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Chapter 5 June, 1966 The A Shau Valley, Republic of South Vietnam Wagner was up at 0430 to getting everything squared away. Parker had slept, or tried to, from 2130 until 2400, then Wagner had slept form 2400 to 0300; letting Parker get the last few hours before the mission began. The platoon was up and most of them had gone for chow. Wagner went over everything a second time with his squad leaders, and then went to wake up Parker. At 0530, Parker had finished eating and joined the Platoon as Wagner ran the inspection. Parker sat on an ammo crate, realizing that they seemed to be the preferred piece of furniture in Vietnam, reading the grid map. Already the sun was beginning to beat down form a cloudless sky. Parker sat there quietly studying the grid map as if he were cramming for a final back at Annapolis, but out of the corner of his eye, he watched every move that Wagner made. He knew he didn’t have the field experience that Wagner had, and he knew he had to learn from him even if he didn’t want Wagner to know it. Parker knew his perfectionism came from an inbreed case of low self-esteem, but he had been working on it. Ever since he could remember, his mother had stressed public image that you had to be the best or you were nothing at all. When he had skipped third grade, it was a big deal. When he wasn’t in the top of his class in High School, he didn’t matter. Anytime he didn’t live up to her standards, she demeaned him, or worse, ignored him, and it had affected his self-esteem. He found it hard as hell to take criticism, or to ask for help. Annapolis had greatly improved both his self esteem, and ability to take criticism, and TBS had taught him a little about teamwork, but deep down inside, he still felt like he was being criticized all the time, and he had to come out on top, no matter what. If Annapolis hadn’t been the ultimate test, then this was. Failure was inexcusable. He had to be the best. It was bad enough being assigned to the same division as McNab, but now he had been given a Sergeant that knew how to make him look bad, and he wouldn’t tolerate that at all. He looked at the Platoon as Wagner checked them over. They were mostly guys his age or younger, and with the exception of the new guys, most of them looked like they knew what they were doing. A well-oiled machine, thought Parker, Where do I fit in? He folded up his map as Wagner walked over to him. “We’re good to go, Lieutenant.” Wagner said, standing with his hands on his hips in his full gear. Parker nodded and stood up, “All right Sergeant,” he said, “let’s go.” Wagner turned around and looked at he platoon. “Saddle up, men, let’s move.” Once off the base, Parker felt a lot uneasier than he had earlier. His senses seemed magnified, and there was a feeling of impending doom hanging over him like a cloud waiting to burst into thunder. Wagner had set up the men in a V formation, with 3rd squad in front. Lance Corporal Ray “Kets” Ketterer, a smooth talking, twenty two year old black Mississippian, walked point. To his left and slightly behind was his good buddy, Lance Corporal Duane “Snake” Simpson, a former garbage collector from Slidell, Louisiana. Simpson had been bitten by a snake while playing in the Louisiana backwoods as a child, and his fear of snakes had never left him. On Ketterer’s other side and slightly and behind, was Private First Class Diego “Sleepy” Mendez, a nineteen year old Mexican American from east Los Angeles who spent every spare moment of time he had sleeping. Even waking him up for watch was a task. Whoever relieved him had to stay awake for fifteen minutes to make sure he was awake. The rest of the teams walked behind them, and the entire platoon was set up in that fashion. Wagner was in the middle so he could run things, and Parker was back in the rear with his radioman, Lance Corporal Frankee “G” Giovanni, a first generation American out of Chicago, Illinois, and Corpsmen Mike “Doctor” Watson, who had been an EMT in San Diego before joining the Navy. Bringing up the rear was PFC Tyrone Washington, who hailed from the Philadelphia suburb of West Chester, Pa, and was said to be a distant relative of Booker T. Washington. The platoon walked in this basic formation, through the difficult terrain for hours. Parker, as well as the new guys, found they were tiring a bit, and even though they had gone through physical training, they hadn’t yet gone through Vietnam. The walking, the heat and the anxiety levels got to them. Parker started to feel slightly nauseous. God, why was he here? They were almost to check point one when there was an explosion. They whole platoon instantly dropped down and immediately were under small arms fire. Parker felt a wave of fear sweep through him. Do your job, he told himself, just do your job. Concentrate on what you have to do. Deep breath. “Get me Six.” He told Giovanni, trying to stay as calm as possible. Wagner was trying to assess the situation amidst the chaos. Ketterer was definitely down, and it appeared that Mendez might have been hit as well. Wagner clearly identified the clap clap sounds of