Chapter 10: Beginning Our Walk with Dick 061225

      My unit joined Operation Junction City on the 13th of March 1967. The lag time was probably due to a change in unit commanders. The after-action reports are not clear on what date that happened or which location we were flown out of. It was probably the air strip at Phuoc Vinh or Lai Kai on Thunder Road. Our new battalion commander was Lt. Col. Richard Cavazos. Yes, he was new, but unlike so many other newbies, he was not dreading this new combat assignment. His entire life had prepared him for this moment. Those preparations started with growing up on the ranch, under the discipline of his ranch foreman father. He later played the confidence building team-sport of football in high school and college at Texas Tech. After graduating as an ROTC student, he was commissioned a second lieutenant and sent to Korea. Exposed to an overwhelming enemy force while defending a hill, Dick was almost court martialed for withdrawing from that hill without orders. When the real facts came to light, the court martial was dropped and Dick was decorated instead. He had given orders for his men to withdraw but then went back himself, to help the wounded escape who had been left behind.

      I don't believe Dick's displays of courage in Korea sprang from a vacuum. I believe, that growing up, he had witnessed enough prejudice against Catholics and against Mexican Americans like him to realize that he was going to have to excel at whatever he did to get ahead. He was never going to be a tall, white, General’s fair-haired boy. He was both a Catholic and a Mexican American which were looked down on by most Protestant Americans of that day. Dick wasn't tall and was built more like Winston Churchill's bulldog. I believe that it was these social restraints of that time which made him seize the one avenue available to him to gain and maintain self-respect. That avenue was to gain respect from others by doing a thing better than the next guy. In Dick's case that included the ability to wage war. One of the reasons for having that opportunity to prove himself in the first place was because of the position which his father had acquired through his own determined resolve. Lauro modeled this resolve before his three sons. Early on Dick also found the love and support of his life when he found Caroline. Without her undying support, he simply would not have been able to function at the same high level no matter how determined he became. Soon, however, Dick would be forced to face situations which no American Combat commander should have to face. No matter how prepared, in Vietnam, he would soon be caught in shifting political winds of educated fools, creating situations, which only God could fix.     

      I have just briefly described Dick’s situation as he took command of our 1/18th Infantry Battalion. One of the first things he did after assuming command was to change his radio call sign from “Duchess 6” to “Dogface 6”.

     While Dick was getting settled in to his new command, after action reports indicate that operational control (OPCON) of individual units was assigned back and forth a lot, especially at the brigade level. Of course, at a grunt's lowly level, there was no effort to make us aware of these changes in command structure. Knowing what I know now, however, I do not believe any unit was moved around more than the 3/5th mechanized unit. During the war, they were attached at one point to the Marines operating in the northern provinces and in the far south near the Mekong Delta. On the 13th of March 1967, after we were flown to Quan Loi and the next day inserted by helicopters near a bridge construction site on Highway 246, we got to say hello to this unit for the first time. Here, along route 246, probably at the bridge, we met the fellows of A company of the 3/5th. Neither of our units had seen any major action and that was not unusual. The men, of the 3/5th, were shipped to Vietnam by boat so they knew each other, because they had trained in the states together. At least these men had not had to deal with the effects of feeling isolated and alone, as had been our case. When joined forces that day, they had only been in country just a little over two months. The absence of any major contact around the areas off Thunder Road had helped give many of us in my unit the impression that this area was relatively safe from any large enemy attacks. Of course nothing could have been further from the truth.

     Phuoc Vinh, and Lai Khe, were much farther south than An Loc, and seemed even safer. When operating around Phuoc Vinh, I had several chances to go to town by myself and enjoy a particular Vietnamese restaurant which had delicious fried rice patty shrimp. In 1967, one would have been hard pressed to find any better cuisine stateside than what this little tin shack produced. Looking back now, I do not believe any of us grunts understood the danger we were in as we casually went about these rare downtime forays. I certainly did not realize that there was an entire NVA regiment lurking just a few miles away, as I sat enjoying my delicious fried shrimp dinners. I believed, like so many others, that we were mainly dealing with home grown V.C. To reinforce that thinking, civilian traffic around places like Phuoc Vinh and Lai Khe was very heavy during the day. Everyone was seemingly going about their daily activities very peaceably. Furthermore, we grunts knew nothing of the two large battles which had already occurred during Operation Junction City involving the 1/16th and the 2/2nd. It would be over fifty years before I learned about them. I certainly did not realize that in just a short time a big battle was about to unfold between the NVA and these damp but dusty looking men of the 3/5th who were now positioned alongside us on this bridge construction. My personal and very naive observations had me believing that these guys were just another mechanized unit, which I had to be careful of, because they were prone to blast away at anything during an attack, including us. I had absolutely no understanding of how important men like these could be during some night attacks later in the year. One of the reasons why I wasn’t concerned was because I didn't believe that such an attack was possible.

