by Phil Ball
Chico’s presence meant interest and excitement. There were always people hanging around our position and something was always going on. It wasn’t all fun and games; strategy and tactics were sometimes discussed, and I had a chance to listen and learn from the best. Private Bruce Holt from Pennsylvania was by far the grunt with more bush experience than any Marine in our outfit; when he talked, people definitely listened. The fact that Chico befriended me and took me under his wing may have encouraged some of the others to do the same. I began to feel a great sense of security, almost as if I were being protected like a team mascot. It was a brotherhood, a tight friendship I’d never known before. Even Alabama treated me as his equal sometimes. Whatever the reasons, I appreciated all the fellowship and brotherly attitudes.
Don Schuck, unfortunately, was not enjoying the same camaraderie as I was. I didn’t get to talk to him much those days, but when I did, he told me he wasn’t fitting in too well with his new squad leader. He’d been going out on a lot of LPs, and said he had been falsely accused of falling asleep on watch. His squad leader made him dig a trash pit and then immediately fill it back up. Don asked me if I could say something to Chico, and maybe help get him a transfer to 3-Alpha. I told him I would, and I did, working on Chico whenever I got the chance, but it wasn’t that easy.
I tried my best to share with Don the things I was learning from the salts in my squad. We made a conscious effort to get together every day and talk. I was worried about my friend. He seemed to be losing some of that fiery, self-confidence that drew me to him in the first place. He fell into a dark depression, and I wanted desperately to snap him out of it. As far as I could tell, nearly everyone in this squad sort of took after the squad leader, and if it wasn’t popular to befriend someone, they didn’t.
It rained almost every single day in May; 10 inches were recorded in one 24-hour time period. For the most part it rained only in the morning, then the sun would come out and at least partially dry things out. Temperatures in May would rise to 90 degrees and the humidity was high. The steamy rain forest flourished in this weather, but the human body tended to weaken. I learned certain tricks to make life a little more bearable, and made an all-out effort to wear a dry set of clothes whenever possible, hanging the wet ones out to dry if the sun came out at all. I learned to erect a rain shelter, or hooch, from my poncho and a couple of tree branches. Often the rain would blow in so fast you might only have a few seconds before everything was drenched, so it really became an art form to build a decent hooch.
Sharp actions were radiating out from Khe Sanh during May 1968 against a resurgent 304th NVA Division, as well as elements from the 308th. U.S. Army and Marine casualty rates were skyrocketing. It seemed as if every other unit in Northern I Corps was engaged in a big way, yet for whatever reasons, we grunts in Fox 2/3 were narrowly escaping the anticipated big battle.
The 304th NVA Division was the unit that gained notoriety when they overran the Special Forces camp at Lang Vei on February 7, 1968. It was the first time enemy tanks were used against us in the Vietnam War. Nine Russian-built tanks rolled through the small outpost, but not before the majority of the troops escaped.
Building a “hooch” to keep the rain off: Ball’s squad in the Cam Lo River Basin.
On May 14 the enemy ambushed a convoy moving west on Route #9, between Ca Lu and LZ Hawk. Our sister company, Hotel 2/3, was providing security in that convoy. The ambush was executed perfectly by the NVA, blowing both the lead and the rear vehicles with antitank mines buried in the road the night before. This stopped the entire line of vehicles in the kill zone, and from on top of the 30-foot cliff on the north side of Route #9, they tossed huge satchel charges and grenades down on the open trucks. With machine guns and automatic small arms, the enemy literally cut the convoy to ribbons. There was nowhere to escape to except down the sheer embankment on the south side of the road. When the Marines slid down the vertical slope trying to escape, the NVA were down there waiting for them.
I was at Bridge #35 that day and could hear this bloody, one-sided fight. Jet air strikes had to be called in to disperse the enemy force and get the Marines out.
We got the word later that night that Hotel Company had one Marine missing in action, and first thing in the morning we were to go down there to find him. Nothing got us fired up like an MIA, so we were ready to go at first light. We double-timed it all the way to the site.
