by Jay Heavner
“This is not a movie. When it’s over, the dead do not get up, dust themselves off, and walk away. The wounded do not wash off the red and go on with life unhurt. Even those who somehow will escape miraculously unscratched will by no means be untouched. No one will be the same when you leave as when you arrive. May God go with you and watch over you while you are in Vietnam.” And as an afterthought, he added these words of Shakespeare, “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he today who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.” It was only much later after he returned to America, would he fully understand the commander’s words.
In mid-August, the battalion was loaded onto buses, transported to Charleston, South Carolina, and then boarded the USNS Maurice Rose. It took most of a month for the ship to travel to Vietnam by way of the Panama Canal. They established a base at Khe, 42 miles west of Qui Nhon. The Army couldn’t have picked a worse spot. It was like an old West fort smack dab in the middle of Indian country. With the help of two thousand local laborers armed with axes and machetes, they hacked a base from the dense forest. At night, the enemy probed the base for weaknesses with little success. The malaria-carrying mosquitoes caused far more casualties to the battalion.
Word came down from the top. General Dick Knowles issued an order to all men, “Find the enemy and go after them.” Information on the enemy’s location was lacking. By chance, the order reached the ears of a sniper from Maryland named Wayne Mullenax. He’d been out in the jungle for days bagging as he called his job. Daily, he’d take out three or four of the enemy with his specially equipped M14. Mullenax accidentally stumbled onto someone from back home, Tom Kenney, who’d asked if he’d seen the enemy during their conversation. Mullenax said that if you wanted to find the enemy, they were thicker than fleas on a stray dog, to the west, in the area of the Ia Drang valley.
Ia meant river in the local Montagnard people’s dialect. The information on the enemy was passed on to the higher-ups. Recons went out. Evidence of the enemy was found, and landing sites for the air infantry were selected. Among them was X-Ray, an irregular clearing about the size of a football field in the dense jungle. On November 14, Tom Kenney, Chris Benally, and Bill Hairston were among the first of a dozen men sent in with orders to secure the landing site over 14 miles in hostile territory and to hold it. There were no roads for a retreat. Food was C-rations only, cans of ham and lima beans, spaghetti with meatballs, or beans and franks that they could zip open with P-38 can openers everyone wore on their dog-tags around their necks along with guns, grenades, and all the ammo they could carry and more. Everything seemed to be going fine as the choppers brought about 80 men off. A perimeter was set up with guards for the night. The rest of the men were told to get some sleep. It might be a long time before they got another chance. They pulled ponchos from their packs. The men rolled up in them on the ground and went to sleep with weapons close at hand.
The next morning, evidence of enemy activity was seen around the clearing. They called in artillery to pound the nearby jungle. If all went well, the choppers would be there shortly afterward to further soften up any remaining enemy with rockets, grenades, and machine gunfire. If the timing or coordinates were off, the landing choppers and men on the ground would not live to see the morning through. Today, it went well, and more men and supplies arrived in the Hueys, which came in hot. Even Tom, a greenhorn in battle, could tell something felt wrong. There was nothing wrong, except that nothing was wrong and that was unmistakably not right. It was too smooth and easy. By noon, the area filled with members of Alpha and Bravo companies. Patrols went out, and one brought back a prisoner, a scrawny, wild-eyed young man who trembled with fear. He was unarmed and barefoot, wore dirty, torn khaki trousers, and had an empty canteen, no papers, no food, and no ammunition.
Tom watched as the short interrogation of the frightened young man was carried out. He didn’t like the look of apprehension he saw on the translator’s face. “What did he say? Where are they?” a young lieutenant asked.
“He says there are three battalions on the mountain who want very much to kill many Americans, but haven’t because they have been unable to find any.”
Tom’s stomach churned as he realized what was wrong. They had landed in the eye of a hurricane, and it would soon be moving. If the enemy could gain control of the landing site, their supply line, their lifeline would be gone, and all would die here. Tom heard shots ring out in the nearby brush. The battle for Landing Zone X-Ray had begun.