      I really had no desire to be around a mechanized unit much less be assigned to one. Seeing one of their crew being blown up was enough for me. Besides, they always had that damp and dusty look because they were always riding up and down dusty red clay roads. Now, you may ask, "how can someone be damp and dusty at the same time?". Here's how. A brief rain was starting to fall on us every day late in the afternoon. However, it was not enough to completely inundate the thick layer of red dust on those red dirt roads. There was still plenty of this fine red powder to be stirred up by tracked vehicles and then deposited on the sweat and rain-soaked jungle fatigues of the men operating those vehicles. Voila. I have now given the recipe for the damp and dusty look. It was a fashion statement all its own if not a very beautiful thing to behold.

     In some ways, every grunt in every unit in Vietnam was in their own little world whether we were twenty feet apart or three hundred miles apart. One thing, however, that we all had in common was that we made observations and formed opinions of the bigger picture according to what we saw going on around us. Lasting impressions were formed by personal experiences and by listening to the grapevine, but the grapevine was severely limited. It was silent about the Battle of Prek Klok I on February 28th where the Medal of Honor winner, Sergeant Leonard gave his life for his men. Perhaps, if it could have been beefed up enough to include news about Sergent Leonard, that news would have mitigated my negative feelings about lifer sergeants. The grapevine was also silent about The Battle of Prek Klok II which happened on March 10th. This debilitating breakdown in the flow of important Division news left the door wide open for some very naive and foolish lifelong opinions to take root. Some of these false impressions would stick with us for life and even spread to the rest of America, helping to form many false impressions. Like me, many millions of returning veterans formed wrong opinions because we were privy to only a nanoscopic view of the battlefield. Some of my own preconceived, but erroneous notions weren't toppled until I researched information to author this book. Just imagine the negative effects millions of returning Vietnam veterans had on the rest of America, at the time, because they had formed erroneous opinions. In any organization, not continually broadcasting publicly the good things that occur within that organization is a big mistake. We were left in an information vacuum making it next to impossible for the average soldier to form a truthful understanding of the war. That vacuum was just waiting to be filled by the many enemies of our cause. Let me make it clear that I am not talking about broadcasting sensitive intelligence information, but just basic communications. I now realize that I witnessed things which needed to be reported but no one encouraged me to report those events. The communist recognized the benefits of assigning special propaganda teams to do nothing but blow smoke into the ears of their troops, day in, and day out. How beneficial would it have been to assign special communications officers to the task of covering and broadcasting the good things we did and also bringing to light the many atrocities which were being committed by the communist.

     The appalling lack of patriotic reporters who understood the evils of communism assured us that there would be no Ernie Piles to favorably personalize the truthful plight of the average grunt in the eyes of the American public. To make matters worse, a very self-serving mainstream media was given free rein to comb our ranks for “gotcha moments” which they could then “spin” to denigrate us in a most despicable way.  These guys were the best in the business. They knew how to solicit and then edit their interviews with just enough naïve statements from us grunts to make their story say anything they wanted it to say to scratch the ears of their boss, Walter Cronkite. At this juncture in American history the big three broadcasting stations controlled the thinking of most Americans. Walter was declared the most trusted man in America. At the same time, fear of reprisals from the communists, made it much more safe to pick on American fighting men. With that said, the multitude of atrocities committed daily by our enemy were ignored by the big three in favor of using a mega phone to blast away, reporting loudly and often every detail of every wrong our leaders committed, no matter how small in the large scheme of things. This very leftist leaning media, by its very godless nature, assured us, that the real truth about Vietnam would be obscured, and guess what? It’s still obscured today. Most Americans still have a lopsided view of the facts if they have any view at all.  

     I believe that the very influential Oliver Stone was one of those veterans who fell prey to this lopsided world view in mainstream news reporting, but then, so did I. Yes sir, ignorance contributed greatly to a lack of understanding of what a noble undertaking we grunts were actually embarked upon. This left the door wide open for an extremely distorted historical picture to be spun.

     Yes, I am aware of the much larger problem, which no amount of good communications could have cured in Vietnam. And yes, I know I digress from that more personal story of my Dogface 6 boys. However, I feel I must give some explanations of reasons for that larger chaos, which was Vietnam, in order for the reader to realize what a great miracle it was for my battalion to perform as it performed, against the backdrop of such faulty shortsightedness of our leaders. In contrast, the communist ideology is not shortsighted. And it has never declared peace just because we pulled out of Vietnam. We have to look no further than China for the proof of how correct my words are. However, let me also say this. Let he, who has been involved and not sinned by creating similar shortsighted foreign policies since Vietnam, be the one to cast the first stone at people like President Kennedy and Johnson.

     With that said, let’s get back to my more personal story. Over 50 years after I served in Vietnam, I would learn that the 3/5th squadron, the one sharing our NDP on this night, was one of the finest performing American units to ever serve in any war, not just Vietnam, but all of America's past wars. I found this out through my research of the hard cold facts and not through my own experiences or the opinions of others. Studious citizen soldiers like me would have to wait for the invention of the internet to learn these pertinent facts concerning the magnificent performance of other units besides our own. By then, however, most of us vets would be dead or too old to care. Truth is, this mechanized unit and mine were just strangers passing in the night when we bumped into each other at this NDP. They looked like just another weather beaten and worn-down unit. Of course, I made this assumption without any knowledge whatsoever of the facts. I really didn't know where they had come from or how they got here, nor did I care. I thought that we could fight our way out of anything those communist guerrillas could throw at us. We certainly didn’t need the help of this mechanized unit or any other for that matter.

