Chap 12 Tree of Life
For the next few days, after Haig's big battle, things for us didn't
change much. We continued to provide road security for route 246 and
took turns running ambush patrols at night. As I have already said,
night ambush patrols were used by combat units in Vietnam primarily as
early warning of enemy activity. In "free kill zones" like War Zone C,
we were at liberty to kill anything that moved, especially after dark.
Our battalion leadership said nothing to us "mushrooms" concerning the
battle at LZ "George". Bartee, himself, had to know some details. He had
access to a radio, at all times and though it probably wasn't tuned into
the most revealing frequencies, he still was much more aware of what was
going on around him than were we grunts. Go figure! It seems to me now,
that at the very least, leadership would have seen fit to let us in on a
few of the major details. Surely the Army possessed the organizational
capability to understand that a few details would help draw the more
uninvolved souls in the unit, like me, into the loop. At the very least,
it seems that it would have been a motivating factor which would have
given us a better understanding of how serious our business was.
However, its abundantly clear to me now, that the 1967 Army did not
think that way. If they didn't, however, the communist sure did. They
critiqued every battle with the participants of that battle every single
time.
A few days later, on the 4th of April 1967 it was my squad's turn to go
out into the jungle about 500 meters and set up one of these nighttime
ambush positions. This was the first ambush patrol, which my squad had
been assigned since we had arrived at "Thrust". There was no question in
anyone’s mind about this being a very dangerous undertaking. There was a
very good chance that we would get into some trouble. Sergeant
Bartee was nervous as “all-get-out”. Heck, we all were. Everyone else,
who had patrolled this area, had ran into trouble. Why should we be any
different? As a matter of fact, we had already experienced a brazen
daylight ambush, on this same road, just outside the wire.
As we "saddled up" and started out, we skirted the perimeter, until we
got to an A company bunker, and then took a right turn straight into
triple canopy jungle. We then would follow an azimuth, which led us
beside our left side of the road and twenty-five meters inside the wood
line, off the road, itself. However, just before making the turn, to
enter the jungle, I noticed a soldier standing "dead still" on top of
that A company bunker. He stared straight into my face and mine, alone,
although there was a line of men, following close behind me. His name
was Willis (Lonnie) Matthews and I have never forgotten the concerned
expression on his face, for over fifty years, although I did not know
his name, until recently. He continued to silently fix his gaze on me,
until I turned away to enter the jungle. One reason I have remembered
that face all these years is because "Lonnie" had one of the kindest
faces that I had seen, since I arrived in Vietnam. Unlike me, I could
tell, by one glance, that he was at peace, with himself. Yet, at the
same time, I could see the concern in his eyes. I now realize that
concern was for us, not for himself. Just before I turned from him, he
waved his hand at me, as if he wanted to say something, but he never
uttered a word. No matter. We both knew what he wanted to say. Lonnie
was waving, what he thought could be a last goodbye to us here on this
earth. The strange thing about this short encounter was that I could
feel Lonnie's ability to be concerned for other soldiers who were
complete strangers. That was rare. Most often soldiers were only
concerned for themselves and those whom they had come to know in some
personal way, which is only natural.
As we moved quietly toward our assigned ambush position, the jungle
around us was quiet. Everyone knew that this time it would not be good
enough to set up as usual. Enemy patrols in this area had been heavy and
there was a real possibility that they would outnumber us. Before
arriving at "Thrust", quite frankly, past ambush patrols had been
boring. We usually waited for dawn, counting the long hours, as we
maintained a one-man watch, per every three, until it was time to go
home. However, this time, things were different. Bartee sensed the
difference. Milliron sensed it too, as did Bowman and me. I honestly
don't remember what Walker was sensing. For some unknown reason, he
seemed very passive toward the rest of us. It was a passiveness which
seemed to come over him after that day, when we were preparing to storm
those enemy bunkers. Since then, Walker just seemed to go with the flow.
It could have had something to do with the amount of respect he had
managed to garner, bit by bit, from every man in the squad, black or
white. Maybe that respect had freed him from having anything to prove.
In 1960s America, respect from whites for a black man was a rare
commodity, indeed. Yet, Walker had become one of the most respected
members of the squad from Bartee on down. Still, no one really knows
what another man is thinking, without the revelation of the Holy Spirit.
I don't know why Walker never voiced his tactical input on any
situation, which I can remember. However, it really didn't matter. He
didn't have to. He was probably the best "thump gunner" (M40 grenade
launcher) in the entire division. Given clear space, he could put five
thump gun rounds on target down field at 100 meters, before the first
round landed. I was in awe the first time I saw him do it. After that
display, I remember jokingly saying to him, "Goodness gracious" Walker,
that sure will look good on your job resume, when you get back to the
world (U.S.)”, but then I remembered that he was self-employed. Walker
was a pimp from Ohio. Anyway, here on a branch of the Ho Chi Minh trail,
Walker was a great asset, and man who commanded respect from the rest of
us, whether he voiced his opinions or not. There were guys who came
through my squad, and I don't even remember their name, because they
just didn't matter to me that much. Yet I will never forget Walker, or
Bowman or Milliron or Bartee. Of course, everyone is special in God's
eyes, but I am not giving God's viewpoint here. I am giving my own
flawed self-centered perspective at the time.
