Death Valley (13 page)

Cominos rushed into the next brush line. There was Captain Fagan, standing in the fire and casually turning as Cominos’s squad staggered in hollow-eyed and sweating. Fagan pointed. “Take your Marines and put them over there.” Cominos was incredulous; how’d the Skipper get here so fast! Cominos would follow that man anywhere.

The squad hit the dirt, and an NVA cut loose on them from a spider hole twenty yards ahead. A Marine instantly charged past Cominos.

He emptied his M16 into the hole.

All along the Delta line, men were charging wildly. Captain Fagan could see the backs of NVA as they ran, could see Marines storming after them, firing on the run, screaming, rolling grenades into bunkers and spider holes. Fagan’s heart was pumping wildly. He saw one NVA hop from a hole seventy-five meters ahead. He already had his .45 out and he fired a couple of rounds at the man, laughing with relief. He thought, when you can finally see the NVA, you know they’re losing. Gunny Richards fired his .45 also, laughing with the release of tension, then laughing with Fagan because they couldn’t hit a thing.

They calmed down and returned to their radios to get the grunts back under control before they completely overran the battalion line.

To their left, C Company was still fighting for its life.

Sergeant Lowery—acting platoon sergeant and already scratched up
from a close RPG back at the burial mounds—was firing his M16 at the second NVA trench. His lieutenant hollered at him to link up with Delta Company, and he took off to the right in a running crouch, holding his helmet down. Something exploded beside him and shrapnel stung his legs. He could feel nothing, kept moving. He stumbled upon what he thought was Delta Company’s flank—a lieutenant and some grunts crouched amid a tree grove. An AK47 was cracking from a family bunker ahead. The lieutenant looked at him incredulously and shouted that he’d just run through the NVA. It didn’t mean a thing, didn’t even click with Lowery. He was high on adrenaline. He pumped his M16 towards the bunker. One of the men slam-banged a LAW at it. Lowery could see the bunker in the elephant grass, its front smashed down from the explosion. An AK jammed out a side port and ripped off a blind burst. You are waxed, motherfuckers, Lowery almost laughed as he rushed forward. He dropped beside the opening, tossed a grenade in, rolled aside. Boom! The NVA stuck the AK out again, emptying the magazine wildly into the dirt and grass. He ducked back to reload and Lowery jumped up again with several grunts who had come up after him. They tossed more frags in, then chattered their M16s into the dugout.

Two dead North Vietnamese soldiers were inside. Lowery suddenly noticed the whole battlefield was quieting.

Between Charlie and Delta, the NVA had been broken up. Lieutenant Hord was crouched with his radio when he saw Delta Company approaching through the trees in a disciplined line, weapons in the assault position. There were only two platoons, but they looked like a thousand Marines to him. The survivors around him began shouting in wild elation that it was over, that they were still alive—that they had won!

The two companies consolidated what they had, then swept through the tree line end to end, reconning by fire, fragging each and every bunker, using Chicoms when they ran out of U.S. grenades. There was little, if any, resistance. The NVA retreat was complete. It was then that Charlie Company’s reserve platoon came in. They didn’t know what to expect, so they quickly measured their ammo, fixed bayonets because they didn’t have enough, then charged. It was anticlimactic.

Lance Corporal Bradley paused at the first trench to look at the spot where he and the other Marine had fired. A North Vietnamese
was slumped with his back against the earthen trench wall and an AK47 beside him. A small hole was in his forehead and the back of his head was blown out. Another dead NVA was sprawled beside him in the slit trench.

Got you!

After what they had been through, it felt great. Lieutenant Hord could see the exhilaration on every face. For weeks—months—they had sweated and kicked booby traps. This was their reward. A life experience, he thought, flooding with emotions. They had taken on the North Vietnamese Army on their terms, and they had emerged victorious. The jungle floor was literally smoking. Marines foraged through it, laughing, taking photographs, picking up souvenirs, inspecting the bodies. There were stacks of equipment left behind: rifles, grenade launchers, mortars, stick grenades, radios, ammunition, packs, web gear, dozens of bicycles used for transportation. They even found an old bathtub with claw legs, which they imagined the NVA regimental commander had used.

