by Morris Ray
Badolati up and began to move up the ridgeline while McKeith covered for him. He and McKeith took turns assisting Badolati, who was weak and deteriorating quickly. Just like a bloodhound on a hot trail, their pursuers weren’t about to give up; they stayed close, sporadically peppering them with fire. Huston handed off a CS grenade to McKeith, who tossed it behind into the direct path of their pursuers. The blast slowed the pursuit for a few valuable minutes.
Into the An Loa Valley. L to R: MSG Wiley Gray (WIA), SFC Cecil Hodgson (KIA), SSG Billy McKeith, SSG Frank Badolati (MIA), SSG Ronald Terry (MIA). (Photo courtesy of Jim Spooner)
Listening intently for the sounds of aircraft, but hearing only the persistent buzz of flies, Wiley Gray contemplated his situation in a patch of elephant grass. In the confusion, he and the others had become separated from Huston at the rock wall, and he had no idea where they were. Being the senior man in his small group, he felt a heavy responsibility to ensure they all made it out alive. Since their split from Huston, Badolati and McKeith, he’d become disoriented, the brush and trees making it difficult to determine their exact location. As soon as he felt safe to stand and shoot a couple azimuths with his compass, he’d be able to use his map to intersect some prominent terrain features. Once he knew where they were, he could find their predestined rendezvous point.
By late afternoon, although they’d been able to evade the enemy, it was apparent the Viet Cong and NVA units were concentrated; he wondered how long his small group could hold out against these odds. Only he and Terry were armed with M-16 rifles because Hodgson’s had been lost when Badolati was wounded. Hodgson had only his 9mm pistol, and they were all critically low on ammunition. The outcome didn’t look promising, but they’d been in these situations before. Gray knew if they kept their heads, and reached an opening where a helicopter or FAC could be flagged down with their florescent orange panels or a flare, they could make it out alive. Unfortunately, the NVA also knew they’d be looking for a clear LZ and had been covering the one they selected.
Master Sergeant Wiley W. Gray was a lanky but athletic 6′2″. Moviestar handsome with a devastating smile, he could’ve stepped out of a Special Forces recruitment poster. But with his two friends, thousands of miles from home, he’d been precariously evading a determined foe trying their level best to kill him. Actually, this was right where he wanted to be—well, perhaps not precisely at this moment, but with his Delta buddies, doing what they all did. He’d had several chances to leave, but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Not yet. So, here he was, in a predicament. He glanced at Ron Terry seemingly dozing in the grass beside him.
Gray suppressed a grin, thinking here we are, deep in enemy territory, with thousands of Ho Chi Minh’s boys scouring the bushes dead-set on killing us, without any communication, very little ammo and only a slight chance of getting out alive...and these two guys are catching forty winks. What a bunch! No, he couldn’t be anywhere else.
At the stone wall after being overwhelmed by the second VC attack, Wiley Gray and Ron Terry returned fire, depleting most of their magazines. They noticed Hodgson, rapidly firing his pistol, moving west up the hill away from the wall. In the confusion, both he and Terry thought he’d been tailing the rest of the team, so they followed. Only after fifteen minutes of brisk movement, when they stopped to catch their breath, did they discover the team had split. Gray didn’t blame Hodgson. He’d probably have done the same if armed only with a pistol.
Later, Hodgson would remark, “Hell, the bad guys have guns that are accurate for more than five-hundred yards. Mine shoots about fifty—give me another rifle and I’ll hang around.”
Within minutes of leaving the rock barrier, intense firing could be heard 500 meters north; they presumed the others were being extracted under fire. At least they hoped so. Badolati needed a doctor quickly if he was to survive. Concluding they were completely on their own and without radio communications, they continued westerly before reaching a trail junction. A recently dug firing position situated above, commanded a good field of fire in both directions. They took a vote, unanimously agreeing to wait there in the event more of their team had scattered and would join them. They waited several hours; Gray knew they had to move soon.
