The Making of Chu Lai Airfield

On June 1, 1965, four A-4 Skyhawks, led by Marine Air Group (MAG) 12 Commanding Officer, Colonel John Noble, landed around 8 a.m. on the first fully consolidated Short Airfield for Tactical Support (SATS) built and operated by the Marine Corps. It was an amazing feat: Within 30 days of boots on the ground, and with only 90 days’ advance notice, MAG-12 and the Navy’s Mobile Construction Battalion 10 built enough of “MCAS” Chu Lai to allow those four Skyhawks, followed shortly by another flight of A-4s, to refuel, arm and, four hours later, fly the first of thousands of sorties over the next several years.

The U.S. Marines and Navy Seabees needed only 25 days to transform 100 square miles into the Chu Lai Airfield, which was designed as a Short Airfield for Tactical Support (SATS). Pilots utilized arresting hooks to snag steel cables that stretched across the aluminum runway surface so that high-speed jets could land safely. (USMC)

That spring, a brigade of Marines was sent to provide security at Da Nang Air Base. However, Lieutenant General Victor “Brute” Krulak, Commanding General, Fleet Marine Force, Pacific (FMFPac), had been told by senior Air Force officers that Da Nang was at capacity and would not be available to support the Marines. A tentative approval was made on March 30 to establish another air base 57 miles south, which the officers told Krulak would take close to a year to build.

Little did they know, Krulak and members of his staff had already evaluated several scenarios. Although the area he had chosen for the base did not appear on their maps, Krulak dubbed the area “Chu Lai,” later explaining, “In order to settle the matter immediately, I had simply given [it] the Mandarin Chinese characters for my name.”

Based on that trip and assessment, Krulak, in so many words, assured the military brass that there would be no problem providing the needed air support in a timely manner. When asked by Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara how long it would take, LtGen Krulak hesitated for a moment and then said, “25 days.” 

The senior Air Force officers exclaimed that it couldn’t be done. However, as was typical of Marines’ foresight and creativity, they had begun working on a new approach that would allow this to happen nearly a decade earlier. It had already culminated in the testing of a prototype runway and taxiway surface and technical support systems at two different sites. One was built in California in 1962, and the other at Marine Corps Base Quantico, Va., in 1963. 

In essence, it would be an aircraft carrier on land. Support systems would be prepackaged units of equipment in boxes, crates, vans and trailers—one for each wing—stored in strategically placed warehouses and when deployed, placed along the runway and taxiway surfaces. Navy Seabees and Marine combat and air base engineers would do the site prep, lay the surfaces and erect camps for personnel support services, resulting in a functioning Marine Corps air station in weeks rather than many months. Ultimately, it was decided that MAG-12 would take the lead, as its aircraft squadrons were more suited for the type of support and would have the greatest need for the airfield.

An aerial view showing the Chu Lai Airfield in full operation, showcasing the layout of the land-based aircraft carrier. (Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)

The History of the SATS

The concept of a SATS dates back decades prior. Its early days were rather simple, as those aircraft could land on almost any type of reasonably level and smooth surface. All that was needed beyond the field was some type of shelter from the weather to work on the aircraft and house the staff. As aircraft got heavier and faster, a suitable airfield became much more complex. World War II, especially the Pacific theater, saw the need for a quickly constructed and maintained airfield. The introduction of pierced steel (Marston) matting provided an interim step between graded dirt with compacted gravel and a permanent surface such as concrete, which took months to pour and cure. However, this did not eliminate the need for fairly long runways requiring conventional grading, and it was not suitable for larger and heavier aircraft.

Korea was the next major conflict to raise the bar on the need for an improved tactical airfield with the introduction of jet aircraft. Their sleeker design required a longer runway to obtain a faster air speed for the necessary lift on the wings. Those speeds also required a smoother runway surface.

There were three choices for commanders needing tactical air support immediately following Korea: to fly long distances from existing airfields, build a new airfield close to the needed air support or rely on an aircraft carrier if an ocean, sea or bay was close by. However, it could take upwards of a year to build such a facility, and carriers posed limitations regarding distance from the water and availability. 

In the mid to late 1950s, the idea of the SATS emerged. The task for developing such an airfield was given to the Naval Air Engineering Station at Lakehurst, N.J. Basically, only four critical elements were needed to make this land-based aircraft carrier work: the runway, the taxiway and ramp areas, the catapult and arresting gear, and advanced technical support services. 

The first was a smooth runway surface of suitable length. It was determined that a little more than the length of an aircraft carrier would be acceptable. Preliminary lengths were established in 1958 at between 2,000 and 3,000 feet. The Naval Mobile Construction Battalion (NMCB) Seabees could successfully provide an adequate level surface within a couple of weeks once earth-moving machines and personnel were in place, as they had plenty of experience doing that in the island hopping of World War II. The surface material was another matter. However, that was solved rather quickly with the development of AM-2 matting, a fabricated aluminum panel, 1 1/2 inches thick, with connecters so that the ends of the panels could be rotated and interlocked. Once interlocked, they could screw into an underlying base material. The panels came in sections 2 feet wide by 12 feet long, weighing 140 pounds. They could be easily handled by a four-man crew and support the weight and impact of any aircraft in the tactical aircraft inventory.

Working against a 25-day deadline and 115-degree heat, Navy Seabees and Marines manually offload supplies from the beach at Chu Lai. (USMC)

The next critical element was the catapult and arresting gear. The arresting gear was the easier of the two to develop. All Navy and Marine aircraft are equipped with a hook that drops down below the level of the wheels as they approach landing. The arresting gear on a carrier has a couple of very strong steel cables stretched across the deck just past the normal touchdown point of the aircraft. The tail hook drags the landing surface until it engages one of the cables. On early versions of aircraft, the cables zigzag back and forth between two pulleys on each side of the landing deck, separated by large hydraulic pistons. As the hook pulls the cables down the landing surface, the cables begin to shorten. The pistons resist compression and quickly slow the aircraft to a stop.

To stop vehicles from getting trapped in sand, dirt was excavated from nearby hills, creating the solid base necessary to support the high-impact landings. (USMC)

The mobile arresting gear for the early SATS used the same early technique, except the speed-reducing hydraulic pistons were mounted in a steel frame along each side of the runway and anchored securely to the ground. 

Carrier catapult systems used almost a reverse process of the arresting gear. At that time, large steam-driven pistons were located under the deck of the carrier at the departure end of the ship. The SATS catapult systems required a different approach, since there were no source of high-pressure steam and no provisions for equipment under the runway. The final design was to use a standard jet engine (GE J79) as a power source. An actual catapult system did not become available at Chu Lai until much later. In the meantime, aircraft at Chu Lai had to use jet-assisted takeoff bottles, attached to the rear sides of the aircraft. 

The last of the four critical elements was the technical support required of modern aircraft and combat flight operations. Those items included, but were not limited to, air traffic control, communications, avionics repair, machine and mechanics shop, meteorological services and refueling. All these services were to be housed in self-contained or modular units.

The SATS catapult system used a standard GE J79 jet engine (above) as its power source to drive the catapult. The engine was then linked to a high-ten­sion catapult belt (right). While pilots initially used jet-assisted takeoff (JATO) bottles during the base’s first weeks, the installation of this engine-driven catapult system completed Chu Lai’s transforma­tion. (Photos courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)

Marines dug this initial pit to tap into a freshwater source, allowing the unit to refill water buffaloes and expand into a network of pipes and water towers. (Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)

Marines construct bunkers at Chu Lai, a grueling task where the sand fought back. (Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)

The Building of Chu Lai

A proposal approved on April 20 called for the MAG to be organized into six teams and transported in several landing ship, tank (LSTs) to Chu Lai in three phases. The first phase covered airfield construction, the installation of the SATS components including a basic camp layout, and the installation of certain camp facilities. The second phase was based on a fully operational airfield supporting one Marine attack squadron (VMA) with further campsite development to accommodate additional personnel and supporting functions. The third phase would bring the remainder of the MAG and an additional VMA. That plan was shortly revised to combine phases two and three. Marine Air Base Squadron (MABS) 12 had the lead on establishing the SATS and was initially scheduled to have use of four LSTs—the first two to embark phase one and the other two to follow in a couple of weeks with the remainder of the squadron. 

With the ink not even dry on the plans and order, the first of many problems occurred. 

Shortly before the first LST, Windham County (LST-1170), arrived on April 23 to transport troops to Chu Lai, the Navy informed 1st MAW and MAG-12 commanders that it would not be able to supply the needed LSTs or landing ships, dock (LSDs) and indicated others would not be immediately forthcoming. Loading the Windham County commenced at 6 a.m. on April 24 and proceeded satisfactorily until word was received that there would be only one LST available. This required changing all the embarkation plans to provide a maximum overall capacity on only one LST, as well as a larger construction effort. This required a complete rescheduling of manpower and materiel and the reorganizing of materiel already on the docks and in the adjacent warehouses. Reloading the Windham County was completed on April 27. 

MAG-12 erected tents immediately after landing on May 7, installing the infrastructure needed for those who would be flying and maintaining the base. (Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)
In a display of classic Marine Corps humor, the sign dubs this bunker the “Holliday Inn.” (Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)

The NMCB’s transportation was entirely different, since their primary point of departure was composed of two sections from Port Hueneme and Point Mugu, Calif., following two separate exercises to Camp Kinser, Okinawa. On April 29, the NMCB, along with the 3rd Marine Expeditionary Brigade, left for Vietnam aboard two LSTs, an LSD and an attack cargo ship as part of the III Marine Expeditionary Force. The Marine brigade, acting as the advance element of a larger force, had the initial goal of hitting the beach, securing the area and acting as security for the construction and the air wing units soon to follow. They landed at 8 a.m. on May 7.

The first echelon of MAG-12 was comprised largely of personnel from MABS-12. They arrived at Chu Lai on May 7 and immediately began to unload to expedite a return to Iwakuni, Japan, to bring the remaining personnel and materiel. The personnel began the task to install and operate the facilities, such as shelters, food, water, sanitation, roads, transportation, communications, internal security and medical for the well-being of those who would be flying and maintaining the aircraft on the future base.

After setting up a basic camp, NMCB-10 began construction on May 9. While the location of the SATS facility was good for tactical purposes, heat and humidity were an issue. Official observations often recorded daytime temperatures in the upper 90s to low 100s with humidity values around 50%. Later runway temperatures were often at or above 115 degrees. Even more oppressive was late at night, when readings were in the low 90s with dew points in the 90s, resulting in humidity values at or near 100%. The weather conditions were manageable for crews by drinking plenty of water, taking salt tablets and pacing work sessions; however, the humidity still impacted productivity, equipment failures and aircraft performance. 

It was the sand, however, that would be a major obstacle to meeting their operational deadline. The area was roughly 100 square miles of scrub pine trees and sand that was so dry and fine, it could be described as powdery. Once a wheeled vehicle moved away from the wet sand and high tide, it would become stuck, and its wheels would just spin like in deep snow. On May 9, Lieutenant Colonel Charles Goode, the 1st MAW engineering officer, recorded, “My general impression of the entire day was that there was much wheel spinning, resulting in disorganization and little work accomplished, all compounded by the fact that three of the C.B. TD-24 tractors went out of commission.” The problems continued into the following day as more equipment fell victim to the heat and sand. With typical Navy and Marine creativity and the reprioritization of equipment, things began to fall back into place and back on schedule.

To bypass the sand on the beach, this causeway constructed at Chu Lai allowed heavy machinery and vital supplies to 
be offloaded directly from ships and moved inland. 
(Photo courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)

Over time, conditions got markedly better, as dirt was hauled in from the nearby hills to create a more extensive network of surfaced roads.

However, the sand also worked its way into bearings, clutches and other moving parts, causing premature failure. It blew into communications printers and electronic system switches and tuners. Air filters on motors required constant replacement. Because the sand was so dry and fine, it provided no suitable grounding conductive capability. This created a shock hazard to people and damage to improperly grounded equipment. The Marines needed more generators spread out at more distant locations and a three-wire feed for the hot, neutral and “ground” wires coming from and going back to the generators. They received less than half of the wires they needed, severely limiting the availability of electrical service.

Sandbagged safety and security bunkers had to be dug by hand, but for every two shovels full that were thrown out of a hole, one shovel full trickled back in. Bunkers often had to be three to four times in diameter bigger than needed before the first row of sandbags could be put in place. The sand was equally problematic for personnel, as it got into everything from toothpaste and shaving cream to food and bedding. 

According to unit diaries and other documents, only two days into excavation, things were going painfully slow. It became clear the sand was going to wreak havoc on this project. With a deadline of May 29, the construction battalion began working 24/7 moving dirt from a nearby hill, dumping and grading 64,500 cubic yards of the laterite. However, this approach would ultimately need ongoing and continued maintenance after any heavy rain, as the sand below would soften and collapse. Simultaneous with air-field construction, the servicemembers continued working on the basic camp facilities, security and communications. 

Marines at Chu Lai dubbed this tent the “Chu Lai Hilton.” (Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)

One of the first orders of camp business was to find a local supply of fresh water. A pit was dug and after letting the par-ticulate settle to the bottom, the water was tested. It was free of

A servicemember walks down a dirt path leading through tent city, Chu Lai, 1965. (Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)

salt, requiring only chlorination. Marines began piping the main camp facilities and refilling water buffaloes, eventually digging an additional well and building a water tower.

Another immediate need was perimeter security. The Viet Cong used various methods to try to infiltrate the camp. And there were snipers, especially at night when any light was detectable in range. One of the first orders regarding security was that anyone’s authorized weapon was to never be more than an arm’s length away.

During the first weeks, sniper rounds started coming in from small fishing boats in the bay, beyond the effective range of the M14. A call was placed to the regimental landing team headquarters, and within minutes, an Ontos was coming down the beach in a cloud of dust. When an incoming round ricocheted off the anti-tank vehicle, the unit commander quickly spun around, lined up, fired a couple of tracer rounds and eliminated the threat.

There were other hazards as well. Local villagers and their children often approached the perimeter offering to sell items, especially cold drinks, to nearby personnel. Quick action by senior staff stopped such a practice.

The only known casualties were senior enlisted staff members. When they failed to make roll call the next morning, search parties scoured the area for days, never finding any evidence of their whereabouts. It was assumed they may have strayed too close to the perimeter during the night and were taken captive.

By May 16, enough runway surface had been prepared so that crews could begin laying the AM-2 matting. Six days later, 2,300 feet of matting had been laid.

As the first AM-2 mats were installed, the second echelon of personnel and materiel prepared to embark from Iwakuni with the remaining members of the MAG, MABS and flying squadrons, arriving on May 23. The unit diary noted that the midday temperature that day reached 117 degrees. VMA-311 and VMA-225 aircraft departed for NAS Cubi Point in the Philippines on May 26 to await the completion of the SATS runway and taxiway complex, scheduled for May 29.

The arriving ships were greeted by materiel that still sat on the beaches from the first deliveries, as well as an unstable causeway. Tracked vehicles were still needed to pull wheeled units off the beach. After all the ships were unloaded and departed, only the USS Iwo Jima (LPH-2) remained. It had supported the initial brigade landing three weeks earlier using its UH-34D helicopters and was still on station continuing needed support. Work on the runways, taxiways and camp continued. By the end of the day on May 29, the runway was 3,545 feet with an accompanying taxiway and ramp area. All systems necessary to support combat flight operations were in place, and VMA-311 and 225 were ready at NAS Cubi Point. The only nemesis remaining was the weather. The remnants of a tropical storm made conditions unsafe for the Skyhawks to make the nearly 900-mile trip to the airstrip. Success would have to wait another day.

An Operational Air Station

On June 1, 1965, Col John Noble landed the first aircraft at Chu Lai: the A-4 Skyhawk. (Phom R.L. Dukes, USN)

On June 1, 1965, MCAS Chu Lai was officially declared operational. At 8 a.m., the first aircraft, the A-4 Skyhawk CE#6 piloted by Col Noble, touched down. The first VMA-311 aircraft touched down 30 minutes later. No time was wasted in arming and refueling four aircraft that would depart at 1:15 p.m. in support of an operation only six miles from the airfield. As work on the air station continued, air support missions went into full swing. At the end of June, MAG-12 aircraft had flown 303 missions and 969 sorties, delivering 2,338 bombs, 4,454 rockets and 58,471 20 mm rounds in support of infantry operations and enemy supply locations.

The month of June also saw a significant increase in camp facilities and improvements in creature comforts. The most noteworthy event was the completion of 8,000 feet of runway and adjacent taxiway on June 25. This virtually eliminated the need for jet-assisted takeoffs and landing arrests.

A mess hall, which had opened at the end of May, served two meals a day and obtained refrigerators, meaning more fresh meals were making their way to the troops. A post exchange was able to open on June 28, providing cold beverages. Recreation was most often achieved with a dip in the bay, which was as good as any expensive resort, and a primitive outdoor theater began showing films two days a week. The arrival of VMA-214 placed a greater demand on tent housing and sanitation, such as fixing hot showers and heads.

Electronic equipment continued to have periodic outages as the result of heat and dust. Air traffic control and radars were of most concern. High-vol-ume communications between major commands were still inadequate because of atmospheric issues caused by the heat.

Noble, the commanding officer of MAG-12, celebrates with a cake cutting (below) at the newly constructed airfield. The journey that began with a grueling fight against sand and heat culminated in a hard-won triumph. This marked the end of the frantic 25-day construction marathon and the beginning of full-scale flight oper­ations for the MAG-12 Skyhawks. (Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)

As Chu Lai transitioned into an operational air station, the focus now shifted to sustaining and improving the lives of the personnel living there. (Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)

Although the brigade was getting bigger, the Marines were also becoming engaged in more offensive actions against the enemy. The MAG ordered the MABS to organize the equivalent of two rifle companies to take over base security, as there was a reinforced regiment of the NVA committed to throwing the Marines back into the sea. This would ultimately evolve into a mission on Aug. 18 called Operation Starlite, in an area only 12 miles south of the SATS. It would become the Corps’ first major operation in Vietnam, catching the NVA by surprise. The operation confirmed that the integration of close air support for ground operations was a sound and viable concept for the future of Marine operations.

The squadrons flew a combined total of 1,610 sorties in July and 1,656 in August, with aircraft availability at an amazing 76-79% under very harsh conditions. Ordnance delivery averaged approximately 1,000 tons per month. The first hangar was started on August 6, by which time other maintenance facilities had already been built, allowing for night repairs. Mess halls were in full operation, off-duty clubs were built, the tent city was taking on more features such as electricity, plywood floors, nearby potable water and laundry. The personnel were supplied with new utility uniforms, as the old-style cotton was literally rotting away.

After weeks of labor to complete the airfield, Marines and Seabees finally found moments for recreation on the surf, located right on the edge of the base. (Courtesy of Lawrence Krudwig)

The Marines had landed and were there to stay. Several months later, construction crews began the task of installing a new concrete runway to replace the matted one, a few hundred yards to the west. Lieutenant Colonel Robert W. Baker, Commanding Officer of VMA-225, said of the original airstrip, “This aluminum field was as flat and even as a pool table, the smoothest, bump-free surface I ever flew from.”

Although some weeks later, a monsoon caused cavitation and created a slippery roller coaster effect, he went on to say, “But we flew!” The SATS concept had worked. 


About the Author

Lawrence Krudwig is a Vietnam veteran who served as a corporal in the aerology sections of MAG-36 and MAG-12, deploying in 1965 to help establish the first SATS airfield at Chu Lai. Following his military service, he dedicated 37 years to the National Weather Service, earning numerous Department of Commerce medals for his work on national emergency alert systems. 

He now lives in Missouri, where he remains active with the Marine Corps League and Missouri State University’s physics advisory board.


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SKYHAWK!
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August 1966
By: SSgt Steve Stibbens

The Flying Ladder

Emergency Extractions and the Lifesaver from the Sky

Second Lieutenant John Slater froze in place and stopped breathing. More than 20 voices closed within 40 meters of his position. His force reconnaissance team had inserted 24 hours earlier into Base Area 112, west of An Hoa Com bat Base, Vietnam. North Vietnamese Army (NVA) soldiers combed the jungle, hunting the Marines from the moment they arrived. Now, with the enemy so close, the lieutenant’s request for air sup port was denied. The seven-man recon team would have to evade the NVA long enough to find an extraction site.

They escaped the enemy and survived another night. The next morning, Dec. 15, 1968, enemy soldiers again surrounded their position. Sporadic rifle fire came from multiple sides as the NVA attempted to locate and flush them out. Slater evaded the enemy once more and called for immediate emergency extraction.

These recon Marines are demonstrating the flying ladder, which in January 1969, proved to be the only means of escape for a team of recon Marines near An Hoa. (Courtesy of Dave Thompson)

CH-46 pilot Captain Laurence “Larry” Adams landed his transport helicopter at An Hoa for refueling as 2ndLt Slater’s call came into the First Force Reconnaissance Combat Operation Center (COC). Adams diverted from his original mission to go get Slater and his men. The team’s escape had led them farther up the side of the mountain under 60-foot jungle canopy and landing a helicopter was out of the question. They would have to be hoisted up into the hovering chopper using a jungle penetrator. The device looked similar to a three-pronged fishhook with its seats folded down, and it was designed for one man. In perilous circumstances, however, two men wrapped themselves around the hoist and each other to reduce the number of trips required to rescue an entire team.

Capt Adams dropped his helicopter over the area where the Marines held their ground. As the jungle penetrator lowered through the trees, enemy rounds shot skyward toward the bird. Sixty seconds passed before the hoist finally hit the jungle floor. Two Marines hooked on with snap links and began the journey up. The weight of two gear-laden passengers severely slowed the hoist, more than doubling the time of the trip. The Marines clung tightly as they watched tracer rounds smack the belly and sides of the helicopter that was supposed to be their haven. As they reached the helicopter, the crew pulled them inside; more than five minutes had passed.

The hoist began a second trip. Adams struggled to keep the chopper steady under fire. Marine UH-1N Huey gunships let loose at the enemy below. One friendly rocket exploded so close to Adams’ helicopter that shrapnel cut holes through the side along with the enemy fire. He could hear voices over the radio. “Two more on, but there’s still three on the ground!”

“Don’t worry,” he shouted into his microphone, “We’re not going anywhere; we’ll get you out!”