AK-47’s, now he needed to see where they were coming from. He sent second Squad around to the right of Third Squad and kept Fourth Squad back. Parker was on the radio with Anderson. He knew they were just southwest of their check point and he looked at the grid coordinates. Bullets whizzed past, striking the tree above them. Parker thought he would scream or run like hell. Instead he stayed put and concentrated on the task at hand. “Devil Dog Six, this is Devil Dog Two. Do you copy?” “Roger two, what is your situation?” “We’re taking small arms fire, we have two down...” Parker described the situation to Anderson as quickly as possible. Wagner ran back low to Parker, dodging bullets and praying he got there. “Ketterer's dead,” he told his Platoon leader, “Mendez is hit. Were pinned, we're taking fire from two sides. I’m thinking we might have about a platoon out there.” Parker reported the info to Anderson, and asked for mortar. “O’Grady’s hit!” someone yelled. A bullet hit the tree directly in front of Parker. It made him jump slightly. Shit! What sounded like grenade exploded a few yards away. “Damn it!” This time Parker swore out loud. “Two, this is Six Actual. Roger on that support. Give me the coordinates.” Parker carefully relayed the coordinates to Anderson as Wagner took off back to the men. “Well spot you.” Anderson said. “Okay. “ Parker shouted to Wagner when he was off the horn, “Pull back.” “Let’s move,” Wagner relayed the message to the platoon. They pulled back quickly. Even so, the spot round dropped a little too close for comfort. Shit!” Wagner cursed. I’m going to frag that sonofabitch if he gets any Marines killed. Parker was equally pissed. “Devil Six, this is Devil Two, check your pos. bring it up thirty meters, and right fifty. Fire for effect.” Wagner looked at Parker. This was the moment of truth. You better get this right you little sonofabitch, thought Wagner. Moments later the loud kabooms of 81 mortars exploding in front of them in the jungle verified that Parker did indeed know how to read grid coordinates. That, and he had proved that he could handle a combat situation, at least for the time being, and it was far from over. Once the mortar rounds stopped, both Parker and Wagner listened. They heard nothing. Parker called back to Anderson, telling him that they were going to secure the area before the medivac chopper came in for O’Grady and Mendez and to remove Ketterer’s body. Simpson had carried the body back to where they were and he sat next to his best friends lifeless bloody corpse, a field wake that only he was attending. Wagner knew how close the two had become, and he gave Simpson a minute to mourn, but there was work to be done, and he needed every Marine he had to do it. Parker avoided looking at the body, even as the men removed what they would need in the field. Besides, he had work to do and it was best not to think about the dead. He gave the W.I.A and K.I.A information to Anderson along with a brief sit rep. Meanwhile, Wagner was getting the platoon to secure the area. He found Corporal Youngman from Second Squad, and informed him that since O’Grady had been hit, he was now Squad Leader. “Doc” Watson was working on O’Grady, who had taken a hit in the left shoulder, and Corpsman Ted Zaryk was with “Sleepy” Mendez who had shrapnel in both legs. They were both given morphine, and were awaiting evac. Wagner came over while the rest of his men were policing the area. Wagner asked both corpsmen how the two wounded Marines were doing, and could they wait until the area was secure before evac. “We got some time.” Watson told his Platoon Sergeant. Wagner nodded. “Hey Sleepy, you trying go home on us and get some sleep?” he leaned down next to Mendez. “Yeah, Sergeant.” Mendez managed. “What happened up there?” “We were just walking. I dunno, I heard a spoon fly and I was down.” “Trip wire,” Wagner said. “Okay Mendez, you have a safe trip out of here, man. Say hi to the mamcitas in LA for me, alright?” “I’ll say it, but you better come down there when you get outta here Sarge, and say it yourself.” Wagner forced a smile, “Take care of yourself, I’ve got to get back to work.” He said a quick few words to O’Grady, before going back over to the rest of the platoon. Then he went over to Parker and informed him what was going on. Wagner had the men move up in Fire Team rushes to secure the area where they had originally been hit. Once there and without taking any fire, he had the men secure the area. He specifically wanted them to look for trip wires and other booby traps. “Be more than careful,” he told them. The men found three more trip wire booby traps containing grenades. Wagner called back to Parker, who was getting ready to call the medivac, to let him know that they were going to set off the traps. Parker and Watson had made the decision to call in the medivac before checking out the area where the VC had been, so Parker called it in while Wagner had the men blow the traps in place. Soon after, the medivac came in and picked up Ketterer’s body along with the two wounded Marines. Parker, and the men who were with him, moved up with the rest of the