by Lan Cao
Still, the Cambodian prime minister would declare that the onslaught of North Vietnamese troops was nothing but “a myth fabricated by the U.S. imperialists to justify their war of aggression.”
The port of Sihanoukville was also receiving Communist supplies by sea from China. The Americans brought in equipment to assess the scope of the infiltration. Their Side-Looking Airborne Radar unit carried vertical, oblique, and split-image cameras. It was also equipped with horizon-to-horizon panoramic scanning cameras. There was a sensor for gathering electromagnetic intelligence. Mounted on the underwing of the reconnaissance aircraft were two high-intensity supersonic flasher pods to illuminate the ground underneath. Statistical data gathered by its digital data system recorded altitude, latitude, and date.
Based on the evidence, I received orders to lead two battalions of our elite forces into the enemy stronghold.
It was to be a solely Vietnamese operation, so that the Americans could remain faultless. No American troops, just two American advisers. Cliff was one of them.
Our clandestine operation was an acknowledgment that the enemy’s war plan had shifted. It was dictated no longer by an internal insurgency within the South but by an invasion from the North itself. The invasion was launched using the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Enemy troops attacked from bases secured in Cambodia and Laos.
Once, the Trail was indeed truly a trail, a rutted, primitive footpath that meandered through the Laotian panhandle and onto the border areas of Cambodia. I knew the winding turns that looked like finely veined lines, like innocent curves, on an aerial-view map. But there was nothing innocent about the Trail. Indeed, its foliage of triple-canopied green ruthlessly clawed its way through a stampede of overgrown lushness, doing whatever was needed to get a little bit more sun, a little bit more air, even if it meant monopolizing life for itself and denying that possibility to others.
I could see the rush of waterways that patiently carved their presence into the land. The Bang Fai River wound eastward through the town of Tchepone, which served as a major transportation hub for the enemy. The Kong River descended from central Vietnam, flowed west through southern Laos, and entered Cambodia east of the Mekong River. We knew they were loading food, fuel, and munitions into steel drums and launching them into the rivers to be collected downstream by an intricate system of nets and booms.
We had no choice. Their supply train down the Trail had to be stopped, not by air but by ground operations. For years, the American military had sought permission from their government to conduct such an incursion. For years their request had been denied.
Our intelligence told us there was a discernible pattern to the enemy’s movements. The plan I devised was aimed at cutting off the customary withdrawal route into Cambodian sanctuaries. The two battalions under my command would move into Cambodian territory at night in order to occupy blocking positions north of the main enemy base. Then at dawn, an armored cavalry force would launch a direct frontal attack against the base from the southwest. The enemy would be sandwiched in between. Their retreat route into Cambodia would be blocked by my paratroopers and they would be destroyed.
I selected the First and Eighth Airborne battalions for the mission, the same battalions I had refused to turn over for use in the November 1963 coup. We moved by truck from Saigon to My Tho. We sat on the truck floors that were reinforced with sandbags to shield us from shrapnel and mine explosions. Still, the rumble of the engine could be felt right through the truck’s thick steel plates. From My Tho, our two battalions and an armored cavalry force embarked on naval ships waiting to take us on the Mekong River, upstream toward Tan Chau. The morning light shone sheets of silver glaze across the rippling water. Later a dense fog hung over us like a strange grief, sealing us in its solemn sanctuary. Our ships rose and dipped through the shifting shoals, chugging in the palm of the current. We moved with the tide and wind. Still, our destination was one day and one night away. A violet dusk folded around us. The men laced their boots and went through the usual rituals. They switched their safety levers from safe to semiautomatic to automatic, then back. They arranged and rearranged their equipment, checked their rounds of ammunition, canteens, helmets, rifles, medical field kits, and fragmentation grenades.
Cliff kept himself apart from the others, his body taut, controlled. He stared into empty space, his gaze swept a 180-degree arc. I considered myself lucky. Cliff was a model adviser and our only one. One unit in the II Corps had, in a span of but a few years, more than forty American advisers.
