Chapter 12: Tree of Life
061225
For the next few days, after supporting Alexander Haig's big
battle, things for my Dogface Battalion didn't change much. My unit
continued to enjoy all the perks that came with serving our country as
grunts. We provided road security for Route 246 and took turns running
nighttime ambush patrols. As I have already said, night ambush patrols
were used by combat units in Vietnam primarily as early warning of enemy
activity. In this free kill zone of War Zone C, we were at liberty to
kill anything that moved. We also continued to get to know our new
commander and were beginning to like what we saw. However, even if he
had been able to walk across a rice paddy on top of the mud and water,
there would always be some things that he was never going to be able to
fix. This next episode is one of those situations.
Surely, one would have thought that the Army would have already
worked out fail-safe procedures to prevent artillery units from
accidentally plotting their many random fire missions where our infantry
units were going to be operating. However, my following account proves
that wasn't so.
It was three days after the Battle of Ap Gu. Haig had just been
promoted to full Colonel. The date was April 4, 1967, and it was my
squad's turn to go out into the jungle about 500 meters and set up one
of these nighttime ambush positions. By now, there was no question in
anyone's mind that we were in a very dangerous place. Our patrols
crossed paths with enemy patrols every day. Sometimes there was a
shootout, and sometimes there wasn't. However, tonight there was a very
good chance that we would get into some trouble. Sergeant Bartee was
nervous as all get-out. Heck, we all were. Everyone else who had
patrolled this area had run into trouble. Why not us? While on a
platoon-sized patrol, to gather gear and weapons lost in one of those
firefights, we had already experienced a brazen ambush attack on my
platoon.
On this particular evening, just before dark, we saddled up and
started for our assigned ambush position for the night. We walked single
file, skirting our perimeter, until we got to one of the other platoon's
bunkers. There, we took a right turn and walked straight into the triple
canopy jungle. As we were leaving camp, just before making that turn,
toward the jungle, I noticed a soldier standing dead still on top of his
DePuy bunker. He was staring straight at me. I was the point man and
first man in line, so it was only natural for him to look at me first. I
learned many years later that his name was Lonnie Matthews. I did not
know him then. Strangely, I never forgot what seemed to be a very
concerned look on his face. I have pondered that look many times over
the years. His look seemed to say, “I wish you guys were staying in with
me tonight instead of going where you are going.” Lonnie raised his hand
and made a little waving motion. As I turned to walk toward the wood
line, I waved back at him.
After entering the thick jungle, we followed our assigned
azimuth. It led us along that same road, where we had been ambushed. We
walked parallel to the road and about twenty-five meters to the left of
it until we got to our designated ambush site. The site was marked on
Sergeant Bartee's map. Everyone seemed quieter than usual. We all felt
that this patrol was going to be different. Every patrol was dangerous,
but this one seemed to be coming with a guarantee of certain death if we
didn't stay true to our "A" game. If ever there was a time to go above
and beyond, this was that time. It was not the time to carry on with
business as usual. Enemy activity was heavier than we had ever seen.
Yet, incredible as it may sound, the possibility that we could be
overwhelmed by a large force moving into position to attack our entire
battalion never crossed our minds. We knew nothing about what had just
happened to Haig's Blue Spaders. However, we did expect a sapper team to
try to hunt us down. That's what had been happening to the other ambush
patrols, and that's what we expected to happen tonight.
Before arriving at Thrust, past ambush patrols down south had
been boring. Waiting for one's guard shift to end was unbelievably
exhausting and long. On these ambush patrols, one man out of every three
would stay awake for a two-hour shift. Many times, I would listen to a
small radio, which I purchased at the PX at Di An. It had an earpiece to
fit in one ear so I could also listen for any unusual noises with the
other ear. Tonight, however, things were different. I certainly was not
going to be listening to that radio. Bartee sensed that things were
different, too. Milliron also sensed the difference, as did Bowman.
