Chapter 11: Haig  091825

      On the same afternoon of March 30, while my patrol was being ambushed outside Fire Base Thrust, Lt. Col. Alexander Haig's Blue Spaders were landing at LZ George, which was approximately three and a half miles away. My patrol was still engaged in the firefight and too busy to notice the line of Hueys flying over our NDP on their way to drop off Haig and his boys at LZ George. However, the men inside our perimeter at LZ Thrust would have been able to see them. There was no enemy resistance as they landed.

     The forty-two-year-old Haig was not the kind of commander who left anything to chance, yet he was not a fretter either. Haig oversaw the initial landing at LZ George and the exact placement of his own Battalion's defensive positions. Soon after landing, he met with his officers and key NCOs, including the FO (forward observer) assigned to his unit. His faithful S3 (operations officer) and longtime friend, Captain George Joulwan, was by his side. As he stood there in the tall grass, getting feedback from his security patrols, he started forming a picture in his mind of how he wanted his defenses laid out. I doubt that any of his subordinates, save Joulwan, realized how fortunate they were to have a man like Haig leading them during the next couple of days. He was probably somewhat of a shot in the dark to many of those serving under him on this day. You see, Haig had not worked his way through the usual field commands, from Platoon to company and then Battalion. The truth is, however, that it did not take long for most serving under him to sense his natural leadership ability. Years later, I would learn a little more about how he was wired. He was wired differently from Dick Cavazos. He was not as earthy and not as apt to identify with the individual needs of a grunt like me. That quality in Dick Cavazos was mainly due to his King Ranch upbringing, and also the example set for him by his remarkable father, Lauro Cavazos. Yet, Haig was not as aloof as our last commander, Denton. He was just matter-of-fact and smart. There was such an innate and trustworthy quality about him that he quickly became a highly valued asset to every boss he ever had.

     So far, in the two months that he had been with the Blue Spaders, Haig had managed to pass every tactical pop quiz thrown at him. The big question, however, was whether he would be able to pass the big exam. I am referring here to the test of running a fighting command while in direct contact with a large enemy force. Dick Cavazos had passed this test a long time ago in Korea, and he had scored an A+. Haig had also been in Korea, but he was not given the opportunity to be tested in battle. Instead, he had been a staff officer serving the wishes of a crusty old general nicknamed Ned Almond. Haig had been the young duty officer at MacArthur's headquarters in Japan who took the call from the South Koreans notifying MacArthur that the North Koreans were invading the South. Later in Haig's career, as a Lieutenant Colonel just graduating from the Army's War College, he was issued orders to go to Germany as a staff officer after graduation. He had requested a combat assignment in Vietnam but was flatly denied. Haig had to contact his old boss at the Pentagon to get his orders changed. That boss was Deputy Secretary of Defense Cyrus Vance. Through that connection, Haig was able to get his orders changed, but was nabbed by General DePuy as soon as he stepped off the plane in Vietnam to become his G3.

     By this time, the word was out about Haig amongst senior command, and DePuy wasn't about to let a talented man like him slip through his fingers. Haig was a maestro at covering a boss's rear end. He was one of those rare individuals who could take the reins and run, making his boss look good. DePuy would have been a fool not to grab Haig for his G3, and DePuy was no fool. So, Haig was typecast as a supporting character in the story, and that should have been the end of it. Not only was Haig not going to be tested in combat, but he was not going to be let in the room where that test was given in the first place. For most, this would have been the end of it. Odds were just too heavily stacked against Haig playing anything but a supporting role to warriors instead of becoming a warrior himself. So, what caused that to change? Why was Haig now standing in tall grass near the Cambodian border, commanding a battalion of 300 strong (If one can call that strong), soon to be in the fight of his life with an enemy that outnumbered him almost ten to one? 

     No good poker player would have bet that things would have turned out this way. Shortly after becoming DePuy's staff officer, DePuy had witnessed for himself how brave Haig was. Yet that made no difference in helping Haig receive his wish to become a field commander. Haig had chased down an enemy soldier, right in front of DePuy, and was wounded by a hand grenade, which this guy pulled on him, as he physically tried to corral him. DePuy personally decorated Haig with a Purple Heart, but still said no to a combat command position. So, there you have it. Except for a little thing, which some call fate, there was just no way Haig was going to get to "go fight".

     Finally, one fine day in January 1967, while sitting across a planning room table from Haig, DePuy was ordered by his corps commander in a phone conversation to release Haig for staff duty at II Field Force Headquarters. DePuy was losing Haig. He gulped twice, then, without missing a beat in the conversation, quickly announced to his superior that he had already assigned Haig to take over command of the Blue Spaders. It was a lie, but a lie that DePuy now had to make come true. After finishing his conversation with the II Field Force Commander, he immediately stared across the table at Haig. As the two men’s gaze became fixed on each other, DePuy abruptly announced, "Haig, I need you to report to the Blue Spaders as their new commanding officer". DePuy then moved their present commander into Haig's old position. That person was Lt. Col. Paul Gorman, who went on to become a four-star general. So, that is how Alexander Haig finally got his chance to command a combat unit in Vietnam. The Blue Spaders were Haig's first front-line combat assignment, where he carried a long rifle and personally led men in ground combat.

     At this point, I must say that Haig, like Dick, would not have risen to the positions that he attained in life without the support of his wife, Patricia. Alexander Haig married Patricia shortly after graduating from West Point. She was a General's daughter. This social positioning alone provided him with significant exposure. Through his marriage to a General's daughter, Haig was automatically exposed to the world of general officers frequently enough to help reinforce in him the notion that general officers were not gods to be feared or worshipped but men like him, some with much smaller brains than his own. Many years later, Carolyn Cavazos revealed to me that she and Dick had much the same mindset as Haig. She said it this way, although not in these exact words. "We always thought that we were just as capable of doing a thing as good as the next guy. No matter what their background or how many pedigrees they possessed, we never thought that they were any more capable than we." Neither Haig nor Cavazos would have become the leaders they developed into if they had not been the beneficiaries of longstanding support from wise women. Carolyn and Pat understood the importance of the role they played in building a stronger America by providing wise counsel and support to their husbands, which they offered selflessly.       

     In 1967, many officers possessed the potential to be great leaders but never reached their full potential. Like Haig, they had the critical analytical thinking and interpersonal skills required of a commander. However, unlike Haig, they did not possess the confidence to deal with the stupid "ass chewing chiding" and the humiliating petty commands delivered by generals flying somewhere above the fray. However, fortune had smiled on Haig. Circumstances had allowed him to cut his teeth around these kinds of individuals. The truth is, these "hen pecker" type generals were a little afraid of Haig, because they knew he had political connections in high places. Deputy Secretary of Defense Vance was just one of many political types who knew and respected Haig.

     While a staff officer in Korea, Haig had gained valuable insight into the plight of the average field commander. He had gained much of that knowledge while serving under that “mean as Hell” Lieutenant General, Ned Almond. Ned treated most of his field commanders like "s__t". Witnessing this abuse had more than prepared Haig to not only feel at home with badgering senior officers but also helped him understand the plight of subordinates serving under them. One easily overlooked but vital thing that Korea taught Haig was how not to put his neck in the hangman's noose when he communicated with others. He knew the right "take charge" lingo to use when communicating with those who outranked him without stepping on their pride. He also realized the importance of not talking down to subordinates. When all this was mixed with Haig's abundant common sense, it's easy to see that Haig was a well-rounded leader who could perform at a very high level wherever he landed. Ironically, this also held him back. His bosses didn't want to let go of him.

