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Date: 970927
Time: 17:36:28

This may be ancient history for some of you‚ but to me it’s like yesterday. Young lieutenants leading combat platoons in Vietnam had a remarkably short life expectancy. Here’s the story of me beating the odds. We had been operating near the village of Loc Ninh for about a week‚ which I believe was a provincial capital and known as friendly . Generally we didn’t enter vills except mounted and ready for action. But late one afternoon Captain West took all the officers and the first sergeant on a walking inspection of Loc Ninh. I really hadn’t seen many villages or towns up close on foot‚ since we spent virtually all of our time in the bush. I was kind of nervous about walking around with only sidearms‚ but the captain seemed confident so I relaxed as we made our way along. As I remember‚ the people lived in hooches and I didn’t see any "real" buildings. The people went about their business as we passed by but they were watching us as closely as I was watching them. We weren’t there very long and we didn’t stop to speak to anyone. I didn’t know why West wanted this little visit‚ but looking back perhaps he was trying to demonstrate our "good" intentions toward the people who lived in Loc Ninh. This was the only time we actually entered the village. Loc Ninh stood among a large part of the Michelin rubber plantations and was surrounded by a lot of rubber‚ one of the best places for armored cav to operate. We had clear fields of vision and fire and could move easily through the rubber trees. As one of the guys said‚ "It’s like looking down a bowling alley lane any direction you look‚" when we first went into the rubber. Highway Thirteen ( a dirt road really) traversed through the area and it was a fairly heavily traveled artery‚ by us‚ by re­supply convoys and by the locals. Just outside the village‚ facing the highway‚ on a hill about 10­15 meters above the road was an old French villa‚ made of block and covered with stucco. I suppose the building had been painted yellow at one time‚ but it had seen the ravages of war for decades. The main house was rectangular in shape‚ two stories tall with a five car attached garage along the north side of the house. What was left of the roof was red tile. Although there was nothing left in either the house or the garage‚ it was clear that whoever had lived there in the Michelin Rubber Company’s heyday was a very wealthy man. The house had been used as target practice by the French‚ the Americans‚ the VC or the NVA or perhaps by all of us. Across the highway on a piece of flat land was an in­ground swimming pool of Olympic size‚ although I doubt if Mark Spitz would have considered training in the algae and bacteria infested water. However‚ my platoon and I tried to take a bath in the pool one night. I thought briefly about all the little nicks and scrapes I had that wouldn’t heal and wondered how many times the young boys of Loc Ninh had shit in the pool. But most of us figured dirty water was the least of our worries so we plunged in. The soap wouldn’t lather up and I didn’t seem to get much dirt off‚ but I didn’t know if that was due to the crud in the water or the crud on me. This was the only "bath" I had during my entire tour. We spent about four days looking for Charlie in the surrounding rubber and jungle without any luck. For three nights running‚ Captain West had us set up the NDP (night defensive position) on the flat ground next to the swimming pool‚ which was making everybody nervous‚ because each night we spent in the same place gave Charlie more opportunity to sight his weapons on us. Not long before this‚ the First Squadron’s tank company had set up several nights in a row on the high ground near the firebase that was in the area. They were almost overrun during a night attack‚ but their superior fire power kept them from total disaster. C Troop was called in the middle of the night to assist them and the next morning when we searched the NVA bodies we found a map on one of the officers that had every track’s location marked and it even had the name of each track on the diagram. Sitting in one spot more than one night was not well received by the troops‚ to say the least. On the fourth night‚ which was August 19‚ 1969‚ we set up again next to the swimming pool. Each evening as we arrived at the NDP‚ the local women and children were on hand to greet us‚ by trying to sell goods that they had acquired from the local black market. It always astounded me how they always had Coca Cola and we never did. The few times we had soda sent out to us‚ it was stuff like Fresca or other soda you would never buy at home. I figure the REMF’s (rear echelon mother fu.....s) who ran the resupply sold the Cokes to the Vietnamese‚ who in turn were trying to get rich off the grunts who were fighting the war. I made the princely sum of $765 a month when I was promoted to 1st lieutenant‚ including the $65 "hazardous duty pay" that the generous American taxpayers saw fit to provide. I think a PFC made maybe $160 a month. A cold Coke in the PX was maybe 15 or 20 cents. One day when my platoon was out on a recon mission‚ we stopped for a break near some small hamlet and instantly the kids and women were on hand selling anything from whisky to sex. The only English you could hear was‚ "GI number one‚ VC number ten. Coke one dollar ." COKE ONE DOLLAR? I’d be damned if I would give those