by Phil Ball
The office pogue said he didn’t want money. “I can put you guys both in Fox Company, right now under one condition. All I want is some kind of NVA souvenir, the first time you come across one. Right now Fox Company is working outside Khe Sanh, they’re finding all sorts of good shit up there, too. Just pick me up one of those NVA flags, or a belt, or something, and send word that you’ve got it. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“No problem, my friend, we’ll do it,” I reassured the wannabe that we would get his souvenirs. Don and I went to Fox Company, 2nd Battalion, 3rd Marines.
The supply tent was closed for the night, so the pogue escorted us back to our hooch, and told us to see him in the morning for our gear. We were anxious to get our weapons and did not feel safe without one, even for one night. The pogue told us there should be a couple extra M-16s in the hooch if we needed them, but he sarcastically doubted we would get overrun tonight.
Inside the 20-man tent, there were a dozen or so guys lounging around. We found a couple of empty cots and dropped our duffle bags. Nobody paid much attention to us, except to ask where we were from. FNGs were treated like they had the plague. We didn’t feel much like talking anyway, but I was interested in finding a little more out about Khe Sanh.
I didn’t know much about Vietnam at all, but the one place I did remember hearing about was Khe Sanh. It seemed like Khe Sanh was where all the action was, and in the winter months of 1967 and ’68, which was Tet, that’s all you heard about. Now, I knew that’s where I was going in a couple of days.
Don and I sat talking quietly for a while until a couple of salty-looking grunts came over and sat down with us. I wanted to know what to expect when I got out to the bush, and I started asking a lot of questions. After the first two guys got to talking, a couple more came over and joined in, adding their two-cents worth. It was as if these grunts couldn’t stop talking once they got started. I heard so many war stories that I didn’t know which ones to believe. They were passionate with their tales, but it seemed to me that they were exaggerating. If all they said was true, there wouldn’t be anyone still alive.
I wanted to know how close most of the fighting was, would the gooks be on one hill and we would be on another? How did that work? I was repeatedly told that most of the time, in fact 99.9 percent of the time, you’d never even see the enemy. They could shoot at you from 500 meters, or wait until you were right next to them. “You’ll smell the nasty little bastards long before you see them.” I was told about “spider traps,” and how the enemy often waited until you were right on top of them before they threw open the camouflaged trap door and started shooting. “They live underground and can tunnel right up to your position, that’s what happened at Khe Sanh, you know.”
We listened to war stories until we couldn’t keep our eyes open that night, but when we tried to go to sleep, we couldn’t really relax. Don and I lay there and talked about how we would have to stick together to survive this ordeal, and how we would watch each other’s backs at all times, no matter what. It seemed our chances of making it through the first few weeks weren’t too good at all. We were going to have to be both good and lucky.
Around 0330 we decided to get up and go outside for a smoke. The camp was quiet and serene. The night air was still and calm and not another living soul was stirring. Suddenly the peaceful atmosphere was abruptly interrupted by the screeching whistle of a low-flying object that soared right over our heads and then crashed into a wooden building about 200 meters away. A tremendous explosion accompanied by a bright fireball erupted, and my heart jumped into my throat. Before I could say anything, a second whistle came screaming toward us. I didn’t know it at the time, but these strange-sounding, highly explosive incoming rounds were NVA rockets, fired from a hilltop in the surrounding jungle.
I was stunned and inexperienced. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I hadn’t even noticed the big underground bunker next door to our hooch until I saw a line of partially dressed, frantic Marines all trying to squeeze through the narrow entrance at one time. Don and I got in line and started pushing and shoving our way to the front like everyone else, as the third and fourth rockets exploded closer to our location.
It was mass confusion, with everyone yelling and screaming in the dark. Marines were running around as if they had some place to go other than the bunker, and I couldn’t understand what they were doing. I wondered if I should be doing something too, but didn’t know what it should be.
I saw two guys run head-on into each other and crash to the ground, the smaller of the two unconscious. There were a lot of guys running around the corner of the hooch, where a three-foot metal stake stuck out of the ground. I watched at least four men run full speed into that deadly piece of iron. Each of them must have hurt himself badly.
