Rick Elias was a rifleman in my squad in '68. During an op in mountains, just before we entered An Hoa for first time, we were looking for NVA complex. Elias was in front of me. We were spread out over ridge leading down into valley. It started to rain and we all stopped and faced outboard. He popped an NVA about 15 meters from me, about 10 meters from him, and about 5 meters from the Platoon Sgt. Can't remember the Sgt.'s name, but he thanked Elias for saving his life. An NVA was crawling uphill and apparently thought he had passed a small recon group. He was looking down hill towards the Sgt. and never knew what hit him. Just after that one of the platoons set up hasty ambush and got about 3-4 NVA by stream.

Shortly thereafter we ran into the complex and spent the night. A very nervous one at that. The perimeter was not to my liking and didn't afford us much cover where the squad was set up. From there on out we had constant contact with 1 to 3 NVA all the time. Small trails off main trail were always being watched for NVA. They just walked up on you and shit flew. We got a bunch that way.

Lt. McCool left the bush, about two to three days after above incident. Just as McCool came up the line to get into the chopper, shake my hand and say good-bye, three NVA walked up on us with full transport packs and all hell broke loose. All were hit, but hauled ass.

In mid November 1967 I arrived in Viet Nam. The big bird dropped me in Da Nang. We were slowly metered out to various units was assigned to kilo company, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines, 1st Marine Division. The battalion area was a few miles south of Da Nang.

We were told it was the rocket belt. Enemy forces would slip in, set up rockets, and light them off towards Da Nang. Patrols and ambushes of various units, both squad, platoon, company and battalion strength were used to seek out and destroy enemy units that were involved in this tactic.

After about a week we were assigned to squads. The first patrol I went on was strange. My squad leader was an American Indian. He was on his 2nd or 3rd tour. He was a true warrior. It was said if you went with F.W. Weahkee, you would see action. The statement was very true.

We left Battalion. Area in late evening crisscrossing rice paddies, tree lines, and scattered huts. We pulled into an ARVN compound along hwy-1. Weahkee spoke fluent Vietnamese and shortly told us that this compound was to be hit that night. He believed we could ambush VC by leaving compound and setting up about a click (one click is a thousand meters) away from the compound.

Then is when it got strange. He asked every man one at a time if they wanted to go with him. One by one they all refused. There were only two left to ask. William O'Driscoll and myself. Both of us were fng's. I was never prepared to have choices. We both told him where he went, we went.

The three-man ambush set out with two of us leaving brown trails to find our way back.
Right from the get-go we are being shot at the whole time. Rounds buzzed all over the place. We arrive at a site Weahkee decides is right and seek cover. This guy had night vision that would scare you.

After a short period of time he alerts us that we are about to hit them. He fires several blooper rounds. I honestly didn't think I fired my rifle. I was scared. I must have. But I don't remember doing so.

That was my first introduction to combat in Viet Nam, I was very scared and really didn't know what was going on. Real combat is a learning process. You don't make many mistakes, because none are allowed.

I remember Weahkee chasing Jenkins through hootch one nite around Christmas of '67. Whiskey bottle in one hand, loaded and cocked .45 in the other, yelling"Where is the son of a bitch? I am gonna kill him!" It was like watching the keystone cops.
Jenkins flying out one door, Weahkee busting through the other. That was crazy. Why didn't shit like that bother us? We must have been nuts too.

The first time spent in field was out to CAP unit in our TAOR. Those guys may as well have kissed their asses good-by. We were there to run patrols around their area. I would not give you a plug nickle for longevity in that outfit.

My first op was Wetfoot. That was around Da Nang. In December of '67.

In late December or early January '68 I was sent to Okinawa for NCO school. That saved my ass from Tet.

2nd Platoon walked out front gate. There was ville to left. Apparently A Regement of NVA were there and dug in. It did not go well. Sgt. Baggett received a Navy Cross for that action. He died doing it, but from all accounts I heard, he kicked ass. He got taken out by direct hit from B-40. Many in the platoon and my squad were WIA/KIA. When I got back from Okie there were three people left in the platoon. I was promoted to Cpl. And the platoon and I went out on 3-man listening posts,patrols and ambushes. You know the drill. Company strength was down to around 40-50 tops.

After the return of some WIA's and fng's, we started patrols around Da Nang and went to the previously mentioned CAP unit. About a click away we used binocs to scope out area. They did not come up on radio. At 500 meters you could see things in front of their compound. The things turned out to be their heads on bamboo stakes. Their bodies were mutilated..

There was a corpsman name of Ackerman. He was with Kilo during Operation Swift. Bumped into him during my hospital stay in Phu Bai, another corpsman name of Press and another corpsman name of Brown. When I got shrapnel in both arms and back and realized it, the day was at an end. We were setting in for night as I took off my pack and tried to put on a jungle shirt. It kept getting hooked on something. That's when I discovered metal in both arms. Doc Brown was right next to me and I told him. He
did his magic with what he had and said, "I don't have any more tags. I will get some when we get back and fill them out so you get your heart." It never happened.

I also remember a supply Sgt. by name of Creetch. I recall when the Battalion moved to Phu Bai he had one hell of a bunker outfitted. It was below the company office. He had it reinforced and sand bagged to withstand an atomic bomb. It had lights and a fan in it. It also had two bunk beds. This was one hell of a supply Sgt., at least for supplying his own needs.

When I got out of hospital in Phu Bai and got flight date, flew to Da Nang & had to wait overnight at the transit center. A kid named Wilson, who was in gun team was with me (blond hair, 5'6"or so, was always dragging out a pic of his wife & new baby). He was from Tennesee, I think. He was headed to some kind of school.

About end of January '68 Kilo started long sweep around Da Nang. We walked enough to walk home and back ten times. Sometime thereafter the Batallion moved to Phu Bai. We started the sweep to Phu Bai, basically clearing Highway 1 and the surrounding villes, just north of Hai Van pass along a stretch of beach that is a large finger that goes into ocean. That little walk was a Peruvian Jug F**k. We had enough Cees(C-rations) for three days and it took two weeks. Damn near starved to death. I remember the CO telling the airwing choppers that we had a resupply emergency. They told him that there was nothing in air due to weather. He then told them that being in the flight path between Da Nang & Phu Bai he could hear and see choppers in air and that they must be F**KING North Vietnamese Air Force, and wanted permisson to shoot them down. We got resupplied the next morning.

We did a lot of walking and found only booby traps. There was very little contact with the enemy. I remember Mike or Lima company tripping a daisy chain and loosing 7 or 8 men at one time.

I remember pulling into 101st Airborne base and watching them burning jungle-utes. Seems they were resupplied every ten minutes and were just getting rid of shit. the entire squad went nuts and started pulling burning utilties out of fire. What they burned was better then waht we had on. It never made sense to me, the inequities in Viet Nam. Some had all. We had none. That would be an interesting song. We were pulled into a pass about two or three miles north of Hai Van Pass and ran patrols out of there for a while.

I remember getting there. No water for two days, no c's for three. A chopper comes in with loaf of bread and whiskey shot bottles that 1st Sgt. sent out. It was all he could find. Good Man. Upon dispersing this to the squad, they look at me like, "You got to be shitting me."

After this feast, all 7 of us moved out on a squad size patrol. When we got back, we set up a perimeter with holes and set up the watch. A L/Cpl by name of Crawford had 1st watch. At about 11 p.m., Crawford wakes me and says he has movement. I tell him not to f**k with me and just set off a claymore. He becomes frantic and keeps bugging me. I tell him to calm down. He lets off round and then burst. My first thought is. "Now you woke up everybody, and we better have human wave coming up hill or we are in deep shit." It turns out L/Cpl. Crawford shot the only bear I saw in VN. Lt. Hewitt calmly tells Crawford, "Good work , now bury the son-of-a bitch."