     Here is one last observation, for the taking, about Haig. He was a man who wore a chip on his shoulder. Now, a chip on anyone's shoulder can become a hindrance, if not worn wisely. It can also be an asset. Many times, it can get a person off dead center, but that means nothing if not worn wisely. With the help of a couple of God-given mentors in his early years, Haig had learned to wear his chip wisely. The chip itself was created in the aftermath of his father's sudden death, when he was only nine. It was during the height of the Great Depression. His entire family struggled sorely after his well-established attorney father passed away. He suffered both emotionally and financially. However, a "God sent" uncle stepped in just in time to provide him and his family with emotional, as well as financial support. This same uncle also helped Haig to attend Notre Dame and later West Point. Interestingly enough, charitable acts are performed by believers and unbelievers alike. Unfortunately, many times what is seen as charitable is nothing more than harmful enablement. In Haig's case, the fruit produced later in his life proves that this was not the case between him and his uncle. His uncle's acts of charity were well invested.

     Unlike our unit before Dick came along, the Blue Spaders were a veteran combat unit when Haig took over. Their previous commander, Lt. Col. Paul Gorman, had done a good job, turning them into a top-notch fighting unit. Now, not only was Haig taking over command of a top-notch unit, but something else was going to take place during this very brief window in time. You see, every person who joins the military, whether a clerk or a rifleman, realizes that they may be asked at any moment to join an elite club. Many, however, are never asked. For those who are called upon to join the club, membership in this club requires a soldier to offer up all that they are and all that they will ever be. Now, Haig would soon become a member of this elite club, as he became embroiled in the deadliest duel of his young life. 

     After making a final round of the perimeter defenses and inspecting each DePuy bunker to make sure it was constructed and positioned correctly with proper firing lanes, Haig called for one more executive meeting in the jungle. He had noticed that one spot on the north side of the perimeter was particularly worrisome, because the thick jungle came close to a couple of positions there. This incursion was a weak point in his defenses, but Haig also understood that there were always going to be weak points. He wasn't going to have tired men shift an entire section of the perimeter defenses, which would require digging new bunkers. Still, he would make sure that the FO (forward observer) had this area adequately dialed in by supporting artillery fire bases like ours.

     As for me and the men at Fire Base Thrust, we had long since resupplied ourselves with ammo and rations. We also had cleaned our weapons and checked our claymores at the front of our positions. Finally, it was time to sort through our thoughts and try to put the traumatic events of the day into perspective. The big guns behind me kept firing away. Much of this firing later in the afternoon was registration rounds dialing in targets for future fire missions at LZ George. The artillery officer with us was having his crew register coordinates, for quick firing reference, and writing those coordinates down in his little notebook. For sure, he would have noted the coordinates of the weak spot pointed out by Haig. Coordinates written on this small notepad would ensure that his guns could respond quickly when he woke up, all sleepy-eyed, in the middle of the night. Firing these registration rounds, as well as H & I rounds, also meant that we had to listen to a lot of noisy guns blasting away for most of the evening. H & I meant Harassment and Interdiction. It was the act of firing random shells at targets in the middle of nowhere, just to be firing. The stupidity of this tactic still amazes me to this very day. Fire Base C, located to our east (2nd Brigade Headquarters), also provided artillery support for both LZ George and our position at Thrust. We also had the 173rd Airborne to our South, which was in range, providing artillery support for us, and I believe Fire Base Charlie as well. However, their guns were not in range of LZ George.

     The next day, March 31, the 1/2nd Infantry Battalion was air lifted by choppers from fire support base Charlie into the grassy clearing at LZ George. They immediately marched south, crossing to the south side of Rt. 246 about two kilometers due South of their drop zone at George. They then established an NDP on the same road as us. It was six klicks west by northwest of our position at Thrust. Lt. Col. William Simpson led the 1/2nd. This same morning, new guy Jack Toomey was flown in from Phuoc Vinh with the mail and resupplies. Jack was flown in on a Chinook helicopter to join his 1/2nd Battalion for his first day in the field. Toomey didn't have a clue what to expect. There was a triple canopy jungle surrounding his unit, and not a single Vietnamese civilian to be seen anywhere. For Toomey, it felt as though he had just arrived at the edge of the world. Only the occasional landing of a Chinook, bringing more supplies, said otherwise.

     This same morning, Haig's recon platoon started from base camp, making a probe in a northwestern direction. Their patrol moved through thick triple-canopy jungle mixed with grassy clearings. The day before, shortly after landing, security patrols had discovered many freshly dug enemy positions in and around the grassy LZ, along with some older ones. There were also newly traveled ox cart trails within the wood line of the triple canopy jungle. The soldiers on this morning's patrol, who had been accepted into this recon platoon, were not your average grunts. They had proven themselves to be highly proficient at their jobs while in a line company like mine. They were volunteers. Twenty-one-year-old Pete Petersen from Garden Grove, California, was walking point for the patrol. Like me, he was a draftee who had started his tour of duty a month before I had started mine. There is good indication in my research that Pete was probably walking point for his entire Battalion, as I was for mine, during those night marches, which I have described in an earlier chapter. The recon platoon leader was the no-nonsense and very competent Lt. Richard Hill. Richard and Pete were the best of the best, and on this day, they were not just near the tip of the spear, but at the very tip of the tip.  

     While Petersen was leading his patrol and Jack Toomey was getting settled into his new life at the gates of Hell, it was road-clearing business as usual for me. We started operations that morning, and it was my squad's turn to take a patrol down one side of Highway 246 just inside the wood line, five meters or so off the road. There was another squad on the other side of the road doing the same thing. Mine sweepers walked down the middle of the road, staying roughly abreast of us, sweeping their metal detectors back and forth, looking for mines.

      My squad was noisier than usual this morning, and it was getting on my nerves. I became increasingly aggravated at everyone, and especially at Sergeant Bartee. I felt he should have said something to quiet the squad down, when, in fact, I was the one who should have said something to him first. However, I wasn't a team player. I tried to solve every problem in life on my own. I rarely asked anyone for help. Better yet, I just avoided issues in the first place. Today was no different. My squad members were making too much noise, and they were going to get me killed. So, I sped up and disappeared from Bartee's sight, putting about twenty-five yards between me and the noise makers. The problem was, I didn't bother to let Bartee know what I was doing. Very soon, Bartee and the rest caught up with me, making more noise than ever. He then whispered for me to slow down. I turned and quickly answered back, a little abruptly. I explained to him why I was staying a little further in front of the rest of the squad, although I felt that I should not have had to explain. I had lived in Wayne's World so long that I assumed Bartee should be able to read my mind. Soon, however, Bartee did snap to the situation and silently waved two fingers toward me, indicating that he was giving me his blessing to stay further ahead than usual. I turned my skinny body around and quickly, but silently, snaked my way through the thick undergrowth, while hardly disturbing a single vine. Now, I was able to focus on my job. That focus was what another point man named Tom Mercer later labeled as being in the zone. Unlike Tom, however, the problem I had was not knowing when to come out of the zone. That could be one reason why I was still a PFC.