Every soldier in Vietnam feared becoming missing in action, or a prisoner of war. The NVA in Northern I Corps were not known for taking very many POWs. They simply killed on the spot, but there were some horror stories of how Marines were tortured before dying a slow, painful death. We were given strict orders never to mutilate enemy corpses, yet it was done all the time on both sides. The NVA were also known to use a dying or dead Marine as bait, placing them in a location and then waiting for us to come back for them, then springing an ambush.
Chico warned us about this possibility as 3-Alpha slid down the steep south slope from Route #9. Our other two squads searched the high ground and went a little further east on the road. The bottom of the gorge was cool and damp; the morning sun could not penetrate the heavy canopy overhead. Giant, black boulders seemed suspiciously out of place, a half dozen or so scattered around as if having fallen from the sky. Eerily quiet and a bit misty, this ghostly place gave me the creeps as we all spread out in search of what we hoped would be perhaps a wounded, but living, breathing Marine.
The ambush site was beyond belief. Trucks were turned over and thrown off the road. The entire area was littered with brass, shell casings, and other debris; blood was everywhere.
Off to the southeast we heard a fire fight in progress. It turned out to be both Echo and Hotel Companies engaging an estimated battalion-size NVA force, and they had them on the run. Corporal Cowan came on the radio and said we had to hurry up, because we were going to move out in five minutes, so if we couldn’t find the MIA now, we’d just have to come back later.
Then we found him. Sitting with his legs crossed like an Indian, his back leaning against one of the huge boulders like he was resting. The big, blond Marine was holding a sterile battle dressing in his lap, cradling his M-16. On closer inspection I could see that a spent cartridge was wedged sideways in the chamber; the weapon was badly jammed. As I cautiously walked around his left side, I saw the fatal wound in his head. Dried blood covered his entire left side.
This was the first time I had ever seen a dead American up close. It was so much more emotional, and had a lot more meaning to me than all those dead NVA soldiers I’d seen. They hadn’t really seemed human to me. Seeing this dead Marine sent a chill down my spine. I didn’t understand it, but I took it very personally; yet I didn’t even know him. It would not have served me well to feel anything too strongly at this point, and Chico helped me out. He knew what I was thinking and feeling, and later sat down with me. For now, we had to get the body up to the road and move out toward the shooting about 1000 meters away.
It was all we could do to carry that heavy, awkward bundle wrapped in a poncho up the steep slope. We dropped him several times, but finally loaded him in the back of a waiting deuce and a half. I held his head gently as the others heaved the body into the truck. When the dead man’s head was higher than mine and only a few inches away, a huge gush of stale, thick blood rushed from his wound and splattered me in the face. I might have spared myself this sickening shower, but I held on and was drenched. I was covered with another man’s blood.
Third Platoon had to double-time in order to catch up with the rest of Fox Company, who were already on their way to set up a blocking force for Echo and Hotel companies. We heard that several Marines had already been killed, and more than a dozen WIAs needed medevac. We were spread out in single column on the side of a grassy ridge, still moving in the direction of the fighting, when we spotted five or six people in the open, on an adjacent ridge. They were too far away to immediately identify as friend or foe, but judging from th
e way they were standing in the open, milling around, we believed they were not NVA. But something wasn’t quite right. We could see smoke from a small camp fire, and Marines never would do that, especially with a bloody fight going on not far away. The South Vietnamese troops might, but there were no ARVNs operating in this area for miles. I guess someone with binoculars finally confirmed they were indeed NVA, and Gunny Franks ordered our 60-mm mortar team to get some rounds going in that direction.
I don’t know if they spotted us at the same time, but before the 60s started dropping, they dropped to the ground and opened fire with a tripod-mounted 30-caliber machine gun. Some of our men fired M-16s, but the range was too great. Gunny Franks called a cease-fire and ordered our M-60 machine gun teams to get in position.
My position was in the rear third of the column, and although some of the enemy fire ricocheted in my direction, I could clearly see that the middle of our column was their main target. Green tracer rounds marked the spot. The middle of the column was where the company command group traveled; several tall radio antennas were always visible, and the captain, several lieutenants, and the company gunnery sergeant were usually there.