pirates a dollar for a coke. The guys in the platoon had no hesitation though. They gladly bought two or three of those little eight ounce bottles for a dollar each. As I sat there drinking from my canteen while the troops savored their cokes‚ I mentioned that I had heard the VC sabotaged cokes by adding battery acid and recapping the bottles. This didn’t faze the men any more than the fecal matter in the swimming pool. After we had gotten all set up on the fourth night and just a little before it turned dark‚ the old man said we were moving the NDP across the highway and up the hill to where the French villa stood. The locals were there to watch and the only relief anybody felt came from the slim assurance that Charlie probably didn’t have the new location plotted on his aiming charts. The front yard of the house was relatively small and was terraced down to the road. Each level of the terrace was maybe five or six meters wide and each rise was about three meters high. There were maybe three or four terraces. The captain announced that we are going to surround the villa and adjoining five car garage. My platoon had the front yard and I positioned my Sheridan (tank) at one corner of the perimeter facing kind of south down Highway Thirteen. PSG Bathe was at the other corner with his Sheridan facing north up Highway Thirteen. The third Sheridan was equidistant between us. We filled in the rest of our position with ACAVs (armored fighting vehicles with mounted machine guns). The problem was the size of the house. It and the garage were so big we had to spread out beyond proper and safe NDP procedures. In addition‚ I was really worried what would happen if we had a breach of our perimeter and Charlie got inside the house. There he had cover and could fire up our asses at will. We wouldn’t be able to fire back because our other platoons were on the opposite side of the house. We had a company of ARVN (army of the Republic of Vietnam) infantry with us‚ but they were basically worthless in a firefight‚ so we figured it would be armored cav troops on foot attacking the house with small arms. What a stupid scenario. I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Most of my men approached me either in small groups or individually and they were bitching up a storm about what a dumb idea the old man had. Remembering my Ft. Knox training that‚ second only to the mission‚ I had the job of protecting my men‚ so I went to the captain and suggested that we set up the NDP in the backyard of the villa. It was quite large and had enough room for the whole troop to deploy properly. He told me in no uncertain terms that I was out of line and that he was making the decisions for C Troop and I should get my ass back to my platoon and make damned sure my section of the perimeter was secure if I was so worried about VC getting into the house. I returned to the platoon position and informed the men that this was where we were going to spend the night and they better get on with securing their positions. This didn’t stop the bellyaching and the men made sure I heard their complaints. Of course they were right and I agreed with them‚ but the old man had just chewed my ass pretty good for interfering in his decision. I had this feeling that West had seen one too many John Wayne war movies‚ in which the Duke sought shelter in some bombed out villa in France. West had the troop headquarters contingent (his track‚ the first sergeant’s track and the medic track) in the center of the perimeter near the front entrance of the house. At least he wasn’t planning on sleeping in the master bedroom! After thinking about all this and continuing to listen to the bitching going on I decided to take another run at convincing West to move to the backyard. Big mistake. He really chewed my ass this time and made it clear he wasn’t going to put up with any more lip from a 1st lieutenant who had been a shavetail only a few weeks earlier. I told the men we were not moving and I didn’t want to hear any more about it. So as darkness fell‚ we found ourselves surrounding the villa and wondering if Audie Murphy would be of assistance to us like he was to John Wayne. The captain reminded us earlier that Loc Ninh was close by and a friendly village. He said that if we were attacked during the night we would not be permitted to fire weapons in the direction of the village. I relayed that information to my platoon‚ but then I said if we get attacked they should fire in any direction required to protect our perimeter. I said the locals in Loc Ninh better be in their bunkers before they launch an attack on us. Since I couldn’t do anything to protect my men from the captain’s insane John Wayne scheme‚ I wasn’t about to put their safety second to the village of Loc Ninh. We were going to fire at will and in every direction if an attack occurred. Darkness bothered me more than almost anything else in Vietnam. Our ability to operate in darkness was no better than the enemy and with our armored vehicles probably worse. Certainly we had zero probability of operating with any degree of stealth. Most guys will say that’s when the imagination takes over and you start seeing things that aren’t really there‚ but at the time your mind believes it. In addition‚ everybody is absolutely exhausted and being still and quiet brings on sleep at the wrong times. We generally posted one guard per track who had a two hour shift. Each man had to pull one tour of guard