     To sour my opinion of mechanized units even further, earlier in the year my unit had been on several operations with different mechanized units. On one such operation, enemy patrols had been trying to unnerve us by taking "pot shots" at our patrols and then running away. Finally, in response, this mechanized unit's weapons platoon, positioned behind us, started routinely firing mortar rounds to the front of our patrol about 100 meters. The military term for that is "marching fires".

     I was running point with no other help on this day. I would listen closely for the distinctive "thump" each time a mortar round left the mortar tube and would stand still until the shell exploded to my front. However, on this one occasion, as I heard the thump and waited a few seconds for the round to explode, The Holy Spirit spoke softly into my conscious mind. "You need to get down", He said. So, I ran forward a few steps and squatted down behind a fallen tree. If the round fell short, it would surely not fall short enough to land on my side of the tree. I was wrong. The round landed directly behind me and only about 10 meters away from me. If I had not run forward those few feet to hide behind the fallen tree, I would have been blown apart. Gee, I wonder who arranged for that fallen tree to be at that exact location? I’ll bet it was God. Bartee and his RTO were directly behind me and slightly to my right. They also were miraculously spared, but 3 or 4 men in my platoon, including our platoon leader were seriously wounded. This friendly fire episode became "strike one" in my mind against mechanized units. Another time, while operating with another mechanized unit, we received some sporadic enemy fire to our front. An armored vehicle behind us immediately open fired with his 50 caliber machine gun. This put us in a crossfire situation. Those big 50 caliber rounds could go through a couple of trees, two or three men and keep on going. that's how powerful they were. Fortunately, this time, no one was killed, but now there was a real growing mistrust in our ranks for mechanized units in general. This event became strike two and things got worse. Shortly after the crossfire incident, the brass gave us a night off and supplied a little too much alcohol. We were spending the night in a small base camp in the middle of nowhere. Another unit pulled perimeter guard for us. As usual in these rare situations, I was getting some much needed sleep, while many of my guys and the mechanized unit's crews got drunk together. This was a recipe for disaster. Near midnight I was awakened by the metallic sound of several of the 50 caliber machine guns being cocked and a lot of screaming going on. As it turned out, the previous crossfire incident had become the catalyst for the deadly event now unfolding before my sleepy eyes. Some of the mechanized unit crew members, fueled by too much alcohol, had mounted their tracks and were cocking their machine guns, coming within a hair’s breadth of spraying grunts like me with machine gun fire just to settle an ensuing argument. Fortunately, a couple of cool-headed NCOs were able to defuse the situation and Dick never again allowed us to mingle with a mechanized units during down time. This was definitely strike three in my mind for all mechanized units. After this I really had no use for any mechanized unit whatsoever and that included A troop of the 3/5th squadron, who were now deployed alongside us. Yes, it’s too bad that these negative personal experiences became the only criteria by which I judged all mechanized units.

     It took over fifty years for me to learn that in just a few days this rag tag mechanized troop spending the night with us would repel a major and well-coordinated attack by the so-called hardcore 273rd NVA regiment. Just before that battle, the 273rd had been camped within a stone’s throw of the restaurant on the outskirts of Phuoc Vinh, where I had regularly been chowing down, all by my lonesome self. One day, while I was having lunch there, I was abruptly pulled bodily away from my dinner by three waitresses. They forced me into a darkened back room while others shut doors and windows in the front of the restaurant. It never dawned on me until many years later that a marauding patrol of the 273rd regiment could have been coming through, looking for American soldiers like me to take as prisoners. I had no idea that such a force might be operating so close by. So, I reported nothing when I returned to my unit. This same unit was now getting ready to attack the 3/5th just north of Lai Khe on Thunder Road not that far from Phuoc Vinh and near that same restaurant. 

     When the 3/5th left us they camped out for the night of March 19th on Thunder Road several kilometers north of Lai Khe. They were led by Captain Raoul H. Alcala who’s squadron commander, was Lt. Col. Sidney S. Haszard. The 273rd attacked them but got shot to pieces in the process. The American troop lost only 3 men, while the body count for the enemy was by all personal accounts underestimated at 227. The fighting was close-in, and the enemy fighters were relentless. It became known as the Battle of Ap Bau Bang. The after action reports tell me a lot. Although the glory was given to air power, it was the incredible amount of return fire from the machine gun crews that won the night. Canister rounds from on-site tanks dusted off other armored vehicles of their unwelcomed boarding parties. There was also some very skillful maneuvering of squadron forces by Alcala and Haszard, which blunted the determined human wave attacks. The fighting was too close-in for air support to be used effectively. The perimeter was breached so quickly, that off-site artillery support was of little help. It took some very agile thinking throughout the night on the part of these American grunts led by a few lifer NCOs to turn the tide. They literally wrenched away any surprise initiative that the enemy had at the onset just as the 1/16th had done at the Battle of Prek Klok I. The air strikes did help prevent the enemy from reassembling, but it was the toe to toe defense by the men of Troop A, which kept a wretched and dehumanized enemy, from winning the night.

