Nam Sense (9 page)
“Hello Silig,” I said, introducing myself, “I’m Sergeant Wiknik, your squad leader. Where are you from in the World?”
“Lancaster, New York,” he answered, shaking my hand and squeezing it hard.
“That’s quite a grip. Do you work out?”
“No,” he laughed quietly. “In college I played a lot of sports to keep in shape.”
“A college man?” I asked puzzled. “What the hell are you doing in the Army? Did you waive your deferment?”
“I couldn’t afford my tuition anymore, so I quit. I was just surprised to get drafted so fast.”
“Maybe you and Howard Siner should get together,” I joked, “he’s a New York college dropout, too.”
To no one’s surprise, Silig and Siner became instant friends. Their kinship of growing up in New York, similar educational background, and enjoyment of professional sports created a natural bond.
The rebuilding work on Firebase Airborne was completed so our next assignment would take us on a month long patrol of the A Shau mountains at the northern tip of the valley. In our absence, each company in our battalion during two-week rotating shifts would defend Airborne.
Our exit from the firebase should have been routine. Instead, it was a fiasco. With no natural clearings big enough to land a helicopter, an LZ had to be cut. The site selected was on a pointed ridge that was visible from the firebase. A five-minute artillery barrage pounded the location to help simplify the tree removal and scare off any lurking NVA. As elements of Echo Company rappelled into the jungle to provide security for a LZ cutting team, Cobra gunships patrolled from the air. With ten GIs already on the ground, everything was going as planned until the third helicopter hovered over the site. Just as the men started down the ropes, hidden NVA soldiers opened fire on the aircraft in an effort to make it crash and block the LZ.
The pilot was shot through both legs. The door-gunners answered back, spraying the jungle with long bursts of machine gun fire. As the co-pilot struggled to take control, a member of Echo Company dropped into an intense firefight on the ground. A second was even less fortunate. He was halfway down the rope when the helicopter suddenly sped skyward, yanking him several hundred feet into the air. The GI dangling fifty feet below the chopper hindered the co-pilot’s evasive action, which allowed the NVA to score several hits on the aircraft. When the helicopter began smoking and losing altitude the co-pilot turned back toward the firebase. As the chopper whined its way toward us, we scattered for cover, figuring it could crash anywhere on the tiny outpost. The co-pilot maintained a heading that allowed the dangling GI to hit the ground running and slide free from the rope. It almost worked, but the GI was so terrified when he touched down he forgot to let go. His momentum dragged him headlong over the top of a bunker, depositing him in the concertina wire. He was hospitalized for lacerations, bruises, and shock. The co-pilot’s attempt to land on the chopper pad was no more successful. The helicopter landed in a heap on an embankment and rolled over on its side. Miraculously, there was no fire and the crew escaped without additional injuries.
Meanwhile, back at the LZ, the Cobra gunships fired into the jungle and broke up the NVA attack. Three GIs were wounded, but none seriously. There were no enemy dead or wounded left behind. The attacking force was estimated at less than ten men.
Several hours later, the LZ cutting was complete and the operation resumed. We were nervous about going in, but our company landed without incident. After the last of the helicopters flew away the area became eerily quiet.
“The A Shau is a very bad place,” observed Tu Huong, a Kit Carson scout we had brought along. “Beaucoup NVA. This is very, very bad.” His words made the hair on my neck stand up. Since he was a former VC soldier, Huong was worried about what would happen to him if he was captured by the NVA. His gloomy speculation didn’t inspire much confidence in us, either.
Since the NVA knew where we were, it was too dangerous to remain near the LZ because they could easily launch an attack or mortar us. Our only option was to head into the jungle. When our lead element moved out, they came upon a well-used narrow trail along the top of the ridge. Adjacent to the footpath was a set of NVA field telephone communication wires that were severed during the LZ artillery prep. We tapped into the lines, hoping to intercept a message our scout could interpret, but they weren’t being used. Rather than wait for a transmission that might never come, we decided to follow the wires.
We quietly advanced about a quarter mile until a full burst of AK-47 rounds sent us scrambling for cover. The bullets struck and badly wounded our point man, PFC Kristoff. He had walked into a well-camouflaged bunker complex where one or two NVA soldiers had been waiting to ambush us. We returned fire, but no more enemy shots were heard and no soldiers were seen. The NVA gave us a taste of their deadly game of hit and run. Kristoff was in bad shape with wounds in both legs and in his lower abdomen. Luckily, the LZ was close enough for us to carry him back for quick evacuation.