platoon. Again Wagner moved them up in fire team rushes to secure the area that the VC had been firing from. When they got there, it was evident that the mortar had done its job. Six dead NVA were found in the area. “Well, Lieutenant,” Wagner said, surveying the bodies, “looks like you got a nice little body count.” Parker looked down at the mutilated VC bodies scattered on the ground, all wearing a horrific death grin. All except for one, who had no head at all. A few were missing extremities, and one had a neat little hole in the forehead. There was an arm a few yards away from where Parker stood, but he didn’t see the body that had once accompanied it. The sun was high overhead now, and the heat was getting intense. Parker began to feel dizzy and he fought for control. Behind him he heard someone vomiting. “Fucking FNG’s can’t handle shit,” Lance Corporal Cardell announced, giving PFC Geatano a look of disgust, “First mortar victims they see they loose their god damn lunch.” Parker swallowed hard, fighting to keep his own stomach contents from racing up his esophagus like the Indy Five Hundred. “That’s enough.” Wagner told Cardell. The combination of nerves, dead bodies and heat were taking their toll on Parker. Waves of nausea swept threw his body. He tried to concentrate on something else. “You okay, Sir?” Wagner noticed his Lieutenant looked a little pale. “I’m fine, Sergeant,” Parker told him. Just get me out of this hell. Wagner made sure that PFC Viers was okay, and then had the men secure that area. He told Parker there was six confirmed dead as well as blood trails, meaning the VC had carried off more wounded. Parker backed away from the bodies long enough to call in to Anderson and tell them what they had found. “Hold your pos, birds on the way,” Anderson told him. “Roger Six, One out.” Before Parker could give the handset back to Giovanni, a single shot rang out. Parker, and everyone else got down immediately. A second later another shot hit a tree in the area where Parker and Giovanni had been. He wants me, Parker thought. Wagner tried to get a handle on where the shots were coming from, and with the third shot he pretty much pinpointed it and put fire on that location. It was just after the third shot that Parker noticed his lower leg was hurting. He looked down and saw blood on his pants. He’d originally thought Giovanni had somehow kicked him as they went down, then he realized he must have been shot. The firing had stopped and they heard nothing for about two minutes. Wagner sent to teams to see if they had hit the sniper. “I think I got shot,” Parker said to his radioman, sounding quite casual. Giovanni looked at his Lieutenant’s leg, then he looked for Doc Watson. “Hey Doc, get over here,” he called when he located Watson. Watson basically crawled up to Parkers position, and cut the leg of his pants. Wagner came over as well. “He okay?” he asked Watson. “I’m fine.” Parker answered. “Surface wound,” Watson said, “grazed him. I’ll just clean it up.” Parker flinched as Watson cleaned the wound. “It’s okay, just bandage it up and lets get moving. Where’s my radio?” “I’m right here, Sir,” Giovanni held out the hand set to Parker who called in another sit rep to Anderson to tell him what had just happened. When he was finished, Anderson asked if he still wanted to go on to the ville. He was thinking of keeping First Platoon as a back up and having Second go into the village. “Your call,” Anderson told him. Parker glanced at Wagner, but said nothing. “Affirmative, Six. Will proceed. One, out.” When Watson was done with him, Parker stood up. He was a little unsteady at first but the nausea had gone away, and he actually felt better than he had before he was hit. He was just a little shaky, which Wagner noticed. The experienced Sergeant furrowed his brow. “You sure you’re okay, Sir? You could get out of here.” He didn’t want to be going into the ville with a shaky platoon leader. “I’m okay, Sergeant, as soon as the men get back, and we get these bodies out of here, we move out.” Wagner looked at Doc Watson, who was standing to the side. Watson shrugged. “Aye, Aye, Sir.” Wagner said, and they left it at that. While they were waiting for the choppers that would carry away the Viet Cong dead, the teams that Wagner had sent after the sniper came back with his lifeless body, and the weapon he’d used to shoot Parker. First Squad were already moving the bodies to the LZ where the choppers would land, and the sniper was tossed there like the rest of them. Lance Corporal O’Laughlin showed the weapon to Parker and Wagner. “SKS,” Wagner looked the weapon over. He handed it to Parker. The Lieutenant took the weapon that he’d been shot with. It looked similar to the AK-47. He handed it back to Wagner. “Take it over there with the bodies,” he told his Sergeant, “then tell the men to eat something, it’s already fourteen hundred.” “Aye, Sir.” Wagner brought the rifle over to the LZ himself. Giovanni gave the radio handset to Parker, “I’ve got the pilot, Sir.” Parker took the handset. They could hear the chopper in the distance. “Dust Off One, this is Devil Dog One, area secure. I’ll pop smoke.” Parker