Charlie’s House

© 2020 Herb Moore. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  11/25/2020

ISBN: 978-1-6655-0882-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-0881-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020923644

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CONTENTS

Foreword

The Bush

Base Camp

Taggart

Lt. Colonel Sid Blewer

Night Attack

Base Camp Plans

General Denton

Night Time at Charlie’s

Change Of Plans

Sgt. Hammond’s Recon Team

The Bush - Again

Major Yen

The Storm Brewing

Putt-Putt and Rabbi

Rank Has Privileges

Night Ambush

Colonel Blewer Investigates

Base Camp Mission

Colonel Blewer and Major McCoy

The Problem

Hurry Up and Wait

Before The Storm

Yen And Recon Interrogations

Colonel Blewer Learns About Taggart

Blewer Changes the Plan

Taggart at Streambed

Hammond & Yen Interrogation

Taggart’s Plan

General Denton and Hydrick

Blewer Airbourne

Hammond Interrogation

Meeting Place

Sitrep

Tunnel Fight

Pain

Rotation

Across The Pond

Glossary

About the Author

to Kathy..... my

wife.... forever

FOREWORD

H erb Moore is a Marine and the author of Rows Of Corn, an account of 1960’s basic training at Parris Island, the East Coast birthing place of Marines. Hot, wet, filled with mosquitoes and pain – the end result of a rigorous 13 week which produced the most disciplined unit in the USA. Many Marines left The Island to prosecute the war for the US in the jungles of Vietnam. This process forged friendships that would often protect and save the lives of fellow Marines. Meet Dawson and Rooker, who were baptized in the Corps tradition and constantly put duty and the mission f irst.

Northern I Corps in South Vietnam was a dangerous environment for any trespassers who entered Charlie’s House. Gathering intel for the flood of troops and supplies pouring down the Ho Chi Minh trail was a constant assignment of high priority. The arts of stealth and ambush were required tools for the troops survival less Charlie was quicker, quieter, smarter. 1967 was the year of the NVA buildup for the upcoming 1968 TET offensive. The firefights and ambushes were real – I can still smell the fear – and the cordite.

The vision of an injured Dawson slowly making his way to board the freedom bird, as FNG’s quickly arrived, brought tears to my eyes. Charlie’s house was in a dangerous neighborhood. I know – I was there.

Don Eubanks

101st Airborne

1964-1970

THE BUSH

"It takes 20 years or more of peace to make a man;

It takes only 20 seconds of war to destroy him."

- Baudouin I

H is face was a portrait of age, deep lined and wrinkled from a lifetime filled with long days of manual labor and little rest. He watched with only moderate interest as the Marine column clomped along the hard-packed dike separating the muddy rice paddies. Dust, like Georgia clay, red and fine as baby hair, puffed from under the feet of the Marines, curling up and around their ankles in the hot summer sun, clinging to sweat-soaked camouflaged uniforms and exposed skin. The old man bent back to his work of pulling scraggle weeds from the rice crop. The Marines would come and go. The rice crop was his life. He knew which was more important.

The elderly man’s family had gone into the small seven-thatched-hut village tucked between the rice fields and the jungle. His eyes darted toward them as they sat in the shade preparing to eat. A tired thread of smoke drifted up from the fire in the center of the huts, disappearing before reaching the treetops. Never could he assume his village was free from threats of trouble. The Marines were as much a nuisance as the Vietcong who visited regularly. But the Americans had not killed any of the villagers like the Vietcong had. Still, he remained leery of outsiders. Best to keep to himself and maintain his silence.

The sun quickly surfaced from behind morning clouds, driving them away with hot winds that subsided to leave the landscape humid and sweltering. By late morning the only remaining clouds were small far away tufts of cotton on the eastern horizon. The temperature was a clammy and stale 98 degrees. Overhead, the sky was cobalt blue, unblemished but for two contrails of streaming vapor chasing Air Force B-52 bombers across the sky.