duty a night. I took the last watch for two reasons. One‚ it was about a half hour longer than the others: 0400 to 0630 when daylight broke and‚ two‚ I didn’t trust the men to wake me at dawn if I was sleeping instead of on guard. I had just taken over from my loader‚ Dave Coppock‚ who usually slept on the back deck of the track. I was positioned in the commander’s cupola of the Sheridan and removed my .45 pistol belt and holster and placed the weapon on top of the turret near my right side. Despite my best efforts I usually found it almost impossible to stay awake. You can’t move much or make any noise and it’s dark and quiet. The best defense against sleep that I found was to imagine meeting my wife of six months in Hawaii on the Army paid R&R week. I spent many hours in the darkness planning in detail all the intimacy my skinny little body could dream up. I had just checked my watch. It was 0415. I’m thinking about Hawaii. Off in the tree line to my right about 50­60 meters away there was an explosion. Holy shit‚ I thought‚ that friendly artillery is getting kind of close. (During the night U. S. artillery dropped rounds at random on what was plotted as non­friendly territory trying to harass the VC movements.) I switched to the squadron radio frequency to see if the old man was giving hell to anyone for getting so close. Nothing. Nobody on the radio. A few minutes later another round drops and this time it’s a lot closer. What the hell’s going on I wonder. Nobody is moving nor is there any radio traffic. For some reason I kept thinking this was friendly fire getting too close. When you’re exhausted and seeing things in the dark most nights‚ it’s very hard to make decisions and think straight. So I stayed with my first premise for a while longer and I kept thinking the old man will start raising hell on the radio soon. A few more minutes go by and all of a sudden all hell breaks loose. We are taking incoming at a terrific rate. My soggy mind finally comes to the conclusion this ain’t friendly. Nothing is happening on our perimeter. Nobody is firing weapons‚ and remember‚ I figured we had made a big mistake by surrounding the house and that’s what Charlie waits for: a mistake. Now I’m convinced these incoming rounds are a prelude to a ground attack. A common mistake for tankers is to fire canister rounds from the main guns of the tanks too early or when receiving only probing fire. The canister rounds set off the trip flares and sometimes damages the claymore mines. Charlie knows we are trigger happy so he’ll take a few potshots in the hope we will fire back with our main guns‚ thus disabling our "early warning system"‚ the trip flares. He then waits a few hours for us to go back to sleep so can he slip in undetected by trip flares on his second approach. In my platoon we didn’t fire then main guns first. We first used either the 50 caliber machine guns ‚ the coax machine guns or the M60’s mounted on the ACAVs. I’m expecting the worst‚ so I climbed out on the turret and unstrapped four or five boxes of 50 caliber ammunition and stack them around my position inside the gun shield of the 50. Meanwhile‚ the incoming hasn’t stopped. I climbed back into the cupola and started firing the 50 at a slow rate into the rubber trees about 25 meters away. This is the signal the whole platoon has been waiting for. Everybody opens up. I emptied the belt of ammo that was loaded in the 50 and was in the process of reloading. There was gunfire from us and incoming all over the place. Just about this time I holler at Dave Coppock‚ my loader‚ to get inside and get ready to load the main gun if we need it. I had the cover up on the 50 and was trying to position the first two rounds of the new belt over the pawls in the gun by feel‚ since I couldn’t see much in the dark. I had my face up close to the open cover of the gun and both my arms were in front of me parallel to the ground ‚ bent 90 degrees at the elbows trying to load the gun. Just then I see a huge flash of light right in front of me and I’m knocked backwards against the rear of the cupola. I fell down inside the turret and wound up sitting on the seat on which I had been standing a second before. I’m spitting out pieces of my teeth and my left hand hurts like a son of a bitch. I hollered‚ " I’m hit‚" a few times and then asked if everybody else was ok. Coppock said he was hit too. I asked where and he said he didn’t know. I said‚ "goddamit‚ where are you hit?" He replied that he thought it was in the legs. I then asked the driver‚ Gary Sawvell‚ if he was ok. He said he was ok and he had already buttoned up the driver’s hatch. By this time Sawvell had started the Sheridan’s engine and was moving the vehicle forward and backward about ten or fifteen feet in each direction. This action maintained the defensive perimeter which we had established‚ but didn’t make us just sitting ducks for Charlie’s RPGs. Probably didn’t help much‚ but it was the best we could do to make it harder to hit us. I got on the radio to my platoon sergeant and tried to let him know I was hit. I spent several minutes trying unsuccessfully to contact him‚ probably because he was busy firing his weapons and not monitoring the radio. I’m not sure how long I spent down inside the turret‚ but I was absolutely petrified that we were going to have a ground attack and my position was the only one not firing. I figured the VC would come pouring into our NDP through my position. Just then