     It’s too bad that the after action analysis of this battle as well as that of many other battles fought by our citizen soldiers gave them so little credit. These young Americans were robbed of the respect which they had earned because our leaders allowed a very godless American media to be conned by a very smooth communist propaganda machine into believing a host of false narratives. It wasn't until I studied these major battles that I realized how misinformed we Americans had allowed ourselves to become. “A” Troop was awarded an exceedingly rare Presidential Citation, for their actions that night, having been in-country only a little over two months.

     Like me, most of my fellow grunts never knew that a powerful NVA force like this was anywhere near Lai Khe. We had combed the area around Lai Khe ourselves just a few days before, thinking we were only up against localized guerrillas. Looking back, and now armed with more facts, I realize that it was NVA patrols that we were engaging from time to time, thinking they were just these local home-grown guerrillas. I know this now because the after action reports of the battle of Ap Bau Bang along with personal experiences give me enough information to make these informed assertions. Some of these reports mention that NVA attackers sometimes wore black. Yet our common belief was that only local guerrilla forces, which we called Viet Cong (V.C.) wore black and that the regular NVA soldiers wore green or khaki uniforms with pith helmets. So, when we ran across enemy patrols, who seemed to always be dressed in black, we incorrectly assumed that they were just local inhabitants, who also had a day job growing rice. How naïve could we be and still breathe. The bottom line is this. The communist were very good at spreading propaganda to further their cause. The word for that today is disinformation. American soldiers like me bought into that disinformation and then helped spread it. One major false narrative was that a large segment of the population was hard-core communist. Not true. Even today only 3% of the population in Vietnam are card-carrying communists.

      Before the Battle of Ap Bau Bang, while we were at that bridge construction site on Highway 246 with A Troop of the 3/5^th, the probability of being attacked was high. The nights were especially spooky. Each night artillery flares were dropped on our NDP.  They had a strange white glow which created dancing shadows on the jungle landscape around us. It was surreal to say the least. We were very close to the Cambodian border. However, instead of attacking us here, as one might expect, the enemy chose to wait and attack “A” Troop when they left us and deployed much further south on the 20th of March. That battle occurred near a place on Thunder Road which was just a stone’s throw north of Lai Khe known as Ap Bau Bang.

      Also, on the 19th of March two companies of the 3/22nd battalion made a landing in a hot LZ code named "Gold" and lost three helicopters with six others damaged. 15 men were killed and 28 wounded. We were 15 miles northeast of them when this event took place. The enemy attacked this unit again on the 21st of March. That battle became the largest battle of the war to date. A force of around 450 Americans was attacked by over 2500 NVA soldiers at fire base "Gold". We Americans had 31 killed in action and 109 wounded.

      Westmoreland was pleased. His simplistic thinking told him that trading over 850 enemy dead for 31 of our boys was not only a good deal tactically, but also a big step in the right direction toward total victory. Instead of celebrating, however, he should have been looking for answers to the following question. How was our enemy consistently resupplying such large forces with food, men, and materials so far south and east of their supply lines across the border in Cambodia. After all their main means of transportation was ox carts and human porters on bicycles. While Westy avoided this question, I knew nothing of the occurrence of these battles in the first place until I started my research for authoring this book. I certainly didn’t know anything about the importance of cutting off supply lines. At the time I still labored under the false perception that we were fighting hit and run fire fights with a bunch of "home boys". Yeah, I realize that news of these battles made it to the Army’s publication of “Stars and Stripes”, but that newspaper was a little hard to read in the pouring rain. Come to think of it, I don’t remember being supplied with anything to read in the field and we were in the field almost all the time.

     For the next couple weeks, we operated in and around that bridge construction on Highway 246. My squad, as usual, pulled our share of the ambush patrols, but time after time we made no contact, and things were relatively quiet around the bridge. Every now and again the sounds of machine gun fire and artillery shells could be heard, but our focus was on the traffic coming and going down Highway 246. The month of March was fast fading into April, and my unit had not been exposed to anything that anyone would consider trouble too big for the three hundred of us to handle. Yes, we were ever vigilant for snipers, small ambushes, booby traps and IEDs on the roads, but those were facts of life no matter whether we were patrolling down south or near the Cambodian border. In this present location west of An Loc, there were fewer civilians then down south. There were many more military convoys. There were numerous tanks and APCs providing security for these convoys. 

