by Phil Ball
In memory of Donald Schuck, “Sal,” “Tex,”
and all the guys from Fox Company,
2nd Battalion, 3rd Marines, 1968–1969.
Ghosts and Shadows
A Marine in Vietnam, 1968–1969
PHIL BALL
McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers
Jefferson, North Carolina
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGUING DATA ARE AVAILABLE
BRITISH LIBRARY CATALOGUING DATA ARE AVAILABLE
e-ISBN: 978-1-4766-2484-6
©1998 Phil Ball. All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Cover images © 2012 Thinkstock
McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers
Box 611, Jefferson, North Carolina 28640
www.mcfarlandpub.com
Acknowledgments
First of all, though he is no longer with us on earth, I would like to thank Donald Phillip Schuck. Although our paths crossed only briefly, the impact was great. Don, you were always there for me. I only wish I could have been there for you when you needed me most: May 28, 1968.
Special thanks to the Rev. Ray Stubbe. Without you, Ray, this book wouldn’t have been possible.
Thank you to all my brothers from Fox 2/3, living and dead. You are the greatest.
Thanks also to those who provided access to important sources. Fred Graboski of the USMC archives provided me with battalion command chronologies, April 1968 through May 1969, as well as “F” company rosters and unit diaries. Rev. Ray Stubbe’s Khe Sanh file provided the in-field interview with Lt. J. Jones, May 29, 1968 (see Appendix); the award citations of “F” Co. Marines from Foxtrot Ridge; the Operation Scotland II sit reps and spot reports; the bomb damage reports; and “The Marines in Vietnam, 1954–1973.”
Personal or telephone interviews with the following men were invaluable for the information and personal support they provided: Robert “Hillbilly” Croft, Joe Quinn, Mark Woodruff, Kevin Howell, Dave Kinsella, Mike Atwood, Lou Rociola, Harold Blunk and “Pappy” Torrence. My apologies if I left anyone out.
Regrets: Freddy “Chico” Rodriguez died, 1994, New York.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction
1. Enlistment
2. Welcome to Vietnam
3. The Bush
4. First LP and Patrol
5. Gunny Franks
6. Foxtrot Ridge
7. It Hits the Fan
8. The Battle Continues
9. Leatherneck Square
10. Hot LZ, Friendly Fire
11. Malaria, Cam Lo River Basin
12. Mutter’s Ridge
13. Mai Loc, Tokyo, Da Nang, Mai Loc
14. Ashau Valley, Sleepwalking
15. The World (Epilogue)
Appendix A: Marine Corps Field Interview on the Events at Foxtrot Ridge
Appendix B: Awards, KIA, and Other Statistics of Foxtrot Ridge
F 2/3 Roster— May 1968, Foxtrot Ridge
Military History: Phil Ball
List of Names and Terms
Introduction
The 1968 Tet Offensive and the Khe Sanh Siege are widely recognized as bloody, brutal battles of the war in Vietnam, with extremely high casualty rates among United States servicemen. It was the months that followed the January–February enemy attacks, however, that saw the highest American casualties of the war. This book is a factual accounting of the time I spent in Vietnam, April 1968 through May 1969, a period of time that has become known as the bloodiest year of the war.
We called ourselves “grunts” because we were tough enough to handle anything; we were Marine Corps infantrymen, not more than 18 or 19 years old. Just your typical kids next door, we were sent to the other side of the world to fight a war that nobody wanted in the first place. Before the war I had never heard of this strange little country, much less known where it was, but when 400–500 Americans were being killed every week by a group of people known as—I thought—Communist gorillas, I felt it was my duty to join up.
My Vietnam experience included a small group of close-knit buddies from small towns and big cities all over the United States who also felt a strong sense of duty. After a very short time in country, however, disillusionment and resentment set in over how our leaders expected us to fight a so-called “limited war,” with one hand tied behind our back. The strong sense of duty was soon replaced with the individual desire just to survive. Duty to country was replaced by duty to one another, and we formed up to help each other make it through a very difficult and dangerous time.
Unlike our fathers’ wars, when soldiers were in “for the duration,” we knew from the day we arrived exactly when we would be going back home. This rotation system made for shorter times spent in the war zone—12 months for Army, Navy, and Air Force, 13 months for Marines—but it tended to obliterate any sense of unit cohesiveness. It created an individual, more personalized war, where it no longer mattered so much what your outfit was doing because all that mattered was your own personal rotation date.
In the 20 years between the time I came home from Vietnam in 1969 and my fortieth birthday in 1989, I did my best to try to forget the war and the terrible things that happened over there. I did not attempt to contact any of my old buddies, nor did I read anything related to Vietnam. I tried very hard to block it all out. The memories and nightmares returned on a regular basis, and I reached the point where I started using drugs and alcohol to numb the pain. The feelings of guilt and an overwhelming sense of impending doom kept coming back over and over, regardless of anything I tried. Eventually I was consumed with these bottled-up emotions, and I did not know what was wrong with me.
