Death Valley (12 page)

“Yeah, you sure did. Take it easy.”

But the air was already escaping from his lungs, his breathing labored, his lips turning blue. The radioman was dying.

And the rest were taking a regiment’s worth of fire.

From the Hot Dog, Lieutenant Colonel Dowd had a panoramic view of the fight; no NVA could be seen retreating from the tree line. They had found their attackers all right, and they too wanted another solid confrontation. Artillery from An Hoa was up again shortly, and the C/1/7 FO adjusted it into the wood line. Several sorties of Phantoms roared in, napalm canisters wobbling down in their wake. But the AKs kept firing, and the NVA lobbed a few mortar rounds onto Charlie Company and the Battalion CP. Lieutenant Hord and his group stayed pinned to the dusty ground and pinned to their radios. He ordered his two lead platoons to unpack the E8 gas launchers they’d been humping around for months without using; the wind was perfect and they fired the gas right into the trees. The NVA fire became disoriented for a moment, and the lead squads were able to advance a quick jog to the next series of dikes. That was the pattern for the afternoon.

When Charlie pushed off, Lieutenant Colonel Dowd radioed Captain Fagan to be prepared to assault south, then east, if Charlie Company bogged down.

Fagan sat down with his headquarters group, going over the maps. They planned to attack in a standard skirmish line, two up and one back, and they would split the CP element between the two lead platoons. Captain Fagan would accompany one platoon, GySgt C. C. Richards the other. The gunny was Fagan’s unflappable alter ego in running the company; he was a hard taskmaster and looked like a Marine NCO down to the shaved head, stocky build, and snarls. During that April foray when Lieutenant Peters’s platoon had been pinned down with two dead, his stalwart, Cpl R. L. Gibson, had run back for help. Gunny Richards had rounded up a group and, with Gibson, led a wild charge that allowed Peters to drag their casualties back. Such casual bravery had its price. Gunny Richards’s tour ended during a November operation in the Que Sons, when he charged a 12.7mm machine gun that had pinned down a platoon; he was shot in the face, his cheek and lower jawbone splintered.

Captain Fagan would join the other platoon with 1stLt Bob Allan, his FO, and with his three radiomen. They were his constant shadows. Corporal Brundage, chief radioman, was a savvy guy who kept Fagan abreast of the mood among the grunts. Lance Corporal Nelson, backup radioman, was a friendly guy known as the Lurch; he was tall, wiry, and always so loaded with extra batteries and C rations, in addition to his pack and radio, that each step looked like it would be his last. PFC Frenchy Paris, battalion net radioman, was a quiet young draftee with a wife back home. Fate had not treated him well, from draft board to Marine grunts, but he simply and quietly did the best job he could.

They were a good team. The company had a lot of heart, and Fagan’s instructions to them were simple. They already knew their jobs; he just let them know when it was time to go.

About two hours into Charlie Company’s slow advance, Frenchy handed the handset to Captain Fagan. Major Alexander was on the other end; he was quick and blunt, “Hey, Charlie’s not moving. How fast can you go?”

“We can move out in ten minutes.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yeah, I’m positive.”

A bit later, battalion called again: Delta Company was to come in on Charlie Company’s right flank and assault into the tree line. Captain Fagan had already been on the horn orienting his platoon leaders, and in short order they moved out as planned. First downhill to the south—over
the area where Cashman had died—then up a small rise. With Fagan and Richards constantly on the radio to keep them spread out and on line, the platoon crested the hill which was blanketed by elephant grass, then pivoted left (east) and swept down the gentle slope.

At five hundred meters, they could see the tree line island; at three hundred meters, the AK47 and RPG fire began raining down on them.

Corporal Cominos unconsciously threw himself into the dirt. He found himself in a shallow depression, pressing, pressing down, his back so exposed he knew it would be ripped open any second. He raised his M16 to fire back. The air above him seemed electrified. He couldn’t see a thing, only smoke and trees. He worked on impulse, pulling ammunition magazines from his claymore pouch and emptying five.

