By John Hamilton

In early November 1970, it was announced that the 25^th Infantry Division would be ceasing combat operations before the end of the year. That same week I was helicoptered from the field to the squadron headquarters at Chu Chi to receive, along with a dozen other soldiers, a Purple Heart resulting from my injuries in September.

Despite the short time remaining, the squadron had been assigned a new commander whom I met for the first time. With Army units being withdrawn throughout Vietnam, there was a concerted effort to provide “combat command time” to as many officers as possible. My West Point classmates and I, who began arriving in Vietnam in the summer of 1970, would suffer from this unofficial practice more than any other academy class. In my first ten months in Vietnam as a Lieutenant I would serve under five Captains and four Colonels, not a good situation for any junior officer in wartime.  

     The final four weeks in the field would be a period of intense activity for me and my platoon. We provided security while combat engineers recovered Bailey bridges, used our demolitions to destroy contaminated fuel at an abandon artillery fire base, conducted a final recon of previous areas of enemy activity, and provided road security for numerous truck convoys. As our divisional units withdrew our local Viet Cong used the opportunity to mine our withdrawal routes and harass us with occasional mortar fire while avoiding any significant engagements.   

     The main road we were responsible for securing was unpaved and ideal for the use of antitank mines. We were particularly wary of the many civilian mopeds from which a mine could be dropped undetected into a puddle of water. We quickly learned that when local traffic started avoiding a spot in the road there was probably a good reason. Many of my NCO’s, had first-hand experience with mines and stayed away from them. Some of my younger soldiers, however, loved the challenge of being the first to find one and to probe it with their bayonet. I was impressed with the skill with which they could disarm a mine and their bravery, or maybe foolishness.

     In mid-November my platoon was given the mission of conducting reconnaissance in a remote area. The only access to the site was along a old logging road bordered by dense jungle. The dirt road was only wide enough for a single vehicle, and as the road narrowed, I became very anxious about the potential for my APC’s running over a mine. I decided to dismount my vehicle with four infantry soldiers and walk in front of the lead vehicle, hoping to find any mines in shallow soil. We had gone about a half mile when there was a huge explosion, the force of which blew me and my infantry to the ground. The third vehicle in my column, in which my platoon sergeant was riding, had hit a large mine.

     I immediately ran back to the vehicle to see if anyone was wounded. The first thing I noticed was that the heavily armored cupola that sits on top of the vehicle with a 50-caliber machine gun had been blown off and was nowhere to be seen. I did not see the track commander who had been sitting in the cupola either. I immediately assumed the worst. I climbed on the top of the vehicle and looked into the crew compartment to see my platoon sergeant and two other soldiers staring at me with dazed eyes and blood dripping from their ears, a sign of a concussion. “Are you ok?” I yelled. They looked up at me, saying nothing, and I immediately shouted, “medic.” I looked down into the driver’s compartment and saw the unconscious driver with his head hanging down. As I reached down to pull him out of his seat, his head fell back, and I noticed a large piece of metal from the floor armor had been blown up into his neck and that he was bleeding from several wounds in his stomach.  Doc, our medic, was right behind me, and he and several others lifted the driver out. Doc immediately began trying to stop the bleeding from the driver’s neck and stabilize his condition.

     I ran to my command track and called on the radio for helicopter medevac of my five wounded soldiers. As I was doing so, the track commander, who had been sitting in the cupola came staggering out of the jungle. The mine had blown him into the air and landed him fifty feet away. Miraculously, he had not been seriously wounded or injured. Four of the soldiers, including my platoon sergeant, would be medevac’d but would recover and continue their Vietnam tours. The seriously injured driver, however, was flown to Japan for further medical treatment. The division surgeon would later credit my medic, with saving the driver’s life that day.  