had Lance Corporal Toole pop green smoke as the chopper came in closer. “I see green.” The pilot informed Parker. “Affirmative,” Parker told him. The chopper landed and picked up the bodies without incident. When they were gone, Parker sat down and forced himself to eat. He wasn’t hungry in the mental sense, but it had been hours since he’d last eaten, and physically he needed to keep himself in the best possible condition. Eating something would give him much needed energy, though adrenaline was holding him thus far. After chow, Wagner put First Squad up front, with Lance Corporal “Roamer” Romanik on point. It would be a few hours before they got to check point two, and barring any more enemy contact they should get to the ville close to eighteen hundred hours. It would still be light out at that time. They definitely didn’t want to go into the ville when it was dark. They reached checkpoint 2 on time and without any further complications, except that Parker’s leg, which had begun to burn not long after they left the area where the fighting had taken place, was now more of a throbbing pain. Maybe if they hadn’t been walking, it wouldn’t be bothering him at all. Nonetheless, it wasn’t anything that he couldn’t deal with. He remembered the year after his Father was listed as missing in action; he’d gone swimming at Cape Cod and had somehow gotten an ear infection. He was in bed for three days in his grandparent’s summer beach house and had missed most of the vacation lying there in severe pain. Severe for an eleven year old, at least. Another time at Cape Cod, a jellyfish had stung him, and that had hurt worse than his leg did now. The last time he remembered being in pain was his second year at Annapolis when he had a bad toothache and had to take pain meds for two days. So far he had been lucky as far as pain went. Those three incidences were the worst he had experienced thus far. He wondered if it were going to get any worse. He hoped not. Not far from the ville, Romanik called the Platoon to a halt. Wagner went up front to talk to him and then made his way back to Parker. “Village is right up there about a hundred fifty meters, Wagner told him, “I’m going to send Second Squad in and see what we’ve got. If that’s okay with you, Sir.” Wagner added to appease his Lieutenant. “That’s... yeah, okay.” Parker’s mind seemed preoccupied. Wagner didn’t like it. Maybe the wound was worse than he thought. Wagner glanced at down at Parkers leg. He could see blood through the bandage. Last thing he needed was his Lieutenant wierding out on him. He got up and went back to First Squad. He needed to talk to Corporal Sanders, the squad leader. He had a bad feeling, but tried to shake it off and get on with the matter at hand. He suspected that they would find something, probably rice. Someone had to be feeding the gooners on the hill. Wagner looked around, then back at Sanders. “Showtime.” He said. “Okay, how you want to work this?” Sanders asked. “You go in and see what you can find. You know the drill. Check the hooch’s for shit they're not supposed to have. We’ll cover you. ” “Aye, Sarge.” Sanders got his guys ready and Wagner set up defensive positions. They waited and watched as First Squad made their way to the village. The heat was now bothering Parker more than his leg. He was glad that the US Naval Academy and TBSA were located in a part of the country that he, a New Englander, found to be quite hot and muggy. If he hadn’t spent over four years in that part of the country and had come straight from New England, he would have passed out from heat stroke much earlier. He had reported that they had reached the village while Wagner was talking to Sanders, and now he was basically observing what went on. Wagner, who still had a bad feeling, scoped the ville from a distance and kept his eyes wondering around the area outside the village, scanning for anything unusual. Back in the rear, Anderson sat in the CP with Cooke, Gunnery Sergeant O’Shea, and two radiomen. PFC Halloway and Lance Corporal Jenhks. “You want me to write the letter to Ketterer's wife?” Cooke asked him. “I’d appreciate it,” Anderson said, “he had three sons, you know that?” “No, Sir.” “Yeah. I saw him passing around pictures of his wife and kids a few days ago, so I asked him for a look see. He was real proud of them boys.” Anderson remembered the day clearly. He’d gone looking for Sergeant Wagner and came upon Ketterer and a few other guys from First whom Ketterer was showing his kids off to for the umpteenth time. Anderson had asked to see the pictures. “Those are fine looking kids you’ve got there, Corporal,” Anderson had told him, “they must be a real handful for your wife.” “Oh, no Sir,” Ketterer had replied, “She love takin’ care of them boys. She love em more than me, she does...” Anderson wondered how she would manage with her husband gone and three boys under the age of four in Jackson, Mississippi. The civil rights movement was a fairly new concept in that neck of the woods, and Massy Ketterer would probably live well below the poverty line for a number of years to come. The Marine Corps took care of the wives of