Second Platoon, B Company, patrolling outside their normal area of operation, knew little about the area, but they were learning more each day about their enemy. North Vietnam had sympathizers, supporters and hordes of help, willing or unwilling, in concealing locations of supplies and arms known to be located throughout the northern South Vietnam sector of the highlands of I, pronounced ‘eye’, Corps. Information, such as the bent old man in the rice paddy possessed, would not be volunteered to the Marines. Cat-and-mouse treks through jungle trails, across delta rice paddies and near small isolated highland villages like this were only productive sometimes.

The Second Squad walked point, the forward most position in the column. Sgt. Frank Dawson, the squad leader, looked at the bent old man standing shin-deep in brown rice paddy water, seemingly oblivious to the blaring noon sun. Maybe those conical straw hats were cooler than he thought. His own helmet-clad head throbbed under the blistering South Vietnam sun. Relief from the headache and harsh sun was a vague dream, a wish. Dawson’s brief glance at the old man registered no more than a faint notation in his brain that he was far from home in a very dangerous place.

The platoon-sized patrol inched towards the village, men spread out at 5-6 yard intervals, rifles pointed out alternating left and right of the column, faces in the shadows of helmets looking stoically out into the heat. Two tick birds scattered from the embankment near the waters edge of the rice paddy, squawking loudly, white wings pumping. Heartbeats surged in the young Marines. Sudden noises or movements triggered danger signals. As the birds rose in flight, heartbeats sank back to normal, whatever normal had become since they arrived in the bush.

Busy with his work, the old man watched the Marines draw near the tiny village. The first Marines in the patrol cautiously surveyed the occupants preparing the mid-day meal, a scant hundred yards distant. The patrol moved slowly and methodically across the dike towards the village without stopping. If Viet Cong were watching, it was better for the old man and the villagers if the Marines did not stop. The elderly man did not want the VC to suspect his village to be sympathetic to the Americans. That would lead to trouble. His feet sloshed as he moved another step down the rice paddy, a soft gurgle emerging as he lifted his bare foot from the sucking, muddy bottom.

The village was etched out of the dense jungle and self-supporting to the South Vietnamese residents who toiled the rice paddies and the few shallow row crops for a livelihood. Dikes surrounded the rice fields and terraced landscaping made best use of the rainfall by trapping it on the upper level, and then, through a system of hand-hewn timber locks, workers released controlled amounts down to the adjoining lower rice paddies, as it was needed. Villagers worked the rice crop in tireless humped-over fashion, scattered throughout the paddies in small clusters of threes and fours, working and talking together to keep their minds off the hot sun and hard work.

Children scampered around the village. The sound of a laughing squeal bounced across the rice fields as the platoon neared the village. Dawson scanned the landscape. Much could be said in favor of such a lifestyle. No hustle-and-hurry to work, no clocks to punch, and families worked together, side-by-side to provide food and shelter for the entire clan. Life may not be as easy as it looked in the serene little village, but it was a lot less complicated than the lifestyle back home.

Dawson was following Swan’s First Fire Team in the column as they crossed the elevated dikes sectioning off the rice fields. Next came Corporal Thomas Rooker, his assistant squad leader, eyes facing the jungle line off to their left side.

I hate rice paddies, mumbled Rooker. They give me the willies.

Dawson heard the comment, smiled to himself, and then asked, How come? At least out here you can see for more than thirty yards. Not like this in the jungle.

Rooker answered, ever-ready and willing to debate, Yeah, but I keep thinking about those old war movies where some asshole had to swim a river underwater and used a reed to breathe so the Germans wouldn’t see him. There might be gooks laying in one of those rice paddies, breathing through reeds, just waiting for us to get out in the open. Then, bang, they sit up and ambush the hell out of us.

Dawson laughed aloud. Why would they do that? There’s no cover out there. They’d get their asses blown away.

Gooks are dumb like that, Rooker smiled too, knowing Dawson couldn’t see his face. They been brainwashed into doing things that don’t make sense.

How long you figure they’d lay there breathing through the reeds?

As long as it takes, Rooker answered.

OK, said Dawson with a shrewd smile, Then how would they know when to sit up? They’d all be under water, so how could they see us, or hear us?

Rooker realized he was in a no-win position. Screw you.