Nearly 15 minutes passed before the second group of Marines safely boarded the chopper and the jungle penetrator returned to the ground for a third trip. The CH-46 continued taking hits but miraculously stayed aloft. Two more Marines crowded onto the hoist. Lt Slater remained on the ground with the enemy closing in and the helicopter under continuous fire. Believing another five minutes alone on the ground meant certain death for his entire team if the aircraft went down, Slater grabbed the jungle penetrator as it lifted. He slid both arms under the legs of one of his Marines and held firm to the folded down seat. The Marine reached down and grabbed Slater’s belt. From his position under the hoist, it was impossible for Slater to hook up.

Adams lifted off as soon as the last of the team was on the hoist. Slater and the others scraped through the trees as they rose above the canopy. The crew chief tried to reel in the hoist, but discovered the weight of three Marines plus their gear was too much. He could not pull them up. Adams decided to land the helicopter to bring in the remaining Marines. He found a large sandbar 6 miles north and headed straight for it. The flight lasted only a few minutes, but tragically, that was longer than Slater’s strength could hold. As the helicopter approached the sandbar, Slater lost his grip on the jungle penetrator and plummeted 100 feet to his death. They landed, recovered his body and returned to An Hoa.

Back at the COC, First Lieutenant Andrew Finlayson reflected on the disaster. As the operations officer, he manned the other end of the radio with Slater the whole time. Almost two years earlier on his first Vietnam tour, Finlayson patrolled the same area his Marines now covered. He knew if they remained here for much longer, they needed a better way to get teams out.

Less than one week earlier, 1st Force Recon had moved to An Hoa. Slater’s team was one of the unit’s first patrols sent into the surrounding jungle, known as Base Area 112. The Marines faced innumerable difficulties here, gathering intelligence in support of Operation Taylor Common. Jungle-covered mountains dominated the area and few viable landing zones (LZ) existed. This was NVA country, flush with supply routes, fighting positions and professionally trained soldiers to man them. The NVA developed tactics specifically targeting recon patrols. They manned every feasible LZ to prevent inserts and extracts and patrolled on line to push teams out of hiding. Every aspect of the Marines’ new area was stacked against them.

A recon team’s intelligence value remained highest as long as they were undetected. “Once a team made contact with the enemy, they really couldn’t carry out their mission,” said Finlayson, now a retired colonel and author of two books on his tours in Vietnam. “Then it became a case of simple survival. They’re either running to avoid the enemy or fighting for their lives.” In these circumstances, a team’s best course of action was to break contact, evade the enemy, and call for extraction. Until Operation Taylor Common, jungle penetrators were used to great success despite their weaknesses. Many recon Marines rode the hoist and owed their lives to it. Base Area 112 and the enemy who inhabited it, however, were not as forgiving. The amount of time it took to extract a full team was too long.

Major Roger Simmons, commanding officer (CO) of 1st Force Recon, tasked Lt Finlayson with finding an alternative. To help, he sent Finlayson to the Army’s elite Studies and Observations Group (SOG). Their experience inserting and extracting teams deep behind enemy lines inspired numerous devices for the task. Finlayson borrowed two concepts: the Stabilized Body (STABO) harness which seemed simple enough to adapt and produce and a giant swinging ladder.

A CH-46E transport helicopter, the main aircraft for recon inserts and extracts, parked at An Hoa. A UH-1 Huey gunship is in the background. (Photo courtesy of Dave Thompson)

The ladder, made of aluminum rungs and wire, was designed to roll up on the floor of a helicopter and kick off the tail when needed, unraveling to the ground. The Marines combined multiple sections of the original device, making it 8 feet wide and 80 feet long. An entire team could snap onto the ladder at once, and with no way to reel it in, no additional time was spent hovering. Marines extracted with this ladder knew they were in for a wild ride.

The device did not come without problems. The most serious risk came from the Marine CH-46 helicopters using the ladder. When pilots tested the device, they found it extremely difficult to lift off with a full recon team hanging below. The monumental task of steadying the chopper required perfect coordination between the pilot and crew. Air wing commanders did not approve the ladder for use in combat. Despite the risks, 1st Force Recon unanimously accepted the ladder as a great improvement over the jungle penetrator and began training with the device right away. In honor of their CO, the Marines rebranded the ladder as the Simmons Rig.

1st Force Recon patrolled through the New Year into January 1969. With hovering inserts and extracts on the rise, Maj Simmons decided more training was necessary to keep his Marines’ skills fresh. He gave the job of Insert/Extract Noncommissioned Officer (NCO) to one of his most experienced patrol leaders, Sergeant Robert “Bob” Buda. In his new role, Buda mastered the rigging and utilization of all insert/extract methods and provided the company with training. Few in the country were better suited for the role.

Buda arrived in Vietnam in November 1967. After 13 months, 45 patrols, six combat dives and two Purple Hearts, the 20-year-old platoon sergeant was an invaluable resource. It seemed like anything you could imagine behind enemy lines was something he had already experienced and survived, earning two Bronze Stars with combat “V” in the process. Buda extended to remain in country as the end of his tour approached. “My mindset was such that the only family I had was the guys at 1st Force Recon,” remembered Buda. “My family just became the guys at the unit and I had no intention of going home. I was going to stay there forever, I thought.”

His new position seemed perfect. It allowed him to remain with 1st Force Recon while minimizing the risk of a third Purple Heart—an automatic ticket out of Vietnam. Buda shrugged off numerous wounds in the past to avoid the “award” and was determined not to let another send him home.

Also nearing the end of his tour was 21-year-old Sergeant David Thompson. Thompson arrived in January 1968 and progressed to his role as a team leader after six months. Twenty-eight patrols and four combat dives lay under his belt by the time he reached An Hoa. He knew the pros and cons of a jungle penetrator from firsthand experience. On one occasion, Thompson was left behind. His nine-man patrol ran into trouble and called for emergency extraction. After three trips with the hoist, six Marines were in the chopper. On the fourth trip, Thompson put just one Marine on the hoist. In recon, the patrol leader was always the last on the ground. It was also true that the patrol leader’s most powerful weapon was a radio. Keeping himself and his radio operator on the ground, Thompson sent the Marine up by himself and waited for a fifth trip. The helicopter crew assumed that was the last of the patrol and took off. Thompson yelled into his radio at the pilot, who turned the helicopter around. The last two snapped onto the hoist and floated away through enemy fire.

Thompson trained on the Simmons Rig and took part in a demonstration of the device. “I called it the flying ladder,” remembered Thompson. “In truth, it was the lifesaver from the sky.” Given that it was not approved for use in combat, Thompson did not plan on the ladder getting him and his team out of a tight spot.

On Jan. 4, Thompson received a patrol warning order. His team, called Forefather, would insert 20 miles west of An Hoa to search for a suspected enemy supply station. Given the limited amount of time left on his tour, Thompson knew this would be his last patrol.

He had a feeling unlike anything he experienced before in Vietnam—a prem-oni tion of ill will. He had heard stories recently of other Marines with the feeling. Someone would say before going out that this mission would be “the one” and sure enough, they were killed or grievously wounded. Maybe Thompson’s premonition happened because this was his last patrol. Maybe it was the reputation of Base Area 112. Whatever the cause, the feeling left Thompson uneasy.

Forefather took off from An Hoa shortly after noon on Jan. 11. The helicopter flew them within a mile of their objective. Hovering 60 feet above a stream, the Marines rapelled to the ground. They rapidly moved into an ambush position along a nearby trail and waited. The noise of insertion always drew attention and they needed to determine how much.

Less than 20 minutes passed before the Marines saw three NVA soldiers moving north along the trail toward the suspected supply station. Two more followed shortly after. Another 20 minutes passed, and a group of six soldiers came down the trail. The Marines held their fire as they waited for the enemy to pass. One of the soldiers slowed and stopped several meters beyond the Marines’ position. He looked frozen on the trail, obviously eyeing something. The deafening silence of the jungle rang in Thompson’s ears as he put his M16’s front sight post on the soldier’s back and slid his index finger across the trigger. Suddenly the soldier turned, lifted his AK-47 and sprayed bullets into the brush.

(Sourced from Kyle Watts)

Less than one hour into the patrol, Forefather had already made contact.

Thompson squeezed the trigger and dropped the NVA soldier. The rest of the Marines opened up, killing two more. The remaining three fled down the trail. Thompson grabbed his radio handset. “Night Scholar, this is Forefather Six. We are in contact. Do you copy?” No response came from the COC. He tried again. No comms. They needed to contact An Hoa and to do that they needed higher ground. The team melted into the forest away from the trail. They moved 200 meters farther up the hill behind them. From their new position, Thompson established degraded comms with Lt Finlayson.

It was now after 3 p.m. and the sun dipped near the top of the mountains. The Marines had not seen or heard anything since their initial firefight on the trail. Thompson decided to remain in the current position for the night and the Marines spread out in a defensive perimeter. As darkness fell, those not on watch tried to doze off, but no one slept. “Forefather Six, Forefather Six, what’s your status?” The watch officer at the COC checked in to make sure the team had not been wiped out. Thompson clicked once on his handset’s talk button. This silently signaled back that all was okay. No one talked. No one moved. Everyone prayed for daylight.

Night finally turned to daylight, and the Marines prepared to move out. As they ate breakfast, checked their weapons, and reapplied paint to camouflage their faces, Thompson was again stopped by a feeling. Normal procedure would be to move out at dawn, but this morning, something was off. The jungle felt too quiet. Sometime during the night, the team had again lost comms with the COC. “That was the first time ever, with any team, I didn’t move out right away,” remembered Thompson. “Something wasn’t right, we just knew it, so we stayed there.”

The team returned to their perimeter. Thompson hoped they would soon see a Cessna Bird Dog overhead. These tiny, single-engine aircraft were used by forward air controllers, but could function as a radio relay and help him re-establish comms with the COC. Forefather waited in their position for several hours. Finally, around 11 a.m., a Bird Dog came into view. Thompson reached the airplane on his radio, which relayed his position. Finlayson told Thompson to resume his mission and move out.

The team picked up and moved toward their original objective. After an hour trekking through thick undergrowth, they emerged into a clearing under the jungle canopy. The point man halted the patrol and crouched down. Walking at an angle to their front, at least 20 NVA soldiers moved in unison, spaced apart on line. They traveled fast and light with AK-47s, but carried no packs or even canteens, conducting an anti-recon sweep to flush out Forefather. Both sides realized the others’ presence at nearly the same instant. NVA soldiers nearest the Marines opened up and the Marines returned fire, killing one. They poured fire at the enemy long enough to make the NVA scatter, then the Marines ran. Going toe-to-toe in the jungle with a force more than twice their size was not a good idea. Thompson and the others broke contact and headed up the hill to higher ground.

The team reached the crest of a knoll around 200 meters from where they made contact. They looked out in frustration as they came to an abrupt halt. A massive bomb crater—big enough to hold a house—cut off their escape. Thompson knew entering the crater with the enemy close behind would make them like fish in a bowl for the NVA. They were stuck, with the enemy closing in from three directions, and the crater blocking the fourth.

Sgt Dave Thompson is pictured with recon team “Stone Pit,” in Da Nang, Vietnam, 1968. Thompson is kneeling in the middle right of the front row. (Courtesy of Dave Thompson)

Thompson arranged his defense with the team and raised the COC on his radio. “Night Scholar, this is Forefather Six. We are in contact, request emergency extraction.” Upon learning the situation, Lt Finlayson forwarded the request for extraction up the chain of command. He immediately called for support from UH-1N Huey gunships and fixed-wing jets.

Thompson and his men heard the enemy all around. The sounds crept closer and closer until suddenly, an enemy soldier popped his head out from the brush 5 feet away. The closest Marine blasted him in the face and continued firing. The ensuing firefight resulted in three more enemy killed before they retreated. The Marines loaded fresh magazines and waited for the next contact. They had been in their position for more than an hour already. The sound of aircraft overhead finally sang in Thompson’s ears. He made contact with the Bird Dog, who relayed the team’s position and coordinated the operation. Jets screamed in, pummeling the jungle floor with their bombs. UH-1N Huey gunships followed with rockets and machine guns.

Despite the air support, Forefather continued fighting off the enemy on their own on the ground. Magazine after magazine fed through their M16s. Thompson, focusing on the radio, handed out his own ammunition as other Marines ran dry. Four more hours passed, and the sun began to set. Thompson knew if they did not get out, this night would not go as well as the last.

Approval for extract finally arrived. Finlayson’s voice came over the radio. “Forefather Six, this is Night Scholar Three, emergency extract is in route. Need you to move north toward alternate LZ, over.” Thompson looked north behind him at the bomb crater. “Negative Night Scholar, moving north not possible,” he replied. He tried to make their perilous situation clear, but it didn’t seem to sink in. “Roger Forefather Six, then need you to head west and cut back ASAP,” came the reply. Thompson’s frustration boiled over. “Night Scholar, I can’t go north. I can’t go south. I can’t go east. I can’t go west. I can’t move without losing the team! Either try to get someone in here to get us out, or send body bags in the morning!”

Back at An Hoa, Sgt Buda was conduct-ing a rapelling class. He stood atop the rappel tower when he saw a Marine sprint-ing toward them. “Sgt Buda!” the Marine yelled up, “Maj Simmons needs to see you, now. There’s a problem and they need your help!” Buda rapelled down and ran to the COC. Maj Simmons brought him up to speed on Forefather’s situation. He told Buda a CH-46 was going to get them, and he wanted Buda to ride along. His knowledge of the terrain could help the pilot get over the team faster, and his experience with the jungle penetrator would hopefully speed up that process as well. The helicopter stopped at An Hoa, picked up Buda, and headed toward Forefather.

Enemy soldiers had massed around the team as the afternoon hours passed. They moved farther up the hill above the Marines and waited for the helicopters they knew would come. They reached an elevation that a rescue chopper could reach and hover over the Marines. From this position, the NVA could shoot directly, or even down, at any aircraft going after the team.

Buda guided the pilot over the area where Forefather held its ground. At 2,000 feet, the CH-46 circled as Huey gunships swooped down and unloaded their awe-inspiring display of firepower. Buda looked on, knowing precisely how the gunships meant life or death for the team. Thompson heard bullets smacking trees and leaves like a heavy rain. The gunships closed in, and the sound turned to dull thuds as the rounds impacted the ground. Marines saw miniature explosions in the dirt, one after another in rapid succession, moving straight for them. The helicopters ceased firing with seconds to spare, stopping the stream of bullets less than 20 meters in front of Forefather’s position. A UH-1N Huey pulled up and roared over Thompson’s head. The next chopper repeated the gun run, and completed another after that. Nearly an hour passed before the CH-46 dropped in to attempt the hoist.

The helicopter came under fire before it even established a hover. The pilot held steady as Buda dropped the jungle penetrator through the floor. Lying on his stomach, watching the hoist descend, Buda felt a warm rain begin pouring through his hair and down his neck. He looked up to see hydraulic fluid spraying from a destroyed line. He watched streams of daylight appear through new bullet holes in the wall and debris flew

The swinging ladder was made of aluminum rungs and wire and was designed to roll up on the floor of a helicopter and kick off the tail when needed, unraveling to the ground. (Photo courtesy of Dave Thompson)

off as the rounds impacted the far side. In the cockpit, he witnessed every light on the control panel light up like a Christmas tree. “It’s coming apart,” he thought to himself. Over the intercom, the pilot ordered the crew chief to blow the line and drop the hoist. They had to get out of the zone. Thompson watched the chopper struggle to remain airborne. He saw the jungle penetrator fall away to the ground as the helicopter groaned and lifted higher. He knew they would have to hold on for a while longer.

The helicopter limped through the sky, miraculously making it 20 minutes back to An Hoa, where the pilot made a hard landing. As the chopper hit the ground, one of the rear rotor blades flew off. Buda jumped off, drenched in sweat and hydraulic fluid, but otherwise unscathed. He wondered what would happen now.

Lt Finlayson discussed the situation with Maj Simmons. They were running out of options for Forefather. Another try with the jungle penetrator would only produce the same results, or worse. “Sir, the ladder. We’ve got to give it a shot,” said Finlayson. Simmons agreed. It was their only other viable option. Finlayson sought out Buda as he watched others counting holes in the downed chopper. “Buda, get the Simmons Rig together. We’re trying it this time,” he said. Buda departed to prepare the rig, and Finlayson radioed for another chopper.

Capt Adams had just returned to his home airfield at Da Nang. It was around 4:30 p.m. He had logged more than eight hours flying time by that point, running resupply missions all day. He entered the squadron headquarters when the call came down from An Hoa for another recon extraction. Despite his exhaustion from the day, Adams volunteered to go. The 25-year-old pilot participated in many recon inserts or extracts. For his role extracting Lt Slater and his team the previous December, Adams was awarded the Silver Star. His fellow pilots nicknamed him “Blades” in honor of the exceptional number of rotor blades he damaged tucking his chopper into tight LZs between trees. Adams possessed experience and knowledge of the jungle penetrator, but had never seen or even heard of the ladder.

Sgt Buda moved the Simmons Rig into the LZ at An Hoa as Adams landed and started refueling. “What’s this?” Adams asked. “It’s a ladder, sir,” replied Buda. “We’ve been trying to get these guys out all day, but nothing’s working.” He explained how the ladder worked, and that he would come along to help. Adams told him to put it on the chopper and they would give it a try. Buda set up the rig and positioned the ladder on the tail. Adams lifted off with his crew and Buda around 5:30 p.m. The sun sank low behind the dark clouds of an approaching storm.

Adams approached the area and he circled at 1,500 feet. Gunships again strafed the jungle surrounding Forefather and the remaining jets dropped the last of their ordnance. As the other aircraft pulled out, Adams dropped his bird 80 feet above the team. The enemy on the hillside opened up on the hovering helicopter. Buda unhooked the ladder and kicked it over the tail. Adams’ crew chief, Corporal James Tyler, dropped prone on the tail ramp looking down over the unraveling ladder. Through his headset, he expertly directed Adams until the bottom of the ladder touched the ground close to the Marines. He told the pilot to stop, but the chopper kept moving. Tyler yelled louder into his headset, but the ladder continued in the wrong direction. He turned and realized a bullet had severed his communication line. Tyler stood and ran through the helicopter to the cockpit. He shouted commands directly into Adams’ ear over the din of the engines and gunfire. Tyler returned to the tail ramp through a hail of bullets to watch the ladder. Once corrected, he gave a thumbs-up to the copilot, who communicated to Adams to hold the chopper steady.

For the first time in six hours, the recon team left its defensive position and sprinted toward the ladder. Thompson grabbed ahold with his left hand and used his right to assist the others. Two Marines climbed 12 feet up the ladder making room for the rest to follow. Thompson noticed one of his Marines behind the rest of the patrol, slowly making his way toward the ladder. “Hey, what the hell are you doing? Let’s go!” Thompson shouted. “I can’t find my snap link!” the Marine replied. This vital piece of equipment attached the Marines to any extraction device, ensuring they would not fall. Thompson yelled at the Marine to find it and hurry up as he helped two more Marines scale the ladder. The fifth Marine began his ascent. Thompson looked back again and saw the lagging Marine now going through his pack in search of the snap link.

“Get up here now!” he yelled again, “We have to go, LET’S MOVE!!”

Overhead, Adams fought the helicopter to keep it steady. The added weight of the Marines underneath proved challenging, and enemy rounds chipped away all over the helicopter. Gunfire mixed with the whine of the helicopter in a deafening roar. In the background through his headset, he heard his crew shouting. They were only overhead for a few minutes, but it quickly turned into a very bad situation. From the tail ramp, Tyler signaled to the copilot that five Marines were on the ladder. “Five on board, we’ve got five on,” Adams heard someone say. “Roger, five on. Let’s go,” he replied. No one told him how many Marines were on the ground.

Thompson felt the ladder pulling upwards out of his hand. His knuckles went white, willing the helicopter to stay. He looked at his radioman and the other Marine still on the ground. He knew he could not leave them. Thompson let go and hustled the others away as the ladder ascended. Run ning down the hill, he grabbed the radio and yelled to anyone listening. “We’re still down here! Three still on the ground!” His primary concern was that a gunship or jet might drop something on top of them, thinking the whole team was off the ground. The Bird Dog overhead responded he knew the Marines remained.

The remaining three ran until the heavy thud of their footsteps became louder than the fading helicopters and formed a tight triangle in the thickest brush they could find. In the sudden silence, Thompson realized his rapid breathing was the loudest thing in the jungle. The enemy obviously believed the entire patrol had been extracted. The Marines remained frozen and waited, hoping someone would find them before the NVA did.

Adams gained altitude with the five recon Marines hanging beneath the heli copter. As they rose to safety, the Bird Dog pilot’s voice came through relaying the news that three Marines were still on the ground. A sinking feeling grew in the pit of Adams’ stomach as he thought through the situation. He looked down at his controls. The stick felt good in his hands, and the helicopter readily responded to his commands despite the damage. He knew as long as the chopper could function, he could not leave the Marines behind. He made up his mind they would go back.

They located a forward artillery base on a secure hilltop less than 6 miles from the extraction site. Rather than making the 20-minute flight back to An Hoa, Adams elected to drop the recon Marines there. He arrived over the hilltop and lowered the helicopter carefully. Tyler directed from the tail and, without landing, gently let the five Marines down. Once they unhooked, Tyler gave the thumbs up and Adams turned back with the ladder fully extended beneath the bird.

The sun was gone and rain clouds further obscured any remaining light. Adams knew this was his last chance to get the Marines out before it was completely dark. The jets had expended all their ordnance and were gone. The gunships had also ran their guns and rockets dry. Adams would have to make the final rescue attempt on his own.

He dropped the chopper below 1,500 feet as he approached the zone. Tracer rounds arched skyward through the twilight as he descended. Before he could get into position over the Marines, the helicopter was already taking more hits from intense enemy fire. Adams yanked the chopper back into the air out of small arms range. He circled around and tried coming in from a different direction, yielding the same result. Adams knew that dropping down on top of the zone made him too much of a target and left him exposed for too long. He needed a different approach—a small stream ran up the valley at the base of the mountain.

A recon team demonstrates mounting the ladder beneath a hovering helicopter. (Courtesy of Dave Thompson)

Adams circled back for a third approach, this time continuing farther down the valley. He dropped the helicopter low and gunned the engines. The ladder whipped in the wind, standing out behind the chopper as it accelerated towards the Marines. When he neared the zone, Adams popped up 100 feet above the ground and the ladder dropped back vertical. As the enemy fire resumed, he swung the tail end around into the fire. The rear armor plating and smaller target profile facing the enemy gave the helicopter its best hope.

