by Phil Ball
Bridge 35 wasn’t really much of a bridge, but it served its purpose well. It was one of few, if not the only, concrete structures still standing in the entire region. Built by the French many years ago, it was once used by the plantation owners to get their crop to Cam Lo and points further east. Only 30 meters long, the single-lane bridge was too narrow for more than one vehicle to pass at a time, but strong enough to support the largest tanks in the convoys.
The red-clay mud contrasted sharply with the emerald green rain forest, creating a surreal sort of landscape. Every tropical plant and leaf formation imaginable was visible at the jungle’s edge, but the edge was as far as you could see. The vegetation surrounding us on three sides was so thick it looked impenetrable. Only a few small trails separated the thick growth, but they quickly disappeared into the dark brush beyond.
The bridge crossed the stream in a general north-south attitude; the terrain fell away to the east and the stream meandered down into the immense valley. Facing east and southeast when on Bridge #35, you could see the ridge lines and mountain ranges stretching all the way to the Laotian border. In the distance were the steep black cliffs of the infamous Co Roc mountain range, the natural barrier between South Vietnam and the falsely labeled “neutral” country of Laos.
As part of the series of bridges from Dong Ha to KSCB, Bridge #35 was the last. A relatively small defensive perimeter had been constructed around the bridge to keep it secure on a more or less regular basis. There were times when we abandoned the area when we went on the longer, platoon- and company-size S&Ds, but the old bridge always managed to stay intact. (The bridge was finally destroyed intentionally by our engineers about April of 1969.)
A half-dozen partially collapsed bunkers spread throughout the perimeter gave the false impression that no one was looking after the site. The real perimeter consisted of a circle of well-camouflaged, fortified, three-man fighting holes (also called fox holes). It didn’t look like a good, defendable position at all, mainly because it sat in the middle of a slightly dished-out area with high ground on three sides and thick jungle with very heavy underbrush practically overgrowing portions of the field of fire.
Khe Sanh Combat Base was once the single most important U.S. military installation in all of Southeast Asia. Many Marines had fought and died here during ’68 Tet. We considered it as a hallowed ground of sorts. In April 1968, with Marine Corps blood still fresh in the collapsing old bunkers, the base was being systematically dismantled by our engineers and hauled away in long columns of trucks to various places along Route #9. Part of our job as infantrymen was to keep the road open and out of the control of the enemy for the daily convoys. This was accomplished by constant coordinated patrols of squad, platoon, and company size. Operating mainly out of Bridge #35, 3rd Platoon would run day-long, squad-size patrols far into the surrounding hills, in what were categorized as “search and destroy” operations. We searched for the enemy and then destroyed his ability to fight.
When larger efforts were called for, the whole platoon would pack up and leave for several days at a time. Often the whole company participated in the S&D operations that kept us out as long as 66 days. Later in my tour, we went out on multibattalion size S&Ds, involving thousands of Marines working with thousands of South Vietnamese troops (ARVNs).
Third Platoon was grossly undermanned, as were nearly all Marine units in Vietnam. President Lyndon Johnson made a big deal about sending hundreds of thousands of troops to fight in Vietnam, but no matter how many were sent, there were never enough grunts in the field. A large percentage were kept in rear areas as “support personnel.”
Instead of 20 men our squads normally topped out with approximately nine or ten men, including the PFC (E2) or Lance Corporal (E3) squad leaders. Radiomen at the squad level were chosen from the ranks of infantrymen. In exchange for carrying the heavy radio and the extra batteries, the grunt/com-man was sometimes afforded the privilege of certain benefits the average grunt might not have received. Two benefits that in my opinion made it well worth the extra effort, were walking point duty and LP (listening post) duty.
When I was assigned to 3-Alpha, I headed across the bridge toward where I had been told I’d find Chico (3-Alpha’s squad leader). Another convoy rumbled up the road and began crossing over the concrete slab. To avoid being run over, I stepped aside and watched the trucks go by. I wondered what all the horn blowing, whooping, and hollering was all about. Then I saw Chico, PFC Freddy Rodriguez. The short, chubby Puerto Rican street tough from Bronx, New York, was standing on a wooden crate at the edge of the bridge, saluting and directing traffic like an MP (military policeman) at a busy intersection. He had on a clean, black T-shirt and he wore an official “MP” arm band around his bulging left bicep.