A search of the complex revealed twenty bunkers and a command post, enough room to house fifty or more men. We figured the site was used as a rest area, as it offered no military advantages and there were no fighting positions. For many of us, this was the first enemy bunker complex we had seen, and we were impressed with the NVA’s ingenuity in developing the site. A small stream flowing through the complex supplied them with drinking water. There were three camp-style cooking locations, each with several small wooden bowls perched on the rocks next to them. The complex had been evacuated while the LZ was being cut. A handful of NVA must have stayed behind to harass the LZ cutters while the main force escaped. The bunkers were five feet deep, each large enough to house three soldiers. Hand woven thatch mats elevated a few inches above the dirt floor provided a moisture barrier for comfortable sleeping. Storage shelves dug in the walls were now empty. Rows of three-inch diameter logs covered with a foot of dirt made the ceiling. Jungle shrubs were planted on the roof to prevent the bunkers from being seen from the air.
The command bunker was much different. It was twice the size of the others, featuring two underground rooms. One room evidently housed the ranking officer and the other his aide. Atop the command bunker was a small thatched hooch that served as a central meeting place. Two hand-made benches and a wooden stool were inside.
The communication wires we had followed ran into the command bunker hooch and hung loosely from a corner post where a field telephone had been. Another set of wires led away from the hooch and down the original trail. We followed the new set for 500 feet to where they were cut. The retreating enemy must have taken the rest of the wire with them.
The NVA had three distinct advantages over us: they knew the terrain, our troop strength, and our approximate location. Not wanting to walk into another ambush, we got off the trail to cut our own route into the jungle. That way, we hoped we could surprise the enemy instead of them surprising us.
To penetrate the undergrowth, our machete-wielding point man slashed at everything in his path. This new route was supposed to conceal us, but the steady chink of the machete advertised our location. To make matters worse, the thick vegetation slowed forward movement to a crawl, forcing us to rotate exhausted point men every fifteen minutes. As we snaked along, we soon realized how clumsy a loosely packed rucksack was. The hanging vines seemed to have claws, which snagged anything protruding from our packs. Canteens were pulled loose, M-60 ammo belts broke free and helmets were knocked off heads. Every so often, a branch let go by the man in front would slap me in the face. By the time I recovered, he had disappeared into the thick jungle and I had to play catch-up.
The foliage eventually became too thick to continue, so we set up for the night where we stood. It was impossible to form a perimeter defense, so we simply squeezed into a twisted line of three-man positions. No one bothered with claymore mines or trip flares because there was no way the enemy could get near us without being detected. The dense jungle proved to be more effective than concertina wire. Darkness came quickly under the thick canopy that obscured the sky. A light breeze kept us comfortable throughout the night. Phosphorescent fungi on the ground emitted an eerie green glow, providing enough scattered light to estimate the lay of the land. It was creepy as hell.
A few hours after we settled in, the men on guard woke everyone because they heard a strange noise in the distance. It sounded like a moronic NVA chanting a garbled “Fuck you,” but instead it came out as “Huk Hoo.” The shrill outcry became louder as it closed on our location. Did they actually know where we were? Everyone prepared for action. Suddenly, directly alongside us, a foot-long lizard scampered up a tree crying out several high-pitched shrieks: “Huk Hoo! Huk Hoo!” We laughed at our own fears. This peculiar creature sounded human as it scampered its way through the darkness in search of food and companionship. We enjoyed the almost nightly contact with the harmless reptiles, which we nicknamed the “Fuck You Lizards.”
The next morning we continued slashing our way until we broke out onto a different NVA trail. From that day on, we followed established trails because they were the easiest, quietest method of travel, though probably not the safest. Besides, in our search for the enemy, we had little other choice. The NVA would be found on or near the trails and paths, not in the middle of tangled undergrowth.
By now, our company traveled far enough from the LZ and deep enough into the jungle to where the NVA could no longer be sure of our location, losing their major advantage over us. That gave us the opportunity to employ our own style of trail warfare. As our main force slowly advanced, alternating squads remained behind for fifteen minutes. These men provided rear protection and early warning in case we were being followed. If we came upon a trail junction or knoll offering good fields of fire, we set up platoon-size ambushes for the day. At dusk, everyone regrouped into our company-size unit. Despite the soundness of these tactics we never saw an NVA soldier, which made us wonder if we really had eluded them.
