Ghosts and Shadows

by Phil Ball

  During the times when the “Fast Movers” traveled back and forth from Dong Ha, the huey gun ships would move in again, flying very low through the valley and drawing enemy fire. The NVA fired small arms up from their camouflaged hiding places in the jungle, allowing the door gunners to locate them and methodically go about destroying them.

  Meanwhile on the Crow’s Nest, Hillbilly and his people continued to fire on the dozens of NVA soldiers still on our western finger area. Firing the length of the ridge line over our heads, they watched for the grenade-throwing enemies to show themselves. NVA had to run out in the open to get close enough to throw the heavy satchel charges far enough to reach 1st Platoon grunts who were still lying in the tall grass on the summit. For Hillbilly, it was like shooting fish in a barrel. He had the range and timing down to a science. He waited until the gooks ran up the hill and into the clearing, their arms cocked back to throw. The moment they cleared the summit, he squeezed off a perfectly aimed shot and killed one after the other.

  It began to look like the gooks in the crater as well as a few in the fighting holes were not going to leave. We gave them every opportunity to do so, because we needed to land the choppers to medevac our wounded. They continued to fight and had us all pinned down. We had our best throwing arms and ballplayers in position, throwing grenades into the crater, but the die-hard NVA refused to quit. I personally watched as several M-26 hand grenades exploded inside that bomb crater with the enemy in it, yet they continued to fight back, harder than ever it seemed.

  Our brothers in Echo Company had moved south from Route 9 along with two tanks from LZ Hawk and were coming to our support. We had about 40 wounded men that had to be medevaced, some with very serious wounds that would no doubt lead to death if they didn’t get to Dong Ha soon.

  Echo Company’s commanding officer, Captain William Russell, split up his platoons and sent each around the base of our ridge in various directions, securing ground as they went. They ran into small pockets of resistance and had to fight their way out, but for the most part they were hit with snipers and RPGs dug in on adjacent high ground. We grunts in Fox Company were hoping they would come up the finger and secure our western side first, but that was not to be. The 30 or so hard-core NVA holed up in the crater continued to prevent us from even getting out of our holes.

  I cannot speak for our whole company, but the attitude in my hole was one of near resignation. We felt as though we had been through enough and lost far too many men to risk an all-out rush on the remaining NVA. We were tired and almost out of ammo. Echo Company troops were fresh. They had come prepared, and we hoped to sit back and just let them finish mopping up.

  First Lieutenant Jones, Gunny Larsen, Captain Russell, and the AO (airborne observer) discussed our options. The decision was made that instead of risking the lives of any more Marines in an attack on the finger, the F-4 Phantoms would drop napalm bombs on it and burn the gooks off the ridge. This would not be without risk to our own men. Delivering a canister of jellied gasoline at such a high speed, so close to friendlies, allowed for a very slim margin of error. When napalm explodes, it splashes burning fuel all over everything and sticks to whatever it touches, burning hot and fast. The correct approach of the aircraft was essential to send the splash away from friendly positions.

  Two F-4s arrived about 1105 carrying two bombs each: a shiny, aluminum, 10-foot tube under each wing. I was instructed to tune my radio to the AO’s frequency and give any assistance they might request. I had never done anything like this before, but mine was the closest, working radio to the target, so I would have to make sure everyone knew exactly where we were.

  After considerable scrambling about, I finally found the right frequency and heard the cool, calm, collected voice of one of the pilots already talking. I was taken aback somewhat by the sharp contrast between his voice and ours. I realized that our two wars were very different. Whereas we all sounded excited and shrill, the voice of the pilot reminded me of the greeting you might get on a commercial airliner.

  It seemed as if there were several conversations in progress at the same time on the air frequency and it was all confusing to me, but when I clearly heard my call sign mentioned I knew what I was supposed to do. I heard one of the calmer voices transmit, “3-Alpha, where are you 3-Alpha?”

  It almost sounded like a child’s game, the way the pilot’s voice nearly sang his message to me. I answered as calmly as I could, but he could tell I was very nervous and told me to relax. One of the F-4s came screaming past, straight in front of me, very low to the ground, and I thought I actually made eye contact with the pilot.