Apparently, every Marine on the convoy either knew Chico or knew of him. The truth of the matter was, you didn’t have to know him to like him; he was friendly to everyone. It struck me as funny, with an ironic sense of humor I hadn’t known before, to see this seemingly carefree attitude out here in the middle of a war zone. I realized by watching him that he was one guy who really knew how to make the best of a bad situation. My own attitude had been hopelessly negative, even before I joined the Corps. Chico radiated optimism. I found it highly contagious, and I hadn’t even met him yet. He certainly looked like someone I wanted to go out of my way to get to know.
Chico at Quang Trio.
After the convoy passed, I went over and introduced myself. Chico simulated a headlock with one arm around my neck, and then began walking me around the perimeter as if we’d been best buddies for a long time. It was rare but refreshing to find a Marine in any leadership role who openly displayed a genuine regard for the well-being of others. There was not a selfish bone in his body, and it appeared to me at that particular moment that I was the only thing that mattered in the entire world.
I became increasingly aware that my being assigned to Chico’s squad was a tremendous advantage as we walked from bunker to bunker meeting 3rd Platoon grunts. It was obvious that my squad leader was respected and admired by all, but it was the slightly bitter comment by a guy in another squad that seemed to sum it all up for me. I was introduced as the “Cincinnati Kid” and one grunt resented the fact that I had somehow “lucked into” the squad, and he had been busting his hump for months trying to get transferred into it.
We walked over to the machine gun position, where I met Mouse and Hillbilly. They had the M-60 torn down, and the smaller pieces were arranged neatly on a white towel. They were inspecting and cleaning everything with the detailed perfection of a team of scientists.
When one PFC opened his mouth to tell me where he was from, I couldn’t understand a word he said, but I immediately understood why his nickname was “Hillbilly.” He spoke with such a twang, I had to ask nearly half a dozen times before I finally picked up on it, “Soddy Daisy, Tennessee man, ya’ll deef er sumpin? Tell ’em ta git the damn shit outa his ears, Chico.” We all had a good, loud laugh. Everyone except for Mouse, that is. He kept his eyes down and grinned shyly to himself, as he painstakingly polished an invisible defect from the slide-mechanism.
A PFC called “Mouse”—a short, powerfully built Mexican, as quiet and shy as a little mouse—was not only Hillbilly’s A-gunner (assistant), but also his closest friend. The gunner and A-gunner have to work very closely with one another, and they share the common bond of perhaps the single most important weapon in the squad. A good gun team learns to become one with each other as well as with the gun itself.
When I first met 3-Alpha’s gun team, neither of them had much more time in country that I did. As the months went by and we all matured, the team of Hillbilly and Mouse quickly became known as one of the best shooters in the battalion, if not the very best.
I watched Mouse assemble the lightly oiled M-60, and listened to Chico and Hillbilly talk about the fire fight 2nd Platoon was in a couple of days back.
I asked Mouse why the M-60 was so beat up and look
ed so old. Sure, it was as clean as a whistle, but the once-beautiful black finish was scratched and faded. Definite signs of wear and abuse were nearly everywhere on this gun.
“I heard 2nd Platoon had two KIAs down there [Bridge #34] and had to call in air strikes to get the gooks up off them,” Chico told us. Then he looked back and forth between me and the machine gun, answering my question about the M-60. “You’re right, Cincinnati, that son of a bitch has been through hell and back. You’d think we’d get the best they got, wouldn’t ya?”
Hillbilly blurted out passionately, “It’s them faggots back in the armory; they keep all the good shit for their goddamn inspections.”
I was reminded of my trip to the armory tent the day before. I was issued an M-16 from a pile of mud-covered dirty rifles that looked like they had just come out of the field. I had hoped to get one of the dozens of brand-new M-16s meticulously lined up in a rack behind the counter.
Hillbilly continued with his complaint. “This baby was a damn good machine gun at one time, but it’s about half worn out. Everything we get is that way, ain’t it, Chico?”
“You got that right, my man,” Chico said. “Trouble is, this is the end of the line out here. By the time we get anything it’s already been picked over by every fuckin’ asshole between here and Da Nang.”