As we pressed deeper into the jungle, the vegetation thinned and the terrain became more rugged. The trail followed a ridgeline with sides so steep that it was like walking on the peak of a barn roof. That forced us to set up oval-shaped night perimeters directly on the footpath. All our machine guns were placed on the trail to provide maximum firepower at the most likely avenue of enemy approach. Judging by the terrain, it seemed unlikely the enemy would come from any direction other than the trail. But to be safe, we also put out claymore mines and trip flares.
We moved into four-man positions on the steep slope with our heels dug into the ground. Lying practically vertical, we had no idea of how we were going to sleep without tumbling downhill. Noise discipline prevented us from digging in or leveling off the ground. The only thing to do was to brace our rucksacks against the butt of the trees and try to sleep curled around them.
The company CP didn’t have to worry about such problems because they set up their position in the center of the trail where the ground was flat and good for sleeping. However, their location had one major drawback. If we were attacked, the CP was most vulnerable to the enemy. Luckily, the nights were uneventful, although uncomfortable.
Each morning, our first task was to retrieve the trip flares and claymores. The devices were placed about fifty feet from the perimeter, so two men at a time went out to collect them. PFC Norman Keoka, a native Hawaiian who, at a glance could pass for a Vietnamese, got the feeling he was being watched. When he looked up, he spotted two armed NVA soldiers seventy-five feet away walking toward him. The Gooks must have thought our guy was on their side. It took Keoka a few seconds to catch on to what was happening because no one ever expects the NVA to walk right up to them. Suddenly, the enemy soldiers realized they were practically on top of a US Army position. The instant the NVA spun around to flee, Keoka opened fire on them. Behind him, a dozen GIs instinctively joined in. The one-sided hail of gunfire was intense but inaccurate. The shooters gave chase for several hundred feet but the enemy soldiers escaped.
Captain Hartwell gathered twenty men and prepared to continue the pursuit. Questioning the wisdom of us going up the trail, I asked our new Lieutenant to recommend a different tactic.
“Lieutenant Pizzuto,” I began, “those two Gooks may be the point for a larger enemy force, and since our shooting gave our position away, they’re probably expecting us to go looking for them. We could be walking into an ambush.”
“What do you suggest?” he asked in an almost uninterested fashion.
“I think the first thing we should do is fire some artillery up there. If not that, the vegetation looks thin enough so a couple of squads could parallel either side of the trail for a thousand feet or so. That way, we might be able to get an idea of what’s waiting for us.”
“I will not go to the Captain with dumb ideas like those,” he said in a snobbish tone. “I’ve been warned about you and how you feel it’s necessary to challenge our tactics. Unlike you, I’ve got every confidence in the Captain’s decision. He knows what he’s doing.” As the patrol moved out I didn’t say anything else, hoping that I was worried about nothing.
A few minutes after the last man left the perimeter there was a huge explosion at the point followed by a heavy exchange of AK-47 and M-16 rifle fire. The rest of the company sat helplessly behind while the short firefight died out. Minutes later, the patrol returned carrying the point man; he had a horrible face and neck wound. I was shocked to recognize him as one of the GIs who rubbed my mangled Hamburger Hill M-16 magazine over himself for good luck. A second GI was shot in the shoulder but could walk on his own.
Before I could tell Pizzuto “I told you so,” our platoon was ordered up the trail. We quickly headed out with Howard Siner, Stan Alcon, and myself at the point taking turns sidestepping the trail and ducking behind trees. We reached the ambush site with no resistance. Directly ahead was a small bunker at a trail junction. We cautiously crept forward until suddenly, Siner pulled the pin on a grenade and charged the position. He rolled on the ground and threw the frag into the bunker entrance. Seconds later, smoke and debris belched out of the opening. Then Siner sprayed a burst of rock n’ roll into it. Alcon and I rushed to assist Siner, but the bunker was empty. The Gooks had blown their ambush on the first patrol and ran off. An escape route behind the bunker allowed them to retreat unnoticed. There was no telling which way they had gone, so we left a squad behind to watch the trail junction while the rest of us returned to the company perimeter.