By dusk, Charlie and Delta Companies were humping back towards the Hot Dog. Lieutenant Hord walked in front of his column, suddenly aware of the heat and his own fatigue, but still swimming in the victory. He was a regular officer, the son of a career sergeant, and he had literally demanded infantry duty. This is what he’d always wanted. It had been as perfect as combat could get. Dowd, whom he greatly respected, had orchestrated a classic attack. His Marines had carried it out with stunning courage. And Fagan, his Basic School instructor, had rounded it out, coming in like the cavalry. He looked at his Marines, filthy and quiet as they trudged up the hill. They weren’t trained to freeze when a booby trap exploded on a trail; they’d been trained to close with and kill the enemy. And they’d done it. They were warriors, Hord thought; morale was higher than it ever had been or would be, and it was the proudest moment of his life.

Lieutenant Colonel Dowd greeted them on the hill.

He was beaming and they shook hands, congratulating each other. If we could pop champagne, Hord thought, we would.

The battalion staff and company commanders held their meeting. Spirits were still running high, and Dowd had to take control so they would address the present situation. Even from their vantage point on the Hot Dog, no one had been able to tell in which direction the NVA had retreated after their tree line had been seized. If they had fled to the south or west, the Que Son Mountains offered a sanctuary their
battalion could not tackle alone. If they had gone east, they would run into the 5th Marines AO around the An Hoa Combat Base. Dowd decided their only option was to sweep north towards Alpha Company’s encampment on the Song Vu Gia. Prospects did not seem likely that they’d find anything, though. Plans were sketchy, intelligence was nonexistent, everyone was exhausted. Lieutenant Colonel Dowd finally ended the meeting, “Go ahead and get some rest. We’ll reconvene in the morning, and we’ll put the rest of this together.”

B
efore dusk on 12 August, reinforcements moved into the vicinity of the Hot Dog: India Company, 3d Battalion, 5th Marines (Capt Robert A. Beeler), which humped in from An Hoa; and two platoons from Lima Company, 3d Battalion, 7th Marines (Capt Jon K. Rider), which choppered in from Hill 37. Lima’s 3d Platoon was on patrol when the warning order came, so Rider was attached a platoon from Kilo Company for this operation.

By nightfall, these two companies were dug in within sight of 1/7’s hillside of foxholes. The night was free of combat, but not of commotion. The 81mm mortar crews fired H&I most of the night, and some of it exploded too close for comfort near India Company. Captain Beeler had only recently lost some of his Marines to friendly fire—from misplotted 3/5 H&S fire in the Que Sons during Operation Durham Peak—and he was quickly on the horn to 1/7’s operations officer. The fires were shifted farther out into the paddies. Later, one of India’s listening posts captured a North Vietnamese. He was alone, presumably lost, and the grunts just reached out and grabbed him when he walked past their hiding place in the bushes.

At first light, the battalion came alive again.

The mission for 13 August was pursuit of the bloodied NVA regiment, and Lieutenant Colonel Dowd held a predawn huddle at his command post. His three company commanders were there, along with Colonel Codispoti, who stood in camouflaged fatigues, hands firmly on his hips, silver eagles shining from his collars and from his starched fatigue cover. The regimental commander had choppered in the previous day and now
was going to accompany the sweep. Only the most cynical were not impressed by this style of leadership; but Lance Corporal Wells and the other radiomen on the fringe of the meeting were young and salty, and they hid their astonishment by mumbling among themselves how bad the colonel’s cigar stunk.

Codispoti was a definite piece of work. He had replaced a more calm—some thought a more professional—colonel. Codispoti himself was short and stocky; with white hair; enormous eyebrows; and a gruff, Brooklyn clip. He was prone to temper tantrums even over trivial matters, and he had many idiosyncrasies. He’d already been passed over for brigadier general, so he was not afraid to run things the only way he knew how—his way. Colonel Codispoti was there to kill communists. Period. He allowed himself little slack as he constantly helicoptered among his units, looking, conferring, writing orders on the backs of old envelopes; he hammered at his battalion commanders for results, pushed his grunts to the edge of exhaustion. Some understood that the only way to save American lives was to keep the Vietnamese on the run. Others were not so charitable towards him. One weary staff officer in 2/7, for example, wrote of an upcoming operation hard on the heels of the summer battles, “… regiment had a crumby scheme-of-maneuver designed to kill and wear out the maximum number of Marines. But we got it changed. It was another of those fight up the hill deals.”