  I told him we were 35 meters east of the big bomb crater, “the one with all the gooks in it,” and about 20 meters above the tree line. I told him there was a big cluster of bushes directly behind my hole and I could pop a smoke grenade for him if he wanted.

  He told me that wouldn’t be necessary, that he knew exactly where I was. He went on to say that it looked like we’d been having a little party without him, and he could see dead gooks lying all over the place. He confirmed “a bunch of bad guys” in the bomb crater and that the napalm he had on board might get a little hot for us. He also said to pass the word for “every swingin’ dick to get in a hole and to cover themselves up with anything they can find.” The Marine Corps pilot was extremely confident and very reassuring; I had no doubt in my mind that he would drop that napalm right on target.

  The late morning sunlight reflected off the polished aluminum aircraft like a mirror, creating only a small flash of light as he circled to the north over Khe Sanh Combat Base. He began his diving approach and appeared to be coming straight at me. The closer he got, the more mesmerized I became. I stooped over some, but I ignored Chico’s orders to get down. I wanted to see the whole show. The powerful jet came roaring over not 100 feet above us at nearly 500 mph, creating a thunderous spectacle. The noise and the vibration were so overwhelming I thought I would pass out right then and there. I saw the enemy’s green tracers shooting up from the crater, trying bravely to hit the fast mover, but their desperate, last-ditch efforts had no effect.

  Moments later, at 1115, I watched as the second, final napalm-laden aircraft began his approach from the same direction as the first. Screaming toward us, the pilot had his eyes set on the big bomb crater this time. I saw both canisters released from under the wings at virtually the same time, but the bomb under the right wing hung up for a split second and sailed past the intended target. The first one exploded right in the crater, creating a massive fireball that seemed to consume the entire western end of the ridge line. I saw the second canister out of the corner of my eye disappear over the side of the hill, just in front of our 3rd Platoon sector. It exploded 20 meters in front of me, right at the tree line. The first bomb splashed its liquid flames up and out, at least 200 feet, pluming a tremendous amount of black smoke as thick as paint; the second one erupted in a wall of fire too large to fully comprehend. Virtually enveloped in fire, I struggled to wiggle deeper into the hole as my mind began to register a steady increase in temperature. The three of us started choking violently, all gasping to try to catch a breath of air. The flames sucked the oxygen out of the air and even out of our lungs, making us more panicked than before.

  Foxtrot Ridge at 1130H.

  The moment the napalm set everything on fire, it seemed like the battle had started up again in full force. Small arms, grenades, and other explosions could be heard going off a weird sort of way. I didn’t realize right away it was all the ammo lying around on the ground, cooking off in the unbearable heat of the rapidly spreading flames. Popping and singing, various rounds were whirling over our heads and making strange noises, exploding in midair, and creating a deadly storm of shrapnel and flying debris.

  Strong winds out of the south blew the fire toward us, catching the tall elephant grass and brush on fire. Alabama tried desperately to beat the flames with a poncho, but with no success at all. I could not get through on the radio t
o anyone to get permission to leave our post; when we finally had no choice, we pulled out.

  I considered leaving the radio behind—the extra weight might slow me down. Chico and Alabama were leaving their equipment behind, not wanting to be burdened, either. I knew if I lost my radio I might never be radioman again, so I slung the heavy backpack over one shoulder, grabbed my M-16 and remaining ammo, and followed my two partners over the top of the ridge line.

  The enemy began to fire on us again when they saw us all getting out of our holes and running across the top of the ridge. They were definitely withdrawing from our position, but they were still fighting. A lot of them stopped at various locations and started digging in, definitely here for the long haul.