I am not sure of the date, but I believe it was in April '68. 2nd Platoon Kilo 3/5 was stuck on a convoy from Phu Bai to Da Nang and back. We were on a platoon sized patrol in mountains, Lt. Hewitt commanding. We were North of the Lang Co Railway Station and the Old French Fort, along Highway-1 just North of Hai Van Pass. Word was passed to get to Highway 1 ASAP by Kilo 6 Actual (the company commander). We hauled ass down very steep mountains to meet convoy. (Ain't no big thing). After spreading out on 6 by's throughout convoy we headed south towards Da Nang. After you descend Hai Van Pass to south to Da Nang another world opens up to you. No villes, no people, just a very large Esso oil plant with no guards, no wire. Very strange. (Ain't no big thing).
As you approach Northern portion of 'Red Beach', the P.X. of the world, you descend mountains and you see miles of tarped equipment and supplies. It is kind of a dream world. People are far removed from the combat here. (Ain't no big thing).
Our 6 by's pull through the MP check point and are directed to tents set up in area adjacent to mountains of supplies. Squads are assigned tents with sand floors & all the fleas you can pack. Gear is dropped and the call goes out "Where is the club?" (Ain't no big thing).
I was only afforded a few seconds in the club. It seems Cpl. Perkins had made initial assault on club and directed all non-combatant f**ks to shove off. (That was no big thing or not unexpected). The resident forces were then reinforced by MPs and we were removed from the area and forbidden to return. (Ain't no big thing)
A small PX adjacent to our tents took one look at us and closed up. (Ain't no big thing)
As nightfall approaches and we have no watch to set or perimeter to guard, responsibility is lost. (Ain't no big thing)
As the moonrises and the sappers from 2nd Platoon Kilo 3/5 assemble to recon the area; sentry posts, time rounds, and locations are noted. There is a city block of soda and beer located by our recon. The infiltration begins.
A human chain is formed through concertina wire and tarps. Under the light of the moon, four 6 by's are filled to capacity with good hot beer and soda. (Ain't no big thing)

If you were on Highway 1 in Feb. '68 between Da Nang and Phu Bai and a crazy marine gave you beer or soda it was compliments of Kilo 3/5. Hug him when you meet him. (Now that's a big thing).

"Tail End Charlie" is not the name of a dog.
It is your position on a patrol, operation or anything else the Marine Corps could dream up to have you go into Indian country as the last man in line.
It is not like you are left behind, but you are the behind, kinda the ass-end.
It could be either a blessing or a curse, depending on what fate had in
store for you that day. My assumed position with Kilo 3/5, 2nd Platoon, 3rd Squad was last man in line in Dec '68. I always thought it was not bad. The point or middle always hit's the shit, and you are out of harms way. "NOT SO!" On one of the night ambushes I was "Tail End Charlie." After dodging Highway 1 to friendly villes, we took a course towards the North of the Battalion perimeter by about 2 clicks. This was a prime area of VC infiltration and the objective was to "get some." At that time, before "Tet," there were about 12-13 in men in a squad, and in newly planted rice fields, you left a hell of a wake. I turn to check the man in front for advance and look around to check for any movement to my rear. I see a dark structure looming to our front. It is an open hooch with very large water buffalo in it. He is getting very excited by the men who are in front of me. Unfortunately for me they are really pissing him off. By the time I get 15 meters from him, I have to take a wide angle around the hooch. He is blowing threw his nose and bellowing. This son-of-a-bitch is BIG and he is pissed.
Well, I tripped over very large pile of shit, to end up in an even larger pile of shit to avoid the monster. Now I smell like shit. Everyone thinks this is humorous but me. I believe this is going to be a long tour, and wonder if it's not too late to re-up and get the hell out of here. Thank GOD it was raining very hard.

We hit Phu Bai late one night off of a convoy that needed security. "Thank God," and they were lucky 2nd Platoon was on it. It was after dark when we arrived. The 1st Sgt (one hell of a nice guy and I can't remember his name) informs us, "hot chow men." They are keeping mess hall open for you at my orders and set to ASAP. No one had to be prodded towards mess hall. We had all the salami sandwiches and tomato soup you could eat, pack off and steal. I hate tomato soup, but I gulped it down with plenty of catsup on my sandwich. No mustard, no rye bread, but damn, it was good. I still hate tomato soup and don't eat salami with catsup, but keep a special hatred for c-ration fruitcake. (That's another story), but I always loved the 1st Sgt. He is the same man who sent us a loaf of bread and shot bottles of whiskey after several days without food and water after opening Highway One. He is special in my book. God I love the corps and the chow.

On bridge security you get lax. Really a lot of time off. It must be hell for a platoon Sgt. to get your ass in gear, because you are so laid back. On one fire team patrol we had to shuffle down the way a little and act like Marines. It was kind of a little outpost down the river from the bridge. No rations were taken and about mid-day things get a little rough. Complaints coming from all sides. Everybody is bitching. We look in the water and think, "What the hell, throw a grenade and we all eat fish." The deed is done and all we get is muddy water and bottom grass. Crawdads in VN are as large as your boot. The trick is catching them. Several methods are implemented and a few are caught. " Now what?" Some one had an abundance of heat tabs and we cooked them and ate them. I guess if I told you that they were good you would believe me. I guess they were. But I am not going to tell you that. I was hungry and I don't either remember or don't want to.

It was sometime after operation Allan Brook and in between ops of no names and
total confusion. Not really caring about very much about anything but staying alive
and keeping my men in one piece, an order came down. "Radio men are not to be used by any other unit, irregardless of situation. Your radioman is to be kept at your side and not released for any reason, by anybody. "
The order came from Kilo 6 actual. Not to be misinterpreted or not understood.

A few days later was when Loza got hit 7-8 times before making it to medivac chopper and flipped us all off from chopper door, yelling I am going home mother-f**kers. One more crazy Porto Rician back on the streets. He and Perkins were good friends and Perkins was dead.

The next day we hit crew served weapons and took casualties. In one action my radioman was called up by my Lt. To serve another squad. I protested, to no avail, and lost my radioman that day. Dan New was a good marine and I won't forget him. I was not with him when he got hit; another squad had him and used him as they saw fit. He didn't come back to us that day.

That night it rained heavy. I had not dug a hole and was really down about Dan. A few of us sat there and didn't say anything to each other. Just heated up c-rat coffee and got wet. Cursing Hell for not giving us a chance to say good-bye. I opened my pack, I was hungry. A f**king can of the damn fruitcake came out. Dan always gave it to me when we drew rations, he got the better of the deal (he was my radioman and I always took care of him). I gave him canned apricots for fruitcake. He thought I was crazy. Maybe.
But I always feared loosing men to combat. I did everything I could to make it easier for them and now I had no radioman. That was just the way Nam was.

In the midst of battle sometimes you loose your wits. Names become: "move the f**k out", "get the f**k down" or "f**king get out of my f**king way." I am sorry to phrase it that way, but that is the way you spoke. There was no one to correct you or chastise you when lead flew and people got hit. Sometimes you did things out of anger, usually out of your programmed training and experience in the field, and sometimes out of preservation. We moved out in early morning to back Mike Company 3/5 during Operation Allen Brook. They took the point. You could hear the shit start to fly as soon as they were out in next ville and you knew they were catching shit. At the time I was becoming the most senior member of platoon, not the most experienced, but the most senior, all 21 years of me. (All you had to do was be alive long enough). When we caught up with the line I was told by the Lt. to accompany Lt. From MIKE Co. to scene of ambush. As we advanced up line and I made contact with the Lt. from Mike Company. I advised my squad to look sharp and spread the f**k out. I did not need an ambush to start my day with. All were locked and loaded and ready to kick ass. The Lt. from Mike Company was upset, f**ked up, if you will. As we advanced towards point of contact you saw gear tossed about, syringes, corpsman bag, helmets, and various gear. On other side of small hooch was the battlefield. Large amounts of brass, spoons from frags, half-empty magazines, and shit you knew MARINES did not let go of. As I set the squad into a perimeter and consolidated our radio contact with Kilo 6 Actual & Kilo 2 Actual, I asked the Mike Company Lt. "What now?" (You could see life ended here and a lot of shit took place before it did). He was kind of not there. I looked at the treeline and we advanced together with two riflemen & my radioman. We reached atrench behind tree line first. The two rifleman were placed to both sides of trench and far enough away to not hear comments by the Lt. The radioman puked and was left to our rear at my orders. Flanks were moved out further and my best man Vaca was put towards front. In the trench lay 6-8 bodies of Marines! It was the squad that was ambushed. They had been stripped of gear, clothes, and executed. Some had wounds through arms and hands, as if to ward off the final deathblows. These men were executed by the NVA! The Lt. became incoherent. He started babbling and crying. No shame, that's just the way it was. He mouthed names and said over and over they were still alive, they were still alive. I turned away and let him go. As time went by Mike Company consolidated and relieved us. I pulled my squad in from the flanks and point and we returned to KILO.
If you have any idea what it took to write this then you also know the pain involved. Don't ever let me hear a bad word about MIKE 3/5.