Thompson watched the chopper thunder overhead. The helicopter stopped in exact-ly the same spot it had been 20 minutes earlier. The ladder touched the ground and began moving in the Marines’ direction. As they moved back up the hill, Thompson noticed a tall bombed-out tree stump directly in the path of the ladder. His heart sank as images flashed in his vision of the ladder getting stuck and the struggling chopper coming down. The ladder eased against the stump, then up and over the top. As it dropped mercifully down the other side, Thompson and the others came sprinting.

Enemy fire raked the helicopter as Adams fought to keep it steady. Buda manned a door gun, blasting away at the enemy below. As he returned fire, he felt a punch in his left thigh. He looked down and saw a growing circle of blood staining his utilities. Adrenalin coursing through him shielded him from pain as he kept firing. Tyler positioned himself back on the tail ramp to direct Adams over the remaining Marines. He stood motioning to the copilot when a bullet entered his right leg below the buttocks. The round dropped him back to the deck, but he continued his commands to perfectly position the helicopter.

The Marines finally reached the bottom of the ladder. Enemy surrounded the area, but all fire focused on the chopper overhead. The radioman started climbing. Thompson looked back at the last Marine. “I never found my snap link!” the Marine shouted. “Then you’d better hold on!!” Thompson replied. The Marine stuck his arms and legs through the ladder, clinging with all four appendages. Thompson snapped on underneath of him. The last member of Forefather was finally off the ground.

Adams heard through the chaos that everyone made it onto the ladder. For a final time, he lifted above the jungle. Below the chopper, Thompson closed his eyes as rain began pelting his face. A final feeling overpowered his senses. They made it.

Adams lowered the ladder to the ground back at An Hoa. Thompson unhooked and immediately searched for the rest of his team. Lt Finlayson grabbed him and told him about the forward artillery base where Adams dropped the other five members of Forefather. The three Marines were whisked away for debriefing. By the time Adams landed, Thompson and the others were gone. He would never meet the eight Marines they rescued that day.

As others slapped his back, shook his hands, and offered him steaks, Adams surveyed his damaged helicopter. More than 100 holes

A Marine CH-46 helicopter piloted by Maj Bruce L. Shapiro, HMM-263, lifts a 1stMarDiv reconnaissance team to a secure zone southwest of An Hoa Combat Base. (Photo by CWO-2 H.L. Huntley, USMC)

were later counted. “I think it just wasn’t my time,” Adams reflected recently. “I think it was just time to rescue those guys, and maybe it wasn’t their time either.” A Huey picked up Adams and his crew and returned them back to Da Nang.

After two helicopters and three rescue attempts, Sgt Buda finally made it back to An Hoa, where he awaited medical treat ment. He lay outside looking on as others gawked at the beaten and destroyed helicopters that had been his rides over the zone. “What happened to you?” the doctor asked when Buda’s turn came. “Well Doc, I tripped over an ammo can. I might need a stitch,” Buda replied. The doctor removed the pant leg and began probing around in the wound. A few sec­onds later, the forceps emerged holding a bloody AK­47 bullet. “An ammo can, huh, Sarge?” said the doctor, dropping the round into a pan. “I’ve heard that be fore. You see this tag? This guarantees you’re going to the hospital for follow up. There’s no way we’re going to ignore this.” The following day, Buda was evacuated to a hospital in Japan. There he received his third Purple Heart. Once recovered, he flew to Okinawa, then to Kaneohe Bay, Hawaii. He would not return to Vietnam.

This first use of the Simmons Rig in combat proved a turning point for recon emergency extractions. The success dem­onstrated the ladder’s capability as combat­worthy tool. It also stood out as a stunning example of the heroics required for missions of this type. Sgt Buda and Cpl Tyler each received a Purple Heart for the wounds they sustained in the helicopter. Tyler also received a Silver Star for his actions directing Adams over the team. Sgt Thompson was also awarded the Silver Star for leading the team on the ground and for his decision to remain behind. For his heroic flying, warrior spirit, and refusal to leave any Marines on the ground, Capt Adams was awarded the Navy Cross.

First Force Recon utilized the Simmons Rig more frequently as 1969 progressed, replacing the jungle penetrator on nu­merous occasions. It was a great tool, but its flaws haunted the unit. Not long after the successful extraction of Forefather, another patrol met disaster. Being extracted from the banks of a stream, six recon Marines snapped onto the ladder. The pilot took off, but with the weight of the team under the chopper, he struggled to gain altitude. The helicopter dragged the ladder and Marines into the stream. After more than a minute under the water, drag­ging across the rocky bottom, two of the Marines were knocked off and drowned.

Insertion and extraction techniques continued progressing, and the STABO harness eclipsed the Simmons Rig as the preferred method. This was further improved into the Special Patrol Insertion and Extraction (SPIE) rig, which is still used today.

Following the presentation of his Silver Star, Sgt Dave Thompson was honored by his home state during an Independence Day parade through Madison, Wis. (Courtesy of Dave Thompson)

Larry Adams, Bob Buda, and Dave Thompson all left Vietnam and the Marine Corps shortly after the mission. Adams returned to the states as a flight instructor in North Carolina. He was surprised and disappointed by the nation’s indifference and politically motivated attacks on servicemembers. He discovered that while he was gone, two college friends attempted to take out a life insurance policy on him, figuring they could cash in when he didn’t return. Adams flew more than 1,000 missions in 600 flight hours in Vietnam, earning 50 Air Medals and two Distinguished Flying Crosses in addition to his Silver Star and Navy Cross. He married his sweetheart and settled in Washington, where he worked in the radio industry and became a successful entrepreneur.

After his recovery at Kaneohe Bay, Buda was presented with orders to be an instructor at Amphibious Reconnaissance Course in Coronado, Calif. Rather than accepting this dream job for any recon Marine, he opted to get out. Back now from Vietnam, Buda witnessed a side of the Marine Corps that disturbed him deeply. Race riots broke out on Marine bases across the nation, with one of the worst happening in Kaneohe Bay. “It was absolutely terrible,” remembered Buda. “It was a terrible time to be in the Marine Corps. I thought we were going to hell in a handbasket, and I didn’t want to be part of it.” Buda left the Marine Corps and joined the Honolulu Police Department and began life outside the military. He moved to the mainland where he continued as a police officer and detective in California for the rest of his career. He is now retired and living in Illinois.

Thompson returned home to orders as a drill instructor (DI) in San Diego. With only six months left on his contract, the Corps decided not to train him as a DI. Since they couldn’t send him back to Vietnam, they let him out early. Three and a half years after enlisting, Thompson returned to his home state of Wisconsin as a civilian. Two months after leaving the Marines, he found out he had been awarded the Silver Star in addition to a Navy Commendation with combat “V.” He donned his dress uniform for one final time as the governor of Wisconsin pinned the medal on his chest, followed by an Independence Day parade where he was honored as one of the main features. Thompson worked in manufacturing for many years, and finished off his career with the United States Department of Agriculture. He is now retired and living in his hometown.

Often, veterans like Adams, Buda, and Thompson discuss their experiences of 49 years ago with reverence and reluctance. The selfless examples of courage, humility, and dedication that many veterans have set throughout their lives serve as a continuation of their service to their communities and our country.

“At the end of the day, you’re called, and you go,” reflected Adams. “You don’t think about the political implications. You just go and do your job. There’s no great glory to that, there’s just a job that needs to be done. You find out what you need to do, and go ahead and do it. And by the grace of God, you’ll come out of it OK.”

Author’s note: To Dave Thompson, Bob Buda, and Larry Adams, thank you for reliving your incredible stories with me and allowing me to tell them. I hope these words can justly honor your service to each other and our beloved Corps. To all the Marines of 1st Force Recon and HMM-165 involved that day, and so many others, Semper Fidelis.

This Article was originally published in the April 2018 Leatherneck Magazine.


About the Author

Kyle Watts is the staff writer for Leatherneck. He served on active duty in the Marine Corps as a communications officer from 2009-13.  He lives in Richmond, Va., with his wife and three children. In 2019, the Marine Corps Heritage Foundation awarded him the Colonel Robert Debs Heinl Jr. Award for Marine Corps History for this story.

“This is My Rifle” – From the Hill Fights in Vietnam to Today: The History of the M16

The date, April 30, 1967. The place, a few miles northwest of Khe Sanh. The 2nd and 3rd Battalions of the 3rd Marine Division are preparing to assault Hill 881 and dislodge the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) forces emplaced in fortified bunkers on the hill. With 105 mm artillery at their backs and the new M16 rifles in hand, it seems like nothing can stand in their way as they attempt to take the hill.

Within just a few short hours, however, nothing is going according to plan. Because the defenders on the hill are more numerous and far better dug in than anticipated, the air strikes and artillery bombardment preceding the assault have had little practical effect. To make matters worse, Marines have been experiencing serious problems with their high-tech M16 rifles—critical malfunctions are causing them to seize up in the heat of combat. It seems nearly inconceivable that the U.S. military would issue fatally flawed equipment, but the Battle of Hill 881 and several other conflicts during the Vietnam War serve as grim reminders that it did indeed happen.

So, why were soldiers and Marines using rifles that often malfunctioned in battle? To understand how and why this happened, we need to travel more than a decade back in time and thousands of miles away to a small office complex in Hollywood, Calif.

Fairchild Airplane and Engine Company created its ArmaLite division in 1954 to design and produce firearms. As a subsidiary of a major aerospace contractor in the 1950s, ArmaLite’s designs were unconventional and highly innovative. Where a rifle was traditionally constructed out of a milled or pressed sheet steel receiver mated to a steel barrel in a wood or metal stock, ArmaLite’s AR-1, AR-5, and AR-7 rifles made heavy use of space-age materials like aluminum and fiberglass.

In the mid-1950s, ArmaLite engineer Eugene Stoner designed a revolutionary new military rifle he hoped would replace the venerable M1 Garand. Stoner’s rifle, designated “AR-10,” was a radical departure from conventional designs. Its barrel, operating components, and stock were all arranged in a straight line, trans-ferring recoil directly back into the shooter’s shoulder and minimizing muzzle rise on full-auto. With its aluminum receiver, fiberglass furniture, and composite barrel, the AR-10 was a full pound or more lighter than any of its more mainstream competitors. Unfortunately, military trials showed that the AR-10 was perhaps too far ahead of its time, and without years of refinement behind it, the rifle suffered a number of teething troubles which couldn’t be corrected quickly enough to prevent its disqualification from the trials. The U.S. Army would ultimately go on to adopt the T44E4 prototype, essentially just an improved M1, as the M14 rifle.

PFC Tommy Gribble displays his M16 rifle, which was hit by a round from an enemy AK-47 on Sept. 6, 1968. The round pierced Gribble’s forearm, passing between both bones, then smashed through the Marine’s rifle stock. Gribble, assigned to Co I, 3rd Bn, 5th Marines, was walking point during a patrol in Vietnam when the round hit.

But all was not lost for Eugene Stoner and ArmaLite. The Department of Defense was investigating a small-caliber, high-velocity rifle cartridge concept based on research and testing from the Aberdeen Proving Grounds in the early 1950s, and they wanted ArmaLite to help develop the new ammunition and a lightweight rifle to fire it. While Stoner worked on the design for the pro-jectile itself, ArmaLite engineers L. James “Jim” Sullivan and Robert Fremont worked with Remington on the design for the case. What they came up with was a more powerful version of the .222 Remington capable of propelling a 55-grain full-metal jacket projectile at an astounding 3,250 feet per second from a 20-inch barrel.

To go with this new so-called “.222 Remington Special” or “.223 Remington” ammunition, Sullivan and Fremont created a new rifle based on the AR-10. It used the same operating principle and retained many of the same desirable features as its predecessor, but testing showed that the new prototype was capable of superior accuracy and reliability. They called it the AR-15.

The first AR-15 was an impressive weapon for its time. It was demonstrated to have better reliability and accuracy than the M14 while being nearly two pounds lighter. The new .223 ammunition was much lighter and produced less recoil than 7.62 NATO, allowing infantrymen to carry twice as many rounds and fire accurately in both semi-automatic and fully automatic modes. A 1959 test by the Army showed that a squad of five to seven men armed with AR-15s was just as effective as an 11-man squad armed with M14s.

Despite its lighter weight and lower recoil, the new high-velocity ammunition produced devastating wounds in soft targets. Whereas conventional rifle bullets had the potential to pass through their targets and leave behind small wound tracks, high-velocity projectiles had a tendency to fragment shortly after impact. Jim Sullivan would later recount an informal test at a shooting range between a conventional 7.62 NATO rifle and an .223-caliber AR-15 wherein the ArmaLite employees shot at jerrycans filled with water. The full-power rifle punched a hole straight through a can—the bullet went in one side and out the other, leaving nothing behind but a pair of holes. The AR-15, firing ammunition nominally half as powerful, caused a can to explode from the sudden shock. Battlefield reports later confirmed the lethality of this effect on enemy combatants.

The AR-15 showed great promise as a combat rifle, but it couldn’t have come at a worse time. The Army and Marine Corps had just adopted the M14 after 12 years of development and amid a great deal of controversy; they weren’t about to go out and order hundreds of thousands of AR-15s. Furthermore, top generals were extremely conservative about small arms designs, and the AR-15 was easily the most innovative and unconventional rifle of its time. By this time, ArmaLite was on the verge of bankruptcy. Years of work on the AR-10 project without a major contract to show for it had left the company in deep financial trouble, and the Army passing on the AR-15 was the final nail in the coffin. ArmaLite was finally forced to sell the rights to the AR-15 to a larger and more established arms manufacturer. Colt quickly snapped up the new design and began shopping it around to militaries around the world, as well as creating its own version lacking the fully automatic functionality for the civilian market.

The initiating event that led to the AR-15’s popularity in military service for the past half-century and counting was not an elaborate multi-year military R&D program, but a backyard barbecue party.

July 1960. Richard Boutelle, former president of Fairchild (ArmaLite’s parent company) is hosting an Independence Day party in his backyard. Among the high-powered friends on the guest list are Colt representative Robert Macdonald and legendary Air Force General Curtis LeMay. Eager to show off the capabilities of the AR-15, they offer to let Gen LeMay test the new rifle on some watermelons. A few magazines and a lot of pulp later, LeMay is so impressed by the rifle that he immediately places an order for 80,000. At that time, Air Force security personnel were still using the M2 Carbine. A variant of the M1 carbine, it was popular with troops when it was adopted during the Second World War, but by the early 1960s the design was beginning to show its age. The airmen still using it appreciated its light weight, but the carbine lost much of its lethality and accuracy beyond about 100 yards.

Congress delayed LeMay’s order, but other top officials soon came to realize why he was so enamored with the new rifle. After another brief round of trials, the AR-15 entered service with the United States Air Force and United States Army special forces. It would see its first combat use by American advisors in a bush war that was just beginning to heat up in the small, relatively unknown country of Vietnam.

The United States Army and the Marine Corps went into the Vietnam War using the M14. According to conventional American military doctrine of the time, infantry combat would take place at long range, therefore accuracy was king. The M14 worked well with this theory, firing the powerful 7.62×51 mm NATO round with an effective range farther than most people can identify a man-sized target. However, the jungles of Vietnam were suited to a very different kind of combat, a kind of combat with which the NVA and Viet Cong insurgents were intimately familiar. The thick brush and rugged terrain reduced visibility and obscured targets from view even at relatively close range, forcing combatants much closer together and making conventional long-range marksmanship all but impossible at times.

 In an effort to simplify logistics, U.S. military officials had intended the M14 to replace most of the small arms in the inventory. However, the rifle was too light and too powerful for fully automatic fire to be useful, yet too long and heavy for effective use in close-quarters combat. NVA soldiers, by contrast, were using Soviet-designed rifles supplied by communist China, namely the AKM—an improved variant of the AK-47. Lighter and much more compact than the M14, it fired the 7.62×39 mm Soviet cartridge. Sacrificing effective range to achieve lower recoil, the AKM could be fired in bursts with reasonable accuracy. These traits suited the AKM perfectly for poorly trained soldiers fighting in the jungle, allowing them to overwhelm even seasoned American combat vet-erans through sheer volume of fire. Furthermore, the M14 suffered from an unexpected problem of its own—in humid conditions, its wooden stock would swell and place uneven pressure on the barrel, causing the rifle’s point of impact to shift dramatically.

Marines during Operation Desert Storm deployed with M16A2 rifles and M60E3 machine guns.

The AR-15 could not have come at a better time for the United States military. Initial testing suggested that it surpassed the M14 in accuracy, reliability, and projected combat effectiveness, so the only thing left to do was bring it into service with the Army and Marine Corps. Yet another round of military trials resulted in the AR-15’s official adoption as the M16 rifle in 1964. Con-tracts were signed, hands were shaken, and Colt began converting its civilian tooling for the military variant. Within a few years, the first M16s began to show up in the hands of U.S. military advisors and special forces operatives in theater.

Initial combat reports were positive. Its light weight and high volume of fire suited it well to the dense jungle environment of Vietnam, and the enemy quickly learned to fear the so-called “black rifle.” According to co-designer Jim Sullivan, enemy combatants wounded in the arm or leg by the new M16 would often die from blood loss due to the fragmentation effect of the projectile. One of the M16’s first trials by fire was at the Battle of Ia Drang in November 1965. Elements of the U.S. Army 5th and 7th Cavalry, numbering approximately 1,000 men total, were able to repel nearly three times their number in hardened veterans from the NVA.

When Marines were first issued the M16, its lethal reputation preceded it. But what they didn’t know was that it would soon develop a reputation for a very different kind of lethality.

All of this brings us back to the Battle of Hill 881. Some combat reliability prob-lems with the M16 had begun to show, but the Marines of 3rdMarDiv didn’t know about any of this. They found out as soon as their rifles began jamming in combat. The rifles ran extremely dirty, causing the delicate mechanics inside to seize up at the most inopportune times. Furthermore, spent casings would often get stuck in the chamber with no way to knock them out except by disassembling the rifle while under fire or by shoving a cleaning rod down the barrel. And the rifles weren’t issued with cleaning kits.

PFC Ricardo King, 3rd Bn, 1st Marines, cleans his early-pattern M16 aboard the helicopter assault ship USS Valley Forge (LPH-8) along the coast of Viet­nam, Dec. 19, 1967. Early M16s required careful maintenance to withstand the humid jungle environment of Vietnam.

The so-called Hill Fights ended in a strategic American victory. The North Vietnamese were pushed out and the U.S. Marines were able to secure the area around Khe Sanh. But the question remained: what had happened to the rifles? What went wrong? This revolutionary new piece of technology that had promised to give American fighting men a decisive advantage now appeared to have cost many men their lives. The answer lies in a place almost no-one would immediately think to look—the military acquisitions system.

Recall that the M16 had been designed around the 5.56×45 mm M193 cartridge designed by ArmaLite and Remington. It was loaded with thin sticks of so-called “Improved Military Rifle” gunpowder, specifically IMR 4475, supplied by Du Pont Chemical. In Army testing, the am-munition yielded an average muzzle velocity around 3,150 feet per second—blisteringly fast, but about 100 feet per second lower than the specified velocity. In order to remedy this perceived problem, the Army had Remington switch to a different type of gunpowder, known as WC846, supplied by Olin Mathieson. The pressures and velocities looked just fine on paper, but like with many things, the devil is in the details. The new powder came in the form of small grains, coated in a special chemical blend to improve shelf life. The only problem was that the Army, thinking the powders to be interchangeable, didn’t test the rifles with the new ammunition. The new powder placed additional strain on the M16’s gas operating mechanism, and the protective coating left chalky deposits inside the rifle’s delicate internals. A seemingly simple change to the ammunition was able to multiply the rifle’s failure rate by six without anyone noticing. 

The Marines of the 2/3 and 3/3 didn’t know any of this. What they did know was that their fancy new rifles, which had been billed as “self-cleaning,” ran so dirty that they often stopped working—sometimes after only a few rounds. Without training on how to clean the rifles and no cleaning kits to do so anyway, the chalky residue clogging up the rifles became a deadly problem. 

Marines of C/1/3 move out on an early morning patrol in Vietnam, 1969. (Photo by Cpl Philip R. Boehme, USMC)

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the humid jungle environment of Vietnam created microscopic deposits of rust inside the barrels and chambers of the M16 rifles. Once the invisible rust pitting in the chamber of a rifle was severe enough, cases would begin sticking inside without any way to remove them.

When the M16’s numerous problems began to surface, Congress had a field day. A committee, led by Congressman Robert Ichord of Missouri, set out to identify the causes and solve the problems to get American soldiers and Marines a weapon that wouldn’t get them killed. The corrosion problem was the easiest to fix. All barrels and bolt carrier groups rolling off the production line at Colt would be coated in a thin layer of chromium metal, preventing the underlying steel from rusting. The fouling issue, however, was a little bit more difficult. Du Pont had long since stopped manufacturing IMR 4475, and the military desperately needed large supplies of ammunition as soon as possible. Contrary to the Ichord committee’s recommendation to immediately switch back to the old powder, the new powder was reformulated slightly and the rifle’s recoil buffer system redesigned to accommodate it. The most controversial change of all was the addition of the for-ward assist. This button on the side of the receiver was designed to engage with scalloped cuts on the side of the bolt carrier to allow it to be forced into battery. Eugene Stoner and the other ArmaLite engineers who had designed the system were vehemently opposed to this change—testing showed that failures to feed were only worsened by forcing the action closed. Nevertheless, these changes were incorporated by Colt onto the next pattern of M16 rifle, the M16A1.

The reliability problems all but disappeared when the M16A1 entered service, but the damage to the rifle’s reputation was done. Hardliners continued to deride the futuristic-looking rifle with its small-caliber ammunition and plastic furniture contract-made by Mattel. But most of all, what the M16 showed the world was that the assault rifle paradigm was the way of the future. When the Warsaw Pact began issuing select-fire intermediate-caliber rifles like the AKM, military strategists in the West had derided it as a “peasant’s weapon,” designed to maximize the combat effectiveness of a poorly trained conscript army. What the M16 proved was that even the best-trained fighting forces in the world could take advantage of the lighter weight and higher volume of fire provided by this revolutionary new weapon.

