company was out there in the area of Firebase Ripcord. They were

bumping into more contact, and occasionally finding things. They occasionally used B-

52 strikes.

One Observer described watching a B-52 strike from a nearby hilltop to the northwest of Bastogne: “You never saw or heard any airplanes. We were warned that it was coming. There was just this continuous god-awful rumbling and blasting, not separate explosions. You could see the jungle just turn into a boiling carpet of smoke that spread across the floor of the valley.” “Must have been pretty awesome,” I responded. “Damned right,” he said.

The NVA were re-supplied and not just sitting and taking it. They kept our

positions out there under regular mortar fire, wounding a lot of guys. Guys I knew were

getting killed. Somebody found out that you could get out of the field if you signed on

for another two years, or “re-upped” in GI slang. Enough guys did that to get out of there

that one ridge was named “Re-Up Hill.”

I knew they were getting beat up. I would stand at evening looking into the

colorful sunsets over the mountains, looking in the general direction where they were

operating. I felt I should be with them -- even though some of the guys I knew had gone

home. Something inside kept telling me that I belonged out there with them, even though

I had only served with them for a few months. I didn’t belong on this safe little hill by

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 185 the China Sea. The feeling baffled me in a way. My brain kept telling me I was insane.

The feeling refused to go away.

I never acted on it.

Here was a strange thing to learn about war – the tug of personal loyalties despite disaffection from the war itself… the tug of loyalty in the face of danger.

At the end of April, with less than a month on Los Banos, I got the word to report to Battalion. I was to be Battalion computer. The rear job everybody dreams about was mine. So, while my buddies from Co B sat out 82 mm mortar barrages in the mountains,

I was heading in for my rear job, to be a true REMF. I had 78 days.

Got maps and package with Yankee magazines... all this good New

England stuff is making me restless. Haven’t been off a firebase for 2

months -- tho I’ve seen 3 different ones in that time.

81 days, Peace, L.

(April 24 – Los Banos)

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Decline of Discipline

The culture of the Army was divided but not always in the way you’d think.

Mostly we got along with platoon sergeants, first sergeants, platoon leaders, forward

observers, and company commanders. We just had to. And they often seemed in one

degree or another to share the general cynicism about Headquarters, Army Bureaucracy,

and general military chickenshit. That may have been one reason, it strikes me now, why

they were in the field instead of some soft rear job. Anyway, the grand institutional

Army, always spoken of with an obscenity attached, seemed to be our common enemy,

junior officers and men. All of us out there in the jungle had more in common in

attitudes about the Army, though not necessarily about the War itself, than we did with

the remote, impersonal Army of Corps Headquarters, Saigon, or the Pentagon. Beyond

that, we all shared a resentment of REMF’s and their easy life, much as most of us dearly

hoped for one of those rear jobs for ourselves someday.

Now and then there were newspaper stories about decline in discipline and

effectiveness. This was underway during 1969 and 1970 in our area. Junior sergeants

were inexperienced, and often just as interested in sneaking some dope as the other GI’s.

They were just as bored, and just as interested in getting home. There were instances of racial tension, though I never saw anything tense myself. One racial explosion in another brigade was so serious it made the papers back “in the world.” With Co B we had one guy who somehow sneaked out and fell in love with a local girl and just decided he

couldn’t do it anymore. One day he refused to get on a helicopter to go out with us. I

never knew what became of him.

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A lot was written about “fragging.” The Vietnam movies seem to make it out as

standard procedure. I was not present, but back at Battalion somebody did frag the First

Sergeant’s hootch -- I saw the corner of it all torn up. This was an unusual event.

Fragging was a warning -- it was usually done with care taken to see that there would be no casualties. The intent was to damage the hootch, not its occupant. In most outfits, a certain tension between the “lifers” -- the experienced sergeants who really ran things -- and ordinary GI’s was routine. Occasionally it would become extreme, with the guys

among themselves referring to the First Sergeant as the “First Pig.” My situation in Fire

Direction minimized contacts with First Sergeants, and I recall no bad feelings about

specific senior sergeant’s.

There certainly was a decline in skill, savvy, and attentiveness, with more people

falling asleep on guard and all. There was less of the toughness on the part of senior

sergeant’s and junior officers to “kick butt and take names” and keep people straight.

There were many minor examples of how aggressiveness and alertness would slack off

and sergeant’s and officers seemed to tolerate it. Some practices known to be effective, such as stay-behind ambushes, were being abandoned.

Despite policy, it was easy to get booze even on a firebase. One time a guy had gotten himself drunk in the morning and was too wiped out to come along on a raid. This surprised me; I had thought he was a fairly reliable guy. It disappointed the CO too, who busted him, as he had to.

Many units were not as focused on uniform and appearance as the 101st. We shaved daily in the field, and had regular haircuts. This was enforced anywhere I went in

the Division. We’d encounter guys from other units, though, with long hair and bushy

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mustaches, looking pretty grungy sometimes. They made us toss out our boonie hats –

which were practical for this climate. But guys hung hand grenade pins on them,

decorated them with little antiwar buttons, and put patches with peace signs on top of

them. This was too much for the lifers and we had to replace “boonie hats” with dull old

baseball caps. In the rear, officers would send you back to barracks for your cap if they caught you walking around bareheaded. Military chickenshit had to be upheld.

“When I die, I know I’m going to heaven, cuz I’ve done my time in Hell”

-- motto on embroidered GI vests made from poncho liners and other souvenirs

The policy of one-year tours was well meant and we appreciated it. Nobody

wanted to hang around Vietnam more than their 365 days, plus extension for “Early Out.”

The policy led to high turnover especially in junior officers. In little more than three

months in the field I served under three forward observers and two company

commanders. In nine months at Battery B, we had three Battery Commanders. Turnover

among platoon leaders was not as high, but the net effect was that almost everybody who

counted was inexperienced. Given the human tendency to put off difficult decisions, it

was not surprising that discipline would slip. The constant turnover in people surely

affected unit cohesion and operational skill on the most nitty-gritty matters. There were a

lot of younger sergeants and lieutenants whose experience under fire was somewhere

between limited and zero. Would they know what to do? Would they hold up? Clearly,

my own combat know-how and savvy could have been a lot stronger. Two of the

forward observers who should have mentored me in the ways of war had less experience

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 190 than I did. It was understood that a man’s first time under fire he is not likely to be a high performer. I felt lucky that both CO’s we had when I was out with B Company were combat-tested. Not every company could say that.

The static situation, constantly patrolling but never getting anywhere, meant that we’d have no benchmarks for success -- taking some town or river line that mattered somehow, then moving on. Instead, it was go in and fight in the A Shau, then come out in September. Go back in next spring after the NVA had all winter to get ready for you.

A map of the firebases we occupied, or the operations I went on, did not add up to a linear progression that was going somewhere. Instead, it looked more like wandering randomly around Northern I Corps. Year after year -- the sense of being on a treadmill was clearly demoralizing. It came through in my letters all year.

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8. Finally a REMF

One of the few consolations for a weary infantryman, a redleg attached to the infantry, or a cannoneer on a firebase is to feel superior to all the lower forms of life – the

REMF’s -- that inhabit base camps. We had a number of mostly humorous synonyms for these people -- cooks were “spoons”; engineers were “pick and shovel people”; the mechanics at 801st Maintenance were “wrenches.” Clerks were just “clerks and jerks”; office people in general were “Chairborne Rangers,” or “Garritroopers” -- special favorites in a nominally Airborne outfit. When back at Sally, we’d stroll around in helmets, carrying our rifles at our side, in bleached out dirty fatigues with somebody

else’s nametag. Our boots never had the benefit of shoe polish. They looked anywhere

from unprepared for inspection to just about ready to fall apart. Allergy to shoe polish

was one trait that “boonierats” acquired quickly. We knew our appearance set us apart

and we let ourselves feel superior as a result -- even though there was not a one of us who

wouldn’t jump at the chance to change places with any one of these “spoons,”

“wrenches,” or “Chairborne Rangers.” Then we could enjoy being cowardly, lazy,

useless weaklings who worked regular hours, slept in a cot under a tin roof, had cold beer

and movies, and even -- most unjustly as we saw it -- got Sundays off!