     Through the rest of March, we played a kind of musical chairs with the rest of the battalions in Division, as we moved back and forth between locations on highway 246. In reality, we were just waiting on the music to stop and the enemy to hit one of these locations with an all-out attack. Yet, no one told us grunts that the threat of getting hit hard was of any concern. Morale in our own battalion was getting better than at any point since I had joined the unit. The very real chances of my unit having to face off in some big battles was growing every day. Yet, that was the furthest thing from anyone's thoughts, except one. That person was Dick Cavazos. Russell Johnson was killed by a booby trap. Donald Mills was killed by an IED. Alanzo Matthews was later killed by a short round and Harold VanBuskirk by a sapper. People in my unit were getting killed and wounded one or two at a time. Sappers were blowing up convoy vehicles daily, but that had somehow become okay. I heard none of our people express any concern whatsoever that we might be overrun in a human wave attack. We were mushrooms and mushrooms just don’t have much of a notion about anything. However, Dick did know, and he did understand how to deal with the situation, but it would take some time. At this point, all we knew was that our new commander had given us a couple good pep talks. Those talks were very uplifting, but only time would tell whether they would hold water or not. He assured us that he was not going to have us stick out our necks unnecessarily. Well, we’ll see. It seemed to me that I was sticking my neck out pretty far already. However, the real truth was that his routine actions were already beginning to bear fruit. He knew how to pick people who could pick other people who didn’t get us lost. That was a big improvement. That meant that he could quickly relay accurate coordinates to fine tune artillery and air strikes. If one didn’t know where he was, he couldn’t do that.  

     The following has nothing to do with any of these larger points, except that it happened around this moment in time at the bridge, while I was riding on an APC. I am only mentioning it so it can be recorded for my family to read. One day, while riding down Highway 246 on top of this "mechanical death trap", the driver got orders to reverse course, so he did a reverse turn in the middle of the road, while never slowing down. Centrifugal force sent me sailing over an embankment, rolling head over heels down through the jungle. When I stopped rolling, I was standing upright with my M-14 at the "present arms" position. I could have broken my neck, but I wasn't about to let go of my rifle. It was my dearest friend in the world at that time. Yeah, I know. That spot should have been reserved for the Holy Spirit.

     Let's move on. Being a grunt on any operation was always filled with stress, but on March 28th that stress level was ratcheted up a notch as we watched the 2/16th Infantry battalion ride into our positions around the bridge construction. They were riding on top of APC vehicles. It was early afternoon when they spread out to relieve us at each of our positions. They were now going to get to enjoy our hard work, without having to shovel a single shovel full of dirt. We were ordered to "saddle up" and load onto other APCs. They headed west on route 246. We soon arrived at another base camp. (It was a location known as Fire Base C). After arriving, we stood around at this new fire base for an hour or so, waiting on orders to replace the present occupants as had been done to us earlier in the day. We were really looking forward to getting settled in as soon as possible. It would be nice to trade positions and not have to dig in. We waited and waited for orders. Then I glimpsed Sergeant Bartee, walking back from the meeting, which officers and NCOs routinely attended, each time we arrived at a new location. However, this time his head was down, and his feet were dragging a little more than usual. That told us everything we needed to know, and it wasn’t good. As he approached the squad, out of habit, we bunched together close enough so everyone could hear. "Don't get too comfortable", he said, raising his voice just a little in anticipation of the moaning and groaning which was sure to come. We are waiting for enough APCs to finish road security details so they can take us to another location. The 1/2nd Infantry battalion guys standing around behind us were listening as quietly as church mice. The bad news being delivered to us was good news for them. They were the guys we thought we were going to relieve, so they had good reason to keep quiet. They knew that we had just drawn the short straw, and that we were the ones going to have to leave and go to a new location where we would probably have to dig new bunkers. They weren't stupid enough to make any “off the wall” comments which could get a fist in the face. It was getting very late in the day. We would be digging fresh new bunkers in the dark, and almost certainly in a remote area, where there was a good chance that a bunch of boogie men would already be lurking in the darkness.

      As we loaded onto APC's and headed west the sun was setting. There was no one on this narrow road but us. All the American convoys had bedded down somewhere for the night. The jungle came to the very edge of the road in front of us. As our vehicle tunneled through over hanging branches, we were forced to duck, periodically, or be swept off our ride. In that event, there would be a good possibility that we would be run over by the APC following behind. This entire episode began to give me a downright spooky feeling in the pit of my stomach. Here we were, riding on aluminum ten cans, making enough noise to let everyone down that road know that we were coming. The enemy would have plenty of time to set up a great ambush. I remember thinking, "Give me the closed-in concealment of the jungle any time, day or night, instead of riding out here in the open on top of this IED magnet. Yet, on and on we went while the sun waned lower. Our destination was only about five miles away, but it seemed much further. We had not had a hot meal the entire day, and we had begun the day at 0500 hours. We had also been pulling patrols and road security all day. Some grunts in my platoon had spent the night before, on ambush patrols. Everyone was now bone tired.

      Just before we reached our destination, a bubble helicopter skimmed the treetops and came straight at us. It then circled out of sight, briefly reappearing over us again, and then vanished for good in the distance down the road. When we arrived at our destination, a twenty-acre clearing, the armored unit which we rode in on held down the fort until we dismounted and established a perimeter. Then they cranked their engines, formed a line and headed back on that same narrow road. To my surprise a hand full of mechanized 155 MM guns, which had been bringing up the rear of our little convoy started spreading out in a line behind my squad’s position. Their crews began unloading the cargo of several large trucks which had also been part of our convoy. The little bubble H-13 helicopter was now parked in the middle of the clearing up a slight incline behind my squad’s position also. It was obviously our new battalion commander’s new ride. We immediately began digging in. Two of the big guns, repositioned themselves on either side of the little helicopter, walling it in. As I started digging in I noticed a stout framed Dick Cavazos standing beside his chopper, talking on a radio. His radio call sign, "Dogface 6", sounded so much better than “Duchess 6”.