     One day on road security, we had a break, and I directed my vehicle commanders to use the time to clean the trash out of their vehicles and burn it.  Specialist Carson was my track commander and one of the most professional soldiers in my platoon. He immediately dug a sump pit and began throwing our vehicle trash inside. In keeping with a common practice in the field, I cut a piece of C4 explosive and tossed it in the hole, knowing that it would not explode but would create a very hot fire. I picked up a half empty C ration box and without thinking, threw it in the hole. In my haste I failed to notice that the box included a can of baked beans that had not been opened. Specialist Carson, who was about six feet away from the burning fire, started to say something to me, when suddenly “Crack.” The can of beans suddenly exploded. Carson walked over to me, blood dripping from his face and I realized a piece of metal from the exploding can had struck him right between his eyes. As he stood there, I reached with my hand, pulled the piece of metal from the bridge of his nose. He insisted he was alright, but I ordered him to “Go see the medic and get it bandaged.”  He came back later with a small band-aid on his nose, which brought relief and laughter to all of us. I still feel bad to this day that I had been so careless.

       By the end of November, we were in the last week of combat operations. For our last night in the field our new squadron commander brought elements from all three cavalry troops together in a single night position. In the middle of our defensive perimeter were a half-dozen M577 squadron command and control vehicles with their large tents extended. We made an easy target for any Vietcong who might want to fire a mortar or rocket. As it turned out, one did.

      A single enemy soldier crawled in a ditch along the road near our position and just before nightfall, fired a rocket-propelled grenade at one of our Sheridan tanks. Each Sheridan carried a roll of heavy mesh wire placed in front of the vehicle at night to protect against just such a threat.  When the RPG hit the mesh wire, it detonated prematurely but several men relaxing on the back of the Sheridan were hit with fragments.

     Hearing the explosion and the call for “medic”, we all ran to our armored vehicles and prepared for action. For a moment, everything was quiet. As I glanced across the perimeter, I observed a crewmember hastily trying to fire a night flare that was not well aimed. It hit the 50-caliber machine gun and bounced back, creating a bright flash inside his vehicle. The appearance to everyone was that the track had been hit by enemy fire.

     Suddenly the entire squadron spontaneously opened fire with 50-caliber machine guns and small arms. The noise was deafening as three cavalry troops unleashed tens of thousands of 50-caliber rounds from our position. After several minutes of continuous firing and total confusion, “cease fire” came over the radio and the firing stopped almost as quickly as it had started. This “mad minute” was probably one of the few times in the entire war that the squadron had fought as a single unit. We had three soldiers slightly wounded and no confirmed damage to the enemy. it was a fitting ending to our last night in the field.

     After almost five years of deployment in Vietnam, 3^rd Squadron 4^th Cavalry returned to Cui Chi for the last time on 1 December 1970. That day was one of the last we would all be together as almost immediately reassignment orders started arriving and vehicle and equipment turn-in in Long Bien began. There would be no “job well done” formation except for the small contingency of officers remaining a month later with nothing but the squadron colors. With my platoon sergeant still in the hospital I had no time to reminisce or rest before I departed myself for my new unit four days later. Before I left, I walked around and said good-by to those remaining soldiers from my platoon and fellow officers that I could find. It was not what I would have wanted as a farewell after the experiences we had shared together, but it was what the situation provided. Except for one officer, I would never see any of those I served with in A Troop again.

     Two days later I was flying north from Tan Son Nhut Air Base to the highlands of II Corps to my new assignment. Nothing had surprised me more when I had received my orders than to see that my new assignment was the 173rd Airborne Brigade, and specifically the 1^st Battalion 503^rd Infantry. I was an armor officer, about to be “detailed” as an infantry officer and assigned to an “leg” infantry unit. I couldn’t imagine what job they might have for me, but I was excited about the prospects.