Have come to Battalion to be computer in the Bn FDC... that’s

what they train you for. Comforts here in the rear are nice to have... will

go into details later. TOC is air-conditioned (that’s right). These lifers

make war pretty soft back here...

(April 28 -- Phu Bai, 78 days)

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ARVN track along QL I

Just as in the Battery, we had our own seven-day-a-week schedule that set us apart. There was another outfit’s mess hall, near the Battalion FDC, where we’d get meals while on duty. As a result, I barely knew who the Headquarters Battery First

Sergeant was, and have no recollection of ever meeting a single guy at HHB who was not on the FDC crew.

After months of not knowing where I’d be next week, Battalion seemed a virtual anchor of stability. As I ricocheted from one end of Northern I Corps to another,

“Battalion” stood still, but for its recent move to Phu Bai. That winter, Battalion had moved its headquarters and FDC from Sally down to Phu Bai, which in turn had been vacated by the XXIV Corps Headquarters. In the wake of the departure of the Marines, the whole III MAF infrastructure that had controlled I Corps was wound up in March and command passed to XXIV Corps, which moved into the headquarters facilities at Da

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Nang. The area was not all that different from what we had at Sally, it just wasn’t on the perimeter. It was at one edge of a vast base complex southeast of Hue, which included the Division base at Camp Eagle, a number of facilities at Phu Bai, and the airfield, with the base for 101st Aviation, which had the Division’s hundreds of helicopters and other light aircraft. Next door to us was a heavy lift helicopter company, which had the Hooks that hauled us around. Nearby was a huge ammunition dump where the First Log

Command’s trucks coming up from Da Nang unloaded before turning around to make the run again. Our Division logistics operation then hauled it all out to the firebases and units in the field from there.

Have roomy hootch with fan, nice mess hall, big shower room

where you don’t have to carry your water. Work from 5 to 5 down in the

air-conditioned hole...

Guess what, they’re talking of moving B Btry to Roy again... funny

world.

Seems the lifers lost the argument over going out into the A Shau.

Other characters on my radio are all disorganized and things are

always an inch from chaos. I’ve tried to put some order into things so

when somebody asks me for some clearance or for a grid we’ve already

fired on or about a registration I’ll be able to come up with an answer.

This job just boils down to passing back and forth a lot of data and

keeping track of it...

So Cambodia slides closer to oblivion every day... all the

nightmares we had about Indochina in the early days 1964-1965 have all

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come true... so much for the benevolent armed might of Uncle Sam

shielding the poor and ignorant from the godless communists... a

monument to paranoia and ignorance... a whole generation’s best years

used to build graveyards... about two weeks to Hong Kong... doesn’t seem

real... nothing does anymore... everything is inside out, upside down,

warped... the whole world is a big bad trip...

(May 2 -- Phu Bai)

These nearby facilities would seem to be tempting targets -- more than once this thought crossed my mind. I had moved from a tiny coastal firebase of no tactical importance to a hootch sitting between a helicopter base and an ammo dump... would I sleep any better? Surely the NVA had us on maps in elaborate detail. Now and again, they would drop a rocket on Camp Eagle, inflicting a casualty or two. But, for the most part we could have been at Fort Sill again instead of on the edge of a continuing war.

The news and the sitreps we saw at FDC told us that attacks by fire were occurring country wide, and even up North, in abundant numbers, but here we were sitting in the midst of such easy targets, and almost nothing ever happened.

While on duty, we did not need to worry about what they might decide to throw at the assault helicopter company or the ammo dump. The Battalion FDC was ensconced in a former Corps headquarters bunker, which had some fantastic depth of sandbags over its roof. From the outside, it looked like a green oblong mound, and was entered through a ramp that went down hill through one side. It had to be air conditioned to keep from becoming a hellhole in the summer. The FDC bunker sat right next to the Battalion

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Headquarters building, which had once been the offices for the top staff of XXIV Corps.

Off to one side was a chopper pad for Red Raider’s helicopter. It was a long ways from

overnighting on hilltops beyond Bastogne in the rain to this impressive bunker. Here we

were, running a nimble airmobile artillery outfit out of a virtual fortress.

FDC was overseen by two assistant Operations Officers -- the FDO’s -- who were

captains. They alternated shifts with us and were essentially in command of the battalion

operationally if anything came up requiring instant action. The Operations Officer

himself spent little time in the FDC, being off at meetings or visiting firebases with Red

Raider. A Sp/5 was the senior computer who supposedly supervised the enlisted staff,

but really had little to do most of the time. He mostly did the day shift as I remember.

One of his duties was to assist at busy times, and to sit in on a radio when one of us was

on R&R or away for some other reason. One of the FDO’s had played football at

Michigan State, where I went to college. The other was a second-tour guy, who had been

an adviser in some small village his previous time. Occasionally we’d get into conversation about his first-tour experiences. He was there around Tet 1968. It was his task to fill in Hamlet Evaluation System (HES) reports. This was the system of

numerical ratings of security conditions, hamlet by hamlet, that the green-eyeshade guys

at MACV fed into computers. They got numbers proving that we were winning. Captain

R said that when he reported numbers going down, they sent them back and told him to

report improvement. So right up to the explosion of Tet, the numbers were climbing.

The system undermined its own ability to tell fact from fiction, undermined integrity, and

deluded those at the top and any others who chose to believe the numbers. They didn’t

delude the enemy. Captain R also observed that the ARVN’s at his location “never went

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out before Charlie had the Op Order.” The tacit understanding was that Charlie could go about his business undisturbed, and the South Vietnamese could look like they were keeping busy. Everyone was happy. So, the guys we came around the world to help were in cahoots with the enemy. It seemed to me that it might have made a big difference if one of the starched-fatigues guys in Saigon, or one of the policymakers in

Washington, had bothered to ask this Captain what was really going on.

The FDC was a large room with a sort of dais along one side, where the FDO’s had narrow desk spaces to keep their papers and their radios. They could look out over the rest of us and keep track of what was going on. On the wall behind this dais was a huge map, quite a grand one really. It depicted the entire former XXIV Corps area from

Da Nang to the DMZ and from the China Sea to the Laotian border and beyond. The area covered by this map was a visual reminder of the fact that I was seeing a wider view of what was going on this war. While with the infantry, my field of view was confined to a tiny area of a map on my knees. Our concern was with managing our own battalion’s three firing batteries, getting support from other Corps units assigned to us, and serving as a coordination point for all other artillery support going into the 2d Brigade area, which of course was far smaller than this.

The map showed all bases, firebases and other facilities of any importance, whether occupied or not. Offshore, it had lines indicating how close to shore ships bearing 5”, 8”, and 16” guns could steam. The ranges inland were marked with “NGF”

(naval gunfire) lines to show how far guns of each caliber could reach inland. I don’t recall ever seeing anything while in the field that I would be tempted to ask for 8” artillery to shoot at, whether our short heavies from Corps artillery, or the same caliber on

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 197 a cruiser. The battleship Missouri with its 16” guns was reconditioned and sent to duty off Vietnam but I never heard of its being used in our area. I suppose for lack of anything to shoot at.