their dead, but their budget wasn’t top of the line. It would be hard, no matter how you looked at it. “Nice war this turned out to be.” Anderson muttered out loud. “Are they calling it a war now?” Cooke mused. “It’s a game of cat and mouse”, Anderson said quietly so only Cooke could gear him, “We knock Charlie down, he bounces right the hell back up again. Why don’t we just run a full scale sweep of that damn ville and the hill? Our Battalion, The ARVN unit, and some ROK Marines. They want a body count? That would do it. But, no, it’s got to be dribbled out in little bullshit skirmishes and Zippo raids, snipers and booby traps.” “Guerilla war.” Cooke commented. Anderson lowered his voice to a whisper “Well, maybe we ought to just pull an Iwo Jima on the motherfuckers. Bomb the shit out of them. Drop a goddamn H-Bomb on Hanoi.” “Can you imagine the field day that the press would have with that one?” “Screw the press. They are the ones messing this whole thing up to begin with. Since when did the United States run wars based on the protests of a few left wing radicals?” “It’s more than a few, Sir.” “Well the hell with them. Every move we make over hear is under scrutiny from the press. What are we, diplomats?” “All I know is that I’m here to do my job, just like I told Sergeant Wagner a few days ago. We just have to get the job done.” “We are getting it done, but it’s not having much effect on the big picture. We should have taken Hanoi out form the beginning. “Well, we are only following orders.” “Whose orders?” Truman? He isn’t my C.O.” “Ah but he is.” “Shit. The presidency should require former military service, or at least some time at the war college. If I were the president, I’d have cut the throat of these bastards and went right for Hanoi. Hell, give me an atomic bomb, I’ll drop it myself.” Cooke looked at his CO for a moment as if her were trying to figure out if he meant that or not. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re crazy?” he asked. Anderson smiled. “What do you think?” *** McNab was hot, miserable and, though he didn’t want to admit it even to himself, tired. They had stopped at Checkpoint Two, ate, and notified Anderson. Now they were in view of the hill, and the platoon had stopped moving. Sergeant Kramer spread the men out, and McNab pulled out his map and checked the coordinates. He folded it back up, shoved it into his pocket and turned to Kramer. “I’ll notify Anderson that we are in position and have a good visual. You set up?” “Yes Sir.” Kramer responded. If McNab had learned on thing that day, it was that Kramer was quick and efficient. So far, unlike Parker, they hadn’t run into anything, but Kramer said they would. Before they had gone out Kramer had given him some background on the A-Shau, and the men in their platoon. He told McNab about Lance Corporal Rob “Naz” Naslow, a twenty year old guitar player and delivery truck driver form Pelham Manor, New York, and about Steve “Don Juan” Kearns, an eighteen year old PFC who had four different girlfriends and a job at his father’s deli waiting for him back in Maywood, New Jersey. Then there was Gary Trower, a nineteen-year-old coal miner’s son who had moved to Wahoo, Nebraska looking for work, and finding none, joined the Marine Corps. Sal “Sally” Angrizani, was a former construction worker form St. Louis, Missouri. Grunts. All Grunts. McNab wondered what his Mother would say if she saw him humping the boonies with a bunch of Marine grunts from places like Groton, Connecticut; Whitewater, Kansas; Tunnel Springs, Alabama; and Leeds, Utah. Kids eighteen, nineteen, twenty years old. Kids with nothing to go home to. He wondered what they thought of him, an Annapolis trained officer brand new in the Nam. Maybe they, like his father, wondered what a guy like him was doing in a place like Vietnam. He could’ve been home sitting on the verandah of his father’s estate, or sitting at a board meeting for McNab industries. He thought about his father’s plush office on Flagler Drive in West Palm Beach, overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway and beyond that, past the grand scale mansions along the coastal highway A1A, the sparkling blue Atlantic Ocean. It was like being on top of the world. Now, in the jungles of what, up until the war, was a little known country in Indochina, he was at the bottom of it. He would have to work his way back up to the top his own way. He would have to earn everything, including the respect of his men, and his superiors. Only then could he accept all that life had offered him, handed him, just for being born. He radioed Anderson and let him know his position, and then they waited. There were thirty-seven guys in Second Platoon that day. With thirteen men in First Squad, and twelve in both Second and Third, they, like the other platoons in the company were at less than full strength. The Squad leaders, Tom Giezler from Escalon, California; Ian “Smitty “ Smith, form DeKalb, Illinois; and Rik “Fish” Fischer, out of Groton, Connecticut; had all witnessed at least four firefights, so both Kramer and McNab were confident that they could get the job don, even if they