      On 22 August 1970, ten days after I had arrived in Vietnam, A Troop, 3^rd Squadron, 4^th Cavalry Regiment to which I was newly assigned left base camp for six weeks of combat operations. Our primary job was to conduct “search and destroy” operations to find and battle with the Viet Cong. In practice, we also performed other missions such as providing security for logistics convoys and serving as a quick reaction force for other units in the field. Each platoon had an area each day that they were responsible for searching for signs of enemy operations or encampments. Mostly, we conducted these operations riding in our M113 Armored Personnel Carriers and Sheridan Light Tanks, but occasionally when the terrain did not allow, we dismounted and conducted short patrols. Because the American role in war was coming to an end, the enlisted men often called these “search and avoid” operations. With some significant exceptions, most soldiers preferred to leave the enemy alone and return home free of battle scars. Officers and career noncommissioned officers, on the other hand, were expected to be aggressive in making contact with the enemy, and therefore were frequently at odds with those they led.

      My first night in the field, the troop commander elected to have the entire troop encamped at one location. Maybe because I was the new lieutenant, he directed that I lead a dismounted ambush about three hundred meters east of our location along a creek bank. Following my Ranger training, I picked six platoon soldiers, gave them instructions for the operation, and inspected to make sure everyone had sufficient ammunition and grenades. I had ordered one soldier to bring a Claymore mine, an essential weapon for small ambushes during the Vietnam War. The Claymore mine when activated, sent dozens of steel balls flying at high-speed, disrupting the enemy formation, and killing or wounding everything in its path.

      We left for our ambush site at sunset, arrived and began setting up our position. At that time, the soldier with the Claymore and I went forward to place it in position.  It was then that I discovered that the carrying pouch for our Claymore did not include a trigger or activating device. This device is connected to the Claymore by a long electrical wire, and without it, the Claymore is useless. I had to decide whether to spend my first ambush without Claymore protection or go back to the troop night position and get the firing device. I chose the latter, and so one of the men and I hastened back in the near dark.  I had called on the radio to alert those on guard at the troop night position that we were coming, but it was still a risky path to take.  Any of the guards that had not gotten the word could have mistaken us for the enemy as we pushed our way through the neck high elephant grass. That would have quickly ended my first day in the field. As it turned out, we got the device, made it back to the ambush site, and spent a rainy and miserable night without any enemy contact. In hindsight, it was clearly a “green Lieutenant” decision to go back after that firing device. In the next 12 months, I would experience too many incidents in which American soldiers mistook their own as the enemy under similar situations, resulting in “friendly fire” casualties.                              

     The following week we were conducting platoon operations when I heard a loud explosion in the distance. Voices suddenly begin crackling on the troop command radio net. “Alpha 26, this is Alpha 6. What was that explosion?” After a long pause, Steve, the second platoon leader, responded in an unintelligible, mumbling voice. As the troop commander asked him to “say again last transmission,” we heard shots fired in short bursts from what sounded like an US Army M16 rifle. After another long pause, Steve, breathing heavily, finally responded. “Alpha 6, this is Alpha 26, Three of my men and the scout dog went down a trail a few minutes ago.  I heard a loud explosion. I don’t know what happened.” The troop commander immediately responded in a firm voice, “This is Alpha 6. Dismount and take a squad down that trail and report back to me on what you find”. Everyone on the command net waited anxiously for a response but it didn’t come.  The troop commander called again, “Alpha 26, do you Roger?” Again, there was silence, and after a long pause, I heard the troop commander in an agitated voice calling the platoon sergeant who was second in command “Alpha 24, Take a squad and go down that trail yourself and do it NOW.” The platoon sergeant immediately responded, “Roger Alpha 6”.  A short while later, the platoon sergeant reported that he had found the patrol. It appeared that the scout dog had hit a tripwire, detonating an enemy mine.  The explosion had killed the dog and handler and one of our infantrymen. The third soldier who had been firing his M-16 to get our attention was mortally wounded. I expected that my fellow platoon leader would be relieved of his duties, but he wasn’t. Like me, he had only been in the field a few weeks, and this was his first exposure to combat. My very experienced troop commander apparently took this into consideration as he made no changes in the platoon leadership. It gave me some assurance that at least with my current boss, mistakes were allowed.  I never learned what really happened that day as neither Steve nor my troop commander every spoke of it. Except for the loss of life, it was as if it had never happened.