Dawson laughed at Rooker’s tale, eyes working over the tree line beyond the rice paddies and village. Another seventy yards and they would be across the dike.

Dawson understood Rooker’s apprehension. The jungle gave Charlie ample hiding places. It also offered the same cover to the Marines, but walking through the rice paddies, or crossing a dike in the open, was risky. The entire platoon was exposed. There was no cover and no place to hide. Dawson wasn’t afraid that Charlie may be lying in the water, breathing through reeds, but he was definitely aware that Charlie might be nearby.

As the platoon passed the midpoint of the dike, Dawson’s eyes swept down to the banks on each side. That’s where they would dive, if an ambush came. Were trip wires there, attached to a Bouncing Betty? Punji sticks? Each step brought tense perspiration from stress.

Rooker and Dawson stopped their banter, both now scanning for trouble. Sweet Georgia and Swan, in the four-man point fire team, crouched in their walk, attempting to make smaller targets. Hands tightened around weapons, fingers poised to flip off the safety at the first sign of trouble. Those in the back of the column pulsed forward, anxious to get off the dike. Those in front slowed, anxiously scanning the tree line. The front members were closest to the trees, making them the first targets and the ones most likely to bear the brunt of an ambush.

The old man working in the fields cast another guarded glance towards the Marines, but continued his work, without outward concern or acknowledgment of their presence. Only rarely did these visits rate more than a passing glance. There was work to be done.

The sudden, loud and pulsing steady rat-rat-rat sound of incoming machine gun fire erupted from the tree line, beyond the old man, shattering the tranquil setting. Rifle fire joined the machine guns, AK-47’s with their distinct ‘pop’ sound and what sounded like old Chinese bolt-action rifles. Marines up and down the column dived to the right, down behind the shallow banks of the dike, all in one motion, as leaders shouted, Get down! Left tree line. Dawson and Rooker dove together in the muddy water lapping the opposite side of the dike together. Immediately snapping into a shooting position, rifles resting on the dike top, they saw the bent old man sprayed with multiple rounds of machine-gun fire. Blood splattered into the air and water surrounding the old man as the rounds lifted his frayed body and tossed it rag doll fashion across the muddy water’s surface, landing face-down with a plop-splash sound. The conical straw hat bounced and bobbed on the surface, covered with particles of bloody skin and muscle. One arm was broken and twisted back over his back, dangling from the shoulder socket by a bloody and ragged shank of skin. The old man hadn’t had time to shout out in pain. He was pulling scraggle weeds one second, and dead the next.

Rounds from the machine gun bounced off the water, ricocheting into the air and slapping into the opposite side of the dike. The VC machine gunner walked the shots upward towards the dike. Marines quickly returned fire at the tree line from behind the shallow dike. They fired in swift, short volleys, and then ducked back down.

Huggins, the Platoon Gunnery Sergeant, yelled to the Marines, Get the 79s on those trees!

All four M-79 grenade launchers opened fire an instant later, lobbing one round after another towards their attackers. Into the radio, Huggins shouted, Dawson, get your squad off the dike and into the trees left of the village and start laying down a covering fire. Third Squad, you’re next off the dike. Get ready.

The steady voice of the Marine veteran Gunnery Sergeant spurred the men into action. Dawson looked towards the village, now deserted as the occupants dived into their own underground pits built long ago for just this purpose. Dawson grabbed Rooker’s shoulder to get his attention and pointed to a stand of thick-rooted trees. Take the First Fire Team there and set up covering fire. I’ll take the Second and Third, shifting his pointing finger to another cluster of trees, and go there. Take the machine gun with you. I’ll take the 79. Pass it on and wait for my signal.

Rooker nodded, grasped Swan and passed the order down the squad line.

Dawson grabbed his radio handset and advised Huggins, Ten seconds, and give me all the cover fire you can.

Huggins yelled above the roaring sound of battle into the handset, Roger that.

Dawson knew more would follow. Rifle grenades and mortars were standard tactics in these ambushes. The platoon had to get off the dike before they were cut down. There was no protection out in the open and the Vietcong would be waiting to open fire with another machine gun when they attempted to escape from the dike.