were short a few guys. McNab's radioman, Steve “Slammer” Sutton was a likeable guy. He was from Alabama, and although McNab had lived in the south all his life, Lance Corporal Sutton had an accent so heavy south, that McNab sometimes had trouble understanding him. Sutton, who was sitting next to him, looked deep in thought. Although he was a big kid, his close-cropped blonde hair, light blue eyes, and baby face, made him look about sixteen. “Hey Sutton,” McNab said in a low voice, “What did you do back home?” “Well, Suh, Ah just graduated high school and joined the Mah-rines.” “You have an accent as thick as black strap molasses, you know that, Sutton?” “So I’m told, Suh.” “What else you do? Any hobbies? A girl?” “Well, Suh, I ain’t got me no girl, but I did have me a hobby. Radios.” “Radios, really?” “Yes Suh, my daddy had one of them thar ham radios back home, and I grew up messin round with it. When I done get back to the world though, I wanna be a Dee jay.” “What kind of music do you like?” “Country, Suh, grew up awn it. Patsy Kline, Kitty Wells, I’m gonna hit Nashville, an git me a real good job at one of them country music stay-shuns. Make a lot of money when I get home.” “Well, I hope you do, Sutton.” McNab said sincerely. “What about you, Suh? Sutton asked, “What are y’all gonna do when ya git back home?” “Probably stay in the Marine Corps indefinitely, and I’ve got a girl back there as well.” “You really gonna stay in, Suh?” “Most likely...hey why do they call you Slammer, anyway?” “Just the name, Suh, Alabama Slamma. You have a nickname, Lieutenant?” “Mac, I suppose, same as my father.” “My Mama calls me Stevie, but I don’t like it. Makes me sound like a lil’ kid or sumpin” “Well, you’re not so little, are you?” “No, Sir.” Sergeant Kramer fell back into place beside McNab. “How’s it going, Lieutenant?” he asked with something that could be construed as a smile on his face. McNab wondered what he could possibly be smiling about. “Fine, Sergeant, yourself?” McNab spoke as if they were at a formal dinner. “Well, Sir, I’ll tell ya, I love these camping excursions. Really does something for the mind.” Slammer snickered. “And the feet,” announced Corporal Smith, who was behind Kramer. “Roger that.” Said Lance Corporal Mike Vorson, who was on McNab’s other side. “What the matter Vorson?” Kramer asked him, “You ain’t been out here but half a day and already you got jungle rot?” “Just don’t take off your boots.” Smitty told Vorson. “ I’m gonna take them of and give them to you, Smitty.” Vorson warned. “The hell you are.” They bickered for a moment more before McNab told them to quiet down. He needed to listen listened to the radio chatter. First Platoon had just sent a Squad into the ville. Now, he wanted quiet, and quiet he got. The calm before the storm. *** Parker watched intently from the tree line as First Squad made their way towards the village. Corporal Sanders and his squad were closing on the ville and Sanders was fully alert and aware of every movement, however slight. He used his eyes as scanners as he brought his squad into what could be and in all probability was, a hostile environment. He took everything in and quickly evaluated it. If they were shot at, he tried to figure where it might come from and where they could take cover. He counted the number of the hooch’s there were, the number of farmers in the field, and looked to see if there were any men inside the village. There were farmers out in the field tending the rice paddies, and a few women and children that he could see in the village. Some went about their activities, barely paying attention to the approaching Marines, but Sanders knew they were watching out of the corners of their eyes. A few elderly woman and went inside the hooch’s, and some children who were throwing feed at chickens stopped what they were doing and stared at he Americans as they entered their village. “Okay, Sanders told his squad, “search the ville, round up the villages. Tuck and Wazi, guard them while we check everything out.” The teams broke up and spread out in the ville, searching hooch’s and rounding up the villagers, as Sanders had told them. After a few minutes, Corpsman “Irish” O’Hagen called Sanders over. “Hey Sandy, look at this.” Sanders wondered over to where O’Hagen was standing with a male villager who looked to be about twenty years of age. “What the fucks he doing here?” Sanders asked out loud to no one in particular. “Look at his hands,” O’Hagen continued, “they look like a farmers hands to you?” Sanders looked at the man’s hands. He picked one up and turned it over. The man pulled back slightly but Sanders held on, jerking him back to where he could see his hand. “Sure as hell not.” Sanders said. He turned to his radioman, PFC Polinski. “Call back to Wagner, tell him I got a prisoner for him.” Then he turned back to the prisoner, who stared at him, with a stupid expression on his face. “You V.C.?” he asked. “No V.C.” The prisoner said. “Bullshit.” Polinski said. “No VC, my ass.” Sanders grunted, then looked over at O’Hagen. “What hooch was he in?” “Not sure,” O’Hagen told him, “Alden found him outside.” “Go get me