Chapter 7
When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Rudyard Kipling, “The Young British Soldier”
The battle had barely begun, but chaos was already breaking out. Units fractionalized, the antagonists searched blindly for each other, chaos reigned, but somehow, a battle formed from the mess. One gung-ho lieutenant led his unit into the brush, chasing after the enemy. They disappeared out of sight and became separated from the main body at X-Ray. Two-hundred-and-fifty men remained at the land zone. Bullets whizzed by, shot from small arms and automatic weapons. Sporadic mortar and rocket fire came in. Men lying on the ground screamed in pain when hit, but they’d survived the bullets. Those that didn’t scream hadn’t. The medics worked frantically as the bodies began to pile up.
Tom found a fallen tree, crawled behind it, and fired at anything that moved outside of the perimeter in the brush. Two men fell in next to him. He turned and looked into the faces of the commanding officer of the ground operation and his radioman. The latter’s face was a pale white. “Soldier,” the commander yelled. “Keep the lead firing. We need cover so I can call in airstrikes. We may have the same designation as Custer, but we’ve got something he didn’t have, fire support. We ain’t goin’ down like he did at Little Bighorn.”
“Yes, sir,” Tom said, and he lay down as much deadly covering fire with his M16 as possible. Above the din, Tom heard the commander screaming at someone named Dillon for airstrikes, artillery, and rockets. The enemy mortars were killing them, he yelled. Air support must find and eliminate them.
Within minutes, the air filled with red dust and smoke as the deluge of destruction rained hell from the sky. Tom thought it was awesome, and its thunder was music to his ears. Artillery rounds hissed above him along with the easily recognized sound of incoming, followed by the detonations close by. Helicopters swooped in from above, and a whooshing sound meant they had unleashed their deadly 2.75-inch rockets. Shattering blasts were heard from all directions as fighter-bombers dropped 250 and 500-pound bombs and napalm canisters. Rifles, machine guns, mortars, and exploding grenades added to the deafening noise and chaos.
Tom looked around, but the two other men were nowhere to be seen. Where they’d gone, he did not know. He saw another man crawling toward him. It was Bill, and he yelled to him, “Bill, over here.” He yelled again, and this time Bill heard him. He turned to crawl toward him. Just as he got to Tom’s position, a bullet ripped through Bill’s neck. His face filled with pain. He rose up and was hit again. At this time, a grenade rolled in next to him, and Bill fell on it. A quick second later, it exploded, killing the already mortally wounded Bill. The concussion from the explosion blew Tom backward. He laid still, stunned and unconscious.
Chapter 8
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start, start, startles the soldier…
If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier…
Rudyard Kipling, The Young British Soldier
T
om woke up to the whoop-whoop-whoop sound of choppers nearby. He looked to the side and saw the mangled body of his friend, Bill. He’d saved Tom’s life by falling on the grenade. Tom’s head spun. He felt exhausted, but to stop was to die. The scorching sun bore down on him and he was drenched in sweat. A machine gun blazed away in the distance. It sounded like one of the Army’s M60s. How he hoped the bullets hit their intended targets. Overhead, he watched as an A-1E Skyraider, an old and slow Korean War vintage aircraft, poured ordnance of many kinds, bombs, napalm, and machine gun rounds, accurately and precisely on the nearby foe.
Most definitely, they’d found the enemy, as ordered, and now they were in a hellish fight for their very lives. Tom desperately searched for his gun, but it was nowhere in sight. He saw another M16 near Bill’s lifeless remains, and he crawled to it. On close examination, he found it to be inoperable and useless. He saw movement nearby and another GI he did not know, crawled his way. His movement brought fire from the enemy. Tom heard a sound like a canoe paddle smacking mud, but it was the sound a bullet makes when it strikes human flesh. A painful curse came from the other man’s mouth. Tom saw the man was hit in the hip. A white, jagged bone stuck out of the ugly wound. Tom crawled to him and applied first aid to stop or slow the bleeding, which he hoped would keep the wounded man out of shock. Tom noted the name Lindeman on the shirt. The man cursed some more, and then he said, “I’ll be all right. Which way to the band-aid?”