Dawson’s thoughts raced, why was he on point now? Where was the other VC machine gun? Could they cross the fifty yards and not get hit? Quick, random thoughts sped through his mind. His stomach churned. His hands trembled. He scanned the trees beside the village a final time. He may be running right down the throat of a machine gun in his sprint off the dike. If so, he’d be running right down Charlie’s sights.

Huggins’ voice roared him back, Now. The entire platoon burst into fire, all at once. The platoon’s machine guns were blasting away at the tree line in criss-crossing bursts, M-79s blooped out grenades and the remaining Marines opened up with their M-14’s and M-16’s. The firepower reached a deafening roar and Dawson jumped up and started running zigzag towards the trees at the edge of the village, shouting as he went, Go! Dawson was aware of the dirt popping and puffing around his feet and he heard the zings and zips in the air near his head as he desperately sprinted towards the safety of the trees. He ran in fear of what may be waiting. He, along with Rooker and the rest of the squad, ran full speed off the dike and toward the trees in a ragged line, each man separated from the man in front by a scant few yards, zigzagging as they ran.

Dawson dove head-first into the cluster of trees, rolling over and coming to rest in the prone position, his rifle pointed towards the attackers in the tree line less than two hundred yards away. Above the roar of the attack, he heard the distinct metallic clink of a mortar round being launched and yelled to everyone in ear shot, Incoming.

The mortar round was the first to come from the VC in the tree line. A lone geyser of water exploded into the air, some thirty yards short of the dike. Dawson quickly spread out his men and opened a concentrated line of fire towards the unseen attackers in the trees.

On the dike, Huggins knew the VC would adjust their mortars towards the dike. Getting off the dike before that happened was their only hope. They couldn’t stay where they were and fight. Huggins had the third squad ready to run towards the trees after the next mortar round exploded, this one beyond the dike. The next rounds could land in the middle of the platoon when the VC made a final adjustment.

Lt. Owen was on the radio with the Forward Air Controller flying high above within radio range, giving their present coordinates and requesting, I need a fast mover now!

Huggins waited no longer. As soon as Dawson and the others near the trees opened fire again, he jumped up and yelled, Let’s go! Everybody to the trees.

The remaining platoon members sprinted, bent at the waist and zigzagging, towards the protective cover of the tree and thick underbrush where Dawson had positioned his squad. Dawson and his squad poured heavy fire towards the still unseen VC a scant two hundred yards away. None could see the Vietcong, or whether they were making any hits. All they could do was keep Charlie’s head down while the platoon escaped the open dike.

Huggins raced to the tight cluster of trees where Dawson had set up, Lt. Owen tight behind him. Owen dove past Dawson and rolled on the ground. Huggins fell to the dirt beside Dawson, rolled over and peered towards the VC position. They needed help, and they needed it fast.

The radio crackled to life, Yankee Poppa Six, this is Rooster Fish. We are on station to your Sierra. Pop smoke. The voice was that of an F-14 pilot, responding to the request from the Forward Air Controller, called an FAC.

Huggins grabbed the handset, ignoring Lt. Owen in the process. Roger that, Rooster Fish. Your target will be the tree line West of smoke. Popping smoke now. Huggins pulled the pin on a yellow smoke grenade and tossed it right out in front of their position. Never tell the pilot the color of the smoke. The VC could hear the conversation, if they had a radio, and could pop the stated color of smoke. A pilot would have no way of knowing which was the proper location. Safer to pop a smoke grenade and have the pilot identify the color. If he called a different color than the one thrown, the men on the ground could immediately notify the pilot.

They had not seen the sleek fighter jet, nor had they heard the sound of the engine. The steady voice of the pilot brought the radio to life, I have yellow smoke. Roger?

Huggins kept his head hidden behind the tree trunk. Roger that. Your target is 200 yards waco of smoke. Waco meant west.