Recruit Jared C. Seeland, Plt 3229, “Kilo” Co, 3rd Recruit Training Bn reloads his M16A4 Service Rifle in the standing position at Edson Range, Weapons and Field Training Bn, Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton, Calif., Nov. 24, 2014. (Photo by Cpl Jericho Crutcher, USMC)

In the 1970s, NATO member countries began developing their own 5.56 mm rifles and tinkering with the ammunition to optimize it. The Belgian SS109 cartridge, based on the earlier American M193 but with improved penetration on hard targets, was adopted by most of NATO as stan-dard. When the Marine Corps requested an improved version of their rifle in response, Colt modified the M16A1 slightly to create the M16A2, which entered service in the early 1980s.

With the A2 variant, the M16 had finally fully matured. It used a different barrel for better accuracy and compatibility with a wider variety of ammunition types. The sights were made more adjustable, improving the individual rifleman’s ability to hit targets at long range. Even though most infantry combat thus far during the 20th century had taken place at 300 meters or less, a rifleman armed with an M16A2 could reliably hit man-sized targets out to at least twice that.

The M16’s final evolution in Marine Corps service was the M16A4. Taking a cue from the civilian aftermarket, the M16A4 is essentially just an M16A2 with enhanced modularity. The rear sight and carry handle assembly was made re-mov-able so an optical sighting system could be mounted, dramatically increasing the rifle’s combat effectiveness. The currently issued Trijicon TA31 RCO can mount to this rail with two thumb screws, a far cry from the intricate machining required to mount optics on previous service rifles. 

The round plastic handguards were replaced by long segments of MIL-STD-1913 rail, where Marines could attach a variety of accessories to fit almost any kind of mission. Even after the Army switched to the shorter M4A1 carbine, the Marine Corps continued using the M16A4 until a few years ago. With its longer barrel, the M16 is able to reliably hit targets, well past the effective range of the M4. While the M27 IAR has already replaced the M16A4 in frontline infantry units, hundreds of thousands of M16 rifles are still in Marine Corps inventory and will continue to see use for many years to come. 

Editor’s note: This article is the first in a serious of features detailing the small arms U.S. Marines have used since 1775. What were your experiences like with your issue weapons? Do you have a favorite one you would like to see featured next? Let us know at [email protected]. 

Author’s bio: Sam Lichtman is a college student and licensed pilot. He works part-time as a salesman and armorer at a gun store in Stafford, Va., and occasionally contributes content to Leatherneck. He also has a weekly segment on Gun Owners Radio.

Featured Photo (Top): A Marine armed with an M16A1 checks in with his command post via field radio during Operation Urgent Fury in Grenada, Oct. 25, 1983.

The Birthday Brawl: Tankers Hold the Line at Khe Sanh

First Lieutenant Harris Himes stabbed holes around the side of an empty C-ration can. He ignited a heat tab inside and warmed his breakfast over the flame. The alien aroma of beans and weenies flared his hunger pangs, gratefully supplanting the reek of diesel fumes thickening the air. Two of his tanks idled on the road nearby. Himes commanded the 1st Platoon of “Bravo” Company, 3rd Tank Battalion, 3rd Marine Division, with five tanks under his charge. Infantrymen bustled about the area preparing for the mission at hand. Each had begun their day long before dawn. Now, a tired sun stirred on the eastern hills, reluctantly ascending over the battle-scarred landscape of Khe Sanh Combat Base.

An M48A3 Patton tank in Vietnam: 1stLt Harris Himes’ platoon operated five of these armored giants. Note the TC’s cupola attached above the rest of the turret, with the TC standing exposed in his hatch. A ring of rectangular vision blocks surrounds the bottom of the cupola, offering limited visibility from inside. Also, note the factory-installed machine gun inside the cupola has been removed and replaced with a “sky-mounted” gun on the exterior. (Courtesy of the USMC Vietnam Tankers Association)

Corporal Fred Kellogg waited impatiently outside the supply hooch, holding his M3 submachine gun. A line of grunts formed ahead. The sergeant in charge doled out bullets like a munificent millionaire dispensing Halloween candy from the portico of his mansion. When his turn arrived, Kellogg approached with his antiquated weapon extended, an empty bucket desperate for a treat.

“Good morning, Sergeant. I really need some new magazines for this grease gun. The springs are all worn out. They won’t hardly feed anymore.”

The sergeant glared at Kellogg. This was not the first time the tanker had come whining about his worthless weapon.

“Corporal, if the Marine Corps wanted you to have new magazines, it would have given you new magazines! Now get the hell out of my tent!”

A litany of profanity hounded Kellogg back to his tank and trailed off below the rumbling diesel engine. Kellogg climbed aboard and dropped into the tank commander’s (TC’s) hatch, tossing the grease gun aside with a slew of opinions about the supply sergeant. He ignored the looks from the rest of his crew as he prepared to roll out.

Marine engineers repair a bridge along Route 9 near Khe Sanh. In April 1968, Operation Pegasus successfully relieved the beleaguered combat base and reopened Route 9 for traffic. (Courtesy of the USMC Vietnam Tankers Association)

Kellogg positioned his tank, call sign B-12, on point leading out the Khe Sanh gate. Cpl Adrian “Buzz” Conklin com-manded B-13 in line behind him. The remainder of Himes’ platoon staged behind in a separate supply convoy. The two lead tanks would accompany an advance party of grunts from Fox Com-pany, 2nd Battalion, 1st Marines, sweeping ahead in search of mines laid overnight or an enemy ambush lying in wait. Today, of all days, that prospect felt surely to become reality. 

It was May 19, 1968, Ho Chi Minh’s birthday. Intelligence reports streamed in over the preceding week. The North Vietnamese Army (NVA) around Khe Sanh seemed hell-bent on blocking the road out of the base and perhaps, after months of siege warfare, finally overrunning the American encampment as a gift for their leader.

The infamous siege of Khe Sanh was already over in the eyes of the world. The combat base and surrounding hill outposts had held. The NVA had failed. Much of the air support so critical to sustaining life through the siege was diverted. Virtually all the media attention shifted elsewhere. To the Marines who remained, however, a steady dose of enemy rockets and mortars belied the prevailing attitude.

Just the month prior, American commanders organized Operation Pegasus for the overland relief of Khe Sanh. Ma-rines and 1st Cavalry Division sol-diers struck out westward from their base at Ca Lu, while the defenders of Khe Sanh surged from their fighting positions in a coordinated effort. By mid-April, engi-neers cleared or rebuilt the impassable stretches of the main supply route be-tween the two combat bases, called Route 9.

Even after the official conclusion of Pegasus, Route 9 remained a tenuous 16-kilometer gauntlet. Himes’ platoon spearheaded the armored relief of Khe Sanh, arriving at the combat base at the beginning of May. Within days, the tank-ers battled through an ambush along Route 9 while escorting the platoon they relieved back to their home base in dire need of repairs. Himes’ mission now was to protect convoys moving along the treacherous route.

Himes issued assignments to his Marines the night before the May 19 supply run, placing Kellogg and Conklin with the mine sweep and two additional tanks with the main column that would depart once the advance party returned. Nearly his entire platoon held a role in the day’s mission. Himes served not only as the lieutenant in charge of the tankers, but one of the most experienced. He arrived in Vietnam in July 1967. That August, Himes was seriously wounded while com-manding a tank in combat and was evacuated to a hospital ship. He returned with his arm still in a sling to finish his tour. Much of his platoon rotated home at the end of the year and a fresh batch joined in January 1968. Several newcomers, like Kellogg, arrived as green lance corporals but were promoted and assigned as TCs in short order. Their limited combat exper-ience notwithstanding, Himes trusted their instincts and judgment.

Kellogg tested B-12’s internal comms. Charles Lehman sat to his left as loader, servicing the tank’s main gun and coaxial-mounted .30-caliber machine gun. Carlos Trinidad sat in front of Kellogg as the gunner and Stanley Williams occupied his own compartment forward as the driver. Kellogg loaded bullets into his faulty grease gun magazines. He placed the weapon in the rack behind his seat with the tank’s cache of hand grenades. He counted 19, an unusually high number. Since the M48A3 Patton tank possessed a 90 mm main gun, tankers rarely found the need to pop out of their hatch and toss a grenade.

Kellogg inspected the .50-cal. machine gun mounted inside his cupola. The space was so cramped that nothing more than a 50-round belt of ammo would fit preloaded into the weapon. Worse, some engineer back in the States decided to save space by mounting the gun on its side, oriented to fire in a way it was not designed. Tankers cursed the weapon and its tendency to jam even before the paltry 50 rounds fed through. The gun’s most valuable purpose served as an additional block of metal in front of the TC’s face. This “additional armor” saved Himes’ life when he was evacuated the previous fall, shielding him from a direct hit by a rocket propelled grenade (RPG).

Courtesy of the USMC History Division

Lehman extracted a 90 mm canister round from a honeycomb storage rack and shoved it into the main gun’s breach. Experience thus far proved these tank-sized shotgun shells most effective at disrupting an enemy ambush. Fox Company Marines moved ahead with their mine sweepers. Kellogg waited for them to exit the wire. He turned back, surveying Conklin’s tank and the rest of the convoy readying behind him. Himes stood in the road, breakfast in hand. He flashed a smile and thumbs up. Kellogg returned the gesture as the tank throttled up and rolled out.

It was 7 a.m. Innocent morning rays illuminated a pristine blue sky, clear and fresh before the midday heat. Preceding months of conflict left the area barren. Ghoulish trees cast gangly shadows across exposed red earth. Emaciated shrubbery punctuated irregular patterns of bomb craters in every direction. The road out of Khe Sanh led directly through this no man’s land, linking up with Route 9 in the surrounding hills. Uncle Ho’s expected birthday violence hung heavy over the column. How far would the convoy make it this time before the NVA attacked? The Marines pressed on, their incipient sense of disaster kindling.

The grunts worked their mine sweepers back and forth. Less than half a mile outside the gate, Kellogg’s radio crackled to life.

“Charles is in the area.”

Every Marine knew “Charlie,” the commonly held term for enemy, but “Charles?” What was the radio operator trying to say? An AK-47 opened up from a hedgerow in prompt explanation. Less than 100 feet away, concealed NVA sprang the ambush. Kellogg dropped into his seat. A ring of vision blocks sur-rounded the bottom of his cupola offering limited visibility outside. Grunts in the kill zone hit the deck, cut down by enemy fire or taking cover. Kellogg shouted through the intercom to Williams.

“Let’s go! Kick it in the ass and get us up front!”

The 50-ton machine surged forward. Bullets ricocheted off the armor as Kellogg directed Trinidad onto the bushes. The canister round boomed, devastating everything in its swath. Kellogg toggled a switch, changing the trigger controls from the main gun to the coaxial-mounted machine gun. Trinidad unleashed .30-cal. rounds as Lehman removed the spent 90 mm brass and inserted another main gun round.

Marine tanks support infantry clearing a stretch of Route 9 near Khe Sanh. (Courtesy of the USMC Vietnam Tankers Association)

Kellogg triggered his .50-cal., spraying five-round bursts along the hedgerow. Maliciously on cue, the machine gun jammed. His efforts to correct the prob-lem proved futile in the constricted cupola. Mayhem enveloped the tank. Dozens of NVA soldiers attacked from bushes and bomb craters at point-blank range. Kellogg directed Trinidad as he fired another round through the main gun, while simultaneously guiding Williams around the Marines exposed outside. How could they possibly fire, or even move, without killing one of their own?

“Traverse right.”

The thought breached Kellogg’s internal monologue without prompting, an overwhelming premonition without explanation. He obeyed. He clutched the TC override controls, arresting command from Trinidad, and spun the turret right as fast as it would move. When the main gun stood out at a 90-degree angle, the tank rocked violently as an RPG detonated on the turret. Kellogg’s intuition saved the tank. The well-aimed shot hit squarely on the gun shield, the thickest point of armor.

Smoke cleared from the vision blocks. Trinidad’s frantic voice screamed through the headset.

“I see them! I see them! I see them!”

The enemy RPG team stood in the open, taking aim once again. The tank’s gun pointed directly at them, loaded with a high explosive round. Kellogg estimated the range; they looked too close. Internal safeties prevented rounds from detonating before they reached a specified distance from the tank. Kellogg instantly decided he had to fire first. He squeezed the trigger on his override controls. The round blasted into the dirt at the RPG team’s feet, reaching bare-minimum range to explode. The enemy soldiers vaporized into pink mist.

Back inside the combat base, Himes wrapped up his morning routine brushing his teeth. His blouse clung to his sweaty back as he bent and spat out the toothpaste. To live in Vietnam was to endure habitual humidity. The sun had yet to perch on its high, oppressive throne. Staccato small arms echoed in the distance. The quickening tempo bade each Marine within earshot swivel and stare. Finally, the unmistakable crescendo of a tank’s main gun tolled. Barely half an hour passed since the mine sweep departed. Lance Corporal Jack Butcher sprinted up as the battle reverberated with a fever pitch.

1stLt Harris Himes, shortly after arriving at Khe Sanh in early May 1968, is pointing to the spot where an RPG detonated on the turret next to his cupola during an ambush along Route 9. Just days after arriving at Khe Sanh, the tankers battled through an attack while escorting the platoon they relieved back to Ca Lu, their tanks in desperate need of repairs (Courtesy of Harris Himes).

“Lieutenant! One-Two and One-Three have really gotten into something! I was monitoring the radios, and it sounds like it has really hit the fan!”

Himes ran with Butcher back to his tank, B-15, and climbed into the cupola. He ordered Cpl Rene Cerda, B-15’s TC, to collect his crew and crank up the engine. Himes grabbed a helmet. The battle played out through his headset in excited spurts.

“… over to your right …”

Machine-gun fire smothered the words.

“… a whole load of ‘em in the bushes … ”

A 90 mm roared.

“Bravo One-Two, this is Bravo One, over,” Himes chimed in on the net. Heavy breathing followed a long pause.

“Bravo One … this is One-Two … over.”

Kellogg’s reply sounded more animated than ever.

“One-Two, what’s going on out there?”

“Looks like we woke somethin’ up. Started out small, just a couple of shots after the grunts … ”

Static interrupted the words.

“ … then we got into the show and all hell broke loose.”

“One-Two, you’re breaking up. How are you doing?”

“OK so far. Busy.”

“Roger, keep at it. Keep me informed when you can.”

“Roger, One-Two out.”

Himes raised Conklin’s tank.

“Bravo One-Three, this is Bravo One, over.”

“One, this is One-Three,” Conklin replied. “SITREP the same. Lotsa enemy scramblin’, over.”

“Roger. Do it to ’em. Let me know. Out.”

Himes stood on the TC seat, half exposed above the cupola. Cpl Cerda waited further instruction.

“Rene, get over to the comm shack and try to raise someone from regiment,” Himes ordered. “We need permission to get out there and help Fred and Buzz right now!”

Himes dropped back inside the turret with the radio. Another quarter hour ticked by, the battle raging within earshot dreadfully narrated through his headset. Cerda had still not returned. Himes ordered his platoon sergeant to get the remaining tanks ready to roll, then took off for the comm shack. He found Cerda exasperated, radio in hand.

“They’re still looking for someone, Lieutenant. Nothing yet. Not sure regiment even knows what’s happening out there.”

“Stay with it.”

Himes walked back towards B-15. His remaining tanks occupied the road. Infantrymen staged in silent company listening to the chaotic show. What the hell was taking so long?

B-12’s main gun thundered once again, spraying canister fire through a row of bushes. Kellogg squinted through the vision blocks searching for additional targets. Miraculously, numerous Marines outside survived the onslaught thus far. To avoid running them over, Kellogg knew, would be the greater miracle. A lone grunt flashed into the scene framed by his vision block. Haggard, bleeding, and armed with nothing but his Ka-Bar fighting knife, the Marine charged head-long into a bomb crater full of NVA. He stabbed and slashed in a frenzy of gory violence until the tank turned block-ing Kellogg’s view, the grisly scene jettisoned in its wake. A bush rotated into the pic-ture. As if on cue, a World War II-vintage “potato masher” stick grenade arched up and away from the bush, landing in front of the tank near a scattering group of Marines with the fuze still burning.

“Drive over it!” Kellogg shouted.

Williams stopped the tank on top of the grenade, smothering the blast between the road wheels. The tank pushed forward unfazed to the bush where an NVA soldier ducked away into a spider hole. Straddling the hole, Williams threw the tank into a neutral steer, one tread moving forward while the opposite moved backward, rotating the machine in place. The treads dug into the earth, snagging the enemy soldier and crushing his hiding place. Williams shifted both treads forward, dragging the doomed enemy out of his hole and through the tread’s rear sprocket.

Enemy fire increased from B-12’s opposite flank where B-13 sat motionless on the battlefield. Through the drifting smoke, Kellogg noted his sister tank’s main gun blast deflector canted at an odd angle, damaged by an enemy RPG or mortar. Firing the main gun in this condition could mean catastrophic failure for the Marines inside the turret. Kellogg raised Conklin on the radio.

Marine tanks support a convoy along Route 9. The varying terrain enabled enemy ambushes at numerous points along the road. (USMC)

“Bravo One-Three, this is One-Two, over.”

No response. He tried several more times. Conklin finally responded.

“One-Two, this is One-Three.”

“One-Three, your main gun looks like it was hit and may be out of trunnion.”

“Roger, well I’ve been shot, and I’m not stickin’ my head to take a look!”

Unknown to Kellogg, Conklin somehow had been shot in the face, a wound that would result in the loss of one eye. B-13 sat defenseless against the renewed wave of NVA. Kellogg keyed his internal comms.

“Get us over there behind Buzz!”

Williams wheeled around to the other side of B-13, placing B-12 between Conklin and the bulk of enemy fire. Grunts hugged the dirt, pinned down across the front. A radioman directed B-12 toward a group of enemy attacking from bomb craters less than 50 feet away. At that close range, Trinidad could not depress the turret low enough to bring his guns to bear. With his .50-cal. out of commission and his turret-mounted guns useless, Kellogg resorted to the only weapons he had left.

He ordered Williams to hold course along a line of enemy-held craters, then snatched his grease gun and a handful of grenades from the rack behind him. Kellogg stood, half exposed above the cupola. The muffled sounds of gunfire inside the turret erupted into a deafening roar. Bullets zipped and cracked and pinged all around the tank. Kellogg flipped his grease gun upside down and opened fire. He prayed his unconventional firing technique might enlist the force of gravity to aid his faulty magazines feeding the bullets into the weapon. The tank approached the nearest crater. Kellogg pulled the pin on a grenade and lobbed it into the hole. He ducked as the explosion killed or stunned the sheltering NVA sol-diers. Kellogg resumed firing his grease gun upside down at near point- blank range. The next several bomb craters dotted the earth in an approaching batch. Kellogg steered Williams along-side, then tossed a grenade apiece into the holes until each fell silent.

Several stubborn enemy targeted Kellogg from a small crater in the tank’s path. Kellogg returned fire until the tank drove immediately alongside. He leaned out and dropped a grenade down into the hole. As the bomb exploded, Williams performed another neutral steer, crushing and grinding the dead and dying NVA beneath them.

Kellogg expended all 19 grenades wiping out enemy-held craters. His heart threatened to pound through his sternum as he collapsed back inside the tank. Some-how, despite the terrible toll the Marines exacted, NVA fire only in-creased. More than two hours had passed since they left the combat base. How much longer could they possibly survive?

Shell casings piled up inside B-12, further constricting the cramped turret. Trinidad sighted in another target. Lehman slammed in another high explo-sive round. Kellogg waited to observe the destruction his team efficiently wrought. A violent yellow flash suddenly blinded him. A terrific impact struck like a major leaguer’s bat to the chest. Kellogg folded on the turret floor. As he lay in utter silence, his memory inexplicably recalled a story from his youth of a relative who stopped breathing for several minutes in the hospital before doctors brought her back to life. Resurrected with the relative were the wonderful, luminous descriptions of the heaven that she wit-nessed while suspended between this life and the next. The sun-bathed glory she described had always impressed Kellogg. Now, he lay freezing, drowning and staring into a barren, black abyss.

“Oh, hell, I’ve gone to the wrong place.”

Cerda gathered his tankers in the road next to B-15. He lost track of how long Himes had been gone. When regiment finally located someone with authority, they denied the lieutenant’s request to support B-12 and B-13. Cerda never witnessed Himes lose his bearing, but this morning Himes was livid. After multiple requests, delays and denials, Himes stormed off to address the reg-imental office in person.

“The lieutenant said as soon as we get permission to go out, he’s riding in our tank as TC,” Cerda told his crew. “I’m going out with him. That means one of you has to stay behind.”

No one volunteered. Cerda made the Marines draw straws. Jack Butcher, his loader, came up short. Cerda assumed his spot inside the turret while LCpl John Cox took his place as B-15’s gunner and LCpl Clayton Larabell dropped into the driver’s seat. 

Himes finally returned with orders. B-15 and B-14 were tasked to reinforce the beleaguered mine sweep along with the remainder of Fox Company. Himes instructed grunts to board his vehicles. The sun, now teeming with radiant fury, broiled the infantrymen crowding on top of the tanks and baked the crews hemmed inside. Cerda inspected his ammo racks and weapons. Sweat dripped from his nose as he leaned forward and rolled both pants legs to his knees. He stood in the open hatch above his head. Himes stood to his right in the TC hatch shouting orders into his headset and gesturing to the grunts swarming the road. A dozen Marines surrounded the turret, holding on wherever they could. A dozen more clung to B-14 behind them like barnacles to a ship’s bottom. The remainder piled into a 6×6 cargo truck or spread out on foot. 

B-15 lumbered forward. Before lower-ing into his hatch, Cerda noticed a flak jacket tucked into the rack on the outside of the turret. Somehow, at some point, Butcher commandeered an army-style vest, more snuggly fitting and a superior construction to Marine-issued flaks. Cerda normally shunned the extra weight in the crowded interior but snatched the jacket and fastened it over his torso before wriggling down into his position. Just before 10 a.m., the two tanks and depleted infantry company surged out the gate.

The RPG penetrated B-12 through the side of the turret, detonating inside with the crew. Kellogg absorbed the brunt of the blast. He lay in a pile of shell casings drowning in his own blood. Trinidad slumped in his seat, alive but incapacitated. Lehman remained the only crewmember inside the turret able to fight. Ignoring his wounds, he struggled into a position around Trinidad and took over the trigger, laying down suppressive fire. He glanced at Kellogg. Surely, the TC was dead. When the gun ran dry, Lehman moved back to reload.