Operation Allan Brook
Go Noi Island
May 27th PM/May 28th AM 1968

A light breeze and cooling winds engulfed Go Noi Island. After a day long battle that has burned in my mind for over thirty years, it was as close to HELL as I ever cared to venture. The sun burned-out and brother night crept over 3/5. The long deserted village but fresh battlefield started to become shadows and darkness, friends and enemy at the same time. After having been quizzed by KILO Co, LIMA Co, and my Lt. about the battle, I was in search of a corpsman, any corpsman. I still couldn't hear very well. Nine hours of Phantoms, 175's, 81's, B-40's, machine-gun and small arms fire will do it to you. Just ask a DMZ vet. When you have been a target most of a day and no one scored, consider yourself one lucky son-of-a-bitch. I did. The rabbit was tired and needed "DARVON". The corpsman didn't want to give any up. The LT. just looked at him and turned away. (The Lt. had been in HELL before and knew.) Two or three and a long pull on a canteen. L/Cpl. Richard Vaca was my right arm in Viet Nam. (If you find him before me, give him a hug. He is a brother and I love him.) I returned to the trench line that I had fought from most of that day and told Vaca to take over, I am going to sleep. I slipped into darkness. When I awoke I could hear a light rain striking a poncho that had been laid over me. I couldn't remember where I was and lifted myself up. Lima Company to my left and VACA and Kilo Company to my right. The rain on my face made me feel alive. Vaca handed me c-rat coffee. (He and I made a lot of that over there and shared future dreams in the middle of some dark times.) The fire mission to our direct front was slowed down in my mind by the DARVON I had taken earlier. Huge flashes of light and fire exploded in my lap. Tiny glowing hornets flew about, helter-skelter. Seeking targets? From the center of impact and ka-rump the sound of these hornets of death whistled about. Their glow died and sounds of shredding and impact could be heard. Messengers of death to an NVA. That poor f**ker had less going for him then I did. No medivac, no R&R, no hope. But he came and was out there. Vaca related that a gun-team member had been KIA. I remembered his face and wondered where his body was. I didn't want him to be alone out there. He deserved better. I remembered a chopper flying overhead during the battle. They were headed the wrong way, from our lines towards enemy lines. Black smoke bellowed from the chopper and the gunner was leaning out the door, kicking ass with a sixty. Three or four days later we found pieces of chopper. I never knew their fate. The next day we advanced and an order came down to look for fresh graves and identify the occupants. I only refused one order the whole time I was in the United States Marine Corps. That was the one. I would guess that some wonder why I pour out my gut's to faceless people I don't know. Give up secrets we have hidden for years. Those that were there know and don't ask why. Somewhere out there is a man who also did some of the same things. He has not confronted these issues. If I can survive all that shit and justify my being alive by bringing one man out of the darkness, then I have done all I can this lifetime.

Yeah, I did some shit in the Nam, but I was never alone, mostly. The Fred Weahkee you see in 2nd platoon was a one man Marine Corps. During SWIFT he took off on his own and would come back every few days to resupply and exchange intel. (This was related to me, I was not on SWIFT.) Crazy mother! There will be stories about him in future from those who observed him personally. I was with him for about 2-3 months before he got hit during TET and was medevaced. He was on his 2nd or 3rd tour and had quite a time over there. I went to see him when I flew into El Toro to get out of Corps. I told him of people we knew and their status, mostly KIA. He did what you probably can guess. The Bronze Star honestly gave me more head problems most of my life then good times. Lately it is more acceptable to me. I have a small box in my room. In it is my grandfathers SILVER STAR, my fathers DISTINGUISHED FLYING CROSS, and my BRONZE STAR. I don't know how they felt about their awards. I only know how I feel about mine. It is always hard to live up to expectations of others, but you can really be hard on yourself. I was. All things being equal, I would rather they had given it to someone who had died that day. That sounds strange, I know, but they paid a price. I am alive. Their mothers and families only had a piece of cloth and metal to represent a person. That was tough for me to reconcile and make it seem important. I saw some take cheap hearts to go home and could understand the fear and pain, but never the sell-out. Saw one throw frag on other side of dike and raise arm & leg so as to get hit. When that did not work, corpsman used forceps to jab into arm and hip, 4th heart and they were gone. It had to mean something to make it important. How could I tell a friend of mine, (Marine, lost eye, arm and leg) that I had a heart, or two, and was in one piece. He has the rest of his life to ponder the award. It has to be important. It has to mean something. During one op in mountains above An Hoa we walked into L-shaped ambush. I was in center of ambush. Your life flashes before you and everything is in slow motion. I could see small trees around me falling and coming apart. Felt impact of burst after burst from AK-47's. There were about 7-8 shooters. Helmet, pack, canteens, and rifle got the shit shot out of them. I fell backwards and thought, "You are f**ked!" They reloaded and dumped one more mag apiece at us. I was trying to reach the sling on my rifle and kept after it. Hooked it with my boot, got it up and hand grip was gone (Trust me, you can only fire M-16 on full auto if you keep selector up with thumb, a small spring that keeps tension on selector in hand grip was gone.) (I have that handgrip on my mantle along with a gook canteen and a knife taken in another action.) I fired two mags on full auto into their ambush lines. They then threw several chicoms (about seven or eight). They landed all around me. The first to go off was at my feet, about 4-5 feet away. All I can tell you is a large blast of fire appears and things around it disappear. At least three were duds. One was next to my head and one bounced off of me when they threw them. The other was at my side. (Thank GOD they didn't make good frags). I was now in fear they would come down from side of hill for the coup de gras. F**K THEM! I was also in fear that if I jumped up my guts would fall out my back. I had burning sensation in my back. Remember guy's saying when you get hit, you don't realize it, but it burns. Adrenaline was working. My radioman was behind me about 10 meters up the hill in dense growth; he never knew what the hell was going on. My blooper man was in front of me about same distance. He had only two to three meters of visibility and was behind a huge rock. He was yelling for me and was white faced when I appeared in front of him. I was scared shitless. It took me a while to realize what I had just come through. I started to put on jungle utility shirt that night as we sat in on side of the ridge. Something kept hooking sleeves on both arms. That is when I found the shrapnel in both of my arms. The piece in back was not discovered until VA x-rayed me in the 70's. I do not posses a Purple heart. I made a decision a long time ago on a mountain in VN with a corpsman who pulled metal out of both arms, doctored the wounds and did not have any more tags on one side, and my radio man on the other. Now it means something at least to me. After TET, 3/5 opened up Highway One from Da Nang to Phu Bai. In one ville we got some shit so I fired up my Zippo and started burning hooches. Lt. thought this was great fun and borrowed Zippo from someone and was doing the same. Just about this time Westmoreland and flotilla of choppers darken sky. Word is passed to cut the shit and stop burning the ville. Lt. tells me to knock off and get towards road. I wait till he is out of site and resume. I shit you not, one guy fired a whole ma at the choppers knowing that that f**ker was up there. All the time us crazy f**kers are yelling "GET SOME MOTHER-F**KER". The inconsistencies in VN for support were amazing to me. I am sure there is no Marine who has not suffered the pangs of hunger in the bush. When you kill a man and the first thought is "does he have any food on him?" Well, I shot them, drank their water, smoked their French cigs, ate their candy & rice balls and watched their eye's roll back in their head as they slumped and gurgled. If that isn't hunger, I damn sure don't know what is.
A friend of mine is former Navy SEAL, '66 vintage. After their first insertion in the bush, they all, to a man gave back their M-16's, went to the Israeli embassy in Saigon and purchased Uzi's, Stoners, or Remington pump shotguns. They could get away with it. We went to the brig for refusing to take issue weapons. I wish I was a just a fair storyteller. As it is I am just middle of the road. I lack the vocabulary and dedication to making it world shattering. But if I could bring one man out of his self- imposed prison that related to Nam, any man, I would feel better about that then any award I could ever receive. That would be reward enough. That is why I try to tell the story I know. The smallest of things are sometimes the most important. The pre-sweetened Kool-Aid in the mail, the Dear Johns, the two hot cans of San Miguel, the time you had the shits and were really screwed up, those horse pill malaria tabs, all that shit means something.