     The road to our left was our guide, but it was also much more dangerous to follow than navigating through thick, unmarked jungle. Why? Because the enemy knew that our patrols would be travelling parallel to that road every morning. That made it easy for a sapper to pick a good hit-and-run ambush site. To counter this, since we didn't have to worry about getting off course, both Bartee and I finally synchronized our thinking, as I just explained. With me sneaking along way out in front, an ambusher would hopefully focus on my noisy squad and not hear or see me sneaking up on him until it was too late. Staying ahead of my noisy squad was a good technique that would give me a chance to ambush the ambushers. We would soon find out whether I was right about that.    

      At one point during this patrol, we had to halt while a wounded mine sweeper was evacuated. He was shot by a sapper from a distance down the road. The sapper probably used a Russian carbine because I heard only one shot. As we started moving forward again, I plainly understood that I could be the next target. I already had those reports of my fellow grunts, coming back from patrols, and saying that they had seen sappers camouflaged to resemble bushes. With that and with what had just happened to the mine sweeper, I was well aware that I could be next. A sapper could easily be hiding to my front along the road, waiting for me to come to him. With this thought weighing heavily on my mind, I predetermined that I was going to shoot first and question the bushes later. I kept repeating to myself, "Pull the trigger as soon as you see the slightest movement of a leaf in front of you". It was now that the lessons my father had taught me long ago would pay off. When hunting squirrels, as a boy, my Dad had taught me how to spot the slightest movement of a squirrel's head peeping around a limb. Other dads were teaching their sons how to be team players in sports like baseball and football. Little did I know that my Dad was teaching me to survive the Hell that was Vietnam.

      Now, suddenly, there was a flicker of motion, to my front, and a little to the right, away from the road. The motion was coming from something small, running across a patch of clear ground, making a scurrying sound. It was a mongoose hunting for snakes, and a false alarm. My tension eased. While still listening to the mongoose rustling in the leaves, I began to sense something else. It was something beyond my five senses. It was that same familiar small voice coming from inside my head, and it kept repeating, "Beware. Be ready. Don't let your guard down." In response, I tensed and became acutely aware of my left index finger on the trigger of my M-14 (I'm left-handed). At the same time, I lowered the barrel to scoot under a vine and come up on the other side. It was a quiet maneuver, but the leaves on the vine, which I lifted upward with the barrel of my rifle, shook slightly.

     At the same time, other leaves on vines in front of me shook slightly as well. That movement was out of place and had nothing to do with the motions I was making. In response, my trigger finger moved forward, unlocking my weapon's safety, and then backward on the trigger. Firing from the hip, my M-14 "barked out" a perfect three-round burst, intentionally shot low, and under the spot where I had detected the movement. It wasn't long before Bartee appeared from behind. In a rattled tone of voice, he asked why I was firing my weapon. I could only say that I had shot at movement to my front. I could tell by the look on his face that he was thinking I had overreacted.

     There was no indication whatsoever that I had shot at anything other than a few leaves. However, it wasn't my squad leader's life hanging in the balance if there had been a real threat. I didn't feel bad at all about what I had just done. We started moving forward again, and I could see droplets of blood on the leaves around me. I said nothing to Bartee about the blood. However, it wasn't long until he spotted the blood for himself. "Wade, I see some blood. Be careful", he whispered. His whispered words had a different tone. This time, it was an affirming tone in his words, rather than a condemning one. I made no reply and kept walking. My irritation was starting to return. It was time to start thinking about another line of work. "When was that truck driving job going to come through?" I thought to myself. It had been promised to me by my buddy, the motor pool sergeant, for what seemed like several lifetimes ago.

     After clearing the rest of our assigned section of Route 246 just east of LZ George, Milliron and I sat on a little spot of jungle, just off the road and inside the wood line. We sat there the rest of the day, while convoys rolled up and down the highway. There was absolutely no civilian presence whatsoever. I remember Milliron lying on his back, lazily dozing in the morning sun. At the same time, I watched a mongoose scurrying around the jungle floor, making those familiar rustling sounds in the leaves. These cute little fellows made very distinctive sounds, which had become very recognizable to us. Finally, Bill woke up and immediately became wound up. He started describing the beautiful rose gardens of Santa Barbara, where he had lived for a time. I listened to him with one ear, but ever the point man, I was also listening to the sounds of the jungle with the other ear. About thirty minutes into the conversation, I detected something coming from the jungle behind us, which didn't sound right. It was a crunching of leaves followed by a long pause. The pauses were too long to be made by a mongoose. Those little creatures were too hyper to wait that long. At the same time, the normal sounds of birds and those mongooses vanished, and the jungle became deathly quiet. The only sounds I could hear were the low mumbling of Bill's voice and those occasional crunching sounds. Bill continued to talk about Santa Barbara, as if he were a travel guide trying to sell me a vacation package to visit there. Finally, I interrupted him by putting one finger to my lips. Then I whispered, "Listen. Do you hear that?". After hearing two or three crunching sounds for himself, he looked at me as if to ask, "What do we do now?". Without saying anything, I grabbed one of my hand grenades. I then whispered in a low voice, "I think it's time to run a little recon mission". Bill grinned knowingly and reached for his own hand grenade. We pulled the pins. He threw his to the front, slightly to the left, and I threw mine somewhat to the right. We were careful not to bounce our grenades off several big trees in the direction that we were throwing. The exploding grenades served two purposes. They stopped the crunching sounds for the rest of the day and also instructed every other road guard within earshot to wake up and pay attention.

      Later, in the early afternoon, we heard the faint sound of machine guns firing, followed by distant explosions, to the northwest of our position. The sounds were coming from the direction of Pete Petersen and the battalion recon patrol. At 1300 hrs., they had run into one of many temporary base camps for the 70th Guard and were now in a firefight with hundreds of enemy soldiers. They were 800 meters north-northwest of their base camp at LZ George when the incident occurred. Sapper teams had been aware of the patrols' straight-line movements from the moment the patrol left its perimeter at 800 hours that morning. The 271st NVA unit was also nearby, preparing for a later attack against Haig's NDP. 

     The fact is, there were just too many people in Pete's thirty-man patrol to slip through the jungle unnoticed. A single squad could have performed the same task and made a lot less noise. A platoon made at least three times as much noise, moved much more slowly, and provided three times the number of targets as a squad. In the years to come, we Americans would improve reconnaissance tactics and navigation equipment significantly, but by then, it would be too late for men like Pete. Making these longer reconnaissance probes into enemy territory was the primary job of this reconnaissance platoon. They were assigned to the battalion headquarters company and differed from the long-range reconnaissance companies (LRRPs) authorized by Westmoreland at the brigade or division level. In a perfect world, their main objective was to collect intel for their Battalion while avoiding firefights whenever possible. However, on this day, Pete's little band of brothers would break that rule in just about every way it could be broken. Years later, SEAL Teams did this kind of reconnaissance work and did it better with eight men than the battalion recon patrols could do with thirty men. During the Vietnam War, however, it was seat-of-the-pants stuff, which Pete had no choice but to go along with. Later, Haig would very briefly, but poignantly, summarize what I just said by putting it this way. He said, "In Vietnam, strategic factors hardly applied. Tactics were all, and the name of the game was not chess, but a demented and bloody form of hide-and-seek". No final ordeal in the final moments of any American soldier's life provides more evidence for the validation of Haig's words than those in the final moments of Pete Petersen's life.