  I heard several flying objects whip past my head as I zigzagged to the top, running blindly as hard as I could. I ran so hard my momentum began to carry me down the other side, past 2nd Platoon’s lines. Chico and ’Bama were nowhere to be found when I finally stopped. I was 10 meters down the steepest side of the ridge, in front of 2nd Platoon, barely hanging on to a big root sticking out of the loose, barren soil. Below me at the bottom of a very deep gorge was part of Echo Company going at it hot and heavy with a handful of NVA. The triple canopy and heavy underbrush blocked my view of exactly where they were, but I could hear them fighting and I knew I certainly did not want to go down there with them.

  I was hanging on for dear life in a place where the north face was nearly vertical. I kept trying to climb back up, but I wasn’t getting the traction I needed. Second Platoon grunts were shooting out over the top of my head and they could not see me over the side of the hill in front of them. I didn’t know if anyone saw me or not when I ran past them and slid down their hill, but I knew the NVA could see me hanging out there in the open like that. I didn’t know what to do. I wondered what would be worse, being the last Marine killed on Foxtrot Ridge, or being killed by my own guys.

  If I would have thought about it I would have ditched the radio at this point, but I started hearing small arms fire whizzing very close to my head and I just knew I was in a gook’s sights. He was probably pretty far away because the weapon shooting at me did not intercourse with the rounds kicking up clouds of dirt next to me. I felt like it was only a matter of time before this NVA sharpshooter hit me. I had to do something, even if it was wrong. “Up or down?” I asked myself. I certainly could not stay where I was.

  My legs felt like rubber. I was totally exhausted from trying to climb that slope, but I had felt this way before and I knew how to draw that little extra reserve. My drill instructors back in boot camp had shown me how to have faith in myself even when my body said otherwise. I admit I seriously considered just giving up, but I wanted to live. I wanted to see my family and friends again. I certainly did not want to die out here in this stinking jungle, thousands of miles from home.

  A burst of small arms fire crashed into the dirt next to me and I flew up that cliff. Running on adrenaline and nerve, I scrambled up past 2nd Platoon and nearly got shot, but I wasn’t stopping there, either. I kept running back from where I had come and I saw that the flames had died down somewhat. Instead of 10 meters, they were only waist-high now and no longer so intimidating. I ran through the fire and jumped into the first hole I found on 3rd Platoon’s south side.

  There was a dead gook in my hole, burned to a blackened crisp, bright red blood oozing from the cracks in his bark-like flesh. I did not want to touch him with my bare hands, but I had no choice. I picked him up and heaved his corpse out of the hole.

  The fire had so completely destroyed everything on our side of the ridge that I barely recognized the place. The chest-high elephant grass, which had once blocked out most of the view, was now only a blanket of black ashes, allowing me to clearly see the fighting holes to either side, as well as down the slope all the way to the tree line and beyond.

  Scores of dead NVA lay about, several close enough to touch. Nearly every one of them, as far as I could tell, were burned to a crisp, only the whites of their eyes and the inside of their mouths suggested that they were once human beings. They were all in various positions, frozen at the moment they died. Some were up on all fours in a crawling position, teetering precariously on the slope. Others seemed to be in unbelievably twisted contortions and various states of mutilation, probably already dead when they were burned. It was the most morbid thing I had ever seen.

  First Lieutenant Jones called off all further napalm strikes and the F-4s left the area. The squadron of hueys swooped back down on the withdrawing enemy force and continued to fire large numbers of rockets and machine gun rounds. Third Platoon grunts returned to their positions, as did those in 1st and 2nd Platoons who had been forced out by the flames. We all just wanted this thing to be over so we could medevac our wounded and maybe go back to Bridge #35. We all had enough fighting for one day and were tired. As soon as Echo Company finished mopping up maybe we could get the hell out of here.

  I heard over the radio that we had more than 40 wounded and at least 13 KIAs who needed to be medevaced. I could not get any information about Don and his LP over the air, so I passed the word toward 1st Platoon’s positions for answers. “What happened to the four-man LP?” I asked over and over. Even though I heard the question being passed down the line, I never got any answer back. I listened for his voice on the radio, but he was not there, either. I didn’t really think Don was dead. Wounded maybe, but not dead. I was certainly very anxious to find out and I couldn’t wait until we were told it was okay to get out of the holes, so I pleaded with my squad leader to let me go find out for myself.