Rockets were exploding somewhere else on the base too. I learned later that the airport suffered a lot of damage. I had no idea that the enemy was able to get so many of their large rockets close enough to pound Phu Bai, on what appeared to be a regular basis. I thought the war was out in the boonies, and I felt relatively safe in the rear. This incident showed me that if my number was up, it didn’t much matter where I was. It was becoming more clear to me already that simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time could get you killed as quickly as anything else. Luck was all it was.
The pushing and shoving became more violent as I got closer to the small doorway. When I got up to the bunker and began to bend over to go in behind Don, I was shoved from behind and lost my balance. I smacked my head against the steel I-beam supporting the roof, and I immediately collapsed to the ground, momentarily losing consciousness.
Guys were stepping on me and falling all over the place. They cursed at me to get the hell out of the way, but all I could seem to do was lie there and writhe in pain. Finally I pulled myself together and managed to crawl further into the dark bunker, hoping and praying the whole time that I wouldn’t have to deal with any more pain for a while.
I thought I heard an air raid siren and many more explosions outside the bunker as I writhed in excruciating pain, squirming and clutching my head there in the darkness. “What a way to start my very first night in Vietnam,” I thought. “If the next 395 days are anything like this one, I’ll never make it.” As the ground shook with each savage eruption, I could feel sand and debris falling on me from the ever-weakening roof. I managed to squeeze past the trembling bodies blocking my route, and I was suddenly grateful it was too dark for those I crawled over to recognize me. I was cursed pretty soundly, and told to stay still, but I kept going until I found the dirt bulkhead at the outer reaches of the shelter, where I proceeded to wait out the attack. I had enough time to think about what was happening, thus enough time to be horrified at the possibility of a direct hit. Should one of these rockets strike the top of the bunker directly, or perhaps explode close enough, tons of steel and sand bags would certainly collapse in on us and crush the dozens of bodies inside. A newspaper headline flashed before my eyes reading: “Phu Bai, Vietnam; Dozens found crushed to death under tons of rubble. At least two of the Marines had only one day in-country.”
I heard Don calling my name from the other side of the bunker. “Phil! Phil Ball! You in here, bro?”
I called back to him, but there was too much noise and chaos for him to hear me. He did not stop searching until he finally found me. It felt great to have a friend like Don looking out for me there. Even under such terrifying circumstances, he had the presence of mind to think of someone besides himself.
The all clear siren blew, and we all crawled out into the smoky night. Several hooches were on fire, including the two next to ours where the second rocket exploded. The most pressing question at hand was if anyone had been killed or wounded. The fires could be put out and the hooches rebuilt, but it was the loss of life that mattered more than anything else. I never did find out for sure if anyone was killed, but I did learn that part of the fuel depot and an ammo bunker over at the airport wer
e hit and consumed in a huge fire again.
Welcome to Vietnam.
Chapter 3
The Bush
My story really begins on the infamous road to Khe Sanh, “Old National Route #9,” which stretched 50 miles, from the lowlands in the east all the way out past LZ Hawk and into Laos (see map). Where the one-lane mountain dirt road twists and turns the most, about five miles before the Laotian border, the access road to Khe Sanh Combat Base (KSCB) jutted north from Route #9. At that tiny intersection, where an old concrete slab spanned the creek, I joined 3rd Platoon. Getting there was an experience in itself.
LZ Hawk was Fox Company’s Command Post (CP) and 2/3’s Battalion Field Headquarters. It was here that I really got my first look at the bush, also known as Indian country. Don and I made the all-day trip from Phu Bai in the bed of a two-and-a-half-ton truck (deuce and a half). It poured torrential rain, the whole way. The convoy seemed to stretch for miles: trucks, jeeps, tanks, armored personnel carriers (APCs), and smaller versions of tanks we called “ontos” that had six 106-mm recoilless rifles mounted on the turret. Because nobody told us what to do or what to expect, we had to stay alert the whole way. We certainly weren’t about to let ourselves get caught off guard.