     Before the shooting started, Pete approached a large, heavily used trail. He followed it a few feet to examine something, which caught his eye. It was a paper sign, like the ones that the Platoon had encountered earlier in low-hanging tree branches. Like the others, it said, "GO BACK OR DIE, AMERICANS!". The sign had been intentionally placed in a firing lane of an enemy bunker, completely concealed and about twenty meters away. That bunker was tied in with interlocking firing ports to other bunkers and connecting trenches, filled with hundreds of unseen enemy soldiers. Pete didn't stand a chance. The enemy machine gunner covering the firing lane, where the sign dangled, waited long enough to see if more people would congregate around the sign. However, the veteran members of this patrol were too savvy to fall for that trick. The gunner eventually got tired of waiting and opened up on Pete. Pete went down almost immediately. Dead branches were everywhere, left over from the construction of the overhead cover for the bunkers. As the firing intensified, tracer rounds set these dead branches on fire, causing a brief but intense wildfire to erupt. The fire did temporarily disrupt the intended maneuvering of the enemy, but it also made it impossible for anyone to rescue the badly wounded Pete Petersen. He was unable to escape the path of the fire and was engulfed in flames.

      The platoon leader, First Lt. Richard Hill, was a veteran who had been in his share of firefights. He immediately recognized, from the amount and type of incoming fire, that he was facing an overwhelming enemy force that had a bead on his Platoon. He radioed that fact to Haig. It was agreed that he needed to immediately withdraw his men to a safer distance from the deadly fire coming from those bunkers. However, Richard, himself, hesitated just a moment too long, probably trying to figure out a way to help Pete. That hesitation was a death decision for the lieutenant. A random bullet found its mark. Unnamed NCOs, however, as well as Hill's veteran RTO, stepped into the command gap. The NCOs continued organizing the short withdrawal and the establishment of a semi-circle firing perimeter, while the RTO gave Haig some very accurate coordinates for an initial artillery strike. Haig did the rest with flawless precision. He made sure the artillery did its job first, followed by low-flying antipersonnel bombing next. The heavy bombing came behind that, which broke apart staging areas. Without accurate adjustments called in to Haig by the RTO, however, none of this would have been possible. From their prone positions, those men in the recon patrol offered very small targets to the enemy. At the same time, their new position forced the enemy to leave the protection of their bunkers to attack them, before American artillery and air power could reduce them to rubble in their bunkers. The little band of about 28 recon platoon men, outnumbered by at least ten to one, performed in a way that should have earned each of them at least a bronze star for valor. Why? Because they held that line with such effectiveness, using controlled return fire, for the next four hours, without losing a single man. Many of them were using the M-14, which contributed greatly to their ability to pull off this incredible feat. The attackers were hardened and committed communist party soldiers of the 70th Guard and not conscripts. They readily charged the men of this reconnaissance patrol. However, they didn't stand a chance. They either ran into the recon platoon's bullets to their front, or they were mowed down by the shrapnel from our big guns at Fire Base Thrust and also Fire Base Charlie.

     In night dreams, years later, some of this little band of recon soldiers would still hear Pete's agonizing screams, but would accept the consolation of our Lord, that we all die, and yet eternal life is available to all who choose to believe in Him. Others, like the very courageous and twice-wounded Vietnam veteran, Oliver Stone, would want no part of such a notion. Later, Oliver would be deceived into making a movie, which would tarnish the names of men like Pete Petersen and Richard Hill. He depicted his fellow grunts as murderers of innocent women and children, as well as each other. The fact is, the murderous events described in the movie Platoon never happened in the unit Oliver served with. Why would such a brave and brilliant man like Oliver Stone defile the national memory of his brothers? If America had possessed the heart to stay the course, that decision would have brought freedom to a beautiful people, instead of enslavement and death to millions. However, although our national leaders gave up, most grunts and officers who served never regretted their service. Most realized that winning the war would bring much more freedom to the Vietnamese people.  

     Upon hearing that the recon patrol was under attack, without checking with Haig, B Company's commander ordered his men, who were just returning from security patrols at LZ George, to head toward the shooting. It's incredible how many young company commanders would mindlessly respond to a situation without thinking. I saw this happen repeatedly while I was in the field. When they impulsively did this, they usually got themselves and their men shot to pieces. To make matters worse, Haig took to the air to try to coordinate air and artillery support from his two-person bubble helicopter, only to be shot down shortly after arriving over the fighting. Fortunately, he and his pilot made it out okay, only to become exposed to a wall of gunfire as he ran to catch up with B company.

     Except for the recon patrol, nobody had a clue about their whereabouts, and there was no such thing as GPS in those days. Everyone in the relief elements had started running toward the sound of gunfire without keeping track of their location. In Vietnam, it was imperative to know one's location coordinates on a map at all times. Our artillery FOs and air controllers flying around in Piper Cubs needed to know these coordinates so they could direct artillery and air strikes. Point men were usually the ones to keep track of a patrol's current coordinates by counting paces. Although he was the first man killed, Pete Peterson's accurate pace counting probably saved the day for Alexander Haig and friends. Haig's chopper crash most surely caused him to lose track of his location and also radio communications. B Company's commander probably ran toward the sound of the firefight and did not keep an accurate pace count. Consequently, he would have had no idea where he was. Lt. Hill's RTO was probably the only man who knew the coordinates of their location after Peterson and Hill were killed. That nameless recon patrol RTO more than likely saved the day for both Haig and B Company because he was able to give Haig's forward observers his exact location. They could then call in accurate fires on the enemy.

     Haig had excellent instincts as a tactician. Though short on everyday experience as a field commander, he had been blessed with the ability to think quickly while under extreme pressure. He would have called down the world on enemy positions if he had a radio. However, whether the chopper radio was working or not, he would not have been able to communicate for long, as he had decided to run toward the firefight. That probably was not one of his more brilliant moves. However, there was another factor to consider. Hanging around the downed chopper could have given away his location to enemy sappers. It's also very possible that the helicopter's radio was not working. If he had no working radio, he would be useless to his men if he stayed put. If that were the case, I believe that I would have done the same thing Haig did. I would have run toward my men and hoped for the best. Haig did just that and was met with a hail of gunfire. I hate to think what would have happened to his men later if Haig had gotten himself killed. Haig later admitted that it was an absolute miracle that he wasn't killed. In my opinion, it was Pete Petersen's good navigation and the ability of that unnamed recon platoon RTO to remember those coordinates that saved Haig's bacon.

     Amid devastatingly effective artillery and air power, this hardcore 70th NVA Regiment managed to keep the attack going all afternoon. They followed their usual tactic of trying to flank both sides of the recon patrol. Soon, they ran into the charging B Company reinforcements. Both forces were standing up when they charged each other, so naturally, there were heavy casualties on both sides. The recon people were lying flat on the ground and were the linchpin defense on the American side. Shooting low in three-round bursts, their suppressing fire gave the arriving B Company people a stable rallying point from which to extend the American lines on the flanks. Enemy soldiers, who were caught between the recon patrol and the artillery fire, were annihilated.