The VC machine gun shifted their line of fire towards the new position of Dawson and his squad, still hammering out round after round towards the Marines. Bullets splattered into the dirt in front of Dawson. Some rounds zinged overhead and ricocheted off trees. Dawson knew the mortars would soon shift, too. Attacking the VC wasn’t possible from their vulnerable location. There was no cover to use and a flanking maneuver would take more time than they had. Thank God a fast mover was in the area. Otherwise, they’d have to retreat back into the jungle behind the village.

A thunderous roar followed a sudden ‘swoosh’ sound as the F-14 dove down and then banked up into a near straight-up vertical climb, engines screaming. A quick glimpse of the camo-painted fuselage was all the Marines could see as the jet thundered high, climbing straight up. Two canisters flipped through the air and tumbled into the tree line at the VC. The tree line burst into twin orange-red fireball explosions that rocked the ground. Two thick black and orange clouds mushroomed into the air above the trees as the sound of the explosions echoed in the jungle. Two flame encrusted fireballs ballooned out of the trees toward the open rice paddy.

The sleek jet fighter came around for another pass, this time firing wing-mounted rockets at the site. As the rockets exploded in the trees, pieces of tree limbs and roots burst into the air like tendrils from aerial fireworks. Fire spread quickly through the jungle and another mushroom of smoke rose from the trees.

The pilot’s voice came over the radio, Yankee Poppa Six, this is Rooster Fish. How that?

Lt. Owen reached the handset first. Right on target, Rooster Fish. Anything left?

Negative on that. Machine guns only. You need more help?

Owen replied, Can’t say right now.

Roger, answered the pilot. Two fast movers are in route. I’ll have them on station until you release.

Roger. Thanks.

You’re welcome, came the reply, followed by, will you be paying by cash, or credit card, Sir?

Owen smiled. Bill it to LBJ on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, DC.

Rooster Fish replied, Man must have deep pockets. You’re the fourth delivery I’ve made in two days with the same billing address. Good day, Gents.

The radio went silent and the F-14 fighter jet disappeared into the puffy white clouds, spiraling up and away in a thundering climb. Fire crackled in the trees where the VC had set up their ambush. Dawson looked back at the rice paddy. The old man’s body lay in the dark blood-colored circle of water, his hat now some thirty yards away, pushed by the debris falling from the explosions in the jungle edge. Women’s wails and shrieks cut the air as they saw the same sight as Dawson, declaring death was again present.

Huggins studied the trees closely, and spoke into the platoon radio, Squad Leaders, SITREP, military jargon for a situation report.

Each squad leader, including Dawson, checked his squad to assess any injuries. There were none. They reported back to Huggins, No KIA, except Chester radioed One WIA. Jackie T says minor flesh arm wound. No KIA.

Huggins ordered, Frog, take your squad and move out on the right flank of the tree line. Go in a hundred yards and move parallel to the edge of the trees, towards the impact zone.

Frog’s voice was clear in replying, Roger.

Huggins addressed Dawson next. Second, take the point and sweep through the impact zone. Set up just past the smoke and fire. Third Squad, you’re following Dawson. Link up with Frog’s Squad in the trees. Fourth, cover the rear and move in last. Go!

Lt. Owen sat near Huggins and listened to the orders issued by the experienced Gunnery Sergeant. It was a good plan. Send a squad deep into the trees to cover the flank in case the VC attempted to circle back and attack from that side. Send two more squads to comb the ambush site and hold one squad in reserve. Owen decided to say nothing and observe.

In fifteen minutes, the sweep was complete. Huggins looked over the site, personally, with an experienced eye for detail. He had all four squads form a semi-circle around the site, setting out a listening post, called an LP, a hundred yards in the jungle as extra precaution. Once the men were in position, Huggins started his investigation, Owen at his side.

Finding little evidence that would add information to his knowledge, he reported to the Company Commander, Captain Lindstrom, that no wounded VC but 10 were found dead, with only blood spots and spent brass remaining.

Huggins gathered the squad leaders to advise, This wasn’t a planned ambush, he said. Otherwise, the dike would have already been bracketed by the machine guns and mortars. Charlie must have been on patrol and we stepped right in his sights. We were lucky, this time. Keep your men tight and keep your eyes open. Charlie could circle around and come at us again. We don’t know how many are out there. Get your men ready to move out.