When we arrived at
our plotted ambush spot, "lo and behold" there was a giant tree similar
to the one in the picture above, standing directly on the destination
pinpointed on our map. I remember standing in the inner circle close to
Sgt. Bartee and his radio man, with Bill Milliron and Glenn Bowman
standing beside me. We started discussing our plight, while the others
just looked on. Each patrol which had been sent in this general
direction had made some type of contact, with enemy patrols. Nobody had
any illusions, that we might fare better. With that unsettling thought
sticking in the bottom of each of our stomachs, it wasn’t hard to start
visualizing ways this tree could be used for protection. Just the fact
that it was located exactly on our destination check point was a minor
miracle, in itself. I don’t know who voiced the idea first, but the idea
was embraced immediately by everyone. Of course, us "ole guys" were
always in general agreement, that we always needed to not wait for the
bullets to start flying before we hatched a plan. We always hatched a
plan. However, this time, we knew that plan would need to be better than
ever before.
All any ambush patrol had at its disposal for cover and concealment was
what could be found naturally in the immediate vicinity. An ambush
patrol could not afford the time or noise it took to dig fox holes. The
laterite soil in War Zone C was usually hard, but around these big
behemoths, it was extremely soft. It was easy and quick to dig under the
huge roots. That would not only give us concealment, but also overhead
protection from flying shrapnel. So, it became an easy decision to have
everyone get out their entrenching tools and dig spider holes under the
huge roots. It worked great. In less than ten minutes, we dug holes
which could conceal us below ground with overhead cover from the roots
to boot. We strung out six claymores, three along the road and three in
a semicircle behind us. Before we climbed into our holes for the night,
Bartee picked two men to stay awake at all times, in two-hour shifts,
while the rest slept. Everyone was warned one more time to not fire
their weapons on contact, but instead pop claymores, and then quickly
follow Bartee, me and Milliron to another assembly point. From there we
could call in artillery on our original position. There was another
thing that most of the "city slickers" did not want to think about. They
didn't want to think about what was crawling around under those tree
roots with them. All and all, however, that tree was a "God Send".
We had us a plan,
but any combat veteran knows that a plan very rarely joins hands with
reality. Night settled in, and a couple hours of silent darkness went
by. If an enemy patrol had walked past that tree, they would not have
seen or smelled anything. We were as invisible as one could become in
our individual spider holes. The tree's roots and towering branches
became our life saving protectors.
As I have already elaborated on, we had other fire bases nearby, who
might H & I artillery rounds at random all night long, so it wasn't
unusual to hear explosions in the distance. It was said that this was
done to keep the enemy guessing. I have already voiced how stupid I
believe this idea was. These fire missions actually told the enemy
sapper teams where not to look for our ambush patrols. How? Because
these fire bases were given our map coordinates, so they could avoid
shelling where we were located, and the enemy was quite aware of this.
Anyway, when I heard the first 155 mm round land in the direction of our
NDP, I was not alarmed, in the least. Then a couple more shells landed a
little closer. A third shell landed a little closer still. It was still
early in the evening and no one had gone to sleep yet, so each one of us
were now starting to realize that this was not normal. Another fire base
was obviously carrying out a fire mission and they were dropping rounds
down the same side of the road, where our ambush patrol was located. We
called this tactic “walking a road”. When two or three more rounds
landed even closer, our radio operator was on the horn (radio) calling
for a cease fire. That doesn’t happen instantly. Our command post would
have to call the CP of the unit engaged in the fire mission and they in
turn would then order their gunners to cease fire. Two or three more
rounds landed even closer. Everyone held their breath and scooted as far
up under their overhead cover of roots, as they could get. Another and
another landed, coming closer and closer. Now, all anyone could do was
wait helplessly, in mortal fear for our lives. The killing radius of a
155 mm shell is 50 meters, and we were in the direct line of fire with
no indication that the shelling would be halted in time to save us.
Two shells now landed only fifty meters away. Within just a few seconds,
two more exploded in an air burst, near the top of our tree, and well
within the killing radius. The jungle flooring around us shuttered as it
was hit by the supersonic shock wave from the blasts. Branches from the
treetop came crashing down around us. The air we breathed immediately
became heavy with fine particles of dust which were kicked up, as the
shock wave propelled thousands of red-hot shrapnel shards in every
direction. The shock wave alone, from a 155 mm gun blast, can kill, at
this extremely close range. However, the big tree roots covering us
absorbed much of the shock wave as well as the shrapnel. If we had been
caught out in the more open jungle, I am sure every man in my squad
would have been killed. Now, the air around us hung heavy with a mixed
smell of cordite and suspended particles of humus from the jungle
flooring. Two more shells exploded thirty meters or so past our
position.
As quickly as this
mortal danger came, it also went. An eerie silence took its place.
During that silence, each survivor had time to wonder whether the others
around him were still alive or not. Cavazos was probably wondering the
same thing. Then the jungle flooring around the tree started to erupt,
as we zombie look-a-likes began standing up, from beneath the ground.
That was quite a sight for no one but us to see. The artillery barrages
fell silent. In their place, there was a high-pitched ringing in each
man's ears. I still have mine to this very day. We were covered in
leaves and dirt particles, from head to toe, which only made us look
more like creatures from the living dead.
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