Suddenly, Gray caught movement down the trail. He slipped the safety off his M-16 as two VC appeared, passing them by a mere five yards. One wore a lightweight “Delta” style poncho. Gray figured it belonged to one of his team, wondering if they’d taken it from a body, or found a discarded rucksack dumped while running. Suppressing a surge of anger, he watched them pass without alerting Terry and Hodgson. He hoped they had outrun their pursuers, but seeing these two convinced him otherwise. Motionless, he pondered alternatives.
The evening before, at about 1900 hours, they decided to head south, toward their designated emergency pickup point. They advanced until it became too dark to see. Through the night they picked up the sounds of troop movements and barking dogs—trackers. Sensing their route to the south was blocked, at first light they struck out westerly toward an alternate pickup point, traveling at a brisk pace for two hours. A hundred yards beyond a trail, they encountered a thick patch of five-foot tall elephant grass. The grass would give them ground cover, yet permit visibility from the air, should an aircraft fly overhead. They remained in the grass, hoping someone would be looking for them.
From their position, lying within an arm’s reach of each other, Gray could observe the trail running north and south. Suddenly startled from his speculation by a small sound behind, he couldn’t turn for fear of detection. Within a few moments a small enemy force moved right on past them, and except for the sounds of birds, total silence. In late afternoon, Gray again was alerted by a slight sound from his right rear. Slowly turning his head, he observed three VC, dressed in black, lying prone. Four others in khaki stood only a few feet away. By their demeanor, he discerned they weren’t going anywhere soon, and as close as they were, it would only be a matter of time before the team was detected. He tapped SGT Terry on his left leg. Instantly alert, Terry opened his eyes then tapped Hodgson. Gray silently indicated they were all to fire together. He rose to his knee, simultaneously firing his M-16 on full automatic. Four were hammered down immediately, but the two remaining stood their ground and returned fire.
“I’m hit!”
It was Terry. He held his right side, the blood oozing between his fingers. His body shook viciously as he took more rounds, then he lay silent. Fighting back rage, he checked Terry and confirmed he was dead. Glancing around hurriedly, Gray couldn’t see Hodgson, thinking he could have fired and then quickly moved. Gray knew that he too must move; the VC knew his location and more would come. He scurried about twenty yards deeper into the elephant grass and dropped, facing the rear, waiting in ambush for the VC who were sure to follow. Pistol shots rang out across the trail, then loud gasps, followed by three more rounds from an M-16 rifle—and silence. The pistol shots sounded like a 9mm, which could have been Hodgson’s. The M-16 shots might have come from the one the VC recovered from Terry’s body. Resigned, Gray acknowledged that Terry and Hodgson were probably both dead, and that he was on his own. At the least, he hoped Huston and McKeith had gotten Badolati out.
* * * * * *
Huston, McKeith and the mortally wounded Badolati, continued south toward their emergency pickup point. Encountering another stream bed, they used it to cover their trail, hoping to throw off the tracker dogs. Once, they observed a helicopter farther up the valley, and watched helplessly as thirty to forty enemy troops moved from their cover to fire on it. Because these men were all well-armed with AK-47 automatic weapons, equipped with web gear and wearing tan caps with yellow stars, Huston knew they were NVA. That fact didn’t bode well for getting out alive. Within minutes of the helicopter taking fire, Badolati suddenly stopped and dropped to one knee.
“I’m done. Can’t go...any further, guys,” he gasped, obviously depleted and in great pain. “Leave me here...get the hell out.”
“No way,” Huston replied grimly, scanning the trail behind them. “We’re all getting out.”
“Please....”
“No.”
Huston and McKeith selected a position with a good field of fire, three feet up the steep creek bank on a bend in the stream. It was fairly well concealed, offering good cover with shrubs and small boulders. Positioning themselves on either side of their wounded friend, they laid out extra magazines and all their grenades, planning to take a few tormentors with them. It was the only thing they could do. Badolati couldn’t go on, and they wouldn’t leave him. They were out of options. There was a slight chance if they could kill sufficient numbers of them, the others just might pull back and leave them alone. It was their only plan and hope.