At one end of the room, a small hallway led to three or four offices, a tiny space for the Operations Officer himself to keep his paperwork, and a few others which were rarely used. Kept at hand, I supposed, for any times when the place might be under fire regularly enough that the Battalion Commander and the Exec would want to move underground to run things from there. This never occurred while I was there.

May 1970 4th: Kent State riots and shootings of four students Paris peace talks ongoing for two years with no concrete results

One day in early May, I came in after lunch break to see Pacific Stars and Stripes on the chief computer’s desk. On the front page was the famous photo of the college woman, kneeling next to a body on the ground, arms in the air, face in agony. Kent State.

I snatched up the paper and devoured the awful story -- a student riot, with insults, bricks, and bags of crap thrown at nervous Ohio National Guardsmen. We couldn’t believe this

– some idiot had actually given live ammunition to a bunch of Guard “draft-dodgers” who panicked and killed a bunch of college kids! This was way beyond unbelievable.

The photo has become a classic and I’ll always remember where I was when I saw it and how angry I was. The war was poisoning everything back in the World, it seemed.

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Settling down into routine of remf at good old Phu Bai.

There’s even less to write about here than at the battery... a whole

week of May gone already, it’s amazing. Last Sept. it seemed like May

was a century away...

(May 7)

R&R at Hong Kong

Being at scenic Los Banos was almost like R&R, certainly by comparison with

the previous fall with the infantry. But we all got an R&R trip -- a five-day stay at some

major city nearby. Choices included Taipei, Bangkok, Sydney, Singapore, Tokyo, and

Hong Kong. Married guys could actually meet their wives in Hawaii, part of the World

and halfway home across the Pacific. I was interested in Singapore, but it was cut from

the list that winter. I also wanted it fairly close to the end of my time. I picked Hong

Kong, and it came through for mid May. By the time R&R actually came, I was a REMF

already, two months short, and hardly needed it. But a free vacation on the Army was a

deal. An adventure -- on the house.

On the way, I bumped into a guy I knew from B Battery who had had his wallet

stolen and was on his way to R&R too. I lent him some money so he’d have a bit of a

chance to enjoy himself. We took the Hook shuttle to Da Nang, where I was on my own

knowing no one else from the battery. I took the bus to the Freedom Hill transfer area, where they had huge two-story wooden barracks and a chow hall for the various

transients coming in and out of Da Nang. The place was mostly empty, probably

reflecting the reduced U.S. presence in I Corps. It was right next to the famous “Freedom

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Hill PX,” which I took it was quite the emporium for goods all the REMFs of Da Nang would want. I saw one guy carrying out a huge box, probably a small refrigerator or something. He loaded it onto a jeep that seemed ready to topple over under such a huge load.

Kowloon Street Scene, Hong Kong

In the morning we took a bus to the airfield, to meet our silver R&R bird. We had a nice steak dinner on the flight, which took three or four hours. Landing at Kai Tak airport was something -- the entire approach was over water. We were bused to an R&R depot in town where we got the word on how things were to be done and when to be back. This was on the Hong Kong side of the city, on the mainland. Hong Kong was a huge city of tall buildings, narrow streets, and parks. The typical commercial street consisted of a row of shops, a camera store, a tailor, a bar, a souvenir place, a restaurant, and then the list would start over again. There was a list of approved hotels where we could stay. We were assured that if anybody thought this was a good spot to jump ship,

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they were mistaken. We were told that the bar girls had periodic medical checkups and

would sign in with us at the hotels. The Hong Kong authorities did not want to lose the

liberty port business for several of the world’s navies, and for the huge American force in

Southeast Asia.

By dark we were into our hotels, and off to the most inviting nearby girlie bar. In

these places, you walked in and were seated. Mama-san would introduce you to the girls.

I was introduced to Judy. Judy would drink something that looked like a drink but was

just iced tea -- but you paid hard liquor prices. In ‘Nam, this was termed Saigon Tea.

Judy wanted to see the town. We got in a cab and went to another spot. “Tip the driver extra,” she urged. Then it was tip the bartender. These girls certainly had the well-being of these other people in mind -- they were determined to see that the GI’s and sailors and marines left all of their dough in Hong Kong. One of our gunnery instructors at Fort Sill told us that the places in Bangkok were the biggest in the world. The girls had numbers.

The place he went had at least 170 girls, he said, “I know -- I had number 170.”

We had little experience of this whole business while “In-country.” Due it seems

to past misbehavior, the entire 101st was embargoed from the civilian economy. This must have been hard to enforce with such a stream of vehicles moving through Hue and the villages, but there were MP’s around who looked like they meant business. I don’t know if this was true of other units. But I recall only a few isolated instances of people I knew saying that they had gotten out of a truck to do so much as buy a soda at the roadside.

Anyway, Judy and I had an enjoyable night and slept late. We had a brunch at the restaurant downstairs where the staff were loudly playing Mahjong and the place was

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 201 misty with cigarette smoke even before lunchtime. I said so long to Judy and didn’t go back to her bar that night despite her invitation.

We had heard a lot about the tailors. Everybody said to load up on suits and shirts, which could be mailed home for you. The signs over the Hong Kong tailor shops said Bombay tailors. They were mostly from India -- but not really from Bombay either.

They were great salesmen. They had a little table with booze and you could sip cheap scotch while getting measured and choosing your goods. They would offer to fix you up with girls -- but almost everybody did that. Turned out I didn’t really like the look of the suits and jackets here, but I got a dozen shirts. One friend of mine said the tailors used cheap thread so you should bring your own. I got a bargain on a dozen nice shirts and had them sent home.

I always loved Chinese food, so Hong Kong was good eating. A few of us went one night to a tiny place where there were three waiters serving us, one of them a

“captain” who ordered the others around. I took a cab ride to the east end of the island where they had the famous floating restaurants. A short ride on a sampan rowed by an old woman got me out to one of the ferryboats like floating restaurants. I saw almost no other westerners there.

My Dad had sent over money for me to get Mom some things. I heard that the

People’s Republic of China had a huge department store in the middle of the city as a retail outlet for mainland goods. It was amazing all the rich, fine quality goods they had in there. Four stories, as I remember it. I looked and looked and got Mom some really nice dark Jade and bolts of nice silk cloth, and a few little souvenirs for everybody else.

So, here I was doing business with a commercial outpost of the country that was a

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principal source of supplies and munitions to our enemies back in Vietnam. My own

priorities lay with other stuff. I had already ordered a nice camera and lenses, which

were sent directly home. I now headed for the big PACEX store.

Here I encountered Asia. I took my first and only rickshaw ride. This was quite

something and about as fast a way to get around as you’d find. At the PACEX store I

inspected stereo stuff to my heart’s content and ordered a few items for shipment home.

This would be my first real stereo system, quality Japanese gear at bargain prices. Then I

took the rickshaw back to the hotel. A rickshaw ride was part of the Hong Kong tourism experience. But as I thought about it after, I didn’t want to do it again. A GI from a

western army being pulled around town on a little cart by a lean little Chinese guy who

makes almost nothing. Actually, it felt kind of rotten. That experience as much as

anything convinced me that westerners will never understand Asia.

In the evening I would ride the Star Ferry across to Victoria Island. I’d get a gin

and tonic at the Mandarin Hotel where in the rooftop bar you could enjoy the sweeping

view of the world-famous harbor.