    Very soon the night closed in around us and it became almost pitch black. Flares began to magically appear overhead, but it was not magic at all. They were delivered by flare canisters being shot from the big guns of another fire base located several miles down the road. Their lights illuminated the area so we could see to dig in. The ground was extremely hard. It quickly became clear to everyone that this job was not going to be easy. When midnight came, we were still digging. The flares kept coming, making little popping sounds as their parachutes opened above us. We were working real hard, but I don’t think anyone realized how hard those artillerymen were working to keep the lights on for us. As they descended to the ground, those flares created weird shadows which danced against the jungle backdrop. The effect was enhanced by the flare itself, as it swung back and forth below its white parachute. These gave an eerie presence to our entire surroundings.

     One of the guys in my platoon was especially perturbed about the situation. His wife had recently sent him a "Dear John" letter, and I am sure this letter aggravated his mood even more. As he was digging, he started cussing louder and louder. He could be heard a long way off by everyone on our side of the perimeter and there was not a single N.C.O. who bothered telling him to calm down. As I said, We were all "bone tired" and if the truth be known he was probably saying nothing more than what the rest of us, including our NCOs, felt like saying.

     As this loud cussing streak continued, this red faced man began striking the ground in cadence with every cussing remark he made. He was so intent that he failed to see two shadowy figures quietly approaching from the direction of the big guns behind us. It was Dick and our B company C.O., Captain Brown. They managed to walk within six feet of the hole this guy was digging, without being seen by him. Dick now stood directly behind and above the man digging away in his fox hole. He had his hands on his hips and was staring straight down at him. Oblivious to their presence, the "cussing soldier" just kept digging and cussing away. It seemed like a long time but was probably no more than fifteen seconds. Finally, the man glanced up from his work long enough to notice that the rest of us were standing dead still looking steadfastly at something behind him. This caused him to stop digging and look to his rear. When he did, he immediately threw down his entrenching tool, did an about face, stood straight up and saluted our battalion commander. This was something we really were not supposed to do while in the field. There was no return salute, as everyone including the cussing soldier waited on the inevitable dressing down. That dressing down never came. Instead, as the soldier quickly lowered his salute, Dick, with a very measured tone in his voice, beckoned the soldier to come up out of his hole and face him face to face. The man meekly complied and climbed out of his partially dug foxhole. Then, as the man stood very still before him, Dick calmly began to speak as if he were talking to his own son. To this very day, I have never forgotten his calm demeanor or the words he said. They were not rebuking words. Nor were they angry or accusatory words. They were just remarkably short and simple sentences which stated the obvious facts. Dick said, "I know how tired you are and how hard this ground is, but you have got to finish digging this hole. It could save your life". Now, get back down there and finish the job”. As the man turned to jump back into his foxhole, Dick then caught him on his rear end with a gentle tap of his right boot. That was the icing on the cake, in this modeled display of leadership. It was a leadership display, which was not only for the benefit of the cussing man but for the other twenty or thirty of us who were standing around, watching. As Dick tapped him with his foot, the "cussin man" responded perfectly, with a loud fake grunt, which put a smile on all our faces, including Dick's. There is no doubt that versions of this scene had been repeatedly choreographed to perfection in Dick's past interactions with his troops. In one simple interaction, for all to see, Dick had now turned himself into a leader not to be feared but to be respected. There is also no doubt that he had been predisposed to handle this cussing man incident in the same manner he had witnessed his father, Lauro, handle those ranch hands who worked for him. This display was also used, as a way for Dick to model effective leadership before our "numb scull" company commander, Captain Brown. It is too bad that Brown lost his pencil before he was able to take notes. After the two commanders moved on and everyone went back to their digging, far from being angry, the cussing man kept looking around at the rest of us, with that same sheepish grin on his face. That silly little grin pretty-well said it all. It was convincing evidence to show how a seemingly insignificant matter, which would normally be left to an NCO, could be exploited by top leadership for the benefit of all concerned. It was also a good example of how leaders can use the smallest of situations to bond with their subordinates. These bonding efforts need to take place long before facing that first big battle. I have remembered this moment for over fifty years, but have forgotten many other more traumatic times, when being shot at and mortared by the enemy. This is proof of the power, that a single small interaction between human beings can have for good or for bad. Before the "cussin man" incident, the grunts standing around that "cussin man" were already sensing something different about Dick. Now, we were beginning think that difference might just be a good thing. 

     As the sun was coming up the next day, after hastily eating a hearty canteen cup full of dehydrated vegetable soup, we were told to assemble by squads. I loved that soup and slurped down a third cup before hurrying to join my squad. It was flown out to us in insulated Mermite containers and served by our company cooks. By this time in my tour of duty, I was so tired of eating C-rations that many times this would be my only meal for the entire day. I would supplement it with a can of apricots or peaches when I could find them.