     On 4 September, only my second week in the field, I was leading a platoon reconnaissance operation with our M113 track vehicles. Mines were the primary danger in Vietnam by that time in the war. Consequently, our practice was to fill the bottom of our vehicles with boxes of ammunition and other gear in the hopes this extra material would provide additional protection against a large blast. This left little room inside the vehicle for all the crew, so most armored troop carriers had two or three soldiers riding on the top deck. In my unit, a canvas seat had been welded on the left rear of my command track for me to sit and control the platoon. Sitting next to me, I had a fire support coordinator, a sergeant, whose job was to call for artillery fire, when necessary.

       We were moving in a wedge formation along high ground marked by a path used by Vietnamese farmers to get from the rice paddies back to their village. I had my command track straddling the path to stay in the middle of the formation. I noticed a small tree about 8 feet high along the trail. My driver, not wanting to run over the tree, steered right to go around it. When he did, the left rear of the vehicle where I was sitting moved over the path, and there was a massive explosion. My next memory was lying on the ground on my back, unable to sit up because of the pain. Concerned that we were being ambushed, I reached around trying to find my rifle when several of my men ran up to give me aid. As I lay there, I saw that the entire left rear of my command track was missing. I would later learn that we had run over a large mine and that my artillery coordinator had been blown in the air and had landed on top of the armored vehicle, breaking his arm. I had apparently been catapulted into the air and had landed several feet from the vehicle on my back.  A medical helicopter evacuated me to a field hospital, where an x-ray showed that my pelvis was slightly dislocated. My medical records recorded it as a compression fracture of my lower spine. That was just one of my painful injuries, as every part of my body hurt. The energy from the explosion that had severely damaged the vehicle had also passed through my body, with the concussion bruising every muscle.

     The doctor decided I would not require hospitalization as I had no broken bones or open wounds. Instead, I would remain in the field hospital until I could walk. To this day, I remember him directing two orderlies to put my arms over their shoulders and carry me to a patient bunker. As I got off that X-ray table, the pain was tremendous, and I screamed at the top of my lungs for them to “go easy.” They assisted me to a heavily sandbagged bunker. It was a field hospital and there were no nurses or medical beds, only medics to care for the few patients there   

     The only pain medication the Army had at the time was Darvon, which was not much more potent than extra strength aspirin today. It was excruciatingly painful for me to go to the bathroom or sit up or even eat my meals. I lay in bed for three days before I could walk. I was flown by helicopter back to our base camp at Cu Chi, where I recovered for another two days before catching a resupply helicopter back to the field. As I limped slowly from the aircraft toward the encampment, one of the senior Troop NCOs stared at me, not saying a word. His expression said it all; “Welcome to the Vietnam War Lieutenant.”  My pelvis was so sore that for the next few weeks, I could not sit down. Instead, I stood- in the cargo hatch of my vehicle as we maneuvered across the rough terrain, causing more bruises to my ribs. The artillery sergeant and I would receive Purple Hearts in November, but we both would have preferred to have been spared this award.

        The same week I was wounded, my classmate and fellow Armor Officer Hank Schroeder, who I had just served with at Fort Riley, would suffer devastating wounds from multiple mines while trying to aid his injured tank crewmen. He would be awarded the Silver Star and spend two painful years in Walter Reed Hospital. Hank and I would serve together again at Fort Knox, and despite his significant physical handicaps resulting from his wounds, he would complete an eighteen-year Army career before being medically retired. Four years after retirement, exactly twenty-one years to the month after he was wounded in Vietnam, those wounds would finally take his life.      