“You mean the medic?”
“Yeah.”
Carefully, Tom raised his head and took a quick look. He dropped back down as bullets whizzed around him. “It’s over there,” and Tom pointed with his finger. “Thanks,” he said and crawled off in that direction.
“You’re welcome,” replied Tom. For a quick moment, all seemed surreal. Here they were on a battlefield with men dying all around them, and two men had spoken a common courtesy to each other among all the destruction.
As the other man crawled off toward the aid station, Tom laid on the ground and closed his eyes while bullets whizzed barely over his head. He opened his eyes and wiped the dirt from his face. Not five feet away, lay an M-16. The other man may have dropped it, or it may have been there for some time before he noticed it, but it was there like a forgotten gift. Tom crawled over and grabbed it with his outstretched arm. He pulled it near him and saw it was operable and still had a full clip. There was also ammo laying near him that someone had dropped. He grabbed it up. How he wished he had his entrenching tool, but with the amount of heavy fire overhead, he would probably be dead if he rose up to dig. Whenever he saw movement in the bush, he fired and often saw something drop. Fortunately, he still had his canteen and sipped from it occasionally. The water was so good. If he moved, he drew fire. He’d stay behind the fallen tree until conditions improved, or he was ordered elsewhere.
He remained there for the longest time. He could hear the Hueys coming in when the battle seemed to lull a bit. Still, they had to run a gauntlet of enemy fire again and again. They landed hot with supplies and loaded the wounded in record speed, reducing their exposure on the ground. Death was everywhere.
Brave men, risking their lives for us. One hot round hitting the ammo they brought would turn them into a great burst of sunshine followed by a cloud of dark smoke.
Around Landing Zone X-Ray, a series of loud explosions occurred. The enemy probed for a weak spot, an opening, a wedge through the thin line of soldiers defending the vital landing zone. The enemy was eager to kill them all and hungered to do so.
In the afternoon, the raging battle faded to sporadic firing. Some sense of order fell around the landing zone. Choppers came and went with little resistance. Night operations were set up with artillery and mortars around the perimeter. Tom found other members of his unit, among them Chris Benally, and helped set up a jury-rigged little black-out tent with ponchos to serve as a lighted place where they could work on the wounded. After fighting to survive earlier, they now had enough ammo, and morphine and bandages.
A late, lone chopper flew into LZ X-Ray. Shortly afterward, artillery began to fall on a nearby hillside. Men in the Huey had spotted hundreds of little, twinkling lights heading for the landing zone. The North Vietnamese were coming. Around midnight, a massive explosion occurred on a mountain to the right of X-Ray. It was a restless night for all units now on one hundred percent alert. A full moon, a Hunter’s Moon, rose around twenty-three hundred hours in the clear sky, and its brightness cast dim shadows that night. Tom was called to help the medics. Casualties were bleeding to death faster than new blood could be put in them. Caution was thrown to the wind, and patients were given four intravenous tubes at once with four corpsmen, one being Tom, squeezing the blood bags as hard as possible. He watched as many men, getting the blood, shivered and quaked as so much cold blood entered their bodies.
Snipers harassed the moonlit men. They located one sniper hidden in the top of a palm tree. Repeated firing into the treetop finally found the mark, but not before five men died, and an equal number were wounded.
Tom was relieved of his duties in the makeshift hospital and was sent back to guard the perimeter. He found himself next to Chris Benally. Somehow, they had both escaped with only scratches and scrapes. About three-hundred hours, rushing sounds were heard by the men in LZ X-Ray. Someone shot up several illumination flares that made the night appear like the day. The inside of the perimeter had numerous North Vietnamese who had stealthily advanced in the darkness. Every soldier’s gun opened up on them. Tom’s gun was on automatic, and he saw many of the enemy fall from his fire; one was nearly cut in half from the steady stream of bullets. After fifteen minutes, it was all over. By the light of the last flares, they saw North Vietnamese dragging their dead and wounded into the thick jungle.