All along the line, everyone was doing the same, but Delta Company was halted. Captain Fagan, crouching with his radiomen behind the lead platoons, tried to assess the situation. His machine gun teams were firing, but he was reluctant to use anything heavier, not even mortars, for fear of shelling Charlie Company. He didn’t know the exact location of their advance; Gunny Richards was over in that direction to ensure they didn’t shoot at each other, but the smoke grenades that Charlie Company had popped at their request were not visible in the bramble. Well, it can only get worse, he thought, and with that, Fagan radioed his platoon leaders to assault into the tree line. That’s exactly what they did, using fire and maneuver, progress measured from dike to dike, until finally the Delta line was in the fringes of the woods.

And there they bogged down again.

Delta Company was assaulting the forested island from the west, gaining a tenacious foothold in the edges. Charlie Company was assaulting from the north. They were still pinned down in the open paddies when Lieutenant Hord, the company radio strapped to his back, got on the horn to his reserve platoon. They were to move up to the firing line.

The platoon advanced through the cover of some high brush and tied in with a squad on a knoll of burial mounds. Lance Corporal Bradley’s squad took up positions on a berm at the edge of the knoll, on line, Mouse to Bradley’s left and the first man of the next squad to his right. They were separated from the North Vietnamese by only forty yards of paddy. Bradley flattened himself behind a grassy burial mound, pack dropped to his left, helmet still on, cranking through mags. He snapped
with adrenaline and just happened to be looking at the right place when a bare head popped into view through the vegetation. The NVA was rising up to fire. Bradley and the Marine to his right instantly fired and the head snapped out of sight.

“Didja get him, didja see anything!”

Then Bradley got his, an RPG slamming into the dike several yards to his left, knocking him unconscious the same instant he heard the blast. He came to a few minutes later, head throbbing, dimly aware of a man shouting from behind asking if he was okay. He moved slowly, still flat in the grass of the mound, still under fire, covered by ruptured earth. He checked for wounds. His left ear was bleeding and his right arm burned from a piece of shrapnel, but his gear had taken most of the rocket-propelled grenade. His pack beside him had a large piece of shrapnel lodged in it, his helmet was dented, and the hand guard of his M16 was cracked.

For a moment, Bradley could only lie dazed and hurt. That’s when his best friend, Harvey Peay, rose up to fire over the dike and took an AK47 round in his head. He collapsed onto Wendell Wright, the squad radioman, who could only stare for a horrified moment; then Wright calmed down and, under the steady fire, dragged Peay back over the hill to where the corpsmen were working. Lance Corporal Peay lay in the dirt for more than an hour before the medevac could get in; he died before they reached the hospital.

Litter teams used ponchos to get the wounded back to the Hot Dog, where medevacs were being worked off the slope opposite the tree line. When he later thought about it, Lieutenant Hord was mightily impressed at the courage it took to carry a wounded man back across that paddy. But in the din of firing, he didn’t see or hear a single helicopter. His attention was zeroed in on the enemy tree line ahead.

Fire and Maneuver.

By the fourth hour of the assault, Hord had made it to within a hundred feet of the woods. He hunkered against a three-foot dike with his command group. The air inches above their heads screamed with passing rounds. To his left, several Marines were sprawled in the scrub brush, the dead frozen into stillness under flak jackets and ammunition, the wounded rocking in pools of blood, moaning to themselves. The sun beat down on them. To Hord’s right, more men were sprawled. Medevacs were impossible. The NVA were right in front of them. Hord could see them. They were in a trench at the edge of the trees, wearing
pith helmets, bobbing up to fire. The Marines facing them ducked and popped up to fire too.

Hord watched a Phantom roll in on the trench line and release its bombs. He pressed behind the dike as the explosion rocked the ground and slashed the air with whizzing chunks of hot metal; then he quickly peeked back up as the jet pulled out. An NVA stood up in the trench, firing his AK at the departing Phantom. That was a beautiful air strike; Hord almost screamed, why are you still alive?

Lieutenant Hord radioed battalion, “Youth Six, this is Charlie Six. If we can get going now, I think we best because I’m sure we’re just going to lose some more men sitting here.”

Lieutenant Colonel Dowd okayed the frontal assault.

Hord keyed the company radio. He told the reserve platoon to lift their fires in two minutes as the two lead platoons made their rush. Then he got his squad leaders on the horn: fix bayonets, we’re charging in one minute; a green-star cluster flare will be the signal. Around him, grunts who still had bayonets began fixing them to M14 and M16 rifles. Hord was moving on a combination of training and terror.