By early morning of the second day, we disembarked in Thuong Phuoc, a desolate border outpost manned by our Special Forces on the left bank of the river, three kilometers from the Cambodian border. The outpost commander provided us with a reliable local guide who, we were assured, knew the local terrain, the ghost territories inside the weak faults and gorges of the border territories that occasionally slid into enemy control and pulled men into an underground of pulsing nerves and graves.
My plan was to take the lead with the First Battalion. The Eighth would follow a short distance behind. We checked for uncommon rises in the land, unusual accumulations of leaves or dirt that could conceal wires or a row of sharpened stakes. The land itself could be choreographed for death.
I was the point man, leading our column. Cliff was by my side with an M16 and a pistol belt around his waist with six magazines of ammunition. We adopted a staggered lead sweep, surveying both sides of the corridor. I fingered my web belt with its canteen, ammo pouches, and four fragmentation grenades. I walked slowly, stroking the pistol grip of my rifle, fully alert as I studied the jungle around us. I kept my index finger on the trigger and my thumb simultaneously on the safety lever.
A meek half-light filtered through the sieve of foliage. We continued making our way through the chaos of the jungle. A somber grayness cast by the three-dimensional thickness of shade seemed to envelop everything. Some may complain about the heat, but it is really the density and darkness that consume everything—light, color, space.
Instinctively, we made the necessary adjustments and allowed sight to be superseded by sense. We developed a rhythm so that trudging became automatic. We willed it all away—friction, gravity, fatigue. As nighttime approached, a deep darkness, the true spirit of this remote jungle, settled over us, seeping into our bodies, making us a part of it. There was no moon. Our guide closed his eyes. I too closed mine, allowing them the necessary period of visual adjustment before charting the coordinates of black space. It was all one fathomless stretch, menacing in its sheer seamlessness.
We marched in ponderous silence. Each man had a ragged patch of white cloth tied to his shoulder. The soldier behind fixed his eyes on the floating whiteness, ensuring that he would remain in position within the undulating column. There was the sense that with every step forward we were being watched—by the trees and the spirits that had melted deep into the collected days of the earth itself. Several times my feet got caught among the tangle of ferns, thorns, lianas, and matted vines. Here and there, carcasses of dead trees lay scattered, their protruding branches an avalanche of dead rot and saturated mulch. We hacked our way through the greenery, using swift upward strokes. Thorns and grasses slashed our faces.
Finally our battalion got the word every man had been waiting for. “We’re here,” the local guide said. The topography had changed. The canopy had thinned, the ground cleared, perhaps purposively leveled, except for a few scraggly brushes. Dried marshland materialized before us. Though relieved—all of us would be happy to rest—I was surprised and skeptical. Had we crossed into Cambodia? Here among the tangle of endless green, borders were hard to discern. In the vast oneness of life, borders hardly mattered and yet it was here that they mattered more than ever. We had walked almost a full day, but it did not seem we had covered enough territory to arrive at the planned blocking positions behind the enemy base. I looked at the line of phosphorous green on my wrist compass. Th
e local guide insisted he never made a mistake. After a brief discussion with the First Battalion commander, I gave the orders for both battalions to take blocking positions facing south, behind what we had been told were the enemy’s bases.
Sometimes the right way might seem wrong and the wrong way right. I suddenly remembered my conversation with Phong that evening after the coup.
The night was cool. A soft breeze blew through the low-hanging mist. Our radio operator carried a PRC-25 set on the internal frequency of the company for communication among our squads and platoons. Another PRC-25 was set on the command network. I scanned the empty space before me. The sky folded into itself, a tightly curled blackness that obliterated vision. Not a single feature of the enemy base could be discerned through the low-hanging fog. And yet were we not expecting a large congregation of men and equipment?
I reported this fact to Major General Phat, my III Corps commander, who ordered us to remain in place until the following morning. We settled in our bivouac for the night. We quickly ate our meal of sticky rice and dried cotton pork. Cliff ate whatever we ate. He had not brought the usual C ration cans provided for the American troops.