Being a compulsive tourist, I had to see the New Territories. I found my way to

the train station and got on the train. I was about the only westerner aboard. The train

was old and rattled along but seemed serviceable. It clattered past huge apartment

blocks, which gave way to farms and tiny villages. The line ended at the frontier -- the

Chinese border. From there you could look into the hills of the great Middle Kingdom --

supplier of arms and encouragement to our enemies back in Vietnam. And former feudal

overlord of the place as well. It was a weird feeling to be looking at our adversary while

supposedly on vacation. An announcement came over the squawk box. U.S. military

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 203 personnel were not permitted to take the train to the end of the line at the frontier. They must get off at the previous stop. I complied, only to be besieged by taxi drivers immediately on stepping onto the platform. They all wanted to take me up to the frontier.

Now that I was off the train, the Chinese border had lost some of its fascination, so I declined. Instead, I wandered through the main street of this real Chinese town, about the only westerner in sight most of the time. Little stalls, Chinese music in the air, I was wandering in an Asian town like they wouldn’t let me do in Vietnam. I must have taken pictures there but none have survived. The GI visitor with a camera taking snapshots.

That was about the extent of what these people would ever know of America, I guessed.

Satisfied with my day of taking in a bit of authentic rural China, I returned to the station and headed back to the City.

On a rainy day I took the bus around Victoria Island. This had a more English flavor. Its central Business District looked like any western city, with its tall silvery office towers and smartly dressed people bustling around. Many more westerners, the expat Brits and all. The Island consisted of this business district and a ring of suburbs that surrounded a spectacular mountain, Victoria Peak that rose in its center and contained a nice park. At Repulse Bay on the south shore, I got off and lingered around the beach for a while. This gave me another view to the south across the China Sea, gray and vast on this cloudy drizzly afternoon. Soon I was on the bus and back in town.

I had chanced upon a nice little Italian restaurant where I could get a cheap lunch with a glass of red wine. It seemed very authentic and was kind of an oddball dining choice for a tourist in Hong Kong. What a liberation it was to decide for myself what and where I was going to eat -- three times a day! And to sit at a table on a chair while doing

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it! I had seen another tiny part of Asia – and learned that if I stayed there for decades, I

would never understand Asia.

The last morning it was up early before dawn and off to the R&R depot where we

caught our bus back to Kai Tak airport. At the airport currency exchange, young guys in

suits would change your remaining Hong Kong dollars into U.S. money, calculating the

conversion using an abacus. The abacus was mounted atop the counter, and they would

slap the little beads back and forth at unbelievable speed. After our trip back in the big

bird, and a bus ride to Red Beach Army Airfield, we got back to Phu Bai on the Hook

shuttle.

What a strange experience. A short vacation in the middle of a war. Everybody

came back, or they’d quit doing it. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to come back

from R&R and have to get in a slick and go back out to the infantry again on some

godforsaken mountaintop in the monsoon mist and drizzle. But that was exactly what a

lot of those guys did.

...just talking to one of our FO’s with 2/501 out west of Evans -- up

in big mountains full of gooks. Battalion has been pretty well chopped up

- mostly on the firebases, which have been badly battered by sappers and

mortarings etc. Found lots of caches too it seems... I had a lot of buddies

in B Co and it’s hell sitting back here wondering how they’re doing out

there... those people pull 11 months out in those hills and rain and empty

firebases and never get a break or anything and at Phu Bai we’ve got

thousands of people who do almost nothing...

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I used to think of a firebase as the rear.

(May 10)

52 days.

It’s getting hotter and hotter here and more and more

uncomfortable.

How delightful to be back in Vietnam... really splendid.

(No date)

Too hot to sleep during the day, so always in headachy haze of

semi-fatigue.

Graduation time already (my brother, Roger)... I’m missing

everything, weddings, graduations, etc.

Less than 50 days and May is almost gone too.

(May 28, Morning)

Got my orders -- not so long now -- 44 days. When you’ve got

your orders you’re really short.

(June 1)

A Day at Battalion FDC

A day in the FDC had an ordinary rhythm, with its alternating bursts of activity and long periods of inaction. Our shifts were different at Battalion. Partly this was because it was not desirable for Battalion to change people at the same time as the firing batteries -- this would increase the risk of loose ends or miscommunications letting something go wrong. We worked 12-hour shifts, from 5:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. This meant

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 206 that our shift changed an hour or so before the infantry got moving in the morning, and again in the evening just before unit locations, Delta Tangoes and other evening missions would start coming in. Every month or so, we’d go through a shift change. By changing shifts every six hours a few times in succession, we’d switch the night shift to the day shift, and vice versa. A day or so after shift change all of us were pretty tired.

Activities here followed the same schedule as at the Battery -- we were just at the opposite end of the radio. Much of our time was spent checking data with the Batteries.

We were also on top of the latest developments division-wide. By early July, early every morning came the ominous word: “Ripcord is taking incoming.” Ripcord was a peak something like Zon – a steep mountain in a sea of mountains north of the A Shau. The military geometry of space was swallowing Ripcord. Despite B-52 strikes, artillery support, gunships, and all the rest, the NVA kept battering Ripcord with the crudest of weapons. The 82 mm mortar with a range of about 4 klicks. More men would die there than at Hamburger.

One day there was a walk-through inspection for a newly arrived Deputy Division

Commander. Laying around on a desk somewhere was the script for this visit. It was timed to every five minutes, where he would go and what he would see, accompanied at every step by well-starched and attentive officers from our battalion. This convinced me that this dignitary had very little real work to do, as he would learn almost nothing from such a highly supervised walk-through. Had we all been totally incompetent louts who knew nothing whatever of gunnery and were a danger to the troops we supported, he would never have been able to detect this from such a visit. But he got a lot of salutes.

Which I guessed was the real purpose -- to receive deference from the troops in his new

13echo.doc: February 6, 2002 lciirland Page: 207 command. So, not only was this new one-star wasting his own time, he was wasting the time of all the staff officers who meticulously choreographed this little event. We hadn’t left all the military chickenshit back at Fort Sill or Fort Campbell. Some of it had been smuggled all the way to Phu Bai.

The summer was well under way by mid May, sunny days with clear blue skies.

Toward the mountains in the afternoon, thunderheads and showers could be seen. In our cool Fire Direction bunker we didn’t notice it. But when you had the night shift, it was hard to sleep in the daytime heat... it turned our tin-roofed hootches into little ovens.

Vietnam is where they get the heat for the fires of hell.

(Journal)

One time while meandering around Phu Bai, I came upon a small hootch labeled

“photo lab” over the door. From the door emerged a burly fellow who looked familiar.

We both looked at each other and then realized that he had been a year behind me in forestry school at Michigan State. He had fallen into this job as a photo technician in the lab, which was not a bad deal for him.

The guys at B Battery wanted to catch up with the amenities enjoyed in the rear. They were after a TV set. They had me stopping at the little Phu Bai PX to see if one had come in. Unfortunately, each time, the “Tango-Victor sitrep” was negative.

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Street signs from home, Phu Bai

Getting Really Short

As I got shorter and shorter, the weather got hotter and hotter. The routine was easy except during the wearying times of shift changes. Real short timers, when greeting friends, would always call out “SHORT!” Some carried little “short-timer sticks” as a badge of office. These were sold at the little “gook shops.” They had little dragons, or sometimes obscene gestures, carved on one end. I always meant to get one as a souvenir but overlooked it.

Vietnam – love it or leave it…

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June 1970 30th: US troops out of Cambodia

The days passed, routine time on duty, walks over to the PX in the heat, loafing a

bit, and getting more and more eager to head home. A strange feeling fell over me one day. As eager as I had always been to get out of the Army, I realized that on getting out

I would actually have to decide a few things for myself. What to wear, when to get up in the morning. I’d have evenings and weekends to myself -- this was quite unbelievable.

