by Morris Ray
They traveled on for thirty minutes, when, without warning, they broke into a fifty-by-twenty-yard clearing, devoid of any underbrush, but littered with large rocks, three to four feet in diameter. The precarious terrain and poor weather made concentrated listening nearly impossible. Webber halted the patrol for a five-minute break and to check activity. The order of march had been SSG Hiner, on point, then Hancock, Webber, Cook, Dotson and Hoagland. In this sequence they entered the open area, settling into a hasty defensive position. Immediately, the jungle vibrated with automatic weapons fire from only a few yards away.
Webber heard a yell, “Sonofabitch!” followed by a loud groan.
The undergrowth was too thick for them to see their adversary, but it was only moments before they’d taken a deadly toll on the small patrol.
Hiner had estimated the enemy to be platoon-sized, twenty to thirty men. When the firing first broke out, Hoagland, Hancock, Cook and Webber were hit almost instantly. Hoagland, the most seriously wounded, lay motionless after the initial burst. Webber watched as he crumpled onto his back, but was left with an impression that he was still alive. Hancock died instantly. Cook took a round in his back and fell forward; he called out that he couldn’t move his legs. Though badly wounded, he remained lucid enough to pour deadly fire into the enemy’s position.
Webber’s left arm had been shattered below the elbow; it was useless, so he continued to fire using only one hand. Hiner and Dotson were the only two unscathed by the initial burst. While under intense fire, Hiner scurried to the top of a small rise to better blanket the area. Cook, paralyzed, called out for Hiner to return, to retrieve the radio from his rucksack. As Hiner started back, Webber, despite his critical wounds, covered him, suppressing enemy fire long enough for him to reach Cook’s position. He dropped beside Cook, who, although mortally wounded, continued to steadily fire his M-16. Retrieving the radio from Cook’s backpack, Hiner crawled to Webber’s position behind a large rock to attempt radio contact.
Hiner worked the radio while Webber, dragging his useless arm, crawled forward, past Cook, to a point where his fire would be more effective on the enemy’s position. Hiner got the radio to work, answered almost immediately by a C-47 aircraft in the area. After Webber assumed his new position near Cook, Hiner called on Dotson to occupy his previous position on the small hill. Dotson grinned, gave him thumbs up, but had only advanced ten feet before hit in the chest; he fell, killed instantly.
The C-47 aircraft Hiner had contacted relayed their information to a FAC, piloted by USAF Captain Kenneth L. Kerr, call sign “Robin One.” Kerr called Hiner immediately, requesting the team’s location; Hiner provided his coordinates and a quick summary of their situation. Robin One replied that he had two Huey gunships en-route to their location.
“Hang on,” Kerr told him. “Just a little while longer.”
Clouds frequently obscured the mountains of the Central Highlands making low-altitude flying treacherous, attempted only in dire circumstances by the most experienced pilots. The visibility had become so poor that Robin One had to lead in the gunships. Hiner threw a yellow smoke canister but they couldn’t see it—then a red one. He heard the FAC pass low through the swirling clouds.
“I see it,” Robin One finally reported. “Where do you want it?”
“Just put your stuff fifty meters around this clearing,” Hiner replied. “There aren’t any good guys further out than that.”
During this time, the VC firing continued, heavy to sporadic. After the gunships made one pass, the firing briefly paused, only to commence again—this time, heavily from every direction. The team was effectively surrounded. Hiner surmised the VC knew the recon team would be trying to get out, so they’d be intent on inflicting as much damage as possible, or in capturing them before a rescue could be made. Growing desperate, he demanded the FAC have the gunships make a pass through the middle of the team’s position. After initial resistance they agreed, and although he and Webber remained down, Hiner had been hit in the head by shrapnel from their fire and was barely conscious. Weak and lightheaded, his ears ringing, he heard the FAC advising him the gunships were out of ordnance and they’d be leaving, but others were on the way.
“Hang on,” Robin One urged.
“You keep saying that.”
“Can you make it to an LZ?” Robin One inquired.
“Negative. We’re all either dead or wounded so badly we can’t move. See if you can get some napalm next to this position. Maybe it’ll burn an LZ,” Hiner said. He felt himself growing weaker.
The FAC garbled something about B-57s being in the pass, or something entirely unrelated, but Hiner, dizzy from shock and blood loss, couldn’t comprehend what he was saying.
“The ceiling isn’t high enough for the fast-movers to come in this low,” he recalled the FAC saying, as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He realized it pertained to them being afraid they might collide in mid-air.
“Can you find a reaction force that will come in to get us? We can’t move,” Hiner mumbled. He felt instant panic as he wondered where his rifle was, and then realized it was still in his hands. He shook his head, trying to clear it.
Heavy small arms fire erupted at the southeast corner of the clearing. Hiner informed the FAC that he thought they might be overrun at any moment. There were still no gunships in the area. The FAC, despite having no ordnance on board, decided to buzz the area to fool the VC into believing air cover was still overhead, forcing their heads down until the gunships arrived. It was clearly a gutsy maneuver for a small, unarmed, fixed-wing aircraft, yet on more than one occasion the FACs had put their lives on the line to get recon teams out of trouble. They knew these guys; they considered it all in a day’s work.