Alden.” Sanders told Thompson, his M-79 man. Thompson went to get Alden. Meanwhile Lance Corporal Sanchez came up to Sanders. “I think you better take a look at this, Sandy, we got buku rice over here.” Sanders eyebrows shot up. “Okay,” he turned back to Wozeski, who was guarding the villagers, “Take this S.O.B back to the Lieutenant,” then he looked at O’Hagen, “you stay here with Tuck and guard the rest of these bastards. When Thompson gets back with Alden, find out what hooch this gooner was in,” he gestured toward he prisoner. O’Hagen nodded. Sanders turned to his radioman. “You come with me.” The two of them followed Sanchez to the rice cache. Back in the tree line, Parker and Wagner waited for the prisoner to be brought back by Wozeski. Parker had already notified Anderson that they had a P.O.W. What happened next happened so fast, it took Parker a few seconds to spring into action. In the ville, Sanchez had just showed the rice to Sanders, who was about to inform Parker, when mortar was dropped directly on top of the village. Sanders yelled, “Spread out, get down!” then dove behind the hooch he was standing next to with Sanchez and Polinski. The villagers, now unguarded, ran into their hooch’s. “Shit,” Sanders cursed. Polinski handed him the radio. Back in the tree line, Parker snapped into autopilot, grabbing the radio and reporting to Anderson that the village was taking mortar. Wozeski had dropped to the ground halfway between the ville and the tree line, hauling the 120-pound prisoner down with him. He now held a pistol to the prisoner’s head as they lie there. Wagner had his men spread out and ran back to Parker. Now Sanders was on the horn. “We’re being slammed up here, I got one down.” Sanders reported. He couldn’t see whom it was that was down. “I got him.” Sanchez said, running out from behind the hooch to get the fallen Marine. “Hang in there,” Wagner told him, “Well get support out there, do you have a visual?” “Negative, over.” Parker was on the other radio, calling for mortar.” “Hold your pos.” Wagner informed Sanders, and then he moved next to Parker. Anderson asked for the coordinates. “Wait one.” Parker told his CO, “over.” Parker looked at Wagner. “Whatta you think?” “Looks like its up on the hill, over there.” Wagner informed him. “I agree.” Parker said, “We’ll hit them up there and walk it forward.” Wagner nodded. Not bad, he thought. Then, with his map in front of him, he gave Anderson the coordinates. McNab and Kramer could see the mortars going off on the hill. As soon as Parker called in the coordinates, McNab, who had his map spread out in front of him, looked at Kramer, then back to the map. Then he held out his hand to Sutton, who handed him the handset of the radio. “Devil Dog Six, this is Devil Dog Two Actual. Belay that. We can see them from here, over” Parker and Wagner exchanged glances. Then Anderson’s voice, “Go ahead Two.” McNab gave Anderson the coordinates where the mortars were coming from. Back in the CP, Anderson asked the forward observer, Lieutenant Ziegler, whom he had sent for just a few minutes earlier, “What have you got for me?” “I’ve got One five fives, four choppers on stand by and a couple of F-4’s with nape and 250 ponders.” Anderson nodded. “We’ve got one five five’s coming in,” he informed Parker and McNab, “and we’ve got air on standby.” Wagner called back to Sanders. “We got mortars on the way.” When Anderson finished with parker, he told Cooke to saddle up the react platoon. Cooke nodded, and left the CP bunker with Gunny O’Shea on his heels. NVA mortars continued to fall near or in the village. One hit directly on tip of a hooch where moments earlier Sanders saw a woman and a girl of about three disappear. He lifted his head long enough to see what was going on. The squad had all taken some kind of cover, but he wasn’t sure who was hit. Sanchez had gotten to the fallen Marine, Private “Monk” Munkin, but it had been a pointless trip, at least for now. Munkin's intestines were spilling onto the red soil. He was no longer breathing. By that time, Wozeski had made it back to Parker and Wagner with the prisoner. Wagner had two Marines tend to the P.O.W. An NVA mortar round dropped right where Wozeski had been when the mortars had first started dropping. “Shit,” Parker cursed in earshot of Wagner and Giovanni. He looked over at Wagner. “They might be backing them up on us.” He said. “Could be that, or they overshot one. What do you want to do, Sir?” Parker thought for a minute. If they pulled back, first squad would be even further away from them, if they stayed they might be sitting ducks. Hurry up with those one five fives, thought Parker. Another round exploded just slightly closer to their position. Again Wagner looked at Parker. As if to complicate the issue, Sanders voice came over the radio. “Devil One, this is Dog One, were taking small arms fire, over.” Shit. For an instant, Parker was unsure what to do, but he knew he had to do something. Now it was really time to earn his pay. He grabbed the radio handset from Giovanni. “Dog one, this is Devil Two Actual, hold your pos, we’ve got ground support on the way, over.” “Roger