I’d have some real responsibilities that went beyond just showing up and obeying orders.

What would that be like? Was I ready? This was a strange feeling, but it passed quickly.

I’d be back in the familiar routine of graduate school soon enough. In some ways that

was not all that different.

Good morning everyone…

30 days and a wakeup… The one-month mark at last… A little less

than four working weeks left… Truly amazing… They hit Los Banos,

Tomahawk, Roy, Phu Loc, and some of the bridges with a coordinated

mortar attack last week… Seems the bad guys planned on working over

Tomahawk like they did this time last year… Didn’t work tho… They killed

about 26 Gooks and got about a dozen AK’s… Was a close call… Bad

guys are still up to the old mischief… Seems the operations against

Cambodian sanctuaries have knocked Chuck off balance down south… At

the same time contact, attacks by fire, chopper losses are up in II Corps

and I Corps… The bad guys have really been busy in Quang Tri Prov…

Have been putting pressure on firebases and attacking em… Mortaring

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Fuller every day (that’s right near where I was up there… the same outfit

we tangled with 27th NVA Regt. is back at work). Blew away Henderson

in May… Killed 30 guys tore up the 2/501… Blew away O’Reilly last

week, killed 50 ARVNS… A real disaster for the program up here… Now

they’ve got ARVN’s working the farthest territory toward the A Shau…

Out in the area around Zon and Cannon and Berchtesgaden (where I was

last November… 5 klicks from the A Shau itself) and out northeast of

Airborne in the Northern A Shau they have two battalions working…

They’ve been creeping toward the valley all spring don’t know if they want

to really go in or not… Not on a large scale anyway… Places like Whip,

Currahee, Airborne, Rendesvous, Ta Bat, Hamburger all have a strong

pull on the imaginations of the Colonels and the Generals… That’s where

the glory is up here… Securing the Coastal Lowlands like the 2D BDE is

doing now is dull boring work with no real fighting just ugly little

ambushes and counterambushes and casualties to boobytraps… A Recon

Sgt. from our Btry was killed two weeks ago out by Evans by a

boobytrapped dud 105 round… The professional soldiers don’t dig it too

much… They envy the Cav, flying around Cambodia getting Beaucoup

contact and policing up horrendous caches… The 1st Cav are the glory

boys of Vietnam, just like the 101st and 82nd ABN were the glory boys of

World War Two.

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Well, it’s not too pleasant but that’s the news… Truth hurts but

nobody in the World (or the Pentagon) wants to hear it, much less tell it…

Well, war’s over in 30 days… (and a wakeup). Peace.

(June 14)

Dull old grind drive on in the big Nam... more fruitless

campaigning for the 101st out toward the A Shau. ... no word yet on who

is in the Phase II withdrawals.. I am caught in the middle of a vicious

eraser firefight between A and C Btry computers and the chartman...

B Btry went on raid... Lt Lacy was AOing and said the target list

was a big puton... just rocks and trees... was supposed to be hot stuff..

Hqtrs and battalion bases for the 4th NVA Regt, our pals out there,

apparently nothing of the sort, some of the stuff was from prisoners taken

at Tomahawk two weeks ago... generals and people fooling themselves

over and over again... our friends of the 4th Regt are perhaps irritated...

they wanted to bring a destroyer up but apparently the Navy had better

things to do that day... like maybe fighting off attacks by hosts of short

circuits in their radar sets...

It’s really amazing what a never-never land Vietnam is... the whole

military establishment sailing along in its little opium dream, totally

oblivious to the natural surroundings...

(This letter closes with “more soon,” but it’s the last letter in the

file.)

(June 25)

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By summer 1970, Northern I Corps was feeling the effects of the Marines absence along the DMZ, despite efforts to stiffen South Vietnamese strength in the area, and continued U.S. air support. Stretched thinner and more sensitive to casualties, Division was reluctant to reinforce the beleaguered base at Ripcord, relying instead on heavy use of air support to keep the NVA at bay there. By midsummer it was slowly becoming apparent that the U.S. grip on the tenuous stalemate in the area was beginning to slip.

In early July, an Air Cav unit caught a large NVA unit in the open near Ken Sanh and inflicted heavy casualties. North of Camp Evans, the 3rd Bridade managed to trap an

NVA unit and hammer them pretty hard.

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9. Back to the World

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN, IN PARTICULAR

COMMANDING GENERAL US ARMED FORCES VIETNAM

PRESIDENT NIXON

CENTRAL COMMITTEE NORTH VIETNAM WORKERS PARTY

THE IDIOTS IN PARIS

BE ADVISED THAT IN THE INTERESTS OF HEALTH AND OF

WORLD PEACE, SP/4 L C IRLAND, HHB 1/321 ARTY, FORMERLY

B/1/321 ARTY AND B/2/501 ABN INF WILL CONDUCT A

UNILATERAL WITHDRAWAL FROM THE REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM.

THIS WITHDRAWAL WILL TAKE PLACE ON OR ABOUT 14 JULY

1970. MOVE WILL BE FOLLOWED BY REDEPLOYMENT TO

FORMER HEADQUARTERS AND DEACTIVATION TO NONMILITARY

STATUS. MOVE ANNOUNCED BY HQTRS 101ST AIRBORNE

DIVISION ON 28 MAY 1970.

(June 25)

The Army was shrinking. They had no place to put all the Vietnam returnees. I extended for the exact number of days needed so I’d have 180 days to go on arrival back in the World. Then they’d sign me out and send me home. This extended my time by about a week.

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“We used to say that the Airborne Rifle Squad had 11 men – 10 riflemen and a press agent.”

-- Captain John E. Irland, Commander, B/434th Arty (Armrd), 7th Armored Div., 1944-45.

The Way Home

Finally the time came. My last shift on duty. As I signed off I said goodbye and

good luck to the other guys on the net at that time, and told them I was conducting a

personal unilateral withdrawal. I set down the mike for the last time, and headed back to

the Battery for some rest. That afternoon I was ushered in to Red Raider’s office where

he said a few nice words to a few of us and wished us well. They took a photo of that

occasion which I still have in a box somewhere. That evening, duffle bag over my

shoulder and AWOL bag in hand, I met a jeep, which took me over to a transient hootch

at the airbase. In the morning the C130 shuttle ran a bunch of us down to Cam Ranh

Bay, where I had first set foot into this war.

The little hootch had an archway in front of it saying “The Way Home.” That place looked like the grandest hotel in the world -- our lodging for our last night in

Vietnam. I have no recollection of all the standing in line, signing of papers, drawing fresh fatigues, and other processing we went through, but all of us were in good humor and it flashed by.

The evening before we flew out, at dusk a few of us walked over toward the nearby shore from the Replacement Detachment barracks. Looking out through a break in the shoreside barbed wire, we saw a wide white beach. It glowed white from the low

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evening sun that threw dark shadows across it here and there. The China Sea was a deep

blue. This fine beach, with its mountains encircling the broad harbor behind it, would

make a fine setting for a resort. I wanted to sit on the sand, dunk tired feet into the waters

of the blue China Sea, and look eastward toward home. A voice halted us. “Hey, you

guys! The beach is off limits after 1800 hours!” We turned and saw a guard in a small

sentry box at the edge of the opening. We asked if we couldn’t just walk the beach for a few minutes. He would not be budged. Damn. Ordered off a beautiful beach by a SP/4 who had drawn Cam Ranh Bay for an assignment. They had reason to be watchful. The previous August, a group of VC sappers had paddled in in tiny boats, and turned the nearby 6th Evac hospital into a killing ground with satchel charges.