But most thought Codispoti knew what he was doing. At one regimental briefing, the S-4 (supply) officer got up to report on the amount of food and ammunition each of the twelve rifle companies would have that night. He said one company was down to zero or one can of C rations per man, and Codispoti immediately stopped the briefing to ask why. The supply officer said the company hadn’t sent in a ration request form. Codispoti went apeshit, “I don’t give a damn if they don’t ever send anything! It’s your job to keep track of how many rations they have and make sure they have food to carry on and fight out there. And, goddammit, if this ever happens again, I’ll pack the rations on your back and you’ll walk ’em out to them!”

It made the right impression on everyone.

Not surprisingly, Codispoti and Dowd hit it off well and the regimental commander always smiled on 1st Battalion. The company commanders of 1/7 respectfully likened him to Vince Lombardi and referred to him as Coach Codispoti or the Bear. He was not a grandstander. He’d choppered
in to see how his Marines were faring, and to be on hand to provide any outside support that might be needed.

It was still Dowd’s ball game, and they moved out as the boiling sun rose. The first skirmish line was formed with D/1/7 on the left, then C/1/7, I/3/5, and L/3/7 on the right. The CP entourage followed Delta Company. The rest of the battalion followed in a second line. The hastily sketched plan was to sweep south from the Hot Dog, then east through the bombed-out tree line. On the other side, they were to pivot north and continue until their hammer met A/1/7’s anvil on the banks of the Vu Gia. The artillery batteries at An Hoa and Hill 65 had their tubes up, and Broncos were on station overhead to direct the support fire.

At first, the battalion was like a hound against its leash. They kept stumbling into things in the tree lines—dropped gear, blood trails, an occasional NVA body—and the forward observers with the point platoons reconned each wood line with arty and mortars before the line swept in. They met only token resistance; the NVA were running north. Lieutenant Hord was stunned. He thought they’d kicked ass the day before and didn’t expect any resistance today, but the aviation net on his radio was alive with excited Bronco pilots. “They’re runnin’ all over the place, there’s gooks everywhere!” The NVA were breaking up into small groups, but the pilots kept the artillery on them. That was the view from the air. At ground level, it was not so well-defined. Although four Marine rifle companies were spread out on a line stretching for a kilometer, it was not like walking the parade deck. The intersecting tree lines and paddy dikes blocked the view and the enemy was invisible, pausing only to snipe and run. Most men just trudged along, dripping sweat under helmet, flak jacket, and pack; not firing a shot because no targets were visible; and taking some satisfaction in the abandoned NVA packs and ammunition bandoliers dotting their route.

The line finally paused in a tree line facing a large paddy. It was several hundred meters across, as flat and open as a pool table, and the artillery was processed into the opposite tree line. Battalion passed word to continue the sweep. Captain Fagan was wary: the paddy seemed a perfect ambush spot. It would have been wiser first to secure the flanks of the opposite tree line and clear it before walking right into the open. We’re in too much of a hurry, he thought. As the men resumed their advance, Fagan glanced to his right; for hundreds of yards, he could see hundreds of Marines materializing from the woods into the sun-blasted and wide-open rice field.

India Company was in the center of the line as it advanced, and Captain Beeler also had a headful of worries. For one thing, his men were exhausted. They’d spent the last three weeks humping the mountains and had returned to the An Hoa Combat Base only the day before; within hours, they were on the move again, this time into the Arizona. Additionally, Beeler didn’t know his platoon leaders: his only two experienced officers had to remain at An Hoa, one taking over the exec slot, the other assigned as pay officer. Consequently, 1st and 3d Platoons had untested second lieutenants. 2d Platoon had a career staff sergeant, but Beeler was wary of him; he seemed worn out to the point of being timid.

Their sweep had begun to get strung out almost immediately. 3d Platoon had lagged behind to police up a pile of enemy equipment; at the same time, the rear security of 2d Platoon tripped a booby trap. Beeler radioed 3d Platoon to drop the captured gear and secure an LZ for the medevac.