I began to feel a little guilty that I had on a set of new jungle fatigues and everyone around me was wearing filthy, ripped-up clothing. Some guys had to wrap surgical tape around their boots to keep them together. I realize that our shortages did not compare to those of our fathers and grandfathers who fought in previous wars, but in our case, the stuff was there, and our guys wouldn’t let us have it.
Since I had arrived at LZ Hawk earlier in the day, and especially once I got to Bridge #35, a terribly foul odor in the air was making me sick to my stomach. I had never smelled anything like it and could not imagine what was so God-awful rotten to create such an overwhelming stench. It seemed to be embedded in everything around, even the sand and the dirt were reeking of it. It burned my nostrils and left a very bitter taste in my mouth. I could not see having to put up with this nauseating putridness day after day.
Chico or nobody else so much as seemed to acknowledge this smell even existed, so I didn’t want to say anything either, but as we began to approach the position where a half-dozen men were hanging out, it got a lot worse. I couldn’t help gagging when my mouth was suddenly flooded with saliva and I threw up. “Goddamn,” I said, “what the fuck is that smell?”
I was told about the thousands of NVA who were killed during Tet, and how many of the corpses had to be left behind when the Communist troops fled to the north to escape the carpet-bombings being carried out by our massive B-52s.
This whole region was blistered with giant bomb craters, remnants of Operation Niagara. Some were partially filled with stagnant rain water, the perfect breeding ground for Vietnam’s infamous malaria-carrying mosquitoes. The rotting corpses of the 40,000-man NVA force that had occupied this area until recently were strewn all over the hills around Bridge #35. Many of them had been buried in shallow graves with the intention of someone returning for them someday. Others were buried in collapsed tunnels and underground bunkers, their homes at the time of ’68 Tet.
Chico walked me over to where a big mound of orange-red dirt stood near the edge of the jungle. We climbed up the loosely packed soil and looked into a giant bomb crater. Besides being the platoon garbage pit, this tremendous hole was also the final resting place for some very unfortunate NVA soldiers. “We got that one just a couple nights ago,” pointed my new squad leader at an almost human-looking figure halfway down the 15-meter slope. The foul odor rose from the crater, and even though my stomach was doing flip-flops, something compelled me to stand and look for a minute. Something made me want to know more about this enemy soldier, something personal about him.
Bridge #35, B-52 Bomb Crater: 3rd Platoon’s Base Camp.
I learned that the North Vietnamese and those belonging to the Buddhist faith in general were very spiritual individuals and viewed death entirely differently than we did. For one thing, they believed in reincarnation. They would do everything possible to get their dead back to North Vietnam, but it became a staggering task sometimes because of lack of transportation. They believed that until one was properly buried in a Buddhist ceremony in the village of his ancestors, his spirit was doomed to wander aimlessly. After I was in Vietnam for a while and experienced the haunting nature of areas where large numbers of dead NVA corpses were left behind, I too believed in spirits and ghosts.
In addition to spirits and ghosts, I learned about luck and superstition. A PFC we called “Cool” was perhaps the most superstitious guy around. Most grunts all had their own little idiosyncrasies to help determine luck, but Cool taught me to observe all the known superstitions, and to make up a few of my own.
Every soldier has known, dating back to World War I and II, that “three on a match is bad luck.” It just makes good sense if three guys all light cigarettes off the same match at night. But by the time the match gets around to the third guy, an enemy sniper has had time to zero in on the illuminated target. Those waterproof matches we got from a pack of C rations were often in short supply, therefore some grunts might occasionally ignore the superstition. Cool believed that any variance from the ritual was bad luck in itself. He sometimes took things a little to the extreme and eventually got to the point where he refused to light any matches at all. If he couldn’t get a light off someone else’s smoke, he didn’t light up.
One superstition that I think he made up sounded so good that I accepted it. You never ate the last bite of food or drank the last drop of water. Both were solemnly sprinkled on the ground before crossing yourself. It was never more than a crumb and a drop, but it symbolized a moment of reverent gratitude for our fallen brothers in this war. I don’t remember anyone else participating in this unselfish ritual, but I was so impressed by it that I practiced it regularly in Vietnam, as well as back home for a long time.