At midmorning we took a bus over to the airfield. Gleaming on the runway, there

stood the big “silver bird” we had been dreaming about for 365 days or more -- the bird

that would take us back to the World. Back out across the China Sea, to Yokota, then

across the vast Pacific. We settled into comfortable seats on this airliner and relaxed. It

was real. Our war was over.

A ripple of talk, quiet movement moves through the cabin. I wake up. The

windows are dark. Guys are leaning to the right. A few are standing in the aisles leaning

hard toward the windows. Down there in the dark are city lights splashed across the earth

below the right side of the plane. The lights of Seattle -- the lights of the World. Now

everyone is awake and the talk is louder. There is joking, laughing, an incredible joy fills

the cabin.

After counting off a year, day by day, in tents or hootches, out on the trails and in

the hills, in rice paddies and on the firebases, we were looking down at the World again.

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The most beautiful sight ever. Most of us will be out of the Army and life will begin again. Home, family, girlfriends, buddies, and warm July days ahead. It was almost unbelievable. My thoughts focused on the coming weeks and months, on the long- awaited liberation, now only days away. Only many years later did I reflect at all on what I had learned of war, how it affected me, and of the treadmill we had been on.

Vivid memories of war in the midst of lush tropical scenery would not fade.

The plane circled and went into its approach as faint hints of dawn began to show over the Cascades to the East. It would be a clear day. One by one we stepped out onto the stairway to breathe clear cool Pacific Northwest air. I can’t get any rest in an airline seat, but at this moment all weariness and stiffness were forgotten. In the oldest cliche in the world, which probably goes back to the first Army ever, I knelt down and kissed the tarmac of McChord Air Force Base. No GI ever forgets the first time he set foot back in the World.

By the time we were all off the plane, a new day was dawning.

December 1970 US strength at end of year: 334,600 South Vietnamese armed forces reach nearly one million First year federal budget in surplus in decades

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10. What I Learned

Thirty-two years later, I am not sure what I learned from my Vietnam experience.

I can say I learned some things about myself, some things about the Army, some things about war, and some things about life. I would have been happy for this experience to have happened to somebody else. I would have happily just read about Vietnam in the newspaper and the stream of books that have emerged since. I would have happily spent my military time someplace in Germany. Once sent to Vietnam, I would have been happy to be a REMF at a typewriter for 12 months.

About myself -- Going to Vietnam, I learned many things you only learn from challenges and from unpleasant experiences. I was never tested in battle to the limit -- I missed Hamburger Hill by a few months -- but I think I can say that I was not opposed to continuing the war out of cowardice. I served under several black officers and sergeants, a healthy experience for a kid from a lily-white middle class suburb. I know some people who believe there is a single truth -- clear and black and white. Looking back at

Vietnam, it seems to me that there are multiple truths. They can all be true at the same time. I think this experience has helped prepare me to deal with many complex and uncertain, morally ambiguous situations later in life.

Reading over my letters, I am struck by the wide range of attitudes and personalities they reflect. I guess my parents never knew what to expect. I would often write like a reporter, or even a fascinated observer of equipment and operations, obviously stimulated by the adventure. On occasion, I tried to allay worries. Even on the flight over, I wrote: “consensus among guys who have been there is that going to Nam is much worse than actually being there.” I repeatedly noted that despite reports of

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numerous mortar attacks, things were quiet where I was. I knew they saw all this on the

evening news, which would pick up the occasional attack on a firebase. On other

occasions, I’d scribble out an extended litany of actions and disasters. This happened

more often after I was at Battalion where I was in a position to be aware of events on a

far wider scale. My observations on larger issues ranged from mere reporting on what we

were hearing, to frustration over the futility of one operation after another, to bitter

outbursts against the war. The intensity and frequency of antiwar sentiment seemed to

increase, the shorter I got.

My letters also reflected a typical GI’s negative attitude toward senior

commanders, the President, and Congress. At the same time, comments on officers and

sergeant’s with whom I directly served were usually favorable. Generally, the tone was one of resignation, mixed with the usual college kid resentments of military life and discipline.

In past wars, when it was over, guys came home with their units, unless wounded.

We came home in mid-stream, and had to watch the treadmill turning for years -- on TV, on covers of magazines -- and hear it on the radio. This was quite a different experience from our fathers’ and grandfathers’ generations.

The sound of a slick flying past brings back powerful memories, of rainy, cold

LZs, of going out to new and unfamiliar terrain. The sturdy slicks remained in use in the

National Guard and Reserves for years. While I was in the Maine Forest Service, we acquired a few for firefighting work. At one time I had an office right near an airport and a National Guard headquarters, which was regularly visited by slicks. So a few times a

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week I’d hear the familiar flop-flop-flop and roaring of a slick going by, and feel the

sense of coldness and foreboding that this sound always brought on for me.

I meet true believers, real zealots -- all the time. Sometimes they remind me of

looking out over the blasted hills at the DMZ. Zealots remind me of the DMZ, the habits of one-dimensional thinking by men in Washington, Hanoi, Moscow, and Beijing that brought young men to Hill 162 to kill one another. Wish I knew how to fix that.

I regret that the War happened; I very much regret many things that our forces did there. How can I feel that way and not regret that I did serve my country there? I don’t know. All I can say is that I was no better than anyone else. It irritates me to have people imply that they refused to serve because they were morally superior to all of the rest of us. If called, I guess you don’t get to choose your war.

I still feel patriotic. Hearing the Star Spangled Banner can choke me up, especially when my daughter is singing it before the basketball game. I think patriotism has been over-militarized, but don’t know how to fix that either.

About the Army -- As a largely citizen force, the Army was a microcosm of life. I

tell people that in the military, the differences are magnified. You will meet some of the

nicest people, the most dedicated and competent, and some of the most useless and petty

martinets as well. The well-known pathologies of Army life were welling up while I was there. It is a blessing that our armed services today seem to have largely conquered those pathologies. We need them.

About war – It was my fate to see for myself. I learned what you never can learn

from books. Fear, cold, loneliness, and discomfort. The sense of loss when you hear that

a guy you ate C’s with on the ground out in the jungle has been killed. The sense of

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hopelessness of being on a treadmill to nowhere. I experienced the sights and smells of

death in battle, if only briefly. In those moments, close up, I saw enough of war for a

lifetime. I sensed what was in the eyes of men who had seen a lot more of war than I did.

I knew living next to the A Shau -- with the rumors, plans, and preparations that could

take us there any week, month after month. It stood before me on every map, every

firing chart, and on the horizon where I watched every sunset from Bastogne and

Birmingham and Arrow and LZ Sally.

It is legendary that the privates and the generals don’t see the same war in the

same way. I am not so sure that every other “boonierat,” redleg, or junior officer I served with saw (or recalls) every incident in this book in the same way I did. That’s why my only claim is that I am writing what I saw, felt, and remember.

I could learn more. Our son Eli has signed up for the Marines; at this writing the

Marines and the 101st Airborne have men in Afghanistan. I could learn about war the way my mother experienced it -- through letters to and from a son.

About life -- In my personal mental geography, there is still no Vietnam. The place remains North and South as it was when I left it in that faraway summer of 1970.

This is not a matter of being in denial -- only a quirk of thinking, a mind frozen in an anachronism. It is certainly not a matter of nostalgia for the old state of things.