  Chico told me, “I can’t do that, man. I wish I could, but I need you right here.”

  I think in his wisdom he might have seen that I was very close to crossing that line that none of us was supposed to cross. One of the many unwritten rules in Vietnam was that you do not get too close to anyone, should you someday have to deal with their death. Dealing with the loss of a buddy in the bush was something there simply wasn’t time for. The distraction might even cause you to lose focus and get you killed, too. With Chico and I being together so much of the time, we had become good friends. Don and I were much more than that. We talked about what we would do when we got out of the Marine Corps. We were planning on doing some traveling together. I’d always been a big motorcycle enthusiast and owned bikes since before I had a driver’s license, but the one thing I really wanted to do was to buy a Harley-Davidson and take a trip down to Mexico. Don shared this dream with me, and even if he had to ride on the back of my chopper, he was going to go, too.

  We could still see small groups of NVA running away from the huey’s guns and rockets, and the NVA on our western end were gone now. We observed a group of 25 to 30 of them running over the top of the adjacent ridge line approximately 500 meters to our south. Even though a huey was in hot pursuit, and the fleeing enemy were well out of range of our M-16s, as long as we still had ammo left and there were gooks to kill, we were going to fire. With ’Bama firing on my right side and Chico firing on my left, the noisy chambers of their weapons were only inches away from my already-ringing ears. I could feel the damage deep inside my eardrums, but I wanted so badly to kill one last NVA that I did not even try to move away until it was too late. The pain was excruciating and I believed both my eardrums were pierced because of all the static I was experiencing with every loud sound. Background noise was muffled and I could no longer hear all the grunts cheering the hueys and jeering the fleeing NVA. Chico looked over at me and smiled; his lips were moving and he was shouting something at me, but I couldn’t hear a thing. Well, I thought, at least I could get medevaced to the rear for some treatment or something. A deaf grunt, or even a grunt who doesn’t hear well, can’t possibly be effective in the bush, especially when fighting such an elusive enemy as the NVA. Your hearing is often more important than your sight.

  Echo Company was in pursuit of the fleeing NVA, still meeting small pockets of resistance here and there. Whe
n they sent a platoon of grunts up the north side of the Crow’s Nest to secure the high ground, Hillbilly told the commanding officer not to send his people around too far to the south “because there’s still a lot of gooks over there.” Every time Hillbilly and his team stuck their heads up too far on the south slope, they were blistered with heavy machine gun fire and RPGs.

  The officer took offense to Hillbilly’s advice and he went off on him, “I’m runnin’ this goddamn show now, Marine! You assholes have already fucked up enough, now just keep your mouth shut and don’t say a word to my people.”

  I don’t know what he meant by that, but he obviously did not know what he was talking about. He immediately ordered one of his squads around the south side, and as predicted, they were cut to ribbons. The NVA opened fire with a murderous barrage and it was all the Marines could do to get back before they were all killed. The Echo Company officer tried his best not to look like the fool that he was and quickly ordered his men back down the slope and went around a safer way.

  I believe by 1300 the ridge was finally declared secure enough to begin the medevac and we were all able to get out of our holes and stretch some very sore, cramped muscles. I was feeling kind of dizzy and sick to my stomach as I climbed up on the mound of dirt in front of the hole and took a leak. From up there I could see all the way down into the burned-out tree line and to my right where Don’s LP had gone out on the finger.

  I told Chico I was going over to see if Don was okay and I asked him to watch the radio a few minutes. My ears were ringing so loud that I didn’t hear what he said to me. With my weapon cradled in one arm, I turned to walk away. Chico grabbed my shoulder and turned me around to face him. I saw his mouth moving and I could hear some of what he was saying, but not enough to understand him. He saw that I was about to faint and caught me just as my knees gave out. I don’t know how long I sat there with my head between my legs, but I remember the Navy Corpsman, Doc, asking if there was anything wrong with me besides the hearing loss. Since I was beginning to feel a lot better by this time I said, “No, I don’t think so.”