  

     It was a warm day in the summer of 1972 when my evening meal was interrupted by a phone call.  I was a bachelor, living in a small, three-room apartment outside the gates of Fort Knox where I was serving as a troop commander. Anytime you are commanding troops and the phone rings, your first thought is one of dread that one of your soldiers has gotten himself in trouble or been in an accident. I was pleasantly relieved to hear my mother’s voice on the line. She shared the bad news with me right away. “Woody’s plane has been shot down over North Vietnam. It was a cloudy day, and no parachutes were seen by the accompanying aircraft. Woody is missing in action. Vernita wants you to call her.”

     Ernest Sherwood Clark, who went by the name of “Woody”, was my closest friend. The same age, we had grown up together in the same neighborhood, and attended school together, often in the same class. We had been members of the same church and Boy Scout Troop. Upon graduation from high school, we both had gone to military academies, Woody attending the Air Force Academy and myself West Point.

      While singing in the Academy glee club, Woody had met Vernita, a beautiful young lady from Everett, Washington. After graduation, they had married, and Woody had trained to be a navigator on reconnaissance aircraft. Shortly after I had returned from Vietnam, I had heard that Woody was being deployed to Thailand. It did not cause me much concern, seeming much safer than ground combat in Vietnam. What I did not appreciate was that from Thailand, Woody would be flying daily reconnaissance missions over North Vietnam.

     I had only met Vernita once and did not know her well. My mother told me that she and their one-year-old daughter were temporarily living in my hometown near Woody’s parents. Grieving myself about likely having lost such a close friend, I was feeling very inadequate and uncertain about my phone call to her. I had learned from my own experience that war does not discriminate, it kills good people as well as bad.  Furthermore, the term “missing in action” was used much too often in Vietnam to describe someone who was likely “killed-in-action.” I felt the best case for Woody would be that he somehow had made it safely to the ground, had been captured, and was facing an uncertain future in a Hanoi prisoner of war facility. After much thought, I decided that when I called Vernita I would be hopeful in suggesting that Woody was probably a prisoner of war and would eventually be coming home safely.

     After I settled my emotions and collected my thoughts, I called Vernita.  As expected, she was very emotional, and our first few minutes of conversation were interrupted by sobs and occasional periods of silence. She shared with me what few details the Air Force had provided her which were more encouraging than my mother’s report. The Air Force had evidence that two parachutes had opened and reached the ground, although they had not had any communication from either pilot or their locating beacons. Both factors suggested that they were either injured or had been immediately captured.

     Before I had the opportunity to share my “hope speech” with Vernita, her own emotions took control of our call. “Woody is too smart to get killed or captured. He is too good a person for God to take from us. He is going to be coming home to me and our daughter.” I was concerned with her unrealistic optimism and worried that the outcome would be even more crushing for her than it needed to be. I tried to push back with “he probably was captured and will be a prisoner of war,” but she would have none of it. I finally gave-in with a simple “Ok” and let her have the only hope that was comforting to her. As I hung up the phone, I thought of the many families that surely prayed for the safe return of their loved one from Vietnam and had been disappointed. I could not help but feel that there would be disappointment here too, but I was wrong.

      I would later learn that on the day Woody was shot down, he was serving as a navigator in an RF4 Phantom aircraft on his 108^th combat mission. The aircraft was fifty miles north of the DMZ when it was hit by a surface-to-air missile. Both Woody and the pilot ejected and landed in the jungle without serious injury but separated by almost a mile. The pilot was quickly captured, but Woody would evade capture for seven days as North Vietnamese soldiers searched for him. On one occasion a soldier got within an arm’s reach but did not see him. On another, a sudden heavy downpour caused the search dogs on his trail to lose the scent and allowed him to slip away. After days of exhaustive movement with little food and water, Woody decided to take the risk of using his rescue beacon. An aircraft from his unit in Thailand, on its final day of searching for him, picked up his signal.