     I say again that B Company grunts did not fare very well because they were standing up and running into an already existing firefight. Thus, as they presented themselves, like paper targets, many more of these grunts were killed or wounded. Five B Company people were killed outright, and most of the thirty-eight wounded were also among their ranks. The First Infantry Division rarely fielded more than a hundred men in a company. With that information, it's not hard for me to realize that B Company lost at least twenty-five percent of its fighting strength in a matter of moments. A Company was also called on to join the fight. Since they did not have a single man killed, this is good evidence that A Company arrived at the point of contact after the remainder of B Company had established effective counterfire positions. A Company was also the beneficiary of effective artillery fires. Those fires were already having a devastating effect on the enemy by the time A Company arrived. Still, it was a long, brutal firefight. Milliron and I listened to the sounds of that battle all afternoon.

     So, there you have it. I have just given my after-action analysis done fifty-some years too late. If this analysis had been done at the time, by an old NCO warhorse, instead of a new clerk, we could have identified areas for improvement. We could have gained a better understanding of our enemy. More lives could have been saved. However, that's a lot of maybes and all water under the bridge now.

      The noise made by bombing and gunfire, coming from Haig's troubles three miles away, was of very little concern for Milliron and me. He and I finished road guard duty that day and returned to our NDP in the late afternoon. Back in camp, with no LP (listening post) or ambush patrol duties to perform, we had nothing better to do than hang out beside our holes and wait for the night to close in around us. It would be over fifty years before I realized what the Blue Spaders went through on that day. Furthermore, we Dogface grunts had no idea that a unit nicknamed the Blue Spaders even existed. We were a battalion of three hundred guarding a fire support base of mechanized artillery, and that was our entire world. Little else going on in the distance mattered. There were more than three thousand enemy troops nearby. We had no idea of that fact either. Many others and I believed that we were fighting a bunch of unorganized guerrilla forces. We thought that all the NVA troops were further north, trying to kill Marines. However, later events would prove that these large enemy units were continually moving from one stronghold to another in War Zones C and D, always closer to us than we ever realized. Even the astute Alexander Haig did not have a comprehensive understanding of the bigger picture. These main NVA forces did not run back across the Cambodian border after every battle to lick their wounds. Instead, they were continually being resupplied and outfitted with new conscripts by the workings of a very robust shadow government, established through terror tactics perpetrated on the people of South Vietnam. Sure, these units were being reinforced daily from the North with more conscripts, AK-47 assault weapons, more RPGs and 122mm rockets, as well as anti-aircraft machine guns. However, much of their food supplies and other hardware and services were being extorted from the South Vietnamese through the efforts of that very clandestine shadow government, which our senior leaders ignored, and we grunts knew nothing of in the first place. Oh yes, I knew that there was a very good chance that I could be killed, but at this juncture in time, I, like most grunts, had bought into the false assumption that we were only fighting against disorganized bands of guerrillas. We never dreamed that we would ever experience a human wave attack this close to Saigon.  

      On the same day, Greg Murry, with A Company of the 1/16th, was in Lai Kai for what he thought would be a few days' rest. It was late afternoon when his unit got the call for help from Haig. Haig determined correctly that he was going to need more reinforcements. He already strongly suspected that this attack on his recon platoon was just a precursor to something bigger. Like us, the 1/2nd was nearby, but couldn't help Haig because they too were tasked with protecting the road used to bring in supplies. Each day, the guys in my unit and the 1/2nd would be scattered up and down Route 246, guarding convoys of resupplies. Like I said, at the time, no one told us grunts anything. When the two companies of Lazzell's 1/16th were flown in from Lai Khe, they landed just to the west of Haig's Blue Spaders. The landing was unopposed, though they could see and hear the fireworks coming from Haig's beleaguered men fighting in the woods to the North. Not long after landing, however, Greg's unit was mortared repeatedly. The mortar attack was fortuitous for Haig and us too. Those enemy mortar teams gave their positions away and were destroyed by our air strikes. This meant that the enemy was now running a little short on mortar crews when they launched their main attack. That may be why we never got mortared during the main attack still to come.       

     As the sun was setting, the noises of the daylight combat tapered off. The 70th pulled back to regroup. Except for those grunts on ambush or listening post (LP) duties, we grunts, in my Dogface Battalion, were in our holes for the night. The 1/2nd were in their holes for the night, and Greg Murry with the 1/16th was still digging his hole. Jack Toomey, however, had just learned that he would not be in his hole on his first night in the field. He and two other new guys were told to establish a listening post (LP) fifty yards in front of their Battalion's perimeter. Though by now, Jack has forgotten many of his youthful forays with the 1/2nd, he still remembers this first night in the field. He remembers exactly who he was with, where he was, and what he was doing the entire night. Why? Well, for one, he remembers this night because it would be the first time he would have other human beings trying hard to kill him. That, in itself, made it a night to remember.

     A couple of hours after darkness fell, Jack and the two new guys with him heard rustling noises in the jungle in front of them. As they sat in the darkness, they also began to hear Vietnamese voices. Immediately, one of his fellow grunts broke radio silence and relayed this information to their Platoon RTO. It wasn't long before the company commander was monitoring their transmissions. Soon, Jack's companions became so frightened that they asked permission to return to the safety of the perimeter. Their request was denied, and now Jack was scared, too. Nothing in this place reminded him of Kansas any longer. These woods were spooky, and there was a wicked witch out there in the darkness.

     To make matters worse, Jack now realized that he was sharing this listening post with the Scarecrow and a Cowardly Lion. Life was quickly becoming quite overwhelming. So, with this said, Jack did what most of us did on our first day facing the enemy. He just sucked it up and went with the flow, asking himself the same question over and over. How had he gotten himself into a fix like this in the first place? This combat thing was quickly becoming, by far, the biggest deal of his young life. Fifty-some years later, the then-retired judge Jack Toomey would say in a public interview that the situations he faced in combat were the most life-changing events that he would ever experience. After returning home, the twice-decorated machine gunner, Jack Toomey, obviously faced some significant challenges to become a judge in his hometown of Long Island. Yes, Jack was from Long Island, New York. However, he could have been from Kalamazoo for all the good his past life was doing for him now.

     As he struggled with a surge of new emotions, the Vietnamese voices grew louder. Then the begging to come home pleas started in earnest, coming from the Scarecrow and the Cowardly Lion, sharing this little spot in the jungle with him. His two Compadres were now talking to the company commander. Their pleas, one, then the other, were pitiful and sounded more like the whining of a child. While the whining continued on the radio, Jack had an epiphany. He realized for the first time that he could not fully trust anyone but himself. He also realized for the first time that he was going to have to look at life a lot differently. It quickly became painfully apparent to Jack that no one had bothered to show these two grunts a single thing about how to man an LP, and he certainly didn't know either.   

     Like most new guys, Jack and his friends were too scared to think. They also loathed the thought of killing another human being. Those two facts make it understandable why it was hard for them to visualize what they needed to do. They had not yet become experienced enough to master the tools of their trade. For example, a couple of tossed grenades would make almost anyone stop talking and run away. And if their grenades miraculously hit their mark, that was all the better. They also needed to realize that this was not a training exercise. There would be no reprimand from their superiors for throwing a grenade. However, as crazy as it may seem to the reader, they probably weren't sure of that either.