Gunny Franks was a take-charge kind of guy. He was known to stand brazenly upright, shouting orders and going to the places that needed his help. This time was no different; he moved around placing machine guns and mortar tubes and got some heavy, accurate return-fire going. As Gunny Franks moved up and down the lines, he was suddenly knocked off his feet and thrown violently to the ground. He struggled a few seconds trying to get back up, then lost consciousness. A 30-caliber round had penetrated his helmet and skull, lodging deep in his brain. A head wound like this is nearly always fatal, but the tough old Gunny was still alive. I think every corpsman in the company went to work on him, but what he needed was not available out in the bush. We had to get him medevaced immediately to the operating tables in Dong Ha. We decided it would be faster if we carried the Gunny back to the road where a truck would be waiting to rush him to LZ Hawk. From there a chopper could fly him to Dong Ha in less than 15 minutes. Two corpsmen with a squad of Marines rushed past me carrying the Gunny in a poncho. He was as white as a sheet and had blood all over him. I didn’t think he would make it. He died en route.
No sooner had we started moving forward again than a murderous volume of small-arms, machine-gun, and RPG fire broke out at the front of the column. Our point man had led 1st Platoon right into the middle of an enemy bunker complex. An estimated 120 NVA waited until precisely the last moment, when nearly half of the 35 men in 1st Platoon were trapped in the kill zone, before jumping up from spider holes and tunnels, triggering a very one-sided, bloody ambush. Five Marines were killed and 14 wounded before we could get everybody pulled back far enough to pound the NVA with jet air strikes. We did not pursue the fleeing enemy force, electing instead to move to another hill with our WIAs and get them medevaced out.
Sharp clashes with various NVA units were becoming more and more frequent as the month went along. A Golf Company patrol on the 16th suffered four WIAs when they received sniper fire from an unknown origin. Hotel Company was hit in their overnight position during the early morning hours of May 18, with three USMC KIAs and 15 WIAs.
On May 24, before attacking their objective, Golf Company had artillery and air strikes thoroughly prep the hillside. An estimated company-size NVA unit appeared undaunted by the fierce bombardment. When the Marines attacked, the NVA were able to hold their ground and even became the aggressors. The enemy somehow managed to slip undetected out of their bunkers and outflank the Marines as the attack was under way. This tactic proved very successful; results showed 12 USMC KIAs, 17 WIA, and only two confirmed NVA KIAs in just the initial moments. It took four more hours before Golf 2/3 could disengage, pull back, and call in more air strikes. The Marines assaulted the NVA fixed position again, and after two more hours of bloody fighting finally secured the hilltop. Results show three USMC KIA and four WIA; 30 NVA KIA were confirmed. It was already dark by the time Golf Company dug in amid the bunker complex and numerous left-behind booby traps, a very dangerous situation because no one knew for sure if the position was really secure or not. As it turned out, it was not. When a four-man LP was sent out to the finger on the north end of the position, they stumbled upon more NVA, and a violent, close-range battle took place. It quickly became mass confusion, and trigger-happy Marines wound up shooting panic-stricken partners by accident.
The NVA continued to make their presence known. Hotel Company received incoming artillery that killed one Marine and wounded four others. Golf Company received seven incoming artillery rounds from the Co Roc Mountains that wounded three. 2/3 Battalion CP received incoming artillery, seven rounds.
I felt that up to this point Fox Company had been pretty lucky, compared to the number of casualties our sister companies had suffered. We had hit the shit a couple of times, but it was basically when we stumbled upon the NVA in the daylight. They really didn’t like to fight unless it was dark, when we couldn’t call our air strikes, for which they had absolutely no defense.
The NVA preferred to attack our fixed positions at night, so they could sneak up on us. They were more than willing to lose a lot more men than they killed, and they simply brought a much larger force. They would send their sappers (suicide troops carrying large explosives) slowly crawling on their bellies up the hill first. It might take them three or four hours to crawl 50 meters. The main body of the attack unit would then move into positions concealed in a tree line, and wait until the sappers were close enough to either jump into our holes, or throw their satchel charges at us, which usually signaled the beginning of their attack.