     A daring and dangerous rescue was launched the next day.  As a helicopter hovered and lowered its jungle penetrator to Woody, two escort aircraft laid down cannon fire to suppress the North Vietnamese soldiers engaging the helicopter with small arms and hand-held surface-to-air missiles. Woody was extracted safely, and all three aircraft returned to Thailand with no casualties. As Woody stepped off the helicopter, filthy and unshaven, he was handed a bouquet of roses by a young lady from the Red Cross. The Associated Press took a picture which would be on the front page of the Stars & Stripes the next day and later appear in many stateside publications. Woody’s successful evasion and rescue from North Vietnam would be one of few highlights for the American military during the final years of the Vietnam War.

     Woody returned home to his family and was welcomed as a hero by his Air Force brothers. He would later be reunited with his pilot, who after three months of extensive interrogation, had been released from a Hanoi prisoner of war camp With a growing family, he resigned from the Air Force a few years later and joined the Air National Guard as an active-duty officer. He and I were both assigned to the Pentagon in 1985 and enjoyed bringing our families together and renewing our personal friendship. Woody and his family later move to Reno, Nevada, where he served as the National Guard Air Base Commander. In 1991 he led his unit’s deployment to Bahrain during Operation Desert Storm and flew 18 combat missions, one of the only pilots to fly combat missions in both Vietnam and Iraq. He retired in Reno shortly after. I did not see him for many years, until one day fate brought us back together again.

      In January 2005 I lost my two business partners in a tragic plane crash during a time when our business, a supplier to the Department of Defense, was experiencing tremendous growth. The next year would be the most stressful and demanding of my life as I struggled with a grieving staff and monumental business challenges. In April I called Woody to discuss my situation and he invited me to come to Reno for a long weekend to go skiing. I flew out early on a Thursday morning and we headed straight to the ski slope.

      I stayed at Woody’s home where I had the opportunity to renew my friendship with Vernita with whom I had always felt a special relationship because of that phone call. We never discussed that call, or what happened to Woody in Vietnam, preferring to keep these painful memories behind us. Sometimes, however when we were enjoying Woody’s company, our eyes would lock on each other and we would smile, bonded with the realization of how special these moments were. These visits were incredibly therapeutic for me, like rubbing a cool salve over a severe flesh burn. I would continue to visit during ski season for the next five years.

      On my last visit in 2009, I felt the need to close this chapter of our lives. I did not know when I would see Woody again, and I wanted him to know about that phone call. I also wanted to hear Vernita’s side of the story. On my last day there, we retired to their den after supper and sat by the warm fire enjoying hot cider. In a quiet moment in our conversation, I looked at Vernita who was sitting across for me, and asked “Do you remember when I called you about Woody being shot down?” The room became deathly quiet, as Vernita and I stared into each other’s eyes and time seemed to stand still. Suddenly, Vernita’s eyes were flooded with tears as her head fell in her lap and she began sobbing. Tears filled my own eyes as her wave of pain hit me. The wound that Vietnam had inflicted on us had suddenly opened itself up forty years later. Woody walked over to Vernita’s chair, kneeled on one knee by her side and clasped her hands in his own. For the first time, he heard the story of that phone call and the faith that his young wife had in him that day. How nothing I could say would shake her confidence that he was coming home soon to her and their daughter.

       My experience with Woody and Vernita that evening made me realize that some of the most painful wounds in war are inflicted upon family members and friends, more so than those of us serving in the war zone. In Vietnam, 58,148 Americans lost their lives, and 304,000 more were wounded, but these numbers pale to the suffering the war cost their loved ones at home.