It wasn’t until 1989, when I finally went to the VA hospital and got clean and sober, that I learned I was suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). My entire life began to change for the better. I was told it might be helpful to write my feelings down as a way to rid myself of harassing thoughts and unwanted feelings from the past. I was also told, by the disability claim filing process, to write a detailed essay of a “near-death incident” I experienced in combat that might have been severe enough to cause PTSD.
I started writing, and it made me feel so much better that I haven’t stopped yet. I also began reading everything I could get my hands on that pertained to my particular era in Vietnam, and I became a student of the war. I obtained official records and documents out of the United States Marine Corps Archives in Washington, D.C., and I began locating and interviewing Vietnam vets who had served in my old unit.
I was somewhat disappointed in the lack of information that had been printed about my unit while I was over there, so I decided to write my own book and document our participation myself. All the dates and places are correct and most of the names are real, though without written permission I am unable to use certain people’s real names.
The 12-hour battle on May 28, 1968, known as Foxtrot Ridge, was by far the most significant encounter my unit had with the North Vietnamese Army (NVA). One hundred and twenty Marines of F Company, 2nd Battalion, 3rd Marines, defended a small, overnight position, 3,000 meters southeast of Khe Sanh Combat Base, against a reinforced NVA battalion numbering close to 500 troops.* I was a PFC with only one month in country, and this bloody fight was my baptism by fire. Thanks to the experience and bravery of my squadmates, I not only managed to survive, but I was able to participate in my own small way. I did not do anything that night that was terribly heroic, although there were indeed many individual acts of extreme courage
and bravery by those Marines close by.
I lost a good friend in that battle, Private Donald Phillip Schuck, and it was his untimely death that became the source of much of my guilt in the following years. Buddies since boot camp, we went to the Nam together and had planned to come home together. We were a team, brothers who were supposed to look out for one another, and I felt like I had let him down. Only after piecing together the events of that fateful night, and finding out that I could not have done anything to save him, was I finally able to put the issue to rest. I think the good Reverend Ray Stubbe, Navy chaplain at Khe Sanh during the infamous Siege of ’68 Tet, said it best when he wrote:
The painful memories are like emotional shrapnel, grinding away at you, deep under the skin. Whenever we move through life, this way or that, the pain may increase with various recollections. It oftentimes takes years, and professional help might be needed, but eventually it works its way to the surface and can be picked out and held in the hand. You are then free to do what you wish with it, and although it may still be there, it can no longer cause you any pain.
* On December 11, 1968, Fox 2/4 also fought an NVA battalion on the DMZ, with 13 Marines KIA and 31 WIA. The press was there the day after their battle. Pictures were taken and Marines were interviewed. The name “Foxtrot Ridge” was given to their hill and became the official Marine Corps title for F 2/4’s battle. Only the Marines in F 2/3, and a few from our sister companies E 2/3, G 2/3, and H 2/3, actually knew our May 28 battle by the name of Foxtrot Ridge. I make no attempt to lay claim to the name or to take anything away from the heroic efforts of F 2/4. I use the name because it has great personal meaning to the Marines of Fox 2/3.
Chapter 1
Enlistment
A lot of things were different 30 years ago, and military service selection was certainly no exception. The various military branches, Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines, need a lot of warm bodies when a war is going on. They will recruit anyone who is basically healthy, no matter what personality disorder or mental handicap one might suffer. A favorite technique used by Marine recruiters was to hang out in local courtrooms in search of young men facing jail time. Most judges were eager to cooperate and would release the troubled teen to the recruiter after an enlistment contract was signed. This procedure was not exactly conducive to getting the “cream of the crop” into a military uniform. In fact, it was just the opposite. Our ranks, for a large part, were the bottom-of-the-barrel, antisocial misfits, who for whatever reason weren’t hacking it in civilian life.
The draft was still in effect, and every 18-year-old male was expected to register within 30 days of his birthday. Those of us who weren’t going to college or otherwise couldn’t get excused, automatically went into one of the four branches of military service, and ultimately went to Vietnam.
Unlike today’s Army, a strong back and a weak mind were all that was needed to become a soldier. It didn’t matter if you couldn’t read or write, or if you had a felony or a police record, Uncle Sam wanted you.
My recruiter told me that I wouldn’t have to go to Vietnam unless I wanted to, and if I could get a buddy to join with me, I could have my choice of duty stations anywhere in the world. I figured that the Army was going to draft me anyway, so I might as well join the Marines; at least that way, I would have something to be proud of. The Army was looked upon as the worst bunch of misfits of all, but the Marines were tough misfits, and they had the elite reputation of being the best in the world.
It wasn’t difficult to talk a couple of my friends into joining with me, but one of them backed out at the last minute; after listening to his dad, he joined the Navy. Richie Stuerenberg and I shipped out to boot camp on November 8, 1967, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to take on the world. Instead of trying to get ourselves in shape or do something constructive with our last month as civilians, we partied like there was no tomorrow. Although neither of us really thought we would go to Vietnam, we still used it as an excuse to avoid all responsibility and seek sympathy from the teenage girls who hung around the local pool hall and bowling alley.