As Chico and I walked back to his position near one end of the bridge, he apologetically explained that he wouldn’t introduce me to every single Marine in the platoon. “Some of them I don’t even know, we get guys coming and going so fast through here sometimes. That’s why everybody uses nicknames. When you don’t know a guy’s real name, it somehow makes it a little easier when he’s gone.” An embarrassed sort of smile crossed Chico’s lips as he shook his head, nodding toward the guys goofing off around his hooch. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do with Barney and Chick. Them two stay fucked up all the time.”
PFCs “Barney” and “Chick” were the biggest potheads in 3rd Platoon. They were the class clowns until something went wrong, then they both seemed to go off more readily than anyone else. They were partners and close friends; you rarely saw one without the other, and you rarely saw either when their eyes weren’t bloodshot.
Barney and Chick were on a fireteam led by a PFC we called “Wop” because of his Italian ancestry. He was just the opposite of his two charges. Sometimes his maturity and alertness kept the two heads out of trouble and danger. “Wop” was a handsome man, and he wanted to be a lady killer, but his gentle, caring nature did not quite fit his rough, good looks. Later I started calling him “Sal Mineo,” or just “Sal” for short. It sounded like a name of some great Italian lover to me. I had no idea who the real Sal Mineo was, nor did anyone else. The handle stuck and rarely was he ever called Wop again.
PFC Bruce Holt and a PFC called “Tex” had joined Sal, Barney, and Chick for an impromptu birthday party dinner at Chico’s hooch. Tex was cooking a concoction of C rations in a makeshift pot that looked very much like someone’s helmet. I was honored to join them, and even though I had not yet grown accustomed to the World War II vintage rations, I ate a little of the “Khe Sanh stew” just to be social. After Holt sprinkled a half a bottle of Louisiana hot sauce on my portion, it really wasn’t too bad. I guess Tex cou
ld tell I was forcing every bite of his lovingly prepared stew. He told me I didn’t have to eat it all if I didn’t want to. “It took me damn near two fuckin’ weeks before I could eat C rations every day when I first got here. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. After a while, you’ll even start liking them,” he told me.
I noticed that almost the whole group disappeared one at a time, in and out of Chico’s hooch for only a minute or two, then crawled back out laughing or singing, or generally in just a better mood. The last time Chico came back out, he had a little pound cake the size of a cupcake, from a C ration meal. There was a thinly rolled joint sticking from it like a birthday candle. Everyone laughed loudly as Chico presented the gift to Holt, and said sincerely, “happy birthday, brother.”
Nobody knew for sure how long Holt had been in the Nam, but it was a widely accepted fact that he had more time in-country than anyone else in Fox Company. Because he almost never took anything seriously, not even himself, it was impossible to get a straight answer out of the wise-cracking, anti-establishment, doesn’t-give-a-shit grunt. I know he had at least 3∂ years in the Marines and that he came over straight from training, like I did. That would leave approximately 36 months, almost three 13-month tours, excluding a 30-day leave once a year between tours. Whenever asked about his time in-country, his favorite response was, “I’ve got more time on the shitter than you’ve got in the Marine Corps.”
Holt once told me that when he went back to the States after his first tour, he got into trouble because military life seemed “too petty, and downright ridiculous after being in the Nam.” He couldn’t handle the rigorous discipline of the stateside Corps, so he signed up for a second tour. He may have been nudged by the threat of court-martial, or may have volunteered to come back on his own, but he wouldn’t say. I had heard rumors that he punched out an officer at Quantico, Virginia (USMC headquarters, near Washington, D.C.) for “getting in his face” about his un–squared away appearance. I personally never saw that angry side of him surface in Vietnam. In fact, he was always the exact opposite: cool, calm, and always in control. I heard another rumor that he received a “Dear John Letter” that hurt him so badly that he never wanted to go home again. By the time I met him, though, he was over the broken heart and wanted to go home as badly as the rest of us did. Whatever the motivation for staying, his combat record certainly spoke for itself. He had several awards and meritorious citations to his credit. When it came right down to the nitty gritty and the hot lead was flying, it was Holt who the officers and enlisted men alike all called upon for advice and help. The same officers busted and demoted him for getting drunk, or sneaking off to the village. They often needed him to bail them out of trouble in the bush.