By mid May 1968, 3rd Battalion 5th Marines were spread out from Phu Bai in the north to Hai Van Pass and Da Nang in the south. We had opened up Hiway-1 after the "Tet" offensive and suffered some casualties from booby traps but no real action. Lima had the distinction of being the only unit in 3/5 to fight in the battle for Hue City. They were back with us now.

One day a radio message came from the Kilo 2 Actual, "Prepare to saddle-up and move out." For three days we moved out, nothing new to a Marine, just hurry up and wait.
We were relieved by a unit from up north. I don't recall which one. They were undisciplined and sloppy. Not much awareness. Maybe because of where they had come from. Things down here were slow. The first thing they did was turn on a radio. That night while I tried to relate facts of the area to them, their squad leader was smoking dope. I gave up on them.
Not my business. I had other fish to fry.

The next evening we were loaded on 6 by's and hauled to hill 55 south of Da Nang. It beat humping, but moving at night bugged the shit out of me. It was like we were on trucks with neon signs sticking out of our asses saying, " Shoot me, please! " I bitched but that was nothing new. Stupid shit as far as I was concerned. Trouble would find you soon enough without asking for it. We arrived at hill 55 in late evening, after dark, dug in, if you can call it that, and set in for the night within the perimeter. Trust me, hill 55 is one hard mother. Digging a hole is at best a waste of time without a backhoe or airstikes. Around 10- 11 PM the fateful order comes down, " Saddle-up!"
The next 3 months of my life are the only time I am alive on this planet. Everything else since has been a backwater, a vacation, a very small event. There is a very good reason the Marine Corps has crimson for a color. I was about to find out why.

It is the summer of 68. The ops are starting and 3/5 is in for it's share of hell.
We humped all night to Liberty Bridge and reached there at dawn. Actually there was no bridge. The gooks had blown it up and it sat in the river. Once during the night we passed through a small compound. A marine came up to me in the darkness and was jumpy as shit. He said, "one of our patrols just got chased back in by 200-300 gooks." This is very
reassuring to me. Everything you joined for, trained for and will probably die for is
on the line now. These are NVA. Not Charles, but Mr. Charles. This mother-f**ker don't run. If he want's it he is gonna get some. We will see. I think to myself, "Well a**-hole, you asked for this. All your dreams are now reality. Little boy dreams are now about to take on some real shit. There may be some folks watching you from above but they aren't here, you are. Now you find out what it is to be a marine!"
After a small rest we cross the river (I nearly drown, I am 5'6" and it is deep and the current is swift and strong). The mail I just received is wasted and I don't know at the time but reading and writing will not be on my mind for quite awhile, survival will be.

I don't recall the direction of travel but it paralleled the river for a time and then hit very dense growth. Lot's of booby traps and lot's of heat. On the other side of the river as we emerged and drained. There was a large burm with an artillery battery behind it. Two marines looked down at us. One said, "you're in Indian country now son." He and the other kinda laughed and disappeared behind us as we entered the solid tree line. It took the better part of the day to bust through this jungle, some of the heaviest I ever saw. As we exit the growth you start to see thing's that unnerve you. Very haphazardly set trip wires on chicoms and the like (nva). Gob's of blood on the earth, bandages, shell casings, and NVA gear of all types. You don't see this shit ever, so you know something very evil took place here.
After our exit from the jungle and the initial knowledge that you are about to meet some real shit, you hear sporadic gunfire and explosions. We are on edge of ville and just on the skirt of battlefield. As we approach, entering the ville, some marines appear on an M-60, just looking at us as we pass. Saying nothing. Blank holes burned for eyes in their skull, seeing somewhere else. We enter the interior of the ville where 3/27 met the dragon.
This ville is on a plateau overlooking a rice paddy approximately 1 to 1.5
clicks wide and about 3 clicks long. The sporadic gunfire increases as we enter. To the right of us is a dirt path leading to next ville the fire we have heard is coming from the next ville. You can see a few marines spread out around the foundation of a possible adobe hooch, Only the foundation is there, everything has been blown to hell. The walls don't exist. Nothing. I watch as the marines keep shooting in the apertures below the foundation and throwing frags. They occasionally drag a body (NVA) from under the foundation. This is the last remnant of the regiment of NVA they fought, the die hards.

As I come back to where I am and look around, the scene below me is directly out of hell itself. The edge of the paddy drifts off onto a small creek with a sandy bottom. The whole time we advanced towards this ville, CH-46's were asshole to belly button. I couldn't figure that out until now. Wia and KIA. The first thing you notice is a very large pile of helmets. You see a pile of assorted weapons in disarray and then a pile of logs with ponchos over them. As the 46 comes in, the ponchos fly and whip up. You see faces, boots, legs, arms and bodies. Sweet Jesus, these are marines. It hit's me. Goddamn! I could never do that scene justice with words or on canvas. The feelings that run through me to this day, I can't describe. There is a pain every time I think about it. It doesn't go away. I have come to a point where I can talk about it, try to relate, but I will never know or understand it completely.

3rd.bn 27th marine had located and attacked an NVA regimental CP. Hell happened here. There is no way for me to honor the sacrifice of all involved in that unit that day in Viet Nam. All I can tell you is a small part of my soul is on Go Noi Island, by a stream that is dyed red with blood. I can see it still.

After having set up perimeter with the Lieutenant and dug in, or attempted to, I was ready to collapse. I had been awake for four days and three nights, no sleep at all. I often did that in Viet Nam. I don't know why. Nerves, fear, hell, I don't know. The squad members kept bitching about the positions of holes. Seems that every time they dug a hole they exposed a gook body (NVA). I had to recheck the fields of fire and adjust a few things and eventually told them to live with it. I recall the first tour of the entire area with the Lieutenant, as we set up holes and fields of fire (Hewitt, Perkins, Pierce, Austin and me). As we walked around the perimeter, one young marine was taking refuge behind a pile of banana tree trunks. Sniper rounds were bouncing around and for some reason didn't bother us. It was kind of like a gnat, you just wave him off and keep going. As four or five rounds kick up dirt around us a few rounds go through the banana trunks and holes appear in front of the young marine's eyes. He looks up at us as if to say, "What the f**k now. Where do I hide?"
I laugh, the Lieutenant looks on in disgust, Austin is looking for where they came from, Pierce is looking down at the at the young marine calling him a pussy and Perkins let's off a full mag and yells, " f**k you mother f**ker" in his best Boston twang. I find this hilarious and start cracking up. Fatigue, hunger, pressure of combat, and a few dozen other things make men do very strange things in combat situations. I will tell you that I believe I was insane over there at a point. I don't know how else to describe it. You do things that are crazy, nonessential. Not smart, but they get the job done. The shield of "You can't get me!" protects you. I know it sounds weird but if you ever got shot at a few thousand times and survived you know what I mean. After setting the watch for the night and doing my watch I slept.