“One-Two, One-Three, this is Bravo One, over,” Himes hailed on the radio.

“This is One-Three,” Conklin replied.

“One-Two,” Lehman called in Kellogg’s stead as he fed a belt of ammo into the gun.

“Get back to base. We’ll take it from here. Well done.”

B-15 and B-14 halted near their fel-low stricken tanks. Grunts leaped from their sides and streamed out of the truck behind them. Himes ordered B-15 into the assault and commenced firing as soon as the grunts were clear. B-14, commanded by Cpl Pat Baddgor, followed into the fray.

Lehman poked his head through the loader’s hatch. Bullets cracked by and bounced off the steel around him. A blazing fire in the exterior cargo rack seared his face. The acrid smoke drove him back inside, hacking up black phlegm.

“Williams, the cavalry has arrived! Get us out of here!”

With his periscopes cracked, Williams operated the tank virtually blind. He threw the tank in reverse, backing away from the battle. The tank pitched suddenly forward, tossing Lehman across the turret. Without stopping, the tank abruptly pitched backward before level-ing out. Lehman stood in his hatch. The frame of a 6×6 truck lay ahead of B-12 in the road, hastily left in the tank’s path as the grunts poured into the battle, now flattened like a rolling pin. Lehman stooped inside the tank and gulped a breath of fresh air. He stood exposed, once more guiding Williams in reverse all the way back to Khe Sanh’s gate.

Now nearly three hours into the battle, the NVA escalated their effort in even greater proportion than the Marines. Enemy soldiers materialized seemingly everywhere. They dashed into the fight with polished parade uniforms wrapped in plastic and stowed in their backpacks, ready to don for their anticipated victory parade. They fought with fanaticism, as though Ho Chi Minh himself watched from a nearby hilltop impatiently waiting to collect his promised birthday present. Mortars and recoilless rocket fire rained down.

Within minutes of reaching the battlefield, Himes looked helplessly on as a mortar exploded in a group of Fox Company Marines, knocking out several officers and senior enlisted leaders. The company commander was quickly shot and killed. While Cerda, Cox and Larabell maneuvered the tank and poured continuous fire from the main gun, Himes remained exposed, hanging out the TC hatch and screaming to leaderless elements of grunts, directing them toward the enemy.

Cerda lost all sense of time as he loaded round after round into the main gun. Spent casings piled so high so quickly inside the turret that the hot brass burned his bare calves and singed the hair on his shins. A rapid succession of bullets thudding unsuppressed off metal above him stole his attention. His hatch stood wide open, leaving Cerda vulnerable.

“Would you look at that!” Himes shouted, as much to himself as to anyone else. “Those Marines are fighting hand-to-hand!”

Desperate for a glimpse, Cerda jumped up. The world outside brimmed in savage chaos. Marines and NVA soldiers collided in craters with buttstrokes and bayonets ordaining the victor of each individual struggle. Cerda returned to his seat after fewer than 30 seconds. Less than 30 seconds later, an RPG round detonated on the hatch still open above him. The concussion slammed him down to the turret floor. Shrapnel stitched across his back, absorbed by the flak jacket. His ears rang, his eyes watered uncontrollably, and his nose bled. He wiped his face until his vision cleared then lurched upward and secured the door.

Napalm explodes on NVA positions during the battle on May 19, 1968. Marine pilots dropped their ordnance danger-close to Marines, finally breaking the enemy’s will to fight. (Courtesy of Peter D. Hoban)

B-15 fought on unhinged. Cerda maintained a relentless pace, feeding ammo to the insatiable guns while Cox tore the enemy apart. Ricocheting bullets pinged off the exterior armor in a neverending cacophony. The sharper thuds of ricocheting RPGs signaled more imminent danger. Several times, shell casings piled so high they blocked Cerda’s access to additional rounds and interfered with the rotation of the turret. Cerda opened his hatch long enough to shot put the empty shells through the opening.

Himes rotated in his cupola calling out targets. He pivoted just in time to witness an enemy RPG team staring down the sights directly at him. Before Himes could react, the NVA soldiers exploded into pieces. B-14, situated on Himes’ flank, spotted the enemy and the tank’s gunner, Cpl Rick Oswood, obliterated them with a high explosive round. 

“One-Five, this is One-Four,” Baddgor called. “You’ve got Charlie climbing on your tank!”

Himes peered through his vision blocks. Several NVA soldiers mobbed the vehicle, scaling the rear away from the main gun.

“Roger One-Four,” Himes replied. “Scratch our back!”

The crew inside B-14 loaded a canister round while the turret rotated. Oswood locked B-15 in his sights and pulled the trigger. More than 1,200 steel pellets erupted at close range. The shrapnel ripped the radio antennas from the outside of B-15 and destroyed everything left in the exterior racks. The unfortunate, brave NVA soldiers who mounted the tank fell to the ground in mangled heaps of flesh.

B-12 reached Khe Sanh with the fire still burning in its cargo rack. Marines extracted each member of the wounded crew. They placed Kellogg on a stretcher awaiting immediate medical evacuation. Doctors assigned a Navy corpsman to remain by Kellogg’s side to keep him alive. NVA mortars exploded around the landing zone, forcing helicopters away. The corpsman and a battalion surgeon plugged the worst of Kellogg’s bleeding holes and started four IVs, one in each arm and leg, replenishing the tanker’s system with a barrage of fluids. A monstrous sense of helplessness overwhelmed Kellogg as someone finally loaded him onto a chopper. Door gunners opened up with their machine guns as they lifted off, showering the floor with spent brass rolling around Kellogg’s stretcher. All four fluid bottles ran dry. The corpsman looked frantic as he hooked up four more, clearly concerned he might fail to keep his charge alive.

A flurry of doctors met Kellogg aboard the hospital ship and rushed him down to surgery.  Someone leaned over Kellogg’s battered face as they ran alongside his stretcher wheeling across the deck.

“Do you want a priest?”

Kellogg never considered himself especially religious but knew enough to understand that last rites were usually reserved for those crossing death’s doorstep.

“Do I need one?”

The battle outside Khe Sanh raged beyond midday. Time conspired against the Marines. Cerda swapped barrels on the .30-cal. when it overheated. He ran low on 90 mm rounds. An RPG detonated on the turret next to him. The metal inside glowed with bright orange spalling, barely containing the brunt of the explo-sion. Still, shrapnel blasted through the turret, peppering Cerda’s side. The flak jacket again saved him from catastrophic injury. Hot metal sliced through the communications cord attached to his helmet. One piece dug into his wrist, cutting cleanly through his watch band. Another RPG penetrated the turret, wounding Cerda a third time along with the rest of the crew. Exhausted, dehydrated, disoriented and bleeding, the tankers fought on.

The armored giant became the favored target of every RPG within range. Multiple penetrations into B-15’s engine crippled the transmission and ruptured the fuel tanks. Unable to move and running low on ammo, the tankers persevered. When an RPG damaged the remote firing mechanism for the coaxial machine gun, Cerda took over triggering the weapon. When the turret lost all electrical power, Cerda worked the hand crank, manually traversing the main gun. Smoke suffused through the rear of the turret from the engine compartment. Within minutes, the Marines inside choked down every breath.

“Put your gas masks on!” Himes ordered.

The tankers donned their masks and continued fighting. The infiltrating smoke soon morphed into licking fire. Himes called to his Marines through the smoke and kindling flames. Cerda leaned over the .30-cal., looking more dead than alive. Cox and Larabell, muffled by their gas masks, sounded in nearly as rough of shape. B-15 faced the irreversible end of its role in the battle. Himes weighed their options aloud.

“OK gents. Looks like we’ve got two choices. We can either stay in here and burn up with the tank or jump out and get shot. What do you want to do?”

Each crewmember threw off their gas masks and scrambled outside. Cox and Larabell leaped down and sprinted toward a nearby bomb crater. Himes discovered Cerda nearly limp and stuck inside the turret, severely weakened from blood loss. Himes grasped his arms and hoisted him out onto the fender. Cerda drifted in and out of consciousness, lying in the open while Himes jumped to the ground. Enemy fire poured on unabated. Himes snatched up Cerda over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Grunts lay down a barrage of covering fire as Himes plodded toward the crater with Cerda’s weight exacerbating painful shrapnel wounds in his legs. He stumbled and fell into the hole, his entire crew miraculously intact.

The tankers joined the grunts in shoot-ing, armed only with pistols and a grease gun. A jeep zipped past the bomb crater laden with ammo. When it circled back empty of cargo, Himes clambered out into the driver’s path with arms waving over his head. The driver halted long enough to load the wounded tank crew aboard, then sped back toward the combat base.

B-15’s crew underwent the same rapid triage as the B-12 tankers. Another med-evac chopper swooped in, lifting Himes and Cerda away. Elevated high above the battlefield, Himes spotted B-14 still under heavy bombardment. B-15 remained conspicuously paralyzed like a forbidding monument erected in memory of the tankers’ heroic deeds, a conflagration beneath a billowing plume of black smoke.

After nearly six hours of fighting, the battle’s outcome remained undecided. B-14 suffered multiple penetrating RPG hits, severely wounding crewmembers in-side before finally returning to base. The platoon’s fifth and final tank, B-11, deployed with another reinforcing wave of Marine infantry. Despite everything he already endured driving Kellogg’s B-12, Stanley Williams returned to the battlefield driving B-11. Golf Company, 2/1, advanced from Khe Sanh, along with Echo 2/3 sweeping in from another direction.

The fresh wave of infantry waded through a thick field of carnage. Dead bodies clogged the ground along their path. Discarded and damaged equipment littered the ravaged landscape. The Marines rearmed themselves along the way, commandeering machine guns and bayonets cast aside. They steered clear of B-15, still burning with rounds cooking off inside. They pushed into the fray, close enough to hear NVA jeers in accented English hurled their way alongside the bullets. The grunts fired back with, “Ho Chi Minh sucks!” and a serenade of machine guns.

Napalm finally broke the enemy’s back. A-4 Skyhawks streaked in so low the grunts could see the pilots’ faces as they dropped their terrifying ordnance. The firebombs exploded danger-close to Marines scattered across the field, some as close as 50 yards away. The Marines shielded themselves and gasped for breath as the flash inferno sucked the oxygen from the air and burned the enemy soldiers alive.

Both contestants embroiled in the birthday battle outside Khe Sanh suffered dearly. Eighteen Marines from 2/1 died, with several dozen more wounded. One of the KIA, Private First Class Patrick Riordan, would posthumously receive a Silver Star for his heroism. Lieutenant Colonel William R. Duncan, the battalion commander of 2/1, also received a Silver Star. The whole battalion received a Mer-itorious Unit Citation. According to the 3rd Tank Battalion command chron-ology, May 19 cost the NVA 165 confirmed KIA. The number of dead dragged away or wounded to escape the battlefield will never be known.

In terms of percentages, the tank platoon withstood perhaps the most shocking casualties. Eleven tankers received Purple Hearts, more than half of the platoon. Six of these required medical evacuation. All five of Himes’ tanks absorbed at least three RPG hits each, with B-15 incinerating on the battlefield as a complete combat loss. Miraculously, every tanker survived.

Surgeons counted 73 shrapnel holes spread across Kellogg’s body. They ex-tracted the largest pieces and stitched over the rest. Kellogg recuperated on the hospital ship for two weeks before stabilizing enough for a flight to Japan. He spent nearly a year fully recovering back in the States. The Corps assigned him as an instructor at the tank schoolhouse in Del Mar, Calif., to finish out his enlist-ment. For his role in the battle, Kellogg eventually received a Bronze Star with combat “V.”

Himes returned to the unit following his recovery. He walked with a cane but was determined once again to be with his Marines. After 10 months leading a tank platoon in combat and two harrowing medical evacuations, the battalion ordered Himes to finish out his tour in the rear. He remained on active duty following his time in Vietnam for another two years, eventually retiring as a lieutenant colonel in the Marine Corps Reserve.

Cerda shuffled through multiple hos-pitals after May 19. He spent several days fighting a blinding headache before doctors at a U.S. Air Force hospital finally X-rayed his head. They discovered a large chunk of metal embedded in his skull and rushed Cerda into surgery. Like Kellogg, Cerda finished out his enlistment and left active duty. In recognition of his part in the ambush, the Marine Corps presented Cerda with the Silver Star.

The passage of time has clouded the memory and significance of May 19. Today, the ambush exists in the shadows of larger events that took place around Khe Sanh. The exception lies within the battle’s survivors, who lived their lives in memory of their fallen brothers and defined by the experience. Kellogg en-dured decades of vivid nightmares that began before he was even evacuated from the battlefield in his semi-conscious state. He was convinced he had accidentally run over Marines during the battle. The compressed chaos surrounding his tank made the possibility inevitable, he believed. He refused to discuss the battle, despite its inescapable grip and undeniable impact on his later career in law enforcement. Not until 2003 at a reunion of Vietnam tankers did he begin to open up. The decision ushered in a new phase of camaraderie, understanding and healing.

Kellogg eventually connected with veterans from 2/1 who also survived the battle. He met a grunt who watched Kellogg’s tank in action throughout the engagement from less than 20 feet away. The veteran confirmed that Kellogg never ran over any Marines. For Kellogg, the news washed over like a cleansing rain. His nightmares vanished.

Veterans of the May 19 battle sit for an oral history interview at a reunion of the USMC Vietnam Tankers Association in Colorado Springs, Colo., in 2023. From left to right: Doc Michael Pipkin, a U.S. Navy corpsman assigned to Fox Co, 2/1; Fred Kellogg, B-12 TC; Harris Himes, platoon commander, 1st Platoon, Bravo Co, 3rd Tank Battalion; Rick Oswood, B-14 gunner and Rene Cerda, B-15 tank commander. (Courtesy of The USMC Vietnam Tankers Association)

In 2008, Himes led an effort to reunite survivors on the 40th anniversary of the battle. Marines gathered from around the country at the National Museum of the Marine Corps in Triangle, Va., to reminisce and fill each others’ gaps in understanding. Himes, Cerda, Kellogg and many others from the platoon all joined numerous others from the infantry units that played a part. The resulting picture of May 19, 1968, proved more complete than ever before.

“A focused mission that can cost you your life is something that will forge a relationship that deserves to be kept,” Himes reflected during the reunion. Those relationships forged nearly 60 years ago persist even now.

The medals for valor some of the tank-ers received were downgraded from Himes’ original recommendations. Himes submitted Cerda to receive the Navy Cross. The rapid disintegration of his platoon also led to awards less than fitting for the heroism exhibited. Himes penned Kellogg’s award citation in the days following the ambush, large-ly unaware of the depth of courage and specific actions Kellogg had taken throughout the engagement. Those details would only be filled in over the ensuing decades. Eventually, Himes learned that Cox and Conklin both received the Silver Star, Larabell a Bronze Star with “V,” and Baddgor and Oswood both a Navy Commendation Medal. To this day, Himes remains convinced the valor of his men deserves much higher recognition.

“Heroism is just doing your job even though it’s scary and sometimes you’re a little scared,” Himes stated today. “The circumstances just pile up and it’s the aftermath that says whether you’re a hero. As far as I’m concerned, all my men are heroes.”

Author’s bio: Kyle Watts is the staff writer for Leatherneck. He served on active duty in the Marine Corps as a communications officer from 2009-13. He is the 2019 winner of the Colonel Robert Debs Heinl Jr. Award for Marine Corps History. He lives in Richmond, Va., with his wife and three children.

Featured Image (Top): Cpl Fred Kellogg seated on his cupola, covered in dirt after riding the second tank in line during a road march. Kellogg arrived in Vietnam in January 1968 and was quickly promoted to his role as TC. (Courtesy of Fred Kellogg)

500 Meters to Ky Phu

It was Dec. 18, 1965, and First Lieutenant Harvey “Barney” Barnum maneuvered east along a dirt road that crossed hills of dense jungle and wound around flooded rice paddies of the Quế Sơn Valley with the rest of Company H, 2nd Battalion, 9th Marine Regiment. The road was designated Route 586, but no vehicle could traverse it. 

According to Nicholas J. Schlosser’s pamphlet titled “In Persistent Battle” about Operation Harvest Moon, Barnum had arrived in Vietnam 10 days earlier and was designated Co H’s artillery forward observer. His deployment was a 90-day temporary duty assignment from his duty station at Marine Barracks Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. In 1965, the Marine Corps sent company-grade officers and senior en-listed for three-month deployments to Vietnam to gain combat experience and lessons learned to share with their home units. Marine Barracks Pearl Harbor had only one allotment available, and as the only bachelor among the officers, Barnum volunteered so the others could spend the holidays with their families. The rest of Company H had been in Vietnam for five months already and were expected to be there after his tour ended. Despite being the newly assigned forward observer in an experienced infantry company, Barnum would bring them to safety from the brink of annihilation over the next few hours.

Company H was serving as the rear element in 2nd Battalion, 7th Marine Regiment’s column movement along Route 586 as part of Operation Harvest Moon. Co H was attached to 2/7 to replace the beleaguered Co E, 2/7 on Dec. 13 after combat casualties and immersion foot made the company combat ineffective, according to Schlosser. In the days since, they had covered more than 30 kilometers of flooded roads and paddies on foot. On Dec. 18, the battalion planned to reach Route 1 by nightfall, before all visibility would be lost due to the thick cloud cover of a winter monsoon. They expected this to be the last day of the operation and that the trucks awaiting them at Route 1 would bring 2/7 to Chu Lai and Co H back to Da Nang.

Operation Harvest Moon, which intended to clear the 1st Viet Cong Regiment from the Quế Sơn Valley, had begun 11 days earlier. With brigade-strength task forces of U.S. Marines and Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) soldiers, this was the largest combined operation of the conflict to date, according to “U.S. Marines In Vietnam: The Landing And The Buildup, 1965,” by Dr. Jack Shulimson and Maj Charles M. Johnson. Unfortunately, the operation did not go as planned. In the first two days, am-bushes by the 1st Viet Cong Regiment reduced the combat power of one ARVN battalion by one-third in only 15 minutes and overran another ARVN regiment, killing their regimental commander. By the third day, the Marine Corps task force commander was relieved and cooperation between the Marine Corps and ARVN deteriorated, according to Schlosser.

However, the operation continued, and Barnum and the rest of Co H trudged on. For the Marines, the weather was the greatest enemy of the operation so far. Despite a resupply of thousands of socks, many Marines suffered immersion foot. After months of jungle hiking, their boots were rotting away. So were their chafed feet. Company E 2/7 evacuated 54 Marines for immersion foot before Company H 2/9 attached to the battalion. Barnum later recalled in a Congressional Medal of Honor Society interview that when he first heard gunfire ahead, “I didn’t think much of it.” The main body of the column had reached the small market town of Ky Phu—only 9 km before Route 1. Around 1:30 p.m., the previously distant gunfire erupted along the column. The battalion had experienced sniper fire in the days prior, but this was different. This was a well-coordinated ambush of the entire battalion.

Two companies of the 1st Viet Cong Regiment stretched 1,000 yards in entrenched, well-camouflaged positions. Movement by 2/7 halted in the face of the sudden barrage of machine-gun fire. The lead element in the column, Co G, established a defensive position east of Ky Phu as they started to receive mortar fire. Fortunately, many of the mortar rounds sank into the muck around them. After days of rain, the saturated soil made the fire much less effective, according to Schlosser. Viet Cong snipers, however, were undeterred and killed several Co G radio operators in the opening minutes of the ambush.

On Dec. 10, 1965, Marines advance along rice paddy dikes in pursuit of enemy forces.

The battalion commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Leon Utter, lost contact with much of the battalion as the radio operators were killed. In the turmoil, some radio traffic went out on the wrong nets and the battalion’s column started to separate. Two platoons of Co F were sent to relieve Co G in the defensive positions east of Ky Phu. The rear guard, Co H, however, was still about 500 meters west of the village. Two Viet Cong companies attacked from north and south of the road to exploit this gap. When the attack intensified on the western perimeter of the village, Co F was ordered back west.

As Co F raced west, the VC unleashed a flurry of fire upon Co H. Effective rifle, heavy machine-gun, recoilless rifle and mortar fire from entrenched and camouflaged positions curtailed any movement from Co H. In a 2021 interview with the Department of Veterans Affairs, Barnum recalled, “The enemy knew what the hell they were doing, and it was hellacious.” He first sent a call for fire to the artillery battery to take out the machine-gun emplacement on their right flank. The enemy positions were so close, he said, that “the first fire mission I call[ed] was in on that trench line. The first rounds we took some ‘shrapmetal’ in our positions.” Barnum ceased fire after two rounds. He could only adjust fire for missions that weren’t overhead because the targets were at the battery’s maximum range and the missions were dangerously close. 

Meanwhile, Barnum saw Hospital Corpsmen Wesley “Doc Wes” Berrard streak by, yelling, “The skipper’s down! The skipper’s down!” About 50 yards ahead, he saw a pile of Marines. Among them were Co H Commanding Officer, Captain Paul L. Gormley Jr., and his radio operator, Lance Corporal Savoy. Fifty-seven millimeter recoilless rifle fire hit them in the opening salvos of the ambush. Doc Wes was shot several times in his dash to the CO. So was the artillery scout sergeant, Private First Class McClain, who followed him.

Barnum was still adjusting artillery fire when he realized that in a matter of moments, the company CO, radio operator, corpsman and scout sergeant were all down ahead of him. Now Barnum raced forward, but it was too late to help Savoy—he was already dead. Barnum carried Gormley back to a covered position as the firefight continued all around him. He had been with the company for a matter of days. Now the commanding officer was dying in his arms.

Marines of G/2/7 search for VC during Operation Harvest Moon in 1965.

Back at Ky Phu, the battalion began establishing defensive positions around the village. Company H, however, remained pinned down 500 meters away, with a dead commanding officer and radio operator and no radio connection to the leadership.

All around Barnum, the platoon commanders of Co H were in their own firefights. As he held his dead CO, he realized that the radio was still out there. To reestablish communications with the battalion and provide direction to the company, he had to retrieve it. Barnum raced back to Savoy’s body and slung the radio (and its telltale 3-foot antenna) onto his back. He later explained in an interview, “I think the PRC-25 saved our lives.” He immediately contacted Lieutenant Colonel Utter to report the situation, to which Utter replied, “Young man, it sounds like you have a grasp of the situation. Make sure everyone knows you’re the skipper.”