     Instead of acting, Jack's buddies allowed these seasoned sappers to hear their anxious voices on the radio, resonating with fearful tones that could be recognized in any language. The very breaking of the squelch was enough to give their location away. It was a game of sorts, and a game where Jack and his friends turned themselves into prey instead of predators. Bullets started popping over their heads, slamming through the vegetation all around them. When that happened, Jack's company commander immediately gave his permission to pop claymores and return to the perimeter. The savvy sappers then quickly withdrew to a safe distance, only to reappear during the night to harass other spots along the Battalion's perimeter. Jack was now as wide awake as he had ever been in his entire life and would remain that way all night long. His adrenaline was flowing, but the crash would catch up with him later. However, for now, he was experiencing the same rush that almost every new guy felt after being shot at for the very first time.

     31/2 miles away from where a main attack would soon take place, I was starting to enjoy a few hours of quiet, as the big tracked 155 mm guns behind my position fell silent. At the same time, almost every man in all four NDPs took full advantage of this quiet time. Those of us who didn't have to go on ambush patrol or listening post (LP) duty did what was the most underrated but vitally important function needed for the success of any fighting unit. That function was sleep. Its importance was undoubtedly not lost on Haig. While our guns were silent, I am sure he did nothing but turn off his mind and slumber away. Haig had mastered the skill of knowing when to sleep in Korea, but there was another reason for him to be able to follow through with that endeavor without being disturbed. That reason was his longtime friend and S3, George Joulwan. George always screened interruptions to his sleep, allowing him to be awakened only for what required his attention.

     Sometime after 3 a.m., the person operating the radios at Haig's command bunker started receiving calls from all three company commanders. The reports said repeatedly that many of their listening posts were hearing noises. (Haig had intentionally not posted ambush patrols on this night, which showed an incredible amount of forethought.) Those noises reported by Haig's listing posts were reason enough for George Joulwan to wake his commanding officer. As Haig sat up, rubbing his face with both hands, he was given the news. He immediately gave orders for each company mortar platoon to go to work, dropping rounds on positions where the noises were being heard. This same tactic was something that Jack's commander should have done when Jack's listening post began hearing voices. Our new commander, Dick Cavazos, would have given that order before those enemy voices had time to say Ho Chi Minh twice.

     The previous day's attack on Haig's recon platoon had already alerted Haig's keen mind to the fact that an all-out attack on his perimeter lines was imminent. That's precisely why he posted no ambush patrols on this night. Haig was one of those rare guys who had a knack for figuring things out, no matter the mess into which he was thrown. He reasoned correctly that ambush patrols would be a liability he didn't need to be worrying about during an all-out attack. He already knew that a large enemy force was nearby, so why did he have fifteen men risk their lives to warn him of something he already knew?

     Whether he won this upcoming battle on April 1, 1967, or not, it was going to be a beautiful day in the neighborhood for General Thanh. His field commanders had busied themselves all night sneaking into locations around Haig and Lazzell's Battalions. Other sapper teams surrounded Jack's 1/2nd Battalion, as well as our own. These more hardened sappers continually monitored and harassed the 1/2nd Battalion and our unit.

     Thanh would deploy larger numbers of conscription forces in this battle, and this trend would continue throughout the rest of 1967. This factor gave Thanh a considerable advantage over Westmoreland, because the strategically challenged Westmoreland was never able to understand their true purpose. In reality, they were Thanh's red flag, and Westmoreland was the bull. Thanh's blackened heart had no concerns for the protection of fundamental human rights. He was a sociopath who had no moral qualms about personally killing every teenager in North Vietnam if that would allow him and his comrades to gain complete control over the lives of all South Vietnamese. A proper understanding of what was at stake was lost on Westmoreland and Robert McNamara. Worse yet, was Westmoreland’s inability to learn from past mistakes.

     NVA conscripts were composed of youngsters who were used as pawns by the communists to cover up their real play. Those conscripts were fed one lie after another, and those lies began long before their nightmarish march South. No actions taken against them would ever be seriously questioned. They faced the prospect of summary executions for a host of reasons that we would have found very minor. With this barbaric treatment, their young minds started shutting down many higher-level functions. At the same time, they became more susceptible to propaganda, especially the clever kind, which was distributed regularly throughout all the NVA units by communist disinformation specialists. Conscripts were divided into cells of three. Each of those cell members was forced to periodically critique themselves and the other two, viewed under the watchful eye of a more well-programmed NCO. Just before the attack began on Haig's position, several conscripts deemed as uncompliant were publicly made examples of before the other troops by being displayed and then marched off to be chained in trees surrounding Haig's NDP.

     The truth is, the vast majority of conscripts had parents who were not members of the communist party. To the communist elite, they were the deplorables of their day. In this ruling class's eyes, their lack of motivation to join the communist party brought disdain. Deep down, their leaders felt more hatred toward them than they did Haig's Blue Spaders. The communist action plan had always been to rid itself of two problems: one from within and one from without. Over and over, in the war, communist leaders like Thanh, who wielded complete control of the citizenry in the North, would intentionally sacrifice the lives of these conscripts just as quickly as he would kill a fellow like me. They could kill them quicker because I had some pretty devastating ways of fighting back. After we left Vietnam in 1975, the communist ideology was responsible for the deaths of over three million Vietnamese.

     As Murry finished up his last Guard of the night and was falling fast asleep, a single registration round fell a short distance from Haig's bunker. Haig, already awake, heard it and guessed correctly that a whole barrage would soon follow. He had his entire Battalion on full alert and called Murry's commander, Lt. Col. Lazzell, advising him to do the same with his Battalion. Haig didn't have long to wait for the main attack to begin. In a matter of about twenty minutes, over 300 rounds of 60 mm, 82 mm, and 120 mm mortar rounds fell on Haig's position and probably an equal number on Murry's 1/16th Rangers. 75 mm Pack Howitzers and mortars were used to shell Fire Base Charlie. We had just come from there a few days earlier. The 75mm pack Howitzers were obtained from the Chinese, who received them from the United States, during World War II. The shelling of Fire Base Charlie hampered, somewhat, that fire base's efforts to provide fire support for Haig. It was located about 12 klicks to the east of Haig's position. It was also the 2nd brigade headquarters. The brigade commander, Col. James Grimsley, was wounded by shrapnel and had to be evacuated. He would later become a major general. The resulting enemy mortar attack on the 1/26th, the 1/16th, and Fire Base Charlie was one of the most ferocious of the entire Junction City operation.   

     Just before things got hot for Haig and Murray, I sat in the darkness, pulling the last hour of my guard time, and anticipating some of the dehydrated vegetable beef soup that our cooks had started preparing for us to be flown out with the morning coffee and donuts. Those freshly made donuts were better than any I had ever tasted in the States. The donuts were in addition to the hot meal that our cooks prepared for us later in the day. These hospitality upgrades all occurred during Dick's tenure. We didn't get anything nearly this appetizing while good ole C-ration Denton was running things.