In the early morning dawn with cool breezes blowing through Go Noi Island, I awoke to Harmon opposite me warming up c-rations. This seemed like a good idea so I set to making my coffee and heating up the meal. Harmon was a gun team leader from Tennessee, A back woods boy who knew his way around in a forest. We were in a forest.

I had noticed the evening before, a pile of NVA packs behind my hole. I had been too exhausted to investigate them then, but with a round or two of coffee in me, I was ready to inspect them. I had not noticed before but a dead nva was behind the pile of packs. His unseeing eyes looked towards the sky. The big green flies had started to descend upon him and I wondered how many had visited me that morning while I ate. Harmon helped me drag him off, and we inspected the packs. French cigs, fresh khakis, ho chi minh sandals and other odds and ends. One pack had what I thought was a pair of red/blue trunks in it. I
tossed it aside while I scrounged for cigs. The good NVA soldiers had packed well and I was rich. The young marine I had mentioned earlier, the one who hid behind the banana tree trunks, had found a prize. The trunks, or so I thought, turned out to be an NVA flag. I can't express how stupid I felt. He had watched us go through them and had got dibs on seconds. Well he made out. Harmon chewed on my ass for not taking better care.
Other marines are awake and the area is becoming active. More choppers are hovering and gear and some people from the rear are coming out to inspect things (the S-3).
The Lieutenant informs us that we are to break up into small search teams and scour the ville from top to bottom. Search everything. The squad as I recall turns to on weapons and rest. Harmon and I are jazzed up about searching so we team up and start out. The famous Harmon and I set out on our exploration. I am slow because I am not sure NVA are not still around. Harmon is more aggressive and I am tail end Charlie. I am covering him while he is point. Approximately 50-75 meters from our fighting holes we come upon a bonanza of nva packs probably about 50-60. They are loaded with shit and we scavenge what we want and return the rest to the S-3 officer now established in hooch for inspection of all things coming in. S-3 officer is getting his hooks into things and states all gear to be brought back to him ASAP, without delay. Ok! If anyone can answer me on this one I would be grateful. In every pack we find a small lacquered, black in color, with white decals/markings, all different. They look very similar to dominoes. Was this a way of identifying each other at night without noise or what? I still can't get that out of my head. They were very bright at night under moonlight. Unfortunately I have none to show you, only a memory. It still puzzles me.

(Webmaster Note: These were nighttime identifiers for unit members travelling in the extreme darkness of jungle trails. They glowed in the dark and were used to maintain position in the line of march. I have one in my collection from the operation described in this story and you may view it by clicking here.)

After humping the packs back to S-3 officer, we returned to our last position and continued our search. Just beyond where we left off is a mound with an antenna sticking out of it. This mound turns out to be a CP radio bunker. It appears to have absorbed the direct hit of a large projectile. After carefully digging out the occupants, we discover a radio (Chinese) very similar to our PRC-25. Keep in mind all the time I am warning Harmon to watch for booby traps. He is determined and I am very nervous and constantly watch
around us for any movement. Harmon is a bloodhound and will not be denied. He uncovers the NVA radio, shakes off the dirt and debris and turns the son-of-a-bitch on. We hear gooks talking and he keys it up, "f**k you mother-f**ker!" A star is born.
Harmon would continue to find things the rest of the time I knew him while I was in VN. He could really make you look stupid at times. He could find things that no one else could. We hump the radio and assorted items back to the S-3 officer and a gathering of what looks like a bunch of officers, all unknown to us.

Upon arrival at the S-3 hooch a crowd gathers and I melt into the crowd. Harmon takes over and describes his keen since of tracking, observation, etc. He is commended by the S-3 officer and the crowd. Beaming he states, " I will be back!" I am starting to get real tired of this shit, but continue with him more out of curiosity more then anything else. I hate to miss something. We return to the commo bunker area. Just beyond the bunker is another staging area. Packs are now in two to three layers deep. They are covered with tall grass, but this doesn't fool Harmon one bit. He is in a frenzy, tossing, tearing, and throwing NVA gear is all over the place. By now we both have goodies jammed into all the pockets of our jungle utilities. A rather large pack is uncovered and Harmon sits down to inspect it. I stand and look on. Bingo his eye's light up and hundreds of thousand of dollars appear, all North Vietnamese. It looks like monopoly money, all different colors and denominations. He is throwing this shit in the air going bug f**k and finally calms down. We ponder the situation. Rich men? We decide to make a round about return to the S-3 hooch. A large amount of money is passed out by the handful to all Marines we encounter. Uncle Ho's mug is on one side and I can't remember what on the other. Anyway a lot of money changes hands. Upon our return to the S-3 hooch, they are now on the lookout for us (Harmon), and a reception committee greets us (Harmon). I still wonder if the paymaster is working this off in North Vietnam? Tough shitsky! You must take a few moments and think about the marines who bought this stockpile. The last time I saw them they were wrapped in ponchos and getting a ride in a 46, not one they wanted. A price had been paid. 3/27 and a lot of other units were on Allan Brook. A lot of marines had paid for it and a lot more were going to. Remember that. We returned to the staging area. Just beyond that is a spider trap (exposed) with a very dead NVA soldier sticking out of it on his back. He has very large hole in side of head and has created a freeway for large green flies going in and out of his skull. He is booby-trapped and we avoid him, but use him as a point of reference. "Luke, the gook". Beyond Luke we see a long trench. Foreboding! No movement. Breeze
moves grass and a gunstock is exposed very close to us. We both hunker down and look around. I go left and Harmon goes right, in the prone position, ready to shoot. Now I see something that baffles me. Before us is a long trench with fighting positions, ready and weapons lined up one after another. About two dozen of various types. All just as if their
owners had gotten up to take a leak and were coming right back. We advance and leap frog along. No one. We look at each other and are dumbfounded. Shit really happened here. For an NVA to leave his weapon, shit really happened here. We recon the area and make contact with Akino at that time. He has just captured a gook officer from a bomb shelter and we quickly return to our trench. Akino is with two other marines and they have things in tow. We start to sling arm the NVA weapons; this takes a couple of trips, leap frogging back and forth about 20- 30 meters at a time so as not to leave weapons alone. S-3 is now going nuts when we get back with this and I depart leaving Harmon to his glory. I return to my fighting hole and heat up c-rats. Harmon comes by and pleads for one last trip. I concede and go with him. Harmon and I return to the trench and scour the area. There are no more to be found. I still find it strange the weapons were laid out like they were and undisturbed, it's just weird. I go to the extreme end of the trench and stand up on a burm and look around. No movement! I notice a depression in the paddies approximately 30 meters from us. Something has impacted the ground and moved or was drug along towards us or away from us. I show Harmon and we are at a loss to identify it. The path seems to be towards us, about 2-3 feet wide. Weird! We start to follow the depression on up through the trench line and beyond to a pile of dirt and debris. At this point I see a very large unexploded bomb. Maybe this is what scared the shit out of the NVA and caused them to boogie and not return for their weapons. In any case I inform Harmon that my part of the search is over and I am gone. We both beat feet back to within our perimeter and set in for the night.

I recall one morning of some operation during the summer of 1968. Before Dan New, my radioman got hit and medivacked. We had just started to move out and I was in front of Dan. As the point progressed through the ville into the next adjoining ville we came upon a 15 to 20 meter open area that we had to pass through to enter the tree line. As the man in front of me cleared the opening a sniper opened up on the clearing.
The angle of the sun hit the copper-jacketed bullets just right and the sun lit them up with a dazzle or sparkle as they whizzed through the clearing. We all hit the deck and started looking around for the concealed sniper. I guess the sniper assumed another jarhead would stroll into the clearing and he could score for Uncle Ho. Just like shooting duck's in a gallery, easy pickings. This sniper would fire a shot, then fire two rapid fire, and then three of four slow fire. He would then be quiet for a small period of time and then resume. I figured that after a few minutes of this I could run across before he got back to shooting again. I jumped up and ran like hell and made it across. Hell, no big deal. This apparently pissed him off. He got some friends and they start banging away. The little bees are zinging through the air all dazzling as they move out at around 3,000 feet per. The clearing is now a very hazardous path. I can't explain why but it struck me as humorous. I looked back at Dan and he has this look of fear on his face. He is face down and looking at the rounds buzz through the clearing. I start cracking up (laughing). It is like watching a bunch of wasps or bees go after something. Zing-zing-zing. Dan indicates from his position that the Lt. Want's me on the radio. Sorry about that, but not just this minute. I am latter told he wanted co-ordinates for a fire mission to disrupt the sniper. By this time I am laughing hysterically and the guys in front of me start laughing, Dan starts laughing, and everybody is laughing. Crazy? Yeah probably.
I don't have a clue why things effect you that way. Death was a few feet away and it was final. I guess when you put up with so many damn horrible things day after day that your mind finally decides to take a break and blow it off.