After nearly three hours, around 1600 hours, Badolati was still breathing but appeared near death. All they could do was to check on him every few minutes and pray for a miracle. Unfortunately, that miracle never came. When Huston knelt to check him around 1730 hours, it was clear Frank Badolati had succumbed to his injuries. Saddened by the lost of their friend, yet relieved his suffering had ended, the two friends hid his body near a prominent terrain feature so it could be found later. With heavy hearts, they moved out once more toward the south. Stopping only after it became too dark to travel, they each took turns sleeping and watching. At first light they resumed their trek, traversing the difficult terrain continuously from 0600 until 1500 before pausing on an elephant grass-covered hill. They hoped to be spotted from the air. No sooner than they dropped to rest, the distant drone of an aircraft shook them from their foggy exhaustion. After five passes to the south the FAC pilot inexplicably headed toward their location; he’d spotted their orange panel. They prayed he was calling for a helicopter evacuation.
Within minutes, firing broke out 500 meters down the hill. Believing the enemy had found them again, and they were under yet another attack, Huston and McKeith contemplated running, but then, as if they could read each other’s minds, they silently agreed this was where they would make their stand. If they ran, the choppers would never be able to find them in the dense vegetation. The sound of others returning enemy fire became apparent; their shouting drifted up to them. Huston figured it just might be the other three men from his patrol.
He and McKeith discussed going to the aid of the besieged men, but Huston decided to first bring the chopper in, and then to try to locate and rescue their teammates. None stood a chance of making it out without the helicopter. Upon hearing it approach from the south, Huston popped red smoke. The chopper came in low, hovered and picked them up without a shot fired. Safely inside, he told the pilot and door gunners to do a fly-by to see if they could spot anyone else from the location where they’d last heard firing. The chopper began to receive fire from concealed enemy gunners, but the door gunners returned it with a devastating volley, quickly silencing them. After several fly-bys, it became apparent none of the others could be spotted from the air. Huston reported the firefight to the Tactical Operations Center along with his assessment that it might have been the rest of his team. He urged a reaction force to locate them, but Delta’s Ranger Battalion was extended beyond its capacity— this time it would be up to the 1st Cav Division.
The dense, triple-layer canopy affected team infiltration and extraction
* * * * * *
Back at the FOB, efforts were underway to get the 1st Cav to agree to reinforce the teams and get them out. Their argument seemed simple. Delta supported the Division; it was reasonable that they would help. Besides, the arrangement had been mutually agreed upon from the very first. The Cav Operations Officer refused; the weather too bad, the enemy too strong and their location unknown.
As the weather cleared, Beckwith mobilized all remaining SF resources in the base camp. While smaller than what was needed for such a rescue attempt, it was everything available under his control. Beckwith would personally lead the reaction force to rescue the teams. His rationale was that if he went in, his deputy, CPT “Bo” Baker, could use his presence to leverage the 1st Cav Command to make the rescue. His landing force immediately came under intense fire while still on the LZ, so in addition to having Beckwith’s teams in grave danger, his reaction force was pinned down by a far superior enemy force. The operation deteriorated so quickly that Beckwith urged his pilot to land so he could join in. Eager to be in the fray, Beckwith was wounded by a .51 caliber round as he jumped from the hovering craft, shot in the stomach. The round passed through him, wounding his door gunner. Terry “Rolex” Morrone had been assigned as Beckwith’s radio man, and was with him when he got hit. He put his Commander back onto the chopper for evacuation, noting he looked near death. The helicopter had taken so many hits there was speculation about how it ever made it back to the FOB. Beckwith nearly died several times while being treated, but survived, though his injuries were so serious that he had to be medically evacuated to the States.
Beckwith’s ploy to get the Cav to react also failed. Exhausting all options, Baker asked the Delta staff manning the FOB for volunteers to reinforce Beckwith’s element. Of the twenty-one men available—all volunteered. In their urgency to run for the choppers, grab rifles and extra ammunition, the Americans noticed several Nungs had joined in.