I remembered I had gotten a new man assigned to the platoon with the resupply of ammunition and fuel the night before. I had told him to sleep in the floor of the Sheridan and I would get him squared away in the morning. I asked him if he was ok and he spoke his first word‚ "yeah." I told Sawvell that Coppock and I were going to get off the track and move toward the house. He was in charge and the new guy would be his loader. I told him not to fire the 50 because it might have been damaged by the explosion‚ which I thought was a direct hit from an RPG fired out of the wood line to our right front. I’m fully expecting VC to be inside the perimeter and we were going to go hand to hand‚ so I’m looking for my .45‚ which by now is nowhere to found. It’s still pitch black and none of us can see anything. I finally found the grease gun we carried on board‚ grabbed it and told Coppock to get off the track with me. When I jumped down off the back of the Sheridan‚ I realized the grease gun was worthless because my hands were wounded so badly I couldn’t cock the weapon to fire it. I moved to a nearby tree and waited for Coppock. He was nowhere to be found. I started calling to him to get off the track. With an extra man in the turret there is no room for the main gun to recoil and Sawvell would not be able to fire it. I wanted Coppock off the vehicle so the remaining crewmen could get the Sheridan back up and defending this important part of our perimeter. After a few minutes of unsuccessfully calling for Coppock‚ I started moving toward the house‚ which was still uphill. I got disoriented and finally bumped into First Sergeant Chambers who pointed me toward the medic track and then moved on to wherever he was going. By this time the incoming seemed to have stopped and when I arrived at the medic track I put down the grease gun and started to take off the rain jacket I had just received in the mail from my wife. It was raining but the medic track was buttoned up on top. The back ramp was down so I went inside. There was the glow of the little red light inside and my platoon medic‚ a young kid who had just joined the unit a couple of weeks before and Barry Beaven‚ the troop medic and a conscientious objector who never carried weapons or ammo‚ were there. I told them that I thought Coppock was injured so badly he couldn’t get off my track. Beaven immediately left to tend to Coppock. By now I’m hurting pretty bad and when my platoon medic gets a look at my left hand he says‚ "holy shit!" Not too reassuring I think. I told my self to remember there’s a better way to assure a wounded soldier. A few minutes later Beaven arrived minus Coppock. He said Coppock was ok and would stay with the Sheridan. I guess he wouldn’t leave because he felt better down inside the Sheridan than on the ground with me. I hadn’t looked at my hands for fear of going into shock and because I wanted to keep my wits about me in case the ground attack I was expecting‚ commenced. So I asked Beaven if I had all my fingers on my left hand and he promised me I did. He kept saying I was going to be all right and that they would dust me off ASAP. I told him I was in a lot of pain so he gave me a shot of morphine‚ which to this day‚ I swear didn’t help the pain any. But I did kind of fade in and out a little and I lost most of my concentration. A dustoff chopper arrived on the scene while the troopers were sending up flares looking for any signs of Charlie. I could hear someone on the radio trying to talk down the chopper pilot‚ but the rain was too heavy‚ it was too dark and the house and trees didn’t make for a very big LZ. After a couple of attempts the pilot said he would meet us at the nearby firebase. So as daylight arrived‚ I was placed in the medic track on a stretcher on the lower right side of the track. Three badly wounded ARVN soldiers (they didn’t have any cover from the incoming like we did) were loaded on with me. The ride to the firebase took maybe ten minutes. The man above me was wounded so badly he started bleeding through the stretcher and his blood was running all over my face and chest. I moved out of the way the best I could‚ but that poor bastard must have been in a real world of hurt. At the firebase the dustoff chopper was waiting and I was loaded on‚ along with six or seven ARVNs. I was in better shape than most of them‚ so I held somebody’s IV bag in my right hand for the duration of the flight to what I think was Quon Loi‚ the First Cav’s main basecamp. The triage team was waiting at the landing pad and they put us all on wheeled stretchers and ran us into an operating room. I think I was the first one they took‚ probably because I was the only American and I probably looked fairly like shit with blood all over me. Things happened pretty fast. I found my self laying on a table with bright lights above. About four people were standing around the table. Somehow they cut off my clothes‚ boots and all immediately. They were unwrapping my field bandages and shoving needles (penicillin and tetanus) into the front of both thighs. They asked me where I was hit and I said‚ "arms‚ hands‚ face‚ chest‚ I think." "Are you hit in the back?" "I don’t know." Instantly I was flipped on my stomach for an examination of my back. The next thing I hear is‚ "He’s not going to die‚ get the next one." Then before I know it‚ I’m on one of those low stretchers on the floor‚ off to side of the room. I was covered with a blanket‚ but after