We left Phu Bai early in the morning and wound our way through the nearly deserted streets of the city of Hue. This ancient city had once been the jewel of Southeast Asia and the capital of South Vietnam, but then it stood in rubble, destroyed in the ’68 Tet Offensive. In spite of the destruction, and the nearly empty streets, Don and I were still very excited to be there. I wanted to learn more about these strange, third-world people, but there would be no time for that. We were going where no civilians lived, to the darkest, most treacherous region in all of Vietnam.
After traveling on Highway #1 for about 40 miles, we passed through another city. It was Quang Tri, and like Hue, it was mostly destroyed. There was a large military installation here, similar to our own area farther south. In Quang Tri, the people came out to greet us. Hundreds of Vietnamese peasants, dressed in the traditional black silk pajamas and straw hats, lined both sides of the two-lane road.
Map showing Rt. 9, the road to Khe Sanh.
It made me feel a little like those guys in World War II must have felt when they liberated Europe, but I quickly realized that these people weren’t here to greet us at all. They were begging for anything we would throw to them. Food, cigarettes, candy, anything that would make their otherwise miserable lives a little easier.
These people, mostly refugees, had been uprooted from their villages and placed here to keep them out of the way. Their main livelihood was picking through our trash dumps and begging or stealing from G.I.’s. There were no jobs, except for the fortunate few who worked on the bases and were paid by the U.S. government. They lived in enormous ghettos like shanty towns that had sprung up around every military base in South Vietnam. Their homes were constructed out of whatever they could salvage—mostly cardboard boxes and pieces of tattered sheet metal. A piece of plywood larger than a few square feet quickly became a family heirloom. This degree of poverty was something I had never imagined in my wildest dreams. These people would do anything for a couple of dollars, including selling daughters into prostitution.
We passed through Quang Tri, hardly slowing down. Up the highway another 10 miles or so, we came to Dong Ha, another military installation. By just looking, you couldn’t tell the difference between these places; they all looked the same and the poverty was ever-present.
We had dropped a few trucks, some supplies, and personnel at Quang Tri, and we lost a few more at Dong Ha. We turned left onto Route #9 and headed west, passing through several smaller villages, protected by Vietnamese troops. I wondered how I would ever know the enemy when I saw him, because both friend and foe were the same race here. It became very difficult, and it made me nervous when I saw any Vietnamese man carrying a weapon on the streets. How did I know he wasn’t the enemy, dressed like an ally? I didn’t want to be the poor sucker who found out. The same went for the civilians; they could be VC, too. The Viet Cong were peasants, and dressed like it, only to become warriors when the time was right. Because of this uncertainty, every Vietnamese person, male or female, quickly became a suspect and I trusted no one.
The next village was Cam Lo, a picturesque setting on a beautiful river. The kind of Oriental village you might expect to see in National Geographic, I thought. Route #558 intersected with Route #9 here, and headed south into the mountains. Another gravel road intersected Route #9 and headed north, to the dreaded, hostile Marine base and village of Con Thien. A seasoned grunt on board with me and Don pointed out these various places. He commented that Con Thien was one place we could be glad we weren’t going to, because “they’re fighting up there right now.” As our convoy continued, I saw what appeared to be at least one company of Marines, walking along toward Con Thien, headed, I assumed, into battle. I wondered how it must feel, and I only hoped I would have what it took when it was my turn to face the enemy in combat.
We left a few more trucks at Cam Lo and continued west. The two-lane asphalt turned to gravel, and eventually mud, as the convoy snaked our way up into the mountains. The flat lowlands of the eastern part of the country gave way to some very rugged, treacherous travel by the afternoon. The lush, emerald rain forest grew right up to the sides of the red-colored, muddy roadway, and steep cliffs rose up from one side or dropped suddenly away on the other. We made another quick stop at a firebase (remote military installation used as a forward artillery position to support U.S. troops operating deep in the jungle) called Rockpile. We left behind more vehicles and troops, and then we followed Route #9 as it made a sharp right turn at Ca Lu, and drove west again. This particular stretch of road—from Ca Lu to Khe Sanh—was by far the most dangerous and nonnegotiable leg of our journey. The mountains were bigger; the turns and twists were sharper. The mud got deeper and redder. It seemed fitting that the ground should appear to be stained with blood in this, the most violent of places.