One Delta NCO recalled, “I remember the young, Nung private seated beside me on the chopper as we went into that hot LZ. He didn’t have a clue. He just saw us all running toward the choppers in a state of emergency, armed to the teeth, and he reacted the same as most did, joining their American friends for whatever lie ahead.” Project Delta members always had high praise for the Nungs—they were fine soldiers.
Under fire, the small reaction force inserted in a nearby rice paddy. They managed to make it to the base of the hill, reaching one element who had managed to fend off attacks since landing with Beckwith’s force. Despite heavy fire, they carried the wounded back for extraction. One of the rescuers later said, “By the time we got back, Luke Thompson, the team medic at Bong Son, was helping Morrone place Charlie Beckwith on a chopper. He’d taken a round through his abdomen, side to side. I didn’t think he’d make it, but was very glad to hear differently. He’d been standing in the doorway at low altitude, waiting to jump when they hit him. We should’ve never been there. The weather was too bad for air support, we didn’t have the reaction support from the Cav and we couldn’t get the teams out once they were hit. But you know Beckwith—he’s crazy. What the hell was he doing, going in that way? And, I couldn’t believe the goddamned 1st Cav wouldn’t even go in to help us. I mean shit—we were working for them in the first place. Supposedly all the support requirements had been worked out in advance, but when it came right down to nittygritty show time, they didn’t have what it took!”
In retrospect, this was pent-up frustration speaking, for the 1st Cav had provided flawless support to Delta many times, and although the 1st Cav ground elements were among the finest combat troops in Vietnam, this operation had been orchestrated by conventionally trained staff officers with little experience with Special Operations troops, or how they should be used. From that point on, when the chips were down, Delta decided they could only depend upon Delta.
* * * * * *
Resigned he would probably never make it beyond his patch of elephant grass, Gray decided he’d at least make it costly for his enemies. Hope briefly drifted toward him on the whooping blades of a helicopter overhead, and the welcome sound of automatic fire as its M-60s opened up on the NVA’s position. The enemy popped a few rounds, but it seemed their hearts weren’t in it and they soon ceased firing to withdraw into the jungle seeking better concealment. Gray later learned it was the helicopter rescuing Huston and McKeith, but he wasn’t in a position to pop smoke or display his orange panel—the close proximity of the NVA precluded him from trying to gain the pilot’s attention. His heart sank as the chopper’s lonely drone faded into the dark evening sky. Lying motionless, scarcely daring to breathe, Gray listened to the sounds of t
he enemy as they chopped litter poles to carry off their dead and wounded. Despite his situation, he fought back a smile. That door gunner must have really kicked their ass.
Gray decided to remain where he was, hoping they would leave once finished with their chore. He also prayed the chopper had spotted him and would soon return. Alas, it did not, and alas, the VC weren’t yet through with their search. Five NVA soldiers appeared only a few feet from his position, their approach secretive and deliberate. He cut loose, depleting a magazine, and watched as they crumpled into a bloody heap. He dived and rolled thirty feet, paused, breathlessly waiting to either return fire or expecting an outright assault.
By late afternoon the steamy jungle temperature and blazing sun were intense. He fought back a desire to drink some of his precious water, and waited; soaked tiger fatigues stuck to his skin and a river of sweat stung his eyes. Several stressful minutes passed before a slight movement jolted him once more. His crushed grass path was leading them straight to him. As he watched two khaki-clad NVA soldiers move along his earlier route, his heart beat so loudly he was amazed they couldn’t hear him. He let them advance to within six feet of his position, then cut them down with a burst from his M-16. A larger group of VC farther up the hill immediately opened fire, their rounds clipping at the grass overhead. Well aware it was much too dangerous to remain, Gray rolled again, tumbled a short distance and then set another ambush. He was desperately thirsty, but didn’t dare drink what little water he had; he never knew when he’d find more. Less than ten minutes had elapsed when two more khaki-clad soldiers came into view, following his flattened path. As before, he let them get within six feet before he killed them.