     Suddenly, the gun crews behind my position came to life. Within two or three minutes, after I witnessed their crews scurrying around behind me, those big 155s began blazing away, waking up everyone who was still trying to sleep. We had a starlight scope in my position with fresh batteries, so Bowman and I started using it to search the wood line about 75 meters in front of us. In just a few minutes, flares under little white parachutes started popping open over our heads. I believe they were coming from the guns of the 173rd Airborne unit to the South of us. We put the starlight scope back in its case and started watching the skyline toward the northwest, where we heard large explosions. Bill had wandered off again. He wanted to be with Bartee and his RTO so they could monitor the radio. Bowman and I held down the fort, sitting quietly, saying nothing to each other. Bill had traveled the country more than Bowman and me. He had been a construction worker and sheet-rocker before he got his greeting from Uncle Sam. He had seen more of the world and was much more sociable than we were. Bowman and I were withdrawn hillbillies who had spent too much of our time in the woods, alone. Bowman was even more withdrawn than I was. He was so quiet that, at times, a stranger could have easily mistaken him for a mute.      

      Jack's unit was spared a mortar attack. We were, too. However, it was another story for Murry's Rangers and Haig's Blue Spaders. Hearing mortars leaving their tubes, snapped the veteran Murry out of his dreamland state barely in time for him to dive into his bunker, before a mortar round turned him into small body parts. He was now wide awake and looking for his rifle, while his foxhole buddy was screaming for him to get off his back, literally. Still looking for his rifle, Murry scrambled off his buddy and crawled out of his hole into another hole made by a mortar round, the one which would have blown him apart, had he been just a tad slower in the low-crawl. He grabbed his rifle and reentered his bunker to assume his shooting position. His buddy was already blazing away, as if he were putting on a show for Walter Cronkite's camera crew. That's when it happened. It was a terrifying thing which was repeated over and over in Vietnam, and needlessly, I might add. Murry's M-16 jammed. It became one more proof of how inadequate this most essential piece of equipment was.

      Murry low-crawled from his bunker one more time to the next bunker over, trying to find a cleaning rod to knock the jammed cartridge out of the breach of his rifle. At the same time, Haig was facing a much bigger problem. Every action taken by Haig from this point on, during the battle, would require very critical thinking. There would be no time for pauses or second-guessing. The battle would become known as the Battle of Ap Gu.

      It was still Friday evening back in the States. Many Americans were beginning to unwind from a hard week at work. While LZ George was lit up with bombs, mortars, and tracers, many Americans were intently focused on adjusting the rabbit ear antennas on the TV so that they could view more clearly their favorite Friday evening TV show. Others were busy preparing to chase their Friday night passions in various ways. At the time this battle was taking place, as well as others similar to it, most Americans were quite unaware of the suffering in Vietnam. There certainly were no Ernie Piles around, as in World War II, to record the everyday life and raw courage of a unit like the Blue Spaders. Instead, every major news network seemed much more disposed to catch us citizen soldiers, with our pants down, or better yet, with an enemy ear or two in our pocket. If they couldn't do that, at least they could catch some shots showing how wild-eyed and scared we looked. 

      Communist officers, by this time, had moved their disposable conscripts as close in as possible, just before the mortar attack was launched. They had picked the best spot on the Northeast side of the perimeter for the main attack to take place, and it was the same spot Haig had been concerned about. A few conscripts, who were deemed more compliant, during their harsh training, were given satchel charges and instructed beforehand on how to use them to blow up a bunker. It would not have been lost on these very intelligent young pawns just how slim their chances of survival were. However, they had no choice. A quick summary execution, by a bullet to the brain, awaited them if they refused. Worse yet, one American, whom I interviewed, said that after the battle, his squad found a dead NVA conscript chained to the limb of a tree. Does the reader think that he was the only one? If so, my dear, you have never studied the history of countries living under the communist ideology. Walter Cronkite never reported on the multitude of atrocities committed by our enemy, who, by the way, are still our enemy today. The network would have fired him if he had. Most Americans, including me, never realized the immense emotional agony inflicted upon those hapless conscripts by their leaders. 

     The night before the main attack, Haig held the recon platoon's 28 men in reserve, having them spread out between the command bunker and B Company's east side perimeter, where they could fill in the ranks of the wounded, which had to be evacuated earlier.    

     Haig never heard the enemy bugles blow at 0520 hrs., signaling for the primary human wave attack to begin against his northeastern perimeter. Neither did he see the flashes from the satchel charge explosions, which destroyed two of his C Company bunkers, instantly killing the C Company men inside. He had been too focused on ensuring that the officers, NCOs, and their RTOs, now crowded around him in the command bunker, had their wits about them. That trait in Haig, which allowed him to assess and steady his people in times of severe stress, like this, was rare indeed in the Big Red One. Haig had that ability, and so did Cavazos. Fortunately, Haig had the right stuff, but he had not been in command of the Blue Spaders long enough to have made sure that most officers and NCOs affecting his command were up for the task. They would soon prove to Haig that they were. Haig always tried to make the best with what was available, but on this night, he at least had one thing working in his favor. Most of his men were veterans of enough small fights to be able to take on this big fight with flying colors.  

     Haig excelled at tactics during this battle. I cannot help but think that some of that ability came from being dragged so often to the front lines in Korea as an aide to General Ned Almond. Haig knew that he wanted artillery to have preference over air strikes, to be used close in. The big bombs, on the F4s, were to be used to bust up enemy assembly areas a little further back, but not as far back as the arbitrary 1000-meter S.O.P. called for. Air strikes were just too blunt an instrument and very sporadic. A jet could only drop one or two bombs at a time and often missed the mark. The enemy was not about to give Haig a timeout while the pilot returned to base to fetch another bomb. Artillery, on the other hand, could keep coming and could be fine-tuned to be dropped very close to friendly troops. Now, while the enemy mortar blasts were subsiding outside the command bunker, the rifle pops were increasing. Haig began to focus intently on the multiple radio transmissions around him. He was good at spotting and dealing with the slightest hiccup. Tactical errors would be spotted in those transmissions and addressed immediately, but not as harshly as the ghost of General Ned Almond may have desired. It wasn't long before Lazzell's voice became one of those transmissions. It wasn't a hiccup. It was just good information. Lazzell was verifying what Haig had already suspected would happen. "We are receiving a lot of incoming small arms fire on the northeast and east side of our perimeter", Lazzell reported to Haig. Though he said nothing to anyone, including Lazzell, Haig knew this was probably a diversionary attack, which meant that his Blue Spaders could expect the full force of General Thanh's wrath on their eastern perimeter, rather than where Lazzell's report indicated an increase in small arms fire was occurring. Another radio report was saying that Fire Base Charlie was being shelled. A FO (forward observer) was already on the horn to one of our artillery officers at Thrust, asking him to take up the slack. The command bunker was a busy place, with command personnel doing what they should have been doing, while a listening Haig was tweaking where he needed to. People were working the crap out of those radios. Haig was tuning his ears in and out of conversations. Suddenly, he heard the distinctive voice of his C Company Commander, Captain Brian Cundiff, saying his northeastern side of the perimeter was being overrun. The main attack, which Haig had been expecting, had begun. Haig grabbed the mic from the hand of his "Romeo 6" and started to address Captain Cundiff, by his radio call sign, “Charlie 6”. Cundiff abruptly interrupted him. "The bastards are in the bunkers with us", Cundiff blurted out, for all the world to hear. Upon hearing that, Haig immediately reassured his junior officer, letting him know that help was on the way. Without saying a word, Haig reached down and grabbed his AR-15 and then charged out of the command bunker, while his radio operators scrambled to keep up. In a few seconds, he was staring into the face of that nameless recon platoon sergeant, telling him to have his recon platoon saddle up and follow him. He had walked the lines enough to know exactly where he was going, and now, just like the day before, Haig ran, while facing a hail of bullets, toward  Captain Cundiff's position. There was a real danger of a friendly fire situation if those recon guys following Haig did not pick their targets carefully. However, just like the day before, Recon Platoon's fire control was flawless.  