Whatever else may 1975 brought to those people, it brought an end to the shooting and bombing, and the conscription, fear, fire and death they had endured for decades. Was

Sergeant Thong still standing when the dust settled? I have felt only sympathy for the people of Vietnam as their war-ravaged economy stagnated under a bungled, goofy,

dysfunctional Vietnamese version of Marxism-Leninism run by a clique of aging, out-of-

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touch tyrants. Our restoration of economic and diplomatic relations was too long in coming. American generosity was trumped by suspicion, ideology and hate.

I never ate Vietnamese food while there, and to this day have not set foot in a

Vietnamese restaurant. To me as to most former GI‘s, Vietnamese cuisine consists of C- ration “beef and shrapnel” and LURP freeze-dried rations, washed down with water that sometimes tastes a bit like gunpowder. It is not a matter of any distaste for things

Vietnamese, or any worries about negative memories that would well forth if I ever went into such a place. I continue to enjoy all other varieties of Asian food.

In summer 1986, I attended a World Forestry Congress at Mexico City.

Skimming the program I noticed that there was a Vietnamese delegation. One day in the paneled hallway, gazing out the window was a short man wearing slacks and the white shirt, square cut instead of shirttails, worn outside the pants as often done in that part of

Asia. His features were that sharply cut North Vietnamese look, and his nametag verified my guess. I went over and offered my hand, saying, “Welcome to this part of the world.”

I did not mention my visit to his homeland. Did he guess? He shook hands, but his reaction was cold and indicated no interest in any conversation. Did he speak English?

If not, why come here? Probably, I thought, he had suffered during the War far more than I had, or maybe more than I can even imagine. It felt right to greet him. I had no doubt at all that he was not one of our former allies.

I have been asked, “Ever want to go back?” The answer is no. Certainly not as a tourist. I’ve already spent several months at the country’s scenic high point! I suppose writing this book has been a mental “going back,” a voyage in a time machine.

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Now if somebody said, “Irland -- come with us for a few months on a forestry mission to Vietnam, to see what can be done to help them upgrade their forests and wood using industry...” that would be different.

I would want to go.

I would try and find Captain Berglund and let him know.

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Epilogue

At the airport, we had a welcoming speech by a Major who told us our nation was

grateful and appreciated our service and sacrifices. We knew he gave this speech every

morning but I supposed he was sincere. After a short bus trip to Fort Lewis, we got a

nice hot breakfast – our first chow back in the World. Then a day of fitting uniforms,

physicals, filling out forms, and a nice steak lunch.

As we were getting new class “A’s” to wear home, the green kids were filing

through the same room drawing their issue of jungle fatigues. They seemed so young.

Even the youngest of us was so much older than these replacements – by a whole lot

more than just 365 days. This vivid scene of inexperienced youngsters getting on to the

Vietnam treadmill was a depressing reminder of how incomplete our work was, how little

there was to show for our year in Vietnam. The treadmill ground on, but I didn’t let it

trouble me for long.

As little as I thought it, in the predawn darkness the columns of recruits were still

marching, flanked by drill sergeants in Smoky the Bear hats, singing, “I wanna be an

Airborne Ranger, one-two-three-four… I wanna lead a life of danger…”

The Vietnam War directly affected several members of my family.

On about the same day that I flew out, my cousin, Major Fred Knudsen, flew in,

to spend a year at Cam Ranh Bay as a surgeon. After years of med school interning and exhausting hours and poverty as a resident, the doctors’ draft had caught up with him. He barely missed missing out on the whole thing. Another cousin served two tours down south, and yet another served in the National Guard, being trained as a military policeman.

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The summer I returned, my brother Rich entered into two years alternative service

as a Conscientious Objector. Later, my younger brother Roger narrowly missed the draft.

His draft number was in the 30’s, but the draft closed down just before his number came

up.

A year after returning, I put on my jungle shirt and marched in a huge anti-war

march in April 1971. I took a long bus ride from New Haven where I was in graduate

school. I was moved by the television coverage of guys throwing back their medals. I

mailed back my citations to General Westmoreland and got back a nice letter from an

officer saying they had been placed in my 201 file of permanent records. Joining in the

march were Trotsky groups and every cause group under the sun. Rock groups singing

bad songs praising Ho Chi Minh disgusted me. These people were against a lot more

than the war.

Twenty years later, after Desert Storm, we were living in Wayne, Maine, a tiny

village in central Maine. I took up President Bush’s invitation to welcome home the

Desert Storm people and marched in my first Memorial Day Parade. Wayne has a

Norman Rockwell downtown of white New England houses and a general store. There

were about 20 of us vets, going back to World War II, including a retired General, also a

Vietnam veteran. We were “marching” in a relaxed way along with the Cub Scouts,

Brownies, baseball teams, and the old cars. As we came up to the post office, a woman along the road began to clap her hands in welcome and applause. Others joined in. I was stunned. When I returned from Vietnam, I neither expected nor received any applause or appreciation. Overcoming my surprise, I found it deeply touching. Recalling that brief moment can bring a tear to my eye even today.

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Ten years pass. It is May 2001, we are at the Wayne Memorial Day parade again.

The parade ends at a small park where the marchers in the parade and the observers all

gather around a flagpole and a small speakers’ rostrum. The veterans are seated on

folding chairs in a group to the front. The Maranacook High School band marched with

us and is formed up to the left side of the speakers. At the end of the proceedings, the

flag is raised. A former naval officer throws a wreath into the millpond. Standing off to

one side is our son Erik -- the trumpet player. He raises his horn and plays Taps,

smoothly, expressively. As always, in my mind I see the faces, remember the names

Taps always brings back to me. Taps fades away and Erik lowers the trumpet... he has

hit it perfectly, not just the notes but the feeling.

A day or so later, Erik mentioned to me, “Dad, a lady I didn’t know came up to

me afterward at Memorial Day and told me she appreciated how well I played Taps.”

“I was proud of how you did too, Erik,” I replied, “and I know the veterans all

appreciated it.”

“That’s who I was playing it for,” he said.

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October 1971 China admitted to UN

November 1971 Final withdrawal of 101st begins

April 1972 Gen. Westmoreland and Vice President Spiro Agnew welcome last elements of 101st back to Ft. Campbell, Kentucky 28th: Firebase Bastogne, now an ARVN base, falls to NVA forces

November 1972 First Presidential Election with 18-year-old voters

December 1972 26th: “Christmas Bombing” of Hanoi/Haiphong At year end, US forces number only 24,000

January 1973 23rd: Agreement to end Vietnam War signed in Paris

March 1973 29th: Last US combat troops depart Vietnam NVN releases last US POW’s

October 1973 23rd: Nobel Peace prize awarded to Henry Kissinger, US Secretary of State and Le Duc Tho Foreign Minister of DRV. Tho declines award.

August 1974 9th: Gerald Ford becomes president following resignation of Richard Nixon

April 1974 13th: Last US personnel leave Cambodia

March 1975 25th: Hue falls to North Vietnamese forces

April 1975 30th: NVA capture Saigon and war ends

December 1975 Communist Pathet Lao assumes control in Laos

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July 1976 Reunification of Vietnam officially proclaimed January 1977 20th: President Carter pardons most draft evaders (10,000) of Vietnam era

September 1977 Vietnam admitted to UN

January 1979 NVA forces topple regime of Pol Pot, murderous dictator of Cambodia US and China open full diplomatic relations

February 1979 China briefly invades Vietnam

July 1995 U.S. diplomatic relations with Vietnam established

November 2000 President Clinton visits Vietnam, following extension of diplomatic recognition by Congress

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Note on Sources

I have relied on my letters, on various secondary sources and clippings, and an incomplete collection of contemporary 101st Airborne Division publications. I cannot

guarantee precision on all dates and details. I have noticed that my recollections of some

events do not fully square with published accounts of the same events. I will not claim

that my memory and my perceptions are the truth. I offer them only as my information

and perceptions at the time.