Although airstrikes from Air Force B-52s helped to drive out the enemy, the hills had to be combed on foot by Marines.

Utter also warned, “Lieutenant, you’ve gotta come on out. We can’t come get you. We’re in our own fight in here. Can’t come out and get you. It’s getting dark. If you don’t fight your way out, you’re there by yourself tonight.” Barnum was the only artilleryman in the company of infantrymen, but he was now the one in command. He later reflected, “When I took over that company, they didn’t even know my name, but I had a bar on my collar and they knew that lieutenants were supposed to give orders. So when I started giving orders, they did exactly what I tasked them to do.” He was grateful that he was only three years out of The Basic School, where every Marine Corps officer is trained in the principles of leading as an infantry platoon commander.

Barnum needed to evacuate the dead and wounded and break through the enemy ambush to rejoin 2/7 in Ky Phu. He recalled, “These young Marines who were pinned down and scared, all they wanted was someone to give them direction. And when I started doing things, they got motivation going. So, at that point, I launched a counterattack on that trench line to our right.” The consequences of command soon weighed on Barnum. “I just got four Marines wounded, and I turn to the next four and say, ‘OK, it’s your turn,’ ” he relayed in an interview with the VA. But he maintained his composure and continued to lead: “We mounted a charge, and I led it. I didn’t say, ‘Go get ’em,’ I said, ‘Follow me.’ And I took off and they were right behind me.”

Now one enemy machine gun was out of action, but the attack continued unrelenting. An hour and a half after the ambush began, close air support arrived: three UH-1E Iroquois, armed with 3.5 mm rockets. Barnum put his experience as a forward observer to good use. His first target was a nearby trench line. He marked it with white phosphorus and talked the pilots onto the target. Barnum continued marking targets until he ran out of white phosphorus, and then, according to Schlosser, he “stood up there and was pointing with [his] arms outstretched at the targets, and the chopper pilots flew down the axis of [his] arms at the targets.”

Company H rallied under Barnum’s leadership. Slowly, they fought back the attack and established a defensive position around a small hill north of the road. Barnum still had to manage an evacuation, so he sent engineers out to blow down trees to make space for a landing zone. After four hours of fighting, they were still repelling the ambush south of the road but had prepared a landing zone on the north side. Barnum explained in his Congressional Medal of Honor Society interview, “Doc Wes was shot five or six times, and he would not let us evacuate him. … He was still giving instructions on how to handle the other cases that were serious and he was the last one he would let me put on a helicopter. … He got shot for the seventh time, but he lived.” Company H’s defense of the landing zone ensured the UH-34 Seahorses evacuated all of the company’s dead and wounded.

Following the loss of his company commander and radio operator to enemy fire, 1stLt Harvey Barnum assumed command of his unit, moving through heavy fire to rally and reorganize his fellow Marines. Barnum urged his troops forward in a successful counterattack, exposing himself to direct enemy fire. After the attack, Barnum coordinated the landing of two transport helicopters to evacuate the dead and wounded, ensuring the safety and recovery of his men. Secretary of the Navy Paul Nitze presented Barnum with the Medal of Honor in a ceremony held on Feb. 27, 1967.

Barnum and the company still had those 500 meters of open rice paddies to cross under heavy fire to rejoin the rest of the battalion in Ky Phu. It was over a quarter of a mile of hell for Co H. Barnum collected all the inoperable radios, ma-chine guns and other equipment, and he had his engineers destroy them to lighten the load. Next, he had the company drop their packs in a pile to burn them. Barnum explained to the company, “Marines don’t leave anybody on the battlefield. Someone drops, you pick him up and bring him with you. So that’s the reason I made you light.”

Relying on his early training, Barnum started moving the company across the rice paddy in fire team rushes. He soon realized that he would never maneuver the entire company across the dike while still receiving intensive fire. Barnum contacted 2/7 and had them provide a base of fire so that he could rush squad by squad across the dike. As each new squad prepared to rush, he told them, “You run as fast as you can. Don’t even stop. The only time you stop is if someone gets shot and you pick them up.” It took almost an hour, but Co H made it into Ky Phu before dark.

Two days later, Co H returned to 2/9, and an infantry officer was assigned command. Shortly after, Barnum was informed that Lieutenant General Walt, III Marine Amphibious Force Commander, had nominated him for the Medal of Honor. Just over 14 months later, Secretary of the Navy Paul Nitze presented Barnum with the medal at a ceremony at Marine Barracks Washington, D.C. 

Then-Capt Harvey “Barney” Barnum, USMC

Barnum served in the Marine Corps for another 24 years. In that time, he returned to Vietnam to command Battery E, 2nd Battalion, 12th Marine Regiment; taught at The Basic School; commanded 2nd Battalion, Recruit Training Regiment, Parris Island, S.C., and served as Chief of Operations, U.S. Central Command, among many other assignments. After the Marine Corps, his life of service continued as the principal director of Drug Enforcement Policy, Office of the Secretary of Defense; assistant secretary of the Navy for Reserve Affairs; acting assistant secretary of the Navy (Manpower and Reserve Affairs) and in leadership positions with several nonprofits.

Secretary of the Navy Ray Mabus shakes hands with retired Marine Col. and Medal of Honor recipient Harvey C. Barnum, Jr. during the renaming of the Navy Arleigh Burke-class destroyer, DDG 124 at Marine Barracks Washington, July 28th, 2016. The destroyer was renamed USS Harvey C. Barnum, Jr. Barnum earned the Medal of Honor for his actions in Vietnam as a first lieutenant. (Marine Corps Photo by Lance Cpl. Dana Beesley/Released)

Barnum’s quick action, composure and sound leadership saved the lives of over 130 Marines and corpsmen of Co H on Dec. 18, 1965. In the Congressional Medal of Honor Society interview, Barnum reflected on that day, explaining that he wears his Medal of Honor “in honor of those corpsmen and young Marines that I had the opportunity to lead on the field of battle that day. And anytime I put this medal on, I think of them. And any actions I do or decisions I make, I make it in their name.”

Author’s bio: William J. Prom was a Marine Corps artillery officer from 2009-2014 and now serves as Development Director for the nonprofit veteran service organization, NextOp. He is the 2022 U.S. Naval Institute Naval History Author of the Year, and his work has appeared in Naval History and Proceedings.

Featured Image (Top): Radio operator Cpl Patrick Iacunato, left, and 1stLt Harvey “Barney” Barnum pose for a photo together on Dec. 20, 1965, two days after Barnum’s actions during Operation Harvest Moon, which resulted in the Medal of Honor.

Keeping the Heritage Alive: Museum Docent Shares His Corps Experience With New Sergeants

Noncommissioned officers (NCOs) perform one of the most critical functions of the Marine Corps. They serve as the first line of leadership in every small unit and can make or break the officers over them. In combat, the significance of their role expands greatly as they make decisions with immediate impact on the lives of their Marines.

Active-duty personnel and civilians on Marine bases around the world ded­icate their full-time efforts to the pro­fessional military education (PME) of up-and-coming NCOs. In Quantico, Va., the Col­lege of Enlisted Military Edu­cation enjoys the benefits of their prox­imity to the National Museum of the Marine Corps and all the resources it can offer.

One of the most important resources comes from the experience of docents who volunteer their time to help preserve the history on display and educate the public. Ronald Echols has served as a docent since 2008. He left the Marine Corps as a second lieutenant in 1968 after four years of service. At first glance, his lowly rank and time in service may seem unremarkable, but for those who know him, Ron’s time on active duty proved an action-packed whirlwind of combat, leadership challenges and, ultimately, a battlefield commission. As a result, today he helps lead a portion of the PME for new sergeants during their four-week primary course.

“I try to explain to them that caring for the Marines under them is the most important thing they’ve got to do,” Ron said. “It’s like being a parent. All of them are now in charge of somebody and they’ve got to take care of them. I have the students for about 45 minutes, and it always makes me feel good to feel like I’m giving something to these young Marines.”

Baptism by Fire
Ron joined the Marines in 1964 at the age of 18. He received selection for sea duty and spent two years aboard ship before joining the 2nd Marine Division rifle team at Camp Lejeune, N.C. He made sergeant in less than three years, and in June of 1967, deployed to Vietnam. Assigned to “Mike” Company, 3rd Bat­tal­ion, 26th Marines, Ron endured his baptism through fire in short order. The battalion operated in the northern part of South Vietnam along the Demilitarized Zone. Through the summer, several Ma­rine units were bloodied and nearly wiped out by the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) near Con Thien. 3/26 arrived in Septem­ber for their turn in the melee.

The battle opened on Sept. 7. Ron’s company witnessed their heaviest action three days later.

“We had four tanks, two Ontos, and a battalion of Marines,” Ron remembered. “Who is gonna mess with a battalion of Marines and all that armor? Well, the 324th NVA Division attacked us. Within 15 minutes, we had one Ontos left, and the tanks were blown all to crap. It was raining artillery on us. For seven and a half hours, it was on, with hand-to-hand and everything.”

At one point during the battle, Ron pushed forward with his Marines. A punch to his face temporarily stunned him before he surged ahead again.

“He’s hit!” screamed one of Ron’s Marines.

“Who’s hit?” Ron yelled.

“You’re hit!”

Ron discovered a splash of blood across his flak jacket increasing in size. He put his hand to his face and lowered it covered in red.

“Well, give me a bandage then!”

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This immersive exhibit at the National Museum of the Marine Corps allows visitors a glimpse into the world that SSgt Ron Echols and other 3/26 Marines faced during the siege at Khe Sanh. Kyle Watts.

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SSgt Ron Echols, left, and one of the Mike Co Navy corpsmen on Hill 881S during the siege at Khe Sanh. (Photo courtesy of Charles McCarty) He continued fighting until the next day when he could be evacuated to the hospital ship. Doctors discovered a bullet entered his cheek near the mouth and exited the other side of his face in front of his ear. Miraculously, no bones or nerves were hit. A plastic surgeon went to work, and less than a month later, Ron returned to the front lines. He counted as one of 434 Marines from the battalion wounded in the fight around Con Thien where 55 had been killed. Due to the attrition his company suffered, Ron was appointed the platoon sergeant. He would hold the responsibility for his platoon for the rest of his time in Vietnam.

The remainder of 1967 proved merci­fully less eventful for Company M as a whole. October and November held sev­eral significant events for Ron, however. He received a second Purple Heart during one patrol when an ambush caught them with mortar rounds. Shrapnel peppered his leg, but Ron completed the mission without evacuation from the field. Later, on another patrol around a U.S. Navy Seabees gravel operation called “the rock crusher,” Ron further increased his reputation as a bold and decisive leader.

Ron volunteered one morning to take out a recon patrol of eight Marines, in place of a squad leader who typically led the daily tours around the perimeter. As they moved down a dirt road, friendly mortars suddenly exploded nearby over the crest of a distant hill. Ron grabbed the radio as the patrol found cover.

“What the hell is going on?”

“We’ve got a large group of Viet Cong in the open!” Replied a voice on the other end.

“Well, you’re almost on top of us!”

Sprinting figures appeared over the top of the nearby hill, holding AK-47s and heading directly toward Ron’s patrol. More followed behind the lead group. Even more sprinted up and over the crest behind them. Ron moved the radio back to his face.

“I see them! They’re coming over the hill right in front of me!”

“Act as a blocking force!”

Ron laid eyes on the seven other Ma­rines of his patrol. At least five times their number of VC were already over the hill and coming on fast.

“Do you know who you’re talking to?” Ron asked, presuming the voice believed Ron was at the head of a company, or even a full platoon.

“Yes! Now act as a blocking force!”

Ron dropped the radio and ordered the Marines into a ditch alongside the road.

“Stay down! Nobody shoots until I do!”

The first group of enemy stopped alongside the road less than 20 yards away. They waited in the open as more VC poured over the hill. Within minutes, a group nearly 50 strong gathered by the road catching their breath.

“I swear to God, I do not know what made me do this,” Ron remembered re­cently. “I jumped up and shouted, ‘Stop!’ in Vietnamese and every one of them threw their hands straight up in the air. The only thing I can figure is that they had just gotten through being mortared like crazy and they thought they had run into some big unit, so they surrendered.”

The Marines led the group of prisoners to an open spot in the road and surrounded them as they lay on the ground. Ron radioed for immediate help. The closest available unit was a group of Australians.

“I don’t care who they are,” Ron ad­vised. “We need help now!”

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As seen in a view from Hill 881S, this ridgeline several hundred meters away from the Marine positions proved a source of continuous enemy fire. Accordingly, it became the target of friendly airstrikes and artillery fire. The initial plume of an explosion can be seen bursting up in the center of the photo.

A dust cloud soon formed in the dis­tance as a convoy of Australian ve­hicles approached. The Aussies tucked prisoners into every nook and cranny of their trucks to transport their haul away. The Marines moved aside as the convoy sped off. As the engines faded into the distance, Ron turned to his stunned men.

“This patrol is OVER!”

They returned to base safely and found the platoon commander and company com­mander waiting for them inside the wire.

“Sergeant Echols,” said the captain, “You come with me.”

The officer immediately filed paper­work for Ron’s meritorious promotion to staff sergeant. Less than three weeks later, with just over three years total in the Marine Corps, Ron received his pro­motion to staff sergeant. After Ron’s elevation to platoon sergeant, several new lieutenants cycled through. Some were wounded, some were fired, but either way, the end result left Ron ultimately re­sponsible. He excelled in his role as act­ing platoon commander to such an extent that existing and incoming officers de­ferred to him, and left Ron in charge of his platoon.

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Mike Company veteran Charles Martin carried an 8 mm video camera during his tour in Vietnam, capturing incredible footage from Hill 881S, the Khe Sanh airstrip and various other locations. This screenshot from the video depicts a machine-gunner returning fire at NVA soldiers.

By the end of December 1967, 3/26 re­ceived orders to support the looming conflict at Khe Sanh. Ron and the Ma­rines of Company M occupied a front-and-center role in the siege, positioned west of Khe Sanh Combat Base on Hill 881 South.

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In another screenshot from the video taken by Charles Martin, SSgt Ron Echols is shown carrying his favored pump-action shotgun. This portion of the video was shot immediately after Ron saved Martin’s life by cutting down several NVA with his signature firearm. Courtesy of Charles Martin.

 “That wasn’t some training evolution, that was a real firefight,” SSgt Ron Echols said recently. “If I would have known at that time he was taking a video, I’d have grabbed that camera and stuck it where the sun don’t shine!” Courtesy of Charles Martin.

Marine defenses on 881S spread across two distinct hill tops, separated by a low saddle in between. Company I, 3/26, occupied the higher hilltop. Two platoons from Mike took over the lower side. Ron arrived with his Marines and found basic defensive positions carved out of the hill by its previous occupiers. He immediately ordered his Marines to dig deeper. They placed multiple layers of concertina wire outside the trench line, designed to funnel any oncoming enemy into the Marines’ machine guns. Ron directed his platoon to complete their defensive barriers with a tall, barbed wire fence immediately out­side of their trench line, preventing any approaching enemy from jumping into the trenches. The Marines spaced mines and claymores around the entire perimeter. When they ran out of clay­mores, Ron found an abundance of det­onators remaining. He improvised by filling empty ammo cans with spent rifle brass and explosives lining one side, then connected a detonator as a homemade anti-personnel device. Ron directed his men to save their empty C-ration tins and place several small rocks inside. The lid was then bent over a strand of the perimeter wire, creating a noise-making early warning device.

“I don’t even remember who our pla­toon commander was, but I remember Ron” said Charles McCarty, Ron’s radio­man for the duration of the siege at Khe Sanh. “He was doing everything a pla­toon commander would do. There was this old comic book character called, ‘Sgt Rock,’ and that’s what we used to call Ron, because he was hard as a rock.”

As days turned into weeks on the hill, the trench line surrounding Mike Company evolved from a shallow ditch to a six-foot-deep channel, lined with sandbags and bunkers dug underground. Ron insisted on underground shelters, as their position proved a favorite target of NVA artillery and rockets.

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Air Force B-52 bombers routinely conducted “Arc Light” strikes around Hill 881S during the siege at Khe Sanh. The power and devastation of these attacks left the Marines on the ground in awe. DOD.

Incoming of some sort hit 881S every day. Snipers kept the hill continually under fire and observation. Another hill less than a mile away, designated 881 North, acted as a NVA stronghold and observation post. Nobody knew exactly what enemy strength 881N housed. Ma­rines patrolling that direction suffered numerous casualties without successfully reconnoitering the hill, included a com­pany-size movement by Company I on Jan. 20, 1968. The Marines on 881S be­came increasingly exhausted under the constant threat of attack.

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Bombs from a friendly airstrike throw up dirt in a valley between Hill 881S and a nearby ridgeline. Bomb craters can be seen across the ridge as well, from which NVA soldiers harassed the Marines on a daily basis. Joe Darrell.

U.S. air power afforded the garrison its best chance of survival. The Marines called in air strikes on any suspected enemy position. On one occasion, a sniper harassed Mike Co for several days. Finally, Ron had enough. He grabbed a pair of binoculars and kept watch over the area where the rounds originated until, finally, incoming shots gave away the sniper’s position. He found the sniper perched high in the fork of a tree branch.

“Ron saw him and he says, ‘well, I can take care of that,’ ” remembered Charles Martin, a squad leader in Ron’s platoon. “Ron called in jet. That thing circled the tree one time and came in from the back side. The sniper was climbing down when a bomb hit the base of the tree and blew it in a million pieces.”

A ridgeline several hundred meters away from 881S proved a continual source of incoming NVA artillery and rifle fire. The ridge was close enough that individual enemy soldiers were easily seen moving around. Despite its close proximity, B-52 “Arc Light” strikes rained down con­tinuously across the ridge.

“Have you ever seen video of an arc light?” asked Charles McCarty. “To this day, when I say the word, ‘arc light,’ I get chills.”

Marines who knew what to look for might spot contrails high in the sky, sig­naling the coming devastation. For those unaware, the bombs fell out of nowhere. A line of explosions suddenly plumed up at one end of the ridge and worked their way across. As the explosions continued, the sound of the falling bombs, followed by their explosions, reached the Marines in a deafening roar. Shockwaves tossed the hill beneath the Marines like an earth­quake. Finally, after three B-52s emptied their bomb bays of nearly 30 tons of ordnance per aircraft, nothing but a barren landscape remained.

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A CH-46 touches down at Hill 881S, delivering critical supplies and extracting wounded. The “Purple Foxes” of HMM-364 provided much of the support for Ma­rines on the hill. Joe Darrell.

“B-52s hit that ridgeline every day,” remembered Ron. “They told me on the radio to have the men get in the bunkers, put their fingers in the air, and hold their mouths open. They hadn’t dropped one that close to friendly troops before. I cannot begin to describe the noise. The whole hill was shaking like we were on a ride at the fair or something. There were big rocks falling out of the sky and I thought someone would be killed. It was just unreal.”

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USMC History Division.

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In this screenshot from Charles Martin’s video, a stream of Marines can be seen rush­ing into the back of an aircraft still running on Khe Sanh airstrip. In the video, imme­diately after the plane is loaded and takes off, an artillery round strikes the runway. Courtesy of Charles Martin.

Despite the impressive show of air power, the NVA dominated the hills and jungle surrounding Khe Sanh. Hill 881S was inaccessible by land and could only be resupplied by helicopter. The NVA shot down several choppers attempting to resupply the Marines on 881S. Even so, the brave helicopter pilots, primarily from the “Purple Foxes” of Marine Me­dium Helicopter Squadron 364, continued coming. Eventually, a “super gaggle” of jets and attack helicopters proved neces­sary to strafe and bomb the sur­rounding jungle to cover the resupply choppers. The enemy threat, com­bined with daily fog and inclement weather, often prevented the Marines from obtaining the critical supplies they needed.

Harry W. Jenkins arrived at 881S as the new captain in charge of Company M, in March 1968. Jenkins, who later retired as a major general, was shocked by the conditions on the hill yet im­pressed by the level of morale and preparedness maintained. Dirty and bearded Marines in tattered clothing filled the trenches. He found several Marines with visibly decayed teeth.
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“I asked the Marines where their toothbrushes were,” MajGen Jenkins said. “They told me they were using them to clean their rifles. Under the cir­cumstances, I couldn’t argue. That’s just one minor example, but things like that led to emergency resupply orders for any number of things. I just couldn’t believe it. We had astronauts in space going around the moon, but we couldn’t get toothbrushes to 881 South.”

Ron rationed food and water among his platoon as critical supplies ran short. At one point, the Marines ran out of C-rations and went for nine days without food before a resupply finally made it into the hill. They spread tarps out over the ground each night, capturing the morn­ing dew to save as drinking water. A mountain stream north of the hill tantalized the Marines. The flowing sounds carried up the slope, but an un­known number of enemy in a parallel trench line stood between Mike Company and the water.

One day, while walking the perimeter, Ron heard movement outside the line, coming up the south slope. He shouldered his shotgun and prepared to fire. At the last second, three Ma­rines ap­peared through the brush carrying full can­teens. After Ron scolded them for being outside the wire and almost getting themselves killed, the Marines explained that they discovered a spring in a gully down the hill, where they had filled their personal canteens. Ron informed them the fol­low­ing day, they would be going back down to the spring with the rest of the platoon’s canteens to draw water for everyone else.

By April, Marines on the hill grew exhausted. Lack of sleep, lack of sup­plies, and isolation pushed them to the brink. Continual bombardment by the NVA, without real opportunity to retaliate, created a high level of ag­gression. On April 14, 1968, Easter Sunday, the Ma­rines of 3/26 got their chance to let their aggression out. The order arrived to finally oust the NVA from 881N. Ron’s platoon advanced alongside Marines from Company K, down 881S to the base of 881N. A furious bombardment preceded their attack. Direct fire from 106 mm recoilless rifles on 881S soared overhead as the Marines advanced up the hill. Ron prayed none would fall short into the advancing Marines. The fight ended quickly. Six Marines died in the effort to take the hill. More than 100 NVA bodies littered the abandoned enemy emplacements. An American flag flew over 881N long enough to signal the victory to those observing from 881S, before the Marines backed down the hill once more and choppered out to Khe Sanh Combat Base. This Easter assault marked the end of the siege for Mike Co.