First light revealed dozens of khaki-clad enemy dead scattered around the landing zone. Tom looked at Chris and said wearily, “Well, we made it through the night.”
Chris nodded, “Yeah, we did, but a lot of men didn’t. We may not see the morning tomorrow. Have you thought any more about what I told you about Jesus and salvation? Where will you be going if we die out here on this battlefield?”
Tom said, “It was interesting stuff you said. Glad you believe it. I’ll have to think about it some more.”
Chris nodded his head knowingly. “I’m glad you’re thinking. They are trying to kill us, and I don’t think I’d take my time making a decision. Our time could run out today just like it did for so many others on both sides today.”
Tom smiled the first smile he had smiled in a day. “Thanks for thinking of me, brother.” He reached his hand out to shake the big Indian’s hand, but once Chris had Tom’s hand, he pulled Tom close in a bear hug and said, “We are a band of brothers baptized in blood and fire. May the Lord grant us mercy to live to tomorrow, or lead us by His nail-scarred hands home.”
“Amen,” said Tom.
“Hey, you two! Get down! There’s still snipers out there,” came a phantom voice from somewhere nearby.
The two men dropped to the ground as a bullet whizzed by above them, where their heads had just been. Tom said, “Forgot where I was for a minute.”
“Me too,” said Chris. “Glad someone reminded us in the nick of time.”
“Yeah,” replied Tom. “Another brother.”
“Yeah,” repeated Chris. “Another brother.”
The two men laid on the dirt, and both fell asleep exhausted. A few minutes later, an explosion shattered their sleep. Someone to the left was screaming, “They’re coming, Sarge! A lot of them. Get ready!”
The two men woke with a start. Adrenaline shot through their bodies. This was it. They’re coming!
Tom took a quick look over the fallen tree and saw the enemy advancing. Their helmets had nets on them, and they had stuck grass in the netting. They looked almost like short trees. There were about 50, and Tom and Chris put their guns on the fallen tree and began to fire with the weapons on automatic. An M79 grenade la
uncher opened up down the line. Others nearby opened up mowing down many of the enemy, but their return fire was whittling down the thin line of the American boys. The enemy dropped back and came again. The results were the same; many dead for the North Vietnamese, but the American line kept getting thinner too.
The fighting stopped except for an occasional shot here and there. From behind them, two hunched men carrying a machine gun and boxes of ammo came running in. They hid behind the fallen tree, too.
The larger of the two said, “Sarge wants you two to head for the center. Choppers are coming in with ammo and carrying out the wounded and dead. He needs you two on the double.”
Tom nodded that he understood, and he heard Chris say, “Will do.”
The two men half ran, half crawled, zigzag to make them less of a target, though shots rang out around them as they went to the middle of the LZ. As they reached the sarge, the first chopper was landing. His instructions were to quickly unload ammo and water and then reload the Huey with the wounded first and any dead if there was room.
That morning, helicopter after helicopter landed. Ammo disappeared when it hit the ground, and space where the dead and wounded were carried out by the last Huey, filled again with casualties. When the fighting was too hot for landings, Tom and Chris returned enemy fire from their positions, but most of the time, the Hueys came in through the firing. A giant of a man with “Too Tall” printed in white ink on his helmet expertly piloted the one. Whatever chopper came in, they did their seemingly endless job of loading and unloading.
A lull fell on the battle, and in came the helicopters. They’d no more than landed when all hell broke loose again. Mortars hit nearby, and bullets flew like angry hornets from a fallen nest. They unloaded water, ammo, and grenades from one with a very small pilot and, as quickly as possible, began to fill the cargo area with the wounded. They had just finished loading a large, unconscious man in when Tom felt a horrifying pain in his groin. He looked down to see shreds of his pants and lots of blood. “I’m hit!”