By now, our convoy had been reduced to only a few vehicles, and in spite of the treacherous road conditions, our drivers increased speed. It was all we could do to hang on and keep from being thrown from the truck. Don and I not only held on, we also continued our vigilant search for the enemy.
Our small convoy slowed when we came upon the eerie sight of the previous day’s ambush. The daily convoys to Khe Sanh were susceptible to numerous enemy ambushes in this area. It was only by the luck of the draw, and God’s good grace, that yesterday’s convoy was hit and not today’s.
There were two or three trucks, blown up and turned over on their sides, partially blocking our way. We maneuvered slowly and cautiously around some big craters. I saw blood stains on everything. Thousands of empty shell casings littered the area, indicating to me that there had been one hell of a fight. Down the steep embankment, I could see another vehicle that had either been blown from the road in a very powerful explosion, or the driver simply drove the big truck over the cliff in a desperate attempt to flee the murderous gunfire.
We arrived at LZ Hawk late in the day, and were told that it was the end of the line for us. The trucks stopped only long enough for us to throw the supplies into the mud and then get off ourselves.
Don and I couldn’t believe we were finally there. LZ Hawk sat on top a hill on the north side of the road, and had a perimeter that would accommodate at least two infantry companies. The artillery company Bravo 1/12 were responsible for the big guns, and our battalion Command Post had recently made this place their home, too. Fox Company CP group operated from here, as did our 1st Platoon. Second Platoon was back on Route #9 at Bridge #34, and 3rd Platoon was a bit further west on Route #9, at Bridge #35.
Gunnery Sergeant Franks* informed me and Don that we were to catch a ride on the tank headed for Bridge #35 and check in with “third herd.” “You two will be going to 3rd Platoon together. Is that all right?” he asked rather humorously. He must have pic
ked up on the fact Don and I were buddies, and he even asked us where we were from. The Gunny was a throwback to the “Old Corps,” a rough and gruff Marine’s Marine. I liked him right away because he really showed concern for everyone he came in contact with. We were, in his words, “his men,” and he took “care of his men.” LZ Hawk looked exactly how I thought the bush would: strong bunkers and trenches, lots of fire power of the artillery emplacement. I wished I could stay there, telling Don, “Hell, this wouldn’t be so bad, if it quit raining once in a while.”
We checked in with our new platoon commander. He was a tall, skinny 2nd Lieutenant who looked more like a Sunday-school teacher than a leader of combat troops. I don’t remember his name, because he left 3rd Platoon shortly after I arrived. What I did see, I didn’t really care for.
When we checked in, it was a corporal who handled our business. The 2nd Lieutenant was shaving his young looking face in a mirror tied to a tree. He didn’t even acknowledge our presence. The platoon radioman announced us. “Sir, the two new guys are here, where do you want them?” Don and I glanced at one another; we were both thinking the same thing: “What a prick.” The 2nd Lieutenant finally mumbled something, and the corporal got out his notepad. He scribbled down our names, and asked each of us for our blood type. He then assigned me to 3-Alpha squad and put Don in 3-Bravo. My boot-camp buddy and I parted ways temporarily. Even though we weren’t far from each other, we both became involved with our respective squads, as well as our individual orientations to the treacherous lifestyle of the grunt. We didn’t get to see much of each other in the following weeks.
Bridge #35 was a rather picturesque setting. The lush, green jungle grew right up to the outer edges of the clearing, and towered hundreds of feet skyward, closing in around us like a growing fortress of life. A fairly large stream ran noisily through the middle of the site and disappeared under the concrete bridge. The stream intersected Route #9 just before the access road to the Khe Sanh Command Base (KSCB) jutted sharply to the north.