     My first memory of Vietnam was the pilot announcing, “we are approaching the coastline of Vietnam.”  I was still half asleep, suffering from two days of travel from North Carolina to McChord Air Force Base in Washington State before finally arriving at Tan Son Nhut Air Base near Saigon. My Pan Am flight looked like any other Pan Am flight that I had taken, a commercial aircraft with attractive young flight attendants, which was the norm at that time. The primary exception was that almost all the passengers on the plane were wearing a uniform.  Most were in Army khakis, others in Navy and Air Force blue, and a few in civilian clothes, Department of the Army civilians and contractors. As I looked out the window and saw the coastline coming up and the rice paddies and mountains in the distance, I expected to see artillery and bomb explosions or tracers streaming into the air, but it was utterly peaceful. There was no sign that this was a country at war. Our plane landed at Tan Son Nhut, and we started deboarding down the portable stairs onto the tarmac. As I stepped out of the air-conditioned plane, I was struck by a tremendous wave of hot, humid air. It was my welcome to Vietnam and the climate I would be living in for the next year.

     My journey to Vietnam had started in March 1969. My class of 800 West Point cadets had gathered in Thayer Hall to select our first assignments. The selection process was based on class rank, and although there were hundreds of classmates in front of me, assignments in Europe, stateside, or Vietnam were still open to me when my name was called. Many of my classmates planned to get married or were engaged and wanted to avoid service in Vietnam as their initial assignment. Others did not feel ready to serve in a combat zone and preferred to go to Europe or a stateside location to gain experience. I selected Vietnam. There were many reasons. I had received a free education paid for by my country and felt an obligation to serve. My father had served in World War II, as had many of my uncles. The war was not going well, and there was a shortage of good junior leaders, and I felt like I could make a positive contribution in a difficult situation. Lastly, I did not have a fiancé nor steady girlfriend at the time, so I had only myself to consider.

     When I deployed to Vietnam in August 1970, the war that began in 1965 was not going well for the US side. The Vietcong had demonstrated during the Tet offensive of 1968 that they could still control the countryside. Many Americans no longer supported the war, and daily antiwar demonstrations were the norm in the states.  By 1970, 40% of the junior enlisted soldiers serving in Vietnam were draftees, the vast majority of which were disproportionally serving in ground combat units. Most were good soldiers, but they were young and inexperienced. The average age of the 2.7 million veterans who served in Vietnam was 22 years old, versus 26 years old for those who served in WWII. Unlike in WWII, drugs and racial strife were common problems in most American units, especially among support troops.

     I had requested an assignment in the 11th Armored Cavalry Squadron, a prestigious unit near Saigon. When I arrived in Vietnam, however, this unit had all the lieutenants it needed. Hence, the Army assigned me to A Troop, 3rd Squadron, 4th Cavalry Regiment of the 25th Infantry Division, located in a large US base camp at Chu Chi. This unit was

operating about 60 miles northwest of Saigon in what was called the “Fishhook” as the border of Vietnam with Cambodia curved like a fishhook in that area. The entire area of operations consisted of flat terrain made up of miles and miles of rice paddies and jungle with small Vietnamese villages scattered throughout.

     The chief terrain feature in the area my unit had to protect was an inactive volcanic mountain several thousand feet high, called Nui Ba Den, or “Black Virgin Mountain”.

The Army had a radio relay station on the summit, which came under regular attack from the VC. Consequently, the mountains’ sides had been bombed and hit by artillery so often that almost no trees were left standing. The most significant benefit of the mountain was to help those of us on the flat terrain surrounding it to navigate. By taking a compass reading from our location to the mountain, and another reading from an airburst of US artillery, we could use triangulation to determine our position on the flat rice paddies and

high grass. This primitive method of determining location was not without error and sometimes resulted in artillery fire missing the enemy, or even worse, falling on friendly positions. On the road from Saigon to Cu Chi Base Camp, we passed through the city of Tay Ninh, which is the home of a small Buddhist religion called Caodaism. As we passed by the beautiful Cao Dai temple, dozens of young monks in their orange robes moved around outside and in the neighborhood. The Cao Dai faithful believe that there are 36 levels of Heaven and 72 planets having intelligent life. The first planet is closest to Heaven, while number 72 is closest to Hell. Earth, sadly, is close to Hell at number 68. Maybe it was because the land they inhabited had been at war for more than 25 years.