The battalion received a short respite following Khe Sanh. All too quickly, though, they returned to the front lines, attacking into a place ironically called, “Happy Valley,” deep into the mountains Southwest of Da Nang during Operation Mameluke Thrust. The enemy remained determined to send Ron home in a body bag.

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Cpl Charles McCarty arrived in Vietnam just days after the battle at Con Thien in September 1967. He became SSgt Ron Echols’ radioman at Khe Sanh and remained by Ron’s side in that capacity for the duration of the siege. Courtesy of Charles McCarty.

During one patrol in their new area of operation, Ron’s platoon walked through chest high elephant grass. They spotted movement in the grass and Ron called the Marines to a halt. As everyone took cover, Charles Martin moved slowly around to a hill on the other side of the suspicious area and began working his way back. Ron gave hand signals directing Martin down the hill toward the area as he crept up from the opposite direction.

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Charles Martin displays his flak jacket, punctured by an enemy round, following the incident where SSgt Ron Echols saved him from three NVA soldiers. Courtesy of Charles Martin.

Throughout his time in Vietnam, Ron’s weapon of choice was a pump-action shotgun. He shouldered it now once again as he approached Martin. Three Vietnamese soldiers suddenly popped up out of the elephant grass between Ron and Martin. One took off sprinting away from the Marines. Another opened fire at Martin. Martin unloaded a few rounds before a bullet knocked him off his feet. He fell to the ground gasping for breath.

Ron squeezed hard on the shotgun’s trigger and pumped the forestock as fast as he could, instantly emptying seven shells into the grass. He rotated the gun on his shoulder and loaded more shells into the magazine tube. As he slid in a third shell, an enemy soldier appeared out of the grass with rifle raised. Ron shot him down, then continued up the hill.

“I could hear Ron running up the hill after he shot two or three more times saying, ‘Marty, don’t die on me, damn you! Don’t you die on me!’ ” Martin re­membered today. “He came up there and rolled me over and slapped me and said, ‘Are you OK?’”

A quick evaluation revealed the bullet tore a hole through Martin’s flak jacket but missed his abdomen. One enemy soldier escaped, and one lay badly wounded in the leg. The Marines found the third soldier dead in the grass, ripped apart by Ron’s initial volley of shotgun blasts.

On May 29, Company M choppered into a newly cleared landing zone (LZ) in the mountains. Ron boarded one of the last CH-46s to depart with 11 Marines from his platoon.

“Once we land, ya’ll need to get the hell off here!” the crew chief screamed to Ron over the noise of the engines. “We’ve been taking heavy fire up there all day!”

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The mural in the 881S exhibit at the National Museum of the Marine Corps recreates the view from the hill with stunning accuracy. From the India Co positions on the higher side of the hill, visitors can look down to Mike Company’s side of the hill, where Ron can still point out his old bunker’s location. Kyle Watts.

As the helicopter approached the LZ, enemy bullets punched holes through the aluminum skin. Hydraulic cables across the entire roof of the interior caught fire and the bird plummeted to­wards the ground. Tons of small arms and mortar ammo brought in by previous flights remained staged in the LZ. The doomed chopper crashed directly into it and rolled on its side. Ammo began cooking off around the burning wreck. One Marine on the ground near the LZ was killed by flying pieces of the helicopter. Shrapnel stung across Ron’s back, but miraculously, he and all seven of his Marines survived the crash and exited the chopper before it exploded.

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Active-duty Marines attend sev­eral professional military education events (PME) throughout the year at the Na­tional Museum of the Marine Corps. The museum tour and PME that Ron and other docents conduct for the Sergeants Course at Quantico has ex­panded to in­clude other groups of active duty or re­serve Marines, and even other branches of service. Rebecca Jackson.

Well-Deserved Commission
Official recognition of Ron’s role as a platoon commander finally came through in the last month of his deployment to Vietnam. In the weeks following Khe Sanh, Capt Jenkins submitted the paper­work for Ron to receive a battlefield com­mission. This distinguished achieve­ment proved exceedingly rare during the Viet­nam War. Numerous outstanding NCOs were plucked from combat and sent home to attend Officer Candidates School and The Basic School as part of the Mer­itorious NCO Program. Others received a temporary commission that reverted at the conclusion of their deploy­ment. An incredibly select few, however, skipped these training steps of the com­missioning process, remained in combat, and re­tained their commission as a per­manent rank. Some famous names, such as the legendary Force Recon Marine Major James Capers Jr., are included in this tally. The rest are Marines such as Ron Echols, whose names, reputations, and combat exploits are known only to the Marines with whom they served.

In June 1968, Ron was called out of the field to receive a physical. Wondering why a physical was so important to call him away from his platoon, Ron was informed a physical was necessary for his promotion. In short order, the officers over Ron removed his staff sergeant chevrons and replaced them with the gold bars of a second lieutenant. The fact that Ron’s date to leave Vietnam drew near mattered little. The promotion formally recognized the position he had held all along, through all the trying times his Marines endured.

Ron arrived back in the States the fol­lowing month. Just four years earlier, he stood on the yellow footprints at Parris Island as a recruit. Now, he faced the end of his enlistment as a battlefield-commis­sioned officer with a combat distinguished Bronze Star and two Purple Hearts. A third Purple Heart for injuries received in the helicopter crash never came through. With a lifetime of experience far greater than his age of 22 might let on, Ron elected to leave the Marine Corps. Mentally, he had had enough.

Like many Vietnam veterans, Ron dove into civilian life after leaving the military and it was years before he reconnected with the Marines he fought beside. In the early 1990s, Ron began attending 3/26 reunions, and continues to this day. As he reflected back to his time in Vietnam, Ron realized his biggest regret; through all the combat and harrowing situations he and his Marines faced, he had never found the time to recommend any of his brave men for the awards they deserved for their heroism.

In 2007, the reunion group met at the National Museum of the Marine Corps shortly after it opened the previous Nov­ember. The veterans of Khe Sanh found themselves transported back in time and airlifted to their old positions in the immersive exhibit dedicated to 881S. The mural surrounding the CH-46 ramp recreated the hill with stunning accuracy, and Ron could immediately look down to Mike Company’s side of the hill and point out where his bunker had been, and where some of his comrades had died.

“There is no question that there are Marines alive today thanks the superb leadership and attention to duty displayed by Ron Echols under the most trying conditions,” said MajGen Jenkins today, who also attended the 2007 reunion. “He clearly is one of the best combat leaders I ever served with. Some of that experience is passed on today, as he is often called upon to speak to classes of NCOs and enlisted Marines in various courses at Quantico.”

A Lesson in Leadership
Ron began volunteering at the museum in 2008. He and other docents began their work with the Sergeants Course at Quantico several years ago.

“Going to the museum is not technically a part of our curriculum, but by proximity, we take advantage of the museum and take the students over there,” said Master Sergeant Christian Tetzlaff, the staff noncommissioned officer in charge of the sergeant’s course in Quantico. “The docents are always energetic to help, and they take the opportunity to tell the students about events from their exper­ience and background. Students are pretty impacted by them. It’s real stories from real people who are from their heritage.”

The museum tour comes during the “heritage” portion of the four-week long course. The curriculum covers battlefield case studies on places like Inchon and the Pusan Perimeter from the Korean War. The trip to the museum provides students with a more tangible under­stand­ing of the events covered in the classroom. Anywhere between 30 to 70 new sergeants reap the benefits offered through museum and the docents’ class. They begin with Ron in the theater, where Ron walks them through his time on 881S, and what it looks like to work “tire­lessly to ensure the safety and well-being of his men,” as is stated in his Bronze Star citation read aloud to the class. The students then proceed to other docents stationed around the museum to learn more from their experiences.

“For sergeants, this course is really about reinvigorating their core values,” said MSgt Tetzlaff. “They are still sponges, trying to figure out what the Marine Corps is really all about and if they’re staying for the long haul. They see representatives like the docents who have no real reason to keep coming to the museum and volunteering their time, other than the fact that they are proud of what they are a part of. Demonstrating that to these young Marines, they’re going to look at these guys and think, ‘they are so passionate, and so thankful for all their experiences,’ knowing that they have experienced tough times,” Tetzlaff said.

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Veterans of 3/26 reunited at the National Museum of the Marine Corps in 2007. From left to right: Capt John J. Gilece, CO of Mike Co, 3/26, at Khe Sanh until he was shot by a sniper; 1stLt John T. “Tom” Esslinger, Executive Officer, then-CO of Mike Co following Gilece’s wound­ing; SSgt Ron Echols; MajGen Harry W. Jenkins, USMC (Ret). Courtesy of Ron Echols.

“These interactions at the museum are not little things. They are profound mo­ments that embody our culture of, ‘once a Marine, always a Marine.’ A lot of young Marines might look at that and think it’s just a cliché, but then they see it in action and see these docents volunteering their life to serve the betterment of the Marine Corps and keep our heritage alive. There is a lot of opportunity for reflection.”

90 Days a Grunt: A Short-Term Assignment to the Infantry, the Jungle and the Battle at Mutter’s Ridge

In late September 1968, Bob Skeels stepped off a plane at Quang Tri Combat Base. The aircraft delivered three of Bob’s friends to Vietnam alongside him. The four men shared much in common. All were young, newly minted second lieutenants. All had recently graduated from training as 1802 tank officers. For Bob’s part, a surge of personal patriotism drove him to the Corps after college despite growing disillusion with the war at home. Vietnam was the war of his generation, and he wanted to play a part, just as his parents had in World War II. He pursued a career as a tanker. He preferred the idea of a heavily armored carriage with massive firepower carrying him to battle in relative safety.

The four lieutenants hauled their gear off the plane and entered a building to check in. Their crisp new uniforms and beaming golden bars stood out among the faded, drab background of the base. A gruff and weathered lieutenant colonel summoned them into his office. They lined up and snapped to attention. The officer got straight to the point.

“Sorry to tell you this, gents, but a curveball is coming your way. We are short on infantry platoon commanders, so for your first 90 days in country, you will be assigned to a grunt battalion. Welcome to the infantry.”

Bob swallowed hard stifling a wave of emotion. Scuttlebutt had reached the states that 1968 was the war’s worst year yet to be a new Marine infantry officer. Grunt lieutenants held a low chance of survival. Bob gathered his strength to remain upright and breathed a hardy, “Yes, Sir.”

“We couldn’t make a noise because we could tell the guy was a hard ass and he’d bust you right there on the spot,” Bob recalled today. “I was in fear, but your eyes can’t show anything, your words can’t show anything. What are you supposed to do? You just obey your orders.”

The four tankers left the lieutenant colonel’s office and parted ways. Bob received his orders to “Echo” Company, 2nd Battalion, 4th Marines and his spirits faded further when he learned the officer who had informed them of the temporary assignment would later be his battalion commander. The man seemed even less pleased with the situation than the tankers had been.

Bob collected the weapons, clothing, and 782 gear issued to a new grunt bound for the bush. He loaded onto a chopper heading west for Vandegrift Combat Base. The sun disappeared behind distant mountain tops as the helicopter set down. Someone directed Bob to a tent on the perimeter to spend the night. Another chopper would deliver him to his unit at Khe Sanh the following morning. Several NCOs invited Bob to join their card game and dealt him in. In the twilight, ridges and valleys extended for miles, nestled beneath a perfectly painted sky. Could a place like this really be a war zone?

Bob stripped down to his skivvies as they played. The oppressive heat seemed the only blemish on the otherwise beau­tiful country. An artillery round suddenly exploded 150 meters away. Bob scanned the table, gauging the reactions of other Marines. A sec­ond round hit 100 meters away. Everyone ran outside. A third round came 75 meters away. Someone screamed, “Get in the goddamn trench! We’re on the gun target line!”

Six Marines dove headlong into a water-filled hole next to the tent. Wearing nothing but his skivvies and hard-rimmed glasses, Bob plunged in after them. He sank to the bottom and struggled not to drown as the tangled mass of bodies all took cover. Someone knocked Bob’s glasses off and they disappeared into the muck.

When the incoming fire finally stopped, the Marines clawed their way out of the trench. The tent which housed the card game hung in shreds. Naked, soaked, and blind without his glasses, Bob never felt so vulnerable.

“I was so embarrassed. I learned to never go to bed without being fully dressed. From that point on, I always went to bed with my boots on and rifle on my chest. I found out later the incoming rounds were misfires from friendly 105 mm howitzers nearby. That was my first night in country. What a hell of a night.”

In the morning, Bob boarded another helicopter and flew farther west. The chopper descended into thick fog, completely socking in the jungle beneath him. The helicopter crew chief shouted back as Bob peered out the door.

“OK, Lieutenant, you’re here!”

Bob stared, completely befuddled. A white sheet hung in the air, veiling what seemed the entire world outside of the chopper. “What?”

“You’re here, Hill 881 North.”

“Are we on the ground?”

“No, but we’re only about 10 feet off. You’ll be alright, go ahead and jump.”

Bob cursed the Marine, the fog, and the hill somewhere below as he slid into his pack. With over 125 pounds of gear on his body, he jumped. The helicopter noise muffled any cracking sounds from his body as he collided with the ground. He lay on his back catching his breath as the helicopter departed. A driving rain began, pelting his face as he stared toward the sky. Men snickered in the distance. Bob hurt too much to care. A Marine finally approached.

“You Lieutenant Skeels?”

“Yeah,” Bob muttered. “My back hurts like hell.”

“Jesus, sir. We gotta get you out of that dead cockroach position.” He helped Bob roll over and get on his feet. “You’re 3rd Platoon Commander. They’re all waiting for you over there on the east side of the hill.”

Bob located his Marines, collected under several ponchos tied together. The platoon sergeant stood as Bob entered their shelter. “Welcome, Lieutenant.”

“Thanks. It’s good to finally be here. I’ve had a couple rough days.” The Marines smirked and shot glances around the group.

“Well, you’re about to have tougher days. What do you want to do now?”

Bob gathered the platoon sergeant, squad leaders, and anyone who was on their second tour. The Marines arrived as Bob decided what to say. One of the grunts beat him to the punch.

“Lieutenant Skeels, before you get started, can I ask a question?” Bob braced for impact.

“Sure.”

“How the hell did we wind up with a green tanker for a damn infantry officer?”

“You guys gotta give me a break!” Bob replied. “Sure, I am green, but looking at your brand new uniforms, some of you guys are just as new as I am. I’m here to learn from you guys that have been here the longest, and we’re all going to be in this together.”

A silence followed Bob’s retort as the Marines traded looks and considered their new leader. Finally, the Marine who offered the challenge let on a smile.

“OK, Lieutenant. We’ll let you have a chance. But no orders for crazy frontal charges!”

Echo Company departed Khe Sanh shortly after Bob arrived and headed north toward the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ). Bob’s platoon separated from the rest of Echo Co and spent the next two months patrolling the jungle. The unit operated autonomously, rarely seeing other Marines in the bush. The shortage of true infantry officers be­came evident. Bob’s company cycled through multiple com­manding officers while he patrolled the Vietnamese mountains.

Bob learned quickly the hardships of a grunt in war. He and his Marines engaged daily in battle with the jungle. Rats three times the size of those stateside moved in from every corner of the country to follow Marines and feast on garbage left behind. Bob cinched his poncho high around his face every night, lest he find a rat perched on his chin in the morning looking for crumbs. Often, this happened anyway. Just like the rats, he constantly scrounged for food. Inclement weather often prohibited resupply and the isolated Marines survived many days on one C-ration.

Heat and humidity left the Marines constantly wet. Everyone developed jungle rot. Even as his knuckles seeped and split open, Bob called in medevacs for Marines with cases far worse than his own. Leeches dominated the environment, ready to suck out any amount of life the Marines had left. Bob developed his morning routine which included a full-body sweep and removal of leeches with a flame or salt, sometimes up to 30 leeches at a time.

“It was like an extended camping trip with occasional periods of sheer fright,” reflected Patrick “Mac” McWilliams, one of the grunts in Bob’s platoon. “I tell people most of my time in Vietnam was spent battling the elements. We just lived out there, digging a hole every night.”

“Everything we did, we did for our brother in the hole with us,” remembered Bruce Brinke, another Marine serving under Bob. “We didn’t have any grand ulterior motives, we just put one foot in front of the other and tried not to think of the whole 13 months. When you’re a lance corporal, a ground pounder, you just do what the squad leader tells you, and he just does what the platoon commander tells him. You don’t have much of a grand view.”

One of Bob’s squad leaders, Cpl Alvin “Twink” Winchell, struggled finding words to describe his time in the jungle as he recounted the memories recently.

“My daughter is a nurse with experience helping veterans,” Winchell said. “She helped me explain how I survived the jungle. She said, ‘Soldiers are trained to go into survival mode mentally and physically. Some did it well, some caved. The jungle was a site like none other could imagine. Those of you that perfected survival mode attempted to come home. Most of you who are still alive are still in constant survival mode.’ This is how I am to this day.”

LCpl Patrick “Mac” McWilliams on patrol in Vietnam. McWilliams served as point man for Bob Skeels’ platoon on Dec. 8, 1968, during the battle on Mutter’s Ridge. Courtesy of Patrick McWilliams.

When his platoon was not patrolling, Bob received orders to help establish new fire bases on remote jungle hill tops. At the future sites of Fire Support Bases (FSB) Alpine and Argonne, the Marines dug holes and set up security as helicopters lifted in heavy equipment to remove the trees. Bob endured the drain of sleep deprivation on these long nights while checking his positions.

One night, as Bob watched through a Starlight scope, he picked up something unknown moving around the perimeter. He investigated in the morning and discovered fresh tiger tracks. From then on, Bob performed his nightly rounds with a pistol in one hand and a 12-gauge shotgun in the other. He had always worried about getting shot in the dark by a probing enemy soldier or even a trigger-happy Marine. Now, the thought of a 400-pound cat ripping him to shreds boosted his anxiety to a whole new level.

In November, the platoon humped all day to the top of another hill where the next FSB would become reality. Soon to be known as FSB Russell, the hilltop proved critical to supporting grunt operations in the surrounding area.

Nights at Russell brought sightings of a species other than tigers. Listening posts (LPs) set 150 meters out from the perimeter radioed in constantly reporting enemy movement. Starlight scopes revealed human forms moving slowly through the jungle, probing the new defenses and mapping out the perimeter. Bob requested permission to engage the targets but was denied so as to not give away the defensive positions. He walked the lines and out to the LPs each night on high alert, shotgun and pistol in hand. With all the enemy sightings, sooner or later, contact felt imminent.

Before dawn on Dec. 7, 1968, word came down of an upcoming operation. For the first time since Bob arrived with 2/4, the entire battalion would take part in an assault. Several other units would also join in the massive cordon and search. The objective was a well-known and well-fought over terrain feature immediately south of the DMZ known as Mutter’s Ridge. Somehow, out of six participating battalions and their subordinate units, Bob’s platoon drew the task of pushing across Mutter’s Ridge on point for the entire operation.

“You’re gonna get your platoon a lot of ribbons on this one,” the battalion sergeant major told him. “That place is a hell hole. This happened in 1966. It happened in 1967. Now, it’s our turn. We gotta go in there and clean them out.”

Bob tried not to dwell on the stupidity of an annual operation where Marines died to simply drive the NVA back across the DMZ. Less than eight hours after receiving the initial frag order, the Marines loaded into choppers and flew to their insertion LZs.

The main objective, designated “Objective Bravo,” occupied the highest hill of Mutter’s Ridge. The rushed timeline planned for Bob’s platoon to secure Objective Bravo the same day the entire operation was conceived. The sun sank lower and lower into the western sky as 3rd platoon moved across Mutter’s Ridge. When Objective Bravo finally came into view, Bob saw not one, but three distinct hill tops rising into the twilight. Storming a single enemy-occupied hill would be difficult. Tackling three such hills seemed nearly impossible—in the dark, surely suicidal. Bob called his platoon sergeant over.

“How the hell are we supposed to take that? It’s got three tops! It would be crazy to try to take that in the dark.”

The staff sergeant stared blankly back. “It’s your call, Lieutenant.”

Bob considered Objective Bravo in silence. Finally, he called up his radioman and raised the company commander. “Echo Six, this is Echo Three. Request permission to set up at our present location for the night and attack the objective in the morning, over.”

An unfamiliar voice replied. “Echo Three, the CO’s not gonna like that. He’s gonna be pissed you’re screwing up his operation.”

Bob struggled to place the voice. Could it really be another new company commander? Whoever it was, Bob didn’t care. “Just ask him.”

An excruciating pause followed. Finally, the voice returned with orders.

“Echo Three, patrol over to the base of Objective Bravo, then return and hold your position for the night. Resume the advance tomorrow morning at 0630. Out.”

Bob set down the radio and breathed a sigh of relief. He passed the word to his squads. They found nothing on their final sweep of the day to the base of Objective Bravo, then returned and dug in. Bob passed the night walking the lines.

Dawn broke over the jungle. 3rd platoon roused early and geared up for the coming assault. Shortly before the appointed hour, Bob’s radio came to life.

“Echo Three, Echo Three, this is Six. Operational change. Foxtrot Company has been tasked with securing Objective Bravo. You will proceed east along the ridge and act as a blocking force for their assault.”

Bob set the radio down. The Marines around him waited for his word. He wrestled with the sudden change in orders. Why now? He knew trying to understand was futile. Their job as point for the operation was now someone else’s job, their fate someone else’s fate. Third platoon’s job now was to simply execute the new orders.

They marched out down a ridge line. The three peaks of Objective Bravo jutted out of the sky to the north with the rest of Mutter’s Ridge extending west out of view. It took most of the day to reach the end of the ridge where it dropped off and opened into a valley leading north to the base of Mutter’s Ridge. In the late afternoon, the point man suddenly called a halt. Bob moved forward. Ten pots of boiling rice sat abandoned on the jungle floor, still simmering. Bamboo tables and chairs surrounded them. Marines crouched on high alert.

“It was a pretty big outpost we encountered,” Bob recalled. “You see something like that, and your sphincter muscle starts to fire. You know you’re going to have contact very soon.”

FSB Russell on Feb. 26, 1969, the morning after it was overrun. Marines from Skeels’ 3rd platoon, including Alvin Winchell, Bruce Brinke and Patrick McWilliams, occupied the site and survived the battle. Patrick McWilliams.