After operation Allenbrook 3/5 received a brief rest of a few days. We were all parceled out around Da Nang in low activity area's and ran small (squad size) patrols of no consequence or sat in fortified positions and rested. In June sometime the word came down, " saddle up ". The Lt. wouldn't tell us where we were headed. While the 6 bys headed through Da Nang and south towards Hill-55, I started to feel ill. As we turned towards An Hoa I almost became physically sick. As soon as we made the turn I knew we were going back into Indian country. I felt like throwing up. People died out there. I informed the squad: ammo count, check you weapons, give me a count on your frags, etc. Jesus, I felt sick. We were going back to hell. (Go Noi/ the Que son's). I don't know if I was better prepared this time or what. I took on a strange attitude. Screamed at people, did not put up with any shit, and was hard to be around. I knew we were in for trouble. I never slept much. I lived on C-rat coffee and cigarettes.

Into the dragon's mouth again. One more time to piss on him and see if you could make it out and tempt fate one more time. Law of averages say's it won't keep working. The mojo won't last forever.
We jumped off into the Mameluke op's and took a different direction past Liberty Bridge. The postman (3/27) had seen to it that Mr. Charles had changed his address. It had been an expensive move for both sides. After we crossed the river and sat in for the evening in an abandoned perimeter of a unit in before us, we started finding gear. Marine gear. Very careless shit. No doubt about it. They were discarding heavy stuff that was hard to hump but could save your life. Belt's of gun ammo, smoke & WP frags, 60 mike mike rounds, and other assorted ammo. This wasn't good. It didn't feel good. The area we were into now was more open, not as brushy as Go Noi island and operation Allen brook. It was easier to get ambushed in because of the large open paddies and distances between villes.

It was almost a death with to be on point. It was always a long stretch to the next cover and the plt. On point had to assault the tree lines on line and firing as you went. " Recon by fire " it was called. You felt naked. Open.

It seems to me in retrospect that the Mameluke ops were harder on 3/5 then operation Allenbrook casualty wise. I could be wrong. The NVA had changed their tactics and become more sophisticated with booby traps and small unit ambushes. They were always well concealed and had ball's the size of watermelons to wait until you were right on top of them to open up. Constant harassment, day and night. They adjusted pretty well and damn quick. So did we. Our tactics had changed also. You always, always had co-ordinates ready for a fire mission. The next step could be trouble. " Recon by fire " was a way of life and a way of saving lives. Our C.O. for Kilo had a policy. " Arty the shit out of it before you go in. " never get an argument from me on that.

On one occasion we had a very long and wide rice paddy to cross before nightfall. Arty did it's job. The freight trains in the sky. God, it sounded good. Krump. The sound of the round kicking ass as it struck ground. Maybe there would be one less NVA to have to greet.

After we are into the ville some distance the snipers get with their program and pop off a few. Small exchanges take place and we think we own the ville for the night. As we set in the perimeter and check fields of fire, a two-man canteen team is sent to a well that we had passed coming into the ville.

Ron Gerron from Lubbock, Texas (Buddy Holly country) and David Minor (an Englishman from Virginia nicknamed Limey) shrug off their gear, grab the squad's canteens and their weapons and head to the well. In Gerron's words, " We approached the well and set to dropping the bucket into the well to fill the canteen's. " (About 15 to 20 meter's from them is a blown up hooch with two hidden NVA snipers in it. Keep in mind the whole damn Battalion passed this hooch getting into the ville. ) Gerron, " all of a sudden rounds start flying all over the place bouncing off the well and ground, so Limey and I haul ass back to perimeter without canteens. Shooting as we run towards the fire."

Two or three other members of squad and I grab our shit and head in the direction of the fire. We meet Gerron and Limey half way. They are scared shitless and breathing hard. Both jabbering at once and worried about the canteens. We start advancing and shooting towards the well with blooper and a few laaws. By now the NVA have hauled ass, so we set up security and fill canteens as the rest of the Battalion comes and goes with the same task. We are relieved by another squad and we start back to our perimeter.

Gerron is complaining and say's I think I got hit! I look towards him and just below his cartridge belt in his hip area is a small hole in jungle pants. I get him to kneel and call the corpsman over. Gerron drops his drawers and sure as hell there is a small projectile embedded in his hip, just sticking out of the surface of the skin. It is approximately a 1/4-inch deep. The corpsman gets some forceps from his bag and pulls it out. Gerron is in some pain. The corpsman drops the round in my palm. The copper jacket with Gerron's blood on it glistens in the sun. The corpsman applies what he has and I twist the round between my thumb and forefinger looking at it. I smile at Gerron and tell him,"Save this and show to your grandchildren some day. "

I gave it to him and we set in for the night.

Gerron was medevaced the next morning due to a high fever and infection. He returned in a few days.

In the late 70's after I had been checked for exposure to Agent Orange at the VA hospital in Fresno, California, and was told I had symptoms of the shit. I got out my squad book. I had not looked at in a long time. I called all of them, but could only get through to Gerron. That was after I convinced his mother to give me his phone number.

It took a few words and about ten years melted away. I told him of the Agent Orange thing and encouraged him to get checked. He said he did not ever try to think about VN or really want to. I asked if he still had the round. He did. He remembered the day very well, as you would guess.

I haven't heard from him in a long time. I hope someday he tries to contact me. But if sleeping dogs are asleep, you let them sleep. We all do things in a different way. That's OK. If you bump into him let him know he has a brother in California who wonders about him once and awhile.

I have just finished reading the story for the battle of hill "362" by a Sgt. Harris. If you have not read it, you should take the time to do so. It is an excellent account of just how confusing real combat is. It is also the account of some very brave Lima 3/5 marines. Go to the Lima 3/5 site and check it out. History is made by people of no consequence at some of the damnedest times. All the men he reflects upon are heroes, each and every one. They made history. Through his recollections and story they live on. I thank him for sharing and being able to tell about his brothers and the events of that time.

Some things he states are close to home. Warrior's are a breed apart............."Marines",
in Viet Nam we were all green and sometimes crimson with blood. We were deprived of all the basic necessities of life almost to the point of exhaustion. We were pushed beyond endurance; used weapons of a questionable nature and out of survival were forced to accomplish things most people never have to face. We've been disappointed and never let it get us down because there was no time out. We've done things even we didn't know we were capable of, and lived to tell about facing the dragon.
The following commentary is mine and mine alone. It is my account of May 27, 1968, "Operation Allenbrook".

God I wish I had the education and vocabulary to express the horrors of "Operation Allenbrook".

The start date for Allenbrook for 3/5 as best I know was around 17-18 may, 1968.

The bodies were stacked like cordwood on a sandy creek bottom. We sent a fireteam to fill canteens and they were downstream of bodies. A stream of crimson fluid had formed on downhill side of the bodies and was blending with the flow of the stream turning it a shade of red. We had to send a runner to let them know not to fill the canteens. Screaming didn't work.

3/27 had met its fate and many brave marines had died. Their gear was everywhere. When we dug holes that night we kept exposing dead NVA. Eventually I told the squad to scrape dirt around them and sit in for the night. Behind me was a stack of NVA packs. I was so tired I couldn't find the energy to look at them. The next morning we were formed into security for the area and searched entire ville for info and anything we could come up with. A prisoner was taken by Akino the skipper's radioman, and gun team leader Harmon had a field day with finding gear. A paymaster's pack with plenty of North Vietnamese money was found by Harmon. We distributed some to everyone before turning it in to S-3. I returned to the edge of my squad's position on the perimeter and talked to a Cpl. from 3/27.