     Dawn was breaking. Targets on the ground could be more easily identified by soldiers engaged in ground combat. However, low-hanging clouds were still preventing the big jets from dropping their ordinance, as close in as Haig now realized they needed to be dropped. It seems to me that communist planners had goofed a bit when they timed their attack to take place this close to dawn. The attack was about an hour too late to take full advantage of the darkness. Haig had wisely let the NCOs of Recon know beforehand to prepare themselves as his reserve to be used anyway he saw fit during an attack. Now, in the twilight, with bullets popping by everyone in the open, recon people united with C Company, and everyone spread out around their Ole Man. They carefully picked off anyone trying to get at them or their buddies. Some hand-to-hand fighting ensued. It was the kind of fighting and killing almost unheard of in jungle warfare. The lines were quickly reestablished, with recon people filling in the gaps along with C Company soldiers. These deadly shooters had eliminated every threat inside the wire, without getting a single recon man killed, while losing only eight men in C Company, during the entire battle of Ap Gu. All but one of these were killed by fragmentation wounds, which would seem to indicate that the gun-slinging shootout was a one-sided affair. This low casualty rate alone speaks volumes to the proficiency of this little band of citizen soldiers. However, it also speaks volumes about the ineptness of these teenage conscripts. 

      Low-hanging clouds preventing the Air Force from bombing wasn't the only problem Haig faced. The perimeter had been reestablished for the time being, but Haig knew it couldn't withstand another human wave attack. Both my NDP and Fire Base Charlie were getting low on munitions. C Company and Recon effectively prevented further intrusions on their lines, but they were also running low on ammo. The massive volume of incoming small arms fire indicated that a large force was still hiding in the grass, just outside the wire. That volume of incoming fire strongly suggested that another large-scale human wave attack was imminent. Now was the time, like never before, to get those air assets moving, but exactly how was that going to happen? The answer to that question now rested solely on the shoulders of Alexander Haig, and Haig alone. 

      By now, Brigadier General Hollingsworth, who was second in command of the Big Red One, was circling above the battlefield in his Huey gunship. Other gunships were peeing red tracers toward the ground, which I could see from my position at Fire Base Thrust. Puff the Magic Dragon was also circling overhead. I could hear the buzz-saw sound of its mini-guns and see its streaming red tracers. One report, coming from one of the circling aircraft, later said that they saw wounded NVA soldiers, helping other wounded soldiers, not to retreat, but to make death charges against the American line. When my research discovered that information, like many others, my first thought was to be amazed at how committed these NVA soldiers were to their cause. That thought, however, was a misconception.

     Almost all of these brown or green uniformed NVA were not committed communists, but nothing more than teenage conscripts, suffering from advanced stages of a communist induced Stockholm Syndrome. They had no other choice but to be led by their communist handlers to the slaughtering pen. Their heart was not in winning this battle, but in staying alive for just a few more minutes. How can I be so sure that this is true? The evidence is in the outcome of such attacks as at Ap Gu. Not a single recon platoon member was killed during numerous exchanges with the enemy, which took place out in the open and at close range. Captain Cundiff shot six enemy soldiers himself at point-blank range. There is no way that this could have happened if he had been facing a hardcore enemy force. The after-action report says that 34 enemy bodies were later found inside the C Company perimeter. However, not a single member of Recon and only one C Company man was killed by gunshot wounds. Casualties would have been much higher had they tangled with the more experienced sappers whom we routinely faced on patrols and perimeter probes. Sappers were the more trusted troops and were the ones my unit skirmished with daily. However, the poor souls, who had been commanded to charge Haig's lines in response to a bugle, were teenage throwaways, groomed by hardened communist ideologues, to perform suicidal acts. On this day, as in many other battles, these teenagers were drugged before the fight began. Most had no heart for killing. However, unspoken horrors awaited them and their families if they did not obediently die as told. History shows us over and over that human flesh is a cheap commodity under the communist ideology, regardless of who is in charge, and the citizenry always winds up suffering the most.

      Shortly before 0700 hours, Hollingsworth was still circling overhead. He had managed to redirect more artillery fires on the northeastern and eastern side of the perimeter. By now, Haig had returned from leading his recon platoon to shore up the breach in the lines and was squatting in front of the opening to the command bunker. He could hear the loud shearing sound of our big 155 artillery shells, cutting through the air and exploding just in front of C Company's bunkers, but he knew more needed to be done. Haig was about to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt what a fine field commander he was. Haig turned his head slowly from one side to the other, while issuing his next order to all officers and NCOs in earshot, including his Top Sergeant, who had also been by his side all morning. "Have all our mortar platoons lay down phosphorus rounds forty meters to the front of the eastern perimeter. (Burning phosphorus produces white, billowing clouds that can be easily spotted from the air.) While still kneeling, he then turned his entire body toward the Battalion's air officer, Captain John Buck. Buck was crouching down on the other side of the command bunker. "Captain Buck, I need you to drop napalm on top of those phosphorus rounds". He then addressed his RTO in a subdued tone. "Get General Hollingsworth on the horn." Without hesitation, his RTO broke squelch a couple of times and voiced the radio call sign for Hollingsworth over the airways. Haig motioned for his RTO to hand him the mic. "Holly, I don't care how you do it, but I want cluster bombs dropped on top of the napalm which I have ordered to be dropped along my eastern perimeter. Bring them right up to the perimeter". Haig fully realized the implications of this public request, which he had just spoken for all to hear. Those words to his boss shifted the liability from his boss to him. He had now assumed full responsibility if something went wrong, which could create a friendly fire incident. That shifting of liability also had another effect. It took the pressure off his boss to insert himself into the decision-making on the ground. Haig had now freed Hollingsworth to become an asset, instead of a hindrance. This radio exchange between Haig and Hollingsworth is an excellent example of the kind of interactions that competent leaders should strive to have with their boss at certain critical moments. Since they are closer to the problem, they should always suggest a course of action before their superior has to spend valuable time trying to produce one themselves. Why? Hollingsworth was one step removed from the problem on the ground. That meant he could never be as tuned into the evolving situation on the ground as Haig could.

     The ranks of the 271st Viet Cong Regiment, waiting in the tall grass to mount their next human wave attack, were devastated by the resulting antipersonnel bombing. The enemy was "sent packing," and by 0800 hours, the Battle of Ap Gu was over. However, the godless communist leadership wasn't concerned in the least, for the loss of life, of their people, most no older than sixteen. A good communist will never grieve for anyone or anything. They will, however, always blame others for what they are doing themselves. As these poor Vietnamese youth were killed in the most terrible ways imaginable, already more very young Vietnamese men and women were pouring into what was little more than human trafficking training camps, at a rate of at least 300,000 per year. Two years after the Battle of Ap Gu, the Communist North had well over 1.8 million people who could be conscripted.