Neither Richie nor I had ever flown in a plane, much less clear across the country from Cincinnati to California. It was exciting for us at first, but it didn’t take long to realize we had gotten ourselves into something totally different from what we had expected. We knew that Marine Corps boot camp was going to be tough, but not in our wildest imaginations did we think it would be so utterly abusive. From the moment we stepped off the plane at L.A. International and were greeted by three extremely hostile Marine escorts, we felt like we had made the biggest mistake of our naïve young lives.
We were driven from Los Angeles to San Diego in a bus that resembled something you might transport prisoners in. The three maniacs in charge of getting us to Marine Corps Recruit Depot (MCRD) were merely a small indication of what was in store for us when we got there. They were not our drill instructors, but only “wannabes.” They screamed and yelled at us the whole trip, in what was to be the first step in the breaking down process.
I didn’t think anyone was suppose to hit us in training, but someone must have forgot to tell these escort chasers. One of them had a guy in a choke-hold, and another was punching him in the stomach. Richie and I caught the attention of these corporals somehow. They ran back to us and got right in Richie’s face. “You eye-fuckin’ me, boy? You think I’m pretty? Do you want to fuck me, faggot?”
It was obvious this guy was spoiling for a fight, and if we had been in a bar or out on the streets, Richie would have given him one. I hoped he wouldn’t jump up. Richie just sat there and smiled, a cynical shit-eating grin.
“What the fuck is so goddamn funny, you puke? Wipe that grin off your ugly face before I tear your goddamn head off and shit down your neck,” the corporal’s mouth was right against Richie’s nose. If I hadn’t been so scared I might have laughed; this guy really knew how to cuss and I admired that. Richie stopped smiling and stared straight ahead; just then a commotion broke out near the front of the bus and our two tormentors left us alone.
Once we got to the base I thought it was going to be different; maybe someone would take charge and start treating us like Marines: Wrong! Before we arrived at the recruit barracks, the bus wound through the well-lit streets where the officers lived on base with their families. Nice homes with manicured lawns, little white stones lined the sidewalks; it made me hopeful that someday maybe I would live like that. Right now all I wanted was a hot shower, maybe something to eat, a handful of aspirin, and a good night’s sleep because the trip and the Corps were already giving me a headache.
I didn’t really know what time it was. It felt like two or three o’clock in the morning. I was ragged out from the long flight and the previous night’s party. The bus rolled to a stop behind a large barracks and the door flew open. An intimidating figure wearing a Smokey the Bear hat boarded the bus and spoke to us with a booming voice. “All right, ladies, listen up. My name is Senior Drill Instructor Yerman*. I am a gunnery sergeant in the United States Marine Corps. When I say move, you will quietly and quickly pick up your gear and fall out on a pair of yellow footprints we have for you outside on the deck. No talking. No grab-assing around. Ready … move!”
As the line of recruits filed past him, one guy stopped to ask a question. The angry drill instructor pushed him off the bus, screaming and cursing at the top of his lungs. This was not going to be the reception I had hoped for.
A hundred pairs of yellow footprints, four rows of 25. Heels together, angled at 45 degrees, our first lesson on how to stand at attention. The gunny instructed us on boot camp protocol, making it very clear that this was not going to be a picnic. Another Smokey the Bear hat–wearing sergeant slowly stalked the ranks from behind. Not quite as large as Gunnery Sergeant Yerman, Drill Instructor Wetzel* still seemed much more dangerous. Yerman may have been intimidating, but Wetzel seemed to be outright mean, determined to make a lasting first impression. He smacked and punched nearly eac
h of us at least once, just to show us who was boss, and much to my dismay, not one of us dared challenge him or even remotely resist. It was a hopeless, helpless feeling that made me feel very insecure. Not a good way to start.
“You will not speak unless spoken to. You will do nothing without my permission. I will tell you what to do and when to do it. The first and last word out of your mouth will always be sir, and you will never, ever look me in the eye.”
We were herded four at a time through the barber shop for a 60-second haircut. It was sheep-shearing time in San Diego. The guys with long hair were harassed worse, but we got our share of abuse from everyone. My hair was long, plus I used a lot of greasy kid stuff. My barber threatened to kick my ass if his shears got gummed up.
After the haircuts we waited in a large room, naked, sitting at attention on the cool tile floor. The neon lights were so bright that the white guys looked blueish-purple. Sergeant Wetzel was somewhere behind me beating up anyone he could get his hands on. I didn’t want to get caught moving a muscle, so I moved only my eyes while searching the room for Richie. I looked carefully at every single recruit, but did not recognize my best friend sitting right next to me. As a matter of fact, I didn’t even recognize myself with a shaved head. There was a large mirror in the room, and at one point I stood in front of it with a dozen other guys, trying to figure out which one was me. Eventually I moved the toes on my right foot, ever so slightly, observing the movement in the mirror, thus identifying myself. It was scary how we all looked the same when our heads were shaved and we were naked.