Webber, huddled near Cook, suddenly shouted, “Grenade!”
He fired off a quick burst at a man wearing a red star on his baseball cap; hammering him backward. Although the grenade was of the old “potato masher” type and didn’t have the bursting radius of the U.S. variety, Webber still decided to retreat from the edge of the clearing. As he passed Cook, he picked him up with his one good arm and carried him to the rock where Hiner waited beside the radio. Cook was alive but unable to speak, his eyes glazed from pain and shock.
Webber injected him with a shot of morphine and watched as relief washed over his features. Then he gave one to himself. Webber was weak from shock and blood loss, yet kept watch as Hiner wrapped a field dressing around his shattered arm. Pale and ready to pass out, Webber was fading quickly. Hiner hoped he’d remain conscious; there were only the two of them left in case the enemy charged their position. Hiner looked up at the roar overhead—the gunships were back.
“Give me some smoke,” one of the pilots radioed.
“I’m out of smoke grenades,” Hiner replied. “Wait.”
Under intense fire, he staggered to the position where Hancock had fallen, retrieved a smoke canister from his dead comrade’s backpack, then returned, pulled the pin and flipped it behind him.
“Hit everything within fifty meters of the smoke...360 degrees, all around.”
Simultaneously, gunships came from four directions. The one approaching from the east misjudged his path and strafed the team’s position, right down the middle. Hiner and Webber huddled together behind the rock, saving them. Hiner recollected that he didn’t know if Cook had been killed during that run, or if he’d died earlier, but when they checked, he’d stopped breathing. They were both certain their time had come—they were out of options and lacked strength to fight much longer. All they could hope for was that, those nasty gunships would kill the enemy.
Through a deepening haze, Hiner heard the FAC speak, advising someone that the whole team was either wounded or dead, but needed help ASAP. As his mind became sluggish he couldn’t tell if the conversation had actually happened—he didn’t care. In a panic, he couldn’t find his rifle trigger and then relaxed as he located it. He vaguely wondered how many rounds might be in his magazine; he d
idn’t have the strength to check.
“Stay with me, Recon. The reaction force is on the way,” the FAC said, his voice cutting through Hiner’s fog.
Hiner may have mumbled something in reply—he couldn’t remember. All of them had been in tough spots before, but with Webber so weak from blood loss that he could barely remain upright, and his own disorientation from his head wound, they’d given up hope of getting out of it this time. Hiner suddenly realized how silent it had become. All firing had ceased and the two men’s eyes locked. Each silently wondered if the VC might be crawling toward their position. While they could only pray the VC had had enough of the gunships and pulled back, they really didn’t believe it. Using grit and determination, Hiner used his rifle to pull himself up. His legs wobbling, he quickly scanned the edge of the clearing for enemy activity, then impervious to any surrounding danger, moved among the bodies of his fallen brothers, checking each for signs of life, collecting any ammunition they hadn’t had the chance to fire. Webber was awake and lucid when he returned to the relative safety of the large rock, but just barely. He and Hiner prepared themselves for the end. They laid out all their ammunition and grenades, checked their loads and settled in to wait for the enemy assault, convinced it was inevitable. It could come again at any moment, but they were as ready as possible. The two men agreed they wouldn’t be leaving alive, but when the VC came back, hell would be waiting for them.
Hiner radioed the FAC with what he figured would be his final report. He listened as the FAC resumed his urgent call for any reaction force that could hear him. Hiner drifted off briefly, then came back, dizzy and nauseous. He heard the FAC saying, “Come in Recon. Answer me! Hold on. The reaction force is on the way.”
“Better hurry. Tell them to drop a rope ladder on top of us,” Hiner said groggily. “We won’t be going anywhere.”
Photo taken by SFC Webber before insertion into An Loa Valley. L to R: SSG Donald Dotson (KIA), SFC Jesse Hoagland (KIA), SFC Marlin Cook (KIA), SFC Jesse Hancock (KIA), SSG Charles Hiner (WIA). (Photo courtesy of Jim Spooner)
Instantly, the FAC came back on. He related that 1LT Guy Holland and his Rangers were on the ground, within 300 meters of their location. He told Hiner to throw smoke and then fire three shots in the air so Holland could locate his position. Hiner feebly threw the smoke while Webber fired three times; it was all the strength they had left. A 1st Air Cav gunship nosed its way into the clearing and hovered above them, standing guard while guiding the Delta reaction force in. Hiner looked up once, saw the chopper pilot grin and give him thumbs up. It was the only moment Hiner felt he and Webber might actually get out alive. He recalled the helicopter pilot also pointed in the direction of the reaction force and within ten minutes, 1LT Holland’s Rangers broke through the trees. Jesse Hancock, Donald Dotson, Marlin Cook and George Hoagland all died that day in the jungle clearing. Charles Hiner and Frank Webber eventually recovered from their wounds.