On the other hand, I don't know what was going through Walker's
head. Walker just seemed to go with the flow. He didn't seem to be on
edge like the rest of us. As he stood clutching that deadly M-40 grenade
launcher in his hands, I really couldn't tell what he was thinking. I
did know this, however. Walker had come to be one of the most respected
members of our squad. In 1960s America, respect from whites for a black
man was a rare commodity, indeed. Walker never voiced his tactical input
on any situation that I recall. However, that didn't matter. He was the
best thump gunner (M40 grenade launcher) in the entire division. Given
clear space, he could put five thump gun rounds in the air and on target
downfield at 100 meters, before the first round landed. I was in awe the
first time I saw him do it. After witnessing that display, I remember
jokingly saying to him, "Goodness gracious, Walker, that sure will look
good on your job resume, when you get back to the world (U.S.)", but
then I remembered that he was self-employed. Walker was a pimp from
Ohio, but that made no difference here. He was one of us, and I had
known that long before the rest of these guys showed up. Some guys came
through my squad, and I don't remember their names, because they didn't
matter to me that much. Yet I will never forget Walker, or Bowman, or
Milliron, or Bartee, but Walker and I had earned our C.I.B. at the same
time, and there was something very special about that bond. Of course,
everyone is special in God's eyes, but I am not giving God's viewpoint
here. I am sharing my flawed self-centered perspective at the time.
When we arrived at our plotted ambush spot, lo and behold, there
was a giant tree similar to the one in the picture below. This tree was
standing directly on the ambush site marked on our map. I remember
standing in the inner circle close to Sergeant Bartee and his radio man.
Bill Milliron and Glenn Bowman stood beside me. We started discussing
our plight while the others looked on. As I said, every patrol
previously sent in this general direction had made some contact. Nobody
believed this time would be any different. With that unsettling thought
stuck at the bottom of each of our stomachs, it became easier to start
visualizing ways this tree could be used for protection. Just the fact
that it was located exactly at our destination checkpoint was a minor
miracle.
I don't know who voiced the idea first, but everyone immediately
embraced it. Of course, we old guys were always in general agreement
that we shouldn't wait for the bullets to start flying before we hatched
a plan. We always hatched a plan. Even if that plan were to do nothing,
it was still talked about. Why? Because there were ways to do nothing
and live, and then there were other ways to do nothing and get yourself
killed. However, this time, we knew one thing for sure. This plan needed
to be different. It needed to be something the enemy would never expect.
Thus, the following idea was born. We would use the tree for
cover and concealment. Those were two different things. Good cover
protects one from flying objects like bullets and shrapnel. Concealment
only hides a person. It gives no protection from fast-flying objects
like bullets or shrapnel. Most of the time, an ambush site would not
provide both cover and concealment. Concealment was usually the best we
could hope for while setting up any ambush position. An ambush patrol
could not afford to make the noise and take the time to dig in to
provide the necessary cover, too. The laterite soil in War Zone C was
way too hard, and we would have made much too much noise. However, in
this particular instance, we soon realized that this big tree could
provide both cover and concealment because the ground around its roots
was extremely soft. It would be easy to dig under those massive roots,
where we would have access to both a concealed position and also be
provided with cover from the tree's enormous roots. The picture helps
clarify what I am saying.
Spending the night under those roots was a great idea. We
hurriedly put our plan in motion. In less than ten minutes, we were able
to dig holes in the soft dirt quietly. We now encircled the tree and
were concealed entirely below ground with a large root over the top of
each man. Before retiring under those roots for the night, we strung out
six claymores, three along the road and three in a semicircle behind us.
Bartee picked the first two men to pull the first guard shift. Everyone
was warned one more time not to fire their weapons if we made contact.
Instead, we would pop claymores, and the squad would follow me to
another assembly point, exactly fifty meters in the opposite direction
of the enemy tracer rounds. From there, we would call in artillery on
the enemy. There was just one other thing that most of the city slickers
in our squad did not want to think about. They didn't want to think
about what nightlife might be crawling around under those tree roots
with them. All in all, however, that tree was a Godsend.