Dawson had his point Fire Team, with Lance Corporal Isaac Williams, nicknamed Swan as their leader proceed past the village into the edge of the jungle before stopping. Rest was out of the question. They would stop before entering the darker jungle only long enough for Lt. Owen to give the direction they would strike out on next.

Dawson didn’t trust Owen yet; thinking to himself that they were waiting in a place where they were exposed while the lieutenant pondered what to do next. Hell, that was like waiting for a rock to design a temple. Owen was inexperienced, only arriving two months earlier. He didn’t know everybody’s name, yet. No way in hell was he going to have enough information - and who knows if he had the skill - to make directional changes for the patrol in the deep bush. Dawson motioned for Swan, his point man, to halt.

Dawson took a short pull from his canteen, the water tasting warm and slightly bitter from the purification tablets added earlier. He dropped to the ground, soaked with perspiration, along with the remaining members of his squad, to wait on Lt. Owen. Cpl. Tom Rooker sat in the shade of a broad leafed banana-like plant, resting with his eyes closed, head laid back against the main trunk of the sturdy plant, sweat dripping off his chin.

Dawson pointed out, You’d best keep your eyes open. We’re not in base camp.

Rooker, in a sarcastic manner, answered, You’re a vast world of untapped information. I would never have guessed where we were.

Dawson lay on his side, one leg crossed over the other, head propped up on one arm, looking towards the darker jungle. Nothing moved. The mid-day heat even had the animals on stand-down. Sweat trickled from his forehead and rolled down his cheeks. Rooker was being his normal cantankerous self again. Dawson knew most of Rooker’s reactions were put-on, a facade that gave him a cynical and hardened appearance. Dawson also knew it was more for the benefit of those within earshot than an accurate portrayal of Rooker’s attitude.

Choosing his words carefully, Dawson spoke with a distinct tone of resignation, Rooker, don’t start. I’m not in the mood. Just keep an eye open, OK?

Rooker dryly retorted, Which one?

Dawson drew in a deep breath, and then exhaled slowly. Both. Just watch to Swan’s left.

Rooker quipped, Geographically or politically?

Both. That way, you’re bound to do something right.

The radio handset clipped on Dawson’s shoulder came to life. Dawson, two-seven-five. It was Huggins, the Platoon Gunnery Sergeant. Strict radio procedure was often relaxed in the bush.

Dawson answered, Got it, and stood to give the hand signal to Swan on point. Dawson raised two fingers, then seven, and finally five towards Swan. Swan acknowledged with a nod and took out his compass for a reading. The change was moderate. They were already on a heading of 260 degrees. The shade of the jungle would not cool them off. Walking under the high canopies was like walking through a steam bath. Swan wasn’t happy. They should be using the tight cover of the trees to the right side. The new course would lead further into the dank jungle along a well-used footpath alongside shoulder-high grass and dense short tree saplings with broad leaves draping over the path. Nobody listened to a Lance Corporal. Hell, not many people listened to officers anymore. Swan led out slowly into the dark shadows under the thick trees, where the jungle had a personality all its own. Vines draped forebodingly from lower limbs, creating dark, hidden crevices in the dense cover. A scampering animal, an upset bird or monkey, almost anything out of the ordinary, could break eerie silence. Danger may not be present at the outbursts, but there was the very real chance that Charlie was the cause for a sudden change in the quiet, tranquil scene. One never knew, which only heightened the tension in the dim shadows.

The pace slowed in the dense undergrowth. Broad-leafed plants grew head-high and thick, some towering up twenty feet or more reaching towards the sunlight hundreds of feet above. Clumps and clusters of cane grew in random plots in the jungle. Vision was limited to a few yards, footing was unstable and the VC had trip wires and other booby traps throughout the entire sector. Swan was a meticulous, attention-to-detail point man, a fact Dawson knew well, precisely why Swan was on point.

Swan had been in-country only weeks longer than Dawson and Rooker. An ex-wide receiver from a state championship high school football team, Swan was hard muscled and athletic, a mirror image of the ex-Cleveland Browns running back, Jim Brown. Agile and fit, Swan was resilient and tireless in jungle marches.