Bob called over Cpl Alvin Winchell’s squad. He gave Winchell five map checkpoints in the vicinity to investigate. The six-man squad set out down a hill towards the first checkpoint on the valley floor. The rest of 3rd platoon started digging in for the night.

Patrick McWilliams took point for Winchell’s squad. The 20-year-old lance corporal volunteered for the spot, even though he had never run point before and had not seen combat. They neared the first checkpoint in a thicket of bamboo and elephant grass. McWilliams crested an embankment running across the valley. The embankment revealed itself to be the edge of a trench line. In the trench directly below McWilliams, a NVA soldier sat eating. Before McWilliams could shoot, the enemy soldier bolted and fired wildly back towards him.

McWilliams considered jumping into the trench after him, then a bullet tore through the hand guard of his rifle, grazing his finger. Machine-gun fire peppered the embankment, creating a dust cloud behind McWilliams as he sprinted back toward the rest of his squad.

He reappeared through the elephant grass as a roar of automatic fire rose above the embankment. Before Winchell could learn what McWilliams had seen, AK-47 fire ripped apart the foliage around him. A sudden sting in his leg dropped Winchell to the ground. He grabbed the radio and found Bob already waiting on the other end.

“What’s going on down there?!”

“We walked into something, it’s a hornet’s nest!”

Winchell switched frequencies to talk with the company’s 60 mm mortars. He directed their fire into the trench and surrounding area. The NVA maintained such a rate of fire that he could not even raise his head to watch the rounds impact. He estimated their range from the sound of the explosions and swept rounds across the valley.

The machine-gunner in Winchell’s squad opened up with his M60. Another Marine shouted, “They’re flanking us!” Meanwhile, the NVA raked the Marines’ position as they advanced. Winchell called the mortars in closer. Grenades suddenly landed between the Marines. Winchell grabbed his own grenades and threw them back. The back-and-forth went on until a grenade finally found its mark. Winchell’s radioman screamed in pain as the explosion blew apart his knee. Winchell moved the radioman farther back, then called the mortars even closer.

“We called it, ‘hugging the belt,’ where they’d try to come in so close that you were afraid to call in mortars on your own men,” Winchell remembered. “Well, I kept bringing them in.”

When the battle opened less than 200 meters down the hill, Bob ordered his remaining two squads to saddle up. The new company commander radioed again demanding updates.

“We’ve made contact with the enemy down in the valley,” Bob told him.

“Well, get someone down there to sweep,” the voice replied.

“Already did. That’s who is getting hit.”

“Hold on, I’m coming up there.”

As the rest of 3rd platoon prepared to move, a second lieutenant appeared. Bob determined this must be his new company commander. Automatic fire raked the ridge line as Bob explained their current situation. Leaves and limbs rained down from the branches above their heads.

“Get your ass down there and get those guys!” The lieutenant ordered.

Bob bit his tongue. No point in getting into it with a senior lieutenant right now.

“On my way.”

The platoon’s remaining two squads advanced off the ridge toward the gun­fight. They discovered three enemy bunk­ers built into a hill on their right flank as they worked their way down toward their fellow Marines. Bob realized they could not risk leaving them occupied by the enemy to chew his platoon apart as they moved toward his trapped squad. He adjusted course for the bunkers. Enemy fire slowed their progress as the platoon strung out through the jungle. The point squad finally reached the bunkers and found them unoccupied. Bob sent a run­ner back through the line to get a count and let everyone know they would resume course back towards Winchell. The runner returned with unexpected news.
“Lieutenant Skeels, we’ve got two missing.”

“What? What do you mean, missing?”

“They went missing some time during on our movement. No one back there saw them.”

Bob fought to keep his bearing as his heart sank to the pit of his stomach. His radioman approached. Fixed wing aircraft held station overhead, ready to pummel the valley floor. Bob still hadn’t located Winchell’s squad. Now, with two Marines missing somewhere in the area, he couldn’t risk jets dropping their bombs. He called the aircraft off and formed up his remaining Marines to move out toward Winchell and search for the missing men.

Bob witnessed at least 20 uniformed enemy soldiers 400 meters away, safely perched on a hilltop near Objective Bravo and firing into the valley. They obviously felt impervious to the battle raging as they added their fire into it.

More Marines fell wounded as the platoon advanced. The man next to Bob was shot in the chest. Bob rolled him over and removed his shirt, revealing a large exit wound. He moved the Marine back uphill toward the abandoned bunkers where a casualty collection point formed.

A small observation plane soared in over at treetop level. The pilot came up on 3rd platoon’s radio and advised he spotted a Marine lying motionless on the jungle floor, shot dead center in the chest. Bob called for volunteers.

“I need two volunteers to come down there with me to look for our MIA.”

One of the remaining squad leaders chimed in. “Lieutenant, you can’t go, you’re the lieutenant!” Without hesitation, two other Marines spoke up. “We’ll go, Lieutenant.”

LCpl John Higgins and PFC Paul Dains stepped forward. Bob didn’t know what to do. Two Marines were missing, at least one probably dead. One squad was trapped in a fight for their lives. Aircraft and artillery waited his word to obliterate the valley. Multiple casualties required evacuation. Darkness threatened to consume Mutter’s Ridge at any minute. The senior company commander demanded answers.

“All right. Look, just get down there. Take a look and get back here. You’ve got five minutes. Just take a look and get back here!”

Back in the valley, Winchell continued calling mortars for what seemed like an eternity as the rest of 3rd platoon tried to reach him. He inched the explosions closer and closer. Mortars rained down merely 20 meters away. Shrapnel cut down trees and vegetation around the Marines. A piece of searing metal tore into Winchell’s knee. When other Marines also suffered friendly shrapnel wounds, Winchell ceased the fire. The NVA retreated from the area. The mortar barrage saved them.

He rolled over and rose to his good knee. Suddenly, through the trees, he saw LCpl Higgins walking alone 30 meters away in the direction where the NVA fire had originated and where they had retreated. Winchell caught his attention and frantically pointed toward the enemy positions. Higgins acknowledged him and proceeded on, disappearing back into the jungle.

Back with the rest of 3rd platoon, Bob checked his watch. Five minutes came and went. Five more minutes passed. As Bob debated what to do, movement down the hill caught his eye. A Marine staggered through the trees. Not Higgins or Dains, but one of the Marines who went missing earlier. He appeared badly wounded, purple in color, and missing his helmet and rifle. The Marine stumbled and fell. Bob rushed down the embankment and picked him up. He struggled back to the perimeter with the Marine over his shoulders. He ordered his radioman to call for a medevac as he lay the Marine with the other casualties.

Dusk settled in and it started to rain. The wounded had to get out now. The only chopper available or willing to come was an Army Chinook. Bob praised and thanked the pilot as he helped load nine Marines on board the helicopter.

More good news arrived shortly after the chopper departed. Winchell’s squad made it safely back up the ridge and linked up with the other elements of Echo Company. All six Marines were wounded, but all six made it back alive. Winchell and his radioman were evacuated due to their wounds. The word helped Bob remain positive. Higgins and Dains had to be out there somewhere, waiting out the darkness, waiting out the NVA.

The sun rose quietly over Mutter’s Ridge on Dec. 9. Bob moved out with his diminished platoon at first light. Echo’s 2nd platoon joined them in searching for their missing Marines. The enemy had completely abandoned the valley, retreating to their stronghold on Objective Bravo. Bob’s platoon located the Marine spotted from the air the day prior. PFC Charles Hall Jr., was no longer missing, but was now the platoon’s first confirmed KIA.

Nearby Hall lay the lifeless body of PFC Dains, similarly cut down by a sniper’s bullet. They proceeded on toward the trench where Winchell’s squad made first contact. A later count revealed 52 enemy bunkers constructed beyond the trench line. Lying next to one of these bunkers, the Marines found the body of LCpl Higgins.

Echo Company spent the rest of the operation blocking the eastern flank of Mutter’s Ridge as Foxtrot Company assaulted Objective Bravo. On Dec. 11, 1stLt Steven Broderick led the assault across the three-topped hill, his platoon in the position Bob’s was intended for before the operational change. Broderick died in the battle, moving among his squads and directing them under fire. He posthumously received the Silver Star.

Twelve other Marines were killed and 31 wounded while taking the objective, later renamed “Foxtrot Ridge.” Over 170 enemy bunkers were counted there, stuffed with ammo, weapons, and supplies. In all, less than 60 dead NVA were left on Mutter’s Ridge to be counted. Commanders deemed the operation a sweeping success and a prime fighting example of the Corps’ mighty air/ground team.

Bob remained with 3rd platoon through the end of December. He wrote up LCpl Higgins for a posthumous Silver Star. The citation recognized Higgins’ bravery under fire throughout the day of Dec. 8, his initiative in volunteering to seek out the missing Marines, and courage for continuing on alone toward Winchell’s squad, where he died trying to help them.

Bob’s 90 days as a grunt ended as the new year rolled around. He left 2/4 for Bravo Co, 3rd Tank Battalion on Jan. 3, 1969.

Having adopted the mold of an infantry platoon commander, Bob struggled at first remembering how to lead a platoon of five tanks. Near the end of February, Bob and his tanks stood guard over a bridge along Route 1 near the DMZ. One evening, radio traffic trickled in about a fire base near Mutter’s Ridge that had been overrun. Bob’s ears perked up when he heard the name FSB Russell. Having spent several weeks carving Russell out of the jungle, Bob could never forget the place. His platoon occupied Russell, alongside numerous others, when Bob left them. On the night of Feb. 25, over 200 NVA sappers broke through the perimeter and overran the outpost. In the ensuing terror, 26 Marines were killed and 77 wounded.

Bob begged his new CO to let him go to Russell and check on his old platoon but was refused. Winchell, McWilliams, Brinke and all the others would have been there. Bob did not know if any of them survived.

Bob supported infantry operations along the DMZ for the remainder of his tour. He worked with numerous grunt battalions moving in and out of the bush. Every time he went out, Bob loaded his tank with extra C-rations and passed them out to the grunts. He knew they were always hungry. When grunts were wounded in battle, Bob sometimes evacuated them, riding on the fenders of his tank. He knew helicopter evacuation was not always possible. Every time he went out for two or three days, he thought of the infantry enduring weeks at a time in the jungle.

Bob, like so many other Vietnam veterans, spent the next 40 years trying to forget the war. In the wake of the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, 2001, Bob found a patriotic spirit that inspired him to join the Veterans of Foreign Wars. He formed new bonds with veterans who shared experiences similar to his own. They inspired strength to dig deeper into his past. Bob visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. He found John Higgins, Paul Dains, and Charles Hall on panel 37W of the wall. He searched each line for other names he’d recognize. He bowed his head in thankfulness, discovering that no more of the Marines he had ordered evacuated on Dec. 8 had died of their wounds.

Bob located a website published by the LZ Russell Associa­tion. Here, he finally connected once again with Winchell, McWilliams, Brinke, and other Marines from 2/4 who survived Mutter’s Ridge and the nightmare at LZ Russell. Winchell received the Bronze Star with “V” for heroism on the night Russell was overrun. Brinke was wounded and received the Purple Heart. Bob learned that 2ndLt William Hunt, the lieutenant who replaced him in 3rd platoon, was killed there.

The Marines asked Bob to fill them in on the operation at Mutter’s Ridge and what had happened leading up to their making first contact of the operation. This proved yet another plight of the grunts, to obey orders without question, while not always understanding what they were doing, where they were going, and why they were there. Bob did his best to explain the broader picture and took the opportunity to tell them what they had meant to him all his life. “I came away from those 90 days with the belief that the grunts deserve everything,” Bob reflected today. “They deserve all the support that anyone else can give them. Dec. 8, ’68 was a terrible day in my tour. My worst day. I only spent 90 days as a grunt. I don’t know how they endured that jungle for 13 months. It was truly the honor of my lifetime to serve alongside those Marines.

“Christmas Truce”

By F. Gerald Downey

It was late afternoon Dec. 24, 1970, and I stood on the low ground that was to be our night defensive position. I looked up at the mountains and ridges which were fast disappearing into the heavy fog that had unexpectedly descended upon us. The change in weather had canceled out our normal resupply choppers but I wasn’t too concerned about it. The previous night we had discovered a rice cache and one of our mechanical ambushes had bagged a large, wild pig. If necessary, I knew we could feed the whole company for two more days. The worst of it was that the failure to resupply meant no delivery of the item we valued above all others—the mail. Infantrymen will always grumble. It comes with the first issue of boot and brass polish, but on this particular Christmas Eve, the grumbling was louder and a little more bitter as we dug in for the night.

We were “Charlie” Company, 2nd Battalion of the 1st Infantry, 196th Infantry Brigade, U.S. Army, and I was the company commander. Naturally, when the word was sent out, I was the first to get it. “Christmas truce tonight,” the battalion S-3 informed me over the radio. “You know the rules of engagement.”

“Roger,” I replied in a voice that must have betrayed my cynicism. “No offensive actions, all patrols are to be defensive in nature and avoid contact whenever possible.”

“You got it. Have a good Christmas Eve.”

“Roger. Enjoy your mail.” I couldn’t resist that last little dig. What line officer could?

It was only 4 p.m. and already the fog was nearly at ground level. We were in the Antenna Valley, west of Da Nang, in what used to be the tactical area of operations of the United States Marines. Oh, the Marines were still around, but they were gradually standing down, and during those times, except for some advisory teams to the South Vietnamese, they were generally much closer to Da Nang. Years of Marine Corps campaigning in the valley were much evidenced by the scores of well-chosen and well-policed old defensive positions in the area. A Marine officer had given me my pre-operational briefing on the valley a few days before. It wasn’t my first tour, and I was pretty salty myself, but I was impressed at how well he knew his business.

Night came fast in I Corps and by 5 p.m. it was dark. The truce went into effect at 6 p.m. At 6:20 p.m. I received a call from the 1st Platoon. “A platoon of NVA just marched across our front, about 200 meters out.” The 1st Platoon was sitting on a small knoll 10 grid squares closer to the valley’s mouth. “How’d you see ’em in this weather?” I asked skeptically.

“We spotted them when the fog broke for a minute,” the platoon leader answered. “They walked right between us and our ambushes. But that’s not all.”

“What else?”

“The last guy in line actually turned around and waved at us! Some of the guys swear he wished them a Merry Christmas!”

“He probably wished them some­thing,” I said as I went off the air, “but I doubt if it was a Merry Christmas.” I was worried that our mechanical ambushes had been spotted, that maybe our guys were in too much of a hurry to get back before the fog and night set in and had been a little careless.

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Since the claymore mines were detonated by the tripping of a strand of nearly invisible fishing line (which caused the completion of the electrical circuit of a 9-volt transistor radio battery and thus set off the fuse), once the mechanical ambushes were in place, they were too dangerous to move until morning light. Then again, maybe that platoon of NVA had just been lucky.

At 7:30 p.m. one of the claymore ambushes in front of our position exploded. As required by regulations, I reported it to the battalion headquarters and went on about my business, expecting to check it out in the morning as was the established routine. I was shocked when the S-3 came back with, “Check it out. We may need proof that it was a defensive action in case we get charged with violating the truce.”

“It can wait until morning,” I answered with customary defiance.
The battalion commander came on then. “I want it checked out.”
So much for defiance. The squad that placed the claymore was sent to survey their results. Even in the fog I felt their glares as they trudged by in the darkness. The last man out, Private First Class Robinson, paused long enough to lay a hand on my shoulder and whisper, “Don’t sweat it, Captain. Ain’t no biggie.”

Twenty minutes went by with no report from the patrol. I grew more anxious by the moment, worrying that they had gotten lost in the muggy darkness and might well be unknowingly wandering into the kill area of another squad’s mechanical ambush. I reached for the radio to call them back when suddenly the night was pierced by bursts of M16 fire, a short return blast by an AK-47, more American shots and the explosion of a fragmentation grenade. Filled with angry thoughts at those men who forced me to order young men out unnecessarily on Christmas Eve, I sat holding the microphone, calm on the outside while fuming within.

The call came quickly from an excited PFC Robinson. “The squad leader’s been hit! We need a Dust Off [helicopter] right away!”

“Hold on, I’ll send a medic out to you right now. Can you move your wounded man?”

Robinson was calmer when he replied, “No, I don’t think so. He’s bleeding pretty bad.”

My radio operator scurried off to chase down the platoon medic, Doc Ybarra, who was already coming on the run. He hunkered down beside me as I talked to Robinson. “Are you still in contact?”

“Negative.”

“Okay, tell me your situation.”

Robinson’s voice was well-composed now, He was clearly becoming more comfortable with being the man in charge. “Roger. First, I just sent Hale and Fergy back to the perimeter to guide the Doc.”

“Good thinking. Now, what happened?”

“We walked right up on three NVA. They were dragging a body away from the ambush site. Harder than hell to see out here and we were on them before we saw ’em. Luckily, they didn’t see us either. Sergeant Gray fired first and got one of ‘em. The others fired back and took off. Gray went to throw a grenade and it went off just as it left his hand. He’s really hurting, Captain. You better get the Doc out here fast.”

Ybarra was gone, following the panting guides, Hale and Ferguson, who had made the sprint back to the perimeter in less than two minutes. “Doc’s on his way,” I told Robinson. “I’m going to order up a medical evacuation. Have Doc call me and give me a situation report.”

Behind me I heard my radio operator curse.

I turned quickly to him, “What’s the matter?”

I couldn’t see him very well, but I knew from the sound of his voice that he was positively livid. “I went ahead and started the Dust Off procedure on the battalion radio, sir. They won’t come out!”

He was right. The S-3, whom I knew to be a good officer, despite the fact that we didn’t much like one another, told me, “Sorry. The CO of the Dust Offs has grounded his birds due to the bad weather.”

I put the S-3 on hold and went back to the other radio. Doc Ybarra was calling in. “Minor frag wounds in the arm and neck,” he reported. “Most of the blast hit him just behind the right wrist. It’s pretty badly mangled but I think we could save the hand if we get him out of here quickly.”

Back to the other radio. “I need that medevac, weather or no weather.”

The S-3 was doing his best. “Stand by. I’ll try them again.” It took him an hour. I looked at my watch. Actually, the whole affair was less than 20 minutes. The S-3 returned. “Still no dice.”

“Did you talk to the CO?” I asked plaintively.

“No, just the duty officer. Everyone else was gone to the company Christmas party. What’s the status of your man?”

I put him on hold again and went back to Doc Ybarra. “He’s gonna live, Sir. But unless we get him out of here, he’s gonna be without one hand for the rest of his life. That ain’t too good when you’re a carpenter like Sgt Gray.”

By this time the S-3 had come on the platoon frequency. “I’ll try again.”

I was about to agree when a new voice joined in. “Hello, Army, this is the United States Marine Corps,” the voice said in a pleasant but twangy Texas drawl. “Call sign, Delta Two-Seven.”

I was in no mood for any interservice fraternization at the moment. “What can I do for you, Delta Two-Seven?”

“I think maybe it’s what I can do for you. Are you the ground commander?”

“Roger.”

“Well, we’ve been listening in for a while, and since I’m in your area, I thought I might drop in and give your man a hand—so to speak.”

“Negative, negative!” The S-3 chimed in. “No aircraft allowed in this area due to weather.”

Delta Two-Seven talked right over him. “I think maybe the bad guys are trying to jam you, Army. You hear somebody else on the line?”

“Nothing but a lot of fuzz, garble and static.”

“Me too. Listen, I should be over you pretty soon. When you hear my engines, give a light to guide on, okay?”

“Will do.” I paused to go back to my own people. “Doc, you got a good LZ out there?”

“Roger. And I’ve got my signal light with me, too. But it’s gonna be tricky because we’re awful close to those ridges.”

I was about to reply when the sound of twin helicopter engines came right over us. Damn, he’s really low, I thought to myself. “Delta Two-Seven, you just passed right over us!”

The reply was a little higher pitched but still cool. “Okay, comin’ back around again. Your guy wasn’t kidding about you being close to those ridges!”

“Ah, Roger, Two-Seven. Sounds like you’re directly south of us now.”

“Good. That’s what I figure too. Hold on, be right back.”

“Doc, when you hear the engines get loud again, give ‘em the light.”

A few seconds passed and then he was on us again. “Oh my God,” I thought aloud. “He’s coming too fast—he’ll never get over the ridges!” Somehow, he made it. I don’t know how. There was no way he could have seen them in that fog, but he made it.

“Hey, Army, what happened to the light? I think I saw one flash and that was all.”

“Doc?”

“Batteries went dead. Got off one flash is all. What are we gonna do now?”

Delta Seven’s next message made it clear that we had to come up with an answer and be quick about it. “I’ve got just enough fuel for one more pass. No light, no land! Sorry.”

My radio operator banged me excitedly on the shoulder. “Sir, when the patrol left, I saw a trip flare on Robinson’s shoulder harness!”
I had time only to grip that 18-year-old’s hand hard as I grinned into the microphone. “Robby, you still have that trip flare on your harness?”

Ybarra yelled his reply loud enough that I swore I heard him without the assistance of the radio speaker. “Yeah, he’s got it. Oh man, that’s great!”

Delta Two-Seven was with us again. I looked out toward the direction of the patrol and was rewarded by the sudden pop and fog diffused light of an ignited trip flare. Delta Two-Seven laughed, “I got it, Army, I got it! Heads down, fellas, here we come!”

The guy was good, no doubt about it. The helicopter couldn’t have been on the ground more than five or six seconds when I heard the engines rev and the faster whooshing of the rotor blades. “Got your boy, Army. I’ll have him in Da Nang in about 10 minutes courtesy of the United States Marines.”

The men around me cheered. I was privately thankful that the wetness of the night had dampened my face. “Thanks. I’ll stop by the officers’ club and buy you a drink in about 10 days when this mission’s over.”

“Uh-uh, too late. This is my last flight. I’m homeward bound day after tomorrow. Appreciate the offer.” Just before the sound of the engines faded from Antenna Valley I heard him say, “Merry Christmas, Army.”

We all answered together—me, Ybarra, the S-3 and even the battalion commander who must have been listening in for a long time without saying anything—”Yes, and Merry Christmas to you too, Marine.”

The next time I was in Da Nang I walked into the Marine officers’ club and bought the house a round, paid the bill and left. I didn’t explain, and they didn’t ask.

Image

This painting by John DeGrasse illustrates the scene when a Christmas truce was called on Dec. 24, 1970, in the Antenna Valley, Vietnam. John DeGrasse.