     Each night the enemy would mine the road that we came in on and each morning squad sized patrols from my unit would take turns walking inside the jungle on either side of the road. The mine clearing crews walked down the middle of the road, sweeping it with their portable minesweepers. It is important to note here that the entire area was considered a "kill on sight" zone. There were no civilians traveling on this road unless they were part of a military convoy. That first day after patrolling each side of the road while the mine sweepers walked the middle of the road, we sit inside the jungle canopy some 20 meters off the road for the rest of the day, providing security for passing traffic. In late afternoon, we would be picked up by our platoon sergeant and led back to the NDP for the night. That second evening in this place, I listened, as several other grunts in my platoon described getting quick glimpses of camouflaged Viet Cong soldiers near their security positions on the road. I was amazed at one grunt's detailed account of what looked like a slow-moving bush gliding quietly toward him and then slowly fading away. He said that he was so mesmerized, that he was not able to act. He allowed the figure to melt silently into the jungle and out of sight. Go figure. "You mean you just sat there and watched as this "bush" disappeared from view?", I asked. The soldier turned around and walked off, never answering me. Like him, I was a PFC, so I felt I had no power to correct him on anything. Although I was one of the oldest grunts in the platoon, and had performed flawlessly up until now, not a single NCO saw fit to empower me to correct the newer guys. I know now that this was not something which commonly happened. However, I now believe it happened to me because I was viewed by my sergeants who were only a little older than me as not fitting their stereotype of what a man should be. I didn't smoke. I didn’t drink. I didn’t carouse around looking for prostitutes, and I certainly didn’t smoke pot. Sure, I was a narcissus and very self-centered, but so were many others, who seemed to have no problem receiving promotions. I now believe that I was battling spiritual forces which most did not have to battle.  

      In the middle of the night on the second night at this NDP, which I later learned was named "Thrust", the entire battalion was awakened and put on "alert". One of our squad ambush patrols had gotten into a fire fight with an unknown number of enemy troops. Several patrol members were shot up and the patrol was forced to leave equipment and weapons in the jungle, as they were ordered to return to the NDP. At least they were able to get everyone back to the perimeter alive, even if they were wounded. It wasn't long until a dust-off arrived and landed inside the perimeter to take those wounded men away. 

    The next morning my squad joined "Mike" platoon for a patrol to retrieve the gear which had been left at the ambush site. It was one of "Mike's" ambush patrols which had been hit the night before and now my squad from "November" platoon was being loaned to "Mike" to go on this one patrol to retrieve lost equipment. "Mike" had just gotten a new platoon leader recently. He put my squad in the rear of the patrol. That was a little disconcerting for me because I was used to being up front on most of these small patrols. As our single file column left the perimeter and  began to "snake" through the triple canopy jungle, after action reports say that we would have been able to hear the sound of bulldozers from the 1st engineering battalion led by Lt. Colonel Kiernan. They were busy improving our firing lanes for our positions at the NDP here at "Thrust". That was a good indication, in itself, that we were probably not going to be leaving this location anytime soon. There was another very good indication that we would be staying a while. The jungle around us was crawling with enemy patrols. 

     The patrol of some 35 or 40 men took a zigzagging course to get to the ambush site, which was the smart thing to do. I don't believe the new platoon leader had enough combat experience, however, to realize of his own accord, that he should use this tactic. No, that order came directly from Dick. Sadly, most battalion commanders were also not savvy enough to have their patrols zigzag to their objective. I realize now, what I did not realize then. There was a sapper team shadowing us. If we had walked directly on a straight course to our objective, we would have been ambushed along the way. Many a new Lieutenant led his patrols into death traps like this. Sadly, most battalion commanders didn't have a clue either. This Woefully lacking tactical knowledge could have been so easily dealt with. Returning veterans could have been used to train these new officers bound for Vietnam but they weren't. Instead, junior field officers were only trained in traditional maneuvering tactics which were woefully insufficient for fighting in jungle terrain.  

     Bartee didn't go with us on this little outing, nor did Milliron. I believe Walker and Bowman were there. The squad leader from the shot-up squad took Bartee's place. My squad fell in at the back of the line and began to follow the "Mike Platoon" (third platoon) guys in front of us. Our point men took us on a meandering course through thick jungle to the ambush site. The column slowed as we filed past a Chinese looking guy sitting against a small tree to our left. His lifeless hands were clutching a cloth tourniquet wrapped around his left leg. By now, I had seen a number of dead enemy bodies, but this poor fellow gave me an especially eerie feeling, which I will never forget. As we filed by, everyone gazed at him without saying a word, but no one touched him. He had thick bushy hair, and his skin was stained a dark red from living in red earthen tunnels. He had probably been shot during the fire fight with our ambush patrol the night before. He just sat there, with that spooky "death gaze" on his face. What was he silently heralding to each one of us as we passed by? Was he saying that soon some of us would be joining him? Little did I know that this morbid thought was becoming more and more of a reality and would have indeed become a reality if not for Dick.

     It was a very hot day and by the time we reached the ambush site everyone was wringing wet with sweat. The huge trees of the triple canopy jungle seemed to hold the smothering heat in, but at least their shade also prevented the light starved undergrowth from becoming as thick as it would have become otherwise. All anyone wanted to do after securing the lost gear was to make a hasty retreat back to our NDP. Since all the equipment belonged to "Mike" platoon members, they were tasked with carrying it back to the perimeter, while my squad remained "hands free".