They would pound the Marines’ positions with RPGs, mortars, and artillery to keep us pinned down, while they often assaulted right into their own supporting fire. Many of their men would be killed, but some would make it, and those men might breach our lines. The whole idea was to reach our CP and kill our leaders. I guess they didn’t mind killing a few Marines along the way, if they got the chance.
Chapter 6
Foxtrot Ridge
Razor sharp elephant grass as tall as three meters or more concealed the 120 Marines of our understrength Fox Company, as we maneuvered south off Route #9 like a long, green snake. A series of grassy ridge lines and rugged valleys stretched nearly 10 clicks, all the way to the Laotian Border, with only occasional peaks higher than 300 meters towering over the region. Our objective was a ridge 1200 meters out, with one such peak attached to the eastern end of it, creating possibly the best vantage point in the entire area. Most of the fighting the past few weeks had occurred southeast of here, where a large NVA build-up was obviously in progress. Our sister companies (Echo, Golf, and 2nd Hotel) had recently been moved to the north side of the road, having suffered harsh casualties here. We were brought in as “alligator bait,” it would seem. Everybody knew there were a lot of NVA soldiers in the area, but to get them to come out and fight, we had to offer them an inviting target.
It was May 25, 1968, and our commanding officer, whom we called “Skipper,” had just gone on an out-of-country R&R for about a week. Along with his replacement, 1st Lieutenant James Jones, Jr., we also got a new Gunny, Ralph Larsen. Most of us grunts resented these men for no particular reason, except that they were new. We had hoped for a little slack while the boss was away, but that was not to be. Instead we were headed right into it again. We wondered if maybe this substitute CO volunteered for the mission so he could get some combat experience and possibly a medal at our expense. Chico told me that officers got promoted that way.
We climbed the western slope and secured the objective around 1300. The finger rose from the valley floor through trees and heavy brush, then opened to a nice, grassy summit that continued eastward at a steady, gradual incline. Approximately 75 meters long, the ridge dipped slightly to a cluster of trees and then rose again sharply at the eastern peak. The dip, or saddle, separated the two hills enough to constitute t
he need for two separate perimeters. Able to accommodate only one squad (approximately 12 Marines), this high-ground observation post became known as the Crow’s Nest. The remainder of the company dug in on the ridge line, making approximately 30, three-man fighting holes, spread out around the elongated circumference about 10 meters apart.
The Crow’s Nest allowed a panoramic view of the entire region. Two clicks to the northeast was LZ Hawk, where artillery and mortar support could be called from. Three clicks northwest was Khe Sanh Combat Base, just visible with the naked eye. To the right of it stood the towering, jagged mountain peak we called Hill 1015, the tallest point in the whole western area of operation (AO). Our artillery Forward Observer (FO) and his radioman were positioned on the Crow’s Nest and would be able to adjust some extremely accurate, deadly fire just about anywhere they wanted to.
Because of the importance and vulnerability, an M-60 machine gun team was placed on the high ground with the FO. The team of Hillbilly and Mouse was chosen. Nine more grunts, chosen randomly, three from each of our platoons, were assigned 12-hour shifts on the Crow’s Nest OP, but every man also had his hole on the ridge line perimeter to which he hoped to return.
Each platoon had fields of fire and areas of responsibility. Third Platoon was along the southern flank. From my hole I could look straight out over the vast landscape and see the Co Roc Mountains on the border. Second Platoon tied in with us near the saddle area and stretched their lines around the steep, northern face. From their position they could look straight out and see Route #9. It was 1st Platoon that had the responsibility for the finger area and the route most easily accessed to our hilltop position. It was determined if the NVA hit us, they would most likely use the finger and the west side as their primary approach. Therefore, two M-60 machine gun teams, two 60-mm mortar positions, and a four-man LP were all used with 1st Platoon to beef up that portion of the perimeter.