a few minutes I started getting cold. I recognized this as a sign of going into shock‚ so I called for a medic and asked for more blankets. It felt very cold in that room‚ but the extra blankets helped. I couldn’t see much of what was going on and I think I was going in and out of consciousness from the morphine‚ so I’m not sure how long I was there. At one point‚ the executive officer for C Troop‚ a first lieutenant whose name I don’t remember‚ showed up. He bent over and looked at me for a minute‚ shook his head and had a look that said‚ "You poor son of a bitch." He then stood up and walked away. He never said a word‚ like maybe I was dead or something. About then I noticed what I thought was a big chunk of dirt in my right eye‚ so I called for the medic who had brought me blankets earlier. I asked him to get the dirt out for me‚ since both my hands were wounded. He looked closely at me and said‚ "holy shit!" and immediately took off. Now that’s two "holy shits" so far and I’m wondering what the hell is going on. A few minutes later the medic returns with a doctor who looks me over and informs me I have a large piece of shrapnel sticking our of my cheek just below my right eye. He says he can’t do anything about it here because an xray is needed to see how far in the shrapnel goes before it can be removed. He told me I would have to wait until I get to the evac hospital at Long Binh. I decided to stop looking around‚ trying to see what was happening and laid there with both eyes looking directly at the ceiling. The next thing I remember is awakening in some kind of a waiting area at the 89th Evac Hospital in Long Binh on a gurney. A nurse is trying to get my attention because she wants me to make a fist so she can insert an IV needle into one of my arms. I asked her who she thought she was kidding. I couldn’t make a fist with either hand. So she told me she would have to insert the IV into a vein in my neck. I said‚ "go ahead‚ it couldn’t make me feel much worse." She then proceeds to stab my neck five or six times in a futile‚ but valiant‚ attempt to find a vein. I finally told her to get her fucking hands off me and asked her if she thought I was some kind of practice dummy. She left and a little later someone else came and inserted the IV in one try. I noticed a clock on the wall and it was somewhere around 1000. I relaxed a little and was dozing off when someone grabbed my left arm and started to pull it out straight from my side. Excruciating pain got my immediate attention. I spit out more than a few choice swear words at the perpetrator‚ who was a master sergeant in the only pair of starched jungle fatigues I had ever seen. There were two master sergeants who‚ after profusely apologizing‚ explained they were from Aberdeen proving Grounds. I replied‚ "so what?" They said they wanted to collect information regarding men who had been wounded while on the M551 Sheridan. They moved my arm because they wanted to take pictures of my injuries. I said I wanted nothing to do with them‚ Aberdeen Proving Grounds or any pictures and told them to leave me alone. They left only to return a short time later‚ this time more insistent about interviewing me and taking pictures. I agreed to answer their questions but would not give my consent for pictures. I wasn’t interested in having my present appearance recorded for posterity. The questions concerned where I was located on the Sheridan‚ what I was doing and what kind of weapon injured me. I told them it was an 82mm mortar that had landed on the turret just in front of my gun shield and that I was reloading the 50 caliber machine when the round hit. They asked if I had any suggestions for improvements for the Sheridan. I told them I was very pleased with the vehicle and that I preferred it to both the M48 tanks we had and to the ACAVs because it was more agile‚ less prone to getting stuck and had much more firepower. My only suggestion was to add an additional turret and gun controller high up in the commander’s cupola (like the M48s had) so the track commander didn’t have to bend down inside to move the turret or the main gun. This made it difficult to aim the gun because once inside the turret you couldn’t see where the gun was pointing. It was like a rabbit popping in and out of his hole trying to aim the gun. After I answered all their questions and my comments were recorded‚ they then took my picture‚ despite what I thought was an agreement. At this point I was in no mood to resist‚ so they got what they wanted. I don’t remember the rest of the day. The following day I woke up in a hospital bed laying flat on my back with both my hands and arms bandaged to my elbows. The bandages on my hands were about the size of softballs. Early in the morning a doctor came by and asked me how I was doing. I told him fine. He replied‚ "Well lieutenant‚ the war’s over for you." I thought‚ "oh shit‚ I’ve lost some of the fingers on my left hand." That was the only explanation I could think of because the first time I got hurt‚ I was sent to Cam Ranh Bay for 30 days and returned to the 11th ACR. I expected to return to my unit after being fixed up. So I asked if I had all my fingers. He said‚ "yes‚ you’ve got all your fingers‚ but we’re sending you home." "When?" was all I could get out. I couldn’t believe what he had just said. "In a few days." And then he was on his way. Two days later I left Vietnam via Ton Sa Nhut Airbase on an Air Force hospital plane.