     After retrieving the gear, "Mike" platoon’s point men shot a compass reading straight to our NDP from the ambush site. We then started following that azimuth home. Since everyone was extremely hot and tired, including the Lieutenant, he ruled out any zigzagging on our way back. For better or worse, we followed a straight "bee line" course to within approximately 300 meters of our NDP, when the men in front of me stopped and the entire column stood still for what seemed like a very long time but was probably less than five minutes. The more open jungle became closed in now with much more dense foliage. The Platoon leader and the point men up front were the only people in the patrol who had the map and the compass to plot our way home. My squad in the rear of the column had no idea where we were going or how far away our base camp was. For all we knew, we could be on our way to Hanoi. Soon, however, I glimpsed  the platoon sergeant and the platoon leader working their way toward me from the front of the column. In a low voice, the platoon sergeant was having everyone in the patrol to do an "about face" to the left. He then said we should stay in line and walk about fifty yards to the road which would us back to the NDP. For years, I have always believed that the new Lieutenant had taken it upon himself to ignore Dick's orders to never walk on any path, including roads unless that road was secured. We had no choice but to do what that new lieutenant told us to do. We did the "about face" and all walked "online" to the road. As I stood in the middle of the road, and squinted through sweaty eyes, I could just glimpse the outline of a bunker and a 155 MM gun barrel sticking up in the air down the road about 3 hundred meters. It was our NDP. We were almost home, and it was much easier walking on the road than clawing our way through the jungle. Now, in two columns, one on either side of the road, we started walking toward base camp in what could have very well been the last 300 meters of our lives.

     My understanding of events like the one which I am about to recant here have deepened over time. I now believe that it was possible that Dick broke his own rule and allowed us to walk that road. Though I don’t know for sure, it’s possible that he thought he could use his new chopper to scout for ambushes between us and the NDP. I saw his chopper buzz past me and then buzz past me coming from the opposite direction, toward our NDP. It reminded me of a mother hen, trying to keep watch over her chicks. Unfortunately, Dick soon realized that the canopy of trees concealed the sides of the road too well for him to be able to spot enemy soldiers hiding there. When he realized this, he immediately ordered my company's "Lima" platoon to "saddle up" and start maneuvering down both sides of the road to meet us. His experience told him that anyone between us and the NDP, who was waiting to ambush us would be prone to making one mistake. They would be so focused on watching us coming within range that they would fail to notice anyone slipping up on their "six". Those guys in “Lima” were really good at being sneaky. They left the perimeter, walking in two columns, one on either side of the road, just inside the wood line. They were inside the wood line so they could not be spotted by the ambushers, until they were on top of them from behind. Headquarters radioed our platoon leader to let him know what "lima" was doing. That word was passed down to every member of my patrol by word of mouth so we would not accidently shoot them.

     A point man acquaintance of mine was leading the "Lima" column on the right side of the road, inside the wood line,  while the other half came down the other side. This was a guy whom I had known for a while. He was only about five feet six inches tall, but he was as "cool as a cucumber" under fire. Recently his dad had mailed him a "Smith & Wesson" revolver. When he got it, he was so proud of it, that he showed it off to everyone in the entire company, me included. Little did we know at the time, that a bullet from that revolver would be the first shot heard in this upcoming fire fight. Indeed, as "Dogface 6" had suspected, ambushers were waiting for our patrol to come within range. My point man friend in "Lima" later told me that he was quietly walking toward us, watching closely for any movement to his front, when he spied one of the ambushers standing on his side of a small tree, and about ten meters away from him. Without much hesitation, he pulled out the revolver from a "makeshift" pouch attached to his ammo belt, aimed, and then squeezed off three shots into the sapper. He hit him in the upper torso with all three shots. The man had been so focused on watching us coming toward him, that he had become completely oblivious to anyone who may have been sneaking up on his "six".    

     Very quickly after those first pistol shots rang out, I could hear rounds popping by my head and see dirt being kicked up as the ambusher's bullets slammed into the roadbed around my feet. Everyone started running forward as fast as we could, while laying down suppressing fire on both sides of the road. The ambushers didn't have long to shoot at us before they, themselves, were forced to duck hot lead coming from the men of "Lima" platoon. "Dogface 6" had really put the veteran "Lima" platoon in the "catbird seat". All they had to do was run two or three abreast, laying down suppressing fire inside the wood line. Since that fire was directed inside the wood line, there was very little chance of a stray bullet hitting us on the road. This situation now left the ambushers with two choices in life. They could either choose to stick around and be overcome by withering fire, or they could go home. They very wisely chose to go home.   

      A man from "Mike" platoon, who was running in front of me during the short fire fight was very nervous. He kept trying to reload his rifle but kept dropping the magazines. As he dropped one he would reach for another, then drop it too. Since we both had M-14s I remember grabbing his dropped magazines on the fly and using them myself. M-14 magazines were not that easy to come by, and I wasn't about to leave one lying in the dirt if I could help it. Later, I don't remember ever returning those magazines to him.