He had a blank look on his face and told me, "We assaulted the trench 8 times. We were repulsed 7 and then we went hand to hand the 8th time. We took the trench."

As he leaned back against the hole he was in, the final elements of the NVA regiment they walked into were being cleared from some bunkers within viewing distance. He watched as I did and we never said anything else to each other.

I couldn't help but think of WW-II and the Pacific. Marines there had done the same things. Died and gone hand to hand combat. Jesus, save my ass and gives me the strength!

I found a pouch with blooper rounds in it, Russian. It scared me to think these f***rs had some of the same weapons of destruction.

On May 20, 1968 (my birthday), we assaulted a bunker line that had steel reinforced tops on them. The steel was rails from the railroad that crossed Go Noi Island. I really thought I would die that day. I always saw a tombstone in my mind with "born on" and "died on" the same date. It haunted me.

I knew if I could get through this day I would survive. Screaming and running shooting for all I was worth, we reached the trench along side the bunkers. They were empty. Damn was I relieved. Our C.O., Lt. Smith had artied the hell out of things before we went in and God bless him for it.

On or around May 24 maybe 23 is when Cpl. Perkins stepped on mine. We were still saddling up, we had palace guard that day and he hit the mine. The Lt. calls for us to get to him ASAP and we do. As I approach with my squad, I see Perkins down on side of the railroad tracks and think, "You dumb shit, why did you walk on a trail?" I can see he is hit in face, head and foot is screwed up.

I snapped. I set squad out, got radioman by me (Herbert Lash, Penn.) And cried like a baby. I wanted out, any way I could get out, I wanted out. Perkins and I would have rotated home at the same time. No one from 3/5 had rotated in for awhile without getting hit bad or KIA. I knew I was next. On May 29th, I believe, he expired form his wounds. We didn't learn of this until we had returned to hill 55.

The words of Sgt. Harris come to me now,"I knew I was going to die and by god I would take as many off them with me as I could."

On May 27, 1968 I faced my dragon. I don't know that I won, but they didn't kill me, physically. Part of my soul must still be there. Every man who has ever been in Viet Nam has faced the dragon. Some of us were lucky enough to walk out. I have thought long and hard about the story I am about to relate to you. It is not easy and it is burns in my soul. I wish there were a more detailed way to relate the facts as I recall them. Locations, names, etc, etc, but I am using my memory which is not what it used to be and excuse me for mistakes. They are unintentional.

On the early morning of May 27, 1968, nothing seemed different except the fact 3/5 was going to retrace their steps of the following day. Any warrior knows that is a mistake. Hell it was taught to you in training. "Never use the same trail twice, always avoid paths if possible."

The preceding day a starlight scope had been lost by someone and not recovered. It lay in our path from the previous day and now we were going to reverse course and search for it. There would be hell to pay if it was not recovered so the task was at hand. The die was cast.

Lima took point with Kilo to follow. My squad was point for Kilo and we crossed a dry riverbed to a ville and tried to hook up with Lima. They had advanced quickly and were far into the ville by the time my point man caught up to them. They were taking incoming mortars, small arms, and machine gun fire. I informed Kilo 2 actual I had contacted Lima and was hooking up on line with them. He apparently had his own problems, pinned down by automatic weapons fire and ordered me to" hold your position " until the rest of the company and battalion were across the riverbed and into the ville.

Upon getting the squad down and under cover I approached a tail end Charlie for Lima and asked what was going on. There were about what looked like a squad or two down and no one talking. I yelled at the man and asked again, " what the f*** is going on man." No reply. A few heads jerked up and looked back at me but no one spoke. I guess it was a stupid question with mortar rounds landing about and rounds cracking over your head. I got back on radio and informed Kilo 2 actual shit was happening and he needed to get up here. He informed me again "hold your position". Shortly after this radio conversation Lima moves out towards the firing, the point of contact into the ville. No word is passed or radio contact with Lima. They just jump up and run forward.

I inform Lt. again of situation and he orders me forward." Keep in contact with Lima, we are on the way".
We catch up to the tail end of Lima and they are now on line and shit is starting to fly. Lot's of incoming. To our direct front is the sound of a crew served weapon; it sounded like a heavy machinegun. The squad is secure in tree line and gun team leader Harmon and myself exchange weapons with gun crew. I take .45 and several mags along with several frags. It is my belief the NVA do not know we are where we are and I think we can get to them and eliminate the gun.

We are about 20-25 meters from the squad and I hear gooks talking. We are in the low crawl and getting ready to do the shit. At this point my radioman stands up and yells " Mac, the Lt. wants to talk to you."
I know we are in deep shit now. We both throw frags and haul ass back to squad. Rounds are buzzing around like hornets. The gun team starts working out and squad is laying down a base of fire.
I inform the Lt. of our current situation and he orders me to,"hold your position." He is sending up a sniper team to deploy as I see fit. Our position is now known to the NVA and they are pouring it on us. The snipers arrive and are standing up looking around. I order them to get down in no uncertain terms. Just about this time both are hit and fall on me. I am cussing them and bandaging them at same time. Jesus Christ!
By now things are getting untenable. Lima moves about 150-200 meters to our rear. No contact with them or any word about their maneuver.

I run to Lima position and drag a corpsman with me to the snipers and help them return to the Lima position. I return to my squad. By this time shit is falling apart. I send the gun team back with a fireteam. Then send the remaining members of my squad.

I now realize I am alone. Rounds are falling around me like rain. I raise my 16 and it is shot out of my hands. I pick up a sniper's bolt action weapon and jack rounds through it until they are gone. Another 16 is there so I empty it and am now without a loaded weapon. I jack another mag into 16 and pick up the weapons scattered by snipers and gun team in the confusion. I am hauling 5 weapons and shit is raining down on me. I can not understand why I am not getting hit. Mortar rounds are landing around me and it's like slow motion. The ground is walking around me but nothing happens to me.

I now haul ass to trench that Lima and my squad are in. My Lt. is on radio and I inform him shit is deep and need reinforcement now. He orders me to "hold your position."
Lima is to my left, my squad is to my right. They are all down and no one is shooting. I start screaming at people to get up and shoot. Some have passed out from the heat and are wounded. I get bewildered looks from people as I walk up and down the top of the trench yelling. I must appear as a crazy son-of-a-bitch. Incoming increases and there is movement to our front. The gun team is down. The squad is down. And Lima is down. With the assistance of L/Cpl. Vaca we pulled all the men behind the trench into a tree line for cover. Vaca passes out and I drag him back. The radioman is babbling and passes out I give him my last canteen over his head and drag him back.

I search the trench for a workable weapon. All are jammed. The gun has a half a belt left and barrel is smoking. I fire it off and that's it. I get on radio and inform theLt. that I need arty now. The ammo is low and the people are down. I am the only one standing.

As arty rounds start coming in, I adjust the fire towards us. The NVA are in front of us and I can see bushes moving. There is no breeze so I know they are moving in. One or two rounds land around a trench and all you can see is flying bodies.

I start throwing frags because that is all I have. I can see parts of bodies flying up in front of me. The air strikes start and I can hear the NVA firing at the jets as they reach the bottom of their run, their lowest point to ground. I throw frags in that direction and slowly the fire recedes.

At one point I fixed a bayonet to an M-16 and thought I would not make it out of the trench. No one was moving. Everyone was down and I could see movement in front of me. No ammo, Just frags. I thought I was going to die. Truly!

You reach a point where there is complete peace. I know that sounds weird but it seemed that way. The finality of knowing or thinking you are certainly going to die takes on a determination that you will do what you have to do. It is a foregone conclusion and you are along for the ride.

This ordeal lasted 9 hours. It seemed forever to me. Towards the end of the day I became aware I could not hear. A lot of rounds had cracked over my head and coupled with arty and air strikes it had temporarily taken my hearing.