The sweltering heat took its toll with the Marines. Swan took it better than most, though sweat-soaked utilities hung on his frame. His neck appeared long, in proportion to his height and weight. He walked with a flowing gait and the long neck made it appear as though he was bobbing his head forward and backward with each stride, like a swan on an uphill climb. Huggins had named him Swan after the neck bobbing.

Swan’s talent was not restricted to walking point and being an excellent observer. In a firefight, he was quick to act and deadly to face. He volunteered for patrols when Huggins asked, all the while holding on to his belief that the United States had no business in the war. His nose had been broken twice and was obviously bent at mid point between his eyes and mouth. Swan’s long arms added focus to his flowing gait and bobbing neck.

Swan would not accept a squad of his own, though fully qualified and capable. Had he been willing, Swan would have inherited the squad before Dawson. He had a few more weeks’ seniority over Dawson, but Swan wanted out of the war, not to add value to being there, which could cause an extension, he feared, to his stay in Vietnam.

Swan led his point fire team deeper into the jungle, along the narrow footpath for only a short one hundred yards, and then veered off to the new heading. The serpentine path continued in a northerly direction. Once off the path, the pace slowed. Stepping over fallen branches when they were low, and going around them when they were too big, cost time, but there were no alternatives. In some places, hacking away thick leaves and small branches with a machete to clear a path drew more sweat in the humid shadows of the jungle.

Swan pushed ahead at a steady, though slower and more observant pace. Nothing he could do to hurry it up. They were making too much noise, but that was also out of his control. Oppressive heat had them all soaked in sweat in the tropical humidity. Leaves and thin shanks of grass brushed faces. Pack straps cut into shoulders. The added weight of the pack, combined with extra ammo they had to carry, meant legs were tired and strained. Muscles were in shape, but heat, humidity and terrain caused fatigue to set in quickly.

No contact with the VC was made during the balance of the morning. They saw nothing out of order and no visible signs of recent activity on the jungle trails they crossed. After a short stop for cold c-rations at lunch, Lt. Owen checked in with the Company Commander, Captain Lindstrom, on the radio for the afternoon plan. Owen expected a change in their route. Didn’t happen. Captain Lindstrom advised to continue the original plan and to stay on the south side of the pre-assigned ridgeline for the night.

Lt. Owen, the Platoon Leader, was intelligent. He entered the Marine Corps straight out of college, but his training for this command had been minimum. Officer Candidate School was a fast paced experience that provided more book skills and theory than field expertise. He wasn’t confident that he was ready, but he was determined to show he was capable of becoming an asset.

Owen relied on the extensive experience of Gunny Huggins, his platoon Gunnery Sergeant. Owen wouldn’t sacrifice authority to impress someone, and his lack of combat skills and experience didn’t water down his demand for respect from the men. He took the chain of command seriously. He was in charge of the platoon and he was not about to have any doubts about that, not even from the tried and proven Gunny Huggins.

Huggins set the afternoon pace, rotating Dawson’s squad back into the column and putting Frog’s First Squad on point for the afternoon. Alternating the point squad helped morale. The secret of rotating was to ensure you did not compromise effectiveness for the sake of popularity. Huggins knew the difference, with three tours in Vietnam under his belt. Frog did good job on point. Experience had proved that fact to Huggins.

Frog put his squad at the head of the column and was well on the way back down towards the stream marked as a blue line on the map. From there he wound the patrol back up two short climbs to the ridgeline where they would spend the night. The afternoon patrol had been just as unproductive as the morning. No sign of the VC. Nothing. It was as if they were in another land, a far cry from the ambush that morning. Maybe they would be lucky and get a peaceful night to sleep.

Daylight the next morning brought an answer. Choppers arrived to carry them back to the base camp for some rest and refitting. The men were excited to be heading out of the bush. None had expected this action. Rooker spoke sarcastically, Something’s up. We don’t get this treat for nothing.

Relax, Dawson retorted, Take it as it comes.

BASE CAMP

"Any fool can criticize, condemn,

and complain - and most fools do."

- Dale