The ground was low and flat but moist from rain. I felt a cold slimy column crawl under my shirt. Leeches. I dug my fingernails into a fat, slimy mass, prying it from my flesh and squishing it between thumb and forefinger. A thick, slippery substance trickled down my hand. I wrapped myself tightly inside my poncho, put my head on a slight rise, and closed my eyes. Our defensive perimeter was secured by a rotation of men. Platoon sergeants organized reconnaissance patrols. A two-man team was assigned to each listening post along the perimeter. Each team was equipped with a PRC-25, weapons, and a watch. Mechanical ambushes were also set—claymore mines, detonation cords, blasting caps, a battery, and a triggering mechanism attached to a trip wire. We followed the protocol strictly.
By six o’clock the next morning, our troops were ready and alert. The easterly sun peeked from gray clouds. We would move out soon. I decided that the Eighth Battalion would take the lead and the First would follow. Perimeter guards went about the task of rolling the wires and retrieving their claymore mines.
I looked at the topography map folded in my back pocket. The local guide gave a faint smirk to signal that he would not need to rely on the mere surfeit of compasses and maps, those spinning mechanisms of extraneous scientific devices. And then it happened. A single pop cracked the air.
A body collapsed backward, faceup. An artery had been hit. I could see the bright redness of fresh blood pouring forth in high-pressured and distinct spurts that corresponded to the pulsed rhythm of a heartbeat. The bullet had hit the soft flesh of the neck, ripping through muscle tissue. More follow-up fire erupted from the east. A thunderclap of shells burst forth. I saw blazing tracers and enemy troops entrenched behind parapets along a communication trench. All around us the land itself exploded. Mortar and machine-gun fire flashed, pulverizing and whipping up dirt and rock.
It was by now abundantly clear that last night, we had not arrived at the designated blocking positions north of the enemy base. Instead, we had installed ourselves directly within firing range. We were on flat, open land, devoid of cover and in front of cement bunkers fortified by 37 mm recoilless rifles and flanks of enemy lying in wait. Our troops instinctively sought cover and fell flat against the ground. Enemy AK-47s, RPDs, and other light machine guns clattered and popped. Bursts of fire came from left, right, and directly in front of us. There was no other choice but to make our assault. I swept my hand forward, ordering the attack. I heard curses, screams, and moans. My escort platoon and several elements of the First Battalion surged forward in unison, firing as they made their lunge. The enemy mortar team responded furiously. As we made our advance through thick gray smoke toward enemy trenches, fire volume grew in ferocity and density. From a distance of about twenty meters, I saw a clutch of enemy troops struggling with a 57 mm recoilless rifle. It was aimed and fired at us but the round did not go off. Immediately, I ordered a sergeant to seize the enemy weapon. He sprang forward, shooting his submachine gun furiously as he ran toward the trench. Others ran up to support him, spraying continuous rounds to the right and left. When he got there, the enemy had fled, leaving behind the recoilless rifle for us to confiscate.
We continued our assault and in an enfilade of gunfire succeeded in taking the first trench. A burst of machine guns and AK-47 rifles opened fire upon us at short range from another trench behind the first. We ran forward, firing from the hips, furiously throwing grenades. I heaved one grenade, then another, releasing the grenade spoon, then throwing. Enemy guns protruded from the trench and continued their fusillade. We would need reinforcement through a second flanking attack. But a cluster of troops to my left were still flat on the ground, half hidden under their rucksacks. I heard muffled movements as some elbowed and kneed themselves forward.
I was determined to keep myself erect and visible to the troops as I commanded them to move forward. “Up now,” I screamed. At that very moment, a bullet ripped through me. The moment I felt it in my right abdomen was also the moment I saw Cliff knocked against the ground. I was still standing, immobilized by shock and leaning against a small scraggly bush twenty meters or so away from Cliff. The enemy was still firing. My radio operator was shot in the eye. Blood was everywhere. The medic appeared seemingly from nowhere, lowered my pants, and injected an intramuscular antibiotic into my hip. I felt no pain, only a rush of adrenaline through the heart. A syringe of morphine was jammed into my side and Cliff’s. The radio operator moaned. When the medic crouched over him and lifted his head, blood flowed from his nose and face.