Reinforcements finally arrived with Sgt. Austin and some ammo. The fng's cleared and loaded M-16's while I emptied magazine after magazine. As weapons jammed I grabbed another and kept up the firing. The fng's were crying and I tried to calm them but I don't know if I did. I never saw them again after the next morning and don't even know who they were, except that they were Marines. At one point I can remember a man from Lima looking at me from the trench. I looked over at him briefly and kept firing. He stood up and started firing his weapon. That was the catalyst. Now they all started firing. Thing's simmered down after a while and I was dazed. I was scared and shaking.

Some canteen found it's way to me and I drained it. I recalled not having water since early that morning and was dizzy.

My Lt, along with Kilo C.O, and Lima C.O came to my position. They asked in detail what had happened. I told them as best I could. It was, as I recall when Lima moved back approximately 150-200 meters that I heard screams from their most forward position and was certain I heard calls for help. I may have been mistaken. I hoped I was.
I do believe that any air strikes or artillery I may have called in killed anyone to our front. I pray that there were no Marines left out there. It has been a heavy burden to live with for a long time. I was later to find out that we faced a platoon of NVA, or so I am informed by a citation. All I know is there seemed to be no lack of lead flying at my ass that day. I know I killed some NVA. I could not honestly tell you how many.

Mistake nothing about this recollection, it is mine alone. I hope it sheds some light on one instance of one very small battle in Viet Nam one day.

The first time I saw "Pops" (picture of Pops), I was amazed the guy was in the Marine Corps. How he made it through boot camp must have been a real success story. He must have weighed at least 120 lbs., soaking wet, wrapped in towels and with his boots on. His arms were pencil thin, no chest, spindly little legs, black curly hair, a pencil thin moustache like a pimp on the corner, and this guy was humping for the gun team. He must have really pissed somebody off to have been stuck here.

He looked like he belonged in an Italian deli serving cheese and wine over the counter. The brogue of the East Coast coupled to his Italian tongue made a mockery of the English language.

To see this guy under the weight of an M-60, with belts of ammo hanging off him was something. He had a pack that always looked too big and a cartridge belt that looked like it was going to trip him up at any time. His helmet looked like a big bowl on a piss ant's head. He had an expression on his face of obvious overload that said, "When do we stop!" Well you start to get the picture. You almost laughed at him at times, but remember this guy was armed.

Not a picture you want on the recruiting poster for sure, but one hell of a marine and a brother.

One time, while we were in the bush, "Pops" got a big package from home. I am talking big. As soon as he find's out it's for him he goes crazy. Jabbering and hooting. Picking up one treasure after the other out of the box raving about the origin of its relation to him and how good it will be. A Mason jar of homemade wine from his dad was a real treasure to him. Pepperoni, cheese, etc. You get the picture. This guy had been transported back to the family dinner table and would not let a little war get in the way of chow call.

He would walk around showing everybody close by what he had gotten and jabber, jabber, jabber. Stuffing food as he talked and drinking wine from the Mason jar in one hand and a long pepperoni in the other. He was one happy camper.

He shared with all and had a smile on his mug as big as a Halloween pumpkin. I saw some pictures sent to the Kilo site and when I viewed the one of "Pops", it brought a tear to my eye. Good friends and many years ago. It was almost like going back in time.

The other day another Marine was found and with him he brought news of "Pops". Not all the things you find out about this puzzle are pleasing, but another piece falls into place. You take your hits and move on. At least now I can have a human reaction to an event that shattered me for a couple of days. I didn't have the luxury then of taking time to mourn fallen brothers. I do now and I mourn that loss. This was never hard for me to write I just wish I had never had to write it. But those event's are real and not a dream or nightmare. The healing continues at a great price sometimes.

Received by email from Steve Legrand:

Pops got hit on patrol by a mine. The last I heard he had lost both legs and an arm. Sorry to pass that info on but that is what happened. Our casualties were bad. When Ed and I got hit I think we only had 36 of us left in Kilo Company.

I am grieved greatly by the knowledge that our "Pops" met such a fate. After 31 years you would not think a man could cry about such things. That is a myth I will dispel at this time every day I pop these keys on the magic box and find out the fate of men that I shared a piece of hell with. The emotional roller coaster is back on track, off the scale at both ends of the spectrum just as it was then.

Somewhere in my heart and mind is a book filled with all these events that are seen a page at a time with assistance from someone I cannot see, touch, or even remember sometimes. By reflecting on their words another page comes to light. Sometimes I fill in the blanks with my memory or theirs or both.

At any rate it is a painful process to be healed by. But, just as then, we saddle up and proceed.

Now I have the luxury of being able to be human again and react as you would to the loss of a member of your family. It amazes me how deep this thing called Viet Nam cuts into my very soul after so much time has passed. As I age I become more aware that I still have a long trail to tread to a final destination of an unknown fate; that I am still a student in the class called emotions, and that as tough as I think I am, I am not.

Another paragraph can be added to the definition of Semper-Fi. Another young face is added to a long granite wall in my mind. Another mystery is given to me for the question that haunts me, "How in the hell did I make it through that?" Be well my brothers!

July, 1968

Prior to entering Ah Hoa for the first time 3rd. Bn. 5th Marines had just pulled an op in the mountains close to An Hoa. It was the big tall mother you could see from An Hoa. We had been on top and all around it looking for an NVA hospital complex. We did find a base camp of sorts, but no cigar. I believe we were in the Que Son Mountains and found plenty of NVA, two's and three's, small patrols. We, as they say, " Got some."

It was common to have contact several times a day. It was not uncommon to engage and kill three to 5 NVA every day. They thought they were in their element. They were bopping and were easy. Surprise mofo! 3/5 is here and your time is up.

Towards the latter part of the sweep/operation we descended into the Que Son valley and beat feet for An Hoa. As we left the area you could here small arms fire, crew served weapons, mike mike's working out and shit generally hitting the fan in the distance, and were told it was another battalion kicking ass on the NVA.

Late one afternoon as we descended into the valley we were resupplied by Chinooks. Water was brought out in canisters that had served as containers for 155mm rounds. It tasted like shit and powder. The new Battalion Commanding Officer, Lt. Col. Rexroad, took a canteen of this water, called the choppers back, got on one and disappeared into the air. Very shortly thereafter an armada of choppers filled the air.

No shit, as long as I live I can still see the Chinook dangling a 55-gallon barrel from a lash up hooked below the chopper. It was breathing hard and trying not to spill whatever it had inside.

The word passed to us was this: "The Col. took the canteen into supply in An Hoa, looked up the man responsible for supplying the water, and made him take a big drink. He then told him, " Guess what?" You will have to ask Col. Rexroad the "What." He did not confide in me his methods of procurement. I can only guess.

That evening we all got a piece of ice and a cold soda, compliments of Battalion Commander Rexroad. Do I feel something for this guy? "You Bet Your Ass."

In the next day or two we were choppered into Da Nang from An Hoa. We looked like a bunch of refugee gypsies from a carnival. Ripped utilities from one end to the other. Partial gook uniforms, khaki. Sleeves had to be cut out to fit. Lot's of gook packs and gear. It was the only immediate and sure supply we had. We land on the central air base in Da Nang and are staged close to a very large complex. Very close by is a covey of "PUFF THE MAGIC DRAGON" gunships. We all went over and looked inside at the magical beast. Lines and lines of ammo cans with belts of ammo all connected together. This big mother of a gattling gun was sticking out the side and I am thinking, " How could I pack one of these?"

The Col. bought us all cold sodas. His dinaro. I owe him one for that.

The most unforgettable sight I saw was Rexroad standing next to the front of the line and he looked just like one of us. He was making a head count. He had ripped the leg of his utes, had one sleeve ripped to hell and looked like a grunt. Dirty, bit to shit by mosquitoes and was smiling big time. " That, my friends, is class! "

Rexroad is a good example of one of the finest Marine Corps officers it was ever my privilege to have served with. I still owe him a cold one.