that, Dog out.” Parker turned to Wagner, “Get Second and Third Squad to flank the ville, I’ll notify Anderson. As Parker finished speaking, the One five fives dropped down on the ridge beyond the village. Wagner was already gone, getting the two squads ready to go. Parker heard Mac on the radio reporting that the mortars hit on target. Then parker called Anderson. “Six, this is Devil One, we are taking small arms fire in the ville, walk those mortars towards the village but keep them in the center, we got two squads flanking the ville, you copy? Over.” “This is Six, I copy. Over.” Sanders again came over the radio. “Devil One, this is Dog One, we’ve got two W.I.A. out here. Over.” “This is Devil One I copy, wait one.” More One five fives exploded on the ridge. Parker called back to Anderson. “Six, this is Devil One, we need a medevac out here, over.” “Roger One,” Anderson told him. Back at the CP Anderson turned to the forward observer who nodded. He knew they would have to send that medevac in with two Cobras’. “Medevac is on the way with company,” Anderson informed Parker, “What’s your status? Over.” They were shouting over the combination of NVA mortar, American mortar and small arms fire from both sides. “Wait one, Six,” Parker called back to Sanders and asked the situation there. “We’re taking buku small arms fire, we got gooners coming out of the trees over here, over.” “Hold on, back up on the way,” Parker informed Sanders. The next NVA mortar landed very close to Parker position. Jesus Christ! He felt that one. “Holy shit.” Giovanni spoke for everyone. “Alright, pull back,” Parker told his team. Fuck that shit, he thought; I’m not ready to die. Anderson gave the order for Cooke to get Third Platoon out to the village. Wagner, with Second Squad had the right flank of the village and his men were in position to return fire at the NVA who were shooting at Sanders squad. On the left flank, Third Squad was set up similarly. Even with all three squads firing, the NVA fire hadn’t slowed down. Wagner called back to Parker and basically told him they were in the shit. They needed air support. The one five fives were still falling on the ridge as the NVA mortar was still intact, but Wagner form his position could see that it was now coming from the right side of the hill, rather than the left. He informed Parker that they needed to adjust the mortar. Again Parker called back to Anderson. “Six, this is Devil One actual, we have all three squads fully engaged in the ville, and we are still taking mortar rounds. Shift mortars to three three seven two, over.” “Three three seven two,” Anderson repeated. “Affirmative, Six,” Parker could hear the medevac and the two Cobra’s approaching in the distance. He needed a direct LOC with the medevac pilot. Even with all his training, he never dreamed he would spend the entire battle on the radio. Inside the village, First Squad had three W.I.A. and one K.I.A. Private “Jonsey” Jones, and Private “Ally” Alden carried Lance Corporal Romanik, and Private Kelly back to Parker’s position. Romanick had been hit in the upper thigh, and Kelly had been hit in the neck. With Munkin dead, and Polinski back with Parker, they were down to seven men in the ville. Wagner made the decision to have Second Squad move into the village. He heard the Cobras coming in. Let’s just hope this helps, he thought to himself. The situation as it stood was definitely not good. Goddamn the Ashau valley. Within seconds, the adjusted mortar hit the right side of the ridge. As soon as they hit, the Cobras swept in and blasted the ridge while the medevac landed back behind Parkers position. Parker had his corpsman, Doc Watson, and Private Jones, take the wounded to the medevac. He had Lance Corporal Toole escort the prisoner. The wounded were picked up quickly, along with the prisoner, and the react platoon was deposited at the site. The battle continued. After the Cobras hit the hill, and the American One five fives blasted the correct coordinates on the ridge, the NVA mortar finally stopped. They were still taking small arms fore in the ville, as well as some ))))larger vblasts?)))). Even with all three Squads engaged, the NVA kept coming. Now it was time to walk the mortars towards the village. Parker got back on the horn with Anderson, and told him they needed to bring the mortars down below the ridge. Everything went like clockwork, the mortars were dropped, and the NVA fire stopped. Wagner waited. Never trust your enemy. He informed Parker that the firing had stopped. “Demon One, this is Devil Three. Hold your position,” Cooke’s voice came over the radio addressing Wagner, “I’m going to send a Squad in there to you. Over.” “I copy, Three. Over.” “Devil Two, this is Devil Three, you copy?” Cooke called to McNab. “”This is Devil Two, I copy.” McNab answered. “Okay Two, hold your position until further orders.” “Roger Three, over.” “Devil One, this is Devil Three, d you copy?” Parker took a breather. He noticed his leg was bothering him again. “This is One, I copy. Over.” “I’ll take it form here One, over.” “Roger that.” Parker said. It was probably the best thing he’d heard all day.