There is no operational history of 101st Airborne Division operations in Vietnam.

So there is no convenient document against which I can check chronology or other

details. The Division Historian at Fort Campbell, John O’Brien, is assembling and

digitizing many primary documents. In efforts to ensure accuracy of my account, I

encountered a few useful sources:

In the Turner Publishing series of unit histories, the volume on the 101st, edited by

Colonel Robert E. Jones, Colonel Ted Crozier, and Major Ivan Worrell covers

World War II, Vietnam, and the Gulf War. It includes an extended operational

chronology for Vietnam that supplies dates and details on many actions. The

volume is extensively illustrated. It includes battalion heraldry and a detailed

endpaper map of the I Corps AO, but the map omits a few firebases.

MG David E. Ott, Vietnam studies: field artillery, 1954-1973 (Washington: Department

of the Army, 1975, 253 pp.) offers a useful overview, with many illustrations.

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Discusses sappers (p. 14 ff), safety procedures (173), and the problem of friendly-

fire incidents (176-178), with data.

The first artilleryman’s memoir of Vietnam I encountered is Cherokee Paul McDonald’s

powerful Into the green: a reconnaissance by fire (New York: Plume Books, 2001,

255 pp.). The war’s most famous artillery incident was the subject of C. D. B.

Bryan’s Friendly Fire. Other artillery memoirs include Gordon L. Steinbrook

(forward observer and fire direction officer), Allies and mates: an American

soldier with the Australians and New Zealanders in Vietnam 1966-67 (Lincoln:

University of Nebraska Press, 1995, 1823 pp.); and Howard Olsen (fire direction

crew member), Issues of the heart: memoirs of an artilleryman in Vietnam

(Jefferson, NC: McFarland and Co., Inc., 1990, 321 pp.).

LTG John T. Jolson, Vietnam studies: airmobility 1961-1971 (Washington: Department

of the Army, 1973, 253 pp.) is a valuable overview, heavily emphasizing the First

Cav, not surprisingly as General Tolson was one of the Cav’s commanders.

Bernard Fall comments on the “street without joy” in Last reflections on a war (Garden

City: Doubleday and Co., 1964, p. 260 ff.).

Useful general reviews of period mention the 101st occasionally. Jonathan Schell’s, The

military half (New York: Vintage Books, 1968) gives a hard-hitting account of

bloody and destructive “pacification” operations in which the 101st’s 1st Brigade

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participated as part of Task Force Oregon in 1967. Lewis Sorley, A better war

(New York: Harcourt Brace, 1999, 507 pp.); and Ronald Spector, After Tet: the

bloodiest year in Vietnam (New York: Free Press, 1993, 390 pp.) These and

other works comments on issues of declining morale, discipline, and

effectiveness, and drugs and racial incidents. A pocket handbook issued to us was

useful on some details: Military Assistance Command, Vietnam, Dec. 1969

(Handbook for US forces in Vietnam, 233 pp.)

Don Oberdorfer’s Tet has been issued in a new edition. It was a 101st unit that landed on

the roof and re-took the US embassy in Saigon. Oberdorfer also discusses the Tet

’68 murders in the Hue area.

There are works dealing with particular battles or operations. Samuel Zaffiri, Hamburger

Hill (New York: Pocket Books, 1988, 348 pp.) (Attack on Airborne at pp. 132-

140). Keith W. Nolan, Ripcord: screaming eagles under siege (Novato, CA:

Presidio Press). Jim Wilson, Sons of Bardstown: 25 years of Vietnam in an

American town (New York: Crown, 1994) recounts the action at Firebase

Tomahawk mentioned early in this book.

A. J. Languth, Our Vietnam (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2000, 766 pp.) was the

source for the observation on the Hue massacres of 1968, as well as a useful

overview of policy and political background.

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A number of helicopter pilots and rangers with the 101st have published memoirs. Recent

examples are: William C. Menden, Lest we forget: the Kingsmen, 101st Aviation

Battalion, 1968 (New York: Ivy Books, 1999, 354 pp.); and Frank Johnson, Diary

of an Airborne Ranger (New York: Ballantine, 2001, 255 pp.).

I have checked recollections against several chronologies, among them those published in

Languth, as well as: John S. Bowman, The Vietnam War Day by Day (New

York: Barnes and Noble, 2001, 224 pp.); and Harry G. Summers, The Vietnam

War Almanac (Novato: Presidio Press, 1999, 414 pp.) A chronology for 1948-68

appears in US Senate, 1968. Background information relating to Southeast Asia

and Vietnam (4th rev. ed.), Committee on Foreign Relations, 90th Congress 2d

Session, March, pp. 1-59. This document contains many official treaties and

other documents. A compact chronology focused on the larger events is in Ward

Just (introd), Reporting Vietnam, American journalism 1959-1975 (New York:

The Library of America, 2000, 853 pp.). When seeking dates or data for context,

I have found striking differences between sources for matters as apparently

straightforward as year-end troop strength in Vietnam. I am in no position to

judge the reliability of these numbers.

The effect of “Agent Orange” spraying on Vietnam’s forest was debated by forestry

experts and scientists. An example is J. S. Bethel, K. J. Tumbull, D. G. Briggs

and T. G. Flores, Timber losses from military use of herbicides on the inland

forests of South Vietnam. Journal of Forestry, April 1975, pp. 228-233. Earlier

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reports are cited. Ironically, this article was published during the last month

before South Vietnam capitulated. Though the authors criticize earlier reports for

using incorrect estimates of the area sprayed, nowhere do they indicate the

acreage figure they consider correct.

Asian economic commentator James Fallows places Vietnam as one of three Asian

nations “on the sidelines” during the region’s economic boom of the 1970’s to

mid 1990’s. (His book was written before the “Asian flu” of 1997-98.) His pithy

observations on the situation and the role of post-1975 American policies are at p.

337-353 in Looking at the sun, the rise of the new East Asian economic and

political system (New York: Vintage, 1995, 517 pp.).

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QUANG NAM

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The Author

Hill 162 November 1969

Lloyd C. Irland grew up in Illinois, attended forestry school at Michigan State,

and was doing graduate work at the University of Arizona when ordered for his draft

physical just after Tet 1968. He entered the Army in December of that year, and served

in Vietnam with the 101st Airborne Division, first in Battery B/1/321 Artillery. He was attached to the 2/501 Infantry for several months, and late in his tour served with

Headquarters and Headquarters Battery 1/321. He later completed graduate studies and served with the US Forest Service. He has taught at the Yale School of Forestry and

Environmental Studies, held various positions in Maine State Government, and worked as a Consultant. He is author of many publications in forestry, including four books. He lives in Maine with his family. Irland is a fourth generation citizen soldier.

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Footnotes

1 Associated Press release 10-1-99, per America Online.

2 Ott, 1975, discusses sappers at p. 14 ff.

3 This incident had a tragic dimension I never knew until 30 years later. Many of the casualties were from a single town, Bardstown, Kentucky. This was a Kentucky National Guard battery. This action and its impacts back home are described in Wilson, 1994.

4 Tolson (1973, p. 255) emphasizes the importance of lightening loads carried in the field.

5 Sorley, 1999, p. 35.

6 Languth, 2000, attributes these events “in part to conflicting orders out of Hanoi” (p. 477). Oberdorfer’s account describes th4em as coldly premeditated and planned in detail in advance.

7 (ref. to book Friendly Fire and Ott on incidents)

8 In fairness, when battalions are moving frequently and actively firing, the staffs at all levels are very busy (Ott, 1974).

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