He pulled the flare from his web gear.

The line erupted—guttural yells over the cacophony, the cracks of passing bullets. The men ran crouched, engulfed in smoke and noise. It was a slow-motion nightmare, but this time running into a real live monster.

In seconds, the company was on the trench line. Hord bounded into it, terrified, trying to get out of the fire, almost landing on a North Vietnamese soldier. The man was slumped motionless against the trench wall with what looked like a dagger in his forehead. Hord looked closer. It was a large chunk of shrapnel. God, he thought, this is surreal, like a corpse springing from its grave. The whole world was erupting around him. The NVA were rushing back deeper into the woods, except for a few stragglers or diehards. A bunker opened fire from a slight rise amid the trees, and Hord saw one of his Marines charge right at it. The kid was shirtless, had three or four grenades cradled in his arm like footballs, and he sprinted up to the bunker, pitching them overhand, underhand, lobbing them into the opening. He dove as they exploded, then instantly sprang to his feet and lunged to the opening, firing his M16 into the bunker.

The assault continued on its own momentum. Hord scrambled from the trench with his .45 still in its holster, and carrying an M16 taken
from a casualty. He never fired the rifle; the radio was his tool. He walked in a crouch down the general skirmish line of his two platoons, pausing every few yards to kneel and get his bearings. Around him, Marines were hurling grenades, screaming, changing magazines. Twenty feet away, he could see NVA ducking among the trees. Hord had never seen anything like it, was too scared to be afraid. He was amazed that the North Vietnamese seemed to be looking right at his radio but none paused to shoot. Dead NVA lay at his feet, bark and leaves blasted onto them.

The NVA disappeared into a second slit trench in the woods, and their firing grew more intense. Hord had one thought stronger than all others: will I live?

Then Delta Company swept in from the right flank.

Delta Company had been pinned in the fringes of the trees, taking heavy casualties. The situation was intolerable. Captain Fagan finally left his command group back with the reserve platoon and worked his way up to the point of contact with Gunnery Sergeant Richards and Lance Corporal Nelson. First they walked in a crouch, then on all fours, and finally they crawled when they noticed everyone else was down. Fagan could see dead Marines, four or five of them, and a dozen wounded sprawled around the farthest point. A young corpsman, loaded down with extra bandages and water, scrambled among them, seemingly unaware of the heavy fire. Everyone else was down, firing and throwing grenades, but pinned in place.

Fagan lay in the brush, quickly sizing up the situation. The company had to renew the momentum of the assault, and quickly. LAW rockets and M79 grenades were not knocking out the family bunkers dug near the hootches. Fagan radioed his platoon leaders to set up their E8 gas launchers and to fire the CS over their heads into the ville area. He did not pass the order to don gas masks; the wind was behind them, and the men looked too hot and tired to fight in them.

If all went well, they’d follow the gas in.

The CS exploded in white clouds, then dissipated in invisible gusts. A bit off-target, Fagan noted, but a gentle, steady breeze carried it like a carpet over the hootches and bunkers. It must have been incredibly hot and stuffy in the bunkers. The NVA fire became disorganized, and Fagan shouted into his radio to his lieutenants.

Someone near Corporal Cominos began screaming, “Stand up, get on line!” The men charged automatically, simple and straight ahead. They were up and in the open for thirty yards. The air snapped and cracked around Cominos’s head.

God, oh God, go, go, go!

Dirt kicked up around them. The air itself was screaming.

Faster, shit, move, move!

Cominos burst into the thicket ahead, almost tripping over several North Vietnamese slumped in and around their spider holes. The fire from ahead was still fierce, but he hurried on, M16 up from the waist, pouring sweat. He passed a dilapidated, old hootch, then an awful sensation suddenly hit him. Something was wrong. The hootch! In his haste, he hadn’t fragged it. He jogged back, just as two grunts following him popped grenades into the family bunker. One cranked his M16 into the hole, then peered in. He shouted that two dead NVA were inside. Oh Lord, Cominos thought, they could have wasted me so easily when I went past. He joined the two Marines, suddenly laughing, “Oh boy, I gotta get my act together!”