As some might say, we had a plan. However, by this time, we also
knew that the plan rarely aligned with reality for very long. The night
was now upon us. A couple of hours of silent darkness went by. If an
enemy patrol had walked past that tree, they would have seen or smelled
nothing. We were as invisible as anyone could hope to become in our
spider holes around that tree.
As I have already explained, there were other fire bases nearby,
providing artillery support to our fire base in case of attack. Those
fire bases would H and I (harassment and interdiction) artillery rounds
at random during the night. It was said that this was done to keep the
enemy guessing. I have already mentioned why this was a stupid idea.
However, since this was a common practice, when we heard the first 155
mm rounds land in the direction of our NDP (night defensive position),
we were not alarmed in the least. Then a couple more shells landed a
little closer to us on the same side of that road. Fifteen seconds
later, a third shell landed a little closer still.
It was early in the evening, and no one had gone to sleep yet.
Everyone was alert and starting to realize that this was not normal.
Another fire base was carrying out a fire mission. The fire base's
artillery crews were dropping rounds down the same side of that road as
the side that we were occupying. Each salvo was coming a little closer.
The slang description used to describe that hair-brained tactic was
called "walking a road". When two or three more rounds landed even
closer, our RTO was already on the horn (radio) calling for a
cease-fire. That couldn't happen instantaneously. Our command post would
have to call brigade headquarters, and they would then call the CP
(command post) of the unit engaged in the fire mission. In turn, their
commander would then order their gunners to cease fire. Two or three
more rounds landed even closer. Everyone held their breath and scooted
as far up under their overhead covering of roots as they could get.
Another and another landed, coming closer and closer. Now, all anyone
could do was wait helplessly. We were in mortal fear for our lives. The
killing radius of a 155 mm shell is 50 meters, and we were in the direct
line of fire with no indication that the shelling would be halted in
time to save us.
Two shells landed only fifty meters away. Within just a few
seconds, two more shells exploded in an air burst, near the top of our
tree. We were well within their killing radius. The jungle flooring
around us shuddered as a supersonic shock wave from the two blasts hit
it. Branches from the treetop came crashing down around us. They were
heavy enough to crush us if those big roots had not protected us. Even
underground, the air we breathed immediately became heavy with fine
particles of dust kicked up by the blast. The shock wave propelled
thousands of red-hot shrapnel shards in every direction. That shock wave
alone, from a 155 mm gun blast, could kill at this extremely close
range. However, once again, those big tree roots covered us, absorbing
much of this shock wave as well as the shrapnel. If we had been in the
more open jungle, I am sure every man in my squad would have been
killed. Now, the air around us hung heavy with the pungent smell of
cordite and humus kicked up from the jungle flooring. Two more shells
exploded thirty meters or so past our position, and then two again
further on.
As quickly as this mortal danger had come, it also passed. An
eerie silence hung over the tree and the jungle around it, broken only
by the squelch from our radio. Rays of light from a crescent moon shone
through bare spaces in the tree top where there used to be limbs just
moments before. Though it was a waning moon, its light was enough to
illuminate the jungle flooring and the clouds of dust that floated above
it. Just for a moment, after the danger had passed, the jungle seemed
transformed back to a more peaceful time before we warring humans showed
up. During that silence, each underground survivor had time to wonder
whether the others around him were still alive. Our new commander, Dick
Cavazos, was probably wondering the same thing. Then all at once, the
jungle flooring around the big tree erupted, vomiting out us
zombie-looking creatures from under the ground. If there had been an
onlooker watching, it would have indeed been a terrifying scene. It
looked exactly like we were rising from the dead. Yes indeed, it was
quite a sight for no one but us to see. Each man was covered in leaves
and dirt particles from head to toe. We looked more like creatures from
The Living Dead than men. Not a single grunt had a scratch. Dick Cavazos
was soon on the horn (radio), personally, telling Sergeant Bartee to
bring us home. In the smoky haze, we gathered up our equipment and
claymore mines and silently started walking toward the perimeter, in
single file.