Webber, initially transported to a hospital ship then returned to the States, said, “Staff Sergeant Hiner continuously exposed himself to enemy automatic fire to recover that radio, and then, although wounded in the head, he directed air strikes around and on our position throughout the conflict. I feel that without Hiner’s heroic actions, none of us would’ve come back.” Hiner sufficiently recovered to run more recons, and for his actions in An Loa Valley he received the Bronze Star for valor. Many believed his award inadequate.
NINE
“Greater Love Has No Man Than
This, That He Lay Down His
Life for His Friends.”
- John 15:13
RECON TEAM-3 (ROAD RUNNER) WAS ALREADY on the ground while Hiner’s and Webber’s patrol was being decimated. They had infiltrated at dusk on 27 January, with SFC Marcus L. Huston leading the patrol. With him were MSG Wiley W. Gray, SFC Cecil J. Hodgson, SSG Billy A. McKeith, SSG Ronald T. Terry and SSG Frank Badolati. The weather was poor and deteriorating as the chopper dropped them off and then disappeared into the evening’s fading light. Once on the ground, Huston led out rapidly. He kept the team moving for 200 meters before deciding the terrain was too rough, and the darkness made it impossible to travel further. They set up a cold camp in the rain, made radio contact with the FOB and waited anxiously for daylight. At daybreak, the patrol proceeded northeast until it hit a trail adjacent to a small stream. Moving higher up the ridge, from this new vantage point they observed fresh dirt piles beside the trees. Huston posted Hodgson twenty meters further down and the others off to one side so they wouldn’t be surprised from the rear. Respecting Frank Badolati’s experience and jungle-tested knowledge, Huston took him along to gather intelligence and to search for recently prepared bunkers. They discovered the hill saturated with firing positions—it was clear the dirt was fresh.
Huston and Badolati had just returned to rejoin the team, when Hodgson suddenly opened fire from his position below them. Huston immediately pulled him back as he and Badolati covered Hodgson’s withdrawal with automatic fire. Although unsure of the effectiveness of their own fire, they discovered Hodgson had killed the first two VC in the file, wounding at least another. After detecting voices and hasty movements behind them, Huston instructed his team to move out rapidly, cross the stream and quickly get up the other hill while he covered their rear. If they were being chased, Huston couldn’t tell, so he rejoined the team within a few minutes. Realizing their situation was desperate, he sought a defensible location where he could use the radio. Exposed, his mission already compromised, Huston decided to ask for immediate extraction.
Continuing slowly and cautiously, they noticed the hill was saturated with individual fighting positions and machinegun posts. Woven baskets, food and hanging clothing all indicated the area was still occupied; they realized they were in the midst of a large, unidentified NVA unit. Whispering urgently, Huston told the others not to pick up anything for fear it might be booby-trapped. Their senses tingled as they made their way through the danger zone. Huston knew they were in grave trouble, but he was determined to get his team out as quickly as possible.
Terry, bringing up the rear, moved forward and whispered, “There’s a large bunch of ‘em coming up on us fast. I saw maybe thirty or forty moving up the trail behind us.”
Huston’s fears were justified, and they’d have to move fast to evade their pursuers. The team traveled briskly for a couple of hours, hoping to locate a good spot to stop, make radio contact and request extraction. All but giving up on finding a defensible position, Huston finally called for a break on the side of a heavily wooded hill to attempt radio contact. They paused less than five minutes when a hail of gunfire rained down on them, from not more than fifty meters above. Badolati was instantly hit in the left upper arm with a force that nearly severed it. The impact knocked him past Huston, but he was able to maintain his foothold and continued downhill, through the trees. Simultaneously, just as Badolati was struck, a round knocked Hodgson’s rifle from his hands with such force that he landed on his back. Stunned, he blankly stared up at Huston.
“You hit?” Huston asked, calmly firing uphill.
“No.”
“Well? Move out then!”
Huston, McKeith and Gray ferociously returned fire, forcing the enemy to seek cover. He motioned the team to move farther down the hill, remaining behind to cover their withdrawal. Then he and Billy McKeith leapfrogged, covering each other until they could break contact. Hodgson, his rifle blown from his hands, was armed with only a 9mm pistol; Huston told him to assist Badolati, who, with his severed arm dangling precariously, was in severe pain. Badolati asked for morphine, and in the coming hours he received four more doses. Although it failed to completely diminish his pain, he never complained.
Huston planned to move north, then west beyond their operational area, then again to the south to re-enter near their emergency rendezvous point. They managed to continue 200 hundred meters without further enemy contact—then hit a rock wall approximately three-feet high and e
ighteen-inches thick. It would provide a good barrier to attend to Badolati’s arm, as well as a stronger defensive position if still being chased, and he felt certain they were. In any event, he hoped the wall’s concealment would allow the team to hurt their pursuers badly enough that they’d break off, permitting more time to reach a suitable extraction LZ. Just as they settled into their new location, a hail of fire came from the woods behind; everyone immediately returned fire. This firing continued for several minutes, both sides pouring fusillades into the other’s position. Deafening grenade concussions shook the ground. Through all the smoke and confusion, Huston suddenly realized three members of his team were missing; Wiley Gray, Ron Terry and Cecil Hodgson. Only he, McKeith and Badolati remained behind the wall of stone. Huston sprayed the area with a long burst of automatic fire, helped