     When I arrived, I found that my unit had just come in from field operations on weeklong maintenance and rest stand-down. It was an ideal time to arrive in that I had a chance to meet my platoon and fellow officers in an environment other than combat operations. My troop commander was serving his second tour in Vietnam and was shortly due to return to the states. He was a senior captain and an experienced leader and went by the radio callsign “Alpha six.” I was assigned as the first platoon leader and went by the radio call sign “Alpha-One-Six.”  Steve, the second platoon leader, “Alpha-Two-Six,” was an ROTC, 1st lieutenant who had been drafted to serve in Vietnam and was not happy about being there. Frank, the third platoon leader, “Alpha-Three-Six,” had arrived in Vietnam about a month before I did.  Although we were fellow armor officers, we had not previously known each other.  He was friendly and welcomed me to the unit.

     I had been a tank platoon leader at Fort Riley, with five M60 tanks and crews.  In Vietnam, I would lead a reconnaissance platoon equipped with six M113 armored personnel carriers (APCs), each of which carried a crew of four or five soldiers and was armed with a 50-caliber machinegun. These APCs had tracks instead of wheels and could navigate through rice paddies and light jungle. The platoon also had three Sheridan Armored Reconnaissance Vehicles (ARVs) or light tanks. Each was armed with a 152mm

cannon capable of firing a Beehive round against ground infantry or conventional tank rounds against bunkers. Each Sheridan had a four-person crew and was equipped with a 50-caliber and 7.62mm coaxial machine gun. 

     My platoon was authorized fifty-one men, but there were always positions unfilled, soldiers processing in or out of the country, sick, or recovering from wounds. Consequently, fewer than forty soldiers were available on most days. Almost every noncommissioned officer qualified to serve in a tank or cavalry unit had already had a Vietnam tour by 1970, so there was a significant shortage of qualified NCOs in all platoons. My platoon sergeant, a staff sergeant, was assigned in the position usually held by a sergeant first class. He was not experienced and was not enthusiastic about the job placed upon him because of his seniority. He commanded the three Sheridan tanks as they could not navigate rice paddies and had to remain mainly on the roads. Consequently, my platoon often acted as two units rather than one. The APCs under my control conducted reconnaissance while the Sheridan light tanks under my platoon sergeant’s control escorted supply convoys or provided road security.

     With my platoon sergeant frequently absent, I depended upon a less experienced staff sergeant who normally was only responsible for a five-man APC crew. He did a respectable job under the conditions but was little help to me in my first combat leadership role. As the platoon leader, I did not command a track vehicle but instead focused on the entire platoon. Specialist Carson was my M113 carrier commander, responsible for its maintenance and care and supervising the crew. He was a tall, lean soldier who was always professional and knowledgeable and greatly benefited me.

     Sgt. Hancock was the leader of my infantry squad and looked the part. Physically fit, striking in appearance, and a natural leader, he was my most reliable noncommissioned officer. Any time we were in a situation where there was danger, he was always the one I wanted with me on the ground. “Doc” was our platoon medic.  One of only four minority soldiers in the platoon, he was well trained, highly motivated, and much respected by the other soldiers. Doc enjoyed his job and the prestige that went with it. PFC Campbell, one of my favorites, was a short, baby-faced infantry soldier who loved to tangle with danger and embraced every opportunity to disarm a mine in the road or plant an explosive charge. Another colorful character in my platoon was Private Johnson, an American Indian, who wore a headband and looked like an Apache warrior.

     My father served in the same Marine unit for three years in the Pacific during WW II, where he developed life-long friendships. My experience in Vietnam would be different. My fellow soldiers and I would be respectful and cordial with each other, but there was little to bind us in our short time together except getting about the business of war. With one exception, I would never see any of these officers or soldiers again after our unit was deactivated four months later.