As the medic slapped a compress on my abdomen, I reiterated my order to the men still lagging behind. We were being raked with gunfire. The enemy was regrouping, some firing from their trench, some moving forward in an attempt to flank our trench. “Move! Move! Move!” I barked.
“Get down,” Cliff screamed. He was flat on the ground, still twenty meters behind me.
I ignored him. The enemy had another 57 mm recoilless rifle emplacement out in front. My plan was to lead my men toward that 57 mm rifle to disarm it. Suddenly I felt a muscular force yanking me to the ground. The scraggly bush I was leaning against was chopped in half, its branches and leaves scattered. A shudder wended through me. It was Cliff who had pulled me out of harm’s way. He was still bleeding through the cloth bandage but he had managed to crawl his way toward me in time to save my life. His M1 manganese steel helmet lay on the ground. A bullet had clanked a part of it off.
Other elements of the First Battalion were now fully energized. They poured into the first trench and held it against continued enemy attack. The First Battalion commander moved reinforcements in behind them. We were regrouping and holding. Several prongs even maneuvered themselves forward, pumping rounds into the second enemy trench as I hurried to join them. From where I was standing, it seemed that an attack against the enemy’s rear would be crucial to disrupting its defenses. The air was saturated with smoke and fire. I radioed the Eighth Battalion and gave orders for them to maneuver toward the enemy’s rear. But the enemy was determined to savage the Eighth’s area of operation and to keep us from linking up. White and red fire pinned them in position. The enemy resisted our efforts to capture the second trench, counterattacking with rocket-propelled grenades and flamethrowers. Around us, 60 and 81 mm mortar shells landed with rapid, high-angle, plunging explosions. We returned fire furiously. Red and green tracers lit up the sky. One of my aides set his M79 in the dirt. We increased our fire, protecting him, giving him a chance to work the M79. With its barrel near vertical, he fired high explosive rounds into the enemy’s trench. His aim was accurate, deadly. For the first time since early morning, enemy fire slowed. Our men quickly re-formed in pockets, charging forward to take the second trench. I looked at my watch. Three hours had passed.
Moments later, light tanks, camouflaged
under a canopy of twigs and leaves, appeared. Enemy or friend? It was a convoy of M41s. Cliff had suffered a wound more severe than mine. He was still on the ground, his body cramped and tensed into a tight ball. Still he managed an excited scream. “Walker Bulldog.” Yes! They were reinforcements from the III Corps commander. Shots and explosions hurtled from their M32 guns.
The enemy’s firing decreased. Smoke dissolved. The trails vanished. We were ordered not to pursue them farther into Cambodian territory.
It was late morning. Past the abandoned trenches lay an interlacing tangle of well-maintained, established dirt roads. Rows of bunkers were connected by trenches, camouflaged beneath thick mats of brush and vine and bamboo, all part of an underground transfer point of supply depots. The overhead cover was reinforced with logs and sandbags and tangles of brush. From the air it would look like nothing but uninterrupted jungle. Soon enough, I thought, once the coordinates were reported, American F-4s and Cobra gunships would rip through and extinguish the tunnels.
Our seriously wounded were loaded onto poncho stretchers. Eight killed in action. I looked at our wounded. Ten altogether. There they lay, in rows, their dressings saturated with blood. The medic had pumped Cliff’s arm and begun the IV flow from a 500 ml plastic bag labeled “Plasma Protein Fraction.” Bandaged in the abdomen and chest, he was coming to and then passed out again.
I fingered the bandaged wound on my lower abdomen. A bloody pink-white tissue leaked from the dressing. I poked a finger into the compress and felt the bullet slightly beneath the skin’s surface. The morphine and adrenaline were wearing off. I sat down. A thick fog lingered. High above, a helicopter was hovering, its rotor slapping madly as it waited to land. Smoke was popped to guide it to the landing zone. The helicopter slid into a soft touchdown on the dried mud-flat ground. Door gunners kept a steady watch. Dust and debris churned and floated. We would soon be evacuated. Our wounded would be loaded. Gear would be thrown in. When it was all over, I was told the enemy had suffered more than 80 killed in action and more than 120 wounded.
